A/N: Hm. I just noticed that the summaries are starting to get vaguer and vaguer. Believe me, it'll get even more ambiguous by each chapter, lol. And, um, don't worry, Zerohour, I promised myself that this will be the first multi-chaptered fic that I'll actually finish. XD
Chapter Seven:
Tenebras
"You understand the gravity of the situation, of course. Ms. Bouquet. Schwarz was not authorized to instigate any sort of movement related to the Noir before the Soldat Council made a final decision between the factions. What he has done is tantamount to mutiny and makes him liable for arrest as far as the Soldat organization is concerned."
"And that was why you had reinforcements secure the underground site when you got us out of there."
"Exactly. Reinforcements called me back when we arrived here and gave a report. They had waited until we had safely escaped and then they managed to infiltrate the facility. Unfortunately, because of their concern over our safety, they were a little too late in fulfilling the mission. Some people of Schwarz's faction were caught, but -"
"Schwarz escaped, didn't he? He seems diabolically clever enough to do so."
"Not only that, but he managed to take the Noir data with him. The machines were still left there and there's enough evidence to have him...er, eliminated permanently from the organization, but that's not going to be worth anything if we don't find him first."
"Any idea how he got out of that underground dungeon of his?"
"His escape was too clean. My men have been constantly reporting back between intervals of thirty minutes of investigation, but they still haven't found anything. It is as if he simply vanished. And his people that were left behind won't breathe a word."
A pause. "Dead end?"
"Thankfully, no. Our faction, under the direction of Mr. Graipaul, has been hard at work in acquiring as much information about Schwarz's little project as possible all this time, and we were able to obtain a great deal about his potential control centers in case we were found out too early."
"How?"
"We'd been spying on Schwarz for a very long time now, Ms. Bouquet. Everytime we discover a hideout of his, we'd immediately send a squad to install some bugs and miniature cameras all over the place to monitor its activity. So far it's been quiet."
"I find it hard to believe that Schwarz didn't discover that."
"Well, we can't say for sure, and who knows, all the information we ever got could merely be hoaxes, but that's the risk we have to take. This is all we can work with. At least he can't blame us for not trying."
A password prompt appeared. There were some clicking sounds on the keyboard.
"These are the three possible locations that Schwarz may be holed in right now. We used the Soldat's global positioning satellite system to map out each of the structures of Schwarz's hideouts into cyber-navigational systems."
"My, I'll have to get one of those soon. You certainly do your homework well, Kinomoto."
"We all do, Ms. Bouquet. The Soldat organization did not last for centuries for nothing."
Mireille glanced up from Kinomoto's laptop where navigational online blueprints flashed and reflected in her eyes, revealing three separate panels of virtual structures and corresponding charts and information. One was in Japan, one in Germany, and one in Russia. "This is relatively all very well and good, Kinomoto, but something's still bothering me."
Kinomoto leaned against the table, coffee cup in hand. "Yes?"
"What do the Soldat's get out of this? Everything Schwarz is doing is obviously to the advantage of the organization." Mireille crossed her legs at the ankles and she wore a look of mild curiosity. "If that's so, then why is there a huge faction of the organization opposing it? You said that it was because Graipaul thought it unethical, but frankly, I don't quite believe that the Soldats as a whole has words like 'ethics' and 'morals' in their vocabulary."
"'As a whole,' Ms. Bouquet?" The young man bent his neck and sipped some coffee, smiling wryly. "You are homogenizing the entire organization, Miss, which is fatal. Do not judge us merely because of your experience with a few. You give us too little credit for our basic humanity; we're really not as mechanical as you think. At least not all of us." He chuckled. "There are also struggles between blocs in the organization regarding not only power but also of ethics of how the organization should be run." He raised an index finger. "Similarly, you may not be very aware of it, but Remi Graipaul speaks very highly of you two not only of your combat skills but also of your rights as human individuals."
