Noir Fan Fiction ❯ Red and Black ❯ Homeward Bound ( Chapter 15 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Red And Black - By Kirika
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The fifteenth chapter.

**Dedicated to Heta, my arguably biggest fan in Finland. Happy belated Birthday wishes to you! ^_^

- Kirika

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Chapter 15 - Homeward Bound


A small furrow surfaced upon Kirika's forehead and her eyebrows drew together, doing their best to unite at the vertical crease and form a frown. Kirika was asleep beside Mireille, the two nestled snug together in their bed, the younger girl having unconsciously cuddled closer to her beloved partner at some stage during the night. Ordinarily the cosy and comforting presence of Mireille pressed against her would keep Kirika in a deep and peaceful slumber throughout the twilight hours and onwards, right until the morning's sun had risen well above the horizon. But not this time. This time it was far from peaceful and unwelcomely deep. This time Kirika was dreaming. And an unsettling dream it was.

Kirika's shuttered eyes shifted uneasily below her knitted brow, the orbs rolling fitfully beneath their closed lids and visibly disturbing the normally sleep-calmed coverings. Her lips parted and a soft, barely audible gasp of air escaped from between them; a gasp of quiet shock, one that could be easily mistaken for a simple exhalation whist sound asleep. Yet for a reticent girl like Kirika, whose introversion extended even to her unconscious periods, it was the equivalent of a distressed exclamation.

Kirika's eyes suddenly opened unbidden, perhaps the trauma besieging her mind provoking it to at last flee from the unpleasantness of the dream world into the safety of the waking one. Her mind's likely hopes were realised as the morning sunshine pervading the apartment from its uncurtained windows struck the girl's now equally unshuttered reddish-brown eyes, the mellow, soothing rays penetrating their depths and onwards to chase the images of the dream away and back to whatever dark place they had emerged from. But all memory of just what those images had contained were banished also, leaving behind only residual tatters of the dream and a vague impression of the once strong feelings it had induced. In effect, it was almost as if Kirika had never dreamt at all in her time of slumber. Consequently, she could not recall what the dream had been about, why it had upset her so, or even how long it had lasted. All that survived upon her awakening was a hazy recollection of her walking somewhere--somewhere she had recognised, maybe even had been before--along with the aforementioned vestiges of the emotions that had accompanied the dream. Vestiges that imbued a sense of anxiety in Kirika; anxiety… and fear. That the dream had instilled fear--a sentiment seldom experienced by Kirika except during the worst of circumstances, circumstances typically related to Mireille in some way--in itself was enough to worry the teenage assassin, her mind being in the waking world no damper to the full weight and meaning behind that ominous emotion.

But a dream was still a dream. Kirika knew that all too well, her dream of a tomorrow where she and Mireille lived free from violence and death still as elusive as ever. Dreams were fantasies of her mind's making. They had no basis in the waking world, no foundation in reality. Kirika's worries were groundless. Yet she couldn't deny that her feelings were as real as any others she had experienced, and as a result they were not so easy to simply dismiss.

As Kirika slowly blinked her troubled eyes into complete focus, she was greeted with the glorious sight of Mireille's breathtaking profile engulfing her vision, rising like some sort of divine mountain from the ruffled slopes of the pillow, the graceful tapering curve of the woman's nose its crest. Mireille was still fast asleep, her delicate features relaxed, at peace, and her breathing expressed in a gentle, quiet rhythm. It was a beautiful scene to Kirika's eyes; a sight to greet the morning with that could not be matched by anything else in this world. But then of course Mireille was the epitome of beauty; regardless of her physical state she would still be the most wonderful thing in imagination and beyond to her younger partner. Waking up to Mireille's lovely face almost made Kirika totally forget about her dream and the fear it had conveyed, its persisting ghost teetering on joining the rest of its body in the shadows of the girl's mind. But, alas even that heavenly vision turned out not to be enough to grant oblivion and quell the unpleasant feeling of dread nesting in Kirika's heart.

While the final memory of wakefulness Kirika could hark back to from last night consisted of her lying flat on her back at least a hand's breadth away from Mireille, it was not surprising for her to find that her position in bed had drastically altered for the better. That she was now lying on her side squashed up against Mireille on the opposite half of the bed; her cheek resting on the slope of the woman's upper chest, an arm draped across her slender waist and a leg mingling amid her longer ones, the combination effectively restraining the blonde to the mattress; was about as natural to Kirika as the act of waking up in the morning itself. It was a customary arrangement for the girl to wake up in; latched on to the person who meant the most to her in her life. It was as if her unconscious self was somehow drawn to Mireille during the night, her body automatically seeking the gorgeous woman out, her instinctive urges to be close to the one she loved bestowed supremacy over everything else that floated in her mind while slumbering.

Mireille never complained about the nocturnal invasion of her personal space… or she didn't anymore at least. In the early days of her and Kirika's relationship she had conveyed irritation at the quiet girl's clinginess, but those days were fortunately long gone, replaced by a heightened degree of tolerance on the blonde's part. Now Mireille had seemingly become accustomed to Kirika's habit to the point that she graciously indulged it without a hint of displeasure, not so much as even mentioning it regardless of just how intimately her partner's limbs were arranged around her body. And if her occasional surreptitious touches in the morning when she thought Kirika asleep were anything to go by, the diffident girl suspected that Mireille had grown to like their closeness possibly as much as she herself did.

Kirika simply lay where she was, not moving a single muscle, just basking in the joy of tightly embracing the woman who owned her heart. Her eyes stayed where they were upon the picturesque portrait of Mireille's serene face, taking in and adoring its fine details; the smooth, baby-soft alabaster skin; the faint shadows cast by her long eyelashes, helping to define her high cheekbones; the perfect shape of her full, slightly parted lips; the way her sandy tresses, a colour akin to the shores of an unsullied tropical beach, fell about her shoulders and spread out on the pillow under her head. They were sights that Kirika could behold forever and still cherish as if seeing them for the first time. She felt unworthy being in Mireille's presence, a lesser existence--a speck far beneath her. Once again she marvelled at how such a person could deem her deserving of affection, and how blessed she was to be the woman's chosen companion. Kirika again pledged that she would dedicate her life to protecting this wingless angel in her arms. It was the sole reason she lived, her motivation for each of her breaths. Never before had she possessed such strong, sure purpose in her life. Her prior calling as Noir was no equal to it.

As Kirika drank in Mireille's enchanting features, she noticed that not every facet of the woman's visage was as flawless as usual. The scars from the elder assassin's near fatal encounter with the contents of a shotgun shell had faded some yet were still plain to see marring her left cheek, a trio of parallel lines paler than her normal complexion. Looking at them made Kirika feel queasy, and she had to resist the impulse to trace her fingers along the damaged tissue, although why she had such a desire to begin with she couldn't say.

But those old wounds weren't all that spoiled the otherwise heavenly vision of Mireille's peaceful face. Kirika could detect the shade of darkened flesh under the woman's closed eyes, and a general puffiness around the area. They mutually spoke of fatigue, and were a testament to the pair of assassins' skirmishes across Paris last night that had only ceased a few hours before dawn.

Kirika on the other hand felt quite well rested despite yesterday's lengthy outing, bad dreams notwithstanding. However, her physical endurance had been groomed to be virtually inexhaustible in accordance to her creation as the perfect killer, the superior fortitude enabling her to go for days without sleep yet still function at one hundred percent. Such a level of stamina was ideal for long missions where even a short respite was not an option, for instance holding a sniper position whilst patiently waiting for an assassination target to pass before the crosshair of her rock-steady rifle's scope.

But apparently Mireille didn't share her partner's vaulted energy levels. Kirika felt instant sympathy for her, and was more than happy to let the worn-out blonde sleep. It also gave the girl more time to simply gaze at the enthralling person she loved in silent appreciation, an opportunity she was not wont to squander, especially not after being deprived of one for so long. It had once been a scarcity for Kirika to witness Mireille in this tranquil state, stripped of her masks and reserve until only the benevolent woman herself beneath those misleading layers was laid bare in all her splendour. The gunshot wound Kirika had sustained at the Manor had thrown off the darkhaired girl's normal sleeping patterns while her lissom body struggled to recover from the life threatening trauma, meaning that more often than not she had woken up to an empty bed, her partner having awakened and started the day a good deal before her. It was true though that her injury had been virtually healed now for the past week and her derailed sleeping patterns restored as a consequence as well, but Kirika still relished the privilege of seeing Mireille in this naked condition regardless of how many times that privilege came about.

However, this particular opportunity turned out to not last as long as Kirika had envisioned, broken moments later by Mireille's dark-smudged eyelids creeping groggily open to expose a sliver of dazzling blue irises to the morning light; glittering clear skies peeking out from between black clouds. Disorientation swam within the blonde's half-lidded and bleary eyes for a second, but then they dropped lethargically downwards to where Kirika's head rested atop her chest, locking with the girl's own which stared spellbound up at her.

"Good morning," Mireille said with a warm, gentle smile, although her obvious tiredness laced her greeting and dulled her melodious voice's usual lustre.

"Morning," Kirika responded softly in her customary subdued pitch, made more so by her disappointment that the blonde's slumber had concluded so soon. Disappointment not roused because it robbed her of her continued delight at gazing upon a sleeping Mireille--that was in fact the farthest thing from her mind--but because it meant her partner had not received all the rest she so clearly yet needed.

Mireille fidgeted for an instant underneath Kirika's willowy body that partially covered her own more developed one, her muscles briefly tensing to rigid, momentarily hard and unyielding against the girl's enveloping limbs. She then relaxed, but next made to get up and leave the bed, leave Kirika's embrace, her body pressing insistently in opposition to her young colleague's imposed binds of flesh and bone. As was common, Mireille didn't verbally acknowledge Kirika's confining hug or express her want to abandon it, however her wish to do so was unmistakable. And as was common, Kirika didn't want her to go.

But this time Kirika found her limbs that lay across Mireille suddenly stiffening, securing the woman's torso and left leg inescapably where they were, her small body becoming taut as densely packed muscles flexed like coiled steel. Mireille had no choice but to halt her rise from the bed, her eyes opening a little wider in spite of her weariness at the abrupt and unexpected impediment keeping her a captive beneath the sheets.

Mireille frowned faintly and searched her partner's gaze probably for some clue towards the girl's action, but after apparently finding a suitable one, allowed her body to relax once more and settle back upon the mattress. She smiled, a tolerant smile a considerable margin more affectionate than her previous, the fond gesture reaching her dark-ringed eyes.

"I suppose I can stay in bed a little longer," the blonde remarked kindly though somewhat wryly as well, one corner of her mouth curling upwards to turn her tender smile into a tender smirk.

Kirika smiled too, a small smile of gratitude mitigated by the anxiety that still dwelled within her, an unwanted parting gift from the dream. She let her muscles slacken since it was clear Mireille was not going to abandon her, not going to leave her by herself, but the knowledge rather surprisingly did little to alleviate her feelings of apprehension. Furthermore, the fact that it didn't only served to rekindle the impression of fear inside her heart to its former strength, whatever amount that had been diminished thanks to her losing herself in the admiration of Mireille's sleeping face wiped clean. If the continued presence of Mireille in bed with her--while they were both awake *and* cuddled close together, a rare happenstance--could not pacify her unease, then the fear must stem from something in the dream that had been terrible indeed.

Mireille held Kirika's gaze for a second more before she sighed exaggeratedly towards the ceiling, her eyes rolling upwards to the head of the bed. "I guess I'm just your teddy bear, hmm?" she said in a resigned voice, still smirking, and obviously teasing--Kirika had seen teddy bears and Mireille was nothing like them.

The woman's eyes returned from their ascent, meeting Kirika's once again. "Or perhaps you see me as your life-sized doll?" Mireille sighed again, despondently, and an inquisitive blonde eyebrow crawled high on her forehead. "And here I thought you were *my* doll…."

Kirika wasn't exactly certain whether her partner was still teasing or not; Mireille's skin was similar in hue and texture to many of the delicate porcelain dolls' that she had examined once during one of their numerous shopping trips together. Several of the dolls had the same fair hair colour, too. All Mireille required was her blonde locks to be in ringlets and to be devolved into a miniature toddler for her to mimic their general appearance. And also maybe a tiny white dress with frills and lace to fit her new stature.

