Chapter 1
The Question of Living
The death of Altena and Chloe toppled the new practice of Le Grande Retour with them. However, they were only participants of a bigger entity: the Soldats themselves. A separate world nearly intangible, shadows that haunted Noir. No matter their attempts, Noir could not run away from their own shadows.
Despite everything, since the fall of Le Grande Retour, the Soldats were damaged by the surprise Noir displayed in the final trials. They retreated into the shadows, probably running around frantically to revive their organization, finding new leaders and methods, leaving Noir alone.
But that came at a cost. One of them had to kill one more human being, who was part of her.
Chloe.
The one whom Kirika considered to be a lot like her. Both of them rooted from the same darkness that nurtured them. Without question, Chloe loved her—loved her as a demon. Still, it was love. After Mireille rejected her for her demons, after Kirika admitted to murdering her family, Chloe took Kirika in.
Kirika wasn't a fool, though—that Chloe deliberately led her to her loneliness, manipulating Noir all the way, even to Kirika's appearance at the Manor. But still. She was the only one who'd love Kirika, alone in this world she woke up to.
Assassin or not, Kirika was still afraid of reality, of dreams, of all the strangers and loved ones she killed, including Chloe. She wanted to rip off those masks that called themselves Soldats, but most importantly, her own. She wanted to reveal a new face that expressed how she felt, to the world, to others . . .
And to Mireille.
Mireille.
That hot-headed, condescending, unapproachable Corsican heiress. A fallen angel who harbored her own flaws which were, strangely enough, still angelic. She was not the other Noir. She was Kirika's partner. Her friend. Her love. The only love Kirika would ever know. Kirika planned to keep it that way, to never have to take the life of a loved one again.
Kirika wanted to say it, but like everyone else, she couldn't express herself no matter how much she tried. She had never learned to love, only to pull a trigger. Never had she been loved. Perhaps, by parents long forgotten to her—but love? It was a stranger, a painter at the park, a woman with a gun, an old man with a kitten, a clueless girl . . . another shadow hiding around every corner, waiting to strike like an assassin. As usual, Kirika inadvertently dodged such things.
The door to their apartment opened. Kirika, lost in thought, stumbled backwards but caught herself.
"For an assassin, you suck at being quiet behind a door," said Mireille, her hair bundled up in a towel, the scent of soap stinging Kirika's nostrils. The French sighed, stepping aside. "Well? Come in."
"Sorry," murmured Kirika, smiling weakly. She hugged the wrapped box to her chest and strode in.
When they walked to the middle of the living room, Mireille leaned against the pool table in her sky-blue nightshirt that fell elegantly to her naked thighs. She questioned her partner with icy-blue eyes. "What's that?" Those eyes burned deep into Kirika.
"Mail," said Kirika plainly.
"Pretty fancy for our mailman's taste," muttered Mireille, humming thoughtfully; she tilted her head. "I didn't forget my own birthday? No . . . it's not Valentine's Day either, or . . ."
Kirika looked out the window. Mireille followed her gaze, wondering what Kirika always saw out there she found amusing. She then eyed the decorated package suspiciously. With a finger, she touched the corner of the box like a cat batting at something curious.
"I don't think it's a bomb," said Kirika, who hadn't turned around.
Mireille shrugged and started gingerly unwrapping the box. She paused. There was a gun inside. It wasn't till she saw the wooden picture frame underneath that she gaped. It was a photo of her family, what was left of them.
"I found it in your uncle's," said Kirika carefully.
Mireille's head snapped up, glaring at the girl at the window. "It's a strange gift, even from you."
"Do whatever you like with it," whispered Kirika, looking down at the floor.
Mireille refused to touch the photo. However, she grabbed the gun she recognized as Kirika's. She pulled it out and aimed it at Kirika, who perked up to the sound of the click. The Japanese closed her eyes, exhaling, shoulders shuddering.
The blonde observed her, sneaking another look at her family photo. It was a picture of all the Bouquets sitting at one of their grand porches: she was sitting on her mother's lap, her father standing by them holding her brother's pinkish cherub hand. Uncle Claude stood on her mother Odette's other side. Such striking resemblance.
"What are you waiting for?" whispered Kirika.
Even though they won at the Manor, Kirika still anticipated Mireille to fulfill her promise. Sure, Mireille saved her from from Altena, but only to carry out the deed herself, right? That's what Noir agreed on when they first met, after all. The gift right here, right now, was supposed to be their last tender moment together. It would allow Mireille to shoot the remnants of painful memories, as well as the cause of them.
