The Illusion Mireille's can of coffee vented a hiss and then emitted a crack as she pulled its ring top open in one hand. Only the faintest wisp of steam sleepily emerged from the top to warm the canopy of her palm, and the heat her cradling fingers felt around the can was tepid at most. Mireille's coffee wasn't close to as piping hot as it had been when it had popped out of the vending machine standing outside the neighbourhood convenience store, but after she took a long draft she found it revitalising nonetheless, washing away a little more of her air travel fatigue in a rush of lukewarm caffeine. With the aftertaste of coffee in her mouth, Mireille sat the can down on the kotatsu she herself was seated cross-legged at, though it took her a moment to find space for it. The small table in the centre of the Yuumura 'living room' was laden with clutter, the mess single-handedly ruining the serene atmosphere of the ordinarily immaculate Japanese interior. The papers Jacques had transferred to the blonde's keeping had lost their orderly stacking and most were scattered freely across the kotatsu, the consequence of Mireille's transitory flick through their contents. The remainder drew a white mishmash semi-circle on the tatami mats around where Mireille sat, penning her in against the kotatsu and indicating the spot where she had spent her time perusing the documents earlier in the evening. Her gun lay nearby on the floor outside of the paper crescent, easily in reach of her right hand, and her position giving her an unhindered line of sight to the front door, the windows showing the back garden, and the kitchen--all the possible entries into the room. She doubted she would ever feel safe in this so-called safehouse. Some space had been sloppily cleared in the jumbled paper coating in front of Mireille and on the other side of the table opposite her; just enough for two plastic bowls of instant ramen to bolster the disarray--dinner for her and Kirika's first night in their new, and yet familiar, temporary abode. Mireille seldom subjected herself to this kind of junky cuisine without due cause. However, an empty refrigerator and cupboards with every shelf bare was plenty. Breffort could have had the courtesy to stock the house with food, considering what Mireille and Kirika agreed to undertake on Soldats' behalf. It was just another reason for the Corsican assassin to seethe over him and his supercilious mien, another log for the fire smouldering inside her, additional debt to be settled. That being said, Mireille didn't think she would have trusted any provisions Breffort might have left for her and her partner anyway. She would have never been sure what was in them. Poison, mind-altering drugs... suspicion fed and darkened her imagination, and took the edge off her hunger and thirst. The edge, but not all of her hunger and thirst. Thus, an impromptu and quick trip to a store to organise a makeshift dinner was inevitable, and two bowls of instant ramen and two drink cans were the resulting fare. It was enough for tonight, and breakfast for the next morning had been taken care of too, although it was just as nutritionally defunct--a couple of sweet buns, one stuffed with strawberry jam and the other with curry that were to be heated in the microwave. Mireille ran a finger around and around the circular rim of her coffee can while she absently mulled over which bun Kirika would prefer. Mireille had been too exhausted to dedicate much thought to what to buy at the store for dinner and breakfast, or to even pose to Kirika what she might specifically like to eat. Instead, the then grouchy and impatient woman had simply snatched things off shelves on the slightest impulse in an effort to return to the Yuumura household as soon as possible for rest and relaxation. Tomorrow's grocery shopping outing would be different; more engaging and fun for Kirika; Mireille promised. It was worryingly apparent to Mireille that Kirika was very sensitive to their personally historic surroundings and unsavoury situation. Her talk with Kirika in the girl's old bedroom at dusk looked to have had great success at consoling her, yet Mireille still held concerns. Anything that the blonde could do that she believed would placate her partner's uneasy mind and divert it from their troubles, no matter how trivial seeming, she would try to do. After all, it was those small, seemingly trivial things in life that appeared to engross Kirika. Mireille unfolded her bare legs, stretching them straight out underneath the kotatsu. Her thigh and calf muscles ached luxuriously, and she hummed in contentment through languorously smiling lips before flexing her toes up and down a few times, feeling the muscles there pull taut with the same pleasurable throb. Night had fallen in Kawasaki and Mireille was in her sleepwear--her oversized shirt and nothing else, the blonde desiring to feel as uninhibited and relaxed as she could; as close as to what she had felt like while lounging in the bathtub upstairs. The temperature of her coffee had been sacrificed and dinner postponed for a much-needed hot and sumptuous soak, Mireille having trudged upstairs to the bathroom as soon as she and Kirika had arrived back at the house following their shopping compulsion. It wasn't the coveted shower Mireille had fantasised about soon after touching down drained and dishevelled in the country, but the Yuumura household's bathroom facilities had been skewed towards the Japanese preference for baths, and the worn-out woman hadn't been picky. She had been guarded, however. This house was Soldats property, and could harbour any number of listening devices and spy cameras wired directly to the secret society's operatives, either planted shortly before Mireille and Kirika's coming or many months ago when the latter girl had lived in isolation here. Stripping down in the bathroom under the apprehension that hidden eyes were leering at her had been an ill thought for Mireille. She had not been too tired and dirty to not perform a sweep of the bathroom for shady surveillance equipment and allay her mistrust before disrobing and reclining in the tub. The rest of the house still had to be inspected, but that could wait until tomorrow. Mireille reminded herself to tell Kirika to undress in the verified privacy of the bathroom pending that inspection. If there was a thought more repellent than Soldats agents peeping at her, it was Soldats agents peeping at Kirika. A shrill and persistent whistle from the kitchen proclaimed that dinner was more or less ready with the water for the bowls of ramen coming to boil. The whistle became hushed, and a moment later the girl responsible for the stifling drifted out of the kitchen and into the room, a kettle in her hand. Mireille smiled affectionately at Kirika as she walked closer, and that tenderness continued in her eyes as she watched her partner kneel at the kotatsu and peel back the lids of the instant ramen bowls halfway, before carefully pouring in the hot water from the kettle. Steam rose, appetising aromas riding it to reach Mireille's nose that in turn generated rumbles in her stomach. However, Mireille's roused hunger was suppressed in favour of waiting for Kirika to be ready to join her. The girl had considerately and patiently delayed eating to allow the blonde to finish her bathing in spite of Mireille's bid for her to start in her absence. Mireille hadn't had much faith that her invitation would be accepted. Kirika had lived alone in this house for a long time; a time only ended when Mireille had come to see her and agreed to take the Japanese schoolgirl into her own life. Kirika had never eaten alone again. Mireille didn't think she would begin to now, and definitely not here. And so Mireille waited those few minutes with a literal smile. It was a small return for the kindness given to her, and yet a significant gesture for Kirika. Passing the short span of time admiring the cute girl as she carried out the domestic chore wasn't something to protest anyway. Mireille's gaze followed Kirika's every movement, no matter how subtle, it feasting on a delectable treat while her stomach abstained. The woman swallowed as she grew to realise the depth of her interest, her old yearnings rekindled in the moment of affection and tempered by the confrontation of equally old reservations. The knowledge that she was naked but for a nightshirt swelled to consume her thoughts; the slightest brush of the material on her bare and suddenly sensitised skin amplified to incredible acuity. Naked but for a nightshirt and with Kirika right there in front of her, close enough to touch. Close enough to caress.... Mireille crossed her legs under the kotatsu, her thighs clinched together tightly. She was no slave to her emotions, and certainly not to her physical cravings... once, at any rate, before she had gained a partner. A partner she couldn't refrain from adoring. Kirika was not like any other woman Mireille had been attracted to. Mireille had feelings for this particular young woman--romantic feelings. Loving feelings. Love was the special spicing that made it different somehow. It made the allure... *stronger*; more beguiling. Harder to deter... because she really didn't want to. Emotions burned and inspired just as ardent thoughts; burned with passion distinctive from the fire of vengeance Mireille was accustomed to. This fire raged with formidable intensity to make it a match for the other if not the victor, but with a softer flame; candlelight to an inferno. Nevertheless, like the other it thirsted to be quenched, heating the blood and quickening the heart. But Kirika was still young. Young, and ignorant to Mireille's secret lusts and longings which inflamed her body and heart. She was ignorant to them in general, right down to their very