"I see." Mireille did not sound convinced but her curiosity appeared mollified. She returned to the online cartographs displayed in the laptop. "Any gut feeling that may direct you to a guess regarding which of these three places would Schwarz be hiding his sorry ass in?"
Akira Kinomoto was smiling. "Based on the extreme advantage Schwarz has over us, I wouldn't say his bottom would be very apologetic at the present moment."
"Clever, Kinomoto, but not to the point," returned Mireille good-naturedly, the very first hint of comfort entering her voice. She glanced at the reflection from the mirror of Kirika, who was sitting on the bed, eyes distant as usual. She seemed so stripped yet at the same liberated, so unlike the closed and angst-ridden girl she knew. Now she was merely a small slip of an ordinary Japanese teenage girl, understandably confused of all the rapid events revolving around her, wishing she was back with her friends in the karaoke bar. It was terrifying how people could change so fast.
"Ms. Bouquet? Ms. Bouquet."
Kinomoto was waving his hand in front of her.
"Sorry, I got a little distracted," said Mireille apologetically as she mentally kicked herself, yanking her eyes back to the laptop. "You were saying?"
Kinomoto was tapping a section of the LCD screen that showed the detailed image of a sprawling, abandoned Japanese pavilion located in the heart of the Wakkaido province of Hokkaido. "I think I'd bet on this place."
"Care to explain?"
"For one, it's the quickest place he can get to. Second, and more importantly, we're in Asia, where the Soldats are considerably weaker. The organization's branches are strongest in European countries because they're nearer to the main headquarters in France, and being such, I don't think he'd risk fleeing to Germany and the European part of Russia where he can easily be apprehended." Kinomoto removed his glasses to rub his eyes. "Third, my Soldat visa for the Euro regions has expired, come to think of it, and so has my Russian one."
"It's a good a hunch as any, so we'll just have to take your word for it." Mireille moved the mouse and zoomed in on the image, enlarging the Japan chart to the full size of the screen. She could see the red paint peeling off the roof shingles and the small, stone dragon finials perched in single files on the ridges of the gables. She peered at the information box at the lower right corner. "It's an ancestral temple?"
"Used to be the shrine of an obscure branch family of the old Sugawara clan that must have traveled upstream. It dates pretty way back, maybe mid-Tokugawan. For something of it's age, it's pretty well-kept." Kinomoto was yawning and the fatigue was unmistakable in his eyes. "Can't be too sure when Schwarz managed to get a hold of it, but it must be just after the last of the branch family's bloodline died. The location's terribly convenient for someone like him, though, it being isolated in Hokkaido. And it's really close to Asian Russia, where he could easily jump ship and make his way to Siberia, if necessary."
"I wouldn't be suprised if he 'eliminated permanently' the caretakers of that shrine exactly for that purpose," commented Mireille darkly as she investigated the cartograph further. "How's security there?"
"Pretty tight." He squinted and Mireille noticed his dark eyebags. "We nearly lost a number of spies there when they almost walked right into the central courtyard that was virtually a mine field. Fortunately, someone had enough good sense to know that when people say 'Keep off the grass,' they really do mean it."
"Look-outs?"
"Around the perimeter and over and above. And each hallway has at least two guards and each room has at least one."
Mireille paused. Kinomoto had closed his eyes, his head leaning against the wall.
"Kinomoto?"
He held up his hand, lids still down. "Just resting my eyes, but I'm still here."
"I think you'd better get some sleep. Kirika and I have been sleeping and dreaming for a long time, but you won't be of any use if you keep this up."
The radio on his belt squawked and he picked it up, mumbled something to it, then clipped it back, finally sliding off the table. "Yeah, I think you might have something there, Ms. Bouquet. I've been up for a pretty long time." He nodded gratefully. "I guess I can leave you here since everything you need to know of the place is in that database, but in case you have to really ask something or if the house is on fire, don't hesitate to call me. I'll be in the living room."
"I'll be studying the structure and the activity patterns of the place. We'll start for Schwarz tomorrow morning."
