Vendettas "Our primary objective is learning what Millet knows," Mireille briefed Kirika, who was seated sedately across from her in their private booth, her eyes lowered to the oily surface of the table in front of them, the cracks between each of its wooden panels caked with a build up of day's--or perhaps even month's--worth of grime. The small, gloomy and quite squalid bar Mireille had chosen to pass the daylight hours in was not the most sanitary or chic of drinking establishments she was accustomed to, but it was quiet with little to no clientele whatsoever, in spite of its seamy location deep in Paris' red light district. But it was only the afternoon, and Pigalle's red lights were dimmed or switched off completely, the majority awaiting the sun to fall and disappear below the horizon before replacing its warm, wholesome glow with a seedier sort. And the neon shine of those particular lights would attract patrons to the quarter like moths to flame. But for this hour of the day, Pigalle held little appeal except to only the most dedicated aficionados of the erotic arts, or perhaps more correctly, the most sleaziest of perverts. Mireille and Kirika were a good number of blocks away from the upmarket establishments offering tasteful and elegant exhibitions of bare flesh, and instead firmly entrenched in the region where the Corsican could have a sordid romp between the sheets with several one-time lovers all at once for merely a fistful of Euros. However, Millet's headquarters, a strip club quaintly named Slick Chicks--a fact that Mireille had confirmed from her sources early this morning--was to be found just a short yet shrewd distance along from the peaceful if grubby bar the blonde and her diminutive counterpart were in, nominating it as a viable staging point for their impending operation against the trifling crime boss and his paltry syndicate. Nevertheless, bringing Kirika into such an unsavoury environment had given Mireille pause--the girl did still retain some of her innocence that was yet to be corrupted or lost during the tortures of her harsh young life. But there had been very little choice in the matter; Kirika was Mireille's partner, and where the blonde went, the girl followed. They were a team. "Prior to that, however, we must confirm that he is actually in the building before we commit ourselves wholly." Mireille reached casually under her light lavender coat, readjusting her fully loaded Walther P99 pistol holstered against her left ribs. "But that's nothing one of his minions and a little... encouragement... can't provide," the woman went on, her hand lingering on her concealed firearm meaningfully for an instant while her gaze remained stationary on the table, mirroring Kirika's. Mireille's lips moved indiscernibly and she spoke in a low, soft voice, as not to arouse undesirable attention even in the virtually deserted bar. One never knew who could be eavesdropping, after all, and there was no reason why a member of Millet's gang wouldn't frequent the place despite the time of day. Yet to the idle onlooker, she and Kirika were just two young women having a quiet--and rather one-sided--chat, the words exchanged between them indistinguishable from formless mumbles. But even if the onlooker could make out Mireille and Kirika's speech, unless they were familiar with Japanese the two assassins' topic of discussion would continue to be a mystery. Of course it may be said that Mireille and Kirika could have avoided such precautions if the Corsican had opted to inform her partner on the mission's details in the security and privacy of their apartment. However, the woman had wanted to scout the exterior of Slick Chicks and get a positive visual on possible entrances into the club first before formulating a plan to disclose to her. The sole information Mireille had bestowed upon Kirika at their home had been the specifics about their target, Richard Millet, including a photo of the man so the girl could recognise and not mistakenly kill him before they could pump him for facts on their chief enemies; Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu. "We'll stick together, with our method of entry being via the alley to the building's rear," Mireille said, recalling the long passageway leading behind Slick Chicks from a street to the club's right flank. Entering by the front entrance would be pure foolishness--Millet was apparently considerably educated on her and Kirika; the doormen would undoubtedly be on the look out for their faces, especially after they had shot five of their fellow gangsters to death the previous night. "The same means will be used for withdrawal as well. That should theoretically keep encounters with non-combatants at a minimum." That was another--while albeit lessor--reason why Mireille did not want to take a more direct approach to getting inside Slick Chicks; she didn't want her and Kirika bumping into patrons or employees of the establishment. The blonde so detested it when bystanders got in the way of an assignment; it tended to cause things to become... complicated. If the poor unfortunates who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time caught a glimpse of her face, then... well, the less said about that the better. Suffice to say that one major tenet of being a contract killer her Uncle Claude had taught her was to leave no witnesses to a hit. "As I told you before Millet is strictly small-time, so expect resistance to be light," Mireille continued, banishing her