Red And Black - By Kirika

 

 k_yuumura@hotmail.com

 ******

 

 The sixth chapter. 

 

 - Kirika

 

 ******

 

 Chapter 6 - Allies and Adversaries 

 

 

 Mireille stepped up to the cashier's counter inside Simon Pierpont's decrepit back alley computer store façade, her and Kirika's first stop on a long list for today, and crooked a single blonde eyebrow at the jittery and scruffy boy behind it; 'Ezza' his name was, if she remembered correctly from her last visit. Why was it hackers, whether they were merely feeble aspiring ones or genuinely accomplished masters, had to have such bizarre--and more often than not, inane--aliases? If it even *was* an alias--Mireille wasn't sure which possibility she found more pathetic. It must have been an image thing. Certainly, assassins were known to engage in similar habits also, donning titles carefully chosen to instil both fear and awe in all those who heard it. It was good for business, in mutual respects to garnering clients and intimidating targets. Who didn't quake in terror if they discovered that Noir was seeking their heads, after all? Mireille herself was not much for titles; she preferred to have people's faith put in her skills rather than how imaginative her adopted pseudonym was, but she had to admit utilising one that carried great prestige did tend to come in handy sometimes. Of course conversely, it was apt to also attract unwarranted trouble that could have otherwise been avoided… as in the case of Ryosuke and Vincent, if the men were indeed aware of the Corsican and her Japanese counterpart's old identity. 

 

 Ezza, to his credit, did not waste any time on idle chatter, apparently understanding by the blonde's terse gesture that she and Kirika were here in the dusty shop to see his friend, Simon--or 'Phayzed', as was his asinine alias--and nothing more. Instead he smiled tremulously at Mireille and then with an abrupt turn scrambled to open the door behind him that led to the building's basement, fumbling for several moments with the rusty brass knob. Mireille was glad Ezza had not tried to spark up a conversation with her. This morning she was definitely not in the mood for civilities… although in truth she hadn't really been for the last couple of days. 

 

 Mireille was a little surprised when Ezza opted to escort her and Kirika down the rickety steps into Simon's computer den, leading the gloomy way ahead of the pair while occasionally sparing the blonde a nervous glance over his shoulder, but the woman didn't dwell on it. She was aware that she sometimes had that affect on people. It could be somewhat irritating--Simon's obnoxious behaviour came to mind--but being endowed with pleasant looks did have its uses from time to time. Guards--most notably male guards--typically were susceptible to feminine charms, and doubly so if they belonged to a pretty face, a weakness that Mireille had taken advantage of all too often. Her attractive exterior had loosened tight lips and dulled sharp senses many times before in the past, allowing her to perform hits with added ease. Mireille considered her beauty simply another tool of her trade, a valuable and effective one. Although, the Corsican had to confess, she did take a smidgen of pride in her appearance. A woman did have to look her best. 

 

 When the trio arrived at the bottom of the stairs, they were greeted by the predictable sight of Simon sitting in front of his multitude of computer monitors, gazing avidly at the screens at the same time he typed madly away at one of his myriad of keyboards. Mireille wondered if the boy ever managed to tear himself away from his computers and venture out from his basement hideaway into the light of day. Probably not very often, if the grimy mattresses and blankets stacked in one corner of the dim-lighted room, along with a less-than-pristine looking refrigerator positioned in another, were any indications. And Simon did have a rather pasty complexion, if one looked past the red pimples dotted liberally on his face. By all accounts, it seemed as if the boy lived here in the damp and dark basement below the computer store. On more than one occasion during her visits Mireille had mused on where his parents were and how he had come to occupy and possibly even own a building, even if it was more or less part of a slum… and the poorer part at that. Perhaps he was merely squatting. In reality it didn't really matter to the woman, however. Her deliberations were simply casual ones--she didn't possess much care or interest for the hacker and his life beyond that one generally held for a useful business associate. Simon was a resource that Mireille every so often tapped, and that was all. He was not her friend. 

 

 Mireille saw through the murk of the room that Simon wore a silver set of headphones over his ears--their speakers no doubt pumping some sort of dance beat at a deafening volume against his eardrums--and, as per usual, was dressed untidily in a shabby pair of blue jeans and faded t-shirt, the logo printed on the back of the latter garment having deteriorated to such a degree that only a washed-out and warped red rectangle was recognisable. As a result of the distracting mixture of listening to music via headphones and seemingly being entirely spellbound by the numerous glowing screens before him, the teen did not turn around at her, Kirika and their guide's appearance. That boy really should be more attentive to his surroundings. If Mireille and Kirika had been here to execute Simon rather than talk to him instead, he wouldn't have stood a chance… not that he would have even if he had been alerted, naturally. 