"Roger that."
"Good night, Kinomoto."
The Japanese bowed. "Good night, Ms. Bouquet, Ms. Yuumura."
Ms. Yuumura, thought Mireille as she dove deeper into the bowels of the temple with the click of the mouse. She had almost forgotten Kirika during the course of their conversation; the girl seemed to be that irrelevant to the discussion that had transpired earlier, like a peripheral object that was there by accident.
She doesn't seem to be resenting it, though, thought Mireille wryly, looking up at the reflection of the mirror again. Kirika was lying on her side on the bed, her back facing Mireille. On the other hand, what on earth are we going to do with her tomorrow?
Mireille gave the ENTER key a more-than-usual violent hit, which drew her into a corridor. One thing was for certain: they couldn't very well just leave her behind tomorrow, but Kirika was consequently going to be a huge liability to them during the siege, that's flat. The thought disconcerted Mireille immensely.
"Kirika," Mireille called her after finally deciding that she wouldn't be able to concentrate on her business if she didn't try to resolve this matter first.
The girl did not move, but when Mireille called her louder, she rolled and sat up, her eyes staring back at Mireille, challenging her with its lack of recognition. The sheets ruffled at the movement.
"Kirika, the situation at hand is too complex to explain," began Mireille in her best broken Japanese. Then she stopped abruptly, at a loss.
Then Kirika opened her mouth and quietly let out a stream of Japanese of which Mireille tried hastily to catch and managed to extract the gist of it, which was, "Are we going to kill someone tomorrow?" Mireille knew the word "korosu" very well, naturally.
"Well...yes," replied Mireille after much deliberation. No use hiding it from her anyway, she reasoned to herself. Best that she be aware of the situation as much as possible, or else she might bungle it up even more with her ignorance. "Yes, we are. That's why it's going to be quite dangerous." She stopped again. Then at a desperate attempt to spark some sort of memory, Mireille blurted out, "Don't you remember anything at all? About Chloe? Or Altena? Anything?"
Kirika stared at her blankly and Mireille realized that she had just spoken in complete and flawless French.
"Never mind," she said faintly, swiveling the chair back to face the laptop. She pressed a few buttons as she bit her lower lip, the view zooming into a room, and she tried to concentrate on the contents of the room so as to keep Kirika out of her head. There was a guard, a desk, two computers, and a clock inside the room.
An analog clock.
Mireille frowned.
With numbers and three hands.
Mireille drew her fingers away from the laptop then she slowly turned the chair back to face Kirika. The girl was huddled on the middle of the bed, hugging her legs and her eyes downcast.
And Mireille began to hum. Trying to keep the tremble from her voice, she intoned the melody of the old golden pocketwatch, the one that was lying somewhere with its glass face cracked, the one that began this whole business in the first place. Mireille had never fancied herself much of a songstress, but this was no time to be shy. There had always been something eerily organic in the notes of that old melody, something distinctly ancient and regal that produced an pathos that was unique only to herself and Kirika and their black hands...
Kirika had looked up at the sound and her eyes were shining. It wasn't recognition, but there was something there, and whatever it was that was making her eyes regain a luster, it was definitely intense, noted Mireille as she tried to keep her own eyes from welling. Kirika was now sitting at the edge of the bed, gazing at Mireille with squinted eyes, asking softly, "Anata wa...dare?"
Mireille was about to hum the melody for the third time around when she was interrupted by the creaking sound of a door opening. She stopped, and Kirika jerked up, hearing it too.
Then there was utter silence. Kirika's eyes had locked with Mireille's, filled with apprehension. The blonde put a finger to her lips and her face was tight, her ears straining. Her hand crept for her gun and she hoped it was only Kinomoto going up for the toilet.
Another sound broke out; it was slight and muffled, but it was enough to widen Mireille's eyes and have her fling open the door of their room and make a dash towards the living room.