foul-tasting memories back to the recesses of her mind. "Still, I'm not certain of the exact numbers inside, and don't want to rouse an overwhelming force directly against us if we can prevent it, so I've decided it would be sensible to go in quiet--in and out without so much as a hint of a whisper. I doubt that they will be expecting a reprisal from us so soon, either, which will work to our advantage." The woman paused to take a moment to wet her dry throat and refresh her voice with a drink of her mineral water, before she set the glass down on the booth's table again. "We'll move after sunset," she finished gravely. "There's a higher likelihood that Millet will be present in the club during its opening times at night than now during the day--he acts as the manager of the 'gentleman's' establishment. It means an increased likelihood of stumbling upon civilians, but it can't be helped." Mireille had considered putting off any retaliatory action against Millet and his men until a later date rather than tonight, perhaps to delve more meticulously into his background and hence into his resources--for example the arsenal available to his men--and in turn formulate a more comprehensive strategy to locate and grill the crime boss. But if the Corsican had selected that path, it would consequently give Millet further time to prepare for her and her partner's eventual strike, and the opportunity to catch him and his group unawares would fade as the days ticked by. On weighting the pros and cons between the two options, Mireille had concluded that surprise compensated for the lack of fine detail. Mireille at last looked up from the table at Kirika, the girl doing likewise at the blonde's movement. "Okay?" the woman asked in a louder, clearer voice, her expectant expression openly yet gently prompting for a response. "Mmm," Kirika uttered with a nod, her cute and innocent countenance and demeanour causing pangs along Mireille's normally hardened heartstrings. The experienced Corsican assassin watched with melancholic eyes as her partner picked up her soda and sipped the beverage through a straw, the introverted girl's gaze wandering around the dusty bar with an idle curiosity. Mireille then sighed softly and looked away as she retrieved her own drink from the table, taking several swallows from it. Such a soft-hearted girl like Kirika wasn't meant for this unforgiving life. She should have the lifestyle of a normal girl her age; instead of being subjected to cold data for their latest assignment from Mireille, she should be listening to educational lectures from teachers in high school. Furthermore her daily concerns should be those of an average girl too, like exams and boys. Well maybe not boys, Mireille mentally amended with a wry smile. But the fact remained Kirika had been pushed into the life of an assassin; it had never been her decision to be a killer; a contrast to Mireille. The blonde wondered how things would have turned out if Altena hadn't aspired to revive Noir. Would she and Kirika have even met? ...Probably not. Mireille and Kirika would most likely be leading exceptionally mundane lives in separate countries. Mireille mused whether she would be willing to trade the existence she had now with Kirika for that alternate one. Her family would be alive, and she would no doubt be still in Corsica whiling away the lazy days on her parents' estate. Kirika would be with her own family, too, perhaps. And neither would be assassins; neither would have known the cruel life they had to live now. Still, Mireille would have never partnered up with Kirika, they would have never known each other... and they would have never fallen in love. If that alternate existence were to become a reality, it could be said that it would harbour a tragedy as great as their present existence possessed... maybe even a greater one. Perhaps Mireille should be thankful to Altena for ruining both her and Kirika's lives at such a young age. Mireille put down her water and flicked some of her blonde locks over her right shoulder in mild irritation. She had never considered herself a romantic, and usually would not waste time on such frivolous contemplations. But as she was beginning to realise these days, being in love had a way of changing a person. It could be a little frightening sometimes; certainly, Mireille had been quite shocked at her behaviour and thoughts on several occasions... that was, when could discern that she *should* be shocked--oft times her mind viewed her uncharacteristic actions and feelings as completely natural. However, that fear was starting to grow fainter, to a point where Mireille didn't mind the changes that much at all anymore. Indeed, after realising her neglect of Kirika, she even welcomed them now--they made her a better person. And Mireille wanted to become a better person for Kirika; she wanted to live up to the grand image of herself she saw reflected in the brown depths of the girl's lovely eyes. Mireille wanted to truly be the woman she knew Kirika looked up to her as... and loved her as. Suddenly overcome by a rush of affection she desperately needed to convey to Kirika, Mireille focused her gaze on the petite girl. "Kirika," she spoke tenderly, attracting her partner's roaming eyes to hers. After seeing that she had gotten her counterpart's attention, Mireille leaned slightly forwards and tentatively extended a hand across the table, carefully taking Kirika's glass of soda from her grasp and placing it to one side while