Red And Black - By Kirika 

 

 k_yuumura@hotmail.com

 ******

 

 The ninth chapter. More plot stuff. Oh, and note that the majority if not all of Mireille and Kirika's outfits in this fanfic are taken from the clothing they wore in the series, and from any official images of them. Also, variations for the outfits they wore are used (i.e. Kirika wearing her French flag t-shirt with her parka). Why am I saying this? For visual aids, of course. ^_^

 

 - Kirika

 

 ******

 

 Chapter 9 - Morning Sunlight

 

 

 Mireille slowly opened her bleary eyes and yawned quietly, before wincing at the uncomfortable throbbing ache that suffused the left side of her face with the latter action. But the painful reminder of her scarred and tender cheek did not ebb her positive mood in the least. It was a new morning of a new day, a day when everything would be turned around for her and Kirika, her partner… her love. This morning would not be like the others before it, tarnished by an ever-thickening wall enforcing a remote distance between their hearts. The sun had risen on a fresh dawn, and with it, the desolate wall had fallen, the mortar holding its bricks together crumbling, struck a mortal blow by the rejuvenating light shining upon it. It was a second chance for Mireille, a second chance to do things right. The pristine daylight not only demolished the deep wedge separating her and Kirika, but also illuminated a new route on the black path to the blonde, one crafted specifically for two. While the pitiless threats against the duo still existed to meet them head-on along their dark route, the sure knowledge did not discourage Mireille's spirits. For neither she nor Kirika were alone to face them--they had each other. They were a partnership, and as such, would confront the perils lined against them as one. Together. As they should have done from the very beginning. 

 

 Mireille turned her head to where Kirika was slumbering next to her in their bed. The girl was on her side, clinging to Mireille closely, as per usual. However, her embrace was a little stronger than typical, the toned muscles of her arm around the blonde's waist distinctly taut. Yet Mireille took no real enjoyment from her partner's tight hug as she normally would have--it was but another testament of her neglect, her failure. Kirika's habit of cuddling into Mireille during her sleep was no longer deemed as solely an endearing quirk by the Corsican, but now additionally as an act of need on the diminutive girl's part, be it an unconscious one or otherwise. That Kirika was holding her near with increased enthusiasm was damning proof of Mireille's maltreatment towards her… and how much she required the woman's care. 

 

 Kirika's eyes crept open at Mireille's movement, the girl's senses acute as ever, picking up the tiniest amount of motion from her bedfellow. Her docile reddish-brown eyes met the blonde's own blue ones with an avid interest. The two young women then simply regarded one another for a few moments, a comfortable silence arising between them--a far cry from the other silence that had stifled conversation and temperaments in recent days. 

 

 A small, gentle smile broke out on Mireille's features, her icy azure eyes taking on a compassionate shade; that of clear summer morning's sky. "How are you feeling?" she asked Kirika quietly in a sympathetic tone. 

 

 "I'm okay," Kirika replied just as softly. To Mireille's slight surprise but considerable delight the girl then smiled. It was faint smile, but a sweet one nonetheless, the gesture doing wonders to make her pretty face all the more beautiful. It had been a long time since Mireille had seen such a lovely and heart-warming sight adorn her partner's cute visage, and the blonde felt her own smile unconsciously grow in tandem. 

 

 Kirika's expression then became anxious all of a sudden, her smile gone--and its appearance entirely too brief in Mireille's opinion--before she scooted even closer to the blonde if that were possible, her lithe body squeezing snugly up against the woman's side, with her face scant inches from the Corsican's own. The darkhaired girl's expressive eyes went to Mireille's scratched and partially obscured left cheek resting on the pillow for a couple of seconds, before returning to her partner's gaze. Her lips parted slightly but then closed again, as though she wished to say something but couldn't quite find the words. Nevertheless, Mireille didn't need Kirika's words to know what was dancing earnestly on the tip of her tongue and laying heavy on her mind. 

 

 "I told you before; I'm fine," Mireille patiently placated her visibly concerned partner, placing one hand--with only an instant's hesitation--reassuringly on Kirika's lean forearm arranged atop her stomach. "It's nothing." 

 

 "Mmm," Kirika mumbled, nodding, but not sounding nor looking very convinced. 

