Noir Fan Fiction ❯ Red and Black ❯ Sinners, Act I ( Chapter 7 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Kirika 
Anime/Manga: Noir Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / / Romance / Psychological / Martial Arts / Hentai / Drama / Action | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 05.10.2004 | Updated On: 12.06.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 7.2K | Visits: 904 | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Noir Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / / Romance / Psychological / Martial Arts / Hentai / Drama / Action | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 05.10.2004 | Updated On: 12.06.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 7.2K | Visits: 904 | Status: Work In Progress
Red And Black - By Kirika
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The seventh chapter. The first section of this part contains material that some people may find a little disturbing. Or not. Everybody is so desensitised these days. Writing for unhinged characters sure is fun, though. ^_^
- Kirika
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Chapter 7 - Sinners, Act I
Kaede Ishinomori examined her series of finely honed instruments through her snow-white bangs with an appraising eye, where they were laid out in a silver tray on a square table before her. Their smooth metallic surfaces glinted vibrantly, reflecting the flames flickering in the fireplace inset on one wall of the lavishly decorated but Spartanly furnished room. During the last session their rigorous use and seen them become quite soiled, requiring them to be thoroughly cleansed and polished until they shone radiantly, almost bathed in a holy aura. Kaede's craft was an art form that called extensively upon her utensils, both exotic and ordinary alike. Even the most everyday of items could be used to beguile a subject closer to enlightenment.
The brick fireplace was the sole source of light in the otherwise gloomy, spacious room, generating an overall sinister atmosphere, the air thick with dark foreboding. Two cast iron pokers rested in the crackling flames of the fireplace, their ends glowing a hot orange, having been in their for a significant amount of time. They would be needed later to prevent the subject's premature departure before they--or he, in this case--had reached the exalted plateau of celestial favour. The human shell was so fragile. But it did serve to restrict blessed illumination to only those whose bodies could endure the hallowed ordeal Kaede so fastidiously administered with her skilled hands. If not, then any unworthy heathen could achieve transcendence.
A willowy, pale hand hovered lazily over the tray of instruments as Kaede mulled her choices, pausing for fleeting moments on each one, although it was an act to heighten the subject's state of anticipation more than anything else. Or rather, his state of *fear*. Fear caused the body to produce adrenaline, resulting in a subject being able to undergo more trials than she or he normally would, and hence, bring them nearer to enlightenment at a faster pace. Nevertheless, Kaede wondered why this subject was still so frightened. He should feel privileged; it wasn't as though she treated all the people under her to this honour. Although, Matsumoto *had* strayed from her fold, betraying her to outsiders and their foul, warped word of law; for whatever reason be it money or a misguided conscience. Naturally, that was one of the primary motivations behind Kaede choosing to bestow the gift of sacred revelation upon him… through *pain*. She would compel the wayward Matsumoto to repent his sins, and in turn, hasten his inevitable journey towards the Heavens, with his soul clean and ready to be judged by the Gods.
Not that Matsumoto could verbally repent. A muffled and pathetic mewling came from the man on Kaede's left as her hand lingered over an electric prod, her slender fingers crooking downwards to caress the device lovingly. Kaede had quickly tired of Matsumoto's pleading once she had begun her purification ritual--the symphony of screams a woman produced when in a state of torment were far more pleasing to the ear--consequently inciting her to cut out the offending jabbering muscle to cease the infernal prattle. However, after sealing the ensuing wound with the sanitising heat of searing hot iron, the inconsiderate man had then taken to whining and snivelling like a little boy, further bothering Kaede. So, she decided to close the vexing orifice permanently. A sharp needle and strong fishing line had a million uses.
Kaede's hands resumed their meander above the tray, leaving the prod and moving on to other implements of torture. Electricity was an efficient means to inflict varying degrees of pain upon a subject without dealing permanent damage to her or his body. Yet the white-haired woman had learnt through great practice that males had a superior natural resistance to the agony of an electrical charge ravaging their muscles than females did, so nowadays she tended to reserve that particular form of anguish for those of the feminine allegiance. Most women could be cowed into doing almost anything to avoid electricity's sharp sting… much to Kaede's delight.
Kaede's eyes drifted away from her beloved instruments to take in her errant 'bodyguard'; her trademark perpetual, faint, and distant smile glued to her features. Matsumoto hung naked from the ceiling by two lengths of chain; his wrists in manacles and his arms stretched painfully taut into the air, the weak muscles of the limbs visibly straining pitifully against their treatment. Equally restrained were the man's legs, held fast by cuffed ankles affixed to a third and fourth set of chains bolted firmly to rings embedded in the grey slate tiled floor. The subject's bonds were pulled so tightly that he could barely squirm a centimetre. As they should be. Kaede couldn't have Matsumoto fidgeting while she was trying to save his soul, after all. It would be irritating to say the least.
The trim young woman, dressed plainly in a grey tank top and shorts--her nightwear--turned fully to face Matsumoto and placed her hands on her hips, striking a thoughtful pose. She looked over the subject's body with an evaluating gaze, gauging how much more his shell could withstand. The man's hands were simply twin balls of meat, the digits that had once adorned them having been severed by one manner or another, leaving behind in their place a mess of cauterised flesh where Kaede had touched them with a glowing poker retrieved from the fireplace. Lower, old dried scabs and freshly torn tissue revealing raw red beneath, where the rough edges of his metal shackles had harshly cut into his skin, ringed Matsumoto's wrists. The man had struggled mightily in his restraints in the beginning, depleting much of his strength and with only severely chafed wrists--and ankles also--to show for his ultimately wasted labours. No longer did he fight, however. Matsumoto's shell had now dedicated its faculties totally towards merely sustaining its bare minimum of functions that were vital for survival.
Kaede's veiled eyes descended to the subject's neck, where yet more blood encrusted bands disfigured his flesh, along with a spattering of dark purple bruises. At several points in previous sessions, the woman had throttled Matsumoto with an assortment of objects--rope, wire, cloth; and several times with her bare hands. But under stringent circumstances, of course. Controlled asphyxiation could cause a substantial amount of burning woe to the sufferer's lungs, and in turn their whole body in general, but it had to be strictly regulated. Too much invariably resulted in premature death--one had to monitor the subject most carefully to prolong the torturous yet liberating experience. Why, once Kaede had kept one subject with a tight noose around her neck alive for more than an hour and a half by lowering her back to her tiptoes for twenty minutes or so whenever it seemed that she was drawing close to the point of no return. When the blessed woman had finally expired, she had dangled in the air by her neck for at least a full hour all together. Kaede was sure that particular subject had reached glorious enlightenment at the end.
Kaede's thoughts returned from the past to her latest subject, her gaze roaming over his ripped and bludgeoned form. Matsumoto's left leg was bent at an odd angle, the knee joint having been crushed to a pulp when she'd had the sudden impulse to deliver a blow with a small mallet to it. The man had howled terribly at that, the scream made all the more grotesque since he had lacked a tongue at the time. It was one of the things that had provoked Kaede into stitching up his lips a short period later. Really, a feminine shriek was infinitely more beautiful than a masculine one.
Kaede's smile widened just a tad once her eyes found their way to Matsumoto's bloody crotch. She wouldn't be surprised if he could hit the high notes now, however, despite being a man. A male's spirit was prone to shatter quicker when ruthlessly robbed of his manhood, a supposition that Kaede more often than not proved to ring true with all of her male subjects. The poor fools were reduced to whimpering, compliant children after such a… demoralising… dismemberment.
"What to do, what to do," Kaede remarked in a singsong voice, tapping a whimsical finger on her chin. Her gaze went to Matsumoto's more or less unharmed face; the only really noticeable damage his somewhat swollen mouth. "Ah, yes, I remember," the lissom woman said, as if it had suddenly dawned on her. In truth, she'd had a motive for abstaining from inflicting harm to Matsumoto's visage, a motive she intended to come to fruition. Right now.
Kaede turned back to her tray, plucking a pile of about a dozen, ten centimetre long, flexible needles from the selection of apparatus available. Her all but unwavering smile still on her face, she returned her attention to Matsumoto, who quivered as best he could in his chains at the sight of the needles in her hand. There were benefits to letting a subject keep their eyes, the woman reflected.
Kaede took a single step forwards to the subject, her heart rate quickening as the sweet and exciting sense of anticipation enveloped her. Taking short, rapid breaths, she pulled one needle out of the bundle, flourishing it before Matsumoto's terror-stricken eyes. The man thrashed against his bonds with renewed vigour, although amid the combination of his ailing strength and virtually unyielding restraints, it didn't make much more than the most marginal of differences.