the girl watched, bemused. Then, following another moment of mild uncertainty, Mireille's fingertips brushed delicately against Kirika's right palm, before the woman took hold of her partner's dainty hand outright in a gentle grip, covering it with her own and eliciting a blink and short peep of surprise from her fellow assassin. She lowered their clasped hands to the surface of the table, Kirika's beneath hers as the girl looked on in what appeared to be wonder, and then strengthened her grasp, giving her partner's hand a warm squeeze. "Kirika," Mireille repeated fondly with a supportive smile, gazing solemnly into Kirika's exquisite eyes, "you know you can talk to me about anything, don't you?" "Mmm," Kirika replied, nodding slightly with a rather puzzled expression on her face, her eyes staring a little vacantly into the blonde's blue ones. Mireille sighed and her smile faltered some, unsure whether her partner truly understood what she meant. She was aware that if Kirika had been more open with her they might have averted both of the girl's breakdowns last night... that was, if the inconsiderate Corsican had been willing to act on the early warning, of course. However, a ready exchange of dialogue was regrettably not a feature that their relationship was high on. Mireille wanted to change this facet of their partnership. While she knew Kirika better than anyone, she wasn't a mind reader. Kirika was so withdrawn and had a propensity to keep all her thoughts close to her chest, leaving Mireille to gauge how she was feeling through other means, such as through the girl's body language and behaviour, which on occasion had turned out to be unreliable. The blonde knew that her partner would probably always be relatively introverted--it was deep-seated in her character, her nature--but she at least wanted Kirika to open her heart and mind to *someone*. And obviously that 'someone' should be Mireille--as if it could be anybody else? Their life as assassins may be cruel, but Mireille wanted to help Kirika through it any way she could, in one part as her partner in arms who watched her back, and in another as her closest--or more accurately, sole--confidant who provided emotional support. However, the latter would be better served if Kirika permitted Mireille to sometimes glimpse what was behind those docile brown eyes of hers. As a result, the woman sought to coax her out of her taciturn shell... the sooner the better. Mireille's smile reinforced itself, and she stroked her thumb softly across the back of Kirika's hand. "I mean it. You can talk to me about anything at all," she tried again, "your troubles, your thoughts, your feelings; *anything*, no matter what it is." Kirika looked down at where her hand was being caressed by Mireille's and then returned her gaze to the blonde, a small smile brightening her features. It made her appear much like the ordinary girl she deserved to be, one who had just been delighted by someone she held in high regard. "I know, Mireille," she intoned quietly, seeming to draw out her partner's name reverently in the Corsican's ears. Mireille's smile became especially affectionate, bolstered by the heart-warming vision in front of her eyes. It had been a simple answer, but coming from Kirika, it was more than enough. Before she knew what she was doing, the woman gently interlaced the fingers of her left hand with Kirika's right, locking them smoothly together until their palms touched each other's. Mireille felt Kirika tighten her grasp at the same instant she did, their fingers linking even more strongly, both young women still gazing deeply into one another's eyes, as if attempting to delve into the other's very soul. It was the first time they shared the intimacy of holding hands--truly holding hands--and oddly, despite the relative simplicity of the act, Mireille's heart swelled blissfully in her chest. Looking into Kirika's captivating brown eyes now, she felt closer to her than she had in a long while, and she was certain the darkhaired girl felt the same way too. Mireille lifted their clasped hands off the booth's table and into the air above it, their elbows propped on its greasy surface. Looking at their coupled hands, the woman saw the genuine reality behind their relationship. She and Kirika were joined, tied together. Their lives, their hearts--they were one. If the alternate reality she had deliberated on earlier were to come about, she was positive that she and Kirika would meet one day, somehow and someplace, despite the odds against it... and they would eventually grow to feel the same way they did now. Mireille didn't believe in things like fate and soulmates, but here and now, she could seriously become a convert. In the past, they had been connected by the ancient and feared title of Noir, two killers surpassing all others, but Mireille realised what bound them now was something far greater than a mere legend. It was love. And it was wonderful. ****** "Great. Back to this dump. Ich," Vin complained vehemently as he entered the room he shared with his partner, Ryosuke, in the small boarding house on the outskirts of Paris. He stopped near the centre of the cramped two-bedded room, planting his hands on his hips huffily and screwing his mouth up in distaste while he looked around their meagre lodgings, clearly despising the sights that greeted him. "I don't know which I hate more; wandering the dirty streets of the city fruitlessly, or returning to this crap hole!" Ryosuke walked