Story: RED AND BLACK (chapter 14)

Authors: Kirika

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Chapter 14

Title: A Remnant of a Pilgrimage

Red And Black - By Kirika
k_yuumura@hotmail.com
http://users.bigpond.net.au/kirika/

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The fourteenth chapter. You wouldn't believe how many times I listened to Salva Nos while writing this part.

**Rechecked and tinkered a little. I was half-dead when I first did it, after all. I also changed Remi Graipaul (courtesy of Soldats' Noir fansub version) to Remy Breffort in this and previous chapters in accordance to ADV's translation. Langon's Manuscript was changed to Langonel's Manuscript for the same reason too in the first chapter.

- Kirika

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Chapter 14 - A Remnant of a Pilgrimage


It was the dead of night with the hour well past twelve, it having become deeply immersed in time's darkest, most sinister stretch during Mireille and Kirika's hunt across the city for the false Noir. A moonless sky enclosed the assassins in a black dome above, the few visible weakly twinkling stars hanging overhead ineffectually trying to shine through a thick spattering of murky charcoal cloud cover that seemingly absorbed their light with ease; the dark scoring dominance over its counterpart, a result so reminiscent of real life. On the street below the one-sided struggle where Mireille and Kirika stood unbroken quiet reigned; there were no faint whooshes of the occasional car travelling down a distant road, no muted calls of late-night revellers leaving dance clubs finally closing their doors, nor was there even the repeated chirps of nocturnal insects to break the hush. It was just the quiet--the silence--as if there wasn't another soul alive in the world bar the two young women, the dead of night living up to its name.

The already low temperature had dropped too as the hour had progressed, the air degenerating from a mere unpleasant chilly that cooled the skin to a biting icy that threatened to numb it. Frozen hands akin to those of a corpse stroked swirling patterns across Mireille's bare midriff, teasing goose bumps into puckering as they passed. The muscles of her stomach stiffened at the touch of the freezing winds turned caresses, but she didn't let them bother her, not even making the slightest move to close her gently flapping coat around her body to attain extra warmth. It was cold like the inside of a meat locker, cold like a morgue… but it was just another distraction to Mireille that she easily ignored, and a minor distraction at that. In truth she thought the grim atmosphere and the frosty temperature along with it rather appropriate considering what had taken place thus far this night, and considering what was about to. All that was missing were the wisps of roiling fog hovering over the road in front of her and Kirika before a classic gritty backdrop of a film noir would come to life.

Mireille smiled, a smile as cold as her surroundings. A film noir. How appropriate indeed. The black skies, the quiet, still ambiance, the freezing air--they were the perfect conditions, the perfect setting for one of those types of movies. And Mireille and Kirika were the perfect if somewhat atypical protagonists, both poised for what looked to be the climatic scene where they met their nemeses at last for the final, decisive confrontation that spelled certain doom for one side. They were the lone executioners out for themselves, symbolising Death itself--Death in two halves--coming, coming to claim their detested adversaries in a hail of bullets. And now after stalking the gloomy nighttime streets in dogged pursuit of their prey, cardboard cutout bad guys dead by the dozen behind them, they had arrived at their final destination for the supposed ultimate showdown. At the end of the trail. At the end of their involvement with Soldats. Tomorrow this… divergence… from Mireille and Kirika's prior lifestyle would be merely an unpleasant memory, one to be forgotten, disregarded as if it had never happened. It would be a happy ending for them, a moderately rare thing in a film noir. Still, those endings did sometimes occur where the antiheros somehow despite their dark existences found peace and contentment, much like when Mireille and Kirika had found it following the shootout at the Manor. Those protagonists, however, customarily paid for their joy in the blood of others, but seldom was that blood innocent, just like in this instance. For freedom from the machinations of Soldats, for a life of relative solitude with her partner, Kirika, Mireille saw the deaths of two more murderers on top of countless others already slain by their hands as a cheap price she was gladly willing to pay. Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu would be dead by dawn; she swore it. The vendetta she had against them for being partly responsible for dragging her and Kirika back onto the black path would be satisfied in the only way it could be--with violence and bloodshed resulting in death. Their deaths.

The deserted street where Mireille and Kirika were situated in was dimly lit by old, black cast-iron lampposts lining either side of the road, their circles of light spread out a foot or two apart from each other with shadows filling in the gaps. It was there in those shadows that the pair of assassins lurked, scrutinising the building on the opposite side of the street with calculating eyes.

The contact Mireille had phoned whilst departing Simon's decrepit abode hadn't appreciated the very early wake-up call or being dragged out of bed, but nevertheless had dug up the address for 'Albert Laroque' within twenty minutes… although the time could have been shortened if she'd forgone grumbling about the hour during the first five minutes of their conversation. From the slums to the suburbs Mireille and Kirika had then journeyed, the acquired address pointing to a residence in an upper-class and quite exclusive district of Paris, a welcome change from the capitol's less than savoury locales. Yet while the potential threat from the common hoodlum was greatly reduced in such an environment, there were other dangers to watch out for. In Mireille's experience the exceptionally rich regularly saw themselves as a superior breed than others, haughtily believing that they were above the perceived 'lower caste' of people and the laws that governed them. Hence, they sometimes liked to make their own rules--if any--with their hired security guards who safeguarded their assets and persons--who tended to be little more than semi-straight gangsters with dubious morals oft cases--partial to shooting first and asking questions later, secure in the knowledge that their wealthy and typically influential employer would deflect the ensuing flak from the authorities a lead-filled body would bring. Justice blinded for a Euro or two. Mireille wasn't criticising the last fact, however--far from it. She herself had paid off more than one law enforcement official to look the other way in her lifetime, and would do it again without a second thought if called for. Like those affluent members of high society with superiority complexes, she was rather thankful that the law was only as strong as the people who upheld it. But the difference was Mireille never forgot that she wasn't above it. Regardless of what one believed of the law, at the end of the day it would still judge your actions all the same… if you were caught, that is.

However, by the looks of the mansion Mireille and Kirika were currently scoping out there were no aforementioned sentries to contend with. True, it was one of the largest houses--or rather, estates--in the district, but not a guard was in sight. The Corsican expected the nightshift to be smaller than the dayshift, but she at least thought a doorman of sorts would be by the front gate entrance even at this late hour. She had her suspicions as to why this was of course, ranging from the absent guard simply answering a call of nature to him or her having been brutally slain--the top choice for the moment, taking into account that Ryosuke and Vincent apparently had an interest in this particular property--yet none she wished to accept as concrete without further investigation. For all she knew the guard watched over his post from a distance, maybe even from an elevated position with a high-powered rifle. *That* would be a nasty surprise. One could never be too cautious in this business; your life was on the line, after all; your most precious possession.

