Noir Fan Fiction ❯ Scattered Shards ❯ Hunter and Prey ( Chapter 2 )

Waaahwahwahwah!!! X( I'm so sorry, but I am back to give you probably the shortest chapter in the whole shebang. This is mostly just a in-between chapter with no real plot development. I'm sorry but my work is taking so much time than I originally planned it to. (Technical support, meaning I'm on a team that repair hunking big machines when they go bananas, which they seem to do gladly on regular basis -_-.)

Epitaph 2 - Hunter and Prey

Mireille closed the door soundly behind her as she walked into the apartment. Throwing her handbag and jacket over the halfwall, that separated her living room and sleeping quarter, she went straight to the kitchen to pour herself some well deserved tea. The utensils and cup were on the table before long; while waiting for the water to boil, Mireille sat down at her simple table and began to massage her aching temples. The day had been a stressful one. Running across the whole town, chasing her underworld contacts for information was neither an easy nor enjoyable task. The maybe most irritating thing was that the reason for the whole brain taxing issue was a completely nonsensical one; it didn't involve any big sums of money or even a new job. Quite on the contrary, it was about the last one, the one she had done and successfully completed yesterday night.

The job to take out Frank Renoir had seemed like a rather simple hit to begin with: simply another corrupted politician with a hefty sum of money down his throat. Those stories weren't exactly rare nowadays; it was something any second rate assassin could have performed without much of a hassle. The complication with the security had got a little out of hand, sure, but such things were to be expected from this line of work; nothing ever went by the books, so it was nothing that had been outside of her expectations. You had to compromise and take risks, even if she usually preferred not to. A part of being a professional included getting the job done as neatly as possible, and by her books, that was something she excelled at.

Yesterday's hit had turned rather nasty for two reasons. First, the little run in with heavy armed security that had not been specified in the information she received; she would need a little pay chat with her client again. Second, the girl.

Killing an innocent was nothing she was proud of, but it had been a necessity given the circumstances. There were simply no other solutions. After coming home by the break of dawn, Mireille fell asleep right away, exhausted to her bones. The sleep brought her little rest however as the visual of the girl had swum on the brink of her mind all through the night. Soulful, maroon eyes stained with red had filled her dreams until she woke around lunchtime. The guilt she had felt upon the killing had been dispelled soon after she left Renoir's apartment, but for some reason, the girl lingered in her memory, refusing to let her go.

Confused and somewhat annoyed with herself, Mireille had decided to check the news, hoping to learn her name so she could pay a visit to the graveyard. It was all she could do for an innocent victim of her own bloody path. Having already decided to buy lilies, she made breakfast in a downcast mood. She had killed innocents before; simple people in the wrong place at the wrong time, deaths that had been necessary to keep her identity concealed. There were faces of laughter, cries and unrestrained horror; the faces her victims showed her were many and she had since long learned to repel the crushing remorse that haunted everyone in the beginning. But never in her long experience, had anyone looked at her with eyes like that girl. Her features had been covered by shadows in the weak light of a table lamp, but the image in Mireille's memory did not waiver. Neither dread nor fright had touched her at the sight of her obvious death.

She had simply stood there, looking at the assassin. Almost like if she was admiring her, with a face bearing no hate whatsoever. The memory of the intensity of those eyes still chilled Mireille to the bone. Not even a hint of anger towards her aggressor had been present in the rather blank face. The girl had simply closed her eyes, fallen on her knees, and gone to her death. As if there had been nothing she regretted.

The water was done. Mireille poured herself a cup of the bitter liquid, squinting slightly at the taste while she reached for the sugar. She never learned the trick with tea, her brews always turned out either too strong or tasteless.

Anyway, the whole thing had still seemed rather simple by the time she was browsing for the news on her computer. The scoop hounds had indeed already taken their feast. The assassination was all over the place with earlier pictures of Renoir and a political analysis of the man's career. Like always, it was most a bunch of bull, plainly written to draw the curiosity of more readers. She browsed on between the topics. Civilian deaths in those cases were usually made headliners, and you could expect a whole biography sometimes, where even her favourite pair of socks would be listed.