workings and meanings. She was innocent to them, and innocently trusting of Mireille. It still felt wrong to Mireille to have such wants; her potent desire laden with guilt that tainted it; and yet like a siren song she was powerless to stop herself revisiting them time and again. They were undeniable. Inescapable. Summoning the iron will that had served her dependably throughout her career as a contract killer, Mireille peeled her eyes off of Kirika's petite figure and stared at her bowl of steaming ramen instead. It was just a few inches difference, but shifting her gaze that much felt like an enormous achievement; the mass of a mountain hefted. It was going to be a gruelling night in bed for Mireille, her only hope that her fatigue would sedate her. She was starting to regret that bath; a cold shower despite the awkward facilities might have been the better choice. Kirika stood up and returned to the kitchen to put away the kettle, and Mireille exhaled heavily into the wafting vapour from her ramen, propelling it into swirls, once the girl had left her sight. Mireille stared at her food several moments longer to try to get a grip on herself, that she had need to do such a thing somewhat staggering, and then drew her legs out from under the table to lie tucked beside her before ripping her ramen bowl's lid the rest of the way free in one curt motion. Optimistic that eating would distract her, Mireille briskly snapped her wooden chopsticks apart and was lifting a belt of noodles out of her bowl with them just as Kirika re-entered the room. Kirika brought her can of juice with her this time and knelt at the opposite side of the kotatsu to commence her own dinner. She still wore the clothes she had donned a seeming age ago in Paris, having no chance yet to wash and change on account of Mireille doing both before her, the compliant girl remaining grubby and tousled for the sake of her partner. They ate in comfortable quiet for some minutes, with Mireille stealing looks across the table while she fed noodles into her mouth. The blonde watched Kirika suck up her own mouthful of noodles, and discovered that by the time the end of the last noodle disappeared wriggling between her partner's pursed lips, her chopsticks had frozen in midair; fingers forgetting they were there; and she was smiling again. Kirika had ways of doing things that were endearingly amusing; novel little mannerisms for everything she did down to the smallest and simplest action. They were always a hook for Mireille's notice, out of intrigue or fondness, or regularly both. But peculiar or funny, the constant was they were just plain charming... cute.... Like the girl they belonged to. Kirika raised her eyes from her ramen and caught on to Mireille's attention and smile over the table. She batted her eyes at the woman and cocked her head a little to the side, ever curious and observant, and seemingly especially when it related to Mireille. "Good?" Mireille inquired on a whim, her amusement present in her voice. "Mm," Kirika nodded, chewing her latest mouthful of ramen slowly as though appraising the taste right then. Mireille's smile and gaze stayed on Kirika for a few instants longer, and then suddenly remembering the chopsticks in her hand, she idly dug at the noodles in her bowl. "Four days," she spoke into her bowl in a shadow of her prior exuberant ease, a forced mimicking of it. She stared at her chopsticks tilling the ramen, but her focus was on Kirika. Hearing nothing but the calm of night, Mireille tilted her gaze upwards to peek at Kirika. The girl's darkhaired head was bowed, her attention on her food and yet not, like Mireille, and she looked as if it abruptly didn't taste as nice. Four days. It was the time ticking away too slowly for Mireille's liking until Kaede Ishinomori's court date in Yokohama. Despite Mireille's belligerent rejoinder to Jacques' suggestion of it, it was a sound moment to terminate the leader of Soldats' splinter group and any notable cohorts she had with her on the occasion--Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu being the most sought after by the vengeful Corsican assassin. Kaede would have to leave whatever secure location she had probably holed herself up in; be it her company's headquarters or somewhere less recognised; leave it and its defences and familiarity, and risk showing her face in public for a target to be painted on it. Of course Mireille expected her to travel by armoured motorcade and bring along bodyguards to protect her at the minimum, but the confrontation would at least ensue on neutral ground instead of in Ishinomori territory. Even so, Kaede being out in the open meant her escort would be prone to a heightened state of vigilance. Every strategy had its pros to abet and its cons to overcome; it was a professional's job to exploit both to facilitate her assignment. "Four days and then we're home again," Mireille went on, or rather amended shrewdly for brooding Kirika's benefit, regretting that she had sabotaged the already fragile mood. Striking at Kaede when she was in court was also the fleetest means of ending their stay in Japan. It was four days before Mireille and Kirika's involvement with Soldats was finished and the pair was on a one-way trip back to Paris. Quick and clean their indentured service would be over, with just the memory of it to be repressed, another facet of their past unwanted and unacknowledged. Mireille silently and on a caprice slipped her right leg under the kotatsu, her foot inching across the tatami mats toward where Kirika knelt, seeking the texture of her soft skin. The woman's big toe hit upon its desire and then stroked lightly over one of Kirika's knees, the merest touch... but it was a bounty. Kirika looked up at once and Mireille withdrew her foot a tad bashfully, suddenly self-conscious to have done such a thing. She was embarrassed to be embarrassed; that it was in front of and because of her partner making it worse somehow. The usually cool blonde leapt upon the emotion like it was a primed hand grenade, smothering it with discipline. Triumphant in her quashing, Mireille raised her head to meet Kirika's eye and made herself smile fuller. Her lips strained against the compelling, but she was adamant. Her smile was too, it a little forced and a little demanding, wanting its muse to return it in kind. Kirika did, to the relief of Mireille's heart, and to her slight guilt as a result of her peacemaking coercing. The girl's smile was smaller and more reserved, but it was honest, and strong in its shy way, fortunately regardless of the Corsican's pressuring. Kirika backed up her smile with a nod of recognition. She was ready, if perhaps not wholeheartedly willing. Mireille knew she could count on Kirika. She could count on the girl with her life. Like always. Like a partner should. Four days. ******* The wardrobe's doors opened on squeaky and time-stiffened hinges as Mireille pulled on the two knobs, and the threads of cobwebs entwined with dust were stretched firm between where the backmost edge of the doors and the wardrobe's frame met. There were plenty clothes inside; men's clothes by the look of them; dangling from hangers and packed together, but Mireille knew they had never seen the light of day before now, let alone been worn. They looked ordinary but they were Soldats' attire, belonging to a fictional man--a fictional father. Mireille leafed through the clothes a little, not expecting to find anything other than dust and found just that, and then stuck her head inside the wardrobe to examine the walls and corners cloistered by the garments. A stale stench suffocated her and was all she uncovered behind them. She even ran a palm along the walls just to be thorough, searching for any suspicious bumps or wires that could indicate a microphone or lead to one while braving the possibility of encountering bugs of the crawlier sort. Mireille breathed a sigh as she pulled her head out of the wardrobe, her hunt for covert surveillance devices fruitless so far. She wasn't sure if she was thankful or frustrated to unearth nothing. It was good if the house really was clean, but with no proof of that beyond nothing, how could she ever truly be comfortable? Those of Soldats were sly, and Mireille still maintained that Breffort was having her and Kirika watched even now, this distant from Paris. He did say his agents were in Japan, skirmishing with Ishinomori's rebels. Jacques could attest to that and was testament himself. The woman speculated if she actually *wanted* some evidence to be discovered to justify her paranoia. Would she then feel comfortable? The irony was not lost on Mireille. Essentially, she would never be content. She kept looking nonetheless. Mireille had only searched the bathroom--that search done last night and repeated more meticulously this morning--and had moved on to investigating what was mocked up to be Kirika's parents' bedroom. The double bed, the chest of drawers, two pictures, a stand lamp, and this wardrobe had been scrutinised in the room up to now, with the second wardrobe next for the treatment. Searching every inch of the house would probably take half the day, but at the minute time was an enemy she could freely kill. Mireille closed the wardrobe and then stretched for the squat cupboard with matching doors sitting just above it. Behind the sloping wooden slats was a shelf with, unsurprisingly, more clothes, folded and arranged in piles. It wasn't until Mireille pushed aside a stack that the innocuous charade was revealed for what it was. A number of white boxes made their own piles behind the clothes, and Mireille had seen enough of their type in her life to recognise what they contained. The assassin stood on tiptoes to grasp a box, and then took it down from the shelf. It was heavier than the small package would lead you to believe, strengthening what Mireille already alleged. Her thumb flipped the box's lid open, exposing rows of bullets to the sunlight, their casings glinting gold. The calibre was intimately recognisable: 9mm Parabellum, the rounds the blonde had used exclusively with her Walther P99 in her life taking lives. Jacques had mentioned something about supplies before she had tossed him out, Mireille recalled. She found it no shock that Soldats had stocked the correct ammunition for her weapon of choice. 