-Redemption-

Disclaimer: I do not own Noir, nor am I making any sort of profit whatsoever off this, so please don't sue me.

Author's Note: "Madelle" is the French form of the English "Ms."

-Prologue-

Mireille Bouquet strode past the small Christmas tree set up in the lobby and through the labyrinth of small office cubicles towards the back where her office was. Mireille-Tech Industries was one of the largest security firms in all of Western Europe, providing both personal and private surveilance devices, security guards, and support for the wealthy as well as free self-defence seminars to women and others in various cities from Paris to Milan. There was an old saying, "it takes a thief to catch a thief." In the past, the blonde had been able to both figure out the major weaknesses in most security systems and how to exploit their weaknesses to get to her targets. If anyone knew about how to make security more secure, it was her.

She'd started the business with blood money. At first, she didn't give it a second thought. Oh sure, she could see the irony involved in the situation, but there were no sort of pangs of guilt involved. Lately however, she wasn't so sure.

As she sat behind her large oak desk, she turned on her computer and began absently going through the quarterly reports. She noted that sales had fallen off a bit recently. Not too surprising given the recent economic crunch most of Europe was now going through. Mireille-Tech was still making a profit though, just no longer as big a profit.

She scanned through her private emails. Nothing of major importance.

Where was she? Was she safe? Was she happy?

Was she still alive.

A knock on her door pulled her attention away from the screen. "Come in," she said, assuming an air of authority as her private secretary Francois entered carrying a bundle of papers.

"Madelle," he said politely as he stepped forward, "The private investigator you hired, Messier Jacques Francoeur, has finally filed his report." He momentarily allowed his eyes to wander over his boss' form, noting how the business suit clung to her form, how her legs looked in heels, how her eyes glared into his...

He'd been caught looking at his boss. Flustered, he quickly passed the report over, bid "adeu," and left. Mireille stared at the now closed door for a few seconds before looking down at the bundle of papers in front of her. There was a time when she wouldn't have needed a private investigator, when she could've found anybody, no matter where in the world they were hiding. But not her. If she didn't want her to find her, she wouldn't. Besides, there was always the risk of what the Soldats might make of such a search. True, they left her alone and told both of them they were now free, but she didn't trust them. Hiring a third party made sense. She wouldn't expect a private investigator, her guard would be down. The Soldats would hardly be interested in one private investigator's search for a missing person, especially if he were careful what questions he asked and where he asked them.

Five years. She'd be twenty now. Five years since she'd disappeared after they returned from the castle. She continued to look down at the report, her heart feeling like it was about to beat out of her chest. Perhaps she'd finally found peace. Perhaps it was wrong of Mireille to seek for her. But what if she was suffering? Even if she were now married with a brood of kids, the blonde had to know why.

She had to know why she left.

With a shaking hand, Mireille pulled the bundle over and began to read.

--

She walked past the puddle of urine at the bottom of the stairs, the smells of sex, sweat, marijuana and excrement filled the air. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, her hand jealously holding onto her paper bag as she ignored the peeling plaster walls and flickering overhead light. She stepped over a young redheaded girl smoking from a crack pipe at the top of the stairs and made her way past the other junkies filling the hallways. There were no doors on any of the rooms, and the building itself was condemned and set for demolition next month. Maybe, just maybe, she'd get lucky and find sweet release in dark oblivion by then.

Finding a free spot, she sat down and opened her bag, her own little Christmas gift to herself. She lit her small candle and pulled out a small baggie and a spoon. Somewhere someone was entering the crack house she thought absently as she wrapped the rubber strap around her upper arm and filled the syringe. She could hear the stairs creak as she stuck the needle into her arm and closed her eyes, losing herself in sweet bliss and ecstasy. She heard footsteps, but they didn't matter. On a good day, there were moments when she couldn't feel or remember anything. No painful memories, no regrets, no sorrows that ate away at her soul, nothing. It was funny; once upon a time, she'd lamented her absence of memories and wondered why she couldn't feel sorrow. Now she longed to get back to that state, if only for a few minutes.

"Hello, Kirika."

She opened her bloodshot, sunken eyes and looked up. It took a few moments for the junkie to realize that the woman in front of her was not some sort of hallucination. As the blonde knelt down in front of her, she slowly cracked open her cracked and chapped lips, "The ghost of Christmas past," she muttered, her voice sounding scratchy, "How did you find me?"