Despite that Mireille had noticeably woken up in a good mood even with her persevering fatigue, Kirika couldn't manage more than a non-committal mumble at the woman's light-hearted comments, even the last one; her profound worry blanketing her spirits. Nevertheless, a more resilient part of her did muse if it was customary for dolls to receive a lot of clothes as presents that they were expected to wear at least once, recalling Mireille's fancy for buying her scores of garments and compelling her to don most of them no less than one time--if not more--before they could depart the store they were purchased from. Kirika empathised with the dolls; they had a difficult and tiring job. Changing repeatedly in and out of clothes and then contorting yourself in varying stances took its toll on your stamina, even Kirika's having trouble enduring. The girl wondered if Altena had incorporated a comparable training program to help build her staying power to what it was today, her patchy memory providing no clear details if the woman had or not. If Altena had, she was sure that it had not been as enjoyable as participating in the activity under Mireille's supervision. Her compliance to seemingly act as a doll invoked happiness in Mireille, and if her partner was happy, then Kirika was, too. No matter how demanding it was to generate that happiness.

Kirika's smile slipped, the introverted assassin's characteristic sombre expression returning to the fore with its collapse. Her restless eyes fell away from her partner's happy ones made slightly arched by Mireille's playful yet compassionate smirk, and focused instead on the bow below the collar of the woman's lilac pyjama top. Kirika's vision blurred, however, not really seeing the tied ribbon except for a white splodge in a plain of lilac. For some reason thinking about Altena caused the already substantial fear chilling her heart to turn all the more icy, a fresh shot of frost injected along the frozen network of tendrils deeply rooted inside it. Kirika shivered as the cold permeated outwards from her chest to the rest of her body, as if her heart was pumping the chill through her very veins in concert with her blood.

"Are you alright?" Mireille asked, concern now ruling her voice. Kirika's tremble had been practically indiscernible to the naked eye, the barest ripple passing through her body from her slim shoulders to her dainty feet, but to Mireille it had apparently been plain to see. And to feel. Kirika was all but lounging on the woman's chest; she should have realised that it would've been unlikely for her partner not to pick up on it.

Feeling guilty to have harmed Mireille's fine morning spirits, Kirika contemplated merely murmuring wordlessly in the affirmative and hopefully avert any further demolishment of them. But as her mouth opened to utter that insincere sound, she thought of her time spent with Mireille at the bar in that colourfully lit neighbourhood of Paris yesterday, specifically at what the blonde had spoken to her about. Kirika had been honest when she had stated that she knew she could talk to Mireille about anything; it was just that she frequently found it a struggle to put her thoughts and feelings into the proper words, or words that she was sure her partner would understand, at any rate. Or else, as in this particular case, she sometimes believed it better not to mention anything at all for the greater good. And then of course there was the fact that Kirika was on the whole really not the talkative sort, preferring to listen rather than contribute to a conversation, even if its participants were solely she and Mireille.

Since Mireille had judged it necessary to seek verification that Kirika recognised she was there to talk to, the stoic assassin wanted to try to be more open with those thoughts that cropped up in her mind and those emotions that swelled or shrivelled her heart, and thus reassure the woman she loved that she did indeed know she could come to her for anything. Kirika didn't want Mireille to think she wasn't needed or that she was unapproachable. Certainly, the blonde could be standoffish on occasion, especially to other people, but for Kirika that aloofness was always significantly if not wholly toned down… although admittedly it was to some extent relative to Mireille's state of mind at the time.

Kirika tilted her head upwards a bit on Mireille's chest, her unnerved reddish-brown eyes welcomed back by her partner's tired ones, their depths more troubled than she last remembered. "I… had a dream," the girl said with some difficultly, her throat inexplicitly drying out, as if she had been abruptly stricken by a severe thirst. She swallowed, attempting to dispel the disagreeable sensation.

"A dream?" Mireille repeated, her brow creasing a tad as she considered this. "Was it a good dream?" Her lips twitched, and Kirika could tell she was trying hard not to smile. "About me, perhaps?"

"Mm," Kirika mumbled, dismissing the blonde's speculation as incorrect. She would have loved for her dream to be about Mireille instead of… whatever it had really been about. Kirika's dreams about Mireille ordinarily made her feel nice inside, even if she couldn't remember their details in the morning. The few that didn't were connected to the past, or involved Mireille leaving her all alone or the woman being hurt in some horrible manner. The mornings following those particular dreams Kirika tended to cling to her partner in bed just a little tighter than normal. "I can't remember what it was about," the disturbed girl revealed quietly, "but I know it was bad."

Mireille stared at Kirika for a moment, as if mulling over something, and then there was a rustle of bedcovers before the latter young woman felt the blonde's fingers lightly caress the nape of her neck, a ticklish yet tantalising sensation that sent a shiver of a different kind to her last one through her lithe body. Mireille smiled, a comforting, reassuring smile that's mere sight calmed Kirika's fretting heart a large fraction. "Try not to worry about it," Mireille said, her fingers an idle but gentle, massaging pressure on the back of Kirika's neck. "Dreams are a window into your mind. If you've been thinking a lot about something before you go to sleep, then chances are you'll dream about it. A favourite activity, the day's events, worries; whatever was on your mind before you fell asleep."

Mireille exhaled softly and looked up at the ceiling while her fingers travelled higher behind Kirika's neck, reaching her tousled dark locks. She began to toy with them, entwining tufts around her graceful fingers over and over again, in a way that was very similar to when she played with the girl's hair while she believed her to be napping. "After leaving it with my uncle, as a little girl I used to dream a lot about my home in Corsica," the blonde recounted, her blue eyes taking on the tint of a distant sky. "I used to miss it a great deal, you see. It was never far from my thoughts." She blinked suddenly, and looked down at Kirika. "But that's not the case anymore," the blonde quickly clarified with a bright smile, perhaps recognising that the reason behind her exodus of Corsica might still be a touchy subject for her partner. She would be right. "I see this place as my home now." Mireille appeared as though she were going to say more, her mouth remaining open for longer than required, but instead she closed it and then simply smiled at Kirika once more.

"We've had some substantial worries lately," the woman went on in a more serious tone a few seconds later as she looked to the ceiling again, although she didn't cease fiddling with Kirika's hair, "so it's little wonder that you had an unpleasant dream."

"Mm…" Kirika gravely agreed, her gaze dropping to regard the bow on Mireille's pyjamas again. There was no mention of the most recent source of those worries however, no mention of last night's proceedings and the implications behind them. But the topic hung heavily in the air between the two assassins, unacknowledged yet still present, like a bloated black cloud waiting to burst and spread its wretched rain over an otherwise sunny day. Neither wanted to broach it, knowing that all it would do was cause the atmosphere to irrevocably turn sour. The rain could fall later, when it had to. Not now, in this period of fleeting peace.

Mireille became silent, seemingly content to carry on absently stroking her fingers through her younger partner's mop of hair. Kirika was silent too, digesting the worldly woman's remarks. One thing Mireille had neglected to point out is that dreams could be a premonition of the future. Kirika had once dreamt that another her existed inside of herself, a dream which had been in part responsible for prompting her to write a letter to Mireille in case that dark self ever fully roused and had to be slain. It had been a dream that had come true. But she hoped that Mireille was right; that her earlier dream was just a manifestation of some unconscious worry. It could have been that her premonition hadn't been a dream to begin with, but rather a lost memory resurfaced in the night, after all.

Minutes ticked by in hushed serenity, and Kirika found the strong, even thump of Mireille's heart beneath her right ear a lulling rhythm in the quiet, its drumbeat serving to scare off the origin of her fear, exiling it. Meanwhile the reassuring warmth of the beautiful blonde's body radiated into the slender girl's own, defrosting the lingering traces of cold dread in her veins until they melted away, gone as if they never were. And finally Mireille's affectionately dancing fingers mended Kirika's frayed nerves, smoothing the roughness that had formed until none remained; a steadfast will revitalised to its usual staunchness.

A small, lazy smile came to Kirika's face, her eyelids feeling heavy and her breathing rate slowing. She felt a lot better. She should have known that talking to Mireille would have been more than enough to alleviate her distress. Just being with the woman she loved would have sufficed. It always did.

"I hope my hair doesn't smell too acrid," Mireille said softly, almost in a whisper. "I'm not sure I got all the alcohol out."

"Mm…" Kirika mumbled dreamily in the negative, no more than vaguely aware of the bundle of blonde silk strands lying near to her nose. "It smells nice…."

It eventually dawned on Kirika that her eyelids were shut and had been for several minutes. She was dozing off, balanced on the boundary of sleep and awake. She wasn't afraid to give in to the desire either; positive that Mireille's continued presence by her side would chase away any bad dreams that dared threaten to attack her mind and taint her slumber. It seemed that her extensive training in combating drowsiness counted for naught when set against the chance to snooze on Mireille's chest. Kirika briefly pondered why Altena apparently hadn't taught her to resist this type of lure. But perhaps it could not be resisted--the girl frankly believed it was beyond human effort to even come close.

"I think it would be best for us to get up now, before a certain someone nods off," Mireille's caring yet amused voice suddenly suggested, lyrical eloquence filtering through the fluff shrouding Kirika's head. "Honestly; I thought you were no longer a sleepy head!"

Kirika's eyes opened slothfully while she moaned in confusion, blinking with matching sluggishness up at Mireille's smiling face. The blonde just shook her head wryly at her partner's sleepiness, and then following a split second's hesitation, she fondly patted the girl twice in succession on her darkhaired head. "Come on," she lightly urged, "we can't stay in bed all day."

Mireille's gaze was then yet again cast to the white-painted ceiling above, accompanied by an exhausted sigh emitted from her throat. Kirika noted that the woman's dusky-rimmed eyes were tearing up with fresh moisture through her own now almost likewise watery orbs. Fresh pity similarly flooded the girl's heart, a different kind of anxiousness from the one so recently purged from it, nonetheless only marginally more tolerable. "But the way I'm feeling right now, I certainly wouldn't mind to," the blonde assassin added wearily, candidly admitting and not to mention exhibiting the strain she was undergoing. It was a seldom seen thing; Kirika could count the number of related incidents on the fingers of one hand. Mireille tended to be unforthcoming in relation to what could be perceived as weakness of any sort afflicting her. Kirika could understand that if in the presence of strangers or enemies, but not so much when it was just the two of them. She supposed however that her partner merely didn't want her to worry--it was a practice Mireille often engaged in.

But the thing was, as odd as it sounded, Kirika *wanted* to worry. She--like Mireille in respect to her, the girl realised in surprise--wanted to know if anything was troubling the woman, upsetting her, or if she was in pain of some kind. And Kirika wanted to help resolve those troubles, allay those upsets, and ease those pains. It was as if her obligation, her desire, to protect her partner extended beyond the mere physical. It dawned on Kirika that she wanted to safeguard *all* of Mireille--physically *and* emotionally. She wanted to ensure that the blonde was… happy, as well as in good health. Not in particular happy being with her; simply generally content with life. She wanted Mireille to always be able to smile. *Truly* smile. A genuinely, happily smiling Mireille made Kirika want to smile in joy, too.

As was typical of her character, Mireille's compulsion to delay getting up was quashed in favour of what she deemed the more appropriate behaviour of boldly facing the new day. Kirika had known that her partner's yearning to remain would be brushed aside, yet couldn't prevent feeling disappointed when the blonde moved to roll out of her embrace and end their peaceful, blissful, time together in bed. Reluctantly she let Mireille slip out from under her as the woman turned over onto her right side and then sat up on the edge of the bed, Kirika's limbs--once akin to the potency of iron bands--willed into contrasting flaccidity with notable effort; toned muscles made limp and the reflex to tighten them, to hold on desperately to the person she loved, overridden with the dearth of vigour. Kirika considered asking Mireille not to leave, but she had already requested it once--if not out loud--and the thought of asking again made her feel uncomfortable, though why she couldn't pinpoint. Besides, she didn't believe that Mireille would treat her again anyway; it had been a small miracle that the blonde had consented to staying in bed the first time. Normally once Mireille ascertained that Kirika was awake, she couldn't leave it fast enough.