9mm rounds for Kirika's Beretta M1934 had to be in one of those other boxes too but if not those, then somewhere else in the house. Mireille frowned and squeezed the box of bullets in her hand as she counted the other boxes on the shelf. A sufficient amount for a small platoon with automatic weapons, or enough to keep Mireille and Kirika supplied for five or six months if they accepted a contract every week and got into a serious shootout every time. Longer still, if each assignment went smoothly. Perhaps Soldats was being generous, but Mireille read something more sinister into it. Soldats wanted 'their' Noir here and fighting for them indefinitely. Mireille shoved the open ammunition box back on the shelf, making no effort to hide it, and shut the cupboard's doors. Soldats' presumptions would be shot full of holes using the very the bullets they contributed come four days' time. The wardrobe and cupboard faced the foot of the bed, while the second wardrobe was on the wall to Mireille's right, facing the bedroom's door. She turned to go toward the latter, however her eyes and mind couldn't desist being attracted to and distracted by the bed in the corner of her vision. Mireille and Kirika had slept the night away in that bed. It had been as dusty and stale as most everything else in the house and had needed some airing out, but the young women's bodies had ultimately given it warmth and verve; the first bodies ever to. Their suitcases were on the floor by the bottom of the bed too, open and with their clothes exposed, stripping a little more from the unlived-in atmosphere that the Yuumura household languished in. Making it bit by bit *truly* the Yuumura household, the Bouquet and Yuumura household, if only for four days. It was a double bed, larger than the bed in Mireille's apartment in Paris, but the extra space was wasted with a pillow companion like Kirika. Kirika had snuggled up next to her like clockwork, and while the blonde needless to say wasn't really against it or loathe to it, it had made the night drag on longer, due to her... preoccupation... with certain tingling and itching sensations... and not to mention her rather wildly disobedient and fanciful thoughts. Squirming just a tad in Kirika's arms was nothing new, but rarely had it been as torturous as last night. Exhaustion had mercifully snuffed out Mireille's consciousness eventually, however not before she had started to vehemently curse not wearing any underwear whatsoever. A sheepish twist to Mireille's mouth surfaced as she looked at the bed. At least the additional bedspace had let her stretch her legs a little, if not the rest of her body... although, that freedom had rather rendered her fixation on the physical more profound. Mireille hoped she'd have better control of herself in the following nights, or else these four days were going to feel much longer than they already would and for much different reasons... though reasons quite more pleasant in their way. Mireille took a breath, and then picked up her task where she had left off, walking to the room's other wardrobe and corresponding cupboard. If she walked on somewhat unstable legs, she would never admit it. Mireille opened the wardrobe with a bored expression on her face as the reality of her monotonous but necessary chore took hold once more. She expected woman's wear within this time, and she was not wrong. The blonde pressed her lips together thoughtfully at what clothing was presented, passing interest blossoming in tedium's fertility. Her bare toes scrunched the carpeting in absent incessant fists while she brushed through the garments with a flicking hand, rummaging for the prime outfits; if any; that might also be in her size. It felt a little strange, as though Mireille was scavenging in Kirika's mother's wardrobe after the woman had passed on. The Corsican supposed that wasn't too warped from the truth, but she didn't allow herself to think like that for long. These clothes had no tags but they were new--unworn. There *was* no mother, and there never had been. Mireille might as well have been browsing through a rack in a boutique. A somewhat dowdy boutique, Mireille grimaced. There was nothing that stood out amongst the clothes to make a blip on the blonde's fashion radar; Soldats had a poor sense of style. Too much black for starters. Mireille's perceptions honed over her years of training and practice as a professional assassin piqued--perpetual awareness, sharp hearing, and intuition banding together to notify her of the arrival of company. She beamed as she ceased her poking around in the wardrobe and lifted her chin knowingly, not needing any of her senses to tell exactly whose soulful reddish-brown eyes were on her back. Mireille smoothly turned to welcome Kirika with her smile. She had left Kirika downstairs eating the last bites of her curry bun and with the trifling washing up to attend to after breakfast, which the girl had evidently seen to quickly. Dishes and cutlery were at least in the kitchen drawers and cupboards, but Mireille had not much doubt that they were leftovers from her partner's stay in the house rather than Soldats charity. Kirika spied on Mireille meekly from the hallway outside the bedroom, half her body peeping past the green stained glass panes of the tastefully attractive French doors' side panels. The glass had a design imprinted on it that was relatively simple and yet ornate at the same time, a darker shade of green accenting it. Arches and curves about the doors' handles and more near knee and head height, and a straight strip edging the bottom of the doors and their side panels together with them, where the glass was one solid pane instead of a series. There was nothing else quite like them in the rest of the house. Soldats appeared to have some taste after all, in selected aspects. Mireille shifted an apprehensive look briefly back to the wardrobe behind her, suddenly anxious how Kirika might feel to see her raking through her 'family's' belongings, albeit pseudo belongings as they were known to be. She internally fumbled, unsure whether to explain herself or leave it unsaid to prevent bringing further attention to it. The house and the memories it had kept warm for Kirika were a delicate issue for the emotionally delicate girl, and Mireille didn't want her tactlessness to salt the wound her partner bore anymore than the return to Kawasaki and the household already had. But while Mireille was consumed with groping for insight, Kirika calmly deserted the doorway and wandered into the bedroom, appearing blasé to the blonde's snooping. Mireille blinked once, surprise on her face, before her smile reaffirmed itself; grateful that Kirika was unmoved and that she could stop her scrambling and let go of the guilt that had started to bud inside her. Kirika was a strong girl. Sometimes Mireille forgot just how strong she was to have survived and become the person she was now after everything she had been through. Kirika's roaming took her to the chest of drawers right of the bedroom's entrance where some books were stacked upright next to each other, a cordless phone together with its charger sat, and where Mireille's ever close at hand pistol rested. She looked down at the chest of drawers and then wiped her right index finger over its top, before raising the finger to eyelevel to peer at and ponder. Mireille walked past the bed and approached the chest of drawers herself to look over Kirika's shoulder. "This house could do with a clean," she remarked, placing a hand on her hip. "Mm..." Kirika hummed in meditative accord as she rubbed the grey smudge on her finger under her thumb. Mireille stared at Kirika's rubbing thumb and finger silently for a couple of seconds, momentarily captivated by it, before she remembered her whereabouts and reclaimed her train of thought. Her hand traded her hip for Kirika's slender shoulder. "A *thorough* clean," Mireille underscored. Kirika turned to Mireille, the Corsican's hand smoothing over her shoulder with the girl's movement but not leaving it. Intrigue encouraged an adorably inquisitive expression on Kirika's pretty face that the blonde knew well, and Mireille arched a meaningful eyebrow in counter, testing whether she understood the type of cleaning that was required above any other. Kirika dipped her head slowly, gazing up into Mireille's blue eyes all the while. She did understand. Mireille had remembered to alert Kirika last night to her reservations that Soldats might have wired the house, so as a consequence her partner was aware of the possible lack of security. With the girl's personal privacy potentially on the line, there had been no way giving such a warning would have slipped Mireille's mind. "You can see to downstairs while I take the upstairs," Mireille suggested with a pleased smile. Upstairs was where the past was the most potent for Kirika, where Soldats had envisioned her parents' to sleep, and where her own former bedroom was; the bedroom that she had awakened from her Altena-induced coma in. Kirika was strong and she had confronted those places and the pains they had wrought, but that was no cause to push her when it could be spared. Leaving her alone in either of those rooms to dwell on her memories wasn't a good idea. Granted, they