"Now, now; none of that," Kaede chided as she replaced the heap of needles back on the tray before grasping a clump of Matsumoto's short brown hair in her now free hand, holding his head in place as he moaned weakly. "Be good and stay still…" she cooed soothingly while she brought the sharp thin needle in her other hand up to the subject's eyes, "that's it…."
Apparently comprehending what she intended to do, Matsumoto squeezed his eyes shut tightly in a meagre attempt to thwart the inescapable--his shell still had a little kick left in it after all. But Kaede would have none of it. Shifting the hand behind Matsumoto's head a fraction, she forcibly pried open his right eyelid with her thumb, exposing the frantic orb underneath. The man's eye darted wildly around the room for a few seconds, but then focused unswervingly on the shiny silver needle brandished in Kaede's right hand as it grew larger and larger in his vision, its dreaded course glaringly clear.
"There are numerous pain receptors behind the eyes," Kaede explained absently as pulled Matsumoto's eyelid back further. "Unfortunately, these can only be reached by inserting a fine needle under the top eyelid." She paused in both speech and motion, and one corner of her lips twitched slightly as her smile took on an almost impish quality. "But luckily for you, I happen to have a few of said needles."
Without any more delay, Kaede inserted the flexible needle in the exact spot she had just mentioned, lodging it deeply into Matsumoto's eye socket, nestling it just above his optic nerve. She then quickly let it go, the springy metal bouncing back and forth.
Matsumoto's stifled, yet still piercing scream echoed around the room as he jerked spasmodically, the pain consuming him… and hence, curing his soul of more of its taint. Simply magnificent.
The grand double door entrance to the room to Kaede's rear creaked open, accompanied by the click of high heels on slate. The clicks stopped shortly afterwards, and a longsuffering sigh followed while a second creak signalled the doors were being shut.
"I see I'll most likely have to get someone in to clean this floor again," a woman's smoky voice commented resignedly.
Kaede spared a glance over her shoulder from her work at the newcomer, although she already knew who was standing there behind her. Garbed in a crisp black dress suit and a cream coloured silk shirt, Dominique D'Aubigne painted a very cultured picture. But even if clad in rags the woman would still make for a fine depiction of sophistication. Standing a dash below six foot and with long, straight, glossy black locks that fell to the peak of her thighs, Dominique was an imposing person to say the least. Her distinctly feminine figure was trim but full in all the right places, as befitting to most westerners, and her features were delicate yet defined with high cheekbones and a slender nose, where on the latter a pair of stylish oval glasses was perched, emerald green eyes shining behind them. She was, to put it simply, quite stunning. Dominique was approaching middle age, creeping into her forties at the very least, but barely a wrinkle could be seen tarnishing her milky white skin. There was, however, a streak of silvery grey in her dark tresses hanging next to the left side of her face. But rather than detract from her beauty, it instead enhanced it.
Dominique had been in the Ishinomori family's employ for as long as Kaede could remember, ever since she was a young child. She had acted as Kaede's mother's personal assistant, and had also been the late woman's close confidant for many years. These days, with her mother's passing, Dominique had adopted her former role with Kaede, becoming her assistant and advisor. But, in some ways, she was more than that. The French woman had always been there for Kaede--she was like her guardian. Her friend. In short, Dominique D'Aubigne was one of the few people Kaede genuinely trusted. And considering that the sensuous lady was born and bred Soldats stock, that was certainly saying something.
"It's getting on in hours, my Lady Kaede," Dominique crooned, pointedly paying no attention to the high-pitched screeches emanating from Matsumoto as Kaede had the first needle's companions join it in protruding from his eye socket, methodically spacing the instruments of torture along its upper half. "I'm sure your… 'toys'… are keeping your bed warm for you… perhaps you should grace them with your presence."
"Any news from Big Brother?" Kaede asked as she slid another needle above the subject's eyeball, ignoring her advisor's subtle suggestion.
There was a slight silence from Dominique, so brief that it was hardly apparent, before she answered. "None, my Lady," the woman said, "but rest assured I will inform you right away as soon as I hear word from him."
Kaede nodded and shifted her ministrations to Matsumoto's other eye, leaving behind a semi-circle of spines jutting out of the man's right eye socket. He didn't howl any longer and barely convulsed as his white-haired redeemer wedged a needle over the top his left, unseeing eye; its depths void of awareness. The subject was close.
"And what of local developments?" Kaede inquired.
"Much the same, my dear," Dominique reported in a somewhat wearisome tone. "The Sumiyoshi-kai remain in disarray, with no subsidiary group having successfully claimed leadership of the clan just yet--and no clear likelihood that one ever will in the foreseeable future. I doubt they will offer much resistance--they are too busy fighting amongst themselves--although with the threat of our organisation, it may serve to unite them. But there is nothing we can do about that. Regardless, I foresee an easy victory over them." Dominique took a moment to clear her throat, and then resumed. "Talks continue with the proxy leaders of the Yamaguchi-gumi, with little progress. They believe us to be merely another organised crime syndicate, and as such are treating us as one attempting to ally with them. It may cause problems when they learn the truth. But for now, we are on good terms. The Kansai region is becoming unprofitable for them; a new collaborator would inject much-needed funds and life into the ailing yakuza clan. I hear they have been trying to expand into the Kanto region in search of new business, which will sooner or later instigate a war with the Sumiyoshi-kai, united or divided. I recommend having some of our eyes-and-ears keep a watch on their progress throughout the territory. This situation can perhaps be exploited to our advantage."
"Mmm," Kaede mumbled idly in agreement, more interested in saving Matsumoto's soul than the cold war with the country's underworld at present.
"The other yakuza clans that haven't already been devoured will be consumed once all of the gangs under the Sumiyoshi-kai and the Yamaguchi-gumi are inducted into our ranks or dissolved; it's only a matter of time," Dominique went on, before hesitating, as if something offensive had caught in her throat. "As for… *them*, their loathsome presence has been all but purged from the major cities in the Kanagawa prefecture save for their persisting entrenchments in Kawasaki. However, their agents still somehow find the means to strike against us on our own grounds, even here in Yokohama. Loses have been… tolerable, but the disturbances discredit us with our 'partners', both current and… impending."
"Soldats…" Kaede whispered softly, and then abruptly jammed another needle rather violently into Matsumoto's left eye socket. Her aim was slightly off however, and the sharp point pierced the white of the man's eye, passing straight through the glutenous inside of the orb before bursting into the skull's cavity. Matsumoto didn't so much as flinch.
"Child, I believe that man's senses have become numb," Dominique interjected into Kaede's session. "You *have* been 'attending' to him for in excess of a week now."
Kaede ceased planting needles in Matsumoto's eye sockets and looked at him closely. He sagged heavily in his chains and his breathing was hoarse and shallow. "Yes…" the white-haired young woman hissed in approval, her tone taking on an impassioned timbre, "he has grown beyond this plane of reality, beyond this stunted level of thought to another place, far removed from all mundane things. He has fully accepted the pain into his shell, into his mind and his very spirit, and thus it has bestowed upon him divine understanding of his true existence." Kaede sighed in joyous wonder. "He has been favoured with enlightenment!"
"…Of course, my lady," Dominique said quietly.
Quickly, Kaede unlocked Matsumoto's--or more accurately, the trappings that contained the man's soon-to-be ascending soul--shackles and carefully lowered him to the floor, where a black body bag awaited. Arranging the subject in its snug confines, she then zipped up the bag to about three-quarters of the way, insuring that the fading shell could still feed on its last vestiges of needed oxygen.
"Why don't you put him out of his misery?" Dominique queried as she stood beside Kaede's kneeling form, folding her arms and looking distastefully down at Matsumoto's shell. "Traitorous male," she sneered, her words laced with heavy scorn.
"It can't die yet," Kaede informed her aide, stroking the rubbery material of the body bag with one hand, drawing circular patterns as she watched the shell's face, the tops of his eyes still riddled with a curved line of needles. Removing them might drag Matsumoto back from the brink--it was a chance Kaede was not willing to take. "This state must be prolonged. I am not so cruel as to deny Matsumoto's soul the scant handful of moments to bathe in its newfound understanding before it rises to the Heavens. He was a betrayer, but he has been redeemed; the defilement in him has been banished. I am confident he has repented for his sins."
"They are *all* full of defilement, Lady Kaede," Dominique remarked disdainfully, her beautiful features twisting as she continued to look down upon Matsumoto's shell. "And there is no redeeming them. The sooner you learn that, the better."
