Chapter 4
Something Deep
Kirika often got up before Mireille. In and out of sleep, Mireille would hear the padded shuffling of feet as Kirika made herself tea. Then the girl would water their plant—now replaced, but still the same kind of plant—and would sit on top of the pool table. Then, just before Mireille woke up at her usual time, Kirika would make them breakfast. The mornings clattered with pans, glasses clinking, and the smell of pancakes, bacon, toast or sometimes waffles.
The noise in the kitchen stopped. Mireille heard footsteps.
"I've made breakfast," said Kirika softly yet cheerfully.
Mireille sat up, then squinted in confusion at the tray held in front of her. Kirika gingerly placed her breakfast-in-bed on her lap until Mireille grabbed the handles to assure she got it.
"I was going to say, 'as usual', but you got me," quipped Mireille, eying the sunny-side up eggs grinning at her with a pair of bacon. There was also stuffed French toast, with a bonus glass vase of flowers; the explosion of colors added something to their apartment.
Mireille murmured, "Thank you." The other girl beamed, triggering a smile from Mireille.
She looked over to the pool table, spying the brightness of white eggs and stiff bacon with tea. Kirika grabbed the teapot screeching from the oven top and poured some into a small vintage cup. She added it to Mireille's tray.
"Mhm . . . what tea is this?" asked Mirelle, startled at the soft spice.
"It's the one from the other day when we went shopping in the plaza."
"I forgot about these."
Kirika beamed. "We haven't opened them up yet since we've been biking around. Anyway, I hope you like it."
Mireille responded by dipping the French toast into the tea and taking a bite. She savored the flavor, eyes closed. Satisfied, Kirika went over to turn their TV on and hushed it to a low volume. They had bought it in the hopes of entertainment or a better way of keeping on eye on targets back in the earlier days, but hadn't really used it—until now, with the Japanese constantly changing the channel.
"There's nothing good on," complained Kirika.
She sensed eyes on her and turned her head. Mireille was smiling playfully.
"Well. Didn't know our simpleton had a high demand for entertainment," chuckled Mirelle, as she chewed on her scrambled eggs.
Kirika stared, remote control held straight out, unsure how to react.
"Nothing . . ." Mireille lowered her eyes to her breakfast, hiding the nudge of a smile. "It was just . . . heh, nothing."
Kirika twitched a weak smile, and continued to switch through the channels. When she came upon a commercial for cat food, she couldn't help but stare with the most attention and affection Mireille's ever seen.
Mireille swallowed. "Speaking of cute . . ." she mumbled in a flat tone. She then glanced at the little clock on top of the TV and got out bed, stuffing her mouth with scrambled eggs and nearly choking as she downed her tea.
Kirika watched her quizzically. "What is it?"
"Just an errand," said Mireille calmly. Her hastened walk to the closet betrayed her smile, as she threw on her default sleeveless, red turtleneck shirt, and leathered skirt and boots.
"I'll be back," she said, flashing Kirika the quickest yet genuine smile before the door closed on her. Disappointment anchored Kirika's heart—then, Mireille quickly opened the door again, declaring, "The food was great, thank you!"
Kirika stared at the door, then sat down at the pool table. She nibbled on her scrambled eggs, but found herself chewing it rather mechanically. She looked at the clock, then started clearing the table with a ruptured heart.
However, she left the dishes in the sink and leaned out the window, awaiting Mireille's safe and quick return. A good hour passed by, in which Kirika passed the time switching channels, making the bed, and cleaning the dishes from breakfast.
The door opened, but Kirika didn't bother turning her head. She always knew it would be Mireille: squeaky, soft, and lazy footfalls, yet always walking with a dignified edge. Like a true Bouquet heiress.
This time, it was unfamiliar. So featherlike, so weightless.
Kirika turned around just in time to see a black cat stroll in. The very tip of its tail flicked in certain directions, as if feeling its surroundings. Eyes wide and curious. Finally, it paced around casually, occasionally stopping under furniture to look around warily.
"Hm, I wonder if it remembers you?" said Mireille, setting mail down on the pool table.
Kirika couldn't help but look at Mireille, not the cat.
Mireille sniffed, annoyed. "Huh, I even wonder if I kidnapped the wrong one . . ." She tried to pick up the cat from behind, but it mewed, slipping out her grasp awkwardly, like a seal clumsily sliding into water. "Unpleasant flea-bag . . ."
"Mireille . . ." began Kirika.
Mirielle tried picking up the cat again, but it disappeared behind their red sofa. "Damn. Either it hates me and you, or hates me and doesn't remember you, or hates me and is just ignoring you at the moment."
"Mireille—," attempted Kirika, but Mireille interrupted.
"I'd grab it before it starts scratching up my place."
Kirika didn't have as much luck as Mireille. After a good five minutes of them trying to herd it out, Mireille finally went over to the kitchen to finish up from breakfast. Meanwhile, Kirika sat there at the edge of their sofa, staring where Mireille disappeared into the kitchen. She struggled what to say in gratitude, but felt her breath lodged in her throat. She migrated to the pool table and leaned against it. She glimpsed the pile of mail but decided to ignore it, just as something soft brushed dangling hand by her side.
