Noir Fan Fiction ❯ Red and Black ❯ The Professional's Vacation ( Chapter 24 )

Red And Black - By Kirika

 

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The twenty-fourth chapter. Hehe, fluff. Well, some.

 

- Kirika

 

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Chapter 24 - The Professional's Vacation

 

 

The resort hotel's lobby was as open air as it could be while still having walls and a ceiling. Its rear outer doors were fixed open to admit sea breezes as readily as it did its guests, and its windows were tall plate glass below the shade of individual canvas canopies outside, such that the view of the beach and the ocean that stretched to the horizon after it was always a backdrop. Inside there were almost as many potted palm trees and other tropical plants as there were outside growing in the soil and sand, and the furniture was primarily wicker, padded with pale khaki cushions decorated with the stock motif of leaves or colourful flowers in bloom. The resort's staff however had escaped the tropical treatment, dressed professionally as one would generally expect--in suits for the desk staff or in white shirts and waistcoats for the room staff. Flamboyant Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops had their place with the tourists, and there were plenty of those, despite the temperature starting to drop slightly below perfect and the weather hinting at souring, owing to the lateness of the season. All in all the resort wasn't too upscale, but not a dump either--popular with the upper middle-class. And dominating the alluring beachside as it did, dwarfing lesser hotels on this side of the Okinawan coast, it was a tourist magnet. A western face wouldn't stick out here.

 

“I'll check us in,” Mireille said, leaving Kirika to loiter in the lounge with their bags while she approached the front desk. Perhaps it could be said that the resort hotel was below her usual standards, but in her business her tastes had to be variable; adaptable. Whatever fit the job was what she liked best. As for Kirika... the girl was not one to complain.

 

“Hello,” the desk clerk slurred in accented English as he looked up from his computer to Mireille. “Welcome to--”

 

“I'd like a room for two. I don't have a reservation,” the blonde declared with slight briskness in Japanese, standing expectantly before the lobby's main desk.

 

“Ah.... Let me just... check here...” the desk clerk responded in likewise Japanese, though with less certainty than when he had spoken in English. His eyes lowered to his computer screen as he fiddled with the mouse, but occasionally they would flick up to regard his hotel's prospective new guest with a mixture of hesitation and admiration. “You speak very well,” he eventually braved to comment.

 

Mireille smiled faintly but politely, having predicted the interest. Perhaps she should have feigned ignorance with the local language to appear more the regular oblivious sightseer and beach lover, but even with the Okinawan slant on the mainland Japanese tongue she understood and was too used to speaking it to pretend otherwise. A subterfuge would have proved tiresome sooner or later, and probably wasn't worth the trouble. While the Corsican's fluency had the potential to single her out, she couldn't be the only foreigner around with a penchant for languages. Nor was it a dead giveaway for her profession. It helped to know a place's vernacular if you travelled across borders, simple as that.

 

Mireille smirked suddenly, prompting the desk clerk to look up at her again curiously, but the smirk was directed at herself; a nostalgic and melancholy thing. That had been her uncle's tenet. He, and the tutors he had hired for when business took him abroad, had drilled into her various languages and dialects just as he had drilled into her his flawless ability with a pistol. Uncle Claude had focused on European languages as that continent had been where his black path had largely winded through; it had been left to Mireille to learn Japanese, Cantonese, and Mandarin. While she was confident in her eastern tongues, in some ways they didn't come as naturally to her as the languages her uncle had taught her did.

 

“Yes, we have some rooms,” the desk clerk spoke up, breaking Mireille's reverie. “Would you like a twin, or a queen, or maybe a suite?”

 

Mireille allowed herself to look back over her shoulder as she pondered the question that shouldn't have needed pondering; an indulgent look that she should have curbed, yet couldn't see the harm in at the moment. Her blue gaze found her partner sitting gingerly on the end of a wicker armchair encircled by their luggage, the mop-headed girl watching the hotel staff and guests come and go. As though sensing the scrutiny she was under, Kirika turned her head to Mireille, expressionless as usual, but her doe eyes full of feeling for those that knew what to look for... and that felt the same.

 

“A queen,” Mireille answered before rational thought could balk. It was a personal pleasure that should have been curtailed. A big one. One that carried with it red flags. This was not her apartment, nor was it the safehouse; people might take notice of her sleeping arrangements with Kirika. Mireille should have gone with the customary twin room, even if it meant her petite companion would be condemned to restless nights separated from her side.

 

“Would you like a room with a view of the ocean?”

 

“Why not,” Mireille conceded in a sigh.

 

“Alright... I need you to fill this out and provide your passport or some other identification,” the clerk said, laying a form out in front of Mireille and a pen on top. “I'll need a credit card for extras as well.”

 

“There won't be any extras,” Mireille said as she quickly scribbled where she had to, and then offered her passport with the completed document. Credit was a bonfire in the night where cash was barely a struck match. Seldom did the blonde pay for anything with a card unless there was no other means, even if she wasn't on an assignment. It had become a habit, but a habit that kept you safe was a good one to have.

 

The clerk checked everything over, and then smiled as he handed the passport back. It was a forgery, very expensive, and virtually perfect. It had to be these days. If France's and Japan's airport security hadn't faulted it, a lowly hotel desk clerk wasn't going to be hit by a sudden revelation. “Thank you, Ms. Theroux. And how long will you be staying with us?”

 

Mireille took a deep breath, smelling the sea salt carried by the cool air that gently brushed her flaxen locks from her shoulders. “I'll let you know.”

 

Mireille didn't have the patience to wait for hotel staff to assist with bringing the bags up to their room; better in her and Kirika's hands than in anyone else's anyway. An elevator brought the young women to the fifth floor and a keycard the desk clerk had given the blonde opened the door to room 1256. The hotel room had all the standard fittings and amenities inside, and thankfully the wicker furniture had been confined to the lobby.

 

“Yoisho,” Mireille heard Kirika mumble under her breath as the girl dumped her bag on the queen size bed.

 

Mireille favoured her partner with a fond look before she hefted her suitcase onto the provided baggage rack. Kirika didn't outwardly show that she was happy about Mireille's room choice, but the Corsican didn't have to search for a cue to know that she was. That didn't deter Mireille from fishing for a reaction, however. “Looks comfy, doesn't it,” she casually remarked, though a smile danced on her lips.

 

Kirika looked up from the bed to the woman and nodded solemnly, as if she'd been asked a life or death question. “Mm,” she hummed.

 

Mireille smiled a little and walked over to the windows at the far side of the room, opposite the entrance. The desk clerk had been true to his word; there was certainly a view. From the fifth floor the ocean met the sky in two hues of blue, and the beach filled the rest of the vista. It was a peaceful picture; the wispy clouds and the seabirds calling from among them, and the rhythmic rush of waves caressing the sand smooth. Mireille let it sweep her away for a few moments; let the gulls' harping relax and the ocean soothe; and then grasped the curtains to tug them closed. She valued her privacy, and was aware of the dangers that could arise from not having it. Binoculars and telephoto lenses saw far, just as far as a sniper's scope. Finding a vantage this close to the shoreline and at this angle for surveillance or more would be tricky without standing plain as day on the beach or out on the water in a boat, but assume a master of their craft was out there somewhere waiting for a mistake and it would keep you alive and under the radar. A simple closed curtain would stop a professional just as effectively as a casual voyeur. It was just good sense. Home was a different case; it was home, not a foreign land, not a place where she couldn't be Mireille Bouquet. Here Mireille didn't see windows as something to gaze out of, but rather something that other people gazed through from the reverse side.

 

Mireille hesitated, and then let her arms fall to her sides. She turned her head slightly, enough to see Kirika out of the corner of one eye. It would be a shame to hide the view behind curtains. There was such a thing as being overzealous. Paranoid. The world wasn't always watching, though Mireille knew well that the world *did* have eyes, and they were dark and conniving indeed. Just this once, then. Just this once a little light let in to brighten the room and those within it. She was paying good money for the view after all.

 

“The beach looks nice,” Mireille enticed, turning away from the window to face Kirika. “I might even have a dip in the ocean.”

 

Kirika simply looked at the blonde in that inquisitive way of hers, oblivious to the woman's agenda. “Mm...” she eventually said, cocking her head to one side uncertainly.

 

“Do you want to join me?”

 

“Mm,” Kirika said, firmer this time and with some enthusiastic nodding.

 

Mireille grinned knowingly. Of course Kirika wanted to come with her. There was barely a moment when they weren't together, and when they were apart, the darkhaired girl always hastened to reunite with her. It was funny to think that at one time the clingy behaviour had been grating to Mireille; like an unwanted puppy following her around. But like with a puppy, it had a way of growing on you; a way of sneaking into your heart, until the next thing you realised you had a pet. Or in this case a lover.

 

“You'll need a swimsuit.” Mireille had taken her partner to the beach in past, however back then Kirika had been less of a partner and more of a grudging necessity, and the blonde hadn't cared what her new Japanese acquisition got up to in their quiet periods, as long as it didn't bother her. It was a chance to make up for it now.

 

“I have a swimsuit,” Kirika said. Noticing the woman's surprise, the girl unzipped her travel bag and dug around inside it for a few seconds. What she pulled out caused Mireille's throat to dry.

 

“That's...” Mireille began as she stared at the navy school onepiece swimsuit, complete with class number labelled on the front from when she had attended Tsubaki High, but couldn't find the words to continue. It would serve its purpose, yet in good conscience Mireille couldn't allow Kirika to frolic on the sand and in the water clad in that outfit. It was just... wrong. The sight would probably attract a fair share of gawkers... but what chiefly concerned the blonde was that she might be among them. “We're--” She swallowed to stop her words from sticking in her throat, and tried again; calmer and clearer. “We're going shopping. We'll get you something new, alright?”

 

Kirika looked at the swimsuit she held up in one hand, her brow creasing and her soulful eyes batting as she no doubt mused why the outfit wasn't up to scratch. There were some things that just couldn't be explained. Or rather, better off left alone.

 

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The barman slipped his tray under his arm and bowed, before leaving Mireille and Kirika to their drinks. Mireille picked up her raspberry vodka and cranberry juice cocktail from the table between her and her partner's loungers and took a long and decadent sip through its straw. The cool sweetness of the combined fruit flavours and the slow-building buzz of vodka was nectar from heaven, and with the setting--the lulling banter of the calm ocean's tide, the not-too-warm sun gently toasting the sandy beach from a beautiful sky overhead--it all worked to knead the worries from her mind and loosen the knots from her muscles. She reclined further back in her seat, her body usually always in a state of readiness; taut and mistrustful; finally relaxing that last inch, becoming limp.