Mireille took a moment to put on her slippers where she had left them by the bed last night, and then stood up, stretching her arms behind her head with a faint groan of discomfort, her muscles no doubt aching. Her departure of the bed proper pulled the sheets off of Kirika's lean body all the way down to the girl's waist and bared her to the cold air of the apartment, a product of the winter's weather outdoors. But rather than the air's cool touch, it was the loss of Mireille's cosy body that produced the shudder which consequently wracked Kirika's forlorn form. She missed her partner's presence pressed next to her as soon as it had left, and it was as though that sentiment had manifested itself in a physical reaction. She felt naked without her, exposed to the elements… and alone to face them. Kirika's craving for Mireille was akin to her need for breathing--an eternal, crucial factor mandatory for her to live. But she always suffered the same acute separation anxiety whenever the blonde departed her company, not just when the woman left the bed in the mornings. Incidentally, the length of that separation had no bearing either; it could be for a minute or an hour, irrespective the feeling and its intensity were identical.

There was an exception however; the separation anxiety was vastly heightened in these morning cases. Kirika suspected it could be because of her and Mireille's wonderful close quarters throughout the entire night beforehand. The captivating bodily contact was a dynamic that made the subsequent absence of Mireille more… real. The loss of Mireille's touch, her scent, her warmth, was a loss that was tangible and hence was felt more keenly. Nevertheless, Kirika had survived it before and would recover from it… eventually.

Mireille, as if sensing Kirika's deep feelings of isolation, turned her head back to the bed following her stretch, back to the now glum girl she had left behind. Her look started out mildly inquiring, but merely an instant after her tired eyes fell on Kirika her expression softened considerably, making her appear even more fatigued yet somehow more resplendent all at once. She smiled tenderly and almost a shade sympathetically at Kirika, and for a brief, shining second the hopeful girl actually thought Mireille was reconsidering her choice of getting up, and may well be rejoining her under the sheets momentarily to once more grant her the luxury of her cherished companionship.

But sadly neither Mireille's look nor her loitering lasted--a moment later she turned her head away from Kirika and set off with slumped shoulders in a somewhat staggered path towards the bathroom, stifling a wide but civilised yawn with a hand as she went.

Kirika watched her partner go until the woman reached the bathroom and shut the door, thwarting her view. The young assassin exhaled softly and then simply lay where she was on her stomach, making no attempt to readjust the covers over herself and keep the apartment's chill at bay. The bed was cold and uninviting now without Mireille; it held no appeal at all for Kirika to remain. She could not linger for too long even if she wished to anyway, unless she wanted to be scolded by Mireille once the blonde came out of the bathroom. No, like Mireille, Kirika must boldly face the new day. Make no mistake, however, it wasn't a displeasing prospect by any means. She had breakfast with Mireille to look forward to, and that was always a pleasant affair. Food seemed to have a richer, fuller taste when it was eaten with the woman, as if her sheer presence added some sort of mystery spice to every morsel consumed. But before Kirika could revel in such delicacies, breakfast would have to be prepared first.

Gently shaking the residual lethargy from her head, Kirika sat up and then scooted over to the edge of the bed, before climbing out of it. She padded bare foot across the rug by the bed and then down the short flight of steps into the living room. The floorboards were frigid planks beneath the soles of her feet, and the general cold of the room wafted on her arms and legs, the limbs uncovered by her nightwear comprising only of a thin vest and petite shorts. None of it bothered Kirika though; the temperature was not life threatening, just unappealing, but easily within tolerable limits for her. It was below her notice.

However, Kirika was not so indifferent to the iciness of the apartment that she wasn't mindful that her more sensitive partner probably found it disagreeable. Mireille didn't benefit from the environmental conditioning she had undertaken whilst in Altena's 'care'. Kirika had been inured to withstand extreme climates and in turn continue to perform at peak proficiency as an assassin in them; blasted desert plains; frozen, snow-encrusted tundras; muggy, monsoonal jungles; none of those settings' hardships debilitated her as they would an average individual. Kirika possessed the ability to simply block them out, to forbid them from taxing her mind and thus weakening her body. Nevertheless, this didn't make her body immune to the harm those harsh climates could inflict upon it in the form of dehydration, frostbite, pneumonia and the like, and consequently measures still had to be taken to protect her health.

Kirika switched on the radiators under the apartment's row of windows, and turned the heat up to a level she was sure Mireille would feel most comfortable in. The girl hoped that at least the bite would be taken out of the chill before her partner completed her ablutions in the bathroom. She couldn't imagine that it was any warmer in there than it was in the rest of the apartment at present, so it would be a nice surprise for Mireille to step out of the frosty bathroom and into contrasting warmth.

But there was a good chance that the radiators would have barely had an opportunity to do their job before Mireille returned, so Kirika scurried into the kitchen to assemble an alternative remedy to stave off the cold and also to make a start on breakfast. Once there, the diligent girl threw herself eagerly into her chores. Picking up the kettle, she filled it with water and then placed it on the stove, the latter she then turned on. While she waited for the kettle's contents to be heated, she trotted over to the breadbin and took out a crusty white loaf with one hand and placed it on the nearby breadboard, while her other deftly drew a breadknife from the knife block. Kirika twirled the knife unconsciously between her nimble fingers as she lowered its serrated blade to the loaf--a whirlwind of silver in her hand--and then cleanly sawed off four slices from one end. She left the knife on the breadboard and then scooped the slices up in her hands, before moving over to the toaster, plopping them into the appliance. The busy girl next pulled down the lever on one side of the toaster causing the bread slices to be swallowed into its interior, and then after sparing a perfunctory glance at the kettle, nodded to herself in satisfaction.

Kirika's preparations thus far were naturally only for the scant beginnings of breakfast. Because of the winter weather, she had opted to make something more ample than simple cereal and toast, and moreover something hot cooked to help both her and her partner through the evidently chilly day ahead. But before that, her alternative heat remedy for Mireille took priority. Kirika could hear running water coming from the bathroom now, which was her signal that the blonde's reappearance was imminent--she had to hurry.

Kirika took out a brightly polished, ornate silverware tray from a cupboard and then began setting it with all the necessary tableware and crockery for tea. By the time she had finished arranging the tray and supplying the requisite sugar to the sugar bowl and milk to the milk jug, the kettle was whistling its come to boil. She quickly turned off the stove before hoisting the kettle gingerly from its spot, and then poured its hot contents into the teapot which was already the home of several teabags, deposited there earlier by the girl. After replacing the lid on the teapot and putting the kettle back on the stove, Kirika placed the centrepiece of the tea set on the laden tray, beside the pair of matching cups and saucers that sat in amongst the other pieces of crockery. For the final touch, she popped an embroidered tea cosy on the teapot, ensuring it stayed warm on this cold morning.

"Yoisho," Kirika uttered as she lifted the now complete silverware tray from the counter, and then carried it into the living room. The water in a drinking glass also allotted a spot on the tray by her earlier swished in its confines as she went, the clear glass looking out of place amid the fine china, although its presence there was almost as important as the tea set itself.

Kirika carefully set the tray down on the round table by one end of the living room, it visible from the narrow kitchen. Free of her burden, she looked to her right in time to see Mireille wander down the bedroom stairs, appearing a little fresher than when she last saw her but nonetheless still exhausted. As Kirika had anticipated, once the woman traversed the steps she immediately headed for her computer on top of the billiard table to presumably check her email--it was her typical morning routine, one the observant girl knew well. Mireille did, however, make a temporary halt to inspect her lavender coat she had slung over the uneven black partition after coming home last night. The woman raised the bottom hem of the garment between a finger and thumb while she frowned crossly at the mud-caked grass stains striping its back brown and green, reminders of her tumble across Laroque's lawn after diving through his broken library window.

A few seconds later Mireille then sighed and let her coat slip from her grasp, before pursing her lips in distaste. She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing her short blonde fringe back, and then scratched her head as she went on glowering at her dirty coat, as if attempting to intimidate it into becoming clean again. Kirika wouldn't be surprised if her partner really succeeded--her blue gaze could be as piercing as steel daggers if she wished it… and just as painful for the one under it. Many times Kirika had borne that look, but it was tranquil blue skies that fell upon her diminutive form nowadays. It was certainly a great improvement. Being stabbed by Mireille's disapproving eye had been a blow she could never hope to dodge, and caused a wound that festered for weeks.

Mireille eventually gave up glaring at her coat and dropped her hand back to her side, resuming her well-worn path to her computer before settling herself in the chair in front of it. Kirika looked away from her partner and focused on finishing what would probably become her own morning routine if the current weather persisted. The apartment still felt rather chilly, the radiators, as previously predicted, having done little to rout the cold assaulting the place. That was the purpose of the tea; to heat Mireille right down to her bones, and subsequently enable her body to fend off the still present cold until she ate a nice hot breakfast or the radiators prevailed in their endeavour, whichever came first.

Kirika removed the cosy from the teapot and poured Mireille a cup of tea, adding one teaspoon of sugar and just a dash of skimmed milk, the resulting concoction appearing as though a white tempest had been caught in a mocha sea. She then ran the teaspoon through the full cup once and once only before laying it down on the saucer--just enough for the sugar and milk to blend with the tea and no more. One teaspoon of sugar, one splash of skimmed milk, and no stirring whatsoever--it was just how Mireille liked it. When Kirika had first learned how to make tea, memorising the precise servings of milk and sugar that made up the woman's ideal cup and understanding exactly how to prepare it had been the topmost item on her agenda. It had taken practice however, through which Mireille had been very patient stomaching some unappetising if heartfelt attempts whilst providing supportive remarks and useful feedback after their tasting. Now Kirika had Mireille's blend ingrained in her mind like her techniques on assassination; a permanent nugget of knowledge among countless that she would never forget.

Kirika popped the cosy back on the teapot--it would not do to have the tea go cold while breakfast was being cooked--and then picking up Mireille's cup of tea and the half-full glass of water, she walked over to the billiard table where her partner was sitting.

Mireille didn't look up as Kirika approached, the woman occupied with staring grimly at her computer screen, her expression far colder than the room's low temperature. Kirika wondered what had educed such a sour look, but as she rounded the billiard table and neared Mireille, the blonde immediately swivelled her chair around to face her, all smiles, and her shoulder now subtly obscuring the monitor and whatever unpleasantness it might have displayed.

"Thank you," Mireille said gratefully as she took the tea Kirika offered to her, before lifting the cup to her lips and taking an experimental sip. When she lowered the cup from her mouth back to the saucer her smile had grown fuller, and she favoured the girl responsible with a pleased look, obviously approving of the flavour.

Kirika smiled demurely back at Mireille, though thrilled to have satisfied her. It was moments like this that made all the effort she put in worthwhile. It awarded an immense sense of gratification to her, one that had no rival. Pleasing Mireille with her skills in murder left her feeling hollow, but pleasing the blonde in any other way left her feeling fulfilled. It made Kirika feel warm inside.

"Are you not cold?" Mireille inquired curiously before taking another, longer, sip of her tea, eyeing her partner from bare shoulders to bare feet over the cup's rim.

"Mm," Kirika said with an emphatic shake of her head, her small smile still strong on her delicate features. She then turned around to cater to the orchid resting on the end table a couple of feet behind her, it too awaiting a beverage from her, albeit a cold and flavourless one, but one just as beneficial all the same.

"Of course…" Kirika heard Mireille say wryly under her breath as she moved.

Kirika could feel Mireille looking at her as she watered their orchid from the glass in her hand, spreading the life-giving fluid meticulously around its stalk, smiling all the while. The plant hadn't made much progress towards blooming, but Kirika was dedicated to one day witnessing its flowers; she somehow believed that they would be breathtaking, and worth the time and hard work she and her partner devoted to nurturing their advent.

"Do you need any help with breakfast?" Mireille eventually asked following several moments of silently observing Kirika's back and her gardening labours. The woman's voice was somewhat soft and distracted as if her query wasn't a serious one, or as if there was something heavier on her mind than mere breakfast.