 

 Mireille held back a longsuffering sigh. For as long as she could recall Kirika had always been remarkably protective of her, insistently following her around wherever she went regardless of the time of day or where precisely she was going like a little lost puppy… or perhaps more accurately, an extremely loyal guard dog. Once, the girl had practically slain the entire ranks of a Taiwanese criminal syndicate in open combat simply to liberate Mireille from their clutches sheer minutes after the woman's capture--the level of her devotion was immense to say the least. The only cases when Mireille had successfully managed to persuade Kirika to part from her side and remain behind was when she had been able to provide the faithful girl with a compelling argument that declared it would be in the Corsican's benefit if she complied. However, if Mireille were proceeding into danger, then any rationale or even outright demand for her younger partner to stay behind would fall on deaf ears. Mireille's seeming influence over Kirika counted for naught when her personal security was involved--a truth that had exasperated the blonde assassin on a number of occasions. 

 

 And now with Mireille being injured, despite that injury consisting of merely a few superficial cuts, she could expect her partner to be even doubly more protective of her. She doubted whether Kirika would so much as let her leave her sight when outside of the apartment before the wounds healed. The sooner Mireille masked the lacerations on her cheek with make-up the better; she didn't want the girl constantly fussing over her--it would get tiresome quickly… and she didn't like it when Kirika worried. Still… it certainly was nice to have someone fret about her. 

 

 "What about you?" Mireille countered, her reflective thoughts reminding her of another, momentous, instance when Kirika had exhibited her profound loyalty--her profound love--for her. "Your wound…" she elaborated quietly, in part to take the softhearted girl's mind off of her injury, and in another out of genuine concern. Mireille hadn't inquired about Kirika's health in quite a long while, her daily physical checks forgone in the face of the recurrence of Soldats in their lives, presuming that since she wasn't complaining--as if Kirika would complain! Another fool excuse!--or clearly hurting, that she had recovered fully from her old gunshot wound. It was yet further mistreatment by Mireille. 

 

 "Mmm," Kirika said in the negative, shaking her head where it lay on the pillow next to Mireille's, "it's okay, now."

 

 "Let me see it anyway," Mireille kindly persisted, smiling encouragingly. 

 

 Kirika emitted a second peep, this one of happy obedience, and then pushed down the bedcovers from her body and raised the hem of her vest, revealing the left side of her skinny abdomen to her older partner's attentive eyes. 

 

 Mireille saw that Kirika's wound appeared roughly the same as she remembered the last time she had studied it, merely a faded scar less than an inch long, barely noticeable unless the observer knew where to look. She examined it carefully for several moments--pointedly ignoring the unpleasant clenching around her heart at the sight of the souvenir Kirika had picked up by skirting so close to death for her sake--while speculating how to broach another subject she needed to quiz the reticent girl on, one connected to the permanent scar blemishing her partner's body; a trademark of their profession and the risks that came with it. 

 

 Eventually, following a short period of silence and a subsequent resigned sigh from the woman, Mireille voiced her unease, but consciously kept any sign of it from her tone. "Are you sure you're up to… this?" she said softly but seriously, gazing levelly into Kirika's eyes. Mireille still wasn't totally certain what the stimulus behind Kirika bursting into tears the previous night had been, but like the reasons for her partner freezing up in the subway station before it, she was fairly confident it was related to killing those men in the Metro. Looking back, her insensitive remark praising the girl's grisly performance probably hadn't helped matters either; instead of bolstering Kirika's spirits, it had in all likelihood amplified her sorrow. 

 

 As a result of Kirika's disconcerting behaviour last night and of her past misgivings that now plainly could not be offhandedly dismissed as something she would 'get over' in time as Mireille had foolishly duped herself into believing, the Corsican assassin had to be absolutely positive her partner was up to handling the adversities ahead. If Kirika were to crack again at a crucial instant, for example during one similar to the prior situation in the Metro, then there was a high probability that she would be killed. It had been pure luck the girl had snapped out of her stupor in time to prevent a tragedy, but the outcome of the next incident might be utterly--and terribly--different. Mireille would *not* lead Kirika to an early grave; if her feelings towards murder were unstable, then the woman had to know immediately… even if her concern was somewhat belated, she regretfully admitted. Mireille was not willing to gamble with Kirika's life; she would face the false Noir and whatever cronies they enlisted to assist them solo if she had to, her partner's reservations to her launching herself into danger unaccompanied be damned. 

