Noir Fan Fiction ❯ Red and Black ❯ Sinners, Act II ( Chapter 8 )
[ 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: 7.9K | Visits: 919 | 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: 7.9K | Visits: 919 | Status: Work In Progress
Red And Black - By Kirika
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The eighth chapter. Cue track sixteen of Noir OST 2: Killing. ^_^
- Kirika
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Chapter 8 - Sinners, Act II
Kirika heard a pain-filled yelp a split second after the latest bang of Mireille's gun, and next the telltale brusque scuff of rubber shoe soles on concrete followed by a low grunt and a dull thud, signalling to the astute girl that one of the men belonging to the group who had attacked her and her partner had been shot and subsequently stumbled out into the open. With this advantageous opportunity presenting itself, Kirika's heightened reflexes that had been rigorously honed to absolute perfection over the years instantly took effect, causing her body to respond without thought. She bounded nimbly out from behind the protection of the pillar she was using as cover, bringing her Beretta to bear on the gangster sitting on the floor a short distance away from her, for all intents and purposes an easy target.
An easy target… no… not to Kirika. A living being had never been an easy target for her, not ever since she had awakened that fateful day with no recollection of her life before that moment, her memories totally erased except for one, significant word. And after returning from the Manor, after learning of the existence of her other self, even less so. Indeed, she had hoped to escape from taking another life ever again… but it was a naïve hope. There was no escape. Her time was up, now. It was kill or be killed, do or die; there were no more reprieves, no chance to sidestep what the girl was now beginning to realise was inevitable. No. She still had her will; she still had a choice. The darkness did not rule her, not yet.
Kirika suddenly froze, her muscles locking, petrifying her in a ready stance with her pistol raised in both hands, the vulnerable man seated on the floor securely in its sights. The view of the Metro station blurred and then melted away from the darkhaired girl's vision, and all sounds faded to barely audible muffles, her mind focusing elsewhere--inwards, where a more important battle than the one against the group of men was being waged.
It was her choice to make--her *own* choice. If Kirika killed now, there would be no turning back. She would do it again and again as it became easier and easier, a never-ending spiral into sin. A descent further and further into darkness, ultimately ending with the darkness itself, in its pure, undiluted form.
But she *could* resist. She didn't have to become a murderer again. She still had her own will. Nothing and no one controlled her. Kirika was free; her life was her own to live. Soldats, Altena--she was not their puppet, not any more. She didn't have to take the third--and significant--step towards the darkness, and towards her other, malevolent self that it harboured in its bleak shadows. Right now, at this very moment, she could stop the journey. All she had to do was try.
"KIRIKA!"
The desperate shout of a female voice Kirika knew even better than her own wrenched her mind violently back to reality, easily demolishing the dampening barrier the girl had placed around it and her senses. Her head snapped to the source of the yell at the same time her brown eyes reregistered her surroundings in their depths, and was met by the sight of a breathless Mireille's unnerved face, the blonde's own normally icy blue eyes imploring. Mireille's posture was also taut and she looked primed, coiled to spring. But her partner's edgy stance was not what drew Kirika's attention. Her face. It was the woman's face she focused on. Mireille's left cheek had three roughly straight lines scrawled across it. Three *red* lines.
As Kirika watched, a trickle of blood seeped out of the lower of the scars, the drip sketching a ruby trail down Mireille's cheek before pausing at the bottom of her chin for an instant. It then dropped slowly towards the floor, as though the air it fell through was made of gooey syrup. Blood. Mireille was bleeding. She had been hurt. Kirika's partner had been hurt because Kirika herself had failed to support her. Kirika's hesitation had resulted in Mireille being hurt. The woman Kirika loved had been hurt because of her!
Something crumbled inside of Kirika, something important, but the awareness that something had was vague to her, merely a distant rumble in the far reaches of her mind, if it could even be called that. It was eclipsed by another sensation, a heavy, leaden lurch of something thrusting forwards to fill a sudden gap inside her with sluggish yet resolute force, like crude oil jetting out of an unobstructed pipe into clear water. The lunging sensation gripped Kirika's static body, and for an instant the farthest outskirts of her vision seemed to pulse a soulless black.
The droplet of Mireille's blood hit the floor, its landing punctuated by the crack of a 9mm calibre bullet discharging from the firing chamber of a Beretta M1934 Commercial echoing around the station. The slug tore mercilessly into the right eye of the confidently smirking man sitting on the floor, tossing his head back. The revolver he was pointing at Kirika went off as his body jerked with the impact of the bullet brutally invading his skull, his finger squeezing the trigger mechanically. But his aim was ruined with the jolt, and the .38 round whizzed harmlessly by the stationary girl's head, sending several of her dark locks flapping with its passing before it slammed into the wall behind her. Kirika didn't flinch even a millimetre.
The stricken man toppled sideways, his smug smile frozen permanently on his features and one eye gone, now just a flood of burgundy fluid remaining that dribbled out of the empty socket and down his face in a thick rivulet as he collapsed.
The other man armed with a twelve-gauge pump action shotgun swung his weapon in Kirika's direction at his companion's unexpected demise, but the assassin was already moving, rushing straight at him at a breakneck velocity, almost already upon him in the heartbeat between her gunshot and his turn.
The gangster's face displayed his panic and his actions manifested it as he fired a shell recklessly at Kirika, but all the spray of buckshot hit was the section of floor a couple of metres behind where she had once been, the agile girl having bounded diagonally into the air to her right, where a support column stood, to evade the blast. Kirika automatically bent her knees as her feet touched the pillar, appearing to suspend in the air for a fraction of a second, attached to the column, and then propelled herself off it in an anti-clockwise spin, lashing out with her right leg at her opponent's weapon. Her foot struck the barrel of the hoodlum's shotgun, knocking it forcefully aside with the power of her short leap behind her kick, effectively rendering it useless against her and leaving the man exposed for further attack.
Kirika crouched as she hit the floor and went with the momentum of her initial spin, whirling around one hundred and eighty degrees before rising to her full height at the climax of her twirl, jabbing viciously upwards with her left elbow into her taller foe's throat, crushing his larynx as if it were a cardboard tube. The man let out the gurgle of someone slowly beginning to suffocate and then dropped to his knees. His shotgun fell to the floor with a clatter, forgotten as all his attention was dedicated towards trying to breathe, his hands clutching futility at his closed-off throat.
Kirika's eyes flicked to the left and her head turned slightly in the same direction as if to look over her shoulder, where she knew her third adversary dwelled with his back to a pillar a few feet to the left of the one her first enemy had used as shelter. But at this angle it provided him with no protection. Her acute hearing picked up the sharp inhalation of someone preparing to shoot a firearm, and she instinctively rolled behind the choking man kneeling before her just as his comrade started wildly releasing blazing hot lead her way, appearing devoted to expending all of his valuable ammunition in a solitary assault.
The final two of the twelve undisciplined shots that didn't end up hitting the walls or ceiling drove an equal number of bullets deep into the torso of the kneeling gangster Kirika was employing as a human shield, sparing him from a lengthy and agonising end at the hands of asphyxiation. He keeled over face first, revealing behind him--to the horror of his companion--a stooped Kirika with her pistol wielded steadily in one hand and its barrel pointing straight at him, her expression detached--emotionless.
A single 9mm round took the shocked hoodlum in the left side of his upper chest, throwing him back against the column he had once been using as cover. "Holy…" he whispered in a croak before he slid down the pillar to land in a limp heap on the floor, the light in his eyes vanishing and his grip on his empty handgun slackening.
The tinkle of an ejected bullet casing dwindled in the background. Kirika blinked, and then suddenly it was over. It had been only a matter of seconds, but now three people were lying unmoving on the floor. Dead. Slain by her hands. Three lives snuffed out effortlessly as if they were nothing. And it had come so naturally to her. Killing always had, however. But it was different this time. Kirika had had no control over her actions; she had simply… acted. One second she had been looking at Mireille, and the next three people were dead. Her darkness… Kirika had touched it… she had *seized* it. And she had not recoiled at the foul contact.
It was quiet in the station, not even a whisper to be heard. The death cries of the condemned had ceased, the roar of the instrument of their ruin hushed. And their murderer silent--as always--and as she had been throughout their execution. It was a quiet in stark contrast to the cacophony that had filled the station's walls only a handful of seconds before. Seconds. Mere seconds and suddenly Kirika's conceptions about herself and her life had been brushed away as if the daydreams of a child. But they had been childish conceptions, in retrospect.
Kirika stood up slowly, her gun smoking and her head bowed, making an effort to keep her gaze fixed to the floor where the evidence of her sins did not pollute her vision… and remind her of her weakness. So much for free will. So much for choice. Her resistance had lasted barely all of two seconds before folding. A puppet with its strings cut was evidently still a puppet.
Kirika's eyes moved lethargically to the weapon in her hand. It felt hot from its use, and light, comfortable to handle. Like it was an extension of herself. Part of her. Maybe it was. Maybe it always had been. Weapons were the tools of an assassin's trade. And Kirika was an assassin. An efficient killer. It was what she was trained to do. What she was born to do. No escape. No peace. It was who she was. She was a sinner.