slept in Kirika's fallacious parents' bedroom--in their very bed--and stood in it even now, but at least Mireille was beside her at this time and those others to keep her centred in the present. A living, breathing reminder of how her life had changed. "Mm-mmm," Kirika hummed, her singsong of disagreement. She smiled a bit, still looking Mireille in the eye. "I can clean upstairs." Mireille furrowed her brow part in worry and part in disbelief, unsure how to take Kirika's offer or her courage. "Are you sure?" she quizzed skeptically. "I can--" "Mm!" Kirika rejected again before Mireille could even finish, shaking her head and her mop of hair with it in her enthusiasm. "It's okay." Mireille frowned doubtfully at Kirika some more, but eventually sighed and unsteadily smiled her somewhat reluctant approval, though her marvel at the diminutive yet resilient girl before her persisted. "Alright." Perhaps Mireille shouldn't fret so much over Kirika. Kirika was a troubled and sensitive soul, but perchance Mireille could relax her guidance and care just a little. But wasn't it natural to fuss over a loved one? "Alright." Mireille's mouth crept higher into a glowing smile that reflected in her shining eyes. There was nothing wrong with being protective of the one you love. ****** Cradling the glass dome in her hand, Mireille gingerly snapped it back in its place over--or more accurately, under--the kitchen ceiling's lighting fixture's internal workings, careful not to drop it or lose her balance perched atop a dining chair. Like in every other obscure nook and cranny she had explored in the house before, she had come across no trace of Soldats scrutiny, just a yield of more dirt and dust. Her Soldats mendacity mania goaded her to carry on with her ferreting in spite of her failure after failure, but even that drive was starting to wear out. That didn't imply that Mireille was feeling any further satisfaction with her and Kirika's degree of privacy, however she was becoming increasingly if grudgingly resigned to stewing in whatever degree that might be. The chair wobbled precariously as Mireille carefully squatted down from the ceiling, its legs drumming a convulsive cadence on the tiled floor and triggering her heart to jump and almost mimic the thumping. She hastily grabbed onto the backrest and tentatively lowered one leg to the floor, and was reassured when her questing bare foot encountered solid ground and instilled instant stability. Mireille's other leg followed, and she dismounted the chair before pushing it back to the table she had borrowed it from. Mireille's hands went to her hips and slid around to rest at the small of her back whilst she looked up at the light. It was at irksome times like these when the assassin lamented not owning a scanner that detected radio signals or whatever was broadcasted to reduce the tedium and ease the search for hidden transmitters. But it wasn't as though her standard assignments normally required such a precaution. Moreover, Mireille was a purist. From a young age she had been taught the traditions of the trade in chorus with the deadly trade itself under her Uncle Claude, who had been an old-style professional killer to his core... and to his very end. He had drilled into her that all an assassin needed to do her job was her chosen weapon--and he had spoken the truth. Everything else was a perquisite--comforts--and to depend on them stunted the staple skills that you *should* be depending on. Amateurs relied on the flair of technological tools and tricks; on their nightvision goggles, on thermal, on long-range rifles and security camera hacks. Such equipment was convenient, yes; they slicked the assignment with their hi-tech helping. But to be at their mercy was something a real professional would never permit themselves to be. Professionals like Mireille. One's own abilities, one's own senses, were what an assassin should fundamentally count on and hone to precision. You'd never be without your own talents and training; they wouldn't malfunction or be misplaced as easily as machinery. They'd never be your crutch. The corner of Mireille's mouth slowly pulled into a lopsided smile. A professional contract killer could also believe in their partner, if they were blessed to have one watching their back. That principle rubbed against what creed the Corsican had been tutored in and had adhered to religiously for many years, but despite her past prejudices she knew it to be true. Trust in another, when rightly and wholeheartedly placed, was worth more than any gadgets and gear one could muster. Just give her Kirika by her side and Mireille could tackle any undertaking. Noir was a heritage for two, and had been for centuries. There was a reason why. Mireille's fingers tapped upon the base of her spine as she skimmed over the kitchen and living room next door. Her moments in this house had been but a blink of an eye compared to Kirika's spell here, but the house did have common import in both their lives. Mireille had come here after her earliest meeting with Kirika, and it was here, just in the neighbouring room, that she had acceded to work together with the girl. Being back evoked echoes of the feelings and thoughts of that time; suspicion, anger, intrigue, and hesitant hope; but that was as far as nostalgia took the blonde. The places that stood out in her past, that haunted her--*had* haunted her--were almost on the other side of the world, in the Mediterranean; her former home in Corsica not unlike what this Japanese locale meant to Kirika. The past plagued Kirika in Kawasaki, but for Mireille it merely tickled her with the remembrance of what magnificent and heavenly changes to her life the bitter beginnings here had ultimately fostered. The gnawing ache in Mireille's stomach compelled her to divert her scrutiny to the clock on the kitchen wall, where its face told the story of the morning she had frittered away in a vain search of the house's ground floor for secreted spying devices. She exhaled long and laboured, and then rubbed her forehead. If Kirika hadn't found anything--and Mireille assumed she had not since she had yet to hear a peep from her partner or see her since leaving her upstairs--then the blonde's hopes of digging up vilifying evidence of Soldats intrusion were all but dashed. Her distrust of the organisation hounded her to pursue her crusade no matter what, but it was weak beneath her rational mind's counsel. If there were anything to find, Mireille or Kirika would have found it by now. At least, that is what she reasoned logically. Suspicion and bias shouted in resistance, but short of tearing the house's insides literally apart, for now Mireille deemed the wisest course was to yield. However, they were being watched somehow and from somewhere. The Corsican assassin's instincts and good judgment were not so skewed by her Soldats prejudice. Perhaps the watchers weren't in this house, but they were in the vicinity, just like Mireille had felt them to be in Paris when Breffort had first 'enlisted' Kirika and herself. Mireille could only hope that the hostilities between Soldats and Ishinomori hampered their surveillance and shadowing. Mireille snatched her pistol off the kitchen table, its barrel scratching along the plastic, and spun around to head for the stairs, the weapon shoved inside the waistband of her pants at the small of her back by the time she was climbing the first few steps. She still didn't assume safety in this Soldats-run safehouse. Then again, there was a short list of places outside her Parisian apartment where she let her guard slacken at all. And *no* place where she travelled unarmed. Halfway up the stairs Mireille spotted Kirika on the landing. To be exact, she spotted her partner's legs through the wooden railings before any other part of her; pale litheness revealed below the tan shorts she wore from mid-thigh to Kirika's feet. A little higher a baggy pink knit jumper sagged off her shoulders, the stretched neck showing its wearer's delicate collarbones. Its sleeves almost swallowed her small hands; hands that wiped a ratty cloth along the dark and dusty timber of a banister. The tension strung across Mireille's brow loosened as soon as she beheld the simple delight of Kirika being her endearing self, the serious matters on her mind progressively less pressing; easing their demands for attention as thoughts of the girl before her and only that girl drifted through her head, blotting everything else out. There was a time--long ago now it seemed, though not even a year past in reality--that Mireille would have abhorred company of any sort on an assignment. She had lived alone, and had operated alone. And had... perhaps not liked it, but had been content with her self-sufficiency. It was the way it had been since leaving the shelter of Uncle Claude's wing. She had only taken social succour when it happened upon her; the casual offshoot discourse with her acquaintances--who were mostly inclined on the side of business contacts, really--after the important issues had been addressed, and whatever fortuitous female companionship that met her taste which also served for that other kind of succour at the rare occasions she desired it slaked. Yet now the notion of executing a contract without Kirika, a partner, was the abhorrent. Mireille was astounded she had ever been content working in solitary, and living in that fashion too for that matter. Having someone with you when away from home, be that a far distance or short, made it seem less like a job and more like a vacation of sorts. It removed the boredom, sped up time, and dulled the gravity of the job. It made it more than mere tolerable. It made it... pleasant. Mireille stepped onto the landing and wrapped her right hand loosely behind the crown of the banister's post