 

 Ezza quickly scurried over to his oblivious friend and prodded him in the back with a finger, causing Simon to emit a startled yelp and jerk upright in his seat. The self-proclaimed expert hacker pulled off his headphones and let them dangle around his neck as he swivelled around in his seat, the tinny, distant rhythm of manic music able to be heard spilling out from the two uncovered speakers. Simon's expression was that of surprise and some embarrassment, but when he realised just who was standing in the basement with him it quickly transformed into one of anxiety, and then a fraction of a second later--to Mireille's vexation--to a countenance that contained more than little a glimmer of lewd intent. Mireille could already tell that this meeting was going to be a tedious lesson in patience and self-control. But the Corsican was confident she was up to the challenge. She had to be if she wanted Simon's much needed assistance.

 

 "Mireille! You're back!" Simon exclaimed in jubilation, grinning merrily… if a bit lecherously. "And you've brought your cute pal along again too!" he added as his eyes settled on Kirika, also favouring the girl with his broad smile. He then returned his unwelcome attention to Mireille, flicking his eyebrows at her in a suggestive fashion. "Can't get enough of me, huh?"

 

 Mireille ignored Simon's greeting and grating remark and instead reached into her handbag and retrieved a rolled up bundle of Euros from its depths, before unceremoniously tossing the cash in the boy's direction. "Your payment for last time," she said simply as the collection of bills bounced off Simon's chest, causing the boy to hurriedly struggle to catch them, juggling the roll in his hands for a number of seconds until he succeeded in maintaining a firm grip on them.

 

 "Mmm, Mireille bearing money; is there any better combo in the world?" Simon commented as he flipped through the bundle of notes, counting them carefully. Abruptly, he stopped and looked up from the cash to Ezza, who seemed to be trying to blend into the darkness of the basement and stay unnoticed--and not doing a very good job of it, either. "What the hell are you still doing down here?" the hacker demanded callously, frowning at his 'friend'. "Get your ass back upstairs and watch the store! There might be shit-all up there, but damn it, what *is* up there is *my* shit! I don't want anybody swiping it!" Simon commanded in a harsh tone, thrusting a pointed finger at the flight of stairs leading to the ground floor. Mireille surmised that he didn't like anybody other than himself gawking at her. How petty.

 

 Ezza hesitated for a moment, appearing caught somewhere between being crestfallen and humiliated, but eventually succumbed to the inevitable and after a parting disappointed look at Mireille, headed for the stairs and plodded back up them with slumped shoulders and a lowered gaze. 

 

 "It's so hard to find good help, you know?" Simon sighed as he watched a dejected Ezza leave. "Ever since Francois left to go to college about a month ago I've been stuck with that loser. All he does all day is read comics! And lately he's been bugging the hell outta me about *you*, Mireille! He's always wanting to know who that 'hot debutante type' was who came by the other day. Damn idiot usually kept his mouth shut and his nose in a comic most of the time, but now--! To think I wished that he would talk more often, geez!" He sighed again and then returned his gaze to Mireille and Kirika, most particularly to the latter. "Say, where would I find someone like her to help me out?" he asked, motioning with a tilt of his head to Kirika. "I think I'd like staring at a pretty face all day instead of Ezza's ugly mug if I had the choice" He gave Kirika an expectant half-smile and leaned forward slightly in his seat, doubtless waiting for a response, but the darkhaired girl merely looked at the lecher's mottled face blankly. "But I guess she doesn't talk much either," Simon said dryly, flopping back into his chair again. "Does she even speak French?!"

 

 "I have another task for you," Mireille said grimly, not wanting to become bogged down in another one of Simon's childish little banter sessions teeming with uncouth innuendos. And with the mood she was in right now, it would most likely be hazardous to his health. "The two men I had you search for before; I need to find them again."

 

 "What?" Simon whined, his curiosity in Kirika vanishing. "Why? Didn't I do a kickass job?"

 

 "The 'why' is not your concern. Just do the deed I have asked of you," Mireille stated coldly. 

 

 "Okay, if that's what you want," Simon said evenly, abandoning his perverted inclinations in the face of the assassin's frosty temper… or at least frostier than usual temper. "But it ain't gonna be free, you know…." 

 

 "I didn't expect it to be. You'll find an additional one hundred Euros in the payment I've just imparted to you… and which you incidentally failed to mention," Mireille said, a slight edge manifesting in her voice with her last words. Simon merely smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of his head, just below where his hair was dyed a discoloured green. "And the same bonus as before applies." Mireille paused for a second, delivering a level glare at Simon, who squirmed in his seat and sensibly didn't protest about the payment's sum… although the assassin wouldn't be shocked if he did at a later date. "I need to find these people *immediately*," the blonde woman continued sternly. "Moreover, there is considerable likelihood that the men will be trying to keep a low profile. You may find it difficult to track them down a second time."

