The Test, Act I Ryosuke lit the end of the cigarette held between his lips with his silver lighter, the brief spark of flame dousing the darkly clad hitman's gaunt face in a soft, flickering nimbus of muted orange whilst weakly illuminating the otherwise pitch-black alley around his imposing figure. The assassin snapped his lighter shut, banishing the light back to its prison and plunging his features once more into shadow. He took a long drag on his cigarette, the glowing tip flaring bright in the darkness, a sole pinprick of light in the murk of the night. Following numerous detours to a variety of locales, ranging from a low-class eatery to a rowdy pub, Ryosuke and Vin had eventually tailed their young spy to this address, a secluded alleyway in a dilapidated part of Paris, the district an obvious hub for gang-related activity. Not that the two 'tourists' had been even remotely perturbed about venturing into an area of potentially heavy crime; Ryosuke sincerely doubted whether France's ganglands--or even the deepest tiers of their underworld, for that matter--could come close to matching the peril of Japan's. The syndicates in this country were weak, petty, too involved with lining their pockets than anything else. There was no sense of camaraderie linking each member in bonds stronger than financial gain, stronger than *steel*, there was no sense of brotherhood--no sense of family. It was a failing that infected many of the West's illegal 'organisations', if they could even be called that. If there ever came a time when one of Asia's criminal consortiums decided to genuinely expand full scale into--or perhaps more accurately, invade--Europe's underworld the continent's criminal groups would quickly learn how a *true* syndicate operates... before they were all slaughtered like the wretched vermin they are. Ryosuke blew smoke from his nostrils into the cold night air, his merciless violet hued eyes narrowing. Or at least all would be destroyed but one, single, and arguably most influential group that had ever been assembled throughout history. Soldats had been secretly given birth to in Europe, centuries ago back in the dark ages, and had then spread like a plague across the globe with the passing of the years until present, growing infuriatingly stronger and stronger the further it expanded. And still to this day the clandestine society maintained its power and mystique, its followers covertly manipulating people's lives by whatever whim took them, like mere pieces on a chessboard to be moved and positioned as they wished... and sacrificed as they wished. Ryosuke knew from bitter experience how Soldats thought nothing of snuffing out anybody's existence, regardless of who they were or what the motives were to supposedly warrant execution. It was only fitting that he treated members of the organisation with equal callous indifference. But tonight Soldats, Ryosuke's favoured foe, was not the quarry he and his partner were hunting. Not every antagonist that crossed one's path could be worthy prey. Ryosuke turned his eyes to Vin, where the shorter man was leaning against the alley's rundown wall opposite him with his arms folded. The sun had fallen well below the horizon during their circumspect pursuit of their stalker, and that coupled with the distinct absence of light in the narrow passage made Vin blend into the deep shadows most effectively; he was barely visible in his black suit, shirt and tie, much like Ryosuke himself was significantly shrouded in his long ebony coat. But camouflage for after dusk had not been the reason why the triad member had donned the dark garb before leaving the boarding house. Vin had an eccentricity of habitually clothing himself in black, the shade of Death, whenever there was a possibility he would be taking a life. Ryosuke had never bothered to inquire to the why behind his partner's odd practice, not being especially interested what the black-haired man's motivation was, but he had made a few idle conjectures on the rare occasions when there had been nothing better to occupy his thoughts with. He presumed Vin saw himself as some sort of mortician--he had certainly put enough people in coffins to be qualified as one-- although perhaps not as the kind society looked approvingly on, or maybe even as Death itself, the Grim Reaper. However, Ryosuke doubted if Vin possessed the level of arrogance to give credence to the latter. Death's servant, perhaps, but certainly not the figure of Death itself. No, delusions of grandeur akin to that level were reserved for fools who believed their abilities in murder were above and beyond all others, fools who viewed themselves as untouchable by the Reaper. Fools of the like who dubbed themselves Noir, Ryosuke thought with irritation. No matter how skilled one was, all it took to end it was a single bullet or well-placed blade. And one's title mattered even less, especially when one was in their grave. "How long are we just going to wait out here?" Vin complained crabbily, but with the pitch of his voice prudently kept whisper quiet. He turned his head in the direction of the unmarked door a short ways to his right, a door where their inept watcher had passed through into places unknown several moments earlier. There was a sign posted above the weather-beaten door, but it was so soiled with dirt that whatever it said was incomprehensible. However, with a back alley door as the apparent main entrance, the building Ryosuke and Vin were loitering outside of was quite likely home to some sort of shady marketplace where underhanded dealings were conducted for illicit wares. In other words, it was probably a 'business' to fence goods of dubious origin. Ryosuke ignored his partner's characteristic grousing, instead taking another puff on his cigarette in answer and filling his lungs with smoke. He knew that Vin understood why they were choosing to wait a moment or two instead of simply charging into the building the instant their teenage spy had disappeared inside--the triad member merely wanted to see some action. But it was best to let one's prey assume that they were in the clear and consequently permit them to relax