beside her, her hand tracing the smooth contours as she casually swivelled herself around to meet Kirika on the other side of the railing. The blonde cocked a bemused eyebrow at the worn and mucky cloth in Kirika's polishing hand as she strolled up to her. Had Kirika misinterpreted her and taken her instruction to clean a little *too* diligently? Mireille's eyebrow rose to challenge her hairline. Where had she gotten that cloth anyway? Before these ambiguities could coalesce too thickly, the woman shook her blonde head slightly to disperse them, reconciled in dismissal. She was habituated to Kirika quirkiness and recognised that it was typically best not to analyse the unique behaviour too much or for too long, but rather just indulge it without question, if she could refrain her curiosity. And, of course, enjoy its amusements and charm wherever possible. Mireille had been sincere in any case; the house had honestly needed a scrub and tidy--more examples of Soldats hospitality. The dusting Kirika had apparently been busy meting out couldn't hurt. The Corsican trusted nonetheless that Kirika had been keeping a look out for suspicious electronics throughout her stint as a maid. Such intuition had been bred into the young assassin; it was her natural instinct. Despite that instinct, menial everyday chores like the household one she performed now seemed to be an affection of hers. It was so different from her real forte, and in more respects than merely the obvious violent disparities. This was work Kirika pursued willingly. The way her hands stroked the cloth across the wooden beam... so gently, almost with frailty flagging her fingers, and yet with that shadow underneath the edge of perception; that deadly grace, that sleeping strength, that killer's instinct. Mireille saw it with her eyes accustomed to death's shade, but for those not similarly gifted Kirika was a girl cleaning a banister. Nothing more. There was a familiar pit of sadness in Mireille as she let her gaze linger on Kirika's rubbing hands, and anger welling inside too, but there was also grim respect and appreciation for the skill in that petite and unassuming body. Kirika was an outstanding assassin. Innocent, yes, unsuited for the calling, yes; but that was the pure reality of it. Mireille detested that what should have been an ordinary, unburdened girl in front of her had been tainted into the wounded soul she was now, but she admired Kirika's ability and was grateful that she had it at her disposal and assisting her. The newly-awakened sentimental woman and the assassin hardened through years of cold murder fought inside Mireille, the first wishing an end to Kirika's anguish, and the other always wanting Kirika armed and dangerous as her business partner. Constantly they wrestled in silent competition, neither controlling absolute, consequently riddling the blonde with insecurities, longings, and guilt she did what she could to bottle up. As things were now there could be no conclusion to that conflict, not when Kirika's aptitude was needed. There was the option of Mireille working alone until the issues with Soldats were resolved, but she wasn't eager to have her Japanese counterpart's gun quiet and holstered instead of adding to her own firepower. Nor did she think Kirika would ever take to the altruistic idea. Mireille sighed softly and her expression collapsed into tiredness. You would have thought it an easy dispute to decide. Kirika's suffering or Kirika's peace. But it wasn't. Mireille couldn't decide one way or the other. What did that mean? She loved Kirika, and yet... this? Her career; what had been the focus of her life up until the point she had obtained a partner; or the emerging new focus of her life; that partner, Kirika. It wasn't a choice to be made in present circumstances, but it did not wander long from its nest in the back of Mireille's thoughts. Mireille fitted her smile on her face again, though it didn't have to be put on for more than a couple of instants before it settled her mouth into a natural warm curve. Kirika's sweetness should be savoured where and when it could on the otherwise harsh and thorn-ridden black path, and Mireille's heart seldom allowed those prime opportunities to slip by unappreciated of late. Moreover, Mireille had given up most if not all pretence of opposition. The moments she caught herself daydreaming--mayhap even swooning over, but her pride in her self-restraint refused her to consider it was that chronic *just* yet--about her diminutive partner were gradually turning less startling, and the spans she spoiled herself smitten in them lengthier. "Did you find anything?" Mireille asked, not so far gone that she couldn't find her tongue. Mireille's voice stopped the motions of the cloth on the banister, and Kirika turned her doe eyes at Mireille. "Mm-mmm," she mumbled with a shake of her head. The Corsican had anticipated the result, but being confronted with it didn't make it sit any more comfortably inside her. Soldats limitless eyes' were on them both... if not inside the house, then outside. Mireille tilted her head a little to the side and smirked at Kirika, crossing her arms beneath her chest. "Did you develop an appetite doing all that cleaning? Or should I find you a vacuum and leave you to it?" The thought of including a lacy French maid uniform with the vacuum cleaner skipped blithely through the blonde's imagination; Kirika doing the skipping while draped enticingly in the thought; but Mireille let it slip away into the ether of her mind. She was in control. She had restraint. Where would she attain an outfit like that here and right this minute anyhow? If her excessive tidying embarrassed Kirika or if she picked up on her partner's gentle teasing regarding it in the first place, she didn't show it. The girl brought a palm to her stomach and seemed to gauge her hunger, her eyes vacating for a second. "Mm... I'm hungry," Kirika determined as her reddish-brown gaze shed its glassy texture and found Mireille again. "We'll get lunch," Mireille said, her smirk softening to sympathetic. There wasn't a scrap of food in the house however, apart from the crumbs leftover from the young women's modest breakfast. On top of that immediate food shortage, groceries to last the next four days or so had to be picked up too. Mireille wasn't thrilled about walking out of whatever protection the safehouse afforded a second time into the hot zone of Kawasaki streets with who knew what eyes waiting there in alleys and windows; Soldats' or Ishinimori's. Both sides knew Mireille and Kirika's faces, and the blonde had hindrances in blending into a crowd to boot. It was Mireille's plan to maintain as low a profile as possible, with staying indoors the crux to the whole strategy. But she and Kirika had to eat, and so leaving the house for the streets was inescapable. That all said, Mireille would embrace getting out of the house she had been combing the filthy corners of for the morning's majority, thankful for the change of scenery and the fresh air. It would be the last excursion outside though before they made their move on Ishinomori and her allies, she resolved. Mireille's brow creased slightly as she looked Kirika up and down. "But you're not heading outdoors in those clothes," she insisted. Kirika's baggy jumper and her shorts were cute, and the skin they bared lovely indoors, but outside the cold would sting that vulnerable flesh as though it were the pricking of a thousand needles. The inured assassin might not feel it, but Mireille would on her behalf every time she looked upon her thin coverings and the goose pimples on her legs and chest that they neglected to protect. Mireille empathised too ardently when Kirika was the concern. Her heart possessed the frost of the wintry weather outside for most, but it ignited into a fire in her breast for Kirika. Mireille pinched hold of Kirika's dust cloth between her thumb and index finger and dragged it loose from under her partner's hand. She gingerly dangled it by a corner in front of Kirika's face and then waved it with flicks of her wrist, the bottom corner tickling the girl's nose. "Go change into something warmer," Mireille prodded. "Okay." Kirika wrinkled her irritated nose and then wandered off into the bedroom they had claimed as theirs for the duration of their residence. "Bring a coat," Mireille added just as her partner turned into a blur behind stained glass. Mireille clutched the banister in her left hand and leaned back against it, one bare foot lifting to press against a railing. She glanced down at the cloth in her other hand, and then draped it quickly over the banister in minor distaste, glad to be rid of the dirty rag it was. She would toss it in the bin later before Kirika got it into her head to take it up again and resume dusting. A clean house to live in was all well and good, but Mireille would not tolerate Kirika becoming Soldats' maid, even if it were her partner's former home. It didn't take too long for Kirika to emerge from the bedroom in warmer attire. Gone were her skimpy shorts--their departure mourned a tiny bit by Mireille--and exchanged for a brown pair of trousers, and her previously bare feet had been tucked into snug white socks. She still wore her pink knit jumper, but it was under a tan anorak now that should keep her nice and cosy. Mireille dipped her head smartly, smiling primly in approval. As for the blonde's own attire, it wasn't exactly winter wear. But the sun was out and shining bright, which took most of the chill from the day. Mireille had on white pants that were suitable enough for the weather, but her purple top was almost completely backless, the only attempt at covering focused merely on her front. However, the woman's long mane of flaxen tresses cascaded over her shoulders and at least