**In light of new information, the locations of Kirika's house and school have been changed to Kawasaki. The Ishinomori birthplaces and the location of their headquarters have been changed to Yokohama mainly for the sake of a smoother plot. All chapters have been revised to reflect this change. It's nothing too major; basically, all references to Kyoto have been replaced with references to Yokohama. Thanks to Chadwick for assisting me with this issue! ^_^ - Kirika ****** Looking Beyond The Horizon Breffort paused just outside the door; a solid hulk of oak with simple yet regal designs hailing from the old-world carved directly into the mass of wood; and adjusted the broad knot of his slate-grey necktie at his throat. It was an unnecessary gesture; one that he was reluctantly aware was birthed out of a desire to linger in the dimly lit antechamber for a few moments longer. And out of an irrational sense that his tie was coming dangerously close to throttling him. It was always the same when he stood in front of this door, stood wearing these clothes. The forest green suit jacket felt outlandish on him, constricting, its straight cut stiff collar prickling his neck. The accompanying white shirt was no improvement, its collar a tight band around his throat. Perhaps it was the shirt's collar that was responsible for the sensation of having a restricted windpipe. Indeed, his sedate necktie was the only part of his dress that reflected who he really was. The rest were clothes of an antiquated cut, trappings from the past, but the formal and expected attire for one such as he. Breffort always tried to think of them as the equivalent of ceremonial robes merely signifying his station, a station that led beyond that door, and nothing more. But the attire also signified the aspect of that station he despised above all. Despised above all, yet which was obligatory nonetheless, irrespective of how much and how often he endeavoured to shirk it. His absence had been too long as it was, until a few months prior at any rate, and besides, he needed to be here in person for this. There were some things that couldn't be done unless face-to-face with those involved, or rather, *shouldn't* be done. Things where observing facial expression and body language closely were key factors vital to base further planning on, which would then lead to eventual success. And continued survival. Smothering his discomfort with a force of will keen at the struggle against emotion, Breffort opened the door he faced without further hesitation and stepped into the room it protected, his expression and hobbled gait exhibiting all the impassiveness and nonchalance expected--nay, required--of a member of Soldats' chief ruling council. He entered without knocking, but the four middle-aged men gathered in the sitting room were not offended nor caught off guard by his appearance, or if they were, they didn't show it save for a subtle shifting of heads and eyes to regard him. They, like Breffort, were of the same breed. Furthermore, his arrival had been expected. His tardiness on the other hand, was assumed. It was here in this room where all the strings of all the puppets eventually ended, the reins of a bridled world, reins held and steered by the men seated in a semicircle around the blazing fireplace set into the right-hand wall. The men beyond the looking glass, the puppet-masters behind the curtain. Countless people's fates had been decided in this room; the destiny of nations; the future of the globe. Breffort closed the door and moved to take his place among those who controlled the workings of the world from the shadows. He was, as usual when he did grace the council with his presence, the last member to arrive. His peers wordlessly and emotionlessly watched him settle into the only remaining empty armchair by the fire, the second from the left--his chair. There had been a long stretch when Breffort's chair had been missing from the arc, his deliberate and lengthy non-attendance of council meetings prompting his fellows to eventually remove it outright. It wasn't until shortly after the turmoil with Ishinomori arose when he had he at last returned to take part in the occasional conference... although his loathing of them still endured. His being here this evening, like on the previous evenings he had elected to join his cohorts, was purely out of a strategic need to be. If he could have avoided it, he most certainly would have. Instead of sitting about in a gloomy, secluded room wasting valuable time discussing affairs that did not need to be discussed in person, or in many cases at all by Soldats' ruling council, he preferred to take a more active role in the society he secretly influenced; to actually *be* in the thick of those affairs. He believed his more direct involvement made him a better adjudicator of how those affairs should properly be handled, leagues better than his fellow councilmen who had distanced themselves too greatly from the people they clandestinely governed and the world they surreptitiously moulded. For too long had Breffort's contemporaries isolated themselves by restricting their participation in Soldats concerns to council assemblies, pulling the marionettes' strings from as far away as they could, relying on the organisation's network of underlings' reports to give them a semblance of a view of the world outside their cushioned mansions and estates. Breffort knew none were like him; none ventured from their lofty thrones on the uppermost echelons of Soldats hierarchy to scrutinise the ever-changing currents of civilisation. A mistake. As a result of their segregation they all looked to Breffort when the council needed representation in the world; he was the face of Soldats' nobility, posing as their avatar, relaying their commands to those arrayed below--it was the reason why they tolerated his frequent absence from meetings, or at least, did not outwardly call him down on them. Breffort did not balk at having been saddled with such a role; indeed, in his opinion it was a favourable position to be in, perhaps even the most ideal. In the eyes of his and the council's subordinates it was Breffort they considered to be leader of Soldats; the council themselves were but a faceless, mysterious group to them that some circulating rumours proclaimed did not even really exist. And the belief that Breffort single-handedly presided over Soldats, while not quite completely erroneous, brought respect and power--respect and power Breffort gladly accepted as his due right. The cost of this notoriety and authority wasn't him becoming a lackey to his peers on the council, however. Far from it. He had a seat and thus was their equal, or so was the general conception. But whatever the rest of the council thought, Breffort knew he surpassed them. He was the architect of Soldats plots, the coordinator of the smoke and mirrors. All the intelligence from all of Soldats' sources eventually found its way to him, flowing between the myriad of nodes placed across the Earth until reaching his, the pinnacle of the erratic web-like pyramid; intelligence from the organisation's innumerable agents, and intelligence from the council itself. He was privy to all, ignorant of nothing. His position saw to that. It was Breffort who *truly* had the power of Soldats at his fingertips, and through it, manipulated the world at his whim. Let his colleagues think they had him at their beck and call, equals or not. It did not matter. He knew his place, knew it well, and they could not compete. Still, it was with awkwardness that Breffort sank into the dark upholstery of the vacant armchair, awkwardness not triggered by the twinges running up his right leg from his old injury. The chair didn't fit any better than the clothes he was duty-bound to wear. Breffort propped his cane against an arm of the chair, and made as if he was relaxing back against its cushions although the stiffness never left his shoulders, the tension never left his throat. But