Kirika hesitated in answering. If truth were told, Mireille's assistance with breakfast wouldn't go amiss. While the teenage assassin had committed the recipes for the most popular and straightforward breakfast dishes to memory, her pains to follow them and duplicate the end product were not perfect and some endeavours even flopped outright. Mireille had told her that her theory was sound, but her execution was unfortunately lacking in some areas. Kirika blamed her failures to date on the recipes themselves. They simply weren't detailed enough and were devoid of contingency directions; for example in the event her pancake stuck to the frying pan, how was she supposed to free it without it crumbling? If instructions written in the same style were used for munitions deployment, then the girl was sure severe injuries would result and possibly even fatalities. Cooking wasn't as easy as killing.

"Okay, I'll help," Mireille said with a slight smile in her tone, no doubt picking up on her partner's uncertainty.

Kirika was relieved. She still couldn't go without Mireille's assistance whilst trying to cook. Furthermore, with the more experienced woman's mentoring she was confident she would in due course master the skill of cooking for all mealtimes, not just breakfast. No matter what Kirika would persevere. Like her toiling with making tea, she wanted to be able to become thoroughly proficient in preparing meals for the woman she loved, with the blonde's favourite dishes naturally given special preference. The withdrawn but soft-hearted girl just wanted to demonstrate to Mireille how much she treasured her, how much she adored her; how much she loved her. It was but a small demonstration of course, like the tea, merely the tiniest statement of her feelings for her partner. Yet that didn't make it not worth doing. Every gesture counted in Kirika's view; every way she could show her enormous affection for Mireille was important. The size of the gesture didn't matter. The sentiments behind it did.

"We have a meeting with Breffort," Mireille divulged in an abrupt and grave change of subject, her tone all business to match it. Kirika's smile vanished with equal alacrity.

The bloated black cloud suspended overhead had burst, and bad memories were suddenly cascading down like acid rain. Everything that had happened last night came surging back to Kirika, stinging blows on her mind--the cacophony of gunfire, the shed blood on the floor, the bodies of the dead, their quarry's escape, a dark text's resurrection--everything, along with all the potential ramifications of each that were no improvement on their forebears' caustic bite. Bad memories to be sure, but in retrospect Kirika realised that she wouldn't have done anything differently. The people she had killed, the lives that had been lost--they had all been deserving of death, sinners duly expunged from the face of the world and back to the wicked place that had birthed them. And as long as Mireille's life was not among those snuffed out, what did it matter who died? Kirika didn't regret killing those men who had been so intent on doing the same to her and the woman she loved. She felt they had deserved it. Anybody who raised a hand to Mireille deserved it.

Yet that premise sat uneasy in Kirika. That, and that she hadn't woken up truly horrified this morning at the murders she had carried out. A part of her whispered why should she be, why should she have compassion for those she had killed, for those who had threatened Mireille? She had simply been fulfilling a promise, a duty; one worth far more than those men's lives. Deserving of death indeed. But who deemed someone deserving of death; who was she to decide who lived and who died? She was the executioner, not the judge… or was she too the judge? She had judged those men last night, and those men before in the Metro. Who or what really determined who was deserving of death? Her, the one who held the gun that delivered that end, the one who exercised it against another? Or the people who hired Kirika and Mireille's services perhaps, those clients who paid money or provided another incentive for someone's untimely demise? Both parties acted as the judge to some degree. Maybe it was those who held the means to inflict that death who decided who warranted it. Kirika didn't know; she had never really thought about it before now. She had never thought about how her skills at killing bestowed the prerogative for her to choose who lived and who died. The girl held the fates of countless sinners in her hands… hands that could easily extinguish them.

<Certainly a great power indeed. But it is your right to wield it.>

Kirika set the now empty drinking glass on the end table beside the potted orchid, and then straightened. She turned back to Mireille who regarded her soberly. Her face was expressionless, all business, as if having already donned the veiling executioner's hood. She reminded herself that all peace was short-lived for her kind.

Kirika nodded to her fellow assassin in compliance.

******

Mireille looked up through the dark tint of her sunglasses at the massive glass pyramid that jutted out of the ground before her, bordered by triangular pools of water that boasted a series of high-spurting fountains at their centre. It was quite an impressive sight, a modern architectural marvel. Or so people said. Mireille believed the pyramid a bit of an eyesore herself in this setting, clashing with the distinct amalgamation of sixteenth and eighteenth century French and Italian design that made up the sprawling Louvre palace that partially enclosed it. Still, both structures were works of art in their own right. Fitting for the largest museum in France, and one of the largest on Earth.

Situated almost at the heart of Paris along the banks of the Seine, Mireille had seen the vast and regal structure of the Louvre museum from the outside many times whilst traversing the streets of the capitol city, but had never had the opportunity nor in fact had ever felt the inclination to venture within the expanse of its walls before now. However, that didn't mean she wasn't familiar with it. It was after all one of the most famous and 'must see' attractions in Paris, perhaps even in the world, home to around three hundred thousand artefacts, sculptures, and paintings--including such distinguished works as the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo--spanning a variety of civilisations and cultures, some dating from as far back as six thousand years before Christ. But despite how impressive it all sounded, Mireille and Kirika were not here for the fine art. Regrettably.

The assassins were instead reluctantly standing here, with the Richelieu and Denon wings of the Louvre museum flanking them, at Breffort's request, it having been received via email on Mireille's computer earlier this morning… although why exactly they were convening at this precise locale was a mystery understood only by him. The message had been in the standard style of the stern Soldats official, short and to the point, the time and the place for the meeting stated but nothing else. He'd made no comment on last night's unproductive carnage, but Mireille knew without a doubt that it would be his topic of conversation for this little get-together. Believing it coincidence that he had scheduled a meeting so soon after the false Noir's latest escape of her and her partner's bullets was a fool's conviction. As Ryosuke had said, there were no coincidences when Soldats was involved.

Mireille certainly didn't think Breffort would be congratulating her and Kirika on a job well done, either. Not that she particularly cared. She wasn't seeking Breffort's approval in any way, shape or form. While her and her partner's goals may coincide with the man's, that was where their association ceased--they were independent parties to him, and independent parties to the despicable organisation he belonged to. Mireille did not see herself and Kirika as working for him, but rather working *with* him, and extremely tenuously at that. She had even debated earlier to perhaps dispense with patronising this meeting all together, just to make a point that she and Kirika were not at his beck and call. But she had obviously decided against it, on the grounds that Breffort was still an ally of sorts against the Ryosuke and Vincent, and could have information beneficial to their mutual cause… even if that cause was made mutual by his scheming.

Maybe Breffort believed different about Mireille and Kirika's relationship with him--Soldats' arrogance knew no bounds, and he was no exception--but if he did and attempted to manipulate the blonde today as he had done--with, the Corsican grudgingly confessed, tremendous success--in their previous meeting, then he would be in for a *very* rude awakening. Never again would she abide outsiders twisting her feelings for Kirika to their own benefit. Breffort had cunningly used them before to strongarm her into agreeing to throw away a perfectly tranquil and perfectly enjoyable lifestyle in order to dispose of Ryosuke and Vincent, two criminals completely unconnected to her and her partner in any way beyond their use of the young women's old alias, Noir--an awful revelation that had fully hit Mireille far too late, and one that had demonstrated to her with total, staggering clarity how much of a liability her once staunch heart had become. It had been the first time that Mireille's love for Kirika had worked against her, but the woman swore it was also the last. She would *not* allow anyone to ever again sway her good sense by playing on her fears concerning her relationship with Kirika. Or at any rate, she would try her utmost to uphold that oath. She knew it would be intensely challenging indeed; her own rejuvenated sentimentality could be labelled as the most formidable adversary she had ever faced in all her years in the assassination business. And this hardening of her heart against outsider's taunts was but the first line of defence in protecting herself from it. *Protecting* herself from it, yes, because she neither had the desire nor the power to smother it wholly.

Mireille recognised that she'd been getting too sentimental of late and perhaps had been for a long while now, it starting quite possibly as far back to when she had conceded to work jointly with Kirika on a 'pilgrimage for the past'. Small and trifling it had begun, hardly noticeable if at all and thus permissible, albeit whether she liked it or not, but these days it had developed to such a scale and strength that the woman was now so wrapped up in her feelings for her cute partner that she had been unwittingly allowing them to influence her ordinarily stable and impartial judgement. It was a clear and present vulnerability in her otherwise professional conduct as a contract killer, one she had flagged as having to be dealt with as soon as possible if not immediately before it gave rise to her untimely end. She didn't aim to be a stone cold murderer by any means, but she didn't want to be a soft one either; it would threaten to plant undesirable seeds of doubt in her heart, doubt that would eventually bloom and cause her to question every pull of her gun's trigger, to question every life she was hired to take, to question who truly was deserving of death. It would not be good for business nor for her health, she predicted.

However, separating her business life from her personal life wasn't so simple, since both were intimately entwined with one another, like two lovers' clasped hands, or their joined lips, or their writhing bodies locked together in the throes of heated pass--Mireille winced slightly, wondering where those comparisons had come from, and then ruthlessly reigned in her errant imagination before it came up with any more romantic--yet highly disturbing--analogies. Heaven help her; she was more far-gone than she'd thought.

But back on track--Mireille's lone business partner was Kirika, the girl who also encompassed the Corsican's entire personal life, which made the division of the two aspects of her existence nigh on impossible. It left the woman with quite a dilemma on her hands. She could always do as she had done before; close off her heart, embrace formality and act as if she were nothing more than a colleague to Kirika whilst on assignment. But Kirika was a needy girl emotionally, and such aloof behaviour would--and had before, Mireille recalled with an unappetising cocktail of sadness and guilt--result in the younger assassin becoming upset until she too closed off her heart, retreating back into her introverted shell. It would certainly bring ruin to the relationship they shared and that Mireille held so dear; that much was evident from the similar distressing happenings that had taken place only a couple of weeks ago. Furthermore, the blonde wasn't sure that her heart would let her be apathetic to Kirika again even when they were on the job, not after those aforementioned happenings that had ended with the sensitive girl crying her eyes out against her chest. Mireille had vowed to never again deny Kirika the love and attention she so plainly needed, and the woman would *not* break that vow.

But perhaps there was a way for the latter approach to work if Mireille were to somehow rationalise it to Kirika so she'd understand not to take any of her professional detachment to heart. The girl would have to be taught to understand as well why there was call to have a clear distinction between their business life and their personal life. Kirika was as stoic as ever presently, but if Mireille's labours to beget the contrary in her partner came to fruition then who knew what she'd be like in the future. Regardless of how indifferent Mireille was, it would not do to have Kirika's own affection completely uninhibited; the woman's efforts to keep things business-like would be severely undermined. She could just see herself, coldly pointing her Walther in her right hand at a target, her face grim as Death… while Kirika was snuggled under her free arm and hugging her enthusiastically around the waist with one of her own, the other dutifully aiming her pistol at the target. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad… but still, it just wouldn't be proper comportment at all, and couldn't be good in the long run. In any case, it was a method that had potential. Mireille would have to give it some more serious consideration however before she could pursue it with Kirika, and also determine how to best explain it all to her.

There was a lot to be said about the single life, Mireille thought sardonically, her lips twisting in mild exasperation. She certainly didn't have these concerns before accepting a partner into her business and life. But nonetheless, she wouldn't have it any other way.

Along with Breffort's message being brief and succinct, one more thing it had been was incredibly prompt, or it had at least initially given that impression. The timestamp on his email had been scarcely a handful of hours after the time Mireille and Kirika had returned home last night, which, in view of the barely pre-dawn period when the assassins' violent jaunt across Paris had come to a standstill, was rather remarkable indeed. Yet it wasn't as if Mireille and Kirika's activities the previous night had been at all quiet, despite their efforts for the opposite. They had been forced to storm a strip club belonging to a local criminal syndicate--a local criminal syndicate that had *somehow* learned they were coming, the precise explanation for that little phenomenon still a mystery Mireille doubted she would ever solve, now--and then engage in a frenzied shootout with possibly the entire, suddenly well-armed and well positioned group, before subsequently killing every member present and then walking out of the premises with it left ablaze in their wake. Then for the finale following a quick detour to pick up a trail and inadvertently stumble upon a few fresh corpses that were this time not the product of their hands, the assassins had infiltrated a wealthy man's manor to trade gunfire with their elusive quarry inside, and then fight their way out of the building and the estate proper, chasing vainly after them all the while. Very little of it had emulated the elegant manner in which Mireille preferred to operate in, to put it *very* lightly.

