Kirika turned her key in the lock, wincing as the motion made a loud, metallic scrape, then carefully pushed the door open, bag hanging once more from her shoulder. She'd managed to get a better grip on herself during the walk upstairs, though she was still trembling and a bit light-headed. Almost cynically, she realized she'd rather be facing down a hundred armed thugs than actually walking into the apartment as if nothing was wrong. This wasn't just scary or frightening, it was downright terrifying. "Mirelle?" "So you finally decided to come home, hmm?" Mirelle's voice came quiet from the other side of the flat, her lean frame poised half-turned beside the window. The words echoed in the air, as unaffected and mocking as they would have been when the two of them had first met. Her sapphire eyes flicked toward the door, absolutely casual, then shifted away again like the sight of her partner meant nothing. Kirika's heart skipped a beat, stomach tightening with a strange, almost warning ache. "I left a note." She replied, pleased that her voice didn't waver. Closing the door, she dropped her bag against the wall, calm as she could be, though her pulse was racing. This didn't sound like it was going to go the way she'd hoped. "Be back soon?" The retort was sharper than before, laced with a hidden heat. Mirelle turned toward her a bit stiffly, jerky, like she was having problems keeping her muscles under control. Kirika could hear her breathing pick up, the Corsican's nostrils flaring just a bit, and she snorted with sarcasm. "That's not a note, that's a brush off." Her gaze flashed fire. "But I guess you were having too much fun with Alex to call." And there was the opening! Kirika nearly blew the entire operation to give a squeal of pure glee. Oh, Alex had been right! Mirelle was obviously jealous – so much angrier than she should have been, even considering the attack last night. There was something there, the younger woman knew it. Her throat tightened, but Kirika forced herself to look up with a calm, slightly surprised glance. Only her flushed cheeks gave her away. "I – met him at the art store." She said softly, trying as hard as she could to sound contrite. "He just offered me a ride home." "So you kiss everybody that gives you a ride?" Mirelle bit out, almost a growl. She threw up her hands. "God, Kirika, he could be some Soldats' punk for all you know! How can you trust him?" "It was just a ride!" Kirika fought not to sound guilty and failed spectacularly. Mirelle couldn't know she already knew Alexander was a member of Soldats, of course, but she still felt bad about lying. Straightening, the Japanese assassin moved to the center of the flat, keeping her eyes focused on her partner. She managed to sound both surprised and almost exasperated – no mean feat when she wanted to just grab her partner and hug her. "He's a friend, Mirelle. You have friends!" "I don't kiss Paula or Andre!" The Corsican shot back in a snarl. She strode forward a few steps, her boots clacking sharply on the floor before she jerked to a stop again. It was like she didn't dare touch Kirika or get too close. "You promised you weren't going to see him again – good grief, Kirika, don't you get it!" Kirika blinked. "Get what! It's not like I have to tell him every piece of my life just because I know him." Somehow, she had a sudden sinking feeling the 'plan' was about to slip sideways. This didn't sound right. "Besides, can't I have a little fun once in a while? It's not a big deal!" "You could get us both killed!" Mirelle was having none of it, entire body taut and muscles singing with tension. The very air around her seemed ready to explode. "If you want to be partners with someone, you can't keep putting them in danger with stupid, idiot things!" Just partners? Kirika felt her heart slam into her ribs. Mirelle wasn't confessing feelings – she was talking about their very partnership, their core! A flare of rage flooded the younger girl. What the hell gave Mirelle the right to dictate everything between them, anyway? Why couldn't the Corsican treat her like an equal, a true partner and friend? "I don't spill my guts to people just because I know them, Mirelle!" They were now hardly a foot apart, glaring at each other. "I'm smarter than that!" "You couldn't prove it by me!" The blonde snapped, not quite yelling. "Throwing away everything for some stupid little puppy crush on some bastard you don't know anything about sounds pretty damned stupid!" Flashpoint. Kirika wasn't sure what it was, exactly – her own hurt feelings, the stress of the last few days, or maybe Mirelle standing there like the very image of the "ice-cold people" Alexander had mentioned. Fists clenched, she hurled her response straight up into the Corsican's face. "Just because you want to cut yourself off from everything and stay cold and alone doesn't mean I have to!" Crack! The sharp slapping sound of flesh meeting flesh was almost as loud as a gunshot in the sunlit