Well, in *theory* your most precious possession, Mireille amended with a sardonic smirk as her eyes darted surreptitiously to her diminutive colleague beside her. The blonde naturally held her own life in high regard, but if she had to choose between it and Kirika's, the subject became… hazy. Sure, Mireille wanted to live for as long as possible--who didn't?--but if it came at the cost of her partner's continued existence….

Mireille closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them again they had returned to the mansion. Her growing sentimentality was going to get her killed someday, her brush with death or at least severe bodily harm at the Metro station a few days ago a forewarning of the potential catastrophe awaiting her. She was grimly aware that there was barely if any room for it in the life of a killer… not that she had the slightest inclination to curb it at all in spite of that understanding. Love. Mireille wondered if it were really a blessing and not a curse instead. But whatever it was, she knew she couldn't be without it, or specifically not without Kirika's love. The woman's heart had a taste for it now; it was used to its warmth. For it to be cast back into the cold… Mireille doubted whether it would survive the shock intact.

Mireille marshalled her straying mind's faculties back to her pressing task, focusing her attention on the place she and her partner would likely be infiltrating in a few minutes. Looking at the building and its surrounding land, she was sure she and Kirika had the right Albert Laroque. When in doubt, always follow the money and the bigwig who had it. Usually they had links--be they direct or indirect--to some nefarious activity or activities. Petty drug infractions, hardcore arms dealing--essentially anything that made them wealthier or provided illicit pleasure. Or both. In addition Mireille didn't believe individuals like Ryosuke and Vincent would have business with Albert Laroque the grocer who lived a boring life in a duplex with his wife and two children. It was common sense. Whatever the false Noir's reasons for visiting Laroque's estate, it had to be on the shady side, possibly with murderous ambition. The blonde couldn't fathom a mundane cause for them to do so, especially since they had gone so far as to kill Simon and everyone who had been with him at the time in his basement, all in an effort to cover their tracks. Ryosuke and Vincent were foreigners in an unfamiliar country; what other grounds could there be but on a business affair?

Laroque's estate was quite vast, spanning at least two hundred square metres. A three foot high light grey brick wall enclosed the compound, with a sturdy fence of jet black iron bars capped with wicked arrowheads protruding at least seven feet out of its top face, their motif not unlike the nearby lampposts' in the street. A lawn of well kept, lush, dark green grass covered most of the estate's interior, with a handful of neatly arranged circular flowerbeds sprinkled here and there in a orderly fashion creating the illusion that the house it surrounded was a chateau in the countryside rather than a mansion in the city. Most of the flowering plants inside the beds had ceased to bloom however, the close onset of winter to blame for their now barren look. Nevertheless, the conifers present still thrived, the small ones on the edge of the flowerbeds and the tall ones bordering the outside of the estate's unfriendly fence as green as ever. Yet without the bright colours of flourishing blossoms the interior of the estate with its gardens appeared dull, dreary, all greys and greens and blacks. Of course it was nighttime, but Mireille suspected that even in the day light hours it would seem bleak, perhaps even bleaker.

A gravel road of slate-grey stone chips lit by flanking short bollard lamps extended out from the main gate and merged into a small roundabout in front of the mansion, another flowerbed--although larger--filling its centre. The two-storey house itself sat approximately in the heart of the grounds, constructed of the same hefty and aged bricks as the estate's wall. It was difficult for Mireille to make out fine details through the murk of the night, but she did note that the building was designed in the classic old-fashioned style reminiscent of many a rural land manor of yesteryear, its sole exceptions its windows which had been modernised--framed in white they were, and tall and slender, plus arched at their zenith--and the inclusion of a garage beside the right side of house, likely the abode of numerous luxury cars.

No lights shone from the expansive house; it was drenched utterly in darkness, for all intents and purposes asleep for the night. It was the ideal time for guests disinclined to announce themselves to visit, guests like Ryosuke and Vincent… and guests like Mireille and Kirika. The false Noir were probably flitting through the mansion's gloomy corridors like malevolent spectres at this very moment if the Corsican and her partner had gotten their facts right, but soon two more spirits would join them in their haunt, spirits who rattled no chains nor wailed their presence. While houses slumbered, the silent ghosts reigned supreme.

Plumes of mist fleetingly clouded the air in front of Mireille's face with her every breath--as soft as those breaths were--and the cold of the dead night was beginning to permeate to her very bones. She clenched and then unclenched her fists slowly, her ten fingers turned ten icicles aching as fresh hot blood was pumped into the numbed flesh. She and Kirika had tarried long enough in this winter's chill. Rubbing out their two distorted mirror images should serve to warm them up nicely.

Mireille turned away from the sight of Laroque's residence to Kirika, for one to inform her that they were to venture inside the estate's grounds momentarily, and for another because she was curious as to how her petite and lightly clad partner was coping with the cold so far. Kirika's arms and legs were completely bare owing to her sleeveless top and short skirt; an average girl of her slight build would be practically shivering and chattering her teeth by now. Yet, as Mireille had predicted from observing her on numerous other frosty nights, her diminutive but consummate partner in the business of dealing death didn't appear to be affected by the wintry weather at all. Kirika stood perfectly at ease on the pavement beside Mireille, her doe eyes glued to Laroque's estate as she carefully scrutinised the environment, totally unfazed by her bitter cold surroundings. Even her warm breath was virtually non-existent in the frosty air, hardly a wisp forming in spite of the considerable difference in temperature between the two.

Mireille wondered if Kirika intentionally suppressed her breathing as an act of stealth, or if it was an unconscious act that had been drilled into her during her less than cheerful childhood. Probably the latter; Kirika's entire childhood was sadly a tragic tale of abuse. Mireille's own childhood wasn't exactly a model for others to admire either, what with losing her parents and brother and having to abandon her home at a young age, but compared to her partner's it had been pure bliss. At least the blonde had had her uncle to look after and love her, but Kirika had had no one but Altena and her combat instructors who were doubtless not disposed to bestowing affection upon their charges.

