In Death We Meet Some nights were just not meant to be for working. The thought struck professional hit woman Mireille Bouquet as she dodged behind a couple of steel bars that would provide some temporary cover for her. A rain of bullets followed her, raking into the metal, showering her in sparks from the friction. Semi automatic Uzis just like she thought. Shit. Things hadn't been going too good on this job; the target was still on the run, she had a pack of heavily armed security after her and she was down to two clips. Oh well. Throwing herself out from the cover, she opened fire, aiming her Walther P99 instinctually at where her senses told her the enemy was located. Three continuous shots echoed between the walls of the emptied subway station before she dived again behind a couple of strategic positioned chairs. A pained shriek told her that her aim had been true. But still, there was at least another five of them, not very favoured odds to fight against under any conditions. She would have to ask for a raise on this job; the client seemed to have forgotten to specify that the target, Frank Renoir, would have a bunch of leashed bulldogs one floor below his office. Getting them done was going to take thrice the effort she had originally planned on this hit, and bodies didn't come cheap. Another stream of bullets tore into her cover, chips of wood and splinters rained down on her head. The wooden benches wouldn't last another round, she had to move and be quick about it. Making a close estimation from where the gunshots came from, she reached under the chairs and fired, buying her another few seconds to run for new cover. This was not going well at all, not to mention that she had not even gotten close to the target because of this annoying bunch. A stray bullet sizzled past her ear, hitting the light behind her, suddenly sending the whole station into sunken darkness. Great, the low possibility she had of taking them out just went below zero with the reduced visual. Handgun against semi automatics in the dark? Sure, big chance. It could be possible if her body decided to evolve a nightvision ability in less than a minute. She smirked at her own irony, finding it somewhat amusing that her sense of sarcasm could remain intact even in situations like this. Mireille wasn't an amateur in this field however, knowing fully that for completing this job, she really only needed to get one person. Her contract was to take down Renoir, bribed, rich politician in foreign trade department, not his bunch of trigger happy goons. The game wasn't called Hit and Run for nothing. Sending her last two bullets in the magazine in their average direction, Mireille picked herself up from the ground and ran, replacing the clip in her Walther while she bolted for the emergency exit. As a professional, one never took a job before doing the proper research; Renoir may be as slick as his kind came but being an average bribed politician, his resources weren't infinite like his hiding places. She had a good clue of where he was probably holing himself right now, probably waiting with even more security; it wasn't going to be a walk in the park. She needed to restock. ... Kirika watched the man from her position with a somewhat curious disposition. She had followed this man for days now. Playing with him in a small game all of her kind played. It was kind of like a cat and mouse game where they choose their next prey, and follow a particular human for days to observe them. Sometimes, the nightwalker would find them entertaining or even attractive, making the game into an actual obsession. It was not an uncommon thing for them to fall in love with humans. Those short-lived, frail creatures that, despite all their faults, could still accomplish so much fascinated some of her kind to extremes. It was a notion Kirika found hard to understand, if not undecipherable. Her games always ended the same, following the same morbid ritual of watching and observing. Sometimes, they would surprise or impress her but never, ever had she felt anything more. In the end, it had always been the blood that called her to act. In the end, they were never more to them than she expected. Yet, even those of wisdom and age that passed hers by hundreds fell for the same game. Some did it for jealousy. Those who had regretted their second birth and now wished a life that was not forever. Others did it to be reminded of life itself, by observing and sometimes even taking part of the human world around them as pretenders. And some did it directly out of cruelty, like a hunter that played with its prey before finally devouring it. Kirika wasn't sure if she could place herself in any of the categories above. It was a sort of entertainment but never had she enjoyed the stalking like those who did it for terror. The process of scaring and tearing the reality around the victim bit by bit until she was satisfied sickened her. No, she was not one of those who did this for the perverse pleasure; neither did she desire the life of a human again since she frankly didn't remember hers. Her cause was never and yet, always the same. She chose, she observed and she fed. Never did she interfere or appear before them until the very end, when she could no longer hold back the cursed thirst. Like this man. Kirika didn't have a clue as to why she had chosen him. He didn't look very good at the moment, which was no wonder since his office had just been under some kind of attack. He had escaped and ran off with a handful of guards to this apartment, barely escaping the raking gunfire. Someone obviously thought that his life was worth paying for. She knew he was a politician, deeply involved in some