apartment. Kirika staggered backward, cheek stinging viciously and eyes wide, her entire body frozen in total shock. The outline of a handprint stood out stark and throbbing on the golden skin. Mirelle, too, stood motionless, elbow still bent and right arm still partly outstretched, the lingering rage on her face outshone by stunned disbelief. For a few more moments, both stood in stunned tableau. Had that really just happened? Then Kirika's eyes filled with a flood of tears. Mirelle had – Mirelle hit – it hurt! Spinning on her heels, the younger woman choked on a despairing cry, bolting blindly out the door at the speed only an assassin could match. She ignored the soft gasping sound from Mirelle's direction, the instinctive noise that could have been her name or a command to stop and wait falling on deaf ears. Her bag lay forgotten on the floor, but it didn't matter. It had the pieces of her heart to keep it company, after all. Half an hour later, Kirika slumped against the side of a building, her breath a hard, painful rasp that burned fire down her throat and chest. It was nothing compared to the whirling of her mind and the ache in her heart. Mirelle had hit her! Not just hit, but slapped her, hard! I deserved it, I should never have said that, I'm an awful, horrible partner – Mirelle shouldn't love me, she couldn't love me – Tears poured down her face. What could she do? How could she fix this horrible, horrible mess she'd made? Who could possibly help her? Alexander! Straightening up, she dug shakily in her pocket. Alex had given her a slip of paper with his cell phone number on it before they'd driven home. He hadn't wanted Mirelle to see it, but he'd wanted to make sure she had some way to really get hold of him. She wouldn't call on her cell phone – in spite of Mirelle's comment, she really wasn't that stupid – but she did have a couple quarters in her pocket. A look around showed her a deserted payphone on the nearest corner; Kirika slipped over to it, almost a shuffle, mechanically jamming the money through the coin slot and holding the receiver to her ear. The seven and eight buttons were slightly sticky, like a little kid had touched them with tiny, candy-smeared fingers. Kirika didn't care. The other end was picked up almost immediately. "Hello?" "A-Alexander?" Kirika sniffed and tried to control the sobs that wracked her lean frame. Her voice was wobbly and weak, but at the moment, she didn't much care about that, either. "It – it's – " "Kirika!" Her friend sounded shocked and a bit baffled. "Kirika, what's wrong? What happened?" She gasped for breath, still choking on tears. "I messed everything up. Oh Alex, I'm so stupid – it's all my fault – Mirelle – " Unable to finish through her weeping, she swallowed another trembling cry. "Shhhh." Alexander's soothing was firm. "Where are you?" Blinking, the dark-haired young woman wiped at her face, clearing her gaze to find a street sign. She repeated the names to Alex, who made another soft, calming noise. "Okay, I'll be there in ten minutes. Can you walk two blocks down and one over? There's a café there." Kirika nodded dully, then remembered Alexander couldn't see it. "I'll be there." "I'll meet you." Alex's voice was gentle. "Don't worry, Kirika, we'll sort this out, I promise." "So she – " Alexander blinked, looking stunned. "She actually hit you?" "S-Slapped me." Kirika corrected. Her words were lifeless, every part of her numb. She didn't want to feel or think – both of them hurt. Just explaining the fight to Alex had taken what little energy she'd had left after crying her heart out. Tears still welled in her haunted eyes. "I deserved it, Alex, I was so stupid – " "Hey now, stop that." Gentle hands wiped her face before hugging her lightly around the shoulders. "Drink your soda." Alexander pushed her paper cup closer to her, tucking a damp lock of hair behind her ear. They'd met at the café about half an hour before, where the young man had gotten one look at Kirika and immediately taken charge, ordering drinks for the two of them and steering her to a small table away from the other patrons. He'd grabbed the sodas and a thick stack of napkins to dry her tears, then sat patiently while she'd shakily recounted everything that had happened since he left. Now he leaned forward, elbows on the table, having dragged his chair over next to hers. His gaze was so direct and warm she wanted to cry all over again. "It's not just your fault, Kirika. Mirelle didn't need to hit you just because you said something mean. And – I guess my idea wasn't exactly the greatest, either." "It wasn't your fault." Kirika sucked at the straw, more because Alex had told her to than anything else. It was something to do – motion that kept her pain at bay for a few seconds. A corner of Alexander's mouth turned up in a crooked, sheepish smile. "Part of it is. I should have guessed she wouldn't react too well. She's got more major emotional problems than I realized, and they're not gonna