Noir Fan Fiction ❯ Black Market ❯ Chapter 1

~On the way to the market…~

Noir doesn't belong to me, none of it. This fic is set after the end of the series, so possibly some spoilers. Written for the Action Autumn one-shot contest. Enjoy! Or not, whatever…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Paris was an interesting city. Kirika Yumura had decided that before, when she had first come to the place. Life had been surprisingly uneventful during these last twelve months. She and Mireille Bouquet had found a roomy but cosy apartment on the western side of the city. Mireille had allowed herself to drift into what she had constantly called a “temporary retirement”, but Kirika had an idea that her old partner had no real intentions of taking up the gun any time soon. As for Kirika herself, she had decided to find herself a more…legal job, settling on serving coffee at a café near the middle of the city.

 

“Quiet day,” Kirika sighed, perching her small frame onto one of the high stools around the staff table out the back of the café.

 

“Bored?” Monique asked. Kirika leaned a sidelong glance at her workmate, smiling wanly at the brunette girl, the only other person on shift at this time, and also the only other person in the entire store.

 

“Guess so,” Kirika replied, resting her chin on her arms.

 

Monique grinned, “You'll learn to love days like this.” She turned at the sound of a bell ringing. “Get ready. We have a customer,” she said back to the Japanese girl they had hired a few weeks ago, before heading out towards the main part of the store.

 

Kirika grunted in reply, slowly getting up and reaching for the black apron that was part of the uniform. There was a loud crash from the main store, and Kirika froze, her always-keen hearing tuning in to what as happening outside. It sounded like a robbery. A man's voice was yelling angrily at Monique to hand over money. Kirika caught the words “…shoot you dead…” as she snuck to the other door, reaching to the back of her pants for…nothing. She frowned, realising that the Beretta 1935 she used to carry was not with her. There was a scream, and the characteristic boom of a gunshot. Kirika froze again, wincing slightly as the gun fired twice more. She quietly reached for one of the small knives lying on the nearby cutting board. The blade was used for cutting fruit or chocolate for some of the drinks they served, but it would kill all the same. The far door - locked - shook as someone tried to open it from the outside. Like a wraith Kirika was beside it, blade held low. The door exploded open as a kick hit it, and a slightly dishevelled figure walked in, the gun in his hands braced rigidly, his stance betraying desperation and inexperience. Kirika made mental notes of the weapon as she struck, her first slash cutting through the man's gun hand, her returning stroke with the tip of the single edged blade ripping a gouge out of the man's throat. He sank to his knees, gazing up with bleary eyes at his killer, disbelief the last thing he ever experienced.

 

“Luc?” Another voice reverberated through the store to Kirika's ears, “Luc! Is everything done?”

 

“Shit,” another voice grumbled, “I told him not to shoot.”

 

Kirika pried the gun from the man's dead fingers. It was a Colt Detective Special, the small revolver tiny in comparison even with Kirika's small Beretta, but the stopping power was good enough. She popped open the cylinder, giving it a cursory glance before snapping it shut again. Footsteps approached.

 

“Luc?”

 

Another man strode into the staff room, and immediately bleated out a string of obscenities, “Luc!”

 

He whirled around at a noise, bringing his sawn off shotgun to bear. He grunted as he dropped to his knees, a single hole punched through his heart. Kirika was on the move even before the third man stormed in, letting loose in an amateur manner with a submachine gun that Kirika managed to recognise as a worn out Uzi. There was a curse as the weapon jammed, and Kirika picked that moment to lean out from around the corner she had bolted behind, taking aim and squeezing off the last two shots in the cylinder. The third man gurgled, collapsing and dragging a tray of coffee beans off a table with a loud clang.

 

The sudden silence was deafening, and Kirika made her way quickly to the front of the store, ditching the gun as she moved. She crouched beside Monique's slumped form, holding a shaking hand to where her pulse should be, trying to ignore the bloody holes in the front of the girl's body.

 

“Monique,” Kirika whispered, feeling a pulse, faint but present, “Monique, please, hold on.”

 

“Kirika?” the French girl rasped, her breathing shallow.

 

“Don't worry. Let me call an ambulance. You're going to be okay.”

 

Kirika froze for a third time at the girl's next words - at one word in particular. “Of course. Noir…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She sipped absently at the putrid liquid this place called coffee, not really listening to the questions being thrown to her. Most of them were concerned with how she - a teenaged girl - had managed to not only subdue, but also kill three armed men. There was something about unnatural accuracy, and a number of other things, but Kirika played the part of a traumatised victim, remaining silent. With a resigned sigh, the police officer put down his pen, leaning back in his chair.