Kirika froze and looked down, allowing the cat to continue its massage. She slowly moved her hand. It sniffed it, tickling her with its whiskers. She stroked from its skull down its spine, to which the cat arched with pleasure. All the while, the cat pressed its wet nose into her palm.
Mireille hollered from the kitchen: "I brought in mail, why don't you check it?"
Kirika reluctantly turned from the cat, leafing through pink, blue, or general white envelopes. At the bottom, however, was mail addressed to her.
It said "Kirika".
With her thumb, she carved open the flap. She slowly pulled out what looked like a gift card to a pet store.
"I didn't know what you'd want," said Mireille, who walked back out drying her hands with a kitchen towel.
"Mireille . . . I . . ."
"Now hold on," interrupted Mireille, pointing a finger at the cat, which kept its distance from her. "There are rules with it. Now, I don't know shit about cats—but you feed it, you clean it, you pay for any damage, and you most certainly take care of its litter box—."
"It's a she," said Kirika.
Pause. "Whatever."
"Thank you, Mireille."
"And," added Mireille quickly, with a firm stare, "no more frowning out the window. I hope she distracts you from such things."
Kirika held Mireillle's gaze, stepped forward, and hugged her. It was soft and almost careful, as if she was afraid to hurt her. The older woman froze, with a soft gasp. Mireille held her breath, unsure how to respond.
Mireille whispered, "Kirika . . ."
"Yes . . .?"
"Um . . . Never mind." Mireille didn't necessarily wrap her arms around the Japanese and squeezed back—rather, she put her hands on Kirika's back. Close enough. Kirika was content with that. It was better than their last hug, the one after Chloe's death, when Mireille hugged a gun across Kirika's chest.
Yes, it was definitely better than that.
They withdrew from the embrace, Kirika worshipping Mireille with a glowing expression. The Corsican looked away from those eyes that haunted her ever since they met; she watched the cat instead. It was scaling along the walls of the interior, as if avoiding lava in the middle of the room.
Kirika followed her gaze, asking, "So that's what you were doing, hm?"
"It was just a bonus afterthought," said Mireille. Kirika looked at her, only to find Mireille holding up a giftbox in front of her. "Here."
Kirika's heart fluttered like a bird in a cage. Breathless, she accepted the gift. It a simple white box wrapped in a silky, clear bow. Just the sight of it made her not want to open it, to cherish this moment. She untied it. It was a picture of Mireille and Kirika sitting outside at a small restaurant.
Confused, Kirika stared. There was something off about it. They looked normal, their attention to their food, or in Mireille's case, her usual magazines she brought along. Both wore their favorite clothes. Kirika's white hoodie, blue tanktop, navy-blue skirt, and pink clogs; Mireille's hot-red turtleneck shirt, and leathered skirt and boots.
However, in the lower corner of the frame, Kirika noticed what looked like a blurry shot of bush.
Mireille almost chuckled. "I know it's strange, but . . . it was the best I could do. After all, we never took any photos of us together."
Kirika was confused.
Mireille hesitated. "Someone was taking photos of us. Apparently. We've always been targets, though. Anyway, I tracked him down before our bounty became viral, along with the photos. I, um . . ."
Kirika stared at her. "You killed him?"
"There's more," muttered Mireille, growing serious. "He was working for Varrichone."
Silence.
"Huh, I thought it was funny," said Mireille, frowning, rubbing the nape of her neck. She flung out tangled locks of hair.
"You killed one of Varrichone's, and took the photo to frame it. For me?" asked Kirika, gaping.
"I wasn't planning on doing it. But when I saw the photo, I thought, why not?"
Kirika could not tell how to react. She looked at the beautiful photo—the only—of both of them enjoying a peaceful afternoon. It was nice. It made her happy, and yet the way it came to be was a little disturbing.
Mireille folded her arms. "You're right. I should have just bought a camera. It was a stupid idea."
It had been a very strange idea, but Kirika didn't say anything. "We're in Paris. Anything goes as art," said Kirika, shrugging.
Mireille observed her. The girl's stone expression made her nervous for some reason. Suddenly, Mireille felt very stupid.
"Thank you, Mireille," said Kirika. She walked over and put it next to the Bouquet family picture. Then, stepped back.
"I wonder . . . if we would've been good friends," murmured Mireille, admiring the two frames with Kirika.
"Mireille," said Kirika, earning a concerned expression from the latter. "Doesn't it disturb you that . . . Varrichione knows about us?"
"I'm not worried," boasted Mireille, folding her arms. She grinned. "Nothing new. We are Noir, aren't we?"
Normally, this would bother Kirika, but for some reason she smiled. Mireille's gifts just were too overwhelming. The more she thought about it, the more she realized: so what if the enemies know where they are? They have living proof, a couple of photos— even if through enemy cameras—that Noir was still alive. They were together, stronger than ever, because of their bond. Not their weapons, not their training, not their dark histories. Just because of them.