Kaede looked up at Dominique, tilting her head slightly to one side. "'All'?" she parroted, before shaking her head, her lower lip pouting out a little, making her seem like a argumentative child. She still smiled however, causing the expression to appear rather odd as well. "No, no; Big Brother is not tainted."
Dominique let out a low, throaty chuckle, smiling tolerantly down at Kaede. She reached down and indulgently brushed the young woman's pale cheek with the fingertips of one hand. "Poor, naïve darling," she whispered sympathetically, before straightening. "Come along now," she then said in a louder and sterner voice, "I will have someone fetch Matsumoto's 'shell' later. You really must retire to bed."
Kaede nodded obediently, and then rose to her feet, joining her advisor as the statuesque woman led the way out of the room. Big Brother. She prayed he was all right. He had been gone for so long. But his assignment was necessary, or so Dominique said. It was a mission that would ultimately help them in combating Soldats. And when it came to Soldats, Kaede would do everything in her power to bring the corrupt society down. There was no repentance for them.
******
"Cold night," Mireille remarked offhandedly, glad that she had worn her coat for their latest outing into the city's underbelly… as pointless as it had been. Her breath fogged the air ahead of her as she walked down the shadowy and empty Paris streets together with Kirika, a testament that winter was just around the corner. Soon Mireille wouldn't be able to wear miniskirts any more, unless she was willing to brave the coming chill.
Mireille's eyes turned to look upon Kirika, but the girl merely mumbled a vague agreement and inclined her head a fraction, her eyes remaining fastened to the footpath she was travelling along.
Mireille sighed, a plumb of mist blooming in front of her face; a larger one this time. It had been days since they had put the word out that they were searching for Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu--or to be more precise, 'Noir'--but so far not a single snitch nor information dealer had unearthed anything noteworthy. Not even Simon, with his supposed network of spies, had been able to learn of anything. The boy had apologised profusely to Mireille for his failure to date, but his worthless regrets did nothing to bring her and Kirika any closer to their enemies. This drought of data concerning the false Noir did nothing to quell the unpleasant distance between Mireille and her partner. Wherever Ryosuke and Vincent were hiding, they were adept at concealing themselves.
It was very late into the evening, Mireille and Kirika having been out and about in the city since early morning, paying each of the blonde's sources a visit to obtain an update on their progress. Needless to say, the pair's efforts had been for naught. Each day that passed was marked with a gradually heightening sense of frustration to Mireille--that, and a sense of desolation, hopelessness. The passing days not only signified the skill Ryosuke and Vincent possessed at laying low--and the apparent lack of skill Mireille's informants had at sniffing them out--but also the increasing breakdown in the blonde woman's relationship with her diminutive counterpart. Whenever the sun rose on the horizon for a new day, Kirika's spirits seemed to conversely diminish just a little bit more. It had come to a point that the darkhaired girl's mood had degenerated to such a degree that it appeared she had closed herself off completely from Mireille and the outside world alike. She was scarcely responsive to verbal inquiries and seemed to look right through her surroundings most of the time, immersed in her private brooding. She didn't eat much anymore, either, making mealtimes a considerably short and cheerless affair, but coupled with the oppressive silence now commonplace between the two assassins, they were still uncomfortable and depressing despite their length. The apartment Mireille and Kirika were returning to at this very moment; their sanctuary, their *home*; no longer contained the pleasant and content atmosphere it once had. Rather, it was a cold and unfeeling place filled with old memories of a better life the two had formerly shared; a life that Mireille felt she had lived a long, long time ago. She wondered if that life had ever been real to begin with.
It couldn't go on like this. But Mireille could do nothing save for hunting down the false Noir, doing Breffort's bidding for both their sakes, and hope that everything would turn out all right in the end. What else was there? It was the only thing she was sure of, the only thing that could improve matters between her and Kirika. She just wished developments would proceed faster. For some reason time had become Mireille's third bitter foe. No, that was a lie. She knew the reason behind the sentiment. Mireille felt like as time went by another piece of Kirika's heart slipped away from her. When that feeling had hit the woman, it had… it had simply frightened her. And shocked her that she was so frightened. She knew she was attached to her partner… loved her… but still, a part of her had never truly believed, or perhaps accepted, that Kirika meant *that* much to her. Kirika. That girl. She always served to get under Mireille's skin somehow. Even so, the Corsican would rather have a moody partner she didn't quite comprehend her feelings for than none at all. She couldn't go back to always being alone.
A Metro subway entrance drew nearer on Mireille and Kirika's left as they walked, bright light still shining from its depths even at this hour. There were only a few more blocks to trek before the apartment would be in sight. With this chilly night air, Mireille was beginning to rethink her decision to walk the distance rather than take a taxicab, or even the Metro. She angled her gaze slightly to Kirika, speculating whether or not the girl felt the cold. Mireille smiled faintly without humour. The cold probably didn't even touch Kirika. A lack of awareness tended to allow one to distance themselves from petty annoyances, environmental and otherwise.
All of a sudden, Kirika stopped walking and looked over her shoulder, prompting Mireille to do likewise. A brown Citroen was cruising quietly up the street behind them. While that was nothing unusually in itself, one thing did cause the Corsican pause--its headlights were switched off.
Doubtless having realised he had been spotted, the driver of the car suddenly accelerated, speeding along the remaining length of road towards the stationary Mireille and Kirika, closing the distance separating them at an alarming rate.
"Kirika!" Mireille exclaimed, looking her counterpart in the eyes briefly before snapping her gaze to the Metro entrance, and then back again to the girl.
Understanding her partner's intentions, Kirika took off for the subway, pulling out her handgun at the same time. Mireille risked a fleeting look at the rapidly gaining car, and then bolted after Kirika, hot on the girl's heels. She heard the Citroen squeak to an abrupt halt next to the curb and its four doors open a second later, followed by men's vehement curses. Reaching inside her coat, Mireille drew her Walther P99 from its holster strapped around her torso and angled her upper body back around to the car as she continued to run. She sighted five men in total clambering out of the Citroen, all bearing arms. With her gun held in her right hand, Mireille unleashed a volley of bullets in the mob's general direction, hoping to delay their imminent pursuit for a few seconds as they scrambled for cover and give her and Kirika more time to find a defensive position. Fighting out in the open when her opponents had their vehicle to hide behind was not the Corsican assassin's style.
A couple of bullets smashed through the car's front windshield, forming a spider's web of cracks spiralling out from the puncture holes, and consequently caused the driver to duck and throw himself out of the vehicle to prevent being hit. Several more rounds perforated the hood of the Citroen, and more its open doors which the majority of the men used to protect themselves from Mireille's inhibiting barrage. Another slug shattered the front passenger side window to pieces, and a second luckier shot struck a man trying to exit the car there in the right upper arm, the force of the gunshot knocking him back into his seat.
"Go! Go!" the injured man shouted through clenched teeth, urging his companions on with emphatic motions with his head while he clutched at his bleeding arm. "Take the shotgun!"
Mireille didn't stick around for the rest of the conversation, sprinting down the subway's flight of stairs two steps at a time as the men returned fire, bullets ricocheting off the walls she had only instants before run past. She saw Kirika disappear behind the corner at the end of the staircase and quickly dashed after her, leaping the remaining half a dozen steps to the landing, the sound of her boots hitting the hard cement floor echoing off the narrow subway entryway's walls.
Mireille darted around the corner just as a hail of gunfire rung out, a myriad of bullets riddling a payphone mounted on the wall across from the street entrance to the Metro system. The unfortunate payphone spewed out coins all over the landing from its ruptured insides, as though a gushing, metallic wound. Better it than her, however, Mireille thought grimly.
Mireille glanced at Kirika beside her as Euro coins bounced past their feet and down the second staircase into the Metro station. She looked rather anxious as she met the Corsican's eyes, one of the first true displays of emotion the blonde had seen for quite a while. Not surprising though, considering that they had just been attacked out of the blue. Who were these men? Or more importantly, how on earth had they found them? Mireille Bouquet and Kirika Yuumura were not easy people to track down--Kirika didn't even exist in many public and private records.
