The Watchman Unreal. There was simply no other word that was fitting, or could describe her situation better. Mireille fought back the small urge to twirl her long, golden hair around her index finger, a small habit of discomfort she had picked up during her sweet, but short childhood on the Corsican island. A habit that had been drilled out by her stepmother's gentle, yet strict hands later when she had arrived in France, led by kin, or a friend to her real parents. She could clearly recall the woman's face, her tired, but strong profile that had really been nothing like Mireille's own. Rich brown hair, sharply shortened at her shoulders framing a face that carried the wrinkles of grief, eroded to softness by time like her no doubt once vibrant spirit. She harboured no love for the woman. Not out of spite or maltreatment but simply because it didn't fit with the image she had formed during the years in the house. It had been a few brief years, years that had consisted more of schooling and training than play and joy. Still, with no clear memories of her biological parents or whereas their fates had been, the years spent on the French countryside were a few of the peaceful and memorable ones in her life. Her 'Mama' had not been a kind woman, neither was she mean or bad in any other way Mireille could have named at that age. She was a teacher, an instructor; she had fed, clothed and schooled her. That had been her duty and purpose and there were simply no more or less to it. There had been very little love, but certainly no displeasure at the young Mireille's presence. When she had arrived at the small house, with its apple trees and vineyard, well overgrown by blooming cling-plants and cats, she had been lost. No matter how hard she tried, she could simply not remember how or why she had gotten there. The memories had become blurred and paled with time, the smells and impressions no longer as vivid as once; still, she knew there had been a hand, a steady, warm grip around her own smaller one. There had been no pain, or indication to that she was unwished for, hurt or anything unpleasant. There was only the iron grip, of determination and natural strength, as she was led towards her new home, where she would come to spend most of her early childhood. Mireille, despite her present occupation, could still recall how she had been then; something of a lost kitten, far too inexperienced and young, stumbling around on her unsteady feet. Making mistakes became something of a daily routine where Mama would reprimand her, often with a stiff remark, followed with a gentler nod when she corrected herself. In her memories, the woman had with endless patience taught and bore with her, taking in the curious, but fragile child she had been into her home without a word of protest. But still, with little or no love at all. Until a blonde, kind-looking man, who introduced himself as her uncle - her real maternal relative - had one day showed up at the heavy wooden door, and yet again led her away by hand, to never return to the house which she forever would relate to as her first home. Now, with a feeling of d‚j… vu, she found herself going through the same ordeal that probably had been her stepmother's feat so many years ago. Watching her new found 'roommate', she could only stare, if not laugh at how the girl before her was trying to dry off the dishes. She chose to hide her amusement however, while she did not know much about vampires, she preferred not to do anything that could provoke one. With the wash cloth in one hand, the Asian girl handled her cheap, bazaarpurchased plates like if they were the finest china, drying each and one of them off carefully inch by inch before putting them down beside the sink. While the concept of having a monster in her home, or even one drying her dishes for her, would have seemed as alien as a Mars invasion a few weeks ago. The blonde had to acknowledge that both of them as promised, had settled into a routine where the vampire girl helped her on various tasks throughout the days while she was trying to track any trails relating to the pocket watch. But first, the routine of everyday life had to be learned, which had been a completely foreign thing to Kirika. It was to the blonde's amusement, but also distress over the number of broken things. While Mireille was pouring every notch of her contact net into tracking down every skilled craftsman in Paris that could name or know about the mysterious watch that had saved her from certain doom. Kirika, as the blonde now called her by name, spent most of her time in the apartment on things far too trivial for what one would expect from a vampire, sitting by the window for hours at end. It had taken a few days before the blonde realized, with a flicker of guilt, why. She had returned from a meeting with one of her informants one evening to find the girl lying across her floor, her hands more or less clutched into claws as she had