Mireille noted the smile on Kirika's face. She sighed with relief, then glanced at the TV. It had been running while Kirika awaited her return, to wash out the silence of loneliness. On the screen was advertising for a local fair. Kirika looked at the monitor, too.
"Um, reminder, I just got you a gift card and a cat," growled Mireille.
"It's something different from all that biking," said Kirika casually.
"You don't have any money. Why else would I buy things for you?" Mireille paused. She couldn't believe her heart was melting at Kirika looking at her—for heaven's sake, the girl was just looking at her, and yet it already tore Mireille apart. Maybe because she'd been on a roll with gifts, Mireille felt obliged to follow the saying "third times the charm".
Mireille gave a defeated expression. "That fair is an hour away . . ." she grumbled. She looked at Kirika, whose expression lit like light flooding a room.
"Ok, ok! You're like a child," exasperated Mireille.
Kirika beamed—no, grinned—and it was the first Mireille's ever seen.
When they reached the fair, there was already quite the line for tickets. Annoyed, Mireile grunted, and pulled out a magazine. Kirika stood there beside her.
The fair took place in a plaza, taking over a nearby park next to a wide river. Vendors stood in front the daily stores on the streets, bustling with customers.
So much noise; the demands of children tugging their parents, the suffocation of love-dovey couples, the laughter and battlecries at the game stations . . . it was growing old on Mireille. She couldn't help but think back to the mountainous island of Corsica, and its overwhelming green, its red tiled rooftops and pinkish houses. The quiet, yet laborous streets. The last time she went, it was like walking through ruins of her ancient past. How haunting, and yet how close to home it felt.
She peeked up from her magazine, watching Kirika holding the cat. Why did the girl bring the cat to a crowded fair? Who knew. Mireille feared the feral would run away in such a crowd.
"What's her name?" Mireille asked curiously.
Kirika looked at her. "Mireille."
The Corsican blinked. "Hm? What?"
"No, Mireille."
"Speak French, Kirika."
"Her name is Mireille."
Pause. ". . . OH . . ."
She couldn't tell if it was sweet or unoriginal of Kirika. She studied the cat, which licked its paw and wiped its face with it. Mireille repeated the name to herself; the cat turned and looked at her, unblinking.
"But it's not her real name," murmured Kirika.
"Hm?"
"She had a name before now. I wonder what it was."
"Huh?"
"I'm giving her a lie. A fake name."
She thinks she's a lie, thought Mireille, looking at both pet and owner. Must be painful wondering who you were . . . not knowing . . .
Mireille began to regret the cat.
It was finally their turn at the ticket booth. Mireille bought the tickets, then led them into a noisy world of colors—the diversity of people, local and tourist; the rippling or flashing glowing lights on vendors or merry-go-'rounds or the mini Ferris wheel for children. Mireille vaguely remembered such childhood leisures with Uncle Claude shortly after their exile from Corsica . . .
"Hey you, would you like a hug?" asked a muffled voice. Noir turned around, greeted in the face by a giant lobster. It was a costume, bobbing up and down on its feet, giant pincers waving around and nearly hitting passing people.
"We're fine," began Mireille, when the dancing lobster pointed at her.
"WHOA, hey, you!"
Mireille began walking away, but Kirika bothered to peer into the face behind the small screen. "Rhain?" she exclaimed.
"Dammit," grumbled Mireille, pausing in her tracks.
"What was that?" shouted Rhain.
Mireille whirled around, slapping on a fake smile. "I said, joy, it's Rhain!"
"And Tsuki!" A casually dressed girl in a loose roan hoodie and jean skirt. "We meet again! No way!"
"This is the third time if you haven't noticed," growled Mireille. She narrowed her blue eyes. "Three. Days. Consecutively."
"You calling us stalkers?" growled Rhain.
"I thought you were tourists," said Kirika, holding onto her cat. Tsuki immediately leaned down and startled scratching its ears despite its struggles.
"No, we live in Paris—just not from around here," said Tsuki, cooing at the cat.
"Huh," said Mireille coolly, glowering. "Why are you here? You know, why are you here, at the same place as we—?"
"LaCroix, Ramirez, quit slacking before I fire you!"
Everyone looked over at a forty-year-old lady smoking a cigarette. She whipped the cigarette out of her mouth, wrinkles defined every time she gave a grouchy mouth.
"Get back to work! Tsuki, your shift's about to start!"
Mireille and Kirika looked at the other two.
"Who are you?" asked Mireille.
"Volunteer work," said Tsuki, beaming.
"Like?"
"Don't—," began Rhain, but Tsuki already answered:
"Rhain's the fair lobster mascot, who walks around asking for hugs or waving at people like a cheerleader."
"Did you have to describe it so vulgarly?" whined Rhain, smacking Tsuki in the back of the head with a pincer—but Tsuki dodged, taunting her.
"While I'm," she declared, "in charge of the children's blow-up obstacle course."