As a result, the majority of Mireille and Kirika's bloody handiwork last night had been splattered all over this morning's news, the mediums of newspaper, radio *and* television each judging it worthy of the public eye's glare. Perhaps Mireille should feel honoured for her and her partner's deeds to obtain such widespread interest, but it wasn't as though the rotting fruits of their vocation hadn't been awarded media attention before. As a general rule, the higher the profile of the hit, the greater the level of press coverage. However, a high body count also invoked comparable attention. Mireille could understand the rationale behind both. It was to be expected that if someone famous--or infamous, as was usually the case in her and Kirika's line of work--met their downfall, then likewise their death would be renowned as well, maybe even more so depending on the circumstances and the person concerned. As for a high number of fatalities attracting similar notice, that was purely based on human beings' fundamentally barbaric natures. When it came down to it, that was always what inspired the public's fascination--the tragic loss of life itself. People were on the whole fond of bloodshed, real or make-believe, no matter what they said to deny it. Why else would they pay to see it in the movies, watch it so avidly on their television sets? It was a form of entertainment, a macabre one, often glorified by the media and film industry. Not until they had lived a life on the black path surrounded by slaughter, the blood and death up close and personal, would they wise up and shake off their ghoulish attachment. As for Mireille herself, she hadn't been to the cinema in years and didn't even own a television, discounting her computer's ability to mimic one.

The news reports so far had been restricted to the massacre of Millet's pitiful gang in Pigalle, the bonfire the dead man's headquarters had become surely having acted as a signal flare in the murky sky last night that the authorities and press had flocked to. After the flames of the impromptu pyre had been put out, Mireille imagined it had been quite a shock for them to uncover over a dozen broiled carcasses shot full of holes, carcasses belonging to thugs probably well-known by the police. The newscasters and journalists were labelling it the fallout of a feud between rival gangs, possibly related to the car bombing approximately two weeks prior. They were no more than vaguely correct, as usual. Once a thorough examination had been performed on what remained of the bodies, only then would it be realised that they all were linked to the same, now defunct, organisation; invalidating the gang war theory. Mireille knew that neither the authorities nor the media would ever learn the truth behind what really had taken place in Slick Chicks last night. They rarely did when she had a hand in events.

But even without the news exposure Breffort would have still been privy to the knowledge that Millet was now amongst the dead and his syndicate was in tatters, if that much had even survived. The Soldats member had had an agent in the head gangster's midst after all; Jacques, the individual responsible for couriering his tip-off to Mireille and Kirika… rather inconveniently *after* the young women had slain everybody else in Slick Chicks. The Corsican was still unsure whether that had been intentional or not. Jacques had been a jittery fellow, so perhaps he had simply opted to keep his cowardly head down until it was safe to talk to her and Kirika, for fear that if he happened to be seen doing so beforehand, he would incur the wrath of his 'peers'. Mireille dryly supposed it could be called cunning as well as cowardly if it were true. It was a combination of traits all of Soldats' followers seemed to have. But whatever the cause of Jacques' delay in delivering the message, with him having escaped Millet's headquarters in one piece, he would have been able to give Breffort a first hand account on the chaos that had taken place there, a privileged version of events considerably more detailed and accurate than the media's reports.

In addition, Breffort's connection to Soldats would have been the only way he could have heard about the most significant incidents that had transpired the previous night, the ones revolving around Ryosuke and Vincent at Laroque's abode. The television and radio news bulletins and even the newspapers with their broader coverage on the city's and the world's daily happenings had all been bereft of any report regarding the firefight on the collector's immense property, not so much as even a passing blurb printed. Although, Mireille hadn't believed for a moment that anything would have been mentioned. Firstly, Albert Laroque was a very prosperous individual, and had probably easily suppressed the police's involvement before day had even broken, perhaps feeding money to his pet officers kept neatly in his pocket until their sated appetites superseded their sense of duty--whatever was left of it. And without the authorities' backing, the press were unlikely to even be aware of the shooting disturbances at his manor last night.

Secondly, Albert Laroque was of Soldats' crop, which for all intents and purposes precluded his affairs from being publicised due to the innate characteristics of the enigmatic group he was affiliated with. The evidence that he was a member wasn't conclusive to be sure, but Mireille's intuition spoke it to be true, and, after all, she'd had considerable--if unwanted--experience dealing with such nefarious people. The inclusion of Langonel's Manuscript with the other rare books in the man's extensive library had been the chief indication, although in retrospect it had also been the solitary one. But Soldats *was* a secret society, and had guarded that secrecy for over a thousand years; it wasn't as if a member freely broadcasted her or his affiliation. Regardless, with copies of Langonel's Manuscript all but lost to the world, and with its great import to the clandestine group of Soldats, Mireille didn't think the global organisation would ever permit a copy of the tome to languish in the private collection of one who was not indoctrinated into their order.

Thus, with Laroque likely allied with Soldats, and in light of Breffort's lofty standing within the society, news of the aggressive break-in of the first man's home and the ensuing robbery of Langonel's Manuscript from his possession had doubtless reached the second man's ears, especially when an item of such importance was involved, and had been stolen no less.

Therefore, maybe it wasn't such a grand feat that Breffort's email had been sent to Mireille's computer so swiftly. Truly, the blonde would have been astounded if it *hadn't*.

Given her prior careful contemplation on the matter, Mireille suspected that Breffort would be thoroughly conversant with everything that had happened during that long stretch of darkness last night. Still, in accordance to her credo, she judged it prudent to withhold her own knowledge on events, not revealing anything she didn't have to unless the Soldats official did first. Breffort had proved himself to be a conniving scoundrel--something Mireille ought to have expected from a Soldats follower of the upper echelons--and the Corsican assassin would have to keep her wits about her lest he succeed in manoeuvring her to his compelling will again. She was not Soldats--and thankful for it--but she could still be just as cunning. As for Kirika, Mireille wouldn't have to worry about her speaking out of turn. The introverted girl often retained her own counsel when it was only the two of them--a fact that disheartened Mireille, and one she strived to change--and would be even less talkative in the company of an outsider, possibly doubly so when that outsider was of Soldats.

One detail of last night's escapades that Mireille believed Breffort might not be wise to, however, was of Simon's grisly murder in his shop basement; a murder that had encompassed two of his unlucky associates in its lethal embrace as well. Or put more bluntly, it was unlikely that Breffort cared of the boy's or his companions' eventual fates enough to have his operatives bother to check what ultimately fatal card they had all been dealt. And Mireille knew he'd had operatives in the vicinity--how else would he have known that Ryosuke and Vincent were at Simon's store? It was even possible that the Soldats official had still been tracking the false Noir's movements even after 'recruiting' Mireille and Kirika, but had made sure that his spies stayed well out of sight to both pairs of assassins. It was speculation that the blonde woman had engaged in before; that Breffort's black-clad spooks were watching her and her partner constantly, yet on orders not to interfere with their lives.

But the mere revived notion prompted Mireille to feel uneasy, nervous tension creeping into her spine, tightening the joints until they ached in protest. She disliked being kept under a watchful, secretive eye, especially if that eye belonged to Soldats. She supposed that the Louvre was swarming with the organisation's minions right this minute even if her supposition was incorrect; Breffort would not travel outside of his office building lacking ample defensive assurances. Mireille's shoulders stiffened to match her spine's tautness at the thought, picturing that unseen gun sights were already trained on her and Kirika, and had been ever since they had entered courtyard Napoleon.

The newspapers whose pages Mireille had quickly thumbed through at a newsstand before coming here had been devoid of any article on the gruesome killings in Simon's basement, but unlike the incidents at Laroque's estate, it was apathy that was responsible for the gulf of information. Like Breffort, the media no doubt saw the murders of three teenagers in an unsavoury part of town insignificant, a trivial occurrence that probably happened on a weekly basis there; small news compared to the 'gang war' story of the same night. News unworthy of public consideration, of documentation. Of remembrance. Maybe their remains hadn't even been discovered yet. Maybe Simon and the others were still lying where they had been struck down so young, rotting alone in their dank tomb. Merely more forgotten victims of the black path, their bodies having been coldly trampled beneath the heels of those who walk it. People like Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu. And Mireille Bouquet. The woman was aware that she, like everyone else, would not remember Simon or his companions. They were simply acquaintances she had lost touch with, after all, and after today she would never again think of them. She knew it was better that way from losing her family, the only departed people who had been a part of her life she ever dwelled on, the only people whose memories of she clung to. The only grief she would allow herself. Even her Uncle Claude wasn't granted that respect, not after….

But Simon, Ezza and their unidentified cohort would be avenged. Acquaintances they may have been, mere assets to her occupation to be used at her whim, but Mireille felt she owed them that much. It was something the Corsican assassin always accomplished without fail--vengeance for the people lost to her, be they acquaintance, friend, relation, or lover. It could be said that her immediate family had been the only ones deprived of that retribution, but in Mireille's eyes that vendetta had been settled with Altena's passing. As stated before, Kirika had simply been the instrument of their demise, nothing more. In the event Mireille had wrongly punished Kirika with a bullet, the lone means to avenge the girl would have been to raze all of Soldats to the ground… and then turn her gun on herself. She should be thankful that her heart had had other wishes for her partner.

Mireille weary blue eyes softened behind her sunglasses, her expression that had been severe during her grim ruminations turning gentle. Indeed, she was hugely thankful. Kirika was alone responsible for coaxing her long dead heart into beating again.

Reflected light gleamed dazzlingly off the rows of skewed rectangular glass panes that made up the Louvre's pyramid entrance, its source the bright sun high overhead, ruling the virtually cloudless sky. But it was a deceptive glow, a vivid but empty shine bereft of warmth. The temperature was still freezing below the sun, Mireille's hot breath fogging the air like puffs of smoke. She was as glad for her brownish-grey coat that warded off the cold as she was for her dark pair of sunglasses that diffused the intense bars of light.

Despite winter's inhospitable presence, a slew of visitors populated the Louvre museum, the courtyard around the pyramid lightly dotted with roaming people braving the weather. No doubt they had been taken in by the false hope the bright sun presented, it promising a warm, pleasant day that would never come. Mireille could relate. A naïve part of her was optimistic that this appointment with Breffort spelled the finish of her and Kirika's divergence from a peaceful way of life; that perhaps after their recent failure to kill the dour Ryosuke and his flamboyant comrade, and the blatant commotion they had caused in Pigalle and in the home of one of the Soldats official's order; he had decided it safer to terminate their association before his colleagues on the clandestine society's council caught wind of any links between them. But the larger part of Mireille knew better. Breffort wouldn't give up on them that easily. She and Kirika had once been Noir, after all, the Eternal Darkness, the supposed Black Hands of Soldats. And with Langonel's Manuscript's sudden inclusion in the equation, matters had become even more serious. Plus not to mention that Ryosuke and Vincent were now privy to Mireille and Kirika's faces. The men could not be tolerated continuing to live with that knowledge.

Mireille looked to Kirika who was standing roughly a foot from her left shoulder, wondering if she held a similar naïve hope, or a speck of one at any rate. The quiet girl was staring at the glass pyramid in front of them with a seemingly uninterested countenance, her hands stuffed in her parka's pockets; an unplanned exhibition of stoicism in the Louvre's Napoleon courtyard. But the otherwise flawless demonstration was spoiled by her visibly squinting in the strong sunlight, partially blinded by the false hope. Mireille cynically reminded herself to procure a pair of sunglasses for Kirika as soon as possible.

"Afterward, why don't we have a wander around?" Mireille gaily invited her innocent partner, her features persuasive in their hastily adopted tenderness. "This is probably the finest museum in the country, and is famous throughout the world. But I haven't had a chance to see it, myself."