putting on airs of indifference was a must in his current company; to do otherwise would cause them to suspect something was bothering him; that perhaps he had something to hide. Breffort wore stoicism like it was a steel helm, here. Equals they may deem each other as, but none had earned this standing in Soldats through an open face and loose tongue. The fireplace Breffort and the other four men where seated around was huge, eclipsing the rest of the windowless room's features, and was the sole font of illumination. Bright flames billowed wildly in the hearth behind a row of cast-iron bars capped with spear-points as if furious at being caged, the fire's rage a palpable heat against Breffort's face. The flickering flames painted capering shadows on the walls, the silhouettes of cavorting heathens worshiping some pagan god. The breaks in the dancers' steps revealed the backdrop they gambolled in front of, shaded in an orange hue; rosewood wall panels adorned with relics from an age long past, from an age drenched in darkness. A complete suit of full plate armour, its individual pieces fixed together by near invisible pins, stood erect against one portion of wall, halberd held upright in one heavy gauntlet. Other leftovers of the medieval era joined it, including a broad assortment of martial blades mounted on the walls, blades crafted in different regions all over the globe. Claymores, long swords, scimitars, cutlasses; the list was wide-ranging. They gleamed in the firelight, ancient metal polished until it was burnished as in days of old, time-blunted edges re-sharpened to a razor's precision. Coat-of-arms from several forgotten bloodlines sometimes accompanied the blades, kite shields with faded decorations hinting at twinkling stars and springing lions flanked by slanted rapiers or fastened atop crossed broadswords. Trophies of the hunt made their home among the memories of archaic warfare also, the heads of game animals affixed to wooden plaques--deer, bears, even a moose. But like with the artefacts collected from the Dark Ages, they were not what drew a discerning eye. A framed tapestry hung above the fireplace, its once dyed embroidery long since faded to earth tones with age, but the scene it depicted still persisted, as did the legend it was based on despite the council's ongoing efforts to quash the decreed 'outdated' concept. Two young women faced each other on bended knee; the right of long, sinuous tresses like deep silken waves down her back, her partner of short, capricious locks cut to the nape of her neck. Garlands wreathed the crowns of their heads, white blossoms in the long hair of one, a circle of green leaves in the short hair of the other. The women were clad in naught but a flowing robe that bared them to the waist, the loose draping imperilling more skin to be exposed, yet it was not their unsullied forms that stirred allure. Swords the women clasped in their hands, twin edges held flawlessly straight and true towards the heavens, the taller woman on the right with a blade of gold and the shorter on the left with one of silver, the colours still unmistakable in spite of the fabric's wear. They were the maidens who had reigned over Death more than a thousand years ago, the first pair of Black Hands--the first Noir. The pure maidens were the accepted universal symbol of Soldats, even today, although it wasn't until recently that the notion of Noir had been revived and a new generation of young female assassins had donned the grim but prestigious mantle. It was of the council's opinion that the idea of two people alone cleansing the Earth of the taint of darkness was ludicrous in this modern day and age. The blood of Soldats had spread all but to the most remote places in the world; there was virtually nowhere that Soldats could now no longer touch and therefore there was no need of the Black Hands. Or so was the excuse that the council had given for letting dust amass on the tradition. Breffort believed differently, and on more than one occasion had tactfully attempted to sway the council into accepting at least Bouquet--half of the current embodiment of Noir--into their fold, however his view matched his colleagues' regarding the ritual of Le Grand Retour itself. The restoration of Noir did not need to be tied together with the return to the old ways. A pair of insurmountable assassins *was* useful in this era, and could mesh agreeably with the present makeup of Soldats. But Breffort knew the rest of the council feared Noir, as well. They feared the power they would be granted if acknowledged as the Eternal Darkness whilst part of Soldats. Exiled, Noir remained an inspiration of dread, but at least they enjoyed no dominion over the organisation's swollen ranks. Moreover, there was the disquieting issue of the Kind Mother. A third figure was sown into the tapestry, a noticeably older woman than the two maidens, standing with a veneer of benevolence over the pair. Clothed in an enveloping brown robe, its degree of modesty highlighting the maidens' partial state of undress, with a cowl closely framing her benign countenance, there was little doubt that she presided over the young women kneeling before her. Compassionate she appeared to be, and perhaps the original Kind Mother, the one whom had purportedly established the first Black Hands, sincerely had been, but Breffort knew as fact that not all of the women who had served as caretakers for Noir were of humane heart. Altena had been one such Kind Mother, although officially she had never actually been honoured with the title. Breffort had known Altena only by reputation and had seen her merely from afar, but even then he could detect the light of wicked ambition in her eyes beneath her façade of maternal concern. The council had feared her perhaps even more than the Eternal Darkness itself. After all, it is the Kind Mother who, as a rule, initially places the harness upon Noir and has the prerogative to direct their blades as she pleases. After Altena, the council would never permit another Kind Mother to draw breath. But whether or not their feelings for Noir, namely Bouquet and her young partner, ran the same.... Breffort studied the men assembled around him, dressed similarly to him in fully buttoned, stiff collared, green suit jackets, though he produced no outward show of doing so. Guarded was his grey gaze; circumspect was its movements. Some sat slouched in their armchairs, giving all the appearance of a laid-back disposition, while others sat poised as if in the highest royal court, straight-backed with chin raised. They came from different backgrounds, had different mannerisms, but all four councilmen had essentially the same natures. Natures that drove them to reign over others, natures that boasted the right spark of command and fortitude that enabled them to realise what they sought. Breffort supposed he was not too unlike them in that respect. In any other set of circumstances where these individuals encountered one another, a clash of personalities, of wills, would have inevitably erupted like a sudden artic storm, cold calculated scheming to topple the man next to them hidden behind every stare. But all gathered here were regarded as having equal footing in Soldats, irrespective of one's actual current standing. Power waxed and waned among the council members like in any board of directors, influence always swelling and shrinking reminiscent of the tides, and for that reason no one ever chanced abusing their periodically improved pre-eminence in an effort to outstrip their fellow councilmen. The ones who had succumbed to the temptation were already long departed from the council, and from the living world. 