Perhaps it was of no wonder then that the girl had fallen head over heels in love with Mireille. The woman was the only real person to ever show her even a shred of warmth, and considering that that warmth hadn't been that warm at all in the beginning was a testament to the extent of the maltreatment the young assassin had endured. Kirika herself had told Mireille in her farewell letter that she had been incredibly lonely until she had met her, that she had been relieved and excited when she had learned that Noir was a name for a pair of assassins. Indeed, it should be of no surprise that Kirika clung to the Corsican so fervently, and that she held her in such high esteem--Mireille's love was the first and only love Kirika had ever known. Such weighty responsibilities the girl put on the blonde's shoulders. Still, Mireille wouldn't have anyone else bear them. She cherished those responsibilities, and felt proud that she had been chosen to carry them… if a little nervous as well. Regardless, she would endeavour to be a first love worthy of Kirika, and one entitled to remain the only. Mireille would do her best to imbue the remainder of Kirika's life with the love that had been missing from her childhood, and in doing so perhaps make up for the past years of cruel mistreatment. Heaven knows the girl had earned it.

On a sudden and irresistible whim, either brought on by her prior introspective thoughts, simply to get Kirika's attention, or a combination of both, Mireille reached out and stroked the back of one finger down her partner's left upper arm, and learned that while the cold didn't seem to touch her mind, it did clearly touch her body. Kirika's skin was as chilled as Mireille's was, and a field of tiny goose bumps prickled the Corsican's finger as it proceeded towards the darkhaired girl's elbow.

Mireille smiled faintly at the ticklish sensation as her eyes followed her finger's gentle course. So Kirika was human after all. And the poor girl was as cold as she was, even if the stoic assassin didn't acknowledge it.

Kirika gave a start as soon as the woman made contact with her arm, and immediately turned her head to favour her with a quizzical look. Mireille merely continued to smile that fond smile however, undeterred by the expression and more importantly by the realisation of just what she was doing. Only a scant couple of days earlier she would have been quite uncomfortable touching Kirika in such a manner, no matter how innocuous a brush on the arm was. But while she still she had to restrain herself from pulling back her hand as if she was doing something improper, it was a fight easily won. Kirika needed the attention, needed the affection. She needed the love--Mireille's love. Yet Mireille couldn't help questioning her own motives. True, she wished to no longer neglect her other half and prove to the girl that she cared for her, but… but it wasn't only Kirika's desires she was satisfying.

Mireille was… attracted to Kirika. Goodness knows the lithe assassin was vastly skilled in the art of murder, far surpassing the Corsican's own ability, but she was also… well, put frankly, a very adorable girl. Mireille had tried not to acknowledge the fact, tried to distance herself from Kirika the person and simply view her partner as Kirika the assassin, but that was one battle she had slowly lost, and, in retrospect, had been bound to lose. She loved the girl with all her heart, and with that love came the longing to express it. Physically… intimately.

If Mireille looked at it rationally she knew it was a natural thing, a natural progression of a blossoming romantic relationship… but unfortunately when it involved Kirika the rational part of her mind rarely was given voice. It had taken Mireille a while to realise--or perhaps more correctly, decisively address--the genuine root of her… hesitation, the woman supposed one could call it, to touch Kirika affectionately, but it was all too clear to her now. It was funny how after all the arguably appalling things she had done as a killer for hire, taking the last remaining innocence of a teenage girl would give her pause. However, it wasn't as if Mireille was without morals or compassion. A killer she may be, but she was still a human being regardless of what anybody else thought. Kirika had been thrust into a life that few her age had been--or should be--subjected to, a life where innocence died a swift death. The things she had seen, the things she had done; all had stripped her of what it meant to be a child, stripped her almost bare of her innocence. Yet against all odds, a surprising amount of Kirika's naivety had survived the abuse, mostly attributable to her lack of schooling on everyday subjects and also undoubtedly to her self-preserving choice to repress the ghastly events of the past though the birthing of a second persona. Included in that subsisting naivety was her innocence regarding love, or rather the physical aspects of it. At least Kirika had that much of her innocence left, a fact that Mireille was exceedingly thankful for. In that regard she was untouched, pure and--the blonde was absolutely certain--virginal.

However, this posed as equal a joy as a predicament for Mireille. Part of the woman wanted to keep Kirika the way she was now forever--cute and clueless--but another simply *wanted* her. Mireille ached to touch Kirika, to hug her and kiss her as a lover would; it had been that yearning which had prompted her to caress the oblivious girl during her sleep, the only time she'd had the courage to do so. Pathetic she knew, but she just couldn't help feeling that her desire was wrong. In the slightest touch she read a carnal craving lurking behind it, regardless of her true intent. Kirika was just so… so… so *innocent* in that respect; it was like she was taking advantage of her youthful partner. Mireille didn't think she even knew what a lesbian was!

Still, in spite of her reluctance to touch Kirika, Mireille was deeply aware it couldn't be avoided, regardless of what she wanted to do. Kirika needed her love, and she would have it. All of it. What that entailed exactly the Corsican didn't quite know yet, but the one thing she did know was not to push their relationship forwards with a heavy hand. Kirika was emotionally fragile in certain respects including this one--as most people were Mireille supposed--and she had to be treated like a fine china doll. Moreover, Mireille herself wasn't exactly keen to rush things either. Truth be told she was still finding her feet in all of this, the woman nearly as inexperienced as Kirika in the matters of the heart. Nevertheless, they would find their way. Together.

Mireille casually let her hand drop when her finger reached halfway down Kirika's arm, and then raised her eyes to make contact with her curious partner's. "It's quiet," she said, casting her gaze back to the mansion for a moment and electing to not respond to the introverted girl's questioning countenance.

"Mm," Kirika agreed, enticed into looking back at Laroque's house briefly by Mireille's like action and in turn apparently forgetting about Mireille's stroking finger, just as the crafty blonde had planned.

"Then why don't we get out of this cold, hmm?" Mireille suggested in a light voice, her smile broadening a little and becoming a shade encouraging.

"Mm," Kirika mumbled again with a nod, although no smile brightened her face. Not that Mireille had expected one to appear. Killing people was nothing to smile about, not to Kirika at any rate. Maybe Mireille had overlooked a small piece of another innocence still alive in the girl. Sympathy for her victims was something that had died long ago inside the Corsican assassin--if it had ever been there at all--yet it seemed to still endure inside her kind-hearted partner. At one point in time Mireille had looked upon Kirika as something akin to a monster, but sometimes she wondered whom the real so-called 'monster' was between them; the born and bred assassin with a warm heart, or the assassin born of circumstance with a cold one.