Mireille could feel a lump swelling up in her throat as she looked at the thin young woman in front of her. "Private investigator," she answered, trying to keep her voice steady.

Kirika nodded understandingly. Her once short black hair was now shoulder length and matted. "I see..."

Mireille could feel her eyes beginning to tear up. "Why?" she finally managed, "Why did you leave? Why are you here?"

Kirika blinked her eyes and looked away from her former partner. "Because you made me feel," she said, staring off at the ceiling. "Because I couldn't handle it. The blood on my hands, your parents..." looking back at the Corsican, she smiled weakly, a sad look in her eyes. "Because you didn't keep your promise. You let me live. You left me with these blood stains on my hands, on my soul. So, since you couldn't keep your word," she said as she held up her now empty syringe, "I'm keeping it for you, one day at a time."

Mireille covered her mouth as the tears started to flow. Standing up, she began to back out of the room. "I... I'm sorry, I..." she turned and rushed out of the room. Kirika silently watched the blonde leave and lifted up a bone-thin hand.

"Merry Christmas," she called out.

--

The Corsican exited the building and began to weep, leaning one hand against a lamp pole as she covered her face with the other. As snow fell around her, she struggled to regain her composure. She had to go back in, she knew that. She had to go back in and get her out of there, by force if necessary, and get Kirika help. She was reaching into her purse for a handkerchief when she heard the soft sound of snow crunching under feet as several figures approached her.

"Hey little lady, you in the wrong side of town?" a male voice asked.

"A pretty thing like you shouldn't be wandering about all alone. You never know who you might run into."

Mireille looked up to see three dirty looking men coming towards her. From their appearance she guessed they were members of a street gang, and from the looks in their eyes and the way they were approaching her, she had a fairly good idea what was on their mind. As one of them quickly cut off an exit route down a side street, the other two slowly approached her. She narrowed her eyes as one of them reached for her coat. Grabbing his wrist with her free hand, she twisted as she shifted her weight, hip-tossing him into the side of a trash can next to her.

It was then than an unseen fourth gang member hit her from behind with a crowbar. She collapsed, falling hard on her face and splitting her lip. She started to rise up on all fours when a foot came into her gut, knocking the wind out of her.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" the one cursed as he picked himself up and wiped the garbage off his dark green jacket. "You don't know who you just fucked with, you bitch!"

Mireille coughed up some blood. Reaching up, she felt that the back of her head was bleeding. She was injured, unarmed, and surrounded by four very dangerous individuals. The more things change...

"You're dead!" another voice screamed. Mireille's head was yanked back painfully by the hair as a handgun was pressed against her temple, the coldness of the steel causing her to wince. "You hear me, bitch? We're gonna fuck you and then we're gonna..."

"Aaah!"

The three gang members surrounding Mireille looked over to see their comrade staring at them wide eyed, mouth hung open as if he were screaming even though no sound came forth. His eyes rolled backward and he fell forward dead before he even hit the pavement, a hypodermic syringe stuck deep into his skull. Behind him stood Kirika, her hands red with blood and her eyes emotionlessly regarding the three young men surrounding Mireille.

"Holy shit!"

"You," the one with the gun growled, "That was my brother, you bitch!" He let go of Mireille's hair, the Corsican's head falling to the dirty street with a thud once more as he pointed the gun at Kirika. Moving rapidly, Kirika grabbed the hand he was holding the gun with as she kicked him behind the knee. He shrieked in pain as he fell to his knees. She then stuck her fingers up his nostrils and yanked, breaking his nose. He pulled the gun's trigger out of reflex as the former assassin aimed his hand at the other two men still surrounding Mireille. As they fell dead, she yanked the gun away and roundhouse kicked him in the head. She then shot him in the back of the head, watching unflinchingly as his body twitched and then lay still.

Mireille, groaning in pain, sat up on the back of her legs. Her eyes met Kirika's, the two staring silently at one another for a few seconds before the assassin turned junkie pulled out the gun's clip and tossed it in the garbage. Looking once more over to the blonde struggling to her feet, blood streaming from the Corsican's lip and nose, a single tear traveled down the junkie's cheek.

"Why?" she asked, "Why didn't you just kill me when you had the chance? Why..." she collapsed, passing out from the drugs and the exertion. Mireille clutched her still sore abdomen as she knelt by Kirika.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she pulled out her cellphone and quickly dialed a number, "I'm so sorry..."

-To Be Continued-