Rosebuds, Chapter 12
Mireille ran out of the office and towards the nearest exit, firing random shots at anyone who intervened. She was so panicked that few of them hit their targets. Fortunately, this was a school, and most people weren't armed.
She shattered one last camera, then exited the school. Several teachers tried to follow, but she fired a few fairly accurate shots at the door that blew holes through the wood and kept anyone else from following. Mireille kept running, her gun aimed backwards over her shoulder, until she reached the safety of the woods.
Then she remembered. She was supposed to meet Kirika at that bench just across the street. Glancing across, she could see that the magazine was gone.
= = = = = = =
On the other side of the school, Kirika lay dazed in a pile of glass, feeling as if she were being pricked all over by tiny needles. It was no wonder-her arms and legs were cut and bruised and her neck ached fiercely. She moved her limbs gingerly, wincing from the pain. Nothing seemed to be broken. Besides, she had endured far worse.
A second pane of glass shattered over her, showering her in broken pieces of glass-and surprisingly, her Beretta. Kirika grabbed it and put her free hand down and tried to back away, cutting her hand in the process. Students were now climbing out of the window carefully one at a time, trying to avoid being cut. Kirika struggled to her feet, limping a bit-it seemed that she had twisted an ankle in the fall-and ran as quickly as she could towards the apartment building. She had no choice but to shoot the students that chose to follow; they could outrun her easily.
She entered a different building and ran outside again through the back, hoping to confuse them. The bench was empty. Where was Mireille? Kirika didn't even have a key to the car. She was dripping blood everywhere and couldn't run much farther with her ankle.
"Kirika!"
Having seemingly appeared out of nowhere, Mireille grabbed the collar of her uniform and dragged her out of sight. "What happened to you? Never mind, we don't have time for that. Get in the car."
Kirika gasped painfully at Mireille's rough touch. Mireille stopped and glanced down. "What happened to your foot?"
"I-I think I twisted my ankle," Kirika ground out. Mireille groaned. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine." Mireille heaved Kirika's arm around her shoulder and put her other arm around Kirika's waist. "Come on, if it's that bad you can hop along."
The ragged pair made their way to the car. By now Mireille was covered in Kirika's blood as well, but she said nothing as she opened the car door. "Can you lie down in the back, not on the seat but down where you would normally put your feet?"
"Hai." Kirika crawled in gingerly, knowing that they couldn't afford to let anyone see her. Even somebody who didn't know about the killings at Tsubaki High School would be sure to ask plenty of questions. Mireille slammed the door and got into the driver's seat, wiping brusquely at her bloodied shirt. Her jacket had been unfortunately left outside the door of the storage room, or it would have been put to great use, covering up the blood.
"Do you have your gun?" asked Mireille cautiously, as she backed out of the parking space.
"Un."
Mireille didn't respond. The guns might come in handy to kill anybody else that needed to die for them to escape, but if they were stopped by a policeman who decided to search their car. . . Mireille winced at the thought of a policeman finding a car with two bloodied women owning guns, not far from the recent killings at a local high school.
Upon arriving at their own hotel, they faced another problem: how to get back to their room without anyone noticing. Mireille was unscathed, but walking into the hotel with completely bloodied clothes was sure to attract plenty of attention. Kirika, on the other hand, hadn't uttered a sound on the way back but Mireille noticed that her ankle was swelling up rapidly now. They could take the stairs, which would obviously be much harder but less likely to have people, or they could take the fast route-the elevator- and risk being pelted with all sorts of questions. They unanimously chose the stairs.
"Are you sure you can walk up the stairs?" Mireille asked.
"Hai. I've been through worse."
Images of the Middle East flashed through her mind. "Well, we can't have you dripping blood everywhere or we'll be sure to get caught." She eyed Kirika's bloody body and looked around the car desperately. There was nothing they could use to wipe the cuts. Kirika sat up, groaning a little as she did so, and tore off a shred of her skirt. Mireille took it and cleaned Kirika up as best as she could.
"Are we bringing the guns?" asked Kirika.
Mireille stopped to ponder this. The shred of black pleated fabric was soaked in her hand. "Leave yours here for the time being," she decided. "You're not in any shape to be chasing a target anyway."
Target was a strange choice of words, but Kirika ignored it. She struggled out the door, leaning on Mireille for support, and one-leggedly made her way towards the building. They would enter through the south exit, which according to Mireille was closest to the stairs.
"I should have gotten a room on the first floor," muttered Mireille. Kirika's pace was getting slower and more painful with every step. Mireille considered picking her up and carrying her up the last flight of stairs but knew that it was impractical; besides, she was a mess of nerves herself and would probably drop her partner. "We're almost there."