Mireille pressed her back against the cracked, graffiti stained cement wall and carefully peeked around the corner. Whoever these would-be assassins were, she was sure they weren't Soldats minions. For one thing, they had a substantially different dress sense than the soldiers of the clandestine group. These men had the trappings of showy gangsters, not the black suits and ties that were customary among Soldats operatives. Were they with Ryosuke and Vincent? It was unlikely, taking into account that the two Asian men were reportedly strangers to this country; Mireille didn't think they would have any notable contacts in Paris. It didn't rule out the possibility that they could have recruited some flunkies, however. Had one of Mireille's informants sold her out to the false Noir? Maybe… but the blonde had always been careful not to reveal too much about herself to her sources, business associates or not. It was a good way to wind up dead before you even knew what--and who--hit you.
A few rounds impacted into the wall close to Mireille's peeping face, causing her to reflexively jerk back into cover. In any case, her questions would have to wait until another, more appropriate time to be answered. But heads would roll as soon as she found out who had betrayed her.
Mireille strafed out a pace from behind the corner in a flash of movement, just as three of the men were advancing down the stairs, pistols in hand. Her expression cold, she rapidly squeezed off a trio of shots at the nearest gangster, all three of them surprised by her deft manoeuvre. Two of the Parabellum rounds made devastating contact with the targeted man's right thigh, buckling the whole leg underneath him and sending him sprawling face first on the steps, his gun escaping his grasp with the jolt of the fall. He cried out in pain and raised his head from the stairs, only to get another slug in the forehead, the bullet tearing clean through his skull and out the opposite side, an explosion of blood and brain matter punctuating its violent exit. The gangster's head slumped forwards against the steps once again, except this time lifelessly and encircled by dripping red cascading languidly down the stairs.
"Shit! What in the hell?! You bitch!" screamed one goon furiously before he started blazing away wildly at Mireille with his gun, obviously taken aback by his nearby companion's abrupt death. But all he hit was cement, the assassin already having retreated into the safety of the corner once more.
Mireille listened patiently for the telltale click of an emptied handgun, waiting for the gangster to foolishly waste all of his ammunition in his rage. No, these men were definitely not Soldats. Soldats people would have had more discipline. Or at the very least, more common sense.
Mireille heard the slide of the infuriated gangster's pistol snap back, and instantly she flitted out from shelter, brandishing her Walther in both hands. Her blue eyes suddenly widened as she was greeted by the alarming sight of the single barrel of a pump action shotgun aimed directly at her chest from behind the angry goon and his more composed friend, wielded by a third man who had arrived on the scene.
Mireille didn't even have the opportunity to curse before a peppering of pellets were fired her way, forcing her to desperately dive for cover, narrowly evading the lethal buckshot. Without her finely honed reflexes she would have taken the contents of the shotgun shell full in the chest, unquestionably spelling death. And Mireille would be damned if some low-level hoods claimed her life.
Another shotgun blast pounded into the wall Mireille and Kirika were just around the corner from; bits of cement raining down to the floor while puffs of dust were launched into the air. Perhaps it was time to find a better position.
Mireille signalled sharply to Kirika to run deeper into the Metro station with a terse flick of her head, her blonde locks waving. The girl immediately obeyed and the pair hurried down the second flight of stairs into the Metro, the steps of their chasing adversaries reverberating in the L-shaped entryway to their rear.
However, as soon as Mireille and Kirika entered the subway station proper, the blonde realised her mistake. A huge, thick iron barred gate was situated in front of the turnstiles to the station platform, flush with the walls, floor and ceiling of the entry area, effectively blocking any potential escape route. Stupid. Mireille should have remembered that the Metro was out of service for the night.
A loud pinging resounded in the station and a flare of sparks manifested on one bar of the gate just to the side of Mireille's head as a wayward bullet from the tailing gangsters missed its blonde target, spurring the woman to roll behind a nearby column support. Mireille flicked her head to the left, catching sight of Kirika swooping into the shelter of a pillar also, the structure thankfully just wide enough to shield a lean person. Terrific. Now the only means for Mireille and Kirika to shake these people off was to make sure that they would never bother anybody else ever again.
The blonde assassin sighed as yet another torrent of bullets were sent her and her partner's way, glancing off the upright iron bars of the gate and hammering into the reverse face of the pillar. She so disliked leaving bodies haphazardly around the place, especially in her own neighbourhood. It could be a messy business. One corpse was bad enough as it was. And the worst of it was Mireille and Kirika weren't even being paid to put them in their graves! Although, it could be said that the reward for executing these men was that she and Kirika continued breathing. And really, what better payment--or incentive for success--was that? Combating Soldats had taught Mireille that particular truth.
Mireille fired the little rounds remaining in her pistol over her shoulder at the goons, the shots mainly to force them onto the defensive and take the pressure off her and Kirika for a few seconds, rather than to actually kill any of them. The echo of gunfire faded from the station as the men fell back into cover, likely positioning themselves in the same manner Mireille and her partner did behind the station's support columns. They were on even terms now… aside from one detail--none of the gangsters had been the original Noir, the Eternal Darkness. They were but lambs in the company of lions.
Mireille ejected her depleted clip and retrieved a fresh one from the leather pouches inside her brownish-grey coat, reloading her Walther P99 and chambering the first bullet. Bringing up her gun with both hands, she took a deep breath, and then released it slowly. Her eyes moved to Kirika--the brooding girl was in much the same stance as her. Kirika's eyes were closed however, reminiscent of the time when they had faced Ryosuke and Vincent in Le Grand Hotel Inter-Continental. This was no occasion to be spent gazing at Kirika while trying to decipher what was going through her mind, however, despite whether Mireille wished to or not.
Bounding out from the pillar, Mireille quickly noted the new locations of the enemy in a blink of an eye, and glimpsed a limb sticking out from behind one of the columns to the far left. Seeing an opportunity, she fired a slug at exposed the arm, and was rewarded with an agonised howl. The gangster she had struck stumbled out from the protection of the pillar, tripping over his own feet and landing on his backside. However, before Mireille could finish him off, a bullet slammed into the concrete surface of the support adjacent to her, shot by a goon from another support to the right. To her dislike, she was forced to return to the security of her cover and consequently abandon the chance to kill a second member of the gangsters' group.
Mireille looked to Kirika, and was pleased to see the girl move to take advantage of her 'offering'. The introverted girl stepped calmly out from her own pillar she was using as shelter with her Beretta M1934 held steadily in her two dainty hands, the firearm pointing at the vulnerable man still sitting on the floor out in the open, his mind in a miasma of pain from his wound.
But she didn't fire. An icy claw suddenly gripped Mireille's heart, its talons biting harshly into it. Kirika simply stood there, frozen, her gun raised and aimed at the injured gangster, but her features slack and her eyes staring vacantly into space. The girl's frail body was completely exposed, and apparently she was oblivious to that fact too. What was wrong with her?! Why didn't she shoot?!
Mireille took an unconscious concerned step forward towards her stock-still partner, her free hand lifting to reach out to her. "Kiri--ah!" the beginnings of the woman's frantic call was viciously cut off as a shotgun shell smacked into the solid side of the column beside her and bounced off at an angle, several of the pellets grazing her face.
Mireille staggered backwards into cover again, clasping a hand over the stinging abrasions scoring her left cheek. But the minor flesh wounds that could have easily been a ruined mess of half-flayed features were the farthest things from her mind. Her gaze automatically went back to Kirika, her breathing and heart rate quickening substantially more than it had done so all throughout the gunfight. Kirika's hands--no, her entire arms--were shaking. Trembling uncontrollably. The Beretta in her grasp shuddered, and Mireille thought she could hear the full magazine it contained rattling.
"Kirika!" Mireille desperately cried, praying her voice would snap her partner out of whatever state of petrification she was in. Her eyes moved to fleetingly survey the gangsters, and to her horror, she saw that the man on the floor had recovered his senses and was bringing his pistol to bear at Kirika with his good arm, a mildly startled but relieved smirk on his face.
The goon armed with the shotgun grinned too a couple of feet from his friend, keeping his weapon on Mireille's position, ensuring that she wouldn't interfere unless she wanted to eat a lethal meal of buckshot. At this range coupled with his readiness he wouldn't miss if the Corsican stepped out into the open, and she was likely to lose a limb to the powerful blast even if he failed to score a hit on her torso. Either way, it would mean death.
Not that Mireille cared. Her feet rasped on the concrete floor as she prepared to leap out of cover and kill the pistol-wielding gangster before he shot Kirika, regardless if it would mean she would likely die in the process. In her frenetic state of mind it didn't even register what she was willing to do for her partner.
"Dumbass kid…" the goon on the floor sneered, cocking the hammer of his revolver as he lined up the immobile, shivering Kirika in its sights. His finger tensed on the trigger.
"KIRIKA!"