into the room behind Vin, his expression stony, ignoring his fussy companion's grumbling. He had heard it all before. Nevertheless, Vin's incessant moaning was starting to test even Ryosuke's stoic patience. The triad member was well aware of the reasons why they had to endure these premises yet in spite of that he insisted on moaning about the quality of their accommodations, nitpicking over every little thing again and again, repeating his tired tirade each and every time he came into the room. He was becoming entirely too used to a pampered existence these days; Vin seemed to be slowly but surely forgetting his modest roots... and that was something one ought to never forget. One must always hold family--be it one's blood or adopted kin--with the utmost reverence, close to one's heart where it could not be befouled by the corruption of the outside world. But of course, any disloyalty amongst family would shatter those sacred bonds and forfeit that reverence without the slightest leniency... and kindred who had betrayed their own were to be regarded with the purest abhorrence one could muster, something Ryosuke was very familiar with. "God, would you look at this?" Vin whined as he looked down at the television set positioned on the table a short distance from the end of the two single beds, unwelcomely breaking into Ryosuke's thoughts. The black-haired man raised his head to share his latest annoyance with his partner, a frown of irritation plastered on his face. "Look, I just noticed that the TV is bolted to the damn table!" Vin revealed, gesturing roughly at the offending appliance with his hands. He turned back to the television and then shook his head in apparent gall, his mouth hanging half open. "What, does that old bat of a landlord think we'd swipe this piece of shit hunk of junk?! I don't even know what bloody era it was made in, for god's sake!" Vin spat out another heated curse and banged the side of the TV with his hand, rattling the device--but not moving it even a millimetre from its location on the table--before thankfully whirling away from the sight. He threw his head back and covered his eyes with a forearm, gritting his teeth as if he was experiencing an immense discomfort. "I wanna go home," he sniffled pathetically, "this place smells like old people, too. I can't stand it!" Ryosuke, sensing that Vin was done--for now, at any rate--shut the room's door, wondering if the 'old bat' had heard his partner's rant. The white-haired assassin then eased himself down into the only chair available; a rickety, unvarnished straight-backed wooden chair by the door that would have burrowed some severe splinters under his skin if not for the protection of his unique coat. Splinters or bullets, it was all the same. Ryosuke turned his head a fraction to the solitary window in the room, noting the dying rays of sunlight filtering through the dust-lined blinds while Vin flopped onto his back on his bed with a wretched whimper, his arm remaining over his eyes. Deciding that it was safe, he pulled off his circular blue-tinted sunglasses, slipping them away inside his coat. It had been an exceptionally vibrant, sunny day today, the sort that Ryosuke reviled the most. If not for his sunglasses, he doubted whether he would have been able to go outside at all; his eyes did not take kindly to bright light when his mind was in the throes of its throbbing torment--it amplified the pain. Not that his and Vin's most recent expedition out into the archaic parts of Paris had been worth the bother. Despite the two Soldats operatives' focus now being diverted away from them, allowing them improved freedom to move around and search, still they had discovered nothing. No item, no leads--no trace. Hiring that fool's men, laying low in a simple room for rent in an elderly Parisian's dilapidated house on the fringes of the capitol--it had all been for nothing. Ryosuke sighed softly. He wanted to go home, too. "That kid's back again," Vin suddenly said in a quiet voice, one far different from his previous whining tone, and one that captured Ryosuke's interest. Ryosuke looked in Vin's direction and observed that he was still lying flat on his back on the bed with his eyes veiled, and then returned his gaze to the window, catching a shadow of movement partially obscuring the fading beams of dusk on the other side of the grimy horizontal blinds. With the silence of the room, the black-clad man could also make out the shuffling of feet just outside the window, proving beyond doubt that Vin was correct. For all of his juvenile antics, Vin was in fact a highly skilled hitman with keenly honed senses--he was at Ryosuke's side for a definite reason. Ryosuke sharply stood up from his rocky chair, his abrupt movement prompting Vin to shift his forearm higher on his head and peer at his comrade through half-lidded eyes. "Let's go," Ryosuke said simply, knowing that his intentions would be perfectly clear to Vin. He was weary of scouring Paris for Dominique's benefit and it was clear his partner had been too for a considerable length of time; they needed a short, temporary diversion. The young man snooping around outside their room had been dropping by the boarding house regularly the past couple of days, sometimes even venturing inside and surreptitiously asking the aged landlord probing questions, but judging by his ineptitude in spying, was indubitably *not* Soldats property. And if that wasn't enough evidence, Ryosuke had in addition caught a handful