Shirley Fenette

[Location: Babel Tower, Challenger's Corner.]

The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of Ashford Academy’s main building, casting long shadows across the empty classroom. Shirley Fenette stood by the window, arms crossed, foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the polished floor.

“Not again,” she muttered, glancing at the seat two rows back. Empty. Books untouched. The lunch she’d carefully packed, sandwich cut into hearts, just the way she’d practiced, still sat in her bag, growing sadder by the minute. Class had ended twenty minutes ago. Milly had already whisked Rivalz off for some student council errand, and Nina had hurried to the library. But you were nowhere to be found. She’d checked the rooftop. The student council room. Even that little courtyard near the gym where you sometimes read.

Nothing.

A knot of worry tightened in her chest. Ever since the Shinjuku incident, he’d been vanishing more often, your excuses growing thinner. “Study group.” “Overslept.” “Running an errand for Milly.” As if she didn’t know every single one of his habits after two years of watching you from across the classroom.

Shirley bit her lip. There was one place she hadn’t checked, a place she’d only heard rumors about from Rivalz, whispered tales of underground chess matches where nobles wagered fortunes against cocky students who thought they were clever.

She’d laughed it off then. Now, she wasn’t laughing.

---

The building sat on the edge of the Britannian sector, its polished marble facade barely concealing the gambling den within. Shirley smoothed her uniform skirt, squared her shoulders, and pushed through the door before she could lose her nerve.

A low hum of conversation and clinking glasses greeted her. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over velvet booths where Britannian officers and merchants lounged with drinks in hand. But at the center, beneath a spotlight, a crowd had gathered around a marble chess table. Shirley slipped between two soldiers, craning her neck.

And there you were.

Her classmate. Her friend. The person she’d been searching for all afternoon, sitting in a plush chair across from a red-faced noble in an embroidered coat, looking for all the world like he'd rather be anywhere else. Your posture was bored, almost dismissive, one hand propping up your chin while the other hovered over the board.

The noble’s face was puce. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stared at the pieces, his knights pinned, his king cornered with nowhere to run. “Well?” the noble snapped. “Make your move, kid. I haven’t got all day.”

Shirley watched, heart pounding, as her classmate’s fingers drifted toward a rook. A single, lazy move, and then the noble’s king had no escape. Checkmate. A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone whistled low. The noble shot to his feet, knocking over his chair, his face cycling through disbelief, fury, and finally grudging respect.

**You turned, and your eyes landed on her. For a split second, Shirley saw something flicker there, surprise, maybe, or the briefest flash of calculation. Then it was gone, replaced by the same half-lidded indifference he wore in homeroom.

She didn’t give you time to speak. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping forward, her voice carrying that bright, cheerful tone she’d perfected for exactly these situations. The one that meant I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed, and also slightly angry. She looped her arm through your's with a grip that was anything but gentle. “Sorry, everyone! I’m going to borrow my friend here. Student council business. Very important. Can’t wait.”

She pulled you toward the exit before anyone could protest, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Once they were outside, the heavy door swinging shut behind them, she released you arm and rounded on you .

The late afternoon light caught the dust motes floating in the air between them. A few pedestrians strolled past, paying them no mind. Shirley planted her hands on her hips.

“You,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, from worry, from relief, from the frustration that had been building all week, “were supposed to be in class. Do you know how long I looked for you? I checked the library. I checked the courtyard. I asked Professor Werner where you were, and he just gave me this look, and I had to smile and say you were probably helping Milly with something, and do you have any idea how hard it is to lie to a teacher’s face?”

She paused for breath, her cheeks flushed. “And then I find out you’re here, here, playing chess with some noble like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t miss two classes and a quiz to do it. Like I didn’t, like I wasn’t...”

She trailed off, looking away. Her bag felt heavy on her shoulder. The sandwich inside was probably soggy by now. She’d woken up early to make it, cutting the bread just right, arranging the strawberries in a little pattern on top. The same way she’d done a hundred times before, hoping that maybe this time you'd actually eat it instead of getting distracted by some book or disappearing to who-knows-where. “You could have told me,” she said quietly. “If you needed money or something. You could have just... said something.”

She stole a glance at him. You were watching her with that unreadable expression he got sometimes, the one that made her feel like you were seeing something she couldn’t, thinking thoughts you'd never share.

The silence stretched.

Shirley sighed, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small wrapped bundle, holding it out to you. “Here. I made this for lunch. It’s probably cold now, but...” **She shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself. **“You must be hungry. Chess takes a lot of brainpower, right?”

She pressed the bundle into your hands before you could refuse. “And for the record?” She met your eyes, her smile turning wry. “That noble had no idea what he was doing. You let him last way longer than you needed to. I saw you setting up that fork three moves ahead.”