Mireille lowered the gun, smiling grimly. "I'm not going to shoot you, ya know. You're a guest in my home, and you dare to ask that much of me?"
Kirika looked up awkwardly, yet with hidden pang. "Mireille, please. It's the way I wanted things to end—not at the Manor, but here, with you, the only place we found peace."
Mireille glanced around her small apartment. It was a bit bullet-ridden from that stormy night battling the masked Knights of the Soldats on the rooftops. She had cleaned it up a bit since Kirika left the cemetery for the Manor, but still, it could use more. She didn't plan on doing all the cleaning herself. Someone was to blame.
Mireille gave a weary smile. "I know it feels weird and awkward coming back. We never thought it would end this way, that things would be . . . quiet. It's been about a week. We'll have to get used to it. So while we do that, you help me finish cleaning up our home."
Kirika's nose reddened as she tried to hold herself up, but she crumbled to her knees against the air conditioner by the table where their potted plant laid tilted on its side. It was broken with spilled dirt, untouched from the gunfight.
Kirika bowed her head, her tiny cracked voice cracking Mireille's heart.
"I'm sorry for everything, Mireille," sobbed Kirika, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her sweater.
Kirika heard footsteps. Sensing Mireille standing over her, she looked up. The Corsican was adjusting her family photo on the small table, ignoring the plant with bullet holes punched into its giant leaves. Kirika stood up, trying to get a hold of herself. Meanwhile, Mireille frowned, studying the picture frame.
"Hm. Well. It'll have to do, with our plant shot to death," said Mireille, clucking her tongue. "What do you think?"
Mireille didn't look her in the eye, though. Kirika couldn't really see anyway through her hazy vision. She wiped her face again, suddenly feeling gross and ashamed.
"This place will look nice again, eventually," sighed Mireille. "I'm sure we'll add more things to liven it up." Finally, Mireille turned and looked at Kirika. "How does that sound?"
Kirika sniffled uncontrollably again. Then she nodded with a quivering smile. "I would like that," she said.
Mireille smiled. It was her usual, casual one, the kind that refused to show its true length in fear of vulnerability. And yet, it was still a smile. It was still aimed at Kirika. And how selfish of Kirika to think it would never mean anything, that Mireille would never mean it, that Mireille was a selfish person. To contemplate the easy way out from all the pain she caused to both of them—while Mireille stood there, trying to tell her in her Mireille way, that they would continue to live together.
Yes, Kirika would like that.
"You need to stop thinking and acting like the Soldats want you to," said Mireille during breakfast. She sipped her morning tea. "You're not an assassin. You're human. You're Kirika."
Kirika smiled at the comfort, chewing her crisp toast. She could never get used to hearing the French say her name. When she said it, it really did sound like it was her name.
Mireille was warming up to her more than ever, along with this beautiful morning. There was always something romantic about Paris under dawnlight, looking out to those endless rows of the same-looking houses. The humming fan, the faint traffic outside—mundane things that Kirika realized she took advantage of. She closed her eyes to appreciate such sounds. She opened her eyes again, walking to the window to watch artists at their vendors making conversation with each other as they set up.
Mireille looked up from the daily paper, watching Kirika. "You know," she said, "there's more to life than looking out a window at it." Mireille stopped herself, chuckling, thinking about their days as Noir. "Huh. Never mind."
The girl at the window didn't budge. She smiled, though, to Mireille's silly words, to the rarity of such a lukewarm voice.
Mireille sighed, leaning her chin on her folded hands. She hummed in agreement to Kirika's pondering silence. "I know. What . . . now?"
"Whatever we see fit." Kirika looked over, smiling.
Mireille blinked. Her heart iced with the recollections of Chloe's similar grin and mannerisms.
"Chloe?" asked Kirika knowingly.
Mireille smiled thinly. "You knew, huh?" She shook off the shivers, turning a page.
"Your eyes."
Mireille jested, "Guess we really are the True Noir—."
"No." Kirika said it with full force, with anger and sadness.
"I'm sorry." Mireille felt extremely naked for some reason. "For a moment . . . I knew what it felt to be like Chloe. The jealousy when I saw you two fight together. The yearning to feel that power and unison—that connection."
"And I begged for you to stop staring at me that way," demanded Kirika in her soft voice. "I begged you not to think about her anymore."