Kirika felt something that had been progressively withering for a long while inside of her go into its death throes with the harsh realisation…. Hope. Hope for a normal life, hope for freedom from her past. There was no hope for people such as her. Her hands were black with sins, corrupted. It was all they knew.
Mireille stepped cautiously out from behind the support column she had been utilising as cover in the corner of Kirika's eyesight. The woman's mouth hung slightly open as she surveyed the bloodshed her partner had wrought, her countenance crossed somewhere amid great relief, mild bewilderment and… pleasant satisfaction. She stopped a couple of metres from Kirika and looked around the area for a few more seconds, seeming at a loss for what to say.
Finally, Mireille's gaze rested on Kirika, her eyes scanning over the girl's slim body circumspectly but thoroughly, obviously searching for any injuries. "Are you alright?" she asked with an oddly cheery tone and a smile, if a minutely shaky one, on her features. "You had me worried for a minute."
Kirika simply nodded and mumbled wordlessly in the affirmative. She knew Mireille was referring to physical wounds. After all, they were the ones that really mattered. An assassin's body was her most essential aspect. Nothing else was relevant. Kirika was certain Mireille was genuinely concerned about her, but she was unsure about the motivation behind her concern. Was it out of affection for the girl she cared about; the girl she loved? Or was it purely out of 'professional' interest, to her partner in murder, merely a fellow assassin? At one time, Kirika would have been absolutely positive that it was the former, but lately… lately….
Kirika's head abruptly turned to Mireille as she suddenly remembered that the woman had been hurt earlier, the depths of her soft brown gaze anxious as all other thoughts bar her love's condition were purged from her mind. "Are *you* okay?" she inquired quickly, examining Mireille's left, bloodied, cheek with a meticulous eye.
Mireille's smile widened a bit and she reached up to touch her scarred cheek gingerly with her fingertips. "I'm fine," she said gently, dispelling Kirika's unease about her welfare a little, "I know it probably looks bad, but they're only scratches." The blonde then sighed tiredly, her smile becoming wry. "The smallest wounds always tend to bleed the most."
Mireille's pretty smile then disappeared completely from her face, her expression turning serious. "There's still one more," she said gravely. "In the car, upstairs. He could be lying in wait for us; stay alert."
Kirika nodded. Back to business. No peace.
She followed after Mireille as the blonde quietly walked past the three corpses and up the stairs of the Metro station's entry passageway, her Walther P99 held with its barrel aiming skywards in her hands, ready to serve its function to kill at a split second's notice. Kirika's own gun remained by her side, dangling loosely in her right hand while she kept her eyes focused straight ahead until she started climbing the stairs, not wanting to see her handiwork, the testament of her true existence; her purpose in this world.
Mireille paused at the bullet hole ridden corner they had taken shelter behind near the start of the shootout, peeking around it to check for any sign of danger. After a moment, she carried on her advance up towards street-level, skirting nonchalantly past the body of the man she had vanquished with ease slumped on the next set of steps, and dodging the wide section of staircase that was tarnished with puddles and streaks of red. Kirika traced her footsteps exactly.
Mireille swiftly inspected her flanks and rear as the street came into view, prudently ensuring that no one was waiting in ambush for her and Kirika. Deeming that there was no adversaries set to waylay them ahead, the blonde proceeded to stealthily traverse the last few steps of the staircase, walking onto the darkened pavement by the street, Kirika joining her an instant later.
Kirika observed that the fifth and final gangster who had apparently remained behind in the car he and his friends had shown up in was sitting askew in the front passenger seat, his legs hanging outside of the vehicle, and was clutching his right upper arm where he appeared to have been shot, if the large scarlet blot discolouring the sleeve of his jacket was any indication. Mireille must have managed to wound him during her flight into the underground Metro station.
Upon spotting Kirika and Mireille's emergence from the station's brightly lit street entrance, the man's eyes widened and, letting go of his injured arm, made to reach across his body for something inside the car--most likely a weapon.
"Don't!" Mireille called out in a no-nonsense voice, bringing up her gun sharply as she did so for added incentive while striding forwards, Kirika indolently bringing up the rear.
The goon wisely complied, slowly drawing his hand back and raising it in the air in a gesture of surrender. Kirika was glad. It meant there was little chance she would be forced to kill him… for the moment, at any rate. Although, Mireille would probably beat her to it if the situation turned violent. That would be a better outcome. Murder… the woman didn't seem to have the same problem with it as Kirika did. Certainly, she seemed at home with it. Kirika wished she could have the same aloofness. In the past, she had felt nothing when she took a life, and indeed, she still felt virtually nothing. But later she had discovered it was that very fact that caused her sorrow. And that still hadn't changed, either. Ending a life was wrong. It was a sin.
A small, marginally muted part of the Kirika wondered then if Mireille's blasé attitude towards murder was truly a quality to be admired. Nevertheless, she didn't judge her partner as a bad person because it. It was somehow okay when it came to Mireille. It was a facet that made the woman who she was, after all. The woman Kirika loved.
Of course, Mireille didn't have another persona lurking inside of her to consider. A personal darkness that thrived on violence; on slaughter. Kirika wondered how long it would be until the darkness succeeded in consuming her, now. Clearly her supposed strong, resolute willpower was merely a self-deluding illusion. If she couldn't even restrain herself from snuffing out three lives, what hope did she have at holding sway over the darkness? And with her evident willingness to kill, that darkness would now move to infect her heart and soul with its poison even more aggressively than ever before.
Mireille positioned herself a few steps in front of the yielded hoodlum, aiming her Walther unwaveringly at his head. Kirika stood behind her and just off to the right, giving herself a good view of the man and his other arm; the wounded one. It was still resting by his side and even though he had taken a bullet there, he could yet use it to secretly retrieve a weapon that would consequently be utilised against Mireille. And Kirika *had* to support Mireille. Her partner had already been injured once tonight because of her negligence. She wouldn't permit it to happen again. There was a tickling in the far recesses of Kirika's mind at her stanch promise, a whisper of something… a faint memory perhaps. But the girl ignored it. Now was not the time for reminiscence. The present was dismal enough as it was.
"Talk," Mireille demanded coldly, her blue eyes narrowing to menacing slits. "Whom do you work for? How did you find us?"
The gangster looked up defiantly at the blonde, but under her unshakable gaze he then flinched and bowed his head submissively. Kirika noticed his eyes shift discreetly to the subway entrance, however, as if seeking help from his absent friends. Little did he know they couldn't even help themselves, now. Nor would they ever have a chance to again.
"Your associates aren't coming," Mireille said pitilessly, evidently also catching his straying eyes. She visibly tightened her grip on her pistol. "I won't ask a second time," she then warned.
The gangster raised his head to look at his interrogator again and then swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow. For a moment Kirika believed he would not answer her partner's questions despite the woman's sincere threat, but then after a number of tense seconds, and in a somewhat gruff and resentful voice, he spoke.
"Millet--I work for Millet," the man at last confessed grudgingly. "He runs out of Pigalle. Owns most of it, too. Not the classy joints, though; the sleazy ones."
"Go on," Mireille prompted, motioning with her gun a tad.
The wounded goon eyed the Walther P99 warily for a second, followed by the imposing woman who brandished it, and then after apparently weighing his chances of survival if he opted to be difficult, sensibly concluded that a lack of compliance would prove fatal. He continued. "Two guys wandered into the club he uses as his base the other day--Slick Chicks. Nice place, you'd probably get a job there fine," he said, his last comment uttered with a degree of contempt as he glowered at Mireille. This seemed to antagonise Kirika's counterpart for some reason, her trigger finger twitching pointedly. The man swallowed apprehensively once again and quickly went on. "They were Asian guys, one really up himself, the bastard." He spat out the final word, the memory of the visitor obviously leaving an objectionable aftertaste with him--Kirika could relate to that particular feeling. "They wanted two women whacked--" His eyes darted between Mireille and Kirika meaningfully, "--you two. Paid us a whole bundle as well." The goon looked back at the Metro entrance where his friends still had not come out, sneering. "Now I know why."
Kirika frowned a little. That wasn't good news. If Ryosuke and Vincent--the clear clients of Millet and his gang--were hiring others to try and assassinate her and Mireille, it would mean they would be thrown into more confrontations. And more lives would be lost in the process.
Mireille's frowned too--albeit much deeper than Kirika--no doubt reading more or less the same implications behind their captive's words. Although the darkhaired girl didn't think the amount of people they would be forced to kill as a result of the false Noir's actions even registered in her mind. Or at least, not in the same way it did in Kirika's.
"And how did you find us?" Mireille further grilled the man.