themselves in their perceived security before breaking down the door and proving them disastrously wrong. Catching one's enemy off their guard was always an advantage one should strive to achieve. It was one of the most rudimentary principles of following the way of the assassin. Once the length of his cigarette had shrunk until nearly the filter was the lone part remaining, Ryosuke plucked it from his lips and let it drop to the ground. Reaching inside his coat, he took out a pair of black gloves--his own eccentricity before murder--and pulled them on with a little difficulty. But their tough inflexibility was a tolerable nuisance when weighed against the benefits they conferred to their wearer. The tall assassin clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles cracking against the virtually unyielding material enclosing them. Ryosuke and Vin had come this far after their spy; they may as well see it through properly to its conclusion. Besides, who knew whom the snooping boy was working for... he was a loose end that should be tied. And if the two hitmen had to leave behind a few bodies at room temperature in Paris before they returned to Yokohama, so be it. Ryosuke's gaze flicked meaningfully to Vin, who smirked gleefully, and then with a long stride, he walked towards the door. ****** "Just thought it best to give you the heads up about what's going on down here," Jean Vasser--or 'Ezza', as was his idiotic alias for this particular posting--spoke softly into the mouthpiece of his mobile phone while checking reflexively over his shoulder at the closed door behind him, fearing it would open at any second. One of Simon's acquaintances--or 'ferrets', as Jean liked to contemptuously dub them--had just arrived at the computer store a few minutes ago and was now downstairs in the basement with the moronic hacker, doubtless trying to sell the knowledge he had garnered about Sakamoto and Zhenmeng... for the second time this week. It was astounding that the ferret had even discovered the accommodations of the marked men--Simon's 'network' of informants were little more than kids prying heedlessly into people's affairs--yet Simon, being the cheapskate that he was, instead persisted in arguing with the snitch over the price of the information. For all of his evident adoration of Bouquet, the guy's first love was definitely money. Jean prayed that he would just pay whatever fee the ferret hankered for this time; the faster Simon learned of Sakamoto and Zhenmeng's location, the faster Soldats could assassinate them... and the faster Jean would be transferred from this god-awful assignment. Breffort merely grunted his approval on the other end of the line, and then ended the call. Jean exhaled slowly and lowered his phone, before wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow with a forearm. He still wasn't used to talking to such a high-ranking Soldats official. Jean had been inducted into the order a scant year ago, and after a several months of being shuffled from one meaningless assignment to another, he had eventually been stuck in a field position of relative unimportance along with an idiotic codename; Ezza, the timid and scruffy assistant to an inconsequential computer 'criminal' known to now and then affiliate himself with some minor felons in the city. But at least it *was* a field position... although at the time Jean had felt that that was a small condolence. A couple of months following his placement in Simon's mouldy computer store, Jean had received a communiqué from his immediate superiors--who weren't very 'superior' at all in the Soldats hierarchy--to be on the look out for two young women. Pictures of the sought after duo had accompanied the message, but no mention behind the reasons why he had to look out for them, or what even their names were had been included. Despite this, Jean had learned later through the grapevine that numerous Soldats agents in the field who had infiltrated places where information was traded as a commodity had been relayed the same instructions and data--clearly the higher-ups had wanted an operative to be situated close to the women... without said operative knowing who exactly they were watching, as was typical Soldats methods. But it had been obvious to Jean that the two women had to be of sizeable importance to merit such treatment. He hadn't predicted that the wanted pair made use of Simon Pierpont's talents, however, and now suddenly Jean had been thrust into a position of the utmost value in Soldats' eyes. Most of his days before this abrupt turnaround had been spent miserably maintaining the façade of a sullen teenager obsessed with comics and using as little deodorant as possible, so when the hunted duo had wandered into Simon's shop about a fortnight ago the Soldats underling had almost swallowed his tongue in shock. The two young women hadn't looked like much and had made an unusual pair at first glance--the blonde had been cold and imposing, her partner meek and waiflike--but there had been something about them. It had been subtle, like an intangible aura perhaps, yet it had silently screamed with conviction that they were two people who were *not* to be messed with. Needless to say, Jean had felt considerably intimidated while in their presence. Following his encounter with the two, Jean had pried--quite resentfully--from Simon that the older, beautiful woman's name was Mireille Bouquet--the 'babe' destined to become the hacker's 'squeeze' any day now, apparently. He hadn't known her Asian friend's identity, however, and it still remained a mystery to date. Jean had then quickly contacted his superiors to give them the news along with the limited data about Bouquet he had wrung from Simon, hoping the additional intel would place him in their good graces... and hoping that as a result he would be transferred to a field position where he could at least be allowed to shower once a day without threatening to ruin his cover. Yet after spilling his guts to his betters, to Jean's great surprise--and likewise trepidation--he had been put under the direct command of a man called Remy Breffort, someone he knew sat high on the Soldats