Rosebuds, Chapter 8
It was dark by the time the still-worried Mireille pulled into a parking space behind their hotel. Kirika, on the other hand, was fast asleep in the backseat, the slip of paper on the floor. Mireille woke her up, hoping she hadn't given whatever malady she had had to her partner, and together they made the passage upstairs.
Mireille didn't have to wait for the familiar beep to know that she had mail-and she knew whom it would be from. Kirika, on the other hand, went straight to bed and fell asleep again. This bothered Mireille, who would have preferred very much to be able to discuss details with her. Instead she was forced to sit at the desk, reading alone in the dark.
The client was getting impatient, their choice of words becoming less and less polite. They knew that the pair was in Japan; why hadn't they made any moves yet?
Mireille minimized the window and leaned back in her chair, her hands behind her head. What troubled her most was the fact that the client had been there at the pool today, watching them, tracking their every movement. Mentally she scolded herself for letting herself relax so much that she hadn't noticed anyone touching their things. Still, her pink lips curved into a smile as she relived the memory of flipping Kirika's raft over.
She considered the consequences of taking the contract. It would not be an easy task for two young women to purchase guns for no apparent reason in Japan, but that wasn't the worst of it. Mireille simply wasn't sure if she wanted to do it at all. They were not in any immediate need for money due to all the contracts they had completed before. Yet Mireille thought back to those days she had worked with Kirika just after they returned to France, before they had heard anything about Soldats. She knew in her heart that she still had no emotions towards killing. She had been brought up that way. Kirika was now her best friend, but not her partner. Sometimes even Mireille missed the deep partnership that they had once shared, completely understanding each other's thoughts without trading a word or glance.
Yes, it would be nice to share that understanding again. Mireille stretched lazily and reminded herself to work out more. She wondered if she could still run down a hallway quickly enough to avoid the bullets. It had been years since she'd tried.
For the first time, Mireille's mind was open to taking the contract. Still, it was too early to answer. She closed the window and shut down her computer.
She'd give it more thought tomorrow.
= = = = = = =
Kirika was up before Mireille, much to the Corsican blonde's relief. She had been worried that she was sick.
That fear returned when Kirika returned to bed shortly after making two cups of tea. Mireille considered fishing out the thermometer, then gave up the notion after noticing that Kirika was fast asleep. There wasn't much of anything she could do for her now. Mireille picked up her purse, left Kirika a brief note, and departed from the hotel room. If she stayed here she'd worry about Kirika and the contract, knowing that her every move was being documented.
She wasn't in the mood for shopping, and without a translator that would be virtually impossible anyway. Just the same, she took a look in a few shops, eventually coming to stop at a nearby coffee-shop. As she stepped in, she remembered a paragraph from her Japanese book.
Japanese kissaten, or coffee shops, are common spots for students or friends to meet after classes. They serve a limited menu of small sandwiches and snacks along with both alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages. Unlike most other restaurants and coffee shops around the world, however, the Japanese commonly spend hours talking, reading, or just listening to the music after ordering just one cup of coffee. Mireille smiled as she entered, happy that she finally knew something about the Japanese culture.
In a halting, choppy medley of Japanese and French she managed to order a cup of coffee. The Corsican blonde had chosen a seat off to the side, where she could think alone. She thought about Kirika and half-wished that her partner could be there, sitting across from her as they sipped coffee together.
She lifted the cup to her lips, took a sip, and blanched, exerting extreme self-control to keep herself from spitting the mouthful back into the cup. This was nothing like the coffee she knew, if it could even be called coffee. She'd never tasted such a strong and bitter concoction. The other Japanese around her were clearly enjoying it, however, occasionally throwing an interested glance at the young blonde woman.
Mireille ducked her head down and cupped the mug in her hands, mentally re- listing the pros and cons of the contract, wishing she had a piece of paper to write them down on. Obtaining the guns, she reasoned, wouldn't be too much of a problem with the use of the Internet and Kirika's perfect Japanese skills. She knew where the school was and Kirika knew almost every room of it. In addition, their client's last email had contained an attachment of the school's blueprints, the principal's office clearly circled in not red, but a deep black that clearly contrasted with the pale blue lines that made up the walls. Mireille had already printed it out but not told Kirika anything.
Sooner or later, Mireille admitted, they would need money. She loved her life as a librarian, but mostly she was still living off money from her previous contracts. Now there was Kirika to support as well and as Kirika wasn't teaching anymore, she wasn't bringing in any income. There were no problems now, but as for the future, Mireille could only hope.
She considered the bad side of the contract. Of course, there was the constant danger, but she and Kirika had both been through that more times than they could count. Her biggest concern on that side of the pro/con chart was Kirika's personal feelings. She knew nothing about the school and could easily blast a hole through a few walls, but she wasn't sure how Kirika would feel. Perhaps it would seem as though she had made a complete cycle and returned to her school as a completely different person. Whatever those feelings were, Mireille was fairly convinced that Kirika wouldn't go in and immediately begin shooting down students.