"We have people who find other people," the hoodlum said simply. But his lips then curled up into a wan and slightly tremulous smile. "I really thought Rousseau and his pals would fall short on this one, though," he revealed. "The details on you two were so scarce a lot of the guys thought it was hopeless. Strange…." The goon's brow creased in mild perplexity and his eyes took on a somewhat faraway look. But they soon refocused on his subjugator and the deadly weapon she held in his face, the here and now apparently more crucial than the past to him. "But I guess I shouldn't be surprised why there was so little information about you, now." He shook his head in bafflement mixed with some amazement, gaping at the pistol in Kirika's small hand. "Who *are* you people?"
"That's not important," Mireille said levelly. "Not to you." She took a step back from the wounded man. "Stand up and walk towards the Metro," she then ordered, gesturing with her Walther for him to rise, flicking it upwards a couple of times.
The gangster did as he was told, albeit very cautiously and quite bitterly, getting to his feet and then walking to the Metro station's entryway with a hand pressed once again to his gunshot wound, Mireille marshalling him onwards with her gun at his back. Kirika chose to remain where she was--she knew why her partner was taking him there. And she didn't think she could stomach any more death tonight.
The goon looked over his shoulder nervously once he reached the top of the flight of stairs leading down to the first landing on the passageway, no doubt seeing the gruesome carcass of one of his gunned down companions, but Mireille motioned for him to keep going, her face as frosty as winter's heart. The blonde assassin stayed at street-level as he trudged deeper into the station's entrance, and soon he disappeared from Kirika's sight. The girl looked away, then, focusing her gaze on the pavement in front of her pink shoe clad feet.
A lone gunshot suddenly rang out in the night, spelling the end for the informative gangster, his body joining the others of his gang in their subway station tomb. Kirika lifted her head and glimpsed Mireille holstering her Walther under her coat with a weary sigh. The woman then turned around and strolled calmly back to Kirika.
"We should go. It's late, but regardless we've lingered too long. Someone's bound to have heard at least one of the shots," she said sternly. Mireille then smiled quite brightly, as if moments before she hadn't just coldly executed a man without a second thought. "Besides, I'm probably a mess," she added in a much more light-hearted tone, touching her injured cheek delicately with one hand. "I want to return home and wash up."
"Mmm," Kirika responded dourly, her eyes drawn to Mireille's smile. It was resplendent on the blonde's beautiful visage--her smiles typically were when directed at Kirika--but on this occasion to the girl's eyes there was something different. If she concentrated and looked lower, beneath its stunning veneer, the smile appeared to lack warmth. It was instead… beguiling… even a little sinister. And made all the more by the blood smudged over the left side of Mireille's face. It was a smile that a lion gave to another of its kind who was affiliated with the same ferocious pride. It was one of camaraderie, one of shared calling, one offered after successfully devouring prey. To Kirika it contained no fondness save that a lion held for its hunting partner. It was not a smile that possessed the qualities of love.
The unseen wound in Kirika's chest flared up once again, radiating a deep-seeded pain beyond measure. She should have seen it sooner. It was okay, though. She was not truly the same as Mireille, after all. She was by far deeper in sin than the blonde was; Mireille was an angel compared to her, one of the celestial beings the girl had read existed up above in a place called Heaven. Moreover, if Mireille was an angel, then Kirika was the opposite--a demon from down below in the dark domain of Hell. And how could an angel love a demon? It was impossible. No, a sinner of Kirika's like was not deserving of love… not even from a 'fellow' lion.
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Mireille leaned forwards and examined the trio of scars marring her cheek in the mirror belonging to the medicine cabinet affixed above the bathroom sink in the apartment. She turned her head further to the right, providing a better angle to scrutinise the scratches, and then fingered them tentatively, debating whether or not it would be worthwhile to dress them to promote quicker healing. Deciding that to apply a bandaid or three to her face would be blatantly obvious and definitely attract people's unwanted looks, the blonde emitted a displeased breath of air and picked up a tube of antiseptic cream, settling on simply treating the cuts and forgoing covering them. She squirted out a dollop of the ointment onto her fingertips and started rubbing it softly into her lesions, the cool, soothing mixture gently relieving the stinging sensation emanating from them.
After she had scrubbed away the build-up of dried blood smeared around the wounds and over her cheek, what remained hadn't looked too bad. The flying pellets that had brushed across Mireille's face courtesy of a lucky ricochet had scored only shallow grazes, merely minor tissue lacerations that she was confident would heal fast--the Corsican assassin had enough experience with all sorts of injuries to know. In the meantime, the cuts were nothing a little well-placed makeup wouldn't conceal. It wasn't the first time her features had been blemished due to the frequent rigors of her vocation. Indeed, the practice of hiding cuts and bruises with the aid of carefully selected cosmetics was a talent Mireille could label as having mastered. Still, she… *disliked* when she suffered an injury on the job, and especially if that injury was localised to her face. Being hurt was always a risk in Mireille's line of work, along with the possibility of permanent scarring on her person as a result of those hurts, and both were some things she endeavoured to avoid. Having to spend time recovering from a serious wound was irritating to say the least, and even the most trivial of injuries could pose a nuisance to a professional assassin. Visible scratches and contusions unconsciously drew people's eyes, and attention was something a contract killer did *not* like when on an assignment. And of course, there was also the pain factor to be considered. Mireille had unfortunately gotten intimate with lead and many other excruciating things several times during her life as an assassin, and it was not the most… pleasant… of experiences.
As Mireille massaged the last vestiges of the cream into her scars, deliberately taking longer than necessary, her eyes slowly drifted away from their reflection in the mirror and to the open bathroom doorway, where a clear line of sight into the bedroom was offered to her. And also a clear line of sight to Kirika.
Since returning home to the apartment, Kirika had simply stood there in the bedroom, looking forlorn with her head lowered while she gazed with distant and downcast eyes at the rug arranged on the floor; eyes that Mireille was certain did not even register its pattern. She had cast off her parka shortly after entering the room despite the apartment's radiators not having heated its interior to satisfaction yet on this cold night, the garment now lying on the couch across from the bed with the diminutive girl's Beretta M1934 resting atop it. Mireille had a good idea of what was bothering Kirika--she didn't have to be her partner to know that. The blonde wasn't blind; she had witnessed the sensitive girl's 'episode' in the Metro station during the engagement with Millet's men. And nor was she stupid. The gunfight with the gangsters had been the first occasion Kirika had shot anybody since she and Mireille had wiped out Altena's enclave at the Manor. The first occasion she had killed. It was only natural that she was suffering from some after effects of reacquainting herself with the black path. Kirika was a feeling-hearted girl, after all, unlike Mireille. It had to be difficult for her to cope with.
However, Kirika would come to terms with it, just like she had prevailed over her initial misgivings earlier tonight. Nevertheless, her behaviour had concerned Mireille a great deal, enough for the Corsican to consider some reckless courses of action… some quite uncharacteristic courses of action. But then, for a moment, the woman had thought…. Well, it was immaterial, now; there was no need to dwell on past events. Mireille and Kirika's performance tonight had essentially been acceptable, with an equally acceptable outcome.
Mireille dabbed her still visibly red and sore cuts one last time with her fingertips, and then straightened with a tired sigh. Hopefully, with the help of her treatment, by next morning they would show some improvement, even if it were just a hint of some.
After sparing a parting look in the mirror to check her scars once again, Mireille turned away from the sink and walked to the bathroom doorway. She loitered there a little uncertainly as she looked out into the bedroom, where Kirika hadn't budged even an inch from her spot on the rug; appearing as miserable as the previous instance she had observed her. The Corsican sighed a second time at the disheartening sight, but then assumed a pleasant smile on her face, ignoring the slight twinge from her left cheek.
"You did very well tonight," Mireille remarked in a soft and tender tone, seeking to lift Kirika's low spirits with some encouraging words. "I was most impressed. You…."
Mireille's voice trailed off to a whisper as a single tear leaked out of Kirika's left eye and rolled down her face, leaving behind a wet streak that glistened in the bedroom's light.
"Kirika…?" Mireille ventured hesitantly, her smile evaporating as a concerned expression took over her countenance.
A second teardrop formed in Kirika's other eye and trembled there for a second, before escaping to follow its predecessor's course, spilling down her cheek and merging with the first hanging below her chin. More tears joined them a moment later, the reticent girl's eyes brimming constantly with growing moisture, overflowing, the excess trickling paths to the bottom of her jaw where they collected, before dripping wetly to the floor. Kirika's cheeks were soon soaked with tears, but she never said a word nor even uttered a sound; she simply stood there and wept silently, the depths of her soft brown gaze containing a profound sadness, coupled with a strange manner of detachment that seemed to amplify it.
