Chapter 4 - The Other Side (Kirika's POV)
My eyes opened and I was awake again. Nobody had killed me while I slept. Not that they
would find that easy, as I am an unnaturally light sleeper, but there is always a chance.
Especially after Mirelle was attacked yesterday. My thoughts should be precise, but they
spiral out of my control for a moment.
It's been months since I've killed, so please, please, don't make me do it again. Don't come
and hunt for me, because I'll kill you. I'll kill you all. And my days and nights are already
filled with memories of death. Don't make me add to them. How can I redeem myself if
you force me to kill just to stay alive to get the chance to redeem myself? Just stop it, stop it
all.
My breathing starts to quicken. Then the cold steel at my centre wells up and stops all that.
I see my battles over and over again so I can learn from them and move that one step closer
to perfecting my skills. I stay alive because I am Noir. I must redeem because I am Noir.
I sigh. But is anything really that simple anymore? It's hard to find a balance between the
killer I am, and what I want to become. I have to try and loosen so much of the control I
have as Noir to allow myself to become anything else, but if I loosen that control the
realities of my situation come crashing in.
By my calculations I have probably turned twenty recently, although of course I'm not
certain of my age or birthday, and all the skills I have revolve around killing other people.
I'm unavoidably reminded of that old American film Mirelle rented recently called Grosse
Pointe Blank. The main character, a hitman, realises that he will have nothing in common
with anyone else from his high school class. How does he plan to introduce himself?
"My name's Martin Blank, and I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork."
In the film I believe it's intended to be an element of comedy, but I myself know that it is in
fact quite simple to kill someone with a fork by inserting it between two upper vertebrae and
then pivoting it right and left while applying rotational torque to the instrument. How
absurd is it that I have actually used this knowledge? Can I move on from that sort of past,
and make something of myself when I don't even know what I want to become? Can I
possibly be anything but a killer, no matter how hard I wish for it? I have so many
unanswered and unanswerable questions. I've thought about them for such a long time
now, trying to see a way through it, but no matter which way I turn, I run up against walls
that I can not break down.
As is usual for me, I quietly dress, gather up a book, and prepare to make my way out for my
morning walk, only to find my way barred by my dear friend Mirelle.
In many ways, she is everything that I am not. She is tall, and very beautiful, with a maturity
which goes far beyond her years. She is slightly older than me, not significantly so, but she
looks like a grown woman. Being on her own for so long has taught her ways of dealing
with people, both friendly to her and those hostile to her, with charisma and in ways that
induce respect. She is also a shrewd business woman. I suspect that someday, she will make
a wonderful mother for some darling children. I have none of these attributes or abilities,
other than perhaps painfully acquired maturity.
"Ki. Ri. Ka," she says, drawing my name out in the way she does when she's unhappy with
me. "Did I not say last night that I wanted to talk with you?" She exhales with a little sigh.
"You're not even carrying, are you. The day after I was attacked by ten Les Soldats killers,
you're still going outside alone and without a gun?"
"But Mirelle, I can always run, can't I?"
"You know it isn't that simple Kirika," she tells me. "Anyway, it's been months since you've
fired a gun at all. I just thought we could go to a practice range in the sewers and make sure
you still have the edge you might need to survive out there. And don't tell me that you
haven't healed up yet. I've seen the wounds. You're as good as new now."
"If you want to," I say. "Please don't worry about me though."
"Come on. There's no getting out of it this time, ok? I'm not asking you to come out with
me on a job, ok? I just want to get you out of the books you're always reading, and make
sure you can defend yourself."
So we walk out into the streets of Paris. The sun is just coming up now as we stop for a
couple croissants. I don't really feel like eating, but I know it's pointless to protest. Mirelle
has been very clear recently that she thinks I'm eating less than I should. I suppose it was
true that my weight was dropping, and my levels of energy had been lower than I was used
to.
We wander off the beaten path, and down into the network of underground passages that
crisscross Paris. Here we have what amounts to a regular shooting gallery in one of the
passages that isn't used heavily anymore.