"Un."
I should have never accepted this contract, thought Mireille.
At long last they reached their door and Mireille opened it. Kirika stumbled inside by herself and Mireille locked the door securely, twisting the doorknob several times to be sure. Immediately Kirika made for the bed, but Mireille steered her towards the bathroom.
"I'll bring you a fresh change of clothes as soon as we get you cleaned up," she said, deftly wringing out a white washcloth and dipping it in some antiseptic. Kirika winced at the touch and immediately colored. Five years ago she would have thought nothing of some cuts and bruises that might have needed a few stitches, but today she was different.
"Sorry," Mireille apologized. Kirika sat on the edge of the bathtub, her swollen ankle resting on a folded towel. "You're going to need stitches for that cut on your hand."
"All right," said Kirika blandly, though she was dreading it.
Mireille left the bathroom and returned with a first-aid kit that had been brought from France. Kirika winced and turned away, gritting her teeth and feeling embarrassed that she should be afraid of such a little pain. Mireille didn't say anything as she put nineteen stitches in Kirika's palm.
"Just try not to move it for awhile," Kirika heard. "Now let's see about your ankle."
Mireille was wrapping a fresh bandage around her hand now. The ankle, on the other hand, was puffed up and had turned various shades of black and green and yellow and purple. Mireille asked her to try and move it, which she did painfully.
"Well, at least nothing's broken," said Mireille, trying to sound cheerful. She wrapped a second bandage around the ankle and taped small adhesive bandages over Kirika's cuts. "I'll get you some clothes."
Kirika dressed herself in a pair of comfortable shorts and an oversized T- shirt of Mireille's, but Mireille had to help her to bed.
"I'll make lunch," she told her partner.
But as she chopped vegetables, the face she had seen came back to haunt her. For the first time she had failed in a contract. The irony of it- becoming friends with one you were destined to kill just days before the killing. Mireille thought she heard Kirika's voice calling and came out to investigate.
"What is it?"
Kirika paused. "Did you kill him?"
There was a longer pause on Mireille's side before she lowered her head. "No."
"I see," said Kirika quietly, and closed her eyes. Mireille watched her for a while, wishing that she would open her eyes, and when it became evident that she wouldn't, retreated back to the kitchen.
Mireille ran out of the office and towards the nearest exit, firing random shots at anyone who intervened. She was so panicked that few of them hit their targets. Fortunately, this was a school, and most people weren't armed.
She shattered one last camera, then exited the school. Several teachers tried to follow, but she fired a few fairly accurate shots at the door that blew holes through the wood and kept anyone else from following. Mireille kept running, her gun aimed backwards over her shoulder, until she reached the safety of the woods.
Then she remembered. She was supposed to meet Kirika at that bench just across the street. Glancing across, she could see that the magazine was gone.
= = = = = = =
On the other side of the school, Kirika lay dazed in a pile of glass, feeling as if she were being pricked all over by tiny needles. It was no wonder-her arms and legs were cut and bruised and her neck ached fiercely. She moved her limbs gingerly, wincing from the pain. Nothing seemed to be broken. Besides, she had endured far worse.
A second pane of glass shattered over her, showering her in broken pieces of glass-and surprisingly, her Beretta. Kirika grabbed it and put her free hand down and tried to back away, cutting her hand in the process. Students were now climbing out of the window carefully one at a time, trying to avoid being cut. Kirika struggled to her feet, limping a bit-it seemed that she had twisted an ankle in the fall-and ran as quickly as she could towards the apartment building. She had no choice but to shoot the students that chose to follow; they could outrun her easily.
She entered a different building and ran outside again through the back, hoping to confuse them. The bench was empty. Where was Mireille? Kirika didn't even have a key to the car. She was dripping blood everywhere and couldn't run much farther with her ankle.
"Kirika!"
Having seemingly appeared out of nowhere, Mireille grabbed the collar of her uniform and dragged her out of sight. "What happened to you? Never mind, we don't have time for that. Get in the car."
Kirika gasped painfully at Mireille's rough touch. Mireille stopped and glanced down. "What happened to your foot?"
"I-I think I twisted my ankle," Kirika ground out. Mireille groaned. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine." Mireille heaved Kirika's arm around her shoulder and put her other arm around Kirika's waist. "Come on, if it's that bad you can hop along."
The ragged pair made their way to the car. By now Mireille was covered in Kirika's blood as well, but she said nothing as she opened the car door. "Can you lie down in the back, not on the seat but down where you would normally put your feet?"