"May I sit with you, mademoiselle?"
Surprised, Mireille looked up. A young man-French, it seemed, was standing beside the empty seat facing her, smiling kindly. "Yes, of course." She cast a cautious gaze around the coffee shop. It was quite full; of course that was why he had chosen to sit here. She relaxed and smiled.
"Merci." He sat down and smiled at her. Mireille guessed that he could only be in his late twenties or early thirties, judging by his young face and the still-blond hair. "You are French, I suppose?"
Corsican, thought Mireille, but now was not the time to get into family histories. "Yes," she replied. "It seems that you are too."
He laughed warmly. "In blood, yes," he said, "though I have lived in Japan for so many years, I feel just like a Japanese man." His laughter was warm and kind and somehow invited Mireille to join in. Her mind raced. Her only encounter with men had been with one finger on the trigger of her Walther and the male facing the dark depths of the gun barrel; she had never been in such a situation before. She had to say something, though; he was obviously expecting a response.
"I-I'm here on vacation," she stumbled.
He nodded in understanding. "Tokyo is a rather popular place for tourists nowadays. Are you studying Japanese?"
"I'm trying," Mireille replied modestly, "although I must say I'm not doing very well."
His laughter was beginning to worry her-it was not the cold, wicked laugh of Soldats' men, nor was it the friendly laugh of her Uncle Claude. She felt herself drawn to it, wanting to bask in the warmness, yet kept pulling back.
"-hard for the foreigner." She suddenly noticed that he was talking and colored a bit. "But after living here, it begins to come naturally."
"Yes, I suppose."
The waitress stopped by their table and the man ordered a cup of coffee. Obviously not minding the taste, he sipped at it for a long time, then lowered the mug with a gentle clunk. "You are not going to drink yours?" he asked, gesturing to her cup.
Mireille blushed again and embarrassedly admitted, "I don't care much for the taste. It's quite different from what we have at home."
"I see." He took another sip. "So, how long have you been staying in Japan?"
= = = = = = =
Kirika woke up feeling cold and clammy, and a surge of worry shot through her slim body as she glanced at the clock. How could she have possibly slept so late? Her eyes strayed to the piece of paper on the bedside table.
Gone out. Will be back later.
That would explain Mireille's absence, thought Kirika. She stood up and put on her sandals slowly, feeling as if each movement sucked more energy out of her. It took her all of ten minutes to get to the ground floor of their hotel.
Mireille had probably gone shopping, thought Kirika, remembering that she had brought her purse and not the little red and white striped bag that she usually carried. She shuffled slowly down the row of shops, stopping in front of each one to check if Mireille was inside. Halfway down the street, she spotted the Corsican blonde through the coffee shop's large glass paneled windows, just across the street. Kirika walked over slowly, feeling oddly off balance.
She stopped short upon reaching the curb. Mireille's back was to her, but it was obvious that she was chatting with a young man sitting opposite her. A young man Kirika recognized.
Andre Charbonneau. The innocent target.
Kirika remembered that she hadn't told Mireille of her experience yet. Consequently, she realized, Mireille had no idea who she was talking to. She entered the shop and slowly walked to their table, trying to seem as lively as she could.
"Kirika," exclaimed Mireille, surprised. Her mouth curved into a smile that instantly faded into extreme concern as she noticed Kirika's pale cheeks and languid demeanor. She struggled for words, remembered that she couldn't speak freely, then realized that she didn't even know the man's name, but introductions must be done. In a semi-cheery voice-the best she could manage-she said, "My friend. Tomodachi."
It came out sounding rather strangled, but the Frenchman didn't notice. He stood up and extended a hand to Kirika, who reluctantly took it. As their eyes met, Kirika watched intently for any signs of recognition, but there were none. He hadn't noticed her that day.
Mireille broke the tension by quickly saying, "You don't look well at all. We'd better head back," she added, directing the last sentence towards her coffee-sipping partner. "It was nice to meet you."
"It was a pleasure."
Neither asked for the other's name, but Mireille's sole concern at the moment was to get Kirika home and bundle her into bed. The Japanese girl's face was so pale at this point that Mireille feared she would faint on the way back.
"Mireiyu," Kirika murmured, trying to keep her thoughts from collapsing into one jumbled mass, "that man-"
"Don't talk." Kirika was walking so slowly now that Mireille stopped to throw her arm around her shoulder. "This isn't the time for such things. Why did you decide to come out looking for me in this state? You look like you're going to faint."
As Mireille pushed on, Kirika cast one last glance at the coffee shop. Andre Charbonneau was watching them, and waved. Before Kirika could respond, Mireille pulled her away.
"We have time to go window-shopping later. Right now, you need to get into bed."