 

 To Mireille's mild surprise, Kirika nodded her head firmly, and for a second the woman thought she had glimpsed something smoulder deep in the brown depths of her eyes, with a glimmer of something hard in the core beneath, like cold steel glinting in sunlight. But it was gone before she knew it, Kirika's meek look restored as if it had never left in the first place. Curiously, for some reason that simple gesture was enough to convince Mireille of her partner's readiness however, eliciting a smile from the blonde, albeit one tinged with a hint of sadness at the introverted girl's choice. 

 

 "Alright," she acquiesced just as straightforwardly and in the same soft voice she had adopted beforehand, holding her steady gaze with Kirika for a couple of extra moments. 

 

 Mireille then broke the stare and rolled away from Kirika onto her right side, before she sat up and climbed out of bed, leaving the girl's heartfelt embrace. There were many vital tasks for her--for *them*--to do today. Mireille and Kirika at long last had a sufficient lead on Ryosuke and Vincent, or at least one worth investigating. The Corsican was aware of who Millet--Richard Millet--was; it would be rather remiss of her to not be informed on the generally noteworthy people in the underworld of her own home city. But Millet was a reasonably small-time gang boss dabbling in prostitution and some paltry drug dealing, not a big name at all in Paris' criminal circles. Why the fake Noir had procured his and his trivial syndicate's aid was puzzling. Was it for relative anonymity? Or was it perhaps to obtain fodder to dispatch against a powerful rival-- 'Noir'--for an unknown purpose? And more importantly, not to mention also a little disturbingly, how had the group anticipated that Mireille and Kirika would be walking down that specific street last night out of all the other streets in Paris? To say the odds were slim was an understatement.

 

 Whatever the basis for Ryosuke and Vincent's seemingly ill-advised hiring decision, along with the means Millet's men had used to track Mireille and Kirika down, the drafted crime boss and his apparent base of operations, 'Slick Chicks', would have to be looked into. Of course, there was always the prospect that the gangster Mireille had interrogated had lied through his teeth--the woman had known of some individuals who could blather elaborate and compelling falsehoods realistically even when staring the Reaper squarely in the face. But she and Kirika had no choice in how to proceed in spite of this possibility; the goon's testimony was all they had to go on. 

 

 However, finding answers to her questions together with researching the new enemy could wait. Mireille turned her head to look over her shoulder, back to where Kirika lay on her side, unmoved from her position in the bed. "You know, I haven't eaten a decent breakfast since the last one you prepared for me," she said playfully, while favouring the expressionless girl with a wide, impish smile. "What do you say about having a full course one this morning?" Mireille turned around fully, tilting her head teasingly to one side. "You can help me, too, if you wish…"she added enticingly, knowing that Kirika wouldn't be happy otherwise. 

 

 For the time being, all tasks associated with Ryosuke and Vincent and their 'friends' didn't matter; Kirika's needs and desires were paramount. Mireille had neglected her appallingly in the name of the new threat opposing them, but no longer would the girl play second fiddle to *anything*--nothing was more important than her, the young woman Mireille loved. Nevertheless, the blonde had a considerable amount of making up to do, and what better time to start than this perfect, fresh and sunny morning. 

 

 ******

 

 "Hm. You have your instructions. Keep me informed." Breffort pressed the button to end the secure call on his mobile phone, and then resumed gazing out his office window overlooking the city. The location of his Paris-based office provided a panoramic vision of the magnificent capitol of France, which looked especially magnificent at present, its streets and buildings both antiquated and modern enveloped in the soft early morning sunlight. But as he had anticipated, this dawn's illumination had revealed much more than just a historic metropolis.

 

 Breffort replaced his mobile phone in the inside pocket of his charcoal suit jacket, and then allowed himself a quiet sigh--one of mild, yet sincere, relief. It had been a fortunate occurrence when Ishinomori and Hsu had walked into the workplace of local felon Richard Millet and appointed his organisation's services… although if truth were told the Soldats official had no clue why the two consummate assassins had even bothered to procure outsider assistance from such a small and quite insignificant syndicate. But the 'why' didn't honestly matter… even if it did cast further intrigue upon the two men's still unexplained motivation for being here in Paris. 