To her utter surprise, there had been nothing. Not a single word about another victim was to be found on any news server on the net but the names of Renoir and his dozen of security guards. The possibility of missing an extra dead body in the room was laughable. It was as if the girl had never existed to the news, despite the haunting images in Mireille's mind. Unable to believe it, Mireille called around her contacts; even there, one man who was responsible for body inspection assured her the facts.

Twelve casualties. Renoir and eleven security guards. All male.

To her frustration, the whole underworld seemed to share the same information. No one had seen or even heard of the corpse of a young female in this particular incident.

Mireille sipped her tea slowly, narrowing her brows at the slight headache that drummed against her cranium. That put her in her current situation. She knew it hadn't been a dream. The assassin could still recall the touch of the girl's cold skin when she had placed her on the floor. Could someone really, for lack of better theories, have cleaned the girl away? Her presence in Renoir's apartment was questionable to start with; if she indeed had been there on someone's order, things could turn complicated. Organizations seldom liked to have their more valuable subordinates wasted, and judging by her appearance, the girl was hardly a low-levelled escort. The other possibility was that she had been a guest, which was rather unbelievable too. Judging by her reactions, she would have to be very used to killing to not even flinch at the violent death scene before her. If she indeed was a more important agent for someone, then Mireille would have to lay low for some time, at least until the whole thing died down.

But if that was the case, why hadn't the girl even *tried* to flee or fight back? Why had she simply stood there, looking at Mireille like if she had been the question mark in the whole equation? Everyone, even those among the underworld valued their life, right?

She couldn't have just stood up and walked away, could she?

Looking out from her window, she let out another sigh. The sun had set some time ago; she was in no mood to do more searching even if the whole thing was literally, boggling her mind.

And, oh yeah, dinner…

************

Mireille Bouquet: twenty years old, professional hitwoman and renowned for impossible solo jobs. She was quite the name in the underworld, with a price tag to make up for her efficiency. That was all there had been to find about the blonde, who was now struggling with the lid of a soup can, which meant that she was good. A well-known assassin was seldom a long-lived one.

Kirika watched the woman's movements in the trivial task from the roof opposite of the blonde's apartment. The sun was finally setting, giving her a lot of shadows to hide in, thus making her near impossible to detect by human eyes. She graced the blonde's motions with an indifferent expression. Long, slender limbs stretched; the well tuned muscles flexed beneath her slight tanned skin, while her face twisted into an irritated grimace. Kirika's jaw muscles softened a bit in amusement when woman below gave the lid a final, almost violent tug and victoriously removed the obstacle between herself and her dinner. Victory was hard earned however as the last move sent half of the contents across her kitchen floor.

Kirika's amusement rose with the blonde's temper, when Mireille threw up her arms in the air, muttered a few well-chosen insults before retrieving her jacket and leaving the apartment in angry steps. She was going to eat out tonight for obvious reasons.

With a half-long coat in deep purple covering her slender frame, the assassin emerged into the street, her every notion being followed, examined and analyzed by a pair of curious, reddish-brown eyes.

Her high-heeled black boots, covering her long, elegant legs knee-high and below, clattered against the hard stone pavement in her stride. The boots were matched with an equally dark miniskirt. Not one of those over-revealing things that screamed for attention, but a simple piece of clothing, fashionable yet practical, wrapped around her beautiful figure in a quite intimidating way that undoubtedly turned a few heads. Kirika's eyes wandered and stopped at the image of the pale and teasingly inviting flesh of her neck. She had to steer her mind elsewhere to not get utterly distracted by the temptation that flowed beneath the flawless skin.

The woman was a visual of female glory; dangerous, sharp and savagely beautiful, a double edged sword for those who dared to get near her.

Kirika moved her hand to her torso, where the blonde assassin had shot her the previous night. The wound was almost completely healed now but still ached now and then. It was a testament of perfection in the assassin's aim, considering the damage the bullet had caused on her immortal body. It had struck her straight in the heart, the massive shock causing her body to temporarily go into limbo for the healing sleep; a sleep which for human eyes would seem a lot like death, since most of the bodily functions were halted.

