I am writing this because it seems to me that almost all of the
Fanfics on noir or either written from Mireille's perspective
or third person. Almost none of them are from Kirika's POV. I
think this is bad, but I understand most people can't put
themselves in her shoes very easily. This will be a two to
three part one.
Just a warning, but I took some poetic license with grammar as this story is basically Kirika's scattered thoughts; they don't really take standard form. So it may be a bit difficult for some to read.
Hey, Guess what! I don't own Noir or any of it's characters. Now how does this separate me from the average Fanfic writer? I don't take credit for it; I don't sell it, so don't sue me, OK?
This takes place sometime after the series ends, with Kirika finally coming to terms with her own emotions.
She quietly slipped out from the covers, taking care not to disturb Mireille. Slowly she got up and dressed. She looked down at her partner. She had stayed with her, even after all that had happened. She may have learned more about her past, but something had held them together. Love, she thought to herself? No, not quite, although related. She thought though all the languages she knew. None in Japanese, French, English, German, Italian, Latin.. None of them. In all the languages she knew, there was no word to describe the bond that had grown between them. She knew others had known about it. It had been alluded to in several novels, mostly about war. It was the bond that grew between two people who knew such pain and suffering that only the formation of such a bond could they keep their sanity. and their souls. Only by constant immersion in death, such as most people know only in times of war, could such a bond grow. No war had they known, however, although their trade they saw as such death as have driven men insane, and inflicted such death as to drown a normal person in blood. She did not try to name it herself... it was pointless. Only by knowing such a bond could the meaning be communicated, no mere medium such as language could communicate it.
She slowly walked over and got her Beretta off of the nightstand. She would need it this night. She made no special attempt to be quiet, she didn't need to. She walked with a silence that is inborn, never making a sound. Her smooth and graceful steps falling inaudibly on the cold floor. In the matter of physical movement and appearance she resembled noting so much as the cats she so loved. Small, cute, harmless in appearance, but concealing a killing instinct, an almost mystical awareness of sudden changes and danger; a sixth sense, and a cunning that turns even the mundane into an advantage. It was why she loved them so much.
But this kitten. was going to find out, once and for all, just what she really was.
She took the Beretta and hid it in her jacket. She put some gloves on. She couldn't risk her fingerprints being found and besides, it was winter and it was cold outside. She put her shoes on and walked out of the door, down the hall of the apartment, took the stairs down to the bottom of the building. She stopped and noted the time, 11:25 PM. She then walked out into the streets.
It was a chill December night. The Sky was crisp and clear as such only come in the winter, with the biting cold sharpening the senses. She wandered the street of Paris for a time; it was surprisingly empty as she wandered the streets. Even at this time of night, you would expect some people out in a city like Paris, but she was all alone this night..
As if this was any different from normal. "Even when I was in a crowd, I was always alone". She suddenly remembered the line Mireille had quoted, that one evening when she said goodbye to Japan. It rung true then.
It never rang truer than this on this Brisk December night.
What was the day, anyway? As yes, December 24, Christmas Eve. The time for joy and love. And she had completely forgotten it. It would be Christmas in a mere half and hour, approximately. And her task.
If had a sense of irony, she would have been rolling in laughter at that thought.
As it was, she merely noted a house on her passing. It was a normal house, average for Paris. It was nothing special; it was completely ordinary in appearance.
Perfect. for her dark task.
Without a second thought she was in, a window was left open. A simple leap saw her in a kitchen. And why shouldn't it be open. This family was probably completely normal. They had no reason to hide, to close their windows at night. She walked down into the hallway.
She saw several doors in the hallway. She still made no sound; she was unconsciously quiet as always. She pulled her gun out, and silently, slowly, opened a door at the end of the hall.
She saw a man lying on a bed, quite asleep. He was wrapped up in winter blankets on his bed.
She brought the Beretta to level with his heart.
Now, she thought, is my test.
All her life, all she had known was death. The death of others. Killing and death was all the childhood she had, all she had known.
But was killing all she could have?
This was her question.
So she devised her test. She would find a man, whom she knew nothing about, and see if she could kill him.
Always before, she had had some reason for it. She had always killed the corrupt, the blamed, the damned. Such was Noir's purpose, such was she trained for.
But could she kill someone who was blameless? Whom she knew nothing about. Was there a reason, or even a difference? Did one man's life truly mean more than another?
She saw a Grandfather clock on the far wall. 11:50.
10 minutes until Christmas.
She stared at the man. She had never really though about this test, no conscious thought at least. It was decided in the back of her mind, never reaching the conscious stage of thought, although she knew she would do it anyway.
Suddenly, she heard a door open. She quickly turned her head and looked down the hall. A young girl had walked out in the hallway. She wore only a small nightgown. She was staring at Yumura. She made no move and made no sound. She was frozen in terror. She looked young, very young. Somewhere between 4-8 years old. She Stared into Kirika's eyes. They seemed to burn her soul. For the first time, she looked into eyes seemed to pierce even her blank face, the face she had cultivated over the years, the face to mask her feeling, for indeed, her face was a reflection of what she did. She hid her emotions, even from herself. To feel was to feel pain, and it was preferable not to feel at all.
But this young girls eyes pierced this. And all the emotions she felt came flooding out at once.