"For you Kirika, a present," says Mirelle, as she hands me over an oilskin wrapped bundle
she'd been carrying with her. To me it feels like one compact pistol with a full magazine,
two full extra magazines, a holster, and some cleaning supplies. While Mirelle unpacks a
couple boxes of 9mm ammo, I unwrap the package.
"Thank you," I say with a bit of a sigh. She knows I'm not carrying my gun right now, so
she's bought me a new one.
"It's a Berretta 9000S type F," she says unnecessarily, since I've already identified it from
pictures I studied at some point in time. "It's a newer version of the gun you used to use, so
I thought it might be nice for you to update, instead of changing manufacturers or
anything."
"Thank you," I say again, but mean it this time. Even if I don't want a gun, it's nice that I
have such a considerate friend. I stand there, looking at the gun, lying in my hands in its
wrapping. Mirelle walks down to the end wall of the tunnel and marks two new targets for
us on the wall.
"I don't really want to pick it up," I call after her down the tunnel. It feels a bit like some
sort of forbidden fruit that I don't want to taste.
"Come on!" she says. "Let's get on with it. You need to practice, you know." She gets back
to where are supplies are and fires a magazine at the target she's made for herself. She might
have improved a bit during the last six months actually. She's shooting with a bit more
confidence now that she did sometimes before. I suppose she has been doing work recently
that I haven't been involved in.
I strap the holster on under my jacket so the gun rides in the small of my back, and then pick
the gun up and pull back the slide to check there's a round in the chamber already. I pocket
the full magazines. It's a bit like picking up an old security blanket again, and for all I know,
a gun might have been just that when I was small. I had probably been given them to touch
from almost the day I was born.
I was wrong, it isn't a forbidden fruit. It's like an addiction I'd been denying myself for these
last six months. Now I feel safe again. Now I feel whole. The thought terrifies me.
I fire a magazine at the target as fast as I can pull the trigger. I start to fire from the second
magazine before the empty one has even hit the floor. The third follows the first two.
Thirty seven rounds down the range.
"Check my target," I tell Mirelle, already starting to fill the magazines from the boxes of
bullets she brought with us. I don't need to check the target to know that my shooting was
beyond reproach, but Mirelle needs to see it. As she walks off down the tunnel, my hands
start to shake even as I combat load the gun and then slide an extra round back into the
magazine.
When she gets back, the gun is already in its holster, and I'm wiping my hands off.
"You shot better than I did, even after all these months, firing faster than I did with a
compact pistol," she says with a bit of shock and awe in her voice. "You're perfect Kirika."
"Mirelle... I'm a perfect killer. I'd been trying to forget for all these months," I say with tears
running down my cheeks. "But I can't... I just can't forget how to kill." She gathers me into
her arms as I cry. I never sob, or make noise. I just cry.
"Shhh..." she murmurs, stroking my hair. "Maybe practice isn't what you need right now."
Sometimes even though she's just 24, she feels a bit like a mother.
"I can't remember any of the rest of my life, Mirelle," I say. "Nothing but death, and how to
cause it."
She packs up the rest of the equipment we brought with us and puts her gun back in her
handbag.
"Maybe we should go home and talk about this, you know?" she says. "I didn't really know
you felt like that about it."
Soon we're walking on the streets of Paris again. Despite my resistance to using one again,
the gun and magazines are a comforting weight for me. The world is back to being black
and white. There's Mirelle and I: the black. And street after street of dead people. They
don't know it yet, but that's just because I haven't pulled the trigger.
Hour later, we're back sitting in our apartment, comfortable in a couple overstuffed chairs
Mirelle bought a few months back. I love sitting in the one I'm in now, where I can see out
the window. Other than chores, I spend a lot of my time sitting here now. Mirelle
commented once that even though I spoke plenty of languages, I obviously wasn't that well
read. So I set out to change that, making my way through all sorts of books from the library.
I found that I truly enjoyed some of them, so I wasn't doing it simply because I felt that I
should.
"Here's some tea, Kirika," Mirelle said, as she handed me a cup. It wasn't evening yet, when
we usually had tea together, but I guess she thought maybe I needed it.
