Title: The Lives They Lived
Author: Utenakun
Series: Noir, pre-series
Summary: When she woke, she had no choice but to call herself Yumura Kirika-- and try, somehow, to make sense of the teasing clues left to her. She couldn't have done it alone.
Rating: PG-13 for violence, lots of it.
Disclaimer: Don't own Noir, and in fact, this is my first stab at a Noir fanfic. At the time of writing, none of the internet domains mentioned in the story existed. If they do now, it's just a coincidence.
Notes: If you're looking for the Corsican princess-- only the slightest passing reference to her, sorry. This is set a little before the series, so it's not too spoiler intense, though Soldats do put in an appearance like the top-notch menacing organization they are. Also, I assume-- as I do with the anime-- that all communication is in French.
---
She opened her eyes to a blank, silent room.
First she yawned softly, then stretched out one arm and rubbed her hand tiredly over her eyes. Had she been dreaming? She couldn't remember now…
Suddenly she froze, and stared with an uncertain frown at the blanket spread over her. She didn't recognize it. She didn't recognize the bed beneath her, or anything in this starched, impersonal room.
With a frightened gasp, she threw off the covers and gazed around her. The dresser-- the window-- the shade of paint on the walls-- nothing. The picture frame placed ostentatiously on a bedside table held only unrecognizable faces.
She rose, her breathing quick and light as bright sunlight made the room blur around her. She winced, walked with unsteady steps to a schoolgirl's uniform hanging from the rack, and rooted around in the pockets until she withdrew a school ID, and her eyes darted nervously for the mirror nearby.
With a shaky sigh, she sank to her knees. The solemn red eyes staring out at her, under a cover of ragged black hair-- those were hers, no doubt about it. But the name written there was 'Yumura Kirika.'
"That's not my name." Her name was… was…
She finally let out a cry of panic, her head snapping up and her eyes darting around the empty room. Her name… she'd forgotten her name! The more frantically she dredged, the harder it became to remember anything at all-- "My dinner," she whispered in agony, "last night, I had-- I ate, I had to have-- My-- my last birthday. I got-- I got--" tears began to bead in the corners of her eyes, "My parents--"
Nothing. Only a single recollection remained of all her life until that morning, only one word whose meaning was gone with everything else: Noir.
Still frozen, staring out at nothing, she whispered, "If I have nothing else… I must be… Noir…"
-
Finally, gingerly, she got to her feet and reached for the uniform. She staggered as she tried on the skirt, and had to lean against the wall for support. Her fingers shook terribly as she tried to fasten buttons and zippers, and the bow ended up miserably lopsided. Everything fit perfectly, and felt absolutely foreign.
She closed the door to the bedroom softly and glanced around the hallway. There were a couple simple watercolors on the walls-- flowers and the like-- but here, too, there was an air of absolute vacancy. If anyone was coming to explain what had happened to her, she didn't think he or she was here now or had been in quite some time.
Padding down the hallway, she peered into the rooms as they passed. A bathroom, a linen closet, a laundry room-- nothing, no one. Then, she stopped as the passage opened up into a large living room. Like the rest of the house, it was bathed in light from windows, light that somehow pinpointed how truly empty it was. There were clean, neat mats that looked as though they had never been used, desk drawers that would doubtless be empty, and pictures…
She froze in agony on the threshold, eyes riveted to a family picture. An unfamiliar man on one side, a strange woman on the other, both laughing happily… and herself in the middle. Happy. She forced her eyes down quickly, and did not look at the picture again.
Then, as she stepped in the room, she thought she heard a faint hum. Frowning, she drew closer to the desk and opened a drawer.
The sight inside made her gasp. Bullets, cartridges… a gun. And suddenly, she knew-- she could shoot it. She could turn, now, and hit the middle of the knob on the front door, twenty or thirty feet away. And then she could put another bullet through the hole.
She was shaking again, and her body refused to stop.
Her eyes darted to the blank computer, and she realized that this was where the hum was coming from. It was on, with only the screen shut off. She reached out a finger, but missed and stabbed the plastic right above the button; on the second try she got it.
The screen flickered to life; the computer was already connected to the Internet. And there was a window open, a mail client, she noted as she knelt down. fillemysterieuse(at)anon.fr, open to the drafted emails page. Fille mystérieuse? "Mysterious girl," she muttered, and the startling realization that she could speak French barely even registered. She was more preoccupied with the two emails already drafted, and read them one at a time.