Without further ado Mireille and Kirika stepped off the footpath and crossed the brightly lit street, their heads warily turning both left and right as they checked to make sure it was empty, more to ensure that no one was around to espy their impending actions rather than to certify that the road was safe to traverse. They approached the estate's front gate--the sole entrance to the compound--as nonchalantly as possible, simply two people out for a late night--if freezing--stroll. Mireille felt edgy under the glare of the streetlights like an insect under a microscope, vulnerable and in the open, at the mercy of those beyond the lights. The shadows of the world were where she felt most comfortable, where she belonged.

Unluckily the road wasn't the only place that was illuminated; the estate's gate was situated in just the right spot to be flooded from all sides by the light from the streetlamps, and if that wasn't enough it even had its own lights shaped like box lanterns mounted on the front face of both pillars where the gate's hinges were affixed. Mireille so disliked operating out from under the cover of darkness, especially during nighttime assignments when a figure darting through pools of light in otherwise murk was all the more noticeable. However, while the abundance of light revealed the woman and her partner's presence to anybody who cared to look their way, it did also serve to reveal to the pair that something ahead was amiss.

Mireille and Kirika stopped in unison before the gate, blue and brown eyes drawn to the stone pillar on its right. Concealed amongst some thick foliage draping over the sides of a plant pot that was sitting atop the rectangular column was a twisted shaft of metal, the remains of a strut. And on the ground below it was the device it had been tasked with holding up--a small security camera, one designed for discrete surveillance. Except that this camera had been crushed into a lump of barely recognisable black plastic and grey steel, as if--judging by its ruined prop--it had been torn violently from its perch and then scrunched into a ball like nothing more than a piece of scrap paper, before being unceremoniously discarded to the ground.

"Mireille," Kirika said softly, attracting the blonde's attention.

Mireille turned to Kirika and saw the girl gesture with a crooked finger at a row of tall conifers lining the fence on the right hand side of the front gate. At first the Corsican was puzzled at what was so interesting about a string of bushes, that was until she noticed the slumped figure lying obscured in the shadows behind their broad branches. She approached the still form, and after gingerly pulling back the springy plant life hiding it, saw that it was of a man dressed in a dark suit with a noticeable bulge where his full gun holster rested on his ribs; the uniform of an expensive hired guard. He lay on his side with his back against the wall enclosing the estate, and was clearly quite dead. With the conifers out of the way the light from the nearby streetlamps rushed to conquer the newly uncovered terrain, and consequently exposed the dreadful trauma the man's body had sustained, giving support to the aforementioned belief.

The guard's torso was covered in still wet blood that glistened dully in the light, the result of what Mireille believed to be numerous stab wounds if the slit-like rips in his shirt and suit jacket were anything to go by. However, there was also a very thin, dark red line across his throat from ear to ear coupled with some surrounding bruising, plus his tongue was lolling obscenely out of his mouth, like he had been strangled. Mireille was familiar with the latter injuries; it was the product of a swift and brutal garrotting with a fine instrument, probably a razor sharp wire of some sort possessing a high degree of tensile strength. Not the most pleasant fashion in which to leave this world.

The ultimate cause of the ill-fated sentry's demise was anybody's guess, however, even the murderers'. The stabs seemed nasty and surely had struck several vital organs--by the looks of it, predominantly the heart and lungs, the prime targets to instil a definite death by knifing against one's victim--and the blood loss was tremendous, but the garrotting appeared to have cut deep and perhaps had severed the man's windpipe on top of strangling him. Death had come for this man along four different routes, but all equally as deadly; he had never even stood a hair's breadth of a chance. Ryosuke and Vincent certainly were efficient--if vicious--killers. But then in this business there was little distinction separating the two.

"I guess this means we have the right address," Mireille commented dryly as she allowed the conifers to snap back into place, before turning back to Kirika. By the damp appearance of the blood the blonde could tell that the guard's wounds hadn't been dished out too long ago. It confirmed that their targets were still in the area, or to be more precise, in Laroque's manor. Fortunately Mireille and Kirika had not arrived here too late.

"Mm…" Kirika murmured, her eyes flicking to the mansion for a moment before returning to the Corsican.

Mireille's gaze found the mangled wreck of the surveillance camera once again, a light frown on her brow. It was strange that no one had come to investigate the sudden and ferocious destruction of the camera, nor the disappearance of the estate's forefront guard. There had to be a manned security station somewhere on the grounds or in the mansion itself if there was a camera; it would be rather pointless if nobody was watching the monitor it was linked up to otherwise. And as for the guard, while Ryosuke and Vincent may have dispatched him in a silent manner to not immediately alert his comrades in the vicinity, one of the other sentries must have eventually noticed that he was missing from his post for a worrying length of time.

Whatever the reason for the apparent lack of response, it was evident that security for Laroque's estate was fairly tight--lax response times notwithstanding--but really no greater than one could envisage for your average affluent and mistrustful family's posh home. A team of armed guards and a network of cameras were nothing Mireille hadn't encountered before, nor easily overcome without breaking a sweat. Guards could be avoided, misled with distraction, bribed, sweet-talked, knocked quietly unconscious, or just killed outright; and as for cameras their fields of view could simply be evaded until the individuals staffing the contraptions' other ends were taken care of. A security camera without human eyes behind its electronic one was merely an empty threat, a maimed tool. Nevertheless, that electronic eye did tend to have an infallible memory as a cohort, but of course that was switched off or forcibly purged if necessary after the cameras' operators had been similarly contended with, although perhaps in a more permanent fashion than the machines.

Mireille had seen it all; coded keypads, infrared alarm lasers, retina scans. And regardless of how complex a security system was there was always a way to bypass, or better yet disarm it, as the blonde had discovered during the course of her chosen vocation. With the knowledge she had gained she could make quite the tidy profit as a cat burglar if she were so disposed to a career change. Being a professional *and* an adept contract killer incorporated most if not all of the skills of a thief and a spy put together. Breaking and entering, the art of disguise, subterfuge and misdirection--if one wished to be a truly consummate assassin then these talents and more like them were required to be added to one's repertoire. After all, assassination targets were prone to surround themselves with a great deal of protection. Seldom a sniper rifle on a rooftop or at an open window was sufficient; it was the reason why such a method was labelled as amateurish.