 

 Simon smirked confidently, relaxing back in his padded leather chair and placing his hands behind his head. "I wouldn't worry about that," he said self-assuredly. "Computer networks aren't the only form of network I can easily get access to…."

 

 Mireille arched a questioning eyebrow, prompting the hacker to elaborate. She was positive that he would--she knew he would not pass up the opportunity to tout his own capabilities. 

 

 "I know a bunch of dudes who, shall we say, stumble upon useful stuff now and then," Simon explained proudly. "I use 'em sometimes when networking methods fail--although that doesn't happen a lot, what with *my* brilliant skills. But it's a precaution; I don't want to let down my customers and lose the hard earned rep I've gained, you know? It took bloody ages to get to the position I'm in today." 

 

 "By whatever means; utilise your informants if you deem them necessary. Contact me in the standard manner if you find the people I'm looking for," Mireille ordered, before turning around swiftly to depart, with Kirika obediently following suit. 

 

 "'If' I find them?" Simon parroted to Mireille's retreating back. "Oh, have a little faith! I'll find your two playboys in a flash, I bet! Once, twice, three times--it doesn't matter! I can find anybody in this city, *anybody!* No one can hide from my--"

 

 Mireille tuned out the rest of Simon's egotistical self-accolades as she climbed the basement stairs back to street level. The gangly perverted sociopath wasn't the only person she and Kirika had to rely on to find Ryosuke and Vincent… mercifully. The Corsican had many, many founts of information scattered all across Paris, some more reliable than others, but all were competent snitches and rumourmongers. They had proven worthwhile in the past, like when Mireille had sought answers to the car bombing earlier in the week, to name one example. Perhaps they would again… or so she hoped. The false Noir would have already fled Le Grand Hotel Inter-Continental by now--the blonde didn't think they would be *that* arrogant not to do so. Locating them again would be… trying, to say the least. 

 

 Of course, there was also the possibility that Mireille and Kirika weren't the only ones doing the hunting. Ryosuke and Vincent could be hunting *them* at this very same instant. Even the Corsican and her partner's apartment may no longer be the safe haven it currently was in the near future. Soldats--until the final trials at any rate--had permitted them the luxury of a sanctuary in the form of the apartment, but these new foes would not have such qualms. There would be no sure refuge from the conflicts ahead. 

 

 That is, if Ryosuke and Vincent truly were after Noir. It would help if Mireille knew the rationale behind the pair's coming to Paris; right now she was completely in the dark. Breffort supposedly knew nothing also, or if he did, he was not sharing. But Mireille was not foolish enough to depend solely on Soldats support, obviously. Maybe her sources would learn of Ryosuke and Vincent's motives for entering her and her counterpart's stomping grounds too. It was a very slim prospect, however. 

 

 Nevertheless, Mireille had to find out, even if she had to deduce the reasons herself. It would give her and Kirika an advantage, gifting them with insight on their adversaries' potential movements. Besides… she couldn't quell the disquieting feeling that Ryosuke and Vincent's mystery motivations would have a further impact on their already damaged lives, beyond forcing them back onto the black path… an even more harmful one. 

 

 But as Mireille looked discreetly over her shoulder at Kirika's downcast face, she wondered if that were truly possible. 

 

 ******

 

 The dying rays of daylight could be seen through the unshuttered windows of the apartment as Kirika walked into the living room a step behind Mireille, the lingering sunbeams outlining the tops of the buildings on the horizon in a soft amber glow. Kirika had been roaming around the city for the better part of the day with her partner, convening with all kinds of people the blonde seemingly was familiar with--some of which who had made the girl somewhat edgy. They had spent a considerable amount of the daylight hours in the shadier areas of Paris; the rundown parts where Kirika knew she had to be continually on her guard--or at least more so in respects to the other parts of the capitol--lest she and Mireille find themselves in a bad situation. The majority of Mireille's contacts had turned out to be not the most upstanding of citizens. Kirika sometimes wondered how somebody like her sophisticated partner had become acquainted with such corrupt characters.

 

 Despite their resolute efforts to ascertain their adversaries' new place of residence, Kirika and Mireille had discovered nothing bar unsubstantiated hearsay, none of which that was worth investigating. However, the day's labours had not been a total waste; at the very least they had planted seeds in Mireille's associates, seeds that could grow into orchards bearing valuable fruits of information in the future. The woman's contacts were now aware that she and Kirika were looking for two Asian hitmen who had recently come to Paris, and henceforth would be on the lookout for individuals matching the descriptions they had been provided with. Kirika was confident that she and Mireille would find Ryosuke and Vincent within the week… although she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that. 