It wasn't as if Mireille was keen to explore the museum, but she believed that any faith Kirika harboured that their hunt for Ryosuke and Vincent was over with would be cruelly dashed aside once Breffort's meeting had ended, and as a result the feeling-hearted girl would need cheering up. From what she could tell through the reserved shell that cloaked Kirika's emotions--the darkhaired girl's expressive eyes being the only reliable and fixed peepholes inside--spending quality time alone together simply pursuing everyday pleasures always appeared to make her happy. What's more, the older woman hardly ever passed up an opportunity to further her partner's rather deficient general education. The exhibits of the Louvre were plentiful indeed, and although it was doubtful that they would be able to see them all in a single visit, it would still provide a comprehensive history lesson for Kirika. Mireille decided that she would focus on French history first, that was, of course, if Kirika agreed to her proposal. But the blonde knew she would. Kirika never queried any of her suggestions, or at least not any unrelated to their profession. The girl was always so eager to please.

"Mm," Kirika acceded with a look and a nod, squinting up at Mireille.

Mireille smiled at the girl's predictability. "It's settled then," she said. "I'm sure it will prove to be fascinating… and quite the learning experience." The last was added somewhat apprehensively, the woman just realising that her own ability in history--including French history--wasn't precisely stellar. She really hoped that the pieces on display in the museum were accompanied by plaques or something narrating their origin. She was confident she could bluff her way through her lectures to Kirika if she had at least some concrete facts to base each one on.

Kirika nodded once again, this time solemnly, maybe recognising Mireille's teaching ambitions for their now planned tour of the Louvre. It wouldn't be the first occasion the blonde had tried to school the girl on more than just how to kill someone efficiently. She had taken Kirika to the opera a few times, in an endeavour to expose her partner to some culture, as well as to entertain her in the process. Kirika gave the impression she liked it, although she tended to sidle close to Mireille in her seat, pressing her body hard against the armrest that separated them. Being a member of a large audience, enclosed on all sides save one seemed to make her edgy. But when the curtain was raised and the opera itself begun, the melodic singing that washed over them eventually relaxed her.

Just as Mireille began to wonder where Breffort was, and if she and her partner should forsake their engagement after all and commence their sightseeing of the museum early, Kirika turned her head back to the pyramid, the motion educing the blonde to do likewise. With jumbled emotions Mireille caught sight of the man in question emerging from the glass belly of the pyramid that doubled as an underground entrance to the Louvre palace, and on this specific occasion that's perimeter acted as their designated meeting place as well.

Breffort limped slowly towards the two assassins through the people who crisscrossed his path, the cane by his side crested with the semblance of a golden bird's head compensating for the weakness in his bad right leg. He was attired in the same trend as normal; in a suit, shirt and tie of drab, muted colours; tones of blacks and greys that the eye seemed to overlook, the Soldats official blending into the background, a discounted facet of the sparse crowd. Mireille mused whether he was clad in that style on purpose. It was an old assassin's trick, to dress down and unconsciously lax the gaze of onlookers, urban camouflage whilst in plain view. It didn't always work, and a contract killer worth their salt would possess a level of concentration that effortlessly defeated the technique, but it did usually aid in eluding the less skilled authorities and in being forgotten by any potential witnesses. Mireille rarely embraced the practice, favouring a refined fashion sense emphasising a mix of solid colours over flat, lacklustre and dowdy clothes that provided only a small amount of benefit in return. That wasn't to say she abhorred black and grey in her wardrobe, but that employment of the shades were tempered by good taste.

Mireille hoped that her modish fashion sense would sooner or later rub off on Kirika… who unfortunately had none whatsoever. That was why Mireille picked out the girl's clothes for her and drilled what combinations of them made the best outfits… besides also furtively wanting her partner to model what she would look the loveliest in, a goal which happily coincided. Kirika didn't seem to know what to choose and consequently appeared to randomly pluck garments from the hangers, giving no regard to how… awful… they would look on her. The last item Mireille had let her select herself had been those pink shoes of hers. True, they were adorable on Kirika's delicate feet--which was why the blonde had purchased a new pair to replace the one lost during the girl's trip to the Manor--but they didn't really go with anything. Only their cuteness assuaged the irritation that threatened to arise whenever Mireille laid eyes on them, her devout sense of style's wails of objection muffled by the feelings of her heart. As such, Mireille believed it her duty to take Kirika under her experienced wing and guide her clueless 'pupil' in the art of being well dressed. She suspected she had a tough task on her hands.

Breffort nodded in greeting to Mireille as he joined her and Kirika outside the pyramid, the regular beat of his cane on the paving halted. His expression was hard, but no more than was common from the customarily austere man. Still, the Corsican assassin couldn't conceive that he was pleased with the latest developments on the Ishinomori front.

Mireille's face darkened to mirror Breffort's, her gaze becoming as cool as the air around them and as pure a blue as the sky above. It wasn't as if she was pleased with developments, either. Or with having to once again converse with one of Soldats' ilk.

"This makes a nice change from your office," Mireille commented condescendingly by way of welcome, placing her hands on her hips as she made a show of appraising the scenic palace walls that served as their backdrop. As her frosty eyes glided over the exquisite architecture, she idly wondered in which windows Breffort's 'guardian angels' roosted, totting high-powered rifles in their clutches. Of course, if Mireille was intent on killing him, there was not a hope in the world that the concealed snipers would be able to stop her. But making it out of the courtyard alive after the deed was done might be a tad tricky.

"It would not be intelligent for us to meet there more than once," Breffort said gruffly, ignoring the woman's disrespectful tone. He was probably used to it by now. "My colleagues are familiar with my place of business, and thus it is not guaranteed to be free of prying eyes. If they ever learn of our dealings, it would put me in a… difficult position."

"We can't have that," Mireille deadpanned, displaying as much concern as she felt.

Breffort stared at the waspish Corsican for a second, before merely grunting in response. It rankled Mireille that he was so impervious to her finessed barbs. It was like disparaging a rock.

"Come, let's take a walk," Breffort then proposed. He tapped the bottom of his cane against the side of his right black leather shoe. "This cold doesn't agree with my leg." He angled his body towards the museum wing to his rear, the section conversely facing the assassins. "I hear the Sully wing has a fine exhibition of ancient pre-classical Greek works. I trust that era will be to your--" His grey eyes flicked to Kirika for a second, bestowing her the same bland look he seemed to give everything, "--and your partner's liking."

"I'm sure it will be," Mireille replied evenly as she searched through Breffort's gloomy voice for any buried hint of sarcasm, weighing whether his last remark had been a subtle yet deliberate dig at her Sapphic predilection, and at the girl it was currently focused on. One portion of history the blonde *was* acquainted with was that of around sixth century B.C. regarding an isle in the Mediterranean, and the gifted poet who had been born there. And what that female poet had written of.

But after fastidiously scanning Breffort's words Mireille found nothing to indicate they held any scorn whatsoever, and honestly, she hadn't truly expected them to. She didn't think Breffort was the sort to be so contemptible as to mock her and Kirika's lifestyle choices. He was twin to a rock, after all. The woman was probably reading too much into it, letting her rancour for Soldats as a whole cause her to tar all of its members with the same vile brush… when there was in reality many assorted types of vile brushes of varying scales to tar them with.

Besides, she wasn't sure if Breffort was even aware of the romantic--or increasingly romantic, at any rate--nature of her relationship with Kirika. Yet, he had been present with the rest of Soldats' high council when the young women had shuffled awkwardly but victoriously out of the Manor together, their arms around each other's shoulders steadfastly supporting one another's tired and wounded bodies, the Corsican proudly publicising her decision to stand by her partner to the bitter end and beyond. Moreover, Breffort had taken advantage of Mireille's soft spot for Kirika before, so he had to have some grasp on the depth of her feelings for the petite girl. But past their prospective gainful use in his conflict against Kaede Ishinomori's wild behaviour, Mireille doubted the Soldats follower cared about her affection for Kirika. Thank goodness for small mercies, she sardonically supposed.

Breffort led the way around the fountains that surrounded the Louvre's pyramid and across courtyard Napoleon to the Sully wing, his hobbling pace forcing Mireille and Kirika to slow theirs to compensate, the necessity frustrating the blonde. She considered whether to spitefully insist that they talk outside in the courtyard, just to make Breffort uncomfortable. The painful distraction he would suffer as a consequence *could* give her an edge in the conversation, in the battle of wits, ahead. But Mireille understood that she was once again allowing her animosity for the man and the group he represented to turn her into a, quite frankly, nasty bitch. She should take a leaf out of Kirika's book--or maybe even Breffort's--and tackle annoyances with stoicism fortifying her nerves. Although, the woman normally did face life's challenges with an aloof front--Soldats merely had a tendency to incite her temper to flare dramatically. She had to strive to be better than that, to not let the odious international organisation defeat her in any manner at all, irrespective of how minor.

The somewhat long trek to the Sully wing of the Louvre was made in silence, Breffort shambling ahead of Mireille and Kirika with the young women flanking each other behind him. The Corsican contract killer could envision the Soldats official's snipers tracking their progress across the courtyard with their rifles, invisible bullseyes painted on her and her partner's heads and backs. It was with relief when Mireille and her unbearably lethargic company finally entered the shelter of the Sully wing, the blonde glad to shake off their hidden and dangerous watchers. But it was a short-lived reprieve. Breffort had to have more agents in position about the interior of the palace, or at the very least in this particular wing. He wouldn't have suggested that they 'take a walk' here unless he had adequate measures in place to protect his person, just in case Mireille suddenly opted to put a bullet or two in him. And who knows, maybe she might if what he had to discuss with her and Kirika didn't sit well with her.

Sometimes Mireille wondered why she hadn't pounced upon the chance to slay Breffort and all of Soldats' chief council with him when she and Kirika had stepped out of the Manor. Life may well have been considerably easier if she'd had. But then she and Kirika hadn't wanted anything more to do with the order--and still didn't, despite recent affairs--and murdering their top heads would have likely prohibited that, rousing the countless remaining followers to seek revenge once they had recovered from the panic of losing their leaders. And then the young women would probably have never been rid of Soldats, forever at unrestrained hostilities with the entire group. On second thoughts, life in all likelihood would have been considerably more difficult indeed if Mireille had chosen that vindictive route. Moreover, there was also the fact to consider that Mireille and Kirika had honestly been in no condition for more gun battles at the time. The Corsican had been confident they could have killed the councilmen with relative ease regardless, but she hadn't wanted to get into another shootout if they could avoid it. Kirika had been in bad shape in spite of her defiant bearing; her gunshot wound would have been potentially life threatening if left without treatment for too long. Hence, with her partner's wellbeing at stake--a partner who she had only just acknowledged her true, loving feelings for--and the undeniable craving to return to their old life together, Mireille's choice back then had been crystal clear. In hindsight, she didn't really regret her decision. Nevertheless, it was still nice to dream about all of Soldats' ruling body lying dead at her feet sometimes.

Mireille left her black, rectangular sunglasses where they were perched high on the bridge of her nose as she, Kirika, and Breffort walked at the same irritatingly slow gait down the antiquity laden corridors of the Louvre. The previous night's lengthy activities and therefore significantly shortened hours in bed had given rise to some acute bags under her additionally puffy, stinging and watery eyes, plus not to mention sore limbs and a moderately more intolerant disposition than usual. Generous coats of makeup had concealed the worst of the unwelcome dusky rings, but they were still mostly discernible to Mireille's chagrin, in conjunction with the tears that constantly brimmed her bloodshot blue eyes and the swollen capillaries around the orbs that seemed to exasperatingly accentuate the bags. So the solution had been obvious, and one she had employed before after many a long, late night assignment. Following the cosmetics care; eye drops to reduce the stinging sensation, the swelling, and the prominent veins in her gaze, and then a pair of trendy black sunglasses to finish off. Even if it hadn't been a misleadingly sunny day she would have still donned a pair. The blonde couldn't have ventured out in public with anything less. She did have standards to maintain.