Mireille lifted her head from the smashed camera and walked a few steps to the left side of the gate, before looking back over her shoulder at Kirika, the soft curve of a small, almost playful smile once more on her lips. "Let's tread lightly and keep the noise level to a whisper, okay?" she instructed with a light-hearted lilt. The woman turned around fully, and then drew her loaded Walther P99 from its holster, her left hand retrieving its companion piece--a silencer--from under her coat a moment later. "People who have their sleep disturbed do have a propensity to wake up cranky," Mireille went on as she securely attached the silencer to the end of her pistol. "And noisy late night callers are apt to invite considerably greater ire from them." She hoisted her gun upright in her hand and arched an expectant eyebrow at her counterpart.

"Understood," Kirika said, grasping the hint. She abided by her partner's 'suggestion' and pulled out her Beretta from her skirt's waistband behind her back, a silencer following from under the garment that was quickly fastened to the weapon.

Mireille nodded in approval, and then turned her head back to the gate. The black iron wrought structure was blessedly unlocked and even a tad ajar, meaning that she and Kirika didn't have to scale its tall bars to gain entry. It wouldn't have been especially difficult for the nimble duo, but two young women climbing over ten foot spiked rails in the middle of the night while haloed by the light of streetlamps wasn't exactly subtle and was better to be steered clear of. However, Ryosuke and Vincent had obviously already breached Laroque's security and had had the--albeit unintentional--courtesy to leave their access route open. It should simply be a matter of tracing the false Noir's footsteps until Mireille and Kirika caught up to them, the majority of the dangers having been already neutralised by tonight's first intruders into the estate. Or so the blonde hoped. Judging by the aggressively trounced security measures at the front gate, Ryosuke and Vincent were not loath to use lethal force against anything that stood in their path. Mireille trusted that they had continued in the same fierce style throughout their infiltration.

"With any luck those two will have cleared the entire way for us," Mireille remarked, voicing her thoughts for Kirika's benefit, even though she was certain the darkhaired girl had parallel hopes. But there was no harm in sharing one's feelings, particularly when on an assignment of sorts… and particularly these days, when Mireille was championing open and frequent communication between herself and her reticent partner. True, they had their own unique manner of conversing during 'business hours'; an instinctive one that was far beyond the level of mundane verbal communication, but when it came to personal feelings after hours they were both clearly inept at expressing themselves. It was Mireille's aspiration that that would change soon, but until then in her view every little bit helped.

Kirika merely mumbled her concurrence in her traditional fashion, but then Mireille hadn't expected much more. Change didn't happen overnight, even during a long night like this one.

Mireille slipped through the open gate and inside the compound--her introverted partner in tow--and instantly deviated from the illuminated gravel path leading to the mansion and onto the pitch-black section of lawn on her left instead, glad to be out of the light that laid her bare and back in the safety of the shadows' shroud. She then paused there in the murk, crouched low in the dewy grass with Kirika next to her, the pair delaying their approach for a few seconds to give their eyes time to adjust to the darkness.

As Mireille's night vision gradually kicked in, she slowly made out a handful of dark shapes scattered haphazardly across the grounds, predominantly in the left expanse where she and Kirika presently were. It didn't take the assassin long to realise that the silhouettes were in fact the bodies of more guards, put to death as Ryosuke and Vincent had stormed through. There had to be greater than half a dozen dead men lying about under the cloudy night's sky, their final resting place looking like the spot where they had originally fallen. No effort at all had seemingly been made on the false Noir's part to drag the carcasses into a secluded corner of the estate and suitably hide the evidence of their incursion. It was an act of either sloppiness or arrogance, but Mireille already knew the answer to that one. It would seem that Ryosuke and Vincent held nothing save contempt for their victims, impending and otherwise. In any case, the blonde now understood that people *had* been sent to investigate the abandoned front gate, it was just that none of them had lasted the distance there. Ryosuke and his partner had evidently utilised the pall of darkness covering the compound to their extreme advantage and systemically slaughtered them all on a first come, first kill basis. Mireille doubted whether any of the sentries had even seen their end coming.

The trail of corpses was a beneficial if macabre sight to Mireille, sketching an even clearer path for her and Kirika to follow. And follow it they did without a sound and at a swift pace, their pistols ready to be brought to bear against any surviving guard who made an unexpected appearance and threatened to compromise their stealthy infiltration. Mireille was a bit concerned about the presence of dogs on the premises as well, but thankfully there appeared to be no troublesome and generally vicious canines wandering around, or else they were tied up in their kennels somewhere, snoozing away like their owners in the mansion. Guard dogs were harder to deal with than their human counterparts; they had the habit of sniffing out a trespasser regardless of where she or he secreted themselves. The animals couldn't be reasoned with like human beings either; money and sex appeal counted for squat, and they held unwavering faith in their noses and instincts to not be deterred by misdirection… well, unless that misdirection involved masking one's scent, which was tricky to do and more bother than it was worth. Mireille found it much simpler to just shoot any inquisitive dog that detected her scent and wandered too close, then subsequently their handler a split second later depending on their proximity. A lost mutt was written off with significantly less concern than an actual person.

The disjointed, gruesome trail of limp-limbed bodies led to the west wing of Laroque's residence, and vanished around a corner of the building. Mireille and Kirika stuck close to the manor as they traced after it, the barren flowerbeds bordering its outer walls as much space as they would allow between them. Up this close the blonde assassin could see that a layer of moss or lichen coated the lower bricks of the house, while a thick covering of ivy and other viny plant life climbed trellises fastened to the walls, their tendrils stretching all the way to the second floor windows and if left to grow unchecked could very possibly reach the gutters if not the roof proper. If Mireille and Kirika had wished to they could probably use the trellises as a ladder and enter the mansion via an upper floor window. Although they didn't, it was still worthwhile to make note of--if they required a quick escape route while on the second level they could always clamber down the side of the house with relative ease and speed.

The two female assassins rounded the corner cautiously, wary of possible threats, before immediately discovering a set of steps that led to a side entrance to the manor, a couple of trashcans neighbouring it. As they moved closer they saw that the alternate entrance's door was wide open, but with only more darkness spilling outside. Ryosuke and Vincent had no doubt entered Laroque's house through there.