 

 Mireille strode purposefully towards the computer sitting on the billiard table immediately after she entered room, as though she had blinders on. The enthusiastic sight froze Kirika in her tracks, the drowsy girl having been making her way for the bedroom. However, she really shouldn't have expected anything different--Mireille appeared to be throwing herself whole-heartedly into their new crisis, after all. She probably wanted to check her email for any updates on the search for their enemies--she was very committed to her profession. Yes, Kirika should not have been surprised… but it didn't make her partner's action any less dispiriting. They hadn't even eaten dinner yet, not that the introverted girl felt she could stomach any meal. Her appetite seemed to have forsaken her lately. 

 

 Kirika eyelids sank a little, but it had nothing to do with her fatigue. She exhaled softly, and then resumed her walk to the bedroom, before climbing up the short series of steps into the room. She quickly shed her parka, laying it out gingerly on the sofa nearby the bed, glad to be rid of it… along with its hidden and deadly cargo. Another day had passed without Kirika having to fire her gun at a living being, for which she was exceedingly thankful. For at least this night, barring unforseen incidents, she could maintain her pacifism… and maintain her dominance over the darkness. 

 

 Kirika released another slow and quiet breath, this one of obvious relief, as if a great weight had been lifted from her slim shoulders. Although, if truth be told, one had been. 

 

 Kirika walked back to the bedroom's steps, parking herself tiredly on the centre one with her back to the wall. "Yoisho," she intoned reflexively as she sat, a habit of hers. 

 

 Her eyes unconsciously moved to include Mireille in her vision seated in front of the computer, the blonde navigating its mouse in her right hand on the green felt surface of the billiard table and occasionally clicking it, the noise breaking the otherwise silent atmosphere of the apartment. Mireille was evidently undisturbed by Kirika's earlier soft emittance, staring at her computer's monitor intently, a slight frown creasing her brow, while her mouth was drawn into a thin line. It was an expression Kirika had observed countless times--one of a dedicated contract killer digesting new intelligence on a target. Mireille must be in her element. Kirika should feel happy for her. 

 

 Kirika dropped her gaze to the floor and drew her knees to her chest, enfolding her arms around them, hugging herself into a ball. The gap was widening between herself and Mireille; it was clear as glass to the darkhaired girl. And the worst thing was, Kirika didn't know what to do to stop it. 

 

 She had thought that after the events at the Manor things would be different between her and Mireille, and certainly, they had been… at least for a time. But now it seemed as if those welcome, pleasant changes that had occurred were in reality only temporary ones. The upheaval regarding Ryosuke and Vincent was only the first obstacle their new relationship had encountered, but already the pleasing changes were decaying away because of it, regressing everything back to the stage they had been in beforehand. Back to a less favourable stage, one of apathy and detachment. Kirika had believed her relationship with Mireille was stronger than that. Maybe she had been mistaken. Maybe she had been mistaken about a lot of things. Maybe….

 

 Or it could be that this was what a romantic relationship was like. But while Kirika had no experience in love, she was reasonably certain it wasn't supposed to be this way. She had seen other couples interact with each other when she had ventured out of the apartment with Mireille; they smiled and laughed together, and touched one other, embraced one other. They *talked* to one another. Kirika didn't do any of those things with Mireille, and even in the past, she hadn't really done so either, not to the extent other people did at any rate. Was her relationship with her partner somehow different than other people's? It was a possibility; one the girl had deliberated on before.

 

 Almost ever since her love for her partner had been revealed, Kirika had tried to educate herself a little on affairs of the heart by studying some of the magazines that appeared to deal with the subject Mireille frequently read during her spare time, but none of them had provided the help the quiet girl sought. For some reason the publications only wrote on relationships between women and men, and Kirika hadn't been sure whether or not what was penned applied to her apparently diverse situation. She had also wondered why she couldn't find anything on partnerships involving two females. It had been frustrating and confusing. It still was. She really should have addressed her questions to Mireille; the worldly woman would know of such matters. Perhaps things wouldn't have degenerated between Kirika and her partner if the girl had been wiser to how love worked. 

 

 Or maybe… or maybe it was *her*. Maybe there was something wrong with Kirika herself. Could it be that Mireille was progressively falling out of love with her? It was a horrible, gut-wrenching notion, but one Kirika couldn't ignore, no matter how much she wanted to. After all, their relationship was relapsing to its former state. Maybe Kirika's lack of knowledge on the topic of love was the cause. She could be doing something incorrectly--or not doing something she was meant to be doing--that was making Mireille pull away from her. Or, in the absolute worst case, the woman simply might not feel the same way about Kirika anymore. If that were correct, then there was nothing the introverted girl could do to repair the damage in their relationship--there would be no point; no point to even go on, really. It was awful to even contemplate. Truly, it was Kirika's most dreaded nightmare. 