Mireille waved her hands in front of her defensively, sighing. "Right, right." She rubbed the nape of her neck, combing out morning hair into webs between her fingers. After awkwardly playing with her gold locks, she cleared her throat.
"Let's take a stroll?" she blurted.
Kirika beamed excitedly. Again, it reminded Mireille of Chloe's expressions. She shook it off, and walked over to the closet blocked by their single bed. She threw on gray leggings, not bothering to change out of her silky, overgrown nightshirt.
"I dunno about you, but I miss some window-shopping," she said heartily, slinging her pink purse over her shoulder. "C'mon. Let's go do something."
Kirika sheepishly shrugged.
Mireille grimaced at her rudeness. "I didn't mean it like that. We both know you are far from boring."
They both chuckled. And then, without a moment's pause, looked at Kirika's gun left untouched on the pool table. They exchanged uncertain glances, until Mireille finally shook her head.
"Not today," she murmured, with a triumphant glow in her eyes.
Kirika wore the same expression as they left the gun behind.
After leaving the grocery store, the duo headed back for Mireille's apartment. Their apartment. Their home. The thing that bound them together.
Mireille insisted to carry a majority of their groceries, including her impulsive bonus of shirts and skirts. Kirika sauntered next to her, holding only three small paper bags. She kept an eye on Mireille's waning strength in the attempt to be extra benevolent today; Kirika felt tempted to brag about how they should have taken the moped. But Kirika decided against it as her friend hummed happily to herself along the cobble street.
The cut on Mireille's cheek from their confrontation was now slightly silver, blended into that flawless French skin. This relieved Kirika, trying to remove such memories. She didn't notice where they were walking, just as they bumped shoulders with two equally unobservant girls.
Mireille's purse and groceries rolled everywhere. "Embarrassing . . ." she cursed, falling to her knees. Kirika helped swathe and pick up their fallen purchases.
Mireille opened her mouth ready to yell, but stared into the same mysterious, mud-colored eyes as Kirika's. They were beadier, a forgotten twinkling darkness.
"Watch where you're going!" barked a dirty-blonde girl, who stood there in disbelief since the collision.
Ugh. Asian and American, thought Mireille, glaring. I'm gonna have to talk two languages here . . .
"Excuse us," apologized the tan Asian, bowing, clumsily dropping Mireille's things.
Oh, she speaks French? thought Mireille, admiring the Asian's long black braid dropping over her shoulder like thick rope, who bowed repeatedly, as if for repentance.
"Um, no problem," said Mireille, her boiling anger slightly simmering.
The other blonde glared back, tsking to herself as she helped the Asian pick up the rest. Kirika and Mireille froze. The tip of a gun peeked from Mireille's purse. Kirika casually turned her head to Mireille, yet deep in her eyes Mireille sensed she was upset.
Why did she have her gun? Their assassin days were over . . .
Mireille casually grabbed her purse before anyone else could, and zipped it up.
"Here ya go," said the Asian, collecting a fallen hand lotion and stuffing it with the rest of their things.
"Thank you," said Kirika, bowing her head in return. "Um . . . I'm Kirika." She bowed deeper, scraping the grocery bag against her forehead. Hearing herself say that, to introduce her official name to strangers, felt foreign yet nice.
Mireille shot her a look. So much for hiding their names. They would be shot in the back in no time—wait, stop, what was she thinking, they were no longer Noir!
"Oh, I'm Tsuki," giggled the Asian, startled by Kirika's etiquette. She shook hands with Kirika, who clearly tried to hold on to their things. "And my friend here is Rhain."
"They don't need to know that," said Rhain, scowling her friend.
"So you're Japanese?" asked Kirika.
"So you are Japanese!" they squealed.
"That's what I thought," boasted Rhain, grinning at her friend.
Mireille stared. Putting these two together, they must be American . . . She glanced at Kirika, who seemed thrilled to be in a conversation with someone of similar ethnicity she could relate to. Someone she could talk to, period. Someone they didn't have to kill for once.
However, her load was getting heavy. Tsuki and Rhain looked at her questioningly, which flustered Mireille even more. She saw Kirika moving in to help, but the other two already dove in to keep the bags from toppling again.
"Here," offered Tsuki, removing a few bags from Mireille's possession. "It's the least we can do after our little tsunami of an entrance."
"Thanks . . ." grunted Mireille, rearranging her load in her arms.