"Why didn't you tell me you were feeling that like," she asked me. "I knew you hadn't
touched a gun in a long time, but I really wasn't sure why it was."
"I didn't know what to say," I told her, looking down into my tea cup. "You know that I
have trouble talking about things."
"It's ok, you don't need to be a killer for me, or anything like that," she said. "So why don't
you go out and go to school, or take some night courses or something like that?"
"I couldn't really enroll. I don't have the right types of identification," I said.
"Bullshit. That isn't the reason at all," she said. "You know that I could have ten separate
identities set up for you and go to a different school with each one without anyone
suspecting a thing. What is it really?"
"I can't be seen with people," I said. "I know that Les Soldats will probably still be trying to
kill us. How can I be seen with anyone and make friends with them? Each and every one of
them would become another target for Les Soldats the moment I spoke with them. Just
because I don't want to kill someone doesn't mean that they're safe from me."
"But I talk to people all the time," said Mirelle.
"Yes, but most of your friends are employed in less than regular professions anyway, Mirelle.
And what about Monsieur Vanel outside Paris who was killed with his family when you'd
contacted him for information?" I asked her.
"But he was looking for information. He was working against Les Soldats, he knew the
risks," she said.
"Alright," I said, "what about your uncle? What about the painter?"
"Damn it Kirika," she said, a bit bitterly. "Why did you bring my uncle up? "
"Sorry," I said quietly.
"I suppose I can see your point though," she said, a bit shaken. "I'd never thought of it
quite like that. So that's why you've been sitting around in here, reading and practising
throwing those damn knives all the time. I guess that your reasoning precludes you finding a
guy and getting laid then," Mirelle said, teasing a bit.
"Mirelle!" I said, blushing horribly. Sometimes I have a bit of trouble with her teasing me
about things like that. Is it my fault that I've never kissed a boy before?
"Sorry," she said with a grin. "I think it would do you the world of good though. Give you a
totally different perspective on life."
"But how can you suggest I betray my upperclassman?" I ask her. "Mr. Matsui back in
Japan was so strong, and so handsome!" I gaze up towards the ceiling with wide eyes. I do
my best to get that dopey loving expression you see in movies sometimes.
"What?" Mirelle demanded, with staring eyes. I think she almost fell off her chair. Then she
saw the smile her surprise had provoked. "I keep forgetting that you've got a sense of
humour buried under there somewhere."
Then we move on to talking about more comfortable things, like Mirelle's latest job, and
some new guns that some manufacturers were bringing out in the near future. Not only did
she forget about the fact that I'm capable of humour, but also that I'm capable of redirecting
conversations when it suits me. I prefer to think things through on my own.
So we chat, have dinner, and then talk some more. I read while Mirelle does some research
online, and then off to bed.
The next morning I wake up again. I'm still not dead, and I still want to take that early
morning walk. I dress, gather my things together, and make it outside while Mirelle is still
asleep. I leave a note for her, telling her not to worry. I've taken my gun as well as a book.
I walk toward the park that's a few blocks from the apartment intending to read there for a
while before the city gets really busy. It's a humid day, and later it will probably get quite
hot. When I get to the park, I find that there's an oriental man there before me, who's just
started a set of Tai Chi. As I stand watching him, the sun peeks up over the horizon and
paints the sky above.
Chapter 4 Author's Notes
- Yes, she does actually kill someone with a fork in the series in episode 4
- I'm suggesting here that Kirika has probably done at least some Tai Chi in the past. She's
certainly good at martial arts, and even though her style is pretty focussed on killing people,
it certainly isn't that linear. She relies quite a bit on evasion, leg sweeps, etc. so it seems
reasonable to me that she's done some 'softer' styles as well. Ok, I'm probably over
analysing here, but it makes sense to me, and it's important for the plot, damn it. grin
- Ok, sorry for the detail on the guns. I just thought I should I should at least make an
attempt to be factually correct. Incidently, in the series (and this fic) Mirelle uses the same
sort of gun that Mr. Bond does at the moment, a Walther P99.
- It doesn't come into the story quite yet, but the two of them have moved into a new
apartment from the one they lived in during the series. It's a bit larger, with two bedrooms
instead of one open room.