 

 Ishinomori and Hsu's decision to utilise hired guns had imparted a valuable opportunity for Breffort to test whether Bouquet and her partner were still worthy of being labelled with the title of Noir. To that end, the Soldats member had gifted one of his operatives--who had wormed his way deep into Millet's midst and had been remaining undercover there for some time, like countless other such agents who Breffort had inserted into every even vaguely prominent organised group in the city, both big and small alike--with choice information, among which included the precise whereabouts of Bouquet and her partner during their excursion last night. As instructed, Breffort's agent had passed on that knowledge to Millet's would-be hitmen, but if the five corpses of known mobsters that had cropped up in the light of this morning's sunrise were any indication, it had done them very little good. Not that Breffort minded--the slaying of Millet's men symbolised that Noir yet had some talent, which had been the genuine and sole purpose for the ill-fated group of gangsters, a purpose they had unknowingly sacrificed their lives to fulfil. 

 

 However, disposing of five assailants simultaneously was a simple task for an above average assassin, and more so for a pair of them. Noir's ordeal the previous night had merely been the opening challenge of their examination, and one that Breffort had been almost totally certain they would survive. No, the real test would come later. With the deaths of the men, Bouquet and her partner now had the scent of a larger pack of foes--Millet and his organisation. There was still his entire group left for the duo to contend with… which they would do so willingly. Breffort knew Mireille Bouquet; she was not the type to simply take things lying down. She would do her utmost to discover who had been responsible for the attack last night, and then unleash terrible vengeance upon them. Yes, she could be such a vengeful young woman… a trait Breffort could and would use to his advantage. Bouquet would definitely take her partner and retaliate against Millet--it was only a matter of when. Completely destroying a criminal syndicate single-handedly would be the true test of Noir's skills and whether they had dulled or not. But Breffort was confident they would pass the trial with flying colours. He did not fear for their safety. Nor would he miss the activities of a minor resident crime group after it had been wiped out; it was just one of many in a city--in a world--full of darkness.

 

 While a sizeable conflict would likely be taking place in the city in the next couple of days--a conflict orchestrated to be sizeable by him--Breffort sincerely doubted that the real battle would be waged here in Paris. Even if Noir managed to assassinate Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu, the amputation of Kaede Ishinomori's Black Hands would not put an end to the crisis. In spite of their capabilities, Ryosuke Ishinomori and Vincent Hsu were still but two individuals, simply a tiny--if resilient--scale on a much larger serpent… although more or less the same could be said about Noir. In a way, Breffort hoped that Bouquet and her partner would fall short of killing the pair here in the capitol; it would give him an excuse to send them overseas to the source of Soldats'… troubles. And there, Noir could be further used to his liking, invisibly collared with him surreptitiously holding their leash. In the long run, it would be better if Noir failed. Breffort *needed* them. 

 

 Nevertheless, he had to be very careful. Breffort had been keeping Noir under his surveillance long before he had ever recontacted them, but if Bouquet ever learned of his past or present scrutiny, it could pose an irritating problem. There would be little she could do if she did learn, however, besides being angered and killing his compromised watchers. Operatives could be easily replaced, and Breffort was aware that he was her only major ally outside of her partner, albeit a 'covert' one--she would not cut him off so rashly. Still, it would be irksome for Bouquet to know for an absolute fact that she and her partner were being observed; it could undermine his goals… and that had the potential to be catastrophic. 

 

 But the risk of Noir becoming wise to Breffort's attentive eyes was slim, and the Soldats member was not about to cease the activity even in the regrettable event they did find out--he had staked a great deal on those two young women alone; it would be sheer idiocy not to monitor their actions. Moreover, while Bouquet was a formidable woman of vast aptitude and intellect, he doubted she would be able to ferret out all of his spies, even if she did catch one of them. Breffort's agents were everywhere… and closer than Mireille Bouquet in all likelihood suspected. Even in the most obscure of places did Soldats see…. 