******
To be continued….
Author's ramblings:
This chapter was a little shorter than usual, but I wanted to split it into two parts (the reason should be obvious ^_^).
Sumiyoshi-kai and Yamaguchi-gumi are the two biggest yakuza syndicates in Japan if anybody didn't already realise.
******
The seventh chapter. The first section of this part contains material that some people may find a little disturbing. Or not. Everybody is so desensitised these days. Writing for unhinged characters sure is fun, though. ^_^
- Kirika
******
Chapter 7 - Sinners, Act I
Kaede Ishinomori examined her series of finely honed instruments through her snow-white bangs with an appraising eye, where they were laid out in a silver tray on a square table before her. Their smooth metallic surfaces glinted vibrantly, reflecting the flames flickering in the fireplace inset on one wall of the lavishly decorated but Spartanly furnished room. During the last session their rigorous use and seen them become quite soiled, requiring them to be thoroughly cleansed and polished until they shone radiantly, almost bathed in a holy aura. Kaede's craft was an art form that called extensively upon her utensils, both exotic and ordinary alike. Even the most everyday of items could be used to beguile a subject closer to enlightenment.
The brick fireplace was the sole source of light in the otherwise gloomy, spacious room, generating an overall sinister atmosphere, the air thick with dark foreboding. Two cast iron pokers rested in the crackling flames of the fireplace, their ends glowing a hot orange, having been in their for a significant amount of time. They would be needed later to prevent the subject's premature departure before they--or he, in this case--had reached the exalted plateau of celestial favour. The human shell was so fragile. But it did serve to restrict blessed illumination to only those whose bodies could endure the hallowed ordeal Kaede so fastidiously administered with her skilled hands. If not, then any unworthy heathen could achieve transcendence.
A willowy, pale hand hovered lazily over the tray of instruments as Kaede mulled her choices, pausing for fleeting moments on each one, although it was an act to heighten the subject's state of anticipation more than anything else. Or rather, his state of *fear*. Fear caused the body to produce adrenaline, resulting in a subject being able to undergo more trials than she or he normally would, and hence, bring them nearer to enlightenment at a faster pace. Nevertheless, Kaede wondered why this subject was still so frightened. He should feel privileged; it wasn't as though she treated all the people under her to this honour. Although, Matsumoto *had* strayed from her fold, betraying her to outsiders and their foul, warped word of law; for whatever reason be it money or a misguided conscience. Naturally, that was one of the primary motivations behind Kaede choosing to bestow the gift of sacred revelation upon him… through *pain*. She would compel the wayward Matsumoto to repent his sins, and in turn, hasten his inevitable journey towards the Heavens, with his soul clean and ready to be judged by the Gods.
Not that Matsumoto could verbally repent. A muffled and pathetic mewling came from the man on Kaede's left as her hand lingered over an electric prod, her slender fingers crooking downwards to caress the device lovingly. Kaede had quickly tired of Matsumoto's pleading once she had begun her purification ritual--the symphony of screams a woman produced when in a state of torment were far more pleasing to the ear--consequently inciting her to cut out the offending jabbering muscle to cease the infernal prattle. However, after sealing the ensuing wound with the sanitising heat of searing hot iron, the inconsiderate man had then taken to whining and snivelling like a little boy, further bothering Kaede. So, she decided to close the vexing orifice permanently. A sharp needle and strong fishing line had a million uses.
Kaede's hands resumed their meander above the tray, leaving the prod and moving on to other implements of torture. Electricity was an efficient means to inflict varying degrees of pain upon a subject without dealing permanent damage to her or his body. Yet the white-haired woman had learnt through great practice that males had a superior natural resistance to the agony of an electrical charge ravaging their muscles than females did, so nowadays she tended to reserve that particular form of anguish for those of the feminine allegiance. Most women could be cowed into doing almost anything to avoid electricity's sharp sting… much to Kaede's delight.
Kaede's eyes drifted away from her beloved instruments to take in her errant 'bodyguard'; her trademark perpetual, faint, and distant smile glued to her features. Matsumoto hung naked from the ceiling by two lengths of chain; his wrists in manacles and his arms stretched painfully taut into the air, the weak muscles of the limbs visibly straining pitifully against their treatment. Equally restrained were the man's legs, held fast by cuffed ankles affixed to a third and fourth set of chains bolted firmly to rings embedded in the grey slate tiled floor. The subject's bonds were pulled so tightly that he could barely squirm a centimetre. As they should be. Kaede couldn't have Matsumoto fidgeting while she was trying to save his soul, after all. It would be irritating to say the least.
The trim young woman, dressed plainly in a grey tank top and shorts--her nightwear--turned fully to face Matsumoto and placed her hands on her hips, striking a thoughtful pose. She looked over the subject's body with an evaluating gaze, gauging how much more his shell could withstand. The man's hands were simply twin balls of meat, the digits that had once adorned them having been severed by one manner or another, leaving behind in their place a mess of cauterised flesh where Kaede had touched them with a glowing poker retrieved from the fireplace. Lower, old dried scabs and freshly torn tissue revealing raw red beneath, where the rough edges of his metal shackles had harshly cut into his skin, ringed Matsumoto's wrists. The man had struggled mightily in his restraints in the beginning, depleting much of his strength and with only severely chafed wrists--and ankles also--to show for his ultimately wasted labours. No longer did he fight, however. Matsumoto's shell had now dedicated its faculties totally towards merely sustaining its bare minimum of functions that were vital for survival.
Kaede's veiled eyes descended to the subject's neck, where yet more blood encrusted bands disfigured his flesh, along with a spattering of dark purple bruises. At several points in previous sessions, the woman had throttled Matsumoto with an assortment of objects--rope, wire, cloth; and several times with her bare hands. But under stringent circumstances, of course. Controlled asphyxiation could cause a substantial amount of burning woe to the sufferer's lungs, and in turn their whole body in general, but it had to be strictly regulated. Too much invariably resulted in premature death--one had to monitor the subject most carefully to prolong the torturous yet liberating experience. Why, once Kaede had kept one subject with a tight noose around her neck alive for more than an hour and a half by lowering her back to her tiptoes for twenty minutes or so whenever it seemed that she was drawing close to the point of no return. When the blessed woman had finally expired, she had dangled in the air by her neck for at least a full hour all together. Kaede was sure that particular subject had reached glorious enlightenment at the end.
Kaede's thoughts returned from the past to her latest subject, her gaze roaming over his ripped and bludgeoned form. Matsumoto's left leg was bent at an odd angle, the knee joint having been crushed to a pulp when she'd had the sudden impulse to deliver a blow with a small mallet to it. The man had howled terribly at that, the scream made all the more grotesque since he had lacked a tongue at the time. It was one of the things that had provoked Kaede into stitching up his lips a short period later. Really, a feminine shriek was infinitely more beautiful than a masculine one.
Kaede's smile widened just a tad once her eyes found their way to Matsumoto's bloody crotch. She wouldn't be surprised if he could hit the high notes now, however, despite being a man. A male's spirit was prone to shatter quicker when ruthlessly robbed of his manhood, a supposition that Kaede more often than not proved to ring true with all of her male subjects. The poor fools were reduced to whimpering, compliant children after such a… demoralising… dismemberment.
"What to do, what to do," Kaede remarked in a singsong voice, tapping a whimsical finger on her chin. Her gaze went to Matsumoto's more or less unharmed face; the only really noticeable damage his somewhat swollen mouth. "Ah, yes, I remember," the lissom woman said, as if it had suddenly dawned on her. In truth, she'd had a motive for abstaining from inflicting harm to Matsumoto's visage, a motive she intended to come to fruition. Right now.
Kaede turned back to her tray, plucking a pile of about a dozen, ten centimetre long, flexible needles from the selection of apparatus available. Her all but unwavering smile still on her face, she returned her attention to Matsumoto, who quivered as best he could in his chains at the sight of the needles in her hand. There were benefits to letting a subject keep their eyes, the woman reflected.
Kaede took a single step forwards to the subject, her heart rate quickening as the sweet and exciting sense of anticipation enveloped her. Taking short, rapid breaths, she pulled one needle out of the bundle, flourishing it before Matsumoto's terror-stricken eyes. The man thrashed against his bonds with renewed vigour, although amid the combination of his ailing strength and virtually unyielding restraints, it didn't make much more than the most marginal of differences.
"Now, now; none of that," Kaede chided as she replaced the heap of needles back on the tray before grasping a clump of Matsumoto's short brown hair in her now free hand, holding his head in place as he moaned weakly. "Be good and stay still…" she cooed soothingly while she brought the sharp thin needle in her other hand up to the subject's eyes, "that's it…."