big case in the foreign business ministry which took a lot out of him. She also knew that he was a bribed asshole who had been using the tax changes in the foreign trade to scope money into his own pockets. She watched him from the shadows the dark room. His hands were shaking, gripping the glass of whisky in his glass like if his life depended on it. The brown, stylishly cut hair looked tousled like the rest of his attire. This was clearly out of picture from his usual look, confident with well-groomed clothes and a dashing smile that spoke volumes of his career. He couldn't be more than in his late thirties at most without a hint of greyness in the hair, clearly a successful person worthy of envy. Kirika mused while she watched him. He was a pretty man to look at. Physical appearances mattered in the choices of prey, for the same reason humans were attracted to each other. One could even say that her kind was even weaker against the temptations of beauty since their preferences were not hindered by separation of sexes. She took a small pleasure in watching him, this brilliant millionaire with a rocketing career shaking in terror at his unavoidable death. His death would come undoubtedly and it would be this night. He may have fled the assassin but he could not flee from her. As a matter of fact, he didn't even know that she was there, or that she had been following him around for more than a few weeks. Frank Renoir would die tonight, but not by human hands. She closed in on him soundlessly from behind, gracing his fine facial features with her eyes some final times before she would reveal herself. Concealing her breathing carefully, she felt how her excitement stirred as her mind screamed after the blood. If she was not careful, he would hear the sound of her breathing and such a mistake was unacceptable. He was turned towards the wall opposite her, staring at a painting of a woman in a green dress with almost obsessed intensity while taking another sip from his whisky. The night sky was clouded tonight, luckily, since the lunar song would have set her instincts in action long ago. Kirika didn't like that; she wanted a slow game, one which she could enjoy in her own way. It was time to let herself be known. She released the contained presence she had been holding in, stepping out from the shadows behind him while she waited for the man to react. The skill was a useful one in times like this. It was a kind of morbid formality, to let the victim have a last word before she took them. Despite the alcohol, he wasn't slow with noticing the extra presence in the room. His back became stiff as he downed the last of the drink, slowly turning to face whoever was behind him. Kirika knew some who put up all kind of dramatic faces in this situation depending on what reaction they wanted out of the victim's last seconds. She never cared for those frivolities. Drama was just not her thing; she had her own ways of getting what she wanted and they worked. She merely looked at him while standing in the light from a table lamp beside the armchair, not giving him an ounce of expression but the usual soft demeanour. Removing her hands from her pockets, she showed him her unarmed state, leaving the judging of the situation wholly on him. Renoir seemed surprised, if not stunned by her presence. He looked her up and down, like an uncle who was seeing an unwelcome niece. She had clearly not been what he was expecting. Neither did he throw a fit in questions about how she had passed the securities downstairs. The reaction surprised her. He was truly a remarkable man to remain so cool in a situation like this. Assassination and an unknown visitor in the same night could hardly be easy on one's nerves. She stayed calm, reeling in her body which screamed after the needed action at the sight of him. She met his eyes, binding him by her gaze as she took a few steps forwards. Still no reaction. A little disappointed, she gave him an attempt at a smile, even if she doubted that it looked like one. Maybe he simply was one of those non talking ones. It would be pointless to drag it out, then. She strengthened her hold on him, his oval, Aryan face finally stretching into something that reminded her of dread while she stepped across the room, rounding the pieces of furniture. She had chosen a good victim, one who was soiled yet exceptional. He deserved the punishment for his crimes yet was interesting enough to be worth feeding on. His blood would be sweet, deliciously so when she would taste the sins and joys in his life. Who are you? The thoughts were loud screams of horror, frozen behind his eyes while his features remained calm. Maybe he wasn't as collected as she had thought. What do you want? Kill him? Yes and no, he would die but it was not really her intention. The game rules were like this, the human could not survive and she could do nothing about it. She drew closer, now sensing the present fear on him in the smell of his sweat. His eyes had started to dart back and forth since he probably noticed the inability to move. Feeling no sympathy for the crumbling man before her, Kirika merely walked on. The man's heart was pounding like a furious drum, pumping his lifeblood in an out from his heart so fast that she was having difficulties to follow. It would soon be hers, she had to wait just a little more, just another extension of this moment and he would be hers. Kirika breathed in, taking in his ludicrous smell of expensive perfume mixed with whisky. Her whole body was burning in anticipation, longing for the blood that soon would flow. The thirst smarted in her throat, ripples of excitement fluttering in her stomach making her almost dizzy. She