council, and further emphasising that Bouquet and her companion were individuals who meant a great deal to the secret society. Breffort had ordered Jean to report straight to him from then on, desiring to know all of what Bouquet asked of Simon, as well as any resulting information the computer expert gave her. It may have not been a transfer, but working directly for a Soldats council member had benefits--and not to mention prestige... if he was permitted to actually *tell* anybody about his employer--all of its own. Jean was sure that if he pleased Breffort in his performance on the Bouquet assignment, it would be in his favour--maybe he would get that field transfer he yearned for. Hell, maybe Breffort would even keep him under his wing. Permanently being in the service of a Soldats councilman would be a terrific career move. Breffort had furthermore enlightened Jean of two other people to look out for whom Soldats were also hunting in Paris, albeit for seemingly very different reasons; Kei Sakomoto and Desmond Zhenmeng, a pair of Asian men marked for death who Bouquet and her partner turned out to be seeking as well. Once again, Jean didn't know why the men had to be killed, but his place was not to question, just to obey. True, it was all very intriguing, and the Soldats subordinate had his theories of what linked all the players together in this plot, but he severely doubted whether he would ever get the opportunity to test the validity of them--he did not possess a station that allowed him privileged information beyond that which he needed to know to perform his appointed tasks. But it didn't really matter; Jean's only goal for the moment was to escape this hellish posting and get as far away from Simon as possible--if he had to listen to one more mindless lecture about the dynamics of main characters in video games his sanity was just going to snap. Once again he prayed that Simon's ferret would this time divulge the location of Sakamoto and Zhenmeng to the hacker, then everybody would be happy; Bouquet and her friend for getting the intel they paid for, Simon for pleasing Bouquet and receiving the payment, Breffort for ultimately learning the wanted men's place of residence from Jean, and finally Jean himself for moving another step closer to freedom. Jean looked nervously over his shoulder at the basement door again as he stuffed his phone into one of his baggy cargo pants' pockets, before wiping his sweaty palms on the legs. He jerked in surprise and turned his head sharply in the direction of the computer store's entrance as it suddenly creaked open, an unexpected event for this time of night. Nearly all of Simon's customers preferred to visit the hacker in the late afternoon, since it was around then that they managed to drag themselves out of bed. Jean would have locked the door and shut up shop by now too if Simon's ferret hadn't rolled up grubbing for Euros. "Whoa, I think we just step in a time warp!" Jean's thoughts were all brought to an immediate standstill in his mind, like the surface of a lake suddenly iced over in an instant, flash frozen by the unnatural chill only stark terror could produce. Sakamoto and Zhenmeng, the men Soldats wanted dead... they were here, in the store, right before Jean's panic-stricken eyes. Zhenmeng strolled up to the front counter--to the rear of which Jean stood like statue--the handsome Asian man's hands in his dark pants' pockets and his gait casual, while his head turned this way and that around the computer shop's interior, exaggeratedly browsing the pretend wares as if he were simply an interested customer. His partner, Sakamoto, walked in behind him and was even creepier in person than in his photocopied picture Bouquet had imparted to Simon, six foot tall and decked out in the blackest black, with pure white hair framing a thin face of almost equal pallor; the Angel of Death personified. Zhenmeng was similarly garbed in absolute black, his amber gaze and flawless skin standing out in contrast with his clothes. Contrary to his outfit, his eyes danced with mischief and he was grinning playfully, but there was something beneath the look and the smile, a shadow of the expression a young boy would have as he pulled the wings off a fly for his own morbid entertainment. If Sakamoto was the Angel of Death, then Zhenmeng was the manic imp perched on his shoulder, cackling wickedly. Zhenmeng abruptly slapped his hands hard on the counter and left them there, the noise sounding unnaturally loud in the store empty save for Jean and the two menacing men, and startling the Soldats follower out of his petrified condition. Zhenmeng then leaned across the counter, supporting himself on his arms, while his creepy eyes flicked from right to left, feigning another look over the shop's 'merchandise' before they fixed squarely on the suddenly profusely sweating Jean. "We are looking for shittiest PC Euro can buy," Zhenmeng said in broken French, his grin becoming lopsided yet still no friendlier than before, "and I guess came to right place, huh?" He looked over his shoulder, back at the shelves and tables laden with very old computer parts. "I did not believe any this crap existed anymore!" He then turned back to Jean, his smile fading until only the corners of his mouth curled upwards slightly in a mere hint of one, while his eyes narrowed just a small amount, his visage moving closer to being openly threatening. "But think we going to have to see something in back," Zhenmeng said with barely veiled demand, his gaze shifting to the basement door meaningfully. "You *can* help us, right...?" he added, drawling the last word as his eyes returned to Jean, boring into the Soldats underling's own, frightened, orbs. Zhenmeng reached one hand inside his black suit jacket, partially pulling out a handgun from a holster resting against his side, revealing enough of the weapon for Jean to understand that his request was not really a request--it was an order. And unfortunately his poor command of the French language did little to reduce the fearful effect his insinuation implied; in some ways it made the man sound all the more malevolent. Meanwhile Sakamoto