I don't own Noir, although I wish I did.
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Mireille in Japan
Mireille took a deep breath as she stepped off of the airplane, murmuring "Arigatoo," to the flight attendants who smiled kindly at the young Corsican blonde who had traveled so far. Unfortunately, she wasn't outside in the Japanese environment yet-she was only in the walkway, and much of what she had breathed in was probably the same stuffy air that she had been living in for the last day. Nine hours on a cramped, unusually full airplane had left her with a nasty case of cabin fever.
Mireille seized her bag in one hand so tightly that the knuckles showed white. She was hardly ever this anxious-the assassin, Mireille Bouquet, knew how to control her emotions perfectly. But she wasn't the assassin she had been years ago anymore. She'd given that self up five years ago, with Kirika.
Kirika.
For a moment the young Corsican's balance faltered and her step slowed. One of her fellow passengers looked up into her face in concern and said something in rapid Japanese, which Mireille caught very little of. Instead of replying she mustered a smile, refreshed her grip on her bag, and continued on her journey. She'd checked out a stack of books from her local library on Japanese and studied vigorously before she made this trip, but she still felt rather unprepared. After all, she'd had no practice listening to actual Japanese. The only Japanese she'd heard was her own weak whispers when she lay awake studying late at night. Compared to true Japanese, her words came weak and choppy, weighted down by a heavy French accent.
She wouldn't allow herself to think of the past. It still hurt too much, like a raw wound that had simply been covered and left to heal on its own. These wounds never heal unless directly confronted; instead, they forever send their own little messages, reminding you of the raw pain.
In the same way, Mireille had covered up the memory of Kirika, but it had never gone away. Even five years later the faint mew of a cat on the street would stir her awake at night and send images of Kirika spiraling through her tormented mind.
She'd lived alone in Paris for those hard years. Now without the weight of murder on her mind, she knew she was free to do whatever she wanted. She could go back to school. Get a boyfriend. She was still young, still attractive, but those hard days had aged her beyond her years. Mireille had seen more in her short twenty-five years than most people do in their entire lives. She couldn't fit in with those chirpy, excited girls in any college. Nor could she restrict herself to books and solely study. After Kirika, Mireille had taken a simple, ordinary job as a librarian. She liked the peace and quiet that can only be found between bookshelves.
She'd met many men there over the course of years, and had briefly amused herself by creating various personalities. To one, she would say that she was twenty years old and working a summer job to pay for college. To another, she might mention that she was a model in her spare time. Sometimes she said she was older, sometimes younger. At first she'd toyed with the idea of dating them, since plenty of them were interested in her, but she realized the idea revolted her. In her heart, there was always-and only-Yuumura Kirika. She hadn't loved the girl in a lesbian way, but in an unexplainably deep, reaching way. Kirika had been much more than a friend and a partner and Mireille had unknowingly grown to love her. She had never imagined it would hurt so much when the time came for them to separate.
"No," whispered Mireille suddenly, breaking free of the iron grip of the past that had pulled her in again. "Not now, not now."
She took a deep breath and lowered her head, rapidly striding out of the walkway and into the openness of Japan's Narita international airport. Fortunately there were signs in English. She'd mastered the hiragana system of writing, but not the kanji, and most unfortunately, much of the content of Japanese is written in kanji.
Mireille found a restroom and stepped into it. From a side pocket of her carryon she procured a brush and ran it casually through her blonde locks. Knots snagged in the brush and she ripped them out impatiently. A young Japanese woman cast some curious looks at the willowy blonde busy destroying her gorgeous hair, but Mireille paid no attention.
This is Kirika's world, she thought as she stepped back into the noisy airport. No, it wasn't. She remembered Kirika once telling her that she was more French than anything now. After all, it was in Paris that she'd begun to rebuild her life.
I feel so alone without Kirika. Kirika should be here beside me, translating the signs for me, as we talk and laugh.
Mireille felt the familiar tears prickle in her eyes again. She blinked them back and placed her bag in her other hand. Opening the door, she stepped outside, into Japan.
Author's Note: It is never mentioned in the series what language Mireille and Kirika communicate in, but I'm assuming it's English, since that's what Kirika uses to first contact Mireille via email. Hiragana is one of the three writing systems of Japanese and mingles with kanji, which is basically Chinese characters with modified pronunciations. They are used together to write Japanese; the third system, called katakana, is used to write foreign words-for example, "Corsica" would be written in katakana.
If anyone wants to give a better explanation of this, please drop me a line - sorry I'm terrible at explaining things. Please leave me a review; I don't really know how I did with this; it's just an idea that came into mind but I want to keep writing it. Arigatoo!