Mireille cocked an eyebrow, smirking at Rhain. "Huh, a children's hug-of-fun, is that right?"
"Was that aimed at me?" said Rhain through gritted teeth.
"I am looking at you, aren't I?"
"Don't be rude. Every job has its dignity," said Rhain defensively, flustered.
"LaCroix, Ramirez!" barked the older lady.
Rhain bellowed, "How come I ended up in this?"
"I was too small for it," reminded Tsuki. "Not to mention you're better at handsprings than I am."
"You think that's easy in this costume?"
"Stop screaming, we're next to you," scoffed Mireille, arms folded.
"LaCroix-" began their boss.
Tsuki grabbed Rhain's hand, pulled her along, and dragged them away into a sprint. She waved over her shoulders at Noir. "We'll see ya around! Come visit our stations. Rhain's also the 'Drown-the-Clown'—!"
Rhain lied, "NO I'M NOT!"
Mireille crossed her arms proudly, as if she had conquered half of France. Kirika enjoyed this side of Mireille. She wondered what they would have been like if they met a few years back when Mireille was still a teenager, or as her classmate in high school? How long had she been an assassin? Little things Kirika liked to marvel over.
Mireille looked to Kirika. "So, do you remember going to any fairs in high school or something?" It was a weird thing saying that to an assassin like Kirika.
The latter shook her head.
"Well, let's make it unforgettable," said Mireille with a cocky expression. Kirika trotted along.
"Tsuki, I'm gonna throw you in a tank of lobsters to see how you feel being taunted," threatened Rhain, recognizing how the fair was luring Tsuki into a carefree state of mind.
Tsuki laughed. "Oh no, not the butter knife!" She clasped her hands together dramatically. "The carnage!"
Rhain growled. She attempted to swing around and knock Tsuki down, but that was to no avail considering how lethargic her costume was.
"Who gives a lobster a name? Who the hell even makes a lobster Paris' 'FAIR MASCOT'?" roared Rhain.
"Start crawling, Larry, those little kids are hungry for some attention," joked Tsuki, who gestured over curious toddlers.
Rhain lifted her pincers, grinning mischievously. "I'll give them a grandma's pinch of love on the cheek."
Tsuki threw her a flat expression. "Restrain yourself." As the children bounced around Rhain, wanting to hold her hand, Tsuki added, "Your shift to 'Drown-the-Clown' will be within an hour. So be there."
"What are you doing, Nanny?" growled Rhain.
"I work, too," said Tsuki. She grinned and left as the giant lobster stumbled backwards over three-year-old twins.
Kirika halted, with Mireille bumping into her. She turned her head, her chocolate-colored eyes aimed at ducklings going in circles at a station. People tried fishing them out by the magnetic nuggets on their heads.
"A child's game, but I guess I'd do the same thing while being young lasts," said Mireille.
They approached a man, who stood in the inner ring of the circular tank. He proclaimed, "Three bucks, three bucks! Nag that little duck within the 60-second time limit! One duckling and you get a small prize—two to three duckings, and you have a medium! Three or more and you have yourself a large!"
Mireille smiled politely as she handed him three bucks. She stood there, waiting for Kirika, who returned the stare, puzzled, as if it was all she could do. The cat hung there in Kirika's uncomfortable hug.
"You're going to suffocate her," said Mireille. She took the cat, praying it wouldn't scratch her. "Now fish those ducks out and win a prize. It's simple, really."
Kirika was given a fishing pole. Children or teenagers surrounded her, flinging and dangling their fish lines. Some jostled her, excited, as they surrounded their friends. She copied them, awkwardly wriggling her line over passing ducklings below her. Mireille desperately tried to watch and cheer her on, but the cat was such a handful.
When the timer went off, Kirika won a small prize: a small black cat. Mireille couldn't help but smile at the coincidence.
"Here," said a guy next to Kirika. She watched as he bestowed his girlfriend a stuffed giraffe. He won a squeal of delight, followed by an embrace.
Looking at her stuffed cat, Kirika turned to Mireille and gave it to her.
"Kirika, I paid so you could win something," said Mireille, shaking her head, yet with a fond smile.
"Here," urged Kirika, smiling. When Mireille exchanged the stuffed cat for Kirika's pet, she smiled at it.
"What next?" asked Mireille.
Kirika glanced around. Slowly. Mireille was used to this strange mannerism of hers, and patiently waited. Whenever she saw Kirika stare at something for more than ten seconds, she knew Kirika was interested. Without hesitation, Mireille would step up next to Kirika, smile at her or catch her gaze, and walk toward a station. In the following events, they shot hoops, threw balls into ringed holes, tested their strength hammering the light up to the bells, popping balloons with darts, whacking moles, and even tested the heart-chilling rides.
"The Pendulum . . .?" read Kirika, staring at big glowing letters dashing across the midsection of a high beam. At the crossbar met another horizontal beam, with visible seats hanging at the ends. In the motion of a windmill, the seats were spun all the way from top to bottom, backwards and forwards, but the screams the same.