disappear instantly. I think she's just still scared of her own feelings." Kirika took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "So – So what do I do?" She asked, her voice soft and very, very small. "I'm scared too, Alexander. I – I don't want her to hate me." "I doubt that's possible." Alexander ruffled her bangs lightly, his gaze gentle. "She loves you, Kirika. This proves it, really. That's the only reason it would hurt so much when you fight like this. You just – have to sort out all the baggage. Love's complicated like that. At least, that's what all the song writers say." He smiled, looking pleased when she smiled half-heartedly back. "Come on." With a wider grin, he took her hand, bringing her to her feet. "We'll go snag you some chocolate to cheer you up, and then we can grab some kind of present for Mirelle on the way back, okay?" Kirika nodded, following him around the tables and back out to the street. After the events of the last hour, she was physically and mentally exhausted, so tired it almost hurt to move. Part of her – a large part – just wanted to lay down and sleep. She blinked once, then twice, forcing herself to focus on Alex's back. It was almost a dozen steps before she realized she had no idea where they were going. "Alex?" "Hmm?" His voice sounded far away, distant, and it didn't seem like he'd slowed down any. Kirika yawned, nearly cracking her jaw as she trotted after him. "Where are we going?" "I told ya, we're gonna go shopping." Alexander turned a corner, calm as could be, and Kirika followed obediently. A crack in the concrete sidewalk made her stumble; wobbling slightly, she blinked again and reached to steady herself on the nearest wall. Brick scraped roughly under her fingertips, her hand nearly missing it completely. Was she really that far away from the building? It looked so close. "Alex – " Her brain pulled to a rough halt, body following a few stagger moments later. Why did her voice sound so odd? It was slow, almost slurred. She leaned against the wall, mind whirling dizzily. "What – what's going on, Alex?" "Hmmm? Oh, good, you stopped." Alex's frame seemed to waver as he turned around, arms folded casually across his chest. "I didn't want you to fall and break your nose or something when you pass out. That just never really heals properly, you know? Not to mention you could end up breathing in blood and drowning." Pass – out? Kirika wanted to repeat the words, but her mouth didn't seem to want to work. Alexander's eyes glittered down at her like solid green ice. Now Kirika could feel her muscles weakening, knees and arms turning to heavy, shaking blobs of goo. Her brain was fogged over, random images and snippets of conversation flashing through her thoughts. "You really do her justice." How would Alexander know the drawings looked like Mirelle unless he'd seen a real picture of her? The thugs that attacked – she'd never seen any of them go after Alex, only the bodies. She'd assumed they'd attacked him too, but – what if they hadn't? Why would they leave him alone? How had Alexander made the leap to call her Soldats, even though the very existence of the group was secret? Why would he go against all training to ask her if she belonged, unless he was sure who she was? "With you as her partner and family, I can sort of see why." How could Alex possibly know she was Mirelle's only 'family?' All the plans, all the little nagging doubts and little aside comments – how he seemed to know exactly how she felt, how Mirelle felt – "You." She breathed, forcing herself to look up at him. It was so hard to even speak. "You planned – you set us up." Alexander smiled, that Cheshire Cat grin of mischief and glee. "Of course." He chuckled softly as her eyes fell shut again, too heavy to stay open. "Took quite a bit of planning, but it was worth it. And of course, you and Mirelle helped so very much. It's so nice to deal with emotionally troubled people – you two reacted exactly the way I knew you would." Kirika gave a breathy groan, slumped against the wall. She could hear the odd, echoing scatto of business shoes coming closer, but she couldn't move or even open her eyes to see who it was. Whatever Alex had given her was working insanely fast. Distant and far away, she felt someone reach into her pocket and draw out her cell phone. "Check it for the other's cell." A man's voice ordered. Kirika smiled faintly. He wouldn't find Mirelle's cell phone number listed anywhere in the electronic phonebook; they'd memorized each others' numbers for just this reason, as paranoid as they'd thought it might be at the time. These bastards wouldn't get to the Corsican through her. "It isn't here." Answered another voice a few minutes later, as Kirika drifted in and out of consciousness. Something grabbed at her, a heavy hand yanking her up by a hard grip on her hair. Kirika squeaked, cursing her pathetic weakness and trying to bat the attacker away, but she might as well have been trying to roll boulders