Mireille's startling entrance made the two masked men who were standing in the middle of the room turn around. Taking advantage of their shock, Mireille scanned the room wildly. The door of the apartment room had been opened without any sign of violent intrusion. Outside the door and in the hallway she saw the boots of two prostrate figures on the floor who had been guarding them. The two intruders, clad from head to toe in padded black and being heavily armed, were standing over a sofa where Kinomoto's limp feet portruded out with his white socks. The sound Mireille had heard had been the sound of a silencer muffling a fired bullet.
Then every object in that room except for Kinomoto's motionless body seemed to leap into action. Both gunmen swung their rifles at Mireille, but she had grabbed the huge lamp atop the table beside the sofa first and had hurled it to them. Both gunmen fired and drilled holes into the flower-print lampshade as Mireille evaded the shattered shards of glass, drawing out her own gun with both hands and pulling the trigger twice.
The two bullets flew and hit their targets faithfully, one on each chest. But the two men only staggered and recoiled from the impact, dropping their rifles, a little breathless but still standing. Mireille narrowed her eyes. Bullet-proof vests.
She was ready to aim at their foreheads, but before she could, the quicker of the two pulled out a small canister from one of his numerous pads, and in one swift motion pulled out the pin with his teeth and threw it towards Mireille.
A colorless vapor escaped from the can and a faint, sweetish smell diffused into the room. Mireille fell to the ground, only an elbow supporting her, as she hacked and coughed, her eyes stinging as she saw in her mind's eye how the nerve gas would circulate in her bloodstream. Her temples throbbed and she groped for the gun that she had dropped, thrashing wildly when she felt one of them roughly lift her up, taking care not to breath too much. She aimed a kick with her stiletto boot towards the end of his pelvic section and the man howled an expletive as he inadvertently dropped her back on the floor. She groaned from the impact, and, mustering the last of her consciousness, swung her leg to sweep him off his feet. He fell down with a loud thud, his head squarely hitting the wooden end of the sofa, and his eyes rolled backwards into his skull.
The other had pulled out his radio and was barking orders into it from the other end of the room, a distance from the thicker concentration of the nerve gas. Upon seeing Mireille struggling to rise, he immediately aimed his firearm at her and was about to fire when a blur shot out of the other room, leaped into the air, and grabbed his head. There was the sound of bone cracking and the gunman fell limply, rifle slipping out of his fingers and the radio crushed under his weight. Kirika was standing over him silently.
"Kirika!" Mireille coughed, remembering to speak in Japanese. "We have to get out of here! The whole room's being filled with nerve gas!" She fumbled over the phrases, especially over "nerve gas," but it was clear Kirika understood the urgency of the situation. The younger girl immediately ran back into the bedroom, covering her face with her sleeve, and came out carrying Kinomoto's laptop, the wires dangling from her arms. Mireille had flung open the windows and had let the sharp, crisp wind into the room to air it. She had shut the door to prevent the nerve gas from spreading.
"Come," said Mireille, one leg already out of the window, her golden hair billowing with the breeze. "I'm certain there will be some rather unpleasant people waiting for us if we take the elevator." She didn't care now that she was speaking in complete French once again. Kirika seemed to understand. It was during matters of life and death that all languages became one.
Kirika swiftly handed her the laptop and slid outside the window, stepping into the makeshift balcony railing and the fire escape ladder beside each room of the steep apartment. They were on the twelfth storey. Taking care not to look down, she quickly pattered down the steps, her small hand sliding down the bannister smoothly. Mireille was not far behind her, her boots making a clamor against the metal levels, while keeping an eye out for any unpleasantries that may accost them among the loud neon advertisements and the din of metropolitan Tokyo.
Just when they had reached the end of the second floor's fire escape ladder, a small spotlight from below suddenly ascended on them and centered on their figures. Both of them froze and Mireille's heart jumped up to her throat.