'Those at the top have the longest to fall, and land the hardest'. Words neither Breffort nor the men around him forgot. "I am heartened to see that your absence from our company was a short one this time. These are yet turbulent times, and this committee values your voice amongst us." Breffort said nothing in response, choosing to simply stare expressionlessly into the crackling fire. In addition to having a chair on the Soldats council and acting as its representative, he was its primary advisor. His close personal involvement in the world's affairs apparently qualified him for the task, and hence his opinion carried great weight within this sitting room, and to the ears of the four men occupying it. And they believed him their equal. A preposterous notion when given even the slightest intelligent thought. They were like lambs begging to be shepherded, and they looked to Breffort to be the shepherd. If Breffort were so inclined he could lead them all to the slaughter, oblivious even as the knife took their throats. They were fortunate that he was content with the current arrangement; no wise sayings suggesting caution would have stayed his hand if not. The man who had spoken sat in the armchair next to Breffort's, at the apex of the arc around the fireplace, and it could be said his position was an accurate depiction of his present repute. His hair was blonde, the colour of hay, and cropped short into almost unruly locks, as if he had just climbed out of bed and neglected brushing them into some semblance of order. A large silver ring circled the third finger of his left hand, shimmering in the frolicking flames trapped in the fireplace, the light caressing the profiles of two young women facing away from each other raised in the centre of the ring. All one had to do was glance at the tapestry above the hearth to identify the renowned pair. Bordering the likenesses of the original Noir on either side was a coat-of-arms much like the ones on display around the room, imprinted on a miniature kite shield worked into the metal. Allegedly they were the family crests of the wearer's mother and father, whose bloodlines--and in turn, the wearer's by association--reached as far back as to the century when the earliest incarnation of Noir was bestowed the swords they would later rout armies with from the first Kind Mother. Supposedly the councilman's ancestors had even been in attendance to witness the deed, but Breffort found that unlikely. He had heard that in Langonel's Manuscript the event had been documented, and it was apparently written there that no one but the two maidens and the Kind Mother had been present in the cavern underneath Langonel Monastery--the latter's remains lying on the same land as the Manor today--at the time of the conferment. Nevertheless, the mere implication had awarded the council member a great deal of prestige and respect, and the ring was a constant reminder of his 'notable' heritage... and the esteem it conveyed. "The offer has been made," Breffort announced to the room before the blonde councilman could speak again. It was what he and the rest of the council wanted to hear about anyway. Breffort had spared them the trouble of subtly urging him to speak on the matter, which they would have resorted to eventually. "Noir will go to Japan." Silence reigned once Breffort closed his mouth, the other four men quiet as they turned over the information in their minds again and again, no doubt ruminating on how this development would play out in the future, and how it would affect other, related, affairs. A man across from Breffort, glasses on his nose and with his long brown hair tied in a ponytail that hung over one shoulder, frowned as he stared at Breffort. Several fingers of his steepled hands were ornamented with plain gold and silver bands that shone dully in the firelight, but as to their purpose or significance, Breffort couldn't fathom. "They accepted, then?" he inquired, the skepticism clear in his voice. "No," Breffort said. "But they will go." "How can you be so sure?" the man beside Breffort's bespectacled colleague piped up. He wore his black hair even shorter than the councilman at the head of the semi-circle, and a neatly trimmed beard covered his chin, as if he had dipped it in soot. "The memory of Noir stepping out of the Manor is still fresh in my mind. Corsica's Daughter did not come across as the most... amenable woman. She may have bent to our bidding once, but it was to suit her own purposes, not ours." "She will bend again. Like before, it is in her best interest to go," Breffort explained, unruffled, "and therefore, she will comply. Ishinomori is as much her and her partner's enemy now as she is ours. Corsica's Daughter is not one to sit around and do nothing when threatened, even if that means abiding Soldats." The man with greyish-brown hair that fell in slight waves to his neck in the armchair to Breffort's left snorted softly, and a shade derisively. He swished the snifter of brandy in the glass he held elegantly in one white-gloved hand, gazing into its swirling burgundy depths before taking a taste. Once the glass left his lips, he spoke, his words directed at Breffort, but his eyes affixed to his drink. "You still believe she can be persuaded to join," he said. Breffort could practically hear the rebuke in his somewhat dumbfounded tone. "She will never join us. Altena saw to that." He shook his head slightly. "She is dangerous. Noir is dangerous. *Too* dangerous. Better if we'd had them executed after they dealt with Altena and her rabble." There were some thoughtful mutters at this, but before they could be turned to mutters of agreement, Breffort interrupted. "Dangerous they are, but they can still be leashed and used. Used as they were supposed to be. As the Hands of Soldats." The bespectacled councilman murmured contemplatively. "During the past several weeks, word has reached my ears that a great number of foreigners have been seen flocking to Ishinomori Pharmaceuticals headquarters, many of which are recognised to have been supporters of Altena and her now defunct ideology." Breffort had received reports detailing the same, as he assumed everybody else in the room had, too. Despite being in charge of putting down Ishinomori's revolt, he wasn't the only council member with operatives deep in Japanese society, least of all Yokohama's, in spite of the current tumultuous state of affairs for agents in that city. The blood of Soldats had stretched all across the globe, after all. "Defunct indeed," the bearded individual adjacent to the man with the ponytail interjected. "Yet I have also heard rumours that they plan to follow in their toppled leader's footsteps and initiate Le Grand Retour once more. The fools. Do they really believe we fear it? That we tremble before archaic folly? They will be as successful as Altena had been, maybe even less. I can't even grasp *how* they will go about it." The bespectacled council member glanced a touch irritably at his colleague and took a moment to adjust his glasses, appearing somewhat put out at being interrupted. Once he was sure there were no further outbursts imminent, he continued. "Unknown numbers congregate to be sure, but possibly enough for an army on top of what our young dissenter has already drafted from Kanagawa's criminal element. This conflict has been bloody on both sides, and it will only get bloodier if that's the case. Though I fear it will anyway, regardless. It would be to our advantage if Noir where there to lead our strikes, or at least to remove a few choice players from the field with surgical precision." The man sipping brandy grunted disdainfully, but in grudging acceptance, also. He had always been a stanch advocate against Bouquet's inclusion in Soldats ranks, and in the existence of Noir in general. "Perhaps." He brightened suddenly, giving his liquor another spin in its glass. "Yes. Let the brazen upstart and the renegade Hands destroy one another. Even if one survives, we will be rid of at least the other." "How much control do you really have over Noir, Breffort?" the blonde councilman probed, leaning forward a fraction in his armchair. "How much do they know?" "They know enough," Breffort replied cryptically, pointedly ignoring the first query. "And what, pray tell, is