up a mountain for all the good it did. The second voice spoke again, even more menacing than it should have been due to the mess the drugs were making of her hearing. "What's the bitch's number?" Kirika had no answer, and the man shook her like a rag doll, her body jerking in ugly little spasms as her twisted limbs tried to compensate for the movement. Teeth gritted, the Japanese assassin tried again, dredging up every ounce of effort she could. This time, her fingertips found the bare skin of an arm, and she dragged her nails across it, fierce satisfaction making her woozy all over again as she heard the man yelp in pain. The hand in her hair dragged her upright, muscles shrieking in nauseous protest, then released the locks to snatch her around the throat instead. Fingers squeezed, and Kirika choked, lungs wheezing while she fought for air. "I asked you a question, you little whore!" "Derrick, don't rough up the merchandise." Alexander's voice was hardly recognizable, calm and uninterested as though he were talking about a statue or a piece of furniture. Kirika wanted to spit at him, but she couldn't even breathe, let alone see to aim. The man holding her gave a snarl, and Kirika could feel him glowering for a few seconds before he tossed her away. Her slender form bounced off the wall to land in a heap on the dirty street. "Besides, I know the number for the house phone. She'll be there." She didn't have to see him to know he was smirking. "I'll just arrange a little meeting, and she can get her first assignment." "You're sure she'll do it?" The first man asked. "Of course." Alex's tone came as a wicked laugh. "She'd do anything to make sure we don't hurt her partner. Love being a many splendored thing and all that. Now give me the phone." Kirika lay motionless on the pavement, tears hot enough to scald welling in her eyes, unable to move even an inch, and finally began to pray. Not for rescue – she didn't deserve it. She never had, especially not now. No, Kirika Yuumura prayed to any god that would listen that Mirelle had left the apartment. That after their fight, the beautiful Corsican had given up on waiting for her and decided to go out. Walking, shopping, even on an impulsive vacation trip out to the country to teach her partner a lesson. It didn't matter, as long as she wasn't home. And as the darkness finally reached up to claim her, a single tear slid slowly down her cheek. Mirelle, forgive me. Please, please, be gone. Be happy without me. Meanwhile: How could she have been so effing stupid? Mirelle sighed, rubbing a tired hand across her face. She'd been pacing up and down the length of the apartment for nearly forty-five minutes now, and she still couldn't wrap her mind around what had just happened. The kiss, the fight, the shouted words and her instinctive attack and Kirika's running off, all of it was unreal. Like watching something from a foreign film, in a language she didn't know. She looked down at her hand with bleak, pained eyes. It looked so normal, just as it always did; as though it hadn't been responsible for something so horrifying and unforgivable. Appearances were deceiving, the Corsican thought morosely. She could still feel Kirika's cheek against her palm, the stinging weight of the slap sitting like an accusation on her skin. The haunted, destroyed look in Kirika's eyes as she stared up at her partner – it made Mirelle's chest tight and her whole body ache. Hell, it had taken her ten minutes to even move after Kirika had fled from the flat. She'd managed to gasp her partner's name, but shock had kept her rooted until long after that small, familiar figure had vanished from the doorway. Even when she could move again, she hadn't known what to do. Run after Kirika? Then what? Even if she somehow found the younger woman, what would she say? What could she possibly say to make up for something so terribly stupid? On autopilot, she picked up the glass she'd left on the window sill and returned it to the kitchen, putting it and a few other utensils in the dishwasher. Returning to the living room, the Corsican noticed dully that Kirika's backpack still leaned against the wall, zippers glinting mockingly in the overhead lights. Crossing to it, she lifted the weight carefully, hands almost hesitant to touch this private piece of her partner's life. I'm not worthy of her anymore. I shouldn't even be near this – Still, her fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, pulling the bag open and reverently lifting the stack of sketchbooks free. The one on top was achingly familiar, lead smudges taunting the part of her still faintly angry. Here was another secret. What else would Kirika have hidden from her in these plain pages? Setting the rest of the pads down, she cradled the special book to her chest, debating. Curiosity warred with instinctual shame. Kirika already had to hate her – what was the English saying? In for a penny, in for a pound. She couldn't get into any more trouble