positioned himself beside his partner, the imposing figure providing further incentive for Jean to cooperate without the slightest resistance. Jean swallowed--hard. In the face of such opposition there wasn't much he could do or say. That was, without being hurt or worse, killed. One thing was sure, however; Simon's ferret wasn't really needed anymore. ****** Kirika turned her head away from her cocked pistol and to her left, watching through resolute eyes as Mireille's position behind the desk was pelted with bullets, the already severely damaged piece of furniture taking even more of a beating. The desk was on its last legs, literally, one side of it having been smashed to splinters under the assault from the shooter, with its integrity giving way and as a result causing it to slope downwards towards Kirika, where she sought refuge to the rear of a solid filing cabinet. Although pinned to a level such that she could hardly return fire without risking lethal perforation, Mireille was still relatively safe behind the other side of the desk, using the thick and deep set of drawers as cover. But her shelter was falling apart all around her at this very second and wouldn't survive much more of a pounding than it already had sustained. Not that it had to. Kirika had been biding her time for this precise moment, consciously suppressing her sense of anxiousness at her partner's perilous plight to prevent herself from acting rashly and forfeiting her advantage... although there was a limit to her 'apathy'--but who could merely sit idly by and watch the person they love be in immediate jeopardy? But the girl now no longer had to hold herself back and curb her natural protective urges. The gangster currently spraying Millet's office with automatic fire was directing his shots solely on Mireille's half of the room, leaving the darkhaired assassin free to retaliate when her older counterpart could not. And it was Kirika's place to act when her love could not, to be the woman's strength when she was weak. That oath related to all manner of things in their lives together, be it in peaceful, everyday affairs or in the heat of combat. It was an oath Kirika had sworn to live by. Kirika whirled around in her crouch and leaned slightly out from behind the filing cabinet, bringing her Beretta instantly to bear in her right hand at the point where she estimated the goon's head height to be. She caught a glimpse of a man holding a quivering Heckler and Koch MP53 submachine gun in his hands standing in the office doorway, the end of its barrel blazing hotly. A stream of bullet casings flew out constantly from the loud weapon, its wielder grinning maliciously as he assailed Mireille's location with round after round of lead. But Kirika's glimpse of the gangster was a short one. She squeezed the trigger of her silenced gun almost immediately after she had strayed from cover, her shot not even a whisper in the roar of her target's countless own, yet infinitely more effective. The man's right temple erupted in scarlet, and he took a tottering step backwards before collapsing into the hallway outside the office, his MP53--and his heart--stilled. There was not a second to spare. Unless Kirika and Mireille wanted to be pinned down again, they had to move *now*. Kirika bolted for the now vacant doorway, staying low as she flitted across the office's bullet-ravaged carpet, her Beretta aimed ahead of her. Out of the corner of her eye she sighted Mireille vaulting nimbly over the remains of the desk with one hand, the woman's coat billowing out behind her as she mimicked her partner's example and sallied forth. Kirika had known she would. She and the blonde were on the same wavelength--they were two halves of a whole, complementing one another in thought and action instinctively as if they had been doing it since birth. It hadn't always been this way, true, and not but a day ago Kirika had believed their harmony to have been lost in tandem with their shared affection. In the months after their first meeting, the two young women's reliance on each other--their *trust* in each other--had built slowly as the love blossomed between them, the two separate yet closely connected sentiments only truly peaking near the pinnacle of their pilgrimage to the past together. Kirika and Mireille's unparalleled abilities were owed to their confidence in each other, and in turn that confidence was owed to their love for each other. It was what made them strong; strong enough to have faced and conquered Altena's trials as their difficultly forever mounted, strong enough to take on the woman's entire Soldats enclave and survive, and on Mireille's part, strong enough to forgive what by all rights should be unforgivable. It was what had made them strong enough to be the rightly named Noir. And now they were still strong, stronger than ever... because their love was still strong. Kirika and Mireille's feelings had seemed to waver before, but in reality it had simply been a misunderstanding, a falsehood that had merely temporarily disrupted their balance; the balance between dark and light, sinner and saint, demon and angel--the best of both worlds working in perfect unity to form an unstoppable partnership. In short, Kirika and Mireille were *one*. A second gangster suddenly appeared in the office's doorway in an effort to maintain the grip on his dead companion's vital spot, but before he could even get off a shot from his pistol two 9mm bullets struck him at the exact same time, the pair of red splotches appearing on either side of his chest. He howled in pain and clutched futilely at his mortal wounds with his free hand, staggering backwards until he met the corridor's wall. He slid down it slowly, his pain-wracked expression evaporating the further he dropped as the life left him. By the time the gangster's rear had touched the floor his facial features had relaxed completely--the shroud of death had enveloped him. Kirika and Mireille each threw their backs against either side of the doorway, their guns held upright and at the ready. Tendrils of smoke coiled to the ceiling from the silenced barrels of the two assassins' respective pistols