 

 ******

 

 Jacques Rousseau snapped shut his mobile phone and shoved the petite device back into his dark blue pants pocket, before taking several nervous puffs on the lit cigarette between his lips. He sighed and looked towards the cloudless morning sky above, peering at the blue heavens through his black, square sunglasses, as if beseeching them for divine aid. Things were about to get very interesting… he just hoped he would live though those particular 'things'. If he did--which he fervently prayed--he could at least look forward to being reassigned elsewhere. While it would be a welcome change, Jacques was still somewhat sad about that. He had spent more than two years of his life with Millet and his group; it was only natural to be a little attached to them. Furthermore, working out of a strip club did have its benefits; benefits he enjoyed on a regular basis. But Jacques also enjoyed continuing to breathe, and weighed against that, loyalty to a gang he had infiltrated counted for squat. Besides, his loyalty was already owned by another, superior group. 

 

 Suddenly, Jacques heard the rear alleyway entrance of Slick Chicks burst open, followed by a frantic shout. 

 

 "Rousseau!" Molyneaux yelled as he ran past rusty dumpsters and battered trashcans overflowing with damp, putrid garbage towards Jacques turned back, his rapid footfalls echoing off the alleyway's graffiti-defaced walls. "Did you hear?! Marceau and the others are dead; I shit you not! They were found a couple of hours ago in a subway entrance all full of holes! Cops are all over it, but Berlot confirmed it was them! Man, I can't believe this!" 

 

 Jacques plucked his cigarette from his mouth and dropped it to the ground, grinding it out beneath the sole of his shoe. "I already know…." he whispered under his breath, his hand touching the bulge of his mobile phone inside his pants' left pocket.

 

 "Hey, are you listening to me?! I said the men you sent are *dead!*" Molyneaux continued to howl, finally spurring Jacques into action. For the moment at least, the Soldats agent was still a part of Millet's syndicate. And he had a job to do… but not for Millet.

 

 "What are you doing just whining at me for?!" Jacques yelled as he whirled around to face Molyneaux's anxious countenance. "Has Mr. Millet been told yet? No? Then go do it, you moron!" 

 

 Jacques walked briskly to the back entrance of Slick Chicks barking additional orders at Molyneaux's as the fool scrambled madly ahead of him, stumbling in his reckless haste a few times and nearly planting his face into the litter-strewn pavement. Noir… they would be coming soon, possibly even as early as tonight. He had to prepare for their arrival--for what good it would do!--as per Breffort's orders. Breffort had warned him to expect them, and when a Soldats official of his ranking warned you, it was best to stand up and take notice. And with Noir being the anticipated 'guests', too…. Dear god. The legendary pair of assassins were coming *here*. It hadn't completely sunk in yet; it had been more than a week but Jacques was still wrapping his mind around the reality that the prestigious Noir was made up of only two young women, for god's sake! But if even a fraction of the rumours about the Eternal Darkness were true, then Jacques was beginning to seriously question his chances of surviving their advent, even with a whole syndicate behind him. 

 

 ****** 

 

 Kirika was standing with her back resting against the black wall separating the apartment's living room from the bedroom, her legs crossed at the ankles, simply gazing at Mireille as the woman studied her computer screen intently, engaged with investigating the validity of the information Millet's grilled man had bestowed upon them last night. Her normally subdued brown eyes virtually sparkled as she watched her partner at work, pushing the PC's mouse around on top of the billiard table with her right hand, while holding a cup full of tea that the girl had gladly made for her in her left. Soft, golden light from the morning sun streamed in through the apartment's row of windows, bathing Mireille where she sat in its warm and pure illumination. The sunlight caused her long flaxen tresses to shine even more radiantly, while the flawless fair skin exposed by her tight-fitting black crop top and low hip-hugging white pants appeared to attain further highs of splendour. The raw, angry red cuts had disappeared from her cheek, coated with cosmetics Kirika knew, but at present, she thought that perhaps the light had cleansed the blonde of all her ills, leaving behind a perfect being to grace this world. 