of fleeting looks of his and Vin's amateur stalker... and the accumulation of glimpses had not left the impression of a knowledgeable shadow. But whoever he was, he appeared to have an interest in Ryosuke and Vin's activities. And that was more than enough for the black-garbed assassin to act on. It was probably nothing, however--most likely a nosy teenager prying into their business out of boredom or to appease a personal fetish, but at the very least it would give Ryosuke and his partner something to take their frazzled minds off of their insufferable mission for one or two hours. Vin merely blinked at his reticent brother-in-arms for a second, and then sat up quickly, his surprised countenance saying it all. He started to open his mouth to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and instead eagerly hopped off the bed and onto his feet. "Guess I better wear black..." he said with a lopsided grin, his nimble fingers undoing the knot in his gaudy orange tie. ****** Mireille ducked deftly and unnoticeably into the murky alley behind Slick Chicks from the brightly lit street bordering it, Kirika mirroring her quick manoeuvre in a blur of motion. The two assassins then rested just inside the alleyway, its deep shadows concealing them and hence any of their actions from curious eyes. The sun had set several hours ago, and Pigalle was now fully open for business, luring all manner of sleaze out from the stones they dwelled under during the daylight hours... and also drawing Mireille and Kirika out from their dingy barroom hideaway. Slick Chicks had opened, and it was time for the Corsican and her partner to make their move. Mireille pulled out her Walther from its holster under her coat and then retrieved its covert counterpart from a pouch on the opposite side of her gun harass, affixing the silencer to the weapon's barrel. Kirika did likewise, attaching a silencer to her own pistol too, before nodding to the blonde, signalling to the woman that she was all set. But instead of commencing the next step of the operation, Mireille simply looked at Kirika for a few moments, gazing into her eyes and wordlessly gauging if she truly was ready--and she wasn't referring to the girl's hardware. However, Kirika met the blonde's stare unshakably, albeit with a slight tension around her eyes, making them appear a little harder than usual. Determined. And not all apprehensive. Kirika had apparently honestly settled whatever issues she'd had with their line of work on her own. Still, Mireille wished she could have assisted her in finding a resolution to her problems. Mireille at last inclined her head in answer to Kirika's gesture, and then made her way deeper into the alley, towards the light at the far end where the rear entrance to Millet's base resided, her gun remaining drawn. She skulked down the passageway with Kirika at her back, their many footfalls noiseless despite the pair's hurried pace. The alley was wide, wide enough for three people to traverse abreast in spite of the dumpsters and trashcans spilling over with rotting rubbish that piled up at the mould-covered bases of the receptacles, lining the edges of the passage. It provided the assassins with welcome freedom to pick out and utilise the gloom of the darkest spots in the alleyway, the pair of them weaving from one pitch-black shadow to another as they moved closer to Slick Chicks' backdoor at the end of the left hand wall. Being adept at stealthy approaches and other such covert practices was a prime requisite to being a professional killer, and both young women were exceedingly proficient in all methods of silent death. They were but the fleeting shadows of ghosts. Before long Mireille and Kirika were on the fringes of the corona of light that shone feebly from the lone bulb stuck above the battered metal door to Millet's strip club. The duo halted there, crouched low, assessing the route ahead... and the obstacles that lurked there. Mireille espied two sentries--both male--dressed with similar flair to the gangsters that had ambushed her and Kirika in the Metro last night, one standing on either side of the door. Getting past them quietly wouldn't be very much bother at all, but unfortunately they had to at least keep one alive to tell them whether or not Millet was in the seamy establishment tonight. And killing a single guard without his friend alerting the rest inside Slick Chicks with shouts for help would be... tricky. Mireille and Kirika would need to subdue the surviving sentry a mere split second after slaying his companion or their current stealth advantage against Millet's syndicate would be lost. While Mireille was pondering whether or not to simply shoot both guards and find another to interrogate inside the building, even if that meant more or less committing her and Kirika to proceeding further in the operation, the gangster nearest the assassins exchanged brief and muted words too low to hear with his comrade, and then abandoned his post by the club's backdoor. For a moment alarm gripped the Corsican and she held her breath anxiously as the guard strolled towards her and her partner's location, but a couple of metres before he was upon them he instead turned to face a gap between two rusty and graffiti-vandalised dumpsters. The guard then reached down to his crotch and the sharp sound of a zipper being undone permeated the alley, before it was traded for the pitter-patter of liquid hitting pavement and refuse as the man relieved himself. Mireille