 

Here on this resort's beach Mireille was a tourist like everybody else. Her concerns were tourists' concerns--her purse being stolen; misplacing her hotel keycard; sunburn. In the back of her mind the assassin's instincts persisted, preaching of the perils behind every corner, of extraordinary dangers an everyday citizen would never contemplate. But for now Mireille was a part of the everyday, and no one unless they knew her would think any different. She blended in not because she had to, that it was some sort of cover, but because she was one of them, of the masses, simply living her life as normal. On this beach there weren't targets to stalk and remove nor authorities to shun or threats to evade or terminate. If people with ill intent watched, then they watched harmlessly from afar. It was too public to make a move here, and although the risk of the sniper was constant, it wasn't a very real risk. It was too early in the game for an aggressive move like that from any of Noir's enemies. Besides, Mireille and Kirika didn't travel without covering their tracks and watching their tails. Another beneficial habit.

 

Mireille turned her head to peer at Kirika though her sunglasses, the girl looking a bit awkward sitting there on the lounger an arm's distance away. She sat stiffly; back straight despite the lean of the lounger; staring out across the sea. As long as she was with Mireille, snipers or anyone else would never get the drop on them. Though the Corsican could dial it down a notch, Kirika never switched off, never relaxed; not really. It was who she was. Perhaps it should be admired, however Mireille just felt it was sad.

 

Mireille looked again at her partner, banishing the bleak contemplations and instead focusing on something more pleasant--Kirika's new swimsuit. It was a onepiece, dark blue with a pair of parallel white stripes up each side--not much unlike her school swimsuit Mireille abruptly realised, and with some discomfort. It could have been worse... or was that better? There had been much skimpier choices at the hotel's swimwear store; much too skimpy for the innocent likes of Kirika. Yet Mireille had *almost* succumbed to temptation, allowing her runaway imagination to clothe her partner rather than have reality wisely call the shots. She'd had several bikinis in her hand no less, from the modest to downright itty-bitty things, for Kirika to just `try on' before she'd come to her senses. Harmless it had seemed initially, although her conscience had had something else to say about it. And Kirika would have tried them all on without a word either way said; indeed, she had acted far too used to modelling at Mireille's leisure that it had become rather unsettling to the blonde--the girl had come to expect it, going so far as to take the--fortunately innocuous--outfits from Mireille's hands before the woman had even brought up the subject of change rooms. No doubt Kirika would have worn anything on the beach the blonde might have purchased for her, indifferent or more likely oblivious to the scandalous display she'd put on. Or maybe it would be only scandalous to Mireille's too familiar eyes. Ultimately the woman had sided with fair judgement and was glad of it, despite the twinge of regret she felt gazing upon her partner now.

 

The onepiece swimsuit did so cling though, sticking to and outlining the contours of Kirika's trim body. It was still a pleasure to look upon... but deep down Mireille was conscious that to her it was the person wearing it that truly had all the charm.

 

Mireille took a last mouthful of her cocktail and put it down on the table, then adjusted her lounger until it was lying flat. With a blissful sigh she rolled over onto her stomach, a turned cheek resting on her folded hands. Her lazy gaze was half-lidded, and was free to clandestinely stare at the girl across the way as much as she desired behind the tinted veil of her sunglasses. For a while she watched Kirika as she sipped dispassionately at her fruit juice, expressionless, seeming gone from this world. She began to feel herself drift off in the girl's stoicism; the poignant, yawning reddish-brown gaze; the calm and unaffected aura. It took an effort to snap back into full wakefulness, and when she did Mireille reached down at the side of her lounger for her handbag. She opened it and blindly felt around inside, touching her Walther P99 and extra magazine briefly while on her quest for something else much more mundane and that only protected... yet in her case had the potential to still be dangerous. However, Mireille's conscience that had been strong earlier in the swimsuit store was muffled now--or maybe she was just not willing to listen this time. It wasn't a big deal anyway, she told herself. Yet she knew she would make it feel like it was. Still, Mireille kept searching through her handbag, and when she found what she was looking for she pulled it out and held it towards Kirika, her arm outstretched.

 

“Do my back, would you?” the blonde said, as though it were an everyday request. It was of course, but not for them. Not for her, and how she felt. How they felt. Her eyes were closed now, her body still limp, but it was a feigned relaxation. Inside she questioned herself furiously; argued; scolded. Was it her heart or was it her body that had taken control? Or again, was it both in concert, conspiring, joining together for a common goal; a common need? Did it matter?

 

Kirika, while characteristically nonplussed, naturally obliged, taking the sunscreen lotion from her partner's grasp. She put her juice glass down and moved closer, vacating her lounger for the edge of Mireille's. For her part Mireille resettled herself, getting as comfortable as she could given the circumstances--circumstances that were entirely her own doing, she was painfully aware. She tried not to fidget, however she had become very conscious of what she was wearing. On any other day, at any other moment, in the company of anybody else, the woman would not have been the type to be insecure about how she chose to cloth herself. But this was today, *this* moment, and in Kirika's company. The girl had been spared a revealing bikini, but that was not to say that Mireille hadn't pampered herself. The blonde currently wore her new acquisition--a white bikini; not terribly indecent, however there was only so much skin small triangles of cloth and strings could cover. It wasn't about what Kirika could see though; rather what she would be able to touch... to *feel*... and what it might provoke inside Mireille.

 

Mireille swallowed, her eyes still squeezed shut. She could sense her partner hovering over her. Each second that past without Kirika's hands upon her left a growing tingling sensation inside the blonde, her nerves animated in united anticipation. And just when Mireille was starting to feel young and foolish for playing the part of the giddy maiden, Kirika's fingertips gently brushed against the nape of her neck. Immediately whatever muscles that weren't already rigid Mireille tightened. But it wasn't the beginning--Kirika's fingers scoped underneath the silky straw-coloured bundles of hair that lay across Mireille's back and moved the mane out of the way, over one creamy shoulder. The beginning finally came when Mireille felt the cool lotion against her hot skin, guided by tentative, slender fingers.

 

Kirika began at her neck, and then glided her hands outwards to her shoulders, smearing the sunscreen as she went. By the time the girl's hands reached Mireille's shoulder blades her fingers had become bolder, firmer, plying the flesh and the muscles underneath with increasing confidence. Less did Mireille feel the lotion, and more the warmth and pressure of her partner's fingertips and hands all over her back. The woman hadn't intended it to be a massage, but it started to feel like one. And it felt good. Who would have known that Kirika had a talent for it? Her touch was gentle, soothing, yet hard enough to entice muscles to ooze into submission beneath her pressing fingertips. Hands so accustomed to hurting, to killing, shouldn't be this soft and calming. It occurred to Mireille she had scarcely considered what other skills the young assassin might possess beyond that of dealing death. She wondered what other traces of the girl that had been lingered like a ghost within Kirika, behind the manufactured assassin--before the killer.

 

Kirika worked her way down Mireille's back, navigating around the woman's bikini top's straps, the fingers apparently still retaining some shyness as they did not dare slip underneath. A wild thought gambolled through Mireille's head to reach behind and loosen those straps to embolden her partner. If the blonde hadn't felt like it was impossible to move an inch while Kirika's hands were upon her the thought might have lived for longer, instead of being anxiously snuffed out.

 

Minutes or hours may have gone by; for Mireille it could have been an eternity or a blink of an eye. There came a moment where she forgot to be apprehensive or guilty, and simply lay there, drifting, enjoying the kiss of the sea breeze and the whispering of the undulating waves--and most of all Kirika beside her, rubbing and soothing. She became addicted to Kirika's touch; a willing doll for the girl to play with; but only distantly was the blonde aware of the change. She kept drifting, accepting it, and with it came closer to escaping from the world. From her world. It wasn't an emptiness; not a black void; but there was peace there. She smiled softly as she touched it.

 

Kirika's hands reached the base of Mireille's spine... and the hem of the woman's bikini bottoms. Her hands stopped there, rousing the blonde. “All over,” Mireille mumbled groggily.

 

There was a lengthy pause, however Kirika eventually obeyed, and Mireille didn't so much as flinch or tense or even slightly feel the cold and hollow pangs of guilt in the pit of her stomach when the girl shifted her hands lower, smoothing them over her rear. The bikini contained only half of the blonde's bottom at most, resulting in the other half bare and squeezing out of the sides. Dutifully Kirika applied sunscreen to the cheeks, yet spent no longer there than anywhere else, soon moving on to the backs of Mireille's thighs and calves. The darkhaired girl's small hands ran the length of Mireille's legs, coating them with lotion and making the Corsican's skin glisten under the sun, a match for the woman's already treated back.

 

The hands ceased their soothing once again, and with effort Mireille revived herself. She turned over onto her back; although it was more a cross between a flop and a roll; and became limp again, as if it had taken all of her energy to perform that small manoeuvre. She hadn't even opened her eyes. “You can do my front now,” Mireille murmured nonchalantly. There obviously was no reason she couldn't take the sunscreen from Kirika and do the rest herself. In fact that would have been the proper and sensible course of action; not this... indulgence... this... *exploitation*. Kirika didn't know any better--couldn't know--it was obvious to anyone but her. Mireille was taking advantage of Kirika and her naivety. Anyone else would have read Mireille's true motivation plain as day, seen right through her and her desire, but not Kirika. The girl was too innocent for that. Mireille knew this, and yet.... Doubts popped up, accusing her of being like those that had twisted and abused Kirika for their own gain. It was different though, she argued with herself--she loved Kirika. Moreover, she felt remorse... even if it didn't always make her reconsider. Mireille tried not to think too much on it. Again however, that was for her benefit--the more she dwelled, the more she second guessed herself, and the more likely she was to abandon her selfish ploys and suppress her desires. And Mireille didn't want to.

 

When the woman felt her partner's slick hands return to her, any scrap of regret or shame evaporated under that tender kneading. Again Kirika began at Mireille's neck and shoulders, spreading lotion on the areas that had been overlooked the first time around. From her shoulders Kirika slid her hands down Mireille's bare arms; resting there at the blonde's sides like dead weights and infinitely pliable to the girl's manipulation. Kirika took Mireille's hands in her own; each in turn; cupping them from above and below. Gently she rubbed; the palm first, then her fingers mingling with the woman's, interlacing, the sunscreen smoothing the many unions. It seemed like a simple thing, a small affection, but having Kirika hold and minister to her hands in such a way was a surprisingly tranquil experience to Mireille.