Apparently comprehending what she intended to do, Matsumoto squeezed his eyes shut tightly in a meagre attempt to thwart the inescapable--his shell still had a little kick left in it after all. But Kaede would have none of it. Shifting the hand behind Matsumoto's head a fraction, she forcibly pried open his right eyelid with her thumb, exposing the frantic orb underneath. The man's eye darted wildly around the room for a few seconds, but then focused unswervingly on the shiny silver needle brandished in Kaede's right hand as it grew larger and larger in his vision, its dreaded course glaringly clear.
"There are numerous pain receptors behind the eyes," Kaede explained absently as pulled Matsumoto's eyelid back further. "Unfortunately, these can only be reached by inserting a fine needle under the top eyelid." She paused in both speech and motion, and one corner of her lips twitched slightly as her smile took on an almost impish quality. "But luckily for you, I happen to have a few of said needles."
Without any more delay, Kaede inserted the flexible needle in the exact spot she had just mentioned, lodging it deeply into Matsumoto's eye socket, nestling it just above his optic nerve. She then quickly let it go, the springy metal bouncing back and forth.
Matsumoto's stifled, yet still piercing scream echoed around the room as he jerked spasmodically, the pain consuming him… and hence, curing his soul of more of its taint. Simply magnificent.
The grand double door entrance to the room to Kaede's rear creaked open, accompanied by the click of high heels on slate. The clicks stopped shortly afterwards, and a longsuffering sigh followed while a second creak signalled the doors were being shut.
"I see I'll most likely have to get someone in to clean this floor again," a woman's smoky voice commented resignedly.
Kaede spared a glance over her shoulder from her work at the newcomer, although she already knew who was standing there behind her. Garbed in a crisp black dress suit and a cream coloured silk shirt, Dominique D'Aubigne painted a very cultured picture. But even if clad in rags the woman would still make for a fine depiction of sophistication. Standing a dash below six foot and with long, straight, glossy black locks that fell to the peak of her thighs, Dominique was an imposing person to say the least. Her distinctly feminine figure was trim but full in all the right places, as befitting to most westerners, and her features were delicate yet defined with high cheekbones and a slender nose, where on the latter a pair of stylish oval glasses was perched, emerald green eyes shining behind them. She was, to put it simply, quite stunning. Dominique was approaching middle age, creeping into her forties at the very least, but barely a wrinkle could be seen tarnishing her milky white skin. There was, however, a streak of silvery grey in her dark tresses hanging next to the left side of her face. But rather than detract from her beauty, it instead enhanced it.
Dominique had been in the Ishinomori family's employ for as long as Kaede could remember, ever since she was a young child. She had acted as Kaede's mother's personal assistant, and had also been the late woman's close confidant for many years. These days, with her mother's passing, Dominique had adopted her former role with Kaede, becoming her assistant and advisor. But, in some ways, she was more than that. The French woman had always been there for Kaede--she was like her guardian. Her friend. In short, Dominique D'Aubigne was one of the few people Kaede genuinely trusted. And considering that the sensuous lady was born and bred Soldats stock, that was certainly saying something.
"It's getting on in hours, my Lady Kaede," Dominique crooned, pointedly paying no attention to the high-pitched screeches emanating from Matsumoto as Kaede had the first needle's companions join it in protruding from his eye socket, methodically spacing the instruments of torture along its upper half. "I'm sure your… 'toys'… are keeping your bed warm for you… perhaps you should grace them with your presence."
"Any news from Big Brother?" Kaede asked as she slid another needle above the subject's eyeball, ignoring her advisor's subtle suggestion.
There was a slight silence from Dominique, so brief that it was hardly apparent, before she answered. "None, my Lady," the woman said, "but rest assured I will inform you right away as soon as I hear word from him."
Kaede nodded and shifted her ministrations to Matsumoto's other eye, leaving behind a semi-circle of spines jutting out of the man's right eye socket. He didn't howl any longer and barely convulsed as his white-haired redeemer wedged a needle over the top his left, unseeing eye; its depths void of awareness. The subject was close.
"And what of local developments?" Kaede inquired.
"Much the same, my dear," Dominique reported in a somewhat wearisome tone. "The Sumiyoshi-kai remain in disarray, with no subsidiary group having successfully claimed leadership of the clan just yet--and no clear likelihood that one ever will in the foreseeable future. I doubt they will offer much resistance--they are too busy fighting amongst themselves--although with the threat of our organisation, it may serve to unite them. But there is nothing we can do about that. Regardless, I foresee an easy victory over them." Dominique took a moment to clear her throat, and then resumed. "Talks continue with the proxy leaders of the Yamaguchi-gumi, with little progress. They believe us to be merely another organised crime syndicate, and as such are treating us as one attempting to ally with them. It may cause problems when they learn the truth. But for now, we are on good terms. The Kansai region is becoming unprofitable for them; a new collaborator would inject much-needed funds and life into the ailing yakuza clan. I hear they have been trying to expand into the Kanto region in search of new business, which will sooner or later instigate a war with the Sumiyoshi-kai, united or divided. I recommend having some of our eyes-and-ears keep a watch on their progress throughout the territory. This situation can perhaps be exploited to our advantage."
"Mmm," Kaede mumbled idly in agreement, more interested in saving Matsumoto's soul than the cold war with the country's underworld at present.
"The other yakuza clans that haven't already been devoured will be consumed once all of the gangs under the Sumiyoshi-kai and the Yamaguchi-gumi are inducted into our ranks or dissolved; it's only a matter of time," Dominique went on, before hesitating, as if something offensive had caught in her throat. "As for… *them*, their loathsome presence has been all but purged from the major cities in the Kanagawa prefecture save for their persisting entrenchments in Kawasaki. However, their agents still somehow find the means to strike against us on our own grounds, even here in Yokohama. Loses have been… tolerable, but the disturbances discredit us with our 'partners', both current and… impending."
"Soldats…" Kaede whispered softly, and then abruptly jammed another needle rather violently into Matsumoto's left eye socket. Her aim was slightly off however, and the sharp point pierced the white of the man's eye, passing straight through the glutenous inside of the orb before bursting into the skull's cavity. Matsumoto didn't so much as flinch.
"Child, I believe that man's senses have become numb," Dominique interjected into Kaede's session. "You *have* been 'attending' to him for in excess of a week now."
Kaede ceased planting needles in Matsumoto's eye sockets and looked at him closely. He sagged heavily in his chains and his breathing was hoarse and shallow. "Yes…" the white-haired young woman hissed in approval, her tone taking on an impassioned timbre, "he has grown beyond this plane of reality, beyond this stunted level of thought to another place, far removed from all mundane things. He has fully accepted the pain into his shell, into his mind and his very spirit, and thus it has bestowed upon him divine understanding of his true existence." Kaede sighed in joyous wonder. "He has been favoured with enlightenment!"
"…Of course, my lady," Dominique said quietly.
Quickly, Kaede unlocked Matsumoto's--or more accurately, the trappings that contained the man's soon-to-be ascending soul--shackles and carefully lowered him to the floor, where a black body bag awaited. Arranging the subject in its snug confines, she then zipped up the bag to about three-quarters of the way, insuring that the fading shell could still feed on its last vestiges of needed oxygen.
"Why don't you put him out of his misery?" Dominique queried as she stood beside Kaede's kneeling form, folding her arms and looking distastefully down at Matsumoto's shell. "Traitorous male," she sneered, her words laced with heavy scorn.
"It can't die yet," Kaede informed her aide, stroking the rubbery material of the body bag with one hand, drawing circular patterns as she watched the shell's face, the tops of his eyes still riddled with a curved line of needles. Removing them might drag Matsumoto back from the brink--it was a chance Kaede was not willing to take. "This state must be prolonged. I am not so cruel as to deny Matsumoto's soul the scant handful of moments to bathe in its newfound understanding before it rises to the Heavens. He was a betrayer, but he has been redeemed; the defilement in him has been banished. I am confident he has repented for his sins."
"They are *all* full of defilement, Lady Kaede," Dominique remarked disdainfully, her beautiful features twisting as she continued to look down upon Matsumoto's shell. "And there is no redeeming them. The sooner you learn that, the better."
Kaede looked up at Dominique, tilting her head slightly to one side. "'All'?" she parroted, before shaking her head, her lower lip pouting out a little, making her seem like a argumentative child. She still smiled however, causing the expression to appear rather odd as well. "No, no; Big Brother is not tainted."