Mireille watched from the bathroom doorway, taken aback by her partner's sudden breakdown plus not to mention considerably alarmed… and furthermore unsure what exactly to do. Any kind words she offered would be hollow; merely sweet nothings, void of any real weight no matter how much the woman meant them--she had no idea what had caused Kirika to become so distressed, and thus how could she provide compelling assurances? But if that were the case, what action was she supposed to take to calm her partner? Thinking back, the only other occasion Mireille had seen Kirika in such a state was at the colosseum ruins on the Manor's estate after the darkhaired girl had been forced to kill Chloe to protect her from the knife-throwing assassin's jealous rage… although this particular time the Corsican's counterpart appeared even more distraught; whatever was upsetting her, it had to be significant. But when Kirika had wept then, Mireille, motivated by the desire to remind her partner that they had no time for the luxury of grief, and in turn prompt her to recover herself and rearm so they could take the fight to Altena, had bestowed her with a semblance of a hug, a rather discomfited one. It had seemed to placate her partner, however, despite its inelegance; perhaps the blonde should make a similar effort now. Regardless, Mireille had to do *something*--Kirika was clearly in pain, and yet the woman was just standing there looking at her as she quietly cried her heart out. Mireille wouldn't be able stomach watching her partner suffering such anguish for much longer. She *had* to act.
Stepping forwards into the bedroom, Mireille hesitantly approached Kirika, and, following a moment's indecision, tentatively placed her hands on the girl's bare shoulders. After receiving no negative response--or a positive one, either--from her partner, the blonde took another nervous step towards her, and then awkwardly began to gradually snake her arms down Kirika's back, keeping her palms flush with the exposed skin offered to her by the girl's spaghetti top.
"Mireille!" Kirika sobbed in a heartbreaking voice full of emotion, and without warning flung herself at Mireille, burrowing her face in the furrow of the woman's neck. She wrapped her thin arms tightly around the blonde's body, pressing her smaller own closely against her taller partner's.
All of Mireille's muscles stiffened at the unexpected contact, and as well in surprise at Kirika's startling reaction to her rather meagre gesture. But as she felt the warmth from the close proximity of trim girl's body permeating her own, she quickly relaxed and resumed her hug, her arms sliding down Kirika's back almost naturally, enfolding her; holding her comfortably near. The neck of Mireille's red top rapidly became drenched with her partner's teardrops, the girl's weeping seeming to escalate instead of lessening with her embrace.
A faint, rueful smile grew on Mireille's face, her blue eyes turning a little misty. She should have hugged Kirika a long time ago. She could see that the girl had required one badly. Kirika clung to the Corsican, handfuls of her top clenched in her grasp, by all accounts a drowning girl clutching desperately to her sole lifeline. And the awful thing was Mireille had been aware that this girl had been drowning. Yet she had done--no, she had *chosen* to do--absolutely nothing to help her, instead citing weak excuses to avoid acting. All this time Kirika had been suffering in silence with Mireille callously looking on, not even *attempting* to console her. At this moment, the woman felt like the lowest form of life in the world. Why had she done that? Why had she stood idly by, doing *nothing* to comfort Kirika? Fear that she would do something wrong, perhaps? Or was it just plain stubbornness, the blonde still rigid in her old ways?
No matter what the reason was, it was unacceptable that she had let it drag on for so long. Kirika had needed her, but Mireille had failed her. They were not Noir, but they were still a partnership, and one *far* beyond mere 'business'. How could Mireille have forgotten that? They were partners in love--in life. It was the prime reason Kirika had returned from the Manor with Mireille to Paris; that the blonde had neglected that fact shamed her terribly. Kirika had *needed* Mireille, and yet the Corsican had wilfully neglected the girl. She *knew* her partner was fragile; for all her strength in combat her psyche possessed only a brittle one--Mireille's consideration was crucial for Kirika's continued wellbeing.
No longer could Mireille afford to dither around and ignore Kirika's needs, or for that matter, how the introverted girl felt about her. She had taken her partner's feelings for granted, simply deriving of them without conferring anything in return. But theirs was a partnership that was supposed to be of give and take, where the two members supported each other in every way. It was time Mireille took responsibility and started properly and seriously performing her vital role in Kirika's life… as her lover, not just as her colleague.
"We're both so clumsy at this, aren't we?" Mireille whispered softly. It was true. While the blame for this mess fell squarely on the blonde's shoulders, Kirika was not without her fault. Her very personality was not very conducive to a communicative relationship. But that was no excuse; it was something Mireille had been conscious of. *She* had to take the first steps to further their relationship; the onus was on her, it all rested solely in her hands. If she wanted it to progress, then she had to be the bold one--she had always held that assertive position over Kirika, after all. Now that dominance had to be used for something else far more important than their occupation.
Mireille heard Kirika mumble something into her neck and then squeeze her tighter in her arms, apparently agreeing with the woman's comment. She sighed remorsefully. This would be the last time Kirika shed tears because of her actions… or lack thereof. Everything would be different now. Mireille would make sure of it. She would make sure that nothing like this failure would ever happen again. And besides… her heart would not allow it.
******
Kirika hugged Mireille tightly, cuddling into her--clinging to her--with the desperate need of the damned seeking salvation. She held onto the woman as if her life depended on it, but maybe, in a way, it did. The dull pain that had plagued her chest with its unbearable, never-ceasing ache had departed, replaced by a heady elation that purified the unseen wound and sealed it; healed it. And yet her tears wouldn't stop flowing from beneath her closed, wet eyelids, staining Mireille's clothes. Perhaps this was the wound's way of disinfecting itself. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Because she had been wrong about Mireille. So wrong.
Mireille loved her. Kirika felt it in the blonde's embrace, and she felt it in her heart as it beat beside her own. Mireille still loved her; she had never stopped. Kirika, in her naivety, had just never realised it. She should not have doubted the woman's love, even if she was not deserving of it. Mireille really was an angel. Who but an angel could love the person who had murdered their family? Who but an angel could love the person who had delivered the greatest pain in all their life upon them? But Mireille did. She loved Kirika in spite of those ghastly truths. So who but an angel could Mireille be?
Kirika was a sinner; she accepted that reality, and had done so ever since the events in the cavern below the Manor. She was a sinner who would never achieve atonement for any of her crimes. But that was perfectly fine. She now remembered her purpose in this world, her *true* purpose--one she shouldn't have forgotten--and the memory of the oath she had silently pledged all those years ago when she only a child. Kirika *had* made a choice in the Metro station, an unconscious choice, but a choice nonetheless… just like the two she had made at the Manor--the first at the colosseum, and the second in the cavern below the estate. A choice to uphold her vow to look after Mireille, to protect her; defend her, to be her strength when she was weak, to support her when she could not. And it was a vow Kirika promised she would maintain ever more, regardless of what happened in the future. That she loved the woman she had sworn to protect was irrelevant, that the woman loved her was irrelevant. It was Kirika's purpose; her reason for living when by all rights she should have died with Altena and the woman's shattered ambitions long ago.
Odette Bouquet's last words had instilled a ray of light--of hope--inside Kirika's young heart that tragic day she carried out her first of many atrocious misdeeds, a ray that had once saved both her and Mireille's lives. And now, years later, it still shone brightly inside of her, illuminating a new source of light to battle her darkness with--Mireille, the late woman's daughter. Kirika would fight for her. And she would not falter. She would hold the darkness at bay for Mireille's sake. The girl's will *was* strong, stronger than anything when bathed in her love's radiance.
Kirika's eyes opened a crack, a blurred view of her Beretta lying on top of her parka on the couch greeting them. Her gun was an instrument of murder, but it had not yet been used to commit any sins. She had killed with it, but Kirika now realised those lives she had taken had been warranted--she had purely defended the woman she had pledged to look after. Mireille had given her that gun--a new one, a *fresh* one. Mireille had bestowed upon her a fresh start. Kirika's slate was not washed clean; indeed, it was marked with the blood of countless, but from here on out, the 'sins' she performed would be as a direct consequence of honouring her vow. Maybe they would still be sins in the eyes of God, but if that were the case, then Kirika would welcome them; she would accept them wholeheartedly.
<Embrace it….>
Yes, she would embrace being a sinner if that was the price of upholding her promise to Mireille's mother. She would soil her soul in the muck of darkness if that were what it took. But she would not succumb to it. Not with the light of Kirika's redeeming angel favouring the girl with her precious warmth, her potent illumination. No darkness could stand against its intensity.
Kirika smiled softly, a great burden fading from her shoulders. She was not deserving of Mireille's--of an angel's--affection… but she now knew that sometimes even a demon could be loved. Or maybe, Kirika considered, it was only an angel who could ever truly find it in their heart to love a demon.
******
To be continued….
Author's ramblings:
So ends the short foray into an angsty Mireille/Kirika relationship… for now, anyway. I couldn't have them at odds with each other for too long; this is not a 'get together' fic, it's a 'we already know we love each other so let's have mushy romantic scenes while the mean author throws obstacles at us and makes us shoot things' fic. ^_^ Besides, I don't want to repeat the themes of the series. And I also needed to give their relationship a kick in the right direction, and a reason for Kirika to becoming willing to kill again. ^_~
I debated whether Kirika would be aware of the existence of angels and demons and all that (when writing for her I have to make sure to curb my analogies and metaphors somewhat), but I figured in her time recovering from her gunshot wound she would have taken the time to read a little (like reading Mireille's magazines) and picked up some common knowledge (not too much though… it's more fun that way ^_^).