To: "Eunice Tavillion" ETavi(at)mailgratis.fr
From: "Yumura Kirika" fillemysterieuse(at)anon.fr
Subject: Help me discover the lost
Attch: kirkia.jpg
Attch: map.jpg
Attch: Melodie.mp3
I wander in search of my lost self, and I believe you search for one lost as well.
To: "Mirelle Bouquet" lesfleurs(at)anon.fr
From: "Yumura Kirika" fillemysterieuse(at)anon.fr
Subject: Journey with me
Attch: kirika.jpg
Attch: map.jpg
Attch: Melodie.mp3
Make a pilgrimage for the Past, with me.
She sat back on her heels with a small, concentrated frown. Who had done this-- written these strange letters, obviously intending her to send them, and written them in the name that was, at this moment, hers? The realization finally dawned on her that all this-- the house, the letters, everything-- must have been set up by someone. Someone had taken her memory.
She took a frightened, shaky breath and drew herself up, laying a hand on the drawer handle. "I need to," she whispered to herself, "I do need to. I have no idea… what I'm facing, what has been done to me…" And she opened the drawer again.
The gun was still there, glinting dully in morning light. She set her teeth and reached down, feeling the heft, shuddering inwardly at the fact that finally, something felt normal. This gun was so familiar, it could have been a part of her.
She let out an involuntary gasp as her eyes darted in the drawer again. There, in the back, sat an antique silver pocket watch, intricately engraved with the figures of two sword-bearing women. And this, too, she recognized. She could hear, as clearly as if she'd opened it, the melody it would play.
Her mouth thinned as she took a deep breath, then she pulled out the watch as well. Here in this drawer were the only recognizable pieces of her life, and they spoke not to Yumura Kirika but to Noir. There was no doubt in her mind who she truly was.
-
She decided not to send the emails. She didn't even know what they meant, after all. And perhaps they would bring help, as they seemed to be requesting-- or perhaps they would bring her enemies right to her. As it stood, it seemed possible she did indeed have enemies.
Instead, she went to the bathroom and brushed her hair, straightening her clothes and fixing her bow. She walked into the kitchen, found it stocked with nonperishables, and made herself a tolerable breakfast from that. Her book bag was already packed with textbooks, paper, and a map of the town with her school marked clearly in red ink. So, she decided to go to school.
-
She walked along the road, focused on the route she had memorized so as to keep her head from spinning overwhelmingly at everything that had just happened. Turn right here… three blocks down this road… left past the bamboo grove…
A deafening shot screamed past her ear.
She turned abruptly, muscles bunched in the sudden, furious drive that propelled her off the road and kept her balanced as she slid quickly down a steep slope. Even as her conscious mind screamed in panic-- Shots! There were people firing at her!-- it was boxed away in some insignificant corner, instinct flipping her to her feet and making her run hard when she reached the bottom of the hill. Her hand yanked out the gun as she ducked and weaved under a barrage of bullets, then something inside her whispered: Three of them, and you are only one. Trap them. Too many bullets for two, not enough for four. Three of them.
The three suited men stumbled down a good deal less gracefully than their quarry, and spread out in a triangle in the clearing at the bottom. Backs to one another, they pointed out at the silent bamboo forest.
"Did she run away?" One muttered.
"No. If she ran, she couldn't stay silent with all this undergrowth. She's here, hiding somewhere. Keep your guard up." It was the last thing he ever said. His companions turned in alarm at the sound of the shot that had killed him, and were promptly felled as well.
She stood, shaking off the dirt of the narrow trough she'd been hiding in, not five feet away from them. Peering down at their dead bodies, she felt nothing but a chill resignation: it was worse than she'd feared; she had enemies that wanted her dead. The ones who had placed her in the house were not the same who had sent these men; those could have killed her any time they wanted. No, in fact, they had saved her, by giving her the gun. So she would accept the aid they had provided for her.
-
Back in front of the computer, she selected one of the messages, read it a final time, and hit send. She sat motionless in front of the computer for several minutes more, then finally whispered words to the empty air-- less than a prayer, perhaps, but far more than a request.
"Please, whoever you are… please help me."