 

Then the girl moved on to her chest. Mireille's bikini top was just as lacking as the bottom, and with her breasts slightly splayed thanks to her supine position on the lounger, no doubt little was left to the imagination. Nevertheless Kirika's hands went to explore the fresh territory as it was, without so much as a hint of timidness. Kirika started high, coating the tops of the blonde's breasts that the bikini didn't cover, and then whatever else was exposed, her fingers easily dimpling the supple flesh as she edged around the white cloth and strings. Mireille mused what was running through her partner's mind as she worked at something that bordered on the erotic--or was. She had much more up there than Kirika did. Was the girl comparing in her head? Mireille was almost tempted to open her eyes a tiny bit, slits at most, to see Kirika's face. But Mireille knew there wouldn't be answers to be had upon that pretty visage, or even in those soulful eyes. Likely Kirika felt nothing. It was a job to her, a task that had to be done. That it was Mireille's breasts she was feeling up was inconsequential.

 

And what did Mireille feel? She felt Kirika's soft hands... but that was as far as she was willing to delve.

 

Eventually Kirika's hands came together in the centre of Mireille's bosom, running down her sternum until progressing on to the woman's tight stomach. Her hands circled the blonde's navel, greasing the span around it, and then dodged the shallowly cut bikini bottoms as she spread the lotion further on to Mireille's thighs. Once more Kirika lavished the Corsican's legs one after the other, her fingers slipping around to massage the inner thighs and behind the knees, finally traversing the calves to reach Mireille's feet. She pampered them, handling them like she had the woman's hands, her firm yet gentle fingertips sending tingles of delight straight through Mireille's entire body. Mireille wasn't sure if she might have let out a moan or not, but she definitely breathed heavier.

 

Kirika's pinched fingers slipped off the toes of Mireille's right foot, leaving the woman's body for the last time. Rapture melted slowly back into a not-so-bad reality, and Mireille let her eyelids drift open. All she could do was smile gratefully at the girl sitting in front of her. But it was enough, and Kirika understood, smiling quietly back.

 

“It's your turn now,” Mireille jauntily announced, sitting up and snatching the lotion from her partner's grasp before she could react with anything except befuddlement. The blonde cocked her head towards the other lounger. “Sit over there.”

 

While Kirika did as she was told Mireille internally steeled herself. The blonde seemed picture perfect, what with her encouraging smile, the sparkle in her shaded eyes, and overall blasé demeanour. However Mireille could look a variety of things on the outside; it was a talent. Presenting falsehoods to the outside world was part of her trade. But honesty--now that was something else. And if she was honest with herself, then she was nervous; perhaps more so now than when she had been lying down before Kirika, under the girl's hands and open to whatever ministrations she'd had in mind. Mireille didn't often let nerves get the better of her... but also she didn't often let her heart lead the way.

 

It was Mireille's turn to sit on the edge of Kirika's lounger, except she sat slightly further down, where the girl's feet reached. She squirted a dollop of sunscreen lotion into one hand; almost pressing too hard and sending a deluge into her palm before catching herself. She was taking advantage of Kirika again--that's how she felt, anyway. Was this worse than earlier? Mireille was simply returning the favour.... It sounded feeble even in her head. She could beat herself up over her conduct and wallow in self-reproach later--she had come too far now. Another weak excuse, but Mireille was happy to seize upon it.

 

Mireille's fingers pushed in between Kirika's toes, sawing back and forth for a bit, before she smoothed her hands over the tops of both the girl's bare feet, spreading sunscreen. The woman grinned at her partner as she ran a teasing fingertip down the sole of one foot that had Kirika twitch her leg and jerk it back a little. Kirika was ticklish, was she? Mireille couldn't help doing it again with the girl's other foot, inciting a similar adorable reaction.

 

Mireille rubbed her way up both of Kirika's lithe legs at the same time, each of the blonde's hands circling around the calves vigorously, feeling the hard tone of trained muscles beneath surprisingly soft skin. When she reached her partner's thighs she took them on one at a time, her fingertips pushing sunscreen lotion all the way up to where the girl's swimsuit began at her crotch and behind. The woman's fingertips toyed at the bikini line--more than they should have--however she kept the pretence up, soon stopping to squeeze more lotion into her hands.

 

Mireille stole glances at Kirika's face, thankful for her sunglasses doing well to hide her eyes. She hoped to gauge her reaction, to see if she stirred anything in her... and to see if maybe the girl was wise to her advances. Kirika had closed her eyes, leaning back in the slightly upright lounger. Did that mean she was enjoying it? Or was she merely mimicking how Mireille had behaved? At least her eyes wouldn't be upon Mireille as she did this. Kirika's gaze hadn't been accusing before her eyes had shut, but it made it easier nonetheless.

 

Mireille lifted Kirika's left arm in one hand and with the other coated the limb with sunscreen from wrist to shoulder, stroking back and forth several times until she was satisfied. With the girl's hand she paid particular attention to repay her for earlier; Mireille spent minutes tenderly massaging in between the array of bones and between her partner's slim fingers, and spent more rubbing spirals with a thumb upon her palm. She watched Kirika's face throughout, trying to tell whether it felt as delightful as it had to her. However at most it seemed like Kirika was having a pleasant dream, her face relaxed yet primarily emotionless. Maybe Mireille wasn't doing it right. It wasn't as if she had experience giving massages.

 

The woman smiled ruefully to herself. There was no mistaking this was absolutely a massage and not the clinical application of sunscreen she professed it to be. Kirika wouldn't know the difference though. Mireille sighed, unsure how she felt about that.

 

Mireille switched sides on the lounger so she could get at and treat Kirika's right arm as she had the girl's left, and then focused on her partner's neck. Kirika's swimsuit had a scoop neck, however barely any part of her chest was left open to the air. Nevertheless the blonde relished what she had before her, painstakingly rubbing sunscreen with her fingertips across delicate collar bones up to Kirika's neck, and gently sliding her hands around the slender throat. Mireille's left hand then slipped down from the nape of Kirika's neck, over her shoulder to the naked skin the swimsuit's open, though shallow, back exposed, while with her right she touched the girl's hip, coaxing her to rise and sit upright.

 

Kirika did, though she stayed asleep and dreaming. Mireille held her near, leaning close that their cheeks almost brushed, and caressed the last measure of lotion onto her back in steady, concentric circles. Perhaps onepiece swimsuits weren't entirely a lost cause.

 

Mireille held Kirika to her for longer than necessary, continuing to rub even though the lotion had long been spread into nothingness. The woman looked past her love's shoulder, at the palm trees and sand, at the blue sky and serenity. It *was* paradise... but the people--or rather person--you shared it with made it so.

 

Mireille gently eased Kirika back onto the recliner, and the girl awakened, staring up at her. “Now neither of us will burn,” the blonde said. She took a last bit of lotion and swiped it along the bridge of Kirika's nose, smiling lopsidedly.

 

Kirika peered down at her nose and the creamy streak it wore and rubbed at it, wiping the sunscreen over her cheeks.

 

Mireille went back to her lounger and retrieved her cocktail. She needed the drink more than ever--she sucked on the straw until the bottom of it crackled that her cocktail had become an empty glass. A swim in the cool sea seemed the next best thing. But neither craving was due to the heat of the tropical sun above.

 

******

 

Kirika observed Mireille as the woman picked up a big prawn from the seafood salad in front of her. Pinched between her thumb and forefinger, she daintily dipped it in some sort of pinkish sauce collected at the centre of the salad before bringing it up to her lips, the rose-hued cushions closing around the ocean morsel, and two delicate bites with perfect white teeth later only the apparently inedible or bad-tasting tail of the prawn was left. Mireille disposed of the tail on the rim of the plate that cradled the salad bowl, and plucked another prawn from the crowd buried in ice and fresh fruits, destined for a fate that was captivating to Kirika sitting on the other side of the round table.

 

The darkhaired girl could almost overlook the other people around them. But she and Mireille weren't really alone, and her instincts, honed over her lifetime, would never let her forget it no matter the distraction before her. The hotel's restaurant was all hustle and bustle, everyone predictably wanting something to eat now that it was lunchtime. They came in droves to plunder the outdoor buffet and lay claim to other tables, and although Kirika didn't focus her gaze on them, she saw them. The other diners looked like harmless tourists on the outside--but so did she and Mireille.

 

The open air restaurant was attached to the hotel; a terrace with canvas coverings overhead jutting out from one side onto the beach; and as such the majority of the diners still had on their swimsuits or beachwear from their seaside recreation. Kirika and Mireille did too, fitting in. The girl's navy swimsuit was darker than usual; still damp from when she had followed her partner into the ocean's waves; as were her arms and legs still soaked, and hair still dripping. She hadn't swum before, let alone `taken a dip' in the ocean, as Mireille had described it. Yet the strokes to stay afloat had come naturally, and the sensation of buoyancy had been familiar and not at all disconcerting. For a moment Kirika had believed she had stood waist deep and surrounded by water in the past, but then the belief had slipped through her mind, just like the water had done through her fingers, returning to an indistinct ocean of memories. No doubt her body *did* have experience swimming, but for Kirika body and mind were two separate things. For *her*, it had been her first time in the sea. Her first time to swim for no other reason than `just because'. And for certain her first time swimming with Mireille.

 

The blonde had taken delight in splashing Kirika, as if the girl having to wipe water out of her eyes was somehow funny. Kirika had noticed other people doing the same however, everyone seeming to derive enjoyment from the frolic. Tentatively she had tried splashing Mireille back, and had discovered that it made her smile too seeing the woman attempt to writhe away from the spray, or blubber in the aftermath. Why, Kirika didn't know. But she did know she had liked it, and that had been simple enough motivation to keep playing, continuing the addictive game until Mireille had begged off any more watery assaults.

 

The pair had come back to the beach smelling of the sea. It wasn't a bad odour--Kirika did in fact find it pleasing, like everything else here. She liked the warm and soft beach sand sinking beneath her feet and the limitless sighing ocean where she could stare towards forever. It was the edge of peace, beautiful and unspoiled. She wished for solitary instead of sharing it with dozens of other people, but realised it was impossible. Perhaps they felt the same as her? Perhaps they too felt at the edge of peace, as if all that blue was on the verge of swallowing them up and whisking them somewhere else, somewhere... quieter. Kirika wondered if Mireille had parallel feelings. Sharing the empty seaside with her would have been okay. No... being there with just her would have perfected it. Solitary was for the past; it was for a different Kirika. When the girl thought of being alone, she wasn't really alone. There was always someone else included in the isolation. Noir was a name for two. It was the only gift she had been given by Altena and Soldats, yet was the greatest of gifts--what she'd always wanted.