 

 Kirika swallowed hard and looked up from the floor, returning her sad brown eyes to Mireille. There was a sudden strange ache in her chest as she gazed upon her partner's beautiful but cold features. She didn't know what it was, or even its origin, but it… it hurt. It was a pain more intense than all of the physical agonies she had suffered during her years of life combined. Kirika had to resist the compulsion to clutch at her chest, the instinctive action the result of a fervent need to somehow assuage the unseen but open wound. She wondered if she had been injured at some point earlier in the day without her realising it, as impossible as it sounded. Whatever the mysterious ache in her chest was, Kirika hoped it would pass soon. With two enemy assassins to contend with, she had to stay in peak condition. And also the pain… it was verging on unbearable. She didn't think she could endure it for an extended length of time. It was as if her insides were being consumed. 

 

 The distance between Kirika and Mireille, from the bedroom steps to the billiard table, was only a matter of metres, but to the former girl it was the equivalent of a vast, gaping chasm, forcibly separating her from her love. She and Mireille were supposed to be partners, they were supposed to be in love, but Kirika… Kirika felt… lonely. Maybe that was the cause of the ache in her chest. Loneliness. Mireille had always been a reasonably aloof person, but Kirika had witnessed the warm heart beneath the blonde's cool exterior--she knew one existed. Now, however, it was as though the woman's icy barriers were up once more, putting distance between her heart and Kirika's, and in turn isolating herself. And isolating the younger girl as well. 

 

 Kirika was aware she shouldn't feel lonely; she had her partner, Mireille, by her side--it was all she could have asked for, and in the past, all she had required to live. But no… Mireille may be by her side in a physical sense, but not in the sense Kirika wished her to be. Noir… it was a name for two, a fact the girl had taken joy in before. While she no longer considered herself or Mireille as Noir, that principle--and the happiness that came with it--still held true. Kirika and Mireille remained in a partnership of a sort… but it was starting to lose the distinctive something that had made it special--unique. And with that mounting loss, the feeling of loneliness increased.

 

 Behind and just to the left of Mireille, Kirika caught sight of the potted orchid residing on its spot on the small square table by a window. The outer edges of several of the large green leaves were a rotten, decomposing brown; the result of neglect largely on Mireille's part, but Kirika was also guilty of forgetting to water the plant some mornings. The advent of a fake Noir had evidently distracted both of them to varying degrees. Oddly, the sight of the mistreated pot plant amplified the pain in Kirika's chest even more. 

 

 The sad girl averted her gaze from Mireille and the orchid, returning it to the floorboards. She hugged herself a little tighter. Noir…. Even if Kirika didn't think of herself and Mireille as the legendary pair of assassins any more, some traits of the ancient and feared title still lingered with them--Noir was a name synonymous with strife and anguish. 

 

 ******

 

 "Noir," Vin uttered with veneration to the apathetic bartender. He leaned forwards towards the grubby man, resting one forearm on the bar, and wagged his eyebrows meaningfully--and also expectantly. However, to his obvious disappointment, the bartender simply looked at him with a bored gaze.

 

 "Look, do you want a drink or not?" the unshaven man said impatiently. "I *do* have other customers."

 

 Vin sighed wearily and straightened, running a hand through his black hair. "Come, don't give brush! Noir, *Noir!* Doesn't mean anything you? I *know* that…."

 

 Ryosuke turned away from the irritating spectacle of his partner attempting to persuade the bartender of Slick Chicks, with his limited grasp of the French language, into letting them see the manager of the establishment, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his coat, capturing one between his lips. Fetching his silver lighter from his left pocket, the white-haired man lit up the cigarette and took a long drag, flipping the lighter shut with a metallic click as he did so. One would think that a poseur like Vin would have made it a point to master the 'language of love'.

 

 Ryosuke breathed out a stream of smoke from his nose, the resulting plumb joining countless others on their ascents towards the ceiling of the club. Slick Chicks' interior resembled that of any 'gentleman's' nightspot regardless of the city it called home. Men of various social standings--ranging from the lower class to the common salary sort--were everywhere, hooting and whistling appreciatively while blatantly leering at the scanty clad women who paraded around the room shamelessly, willingly degrading themselves for measly change. The whores either danced wantonly as they shed their tawdry--and sparse--attire on stage under the lustful grins and delighted calls of numerous onlookers; served drinks to gropers who took pleasure in availing themselves of a waitress's close proximity; or treated some of the more wealthy customers to select delicacies in the form of lap dances, before leading them through a red-curtained doorway at the back of the main room for no doubt further… services. 