let out one series after another of dreadful coughs. Her usual pale face almost reduced to bloodless as she had been soaked through with sweat, shivering and shaking as if she had been laid out to die in a snowstorm rather than a warm autumn afternoon in France. Her breaths had been a rasping sound like sand hammering against metal, the deep, reddish brown eyes thinned into slits, flicking back and forth in something that could only be unbearable pain. It didn't take much time for the blondeto figure out what the cause was. She had tried to remove the watch. While being grateful for having the solid protection against Kirika, she could do nothing but feel guilty about the horrors it caused her. It was certainly not pleasant to watch, but it was her only insurance, a feeling which they both loathed but understood. Kirika's expression had been as neutral as ever while Mireille had helped her up and more or less made her more presentable than the pitiful state she had been found in. The blonde could not help but feel the boding of dread run down her spine as the reddish gaze had landed on her, and she was sure, that had the watch been gone that instant, she would have been the one lying on the floor, with an outcome far more deadly than the vampire's. But still, despite all the likeness of a child learning the world, despite mistakes that sometimes threatened to become cute, she could not - and would not - deny what went, ate and slept in her once impenetrable sanctuary. Kirika's nature and usefulness were to be respected, if she wanted to see this through with her life intact. The ally she had sought was an indeed a powerful one, but it was power borrowed and not to be taken for granted. The dark-haired girl's original mission in being in her home was not to be forgotten. Making a pact with her was taking a risk so big that normally, Mireille wouldn't have given it a thought, much less a promise. A promise, and a verbal one of all things, between a killer and a monster. No fool, or even the most low-headed syndicate goon would probably have honoured it, but she had to. The deal had more or less been set at the same time as Kirika had entered her home, or when she had fired the first bullet. The other possible scenario would be letting the girl go, removing the watch and merely hoping that the vampire wouldn't attempt another nightly visit, which was as reassuring as anything close to her profession. Of course, there had been a point in allying with the girl, with her existence sitting by her window as the proof, she couldn't deny the possibility that there were more of them. And seeing how the girl had fought, her company would be more than an unnerving comfort, but a lifeguard if the situation should arise. The puzzle of the pocket watch had been no lie, and she buried herself in the starting phase of the task with her usual fervour regarding work. Even if the end of the matter was much lesser, or nothing but a real coincidence played by fate, she would at least have had time to observe the girl, who may potentially be the most dangerous foe she had ever made. If Kirika turned against her, she would have the watch, and its mysterious power over the girl. If she did not, and remained until the end of their promise, she would hopefully have gained valuable information on how to fight, and maybe kill her. It was a risky game. The bets on her side were far too high for her usual taste, but really, she didn't have a choice. Whatever she had started, she would have to finish. CRASH ...given that they would ever be finished with the dishes of course. Mireille discarded the shards of another plate into her dustbin as the dark-haired girl beside her watched with a face that was more curious than guilty. Honestly, the blonde couldn't really see what was so fascinating at all since this was, since the first day, the sixth plate that had suffered at the vampire's hand. She sometimes wondered what it was that brewed behind those expressionless eyes when they looked at her, but then, what use was there guessing? With a small sigh, she stood up and returned to her computer, avoiding the uneasy eye contact with a shrug of her mind, going back to her detective work as she had been every evening for this week. Kirika did not linger for long in the kitchen as she made her way towards her now traditional place beside the window, her pace and motion still showing light signs of subtle restraints. From what the blonde understood, sudden movements like running or even a twist of arm could be painful for the dark-haired girl, not to mention actually touching the silvery metal through physical contact. That was all she had gained from observation. The two of them rarely talked, and when they did it was all in clipped remarks or one-word replies that were as telling as a monologue. She did not know how the watch worked, why it worked or even had a clue about why her family crest was engraved on it. Bouquet's signet, the