 

Mireille tipped her head back, an oyster sliding into her mouth from the half-shell she had cupped in her hand. They were strange and ugly creatures, seeming not meant for eating, yet watching the woman's throat work as she eventually swallowed the slimy greyish slug had Kirika want her to devour more of them. Mireille's skin glistened, the woman wet from head to foot as Kirika was, droplets of sea water dotting her body and catching the sunlight a myriad of fresh ways whenever she moved. Some broke free every so often seemingly by their own impulse, running down her naked arms and chest, the latter bound for the inescapable furrow there. Her blonde hair was darker, sodden, but still hung in beautiful long waves and curls about her shoulders, impossible to diminish with a little dunking in the ocean. No, to Kirika this was just another angle to the jewel; another perspective. And yet... something had changed.

 

Kirika's appreciation for how her partner looked and moved wasn't a new discovery, but there was more to it now. It had... sharpened. The woman before her, who was always at her side, had become... more... *real*. Kirika had forever looked on; her eyes bathing in the creamy skin and gentle curves, the rich blue gaze and beautiful visage it stared out from; treasuring every detail, committing them all to memory to relive in her mind when the woman was no longer within her sight. However, every time Kirika had looked on it had been from a distance either great or small, but always a distance. Eyes couldn't know the softness of that creamy skin or the sensation of those gentle curves. Mireille still wore her new swimsuit, an outfit that revealed a lot of her body. Kirika hardly ever saw so much of it except when Mireille changed clothes, and during those instances the blonde wasn't favourable to her peeking. Now however Mireille's body was openly exhibited; Kirika was free to look, to stare, for as long as she liked. It was bliss for her eyes, a rare pleasure--and yet it was nothing, an image in a mirror only compared to what she had... felt.

 

Kirika's hands were like someone else's. Ordinarily that would be cause for panic, but there wasn't anything sinister about the sensation. Her hands were tantalised, sensitised; sacred all of a sudden; so much so she didn't want to touch anything else with them. How could hands so *black*, so *tainted*, feel this way? But these hands had been on Mireille. They had been on an angel. They had been on the woman she loved; touching and feeling. They had run almost all over Mireille's body, learning it, finally putting reality up against the reflections Kirika had had about the shape and the suppleness. Her imagination could rest, proven inferior to the real thing and no longer needed. Kirika would never forget how it had felt--how *Mireille* had felt. The girl wondered if it was a privilege that she would not get again. There would be other beaches, wouldn't there? It was a new reason to like them. Nevertheless, it wasn't a surprise to her that she couldn't help but stare blatantly across the table; playing the memory in her head; and musing whether staring was all she would have once more. Moreover, Kirika wondered if her hands would still feel blessed rather than cursed as the days went by and the blood and sin inevitably came back.

 

Kirika's hands weren't the only parts of her body that felt special. Mireille had touched her too. The woman had considerately applied sunscreen to her arms and legs and wherever else the sun could strike, in return for Kirika doing the same to her earlier. For Mireille it had probably been an everyday activity, something shared between friends or people you knew, and not another thought given to it. However to Kirika it had been... something more. Something else completely. It wasn't the same as Kirika putting her hands to Mireille's body, but it had been just as unique, just as special. Just as memorable.

 

Mireille would likely not think too well of Kirika reading so much into what was probably simple contact between two people to her; she'd think her foolish maybe, or naive. But the fact remained that Kirika had really liked it. She'd liked touching Mireille and being touched by her. The girl wondered if other people ever felt this way when they touched another person. Or when they touched someone they cared about; someone they loved. Was that it? Was it love that made Kirika feel like this? Was it normal then? Did Mireille feel the same then? Did the same feelings bombard the woman as they did Kirika now? Had Mireille felt what Kirika had when their hands had been on each other?

 

Staring at the blonde, Kirika wasn't sure. Mireille seemed the same. Whereas Kirika was confused and excited; thrilled and amazed to have come across something so wonderful and longing for it again, while at the same time worried that she wasn't experiencing it as she was supposed to--that what felt natural wasn't natural to anybody else. She wished she could talk about it. But the words... she didn't believe she had them, nor did it seem like something she could voice to Mireille. She loved her, and knew she probably could talk to her about anything... and yet... she couldn't imagine talking about this with her.

 

Even Altena, or the entity that used her voice, had nothing to say about how Kirika felt. It was eerily silent, and had been since arriving in Okinawa. No cynical mocking, no foreboding messages--nothing. Dead silence, as though her other self didn't even breathe, wasn't even aware of what had happened. Was she asleep? *Did* she sleep? The respite was welcome whatever the cause, although a little advice from Kirika's more worldly self might not have been so bad right now.

 

“Why don't you try one?”

 

Kirika blinked and met Mireille's encouraging gaze as the blonde downed another oyster.

 

“They're an acquired taste,” the woman explained after the mouthful was gone. “They're meant to be an--” She stopped, as though suddenly lost for words. “They're a delicacy,” Mireille soon continued.

 

Kirika eyed the tray layered with ice and with about half a dozen raw oysters atop, the creatures wallowing in moist black and white shells, waiting to be scooped out. If this were a survival situation she wouldn't have hesitated, but there were far more appetising foods on the table that she could eat instead. It was for Mireille, though.

 

Tentatively Kirika's hand crept towards the tray.

 

Mireille sniffed, attracting Kirika's attention, and she saw the blonde smiling in amusement. “You don't have to try one if you don't want to.”

 

Kirika hesitated a moment longer, and then took a prawn from the salad near her partner instead. Mireille's smile widened and she shook her head slightly, closing her eyes for a brief moment. She reached for an oyster.

 

Kirika munched on her prawn, the curled and ribbed pink seafood tasting not much like anything. Regardless, she was glad it wasn't one of those strange shellfish. Her interest was still in Mireille however more than the lunch on offer; she resumed watching the lovely blonde, savouring the way she arched her neck as she tilted her head back to consume another raw oyster, and how her chest pushed out a little while she did.

 

There were others who savoured the sight, the woman, also. Kirika saw whenever a look was directed their way--*Mireille's* way. They weren't exactly predatory glances, failing to trigger an intuitive defence in the young assassin; however they didn't feel benign either. They came from men, young to old, from the corner of eyes or under the guise of a passing look, or over a newspaper or even openly without any sort of subtlety undertaken. Kirika didn't like how those people stared at Mireille. There was something about the stares, something behind their eyes... not intent to harm or kill, yet... still something unsettling. Not every man did it, and women seemed to oddly be exempt judging by Kirika's observations. The ones who did look seemed to admire Mireille as Kirika did... but admire her *too* much, if that made sense. Kirika just didn't like it. Did they feel what she felt for Mireille? Did *she* stare like that? Were they enjoying the blonde's new swimsuit and abundance of bare skin just like Kirika was doing?

 

All of a sudden Kirika thought that the pair of white triangles that consisted of Mireille's swimsuit top didn't cover enough. They clung too much, emphasising her chest and exposing the shape of it; something that shouldn't have been so easily deduced. The swimsuit hardly concealed anything at all, in fact. Mireille was practically in her underwear. Perhaps there was something important about propriety and clothing after all. These people didn't even know Mireille, yet they looked at her body, relishing its beauty and charms that they weren't worthy of. Was Mireille aware of the looks? Of course she had to be. Had she expected them? Was she used to them? The blonde didn't appear bothered by the attention she was receiving. Maybe Kirika should just ignore them too... there wasn't anything she could do about them. There were other women around wearing swimsuits like what Mireille had on as well, and they seemed similarly dismissive. It was peculiar how Mireille could be so accepting of stares when she was in a swimsuit, but when she was in underwear of practically the same style, it was intolerable. Were those other scantily-clad women given to the same weird behaviour?

 

“What's the matter? Don't you like how it tastes?” Mireille asked.

 

Kirika looked down at her half-eaten prawn and shook her head.

 

“You don't like it?”

 

“I like it,” Kirika clarified, taking a bite to finish off the seafood.

 

A bemused smirk appeared on Mireille's face as she picked up her glass and took a drink of the red liquid inside. “What would you like to have for dinner?” she said, staring vacantly over the rim of her beverage off into the distance. There was something a bit melancholy in the stare. “Something you'd enjoy. A favourite food.”

 

“I like ice cream,” Kirika provided. Mireille should have known that.

 

Mireille turned her head to her, her glassy gaze no more as she raised a wry eyebrow. “I think we should keep that as a dessert,” she said dryly. “What do you like to eat the most besides that? A favourite meal?”

 

Kirika's brow knitted and her head lowered, her eyes staring at the table but not seeing the food on it. She thought hard on the question. There were few things in this world she `liked'. There were few things in this world her kind was permitted to like. She liked ice-cream; the coolness in her mouth and smooth texture on her tongue, and the sweet yet mellow flavours. It was soothing to eat, coating memories in that sugary haze for as long as it melted in her mouth. She had liked to draw once, to create for once instead of destroy, however its charm had been stained by her very own hands, and she knew too well that blood never really washed out completely. She liked animals, big and small, and their simple existences; the freedom in it. And they were cute.

 

Then there was Mireille. Kirika liked... loved... her. There wasn't anything about the woman that she didn't love. The sight of her, the smell... her voice, her mannerisms.... Kirika could go on forever.

 

Food, though.... Kirika thought about the French cuisine she'd had frequently with Mireille in Paris, but none of it stuck out in her mind as a favourite. Some foods tasted good, some foods tasted okay, and some foods tasted bad. Ultimately it was all merely fuel for her body, or had been considered as much before meeting Mireille. Alone, Kirika had eaten whatever was on hand; whatever had been in the fridge in the house she had woken up in, and when that had run out, whatever had been on the first shelf at her local conveinience store. As long as her nutritional requirements had been fulfilled, as long as the assassin kept functioning, the taste hadn't mattered.

 

Conversely Mireille had treated meals as something special, something to be savoured and enjoyed, worthy of care and deliberation. Kirika had dined on whatever Mireille had been eating, and later in their relationship when given a choice, had picked the first thing the woman had offered for her plate. Kirika didn't have a preference. Kirika didn't *have* preferences. She... had not been meant to think like that. Independent thought, yes, but only so far as her bullets travelled. `Trivial' things; `fun' things--they were not for her. Weapon maintenance was supposed to be her hobby; her favourite food was whatever rations were provided for her. Killing was meant to be her passion, and death was meant to be her lover. Altena had desired it that way. Altena had designed her life to be never-ending darkness--to be black.