 Had these women no self-respect? Being around such degenerates made Ryosuke's skin crawl. He felt filthy just being in the same room with them. Soiled. They were different from Fumiko, and to a lesser degree, Claire, back in Yokohama. 

 

 Ryosuke put his cigarettes and lighter back in their respective pockets in his ebony coat, and pointedly averted his eyes as one waitress dressed in red fishnet stockings and a matching bustier--a combination that revealed a considerable amount of skin to the casual observer--smiled seductively and tried to meet his gaze while she cleared a table. Disgusting. Ordinarily he would not even entertain the notion of setting foot in a place like this, but Vin had eagerly assured him that Slick Chicks was the headquarters of a syndicate that controlled most of Paris' red light district's, Pigalle's, seedy parts and through it the lion's share of the city's illegal drug distribution network. Such influential people were the kind that could possibly provide the support Ryosuke and Vin required to hinder the two new Soldats agents stalking them, and consequently permit them to continue their search for Dominique's 'crucial' artefact. Kaede's trial date was looming too, and Ryosuke wanted to have at least returned to Yokohama by then. 

 

 The black-garbed hitmen took another draw on his cigarette and puffed out a cloud of bluish-grey smoke from the corner of his mouth. He only hoped that Vin wasn't using their need for outside help as an excuse to troll Paris' local strip clubs and brothels. Although the flamboyant man's ability to ferret out information was noteworthy and usually produced reliable facts, he had been complaining recently about having visited almost all of the city's old museums and dusty rare antique stores, while not being allowed the opportunity to even so much as catch a glimpse of Paris' famed Can-Can girls of the Moulin Rouge… among numerous other establishments. Moreover, this was the fourth club that Vin had shepherded Ryosuke into tonight. And the three before the triad member had also claimed were the headquarters of some powerful criminal organisation that would be sure to lend them a hand… after he softened them up first, of course. All in all, it did not build much confidence in Ryosuke that he and his partner would not be fruitlessly drifting from one sordid club to another for the remainder of the night. 

 

 "Alright!" Vin suddenly exclaimed in Japanese, recalling Ryosuke's attention. The stoic white-haired man turned back to his overly emotional companion, meeting his triumphantly smiling expression with his own dour one. "He's going to get someone to take us to the person in charge," Vin informed Ryosuke, gesturing with his thumb behind the bar in the direction of where the now absent bartender would have been standing. "A 'Mr. Millet', if I'm not mistaken. I've heard that he's a big player around these parts--he should be what we're looking for." He prodded the taller man in the chest a couple of times. "You see? I told you this was the place!" 

 

 Ryosuke merely grunted and blew smoke over Vin's head. So they would be permitted to see the king of the degenerates, the one who had gathered all the other scum under his rule. Somehow Ryosuke managed to contain his elation. But sometimes one had to side with demons in order to bring down the devil. 

 

 "Ryochan," Vin crooned in a nauseatingly cute voice Ryosuke hated with a passion, looking up at his taller comrade, "I've told you before you shouldn't smoke. It's bad for the skin--" He made a sickly expression as a fog of cigarette smoke was exhaled into his face, causing him to cough and gasp for air. "--And the breath."

 

 "And I've ignored you before," Ryosuke remarked lifelessly. "Take the hint."

 

 Vin pouted but didn't say any more on the subject. Good. Ryosuke felt a migraine coming on. While the low, base lighting of Slick Chicks was comfortable on his eyes, the constant drone of the insipid music the strippers on stage undulated to was starting to create a faint throbbing sensation in the back of his mind. He didn't need his partner nagging him about pointless matters on top of that. 

 

 "Hey, baby…" a slurring voice said from the right, causing both Ryosuke and Vin to turn their heads towards the source of the sound. A man in a business suit--who was obviously quite intoxicated--was grinning rakishly at the triad member, his watery eyes smouldering with desire… much to Vin's distaste. "You are one fine looking woman, ya know… what do you say we go into the back, and…?"

 

 "Take a hike, bozo!" Vin yelled scathingly, having no difficulties with his French now. "Go on, get!" he added, making ardent shooing motions with his hands.

 

 "Awww…" the drunkard moaned, but luckily for his sake, staggered away from the area to probably hit on more willing subjects. 

 

 "Geez," Vin exhaled heavily, rubbing a temple, "it's moments like these I think I should cut my hair." But he then smirked, before sighing exaggeratedly, his previously annoyed demeanour altering drastically. "Being cursed with such… such… *resplendent* beauty can be so very trying at times…." he declared, as though he were a true hero for even showing his face in public. 

