An Ode to Chloe
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Day 16
Dear Diary,
I saw a purple-haired girl today.
She reminded me of Chloe.
Chloe.
I think of her sometimes.
Do you?
The perfect assassin.
No fear.
No mercy.
No remorse.
She only had one weakness.
Me.
I guess I was jealous of her.
Envious of all the attention Altena lavished on her.
Envious of everything she had that I didn't.
But she cared for me.
In her own twisted way, she wanted what was best for me.
But maybe...
Maybe you did too.
Though you never realized it.
Sometimes I wonder what Chloe would've been like without Altena.
Sometimes I wonder what Chloe would've been like without me.
Could she have ever stopped killing?
Could she have just walked away from Soldats?
The way we did?
But we never walked away, did we?
You never walked away.
You came for me, when I ran away.
Chloe admired you, Mireille.
As much as she did me.
The perfect assassin would never have admitted it.
Too strong, too proud.
Too scared.
She was never perfect.
I was never perfect.
Yuu were never perfect.
But who is?
And so what does that matter?
I wish it could have been otherwise.
Of all the deaths I've caused, hers pains me the most.
Life is cruel.
Soldats is cruel.
Noir is no better.
A team of two.
Of the three, one must fall.
I'm sorry, Chloe.
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Kirika left her diary on the dining table and stepped into the kitchen where tea was brewing. Silvery moonlight filtered in through the half opened drapes. Tea in the moonlight, how fitting.
She pulled open a drawer to get a spoon. A moonbeam found its way into the room and glinted off a fork. A fork? Kirika was inexplicably drawn to it. Her hand reached out and took a hold of it. She ran her thumb over the prongs, distinctly feeling their sharpness.
Suddenly enraged, she pressed her thumb hard into the fork, feeling the warm blood creep down her wrist. Her other hand let the cup of tea crash to the floor, where the hot liquid steamed into the cool moonlight. In one fluid motion, she flipped the fork into throwing position and flung it at the wall. It buried itself into the soft plasterboard, quivering erratically as it came against solid wood.
Kirika looked down at her bleeding hand and began crying. She fled the room.
Tonight, sleep would not come.
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Day 16
Dear Diary,
I saw a purple-haired girl today.
She reminded me of Chloe.
Chloe.
I think of her sometimes.
Do you?
The perfect assassin.
No fear.
No mercy.
No remorse.
She only had one weakness.
Me.
I guess I was jealous of her.
Envious of all the attention Altena lavished on her.
Envious of everything she had that I didn't.
But she cared for me.
In her own twisted way, she wanted what was best for me.
But maybe...
Maybe you did too.
Though you never realized it.
Sometimes I wonder what Chloe would've been like without Altena.
Sometimes I wonder what Chloe would've been like without me.
Could she have ever stopped killing?
Could she have just walked away from Soldats?
The way we did?
But we never walked away, did we?
You never walked away.
You came for me, when I ran away.
Chloe admired you, Mireille.
As much as she did me.
The perfect assassin would never have admitted it.
Too strong, too proud.
Too scared.
She was never perfect.
I was never perfect.
Yuu were never perfect.
But who is?
And so what does that matter?
I wish it could have been otherwise.
Of all the deaths I've caused, hers pains me the most.
Life is cruel.
Soldats is cruel.
Noir is no better.
A team of two.
Of the three, one must fall.
I'm sorry, Chloe.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kirika left her diary on the dining table and stepped into the kitchen where tea was brewing. Silvery moonlight filtered in through the half opened drapes. Tea in the moonlight, how fitting.
She pulled open a drawer to get a spoon. A moonbeam found its way into the room and glinted off a fork. A fork? Kirika was inexplicably drawn to it. Her hand reached out and took a hold of it. She ran her thumb over the prongs, distinctly feeling their sharpness.
Suddenly enraged, she pressed her thumb hard into the fork, feeling the warm blood creep down her wrist. Her other hand let the cup of tea crash to the floor, where the hot liquid steamed into the cool moonlight. In one fluid motion, she flipped the fork into throwing position and flung it at the wall. It buried itself into the soft plasterboard, quivering erratically as it came against solid wood.
Kirika looked down at her bleeding hand and began crying. She fled the room.
Tonight, sleep would not come.
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