Chapter 2

Mundane

Rhain and Tsuki sat at the La Porte Café, a floating restaurant docked downtown. Tsuki was making fun of the way Mireille kept glaring at Rhain, but the American didn't find it amusing.

"It's perfect coincidence," chuckled Tsuki, stirring her orange juice. "How much we're alike."

"Who, us? Or Noir?" grumbled Rhain, gazing at the bleeding horizon over the river.

"All of us. It's fun, it's . . . nice," murmured Tsuki distractedly, searching her menu.

"You're so damn picky. Hurry up so we can continue what we came here for."

Tsuki nodded, affirming her choice. After they hailed their waitress, she became serious, folding her arms on the table. "So . . . what attracts two killers?"

"Artistic killers," emphasized Rhain in half-jest. "One in killing and painting, the other in . . . scratch that, Mireille's a dweeb."

Tsuki snorted. "Dweeb?"

"Yup, Mireille sucks pink socks."

"Ok?"

"It rhymed."

"That didn't rhyme."

"It's an American thing."

Tsuki laughed. "I'm an American citizen, too, asshole." She took a breath. "In any case, Kirika has a fondness of cute, simple things like cats and art."

"And Dweeb loves shopping, makeup, and boys," jested Rhain in her own lost world of grins and evil thoughts.

"She could care less about boys. C'mon, you're so hyper! Be serious! We need something that attracts both. Something they can do together, something they can relate to. Um, what combines art and shopping?"

"Nothing."

They both cackled with laughter. "Damn, and we call ourselves professionals at what we do," said Rhain, playing with the sunflower in its vase at the center of their table.

Tsuki snapped her fingers, as if beckoning to a horse. "Wait! A fair!"

"Ooh-la-la, I love fairs!"

"Not for you! For them!"

Rhain laughed in defeat. "Okay, okay. But what exactly are we going to do? I am not in the mood to do concession stands or be the 'Drown the Clown' kind of person. Both will just get me hyper."

"Hm, maybe we could be the entertainment," proposed Tsuki. "We could sing."

"I'm sorry, Tsuki, but you suck."

"What do you propose, then, Ms. Congeniality?"

Rhain grinned deviously. "Something for you, actually."

With her elbow propped on the pool table, chin against palm, Mireille watched Kirika. Her partner leaned against the windowsill. Again. She knew she was thinking about Tsuki and Rhain. They weren't the kind to easily forget.

However, her main concern right now was finding something for them to do. Granted, they had all the right—and the time in the world—to recover. They spent most days repairing the apartment from the bullets, sitting in the apartment, going out for meals, or walking around. Kirika bought her occasional paintings she adored from the street vendors, almost as if in dedication to that Milosh guy. Other than that, they were almost like an old couple.

Mireille didn't plan to age that fast. With Noir behind them, she wanted to take advantage of her youth.

Plus, listening to that ticking clock was reminiscent of the pocketwatch. She was fed up listening to time taunting her. Mireille looked around hoping to entertain herself, especially for Kirika's sake.

"There's not much to make you smile," stated Mireille, her brow wrinkling in thought.

"Sorry," said Kirika, locking eyes with her.

"No, no," said Mireille dramatically with a wave. "I don't expect you to entertain me. Not at all. I'm just trying to figure out a way to get you to smile, so that it becomes second nature. You're not your every-day teenager, I'll tell you that . . ."

Kirika felt a bruise. "I know. I hate that. To not be able to . . ."

"Kirika," interrupted Mireille. "Emotions are good to reserve, but you've got to remember to use them, too. You're more mature than anyone could ever ask for out of any human being, but . . . just, be yourself."

"And who is that?" asked Kirika, more to herself.

Mireille got up from the pool table and joined Kirika. She looked out the window, trying to see from the girl's perspective. What did the world look like from someone who has known Noir all her life? Through the eyes of someone who murdered strangers on a stranger's command? Separating innocent children from their loving parents—a family that could have been hers? Mireille couldn't imagine. Sometimes, she tried not to. After all, they both practically shared the same memories. The same painful ones.

A biker rang his bell, slicing through a group of strollers just outside the apartment.

"Hey," began Mireille, "have you ever biked?"

Kirika watched the biker disappear from the window. "I can't remember the last time I did, even though it was common where I lived in Japan."

"I'm bored with walking and sitting. Let's go, shall we?"

Two tourists pedaled by, two friends riding their bikes, laughing and ranting side-by-side.

Mireille waited for a reaction from Kirika. "Well?"

Kirika saw the two friends, too. She stared with yearning, yet with fear, like a child afraid to beg their parents to buy a toy.

Mireille crossed her arms, exhaling. "This is difficult for me, too. I dunno what to do other than run and dodge hellfire. Sometimes . . . I just wish we got a contract, so we could actually do something that's been second nature to us. So please. Let's figure it out together, ok? We'll go to Uncle Claude's for any old bikes. If not, we'll just have to rent some."

There was a fairly old Carribean-blue bike in Uncle Claude's backyard. It leaned against the house wall by the porch, hidden by creeping vegetation. In his garage, Mireille scoured through cardboard boxes until she found two helmets. Another rusting bike, but still functional, seemed to wait for Kirika in a corner of the garage.

Kirika waited for Mireille, who glanced at the greenhouse where she shot her uncle. Kirika reluctantly looked back to their taxi, just in case the Soldats were around, the ones who ordered Uncle Claude against Mireille. Strangely enough, the Corsican didn't seem threatened on the private estate. It appeared the Soldats were giving them a breather, or they didn't care about Uncle Claude's death. That's what made Kirika uneasy, though.