Dominique let out a low, throaty chuckle, smiling tolerantly down at Kaede. She reached down and indulgently brushed the young woman's pale cheek with the fingertips of one hand. "Poor, naïve darling," she whispered sympathetically, before straightening. "Come along now," she then said in a louder and sterner voice, "I will have someone fetch Matsumoto's 'shell' later. You really must retire to bed."
Kaede nodded obediently, and then rose to her feet, joining her advisor as the statuesque woman led the way out of the room. Big Brother. She prayed he was all right. He had been gone for so long. But his assignment was necessary, or so Dominique said. It was a mission that would ultimately help them in combating Soldats. And when it came to Soldats, Kaede would do everything in her power to bring the corrupt society down. There was no repentance for them.
******
"Cold night," Mireille remarked offhandedly, glad that she had worn her coat for their latest outing into the city's underbelly… as pointless as it had been. Her breath fogged the air ahead of her as she walked down the shadowy and empty Paris streets together with Kirika, a testament that winter was just around the corner. Soon Mireille wouldn't be able to wear miniskirts any more, unless she was willing to brave the coming chill.
Mireille's eyes turned to look upon Kirika, but the girl merely mumbled a vague agreement and inclined her head a fraction, her eyes remaining fastened to the footpath she was travelling along.
Mireille sighed, a plumb of mist blooming in front of her face; a larger one this time. It had been days since they had put the word out that they were searching for Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu--or to be more precise, 'Noir'--but so far not a single snitch nor information dealer had unearthed anything noteworthy. Not even Simon, with his supposed network of spies, had been able to learn of anything. The boy had apologised profusely to Mireille for his failure to date, but his worthless regrets did nothing to bring her and Kirika any closer to their enemies. This drought of data concerning the false Noir did nothing to quell the unpleasant distance between Mireille and her partner. Wherever Ryosuke and Vincent were hiding, they were adept at concealing themselves.
It was very late into the evening, Mireille and Kirika having been out and about in the city since early morning, paying each of the blonde's sources a visit to obtain an update on their progress. Needless to say, the pair's efforts had been for naught. Each day that passed was marked with a gradually heightening sense of frustration to Mireille--that, and a sense of desolation, hopelessness. The passing days not only signified the skill Ryosuke and Vincent possessed at laying low--and the apparent lack of skill Mireille's informants had at sniffing them out--but also the increasing breakdown in the blonde woman's relationship with her diminutive counterpart. Whenever the sun rose on the horizon for a new day, Kirika's spirits seemed to conversely diminish just a little bit more. It had come to a point that the darkhaired girl's mood had degenerated to such a degree that it appeared she had closed herself off completely from Mireille and the outside world alike. She was scarcely responsive to verbal inquiries and seemed to look right through her surroundings most of the time, immersed in her private brooding. She didn't eat much anymore, either, making mealtimes a considerably short and cheerless affair, but coupled with the oppressive silence now commonplace between the two assassins, they were still uncomfortable and depressing despite their length. The apartment Mireille and Kirika were returning to at this very moment; their sanctuary, their *home*; no longer contained the pleasant and content atmosphere it once had. Rather, it was a cold and unfeeling place filled with old memories of a better life the two had formerly shared; a life that Mireille felt she had lived a long, long time ago. She wondered if that life had ever been real to begin with.
It couldn't go on like this. But Mireille could do nothing save for hunting down the false Noir, doing Breffort's bidding for both their sakes, and hope that everything would turn out all right in the end. What else was there? It was the only thing she was sure of, the only thing that could improve matters between her and Kirika. She just wished developments would proceed faster. For some reason time had become Mireille's third bitter foe. No, that was a lie. She knew the reason behind the sentiment. Mireille felt like as time went by another piece of Kirika's heart slipped away from her. When that feeling had hit the woman, it had… it had simply frightened her. And shocked her that she was so frightened. She knew she was attached to her partner… loved her… but still, a part of her had never truly believed, or perhaps accepted, that Kirika meant *that* much to her. Kirika. That girl. She always served to get under Mireille's skin somehow. Even so, the Corsican would rather have a moody partner she didn't quite comprehend her feelings for than none at all. She couldn't go back to always being alone.
A Metro subway entrance drew nearer on Mireille and Kirika's left as they walked, bright light still shining from its depths even at this hour. There were only a few more blocks to trek before the apartment would be in sight. With this chilly night air, Mireille was beginning to rethink her decision to walk the distance rather than take a taxicab, or even the Metro. She angled her gaze slightly to Kirika, speculating whether or not the girl felt the cold. Mireille smiled faintly without humour. The cold probably didn't even touch Kirika. A lack of awareness tended to allow one to distance themselves from petty annoyances, environmental and otherwise.
All of a sudden, Kirika stopped walking and looked over her shoulder, prompting Mireille to do likewise. A brown Citroen was cruising quietly up the street behind them. While that was nothing unusually in itself, one thing did cause the Corsican pause--its headlights were switched off.
Doubtless having realised he had been spotted, the driver of the car suddenly accelerated, speeding along the remaining length of road towards the stationary Mireille and Kirika, closing the distance separating them at an alarming rate.
"Kirika!" Mireille exclaimed, looking her counterpart in the eyes briefly before snapping her gaze to the Metro entrance, and then back again to the girl.
Understanding her partner's intentions, Kirika took off for the subway, pulling out her handgun at the same time. Mireille risked a fleeting look at the rapidly gaining car, and then bolted after Kirika, hot on the girl's heels. She heard the Citroen squeak to an abrupt halt next to the curb and its four doors open a second later, followed by men's vehement curses. Reaching inside her coat, Mireille drew her Walther P99 from its holster strapped around her torso and angled her upper body back around to the car as she continued to run. She sighted five men in total clambering out of the Citroen, all bearing arms. With her gun held in her right hand, Mireille unleashed a volley of bullets in the mob's general direction, hoping to delay their imminent pursuit for a few seconds as they scrambled for cover and give her and Kirika more time to find a defensive position. Fighting out in the open when her opponents had their vehicle to hide behind was not the Corsican assassin's style.
A couple of bullets smashed through the car's front windshield, forming a spider's web of cracks spiralling out from the puncture holes, and consequently caused the driver to duck and throw himself out of the vehicle to prevent being hit. Several more rounds perforated the hood of the Citroen, and more its open doors which the majority of the men used to protect themselves from Mireille's inhibiting barrage. Another slug shattered the front passenger side window to pieces, and a second luckier shot struck a man trying to exit the car there in the right upper arm, the force of the gunshot knocking him back into his seat.
"Go! Go!" the injured man shouted through clenched teeth, urging his companions on with emphatic motions with his head while he clutched at his bleeding arm. "Take the shotgun!"
Mireille didn't stick around for the rest of the conversation, sprinting down the subway's flight of stairs two steps at a time as the men returned fire, bullets ricocheting off the walls she had only instants before run past. She saw Kirika disappear behind the corner at the end of the staircase and quickly dashed after her, leaping the remaining half a dozen steps to the landing, the sound of her boots hitting the hard cement floor echoing off the narrow subway entryway's walls.
Mireille darted around the corner just as a hail of gunfire rung out, a myriad of bullets riddling a payphone mounted on the wall across from the street entrance to the Metro system. The unfortunate payphone spewed out coins all over the landing from its ruptured insides, as though a gushing, metallic wound. Better it than her, however, Mireille thought grimly.
Mireille glanced at Kirika beside her as Euro coins bounced past their feet and down the second staircase into the Metro station. She looked rather anxious as she met the Corsican's eyes, one of the first true displays of emotion the blonde had seen for quite a while. Not surprising though, considering that they had just been attacked out of the blue. Who were these men? Or more importantly, how on earth had they found them? Mireille Bouquet and Kirika Yuumura were not easy people to track down--Kirika didn't even exist in many public and private records.
Mireille pressed her back against the cracked, graffiti stained cement wall and carefully peeked around the corner. Whoever these would-be assassins were, she was sure they weren't Soldats minions. For one thing, they had a substantially different dress sense than the soldiers of the clandestine group. These men had the trappings of showy gangsters, not the black suits and ties that were customary among Soldats operatives. Were they with Ryosuke and Vincent? It was unlikely, taking into account that the two Asian men were reportedly strangers to this country; Mireille didn't think they would have any notable contacts in Paris. It didn't rule out the possibility that they could have recruited some flunkies, however. Had one of Mireille's informants sold her out to the false Noir? Maybe… but the blonde had always been careful not to reveal too much about herself to her sources, business associates or not. It was a good way to wind up dead before you even knew what--and who--hit you.
