On the night after Emperor Lelouch's assassination, restaurant profits in Japan skyrocketed. Former "Elevens" roamed the streets of Tokyo in celebration of their long-awaited liberty. All restaurants swarmed with feasting revelers.

Paku Pizza was no exception. The dinghy little shop received an influx of buoyant customers. They swaggered in, bellowing orders at the owner, Mr. Paku. Mr. Paku hurriedly sliced pizza after pizza, overjoyed at the exponential increase in his income.

Families, businessmen, and students alike conversed excitedly between tables. Mr. Paku overheard phrases such as "corrupt Lelouch dead," "long live Zero," and "free at last."

Only one customer did rejoice. She sat slumped at the counter. Her plate was piled with eight slices of sausage pizza, all of them untouched.

Mr. Paku approached her cautiously. "Is the food okay, Miss?" he inquired.

"It's morbidly repulsive," C.C. replied softly.

Mr. Paku struggled to suppress his indignation. "I could give you a refund," he offered through gritted teeth.

"I'm going to eat it sir," C.C. assured him. "All of it."

Mr. Paku gaped at her. "All ten slices? You'll eat ten slices of 'morbidly awful' pizza?"

"I eat it to get rid of it," C.C. said. "Besides, it tastes good."

"If it tastes good, what's wrong with it?" Mr. Paku demanded.

C.C. surveyed him momentarily, hazel eyes unfathomable. Then she lifted a piece of sausage from the top pizza slice. She dangled it in front of Mr. Paku, a melancholic half-smile on her face.

"The sausage is wrong," she said. "The butcher tore the pork into smithereens. Then he molded it back together in a manner useful to him. This sausages is a brainwashed soldier of Britannia."

"Then is the butcher former Emperor Lelouch..?" Mr. Paku ventured.

"No," C.C. snapped. "The butcher is former Emperor Charles."

She stroked a pale finger over the cheese on the pizza. "The cheese is wrong, too," she continued. "Look at that sticky, overly yellow surface. How it glistens under the fluorescent restaurant lights. How obviously artificial it is. A poor mask for what's under it."

Mr. Paku cocked his head. "Which is…?"

"The tomato sauce," C.C. stated. "The blood."

"Oh," said Mr. Paku stupidly.

"The red sauce is everywhere," C.C. murmured, "slathered over the entire pizza, the entire world."

"Not the crust," Mr. Paku put in hopefully.

"Ah yes, the crust," said C.C. "The crust is a barrier that imprisons the sausages in the red hell of Britannia."

"I feel discouraged about my career," Mr. Paku lamented.

C.C. bit into the pizza. "Don't worry, it tastes good," she said. "There's a difference between liking it and enjoying the taste. It's an indefinable yet critical difference."

Mr. Paku cocked his head.

"One boy didn't see the difference," C.C. continued, chewing. "He thought I liked the pizza, so he bought some for me. What an idiot. But he was the only boy who gave me anything. He also called me beautiful, like the snow. Most importantly, he tried to truly understand me."

"Why the past tense?" asked Mr. Paku tentatively. "What happened to him?"

C.C. lowered her head, her smooth sheet of greenish hair casting a shadow over her face. "The boy became too involved in the makings of a pizza," she whispered. "He tried to become a chef."

"And did he succeed?" said Mr. Paku.

C.C. laughed humorlessly. "They don't accept amateurs," she said. "Even ones who simply want to improve the quality of pizza. An angry mob of consumers drove him away. Here they are now, celebrating his downfall."
She indicated the surrounding customers.

"Could the boy be Emperor Lelouch?" gasped Mr. Paku.

C.C. smiled a sweet smile and said, "Decide for yourself."