My eyes opened and I was awake again. Nobody had killed me while I slept. Not that they
would find that easy, as I am an unnaturally light sleeper, but there is always a chance.
Especially after Mirelle was attacked yesterday. My thoughts should be precise, but they
spiral out of my control for a moment.
It's been months since I've killed, so please, please, don't make me do it again. Don't come
and hunt for me, because I'll kill you. I'll kill you all. And my days and nights are already
filled with memories of death. Don't make me add to them. How can I redeem myself if
you force me to kill just to stay alive to get the chance to redeem myself? Just stop it, stop it
all.
My breathing starts to quicken. Then the cold steel at my centre wells up and stops all that.
I see my battles over and over again so I can learn from them and move that one step closer
to perfecting my skills. I stay alive because I am Noir. I must redeem because I am Noir.
I sigh. But is anything really that simple anymore? It's hard to find a balance between the
killer I am, and what I want to become. I have to try and loosen so much of the control I
have as Noir to allow myself to become anything else, but if I loosen that control the
realities of my situation come crashing in.
By my calculations I have probably turned twenty recently, although of course I'm not
certain of my age or birthday, and all the skills I have revolve around killing other people.
I'm unavoidably reminded of that old American film Mirelle rented recently called Grosse
Pointe Blank. The main character, a hitman, realises that he will have nothing in common
with anyone else from his high school class. How does he plan to introduce himself?
"My name's Martin Blank, and I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork."
In the film I believe it's intended to be an element of comedy, but I myself know that it is in
fact quite simple to kill someone with a fork by inserting it between two upper vertebrae and
then pivoting it right and left while applying rotational torque to the instrument. How
absurd is it that I have actually used this knowledge? Can I move on from that sort of past,
and make something of myself when I don't even know what I want to become? Can I
possibly be anything but a killer, no matter how hard I wish for it? I have so many
unanswered and unanswerable questions. I've thought about them for such a long time
now, trying to see a way through it, but no matter which way I turn, I run up against walls
that I can not break down.
As is usual for me, I quietly dress, gather up a book, and prepare to make my way out for my
morning walk, only to find my way barred by my dear friend Mirelle.
In many ways, she is everything that I am not. She is tall, and very beautiful, with a maturity
which goes far beyond her years. She is slightly older than me, not significantly so, but she
looks like a grown woman. Being on her own for so long has taught her ways of dealing
with people, both friendly to her and those hostile to her, with charisma and in ways that
induce respect. She is also a shrewd business woman. I suspect that someday, she will make
a wonderful mother for some darling children. I have none of these attributes or abilities,
other than perhaps painfully acquired maturity.
"Ki. Ri. Ka," she says, drawing my name out in the way she does when she's unhappy with
me. "Did I not say last night that I wanted to talk with you?" She exhales with a little sigh.
"You're not even carrying, are you. The day after I was attacked by ten Les Soldats killers,
you're still going outside alone and without a gun?"
"But Mirelle, I can always run, can't I?"
"You know it isn't that simple Kirika," she tells me. "Anyway, it's been months since you've
fired a gun at all. I just thought we could go to a practice range in the sewers and make sure
you still have the edge you might need to survive out there. And don't tell me that you
haven't healed up yet. I've seen the wounds. You're as good as new now."
"If you want to," I say. "Please don't worry about me though."
"Come on. There's no getting out of it this time, ok? I'm not asking you to come out with
me on a job, ok? I just want to get you out of the books you're always reading, and make
sure you can defend yourself."
So we walk out into the streets of Paris. The sun is just coming up now as we stop for a
couple croissants. I don't really feel like eating, but I know it's pointless to protest. Mirelle
has been very clear recently that she thinks I'm eating less than I should. I suppose it was
true that my weight was dropping, and my levels of energy had been lower than I was used
to.
We wander off the beaten path, and down into the network of underground passages that
crisscross Paris. Here we have what amounts to a regular shooting gallery in one of the
passages that isn't used heavily anymore.