Mireille and Kirika placed their backs to the mansion's wall, heedless of the flowerbeds now, before edging nearer to the side entrance, the Corsican at the point as usual. She poked her blonde head carefully into the doorway and took quick stock of the interior, her sharp gaze darting this way and that, covering all angles. The doorway opened into a kitchen as old-fashioned as the exterior of the house, but it appeared well equipped with the occasional modern appliance discreetly positioned in amongst the outdated here and there, and was also in immaculate condition--Laroque must have hired hands, Mireille surmised. There wasn't a single bloodied corpse sullying the floor either, which did work to the spotless room's advantage. Dead bodies did have a tendency to spoil any décor.

The coast clear, Mireille signalled to Kirika that it was safe to proceed with a brusque wave of her hand, and then after bounding atop the uppermost step slinked inside the kitchen, her Walther's sight focusing on an open doorway ahead while she favoured a closed one to her left with a watchful eye. Kirika tagged along behind the woman, her own gaze momentarily zipping all over the room as she took in her new surroundings. It then finally settled on the hallway viewable through the open door in front of them, where Ryosuke and Vincent's unsightly trail resumed with gory grandeur.

If Laroque did have hired hands, then his maids were definitely going to have an unpleasant time cleaning the halls in the morning. Mireille's blue eyes left the closed door alone and moved back to the open doorway to join Kirika's, where she had noted during her first perusal of the kitchen that yet more guards lay massacred in an adjoining short corridor that terminated at a shut door, a corridor which also crossed perpendicularly with a second. Pale, diffused light produced from an unknown source shone from the latter hall's left and muted though it was, it was just enough to permit the woman and her colleague to distinguish the passages' deceased inhabitants in superior detail than they had with the sentries' likewise departed fellows outside, the corpses' faces being painted an eerie and appropriate deathly white.

Men in suits were sprawled on the floor and slouched against the walls in all manner of arrangements, and large amounts of their blood soaked the luxuriant carpeting with dark stains and not to mention their once clean and crisp clothing as well. As Mireille and Kirika crept into the corridor ahead of them and to the intersection with all due prudence, they saw that the grievous injuries inflicted upon the guards were the cause of such major haemorrhaging. Their wounds were chiefly localised to the neck and throat areas, and the Corsican observed that there was evidence of the garrotting she had seen on the guard at the gate on a few of the luckless men. Others had had their throats slit or stabbed with savage intensity, their arteries ruptured and the slash or thrust deep, oft cases to the bone. A couple of sentries even had their heads bent at nauseatingly odd angles, their necks obviously broken, likely with sheer brute force--a simple but rather inelegant method of killing that was beyond Mireille's own physical capability, not that she would be one to adopt the crude technique. There was also the sporadic guard who had received punctures with a blade to their back instead of their throat, with the noticeable intent to pierce a lung considering where it had been plunged. Not a single gunshot wound was to be seen, although there were a few handguns strewn about, the dropped firearms of the sentries who had managed to pull their weapons from their holsters before meeting the Reaper.

All in all, the carnage wrought along each of the two hallways was an impressive feat for what it was--so many slain without an apparent alarm being raised or even a retaliatory shot fired. Mireille deduced that by concentrating their attacks to the throat and neck, Ryosuke and Vincent had prevented their quarries from screaming or from making the slightest sound above a liquid gurgle, and hence thwarted the stricken guards from warning their comrades. The blows to the lungs had probably created a similar affect; as soon as air from the outside had invaded the breached organs merely continuing to breath would have been more than enough challenge for the victim. Still, it must have been very hard for the false Noir to actually inflict the silencing wounds to each guard before he could cry out, especially if more than one were alerted to their presence at the time. Ryosuke and Vincent had surely butchered the men with a speed and efficiency on par with Kirika's. A false Noir they may be, but it would seem that they did have the skill to merit the title. However, Mireille was not concerned. It wasn't as if she and Kirika were pushovers. And, after all, they had been the true Noir. A copy could never surpass the original, and an imitation had even less of a chance.

The hallways themselves where Ryosuke and Vincent's achievements were put on grisly display were in the same vein as the kitchen and the mansion's exterior; an archaic motif straight out of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. It was as if Mireille and Kirika had stumbled back in time somehow and right into a traditional manor house of that antiquated period. Oil paintings of people dressed in the customary attire of the past hundred to two hundred years hung on the walls together with correspondingly styled renditions of landscapes of Europe long ago lost to modernisation. Placed intermittently along the length of the hallway's walls were ornaments consisting of magnificently crafted vases and statuettes to name a couple, exhibited on small pedestals befitting the era they stemmed from.

Collectively the value of the objects in the corridors alone had to total in the hundred thousands--a grand fortune indeed. Any art dealer or thief would be downright ecstatic to get their hands on even one of the masterpieces Mireille saw; she was sure that the splattered blood marking some of the antiques would not deter them in the least. And it could probably be cleaned off rather easily, and without so much as a thought to how it got there given by their new owners. Albert Laroque was unmistakably an exceptionally rich man, with his security precautions clearly warranted. Maybe Ryosuke and Vincent weren't here for an assassination at all but in fact to pilfer a few choice artefacts. Mireille didn't honestly believe that, however it was still a possibility, albeit a slim one. She wouldn't know the false Noir's true intentions for definite until she actually came across them, and even then perhaps not. Ryosuke and Vincent wouldn't be alive for very long after the meeting, of course. And the Corsican wasn't the type to grant her targets any last words.

Mireille stopped in the middle of the crossroads dividing the hallways, Kirika mimicking in accordance to her older partner's action. The blonde assassin cast her eyes down the left span of corridor, where she had glimpsed an interesting sight in her initial cursory glance of the area that she had performed before she and Kirika had risked advancing further. At the end of the corridor was the origin of the pallid light that streaked weakly into the passage. A door stood wide open there, baring a room that's purpose was immediately obvious. Inside were a pair of guards--quite dead, naturally--one face down on the floor bleeding from his throat and the other sitting in a computer chair, his chin on his chest with the rest of his body just as slack. And in front of that man was a desk with a dozen television monitors stacked atop one another in three rows, no doubt the control centre for the security camera network set up around the manor. The equipment looked out of place in a house that was a tribute to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; a cubbyhole of modern technology in an antiquated world. However, the technology at the moment was about as effective as it would have been if utilised in that old era. All the monitors' screens displayed a noiseless snowstorm at night, black and white static in a never-ending tumult. Ryosuke and Vincent had evidently taken out the surveillance system, and in one fell swoop disabled all the cameras throughout the estate. It favoured Mireille and Kirika as much as it did their enemies, though; there was no need to worry about being captured on film whilst tiptoeing around the house.