halfway down her back, providing an effective blanket until Mireille could throw on her coat. Anyway, it was Kirika who had to be bundled up and protected from the cold. Mireille could dress how she pleased and as scantily as she pleased if she felt style was worth the cost of goose bumps and shivers. Kirika needed looking after when it came to everyday things like this. Mireille did not. She could take care of herself. Mireille pushed herself off the banister and made for the stairs, but thinking better of leaving it behind, suddenly stopped for a second to turn back and snatch up the dirty cloth from where she dispensed with it. Better to have it in the rubbish where it belonged as soon as possible. Mireille walked down the stairs, and as she passed through the kitchen she made a brief detour to the bin. She heard Kirika emit a breathless squeak when she stepped on the lever to flip the lid and then dropped the rag inside, but the girl didn't speak up any further. Kirika had to have known that her older companion would have overturned any objection. With a manner of indifference projected about her to underplay her prior action and thwart would-be protest from Kirika, Mireille tarried no more and smoothly and crisply left the kitchen and proceeded for the genkan at the front door with Kirika dragging her feet behind, the Japanese girl casting a somewhat disappointed look back at the bin. Delicately Mireille lowered her right foot down into the genkan and then its mate after it, the tiles sudden sheets of ice underneath her soles. She kicked the two shoes that comprised the pair that had been abandoned here after her outing last evening to a spot in front of her, and then slid her feet into them. They were open shoes with high heels--not totally fitting for the conditions outside, but they coordinated fantastically with the woman's ensemble. Kirika stuffed her feet into her little pink shoes next to Mireille, which rather clashed with her brown trousers. Come to think of it, her pink jumper didn't harmonise favourably to the eye either. Mireille sighed, watching her partner out of the corner of her eye while bending at the knees and reaching down to fasten her shoes' ankle straps. Kirika's fashion sense still needed a lot of grooming. Mireille was trying, but she suspected there was nothing to even build on making it an exasperating schooling even for one as au fait of chic as her. The blonde wondered whether she should take to laying out clothes for Kirika every morning to go with already choosing and buying them for her. Before they had inexorably grown close, Mireille hadn't cared one whit what Kirika looked like as long as she was worthwhile to her vendetta against Soldats. However, now the girl's poor dress sense was beginning to invoke... embarrassment in Mireille. Not much, and while Kirika's appearance did reflect on Mireille it was largely embarrassment for the clueless girl's sake over the blonde's own. Kirika was a pretty girl, and it didn't do her justice to be bedecked sloppily. Mireille aspired for her to take pride in her appearance. She wanted Kirika to know how to dress herself in way that helped exude to the world just how beautiful she was. Even so, Kirika's naivety concerning something Mireille set plenty of esteem in was surprisingly endearing, and her apathy to vanity refreshing. Moreover, it was absolute Kirika. Mireille didn't want to impinge on that. She didn't want to change Kirika by any degree from the person who had thawed and captured her heart. Mireille could guide her to outgrow the stunting Altena had inflicted, but she would never force her to become something other than what she was at her heart. Herself. Innocence was a precious thing in this ugly world. Mireille stood up and collected her coat from a nearby hook, putting it on and flipping her blonde hair out from the under the collar to tumble down her back and about her shoulders. She released the locks and unlatched the chain securing the front door, then opened it a crack just wide enough for one eye to peer through. That suspiciously narrowed blue eye scanned right and left while her hand snaked under her coat and behind her back to grip the handle of her Walther P99 in her pants. She dissected the area directly outside the house like only someone who walked the black path would; every scrap of foliage and patch of street scowled at guardedly for any blemishes on the commonplace; for any faceless figures skulking, the shade or the unassuming glossing over their malicious ambitions. It was an empty and sedate street that Mireille's scrutiny divulged, the breeze and the birds its only inhabitants. The tension in her countenance cleared, and her grasp on the handle of her gun loosened. She supposed Soldats wouldn't make an attempt to rub her and Kirika out once and for all before they had completed what they were here to do at the organisation's--or specifically Breffort's--'suggestion'. That wasn't to say an underhanded attempt on the young women's lives from the secret society was out of the question. Who knew how splintered Soldats was? How deep and abundant the fissures ran? A faction inside Soldats that Breffort had no jurisdiction over could conceive an opportunity to rid their world order of a stinging stigma, whether for political favour or from simple spite. 'Soldats' and 'allies' went together like oil and water. Mireille let go of her pistol altogether and opened the front door the rest of the way. A gust of chilled air billowed over her as if she had just opened a fridge, but it was warmer than it had been yesterday. The sky was vivid like a summer's day's, and if not for the lasting cold it could have passed as one. Mireille stepped onto the porch and turned halfway back to Kirika, her look ushering the girl outside as well. She shut the door and locked it with the set of keys Jacques had handed to her before she had compelled him to disappear. The pair walked down the porch steps and followed the path into the quiet and deserted street, Mireille still vigilant, and distrusting of that hush and dearth. She glanced up and down the road, but there was nothing remarkable, just the same as it had been yesterday evening under nightfall's cloak. Even in the bright of day it was unchanged. No venomous insects scuttled beneath rocks at Mireille and Kirika's appearance. They were by themselves. Mireille blew a deep breath from between her dusky pink lips, clouding the air faintly. Putting herself under this undue stress was irrational. If a betrayal ensued, she would be ready to act accordingly. She was always ready for the sudden crack of gunshots and the whoosh of bullets. It was the nature of her chosen life. And as for Kirika.... The woman angled her eyes to docile Kirika at her right shoulder. Kirika.... There wasn't a moment Kirika wasn't in tune with her environment. In the tactical sense at any rate, Mireille revised as she weighed the often-oblivious Japanese teenager under her gaze. A smile touched her mouth. There was so much more to Kirika than the skilled assassin. It was those unseen facets that truly mattered; what defined her. What Mireille had fallen in love with. Mireille and Kirika's feet took them along the street, the same route they had taken yesterday out of the suburbs and into the fringes of the city proper. The street kept up its vacancy save for them only for a few moments longer before Mireille sensed the tame movement of someone to her left. It was non-threatening; placid; and provoked no greater reaction than the turn of Mireille's head. A middle-aged Japanese woman was kneeling in the dirt, gloved hands tending the shrivelled remains of a flowerbed in her front garden. A neighbour of the Yuumura household. She seemed real enough. The woman looked up at Mireille and nodded her head a couple of times in greeting, her lined face cracking to direct a smile over the short brick garden wall keeping the pavement at bay. Mireille returned it politely but did not slow, eager to keep moving and shun involved dialogue with anyone who wasn't Kirika. Trust was precious, as was her time, but too much secrecy or urgency attracted notice and stuck in people's memory. Mireille wanted to vanish from minds as she vanished from sight. Someone of her physique and appearance didn't have too great a hope of that here however, but she couldn't be the only blonde foreigner around. Before Mireille could urge Kirika further down the street and escape herself, the older woman sunk hooks into her, gluing the assassin's feet abruptly to the pavement with her tongue. "You... on holiday?" she spoke in the slur of accented English, turning her gaze to the safehouse next door a second, and then dividing it between Mireille and Kirika inquisitively. "Are you on holiday here?" she repeated a second later much more easily in her native tongue. "Ah.... Yes," Mireille said, having to consciously respond in Japanese to the parallel voice that was not Kirika's familiar softness. The perception of privacy violated had not dulled since her arrival in Japan yesterday. "For just a few days." "Oohhh," the woman cooed, her head perking up as her interest did. "You can speak Japanese very well!" she applauded, once again in her naturally articulate native language. "Thank you," Mireille accepted modestly. She had given a nugget of knowledge away--she was no clueless tourist. She had background with the country sufficient to justify her being fluent in the language. However, Mireille would not plod through a conversation in pigeon English when she could chat effortlessly in a more practiced tongue everyone here shared. She would not subject herself to that vexation, nor would she put this poor woman through it. "I saw you move in next door yesterday," the woman went on, looking at the Yuumura household again. "Yes, we're