"YE~AHH!" answered Rhain, grinning with thumbs-up.
"You're bleeding, Rhain," blurted Tsuki, looking down.
Rhain ignored it, her hands clearly full. "Nah."
"Rhain—."
"Forget it—."
"It's getting on your boot—."
"GET IT OFF!" The American swatted frantically at the leak dribbling from her knee above her buckled knee-high boots. She dropped the bags in the process, earning Mireille a very impatient look as her new shirt rolled out of its wrapping.
"We could give you a Band-Aid," offered Kirika. "If you could help us with our stuff, we can bring you to our apartment just a few blocks down."
Mireille glared at her.
"Are you sure you don't mind?" asked Tsuki.
"It's really not a big deal," protested Rhain.
Mireille narrowed her eyes at Kirika. "Yeah." She faked a smile at the others. "Let's just get this stuff going before the yogurt melts . . ."
"Yeah, don't worry about it," insisted Rhain, hopping away from Tsuki's attempt to take a look at her leg. "Sis, just grab their shit and let's get goin' so we're not a hassle to them."
"I wouldn't mind making you some tea for your trouble," said Kirika, who intently led them all toward the apartment. Mireille had never seen the girl so forward with what she wanted, with something as simple as company. They were lucky they managed to paint over the bullet holes, just to hide them from the maintenance that sometimes snuck in unannounced—
The gun! On the pool table! Mireille nearly gasped aloud, as they were already walking up to her apartment. She looked at Kirika, desperate to grab her attention. The Japanese was too busy making small talk with Tsuki, their heads peeking behind the tall, bulking grocery bags.
As all four walked through the door, Mireille took advantage of the tall grocery bags. "Please hold this for a moment," she requested, shoving her burden into the unsuspecting Rhain's arms. Mireille rushed over to the pool table pretending to remove the porcelain balls. When she turned around, she hid the gun behind her. The girls busied themselves with scooting their loads onto the pool table, oblivious to Mireille's hand by her side, gun under the table.
From behind, Kirika casually walked by, grabbing the gun and walking to their bed. Mireille watched her sit on the bed, as if to take her shoes off, then slip the gun under the bed.
"Woo! You sure love to shop," exclaimed Rhain, shaking her hands from the heavy loud.
"Thanks," said Mireille, trying to remind herself how to sound cheerful in the company of strangers. She stared at Tsuki and Rhain, who gave a polite sweep of the apartment, nodding in admiration. Rhain wore a slightly frilly blouse with tight sleeves and a square-shaped neckline. White and green lacy patterns dominated the fabric, over her black leggings and buckled knee-high boots. Tsuki wore similar leggings, except with flipflops, and a humble red tank top with black rims.
Rhain happened to catch Mireille looking. She returned the stare with intense, hazel eyes. "You're not so pretty yourself," she said rather bluntly.
Mireille gave a flat face. So damn rude!
"Really?" said Tsuki, nudging Rhain.
"She's creepy. Let's go." Rhain pulled Tsuki's arm, but the latter pulled back. She frowned at her, then bowed to Mireille and Kirika.
"Sorry for the trouble," said Tsuki, forcing Rhain to bow.
"You sure you don't want some tea?" asked Kirika.
Mireille glared at Kirika.
"No, but thank you! We were in a hurry anyway, for the gondolas," said Tsuki, beaming.
"Oh," blurted Kirika. "They're just down two more streets, then take a right."
Rhain smiled for once. "Oh, wow. Thanks! And nice place!"
They waved and walked out.
When the door slammed closed, Mireille looked over to Kirika. "You calling me creepy, too?" she growled, feeling threatened.
"So you read my mind," said Kirika, smiling, something Mireille needed to get used to. "I don't think we're Noir. I just think we know each other so well."
"And you thought the same thing?" added Mireille.
Kirika looked at the door. "Yes, there is something odd about them. I can't put my finger on it."
They stood in silence, neglecting their bags. Finally, Mireille chortled, "Maybe . . . it's because we don't have to kill them."
Kirika frowned at the dark humor. "That's not funny."
Mireille shrugged. "Hey. Get used to it. You're going to be living with this clown for who knows how long."
Kirika wanted to smile at such comforting, foreign, yet familiar words. However, as Mireille put away their things, Kirika couldn't help but look out the window. She watched after Tsuki and Rhain melting in the crowd so easily, wondering what life would have been like before Noir—even after Noir. As Mireille put it: What now?