after their mutual discharge, almost in sync with one another. Kirika looked at her partner as Mireille did likewise, brown eyes steadfastly meeting blue. She then nodded firmly to the blonde, letting her know that she was set to proceed. Not a single word was shared between the pair to voice and confirm their joint offensive strategy, but in their case, none were needed. The exchange lasted only the briefest of moments, neither assassin wishing to lose the momentum of their counter strike. Immediately following her nod, Kirika suddenly bolted out into the hallway, stooped over and with her Beretta directed down the right hand length of the corridor. In flawless coordination with her partner, Mireille sidestepped halfway out of the office at the precise instance the girl moved, her own handgun aimed above Kirika's low, scampering form passing in front of her as the blonde set her own sights down the left span of the corridor. It was a basic plan of attack for two people facing an unknown number of adversaries in the close confines of the upper-middle part of the 'T' in a generic T-junction, one established mainly on common sense than any complex combat tactics--one person took the right hand side of the passage, while the other took the left, eliminating any hostiles as fast as they could while in turn guarding each others' back. But for Kirika and Mireille it *wasn't* a plan per se, it was primarily steeped in instinct alone. Neither thought about what manoeuvres to take or what position to situate themselves in, they simply did it. Kirika had taken the right and placed herself in the most exposed, dangerous arrangement seemingly unthinkingly because in her subconscious she was aware that with her smaller frame she would make a trickier target for the enemy's sights to find, plus she was faster on her feet and more limber than her partner. The girl's intuitive choice left Mireille with the less vulnerable spot, the blonde's taller body partially shielded by the office's doorway. Additionally, the woman's height advantage permitted her to start firing upon their adversaries immediately when Kirika moved, the diminutive girl ducking under the shots--in this life where death could come all too readily without warning, every second was valuable. Kirika's mind had unconsciously evaluated each and every factor before the assassin herself had moved, including considering what Mireille's instinctive impulses would be. And all of her deliberations had occurred in the period of a heartbeat. Trust and love; they were a powerful combination. As Kirika's line of sight cleared the office's doorjamb, her eyes registered three men armed with pistols dwelling in her designated section of hallway, all of who looked taken off guard. Her sharp mind processed this information in the tiniest fraction of a second, modifying her aim to compensate for it, before she let loose at the targets accurately and fatally with her gun. The darkhaired girl strafed across the hallway from the entrance to Millet's office to the wall opposite--agilely skirting the corpse of the H&K MP53 wielding man she had killed beforehand--her attention wholly devoted to her part of the corridor as she took down one gangster with two shots to the stomach, followed by a second with a single round to the chest. When she felt her left shoulder hit the wall she ceased her strafing run and dropped lower into full crouch, firing twice more from her now stationary position at her third and final foe, catching the man the same number of times in the head and sending him sprawling backwards to pile on top of his deceased associates in a muddle of tangled limbs. As the slide of Kirika's empty Beretta M1934 snapped back, a stray bullet originating from her rear impacted the region of wall a handful of inches above her head, making a slight graze in the concrete surface, a white line on a grey plane. A moment later a second wayward slug buried into the dead flesh of the gangster slumped against the wall just behind Kirika, jerking the body so that it nudged against her. In spite of these near misses, the girl didn't flinch nor did alarm start to bubble up in her breast--she knew for absolute certain that Mireille would not allow her to get hit, just as she had not allowed the blonde to be hit by any of the adversaries she had faced. During her assault the girl had been aware of Mireille's Walther P99 sounding out repeatedly in a timbre slightly deeper than her own even when hushed with a silencer, eradicating the other enemies in the left portion of hallway and joining Kirika's instrument in performing their duet. And it *was* a duet. Kirika and Mireille were not only assassins skilled in their trade, but proficient artists putting on a play, a fluid--if macabre--opera, like the ones the blonde had once taken her young partner to see in days gone by to 'culture' her. Yet of course, there was nothing make-believe about this play; there were no actors, and the there was no singing either, only the agonised cries of genuine pain. Here, this play was one of life and death, where each time Kirika and Mireille pulled the trigger of their guns and hence sounded a chord of their instruments, its reverberation potentially spelled doom for somebody's future existence. And when they danced, they dodged bullets; they dodged Death... or delivered it. The song the pair of assassins played, the steps they danced; it was a funeral dirge they performed, a requiem. Kirika and Mireille were a duet of Death, and they executed their drama--or was that tragedy?