renting the house," Mireille improvised smoothly. "Ohhh...!" the mature woman exclaimed as though a huge secret were revealed, or she had gotten a nice titbit of juicy gossip. She seemed the type to gossip over the garden fence with her equally nosy neighbours. The woman's eyes drifted increasingly towards Kirika. Mireille could practically hear her speculation about Kirika. What was a foreigner like Mireille doing with a high school aged Japanese girl? And on vacation with her? Was she a friend? Was she a relative through marriage? What? Or maybe.... It was Mireille's cue to disappear from sight and mind, the latter if she still could at this point. The woman was a neighbour of the Yuumura family, which meant she could have been a neighbour of Kirika's unless she'd only just moved here--a long shot. Mireille wasn't sure what she'd do if the woman recognised her partner or what the repercussions would be. Become a vague memory. Mireille inclined her head at the woman. "Nice meeting you," she said, terminating the conversation. "Enjoy your stay!" the older woman said affably, but Mireille was already continuing down the street with Kirika. The blonde resisted the desire to place her hand on the base of Kirika's back to encourage her along, certain that the gesture would be spotted and broken down every which way for assessment by the woman they were evading. They had provided her with more than plenty gossip this afternoon. It was unusual for her to be gardening in this cold weather, Mireille reflected as she put the neighbour several houses behind her and Kirika. Although, her plants had looked as if they had been starved for care. Middle-aged housewives had hobbies like that, didn't they? Gardening, sowing, Tupperware parties--well needed if dull distractions from their boring lives with their boring husbands once their children had fled the nest, Mireille imagined. She fervently prayed she didn't wind up in comparable stagnation in her later years. Being saddled with a husband was unthinkable, but she balked at the thought of her lapsing into an old fogey remembering and pining for her glory days while knitting ill-fitting sweaters and scarfs for Kirika in a rocking chair. But how could she really say? Maybe that kind of peace and relaxation she would be content with at that age, when her mind started to blunt and her muscles wilted to sluggish, and she couldn't maintain her fast paced life of murder for a price anymore. To pass the remaining years with Kirika in the tranquillity of holstered weapons and obscurity wasn't really so objectionable when Mireille thought about it, even now in her youth. Not being shot at or having to be on guard while walking the streets anymore would be liberating. However, she doubted she'd voluntarily retire at present. The thought of settling down was all well and good, but the reality of it was something else. "Have you ever seen that woman before?" Mireille posed to Kirika on an idle whim, while gazing distantly ahead with her thoughts. "Mm-mmm," Kirika denied, shaking her head. ****** The unceasing pounding of workmen's hammers were like bullets to the brain, each bang an explosive throb in Albert Laroque's head; his cranium the nail. He glared at his demolished window--once a proud hallmark of his beloved library--that the workmen standing on ladders crowded with their tools--day two of their repair efforts--hate in his squinting grey eyes behind his round spectacles that ticked in time with the hammering. Splintered wood and broken glass was still over the floor and on his desk, and more scattered under the windowsill in the grass on the other side, the clean up barely begun. The presence of the lowly peasants before him was repugnant, but the reason why he had to stomach their filth was the root of harsher loathing. The window was the exit wound of a desecration--a violation. They had defiled his house--his *home*! They had killed his men, brought about damage; some lasting; to precious texts, and grievous of all; they had *stolen* from him! And not insignificant and abundant money, oh no, but one of the rarest of rare books, an artefact of Soldats history that he had taken great pains to seize into his possession: Langonel's Manuscript! Albert ground his teeth--a meagre outlet for his rage. Three women and a man, or possibly two women and two men, his staff had reported the thieves two nights ago as. The security camera monitoring the front entrance of his estate had uselessly recorded indistinct figures and quick motions together with the murder of one of his guards before it and the rest of the cameras had been disabled. Pathetic fool. He had deserved death for his failure, just like the dozen or so others whose bodies had been disposed of straight after their discovery once the skirmishing had ebbed; buried, burnt, or ground up, whatever was done with spent underlings. Albert didn't care about them or their fate. What he did care about was getting their blood out of his expensive carpets. It had already crusted to an almost black shade. Albert was not looking forward to replacing the carpets if they couldn't be cleaned. Soldats had cleaning crews that specialised in just those sorts of tasks however, making it appear as if no one had fought and bled and died at a particular scene. Removing all trace, all evidence. Perhaps he would use his pull in Soldats to take advantage of their service. Efficiency and speed were vital to their job, and Albert would be pleased if his home was returned to its former pristine condition in the shortest period of irritation possible. But not before the cataloguing was complete to the last tome. Langonel's Manuscript had been the obvious absence, but the thieves could have escaped with more. Albert had many, many priceless antiques, paintings, and books *meant* to be under safekeeping in his mansion. He had difficulty conceiving the intruders made off with only a solitary ill-gained prize, doubly so considering the sheer risk they had taken targeting *his* property. Albert Laroque did not stand for the pilfering of his treasured belongings. It was a *personal* affront repaid with systematic torture and a long, *long* time later with the offenders' and their family's lives. To insult him was to commit virtual suicide. A portion of Albert's surviving men; the very best, the very brutal, who he trusted were more laudable then their butchered colleagues; were combing the boroughs of Paris day and night with blades and bullets to loosen tongues that would tell of the trail of the daring and soon-to-be caught thieves. They had the savvy to kill first and the smarts to not bother asking questions later. Ex-special forces, ex-hitmen, ex-human beings; they were soulless killers with military precision and armaments. They had not delivered the ravaged bodies of the plunderers yet, however. There had been no word of their progress, if any. Thus Albert was left with his seething hate and indignant fury; left to pick up the pieces with the peasants while his knights hunted what was missing. Albert wanted Langonel's Manuscript returned to its esteemed place in his collection. He *needed* it. Not merely because it was his and a rare text, but it was linked to Soldats unlike any of his other books in his library. The council, being their omnipotent selves, doubtless knew of the burglary and loss. There had been no word from them, either. Albert took to grinding the edge of his thumbnail between his teeth. The official opinion of the council was that Langonel's Manuscript was a disused remnant of a past age of Soldats, but that didn't make it worthless, did it? Not to Albert, and perhaps not truly to the council. Everyone who was anyone in Soldats knew of the subtle uprising Altena had reared. Of Noir's revival, and of Altena's betrayal. She had been untouchable in the Manor, and if not for her pets' own betrayal Albert might have had other concerns right now even more major than a lost book and a house ransacking. Like the Manor, which was spared a razing following Altena's revolt due to historical significance, Langonel's Manuscript was hallowed and safe from destruction. Moreover, it had a power in its pages like the Manor had in its brick and mortar. It had the power to inspire and unite, and to lend license to any Soldats-led crusade. It had been secure from said use in Albert's care; he had no aspirations beyond his hoarding. But having the book out there, loose in the world... it may incur the council's displeasure; displeasure directed upon him. Albert had to get Langonel's Manuscript back. Albert raked the reedy wisps of grey hair over his balding scalp, his anxiously trembling skeletal fingers the hasty comb. With the perpetrators of his predicament still on the run out of reach of his hate, Albert turned to his men who were busy at the lower shelves around him. Many of his dear books had been desecrated in the burglary, stray bullets tearing through pages as though it were flesh. Paper couldn't bleed, but Albert was aware of his books' pain. He mourned for them. Albert would have traded the flesh for the paper if given the choice. On top of logging what books were present and which were not, Albert's cataloguers sorted the irreparable from the salvageable. With latex gloves they worked, the latter books being piled on the floor in numerous stacks for later repair or more thorough examination, while the ruined were thrown aside into uncaring heaps. It broke Albert's heart... and infused it with rage. He couldn't be sure if the thieves had caused the damage or his men had in their thoughtless zeal to kill them--and his men would never own up to such a blunder, knowing the punishment they would suffer--but in Albert's eyes they were all to blame; directly or indirectly, blame was blame. His men could make amends in attending