She had woken just a few hours later at the break of dawn, accompanied by Renoir's corpse and the certain familiar numbness that always followed the unnatural sleep. She had been alone in a room that stunk of dead blood and whisky. Her now dead victim hadn't occupied her attention for long before she set out from the building, making her way to a safe rooftop close by before collapsing against a chimney, maybe for the first time in her memory actually feeling such distinct physical fatigue. She had not been able to feed like she planned to; the thirst was almost worse than the weariness as she felt how her powers flickered, no longer being the solid wall of steel which she was so used to relying on.

And all because of the woman who was now making her way down the street, steering her steps towards a small café to eat dinner.

But she would not take her. Not yet at least. She would not let herself so swiftly vanquish this female zenith of human visual, despite the fact that every fibre of her being screamed for her blood.

Kirika had had her share of encounters with human killers in her years. Brutal people stripped of even the small trace of dignity and light this world had to offer in their lives. Those who took humanity's dark road seldom had anything to regret or lose. They were the ones who knew the fragility of man's truths and morals better than anyone else, and therefore they would shamelessly indulge themselves in the joys and pleasures of the human world as if every day were their last. Those cheap cigars and rose perfumed bodies were, for what they knew, all their life would ever offer them. They were men and women who killed and took with no regrets, knowing that this world would never forgive them more than they would return in kind.

But this Bouquet woman seemed different. Kirika narrowed her brows in concentration, collecting her intellect and sense to the sharp degree she preferred it to be, tucking whatever her primal urges told her to do at the far back of her mind. There would be time for that later; she would still have to feed soon due to the loss of blood she had suffered yesterday, but not now.Not when the object of her most recent fascination was sitting in a small, cosy café a street apart from her, mindlessly browsing through what looked like today's paper while sipping her coffee. There was not a trace of buried regret or anguish in her stature and pose that spoke of the burdens of her crimes. Her fine, royal face lit up in a delightful, elegant smile when the waiter arrived with her order, totally throwing the poor young man's grace to the wind.

There were no signs of stress in her movements. No hurry or need to forget and bury her deeds in the heavenly pleasures Paris offered at night. She was not like those animals; the muck and stains of her profession did not seem to stick or fester on her. This woman was not rushing down the bloody path of murder. She was walking it, and she was walking it with her head held high, on a road above the blood and sin that threatened to devour man's soul at every turn.

Fascinating creature; to keep her burden away from surrounding eyes was impressive, but even being able to live out a fairly normal part of life among everyday people? Such a thing was rare indeed.

The blonde had placed down the paper, now mindlessly staring out of the window while observing the movements of the by passers. She seemed to drift off for awhile, temporarily forgetting the salad before her until the young waiter passed her by again - rather obviously intentionally - to ask if anything was wrong. After sending the young man off with a few reassuring words and another equally disarming smile, she continued with her meal, only interrupting once more to wave back at a small child who waved with his balloon at her.

Kirika immersed herself in the task of observing the woman's every motion as the blonde slowly ate her dinner. She watched how the fork moved from plate to the tip of her lips and back again; how she steadily held the dining tool, wrapping long, elegant fingers around the silvery metal; and how she casually leaned against her other arm on the table, now and then brushing her long, flowing hair out of her face. But contrary to the other customers and waiters of the place, Kirika did not miss the still dangerous presence that lingered around the blonde, despite the triviality of the scene displayed below her.

It takes a killer to know another.

The weeks spent on following Renoir around hadn't been a waste, not at all. In fact, the late bribed politician had, maybe by his little misdeeds and putting a price on his own head, led her to what looked like would be the best hunt she had had in quite a while.

Mireille Bouquet. Professional high-class hitwoman. Kirika wondered how long her fascination would last before the urge for her prey's blood would overcome her senses. She hoped that it would be a long one, since this woman seemed, or promised to be, rather interesting in a game.

But first, she would need to feed. And fast, because she wanted to be back before the woman finished dinner and entered her apartment, so she could have the pleasant amusement of watching when the blonde would have to face her soup covered kitchen floor.

……………….

I'll write more soon…hopefully… *dodges piano* ^_^