looked at Kirika beside her, knowing that precisely the same thought was flowing through the girl's astute mind as was flowing through her own--this was an chance they were not likely to get again. Quickly but quietly, the blonde assassin gestured with a hand signal for her partner to move across the alley to the right, which the dutiful girl readily obeyed. Mireille's blue eyes flicked to Kirika for a second as she scurried silently and swiftly through the darkness, her purple pleated skirt fluttering about her trim, lithe legs. She cleverly situated her waif-like body behind the end of a dumpster flush with the passageway's wall and still outside the pool of light. It placed Kirika in a position of concealment from the sentries yet allowed her a broad view of area and consequently granted her the comforting capability to give her partner full defensive coverage when the woman eventually ventured out from the shelter of the shadows. Mireille was in safe hands. Mireille returned her attention to the pair of guards, most notably on the sentry behind the one obliviously whistling a soft tune as he urinated on a now soggy stack of old newspapers. In a lucky break, that particular gangster seemed to be taking the opportunity to have a cigarette while his friend was absent, his gaze directed downwards and away from the Corsican's location as he searched his pants' pockets for something, most probably a light. Seeing that the coast was as clear as it was ever going to get, Mireille very, very cautiously took a step out of the murk she was hiding in and into the circle of light cast by the sole bulb over the backdoor, the hunched blonde's edgy blue eyes shifting warily back and forth between the two distracted guards as she moved. She chose her footsteps extremely carefully as she silently approached the guard closest to her, staying out of his peripheral vision and making sure to plant her boot soles on clean asphalt or at least not on any of the objects littering the ground that would make a sound, such as shards of broken glass. Meanwhile the experienced assassin kept her breathing relaxed and controlled, lest the whispering wheeze of air passing in and out of her lungs gave her away. Despite the heavy stress of the situation, Mireille remained perfectly calm, the palm of the hand firmly holding her gun not even developing the slightest hint of perspiration. This was what the woman did for a living--and she did it well. Mireille had numerous years of practice under her belt, years that had contained countless contracts she had fulfilled with flying colours. This was a walk in the park for her. She was as cool as an artic wind. Right when Mireille was close enough behind the whistling sentry to reach out and tap him on the shoulder if she so desired, a man's voice froze her in her tracks, her eyes snapping instantly to the origin of the ominous sound and her trigger finger twitching. "Hey, you got a ligh--" The second guard's voice was rudely cut off as a silenced 9mm bullet struck him in the face just as he raised his head to look in Mireille and his friend's direction, the brutal shot bowling him over and sending his unlit cigarette flying from his mouth. Blood splattered against the light bulb over the back entrance to Slick Chicks, its puddle of illumination filling the end of the alley becoming spotted with dim patches in places. The remaining gangster ceased whistling and started to turn his head towards where his now dead companion once stood, but the sudden threatening pressure of hard metal digging into the back of his skull halted the movement, the muscles in his entire body becoming taut. "Don't move," Mireille whispered from behind the guard, pressing the silenced barrel of her Walther P99 harder into his head to underline her command. "Can I at least zip up...?" the sentry-turned-hostage asked tentatively, his hands still down by his groin. "No," the Corsican assassin said unemotionally after a short pause, as if she had genuinely been considering his appeal--which of course she hadn't been. She had the goon at her mercy, but that didn't mean he still couldn't somehow gain the upper hand. Even the most innocuous-seeming of requests had the potential to switch the roles of captor and captive in a blink of an eye. Just because Mireille was the one with the gun didn't mean she was all-powerful... that particular reality had led to the downfall of many women and men in similar scenarios such as this over the years. No, when one became a prisoner, one forfeited all of their rights to do *anything*. And besides, his back was to Mireille and Kirika; there was no chance the blonde's naïve partner would see anything she shouldn't. The guard sighed, his shoulders relaxing a tad. "Damn, you're better than I'd thought," he commented ruefully. "I guess Rousseau wasn't talking shit after all." "We have an appointment with Mr. Millet," Mireille said with a rather menacing timbre in her voice as Kirika emerged from the shadows behind her, the sharp girl arranging herself at an angle that covered the captured goon and the backdoor of the club in the problematic case anybody decided to pay a visit to the alleyway. "Is he in?" "Yeah..." the gangster admitted in a guarded tone, "yeah he is." "Thank you," Mireille said rather breezily, and then sent a round from her pistol into the man's brain. The sentry toppled forwards and landed in the space between the two dumpsters he had been relieving himself in, his face making a deadened splat as it