 

 Mireille crossed her legs and brought the cup in her hand to her lips, taking a brief sip of tea, her eyes remaining affixed to the computer's monitor. But as if the taste reminded her of who had prepared it, she then looked away from the screen to where Kirika was standing to her left, the woman's full lips curling into a fond smile directed squarely at her partner. It was a small and gentle smile, but one of genuine affection, and to the love-starved girl, it meant a lot--she felt her own lips form a faint smile in answer. Moreover, it enhanced the wondrous vision before Kirika's eyes tenfold. A gently glowing nimbus of sunlight outlined Mireille's form at her turn, glimmering predominantly around her blonde locks, while further light caused her blue eyes to glitter brilliantly. Along with her stunning smile, the picture she painted was beyond all doubt… beautiful. Never before had Kirika so completely understood the meaning of beauty. But this was far removed from mere physical beauty; it transcended it onto another plane entirely. While Mireille was gorgeous in a simple bodily sense, the beauty that shone through to Kirika was also from her very spirit, her very heart. The woman was beautiful to her core, marvellous on the inside as well as out. Mireille really was a beautiful person, but one who possessed beauty in its every shape and form. Maybe Kirika's prior imaginings about a perfect being had a ring of truth to them after all. Only an angel could ever hope to even match her partner's loveliness. An angel… yes, the divine scene blessing her eyes reminded the girl of pictures of angels she had seen in books. While Mireille may have been lacking those other angels' white feathery wings, she was no less akin to their celestial flock. Kirika felt privileged merely being in her presence, permitted to bask in her heavenly majesty. 

 

 Mireille put her cup down on the billiard table and returned her attention to the computer, but her fleeting look had imparted a lasting impression on her partner. Kirika felt the exhilarating sensation fill her chest similar to last night; her unseen wound now an odd source of giddy euphoria that she never tired of experiencing. Gazing upon Mireille seemed to promote that feeling inside of her, although to varying quantities. It was a welcome change to the agony that had seared inside her ever-tightening chest, until she thought she would collapse from the pain, for days before. She hadn't felt this… content… this happy, since returning from the Manor with Mireille to Paris. 

 

 Kirika was aware that part of her content was due to her newfound--or rather, newly reintroduced--lone purpose in life. She would be a steadfast defender to the breathtaking wingless angel she had fallen in love with. Odette Bouquet was dead by Kirika's hands; there was nothing the girl could do for her or any of her departed family but to honour her last, dying, wish and dedicate herself for the rest of her days to the woman's only surviving child. Furthermore, she owed it to Mireille for taking her parents' and brother's lives and causing her such torment. Perhaps that was why the blonde had lost her wings; her sinful craving for vengeance as a direct consequence of Kirika's misdeed had consumed them. 

 

 Kirika's head lowered to the floor, where the sunbeams spilling through the windows stopped before reaching her feet, leaving her swallowed in shadow. Her smile receded and the elation in her chest drained away, until only hollowness remained. Murdering Mireille's family and causing her love such anguish was the girl's greatest sin, the blackest, the one that stood out amongst all the others on her lengthy list of crimes. Maybe so devoting herself towards Odette Bouquet's final request was a form of atonement on Kirika's part, but if that were the case, it was an atonement she knew would never come to fruition. Nevertheless, it was an atonement she would spend the rest of her life trying to achieve despite possessing no illusions of having any chance of success. Repentance would always be out of her reach for all of her sins… as it should be. Kirika was a sinner, and would remain as such until her death and beyond. 

 

 However, in spite of her willingness to fight and kill for Mireille's sake, in spite of her understanding that she was a sinner unworthy of forgiveness, Kirika still clung to her hope, still clung to her dream not seen through. She'd had a taste of that dream following her return to Paris before the emergence of the false Noir, but merely the barest one, just enough to recognise that its soothing flavour was something she yearned for like nothing else. Kirika aspired to one day have that tranquil life spent with Mireille again, one where the memories of her crimes could dim somewhat, granting her inner peace. A life where her worries consisted of what to make Mireille for dinner, and not whether the woman would even survive the night. Kirika would keep pursing that peaceful tomorrow, that tomorrow just visible and no more on the horizon of today. 

 

 After all, even a sinner could dream. 

 

 ******

 

 To be continued….

 

 

 Author's ramblings:

 

 Okay, so this chapter was sort of shorter than usual and not that much happen. Oh well. I had to do some plot preparations for the big run of action coming up ahead, and also write about Mireille and Kirika's new frames of mind. Remember, it's not like I conclude a chapter when it gets too lengthy, but rather when I've written what I have to (and on occasion that can become *very* lengthy!). ^_^

 

 I considered having Breffort refer to himself by his first name during his part, but I decided against it. It just wouldn't have felt right.