Black Winged Angel
The sunlight was bright that afternoon. Church bells tolled. Birds sang. The girl shyly looked from under her lashes at the handsome man beside her, then quickly returned her gaze to her paper. Sitting on the bank of the river in silence, they were both painting. She loved the way he held his brush; tenderly and softly in his hand, almost effortlessly. A slight burst of wind pushed her hair over her eyes, and she quickly brushed it away. She watched as the man's hair was also ruffled by the breeze. She longed to touch him. To brush his hair out of his eyes, but she remained still. Her only movements were the strokes of her paintbrush on her paper.
"What is your name?" he had asked her. When she didn't answer him, all he said was that everyone had secrets. She was grateful that he didn't press her, because she didn't know what to say, and she felt she couldn't lie to this man. Not him.
Now his face grew serious, and he turned towards her. "I've decided to enlist in the army again." he said softly. "When I realized I was getting medals for killing people, I quit. But now I know that there's nothing else I can do. It's all I've ever known."
She stared at him, wide-eyed. She repeated his words over and over in her mind, shaking her head slightly. "Me too..." she thought. "I kill... because... it's all I know how to do." She said nothing to him, but began to think about how he put into words what she had been feeling this entire time.
Another gust of wind blew past them, this time taking her paper with it. The man stood and chased it down the riverbank, and plucked it straight out of the air. He held it carefully, trying to make sure it wasn't damaged. She looked up at him as he bent down over her with his hands outstretched; the painting in his hand. His lips curved in a kind smile, and for just one moment she wondered what it would be like to have him kiss her with those lips that were so kind. They looked so warm... so soft...
She smiled back and took the painting. "It's very nice! You are really talented, you know..." he said to her. She thanked him, blushing furiously under his even gaze. She wished she could freeze this moment, and stay on the riverbank with him forever. Always smiling, always warm. A lifetime away from her duty. A lifetime away from death.
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But now, not even a half-hour later, Milosh lay with his back to the concrete, his face twisted with pain. Kirika knelt down beside him, rocking back and forth, her hands frantically moving over him. Her mind raced, trying to think of what she could do, but she knew that there was nothing. Nothing that she could do. His lips were trembling, and she slowly reached her fingers out to them, brushing them gently. They were soft and warm, just as she thought they would be before. Even now, in the arms of death, he was still gentle; still soft. Kirika's head fell, her dark hair angling down onto his bloody chest. She clutched her gun tightly, holding it against his quivering body. Her eyes started to well up with tears as she thought back to the afternoons on the riverbank with him. The way she had imagined him taking her in his arms; the way she imagined him embracing her and kissing her. She never wanted that embrace to be the one they were in now. On the fringes of death, and clawing for life.
Milosh looked at her hand. It was tiny and pale; like a child's. But of course there was something different about this child's hand. It was holding a glinting, heavy gun. He closed his eyes then and laughed as much as he could, gagging and sputtering. "Of course..." he rasped, mustering all of his strength to place one of his hands on her dark, bowed head. "I... thought... you might be... an angel..." he coughed again. "and... now I realize... that... you are." Kirika froze. "My... angel... of death."
Milosh wheezed deeply, choking and thrashing. Then Kirika felt his body go still underneath her.
She raised her head slowly, the tips of her dark hair unsticking from his wound, tinted dark red, almost shining. Her once cool forehead was now warm with his blood, warm with the life he had just been stolen of. Lines of it trickled down her pale skin in tribal patterns. Her eyes were a darker red now than the blood that pooled out onto the concrete, darker than they had ever been. Vacant eyes. Flashing with something she didn't even know she possessed. Her mouth parted slightly, and she slowly pushed the words out; felt them brush roughly past her tongue, but then embrace her like a child. "Angel... of death."
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Mireille did not say anything as she watched Kirika send the sketchbook out on the river. She had seen the bullet hole, and the dangerous look in her eyes an hour before, when Kirika had first come home. She had been clutching onto something else, wrapped in thin brown paper. Her face was stained with dried blood, brown and cracked, like a wilted rose petal. Mireille opened her mouth to speak, but quickly shut it as Kirika's piercing eyes stared blankly at her. Something deep within Mireille's stomach told her not to say a word. Kirika went to the bathroom, slamming the door. Mireille flinched. A while later, she came out, toweling her wet hair, her face freshly scrubbed. The silence between them was almost magnetic, at opposite poles. Pulling at each other just a little, just enough until it gathered so much pressure that it felt like it was shoving them apart. Finally, Kirika spoke, her voice low and even.
"Let's go to the river, Mireille."