 

“I would like for you to go home as much as you would,” he began, leafing through the sheaf of paper on the desk in front of him, “However, having killed three men I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do even that. I'm afraid we're going to have to keep you here until some of this is cleared up. At least, that's what would happen if you were older. You said you were how old?”

 

“Sixteen,” Kirika replied softly. This, and her name, was the only two things she had said for the past hour and a half. It was a wonder that the officer had not given up sooner.

 

“Exactly. You are barely old enough to work, so officially we cannot detain you in any way.”

 

“I understand.”

 

The police officer stood up - he was a sergeant from what Kirika could recognise from his epaulettes - and walked to the door of the tiny room, “I will consult with my superiors. We'll see what happens to you. If you'll excuse me.”

 

“I understand,” Kirika repeated, her mouth fumbling slightly with the French language that was not her first tongue.

 

The Frenchman left the room, murmuring something under his breath. The door clicked shut, and Kirika stared at the table. Monique would live, but barely. The policeman had called her lucky. But the real thing disturbing Kirika was the reason. Why would they have tried to rob a small, out of the way coffee shop? Absently she dropped her hand into the pocket of her jacket, toying with the paper bag hidden there.

 

It had been a coincidence, a chance event, and something that Kirika believed had grown into this large mess. A well-dressed woman, Japanese from her appearance, had bumped into Kirika earlier that day, and the bag had fallen from her pocket. By the time Kirika held up the bag, the owner had disappeared. Without really knowing why, Kirika had put the bag in her pocket, recognising the characteristic feeling of a pile of money. When she had had a moment, she had peeked inside, confusion reigning as she found that the bag contained a large sum of American dollars. What was a Japanese woman doing with American money in France? The woman had also been carrying a seemingly heavy briefcase, the contents of which Kirika would rather not know.

 

Then there was Monique. Perhaps it had been coincidence, a result of being shot, that “noir” had come out by pure dint of spontaneity. But Kirika had long since overlooked coincidences. Noir…

 

She was in the process of musing over the thought when the door opened again, two figures stepping into the room, weariness written across their faces. “You're free to go,” the officer from before sighed, “However, we'll need your details. Your address, phone number…the usual things.”

 

“I understand,” Kirika said for the third time in as many minutes. She made a note to herself to learn more French.

 

She thought of smiling at the police officers on her way out after providing the details they had requested, but seeing their grim faces Kirika decided to remain impassive. Once she was outside she let her countenance drop, taking a deep, relieved breath. She checked her watch reflexively, turning in the direction of the apartment.

 

“There.” A manicured hand pointed to the young Japanese girl making her way down the street.

 

“Do we take her out?” the man asked in reply, his hand sliding into the inside of the long coat he wore.

 

“No,” the woman replied, taking a firm grip on his arm, “No.”

 

“So what, then?” the man asked, letting go of his hidden pistol's grip and shrugging off his companion's hand. “She has the money.”

 

“She can probably keep it if my plan works out.” The woman turned back into the alleyway, picking up the briefcase at her feet as she left. “Let's go.”

 

Her companion frowned, before following after her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sorry, not in business.

 

Mireille recalled hitting the button marked “Send”, and sighed. At first she had been tempted to take the offer she received, but then remembered that she had retired from the assassin job. Still, the offer had been enticing. Apparently it was from the higher-ups of an arms smuggling cartel looking to eliminate the leaders of a rival one. The promised pay was hefty - nearly a quarter of a million US - with a second amount after the hit was confirmed. But still, Mireille had sent back those four words.

 

She climbed the final flight of steps before reaching the door to the apartment she shared with Kirika, and immediately she knew something was wrong. The fact that the door was open gave no illusions. She stepped into the apartment silently, using every stealth trick she had learnt and used throughout her career, her grip on her handbag loosening slightly so she could reach inside easier when the time came. She kept her body pinned tightly to the wall, edging towards the corner while straining her ears to comprehend the conversation she could here. Her eyes widened at the distinct sound of a rifle's bolt being locked into place, and the first words she understood of the conversation were perhaps the only ones truly valuable.

 

“I'll get rid of it,” a groomed male voice noted.

 

A piece of wall exploded in a puff of pulverised brick, and Mireille flinched, before diving out into a roll, her hand diving into her handbag, her fingers curling around the grip of her Walther…which wasn't there.

 

“Hmmph,” grumbled the wiry man, pulling back the bolt to the rifle cradled in his arms, “What a waste.”