--with consummate aptitude and unmatched harmony. With her immediate foes taken care of Kirika sprung from her crouch to her full height and spun adroitly around on the balls of her feet to face Mireille's section of hallway, ejecting the spent clip from her Beretta as she swiftly rose before pulling out a fresh one in her turning motion. As she slammed the new magazine into her pistol, she glimpsed a gangster crumpling to the floor ahead of her with a weak groan, his bloodstained white shirt a clear giveaway to the root of his pains. The man's body wasn't the only carcass littering the concrete corridor in front of Kirika's eyes, but it was the latest, Mireille having just finished dealing with her own allotment of enemies, a mere moment behind her partner. Before the goon had even collapsed completely to the floor, Kirika was sprinting directly forwards to the hallway's intersection, her footfalls zigzagging in between the web of lifeless limbs of the departed spread across her route. The assassin heard Mireille's footsteps echo after hers a second later, putting about a metre and a half separating them--seamless precision. With the junction almost upon her, Kirika tugged back the slide of her Beretta, chambering a round an instant before she launched herself forcefully off her right foot, diving elegantly across the opening of the intersection; a graceful dancer executing her closing steps with the utmost finesse. As her body soared by the junction, she fired a trio of bullets at the three men who were running down the other hallway towards her, no doubt in a vain attempt to aid their outmatched--and already dead--friends. Kirika saw all the men jerk spasmodically, but if it was due to being shot or simply in surprise, she couldn't tell. Kirika flew past the intersection, her left shoulder striking the floor. She tucked in her legs and arms and bowed her head at the contact, rolling more than one hundred and eighty degrees completely over the tops of her shoulders and back before her feet touched the floor. The assassin then extended her legs a little and tightened their muscles, the soles of her shoes scaping across the hard floor a couple of inches until she came to a full stop, her partially stretched legs acting as counters to her momentum. Her flight and landing over, Kirika leapt to a standing position and scurried the couple of feet back to the corner of the T-junction, opposite to the corner where Mireille was leaning out from, firing her Walther down the neighbouring corridor at anybody whom the petite girl had missed or failed to kill outright--the reason why the blonde had lingered somewhat behind Kirika. By the time Kirika peered around the corner, all that greeted her were three dead men. The first steps of her and Mireille's dance, the opening 'act' of their play, had concluded... all in a handful of seconds. And they had performed impeccably. But for their opponents, there would be no encore. Suddenly, the door at the far end of the corridor burst open, releasing the previously restrained notes of odd, capricious music from its confines, as well as a hail of lead that spewed into the area, forcing Kirika and Mireille to duck back around their respective corners, into cover. Bullets saturated the walls, the sound of them discharging and bouncing off stone, crumbling it into powder, and the sight of small plumes of white dust rising into the air filling the corridor ahead. Kirika looked across the intersection at Mireille as automatic fire blazed past them, the blonde woman taking advantage of this respite to change clips in her gun. And a respite it was; they were in a stalemate scenario... or at least what appeared to be one. Neither they nor the gangster in the doorway at the end of the hall had the upper hand, both parties more or less in the same arrangements, except for the goon equipped with the superior firepower... and Kirika and Mireille equipped with the superior expertise, which made all the difference between stalemate and simple obstacle. When weighed against raw skill, armaments didn't count for very much at all. A firearm was just a tool like any other, after all. The barrage of suppressing fire ceased, the gangster reloading, and Mireille smiled faintly at Kirika, the girl giving a small smile of her own in answer. The play must go on; it was time for the second 'act'. The pair abruptly dashed from shelter and down the corridor, their pistols directed straight ahead of them. The gangster armed with an Ingram Mac-10 Uzi submachine gun reappeared in the doorway, barring the course forward, with his ammunition supply apparently restocked. His eyes widened at the sight of Kirika and Mireille bearing rapidly down on him and he squeezed hard on the trigger of his weapon spontaneously, in the same instant the two assassins pulled the triggers of their own guns. The man's body twitched and shuddered as it was riddled with bullets, his aim moving wildly all over the place as he was shaken like a puppet by its strings. A volley of lead from his Uzi was spread everywhere as he mechanically kept the trigger of his submachine gun depressed, many of the shots coming dangerously close to hitting Kirika and Mireille. But Kirika wasn't afraid, and she didn't believe Mireille was either. Firearms of the gangster's type were notoriously inaccurate even at the best of times, and with his undisciplined aim and sustained spurt of fire, the chances of actually striking someone or something he was targeting were very low. Still, Kirika wasn't about to take that chance when Mireille's safety was involved; the girl shifted the sights of her Beretta a tad to the right, and deftly shot the Mac-10 out of the goon's grasp, disarming him. The assassins continued firing upon the gangster as they tore down the corridor, the ill-fated man held upright on his feet by the torrent of slugs ripping into his ravaged body, his torso now a mass of red. His face was slack and his mouth hung open, with his eyes rolled back into his head; he was already dead, simply waiting to be allowed to fall to floor and escape this parody of life. But Kirika and Mireille had a purpose for him; there was still a use his body yet possessed--they weren't merely wasting ammunition. Kirika and Mireille breached the doorway a split second later and charged into the erect remains of their foe, hunching over and barging their shoulders violently into his middle. They hurtled into the room ahead, propelling the dead goon forwards along with them, and were greeted with an enormous bombardment of fire; a dense mixture of automatic, semi-automatic and single-shot. The assassins' improvised shield took the burnt of the assault, the gangster's already battered body being punished further still, reduced to a bag of flesh stuffed with