ARASHI ("Storm"): A NOIR fic
By: wyback
Copyright © 2011
Disclaimer: "NOIR" and its characters are the property of Bee Train and its creators. I'm just taking them for a short, non- profit spin. The only thing I claim is the story below.
Distribution: So long as the credits are intact, feel free to save a personal copy. If you plan to post it on your site or something, just ask. :)
Feedback: Yes, please!
Spoilers: Just to be safe, everything NOIR.
Author's Notes:
This is my little (and somewhat early) contribution to Femslash Day. The story takes place a few years after the last episode of NOIR. At Mireille's urging, Kirika finished high school at a French boarding school. They kept in touch infrequently during those years, something which Kirika is now determined to remedy.
Thanks to Sav for a little bit of French (I don't speak the language but there will be some phrases later on).
Thanks to xxmadlaxx, who introduced me to NOIR. Since I introduced her to Cara and Kahlan, we're probably even. :)
1: NUMBERS
Numbers were important to Yumuura Kirika. So much of her life revolved around numbers - rooms, floors, streets, dates, hours and minutes, the when and where of locations and targets, deadlines, specifications, coordinates, ever-changing minutiae.
Then there were the numbers that were the constants in her strange and varied life. Eight bullets in her M1934 Beretta - seven in the magazine and one chambered at all times. Forty meters, the distance she could shoot with scrupulous accuracy. Beyond that it was always a gamble, no matter how good she was. One shot, seven to go – a part of her was always keeping track – then six, five, four... three was beyond gambling, while relying on less was pure, simple recklessness.
You're reckless. Who had said that?
'A woman,' the thought floated into Kirika's head. A woman's exasperated voice. Beyond that, the words were disembodied, refusing identification. Like so many of the other things in her life, the voice was a nebulous memory.
Unlike numbers. Numbers were firm, solid, immutable…dependable. Even when they were made-up.
Like fifteen, her supposed age when she had sent an email to a hard-bitten, blonde, blue-eyed assassin. Make a pilgrimage to the past with me, the young Kirika had typed, hardly knowing what she herself had meant. That led to twenty-three hours on the first transatlantic flight that she could remember taking, and a new life.
The memory of that time was as clear to Kirika as if it had happened yesterday. How surprised she'd been when Mireille leaned back and closed her eyes as soon as the plane took off from Tokyo.
'How can she sleep?' the slight Japanese girl had wondered. 'She was nearly killed a few hours ago. She barely knows me, and she knows what I can do. How can she leave herself open like that?' Was her new companion that confident? Or, it had to be considered, dangerously stupid?
"Stop staring and get some rest,"the blond woman grumbled without even bothering to look at her."I don't think they'll do something insane like attack us on an international flight, but there are no guarantees once we land." No need to clarify who "they" were.
And Kirika, recognizing it as sound advice, had tried. But except for a few minutes' snatches she simply could not. With the result that once they'd arrived in Mireille's flat almost twenty-four hours later, it was all she could do to crawl into the woman's bed and sleep like the dead. Had she even asked permission?
But the morning after was clear to her, and what it felt like to wake for the first time next to another, as far as Kirika could remember anyway. How peaceful she looks. The lost girl found herself basking in the warmth of the woman beside her, and her steady, tranquil breathing.
'How can an assassin rest so easily?' Kirika marveled. For there was no question that the sophisticated young woman was as deadly as she was; she had killed those men in the construction site easily. There was a lack of hesitation, an absence of reluctance to take a human life that marked their kind. Kirika was willing to bet that Mireille wouldn't have a single nightmare over the deaths they'd left behind in Japan.
It was then that Kirika realized that this was part of what she wanted one day, something as mundane as to be able to sleep, untroubled, for hours. Though like Mireille, she could wake as fast as a striking snake if she had to.
And she had found a kind of serenity, gradually. By Mireille's side, Kirika had learned that many things were possible. Life outside a strange and sinister destiny was possible. Two girls could enter the deadliest of traps, survive and win the right to their lives, on their own terms.
All because Mireille had thrown a lifetime's worth of imbued caution away, set aside the revenge she was richly entitled to, and ignored all of her assassin's instincts in order to save the girl who had destroyed her life and her family.
Mireille Bouquet was a wonder to Kirika.
Which is why Kirika couldn't say no when Mireille sent her away.
More than two years. It had been that longsince she had set foot in Paris, last stood at the window of this, her first true home.
Now that memory was clear and sharp, nothing nebulous about it at all...
It was an ordinary day, much like any other until they were having tea and Mireille began to speak. "There's a boarding school that accepts international students in Lyon. I sent them your school records, with some alterations of course. They've accepted you." She made the announcement laconically, in the same tones she used to talk about the weather.
Kirika looked up, confused. She made what for her had been a natural assumption back then. "Who's the target?"
The normally imperturbable woman sputtered into her tea and laughed. "No! No target. It's not a mission. It's just a school."
"But why?" Why Lyon, why so far away, why tell me just now?
"Because we can finally afford it, and things are quiet. You have to finish school sometime."
Just like that.
She had gone without a fight, though everything in her had wanted to stay. Why? Because Mireille could quote Hemingway and make cryptic references to Alice in Wonderland, and other things that Kirika didn't have the slightest understanding of. Even poor, deluded Chloe had known those things.
And Kirika had done well. A girl who was used to learning things quickly to save her life or to take someone else's could do wonders in a normal school setting. Not enough to take top honors of course – Kirika had missed out on too much for that, half the time she was playing catch-up – but enough to be considered bright, with a promising future ahead of her.
Mireille was pleased with that, and came down to see her graduate, and to take Kirika home. Finally.
And now, at last, she was back in Paris.
"Home," Kirika whispered. Lyon was beautiful, but this was where she belonged. She opened the window and breathed in the familiar air, reveling in the ambient noise of a typical day in this crowded city and the warmth of the sun bathing the skin of her arms. Whatever her origins, life with Mireille had turned part of her into a true Parisienne, with a knowledge of the city few could match.
She fetched a glass and watered the plant by the window. A contented smile pulled at her lips. For as long as she could remember, Mireille had always kept a plant right here. Somewhere along the way Kirika had taken charge of it, just like she usually made the tea.
Then she caught the sound of familiar footsteps, the click of a key turning a lock and the door shoved open in just that way. Funny how something so simple could make her heart flutter.
"I've got our lunch," Mireille announced from the doorway.
"I'll set the table," Kirika said, turning away from the view. For the first time in two years, she felt utterly at peace.
(To be continued...)