 

Mireille stared for a moment down the barrel of the gun before hurling her handbag at the man holding it. For the moment she ignored the other man standing in her apartment. He wasn't visibly armed, but under his coat some form of weapon would be easy to conceal. The rifle fired, but its wielder cursed as his aim was thrown off by the scattering contents of Mireille's bag. The bag itself carried on, striking him in the face. He noticed his companion stepping backwards to the edge of the room, and cast an angry glare at him before a booted foot suddenly planted itself into his gut. He stumbled back, wheezing and letting his precious Lee-Enfield drop to the floor. The blonde woman was in his face, hitting him with a variety of heterodox kicks and punches before he started to take notice and block them. The girl looked familiar, if only slightly, and he began to guess that perhaps he was about to kill the very person they had tried to hire.

 

Mireille gritted her teeth as she changed tack, trying to hit the man in the kidneys instead. His reactions were slowed considerably due to the fact that she'd managed to hit him enough times while she had the edge of surprise, but he still managed to recover and start defending himself. This was bad, especially considering that there was still another one in the room.

 

She spied an opening, and lurched in, risking a scalping from his sweeping fist, driving a punch into the lower part of the man's ribcage. Mireille changed her position, snapping up with a kick that connected square with the intruder's chin, throwing him backwards onto one of the light wooden chairs placed at the table. The wood splintered loudly as the man's weight crushed it, and he lay on the floor, groaning softly. Mireille turned her attention to the other man, wired with combat sharpness.

 

“Mireille Bouquet, may I presume?” the man said, his voice a slithering whisper. He started walking towards her.

 

“How do you know my name?” Mireille snapped, taking an uncertain step backwards and scanning as discreetly as she could for where she had left her gun. Her eyes found the fallen rifle instead.

 

“I'm here with a business proposition,” the man continued, ignoring her question entirely. “Actually, it's the same one we sent you earlier.”

 

“So,” Mireille smirked, “Instead of asking nicely you break into my home and try forcing me?” She considered taking a gambit and throwing the name “Soldats” into a question to stoke some surprise out of the man, however she wasn't sure of what would happen if she did.

 

“Not entirely.” The man continued to walk towards Mireille, and she continued to edge away from him. “I simply wish to put forward my proposition once again, for an increased fee.”

 

“I told you,” Mireille lowered her body and raised her hands, “Not in business.”

 

The man shrugged, “So be it.”

 

Still wired and alert from her brawl with the other man, Mireille thought she was ready. Instead, the man in front of her covered the distance between them in three strides. A fist like a jackhammer rammed itself into her diaphragm, and she doubled over, retching and gasping for air. Then something even more solid collided with the back of her head, and Mireille's world spiralled as she blacked out…

 

“I hope you didn't hit her too hard,” the quiet man said to his partner.

 

“I was trying not to hit her harder,” the rifleman spat, tossing away the slightly bloodied chair leg. “So now what?”

 

“Now, Franz, we wait.”

 

“Wait for what, Alphonse?” The rifleman, Franz, slung his gun over his shoulder on its leather strap.

 

“Noir is two people,” Alphonse replied, walking over to the table. He grabbed a piece of paper from the scattered pile, and fishing a pen from inside his jacket, began writing something. Franz joined him, and smiled as he realised what Alphonse was writing.

 

“Let's go,” Alphonse said as he finished, holding the pen so that the tip exited from the bottom of his hand, stabbing down through the paper and into the table.

 

Franz knelt down and scooped the prostrate Mireille in his arms, before following his partner out of the apartment.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Kirika tensed. This was clearly the sign of her already bad day developing into something on an epically catastrophic level.

 

The first thing she noticed when she walked into the apartment was the pen stabbed into the table. Kirika was surprised to realise that she noticed the general destruction of the place afterwards. She turned around suddenly, facing the two people who had been following her since she left the police station.

 

“Was this your doing?” she asked quietly, but there was a burning intensity in her voice.

 

“No,” the woman on the right replied, striding further into the apartment, past Kirika, and laying her briefcase flat on the table. “Damn thing is heavy,” she murmured.

 

Paying no real heed to the other person - a tall and lean-framed man - Kirika turned to the woman, taking the bag from her pocket and holding it out. “I think this is yours.”

 

The woman stared at the bag for a moment, before breaking out into laughter.

 

Kirika's grip on the bag tightened, “This is not the best time to be laughing.”

 

The woman's laughter died down quickly, and she cleared her throat,” My apologies. It is of no real importance, but my name is Yamanaka Ritsuko.” The woman undid the latches on the briefcase as she talked, opening this lid wide and stepping back to Kirika could see what was inside, “I am the acting head of a certain cartel smuggling certain items into Paris.”