 

“That's alright,” Mireille said softly as Kirika's hesitation showed no sign of relenting. There was sympathy in the blonde's voice; genuine sympathy from her heart. Only Kirika ever got to hear it; only she ever inspired such feeling in her partner. It should have made the girl feel better, yet it only emphasised how different she was from everybody else around her. She had never been meant for *this* world--the world of fine dining and relaxing mornings on a beach. Mireille knew it too. “I'll take you somewhere nice.”

 

Mireille breathed out heavily and turned her head towards the ocean again. She took a slow drink of her cocktail. “I was thinking of going out of town for dinner. To Kadena.”

 

Kirika looked up, perfectly aware of what she meant. Inside the girl's mind the assassin took a breath, rousing--awake. After all, *this* was her world. And Kirika supposed it was her own as well.

 

******

 

Mireille sidestepped a trio of noisy and overly chummy men who tottered onto the street arms over each others' shoulders and didn't seem to have even seen her, and pushed open the door to the bar behind them--`The Locker', the sign in English. Immediately she was assaulted by loud music and more raucous voices, stopping her there in the doorway as her senses got to grips with it. Kirika edged in around her, taking in what could be intimidating revelry to many people with her usual aplomb, despite being underage for a house of liquor and smoke and as a result clearly the only teenage presence. The ceiling was obscured by a sky of roiling grey clouds, the stale and heavy scent of nicotine death inescapable even at the entrance with the street and its open night air at the two young women's rear. The tables were awash with men and the occasional woman; too many chairs crammed in around; and the tabletops themselves unsurprisingly with pitchers of beer and mugs and glasses amid spills and cigarette butts. The bar somewhere on the left was lost behind a screen of stools and customers, only identifiable by the steady stream of the latter that came with nothing and left with drinks in their arms. It didn't look like food was served beyond the complimentary peanuts, but Mireille and Kirika weren't here for that. Their dinner was still fresh on their tastebuds, enjoyed at a quaint restaurant several blocks away and far removed from this kind of atmosphere. They weren't here for dessert either, or the blonde for a nightcap. Being in this dive wasn't for pleasure. Pleasure had ended with the last bite of their meal.

 

Mireille felt she'd be hard pressed to get a chardonnay she favoured in this pit anyway. She had known that before entering; the Corsican assassin had done her research, although without it she could have summed up the place in seconds from the pavement outside. The dull roar she had heard on the street that she was facing full force now hadn't been vocal Japanese--the voices were English, of one particular accent. The faces at the tables and leaning over the bar were Caucasian--Americans. The bar was for them and their tastes. Even the music was western mainstream. Mireille bet the booze was as well. The Americans weren't tourists, however; they were pilots, technicians, medics--soldiers in the broadest word. The majority were out of uniform, off duty and free to make brash fools of themselves under an alcohol spur, released from the shackles of military discipline for a time. They were attached to the US air base that dominated the town, a controversial holdover from World War II. Mireille and Kirika wouldn't have been in The Locker, or Okinawa, if not for Kadena Air Base... and Soldats' love for intrigue.

 

Mireille's eyes scanned the room, searching for a face she recognised in the boisterous crowd. Jacques had arranged the meet--the first step in picking apart the Soldats rebels' operation--emailing the details to her, along with a picture of Colonel Chad Dickson. Dealing with unfamiliar third parties, especially when relying on them to facilitate some aspect of a contract, seldom made the blonde happy; too often a `hitch' or two would eventuate--a `small' problem that became anything but--or outright betrayal, simply because they were an unknown in what was meant to be a binary equation. Mireille trusted her *own* sources and her clients when embroiled in a contract, no one else bar a petite Japanese girl, and even her clients she still tended to watch like a hawk; after all, they had hired her to kill someone; morals and loyalty were unlikely traits they prized in themselves. Having more than one or two people aware of the impending hit just wasn't wise either. Trust was a dangerous notion in this business; having too much of it could kill you just effortlessly as too little could. At the end of the day experience and instinct were the best things to put your faith in--that was, if you didn't have a partner. But Mireille didn't think anyone else had a partner of Kirika's nature; a person who had no true concept of treachery, let alone had the potential for it. For other partnerships egos could chafe, money could tempt, affection could sour, but Noir would stand the test of time. *Had* stood the test of time. Mireille might not like the title and where it had come from, but the principle behind it she embraced. She couldn't imagine continuing her life as it had been before Noir... before love.

 

Mireille walked into the bar, careful whenever she had to squeeze past someone. Not to save their beverages or for courtesy, but for her own health. In such a public locale with so many people around the odds and logic said that nothing would happen, but even when you were ninety-nine percent sure of something, that one percent had a way of defying probability and spitting in the face of reason. Mireille didn't need a knife slipping past her ribcage from a stumbling `drunk' to teach her that one percent chance still meant a chance.

 

A few whistles and catcalls followed the blonde the deeper she got into The Locker, where the smoke and odour of alcoholic breath was most pungent--at least she hoped they were for her and not for Kirika trailing after her. Mireille pretended the obnoxious men didn't exist of course; the best course of action for handling loud-mouthed louts; and moved her search to the bar itself. At the distant end of it, where the screen of customers inexplicably didn't reach, sat a lone man nursing a shot of dark liquid. He knocked it back in a single curt motion, and then flicked the empty glass across the bar towards the sizable collection he was garnering in front of him. He ordered another without pause.

 

Mireille's lips moved into a barely there smile, one of satisfaction and cold humour. He was their man. It was no wonder the other base personnel avoided this part of the bar when one of their commanding officers had staked it out, and with the Colonel tossing back the hard stuff like that. The soldiers were off duty and relaxing, but they weren't suddenly stupid, even with all the drinking. Some lines were just never crossed. At least Noir and their contact would be granted some privacy in this otherwise hectic place.

 

The Corsican assassin appeared beside Colonel Dickson just as the bartender dubiously poured another shot--whiskey--and slid it to him. The Colonel was in his late forties perhaps and a touch overweight, his stomach hanging somewhat over his pants. His blonde hair, the thin amount he had left, was turning platinum with all the grey streaked through it, but it matched the lined and rugged face beneath. He was still in uniform, albeit dishevelled and sans cap, his jacket unbuttoned and his shirt collar and tie loose. The sweat on his brow was profuse, either from the alcohol or for another reason. Mireille suspected she knew that another reason.

 

“Something bothering you?” Mireille lightly taunted in English.

 

Colonel Dickson turned angrily, likely expecting an inferior being cute, but all authority drained from his demeanour at the sight of Mireille and Kirika. So he recognised them, or at least knew the name Noir and what it signified. He was almost certainly Soldats, or someone close to them that was privy to their world, the *real* world, and all of its terrors. Mireille supposed he felt he was face to face with one of those terrors.

 

“I.... Nothing, nothing,” the man downplayed; quick to adopt a hospitable, if nervous, manner in her and Kirika's presence. “Can I get you and, ah....” He looked at Kirika, seeing a girl where someone older should have been. “...Can I get you a drink?” he went with, his invitation for assassins over the age of twenty only.

 

“Tonic water and lime,” Mireille said in Japanese to the lingering bartender. “Two of them.”

 

The Okinawan bartender nodded, and shuffled off to get the drinks.

 

“I'm sorry we had to meet somewhere like this,” the Colonel remarked, shooting glowers at his disorderly personnel, as though waiting for them to fall quiet despite being far from Kadena Air base and the chain of command. “I wanted it to be inconspicuous.”

 

“They're just blowing off steam,” Mireille said graciously while accepting her tonic water from the returning barman. “Everyone has their method of coping with their life.” She turned her head to Kirika beside her, looking on fondly as the girl took an experimental swallow of her drink and pursed her lips a tiny bit at the bitter kick in the aftertaste.

 

“Hmph. Maybe,” Colonel Dickson replied, his agreement obviously lipservice. He threw some scrunched up yen bills on the bar for Mireille and Kirika's refreshments, which the bartender appeared glad to snatch up so he could move on to customers in more jovial moods.

 

The blonde woman smirked coolly and had a sip of her drink herself. “How is Base Commander Hamilton?” she said coyly afterwards, studying the Colonel with a sidelong look.

 

Initially her remark seemed to stun Colonel Dickson, leaving him sitting there next to her silent and covered in his suddenly increasing sweat, but an instant later he was in control. “Not long for this world,” he whispered hoarsely, and gulped down his latest whiskey shot.

 

Major General Miles Hamilton, the current commander of Kadena Air Base in Okinawa. And like his second here, in league with Soldats. But not the Soldats that would have ensured he live past next week. The good Major General had sided with Ishinomori and her revolution, his disloyalty laid bare in Jacques reports, likely penned from a myriad of spies' and infiltrators' intelligence work, maybe Colonel Dickson included. The Major General was using his position and the air base's location and facilities to supply military grade weapons and the ammunition to go with them to the Soldats rebels. Was it for a profit, for his greed? Or was he a true visionary, believing that reform for the ancient clandestine organisation was in its, and the world's, best interest? His reasons hadn't been detailed, which likely meant they hadn't mattered to Jacques--to the Soldats of old. Only his guilt... and the penalty.

 

“Why now?” Mireille asked; all hardness now that the pleasantries were dispensed with. Clearly cutting off Kaede Ishinomori's armament deliveries would hurt her offensive, forcing her to eventually rely on smaller, lower grade arms that were more readily available on the blackmarket--a far cry from military hardware. Why hadn't Hamilton been removed sooner? Had Breffort been waiting for Noir to do the job right? Had the Major General simply covered his tracks well up until this point? It didn't add up. Soldats were better than this.

 

“It's the most opportune time,” Dickson said, misunderstanding... or had he? He signalled the barman to give him another shot.

 

“That's not what I meant.”

 

The Colonel waited for the bartender to fill his glass and leave, before turning to Mireille, his agitation reaching a higher notch. “Look, I don't have any answers. I just get you in there.”

 

Mireille inclined her head with deliberate slowness, courteously accepting his ignorance for the time being. Perhaps he really didn't know anything. Perhaps he simply was that third party; the middle man; the facilitator. He seemed frightened enough to be a nobody in Soldats' grand scheme.