lynx, which once had ruled Corsica, was boldly engraved on the inside of the lid; it's sharp, feline profile staring back at its last successor with accusing eyes. Having been brought up by stepparents, and handed over to a real relative at the brittle age of ten made the young assassin feel little pride and devotion however. To her, the insignia of the wildcat was only what it appeared to be, a dead relic of her lost family. She could feel no surge of anger, or call for vendetta upon its sight. Some would have called her a failure as a Corsican, a surviving princess of a once proud clan, bearing no vengeance or wish for retribution whatsoever. The loss of her parents had come early, she could be sure of that much. Sometimes, at the shift between morning and dawn, at the verge between dreams and wakefulness, sometimes, she could almost remember something. A fragrance of lilacs and olives, the brush of a rueful smile against her sleeping face, her own laughter, and a salty breeze; those were all she could recall, all there was left to relate to her parents. She had no memory of the existence of such a watch within her family, but then, for someone who could not even remember their faces, it came as no surprise. But despite being orphaned for reasons both unknown and untold, Mireille knew her family's history by heart, or at least the parts that her uncle Claude had taught her. The Bouquet's aristocratic history that stretched back several hundred years made a fancy piece of craftwork like the watch hardly unexpected. As a young child, she had naturally wondered, asked and sometimes literally pined after answers to all those questions that circulated her childhood. The questions were always brushed off, left hanging or openly ignored, her stepmother had not been keen on receiving them, something the young Mireille learned quickly after moving in with the woman. The blonde could not blame her, and she seriously doubted that the woman could have known at all. Being delivered into her Uncle Claude's hands had been something of a relief. Claude was not as strict with her when it came to everyday life, and had even taken her out to parks and festivities on occasions. The sudden move from the countryside to Paris had been a shock to her, but it paled in comparison to the shock in having a gun thrust into her hands for the first time. She had been twelve, and Claude, her kind uncle, taught her to play-shoot at targets. But in all his honest joy about his precious niece, the man never did speak about his sister. He would ruffle her hair, praise her accomplishments and spoil her, but all her desperate questions about her family would fall on deaf ears. It was not his place. So he had said, but Mireille could still not until this day, years after his death, understand why. Her only uncle, her only living relative, had gone to his early grave, forever taking the answers to her life with him. Claude had been an honourable man, a true Corsican, and trained her well to be the best in the only profession that was known to him. Mireille owed him her life many and many times over, having the mark of his rigorous training forever sweated, pounded and etched into her body. The assassin let a small rueful smile light up her face at her own musing. Maybe she did have ulteriormotives with the whole thing as well, just as she suspected her counterpart had. For the first time in many years, maybe - and just maybe -something that could be related to her family had turned up. Sent by an unknown factor, and carrying an unwished for package, but still all better than nothing. She gave the girl by her window a quick peek before returning to her mail, not wanting to be caught. A small beep from her monitor broke her chain of thoughts. After giving the mail's content a quick scan; she had to raise her eyebrows in pleased surprise. "Kirika?" It took a few seconds for Kirika to react at the call, still not accustomed to actually hearing the syllables that formed her name be verbally spoken. She turnedtowards the only other occupant in the room slowly, as if having been in deep thoughts when interrupted. The blonde, Mireille, was yet again seated behind her computer and searching among her informants regarding the despicable silver watch that hung around her neck. The nightwalker had more or less decided to give up the whole issue of information gathering to the other woman. Not that she'd have been of much help. She doubted the assassin would remove the watch to let her roam on her own, and to be honest, Kirika had a feeling that Mireille's underworld network surpassed her own knowledge tremendously. Still, while not showing it, the inactivity irked her. With a still, cautious expression adorning her face, Mireille gestured her towards the pool table, finally having found something that was of value. It was a casual gesture, one which had thrown her completely off balance at the beginning. The woman always treated her in