 

 Ryosuke ignored him. 

 

 Soon after, another man, this one considerably more sober and dressed more stylishly than the last, approached the black clad hitman and his posing partner, instructing them to follow him into the back of the club. Ryosuke and Vin complied, and were led through a door behind the bar and down a long corridor. Cracked grey concrete walls enclosed the two assassins and their escort on either side, illuminated by several weak light bulbs dangling from above, the occasional one flickering on and off. The hard floor was clean however--it had evidently seen a lot of traffic. 

 

 Ryosuke and Vin's guide rounded a corner at the end of the hall and opened a brown painted door labelled simply with 'Manager' in blue script a short ways down the right hand wall of the following passage. He ushered them through the doorway, before stepping into the room also, shutting the door behind him. He then positioned himself against the closed door, effectively blocking it and impeding any means of escape if things should turn… unpleasant. Fine. Ryosuke wasn't concerned in the slightest.

 

 Seated at a desk surrounded by about a half-dozen standing goons was 'Mr. Millet', Ryosuke presumed. He was a greying man who looked to be in his late thirties to early forties, with deep wrinkles ravaging his leathery face. The crevices made his features appear hard, but Ryosuke believed even free of them Millet would still have had a harsh countenance. Conversely, his trappings were that of an ordinary businessman; a white shirt, black braces and dark red tie. Ryosuke assumed that whatever clothing the mahogany desk the man was sitting behind was hiding was of a similar style as well. 

 

 "So, you two are Noir," Millet intoned with clear skepticism, looking at Ryosuke and Vin as if they were a couple of fools. 

 

 That name, Noir. It was one of Dominique's stipulations for the assignment--Ryosuke and his partner were to use the codename, Noir, while in France. At the time, back in Yokohama, it hadn't seemed like a major concern to the white-haired man, but he soon learnt once entering Paris that Noir was a renowned title in Europe, dating back more than a thousand years. It was the name of the greatest assassin ever known. A notorious alias brought unwanted attention, but Vin frequently used it openly, appearing unaware of the danger he could attract. Like now, for instance. Ryosuke felt like a naïve child for agreeing to follow Dominique's order without protest. It was liable to get him and his companion killed. Maybe.

 

 "I wasn't expecting two people, nor two Asians at that," Millet went on, one corner of his lips curving upwards slightly into a condescending lopsided smile. "Noir, indeed…." He bent forward in his plush leather chair, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him. "You may address me as Mr. Millet. Do you have names?"

 

 "You know it," Ryosuke said coldly in French before Vin could react, earning an exasperated look from the shorter man. While Vin was a proficient negotiator, his broken French was not likely to impress people like Millet and his men. Women in this city apparently found it rather endearing, for who knew what reason, but it would be an entirely different story here and now. Millet would likely laugh at Vin, before having him--and Ryosuke--thrown out onto the street. Ryosuke and Vin needed to be taken seriously. Fortunately, Ryosuke spoke fluent French, a talent he had been taught along with his sister under Dominique's tutelage when they were children. It had been at the request of their mother. Back then, years ago when he was merely a gullible child, Ryosuke had thought nothing of it bar the prospect of more homework. But now he was considerably wiser. 

 

 Ryosuke marched forwards and sat himself in one of the chairs arranged in front of Millet's desk uninvited, Vin doing likewise in a second seat a moment after him, knowing when to defer to his lead. "There are two young women," Ryosuke began levelly, plucking his cigarette from his lips and flicking some ash onto the rich carpeted floor of the office uncaringly, "who must die."

 

 Millet leaned back in his chair, his expression one of bemusement, but the Japanese hitman could detect unmistakable anger beneath the façade at his 'guest's' disrespectful behaviour. Too bad. Ryosuke didn't have time to dally with words. He wanted Dominique's mission over with so he could return home to Kaede's side. Who knew what lies and corruption that despicable gaijin was feeding to his dear sister without his watchful presence to deter her? Ryosuke wondered if he would still even have a home to return to by the time this insufferable assignment ended.

 

 "Straight and to the point; I like that," Millet said, but Ryosuke could see past his words to the thinly viewed resentment buried underneath. "Let me guess, these two broads are your wives you want offed for the insurance, or to placate your girlfriends or mistresses, am I right? Or perhaps all those reasons are true?" 

 

 Vin snorted, and Ryosuke knew he was about to make a clever comment. Quickly, so to forestall his partner from creating a potential threat to the supremacy he had over the conversation, the white-haired assassin continued, disregarding Millet's patronising inquiries as well. 