bullets. However, both Kirika and Mireille knew that the mutilated corpse wouldn't be able to withstand such abuse for long, and after a couple of seconds--the young women a scarce metre beyond the threshold of the doorway--they peeled away from their human shield. Mireille hurled herself to the right, behind a wide bar fortunately only a few feet from her original location, escaping the onslaught of fire with relative ease. Conversely, Kirika had less luck. The girl had no alternative but to go left, tumbling recklessly across the open floor as gunfire chased after her, her dizzying--though deliberate--momentum addling her senses and causing her surroundings to spin madly. After what seemed like an eternity, Kirika at last crashed into something solid which--somewhat painfully--halted her controlled roll, and when the world had stopped whirling long enough for her to discern her whereabouts, she realised that she had ended up crouched under a round table of dark wood, its top covered by black vinyl. Two chairs lay dishevelled nearby where she had evidently bowled them over, and past them by the bar Mireille had jumped behind she spotted the bullet-ridden body of the man she and the blonde had used as a screen. He lay on his back in a large--and still growing--pool of blood, barely recognisable as a man anymore but more as a mess of tissue, with his clothes in tatters from the countless rounds that had been pumped into him, and also soggy from the bodily fluids that had spilled out from his ruptured skin and muscle to soak them. Kirika took in the spectacle emotionlessly, before dismissing it outright from her mind. The man was just another dead enemy, albeit one severely disfigured, but still nothing she hadn't seen before. She was indifferent. <Merely another dead sinner, yes, what all sinners idyllically should eventually become....> Kirika shook her head slightly and shooed away the errant thought, wondering if she was still a little light-headed from her tumble. Now was not the time for such musings; she could not allow herself to become distracted while in combat, not while fulfilling her cherished vow. "Hold your fire!" a male authoritarian voice hollered above the din of gunfire that was still liberally digging pockmarks all over the floor and wall near the doorway to the corridor Kirika and Mireille had just stampeded through. The shooting ebbed somewhat with the man's command, but didn't cease entirely, prompting him to shout louder and more forcefully. "I said hold your fire, you useless bastards!" he yelled furiously. "You're blasting the hell outta my club! And someone shut that crap off too, while you're at it! After a couple of seconds the gunfire petered out virtually completely, only the stray shot or two from a pistol enduring, which soon also stopped. The music that had been playing in the big room died away also, producing a noticeably deep silence to replace it and the gunfire, a silence that seemed somehow doubly quieter following the clamour seconds before it. But that silence didn't last for long. "That's better," the man's voice spoke again in a softer tone, his words echoing slightly. He then cleared his throat. "I hope you enjoyed my little... welcome," he called in a louder voice, and in a pitch that for some reason sounded mocking to Kirika's ears. "It cost me my damn office, you know!" he added heatedly, before pausing for a moment. "Ah well," the man then continued in a calmer tone, "I guess I can always take the cost out of your two *fine* hides, now, can't I? Hmm, now there's a thought. What do you say? Why don't you both just give up and work for me? I'm sure the Johns would pay whatever I charge to spend some *quality* time with either of you! One a blonde bombshell, the other still only a girl--mmm, what a combo!" He chuckled then, a hoarse laughter that reverberated around the room and made Kirika feel sort of queasy. "Come on, let's stop this unnecessary violence and talk business instead. After all, it's just business between us. Sure, you killed some of my boys, but being the generous soul that I am I say let bygones be bygones." He fell quiet then, but after neither Kirika nor Mireille spoke up, he went on, apparently undeterred. Kirika pondered the possibility that perhaps he liked listening to the sound of his own voice. "Okay, have it your way," the man said with seeming great regret, although Kirika didn't really believe him. "I guess it doesn't matter. You know, I wasn't truly expecting you two to show up so soon, or at all in fact--I didn't believe you would have the *gall* to challenge *me* in my own territory. But lo, here you both are, drawn into my brilliant trap like mice to cheese... or perhaps like kittens to cream would be a more appropriate analogy, hmm? Hah!" Kirika wasn't in actual fact paying much interest to the man's spiel--a mere fraction of her mind was allocated to digesting his words and searching through them for anything important--and hadn't been since his first three sentences. While he had been wasting time talking, the girl had been making worthwhile use of that time to reload her Beretta and carefully study her surroundings from her vantage point under the table. She and Mireille were in some sort of low-lighted barroom, except one outfitted with a peculiar stage of some sort, encircled by chairs and small round tables like the one she was dwelling under. The stage was semicircular and had a catwalk extending out from its centre, with the entire structure coloured in red, along with the curtains. A golden railing--which Kirika surmised to be made of brass--rimmed the entire stage including the catwalk. Poles of about two and a half metres in length of the same style and substance stood vertically erect intermittently on the stage, and also down the middle of the catwalk, yet seemingly served no purpose other than for show. The bar Mireille was hiding behind was to the stage's right and ran straight along the wall. It was constructed of thick, glossy wood with stools in front of it and stacks of bottles on several shelves behind it, and was probably the most defensive location in the room--Kirika was grateful that her