"For you Kirika, a present," says Mirelle, as she hands me over an oilskin wrapped bundle
she'd been carrying with her. To me it feels like one compact pistol with a full magazine,
two full extra magazines, a holster, and some cleaning supplies. While Mirelle unpacks a
couple boxes of 9mm ammo, I unwrap the package.
"Thank you," I say with a bit of a sigh. She knows I'm not carrying my gun right now, so
she's bought me a new one.
"It's a Berretta 9000S type F," she says unnecessarily, since I've already identified it from
pictures I studied at some point in time. "It's a newer version of the gun you used to use, so
I thought it might be nice for you to update, instead of changing manufacturers or
anything."
"Thank you," I say again, but mean it this time. Even if I don't want a gun, it's nice that I
have such a considerate friend. I stand there, looking at the gun, lying in my hands in its
wrapping. Mirelle walks down to the end wall of the tunnel and marks two new targets for
us on the wall.
"I don't really want to pick it up," I call after her down the tunnel. It feels a bit like some
sort of forbidden fruit that I don't want to taste.
"Come on!" she says. "Let's get on with it. You need to practice, you know." She gets back
to where are supplies are and fires a magazine at the target she's made for herself. She might
have improved a bit during the last six months actually. She's shooting with a bit more
confidence now that she did sometimes before. I suppose she has been doing work recently
that I haven't been involved in.
I strap the holster on under my jacket so the gun rides in the small of my back, and then pick
the gun up and pull back the slide to check there's a round in the chamber already. I pocket
the full magazines. It's a bit like picking up an old security blanket again, and for all I know,
a gun might have been just that when I was small. I had probably been given them to touch
from almost the day I was born.
I was wrong, it isn't a forbidden fruit. It's like an addiction I'd been denying myself for these
last six months. Now I feel safe again. Now I feel whole. The thought terrifies me.
I fire a magazine at the target as fast as I can pull the trigger. I start to fire from the second
magazine before the empty one has even hit the floor. The third follows the first two.
Thirty seven rounds down the range.
"Check my target," I tell Mirelle, already starting to fill the magazines from the boxes of
bullets she brought with us. I don't need to check the target to know that my shooting was
beyond reproach, but Mirelle needs to see it. As she walks off down the tunnel, my hands
start to shake even as I combat load the gun and then slide an extra round back into the
magazine.
When she gets back, the gun is already in its holster, and I'm wiping my hands off.
"You shot better than I did, even after all these months, firing faster than I did with a
compact pistol," she says with a bit of shock and awe in her voice. "You're perfect Kirika."
"Mirelle... I'm a perfect killer. I'd been trying to forget for all these months," I say with tears
running down my cheeks. "But I can't... I just can't forget how to kill." She gathers me into
her arms as I cry. I never sob, or make noise. I just cry.
"Shhh..." she murmurs, stroking my hair. "Maybe practice isn't what you need right now."
Sometimes even though she's just 24, she feels a bit like a mother.
"I can't remember any of the rest of my life, Mirelle," I say. "Nothing but death, and how to
cause it."
She packs up the rest of the equipment we brought with us and puts her gun back in her
handbag.
"Maybe we should go home and talk about this, you know?" she says. "I didn't really know
you felt like that about it."
Soon we're walking on the streets of Paris again. Despite my resistance to using one again,
the gun and magazines are a comforting weight for me. The world is back to being black
and white. There's Mirelle and I: the black. And street after street of dead people. They
don't know it yet, but that's just because I haven't pulled the trigger.
Hour later, we're back sitting in our apartment, comfortable in a couple overstuffed chairs
Mirelle bought a few months back. I love sitting in the one I'm in now, where I can see out
the window. Other than chores, I spend a lot of my time sitting here now. Mirelle
commented once that even though I spoke plenty of languages, I obviously wasn't that well
read. So I set out to change that, making my way through all sorts of books from the library.
I found that I truly enjoyed some of them, so I wasn't doing it simply because I felt that I
should.
"Here's some tea, Kirika," Mirelle said, as she handed me a cup. It wasn't evening yet, when
we usually had tea together, but I guess she thought maybe I needed it.
"Why didn't you tell me you were feeling that like," she asked me. "I knew you hadn't
touched a gun in a long time, but I really wasn't sure why it was."