looking, could she? Carefully, slowly, she opened the front of the sketchbook – – and felt her heart stop, the floor dropping away beneath her. It was . . . her. The first page was a waist-up sketch in pencil, herself apparently standing in front of the dresser and smiling faintly, hand raised as though reaching to tuck a wavy lock of hair behind one ear. Stunned, Mirelle blinked, awed by the care and attention lavished on the drawing. Such complexity – she'd known Kirika was talented, but this was so far beyond anything she'd ever seen. It was absolutely beautiful. Turning the pages in a daze, Mirelle's shock grew. Every sketch was her. Mostly mechanical pencil, some inked over, but a vivid few in the vibrant hues of marker, colored pencil and pastels. Herself sleeping, making breakfast or tea, working on the computer or rolling poolballs across the table, laying in a sun lounger – they took her breath away. All of them were gorgeous, infinitely detailed, made by someone who had obviously spent hours adoringly studying her subject. How long had Kirika been drawing these? The blonde's hands shook, a fine trembling that swept straight through her. Slowly, she closed the sketchpad and set it atop the others, moving shakily to the couch. Kirika hadn't wanted her to see the book – but all the pictures were of her – why? Was Kirika afraid she would be angry? Was she embarrassed? She shouldn't be. Mirelle thought numbly. They're so beautiful. I love them – oh Kirika, you shouldn't be scared. I should never make you scared. Her throat tightened, eyes stinging suspiciously. Every fiber of her being hurt, filled with such pain it was almost a real ache. She wanted so badly to have Kirika here, to hug her and hold her, that it felt like an absolute physical need. The thought of Kirika being frightened of her was a stab to her heart. She knew what it was like to be afraid of the person she cared for most. No, you don't. Her subconscious broke in unexpectedly. You've never been afraid of Kirika, not truly. Scared of her actions, of the weapon they tried to make her into maybe, but not her. Not even the first time. The first time? Mirelle didn't quite understand. The first time she'd really met Kirika – it was at the construction site, wasn't it? What was she thinking of? There was something more there, the soft sounds of a hauntingly familiar melody teasing her senses into a longer version of an old memory . . . She was a child again, eight years old, standing in the doorway of the veranda in a dress and shiny buckle shoes, her hair tied back with a ribbon and her teddy bear held in one arm. She'd come looking for her family – Mama, Papa and Jean-Claude. They had been out here, Mama and Papa talking, Jean-Claude reading his favorite new English book. What she'd found was a massacre. Papa sprawled on the floor, his head tilted funny, white shirt soaked with the crimson spreading in pools across the pretty tiles. Mama was on the floor, too, her skirts twisted askew like she fell, one blood-spattered hand flung out in front of her; Jean-Claude lay half under her, slumped over, his book laying forgotten in another of the scarlet puddles. None of them were moving, and a sharp, acrid smell hung over everything. And standing in the middle of it, only a few feet away from her, was a little girl in overalls and a T-shirt, her shoes an odd shade of pink. Her small hands were wrapped around a heavy-looking gun, metal glinting in the light. She had a thick, dark mop of hair and golden tanned skin, her features delicate and pretty. And her eyes – The eyes were beautiful, soft brown with highlights of warm red. Their gazes locked, staring into each others' faces, and Mirelle was surprised to realize she felt absolutely no fear. She knew, even as a child, that this girl had killed her family. After all, she wasn't stupid; her parents and brother were obviously dead, shot by the gun the other child held. But caught in those amazing eyes, something deeper than rational thought was convinced this girl would never hurt her. The girl had lowered her hands already while they watched each other. Now she stowed the gun in her pocket, its heavy weight dragging at her pant leg, and looked up with an odd, solemn, almost shy expression. Her voice was quiet, musical as she spoke in English. "You – dropped your teddy bear." Stepping forward with catlike grace, she stooped and picked up the toy where it had tumbled forgotten to the ground, only inches from the spreading lake of crimson. She held it out by one plush arm, and a slightly surprised Mirelle reached out to take the other, tucking her stuffed companion in the crook of her elbow once more. "Thank you." She replied softly in the same language. She didn't want her bear bloody, after all. The fact that it was the blood of her parents and brother – almost her entire world – didn't seem to truly register yet. Looking up, she saw the child's gaze track across the floor, focusing on the silver pocket watch that had