that?" "They know what I want them to know," Breffort clarified without emotion, unwaveringly meeting his interrogator's eye. The blonde man relaxed back into his seat, his hands gripping the armrests, his heavy ring in plain sight. There was silence then, but the unspoken questions could almost be discerned hovering in the air amidst the council. How tight is the leash around Noir's neck? To what measure have they been tamed? Breffort was aware his peers were apprehensive regarding his influence over Bouquet and her partner. Too loose a leash, too little tamed, and Noir may ultimately turn on him and on Soldats, creating quite a thorny situation indeed. Alone, Soldats would crush them, but in the latter scenario the Eternal Darkness may perchance side with Ishinomori, and then prove to be a considerable menace. Having Noir under their banner would vastly improve the traitors' repute, and could possibly sway more people to rally to their cause. However, it was a very slim likelihood that Bouquet would consent to uniting with Ishinomori. Breffort had seen to that. But the council did not know what he knew, and therefore worried. Yet worse in the council's judgment would be if Breffort's leash was too tight, Noir having been tamed too much. True, it meant that the young assassins would fight for them, but would Breffort then be tempted to unleash his pet Black Hands upon the council and seize control of Soldats' head entirely? Wary, considering eyes watched Breffort, but he remained as unmoved as always. Let them deliberate, let them agonise. He could alleviate their fear by telling all, but he would not reveal all his cards nor disclose what he had up his sleeves; not now, not until what needed to be done was done. That fear, that uncertainty, was guaranteed to keep him alive, leaving him free to conspire as he pleased. As long as the council believed there was a possibility that he had Noir totally under his thumb, his position was secure. They would not make a move against him while risking swift and fatal reprisal. "A dangerous game you play, Breffort," the blonde council member spoke at last. Breffort said nothing in answer. A dangerous game he played? It was a dangerous life he lived. ****** Kirika gazed sombrely out a window in the apartment she contentedly lived in together with Mireille, drinking in the Paris skyline for what would probably be the last time in a long while. Her arms were folded under her on the windowsill, supporting her slender frame while she leaned slightly toward the pale blue horizon laid out before her, the shade of a frozen lake. The window had been pulled fully open, heedless of the budding winter's hallmarks, inviting the cool late morning air into the living room. But the quiet girl was left unscathed by the chilly breezes that brushed her face and wafted through her short hair; her mind elsewhere, lost in introspective thought. Lost in a pale blue horizon. Kirika's bag, coloured black and trimmed in yellow, and with yellow shoulder strap connected, was slumped like a giant lumpy sausage by her feet, its material bulging in some spots and flaccid in others. It had routinely carried her belongings to whatever part of the planet her and Mireille's assignments hauled them both off to, and had done so ever since she had agreed to come live with the blonde in Paris, the latter journey from Japan, though not exactly because of a contract--unless counting the fateful one struck between Kirika and her partner which would wind up shaping their lives to what they were today--included. This new assignment from Breffort was no different. Kirika's bag was already packed and ready to go, crammed to bursting with clothes and 9mm pistol magazines secreted in special compartments inside the inner lining that would serve to veil them from airport security. However, Kirika herself had chosen barely a handful of the garments. Earlier, when she had been indiscriminately pulling out articles of her clothing from the wardrobe with the intention of taking them along with her on the trip, Mireille had interrupted her and kindly yet compellingly advised her on which to bring and which not to bring to the point the older woman may as well have packed Kirika's bag herself. Kirika hadn't taken umbrage, though, and had agreed to all of her partner's recommendations--clothes were just clothes to her. As long as they could be worn and were reasonably comfortable, she didn't care what colour they were or what style they were cut in. Mireille's intervention meant that the woman herself hadn't had the chance to tend to her suitcase, but was now taking the time to do just that in the bedroom. The last Kirika had seen, the blonde's suitcase had been flipped open on the bed, still empty, and had been surrounded by layers of clothes covering the bedspread with their hangers still attached. Mireille had been standing over the whole muddle with her hands on her hips and a serious expression plastered on her fine features, the wardrobe to her rear with its double doors flung wide open, virtually devoid of clothes but for a few of Kirika's that were remaining behind here in Paris. The statuesque woman had appeared to evaluate each item of apparel spread out in front of her very carefully as if weighing all their merits and shortcomings, sand-coloured eyebrows sloping and pink lips pursed thoughtfully. It had been as though she was selecting firearms for all the heavy consideration she devoted. Kirika felt it unnecessary deliberation, but what did she know about such things. She was sure Mireille had her reasons, although the girl suspected they would undoubtedly sound peculiar to her. In spite of how much she seemed to agonise over the affair, Mireille knew how to pack light and minimise her luggage to a single small suitcase, and was skilled in using baggage space to its maximum efficiency. Still, it did take her a while. But in the meantime Kirika always found things to occupy herself with. Gazing inconspicuously at Mireille and admiring the divine woman's presence was one, and gazing at the sky, musing and reflecting, was another. The second fancy had taken her on this occasion, but given recent events, it was little surprise. Spires and skyscrapers, rooftops and treetops, broke the panorama outside the window, yet neither they nor the view's familiarity to her eyes diminished its allure to Kirika. But there was something about a horizon that had always drawn her eyes, something about the sight of a sky so blue, so open, limitless in its vastness. It didn't matter where she was, exactly which horizon she was seeing; they were all the same to her. The same sky filled with the same infinite possibilities. Often Kirika had looked upon it since waking up in that bed, in that empty house of falsehood, wondering at what lay beyond the blue. Wondering what the future held... and earnestly hoping that it contained what was achingly missing in her life. In the past she had yearned for a cure to the loneliness that had constantly gnawed at her heart and dogged her existence from the moment she had awoke, namely the partner that the title, Noir, had promised. She could recall the many times she had stared out her classroom's windows after school was over back in Japan, wishing, and imagining what their face would look like when they at last met... or if they would ever meet at all. But of course now Kirika was gratefully aware that her fears had been unwarranted. She now knew in vivid detail what her partner's face looked like, and just how breathtaking a face it was, too. She had committed every aspect of it, every dimple, every contour, to memory, glad to never have to resort to dreaming up its likeness ever again. And when she looked into Mireille's blue eyes, so similar to the sky she held in such esteem, she saw without uncertainty that whatever her future entailed, it rested with the woman. Kirika had a place in the world, and it was beside Mireille. Nothing would ever part them, bar the cold embrace of