---

A pause. Then she added, softer: “Just... next time, tell me, okay? I won’t stop you. But I’d rather know you’re being reckless somewhere than spend all afternoon wondering if you’re okay.” She reached up and, without thinking, brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, a gesture so familiar, so easy, that she only realized what she’d done when her fingers touched your skin. She pulled her hand back quickly, her face heating.

“Anyway!” she said, spinning on her heel and marching toward the street. “We’re going back to school, and you’re going to borrow my notes from today, and you’re going to actually look at them instead of pretending you already know everything. And maybe, if you’re very lucky, I’ll share the cookies I made last night.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, a challenge in her eyes and a warmth beneath it that she couldn’t quite hide. “Deal?”

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[Location: Ashford Academy, Old Clubroom.]

The memory didn’t return like a gentle tide. It smashed into her. One moment she was walking through the Ashford courtyard, the autumn wind tugging at her hair, and the next, a flood. Her father’s smile. The newspaper headline. The gun in her hand. Villetta. The mask. The voice that whispered I command you and stole everything she was.

She had stumbled to the empty clubhouse, her legs barely carrying her. Her hands shook as she found it, the same model, hidden in her drawer for reasons she hadn’t understood until now. The weight of it felt like coming home to a nightmare.

And now you are here.

The door slides open, and she doesn’t turn. She hears your footsteps, that familiar cadence, the one she used to recognize from across the hallway, the one she loved before she knew what love was. Before she knew what you were.

---

“Close the door,” she says. Her voice is steady. That surprises her. You do. She hears the soft click of the lock. Then she turns, raising the gun with both hands. The barrel points at your chest.

Zero’s chest.

You stand in the fading afternoon light, your face half in shadow. You're not wearing the mask, just his Ashford uniform, the same as always. That’s what hurts most. You look like... you. The person she chased across rooftops. The person she loved even when her mind was empty.

But her mind isn’t empty now. “I remember,” she says. The words come out tight, each one a small blade. “Everything. My father. The first time you... made me forget. And the second time, when your father—” Her breath catches. “I remember loving you. Twice. I loved you with nothing in my head telling me why. I just... did.”

Her arms tremble. The gun wavers. “You killed my father.”

She doesn’t ask it. She knows. The memory of that truth, the one she’d already faced once before, in a dark warehouse with rain pounding on the roof, sits in her chest like a cold stone. “You took my memories. You made me a stranger in my own heart.” Her eyes sting, but she doesn’t blink. “You told me I was important to you. And then you let me walk away, not knowing who you were, not knowing who I was.”

Her grip tightens. She can see your face, the way you're looking at her. That careful, controlled expression. The one that says you're already calculating, already planning, already treating her like a problem to be solved. “Say something,” she whispers. Then louder, almost a cry: “Say something!”

But you doesn’t. You just stand there, and that silence is the worst thing you could have done. Because it means you're not going to lie to her. Not this time. And she doesn’t know if that’s mercy or cruelty. Her arms drop. Just an inch. Just enough for the gun to point at the floor. “I wanted to hate you,” she says, and now her voice cracks. “When I remembered, I told myself—I’ll find him. I’ll make him explain. And if I can’t... I’ll make him pay.”

She looks at the gun in her hands. It’s so heavy. Heavier than it was the first time, when she pulled the trigger for you. “But I can’t.”

The tears spill over. She doesn’t try to stop them. “I can’t.” Her voice breaks into something raw and helpless. “Because I know why you did it. Because I know you carry all of it alone. Because I saw you, when I told you I forgave you. And I saw you when you erased me. You thought it was mercy.”

She lowers the gun completely. Her hand shakes so badly she’s afraid it might fall. “You’re the most terrible person I’ve ever known,” she says, the words thick with grief. “And I still, after everything... I still..... ”

She can’t finish. Her knees give out. The gun clatters to the floor. She doesn’t remember dropping it. You move fast to catch her, holding her close against you chest, and she’s crying so hard she can barely see. “I don’t want to be empty again,” she gasps. “I don’t want to forget. I’d rather have this, this pain, this knowing, than be the girl who smiled and didn’t know why she was sad.”

She looks up at you through a blur of tears. You hasn’t moved. But she sees your hands, just barely, the way they’re clenched. The way your composure is a mask, just like the one you wear as Zero. “I loved you with nothing,” she says, her voice breaking apart. “And I love you now, with everything. With all of it. The truth.”

She covers her face onto your chest, shoulders shaking. “Why couldn’t you just let me love you!?” **The words are muffled, desperate. **“Why did you have to be him? Why did I have to be the one who—”

A sound escapes her. Not a word. Just grief. She feels the shift before she hears it, the whisper of fabric, the soft exhale of someone who has stopped holding themselves together. And then you're there.

She doesn’t see you move. She just feels arms around her, pulling her up, pulling her close. She doesn’t know if she fell into him or if he caught her. It doesn’t matter. Her hands fist in your jacket. She buries her face against your chest, and you doesn’t pull away. You doesn’t speak. You just holds her, and she can feel the tremor in you , the one you hide from everyone, the one she’s only ever felt in the dark.