"I think we're low enough here; we'll jump on three," she said through gritted teeth as she shielded her eyes from the glaring light coming from a spot in the darkness below, some twenty meters way from them. "It could be Graipaul's men, but I'm not taking any chances." She heaved a breath and felt exhilirated, despite herself. It was beginning to feel like old times again.
"Ichi..."
Kirika was rubbing her arms. The air was biting cold.
"Ni..." Mireille gripped the metal railing, muscles tense.
"San."
The two figures suddenly disappeared from the spotlight. One had leaped over the railing; the other had slipped under it. The spotlight went berserk.
Mireille winced as she landed. The jump had been more precipitous than what she had expected and she had sprained her ankle. There had been nothing to break her fall except for the hard concrete of the back alley. She twisted her neck. Kirika had alighted nimbly on her two feet, the jump obviously not much of a challenge to her.
"Daijoubu desu ka?" asked Kirika with a considerable hint of concern, seeing her companion limping and remembering her intake of the nerve gas. But the older woman waved dismissively, only tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and answering dryly in her strange, fluid language.
"We'll be going through much worse than this," Mireille was saying as she straightened her clothes. "Come, we'd better go somewhere out of sight." The spotlight was slowly descending on them and she was starting to hear the pit-pat of boots towards them.
They made their way deeper into the dark alley, scaling over a wire fence and picking their way among the trashcans and the usual backstreet filth. A cat yowled and ran across them, screeching.
"By the way," Mireille had stopped and had pulled out a gun from her pocket. "I think this is yours."
Kirika looked at it, expressionless. But she opened her palm without question nor protest and Mireille handed it to her. She closed her hand on it and quickly pocketed it. Then she reached out and grabbed Mireille's wrist.
Mireille stared at her hand. "Yes?"
"Kinomoto-san wa...?"
The blonde looked at her eyes and said as gently as she could in Japanese, "He's dead, Kirika."
"I see." Kirika let go of her. She didn't look surprised.
"And now I have something to ask you, Kirika." Mireille felt some slight comfort every time she spoke the girl's name and the girl would respond by looking at her. At least she recognized it. "How did you learn to fight like that?"
"Wakarimasen; it was as if I just knew. But I don't remember how. It is very strange."
There was a small pause where no one moved. Then Kirika slid her hands down her knees and bowed deeply. "Domo arigato gozaimasu."
"Excuse me?"
"I must be going home now to my parents; it's very late," the girl said simply. "Thank you for helping me."
"Home?" Mireille was about to say that she had no home, but she wisely caught herself and tried to be diplomatic. "But Kirika, you can't."
Kirika's eyes flickered. "Why not?"
"Because...well, there are men all over the city looking for you and it won't be safe to lead them to your home, would it?"
"But why are they looking for me?"
"They have...something they want from you." Mireille's hands were starting to feel clammy and she could feel the perspiration sticking on the laptop cover, the same way the Japanese words were starting to stick in her throat.
"But what do they want from me?" Kirika's voice had risen, and, to Mireille's utter amazement, had switched to French without even knowing it. "I have never seen you or them in all of my life; why am I involved in this?"
Mireille struggled. Then she put her hands on Kirika's shoulders and gripped them, trying to think clearly. "Kirika...Kirika, things are not what they seem to be. You're not who you think you are."
Kirika shook her away and shrank back, the fear unmistakable. "What do you mean?!"
Mireille could not answer.
The girl bowed again, hurriedly this time, and was about to dart off, but Mireille caught her arm and before Kirika could utter a cry of pain, she whispered quickly, "At least let me accompany you to your home. It's not safe for you to be alone."
Kirika was staring at her, the suspicion heavy. She was trembling. "But why?! What are you going to do to me and my family? What have we ever done to you?!"
"I don't mean you any harm!" Mireille said desperately, holding on tightly, knowing that if she released her, she would never find her again. "How could I? I'm the only one you have left!"
"What?! What do you mean?"