the grave. Even if--for some terrible reason Kirika would rather not think about--the blonde cast her aside one day, she, while being devastatingly stricken, would nonetheless remain hidden in the background; a demon forever watching over her angel from afar. It would be agonising to have Mireille hate her, to never be able to walk next to her again, or have a meal together, or share the same bed, but Kirika would bear the agony of a horrendously fractured heart to ensure that her wordless oath to Odette Bouquet would be upheld. Kirika would bear *anything* for Mireille... and that had nothing to do with atonement for past wrongs. Despite all that had improved in her life, Kirika still gazed at the horizon, still she thought about what lay beyond it, still she longed for more change. Mireille had eased her lonely heart, but Kirika's soul cried out for freedom from further defilement. It cried out for a time of peace, a time when she would stain her hands black with sin no longer. Nevertheless, as the young assassin stared at the serene Parisian horizon this morning, silently wondering, her yearning merely occupied a part of her deep meditative thoughts. The bulk of Kirika's mind was once again dwelling on what the future had in store for her. Specifically what it had in store for her and for Mireille. In Yokohama. Kirika had had an opportunity to inspect the airplane tickets Breffort had more or less forced upon Mireille yesterday, and had noted that her and her partner's flight from Charles de Gaulle International Airport would land in Narita International Airport, located in the capitol city; Tokyo. But she was certain that their final destination would be the nearby city of Yokohama. The assassin had, when Mireille hadn't been busy frowning at them, scanned an attentive eye over the documents from Breffort's dossier that had once been scattered chaotically across the billiard table in the living room--but were now all tidily slotted into their folder again, waiting to be packed in Mireille's laptop bag and taken on their trip--memorising critical data on the enemy, and as a result was conscious of the fact that Ryosuke and Vincent, together with Kaede Ishinomori and whatever allies she had rounded up in Japan so far, called Yokohama their home. One way or another, Kirika and Mireille would eventually find themselves in that far eastern city. And to get there, they would have to pass through Kawasaki. Kirika wasn't sure how she felt about that. Japan... Kawasaki.... They were places linked to her, linked to her sinister, anguished past. She understood what she *had* to do in Japan, and was determined to see it all through in bullets and blood if needed, but other than that, her exact sentiments on returning to her native land and birthplace for the first time since she had left it were difficult to ascertain. Kirika recognised that she most likely had been born in Japan and, definitely, to Japanese parents--the face that stared back at her when she looked in a mirror was enough for her to conclude that--but precisely *where* in the country was up for debate... and that was only if her belief that she had been born in the island nation was accurate. However, Kirika considered herself to have been born in the city of Kawasaki, though not in the regular sense of the word. Her earliest memories were of opening drowsy eyes to the sight of a bedroom that was hers and yet not hers, in a house belonging to a family that didn't really exist. Memories of waking to the chime of a solitary name drifting through her head, a name of a destiny still to be resolved and realised. Memories of waking to a life made of lies and loneliness, danger and bewilderment. *Her* earliest memories--her own, personal memories that she had recorded herself. Kirika felt that she had been brought into the world on that day in Kawasaki. It occurred to Kirika that perhaps there was more meaning behind that conviction than she had wished for. The assassin knew little of her life before her awakening in Kawasaki, apart from what she had pieced together using the memory fragments that floated around inside her mind like shards of a shattered mirror, shaping a jagged, mismatched representation of her past, a distorted reflection of the real picture. But the thing was that none of those fragments were actually memories that she had made herself. They didn't belong to the life she had lived, but rather to the body she inhabited. Then what exactly did that mean? Did that mean that Kirika had truly been born lying on that bed in Kawasaki, her existence as she knew it now given life when her eyes had crept open? Was the other her, the darkness, in fact the authentic her, and she herself a usurper of the body she--they--wore? Or was Kirika, as she believed right now and always had, the genuine owner of her body who had simply forgotten her past, and the darkness the invader who threatened to steal her identity unless she kept it at bay? Or were they one in the same, two distinct existences but both part of a whole individual, having been somewhere along line disjointed into two separate halves? Who could say which premise was the correct one, or if any of them were correct at all? Certainly not Kirika. Notions like those were on the threshold of her comprehension, befuddling to her brain, and not to mention unnerving to say the least. They were disturbing to dwell on for any length of time, quickly bringing down her spirits and forcing her ask questions of herself she would rather not address. Kirika hastily drove the unsettling musings out of her head, striving for solace in the calming light blue hues streaked with wisps of white ahead of her. Never taking her eyes off the uneven horizon, Kirika reached a hand into a pocket of her parka and took out a small, white, rectangular card; one half covered in black scrawl, the other by a miniature colour photograph. Her gaze eventually panned downwards to favour it with an absorbed look equal to the one she had given the sky. It was the student identification card she had carried with her ever since she had discovered it in her bedroom in Japan. It was a total fabrication of course, with every personal detail listed from her date of birth to her very name, built on a lie. Only the portrait of the young darkhaired girl on the card had any validity to it. But forged or not, the ID was a symbol of who she was now. Her name, Kirika Yuumura, was a fake, but she had adopted and grown into the identity nonetheless. She *was* Kirika Yuumura now. Kirika Yuumura who had lived alone in what had allegedly been her parents' house while the figments were off in America; Kirika Yuumura who had attended classes at Tsubaki High School; Kirika Yuumura who was trained as an assassin and worked as such with a partner, Mireille Bouquet, a renowned professional killer in the European underworld; Kirika Yuumura who lived in Paris with said partner, Mireille, the woman who stirred her tender heart and placated her distorted soul. In addition to being a symbol of who Kirika was now, the Tsubaki High School student card was a symbol of who she had been before meeting Mireille and learning of her intricate entanglement with Soldats; a reminder of the reasonably normal life she had once held, a life she aspired to someday capture an air of again. The girl's time in Kawasaki after her awakening, while fleeting, had had a feel of normalcy to it, even with the strange and disquieting factors lurking just below the surface of the otherwise ordinary life. Once she had gotten her bearings and grasped who she was supposedly meant to be from the clues sprinkled around what had apparently been her house, Kirika had settled into a routine typical of any high school student. She had went to school in the morning, listened to her teachers in class, prepared her own bento--after discreetly studying her classmates' labours and making several practice attempts--and ate it at lunchtime, and had did her homework. It had been a simple and