 

Colonel Dickson glanced to his left and then to his right, and then over his shoulder, apparently checking whether the coast was clear although by doing so probably had made himself *more* noticeable. Regardless, he appeared satisfied and furtively put his hand inside his blue jacket, taking out a USB drive. He put it on the bar between himself and the Corsican assassin, a finger lingering on it. “Maps you'll need.”

 

Mireille put her index finger on the drive and started to drag it over to her, only to be stopped by the man pushing down harder on the device with his own finger. “*Only* the maps you'll *need*. Don't decide to take a sightseeing tour.”

 

Mireille merely looked at the Colonel in the eye until he grudgingly relinquished the intel. She slid the USB drive towards her and slipped it away for safekeeping.

 

“Here.” Colonel Dickson next placed a set of car keys on the bar. “It's the black four door SUV. Should be the only one out there. Take the bag on the backseat and leave the keys there; I'd like to be able to drive back to the base tonight.”

 

“And what will we find in the `bag in the backseat'?” Mireille said as she took the keys.

 

“*You* will find a uniform and ID.” The Colonel leaned back on his stool, glancing around the blonde to Kirika on the other side of her. “Officers don't come her age.”

 

Mireille would be on her own for this one, but with an air force base involved she hadn't expected to have her partner's backup. He was right--officers, *soldiers*, weren't Kirika's age. Assassins however, *killers*....

 

“How did you know my measurements?”

 

The man cleared his throat awkwardly. “They were given to me,” he said, quickly draining his waiting shot of whiskey a second later.

 

Mireille tried not to wonder how Soldats knew them.

 

“Is there a chance I'll be recognised? What about surveillance? How far will the ID get me?” So many possible snags; snags the blonde would have normally seen to smoothing out herself. Instead she had to hope that someone she hadn't met before and didn't trust very much had looked into all the angles. Her safety net could turn into a noose without much tweaking.

 

“The ID will do what it has to, `Major Winters'. You look too young, but no one will ask questions once you're inside. No one below your rank, anyhow,” Dickson wearily explained, staring down at his empty glass in his hand and likely longing for it to be filled again. “And the CCTV network and some other key systems will conveniently be going through maintenance tomorrow morning. I heard they'll be down for a couple of hours. My authorisation, scheduled months in advance.” He grinned at Mireille, smug about his accomplishment, and then looked away to his right, at his oblivious personnel relishing their off time. “They'll think they know you, but they won't. And they'll be no record of you ever being there. Nothing but their memory... and memories can easily be undermined and manipulated.” Colonel Dickson upended the shot glass over his mouth, trying to capture any leftover drops.

 

“*Tomorrow*, you said?” Mireille caught, frowning at the man. *That* soon? The lack of prep time was unsettling, but not intimidating. Rushing however led to mistakes, to details overlooked, and sticky situations. Patience, planning; it wasn't out of fear that Mireille preferred a slow pace--it was what placed her among the best at what she did.

 

Colonel Dickson nodded. “It's the one, best, chance. A Major Charlie Winters is paying the base a visit tomorrow. He'll be delayed.” He smirked, dark and sinister. “But *she*--*you*--won't be.”

 

Mireille held her tongue a moment, having another sip of her drink instead. Perhaps this was why Breffort had waited. It was a providential turn of events... maybe *too* providential to be purely orchestrated by circumstance and fate. It was a sound plan, though... providing that Dickson delayed the real Major Winters for long enough. She had to depend on the flabby, alcoholic, treacherous man at her side for many factors, and without any insurance if the snags rose up to drag her down.

 

The blonde sighed. It wasn't as if she was going to say no.

 

“I'll have some Security Forces personnel pick you up at the train station near here. Major Winters was due to fly in directly, but I'll explain it away. The specifics are on the drive.”

 

“Do your part,” Mireille intoned levelly, staring at the rows of bottles and glasses on the shelves behind the bar, drink in hand. “Then we'll never have to see each other again.” She finally directed the look at him, and he nodded warily under it. He understood.

 

Mireille had another mouthful of her tonic water and lime, and then put it down, sliding off her barstool. She spared a glance at Kirika, and saw that the girl had finished her glass. Maybe they'd found something she liked.

 

“Don't...” Dickson started abruptly, stalling Noir's departure. “Don't hurt anyone else. No collateral. Not these men. They aren't part of... this.”

 

“Remember who we are,” Mireille simply replied. There had never been a victim of hers that hadn't been necessary.

 

He bobbed his head in acknowledgement and was quiet a moment, but wasn't done. “A-And I'd appreciate it if you... destroyed the drive when it's over.” Colonel Dickson seemed to swell up, his chest pushing out and his shoulders squaring. “I'm still a patriot,” he said, or rather seemed to argue, and with himself. “I still love my country, even if I hold a second allegiance.”

 

“I'm sure you're a credit to your nation,” Mireille said in parting, and managing only a little irony with her thin smile.

 

Outside, Mireille found the Colonel's SUV and picked up the bag, the cover of night and the only eyes around mostly inebriated making the retrieval straightforward. For a second she had been about to hand it to Kirika, but then kept it in her possession. Kirika was more than a mule. She was a lot more.

 

The woman chucked the car keys in the backseat for Dickson to have fun searching for, and then shut the door and walked away. She remained quiet until The Locker became a memory, although the task tomorrow never strayed far from her thoughts.

 

“We never got that dessert,” Mireille said, breaking the silence as she strolled down the street alongside Kirika towards their rental car. She shifted her blue eyes to her partner, peeking at her surreptitiously while her lips couldn't be stopped curving into a slight but indulgent smile. “Ice cream, wasn't it?”

 

“Mm,” Kirika nodded, and a smile of her own blossomed faintly on her pretty face. “Ice cream.”

 

The pleasure didn't have to be over. Paradise waited. You learned to take your leisure when and where you could. It was important... as important as the job itself. If the job was your life, if it was all you had, all your ever did or thought about, then your path would be as dark, as *black*, as it possibly could be. It would consume you. It would suck you into its darkness and darken you into a shade of your real self. You wouldn't be you anymore--you'd just be a murderer.

 

It wasn't letting your guard down--it was letting your hair down. There was a difference. It was a reminder that the killing wasn't all you were. That when you weren't holding your gun you had needs and desires like anybody else. That it *was* just a job.

 

Mireille knew the lesson well. In the time they were together her Uncle Claude had never ceased to remind her that she was still a young woman; that she still enjoyed fine foods and nice clothes, and that true bloodlust was reserved for simple murderers. The blonde felt Kirika needed the reminder more than she did. An assassin, a masterful assassin, was what Kirika was. But she needed to remember it wasn't *all* she was. She was still a girl underneath the training and after the bloodshed. The beach, the boutiques, the breakfasts, lunches, and dinners out--everything was to keep that person, that life, intact. Ultimately life was meant to be lived, enjoyed, no matter what path you walked.

 

Tomorrow work awaited. But tonight.... Tonight hadn't ended.

 

******

 

“Major Winters?”

 

Her dark blue uniform a dead giveaway, the two MPs crisply saluted Mireille on the steps outside the train station, a gesture she returned with a much smaller measure of snap. She *was* meant to be a superior after all. She exuded casual disinterest, that air of authority and entitlement, hoping that it would keep small talk to a minimum if the soldiers believed she was the hardened, standoffish sort. There was the possibility one of them, or both, might have been at The Locker last night and could recall her face. That went for any of the personnel she may encounter on Kadena Air Base. Mireille had worn her sunglasses and had her hair pinned up regulation-style underneath her officer's hat, but those efforts wouldn't stand under prolonged scrutiny. She put most of her faith in the well-fitting uniform and the distance it afforded between grunt and officer--if she played the part right.

 

“We're here to take you to the base, ma'am.”

 

Mireille nodded curtly, following them and getting into the back of the waiting topless military jeep at the curb only after one of the men opened the door for her. The MPs shared a look as they got into the front, a cross between tension and exasperation, no doubt wordlessly lamenting their duty and the new Major's snobby demeanour. Good.

 

The drive was short, basically a trip down a palm tree lined freeway. The air base was a sprawling installation that encroached not only on the town of Kadena but a couple of others too, and likely was an unavoidable fixture in the native residents' lives. A pair of fighter jets roared overhead, massive in the sky as they flew low above the freeway, deafening local traffic, `Major' Mireille's ears no more sacred than the others. She could see how the American military's presence could grow tiresome on the Okinawan populace. At least they had spared the beaches.

 

The jeep turned off the road and pulled up to a gate complete with guard post, the entryway slotted in the middle of a never-ending chain link fence topped with razor wire coils, the unfriendly grey mesh separating the military and the US from the civilian and the Japanese. The jeep stopped as another partnership from the Air Force Security Forces wandered out of the guard post, one of which approaching the driver's side.

 

Seeing Mireille in the rear, the two guards saluted her, and she did the same to them, wondering how often she was going to have to keep doing that.

 

“Returning with Major Winters,” the blonde's driver said.

 

“Major,” the nearest guard greeted. “Your business here?”

 

“My business is with Major General Hamilton on certain administration matters,” Mireille said evenly, flashing her ID card like she had been through the motion a thousand times before. `Administration matters' was what the real Major Winters was coming here for at any rate, as reported on Colonel Dickson's USB drive. It had sounded pretty vague when she'd first read it; she hoped it would fly, but would improvise if she had to. Thinking on her feet would be nothing new. “I am expected.”

 

“Ah, right...” the guard nodded, putting his hands on his hips as he relaxed. “I remember seeing your name. I have to apologise ma'am; our computer network has been down since we started shift.”

 

“We'll log the Major's arrival later,” the other gate soldier spoke up, leaning in the doorway of the little guard post.

 

“No harm,” Mireille said with a tight smile. Dickson had been true to his word. If he hadn't been, the Corsican assassin would have taken care of the cameras herself, even if that had meant a detour into security before going after her target. She might have taken a second detour later also, to another high ranking soldier's office.

 

“Welcome to Kadena Air Base, Major,” the first guard said, before taking a few steps back and waving her vehicle through.

 

The thin metal barrier hanging across the road painted in eye-catching black and white stripes lifted, permitting the jeep to move onwards. The driver took it slow now that they were inside the fences, but the administration building was close, near the front of the base. The MPs carefully ferried Mireille to the nearly completely vacant carpark reserved for visitors, and came to a halt in a space directly in front of the administration building's door.

 

“Here we are, ma'am.”

 

The Air Force Security Forces member in the front passenger seat quickly exited to open the jeep's rear door for Mireille, and the woman stepped out.

 

“The meeting will be short,” she said as she straightened her jacket and cap. “Wait here, if you could.” Her clipped tone made it known that she wasn't asking.