From now on, expect some nice Kirika and Mireille romantic stuff (and action. You have to have action) while the angst goes on the back burner for a bit. Of course, you know it will rear its angsty head again in the future at some point. ^_^
******
The eighth chapter. Cue track sixteen of Noir OST 2: Killing. ^_^
- Kirika
******
Chapter 8 - Sinners, Act II
Kirika heard a pain-filled yelp a split second after the latest bang of Mireille's gun, and next the telltale brusque scuff of rubber shoe soles on concrete followed by a low grunt and a dull thud, signalling to the astute girl that one of the men belonging to the group who had attacked her and her partner had been shot and subsequently stumbled out into the open. With this advantageous opportunity presenting itself, Kirika's heightened reflexes that had been rigorously honed to absolute perfection over the years instantly took effect, causing her body to respond without thought. She bounded nimbly out from behind the protection of the pillar she was using as cover, bringing her Beretta to bear on the gangster sitting on the floor a short distance away from her, for all intents and purposes an easy target.
An easy target… no… not to Kirika. A living being had never been an easy target for her, not ever since she had awakened that fateful day with no recollection of her life before that moment, her memories totally erased except for one, significant word. And after returning from the Manor, after learning of the existence of her other self, even less so. Indeed, she had hoped to escape from taking another life ever again… but it was a naïve hope. There was no escape. Her time was up, now. It was kill or be killed, do or die; there were no more reprieves, no chance to sidestep what the girl was now beginning to realise was inevitable. No. She still had her will; she still had a choice. The darkness did not rule her, not yet.
Kirika suddenly froze, her muscles locking, petrifying her in a ready stance with her pistol raised in both hands, the vulnerable man seated on the floor securely in its sights. The view of the Metro station blurred and then melted away from the darkhaired girl's vision, and all sounds faded to barely audible muffles, her mind focusing elsewhere--inwards, where a more important battle than the one against the group of men was being waged.
It was her choice to make--her *own* choice. If Kirika killed now, there would be no turning back. She would do it again and again as it became easier and easier, a never-ending spiral into sin. A descent further and further into darkness, ultimately ending with the darkness itself, in its pure, undiluted form.
But she *could* resist. She didn't have to become a murderer again. She still had her own will. Nothing and no one controlled her. Kirika was free; her life was her own to live. Soldats, Altena--she was not their puppet, not any more. She didn't have to take the third--and significant--step towards the darkness, and towards her other, malevolent self that it harboured in its bleak shadows. Right now, at this very moment, she could stop the journey. All she had to do was try.
"KIRIKA!"
The desperate shout of a female voice Kirika knew even better than her own wrenched her mind violently back to reality, easily demolishing the dampening barrier the girl had placed around it and her senses. Her head snapped to the source of the yell at the same time her brown eyes reregistered her surroundings in their depths, and was met by the sight of a breathless Mireille's unnerved face, the blonde's own normally icy blue eyes imploring. Mireille's posture was also taut and she looked primed, coiled to spring. But her partner's edgy stance was not what drew Kirika's attention. Her face. It was the woman's face she focused on. Mireille's left cheek had three roughly straight lines scrawled across it. Three *red* lines.
As Kirika watched, a trickle of blood seeped out of the lower of the scars, the drip sketching a ruby trail down Mireille's cheek before pausing at the bottom of her chin for an instant. It then dropped slowly towards the floor, as though the air it fell through was made of gooey syrup. Blood. Mireille was bleeding. She had been hurt. Kirika's partner had been hurt because Kirika herself had failed to support her. Kirika's hesitation had resulted in Mireille being hurt. The woman Kirika loved had been hurt because of her!
Something crumbled inside of Kirika, something important, but the awareness that something had was vague to her, merely a distant rumble in the far reaches of her mind, if it could even be called that. It was eclipsed by another sensation, a heavy, leaden lurch of something thrusting forwards to fill a sudden gap inside her with sluggish yet resolute force, like crude oil jetting out of an unobstructed pipe into clear water. The lunging sensation gripped Kirika's static body, and for an instant the farthest outskirts of her vision seemed to pulse a soulless black.
The droplet of Mireille's blood hit the floor, its landing punctuated by the crack of a 9mm calibre bullet discharging from the firing chamber of a Beretta M1934 Commercial echoing around the station. The slug tore mercilessly into the right eye of the confidently smirking man sitting on the floor, tossing his head back. The revolver he was pointing at Kirika went off as his body jerked with the impact of the bullet brutally invading his skull, his finger squeezing the trigger mechanically. But his aim was ruined with the jolt, and the .38 round whizzed harmlessly by the stationary girl's head, sending several of her dark locks flapping with its passing before it slammed into the wall behind her. Kirika didn't flinch even a millimetre.
The stricken man toppled sideways, his smug smile frozen permanently on his features and one eye gone, now just a flood of burgundy fluid remaining that dribbled out of the empty socket and down his face in a thick rivulet as he collapsed.
The other man armed with a twelve-gauge pump action shotgun swung his weapon in Kirika's direction at his companion's unexpected demise, but the assassin was already moving, rushing straight at him at a breakneck velocity, almost already upon him in the heartbeat between her gunshot and his turn.
The gangster's face displayed his panic and his actions manifested it as he fired a shell recklessly at Kirika, but all the spray of buckshot hit was the section of floor a couple of metres behind where she had once been, the agile girl having bounded diagonally into the air to her right, where a support column stood, to evade the blast. Kirika automatically bent her knees as her feet touched the pillar, appearing to suspend in the air for a fraction of a second, attached to the column, and then propelled herself off it in an anti-clockwise spin, lashing out with her right leg at her opponent's weapon. Her foot struck the barrel of the hoodlum's shotgun, knocking it forcefully aside with the power of her short leap behind her kick, effectively rendering it useless against her and leaving the man exposed for further attack.
Kirika crouched as she hit the floor and went with the momentum of her initial spin, whirling around one hundred and eighty degrees before rising to her full height at the climax of her twirl, jabbing viciously upwards with her left elbow into her taller foe's throat, crushing his larynx as if it were a cardboard tube. The man let out the gurgle of someone slowly beginning to suffocate and then dropped to his knees. His shotgun fell to the floor with a clatter, forgotten as all his attention was dedicated towards trying to breathe, his hands clutching futility at his closed-off throat.
Kirika's eyes flicked to the left and her head turned slightly in the same direction as if to look over her shoulder, where she knew her third adversary dwelled with his back to a pillar a few feet to the left of the one her first enemy had used as shelter. But at this angle it provided him with no protection. Her acute hearing picked up the sharp inhalation of someone preparing to shoot a firearm, and she instinctively rolled behind the choking man kneeling before her just as his comrade started wildly releasing blazing hot lead her way, appearing devoted to expending all of his valuable ammunition in a solitary assault.
The final two of the twelve undisciplined shots that didn't end up hitting the walls or ceiling drove an equal number of bullets deep into the torso of the kneeling gangster Kirika was employing as a human shield, sparing him from a lengthy and agonising end at the hands of asphyxiation. He keeled over face first, revealing behind him--to the horror of his companion--a stooped Kirika with her pistol wielded steadily in one hand and its barrel pointing straight at him, her expression detached--emotionless.
A single 9mm round took the shocked hoodlum in the left side of his upper chest, throwing him back against the column he had once been using as cover. "Holy…" he whispered in a croak before he slid down the pillar to land in a limp heap on the floor, the light in his eyes vanishing and his grip on his empty handgun slackening.
The tinkle of an ejected bullet casing dwindled in the background. Kirika blinked, and then suddenly it was over. It had been only a matter of seconds, but now three people were lying unmoving on the floor. Dead. Slain by her hands. Three lives snuffed out effortlessly as if they were nothing. And it had come so naturally to her. Killing always had, however. But it was different this time. Kirika had had no control over her actions; she had simply… acted. One second she had been looking at Mireille, and the next three people were dead. Her darkness… Kirika had touched it… she had *seized* it. And she had not recoiled at the foul contact.
It was quiet in the station, not even a whisper to be heard. The death cries of the condemned had ceased, the roar of the instrument of their ruin hushed. And their murderer silent--as always--and as she had been throughout their execution. It was a quiet in stark contrast to the cacophony that had filled the station's walls only a handful of seconds before. Seconds. Mere seconds and suddenly Kirika's conceptions about herself and her life had been brushed away as if the daydreams of a child. But they had been childish conceptions, in retrospect.
Kirika stood up slowly, her gun smoking and her head bowed, making an effort to keep her gaze fixed to the floor where the evidence of her sins did not pollute her vision… and remind her of her weakness. So much for free will. So much for choice. Her resistance had lasted barely all of two seconds before folding. A puppet with its strings cut was evidently still a puppet.
Kirika's eyes moved lethargically to the weapon in her hand. It felt hot from its use, and light, comfortable to handle. Like it was an extension of herself. Part of her. Maybe it was. Maybe it always had been. Weapons were the tools of an assassin's trade. And Kirika was an assassin. An efficient killer. It was what she was trained to do. What she was born to do. No escape. No peace. It was who she was. She was a sinner.