If you see weird symbols all over, please click on VIEW at the top of your toolbar in IE, go down to ENCODING and click on UNICODE (NTF - 8). Thanks!
Mireille in Japan
Mireille took a deep breath as she stepped off of the airplane, murmuring "Arigatoo," to the flight attendants who smiled kindly at the young Corsican blonde who had traveled so far. Unfortunately, she wasn't outside in the Japanese environment yet-she was only in the walkway, and much of what she had breathed in was probably the same stuffy air that she had been living in for the last day. Nine hours on a cramped, unusually full airplane had left her with a nasty case of cabin fever.
Mireille seized her bag in one hand so tightly that the knuckles showed white. She was hardly ever this anxious-the assassin, Mireille Bouquet, knew how to control her emotions perfectly. But she wasn't the assassin she had been years ago anymore. She'd given that self up five years ago, with Kirika.
Kirika.
For a moment the young Corsican's balance faltered and her step slowed. One of her fellow passengers looked up into her face in concern and said something in rapid Japanese, which Mireille caught very little of. Instead of replying she mustered a smile, refreshed her grip on her bag, and continued on her journey. She'd checked out a stack of books from her local library on Japanese and studied vigorously before she made this trip, but she still felt rather unprepared. After all, she'd had no practice listening to actual Japanese. The only Japanese she'd heard was her own weak whispers when she lay awake studying late at night. Compared to true Japanese, her words came weak and choppy, weighted down by a heavy French accent.
She wouldn't allow herself to think of the past. It still hurt too much, like a raw wound that had simply been covered and left to heal on its own. These wounds never heal unless directly confronted; instead, they forever send their own little messages, reminding you of the raw pain.
In the same way, Mireille had covered up the memory of Kirika, but it had never gone away. Even five years later the faint mew of a cat on the street would stir her awake at night and send images of Kirika spiraling through her tormented mind.
She'd lived alone in Paris for those hard years. Now without the weight of murder on her mind, she knew she was free to do whatever she wanted. She could go back to school. Get a boyfriend. She was still young, still attractive, but those hard days had aged her beyond her years. Mireille had seen more in her short twenty-five years than most people do in their entire lives. She couldn't fit in with those chirpy, excited girls in any college. Nor could she restrict herself to books and solely study. After Kirika, Mireille had taken a simple, ordinary job as a librarian. She liked the peace and quiet that can only be found between bookshelves.
She'd met many men there over the course of years, and had briefly amused herself by creating various personalities. To one, she would say that she was twenty years old and working a summer job to pay for college. To another, she might mention that she was a model in her spare time. Sometimes she said she was older, sometimes younger. At first she'd toyed with the idea of dating them, since plenty of them were interested in her, but she realized the idea revolted her. In her heart, there was always-and only-Yuumura Kirika. She hadn't loved the girl in a lesbian way, but in an unexplainably deep, reaching way. Kirika had been much more than a friend and a partner and Mireille had unknowingly grown to love her. She had never imagined it would hurt so much when the time came for them to separate.
"No," whispered Mireille suddenly, breaking free of the iron grip of the past that had pulled her in again. "Not now, not now."
She took a deep breath and lowered her head, rapidly striding out of the walkway and into the openness of Japan's Narita international airport. Fortunately there were signs in English. She'd mastered the hiragana system of writing, but not the kanji, and most unfortunately, much of the content of Japanese is written in kanji.
Mireille found a restroom and stepped into it. From a side pocket of her carryon she procured a brush and ran it casually through her blonde locks. Knots snagged in the brush and she ripped them out impatiently. A young Japanese woman cast some curious looks at the willowy blonde busy destroying her gorgeous hair, but Mireille paid no attention.
This is Kirika's world, she thought as she stepped back into the noisy airport. No, it wasn't. She remembered Kirika once telling her that she was more French than anything now. After all, it was in Paris that she'd begun to rebuild her life.
I feel so alone without Kirika. Kirika should be here beside me, translating the signs for me, as we talk and laugh.
Mireille felt the familiar tears prickle in her eyes again. She blinked them back and placed her bag in her other hand. Opening the door, she stepped outside, into Japan.
Author's Note: It is never mentioned in the series what language Mireille and Kirika communicate in, but I'm assuming it's English, since that's what Kirika uses to first contact Mireille via email. Hiragana is one of the three writing systems of Japanese and mingles with kanji, which is basically Chinese characters with modified pronunciations. They are used together to write Japanese; the third system, called katakana, is used to write foreign words-for example, "Corsica" would be written in katakana.
If anyone wants to give a better explanation of this, please drop me a line - sorry I'm terrible at explaining things. Please leave me a review; I don't really know how I did with this; it's just an idea that came into mind but I want to keep writing it. Arigatoo!