At a complete loss, Mireille just nodded, and grabbed her jacket, stashing her gun in an inside pocket. Kirika took the sketchbook, the package, and her gun as well, and the two walked out of the apartment, the door's lock clicking loudly behind them.
Click.
Mireille's hand flew to her gun as she looked around, easing up as she realized the sound was just a woman's heels as she stood up from the bench behind them and walked down the sidewalk.
Kirika watched as the sketchbook floated aimlessly on the water then sank beneath the surface. Turning slightly, she picked the package up, turning it in her hands like it was a puzzle piece that she wasn't quite sure where to put. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She did not move when Mireille finally spoke.
"We always win, Kirika. We're going to kill them."
Kirika said nothing. Instead, she held her hand out above the water, the package clutched between her fingers. She listlessly watched the way the streetlights reflected off of the glassy surface. The way the water rushed underneath her hand, spraying little droplets on her wrist. She held the wrapped picture above the rushing currents, frozen in the air. She could easily put her hand back down, maybe even take it back to the art store. She was aware that she could save it from the water. "Save it...?" she entertained the thought bitterly.
Mireille watched Kirika; watched as her hand stopped dead above the river, clutching that mysterious package, hesitating. Mireille started to wonder if she was going to drop it in the water or not, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she saw Kirika's hand open flat, letting the package flutter down to be carried away by the rough currents.
Kirika stood then; her tiny hands brushed her clothes off. She patted her concealed gun, and saw Mireille's wide eyes. Kirika's own eyes were cold and emotionless, and she began to walk. She stopped with her back to Mireille. "Saving things..." she said softly, "is not my nature."
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Hours later, Mireille and Kirika were inside the house they had followed Gale's men to. Gunshots blasted through the night air, and Mireille motioned to Kirika; who in turn nodded, and ran down the stairs to the basement. Gale was there. She could feel him. She could almost taste his fear on the tip of her tongue, and she loved it. She held her gun at her side and kicked open a door to an inner cellar room, and there he was. A deer in the headlights. Gale.
His hands were trembling, and he attempted to hold a gun, but it looked like it was about to fall out of his quivering hands. In one swift movement, Kirika kicked the gun out of his hand, hard. He fell backward, and landed on the cold floor. She placed the heel of her boot directly under his chin, and dug upwards. Her vacant eyes burned into him, and he shifted uncomfortably under her steely gaze. She grinded the heel of her boot harder when she felt him shift. Then she barely moved; barely breathed.
Click.
She cocked her gun and leaned down, putting more of her weight on him. He gagged violently, his face turning dangerous colors.
"Who... who are you?!" he managed to choke.
"What is your name?" he had asked her. When she didn't answer him, all he said was that everyone had secrets.
Her eyes flickered for a second, maybe with muted amusement, or maybe with contempt; he couldn't tell. Aiming her gun at his head, she stepped off of him. Her dark hair fell in front of her face, halfway shading her venomous eyes.
"The angel of death."
Without even blinking, her finger clenched the trigger, and she shot him. The empty shell clattered to the ground with a dull clink. Kirika brushed her hair away from her face, turned on her heel, and walked off.
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She didn't go up the stairs right away. Instead, she pressed her back against the cool concrete wall. She listened to the silence... the kind that only comes after the sound of a gunshot. She ran her tongue over her lips, and squeezed her eyes shut as she thought of Milosh's lips. "I'm such a fool..." she thought bitterly. "I thought that maybe he.. and I..." she began to whisper to herself. "I thought that he would be my first kiss. But now I understand that the only thing I was made to kiss..." she raised her gun, barrel up, and turned it around, watching how the cold metal glinted. "... is this."
She closed her eyes once more, and tilted the gun back, feeling its cold, clammy touch on her lips. So different from the moist warmth of Milosh's. This is what she was worthy of. Not warmth. Not the red of lover's roses. Not the feathery white of angel's wings. No. She was the red of fresh blood spilled out onto the pavement after a kill. She was the coldness of death that comes soon after. The night's embrace of jet-black wings. Her black wings.
Her lashes fluttered slightly, and a single tear rolled down her face, pooling at the corner of her tiny mouth. Licking the bitter salt away, she was filled with an almost disturbing contentment.
Kirika then tilted her face towards the cool metal, and gently kissed the barrel of her gun, her instrument of death.
"Death..." she thought bitterly. "... always death ..."
-fin
-===Author Notes===-
This fanfic was based loosely on episode 13 of Noir, and is just my speculations of what might have happened, or what might have been going on inside of Kirika's mind.
Thanks to Edward Chang (http://nekomikodai.otakalypse.com) for previewing it and helping me perfect this fanfic.
-===Andria Doering, damselfire@cs.com===-