They returned the two bikes to the apartment in the back of the taxi without complaint from the driver. They dusted and rinsed the bikes, clearing the helmets of cobwebs.

Finally, out on the street, they tested their new hobby.

"C'mon," urged Mireille, tossing Kirika bike gloves. "And be safe while you're at it."

The Japanese strapped on her yellow helmet, then awkwardly hopped onto her bike. It was red, which would have matched Mireille better, however, it was too small for the other woman. While Mireille biked around Kirika in circles, watching her, Kirika desperately tried to hop on. The bike lopsided, nearly crashing her into a skinny tree on the sidewalk.

"You ok?" asked Mireille, stopping her bike.

"Yeah," said Kirika. "I can do it."

Relief washed over Mireille's face the moment Kirika hopped on and started pedaling. She circled Mireille, her expression glowing. Without further comment, they both rode off.

They passed two children on their mini tricycles, past a neighbor watering her plants on overlapping rock walls. They crossed the street, greeted by a family waving at them from behind the windows of a bakery. Kirika enjoyed the cool breeze, even the threatening speed she gained downhill. Behind her, her friend hollered for her to check her brakes before the hill got any steeper. Her brakes tested fine, encouraging her to loosen up . . . and fly.

Oh wait, she hit a bump in the patterned cobbles.

"Kirika, BRAKES!" shouted Mireille, stopping.

She watched, jaw dropped, as the girl went flying. It was like watching someone arch beautifully into a dive. Right into an intersection. A car screeched to a stop; people yelped, anticipating an accident. But Kirika landed on her feet, yet clumsily, breaking the impact with another awkward roll. Another car barely swerved around her.

A man from the sidewalk rushed over to her. "Are you ok, miss?"

Mireille watched from afar, perched atop the hill; her heart fluttered.

In the distance, Kirika's form stood up with ease, readjusting her helmet. More people swarmed her, a confusion of awe and concern. The two drivers got out of their cars, cursing, standing there at their doors.

For some reason, Kirika's stunt made Mirelle tense at the attention it drew. As she watched Kirika smile apologetically to those around her, Mireille's eyes darted everywhere. She looked for that person standing out of place. That person peeking at the corner of his eye. The ones that always slipped off into an alley or into a car.

Silly me, she thought. We're done with that.

The protests and murmurs lingered. Someone insisted Kirika see an ambulance, but she shook her head, seemingly unaffected. Another moment passed, until the crowd dispersed. Someone handed her bike back, which was unscathed.

Mireille walked her bike down the hill to meet Kirika at the corner. "You ok?" she asked, shaking her head hopelessly. Her heart thundered from all that adrenaline. "You should be more careful."

There was a hint of a glare in Kirika's eyes. Mireille searched them, but they softened. "You aren't wearing a helmet, though," murmured Kirika, almost afraid to say it.

Mireille looked away. "I'm careful, though."

Silence.

The blonde smiled weakly. "You sure you're okay?" Mireille eyed the girl's condition to ensure she wasn't hiding any injuries from her.

"It's nice to know this world isn't so bad," said Kirika, smiling back at the witnesses.

The sunny day felt weird to them, but Mireille accepted it. "Alright, let's go," she said, avoiding the staring bystanders.

These peoples' mundane world has been split open. I wish I could relate . . .

"There's a lot of this world we don't understand yet," she called to Kirika, as they rode on. "Places to see, things to do . . ."

They continued to weave through the Paris streets, exploring parks, rivers, bridges, and shopping areas. Though Kirika didn't say much, Mireille watched whatever places caught her attention. Her gaze flitted to certain plazas for painting, or certain art stores. The occasional feral cats dashed in front of them, thwarting Kirika from the bike path. Mireille feared multiple car accidents in their near future, but Kirika stayed close, smiling at her whenever they rode side by side.

They took a break by the river on a network of bike paths and pockets of manicured grass. While Kirika studied places for painting, Mireille watched their bikes. She lay across the grass, trying to patiently ignore the nearby group of friends throwing their Frisbee. She wanted to enjoy this day. It wasn't much, but it was unlike any other day.

When they returned to the apartment, Mireille checked her PO box. She was glad to not have found anything that would pull them from everything they've worked so hard on. They both dragged their bikes up the stairs to their floor, wheeling them into the apartment, settled against the wall at the crown of their bed.

"So, what'd you think?" asked Mireille, settling their bikes against the wall at the crown of their bed.

Kirika unbuckled her helmet, shaking her dark mop of hair. "It was fun." She beamed at Mireille, hoping her gratitude showed.

Mireille grinned, picking a strand of hair from Kirika's eyes. "You need a haircut. I'll make an appointment with Paulette. But first, I need to go to the bathroom."

Kirika turned her attention back to their apartment. She surveyed their home; her skin tingled with the comfort of a place to return to. Her senses felt revived from being outside, pleasantly at peace. She wondered long they could keep this up, returning to the mundane, but learning to love it? After everything they've been through together, it was hard to determine what was normal and what wasn't. How to blend them together, how to enjoy the mundane with excitement . . .

Kirika glimpsed the Bouquet photo and frowned.

When Mireille walked out of the bathroom, she followed Kirika's gaze.

"We have mail," said Kirika; Mireille glared at the envelope in Kirika's hands. "It's a contract."