monotonous routine, and one she had performed automatically, barely bestowing conscious thought to any specific facet of her daily schedule. A hollow and barren existence bereft of any significant purpose beyond that of getting to school on time and keeping up with her class's teaching program. The impression that things were... just *wrong*, that it was not supposed to be this way, had pursued Kirika every time she had donned her school uniform, every time she had took care of the household chores; it had been an uneasiness that had never left her for a moment. It had been little more than a week before the first batch of dark-clad men fixated on murdering her had ambushed Kirika on the route back to her house one late afternoon after school. She had killed them all with a deadly grace that had astonished her, handling the Beretta that she had kept in her school case for safekeeping--a firearm that she had been startled to discover she understood the complete mechanics of--as though it had been an extension of herself. And then everything had changed; relative normalcy had been mortally wounded, bleeding out a bit more with each passing day. Kirika had craved the tedium of her routine, then, and began to savour its ordinary feel while it was not being shattered by sudden bouts of inexplicable carnage where she had been required to kill in defence of her life without even knowing why. Desperate to retain a grip on a dying lifestyle she abruptly appreciated a lot more, Kirika had even went so far as to incorporate the periodic assassination attempts into her normal daily routine, a wretched and inescapable part of that routine that came without warning, but one she accepted and dealt with as stoically and mechanically as cooking her dinner. Her double life as high school student and target of shadowy hitmen persisted for a couple of months before Kirika finally acknowledged that she had to find answers to fill the gaping holes in her memory, or else sooner or later succumb to her yet unmasked foe, going to an unmarked grave without learning anything of who she really was and without coming close to achieving any of her dreams. So she had contacted Mireille, the pertinent information on the wonderful woman having been gained by scouring the files on the computer at her house. The blonde's had been the only record available, but Kirika had implicitly known that she was the right person to speak to about the riddle that had been her life. She had somehow known that the pocket watch she had found with the Beretta in a drawer of her dresser was the chain that linked them. The girl hadn't fretted over her decision whether or not to contact Mireille, someone she had been aware was a killer for hire; partly because of that confidence that they were somehow connected, and partly because she had came to an impasse where she *had* to take a step forward, irrespective of the danger, or fester and die. And once Mireille made her entrance in Kirika's life, everything had changed again. For the better this time--obviously, with someone as marvellous as Mireille in her life--but Kirika's everyday way of life had been lost utterly in the process, whatever tatters that had remained, but that the girl had treasured regardless, blow away like dust in the wind. All that was left of that time--that life--was the card that she held in her hand. But would she trade what she had now with Mireille for what she had had back then? Never. She and Mireille could be under constant attack every single day of every single week, but as long as Kirika was with her love, fighting by her side throughout those days, protecting her angel, it was sufficient enough joy to nourish her heart. Kirika resumed her contemplation of the sky above Paris, her cherished student card remaining safely cupped in the palm of her hand. Despite the extensive history between herself and Kawasaki, between herself and Japan--her birthplace, where her lost life had been lived, even the place where she had first met Mireille--one thing she was sure of was that she felt no allegiance or attachment towards either city or country. When she returned to Kawasaki, however briefly, she would not be returning home. Like Mireille and her opinion of her native Corsica, Kirika didn't look upon Japan as her home. *Here* was home, this apartment in Paris. Whatever her exact feelings about her and Mireille going to Japan, to Yokohama, were, Kirika at least knew where she belonged. Where she and her partner must eventually return. The future was unclear, but it *would* contain that particular homecoming, at least for the older assassin. Kirika would make sure of it... and pay for that guarantee in as much sin and slaughter as needed. A piercing chill suddenly sliced through Kirika, cutting to the bone and turning marrow to ice. She shivered and hunched her slim shoulders into herself, huddling as if trying to keep warm. However, the abrupt cold was not due to a biting wind gusting through the open apartment window, and her huddle was not to aid in retaining body heat, but in fact an instinctive defensive gesture. After last night--after many nights, in truth, she now shockingly realised--Kirika had to question whether her prior thought had sincerely been her own. She was set on her path, resolute in her choice to kill as called for in Japan... but she wondered. Had it truly been her who had reasoned out that conclusion? Had that deduction been of *her* mind's own making? Unlike the night before, Kirika could recollect the dream--the nightmare--she'd suffered last night, but not without being wracked by a severe sense of foreboding laced with trepidation. It was with a lump in a dried out throat and a clammy claw squeezing her heart that she remembered walking down the familiar dirt trail that led between the Manor's vineyards, remembered walking closer and closer to a patiently waiting Altena, kindly and slightly knowing smile on her face, the woman all but spreading her arms wide in welcome. And Kirika remembered having been powerless to stop herself from drawing nearer. Seeing a woman in her dreams who had been the closest equivalent to a high priestess of Soldats, a woman Kirika herself had pushed to a fiery death, a woman who had held sway over her life--dominated her being--nearly from the cradle, was bad enough, but the memory of the helplessness she had excruciatingly experienced was what made her tremble the most. That, and what she had heard, confined in her mind. The dream had ended with the terrified girl waking up in a jolt, eyelids bursting wide open, and a distinct voice ringing in her head. The voice, no more than a whisper but seeming booming all the same, had had the unforgettable deceivingly compassionate tones of Altena's. How? Why? Kirika hadn't known then, panting softly in bed with cold dampness slicked across her forehead, and still didn't know now. But she knew where she had heard something of its like before. Several times before, in fact. Mireille had snoozed on peacefully beside Kirika for the remainder of that night, thankfully oblivious to her partner's frightful rousing, and hopefully dreaming easier, happier, dreams. But Kirika hadn't been able to let sleep claim her again until the blessed light of dawn fell upon the bed sheets, her body too tense, and her mind plagued by insidious insight. And all the while fearing she would hear the gentle, whispering intonations of a dead woman at any moment. Kirika recognised now that her thoughts had been... erratic... of late. Notions and concepts that she would normally never have considered for more than an instant, if even that, had sporadically skittered across her mind; not so divergent from her own thoughts and feelings, and yet warped to have a harsher edge, a darker undercurrent. Attitudes and worries perverted to prejudices and suspicions, love and duty to zeal and fanaticism. The diminutive assassin couldn't quite recall when the distortion had first started, but she wouldn't be surprised