hit wet garbage. The mission was a go, much to Mireille's satisfaction. She hadn't told Kirika, but after grilling Millet for all he was worth she intended to kill him. While she usually followed the tenet that stated to always strictly view an assignment from a professional slant with religious adherence, if the blonde were honest with herself she knew she had a personal vendetta she sought to settle with Millet. Mireille was aware she should distance herself from feelings of revenge, but she was of Corsican blood; the craving for vengeance flowed in her very veins. And that said blood had been spilt under Millet's orders--the woman's trio of scars masked under a layer of foundation burned at the bitter memory. But her negligible injuries made up merely the smallest part of her desire for retribution. Millet's ambush last night had--although perhaps indirectly--caused Kirika to shed precious tears. Make no mistake; Mireille was not seeking someone else to pass the blame to for what was exclusively her inexcusable failure. Millet and his now dead would-be hitmen *had* played a role in upsetting Kirika, even if it was a minor one. Still, maybe Mireille was simply looking for a way to alleviate her own guilt in regards to neglecting her partner, and Millet and his syndicate were easy targets. In any case, the Corsican assassin had to make the crime boss pay for the pain he had caused Kirika... for the pain they had caused them *both*. Yet this was only the first of Mireille's vendettas to resolve; Ryosuke and Vincent had a great deal to answer for themselves. Mireille turned away from the corpse of the gangster she had slain and looked at Kirika, before motioning with her head towards the rear entrance of Slick Chicks, her eyes glancing over the girl for a second to make sure no one was coming down the opposite end of the alley as they had done. Kirika nodded, and then the pair of assassins prowled to the dented metal door, each young woman still picking their footsteps wisely for maximum stealth. Kirika positioned herself to the right of the door, favouring the unmoving body of the other guard beside it with a dispassionate and momentary look as Mireille gripped the handle, preparing to enter the headquarters of their target. The blonde pushed the door an inch open--mildly surprised to find it unlocked--and then peeked cautiously inside. On the other side of the door was a corridor with grey concrete walls in a state of disrepair; cracks, and in some places, whole chunks of stone missing. Closed doors painted in a sickening dark brown were dotted along the right hand wall, while the left hand wall was broken in its centre by an adjoining hallway. The corridor was lit weakly by a series of light bulbs dangling from the ceiling--which was in the same if not worse condition as the walls--but the soft illumination was enough for Mireille to see that the passage concluded with a dead end. Meanwhile flickering light came from the intersecting hallway, and an electrical discharge could be heard periodically crackling in sync with it. The blonde assassin could make out no telltale shadows of people standing guard in the corridors, however, nor could she hear any suspicious noises bar the electric sparking and the muffled beat of sordid music, the latter no doubt from the area where the main attractions of the strip club were currently well underway, to the pleasure of its clientele. Mireille opened the door fully and then flitted inside Slick Chicks, Kirika tailing and shutting the door noiselessly behind them without so much as a click. She treaded carefully forwards, her shoulder almost brushing the left hand wall as she kept her eyes on the hallway junction, sometimes sparing a look at the doors on the opposite wall as she and her partner passed by. It was all too easy... worryingly so. Mireille had expected a little more security inside Slick Chicks than absolute zero. Still, Millet's gang was relatively petty in size and aptitude, and the Corsican and Kirika did have the element of surprise on their side. Plus it was also a business night; Millet's men were probably out where the club's strippers were, watching over them... or perhaps instead like most of the punters, enjoying their company. Mireille stopped by the intersection and discreetly poked her head around the corner, checking whether anybody was in the other corridor. Finding no one, she prepared to go on, but caught sight of the label stuck on the door several metres along from the junction in the first hallway: 'Manager'. Deeming that Millet's office was the best place to start looking for him, Mireille darted across the hallway to it with Kirika following her, the darkhaired assassin planting her back against the wall next to the door, vigilantly keeping an eye out for threats from the neighbouring corridor. Mireille cracked the office door open the tiniest margin as to reduce the chance of alerting anybody inside, loose flakes of cracked brown paint fluttering to the floor accompanying the prudent action. She then peered through the miniscule gap between the doorjamb and the door, sighting no clear presence of anybody, Millet or otherwise. Taking a risk, she opened the door completely, making sure she did so as slowly as possible to prevent forewarning creaks, and then entered the office. Millet's office was like any other, albeit a bit cramped and untidy. The only thing that attracted Mireille and Kirika's attention was the expensive leather chair behind the large