Mireille was cognisant of the odd, mildly thoughtful look Kirika was casting in her direction as they walked, as if through staring at her something had just revealed itself to the girl. Whatever it was seemed to satisfy Kirika, and she turned her head away from Mireille, new understanding appearing to shine in her doe eyes.

Mireille shook her head a fraction, dismissing her partner's antics. She was quite accustomed to Kirika's occasionally peculiar behaviour by now, but what she wouldn't give to see inside that pretty little head of hers at times. From what she had gathered from working and living with her, Kirika could come up with some rather strange notions.

Magnificent Greek artefacts preserved from days of old passed by Mireille on both sides, but she hardly saw any of them. Her eyes were too busy darting warily around her, the woman's mind hypothesising where Breffort's bodyguards where secreting themselves now. There were a few other visitors to the museum drifting up and down the wide corridor, as well as security guards standing tall at their stations. Any one of them could be in Soldats employ; hiding in plain view. It was a tactic they favoured.

Finally, Breffort stopped and turned to regard at length the ruined remains of a pillar-like marble statue that loosely resembled a one-armed headless woman, the Soldats member's left arm arranged behind the small of his back while his other kept his cane perfectly upright. Mireille and Kirika stopped walking also, but neither spared so much as a glance at the statue--their eyes were on the man who had summoned them here in the first place.

"You and your partner were quite active last night," Breffort said at last, though his gaze remained on the museum piece. His words were addressed as always to Mireille and not to Kirika, as though he wasn't even conscious of the girl standing next to the blonde, like she was seen as a part of the Corsican. It didn't actually bother Mireille that her partner was excluded from their conversation, however. The idea of Breffort talking directly to Kirika was unsettling for some reason, as if by him doing so some unseen barrier would be violated. "But have naught to show for your efforts beyond the bags under your eyes."

Mireille's lips twitched and one of her eyebrows was stricken by a sudden tic, the woman irritated and abashed that her pains to disguise the fatigue showing in her eyes had been transparent to Breffort, and moreover to have her and Kirika's labours the previous night to be denigrated so. She reached up and readjusted her sunglasses on her nose in an endeavour to mask her discomfiture and give her time to get a hold of her growing indignation, the blonde clamping down on it before her standoffish veneer unravelled any further.

"However, your actions did free one of my better operatives from an increasingly insignificant post," Breffort went on as he turned away from the statue to face Mireille and Kirika, either ignorant of or indifferent to the Corsican's internal struggle with her escalating resentment. "I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude for sparing him where others died."

"'Don't shoot the messenger'," Mireille quipped smoothly, although without emotion. Breffort had to be referring to Jacques, the man she and Kirika had encountered in Millet's strip club. It was irrefutable who he worked for, now.

Breffort nodded slightly in thanks. "Judging from what I've heard, you acted on my message," he then said. He heaved a sigh and looked away briefly, before affixing Mireille with a pitiless grey gaze. "But you failed," he stated with finality. "Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu are now on a plane halfway back to Japan and the protection of Kaede Ishinomori's forces. It will no longer be as easy to strike at them."

"They've left France?" Mireille said, taken aback. She frowned hard, glowering at the floor. She guessed the false Noir had got what they came to Paris for; namely Langonel's Manuscript. This made matters a great deal more complicated, and they hadn't exactly been straightforward to start with.

"Yes, and with Langonel's Manuscript in their possession. Evidently it was their reason for being here," Breffort confirmed, as if he was tracing the blonde's train of thought. "And so…."

The high-ranking Soldats official slid his free hand inside his suit jacket, causing him to obtain dual, firm, guarded looks from Mireille and Kirika, their eyes simultaneously and abruptly snapping to him in a united instant. But once his hand reappeared, there wasn't a weapon held in it but a bright red packet, one he brandished before the assassins.

Mireille's frown deepened and became one of anger rather than worry as she spied the white coloured logo on a lower corner of the envelope, a logo she recognised as an international airline's. So *that* was Breffort's game.

"You planned this from the start, didn't you?" Mireille accused the loathsome Soldats member hotly through gritted teeth belonging to a sickened sneer, her battle to control her ire towards him and his group all but lost. "For us to go over there and deal with Kaede--with *everything!*--for you! For Soldats!" The blonde shook her head in disgust, her eyes boring into Breffort through her sunglasses' shade.

"Well, I'll tell you now we'll have none of it!" Mireille continued to hiss, having retained just enough of her composure to remember to keep her voice lowered. Perhaps this was the incentive Breffort had had for selecting to convene at a museum; because he knew she would be furious at his scheme. The repercussions of killing Ryosuke and Vincent in Japan, whilst the men were backed by Kaede's growing empire, would be considerably thornier than if they had been taken out isolated and alone in Paris. The pair knew that the 'true Noir' sought their lives, and had probably at least informed Kaede of that fact. Thus if they were to be murdered suddenly in Japan, Mireille and Kirika would be the first to be considered as the culprits. Maybe the blame for the eventual assassinations could be pinned on Soldats, but it was unlikely now with the affirmed death sentence looming over Ryosuke and Vincent's heads. What's more, Kaede would not let the slaying of her older brother go unpunished, perhaps even forcing the young women responsible to kill her, too. Which was presumably exactly what Breffort had planned.

"You misunderstand," Breffort said, clearly unfazed in the face of the Corsican's outrage. "This is merely a natural progression. Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu are still alive, but are now heading home for Yokohama, Japan. Therefore you must go there as well to finish your task. I have never known you to desert an assignment you have already agreed to undertake."

Mireille seethed with impotent fury, fantasising herself whipping out her gun from under her coat and shooting Breffort in the chest, straight through the airline tickets he held aloft, but frustratingly aware that it would stay a fantasy. The Soldats official was practically untouchable, save if she wanted herself and Kirika to be on the run for the rest of their lives. And he was correct; she'd never abandoned an assignment before. But she had agreed to his under fictitious pretences; her dogma of acceptable conduct didn't apply here.

"And it also doubles as a means of protection," Breffort expounded, wagging the tickets in his hand a tad. "The property Ishinomori and Hsu raided--and which you pursued them to--was owned by one Albert Laroque of Soldats. You and your partner killed some of his men, and were sighted at the scene by those who survived."

"Unavoidable," Mireille spat vehemently yet vainly, already realising where this was going.

"True, but it is perceived that you and your partner have stirred completely from your self-imposed torpor now, having committed an act of unbridled hostility against Soldats," Breffort clarified. "It is of the council's opinion that you have declared yourselves a full enemy to them, and so have been marked as such. It is only a matter of time before they take decisive action against you both."

"And I'm sure you didn't say a thing to dissuade them, to set them straight," Mireille snarled.

"That would risk exposing our alliance," Breffort said. "Testimony came from Laroque himself, a member of some standing among us. I would have needed proof to discredit his beliefs regarding the extent of your involvement against him, and I have none bar our forbidden association."

Of course. Breffort wouldn't put his own head on the chopping block when there was already two there--specifically Mireille's and Kirika's. Cunning and cowardly, cunning and cowardly. The qualities of Soldats.

"Henceforth, it isn't safe in Paris for either of you anymore," Breffort warned. "Indeed, some on the council feel you and your partner may even have sided with Ishinomori, which ranks you both as possibly a greater menace than you were before as purely Noir; unruly blades but solo ones."

"And you want to send us to Japan?" Mireille exclaimed incredulously, her voice somehow still at a subdued pitch. "To the den of our alleged collaborator?!"

"It is the safest, wisest course of action," Breffort attempted to rationalise. "You must leave the country for your own safety, and to prove yourselves as solitary parties in this dispute. To finish what you have begun. Thus--" He gestured with the tickets in his hand again.

"It all sounds so… plausible… so… reasonable," Mireille said, her tone cold, her boiling temper brought down to a low simmer in the face of the Soldats follower's believable vindications. But real or not, they all served one common purpose; for Mireille--and by association Kirika--to do what Breffort wanted. How calculating of him. How *despicable* of him. "But this is a performance that I've been exposed to before," she condemned tartly. "The last time we met, you convinced me that Ryosuke and Vincent were poised to be our rivals, when in reality they were scarcely aware of the existence of Noir at all!"

"As before, I simply present the solid facts and my own verdicts on them," Breffort straightforwardly avowed. "Nothing more. It has always been your liberty to decide how to act on the information I provide."

Mireille said nothing in reply, merely giving him a sullen scowl. She was agonisingly aware that he was right. Her choices had always been her own from the start; indeed, the woman had actually taken pride that Breffort didn't dictate her actions, his manipulation of her through her feelings for Kirika notwithstanding. But hearing the Soldats official state that fundamentally it was Mireille's own fault for the mess she had dropped herself and her partner into, even though she had previously accepted that truth, made her feel terrible all over again, the unremitting guilt that was a lead weight inside her heart refreshed and compounded to profound potency. It additionally made the assassin feel angry; angry at Breffort for reminding her of her failure, angry at herself for failing in the first place, and angry at her weak heart for propagating that failure.

"Besides, with their attainment of Langonel's Manuscript, I assumed Ishinomori and Hsu's ambition to become the true Noir unmistakable," Breffort went on unhelpfully, Mireille already having taken that into account. It hadn't reduced her guilt in the slightest.

Breffort cleared his throat, and then fastened a stern stare upon Mireille's now somewhat disconsolate form, the woman's shoulders slumped and her head dipped, wilted blonde tresses falling past a face where bleakness and bitterness warred. "The flight to Japan departs tomorrow afternoon, which offers you some leeway to make your decision," the man announced, once more plying the airline tickets in his left hand. "But stay or go; the choice is yours, Mireille Bouquet."

Mireille looked up, favouring Breffort with a baleful glare over the top of her sunglasses, her dark-smudged, swollen and bloodshot eyes giving the look an especially hellish quality. She then raised her head and pushed her glasses higher on her nose, before stepping decisively forwards, snatching the tickets belligerently from his grasp. Not this time. The choice would not be Mireille's this time. Her guilt was enough as it was. No, she planned to lay the whole choice on how to proceed on Kirika's slim, unsuspecting lap. It was a momentous decision, with who knew how many dire ramifications awaiting them on either path, and the blonde just couldn't make it herself. Her last major decision had led to such unmitigated disasters that she and her partner were still suffering from their ill affects, one being having to decide whether to embark upon a trip to Japan and face Kaede's forces, or to remain in Paris and face Soldats' forces. No, this time Mireille would make absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that they did what Kirika wished to do. Perhaps it was gutless, a cowardly attempt to escape blaming herself again, and would invoke its own brand of guilt afterwards anyway, but regardless she had to ensure her partner abided by whatever they did, and actually declared it out loud. She didn't want a choice she made harming Kirika or their relationship again. However, when Mireille had accepted the tickets, she couldn't help feeling that they had already settled on one.

"A last word of warning for if you opt to follow Ishinomori and Hsu," Breffort said as Mireille testily stashed the airline tickets inside her coat. "Laroque was not best pleased by the invasion of his home, and even less by the theft of one of his most prized articles of literature. To my peers, Langonel's Manuscript is a relic; unimportant, unused--a mere part of our past long dead. While we do not like that it will be in Kaede Ishinomori's hands, we can tolerate it. For now. But it is different for Laroque. I hear he intends to send some of his men to Japan after Ishinomori and Hsu to retrieve it, men who will work in parallel to my own operatives presently stationed there for the conflict with the Ishinomori empire. You may or may not encounter them, but if you do take note that they will not view you and your partner as a friendly faction."

"We'll dispense the same treatment to them," Mireille replied coolly.

Breffort just nodded, and then took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. "Whether you and your partner elect to go or not, I don't imagine we will meet again for some time," he prophesised.

"Best news I've heard all day," Mireille said venomously, but with not as much malice as she could usually muster for one of Soldats' caste. Her mind was elsewhere.

Breffort smirked faintly, and regarded the woman silently for a few seconds. "Good luck," he finally said in what could be dubbed an encouraging tone for him. "Despite what you may think, I wish you no ill will."

Mireille spared him one last, mordant, sidelong glance, and then wordlessly walked past him and down the corridor with Kirika at her clicking heels, leaving behind Breffort standing where he was, watching them depart. But if they would depart France… that was a mystery that Mireille intended her partner alone could shed light on.