A few rounds impacted into the wall close to Mireille's peeping face, causing her to reflexively jerk back into cover. In any case, her questions would have to wait until another, more appropriate time to be answered. But heads would roll as soon as she found out who had betrayed her.
Mireille strafed out a pace from behind the corner in a flash of movement, just as three of the men were advancing down the stairs, pistols in hand. Her expression cold, she rapidly squeezed off a trio of shots at the nearest gangster, all three of them surprised by her deft manoeuvre. Two of the Parabellum rounds made devastating contact with the targeted man's right thigh, buckling the whole leg underneath him and sending him sprawling face first on the steps, his gun escaping his grasp with the jolt of the fall. He cried out in pain and raised his head from the stairs, only to get another slug in the forehead, the bullet tearing clean through his skull and out the opposite side, an explosion of blood and brain matter punctuating its violent exit. The gangster's head slumped forwards against the steps once again, except this time lifelessly and encircled by dripping red cascading languidly down the stairs.
"Shit! What in the hell?! You bitch!" screamed one goon furiously before he started blazing away wildly at Mireille with his gun, obviously taken aback by his nearby companion's abrupt death. But all he hit was cement, the assassin already having retreated into the safety of the corner once more.
Mireille listened patiently for the telltale click of an emptied handgun, waiting for the gangster to foolishly waste all of his ammunition in his rage. No, these men were definitely not Soldats. Soldats people would have had more discipline. Or at the very least, more common sense.
Mireille heard the slide of the infuriated gangster's pistol snap back, and instantly she flitted out from shelter, brandishing her Walther in both hands. Her blue eyes suddenly widened as she was greeted by the alarming sight of the single barrel of a pump action shotgun aimed directly at her chest from behind the angry goon and his more composed friend, wielded by a third man who had arrived on the scene.
Mireille didn't even have the opportunity to curse before a peppering of pellets were fired her way, forcing her to desperately dive for cover, narrowly evading the lethal buckshot. Without her finely honed reflexes she would have taken the contents of the shotgun shell full in the chest, unquestionably spelling death. And Mireille would be damned if some low-level hoods claimed her life.
Another shotgun blast pounded into the wall Mireille and Kirika were just around the corner from; bits of cement raining down to the floor while puffs of dust were launched into the air. Perhaps it was time to find a better position.
Mireille signalled sharply to Kirika to run deeper into the Metro station with a terse flick of her head, her blonde locks waving. The girl immediately obeyed and the pair hurried down the second flight of stairs into the Metro, the steps of their chasing adversaries reverberating in the L-shaped entryway to their rear.
However, as soon as Mireille and Kirika entered the subway station proper, the blonde realised her mistake. A huge, thick iron barred gate was situated in front of the turnstiles to the station platform, flush with the walls, floor and ceiling of the entry area, effectively blocking any potential escape route. Stupid. Mireille should have remembered that the Metro was out of service for the night.
A loud pinging resounded in the station and a flare of sparks manifested on one bar of the gate just to the side of Mireille's head as a wayward bullet from the tailing gangsters missed its blonde target, spurring the woman to roll behind a nearby column support. Mireille flicked her head to the left, catching sight of Kirika swooping into the shelter of a pillar also, the structure thankfully just wide enough to shield a lean person. Terrific. Now the only means for Mireille and Kirika to shake these people off was to make sure that they would never bother anybody else ever again.
The blonde assassin sighed as yet another torrent of bullets were sent her and her partner's way, glancing off the upright iron bars of the gate and hammering into the reverse face of the pillar. She so disliked leaving bodies haphazardly around the place, especially in her own neighbourhood. It could be a messy business. One corpse was bad enough as it was. And the worst of it was Mireille and Kirika weren't even being paid to put them in their graves! Although, it could be said that the reward for executing these men was that she and Kirika continued breathing. And really, what better payment--or incentive for success--was that? Combating Soldats had taught Mireille that particular truth.
Mireille fired the little rounds remaining in her pistol over her shoulder at the goons, the shots mainly to force them onto the defensive and take the pressure off her and Kirika for a few seconds, rather than to actually kill any of them. The echo of gunfire faded from the station as the men fell back into cover, likely positioning themselves in the same manner Mireille and her partner did behind the station's support columns. They were on even terms now… aside from one detail--none of the gangsters had been the original Noir, the Eternal Darkness. They were but lambs in the company of lions.
Mireille ejected her depleted clip and retrieved a fresh one from the leather pouches inside her brownish-grey coat, reloading her Walther P99 and chambering the first bullet. Bringing up her gun with both hands, she took a deep breath, and then released it slowly. Her eyes moved to Kirika--the brooding girl was in much the same stance as her. Kirika's eyes were closed however, reminiscent of the time when they had faced Ryosuke and Vincent in Le Grand Hotel Inter-Continental. This was no occasion to be spent gazing at Kirika while trying to decipher what was going through her mind, however, despite whether Mireille wished to or not.
Bounding out from the pillar, Mireille quickly noted the new locations of the enemy in a blink of an eye, and glimpsed a limb sticking out from behind one of the columns to the far left. Seeing an opportunity, she fired a slug at exposed the arm, and was rewarded with an agonised howl. The gangster she had struck stumbled out from the protection of the pillar, tripping over his own feet and landing on his backside. However, before Mireille could finish him off, a bullet slammed into the concrete surface of the support adjacent to her, shot by a goon from another support to the right. To her dislike, she was forced to return to the security of her cover and consequently abandon the chance to kill a second member of the gangsters' group.
Mireille looked to Kirika, and was pleased to see the girl move to take advantage of her 'offering'. The introverted girl stepped calmly out from her own pillar she was using as shelter with her Beretta M1934 held steadily in her two dainty hands, the firearm pointing at the vulnerable man still sitting on the floor out in the open, his mind in a miasma of pain from his wound.
But she didn't fire. An icy claw suddenly gripped Mireille's heart, its talons biting harshly into it. Kirika simply stood there, frozen, her gun raised and aimed at the injured gangster, but her features slack and her eyes staring vacantly into space. The girl's frail body was completely exposed, and apparently she was oblivious to that fact too. What was wrong with her?! Why didn't she shoot?!
Mireille took an unconscious concerned step forward towards her stock-still partner, her free hand lifting to reach out to her. "Kiri--ah!" the beginnings of the woman's frantic call was viciously cut off as a shotgun shell smacked into the solid side of the column beside her and bounced off at an angle, several of the pellets grazing her face.
Mireille staggered backwards into cover again, clasping a hand over the stinging abrasions scoring her left cheek. But the minor flesh wounds that could have easily been a ruined mess of half-flayed features were the farthest things from her mind. Her gaze automatically went back to Kirika, her breathing and heart rate quickening substantially more than it had done so all throughout the gunfight. Kirika's hands--no, her entire arms--were shaking. Trembling uncontrollably. The Beretta in her grasp shuddered, and Mireille thought she could hear the full magazine it contained rattling.
"Kirika!" Mireille desperately cried, praying her voice would snap her partner out of whatever state of petrification she was in. Her eyes moved to fleetingly survey the gangsters, and to her horror, she saw that the man on the floor had recovered his senses and was bringing his pistol to bear at Kirika with his good arm, a mildly startled but relieved smirk on his face.
The goon armed with the shotgun grinned too a couple of feet from his friend, keeping his weapon on Mireille's position, ensuring that she wouldn't interfere unless she wanted to eat a lethal meal of buckshot. At this range coupled with his readiness he wouldn't miss if the Corsican stepped out into the open, and she was likely to lose a limb to the powerful blast even if he failed to score a hit on her torso. Either way, it would mean death.
Not that Mireille cared. Her feet rasped on the concrete floor as she prepared to leap out of cover and kill the pistol-wielding gangster before he shot Kirika, regardless if it would mean she would likely die in the process. In her frenetic state of mind it didn't even register what she was willing to do for her partner.
"Dumbass kid…" the goon on the floor sneered, cocking the hammer of his revolver as he lined up the immobile, shivering Kirika in its sights. His finger tensed on the trigger.
"KIRIKA!"
******
To be continued….
Author's ramblings:
This chapter was a little shorter than usual, but I wanted to split it into two parts (the reason should be obvious ^_^).
Sumiyoshi-kai and Yamaguchi-gumi are the two biggest yakuza syndicates in Japan if anybody didn't already realise.