to the destruction and finding the thieves however, and moreover he needed them to do both. Plus with the council's fell gaze manoeuvring to hang over his head Albert might require them and their loyalty to shield him. It sickened him to be dependent on anybody; weak it was, pathetic; but he needed his bodyguards now more than ever. Albert clapped his hands together sharply, the sound jarring amongst the blunt battering of hammers. "Faster! Faster!" he roared, going so far as to smack the nearest sorter on the back of his head. The reprimanded man's head pitched forwards with the cuff, but the pace at which he pulled books from the shelves and flicked through them to check for damage accelerated as though a gun was trained on him. Albert might be inclined to implement that kind of spur, but he would never carry it through should the man be too slow. He might get blood and brains on his books. His beloved tomes must experience no more maltreatment this day, or any other day if Albert had his way about it. The Soldats member spat forth a grunt of disgust as he roughly straightened his tweed jacket, tugging on it so violently the fabric audibly snapped. Unable to bear the sight anymore, he stormed out of chaotic scene his dignified library had become. Albert muttered irate and incoherent curses as he trudged hunched backed down the hall, glaring contempt at everything and everyone in it. He edged around the blackish patches in the carpet, spewing a particularly colourful cuss just for them as he did, and strode into the retreat of his lounge, closing the door behind him to the mess and the repairs; both equally as objectionable. Albert headed for his bar, seeking the soothing effects of alcohol. He half-staggered as the boiling bile for what had taken place was usurped by cold fear at the repercussions. He slapped his hands on the bar to steady his lurch and squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments, going over the details and the potential consequences once more in his mind. If the council voted to move against him, he knew he was doomed. The generations his line had been immersed in Soldats intrigue would matter for naught and would come to a painful and ignoble end. Soldats was the world itself. Albert may hold out for a time, but no one could fight the world and hope to prevail. No one. Slowly Albert's eyes opened and he found himself looking at the surface of the bar below his hanging head. And at an envelope. A letter that he had not seen before. He swallowed, and fear's chill rushed through him like a winter wind's buffet. He expected a notice of execution, of Soldats' decision to expunge him from their world. He dreaded it. Goaded by a sudden spike of defiant anger, Albert seized the unmarked letter in his hands and shredded it open, gnashing his teeth as though he were tearing it in his mouth instead. There was a folded piece of paper inside, slightly torn in Albert's mania to open it. Feverishly the Soldats member unfolded it, his crazed eyes soaking up its words. There were only two. 'Kawasaki, Japan'. It was a message and a place rolled into one. It took a second to filter through the agitation, but when it did a fiendish smile stretched Albert's thin and bloodless lips. This was not a notice of his execution. No, the only execution that was imminent was the thieves'. ****** Showered and in her pyjamas, it was an unrecognisable ceiling that hung above Kirika's indolent stare, neither was it the ceiling over her and Mireille's bedroom in Paris nor was it the one over her old bedroom mere footsteps down the hall. Kirika had gazed up at a lot of different ceilings in her short life, a new one for each lodging in a place that was far from home. A place where people died. This ceiling was unlike any of those others. People would die; they always did whenever Kirika was away from home; but she wasn't lying in a hotel bedroom. Beneath her was not a bed countless travellers had spent nights in. She was in her old house, her old home, in what was supposed to be her parents' bedroom. That fact alone should have had connotations, significance--a child in their parents' bed. There should have been meaning in it. Yet Kirika's parents weren't deceased or missing... they had simply never *been*. This bedroom could very well have been a hotel or boarding house's bedroom for as much personal worth it had for her. It had belonged to no one. It had never been used until now. Kirika lay on her parents' bed, in her parents' bedroom... but she thought little of it. It was just a room. And it was Kirika and Mireille's room now. This house.... This house that had been hers and yet not hers, Soldats and no one's, it was little by little being instilled with vitality, with a peaceful energy, to become Kirika and Mireille's house as well. The dust and dirt Kirika had started work on removing early today was dispersing as the hours went by. The bricks and mortar that had belonged to a dream, the rooms that were haunted by miseries of the past; they were being revitalised. The dream solid reality, the miseries quiet memories. In Kirika's return with Mireille they had brought the spark of life to the empty house. With that spark they were coaxing it out from the past and into the present where Kirika now thrived, washing away the dust of the old to usher in the shine of the new. This house was a part of Kirika's life, and now it had a new life like she had, too. It would be different this time. There was no loneliness here. Mireille, the heart made to match Kirika's, was here with her this time around. There would be no sorrow or longing. There was even a peace here of the benign kind that Kirika had yearned for since she had realised her talent at taking lives. Today had been... ordinary. It had been calm, and mundane, and spent in the blissful company of Mireille. They had enjoyed normal activities together--shopping for groceries, eating lunch together, and walking side by side. Kirika had hoped during the last to be hand in hand, but her nerve still hadn't been there to make her wishes come alive. *That* she did ache for; that idyllic contact, that euphoric union of touches. Despite Kirika trying for openness with her caring partner, expressing that sort of want to the woman was something else altogether, something beyond the scope of her other thoughts and emotions, something that she only possessed a vague comprehension of. It was not something she knew *how* to express. The words to describe it eluded her, leaving only innate feelings to illustrate her need, feelings that were trapped inside her while she struggled to find a way to get them out, to convey them. The want to be close... as close as two people could be. Touching... embracing... their bodies melded together like one. Joined hearts and joined minds, and joined bodies. Complete companionship. Kirika wondered if Mireille had the same dreams. If she felt the same ache as Kirika did. Mireille probably understood it perfectly. Kirika sighed quietly and slid her hands up from her sides to be a pillow behind her head. Regardless, she had liked today. They had not been the streets of Paris that she and Mireille had strolled, not the streets of home, but it had been nice. Kirika and Mireille could have really been on holiday like the blonde had told that lady instead of waiting for the prime window to end lives. There were four more days of it to look forward to. At least, Kirika hoped that those days would be as serenely uneventful as today had been. A holiday in truth. <...As long as there are people, peace will pass like the seasons. Wither and brown like Autumn leaves, and fall away....> Kirika closed her eyes. She did her best to concentrate on the muffled rush of spraying water through the wall over the melodious whisper in her mind. Mireille was in the bathroom having a shower in preparation for bed, not far along the hall. Kirika wasn't alone. Today wouldn't be spoiled. There was nothing in her head. There was nothing in the dark. <As long as there is sin, there will be darkness.> Kirika swallowed and rolled onto her side, eyes open, towards the other half of the bed. The sheets and pillow had smelt musty yesterday, but they now smelt faintly of Mireille. Of the scent of her shampoo and conditioner she lathered into her long hair and of the perfume and creams she applied to her body... and of uniquely Mireille, the wonderful fragrance the woman created herself. It smelt like their bed at home did. The glass of the bedroom's door dimmed, and Kirika realised she hadn't heard the sound of water cease. The door, ajar, creaked further open, and Mireille appeared from around it. A towel was wrapped around her torso covering her from her chest to just over the tops of her thighs, while a second towel she used in her right hand to mop up the water soaked in her lank tresses. Blonde strands stuck to her cheeks and chest in places, and droplets of moisture that ran from their ends glistened even in the weak light of the bedroom as they slipped and slid over her alabaster skin. Their eyes met. Mireille smiled at Kirika; a lazy, relaxed smile born of warmth and familiarity. And Kirika knew peace once again. She smiled back just as comfortably and placidly, the voices in her mind silenced as they beheld it all. Her faith. There were sinners and there was darkness, and Kirika was acquainted with the worst of both. She *was* of the worst. But that didn't mean the world was empty of saints and light. There was no night that lasted forever. Dawn would always rise. If peace could pass like the seasons, so could bloodshed. <Peace is an illusion the wishful and the helpless cling to while they huddle in the dark....> Maybe, Kirika spoke in her mind. But right at this moment, it didn't matter.
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