such a distant yet remarkable human manner, it was - for lack of a better word - weird. A way of interaction that had been her entirely unfamiliar, and while Mireille was not exactly warm towards her, it was certainly not what Kirika had expected. But then again, it was far better than having the assassin a scared wreck on the constant edge of break-down while being near her. To her surprise, a small smile was tugging at the other woman's lips. It was the first time, during those days where Kirika more or less had been her prisoner that the woman showed a positive expression. "We have a lead, look at this." She said, while Kirika rounded the pool table and stood beside her. The monitor showed the blurred photo of a quite stern, elderly looking man, with a shock of white hair and a face so lined with age that he reminded Kirika of a withered old tree. Still, despite the sad quality of the photo, there was no mistaking that he bore his stature with pride, like it showed in his features. The long face, with a somewhat pointy nose that once might have been handsome stared out at them hungrily from the monitor. Mireille browsed her way through a few menus as her printer came to life in a series of beeping noises, ensuring themselves a copy of the photo and the letter that followed it. "Andr‚ Schumann, originally from Switzerland. Moved to Paris after the war together with his family business." She scrolled down, pointing out the information. "Apparently, the Schumann family were a renowned name in excellent craftsmanship when it came to watches and clocks." "Were?" "Yes, he seems to have done some shady business during the wars, forcing their family to flee. They didn't do all too well in Paris it seems, the information says that they became involved in the underworld at some point." The blonde's brows tightened a little, pondering something for a few seconds before continuing. "I wonder what happened. Switzerland has alwaysbeen neutral ground, even in times of war." Kirika read on, her expression indifferent. "The source?" "Reliable. I passed a few photos of the watch around, it seems like it was Schumann who took the bait himself." The dark-haired girl didn't respond. It wasn't a very solid lead, but as for now, it was all they had. "The photo is old." She pointed out. "I guess, like he himself probably is now as well." The assassin shrugged. "It could be a dead end, but for now, it's all we have." Mireille shot the girl beside her a questioning look, and Kirika merely nodded. "Today?" "Yes." And there was nothing else to be said. - Paris in the evening was nice. Kirika had to admit that much as she and Mireille made their way through the streets. People were milling around them in their daily business, buying groceries or hurrying home after finishing another day of tiring work. She felt strangely uncomfortable in the bustle however, not because she was among humans or was being seen but because of the taller woman that was walking beside her. The blonde had been oddly quiet ever since they left the apartment. With the address and photo of Schumann neatly tucked into her breast pocket, Mireille had ignored her presence after she had caught up with her steps. It was frustrating that she was unable to even walk as fast as she would have liked to, but she was at least grateful that the pain had subsided somewhat with the days. Kirika tucked her hands into her parka's pockets, squirming a little to adjust the green, sleeveless pullover Mireille had bought her. The soft cotton grinded the now familiar metal object around her neck against the yellow t-shirt she wore inside. She was out. For the first time in a long while, all due to the silver watch for which she wished nothing more than to tear off. Another odd thing struck her. She was not thirsty. How long had it been? Not too long, but long enough. She should feel the pull, the need. Her body should be stirring, reminding her of the needs it craved. Yet it didn't and that was worrisome. While she doubted that it yet would be of danger to her, it was of great concern. Her powers - however useless they were at the moment - had their source from what she drew and fed from the blood, like her very life. Theoretically speaking, it really was a thirst like humans thirsted after water. A mechanism of her immortal body that served as a reminder, pulling her to attend its needs like a hungry man craving for food. If it didn't work, the outcome was rather obvious. Subconsciously, Kirika reached up to her torso. "I wouldn't do that if I was you." The words came like a rap from a whip. She stopped her hands immediately. The blonde woman didn't look at her, but continued herspeeding down the road. Kirika lowered her arms. So she was being watched. "We don't want to make a scene." Of course. The streets turned narrower and narrower as they made their way between the houses. Kirika noticed that they had entered the part of Paris that was the oldest, but not the