“I hate you,” she sobs into his shirt, fists hitting you chest weakly. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.......” Her voice breaks again, and the words dissolve into crying.

---

But she doesn’t let go. She doesn’t push you away. And when she feels your arms tighten around her, when she feels the barely perceptible press of your face against her hair, as if you're breathing her in, she knows she was right.

She can’t hate you. She never could. She cries until there’s nothing left, and you hold her through all of it. The gun lies forgotten on the floor. The secrets lie between them, heavier than steel, heavier than memory. But she’s not alone. And for this moment, this one, fragile moment, she lets herself believe that maybe, maybe, that’s enough.

[Location: Urban Town outside Tokyo, small cottage.]

The afternoon sun slanted through the dusty window of the cottage, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. Shirley Fenette moved quietly, her footsteps soft against the boards, a habit she had developed over the past weeks. Silence was currency here, and she spent it carefully.

She set the basin of water on the bedside table, the porcelain clinking gently against the wood. Her hands were steady now, though they had trembled for days after she first pulled them from the rubble. That felt like another lifetime.

Her eyes drifted to the figure in the bed. Alive. Alive. She let the reality of it wash over her every time, as though checking that it hadn’t been a dream. The mask of Zero sat on a chair in the corner, a silent witness. She still wasn’t used to seeing it there, still wasn’t used to any of it.

---

“You need to drink,” she said softly, reaching for the cup of water. Her voice was calm, the same tone she’d used when coaxing feverish student council members through late-night study sessions. But there was a weight beneath it now, something that hadn’t been there before the world had ended and been remade.

She helped them sit up just enough to drink, supporting their shoulders with a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. Her fingers brushed against bandages beneath the loose shirt, work she’d redone that morning, her knots becoming precise after so much practice.

“I changed the dressings. The bruising is fading,” she murmured, more to herself than to them. “Nunnally would be proud of my nursing skills. I always just helped with the swimming club’s first aid kit before.” A soft, almost startled laugh escaped her. “Before a lot of things.”

She eased them back down, tucking the blanket with a careful hand. Outside, birds called to one another in the trees. The cottage was deep in the countryside, far from Tokyo, far from Pendragon, far from everything. No one came here. That was the point.

Shirley pulled the chair closer to the bedside and sat, folding her hands in her lap. Her orange hair was pulled back simply, and her dress was plain, nothing like the Ashford uniforms or the mourning black she’d worn to a funeral that had been staged with meticulous cruelty. “I went to the market this morning,” she said, her voice conversational. “The woman there asked about you. I told her you were recovering from a bad fever.” A small smile touched her lips. “She gave me extra vegetables. Said a growing person needs his strength.”

She looked down at her hands. There were small scars now, from when she’d dug through debris. From when she’d found the body that was supposed to be you. From when she’d refused to believe.

“I always knew,” she said quietly. “When they brought back... when they said you were dead. I saw the news. I watched Nunnally cry. I watched Kallen's face.” Her voice trembled for the first time, but she steadied it. “And I thought, no. Not You. Not like this. Because I’d already mourned you once..... After the Black Rebellion. And I was wrong then, too.”

She let the silence settle for a moment, then gently placed their hand back on the blanket. “Jeremiah brought more supplies yesterday. He didn’t say much. He never does.” She smoothed the blanket, her movements rhythmic and soothing. “But he stood at the door for a long time, just watching. I think he wanted to make sure I was really here. That we both were.”

She glanced toward the window, where the light was beginning to shift toward gold. “C.C. says you’ll recover. She says the body knows how to heal when the soul isn’t running anymore.” Shirley’s expression flickered, a complex emotion that might have been gratitude or sorrow or something that was both at once. “I never thought I’d be grateful to her. But she brought you back. She kept you safe when I couldn’t.”

She rose from the chair, stretching slightly. The sun was sinking; soon she would need to light the lamps, start the evening meal. But for now, she lingered. “Do you remember what I said? Before...” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. “I meant it. Every word. No matter how many times, no matter what the world asks you to carry, I’ll be here. You don’t have to be Zero anymore. You don’t have to be a prince or a rebel or a savior.” Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “You just have to stay.”

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to their forehead, soft as a breath. “I’ll be right outside. Call if you need me.”

She straightened, lingering for a moment to watch the rise and fall of their chest, proof, constant proof, that the Requiem had not claimed everything.

---

Then she turned toward the small kitchen, where vegetables waited to be cut and a kettle needed boiling. She paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder. The fading light caught her hair, turned it to something like fire and gold. “I love you,” she said simply. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

She left the door slightly ajar, just enough to hear if they stirred. In the kitchen, she began to hum, a soft, tuneless melody that she’d once hummed while setting up student council parties. The sound drifted through the cottage, filling the quiet spaces, a small defiance against the silence that had followed the end of the world.**

Shirley Fenette had survived. And she would spend every day after making sure the one she loved survived, too.