 

 "Two women. We have no pictures. We have no names. But--"

 

 "Then how the hell do you expect us to find them?!" one gangster scoffed incredulously off to the right. "Christ, do you think we're--"

 

 "The first's approximately five foot six," Ryosuke went on unabated, his voice raising just a little to counter the hoodlum's interruption. "Caucasian in her early twenties. Blonde hair past shoulder length. Blue eyes. Slim build. Attractive."

 

 "*Very* attractive," Vin amended impishly. 

 

 Still Ryosuke kept up his description. "The second is a young girl; a teenager. But still merely a child," the hitman reported. "Asian. Height of five foot or below. Black/brown hair. Brown eyes. Very lean build." 

 

 Millet smiled thinly. "Your descriptions are all very well and good," he said conceitedly, "but what makes you even think we're nothing more than business men? That we're the kind of people who can be hired to--"

 

 "Both will be armed," Ryosuke stated firmly, staring into Millet's eyes unwaveringly, talking him down. "They travel together, or near enough together. It can be presumed they live here in Paris." The assassin found no reason to warn Millet or his men that the two young women would probably be quite formidable. Let them discover that fact for themselves. 

 

 "Listen!" Millet spat, rising angrily from his seat, his patience obviously at its end. "I don't know who you think you are, but if you think you can come into *my* office in *my* club and *demand* me too--"

 

 Ryosuke reached into his coat, causing a multitude of hands to hastily reach into their own jackets or behind their waists undoubtedly for concealed weapons, but instead of pulling out a firearm as they all most likely had anticipated, the hitman took out a thick wad of bills, tossing it nonchalantly onto Millet's desk. The pile lay there, drawing all eyes--now clearly wide--to it, their weapons forgotten. The amount of Euros in the stack was more than enough for a contract killing of two Soldats flunkies, and a sum Ryosuke was positive would make waves. The first love of all degenerates was money. 

 

 "I don't care how you do it," Ryosuke declared in his lifeless voice, "or how you find them, or even how long it takes. Just kill them." He bent forwards, stubbing out his cigarette on Millet's desk. The 'big player' didn't even notice, too busy sinking slowly back into his leather seat, simply staring, his indignation stymied by the spectacle of the considerable pile of Euros just sitting there on the desk before him, ripe for the taking. "You're supposedly the big boys around here," Ryosuke added as he resettled himself in his chair, laying it on thick. "Prove it."

 

 Millet smiled widely and tore his eyes away from the money on his desk, his lackeys' own remaining riveted by the sight. Ryosuke wondered if they had ever in all their worthless lives seen such an amount in cash before. 

 

 "I think we can come to an arrangement, my friends," Millet said sweetly in a stomach-turning tone, all smiles now. "But why not kill these women yourselves?" he inquired curiously. "You claim to be the most fearsome assassin--or *assassins*, rather--in this continent's history. Couldn't you just--"

 

 "Do you want the job or not?" Ryosuke said. 

 

 "Yes! Yes!" Millet quickly assured him, grabbing the wad of Euros in his greedy hands before his new patron could snatch back the payment. 

 

 "Good. You'll get the same sum once the deed is done," Ryosuke informed Millet. "I trust this is to your liking?"

 

 "Indeed it is!" Millet exclaimed enthusiastically, flipping through the stack of money with a thumb before looking up at his men. "Right, lads?" 

 

 A resounding series of befuddled but pleased chuckles filled the room, none of the thugs likely believing their luck. Ryosuke took it all in emotionlessly, scanning his violet eyes over the sleazy faces of Millet's goons. His wary gaze abruptly paused on one individual; a man dressed much like his fellows in fashionable attire, for all intents and purposes appearing as a member of Millet's syndicate. Except for one minor detail--he wasn't sharing in their laugh. 

 

 Ryosuke's dark-rimmed eyes narrowed slightly, before they resumed their meander. It seemed as if he and Vin had gained new allies this night--a welcome turn of events, in Ryosuke's opinion. But he knew not to relax. No, he could never relax. Allies had the tendency to turn into adversaries in a blink of an eye… and oft times that eye didn't even notice. 

 

 ******

 

 To be continued….

 

 

 Author's ramblings:

 

 I used 'Ryochan' rather than 'Ryo-chan' since I didn't want to get bogged down in name suffixes in the future. Think of it as a nickname.

 

 Apologies for waiting until this chapter to have a 'Yoisho' moment. 

 

 Also apologies for all the stereotypical 'hacker' jibes so far. I know all computer users who think they're hot stuff aren't like that…. *cough* 

 

 Yoisho = Hmm… think of it as 'heave-ho' when it involves shifting objects. If it involves sitting down, think of it as the tired sigh one makes when doing so. 

 

 Gaijin = Foreigner