 

“So it's about that,” Kirika frowned.

 

“So you know?” The man stepped forward.

 

“Mireille was hired to kill both of you,” Kirika said, peering at the weapons - pistols, mainly - contained within the large case. “But she refused the offer.”

 

“How much do you know about who hired her?”

 

Blinking, Kirika realised that she had inadvertently replied in kind when both the man and woman addressed her in her native Japanese. She looked at the man now, realising that he was European as opposed to Ritsuko's Japanese.

 

“My question stands,” he said, breaking Kirika's train of thought impatiently.

 

“Their chosen meeting location and the name of the person in charge. That is it. At least…that's all I found.”

 

“She didn't share the information with you?” Ritsuko asked.

 

“It doesn't matter,” the man interrupted, “Miss Yumura, we have a business proposition for you, and I hope you will co-operate…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mireille immediately regretted opening her eyes. The back of her head was throbbing from whatever had hit her. She looked up, even though it hurt, and noted grimly her hands tied above her head, the rope hooked over a meat hook. The other end of the hook hung from the end link of a steel chain that had been pulled taut so as to hold up Mireille's still limp body. Her eyes followed the chain as it wound itself into a pulley system and trailed back towards the floor, padlocked to a rusty ring that had been bolted into the concrete.

 

She looked around slowly, noting her surroundings, grimacing as she felt the blood gluing a section of her hair to itself. It appeared to be a warehouse, but definitely not abandoned. Stacks of wooden crates made a complex geometry of narrow corridors. Mireille noted that she was in the corner of the warehouse, in an area free of crates. Slowly Mireille became aware of a commotion from the other side of the vast building, shouting voices accompanied by the signature report of gunfire.

 

“Hmmph,” Mireille murmured to herself, “I must have been out for a while…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Kirika said nothing as she walked up the long driveway. The warehouse loomed in front of her, an ominous shadow in the early morning sun. The plan to rescuing Mireille balanced gingerly on how gullible these people were. She reached the large door meant for trucks to pass through, and knocked at the man sized cutout door in the corner. A slot slid open from inside, and a pair of eyes peered out. The slot shut again, and the door clanked open. Kirika stepped inside.

 

The door shut and locked with a solid click, and the man who had opened it strode towards the innards of the warehouse. “Follow me,” he said curtly, without turning.

 

Kirika soaked as much of her surroundings as she could before stepping through the door of the upstairs office. She noted the general layout of the warehouse; saw briefly the chain hanging from the roof in the far corner; noted the positions of sixteen…seventeen armed thugs, some attempting to hide themselves, others overtly advertising their presence. This would be tight, to say the least.

 

The doorman nodded with respect, before removing himself from the office, closing the door behind him. Aside from Kirika, there were two people in the room, one of them wiry and tall, the other built slightly heavier, shorter by a shade and carrying a greater air of power.

 

“You are Alphonse,” Kirika said to the shorter man. It wasn't a question.

 

Alphonse grinned broadly, “I'm impressed. So, I assume that since you are here that you are considering my proposition?”

 

“Where is Mireille?”

 

“Alive,” Alphonse replied curtly, “That is all you need to know.”

 

Alphonse began to say more, but there was the distinct sound of glass shattering. Something like a spray can rolled along the floor.

 

“Damn it,” Franz spluttered as the smoke grenade ejected its noxious contents. He grabbed blindly for where he left his rifle and stumbled out the other door to the office.

 

Alphonse stepped out behind him, an angry scowl on his face, blood trickling down one side of his head from where pieces of the broken window had hit him. There was a sudden commotion.

 

“Did you see where she went?” Franz yelled over the din, popping open the lens caps on his rifle's scope.

 

“I know where she will be,” Alphonse muttered, tugging off his suit jacket and letting it drop to the ground, “Stay here. Shoot to kill. Make no mistake, this next thirty minutes will determine the future of the cartel.”

 

Alphonse hurried down the flight of stairs, and Franz smiled, chambering a fresh round. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, scanning in the distance. The muzzle snapped up, and the Lee-Enfield fired. From the other side of the warehouse, someone's face exploded in a mess of gore. Franz reloaded, bringing his favourite gun to bear again. This was where the real fun began…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alphonse's men were well armed with a variety of assault rifles and sub machineguns - a predictable fact since this was an arms smuggling cartel - and were well trained, firing single shots or three round bursts instead of randomly spraying on full auto. Still, compared to what Kirika and Mireille had gone through this was nothing out of the ordinary.