Kirika felt something that had been progressively withering for a long while inside of her go into its death throes with the harsh realisation…. Hope. Hope for a normal life, hope for freedom from her past. There was no hope for people such as her. Her hands were black with sins, corrupted. It was all they knew.
Mireille stepped cautiously out from behind the support column she had been utilising as cover in the corner of Kirika's eyesight. The woman's mouth hung slightly open as she surveyed the bloodshed her partner had wrought, her countenance crossed somewhere amid great relief, mild bewilderment and… pleasant satisfaction. She stopped a couple of metres from Kirika and looked around the area for a few more seconds, seeming at a loss for what to say.
Finally, Mireille's gaze rested on Kirika, her eyes scanning over the girl's slim body circumspectly but thoroughly, obviously searching for any injuries. "Are you alright?" she asked with an oddly cheery tone and a smile, if a minutely shaky one, on her features. "You had me worried for a minute."
Kirika simply nodded and mumbled wordlessly in the affirmative. She knew Mireille was referring to physical wounds. After all, they were the ones that really mattered. An assassin's body was her most essential aspect. Nothing else was relevant. Kirika was certain Mireille was genuinely concerned about her, but she was unsure about the motivation behind her concern. Was it out of affection for the girl she cared about; the girl she loved? Or was it purely out of 'professional' interest, to her partner in murder, merely a fellow assassin? At one time, Kirika would have been absolutely positive that it was the former, but lately… lately….
Kirika's head abruptly turned to Mireille as she suddenly remembered that the woman had been hurt earlier, the depths of her soft brown gaze anxious as all other thoughts bar her love's condition were purged from her mind. "Are *you* okay?" she inquired quickly, examining Mireille's left, bloodied, cheek with a meticulous eye.
Mireille's smile widened a bit and she reached up to touch her scarred cheek gingerly with her fingertips. "I'm fine," she said gently, dispelling Kirika's unease about her welfare a little, "I know it probably looks bad, but they're only scratches." The blonde then sighed tiredly, her smile becoming wry. "The smallest wounds always tend to bleed the most."
Mireille's pretty smile then disappeared completely from her face, her expression turning serious. "There's still one more," she said gravely. "In the car, upstairs. He could be lying in wait for us; stay alert."
Kirika nodded. Back to business. No peace.
She followed after Mireille as the blonde quietly walked past the three corpses and up the stairs of the Metro station's entry passageway, her Walther P99 held with its barrel aiming skywards in her hands, ready to serve its function to kill at a split second's notice. Kirika's own gun remained by her side, dangling loosely in her right hand while she kept her eyes focused straight ahead until she started climbing the stairs, not wanting to see her handiwork, the testament of her true existence; her purpose in this world.
Mireille paused at the bullet hole ridden corner they had taken shelter behind near the start of the shootout, peeking around it to check for any sign of danger. After a moment, she carried on her advance up towards street-level, skirting nonchalantly past the body of the man she had vanquished with ease slumped on the next set of steps, and dodging the wide section of staircase that was tarnished with puddles and streaks of red. Kirika traced her footsteps exactly.
Mireille swiftly inspected her flanks and rear as the street came into view, prudently ensuring that no one was waiting in ambush for her and Kirika. Deeming that there was no adversaries set to waylay them ahead, the blonde proceeded to stealthily traverse the last few steps of the staircase, walking onto the darkened pavement by the street, Kirika joining her an instant later.
Kirika observed that the fifth and final gangster who had apparently remained behind in the car he and his friends had shown up in was sitting askew in the front passenger seat, his legs hanging outside of the vehicle, and was clutching his right upper arm where he appeared to have been shot, if the large scarlet blot discolouring the sleeve of his jacket was any indication. Mireille must have managed to wound him during her flight into the underground Metro station.
Upon spotting Kirika and Mireille's emergence from the station's brightly lit street entrance, the man's eyes widened and, letting go of his injured arm, made to reach across his body for something inside the car--most likely a weapon.
"Don't!" Mireille called out in a no-nonsense voice, bringing up her gun sharply as she did so for added incentive while striding forwards, Kirika indolently bringing up the rear.
The goon wisely complied, slowly drawing his hand back and raising it in the air in a gesture of surrender. Kirika was glad. It meant there was little chance she would be forced to kill him… for the moment, at any rate. Although, Mireille would probably beat her to it if the situation turned violent. That would be a better outcome. Murder… the woman didn't seem to have the same problem with it as Kirika did. Certainly, she seemed at home with it. Kirika wished she could have the same aloofness. In the past, she had felt nothing when she took a life, and indeed, she still felt virtually nothing. But later she had discovered it was that very fact that caused her sorrow. And that still hadn't changed, either. Ending a life was wrong. It was a sin.
A small, marginally muted part of the Kirika wondered then if Mireille's blasé attitude towards murder was truly a quality to be admired. Nevertheless, she didn't judge her partner as a bad person because it. It was somehow okay when it came to Mireille. It was a facet that made the woman who she was, after all. The woman Kirika loved.
Of course, Mireille didn't have another persona lurking inside of her to consider. A personal darkness that thrived on violence; on slaughter. Kirika wondered how long it would be until the darkness succeeded in consuming her, now. Clearly her supposed strong, resolute willpower was merely a self-deluding illusion. If she couldn't even restrain herself from snuffing out three lives, what hope did she have at holding sway over the darkness? And with her evident willingness to kill, that darkness would now move to infect her heart and soul with its poison even more aggressively than ever before.
Mireille positioned herself a few steps in front of the yielded hoodlum, aiming her Walther unwaveringly at his head. Kirika stood behind her and just off to the right, giving herself a good view of the man and his other arm; the wounded one. It was still resting by his side and even though he had taken a bullet there, he could yet use it to secretly retrieve a weapon that would consequently be utilised against Mireille. And Kirika *had* to support Mireille. Her partner had already been injured once tonight because of her negligence. She wouldn't permit it to happen again. There was a tickling in the far recesses of Kirika's mind at her stanch promise, a whisper of something… a faint memory perhaps. But the girl ignored it. Now was not the time for reminiscence. The present was dismal enough as it was.
"Talk," Mireille demanded coldly, her blue eyes narrowing to menacing slits. "Whom do you work for? How did you find us?"
The gangster looked up defiantly at the blonde, but under her unshakable gaze he then flinched and bowed his head submissively. Kirika noticed his eyes shift discreetly to the subway entrance, however, as if seeking help from his absent friends. Little did he know they couldn't even help themselves, now. Nor would they ever have a chance to again.
"Your associates aren't coming," Mireille said pitilessly, evidently also catching his straying eyes. She visibly tightened her grip on her pistol. "I won't ask a second time," she then warned.
The gangster raised his head to look at his interrogator again and then swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow. For a moment Kirika believed he would not answer her partner's questions despite the woman's sincere threat, but then after a number of tense seconds, and in a somewhat gruff and resentful voice, he spoke.
"Millet--I work for Millet," the man at last confessed grudgingly. "He runs out of Pigalle. Owns most of it, too. Not the classy joints, though; the sleazy ones."
"Go on," Mireille prompted, motioning with her gun a tad.
The wounded goon eyed the Walther P99 warily for a second, followed by the imposing woman who brandished it, and then after apparently weighing his chances of survival if he opted to be difficult, sensibly concluded that a lack of compliance would prove fatal. He continued. "Two guys wandered into the club he uses as his base the other day--Slick Chicks. Nice place, you'd probably get a job there fine," he said, his last comment uttered with a degree of contempt as he glowered at Mireille. This seemed to antagonise Kirika's counterpart for some reason, her trigger finger twitching pointedly. The man swallowed apprehensively once again and quickly went on. "They were Asian guys, one really up himself, the bastard." He spat out the final word, the memory of the visitor obviously leaving an objectionable aftertaste with him--Kirika could relate to that particular feeling. "They wanted two women whacked--" His eyes darted between Mireille and Kirika meaningfully, "--you two. Paid us a whole bundle as well." The goon looked back at the Metro entrance where his friends still had not come out, sneering. "Now I know why."
Kirika frowned a little. That wasn't good news. If Ryosuke and Vincent--the clear clients of Millet and his gang--were hiring others to try and assassinate her and Mireille, it would mean they would be thrown into more confrontations. And more lives would be lost in the process.
Mireille's frowned too--albeit much deeper than Kirika--no doubt reading more or less the same implications behind their captive's words. Although the darkhaired girl didn't think the amount of people they would be forced to kill as a result of the false Noir's actions even registered in her mind. Or at least, not in the same way it did in Kirika's.
"And how did you find us?" Mireille further grilled the man.
"We have people who find other people," the hoodlum said simply. But his lips then curled up into a wan and slightly tremulous smile. "I really thought Rousseau and his pals would fall short on this one, though," he revealed. "The details on you two were so scarce a lot of the guys thought it was hopeless. Strange…." The goon's brow creased in mild perplexity and his eyes took on a somewhat faraway look. But they soon refocused on his subjugator and the deadly weapon she held in his face, the here and now apparently more crucial than the past to him. "But I guess I shouldn't be surprised why there was so little information about you, now." He shook his head in bafflement mixed with some amazement, gaping at the pistol in Kirika's small hand. "Who *are* you people?"