The trail of bodies the young women had been using to direct them to their prey more or less concluded at the ghastly scene of mass murder at the corridors' junction, but both assassins espied a faint glow of light coming from the tiny crack formed between an ajar door and its doorjamb to their right, near the far end of the longer hallway. Like nighttime insects to a lamppost's light, Mireille and Kirika were attracted to it, stealing down the passageway towards the door, their pistols suddenly held just a little tighter in their ready hands.

Ryosuke and Vincent, their distorted reflections--they were near, very near. Mireille could practically feel it, like some sort of sixth sense; a sensation of inexplicable anticipation, although it was neither exciting nor uneasy, just… an impression of something up ahead. She was sure Kirika felt the same thing. It was the innate instincts of an assassin at work, an intuition that similarly forewarned one when an assailant was just around the corner or an unseen gun sight was being trained on them from afar. Mireille was sure the foundation of the strange sense was based squarely in logic rather than in some sort of Zen-like awareness, the feeling doubtless the product of external stimuli ignored by the conscious mind and instead analysed by the unconscious, such as sights and sounds just on the brink of perception. Regardless of the feeling's descent, the fact remained that the false Noir was very likely beyond that door; the Corsican was almost positive that they were. This long night was drawing to its conclusion. The lone executioners--Death--had arrived; let the final scene of this film noir commence.

Mireille and Kirika halted outside the door, close enough to perceive the intricate wood grain stylised on its varnished surface. The woman looked at her shorter partner for confirmation that she was prepared, though it was a superfluous gesture. As soon as her blue eyes locked with Kirika's brown, she knew by their stanch appearance that the darkhaired girl was ready--she was *always* ready. Though resolute the young assassin's gaze may be--hard even--it was not cruel or unfeeling in any way. Unwavering determination is all that existed in the orbs' still depths. Kirika was a girl with a gun and with the full intent to use it, yet a girl she remained--she had no penchant for murder in spite of the number of lives she had taken and her aptitude for it. A cold-blooded killer she was not. And never would be, if Mireille had her way. And never would be… again….

Mireille exhaled calmly and then held her next breath, before she suddenly burst into the room behind the door, shoving it completely open with her left shoulder as she strafed swiftly inside, bringing up her Walther in her right hand. Kirika sprung through the doorway a fraction of a second after her, sticking a metre away from the Corsican's side and brandishing her own firearm. It wasn't a stealthy entrance by any means, but Mireille had elected to charge in rather than creep inside to maintain the element of surprise indefinitely. She believed the sneaker approach would have been less effective and potentially treacherous; Ryosuke and Vincent quite possibly would have heard their entrance--virtually silent as it would have been--and then Mireille and Kirika's advantage over them would have been forfeit. Perhaps the woman was overestimating the men's abilities, but to underestimate them would be to invite danger. Therefore Mireille had decided to simply dash inside the room. It was noisy, but should catch the room's occupants unawares, regardless of who they were.

Mireille took in the surroundings of the room in a mere instant, but only a small part of her attention was dedicated to the chore. It was clearly a library or an exceptionally well-resourced study furnished in an identical theme as the rest of mansion, with ornate shelves packed almost to capacity with countless books lining the left and right walls from one end nearly completely to the other. A third and fourth set of shelves equally stocked with texts roosted above their mates on roughly four-foot wide hardwood balconies, each accessed by a stepladder constructed of the same material. They stood tall enough to touch the high ceiling of the rectangular library, much like the matching array of shelves below them that scraped the underside of their perch.

The tomes that made their home in the library were arranged in an orderly fashion on the shelves, not a speck of dust to be seen coating a single binding, and most if not all were bound in leather covers dyed in sombre hues; the trappings of classic books or very old ones, likely the second when taking into account the other rare and priceless items that resided on the premises. Mireille mused whether Laroque had amassed all these artefacts and ancient texts out of an interest in those fields, and that what she had been seeing while she and Kirika had traipsed through his house's halls were pieces of his collection. It would explain the sheer volume of items on display.

A few small round tables with accompanying cosy-looking chairs and a couple of two-seater sofas with cushions were present in the middle of the room, presumably placed there for readers to avail themselves of and relax in respectively while pouring over a book penned during a time long ago. There wasn't a book lying out of place on any of the brilliantly polished and finely crafted tables currently however, the majority of the tomes nestled away comfortably in their spots on the bookshelves. Yet there were some glaring gaps in amongst the texts sitting on the many shelves, several of them quite thick suggesting the removal of a number of books.

The missing tomes were accounted for where the greater bulk of Mireille's attention was focused; past the room's décor and towards a bulky dark oak desk and red wine coloured leather chair at the far end of the library, which were situated in front of a huge window made up of a trio of thinner ones with arched white frames, the central window the tallest of the three. Irregular, jumbled piles of books taken from their original resting places were assembled on the desk, numerous scattered across it, one or two even deposited seemingly without a care on the floor. And hunched over the stacks of tomes with their backs to Mireille and Kirika were two men, both sifting through the literary mess obviously in search of a specific title. One picked out and examined the contents of individual books with meticulous exactitude, while his companion rummaged around the heap with contrasting frenetic impetuousness, occasionally tossing books aside in frustration. The false Noir, Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu, just as Mireille had predicted.

A lamp on the desk provided illumination for the duo's labours, its light having been what had lured Mireille and Kirika to their location in the first place. It gently saturated the library in a soft orange glow akin to the setting sun, the twilight casting elongated shadows on the bookshelves and ceiling, the silhouettes of Ryosuke and Vincent the tallest of them all. Giant, distorted images of the killers stretched out from their feet, the limbs spindly and spider-like, warped to otherworldly proportions--more like monsters than men. Perhaps it was a glimpse into a form of mirror, the dark reflections of corrupt souls. Mireille wondered what her shadow-self looked like. She didn't check.

At the clamour of Mireille and her partner's dramatic and abrupt entrance, the hitmen immediately ceased their rummaging, although their subsequent reactions varied in tone rather significantly. Vincent spun around to face the opposite end of the room and its new occupants a scarce instant after Mireille had crossed the doorway's threshold, an extended switchblade with an edge of about four inches long gripped between his bared teeth, and a feral, maniacal grin splitting his features as a result. His amber eyes matched the ferocity of his grin, burning with a fierce intensity somehow made deeper by the understated light of the room, reminiscent of how a feline's eyes sparkled in places of low illumination. However, upon sighting Mireille he blinked, his eyes losing their glint and his grin no longer quite so crazed. Instead Vincent's expression became nigh on a leer of a lecherous old man… that wasn't that much different from the previous look, the blonde dryly reconsidered.