 

A murmured chorus of `yes ma'am' sounded, the men used to orders, and Mireille marched briskly to the waiting doors behind which her--no, *Soldats*--target waited. So far so good, but you weren't really tested until you drew your weapon.

 

For a second Mireille forgot about her goal and thought of Kirika, feeling her absence. The girl's presence had been reassuring the blonde realised; it was strange to be alone. She relied on her partner; to catch the details she missed, to watch her back, to help keep her alive when things got heated... to keep her company. Now Mireille only had herself. She had handled assignments solo for most of her life; it should've been second nature now; yet.... She felt a twinge of vulnerability. Perhaps she had been relying on Kirika *too* much. She had let herself slip.

 

Or maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe it wasn't about the job, but about... *her*. Kirika. Mireille just missed Kirika, not because of what she brought to an assignment, but for what she brought to her heart.

 

The Corsican assassin stopped in front of the doors, closing her eyes for an instant. She had to focus. It wasn't the time to be a... a woman. It wasn't the time for those other facets of her life. It was time for work. The job. Whatever the reason for her pining, the fact remained that Kirika *did* protect her, and the petite assassin wasn't here. Mireille had to keep her head and forget her heart. For now.

 

******

 

Kirika darted between buildings, barracks and supply sheds, avoiding open spaces until she could no longer, and then bolting across them to waiting cover on the other side when everyone's eyes were elsewhere. She stayed low, hunched over to half her height, her civilian attire--a sky blue summer dress--too striking for mistakes. But she didn't make mistakes; not in this. Keeping hidden, no ploys but sticking to the shadows, to blindspots, moving among people as a ghost, as though she wasn't there--as though she didn't exist. Kirika was good at this.

 

Sneaking into the air base had been easy. The cameras were off, and razor wire wasn't a deterrent if you were willing to endure a few cuts, which Kirika had been. Her bare forearms bled little, superficial wounds from her aerial cartwheel over the military installation's fencing, and were already crusting. The soldiers hadn't proved to be a sterner threat than everyday criminals and sinners either, almost lax within their refuge. They didn't have her discipline. They didn't have what she felt.

 

The blades hadn't slowed the girl for a moment, nor had the thought of what they could do to her flesh. Nor had the thought of soldiers with their combat training and access to high-powered firearms. Kirika moved with purpose, maintaining a swift yet silent pace, pausing only to survey the route ahead and time her scurrying. She had some catching up to do.

 

Mireille had said to wait. She had said she'd be back. Kirika had heard her partner, but had listened to something else over her. Kirika had been meant to stay in the hotel room, and then at the train station after Mireille had reluctantly given in and consented to her tagging along as far as she could. The blonde had assumed that to be as far as the station and her military escort, however she had underestimated Kirika. The girl could follow her love anywhere, into anything; to the ends of the earth. Even angels needed guardians.

 

Remembering the base map she had glimpsed over Mireille's shoulder; alight on the woman's laptop screen last night; Kirika progressed towards the administration block where the target was--and where Mireille was due as executioner. Kirika believed in her partner's ability, and realised the blonde would probably resent being babysat, but she had a vow to uphold... and a heart that wouldn't calm until she laid her eyes on her love again.

 

Kirika came to a sharp halt crouched at the side of a building, and peeked around the corner into a carpark she knew was there. It was virtually empty, and the jeep she had seen at the train station and pursued in a taxi was the first thing her gaze honed in on. The soldiers who had accompanied Mireille lounged in the front seats, chatting amicably. Their ease meant the blonde wasn't nearby.

 

Kirika's eyes nipped all over the area to confirm, but it was immediately clear she had missed her partner's arrival--the woman was inside the building that housed Major General Hamilton's office already. She had to move.

 

The darkhaired assassin burst into motion, rounding the corner and tracing the next wall, along the front of the building that faced the carpark, as it led towards its neighbour that Mireille had entered. There was shade this close to the wall, but there were windows also, forcing Kirika to remain stooped as she past beneath them. She looked in the direction of the jeep often, gauging whether she had been detected by the two soldiers there. However, they were too deep in carefree conversation to notice a lone girl sidle into an alleyway, and by then she was out of their possible sight.

 

Kirika went further into the gap between the two air force buildings, counting the lower windows and her footsteps, measuring both to the floorplan in her mind. She stopped underneath one particular window, thankful the Major General did his work on the ground level. There the assassin, the girl, waited. And listened. She heard muffled speech--a single voice; deep meaning male. It was even, not yet distressed. She wasn't too late.

 

Kirika tugged the end of her dress up over her right knee and all the way back to her hip, exposing her fully loaded Beretta M1934 with silencer strapped to her thigh.

 

Even angels needed guardians.

 

******

 

“Major General Hamilton is ready for you, ma'am.”

 

Mireille donned her cap and got up from the couch, straightening her skirt afterward. She doubted the Major General was truly ready for her. Yet he *was* Soldats; perhaps he had gotten wind of his coming end. It wouldn't matter though--now that she was here, it was over for him.

 

The Major General's fair-haired secretary motioned with an arm towards one particular corridor that led away from the foyer. She may have had secretarial duties, but she was still dressed as an officer, and was probably armed like one too. There were several people equipped with a firearm nearby Mireille--Air Force Security Forces soldiers standing rigid at their posts mainly, each with a Beretta M9 in their hip holsters, safeties off. Occasionally a low ranking officer would wander through and add to the weapons tally, although the blonde didn't notice many of them openly fitted with a sidearm.

 

Mireille might have got away with carrying hers too where anyone could see it, but despite her slim military knowledge she was certain a silencer wasn't standard Air Force issue. Still, at her `rank' she was expected to be armed, if only as a status symbol. It was strange to walk past guards and not be questioned or frisked--her uniform really did keep everyone theoretically inferior to her at bay.

 

With that assurance Mireille briskly headed down the indicated corridor, passing a final MP before coming to Hamilton's door. She knocked and waited for his answer. It came immediately; a gruff bark to come in; and she opened the door, wary in case he was, and if his wariness would compel him to shoot at her on sight.

 

Major General Hamilton was behind his desk, so engrossed in scrawling his pen across a stack of papers he shuffled through that he didn't even look up. The old man was dressed much like her, in the USAF's blue, except the rank insignia on his shoulders bore two silver stars each instead of a solitary gold leaf. His peaked cap; different from the blonde's female version; sat on a shelf behind him, near a window covered by halfway shut blinds.

 

Mireille closed the door behind her, but maintained her eye on her careless target while she did. The click of it shutting stirred the Major General into finally lifting his head, and he frowned at who he saw in his office.

 

“You're not Winters,” he said, his pen freezing in his hand above yet another document.

 

Mireille said nothing as she reached inside her jacket for her shoulder holster, drawing her suppressed Walther P99.

 

Hamilton's eyes bulged and he hastily fumbled for a desk drawer, no doubt going for a weapon. However, in those eyes the Corsican saw that he recognised his doom was upon him. He was just going through the motions; a kneejerk reflex--the survival instinct of a cornered creature. Some resigned themselves when the time came, some didn't, but they always knew it was the end on some level, deep down, even if they didn't want to tell themselves that. Mireille had seen it on countless occasions. This man was no different despite the rank he held, despite that he was in a bastion of military might and security. He knew it was coming and that nothing would stop it. But after all that was her--Noir's--trademark.

 

Mireille put two in Major General Hamilton's chest--half an inch apart, left side. The shots rocked the man back in his chair, and then sent him spilling lifelessly over his desk. Blood spread from underneath his chest, pooling over the desktop and soaking into his now trivial paperwork. Soldats and the rebels had lost an agent both, the US military had lost a commander, but the world was rid of a thorn... although one thorn removed from a briar patch was a minor thing.

 

“Sir? Are you alright, sir?”

 

Mireille heard the concerned voice of what was probably the nearby MP through the closed office door, followed by knocking that gradually grew more alarmed. She calmly yet quickly stepped to one side, arranging herself flush against the wall next to the doorway.

 

The door opened and the soldier gasped at the spectacle of his base commander bleeding face down all over his desk, halting a step inside the room, hand resting on his sidearm. Mireille greeted the unlucky young man with the silenced barrel of her pistol held an inch away from under his chin. She pulled the trigger before he realised his predicament, a bullet tearing through his oral cavity and then through his brain, a circular spray of blood suddenly splattering against the ceiling above him. He fell like a marionette with its strings abruptly cut, his once dark blue beret now a deep claret.

 

The blonde assassin angled her head around the doorway, checking the hallway--no one was there; no one had seen.

 

Mireille stepped over the body, and then turned back to kick the MP's legs inside the office with the rest of him, before closing the door to hide the bloodshed for a while. She hid her Walther P99 inside her jacket once more and walked back into the foyer, past the secretary who barely acknowledged her, and outside into the carpark.

 

“Back to the station,” Mireille ordered at soon as sunlight hit her, wiping the grins from the two procrastinating soldiers in the jeep as they jumped to accommodate her and readopt military decorum.

 

The woman got into the backseat; the passenger door opened for her once again with some more saluting; and was driven back to the gate and guard post. The barrier was lowered again, and the jeep squeaked to a standstill before it.

 

“Leaving us so soon, ma'am?” the gate guard that had welcomed Mireille earlier commented with a smile and salute.

 

“They always have me on the move,” Mireille replied wryly, returning the salute, “but I always make my appointments.”

 

The soldier looked over his shoulder to his partner in the guard post, no doubt to get him to raise the gate, however found him on the post's phone. The second MP lifted his free hand, palm out, in a gesture to wait. His face looked confused and anxious.

 

“What's going on?” the first guard shouted to him.

 

Mireille's right hand inched over her lap, then higher to her chest--to the opening of her jacket. Her instincts were rarely wrong, and they warned her now. Her MP escort in the front of the jeep seemed perplexed like their comrades, however it wouldn't last once the report came in over that phone. Then their Berettas would come out, courtesy and subservience would vanish, and the `Major' would lose all of her rank privileges. Did Mireille strike now while they were still in a state of uncertainty; take out her escort with a pair of shots through the backs of their seats right this second, then another pair for the gate guards before they could bring their own pistols to bear? Or did she wait in case she was simply a victim of paranoia? The guard could be on the phone to his girlfriend for all she really knew.... Or sirens were about to go off, and Kadena Air Base was on the verge of being locked down, the hunt for a fake United States Air Force officer, a young blonde woman, commencing.