 

Kirika swung around into a corridor, snapping off three shots before carrying her body into completion of the spin and taking cover behind the other wall of crates. Three pained grunts issued from the corridor, and Kirika flinched as the wood splintered near her head. A heartbeat later she was on the move again. A pair of guards appeared at the top of crate stacks on either side of the corridor, raising their MP5s for a kill shot. One of them screamed as he toppled backwards off the edge of the crate wall, hitting the concrete floor and splitting his skull open with a hollow crack. The single bullet wound in his left lung continued to bleed. The other dropped his weapon numbly, clutching at where his throat used to be as he sank to his knees and collapsed. Kirika turned and fired in one motion, taking one guard across the left side of his face, the other through the eye. As their corpses slumped to the floor, Kirika calmly exchanged clips in her Beretta - Ritsuko had been cynical when she had refused the SIG offered to her - and made her way towards where she remembered the length of chain was.

 

“I'm coming, Mireille,” she whispered.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With a decisive grunt, Mireille hoisted herself up so that her chin met the hook. Her wrists felt as if they were going to be crushed into oblivion by the rope. Losing feeling in her hands, she swung her legs up and gripped the chain as best as she could with her feet, unhooking the rope quickly before grabbing the chain with her relatively free hands. She slowly lowered her legs, released her hold and landed with a sigh.

 

“So far so good,” she murmured. Without the tension provided by the hook, the rope binding her hands fell loose, and Mireille slipped them off with a small smile as she found herself some form of cover.

 

From where she was, Mireille spied the main door of the warehouse in pieces, a large American made pick-up truck embedded firmly in a wall of crates. Mireille also spied the corpse of the truck's driver. She blinked at a sound from behind her, and made to turn before something passed over in front of her eyes. A rope tightened itself around her throat, and Mireille gurgled as she was dragged back out into the open.

 

“I almost lost you,” a voice whispered in her ear, and Mireille groaned as she recognised it as Alphonse. “I can't lose you yet…what the?” Alphonse turned to look behind him. “You,” he hissed, pulling Mireille around in front of him.

 

Kirika held her aim. “Please let her go.”

 

Please? Mireille thought, Kirika, you idiot…

 

“What if I don't?” Alphonse sneered, “You won't hit me without hurting your friend.”

 

The Beretta fired once, and Mireille felt the rope around her neck loosen, replaced instead by a burning sensation in her shoulder. Alphonse stumbled backwards, disbelief written across his face, the bullet hole in his chest bleeding across the front of his shirt. The Beretta fired again, this time a direct kill shot between the eyes.

 

“Kirika…”

 

“Mireille?”

 

“You dummy.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Franz died. He had enough time to feel anger before his brain shut down, and he lay unmoving on the gangway.

 

Ritsuko got up from the prone position she had adopted, slinging the PSG-1 over her shoulder and making her way off the roof of the building facing the warehouse. The heavy sniper rifle had been difficult for even her to get, but the German made gun was worth it. She quickly made her way back into the other warehouse, stepping gingerly around the wrecked pieces of door and the corpses littering the entranceway.

 

“Ritsuko.”

 

She looked to the source of the voice. Kirika walked towards her, a blonde woman walking next to her pressing down on a shoulder wound.

 

“I can have the wound treated,” Ritsuko said to the blonde woman - Mireille Bouquet, she recognised.

 

Mireille was aware of the presence of perhaps ten or twelve men around and behind her. She scanned around, noted that each of them were armed, and shrugged, grimacing at the pain and stupidity of the action when she had a hole in her shoulder.

 

“I can't see why not. The bullet passed clean through so it shouldn't be that bad,” Mireille replied, glancing at Kirika absently.

 

“Not here.” Ritsuko turned to leave the warehouse, and the others followed.

 

“This is because I didn't take the job to kill you isn't it?”

 

Ritsuko looked around with a smirk, “Maybe.”

 

“And perhaps you can explain how all this ended up unfolding…” Mireille whispered to Kirika.

 

“In a word?” Kirika smiled, “Coincidence…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Well?”

 

“Well what?”

 

“Are you satisfied?”

 

“Of course I'm satisfied.” The girl smiled, and turned around to face the shadowy figure behind her, “I got to see her in action. It was beautiful.”

 

“So do we continue, Monique?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Monique turned back in the direction of the warehouse, raising her binoculars again and looking at Kirika. From the high rooftop she had a good view. She grinned again.

 

“She is the true Noir after all…”