Ryosuke on the other hand didn't even bother turning around to greet his foes. He straightened to his full height and lowered his arms slowly to his sides at Mireille and Kirika's arrival--as if he had all the time in the world--and settled on merely looking over his right shoulder in the young women's direction, his pale profile exhibiting an utter calm and composure in spite of being taken by surprise and put at a potentially deadly disadvantage. There was contempt also; his one visible violet eye smouldering coldly with it through his white bangs while the thin compaction of his lips wordlessly spoke of distaste at the unwanted interruption.

Mireille noticed that clasped in Ryosuke's right hand was a length of piano wire, either end fastened to a black plastic handle. It was the kind of wire used for anything but inside pianos, with it's lightweight and non-metallic composition making it a handy tool of murder that could pass through metal detectors uncontested and be carried effortlessly on one's person. If Mireille were ever inclined to take a literal 'hands-on' style to the fundamentals of her job it would most certainly be one of the instruments she would employ. It appeared that Ryosuke thought on a similar vein to the blonde assassin; it was clear that he was responsible for the garrotting marks on the throats of the guards seen earlier, and, while on the subject, that his associate Vincent laid claim to the knife wounds. But as for who snapped the odd sentry's neck, it could have been either of them. Or even both.

While their responses for the most part differed, one particular thing was mutual amongst both Ryosuke and Vincent--neither exhibited any trace of fear whatsoever. The fact didn't unnerve Mireille however; it simply meant that the men were not trifling poseurs like so many other people who inhabited the underworld. But the woman had known that for quite some time now, ever since she had exchanged fire with one half of the false Noir in Le Grand Hotel Inter-Continental. Pretenders who merely talked big but were in reality just small fries would not have been able to accomplish the feats of the kind Ryosuke and Vincent had. What's more they were supposedly well known in the underbelly of Japan's society and were allied with Kaede--the sharpest thorn in Soldats' side presently--to boot, with one of the men her brother no less. With skill came reputation, and Ryosuke and Vincent were not for want in either.

"Caught in the act red-handed," Mireille remarked sardonically in a cool and self-assured voice as she moved further into the library, repositioning herself to the rear of the mini lounge running down its centre--a spot better suited to imparting cover in the event of a firefight. Her pistol's sight remained steady on the immobile Ryosuke's back as she sidestepped carefully away from the room's doorway, Kirika's Beretta imitating the woman's Walther as she followed the blonde's lead, except that its target was the man's shorter companion, Vincent, and his chest. "I never knew you two were such avid book lovers that you would resort to petty burglary."

Mireille had been tempted to simply blaze away with her handgun at Ryosuke and Vincent's defenceless backs as soon as she had seen them, yet despite that near overpowering compulsion she had somehow managed to stay her hand… for now. While a scant couple of days earlier this week she would not have hesitated for even the smallest sliver of a second at blasting several 9mm Parabellum rounds the false Noir's way, now, after the men's prior behaviour tonight, her curiosity was grudgingly piqued. People had died, people who had been assets to her trade… as vulgar and trivial as Simon and his associates had been. Still, Mireille wanted explanations as to why they'd had to give up their lives, and, in relation to that answer, she was confident she would also learn why the false Noir were more or less ransacking a well-to-do man's library in suburban Paris. Moreover, she was *not* a mindless tool of Soldats or Breffort's unquestioningly carrying out their bidding with blinkers on, and nor was Kirika; they both had their own free will to handle matters as *they* pleased and always would. Desperation to stop the deterioration of her close relationship with her partner had fuelled the Corsican's passion to slay Ryosuke and Vincent immediately during their last confrontation, but this time with a more level head on her shoulders and lighter heart in her chest the woman could regard the situation with a judicious mind. It was another troubling reminder of why sentimentality had no place amid those who lived by the gun.

Vincent cautiously reached up to his mouth and removed the switchblade from between his teeth, his rich amber eyes shifting warily from Kirika's raised weapon to Mireille's, knowing that to provoke them with aggressive movement would cause bullets to fly and people to die--namely him. "If it isn't babe and brat," he then drawled with a snide smirk as he lowered his arm with the same earlier degree of prudence, his broken French dripping with mocking. "Took you long enough. You know your crispy predecessors were lot better at finding us."

"Perhaps," Mireille replied icily, her expression just as frosty as her tone. But only for an instant. The next moment her face brightened, easily schooled to cordiality attributable to frequent practice, a faint taunting smile teasing her lips upwards. "Yet I must say your sloppy handiwork in the shop off Rue de Prony was most helpful in pointing us in the right direction," she then retorted haughtily to the triad affiliate, although her eyes stayed firmly on Ryosuke, trusting unconditionally that Kirika had the other man well in hand, just as the girl likewise trusted that she had the tall hitman restrained.

Out of the corner of her eye Mireille saw an angry sneer flash across Vincent's face before his own features were disciplined, the demeaning lopsided leer resurfacing. So she had struck a nerve. Interesting. It appeared that Vincent was indeed a hothead as the Corsican had suspected from his deeds--or more to the point, from the extent of the butchery inflicted upon his victims--thus far, albeit a hothead with his temper under tight rein. However, there were always methods to slacken those reins or even loose them outright, and it appeared that Vincent possibly drew on killing as an outlet for his rage--the period when he himself let his control wane, voluntarily or not. Small, seemingly inconsequential details like this on a target had proved useful to Mireille in the past; every facet of a hit's personality regardless of how minor had the potential to be used against them, be they actual character traits or behavioural habits. A professional assassin gathered these little gems and utilised them as they could, turning that late night cigarette break in an alley into a death sentence for their target, one markedly faster than the sluggish ravages of cancer.

"Soldats…" Ryosuke suddenly uttered in a soft whisper as he tilted his head back towards the ceiling, his profile taking on a distant look while the lid of his sole visible eye sagged lazily. "Their veins indeed run deep and long, the very world the body of the beast. Where there is no such thing as coincidence… just ever watchful eyes." His words, while somewhat cryptic and more than a little poetic were expressed in perfect, flowing French--a huge improvement over his partner's meagre ability in the language. In addition they sounded as if they were spoken primarily to himself, the black clad man temporarily oblivious to his company in the library with him.

Nevertheless, Mireille did not miss Ryosuke's observations on the global, ancient, and secret o

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