 

Keen intuition warred with hopeful reason within Mireille, her own survival instinct kicking in. She wondered what her eyes looked like behind her sunglasses.

 

******

 

Kirika pointed her Beretta M1934 at the female soldier. The woman trembled before the barrel's one-eyed glare, though the phone was still at her ear, the hand that held it white from the ferocity of her grip.

 

“Belay that...” the officer whispered, her voice a breath; hardly there, as though the life was already leaving her. “I made a mistake.”

 

The phone slipped through her suddenly weakened hand, more of her life waning, but she caught it against her chest. Her eyes never left Kirika as she slowly and feebly lowered it onto the receiver.

 

There was a click as the phone settled, penetrating the silence like a bell's toll.

 

“Thank you,” the assassin said. Her tone was so very everyday, but it was no platitude she had spoken. Kirika *was* grateful. The delay she had instigated would be sixty seconds with luck; however any number of seconds was precious--and enough. Mireille would be in the clear. She would be safe.

 

Kirika's breathing changed; it was as if a tight band had been loosened from around her chest. It was still there, and wouldn't go altogether until she saw Mireille's face again, but it ceased to strangle her heart.

 

The girl took a quiet breath, inhaling fully, and then let it out just as slow. She smiled softly.

 

Kirika's eyes sharpened, the soldier within them remembered--or more accurately, brought to the front of her mind. The woman was a statue now, staring at her in a sort of focused daydream. It was like her life had been put on pause; had stopped for this moment; and was waiting for permission to resume--permission from Kirika.

 

<*This* is your power. But they all deserve the same. There is no such thing as innocence in this world.... No innocence that lasts....>

 

The soldier was dressed like Mireille; in the same kind of uniform Mireille had worn at the train station. Her straight long hair was yellow like Mireille's too, but a more vivid shade like mustard in place of sand. Kirika became a statue as well, examining the similarities.

 

It lasted only a fraction of a second.

 

The officer closed her eyes before the shot, sensing her death. She had probably hoped for her life to continue, but Kirika couldn't let it. The woman fell behind her desk, her head snapping back with the force of the bullet entering. Fine red mist lingered for an instant at head height in the air where she had stood, and then was gone.

 

Kirika's right arm dropped to her side, smoke lazily curling from the end of her Beretta's silencer. She had to think about her own escape now; the administration building's foyer likely saw regular traffic--she couldn't dawdle. However, thinking about getting out of Kadena Air Base didn't cause her trepidation--even with the inevitable installation-wide alarm and lockdown, it would be as much challenge as it had been getting in.

 

The darkhaired assassin turned to the front entrance, jogging past the bodies of three MPs lying in still puddles of their own blood. 9mm casings were on the floor nearby, not one belonging to them.

 

******

 

The Security Forces soldier in the guard post shook his head and hung up the phone. “False alarm,” he called to his fellow MP, pressing the button to raise the gate.

 

The guard at the side of the jeep snorted. “And just when I thought this day wasn't going to be as dull as every other,” he longsuffering quipped. “Goodbye, Major.” He waved the jeep and Mireille inside on, before trotting back into the guard post.

 

Mireille's right hand dropped to her lap and she forced herself to breathe more calmly. The jeep turned onto the freeway, joining the stream of other vehicles. She was out. Had it been paranoia after all? `False alarm' indeed.

 

“I can't believe they don't fly you in,” the driver spoke up, perhaps emboldened by the gate guard's slight candour with her.

 

Mireille smiled tritely at him in the rearview mirror. “I'm only one woman,” she said.

 

******

 

Mireille picked up the US Air Force officer's jacket from their hotel room's bed, holding it up to her body and striking a strange sort of pose, kind of slanted and her chest pushed out. “Perhaps I should hang onto it.”

 

Kirika looked up from her packing to her partner over at the opposite side of the bed. The blonde had changed out of the military attire in a toilet stall at the train station immediately after being dropped off by the US soldiers, along with releasing her hair from its compact style and taking off her sunglasses, all to shed the persona of an Air Force officer as quickly as she was able--there had been, and still was, a high likelihood the US Air Force were searching for a flaxen-headed Major, not to mention wandering about town dressed up like one wasn't the same as doing it in a military environment. The best move Kirika thought would have been to leave the uniform and the ID in its bag in the stall; however Mireille had for some reason brought everything with them back to the hotel. It had puzzled the girl, but she had assumed the woman would get rid of the disguise at some stage before they left Okinawa by means that satisfied her. There weren't any tracking devices or bugs of any kind hidden away in the material--Mireille had scanned the bag and everything within it as soon as she'd had the opportunity--but there was a chance the uniform, and especially the ID with the woman's photo in it stating she was someone she wasn't, could be traced back to them if the wrong person happened to catch a glimpse.

 

Maybe Mireille was just joking. She did joke a lot and Kirika didn't often understand all she meant. Or maybe she felt the disguise would be useful in the future. The woman *was* smart, always thinking ahead. Still, it was a risk.

 

“Maybe you could use it again... someday...” Kirika offered anyway. She wanted to be supportive. And there *was* something about how Mireille looked when she was wearing the full uniform. She looked... nice. But Mireille always looked nice. Kirika just knew that she didn't dislike how Mireille looked in it, and that was all.

 

Mireille laid the jacket back down, snatching up the hat instead. She walked around the end of the bed and slid it over Kirika's head, smiling crookedly at the result. “It's not bad on you, either.”

 

Kirika rolled her eyes upwards, staring at the peak that poked over her brow. Maybe Mireille didn't dislike how she looked in the outfit either. The girl couldn't think where the blonde could wear it though outside of another assignment that called for visiting American military installations.

 

“What happened to you?” Mireille said suddenly, grabbing Kirika's left wrist and lifting the shorter young woman's bare arm closer to her face.

 

Kirika swallowed uneasily as Mireille's eyes went from cut to cut, and then seized her other wrist to lift her right arm up for a similar inspection.

 

“Where did you get these?”

 

“On a fence,” Kirika answered honestly. She didn't think to lie.

 

Mireille looked up from the girl's rent arms to her staring reddish-brown eyes. The scars hadn't been there yesterday on the beach, nor had they been there this morning; and Kirika had arrived late to the train station following the assassination, only linking up with her partner as the woman had been leaving the restroom. Mireille wasn't stupid.

 

Mireille was silent for several long moments. Then she released Kirika's wrists and walked back to the other side of the bed, leaving the girl standing there. “Take more care,” she said quietly, facing away from Kirika.

 

“Mm. I'm sorry,” Kirika replied just as softly, feeling guilty although she wasn't sure why.

 

Mireille glanced out the window, the beach and the ocean and the sky outside. She sighed.

 

******

 

The roar of the C-130 Hercules' engines lowered to a collective whine, and the cargo door at the rear of the plane deployed outwards, serving as a ramp leading down to the runway. First out was the crew, escorting the crates of various supplies into the hands of waiting base staff, but their scheduled arrival wasn't what had Colonel Dickson here on the tarmac. Weaving around the flight crew and the cargo appeared a group of men that didn't wear USAF uniforms, or any uniform, but the way they carried themselves spoke of years of dedicated military training.

 

“Colonel,” greeted the man that walked ahead of all the others as he neared, raising his voice above the engines. He was slightly older than Colonel Dickson; his slicked back long hair and his bushy moustache and beard that looked as coarse as a horse's mane silver with age, and his face with as many creases as an old catcher's mitt.

 

“Captain,” Dickson answered with the same measure of friendliness, shaking hands with the other man. They weren't friends, however. They just knew the same people. They lived in the same world. Casimir Novković wasn't even a Captain, nor did he hold any rank whatsoever, at least not officially in a legitimate fighting force. But he liked to be addressed as such, and Dickson knew who it was best to keep on good terms with.

 

“Not the most pleasant ride, crammed in that tin can,” Novković remarked, turning back to the Hercules. His English had a thick Slavic influence--Croatia he told people he was from, but Colonel Dickson was pretty sure that was a lie. He was a Serb, probably old Yugoslav People's Army, or the Army of Republika Srpska as it had become back in his day almost twenty years ago. Novković had reason to hide his identity, the things he had done back then. `Casimir Novković' likely wasn't even his real name; it probably belonged to a corpse in a yet to be discovered mass grave somewhere in what was now Bosnia and Herzegovina.

 

“You could have flown Air France,” Dickson said. Hitching a ride with the Hercules had been the quickest and most discreet means for Novković's team to reach Japan while carrying their personal small arms. He should've been thanking his lucky stars he was able to disembark here at Kadena, and for the hospitality Dickson was showing. Novković would have access to the base's weapons and other supplies before he moved on to wherever he was bound--if Major General Hamilton were still in charge Novković and everyone with him would be being bundled away in a sack right about now and secretly dumped out onto the street instead, or the equivalent at any rate. Noir had come through though, removing an obstacle to Soldats and pushing Dickson into the base commander's seat for the time being. The young women had been easy to manipulate just as he had been told. Poor Hamilton hadn't even heard of the name Soldats, let alone had the fortune to have been a part of them. But Dickson of course had and was, and now although Kadena Air Base flew the stars and stripes still, it for all intents and purposes belonged to the world order just like its new commander, rather than holding allegiance to a mere solitary, fallible, nation.

 

“Not much better I think!” Novković joked, compelling Colonel Dickson to force a short laugh.

 

“You picked an interesting time to come to this country,” Dickson said. He didn't push for details, but the question was still there. Indirect, subtle.... What you had to be when Soldats were involved. Life in the US military had thankfully greatly curbed the urge to question, all but snuffing it out of him.

 

“Ah, yes. That business,” the silver-haired man replied, bobbing his head a little. “We are here for a different reason.”

 

“We're book detectives,” one of Novković's `soldiers' scoffed derisively behind his captain, his tone leaving little mystery to how he felt about the mission.

 

“But money is money,” Novković said, lenient with his man's outspokenness, at least while here on the runway of a US air base. “It is not strictly a...” He strained to explain, but Colonel Dickson understood. They weren't really here for Soldats.

 

“Right, right,” Dickson said, sparing himself the other man's struggle with his English vocabulary. He then paused for a second, choosing his next words carefully as to not seem too curious, but only sociable. “Do you have an idea where to start looking?”

 

“We go to Kawasaki.”

 

******

 

To be continued....

 

 

Author's ramblings:

 

I hope I got the US military stuff right! Gomen if I didn't~!

 

I hope the assassination was acceptable too. I guess they can't all degenerate into massive shootouts with crazy bodycounts... unfortunately! ^_^