"That's not important," Mireille said levelly. "Not to you." She took a step back from the wounded man. "Stand up and walk towards the Metro," she then ordered, gesturing with her Walther for him to rise, flicking it upwards a couple of times.
The gangster did as he was told, albeit very cautiously and quite bitterly, getting to his feet and then walking to the Metro station's entryway with a hand pressed once again to his gunshot wound, Mireille marshalling him onwards with her gun at his back. Kirika chose to remain where she was--she knew why her partner was taking him there. And she didn't think she could stomach any more death tonight.
The goon looked over his shoulder nervously once he reached the top of the flight of stairs leading down to the first landing on the passageway, no doubt seeing the gruesome carcass of one of his gunned down companions, but Mireille motioned for him to keep going, her face as frosty as winter's heart. The blonde assassin stayed at street-level as he trudged deeper into the station's entrance, and soon he disappeared from Kirika's sight. The girl looked away, then, focusing her gaze on the pavement in front of her pink shoe clad feet.
A lone gunshot suddenly rang out in the night, spelling the end for the informative gangster, his body joining the others of his gang in their subway station tomb. Kirika lifted her head and glimpsed Mireille holstering her Walther under her coat with a weary sigh. The woman then turned around and strolled calmly back to Kirika.
"We should go. It's late, but regardless we've lingered too long. Someone's bound to have heard at least one of the shots," she said sternly. Mireille then smiled quite brightly, as if moments before she hadn't just coldly executed a man without a second thought. "Besides, I'm probably a mess," she added in a much more light-hearted tone, touching her injured cheek delicately with one hand. "I want to return home and wash up."
"Mmm," Kirika responded dourly, her eyes drawn to Mireille's smile. It was resplendent on the blonde's beautiful visage--her smiles typically were when directed at Kirika--but on this occasion to the girl's eyes there was something different. If she concentrated and looked lower, beneath its stunning veneer, the smile appeared to lack warmth. It was instead… beguiling… even a little sinister. And made all the more by the blood smudged over the left side of Mireille's face. It was a smile that a lion gave to another of its kind who was affiliated with the same ferocious pride. It was one of camaraderie, one of shared calling, one offered after successfully devouring prey. To Kirika it contained no fondness save that a lion held for its hunting partner. It was not a smile that possessed the qualities of love.
The unseen wound in Kirika's chest flared up once again, radiating a deep-seeded pain beyond measure. She should have seen it sooner. It was okay, though. She was not truly the same as Mireille, after all. She was by far deeper in sin than the blonde was; Mireille was an angel compared to her, one of the celestial beings the girl had read existed up above in a place called Heaven. Moreover, if Mireille was an angel, then Kirika was the opposite--a demon from down below in the dark domain of Hell. And how could an angel love a demon? It was impossible. No, a sinner of Kirika's like was not deserving of love… not even from a 'fellow' lion.
******
Mireille leaned forwards and examined the trio of scars marring her cheek in the mirror belonging to the medicine cabinet affixed above the bathroom sink in the apartment. She turned her head further to the right, providing a better angle to scrutinise the scratches, and then fingered them tentatively, debating whether or not it would be worthwhile to dress them to promote quicker healing. Deciding that to apply a bandaid or three to her face would be blatantly obvious and definitely attract people's unwanted looks, the blonde emitted a displeased breath of air and picked up a tube of antiseptic cream, settling on simply treating the cuts and forgoing covering them. She squirted out a dollop of the ointment onto her fingertips and started rubbing it softly into her lesions, the cool, soothing mixture gently relieving the stinging sensation emanating from them.
After she had scrubbed away the build-up of dried blood smeared around the wounds and over her cheek, what remained hadn't looked too bad. The flying pellets that had brushed across Mireille's face courtesy of a lucky ricochet had scored only shallow grazes, merely minor tissue lacerations that she was confident would heal fast--the Corsican assassin had enough experience with all sorts of injuries to know. In the meantime, the cuts were nothing a little well-placed makeup wouldn't conceal. It wasn't the first time her features had been blemished due to the frequent rigors of her vocation. Indeed, the practice of hiding cuts and bruises with the aid of carefully selected cosmetics was a talent Mireille could label as having mastered. Still, she… *disliked* when she suffered an injury on the job, and especially if that injury was localised to her face. Being hurt was always a risk in Mireille's line of work, along with the possibility of permanent scarring on her person as a result of those hurts, and both were some things she endeavoured to avoid. Having to spend time recovering from a serious wound was irritating to say the least, and even the most trivial of injuries could pose a nuisance to a professional assassin. Visible scratches and contusions unconsciously drew people's eyes, and attention was something a contract killer did *not* like when on an assignment. And of course, there was also the pain factor to be considered. Mireille had unfortunately gotten intimate with lead and many other excruciating things several times during her life as an assassin, and it was not the most… pleasant… of experiences.
As Mireille massaged the last vestiges of the cream into her scars, deliberately taking longer than necessary, her eyes slowly drifted away from their reflection in the mirror and to the open bathroom doorway, where a clear line of sight into the bedroom was offered to her. And also a clear line of sight to Kirika.
Since returning home to the apartment, Kirika had simply stood there in the bedroom, looking forlorn with her head lowered while she gazed with distant and downcast eyes at the rug arranged on the floor; eyes that Mireille was certain did not even register its pattern. She had cast off her parka shortly after entering the room despite the apartment's radiators not having heated its interior to satisfaction yet on this cold night, the garment now lying on the couch across from the bed with the diminutive girl's Beretta M1934 resting atop it. Mireille had a good idea of what was bothering Kirika--she didn't have to be her partner to know that. The blonde wasn't blind; she had witnessed the sensitive girl's 'episode' in the Metro station during the engagement with Millet's men. And nor was she stupid. The gunfight with the gangsters had been the first occasion Kirika had shot anybody since she and Mireille had wiped out Altena's enclave at the Manor. The first occasion she had killed. It was only natural that she was suffering from some after effects of reacquainting herself with the black path. Kirika was a feeling-hearted girl, after all, unlike Mireille. It had to be difficult for her to cope with.
However, Kirika would come to terms with it, just like she had prevailed over her initial misgivings earlier tonight. Nevertheless, her behaviour had concerned Mireille a great deal, enough for the Corsican to consider some reckless courses of action… some quite uncharacteristic courses of action. But then, for a moment, the woman had thought…. Well, it was immaterial, now; there was no need to dwell on past events. Mireille and Kirika's performance tonight had essentially been acceptable, with an equally acceptable outcome.
Mireille dabbed her still visibly red and sore cuts one last time with her fingertips, and then straightened with a tired sigh. Hopefully, with the help of her treatment, by next morning they would show some improvement, even if it were just a hint of some.
After sparing a parting look in the mirror to check her scars once again, Mireille turned away from the sink and walked to the bathroom doorway. She loitered there a little uncertainly as she looked out into the bedroom, where Kirika hadn't budged even an inch from her spot on the rug; appearing as miserable as the previous instance she had observed her. The Corsican sighed a second time at the disheartening sight, but then assumed a pleasant smile on her face, ignoring the slight twinge from her left cheek.
"You did very well tonight," Mireille remarked in a soft and tender tone, seeking to lift Kirika's low spirits with some encouraging words. "I was most impressed. You…."
Mireille's voice trailed off to a whisper as a single tear leaked out of Kirika's left eye and rolled down her face, leaving behind a wet streak that glistened in the bedroom's light.
"Kirika…?" Mireille ventured hesitantly, her smile evaporating as a concerned expression took over her countenance.
A second teardrop formed in Kirika's other eye and trembled there for a second, before escaping to follow its predecessor's course, spilling down her cheek and merging with the first hanging below her chin. More tears joined them a moment later, the reticent girl's eyes brimming constantly with growing moisture, overflowing, the excess trickling paths to the bottom of her jaw where they collected, before dripping wetly to the floor. Kirika's cheeks were soon soaked with tears, but she never said a word nor even uttered a sound; she simply stood there and wept silently, the depths of her soft brown gaze containing a profound sadness, coupled with a strange manner of detachment that seemed to amplify it.
Mireille watched from the bathroom doorway, taken aback by her partner's sudden breakdown plus not to mention considerably alarmed… and furthermore unsure what exactly to do. Any kind words she offered would be hollow; merely sweet nothings, void of any real weight no matter how much the woman meant them--she had no idea what had caused Kirika to become so distressed, and thus how could she provide compelling assurances? But if that were the case, what action was she supposed to take to calm her partner? Thinking back, the only other occasion Mireille had seen Kirika in such a state was at the colosseum ruins on the Manor's estate after the darkhaired girl had been forced to kill Chloe to protect her from the knife-throwing assassin's jealous rage… although this particular time the Corsican's counterpart appeared even more distraught; whatever was upsetting her, it had to be significant. But when Kirika had wept then, Mireille, motivated by the desire to remind her partner that they had no time for the luxury of grief, and in turn prompt her to recover herself and rearm so they could take the fight to Altena, had bestowed her with a semblance of a hug, a rather discomfited one. It had seemed to placate her partner, however, despite its inelegance; perhaps the blonde should make a similar effort now. Regardless, Mireille had to do *something*--Kirika was clearly in pain, and yet the woman was just standing there looking at her as she quietly cried her heart out. Mireille wouldn't be able stomach watching her partner suffering such anguish for much longer. She *had* to act.