"You don't intend on riding that?" questioned Mireille, nearly shuddering. It was a small machine compared to most in bigger fairs, but it was still nauseating to look at. She met Kirika's curious, anxious eyes.
"You're not really thinking . . .?" repeated Mireille.
Kirika appeared, at first, apprehensive, but then walked into the line at the bottom of the Pendulum. Mireille nearly shuddered as she watched after her friend.
Kirika turned her head. "Are you scared?" she asked. It was insulting, yet chilling the way she said it.
"There are certain things we brave against more than others," stated Mireille, looking away. "This is one of them, I must admit."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Of course not."
When Kirika was strapped into a wall-in seat, Mireille began to fidget with her pink purse. Kirika didn't look at Mireille, but rather at around her, below her, and especially up. Mireille didn't know why she was so concerned—the girl was Noir. It wasn't as if Soldats were waiting at the top ready to push Kirika off. She nearly chuckled at the idea, but then quickly looked around for any suspicious figures. It was relieving and alien to realize there was no such thing.
"You sure you feeling okay?" pressured Mireille for the third time.
They sat down on a bench. Mireille watched as the Japanese bent over her thighs and clung her stomach as if she'd been stabbed.
"It's funny," declared Mireille thoughtfully. "You always seem used to jumping so high. I guess this is different, huh?"
Kirika exhaled, yet her breath shuddered. Then, she straightened up, looking ahead. "I think I'm fine, now."
Mireille almost glared. "Really?"
"Really." In all honesty, Kirika didn't want to cut their fun day short. She wanted it to last forever.
"If you're sure . . ." said Mireille, standing. She eyed Kirika sharply. The girl almost drooped forward to the abrupt motion, but stood up straight and gave a shy, pale smile. To test her condition, Mireille gave her the cat. Maybe it would distract her.
They walked over to target-shooting. Mireille second-guessed the idea, but Kirika didn't seem bothered by the idea of pulling a trigger again.
"Why ducks?" asked Kirika, propping up the toy rifle.
"Why care?" said Mireille, snarling at the cat's attempt to leave. The person in charge of the station stared at her, confused, but when she glared at him he began his announcements.
"Steady, now, steady!"
"He thinks he's a pro," chortled Mireille.
Kirika successfully nailed the bulls-eyes on each passing duck with a hydro-blast of water. It was interesting that, here, they could still use guns and look like ordinary people for once. It was strange not hearing any fires in return.
"Mireille, you try," said Kirika, proffering the rifle.
"I don't feel like it," said Mireille, although holding the cat was not such a fun alternative either.
Suddenly, there was a chicken cluck. "Chicken! Bup-bup-bup-bup!"
Next to them was a stand with a box of prison bars. A dump tank. They spied Rhain grinning from behind, sitting over water.
"You can't fire nuttin'!" mocked Rhain, flapping her chicken wings.
"Says the chicken," retorted Mireille, putting a hand on a hip. She narrowed her eyes. "From lobster to chicken. I'm actually impressed."
"Was that an insult?"
"Definitely better than yours."
"Weak."
"You haven't even said anything, yet!" snapped Mireille.
"Too fool to be cool."
"You're forgetting who's behind bars, fool."
Rhain flapped fervently, ignoring the kid who was already throwing balls at the target below her barred display.
Annoyance crept over Mireille's face. Kirika, holding her rifle, looked from Mireille to Rhain. She was oblivious to the people complaining behind her, waiting in line to shoot the bulls-eyed ducks.
"Looks like you've got a line of conspiracy behind ya," laughed Rhain.
Mireille maintained a straight face. "You're beneath me." The crowds between the dunking station and the rifle station gasped.
"Barbie-girl stripper!" blurted Rhain angrily.
Mireille grabbed Kirika's rifle and fired. Her blast punched the bulls-eye and dumped Rhain immediately. Nearby audiences standing or walking by laughed hysterically. Rhain resurfaced, supporting herself back onto her seats, wings curling desperately around the prison bars. She hoisted herself up, soaked.
"You forgot to pay," she growled.
"Sorry." Mireille fired again.
Rhain fell. More laughter. The man in charge of the target-shooting roared in protest.
"Nice shot!" exclaimed someone from behind. Mireille and Kirika turned. It was Tsuki. "You own video games, or something?"
Mireille looked at her. "Yeah . . . sure."
Tsuki found that funny. "Keep it up."
"HEY!" roared Rhain from her bars.
"If you're that desperate for money, do your job," Mireille hollered to her. "As far as I'm concerned, you're a hobbo."
"CRPYT-KEEPER!"
Mireille was about to grab the rifle again, but Tsuki motioned with an index finger: "Three dollars."
Mireille practically threw her purse at Tsuki, then grabbed five balls. She threw two at Rhain's cage to scare the crap out of her, and the rest successfully at the bulls-eye. Her performance jogged the attention of a good group of men; they whooped and cheered her on. A few whistled; Kirika glared at their wild behavior and keen eyes on Mireille.
Rhain resurfaced. "TAKE HER WALLET, TSUKI. RUN AWAY!" she screeched.