been her Papa's. It had fallen open when it hit the tiles, playing its pretty little melody into the deadly quiet. Mirelle leaned forward and scooped it up, the round weight cradled in her small free palm. After a few seconds, she held it out gravely. Somehow, she knew. "This – it's yours now, isn't it?" The girl nodded, as though the question weren't odd at all. Reaching out, she carefully took the open watch, her fingers brushing Mirelle's for a few strangely intense seconds. They stayed like that for a long moment, hands touching; then, almost reverently, the dark-haired child closed the lid, an audible click cutting off the soft music. "Thank you." She whispered, tucking the metal gently into one of her other pockets. Her gaze returned to Mirelle, and there was an edge of warmth there now, shy and soft sweetness just beneath the surface. She wasn't smiling, not exactly . . . but she wasn't not smiling, either. Whatever the emotion, her eyes glowed with it. Mirelle found herself not-smiling back, just a little – then the sound of running feet turned her head – her uncle's face appeared, his curly golden hair disheveled, eyes wide with horror and panic – the flash of sunlight on a gun barrel, then on a blade, while a strong arm yanked her backward – and the young girl spun and leapt away, the undone strap of her overalls swinging in a glittering arch – Back in the present, Mirelle gaped, shocked. She hadn't remembered all of that before – until their trial at the Manor, her memories had ended when she opened the door to the veranda and saw the death within. Since then, bits and pieces after that moment had flickered back into her thoughts, but nothing that clear or vivid. Somehow, the painful stress of the last few days – especially the last hour – must have brought it crashing back to the surface. And you still never feared her. You knew she would never hurt you. Her subconscious, soft and serious for once, was right enough to make Mirelle groan as she flopped back on the couch cushions. No, she had never feared Kirika, not even when she stood over the bodies of her family and stared face to face with their killer. Not even when she'd arrived at the Manor and fought the weapon they'd forged her partner into, knowing in the back of her mind and deep in her heart that Kirika would either return to her or kill her. Somehow, beyond anything intelligent or logical, she knew for certain Kirika would never hurt her intentionally. Unintentionally, though, it felt like she tried to drive a spike through my heart. The blonde Corsican sighed, her mind and emotions once again in a whirl. Seeing Kirika kissing Alexander had made her impossibly angry; infuriated, really, unable to think clearly and fighting for every ounce of control she managed to salvage. She didn't quite understand why, only that it made her want to scream and rant and throw things across the room in a fit like she hadn't had since she was a very small child. Then hearing those sharp, painful words thrown from her partner's beautiful mouth – it had been like pouring gasoline on a raging fire. But she still didn't understand how she could have been angry enough to lash out at Kirika that way. Boy, you really are emotionally dense. Her inner voice mocked. If it could have, Mirelle had a feeling her subconscious would be rolling its eyes. The only reason you slapped her was because your pissed-off pride was stronger than your passion right then. You had to touch her – how you did it was up in the air. What! The Corsican yelped in surprise, sapphire eyes wide, forgetting for a moment she was arguing with herself. I did not want – there was nothing passionate about it! Oh really? The reaction was a sarcastic snort. You don't think so? "Just because you want to cut yourself off from everything and stay cold and alone doesn't mean I have to!" Her hand shot out, aimed at that familiar, furious face. But instead of a slap, her fingers curled around a pointed chin, pulling Kirika's slender frame hard against hers. Mirelle kissed her hungrily, almost a little desperately, heart thundering and intoxicated with the feel of the younger woman's lips. It wasn't fair that anyone else would ever touch this gorgeous skin, this wonderful body. Kirika was hers! Hers, not some idiot from an art store that had no idea how beautiful and complex she really was. "Mine." She breathed, unable to manage a full sentence. "Mmmm." Kirika half-moaned in agreement, her voice trailing to a soft whimper as Mirelle sucked at her lower lip, drawing it into her mouth and teasing it with her tongue. The blonde wrapped her arms around the smaller girl's waist, pressing them tighter together. It felt so right, so very good – Mirelle's eyes fluttered, breath hitching in her chest as the fantasy flashed in her mind. It took quite a few minutes for her brain to put together a coherent denial. I – I would never – I wouldn't kiss Kirika! That's insane! Her subconscious sighed. Dense, opinionated, emotionally-stunted