She started to tremble uncontrollably. Tears now flowing freely. The careful shield she had formed had been shattered by this young girl's gaze, and she finally saw her own soul naked before her very eyes. And what she saw frightened her more than even the girl was
For what she saw was.
Noir
Just a warning, but I took some poetic license with grammar as this story is basically Kirika's scattered thoughts; they don't really take standard form. So it may be a bit difficult for some to read.
Hey, Guess what! I don't own Noir or any of it's characters. Now how does this separate me from the average Fanfic writer? I don't take credit for it; I don't sell it, so don't sue me, OK?
This takes place sometime after the series ends, with Kirika finally coming to terms with her own emotions.
She quietly slipped out from the covers, taking care not to disturb Mireille. Slowly she got up and dressed. She looked down at her partner. She had stayed with her, even after all that had happened. She may have learned more about her past, but something had held them together. Love, she thought to herself? No, not quite, although related. She thought though all the languages she knew. None in Japanese, French, English, German, Italian, Latin.. None of them. In all the languages she knew, there was no word to describe the bond that had grown between them. She knew others had known about it. It had been alluded to in several novels, mostly about war. It was the bond that grew between two people who knew such pain and suffering that only the formation of such a bond could they keep their sanity. and their souls. Only by constant immersion in death, such as most people know only in times of war, could such a bond grow. No war had they known, however, although their trade they saw as such death as have driven men insane, and inflicted such death as to drown a normal person in blood. She did not try to name it herself... it was pointless. Only by knowing such a bond could the meaning be communicated, no mere medium such as language could communicate it.
She slowly walked over and got her Beretta off of the nightstand. She would need it this night. She made no special attempt to be quiet, she didn't need to. She walked with a silence that is inborn, never making a sound. Her smooth and graceful steps falling inaudibly on the cold floor. In the matter of physical movement and appearance she resembled noting so much as the cats she so loved. Small, cute, harmless in appearance, but concealing a killing instinct, an almost mystical awareness of sudden changes and danger; a sixth sense, and a cunning that turns even the mundane into an advantage. It was why she loved them so much.
But this kitten. was going to find out, once and for all, just what she really was.
She took the Beretta and hid it in her jacket. She put some gloves on. She couldn't risk her fingerprints being found and besides, it was winter and it was cold outside. She put her shoes on and walked out of the door, down the hall of the apartment, took the stairs down to the bottom of the building. She stopped and noted the time, 11:25 PM. She then walked out into the streets.
It was a chill December night. The Sky was crisp and clear as such only come in the winter, with the biting cold sharpening the senses. She wandered the street of Paris for a time; it was surprisingly empty as she wandered the streets. Even at this time of night, you would expect some people out in a city like Paris, but she was all alone this night..
As if this was any different from normal. "Even when I was in a crowd, I was always alone". She suddenly remembered the line Mireille had quoted, that one evening when she said goodbye to Japan. It rung true then.
It never rang truer than this on this Brisk December night.
What was the day, anyway? As yes, December 24, Christmas Eve. The time for joy and love. And she had completely forgotten it. It would be Christmas in a mere half and hour, approximately. And her task.
If had a sense of irony, she would have been rolling in laughter at that thought.
As it was, she merely noted a house on her passing. It was a normal house, average for Paris. It was nothing special; it was completely ordinary in appearance.
Perfect. for her dark task.
Without a second thought she was in, a window was left open. A simple leap saw her in a kitchen. And why shouldn't it be open. This family was probably completely normal. They had no reason to hide, to close their windows at night. She walked down into the hallway.
She saw several doors in the hallway. She still made no sound; she was unconsciously quiet as always. She pulled her gun out, and silently, slowly, opened a door at the end of the hall.
She saw a man lying on a bed, quite asleep. He was wrapped up in winter blankets on his bed.
She brought the Beretta to level with his heart.
Now, she thought, is my test.
All her life, all she had known was death. The death of others. Killing and death was all the childhood she had, all she had known.
But was killing all she could have?
This was her question.
So she devised her test. She would find a man, whom she knew nothing about, and see if she could kill him.
Always before, she had had some reason for it. She had always killed the corrupt, the blamed, the damned. Such was Noir's purpose, such was she trained for.
But could she kill someone who was blameless? Whom she knew nothing about. Was there a reason, or even a difference? Did one man's life truly mean more than another?
She saw a Grandfather clock on the far wall. 11:50.
10 minutes until Christmas.
She stared at the man. She had never really though about this test, no conscious thought at least. It was decided in the back of her mind, never reaching the conscious stage of thought, although she knew she would do it anyway.
Suddenly, she heard a door open. She quickly turned her head and looked down the hall. A young girl had walked out in the hallway. She wore only a small nightgown. She was staring at Yumura. She made no move and made no sound. She was frozen in terror. She looked young, very young. Somewhere between 4-8 years old. She Stared into Kirika's eyes. They seemed to burn her soul. For the first time, she looked into eyes seemed to pierce even her blank face, the face she had cultivated over the years, the face to mask her feeling, for indeed, her face was a reflection of what she did. She hid her emotions, even from herself. To feel was to feel pain, and it was preferable not to feel at all.
But this young girls eyes pierced this. And all the emotions she felt came flooding out at once.
She started to tremble uncontrollably. Tears now flowing freely. The careful shield she had formed had been shattered by this young girl's gaze, and she finally saw her own soul naked before her very eyes. And what she saw frightened her more than even the girl was
For what she saw was.
Noir