Tsuki shook her head and giggled. She handed the wallet to Kirika after removing the three dollars. This satisfied Mireille, who grinned triumphantly at Rhain. As the chicken and Corsican threw more empty threats, Kirika realized something.
Mireille had dropped her cat when she fired her first shot at Rhain.
"Where'd my cat go?"
Mireille paused, even when Rhain continued to rant. "Damn," she whispered, alarmed at Kirika's sudden panic. The Japanese looked this way and that among the crowd. Without a word, Mireille took her purse from Kirika, and the two rushed out of sight.
"Humph," said Rhain, watching after them. "What a failure to society."
"That's a good one," laughed Tsuki, accepting the following customers' cash. "Too bad she didn't hear that one."
"No, I'm thinking 'shame to society'—," began Rhain, but the bell went off as a kid hit her bulls-eye. Her body crashed into the water.
When she emerged, Tsuki joked, "I dunno. I think you two like each other."
"Oh, the sugary love," said Rhain sarcastically. As the kid missed, she said in all seriousness, "Everything set?"
Tsuki nodded, smiling grimly.
Kirika's fingers tapped against her side nervously. No matter how hard she tried, she didn't see a glimpse of dark fur. She scanned the fair grounds, peeked behind vendors and stations—having to be chased off by employees—and even asked around. She stood on top of a picnic table, although the height made barely a difference. There were just too many people.
They stood next to a rodeo station, where people eagerly showed off their balancing skills on the metallic bull. Mireille watched the machine buck off a man in a cowboy get-up. He was flung over the walls between where Mireille and Kirika stood.
"Excuse me?" said Kirika, jumping down from the picnic table, kneeling next to the moaning man. "Have you seen a cat?"
"What the . . . hell?" grunted the injured man through gritted teeth.
His buddies rushed over to check on him. One of them glanced at Mireille, who stared back, then asked him if he'd seen a cat. When he shook his head, he opened his mouth to say something else, but Kirika grabbed Mireille's hand and pulled them away.
"I told you you shouldn't have brought a cat to a fair!" hollered Mireille over their haste.
"You dropped her!" said Kirika over her shoulders.
Mireille felt guilty. They slowed down to catch their breath; Kirika whipped her head this way and that, panicking.
"I'm sorry," murmured Mireille. She added carefully, "But you do know that cats are fine on their own? They're more independent than dogs—."
"She's small!" cried Kirika. "She could get hurt!"
Mireille shut her mouth, ashamed of herself.
"Pardon me," said a man in a jean jacket and pants. He came over from a snack stand. "Everything alright?"
"My cat, I can't find her!" said Kirika pleadingly. "She's black, with yellow eyes. Have you seen her?"
"Sorry, miss, but they're everywhere in this area," said the guy, shrugging. "But I can bet you anything that she's being held hostage."
His eerie words in that friendly tone threw Noir off. They stared at him. Kirika's eyes darkened as he gave them a chivalrous smile.
"Sorry ladies, but if you want that cat back, V demands you meet up—and give up," he threatened.
Mireille's fingers twitched, ready to pull out her gun from her purse. She still couldn't believe she carried it around, hidden, but was very grateful for following her instincts.
"And why would we 'give up'?" said Mireille. "You mean, that we let you shoot us."
The man chuckled. "I like your humor. You understand, then. Alright, then, since you know where his hotel is, meet him there tonight at midnight. He's a decent man, he'll give you a chance to prepare yourselves."
This insulted Noir. Although Kirika remained expressionless, Mireille felt her tense next to her.
"You know how it goes," said the man. "Comply, and the cat won't die."
"Mireille," whispered Kirika. Her friend looked at her, then remembered it was the cat's name. And for some reason, she felt Kirika's pain despite her disliking toward the creature.
"If you arrive a little earlier, hey, maybe we'll, I dunno, toss her around," said the man, shrugging. "If you arrive a little too late, well, then, you know. So be there exactly at midnight. No tricks. Here's a little something-something to make sure you read the time right. A gift from the Soldats."
Mireille and Kirika froze, as he tossed them something familiar. It seemed to wink in the red glow of nearby lights. Mireille's arm reached high, and she snatched it from mid-air. She didn't even have to look at it. Its pearly chains tapped against her temple, its round, cool figure fitting perfectly in her hand, as if it belonged there, never to be removed.
"Varrichione cannot wait to meet the True Noir," said the man, nodding to them and disappearing into the crowd.
Noir looked at something deep in their hearts, its roots having never left them after all. Mireille didn't want to, but already found herself clicking against the side of the pocketwatch. And among the laughter, the melody took over. It sang through the crowds, through the clattering and popping of toy guns, through the cheers of friends congratulating each other, or whining of children.
"How?" whispered Mireille, glaring at the broken face of the watch. "We left it behind. We left it all behind . . ."
Suddenly Kirika reached into Mireille's purse and pulled out her gun. Mireille questioned whether or not the girl always knew, but there was no time to marvel, as she chased Kirika all the way into more remote streets.