Stepping forwards into the bedroom, Mireille hesitantly approached Kirika, and, following a moment's indecision, tentatively placed her hands on the girl's bare shoulders. After receiving no negative response--or a positive one, either--from her partner, the blonde took another nervous step towards her, and then awkwardly began to gradually snake her arms down Kirika's back, keeping her palms flush with the exposed skin offered to her by the girl's spaghetti top.
"Mireille!" Kirika sobbed in a heartbreaking voice full of emotion, and without warning flung herself at Mireille, burrowing her face in the furrow of the woman's neck. She wrapped her thin arms tightly around the blonde's body, pressing her smaller own closely against her taller partner's.
All of Mireille's muscles stiffened at the unexpected contact, and as well in surprise at Kirika's startling reaction to her rather meagre gesture. But as she felt the warmth from the close proximity of trim girl's body permeating her own, she quickly relaxed and resumed her hug, her arms sliding down Kirika's back almost naturally, enfolding her; holding her comfortably near. The neck of Mireille's red top rapidly became drenched with her partner's teardrops, the girl's weeping seeming to escalate instead of lessening with her embrace.
A faint, rueful smile grew on Mireille's face, her blue eyes turning a little misty. She should have hugged Kirika a long time ago. She could see that the girl had required one badly. Kirika clung to the Corsican, handfuls of her top clenched in her grasp, by all accounts a drowning girl clutching desperately to her sole lifeline. And the awful thing was Mireille had been aware that this girl had been drowning. Yet she had done--no, she had *chosen* to do--absolutely nothing to help her, instead citing weak excuses to avoid acting. All this time Kirika had been suffering in silence with Mireille callously looking on, not even *attempting* to console her. At this moment, the woman felt like the lowest form of life in the world. Why had she done that? Why had she stood idly by, doing *nothing* to comfort Kirika? Fear that she would do something wrong, perhaps? Or was it just plain stubbornness, the blonde still rigid in her old ways?
No matter what the reason was, it was unacceptable that she had let it drag on for so long. Kirika had needed her, but Mireille had failed her. They were not Noir, but they were still a partnership, and one *far* beyond mere 'business'. How could Mireille have forgotten that? They were partners in love--in life. It was the prime reason Kirika had returned from the Manor with Mireille to Paris; that the blonde had neglected that fact shamed her terribly. Kirika had *needed* Mireille, and yet the Corsican had wilfully neglected the girl. She *knew* her partner was fragile; for all her strength in combat her psyche possessed only a brittle one--Mireille's consideration was crucial for Kirika's continued wellbeing.
No longer could Mireille afford to dither around and ignore Kirika's needs, or for that matter, how the introverted girl felt about her. She had taken her partner's feelings for granted, simply deriving of them without conferring anything in return. But theirs was a partnership that was supposed to be of give and take, where the two members supported each other in every way. It was time Mireille took responsibility and started properly and seriously performing her vital role in Kirika's life… as her lover, not just as her colleague.
"We're both so clumsy at this, aren't we?" Mireille whispered softly. It was true. While the blame for this mess fell squarely on the blonde's shoulders, Kirika was not without her fault. Her very personality was not very conducive to a communicative relationship. But that was no excuse; it was something Mireille had been conscious of. *She* had to take the first steps to further their relationship; the onus was on her, it all rested solely in her hands. If she wanted it to progress, then she had to be the bold one--she had always held that assertive position over Kirika, after all. Now that dominance had to be used for something else far more important than their occupation.
Mireille heard Kirika mumble something into her neck and then squeeze her tighter in her arms, apparently agreeing with the woman's comment. She sighed remorsefully. This would be the last time Kirika shed tears because of her actions… or lack thereof. Everything would be different now. Mireille would make sure of it. She would make sure that nothing like this failure would ever happen again. And besides… her heart would not allow it.
******
Kirika hugged Mireille tightly, cuddling into her--clinging to her--with the desperate need of the damned seeking salvation. She held onto the woman as if her life depended on it, but maybe, in a way, it did. The dull pain that had plagued her chest with its unbearable, never-ceasing ache had departed, replaced by a heady elation that purified the unseen wound and sealed it; healed it. And yet her tears wouldn't stop flowing from beneath her closed, wet eyelids, staining Mireille's clothes. Perhaps this was the wound's way of disinfecting itself. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Because she had been wrong about Mireille. So wrong.
Mireille loved her. Kirika felt it in the blonde's embrace, and she felt it in her heart as it beat beside her own. Mireille still loved her; she had never stopped. Kirika, in her naivety, had just never realised it. She should not have doubted the woman's love, even if she was not deserving of it. Mireille really was an angel. Who but an angel could love the person who had murdered their family? Who but an angel could love the person who had delivered the greatest pain in all their life upon them? But Mireille did. She loved Kirika in spite of those ghastly truths. So who but an angel could Mireille be?
Kirika was a sinner; she accepted that reality, and had done so ever since the events in the cavern below the Manor. She was a sinner who would never achieve atonement for any of her crimes. But that was perfectly fine. She now remembered her purpose in this world, her *true* purpose--one she shouldn't have forgotten--and the memory of the oath she had silently pledged all those years ago when she only a child. Kirika *had* made a choice in the Metro station, an unconscious choice, but a choice nonetheless… just like the two she had made at the Manor--the first at the colosseum, and the second in the cavern below the estate. A choice to uphold her vow to look after Mireille, to protect her; defend her, to be her strength when she was weak, to support her when she could not. And it was a vow Kirika promised she would maintain ever more, regardless of what happened in the future. That she loved the woman she had sworn to protect was irrelevant, that the woman loved her was irrelevant. It was Kirika's purpose; her reason for living when by all rights she should have died with Altena and the woman's shattered ambitions long ago.
Odette Bouquet's last words had instilled a ray of light--of hope--inside Kirika's young heart that tragic day she carried out her first of many atrocious misdeeds, a ray that had once saved both her and Mireille's lives. And now, years later, it still shone brightly inside of her, illuminating a new source of light to battle her darkness with--Mireille, the late woman's daughter. Kirika would fight for her. And she would not falter. She would hold the darkness at bay for Mireille's sake. The girl's will *was* strong, stronger than anything when bathed in her love's radiance.
Kirika's eyes opened a crack, a blurred view of her Beretta lying on top of her parka on the couch greeting them. Her gun was an instrument of murder, but it had not yet been used to commit any sins. She had killed with it, but Kirika now realised those lives she had taken had been warranted--she had purely defended the woman she had pledged to look after. Mireille had given her that gun--a new one, a *fresh* one. Mireille had bestowed upon her a fresh start. Kirika's slate was not washed clean; indeed, it was marked with the blood of countless, but from here on out, the 'sins' she performed would be as a direct consequence of honouring her vow. Maybe they would still be sins in the eyes of God, but if that were the case, then Kirika would welcome them; she would accept them wholeheartedly.
<Embrace it….>
Yes, she would embrace being a sinner if that was the price of upholding her promise to Mireille's mother. She would soil her soul in the muck of darkness if that were what it took. But she would not succumb to it. Not with the light of Kirika's redeeming angel favouring the girl with her precious warmth, her potent illumination. No darkness could stand against its intensity.
Kirika smiled softly, a great burden fading from her shoulders. She was not deserving of Mireille's--of an angel's--affection… but she now knew that sometimes even a demon could be loved. Or maybe, Kirika considered, it was only an angel who could ever truly find it in their heart to love a demon.
******
To be continued….
Author's ramblings:
So ends the short foray into an angsty Mireille/Kirika relationship… for now, anyway. I couldn't have them at odds with each other for too long; this is not a 'get together' fic, it's a 'we already know we love each other so let's have mushy romantic scenes while the mean author throws obstacles at us and makes us shoot things' fic. ^_^ Besides, I don't want to repeat the themes of the series. And I also needed to give their relationship a kick in the right direction, and a reason for Kirika to becoming willing to kill again. ^_~
I debated whether Kirika would be aware of the existence of angels and demons and all that (when writing for her I have to make sure to curb my analogies and metaphors somewhat), but I figured in her time recovering from her gunshot wound she would have taken the time to read a little (like reading Mireille's magazines) and picked up some common knowledge (not too much though… it's more fun that way ^_^).
From now on, expect some nice Kirika and Mireille romantic stuff (and action. You have to have action) while the angst goes on the back burner for a bit. Of course, you know it will rear its angsty head again in the future at some point. ^_^