"I didn't know what to say," I told her, looking down into my tea cup. "You know that I
have trouble talking about things."
"It's ok, you don't need to be a killer for me, or anything like that," she said. "So why don't
you go out and go to school, or take some night courses or something like that?"
"I couldn't really enroll. I don't have the right types of identification," I said.
"Bullshit. That isn't the reason at all," she said. "You know that I could have ten separate
identities set up for you and go to a different school with each one without anyone
suspecting a thing. What is it really?"
"I can't be seen with people," I said. "I know that Les Soldats will probably still be trying to
kill us. How can I be seen with anyone and make friends with them? Each and every one of
them would become another target for Les Soldats the moment I spoke with them. Just
because I don't want to kill someone doesn't mean that they're safe from me."
"But I talk to people all the time," said Mirelle.
"Yes, but most of your friends are employed in less than regular professions anyway, Mirelle.
And what about Monsieur Vanel outside Paris who was killed with his family when you'd
contacted him for information?" I asked her.
"But he was looking for information. He was working against Les Soldats, he knew the
risks," she said.
"Alright," I said, "what about your uncle? What about the painter?"
"Damn it Kirika," she said, a bit bitterly. "Why did you bring my uncle up? "
"Sorry," I said quietly.
"I suppose I can see your point though," she said, a bit shaken. "I'd never thought of it
quite like that. So that's why you've been sitting around in here, reading and practising
throwing those damn knives all the time. I guess that your reasoning precludes you finding a
guy and getting laid then," Mirelle said, teasing a bit.
"Mirelle!" I said, blushing horribly. Sometimes I have a bit of trouble with her teasing me
about things like that. Is it my fault that I've never kissed a boy before?
"Sorry," she said with a grin. "I think it would do you the world of good though. Give you a
totally different perspective on life."
"But how can you suggest I betray my upperclassman?" I ask her. "Mr. Matsui back in
Japan was so strong, and so handsome!" I gaze up towards the ceiling with wide eyes. I do
my best to get that dopey loving expression you see in movies sometimes.
"What?" Mirelle demanded, with staring eyes. I think she almost fell off her chair. Then she
saw the smile her surprise had provoked. "I keep forgetting that you've got a sense of
humour buried under there somewhere."
Then we move on to talking about more comfortable things, like Mirelle's latest job, and
some new guns that some manufacturers were bringing out in the near future. Not only did
she forget about the fact that I'm capable of humour, but also that I'm capable of redirecting
conversations when it suits me. I prefer to think things through on my own.
So we chat, have dinner, and then talk some more. I read while Mirelle does some research
online, and then off to bed.
The next morning I wake up again. I'm still not dead, and I still want to take that early
morning walk. I dress, gather my things together, and make it outside while Mirelle is still
asleep. I leave a note for her, telling her not to worry. I've taken my gun as well as a book.
I walk toward the park that's a few blocks from the apartment intending to read there for a
while before the city gets really busy. It's a humid day, and later it will probably get quite
hot. When I get to the park, I find that there's an oriental man there before me, who's just
started a set of Tai Chi. As I stand watching him, the sun peeks up over the horizon and
paints the sky above.
Chapter 4 Author's Notes
- Yes, she does actually kill someone with a fork in the series in episode 4
- I'm suggesting here that Kirika has probably done at least some Tai Chi in the past. She's
certainly good at martial arts, and even though her style is pretty focussed on killing people,
it certainly isn't that linear. She relies quite a bit on evasion, leg sweeps, etc. so it seems
reasonable to me that she's done some 'softer' styles as well. Ok, I'm probably over
analysing here, but it makes sense to me, and it's important for the plot, damn it. grin
- Ok, sorry for the detail on the guns. I just thought I should I should at least make an
attempt to be factually correct. Incidently, in the series (and this fic) Mirelle uses the same
sort of gun that Mr. Bond does at the moment, a Walther P99.
- It doesn't come into the story quite yet, but the two of them have moved into a new
apartment from the one they lived in during the series. It's a bit larger, with two bedrooms
instead of one open room.