******

Kirika stared solemnly at the plane tickets lying in the middle of the table, their garishly coloured wrappings stark contrast against the paler, more muted surface, to the extent that the young assassin believed the packet might sear a hole right through it. The cup and saucer in front of her faired no better, as did the rest of the pastel crockery atop the table; no contest against the bright, ominous shade. The envelope was a brash interloper in an otherwise calm, subdued environment, its mere presence an affront. It was painted a vivid red--the colour of warning, the colour of blood, promising the latter ahead if the former was not heeded. The tickets' destination didn't matter; regardless of where in the world they led, Kirika and Mireille would ultimately still arrive at the same place; a place of violence and murder, a place where darkness reigned and peace was foreign.

But there was still a choice, the warning yet blazing, incessantly straining to get its urgent point across, to convince that to use these tickets was to be burned by them. The future still remained to be seen. A future Kirika had to decide.

The rays of the setting sun filtered weakly through the apartment's windows, the light dying out to make way for the imminent advent of night, its strength against the dark waning, failing as it did every day, and in its demise taking with it the dream that today could have been the one, the day when Kirika's hope of peace became permanent reality. Truly, Kirika had dared hope that maybe, just maybe, the appointment with Breffort signified the end of the killing, that she was at long last catching up to the spectacular horizon where her peaceful dream existed, where all dreams of sinners existed, tantalisingly visible but far out of reach. She knew she shouldn't have indulged in such wishful thinking, but alas her will had not been strong enough, her yearning for a peaceful life too overpowering. And now she was suffering from that familiar brand of disappointment again, afflicted by that empty, desolate feeling that numbed her heart and stunted her spirits, shrinking what little hope remained inside her until despair took its place.

"We don't have to," Mireille tempted softly, sitting across from Kirika at the other side of the table, her steaming cup of tea poised near her lips in a hand while the girl's sat untouched. "We can just stay here. Breffort belongs to Soldats, and you know none who do can be trusted. He was probably spinning another of his lies." The woman's voice was gentle, benevolent, sweetly whispering the things Kirika wanted to hear. To believe. Falsehoods, all of them. And they both knew it.

Kirika lifted her head slightly to look at Mireille. She was smiling pleasantly at her, tenderly, contentedly. But it too was a falsehood, if a benign one. The vanishing sun was at the blonde's back, its wan rays scattering dusky patches across her face, her smile tinged in dark shadow, the woman's genuine sentiments hinted at. It was obviously forced, Mireille feeling the burden as much as Kirika was. Soldats was always a sensitive subject with the blonde, provoking uncharacteristically intense emotions from her. Kirika remembered how her partner had been like talking to Breffort--angry, frustrated, and dejected. She didn't enjoy seeing her in any of those conditions, and had felt a longing to reach out to Mireille during the blonde's various tirades, to calm her, support her, comfort her. It had been a longing she had not acted on, however. Something had kept her back; kept her arms limply by her sides. Kirika simply didn't feel… comfortable… touching Mireille without the woman's express consent. Only if Mireille made physical contact with her did she consider permission had been given for her to do likewise, otherwise she felt she was disrespectfully invading her partner's personal space and could possibly incur her disapproval or even her anger as a consequence. In bed was the exception though, with Kirika's instinctive need to wrap herself around Mireille's body learnt to be put up with by the woman, and now sometimes even returned in kind, the blonde's sneaky petting and this morning's atypical candid caresses coming to mind.

Kirika's sober gaze was drawn back down to the tickets, as if her eyes could not escape its flame-like lure. The decision what to do was hers, she knew. Mireille hadn't directly admitted it, but neither had she spoke plainly of their options one way or another. It was strange; normally she took the initiative in issues such as these, utilising her superior judgement to make the best decision for the both of them. But this time Mireille had stayed silent on the matter, wordlessly deferring responsibility to Kirika. The girl wondered why, but believed it wiser not to ask and ruin her partner's unvoiced renouncement. She sincerely hoped this wouldn't become the norm, however. Kirika didn't like this position of authority. It would have been much easier for her if Mireille had decided on what to do, and she had been left to simply follow her partner's lead as she always did. Now, Mireille was unfortunately not affording her that luxury.

Kirika took a breath, and then thought about what they should do. She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to rip up those offending tickets and for her and the woman she loved to stay are. To remain at home and face whatever may come. They would live through Soldats' backlash; Kirika would not fail in her duty to protect Mireille, and she herself would not fall, not while that duty persisted. It was a cycle that ensured lasting survival… but that was all. No matter how much Kirika wanted to stay here in this Paris apartment with Mireille, awaiting the realisation of her serene dream, she was aware it would be a life forever tarnished. Not by the violence or by the darkness in their lives, but because of the other choice not taken.

Ryosuke and Vincent, the aspirant Noir--they had seen Kirika and Mireille's faces, and were aware that the young women had once been what they apparently sought to be. And Kirika knew that Mireille would never let it go. Ryosuke and Vincent were loose ends that the woman must tie; it was the kind of person she was. She would hunt them to the ends of the Earth if she had to. Nevertheless, Mireille would permit the men to run free if Kirika gave the word, if she made that decision. But it would result in a taint contaminating their lives, a taint that wouldn't be washed away until Mireille and seen that the unfinished business was resolved. Kirika had had a glimpse today of what life would be like if she choose to stay in Paris. Following the conclusion of their meeting with Breffort, she and Mireille had wandered the halls of the Louvre palace as promised, but what should have had been a fun event examining ancient artefacts and artworks had been spoiled by the knowledge of what awaited them when they returned home. Mireille had put on a compelling front, explaining assorted pieces avidly and with many smiles, yet there had always been a distance about her, as if only a part of her mind was devoted to her task, the other venturing on darker things. As a result, Kirika had become noticeably downcast, not so adept at wearing masks and pretending she was feeling something she wasn't.

Listless wanderings, a masquerade of contentment--that was what lay down one path. A life of make-believe, of self-delusions. Kirika couldn't live like that, and she was sure Mireille didn't want to. If she selected that route, her and her partner's relationship would slowly decay as Mireille inexorably dwelled on those untied loose ends and Kirika became more and more depressed by the woman's detachment. The darkhaired girl didn't want to think about what would happen next, but couldn't keep from envisaging upsetting scenarios. Thoughts of an aggravated Mireille secretly blaming her for their dissatisfaction floated through her mind, thoughts of the woman not loving her anymore, abandoning her, hating her. Maybe if Kirika travelled along this path she wouldn't survive after all.

So there was only one option. Perhaps there always had only been one. That particular path was swathed in darkness, guaranteed to be soiled with more spilt blood. But it also contained hope. Hope that one day it would all be over, that it would lead to greater fulfilment, that one day Kirika would look back and see this sacrifice, this hardship, as something that had been worth enduring so that her dream of a peaceful life had a chance to be captured on that blue horizon. That the fresh black stains on her hands had been worth it, badges of merit almost, the fresh sins not in vain. But rest assured it wasn't a decision made only for herself; it was a decision she made for Mireille too, maybe even more so, a decision she suspected the blonde wanted--needed--to hear. Kirika wished for Mireille to be able to look back also, and with satisfaction in her heart that everything was over with, *totally* over with, not a thing left behind that could possibly return to fetter their existence with another bout of darkness.

<There is nothing grand that can be achieved without sacrifice. You must strive for it. Earn it through honest toil. Fight for it. Do no matter what to accomplish it. *That* is what separates the strong from the weak, the blissful from the merely content.>

Kirika steeled herself, ready for that fight, her eyes sober no more. She wouldn't cower in Paris. She and Mireille would journey down that other, arguably darker route to its very end, and nothing would deter them, nothing would slow them. Kirika swore anew that the woman she loved would survive to its last arduous step and past it onto calmer, easier ones, that those souls who tried to hurt Mireille, rightly deserving death, would be granted it at her keen reckoning.

Kirika reached across to the centre of the table, and placed her fingertips on the airline tickets. They were warm beneath her touch, still radiating caution supplied earlier by the heat of the dimming sunlight. She ignored it. The sun had already lost its battle, dead, its corpse having melted into the horizon. The room was now steeped in conquering darkness offset by only a meagre glimmer of powerless moonlight. Kirika's eyes gleamed more ebon in the newborn shadows than brown; rather dull, lacklustre. But determined all the same.

She looked up at Mireille, her fingers remaining on the tickets as she met her partner's blue gaze that was trying hard not to be melancholy. The woman's eyes were the same brilliant shade as tomorrow's horizon where Kirika's dream resided, still stunning in the pallid moonlight. The young assassin could almost perceive that horizon in their bottomless depths, as if it was actually hidden somewhere in Mireille's lovely eyes.

"Let's go," Kirika said in a steady voice.

Mireille uttered nothing in answer, instead averting her gaze and taking a drink of her tea, the porcelain cup disguising her abruptly fallen smile.

******

Later that night, nestled contently against Mireille in bed, Kirika had a dream. She dreamt she was standing on a dirt road with a huge barren wasteland stretching as far as the eye could see as her backdrop, craggy mountains scraping the clear blue skies on the horizon ahead. Unbelievably, lush fields bursting with grapevines were spread out before her on either side of the road. Their greenery was the only notable presence of plant life greater than the occasional tree and patch of grass in the desolate environment, somehow flourishing in the inhospitable conditions where other vegetation had no doubt withered and died. Bunches of plump purple grapes hung heavily from the vines, their succulence ready to be harvested and pounded into wine.

Kirika blinked, wondering why she was so sure that was the grapes' purpose, then realised that this was a place she knew, had been to before. Her throat dried suddenly, and apprehension gripped her. She focused her eyes beyond the vineyard, to the shattered remnants of a chateau at the end of the trail, to ruins even more ancient strewn around it. To a place forgotten by time.

Unbidden, her legs started to move, taking her closer to that awful place. Kirika panted in rising fear as she looked anxiously down at the bare limbs that were suddenly not her own, and endeavoured to still them with her hands. But to her horror her arms had been stricken by the same affliction as her legs, disobeying her mental commands and not reacting past the barest jerk.

Kirika's head turned frantically this way and that as she looked around with mounting desperation for help, an escape, *anything* to halt her advance down the dirt trail. But there was no one tending the fields, no one on the rest of the path behind her, no one else but her anywhere in this wilderness. Except for one person. One person who waited ahead on the doorstep of the Manor. One person Kirika implicitly knew would not aid her in her plight.

Kirika breached the grapevines and left them behind as she walked progressively onwards, her possessed legs stopping only when she was right at the foot of the stairs leading to the entrance of the Manor. Her head hurt, a deaden stabbing at its core, and her mouth opened noiselessly in pained protest. But her throbbing head was lifted irrespective of her woe and of her desire to do the opposite, and with blurry eyes the girl took in the person who rose sedately above her. Patiently waiting.

It was a woman, taller than Kirika, with defined features more handsome than beautiful, but captivating all the same. Her light brown hair was long and braided in a single thick yet loose plait, and held together by a dark blue ribbon tied in a neat bow. Her clothes were outdated but elegant, a robe and a cloak, white and purple tones, and clearly ceremonial, as if she was a priestess of some kind. But it was her eyes that drew Kirika. Her light lilac eyes that were deceptively kind, tender, teeming with compassion. But Kirika knew better. For she knew this woman. She had killed her.

Altena, hands enfolded together placidly in front of her, smiled down at the panicked girl in that gentle, considerate fashion of hers, but it did nothing to quell Kirika's rapidly beating heart. The devout Soldats follower's lips then parted and formed words, but none came forth from her mouth. Instead they seemed to emanate from all around Kirika, a soft lilting voice that filled her head, not a crevice untouched. A whisper in her mind.

<Welcome home.>

******

To be continued….


Author's ramblings:

I had to have Altena in this fanfic somehow, even if it isn't really her. She was just so hot! …Why is everybody looking at me like that? She was! I liked her hair and her eyes. And super-deformed Altena is so kawaii! ^_^

FYI: Mireille's tea preferences were based on my girlfriend's.