"Hai." Kirika crawled in gingerly, knowing that they couldn't afford to let anyone see her. Even somebody who didn't know about the killings at Tsubaki High School would be sure to ask plenty of questions. Mireille slammed the door and got into the driver's seat, wiping brusquely at her bloodied shirt. Her jacket had been unfortunately left outside the door of the storage room, or it would have been put to great use, covering up the blood.
"Do you have your gun?" asked Mireille cautiously, as she backed out of the parking space.
"Un."
Mireille didn't respond. The guns might come in handy to kill anybody else that needed to die for them to escape, but if they were stopped by a policeman who decided to search their car. . . Mireille winced at the thought of a policeman finding a car with two bloodied women owning guns, not far from the recent killings at a local high school.
Upon arriving at their own hotel, they faced another problem: how to get back to their room without anyone noticing. Mireille was unscathed, but walking into the hotel with completely bloodied clothes was sure to attract plenty of attention. Kirika, on the other hand, hadn't uttered a sound on the way back but Mireille noticed that her ankle was swelling up rapidly now. They could take the stairs, which would obviously be much harder but less likely to have people, or they could take the fast route-the elevator- and risk being pelted with all sorts of questions. They unanimously chose the stairs.
"Are you sure you can walk up the stairs?" Mireille asked.
"Hai. I've been through worse."
Images of the Middle East flashed through her mind. "Well, we can't have you dripping blood everywhere or we'll be sure to get caught." She eyed Kirika's bloody body and looked around the car desperately. There was nothing they could use to wipe the cuts. Kirika sat up, groaning a little as she did so, and tore off a shred of her skirt. Mireille took it and cleaned Kirika up as best as she could.
"Are we bringing the guns?" asked Kirika.
Mireille stopped to ponder this. The shred of black pleated fabric was soaked in her hand. "Leave yours here for the time being," she decided. "You're not in any shape to be chasing a target anyway."
Target was a strange choice of words, but Kirika ignored it. She struggled out the door, leaning on Mireille for support, and one-leggedly made her way towards the building. They would enter through the south exit, which according to Mireille was closest to the stairs.
"I should have gotten a room on the first floor," muttered Mireille. Kirika's pace was getting slower and more painful with every step. Mireille considered picking her up and carrying her up the last flight of stairs but knew that it was impractical; besides, she was a mess of nerves herself and would probably drop her partner. "We're almost there."
"Un."
I should have never accepted this contract, thought Mireille.
At long last they reached their door and Mireille opened it. Kirika stumbled inside by herself and Mireille locked the door securely, twisting the doorknob several times to be sure. Immediately Kirika made for the bed, but Mireille steered her towards the bathroom.
"I'll bring you a fresh change of clothes as soon as we get you cleaned up," she said, deftly wringing out a white washcloth and dipping it in some antiseptic. Kirika winced at the touch and immediately colored. Five years ago she would have thought nothing of some cuts and bruises that might have needed a few stitches, but today she was different.
"Sorry," Mireille apologized. Kirika sat on the edge of the bathtub, her swollen ankle resting on a folded towel. "You're going to need stitches for that cut on your hand."
"All right," said Kirika blandly, though she was dreading it.
Mireille left the bathroom and returned with a first-aid kit that had been brought from France. Kirika winced and turned away, gritting her teeth and feeling embarrassed that she should be afraid of such a little pain. Mireille didn't say anything as she put nineteen stitches in Kirika's palm.
"Just try not to move it for awhile," Kirika heard. "Now let's see about your ankle."
Mireille was wrapping a fresh bandage around her hand now. The ankle, on the other hand, was puffed up and had turned various shades of black and green and yellow and purple. Mireille asked her to try and move it, which she did painfully.
"Well, at least nothing's broken," said Mireille, trying to sound cheerful. She wrapped a second bandage around the ankle and taped small adhesive bandages over Kirika's cuts. "I'll get you some clothes."
Kirika dressed herself in a pair of comfortable shorts and an oversized T- shirt of Mireille's, but Mireille had to help her to bed.
"I'll make lunch," she told her partner.
But as she chopped vegetables, the face she had seen came back to haunt her. For the first time she had failed in a contract. The irony of it- becoming friends with one you were destined to kill just days before the killing. Mireille thought she heard Kirika's voice calling and came out to investigate.
"What is it?"
Kirika paused. "Did you kill him?"
There was a longer pause on Mireille's side before she lowered her head. "No."
"I see," said Kirika quietly, and closed her eyes. Mireille watched her for a while, wishing that she would open her eyes, and when it became evident that she wouldn't, retreated back to the kitchen.