most prestigious. Most of the houses consisted of a darker shade of wood with layers and layers of paint trying to cover up its decaying surface. Both the lower floors of the buildings and the streets were made of stone, all looking equally battered bythe passing of age. Contrary to the slum however, it was all still fairly clean. The residents had made a serious attempt to make their homes more appealing by planting a few pots of flowers here and there. Only a minimum of trash could be seen, and the air smelled like wet mud, and spicy oil. A girl Kirika's age walked past them, forcing them to press themselves against the walls to be able to let her pass. Mireille gave her a kind, reassuring smile when she stared at the blonde's classy clothes with uncertain eyes, fiddling with her own worn out coat while she brushed a few red-dyed bangs from her freckly face. She mumbled a hasty apology and ran past, disappearing among the myriad of passages. "We're here." Mireille stopped in front of a dark, wooden door with metal reinforcements that looked like it was going to fall over at any time. She looked over at Kirika who just looked at it indifferently. "Someone is waiting for us." "What?" Mireille said, rather surprised. Kirika turned to face the blonde, putting an emphasis on her words with her equally rapt gaze. "Someone is coming. They know we are here." "How many?" Her voice was steady, but rather quiet as she mouthed the question. The assassin's hand went slowly into her purse as she spoke, gripping her gun. Kirika narrowed her eyes in a small frown of concentration, straining her ears to the outmost. "One." "You sure?" "Yes. The footsteps are light, it is either a small person or he is walking very quietly." Mireille stared at her in amazement. Kirika could almost feel the blonde's mind brimming over with ideas and possibilities with such a skill at hand. The question on the tip of the woman's tongue was left unvoiced however, as the door in front of them indeed rattled, and was swung open. Surprisingly, the heavy wood didn't creaklike one would have expected. It moved with the foreboding silence of a coffin. A - as Kirika had foreseen - small man with short, well-trimmed brown hair and good-natured face greeted them. He gave the both of them a small bow, carefully scrutinizing them with eyes sparkling of boyish curiosity, and gestured them to step inside. The room they arrived in was in better shape and spoke of good and skilful maintenance compared to the outside. As expected from something that was probably built in the same age as the Bastille, the roof was low on the first floor. While being merely pressing to someone of Kirika's height, Mireille had to bow down a little to not hit her head. The rest of the room was mostly empty, serving as a kind of lobby with only a few chairs and a dried out painting to add to its decor. Despite the room being was empty, Kirika noticed that Mireille had never takenher hand from the purse. The woman was not one for surprises. "We are here to meet Monsieur Schumann, he should have been informed beforehand." "Ah, of course." The man nodded, and gave them a rather apologetic face. "I'm sorry to say that my father is resting at the moment, would it be sufficient for both mademoisellesto wait a while? I would prefer to let him sleep another half an hour before waking him." Kirika looked at Mireille who didn't return the favour. "We'll wait." The assassin's tone softened when the man gave them a genuine grateful look. Kirika got the feeling that the small man wasn't used to having his requests granted. "Is there anything I could help you with while waiting? I'm afraid to say that I've taken over most of our family business since my father's age became burdensome for him." He said, while gesturing them to sit down on the rangy chairs. "I'm sorry to hear that, we were not informed monsieur...?" "Alexji." He drew out the vowels while pronouncing it. "That's an unusual name for a Swiss." Alexji laughed. "My mother did the naming after my grandfather when they fled from the east, so yes, unusual indeed. But if you don't mind..." "Of course." "So, what could two beautiful mademoiselles from the upper city want with my father?" Mireille hesitated. The thoughts of the woman pressed into Kirika's mind unbidden as they sat beside each other. The woman wasn't sure if she wanted to trust any information with Schumann's son, and they still didn't know who it was that had taken the bait. Had it really been Andre Schumann himself, if he indeed was that old? Kirika reached out towards the man's thoughts but all she managed was creating a dull ringing sound inside her eardrums. "We've heard that you father is a skilled craftsman and had expertise in the field." "He indeed is, if he still had the sight for it." The words had an underlying sigh in it, giving him the light of being the perfect proper and worrying son. "I have to admit that I'm not even breaching his skill at