opened her mouth, unable to further restrain the raging urge within her. He must have seen her fangs, the two usually hidden sharp teeth that now unconcealed prodded from her upper mouth. Impossible long for a human, their solemn purpose being to be for the feeding, giving the bearer a grim, if not beastly look in appearance. His eyes widened at the sight of her, begging her in a non verbal way for mercy. Genuine terror now trembled through his limbs, reflected into her mind by his chaotic thoughts. It was time. The last thing he would see in life would be her attempt at a smile; it was all she could give him. She leaned in, now equally eager to begin the feast in both body and mind. What are you doi...? BANG The moment of tranquil ecstasy was suddenly broken when the door slammed open. Kirika, for maybe the first time in her wakened life, did not have time to react as her senses were overflowed by her instinctual blood thirst. Two rapid followed shots echoed through the room, she was able to catch a glimpse of blonde hair in the poorly lit room when Renoir was suddenly thrown against the window, pushed by the force of the bullets that had penetrated his chest. He let out a croaked moan and fell, tumbling to the floor in an unceremonious heap before her. A wave of sudden dizziness flowed over her mind when the spell was broken; the shots had been bull's-eyes, killing him instantly without even giving him a chance to be surprised. She reached out for support, for a moment thrown out of balance by the sudden death of her victim. His mind had faded like a shadow, taking all the impressions of fear and anticipation in that ending sequence with him. Her body reeled, already being concentrated on the given task and suddenly being thrown back was not a pleasant sensation. All the build-up of the moment came suddenly crashing down around her like a crumbling mountain. This was new. No one had ever interrupted her. Her facial muscles twitched in irritation, a very unfamiliar feeling for her as she turned around to the open door, still unstable on her feet, to face the killer who had ruined her meal. A blonde woman stood by the table lamp, the light illuminating her features as Kirika stared at her indirect aggressor. Her hair was blonde, framing a pretty oval face with delicate yet sharp Aryan features in its length that reached a good bit down her back. The eyes that stared back at her were blue, not the soft, baby blue kind but sharp and intelligent ones, cutting into her body like icy arrows. The orbs were hard and possessed a dangerous glint as they glared at each other, both equally surprised at the other's presence. Kirika straightened herself up, partly having recovered from the minor shock from the spell. The woman in front of her was beautiful. She had seen a lot of pretty women in her life, but this blonde was different. The hard-edged beauty that radiated from her was not in least due to the visual perfection of her face, neither the slender, well sculptured limbs of her agile, obviously feminine body. It was a straightforward kind of beauty that surrounded a dangerous and ruthless being; the feeling was like sharing the room with a panther, an intelligent creature ready to strike at any time. Still, there seemed to be a hint of tenderness hidden behind her eyes, well concealed but no doubt existing. In a sense, Kirika was still a bit angry with the blonde intruder who had interrupted her game so bluntly. Even more of the irritation was directed at herself since she had allowed a mortal to cause her such imbalance. Yet, in the dim light of the room, she was still unable to take her eyes off the gun-wielding femme fatale. Mireille was slightly surprised when she had stormed the room to find Frank Renoir in the company of a teenaged girl. In all the research she had done, never did she come across anything that inclined that the man was in relations with a young female from eastern Asia. The girl was either Chinese or Japanese judging by the fine, almond shaped eyes. The even stranger thing was that she didn't look scared one bit, despite that the man she obviously was conversing with a moment ago now laid shot and dead by her feet. On the contrary, Mireille thought she saw a flash of annoyance pass her face at the sight of the assassin. The girl reached out a hand to steady herself against the wall, despite not even looking affected by the brutal murder that just took place in front of her. The assassin scrutinized her figure beside the window. She was dressed in dark clothes, about 160 cm tall, pretty, delicate features with mousy dark hair and large eyes. Mireille estimated her to be high school aged or even younger. No one in Renoir's surroundings matched her description even close. She narrowed her brows in anger; there had obviously been a miss in her information and now there would be unnecessary casualties. The girl could not be allowed to live. The soft eyes looked at her, staring so intensely that a slight shiver went down her spine. Despite her childish features, Mireille still briefly got the chilling impression of someone of far greater age and experience; as if her lithe body contained someone or something else that she could not see with her bare eyes. She shrugged it off, what nonsense. The girl didn't seem to notice the gun that was pointed at her but concentrated entirely on Mireille's face as if she was trying to engrave the blonde into her memory. Not a hint of dread could be seen on her calm, almost peaceful face while each of them stared at the other. Mireille felt how doubt swept though her heart when she looked at the girl's innocent, young face. But it could not be helped; there could be no