It was dark by the time the still-worried Mireille pulled into a parking space behind their hotel. Kirika, on the other hand, was fast asleep in the backseat, the slip of paper on the floor. Mireille woke her up, hoping she hadn't given whatever malady she had had to her partner, and together they made the passage upstairs.
Mireille didn't have to wait for the familiar beep to know that she had mail-and she knew whom it would be from. Kirika, on the other hand, went straight to bed and fell asleep again. This bothered Mireille, who would have preferred very much to be able to discuss details with her. Instead she was forced to sit at the desk, reading alone in the dark.
The client was getting impatient, their choice of words becoming less and less polite. They knew that the pair was in Japan; why hadn't they made any moves yet?
Mireille minimized the window and leaned back in her chair, her hands behind her head. What troubled her most was the fact that the client had been there at the pool today, watching them, tracking their every movement. Mentally she scolded herself for letting herself relax so much that she hadn't noticed anyone touching their things. Still, her pink lips curved into a smile as she relived the memory of flipping Kirika's raft over.
She considered the consequences of taking the contract. It would not be an easy task for two young women to purchase guns for no apparent reason in Japan, but that wasn't the worst of it. Mireille simply wasn't sure if she wanted to do it at all. They were not in any immediate need for money due to all the contracts they had completed before. Yet Mireille thought back to those days she had worked with Kirika just after they returned to France, before they had heard anything about Soldats. She knew in her heart that she still had no emotions towards killing. She had been brought up that way. Kirika was now her best friend, but not her partner. Sometimes even Mireille missed the deep partnership that they had once shared, completely understanding each other's thoughts without trading a word or glance.
Yes, it would be nice to share that understanding again. Mireille stretched lazily and reminded herself to work out more. She wondered if she could still run down a hallway quickly enough to avoid the bullets. It had been years since she'd tried.
For the first time, Mireille's mind was open to taking the contract. Still, it was too early to answer. She closed the window and shut down her computer.
She'd give it more thought tomorrow.
= = = = = = =
Kirika was up before Mireille, much to the Corsican blonde's relief. She had been worried that she was sick.
That fear returned when Kirika returned to bed shortly after making two cups of tea. Mireille considered fishing out the thermometer, then gave up the notion after noticing that Kirika was fast asleep. There wasn't much of anything she could do for her now. Mireille picked up her purse, left Kirika a brief note, and departed from the hotel room. If she stayed here she'd worry about Kirika and the contract, knowing that her every move was being documented.
She wasn't in the mood for shopping, and without a translator that would be virtually impossible anyway. Just the same, she took a look in a few shops, eventually coming to stop at a nearby coffee-shop. As she stepped in, she remembered a paragraph from her Japanese book.
Japanese kissaten, or coffee shops, are common spots for students or friends to meet after classes. They serve a limited menu of small sandwiches and snacks along with both alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages. Unlike most other restaurants and coffee shops around the world, however, the Japanese commonly spend hours talking, reading, or just listening to the music after ordering just one cup of coffee. Mireille smiled as she entered, happy that she finally knew something about the Japanese culture.
In a halting, choppy medley of Japanese and French she managed to order a cup of coffee. The Corsican blonde had chosen a seat off to the side, where she could think alone. She thought about Kirika and half-wished that her partner could be there, sitting across from her as they sipped coffee together.
She lifted the cup to her lips, took a sip, and blanched, exerting extreme self-control to keep herself from spitting the mouthful back into the cup. This was nothing like the coffee she knew, if it could even be called coffee. She'd never tasted such a strong and bitter concoction. The other Japanese around her were clearly enjoying it, however, occasionally throwing an interested glance at the young blonde woman.
Mireille ducked her head down and cupped the mug in her hands, mentally re- listing the pros and cons of the contract, wishing she had a piece of paper to write them down on. Obtaining the guns, she reasoned, wouldn't be too much of a problem with the use of the Internet and Kirika's perfect Japanese skills. She knew where the school was and Kirika knew almost every room of it. In addition, their client's last email had contained an attachment of the school's blueprints, the principal's office clearly circled in not red, but a deep black that clearly contrasted with the pale blue lines that made up the walls. Mireille had already printed it out but not told Kirika anything.
Sooner or later, Mireille admitted, they would need money. She loved her life as a librarian, but mostly she was still living off money from her previous contracts. Now there was Kirika to support as well and as Kirika wasn't teaching anymore, she wasn't bringing in any income. There were no problems now, but as for the future, Mireille could only hope.
She considered the bad side of the contract. Of course, there was the constant danger, but she and Kirika had both been through that more times than they could count. Her biggest concern on that side of the pro/con chart was Kirika's personal feelings. She knew nothing about the school and could easily blast a hole through a few walls, but she wasn't sure how Kirika would feel. Perhaps it would seem as though she had made a complete cycle and returned to her school as a completely different person. Whatever those feelings were, Mireille was fairly convinced that Kirika wouldn't go in and immediately begin shooting down students.