mahogany desk at the end of the room. The chair was swivelled around so the back was facing them, its occupant apparently oblivious to his dangerous visitors and the pair of pistols being brandished in his direction. By all accounts it appeared as though Mireille and Kirika had found their target, the manager of Slick Chicks; Richard Millet. Mireille took a silent step forwards, reaching out with her free hand to rotate the chair and Millet around to meet her and Kirika, but then suddenly froze, her instincts screaming. Kirika turned her head slightly to the left as her eyes did likewise, back to the office's open doorway. She felt it too. Mireille hurled herself at the desk and shoulder-rolled over it, scattering its contents of papers, pens and folders everywhere as automatic gunfire ripped into the office from behind her and her partner. A myriad of bullets traced the woman's path a second after her, pounding holes into the floor and the polished surface of the desk, wood chips and carpet fibres being flung haphazardly into the air. Mireille hit the floor in a crouch behind the sturdy desk's set of drawers, and then stuck her Walther above it and over her head, firing a series of blind shots at her and Kirika's unseen assailant. The hail of bullets paused for an instant as the shooter took cover, and Mireille quickly took the temporary reprieve to anxiously check on Kirika's whereabouts and condition. She saw that her partner was taking shelter behind a silver file cabinet to her right, the petite girl sitting with her back against the piece of office furniture, looking perfectly composed with her Beretta M1934 at the ready. Kirika's head turned to Mireille and she met the woman's concerned gaze for a moment, silently relaying with her expressive brown eyes that she was all right. A volley of renewed automatic fire showered the front and side of the cabinet and interrupted Mireille and Kirika's unspoken exchange, bullets sparking off its metal casing and the sounds of incalculable ricochets flooding the room with their sharp, high-pitched cacophony. But Mireille's heart rested easy in her chest; Kirika was fine. Now the Corsican had to worry about the next important matter at hand, that and the one presently saturating her and her partner's position with hot lead. Several rounds from the gunman struck the leather chair next to Mireille, spinning it around wildly as stuffing burst from its ruptured hide and revealing what the blonde assassin already knew--it was empty. Millet had known she and Kirika were coming, in spite of Mireille's decision to attempt a prompt payback. One of his men had to have been watching them earlier today in the bar, or perhaps even as far back as when they had entered Pigalle--Millet supposedly owed a sizable lump of it, after all. Or maybe the false Noir had somehow aided the small-time gang; that seemed to be more realistic considering the insignificant organisation Mireille and Kirika were dealing with. Ryosuke and Vincent were apparently well-informed about the 'True Noir'. At least they still didn't appear to know where Mireille and Kirika lived, since the pair had yet to be attacked in their apartment. Thank goodness for small favours, thought Mireille sardonically as more bullets riddled the desk she was hiding behind, their dull and heavy impacts rocking the piece of furniture. A thick wedge of mahogany was suddenly blown off the bottom of the desk and a spray of wood dust stained the ruined carpet next to the blonde as she sighed, ejecting the clip in her pistol to inspect its level. It was blatantly clear that stealth and surprise were out the window and she and Kirika were to face a full on fight. Mireille smiled grimly. But that was acceptable. The vendetta against Millet could easily be extended to include his entire syndicate as well. ****** Kirika looked at Mireille as a torrent of bullets tore into a packed bookshelf, raining bits of paper from the ravaged books down on the woman's blonde head like snowflakes. This was what Kirika had been waiting for, a chance to exercise her purpose in life. A chance to prove her loyalty and dedication to her partner and love. A chance to prove that her tainted existence had been bestowed a noble function at last, after more than a decade of committing grievous wrongs. <But to protect means to kill....> Kirika bowed her head. She knew that. But she wouldn't hesitate, not again. Already Mireille was sporting wounds that could have been avoided if Kirika had simply acted. Never. Never again. Mireille would escape this den of sinners without receiving so much as a scratch. Kirika would see to it. Kirika slowly and resolutely cocked back the hammer of her pistol as a barrage of automatic fire surrounded her, the darkhaired girl holding her weapon securely in both hands. It felt light and warm, as if it were invigorated by its true and worthy purpose... much like its wielder was. She would defend her love utterly from all those who opposed the woman, and no sinner in this world would sully her celestial purity while her guardian lived. After all, who was better suited to protecting an angel of the light than a demon of the darkness; part of it, a sinner herself who knew that malignant bleakness very intimately. <Sometimes the most effective weapon against the darkness is the darkness itself....> ****** To be continued.... Author's ramblings: Umm... hmm. I don't think I have anything to say this time.
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