if it was when the darkness had initially restirred within her. What she could recall, however, was that the twisted thoughts had gradually gained in potency as time had passed, hazy musings coalescing to explicit ideas, and last night, finally, they had completed the evolution from shapeless thought to unequivocal voice. Then, and *only* then, had Kirika grasped what was going on. She had been careless. A dangerous thing to be, when perpetually up against a bitter enemy such as the one she harboured inside her, an enemy as inescapable as though she and it--she and *her*--were each a side of the same coin. Yes, the voice had to be related to the dark seed implanted in Kirika's head, a seed that had already cracked open, and recently had been ominously blooming in an obscurity imposed by its keeper's refusal to acknowledge it. A decision the girl hugely regretted now. Those disturbing thoughts, the manipulative voice that sounded like Altena's; it was some sort of assault on her by the darkness, by her other self. It had to be. What other explanation was there? It had been pure naïveté for Kirika to have believed that just because she was determined to prevail over her dark self; just because she had vowed to stand utterly firm against it; just because she'd had unwavering faith that she would hurl it back into the shadowed corners of her mind as if it were some mere errant thought; that the darkness would simply accede to her 'indomitable' spirit, that the black flower that oozed corruption would simply wither in the searing light of her conviction, the blazing rot spreading to its very roots and along them until the darkness was sealed into a seed once again, maybe even permanently. Just because the darkness was ignored, didn't mean it ceased to be. Kirika's overconfidence had left her completely vulnerable to attack, blind to her other self's machinations. She anxiously speculated on how much harm had been done in her ignorance, how much of the black flower's foul taint had leaked into her mind's thought patterns and had bent them to match her eternal foe's. Kirika wondered how much of her mind had been despoiled... and how much of it was still her own. Kirika closed her eyes and clutched the student card in her hand tighter, as if holding onto it would in turn somehow help her maintain a steady grip on herself. She was scared and her self-assurance had been shaken, but she would persevere nevertheless. The petite girl was still determined to defeat her dark self, still vowed to confront it with a steadfast will, still had faith she would eventually imprison it in a cage of her mind's own making again. Kirika knew what to watch out for now, knew Altena's murmuring voice for what it was. There had been no further whispers in her head as yet, but she would be wary of them if they arose, and of odd thoughts as well, from here on out. Kirika would just refuse to listen to them, or better yet, not even acknowledge them; she would continue to resist the lure of the darkness no matter what. The fight between them was as real as any other the skilled assassin had faced whilst on an assignment, with the costs the same--it was a fight for her survival. And this target would not be vanquished as straightforwardly as those before. This target, after all, shared her essence. Shared her soul. Kirika's eyelids brushed open as she abruptly picked up the rap of boot heels on hardwood resounding nearer and nearer behind her, the tempo well-known to her ears. Even if Mireille hadn't been the sole other person in the apartment with her, the young assassin would still have recognised that it was her partner approaching. Kirika could identify Mireille's step by sound alone if the surface the blonde trod on was hard enough, the woman's penchant for high-heeled footwear making it all the easier. She knew how fast her love's long legs could pump when dashing, how far her stride reached while strolling; the marked rhythms and others memorised, beats hammered into her mind. Kirika would never mistake Mireille for a skulking backstabber sneaking up behind her in the middle of a gunfight; never accidentally send lead streaming her partner's way as she flashed by in a sprint... as long as she heard her coming. Mireille could tread quite lightly sometimes, her stealthy advances on more than one occasion having forced Kirika to strain her sharp ears to detect her. And even then, sometimes the adept girl still hadn't. Like now, for instance. However, Kirika felt she knew why that was in this case. Kirika turned from the window, and was a little startled to discover that Mireille was almost upon her, and even more taken aback when she cast a look past the woman's shoulder, espying the blonde's small trolley-like suitcase, obviously packed, propped with its carry handle extended up against the black partition separating the living room from the bedroom, positioned close to the short hallway that led to the apartment's front door. Yet doubly shocking was that a grey ceramic pitcher was in Mireille's hand, filled to the brim with water if Kirika's guess was right. Kirika hadn't heard so much as a grunt when her partner had hauled her suitcase down the bedroom's steps into the living room, not so much as a click of boot heels when she had walked all the way to the kitchen, nor a creak of hinges when she had fetched the big round jug from a cabinet, and neither the squeak of a turning tap nor the rush of flowing water when she had filled it. None of it had reached her ears. Or rather, none of it had passed any further than that. Kirika's ears had been open, alert as always, but her mind had been closed. She may as well have been deaf. Mireille bent down to the potted orchid sitting on the small table next to Kirika and began pouring water from the pitcher around its stalk, the soil turning a dark brown bordering on black as it was thoroughly saturated. A placid smile curved the woman's mouth while her eyes regarded her toil. "You're liable to catch a cold standing there," Mireille remarked blithely without looking up, but there was nothing that was easygoing contained in her blue gaze. Stormy skies roiled there, tempests of thoughts and feelings pertaining to their imminent trip to Japan most likely, although they were probably a lot different from Kirika's own. Kirika slipped her student card back into a pocket of her parka, almost having to pry her fingers from it, and then wordlessly pushed the two halves of the window closed, before latching it. She preferred to gaze at an unobstructed view of the sky, of the horizon, when she could, even if that obstruction was merely a glass pane. The vision was somehow... purer, more real, then. More sacred. And this morning she'd really had a need to gaze. But Kirika wouldn't have laid a hand on the window earlier if her partner hadn't been off in the bedroom, where looming winter's bite spilling into their home couldn't quite pierce the woman's flesh. Yet even then, if they hadn't been departing the apartment soon the notion to open the window wouldn't have even entered Kirika's mind in the first place. Time would have eventually honed winter's fangs, after all. Now that Mireille had left the limited sanctuary of the bedroom--standing adjacent to her and the window no less--the girl had not dallied in shutting the window and ceasing the influx of frosty air. Mireille would have been liable to catch a cold, too. Turning back to the blonde, Kirika saw that water had begun trickling out of the collection of holes drilled in the bottom of the orchid's pot and into the saucer that held it, having seeped all the way through the sodden earth above. Kirika looked on expressionlessly as Mireille continued to cascade water into the clay pot regardless, until the jug was dripping its last and the saucer was verging on overflowing. The darkhaired girl seen the practice before, aware that Mireille only gave the orchid a watering like that when she predicted that an assignment might last a week... if