"Accept the final guidance," Chloe said, raising my gun at me.
I saw Mireille's eyes widen, but all I could do was stand there. I was tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of this life of killing. For some reason, I trusted Chloe. She would show me what I needed to know about my past. Or maybe she would just kill me. One way or another, though, she would end it.
The bullet hit me below the heart, and the pain sent me into shock. As I fell, all I noticed was the blood rushing from the wound and the sound of the gunshot. I sensed both in such detail that it blinded me to everything else. If only I could paint that sound and sensation. I missed painting…
My head hit the wet tile rooftop. Pain… then warmth… where was I? I looked down and saw sunlight cutting across a brown and yellow tiled floor. A familiar melody…. I raised the gun in my hand and looked ahead. A man, a boy, and a woman who looked just like Mireille. I fired three shots, killing them all.
Mireille stared at me sadly before collapsing. Her blood looked nearly fluorescent in the harsh sunlight.
Why had I shot Mireille? I closed my eyes tightly, trying to awaken from this bad dream.
No… not a dream. I looked down at my hands—my small, chubby child's hands.
A memory….
It wasn't Mireille I had killed. It was her mother. Her family.
I was the one who had killed Mireille's family. I was Noir, the name of an ancient fate.
I had always been a killer. That was my fate, my purpose.
I stood up, doing my best to ignore the pain. As much as I hated what I had learned about myself, it was all I had left. It was the truth. Everything else I had known or believed or felt was false.
There was only one place left where I belonged. I searched my old, deeply buried memories for the path I must take. It was time to go home.
-----
How long had I been walking? I had no idea. The pain made everything stretch out, slow down. Mostly I felt numb now, and weak. Some people had tried to attack me, but I defended myself as though by instinct, my body responding even in its weakened state.
But it wasn't instinct. It was training. The instinct was to stay alive, but it had been drilled and coaxed and shaped until the impulse was simply to kill. What had I become? What had the Soldats made me?
Another man, another bullet. I kill so easily. Why don't I feel sad?
So many men dead—dying—by my hand. Why don't I feel anything?
I see Mireille in front of me, and suddenly I am glad. Maybe I don't have to make the pilgrimage to the past alone. At last the journey can end. She promised to kill me, and now that she knows the truth, there is nothing to stop her.
"Mireille!" I shout. "Shoot me!" I take a deep breath and close my eyes, waiting for the second shot to end what the first shot began.
Nothing's happening. "Shoot me!" I beg. "Me—shoot me!" Tears fill my eyes. I have done such terrible things. I have caused so much pain to the only person who has ever been my friend. For that, I feel sadness. At last, after everything, I feel.
Mireille is crying. I don't understand why. Killing me is not such a terrible thing, and she promised to do it from the beginning. So why does she hesitate?
Mireille lowers her gun. "I will kill you," she promises. "The next time we meet, I will not fail." She leaves, and I am truly alone.
It is too late. She has failed me. I thought I could depend on her, but now I have nowhere left to turn. My home is not with her anymore, and I can never go back. That may be the most terrible truth I have ever known.
There is only one place left for me. I walk on, alone, making a pilgrimage to the past.