my age." "We're here to ask him to look at something for us." "And I'm sure he will gladly do so. But you surely realize that it will cost?" The same pleasant smile, but now with a certain smirk behind it. "As refined as you couple of ladies look, I'm sure you know by your presence here what kind of shop we are running." "High-class imitations and copies of valuables, like the import and export of those am I right?" Alexji barked out a short laughter. "To put it politely yes, even if we mostly handle the export. You're well-informed miss...?" "Miss will do MonsieurAlexji." The blonde's tone was still kind, but now with a certain razor behind it. "Actually, it was your father who gave us the offer, or we may have never found our way here." The man raised his eyebrows at this, making a face of surprise. "H-he did?" Alexji almost gaped. "When..? How did he...?" His earlier composure fell as he stuttered in something between disbelief and joy. Kirika shot Mireille a quick peek, not sure of what to make out of the man's unexpected behaviour. The nightwalker fought the urge to twist her face into a confused frown, somewhat realizing her own limitations when it came down to human communication. While her kind possessed all the aspects that were needed to be a pretended social butterfly, it had never really been her ace. Humans had never really concerned her before she ran into Mireille, who was something entirely more than a mere distraction. "I-I'm sorry, but my father pulled out from his work entirely at his retirement. This is the first time..." His face cracked up in a broad and honest smile as he talked. "Shall we go and wake him then?" They passed a long hallway until arriving before a set of wooden stairs that looked as if they could collapse at any second. Kirika noticed curiously that, despite being a producer and bootlegger of illegal art copies, the house was surprisingly undecorated in its interior. There was not a single painting or piece of art that even reminded of something esthetical. The green-painted stone walls all remained cold and empty on their way upwards until Alexji stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and asked them to wait outside while he would notify the older Schumann. Mireille shot her a quick, stern glance. The blonde must mean that she didn't want a scene from her under any circumstances. Of course, after finding Kirika lifeless after her latest attempt with the watch, the worry was justified. The girl also noticed that the assassin had since their arrival perfectly steered the conversation with Alexji to not involve her under any circumstances. Quite impressive. She could have been invisible for all she knew, all of the man's concentration had with a few words and a smile been focused on Mireille. Alexji turned up at the door, waving them inside with a polite sweep. The blonde didn't give her another look as she stepped through the doorframe, with Kirika a few steps behind. The room they arrived in was dimly lit, antique in its furnishing and seemed to be entirely crammed with bookcases which in their place were crammed to the fullest with a library's worth of books. Despite that it was still before noon, few of the light-rays actually seemed to make their way through the two indeed small, but wide-open windows. The stale air which smelled of old paper and still damp ink assaulted her nose. The only thing that was somewhat modern seemed to be the large armchair that occupied what little place was left by the bookcases. In the middle of it all sat a very old, weary looking man, dressed in dark-coloured formal attire consisting of an older kind of suit. His, what may have once been brown-coloured hair was tied back into a small but well-groomed ponytail. His hair, eyebrows and moustache had all likewise been drained of colour, leaving only a few strands here and there for the keen eye. He had the same long, wrinkled face as the man from the photo, if possible, now with even more wrinkles that showed the burden of his age. The old man, whom Kirika assumed was Andre Schumann, seemed to be sleeping when they stepped in and did not even bother to raise his head to greet them. But the overly even breath that rasped from his throat told her something else. With a thick pair of glasses weighing down his face, he looked like the classical scholar. "Alexji." The voice was creaked, dried, but careful, having lost none of its intelligent edge. "Have you sent Danielle away? I don't want her here when there's business." "Yeah, I called her mother." "Good. Now," Opening his eyes very slowly, as if a great weight was holding it down, he turned towards them. "I will not ask for your names. I've been here for too long to not see the stupidity of some etiquette. But I will-" He drew another raspy breath, before continuing. "however ask you to come closer, my sight is not what it once was and I prefer to see faces." "Monsieur Schumann, we are much obliged and grateful