not longer. The sight and the grim realisation coupled with it did not help Kirika's already ailing morning spirits. Nor did it appear to please Mireille any, her smile tight on her face, it clearly being an effort to make it stick. Mireille straightened and took the empty jug back to the kitchen to refill it, before giving the other plants in the apartment a similar, if lighter, watering treatment. After she was done, she put away the jug and performed a final check around the apartment, ensuring that everything was in order; that is to say that everything that should be hidden--ammunition clips and other questionable items--was hidden. The landlord hadn't ever poked around their home when they weren't in as far as Kirika knew, but Mireille didn't trust him at all it seemed, not even agreeing to let him water the plants while they were away. The young assassin supposed it was safer having that sort of mindset; if he happened to uncover anything he shouldn't in their absence, it would likely land her and her partner in a great deal of trouble. Trouble of the kind they would probably have to clean up with a whole heap of bullets. As she watched Mireille bustle, Kirika felt an nearly overwhelming urge to tell the caring woman her woes; tell her how she'd dreamt that bad dream again and remembered it this time, about the voice like Altena's that had whispered in her head, about the dark thoughts that had sometimes cropped up in her mind. But the urge was nothing new, and had already been curbed once before, when she and Mireille had been eating breakfast together earlier this morning. Kirika knew she could talk to her love about her private war, knew for a certainty that the blonde would listen attentively, be appreciative that she had shared, and provide as much support as she could... but the quiet girl also knew that Mireille could not help her. Not with this. Bad dreams were one thing, but this.... This fight was Kirika's alone. It always had been; her mind was a battlefield open to two specific combatants and no more. But alone she did feel in the struggle against her other self, yet despite that she chose not to drag her partner into it. She would not burden Mireille with something that would ultimately leave the woman feeling useless, and then later frustrated because she felt that way. No, there were no allies available in this conflict. It was just Kirika and the darkness. *Kirika's* darkness. Her inspection apparently complete, Mireille came to a halt beside the end of the billiard table across from Kirika, her hands going to her hips. Following a moment of simply standing there, staring at the rack of billiard cues on the wall opposite with a distance look on her face, she raised her left arm to glance at the elegant gold watch strapped to her wrist, its face resting on her pulse point. An eyebrow rose in mild surprise at whatever time was displayed. "It's later than I thought," Mireille informed Kirika, before looking up at her. The girl wondered if her partner had lost track of time while she had been engrossed in picking out what clothes to pack in her suitcase. It had happened before. "The taxi I arranged for should be here momentarily. We can wait downstairs for it, if you think you can brave the cold weather." The blonde threw Kirika a meaningful smile over the billiard table, one that said she knew perfectly fine how well the lean but resilient girl coped with the chill. Kirika couldn't keep from smiling back just a tiny bit as she gave a little nod, in spite of her dismal mood. Mireille had that sort of affect on her, especially nowadays. She started to reconsider her decision to withhold her inner turmoil from the woman, but quickly arrived at the same conclusions as before. Still, it was nice to know that Mireille was there for her, if oblivious to her internal strife. Kirika took some comfort in that. Mireille's smile became amused, its lustre captivating Kirika and holding her attention as well as her eyes as the beguiling angel it belonged to made her way towards the chair in front of her computer on the billiard table, where her packed laptop bag and greyish-brown coat lay, the latter slung over the chair's back. The blonde pulled on the coat, flicking her long tresses out over the collar to stream in a silky golden waterfall down her back, and then hung her black laptop bag by its strap on one shoulder. At this, Mireille's charm loosened the entrancing grip it had on Kirika enough for the once transfixed girl to remember--with a blink and some surprise--that she had a bag too, one she bent down and picked up, carrying it on her right hip with the yellow shoulder strap running crosswise over her body. Mireille grabbed the handle of her nearby suitcase leaning against the black dividing wall, and then walked towards the front door, the suitcase trundling along the floor behind her on its two small wheels. Kirika suspected that she would be carting that suitcase around before they reached the check-in counter at the airport. She didn't really mind. It was a measure of how comfortable Mireille had become with Kirika that the blonde allowed her partner to carry her luggage for her. In the old days Mireille would have guarded her bags as if they were the refuge of secrets not for Kirika's eyes; the girl had not even dared to venture near them, let alone touch them. Nowadays nothing was off limits--luggage, shopping bags, groceries, and more, Kirika had ended up bearing at one point or another. It felt good to be useful, but even better to be helping Mireille. Kirika followed after Mireille, but lingered at the mouth of the short hallway leading to the front door, turning back to survey the apartment--her and her partner's home--for one last time. It looked very quiet and empty, as if they had already left it days ago. Soft beams of sunlight fell through the windows, but not but a handful of dust motes danced in their midst, and their movements were slow, languid drifts that would eventually bring them all to land on floor or furniture. It was like everything in the apartment was going to sleep, breathing a final sigh before relaxing and settling in for a long wait. Awaiting Kirika and Mireille's return. "Kirika," Mireille gently beckoned, her melodious voice coaxing Kirika out her reverie. Kirika turned around to see Mireille waiting for her, patiently holding the front door open with a hand on the dull silver doorknob, and trotted down the hallway and past the faintly smiling woman into the corridor outside the apartment. She couldn't stop herself looking back one more time, however, as Mireille began to close the front door. Looking down the hallway she had just traversed, Kirika caught sight of her and her partner's orchid resting on the table against the far wall of their home. She wondered if the orchid would dry out and wilt before they came back, in spite of Mireille's pains to prevent that happening. Kirika hoped it wouldn't. The door clicked shut. ****** To be continued.... Author's ramblings: I decided not to name the Soldats council members and have sort of a SEELE (from Evangelion) mentality instead. I did consider having just 'disembodied' voices (i.e. "Council member one talks", then "Council member two talks") but I felt that would get too confusing to the point no one would know who was actually speaking. I hope that scene was okay. I have no idea how Mireille and Kirika transport their weapons and ammunition from country to country, so I kind of glossed over that part. I suppose they could always take their guns apart and mail the pieces to themselves at their overseas destination... but that would leave them defenceless for a while, and it couldn't be *that* easy. Oh well, let's just not dwell on it. ^.^ More on the first Noir and Kind Mother in coming chapters. Their tale would be a fun and interesting one to write, I think. Perhaps that's something for me to do in the future. ^_^ Bento = Japanese lunchbox.
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