"Just...at least promise me that you'd let me come with you." Mireille swallowed a lump in her throat as inconspicuously as she could. She was shaking uncontrollably and her eyes were twitching, the stress she had been through finally taking its toll on her. "If we reach your place and if you're fine with it, then you'll never see me again. But if you don't like what you see there, you'll have to come with me. There's no other place you can go."
"Why shouldn't it be fine with me?" replied Kirika brusquely, finally yanking her arm free from Mireille's hold. "Mother and Father have taken a break from America to come home and spend some time with me for a week. We went to the mall this morning." And without another word, she began walking away.
Mireille silently followed her as they returned to the main street and moved under the starless, neon-hazed sky of the city. Kirika flagged a cab and they got in, with the girl telling the driver the address. Mireille recognized the route they were taking: it was the same one they had taken the first time she met Kirika, the one that led to Kirika's house. She dug her nails into her sweaty palms, feeling the dead weight of Kinomoto's laptop.
When they reached Kirika's old two-storey, split-level home without event, the Japanese girl immediately clambered up the porch to the front door. All the lights were out. Kirika started fishing for something in her pockets, then she stopped and began patting herself.
Mireille waited patiently beside her, shifting her weight and dreading what was about to happen.
"I must have dropped my keys somewhere," defended Kirika with a tone of rebelliousness that matched the bright defiance in her eyes. Mireille gave no answer, though she knew where Kirika's door key was: it was safely hidden in an apartment room in Paris some hundreds of thousands of miles away from them. Days before this disaster struck, both of them had decided to reside at a hotel during their stay in Japan.
After a moment of deliberation, Kirika reached up and rang the doorbell. Mireille looked at her watch. It was half-past ten in the night.
Kirika rang again, this time pressing the button even longer. There was still no answer.
"Kirika," Mireille ventured cautiously, bracing herself, "I don't think anyone's home."
Kirika ignored her and stubbornly held her finger on the button. The ring became a perverse, vibrating shrill that echoed around the empty house and bore through Mireille's eardrums.
"Stop that!" The Corsican angrily cuffed the other arm's away from the doorbell and the sound broke off curtly. "It's not going to do you any good!"
Kirika fell silent, confused.
Softening, Mireille moved towards the left windows perpendicular to the door and took her gun, shattering a glass pane with it. Balancing herself atop the fence, she hoisted herself up and slid her arm through the splintering crevice, reaching for the doorknob. It was some distance away and she winced as her bare arm grazed a sharp edge of glass and blood spurted out, but she managed to twist the doorknob and the door opened with a creak.
It was pitch-black and hushed inside.
Kirika entered without a sound, flicking a small lamp on from the foyer. The sick yellow bulb flickered and threw weak shadows and light around the living room, revealing the unused furniture stacked on one side of the room and a moldy rug on the tatami-matted floor. Cobwebs dotted the ceiling and dust was everywhere.
The Japanese girl looked uncertain, walking around in a dream. Her hands wiped the thick dust caked on the walls and she looked at her dirty fingers as if she couldn't believe her eyes. She called for her parents twice, but her voice only echoed mockingly back at her as she went from room to room. There was no one, no letter left for her, no sign that anyone had lived in the house for a long time. Everyone had vanished.
She dashed up the stairs and threw open the door of her bedroom. There were crates piled up at the corner of the room and the blinds were drawn shut. There was nothing else. The dust was suffocating.
Her footfalls were heard all over the house as she wildly crashed into her parents's bedroom, her chest heaving. There was no big bed in the middle, no long desk at the side with scattered papers, no two-closet wardrobe. Even her mother's vanity table and her full-length mirror had disappeared only to be replaced by more gray crates and covered boxes. The curtains were grimy.
"Where is everybody..." she asked flatly, slipping down her knees. She clenched her fists against the carpet, her knuckles turning white. "Why have they left me?!"
Her voice escalated and her words broke into sobs.
Downstairs, Mireille sat on one of the dusty armchairs, enveloped by the dark of the house, remembering how she had felt during the night of the Corsican massacre.
tenebras, end