"May I sit with you, mademoiselle?"
Surprised, Mireille looked up. A young man-French, it seemed, was standing beside the empty seat facing her, smiling kindly. "Yes, of course." She cast a cautious gaze around the coffee shop. It was quite full; of course that was why he had chosen to sit here. She relaxed and smiled.
"Merci." He sat down and smiled at her. Mireille guessed that he could only be in his late twenties or early thirties, judging by his young face and the still-blond hair. "You are French, I suppose?"
Corsican, thought Mireille, but now was not the time to get into family histories. "Yes," she replied. "It seems that you are too."
He laughed warmly. "In blood, yes," he said, "though I have lived in Japan for so many years, I feel just like a Japanese man." His laughter was warm and kind and somehow invited Mireille to join in. Her mind raced. Her only encounter with men had been with one finger on the trigger of her Walther and the male facing the dark depths of the gun barrel; she had never been in such a situation before. She had to say something, though; he was obviously expecting a response.
"I-I'm here on vacation," she stumbled.
He nodded in understanding. "Tokyo is a rather popular place for tourists nowadays. Are you studying Japanese?"
"I'm trying," Mireille replied modestly, "although I must say I'm not doing very well."
His laughter was beginning to worry her-it was not the cold, wicked laugh of Soldats' men, nor was it the friendly laugh of her Uncle Claude. She felt herself drawn to it, wanting to bask in the warmness, yet kept pulling back.
"-hard for the foreigner." She suddenly noticed that he was talking and colored a bit. "But after living here, it begins to come naturally."
"Yes, I suppose."
The waitress stopped by their table and the man ordered a cup of coffee. Obviously not minding the taste, he sipped at it for a long time, then lowered the mug with a gentle clunk. "You are not going to drink yours?" he asked, gesturing to her cup.
Mireille blushed again and embarrassedly admitted, "I don't care much for the taste. It's quite different from what we have at home."
"I see." He took another sip. "So, how long have you been staying in Japan?"
= = = = = = =
Kirika woke up feeling cold and clammy, and a surge of worry shot through her slim body as she glanced at the clock. How could she have possibly slept so late? Her eyes strayed to the piece of paper on the bedside table.
Gone out. Will be back later.
That would explain Mireille's absence, thought Kirika. She stood up and put on her sandals slowly, feeling as if each movement sucked more energy out of her. It took her all of ten minutes to get to the ground floor of their hotel.
Mireille had probably gone shopping, thought Kirika, remembering that she had brought her purse and not the little red and white striped bag that she usually carried. She shuffled slowly down the row of shops, stopping in front of each one to check if Mireille was inside. Halfway down the street, she spotted the Corsican blonde through the coffee shop's large glass paneled windows, just across the street. Kirika walked over slowly, feeling oddly off balance.
She stopped short upon reaching the curb. Mireille's back was to her, but it was obvious that she was chatting with a young man sitting opposite her. A young man Kirika recognized.
Andre Charbonneau. The innocent target.
Kirika remembered that she hadn't told Mireille of her experience yet. Consequently, she realized, Mireille had no idea who she was talking to. She entered the shop and slowly walked to their table, trying to seem as lively as she could.
"Kirika," exclaimed Mireille, surprised. Her mouth curved into a smile that instantly faded into extreme concern as she noticed Kirika's pale cheeks and languid demeanor. She struggled for words, remembered that she couldn't speak freely, then realized that she didn't even know the man's name, but introductions must be done. In a semi-cheery voice-the best she could manage-she said, "My friend. Tomodachi."
It came out sounding rather strangled, but the Frenchman didn't notice. He stood up and extended a hand to Kirika, who reluctantly took it. As their eyes met, Kirika watched intently for any signs of recognition, but there were none. He hadn't noticed her that day.
Mireille broke the tension by quickly saying, "You don't look well at all. We'd better head back," she added, directing the last sentence towards her coffee-sipping partner. "It was nice to meet you."
"It was a pleasure."
Neither asked for the other's name, but Mireille's sole concern at the moment was to get Kirika home and bundle her into bed. The Japanese girl's face was so pale at this point that Mireille feared she would faint on the way back.
"Mireiyu," Kirika murmured, trying to keep her thoughts from collapsing into one jumbled mass, "that man-"
"Don't talk." Kirika was walking so slowly now that Mireille stopped to throw her arm around her shoulder. "This isn't the time for such things. Why did you decide to come out looking for me in this state? You look like you're going to faint."
As Mireille pushed on, Kirika cast one last glance at the coffee shop. Andre Charbonneau was watching them, and waved. Before Kirika could respond, Mireille pulled her away.
"We have time to go window-shopping later. Right now, you need to get into bed."