"Kirika, no!" shouted Mireille, grabbing the Japanese's arms. When she turned her around, a flame glowed in the girl's eyes.
"What does it matter?" said Kirika. "He knows we're after him. So why don't we go now—."
"You're better than this," roared Mireille. "You know better!"
Kirika pulled, but Mireille pulled harder. She looked around warily, grateful the only few pedestrians were across the street from them, focused on reaching the fair. Mireille gently pushed Kirika to sit down at a nearby bus station. She snatched the gun from her and slipped it back into her purse. Thankfully, no one else sat there at the bus stop.
"We approach this carefully," said Mireille, panting. "I will not lose you to clouded judgment."
"What is it?" asked Rhain.
"A cat?" whispered Tsuki, brow furrowed to recollections of Kirika talking about a cat. Their departure had been abrupt and definitely not according to their plan.
Rhain was drying herself in the same blue swimming suit from their day at the canal with Noir; she had worn it underneath her lobster costume. She watched Tsuki's thoughtful expression, discarding the costume on the ground without care. Meanwhile, Tsuki looked down after realizing she'd stepped on a stuffed animal. A small black cat. She picked it up with care, then her eyes stretched alarmingly.
"Is this what they were talking about? It was right here this whole time—." Tsuki paused.
"Yeah?" asked Rhain.
Tsuki shot her an alarming look. "He knew. V knew, from the very beginning. Even before we contacted him!"
The Asian turned and broke into a sprint, dropping the stuffed animal. Rhain glanced at it, then suddenly understood. She followed eagerly.
As they ran side-by-side, Tsuki gasped angrily, "He knew about Noir before they learned of him. Probably not too long from when we gave him the false warning of the threats against him from the Soldats . . .!"
Rhain caught on. "He saw her tenderness for animals. Of course. The cat . . ."
V had done despicable things during his allegiance to the Soldats. That included studying his enemies, then getting them to betray each other, one faction against another. Whatever got the Soldats to replace fallen comrades with V himself, just he could join a more powerful faction. Over time, his deeds were discovered. However, through all of that, such privilege gave him access to all he needed to know about Noir.
They both realized it at the same time: V used a cat to lure Kirika. Merely a small, benign distraction. What amazed them was how he knew about Noir's bond. Most enemies only looked at Noir as a formidable machine—but V saw them as two human beings that shared a connection unlike any other. He must have been watching them for some time. He probably even deliberately stayed in the closest hotel to keep an eye on them before they even knew about his existence.
He figured out Mireille would do anything for Kirika's happiness. He knew by keeping his cat around the street where Noir resided, that Mireille would find it and Kirika would grow attached to it. The bond between cat and its new owner was complete, and Kirika's determination to retrieve "her cat" was at full accordance to his plan.
"He knew the Soldats would send someone of high rank to sanction him for this crimes," gasped Tsuki. "He knew it'd be Noir, dammit!"
Just as they turned a corner, they saw Noir board a bus. It was the same they used to come to the fair. Tsuki and Rhain sprinted faster, but the bus already took off.
Tsuki and Rhain retrieved their motorcycles and took pursuit. It was embarrassing it took two experts that long to catch up with Noir. When they parked in front of Noir's apartment, there seemed to be no lights on. On pure instincts, they sped toward V's hotel.
They parked a few blocks away just in case. Tsuki looked up at a building and said, "Split up!"
"I'll check the ground perimeters," said Rhain, nodding. They separated, Rhain dashing toward the streets facing the grand hotel, Tsuki scaling the walls.
Tsuki found a water pipe and climbed it, strategically fitting hands and feet between pipe and wall. She reached a porch, looked through the glass doors, and knocked. A couple sitting at their table watching TV came to the window and opened it. She sprung through, shouting, "Thanks!" and burst past them.
She carved her way through what was apparently an apartment complex, guessing which rooms faced the other side. She knocked on someone else's door and broke through, leaping off deck and onto a lower, slanted roof. It was connected two more buildings, adjacent to V's hotel. Tsuki glared at the majestic, adorned architecture and ran the rooftops toward it.
Rhain casually walked through the front entrance. The bellman dipped his head to her, gesturing her inside. She smiled hurriedly as she pressed on. Inside the front lobby glowed like a palace, with a diamond chandelier glittering above, and cushioned furniture seating luxuriously-dressed guests.
"Can I help you, miss?" said the woman from the front desk.
Rhain smiled weakly and walked over. She leaned in and beamed, asking, "Yes, my friend is rooming here."
The employee smiled. "And who would that be, miss? I will make sure to call them to announce your arrival."
"Uh, Mireille Bouquet?"
The woman typed away at her computer, eyes reflecting a blue glow. Meanwhile, Rhain looked up the flight of rugged stairs to the upper lounge. It hinted three hallways splitting up at a T-shaped intersection, an elevator on either side of the railed veranda.
"I'm sorry, miss, I don't see that name here," said the woman.
Rhain opened her mouth to make another excuse, when she was interrupted by gunshots.