for you having us." Mireille said. The old man did not answer as they stepped over various piles of books and papers before stopping in front of his chair. Kirika stood slightly behind Mireille, calm but utterly at loss of what to do. Andre looked them over from head to toe, one at a time, something that made Kirika quite uncomfortable. He stopped at Mireille and narrowed his eyes, concentrating on her face. "You're the owner of the watch." It wasn't a question. "I am." Mireille replied with some surprise. "How did you know?" He chuckled. "Child, a maker should always know the owner in this field of work." He paused, and eyed Kirika with a long, piercing stare. "But I'm sorry to say that I'm not its maker, I merely had the chance to repair it once. It's quite a piece of art and I could be no older than my son right now when I last held it." Another pause. "May I see it?" Somehow, the nightwalker got the feeling of that Andre was not as blind as he wanted people to believe. The blonde nodded and turned to Kirika who almost took a step backwards in surprise when the blonde reached around her neck to lift out the chain. Mireille brushed aside her hair carefully, pulling up the watch with minimum of movement and placed the silver object atop of the girl's pullover in front of her chest. The dark haired girl cringed when the metal moved, slithering against her skin as she leaned forwards so Schumann could see. She was not amused by this, but really had little choice. Alexji was looking at her in a funny way, no doubt wondering why she wasn't taking it off but being too polite to mention anything. Mireille on the other hand was standing beside her with the same seemingly ingrown expression. The formal but pleasant smile on her porcelain face was strained nonetheless, and her anxiety became almost physical for Kirika who was standing so close. One wrong tug from Schumann spelled disaster. Hard-edged pieces of charcoal pierced through her when she faced front again. Schumann was no longer watching the watch, but straight into her eyes with a gaze so intense it could have made a stone quiver. Kirika answered the gaze likewise, she had seen it before, humans who thought themselves to be of wisdom and knowledge, and who ensured others of their knowledge through their age. ...but never from less than two feet distance. They were so close in fact, that she could smell the sour remains of caffeine and sugar that lingered in the old man's breath, which she didn't enjoy at all. The two of them held the gaze for the longest time, until Andre broke the silence with something like disbelief, and amusement shining in his eyes. "Alexji, I need you to run an errand for me." The younger man stared at him, baffled. But his father interrupted him before he could question it. "Monsieur Rochere has a book by Hegel I need right now. Go and get it for me. I don't recall the name but tell him that and he will know which one I want." "But fathe..." "Did you not hear me incompetent boy? I said I need it, now go!" He barked. Alexji cringed and frowned somewhat disapprovingly at the elderly man, but gave them a weak nod. "By the way, you should drop by your wife for once, say hi to Danielle from me." "I'll be back in an hour." The middle-aged man replied as he hurried out, bidding them a hasty farewell. Kirika listened to the creaking from the departing footsteps until the door below closed, Schumann's attention now being once again focused on them. Mireille raised her eyebrows in a silent question, also finding it somewhat funny that at his age, the man was still protecting his son from things that may be better unknown. Was Alexji truly that incompetent, or was it something else? This stuck a warning bell inside her head, it seemed like they might get more than what they originally bargained for upon the decision to come here. Schumann knew something, and the assassin wasn't sure of what it was. The wrinkles in his face stretched and cracked like dry earth as his face changed, gone was the stern formality of the seasoned academician, left was something else, less logical but more alert. The silence in the room screamed, neither Mireille nor Kirika being entirely sure of what to expect at this point. "Two women," Andre started, voice now stronger. "In togas of ancient Greece, each wielding a sword to the other's honour. Their heads crowned by wreaths of laurel, the sign of ultimate power and they face each other in salute, on their knees with the blades raised in front of them. Am I right?" He asked, turning to Mireille while pushing the black rimmed glasses further up his nose. And all of sudden, he seemed to have shrunk, as if crushed by the weight of a lifetime of burden. The newfound strength in his voice bristled as he spoke, like a leaf waiting for the autumn storm, expecting to be crushed at the slightest movement. "Am I right, lady lynx of Corsica?"
Back to Scattered Shards Index - Back to Noir Shoujo-Ai Fanfiction