idiot. You wouldn't put up with this shit from anyone else, but you sure overlook it when it's your own faults. With a growl, the blonde Corsican slumped onto her back, lying across the couch and throwing one arm over her eyes. This was all so messed up – Kirika, her feelings, Mirelle's own conflicted feelings. It completely, utterly sucked. Quiet filled the room, a silence that was more uncomfortable than it should have been. For a few heartbeats, her pulse was all she heard. Then, softly, a familiar chiming noise began ringing through the air. Ching, ching ching ching. Mirelle stayed motionless, forearm still pressed to her eyes. She didn't want to answer the damned cell phone. Hell, she didn't even want to move. The world could just go the hell away for all she cared. But if it was Kirika calling – With a glower, the blonde sat up and reached for her cell, not even bothering to look at the front screen before flipping it open. Her greeting came tired and pained. "Hello?" "What the fuck did you do to warrant a hitman?" Andre's slightly panicked voice in her ear was loud enough to deafen her. Mirelle blinked, angst retreating a bit in confusion. "Andre?" "Who the hell do you think it is!" The detective demanded. "Never mind, I don't want to know. I really don't want to know. What the hell did you do?" Surprised in a dull sort of way, Mirelle decided not to point out he'd just contradicted himself. Andre very rarely cursed; anything that had him this worked up was probably important. "Calm down, Andre. What hitman are you talking about?" She could hear Andre give a low growl on the other end of the line, his teeth grinding together before he managed a deep breath to calm himself. "I just got a bit more intel on the criminal group Garrison's gotten involved with. They're bad news, Mirelle, and the rumor is that they've got some big plans for you and Kirika. One of their people is already here in Paris. Are you hearing me?" "I get it." Mirelle sighed. The last thing she even wanted to think about right now was Garrison and his idiocy. Still, it was – sweet, she guessed, that Andre cared enough to warn them. "Thanks for the warning." "We've actually got a picture. I'm e-mailing it to you now." The detective spoke low and tense, clicking in the background indicating his swift typing. Mirelle rolled her eyes in spite of herself, wishing she hadn't picked up at all. "This kid's supposed to be bad news. Smuggling, robbery, armed robbery, assault – a full sheet, as the Americans say." The laptop beeped, and Mirelle sighed, standing and moving in front of the monitor. Sure enough, her mail icon was blinking. Rolling the mouse, she double-clicked the envelope image, waiting patiently for the picture to load. "There's even some unproven extortion and murder charges. I still don't know how the New York cops got this shot – " Mirelle didn't answer, glancing up as the color snapshot finally flashed onto the screen. The cell phone slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, falling to the floor with a clattering thump. Andre's voice, distant and strained, blared questioningly from the small earpiece. "Mirelle? Mirelle, are you listening to me? Are you still there? Mirelle!" The blonde Corsican didn't make a move to retrieve it, body frozen in shock and stunned, creeping horror. Sapphire eyes stared unblinking at the image before her. She knew that lean frame, that brown hair and wood green eyes. And that face, especially that aristocratic face. She'd seen it only an hour before, tilted down to look at Kirika after the soft kiss that had started this mess. "Alexander." She breathed, the name like a low rush of fire. Her heart smoldered, embers fanning with the beginnings of all-consuming rage. Alexander – this was all his fault. He was a murderer, another assassin, a killer. And now Kirika was out there somewhere with him. As if on cue, the house phone rang shrilly. Smooth and strangely calm, Mirelle reached out and lifted the cordless handset to her ear. "Hello." A younger male voice spoke, only three short sentences. "Barns and Royal Warehouses in two hours. We have her. Don't be late." The other end of the line disconnected, and Mirelle pushed the end button with her thumb, then carefully set it back in the cradle. Andre was still speaking, yelling really, but it didn't matter. It was far away, not part of her reality anymore. Her eyes burned, sapphire flames lit from within. They had Kirika. They had taken what was hers. They were all dead. Every last one of them. And THIS is why no one should like Alexander. Asshat. (smirk) Though trust me when I say everyone will like him even less in the next chapter. Another sidenote: The 'memory' Mirelle has of her family's death and Kirika's coming into possession of the pocketwatch is taken from the doujinshi. Yeah, I know, I swore I wouldn't mix the two, but it's such an awesome memory I wanted to include it anyway.
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