witnesses in her field of expertise. She could not risk her own identity because of one girl, even if killing her would hurt. The small part of her heart that still recoiled at murder screamed in protest, but Mireille locked it away before her face could reveal any weaknesses. Kirika reached out with her mind towards the woman, suddenly gripped by fascination for the female killer who so brutally had deprived her of her feeding. She smelled nice, like a flower she could not recall from her slumbering memories, despite the sweat and gunpowder that clung to her. The trip into the apartment had obviously not been an easy one. She detected a slight glint of regret in the intense, blue eyes, but it was dispelled quickly. Her blood smelled even better, she had suffered a few scratches and cuts on her arms that were now bleeding, sending the - for Kirika - heavenly scent all over the room. The surge in her stomach returned, but now multiplied tenfold. She had neglected her thirst for weeks on end until finally settling for Renoir. Her body was reminding her of its demands, literally begging her to give in, screaming at her to feed on the beautiful assassin before her. But for some selftorturous reason, she would not give in, steeling herself against the primal urges like an unchained beast. Something in her held her back, and whatever that something was, it was stronger than six weeks worth of unfed thirst. Not until then amidst her inner struggle did Kirika notice the weapon, which now was pointed at her. Too late. Mireille pressed the trigger, giving it her best aim since she wanted it to end fast, inflicting the minimal possible pain to the girl while killing her in the process. In other words, she aimed for her heart. The sudden impact knocked the air out of Kirika's lungs. It sent her backwards against the window like Renoir. There was pain. Her shoulders and back were slammed into the glass, making her vision go grey as her head was thrown back, hitting hard against the cold material. The pain was greater than any she had experienced. She watched as in slow motion how the bullet reached her chest and hit her, piercing her heart that was pounding furiously in her ears. The pain was familiar; in all the blurry images of her past, she knew that she had gone through this before, and that she would survive it now like then. She looked at the woman in front of her. Sympathy was now evident in the blonde's eyes. So alike and yet so different. They both killed, apparently not for their own pleasures but due to the nature of their existence. Kirika could see that in her eyes. This woman was a killer, a real one. She was nothing like those howling half animals in the streets; she was one of those among men who had made it her living, a professional. Her chest hurt. The intense pain pulsated through her body in white spasms, sending red spots dancing in front of her eyes. Her wounds were never fatal but the pain was still horrible. It struck Kirika that the blonde's shot had been out of mercy. This would have killed a normal human instantly, not because she was in a hurry but because she didn't want her to feel any pain in her last moments of death. She sank to her knees. Her body's immortal flesh was already starting to reconstruct itself to heal the wound, repelling the bullets in her heart from the body even as she was breathing. But the task took efforts on the body itself, her eyelids became heavier when the familiar sensation that reminded her of sleep came over her. She would awake again in a few hours. Maybe it would be a good thing for the woman to believe her to be dead. It may be just a bit confusing if that perfect shot had not killed her. Mireille watched with some surprise when the girl slowly fell to her knees, still transfixed on the blonde's face with those soulful reddish eyes. The girl continued to remain expressionless until she closed her eyes as if she was falling asleep instead of dying. There had been no anger in those eyes; not a flicker of hatred, freight or despair had painted the girl's last moments. Mireille stepped forwards, catching the falling body in her arms and placing her down gently on the carpet. The girl was surprisingly light in her arms, her lithe body resting against Mireille's bigger frame like a feather. The cold touch of pale skin brushed against her bare arms, smooth like freshly spun silk. The darkhaired head came to a rest against Mireille's torso, like a child falling asleep. She didn't wear perfume as one would expect from a girl her age. Instead there was a faint odour of grass around her; she smelled like a wild garden during summertime, it was a sweet, genuine smell unfamiliar to the assassin, somewhat reminiscent of a childhood long past. The assassin stilled the guilty, unsettling feeling in her stomach and brushed a finger across the darkhaired girl's soft, delicate cheek. The girl was beautiful; a young soul full of hopes and dreams, now vanquished by her hands like a candle that would never be lit. Please forgive me. To her surprise, the girl had what could be taken for a smile on her face. Not a joyful expression but simply a soft, innocent curl of her lips, giving her peaceful demeanour an almost happy impression as her whole face seemed to glow in childish beauty. Mireille steeled her heart from guilt at the heartbreaking sight in front of her. Placing the girl's arms across her chest, she mumbled a silent prayer and stood up to leave. The girl lay there, still bleeding from her chest while smiling at the leaving assassin with closed eyes, as if she was trying to tell the departing blonde something. Until we meet again.
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