Mireille was bleeding. She burst into a hotel room. Inside, a family burst from their beds, screaming. She ignored them as she locked herself in their bathroom door and rummaged under their sink until luck would have it that she'd discover their First Aid Kit. She quickly wrapped up the deep gash on her forearm from an earlier gunfight.
She heard a booming sound, deafening the screams of the family outside. Men shouted. Women wailed. V's guards shouted for her to come out or they'd shoot the family.
Nothing was more embarrassing and troublesome than obstacles in your line of work. Mireille held her breath and walked out, hands in the air. Why? She didn't know. But when she glimpsed at the father, a mother with her infant in her arms, and their thirteen-year-old daughter cowering between them—huddled in a corner or behind the master bed—she was brought back to gunshots from her past.
One of the henchmen tugged the daughter from her mother. He held her in front of him for a shield, sliding sideways with her, keeping his gun aimed at Mireille. His partner was behind him for protection. The French stood there, gun aimed, knowing any other movement would aggravate them into shooting the little girl.
In fact, the henchman finally clicked the gun against the little girl's head. She whimpered. The mother and father begged and begged, wailing.
"Please!" they shrieked, wide-eyed at Mireille.
The enemy pulled the little girl by the hair.
"SAVE US!" shouted the parents.
Their screams probably already alerted the whole hotel. Mireille was surprised no one ran by at the sound of screaming; sometimes, people knew better. Still, she knew this gave her some time before someone called 911.
Mireille lowered her gun, glaring at the enemy as they crept past her, out the room.
She aimed and fired.
"NO!" screamed the parents, as both henchmen and little girl fell. The mother covered her mouth, red face wrinkling in agony. The father exploded forward, charging at Mireille. She kicked him away, then aimed her gun at the henchmen. She had shot one of them in the hand, which was caked in red. He rolled on the floor, howling in pain.
His partner, however, only got shot in the leg. He fired at her. Mireille charged to the side, slanted along the wall, and missiled into him; a counterattack she learned from watching Kirika in battle. Upon knocking into him, she also thrust her gun into his stomach, pulling the trigger. He was already dead before both of them hit the floor. Without hesitation, Mireille aimed sideways and shot the other man rolling on the floor in agony. Blood seeped out into the public hallway.
When the shooting stopped, the parents peered from behind the bed and cried when they saw their girl lying on the floor in a red halo. The father ran over to dial 911, but Mireille shot the phone. It stung his fingers, as he cried out. He dropped the receiver and backed away, eyes swollen with tears.
Mireille frowned. "She's fine." She headed toward the exit, while the family hugged each other. At the door, she turned around as the father smeared off the girl's blood-stained face with her own pajama sleeve. When the family looked up, Mireille pointed her gun as she backed out.
"Take it as your I-O-U to me," she said softly.
Before she turned around, however, bullets zipped by. She hit the floor, lucky to find cover behind a drawer with a mirror and some decorative plates. When she remembered the family inside the room, Mireille kicked their door closed. Then, she scrambled to her feet, dodge-rolled, and escaped around a corner. Footsteps followed relentlessly, with shouts.
When they turned the corner, something smashed into their leader's face. Vase shards sprayed the air and slid across the floor. He knocked back into his followers, allowing Mireillle to bounce off the wall and shoot.
Two more remained.
A bullet bit into the arm opposite of her bandaged arm. Her bicep flexed in pain. She cried out, and threw herself behind the corner of a different hallway. She winced, flexing her fingers; it hurt to move them. Her heart pounded loud in her ears.
They fired at her, chipping the corner. Despite the uselessness of her right arm, Mireille dodge-rolled till she made it underneath a giant table. She knocked it down sideways for a shield. Her enemies abandoned efforts to fire, and next thing she knew, they were already charging at her. Roaring through her injury, Mireille clashed with them with her table. The corner of the table pierced one guy's eye and gutted him in the stomach.
However, his partner kicked the table out of Mirelle's hands and punched her in the face, knocking her down. Her gun slid away. Mireille lay there, knowing death when she saw it. He pointed his gun down at her, wheezing angrily.
As she seem to stare into death, she remembered why she was alive now.
Click.
Kirika.
She rolled as he fired.
She was still alive, she had gotten this far, because of Kirika.
He continued to shoot blindly, cursing. She kept rolling, miraculously dodging every bullet. The ground steamed from the misses.
For the first time in a long time, Mireille actually had something to lose.
As she rolled around, her bandages unwound from her wound. Just as he lifted his foot to stomp her, she pulled both ends of her sweaty bandages, and caught his foot in between. This caught him off balance; he hopped backwards, falling, gun flying into the air. Mireille caught it in her uninjured hand and fired.
For the next minute, Mireille caught her breath. She clenched her teeth at her bleeding arm. The bullets hadn't hit anything vital, but she felt dizzy from the blood loss. She ripped strips of fabric from their suits, and tightened a band as hard as she could around her arm to stop the blood flow. She stole the dead's leftover magazines, then, looked up and ran for Kirika.