love had managed to secure it. From her current spot her angle of the bar didn't provide a view of Mireille, but simply being aware that the woman was in the safest position made the girl feel better. Still, in the event the bar were to be somehow overrun then Mireille could be placed in extreme peril; there wasn't an easy way to retreat from there without leaving one's self wide open to attack. Just because her partner had good cover didn't mean Kirika could become relaxed in regarding her pledge to protect the woman. Kirika herself was in a field of tables and chairs down from the stage and bar, with several red leather booth seats lining the walls. In respect to defensive capabilities the tables offered limited protection; they could be likely shot to pieces relatively effortlessly. The diminutive assassin would have to remain fast on her feet while constantly moving to prevent being wounded in the coming conflict. Peeking out surreptitiously from under the table, Kirika observed that the talkative speaker addressing her and Mireille was--as she had suspected--none other than her and partner's target, Richard Millet; the girl recognised him from the photograph she had seen of the man back at the apartment. The leader of the gangsters was standing on a rickety-looking gantry hanging from the ceiling above the far end of the stage. It ran from one side of the stage to the other, its ends concealed by deep red curtains. Large spotlights were affixed to the topmost handrail of the gantry, while wooden panels had been fitted against the front railings, likely in an endeavour to create a makeshift barricade. Millet was armed with a Herstal FN P90 submachine gun that he waved around in his right hand as he talked, and accompanying him were three men, two of which who wielded simple bolt-action rifles, and a third wearing black sunglasses despite being indoors, who strangely bore no weapon at all. As Kirika watched on, the goon in the sunglasses whispered something into Millet's right ear while sparing uneasy glances into the expanse of the barroom below him. After receiving a nod from Millet, the gangster then jogged along the gantry to the left, the structure wobbling precariously with his every footstep, before he disappeared behind one of the stage's curtains. Kirika looked to her left, peering through the mass of table and chair legs to check the locations of her and Mireille's other adversaries. She could make out at least five pairs of human legs in the midst of the metal kind not a great distance away from her, their arsenal consisting of small arms such as semi-automatic pistols and the occasional revolver. Past them, Kirika sighted a second group of gangsters situated behind the stage's catwalk on its left side, with one of the men brandishing an Avtomat Kalashnikov SU-74 submachine gun, a weapon that could prove to be troublesome if left to have free reign--he would have to be put down quickly if possible. Yet another cluster of men were lurking on the stage amid the curtains, Millet's gantry swaying over their heads. There was very little cover in that particular locale but for the curtains, however, and despite the fabric's seeming heaviness they would do little to stop a bullet. Those gangsters would no doubt be among the first to accept the sting of Mireille's Walther--she was in a prime position to slay them all. Kirika noticed not a single customer in the room, but with the previous firefight not arousing panicked screams or a swarm of fleeing people, that much had been anticipated. It was perfectly clear now that the music playing as normal and the lack of guards in the hallways earlier had all been part of Millet's ploy to lure her and Mireille inside the building under the impression of facing only light resistance. However, this resistance was anything but light... in principle. To experienced assassins like Kirika and her partner, Millet and his men were nothing they hadn't coped with before... and defeated. The duo were outnumbered, they were outgunned, but they were *not* outclassed. And Kirika was positive none of Millet's syndicate had love and trust on their side. "Well, my men grow restless. And if you're not willing to even talk to me...." Suddenly the spotlights on the gantry switched on and were swivelled around by Millet's escort to focus on Kirika and Mireille's positions; one beam of bright white light on the small table the girl was under, and a second on the bar the blonde was behind. It appeared it was time to dance once again. But Kirika was prepared; she was prepared for absolutely anything. She'd had that feeling ever since she had stepped into the alleyway outside Millet's headquarters. The sentiment she had was reminiscent of the one that had instilled her when she had fought Altena's Soldats division at the Manor months ago, determined to face whatever may come, no matter what. She had believed back then that with Mireille by her side she could do anything, defeat anyone, regardless of how daunting the feat or formidable the foe. Kirika had simply felt like she could *fight*. And now, once more, the darkhaired girl had harnessed that resolve. Perhaps its roots in the past were the same as now--her fervent desire to honour her promise to look after Mireille. It certainly could be possible. While she was supposed to be her love's strength, Kirika understood that Mireille had gifted her with a strength, too--the strength to *be* the woman's strength. It was little strange how that worked... the girl wondered if there was a term for such a circumstance. "I think we should get this show on the road," Millet said menacingly. Kirika couldn't agree more. It was time to bring this play--this love story--to its climax... and its inevitable conclusion. ****** To be continued.... Author's ramblings: I considered whether or not I could use the 'duet' analogy from Kirika's POV, but decided that if Mireille had taken her to the opera (an opera with acting) and explained it to her, then it would be okay. Geez, Kirika can be tricky to write for sometimes! I have to keep remembering to make her oblivious to things.
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