Chapter 5
A Statement of Fact
Her groceries on the floor next to her, Mireille looked out on to the street. This was her last stop for the day – coffee before going back to her apartment. The cafe was one of a few that she frequented; she liked the way the barista did mocha, and the pastries were good. This one had fairly generous outdoor seating, too, and she felt like getting some fresh air while she waited.
A waiter brought her coffee and an apple danish. She nodded her thanks and turned back to the street.
She envied the people on the street – they didn't have to worry about being constantly shot at.
"Do you mind if I sit down?"
Mireille turned in the direction of the speaker. She was a young woman, Caucasian, mid-twenties. Light brown hair, green eyes, the odd freckle. A lean face, with high cheekbones. Average build, one sixty-five, sixty-seven. Light blue sweater over a white blouse, three-quarter white skirt. Small, white leather purse. In her left hand was a small metal tabletop signpost with the number 37 perched on it.
She turned, looking around. Every other table was occupied.
Turning back to the mystery woman, she nodded. "Go ahead."
The woman smiled graciously. "Thank you."
She took the seat opposite Mireille, resting the signpost in front of her. "Do you come here often?" she asked.
Mireille didn't reply right away, having taken a bite of the danish. "Sometimes," she replied.
"This is my first time," she replied. "A friend of mine recommended this particular cafe to me once."
"Not from around here, are you?" Mireille asked.
"No. I'm from the south. I've only made occasional trips to Paris." She seemed a little bit shy, or nervous, with her eyes occasionally downcast and what almost looked like hand-wringing. Mireille wondered which it was.
A waiter arrived, bearing a cup of coffee. He set it down in front of the mystery brunette. "Will that be all, madam?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you," she replied with a smile.
"Thank you." The waiter smiled as he took the signpost.
She sipped the coffee. "Nice," she declared, as she set the coffee cup down.
"I know," Mireille replied, with a faint smile. "I like the way this place does mocha." As she spoke, she raised her own cup to her lips.
"Are you Noir?"
Mireille hesitated, her eyes widening slightly, her body stiffening in alarm as she swallowed the coffee. It took no small amount of willpower to not spit out the coffee and blurt out "What?!"
She hesitated, looked around as calmly as possible, hoping that the woman couldn't see the nervousness in her eyes or the sudden stiffness in her movement. Nothing else was out of the ordinary. No-one casting glances in her direction. Were there snipers?
"I... don't know what you're talking about," she finally replied, her gaze returning to the woman.
"Please, don't lie to me."
Her purse was still on the floor, next to her shopping. Her P99, tucked away inside it, seemed so far away.
"I told you: I have no idea what you're talking about. You mean Noir, as in the assassin? That would be something, wouldn't it?" She smiled, forcing a laugh.
"There's no sense in hiding, daughter of Corsica," the woman said calmly, taking another sip of her coffee, all the while, maintaining eye contact.
Mireille stiffened again. Altena had called her the daughter of Corsica.
A Soldat.
"Daughter of Corsica?" Mireille laughed nervously. "I didn't think my accent really showed anymore. You caught me off-guard with the question about being an assassin, though."
"Please, just admit the truth. You are a sapling."
Mireille could sense an ever so slight hint of irritation in her words, as if she was running out of patience.
"Yes..." Mireille acknowledged begrudgingly. "And who are you?"
"I am with the Soldats," the woman declared coolly. The sense of shyness or nervousness Mireille had been getting from her was fading. "I have come to make you an offer, but first, I need to know something."
Mireille raised an eyebrow as she raised her coffee cup again. "I'm listening."
"I know that you and the other sapling left the Manor alive, not a week ago. The Council let you go; why? Are you working for them?"
She sipped at the coffee. "No. I went to the Manor for Kirika, not to do the bidding of the Soldats."
"I see. But they let you go."
"Yeah, they did. I don't know why."
"I didn't think they would hesitate to kill you. They didn't, so you must still be useful to them. Then you were working for them."
Suddenly, she thought back to Breffort: "The Soldats do not like to leave loose ends uncut."
The initial shock was fading; she managed to regain at least some of her composure, but now she was more alert. "Who I'm working for – or not – is my business. My going there was convenient for them; that was it."
"So you're not working with them?"
"No."
"Good." The woman sipped at her coffee again. After a brief pause, she looked her in the eyes again. "I would ask you two to join us."
"Us?" Mireille asked. "Who is 'us'?"
The woman hesitated, but not with surprise. She seemed to be thinking over her answer, sipping at her coffee. After a few seconds, she replied. "We are the true Soldats."
"The 'true' Soldats?"
The woman nodded. "The Soldats you know are traitors. They don't act in the best interests of the Soldats – or the rest of the world. They only care about themselves."
"So you're... what, Altena's followers?"
"No, although several of us did agree with what she wanted to do – make the Soldats into a force for justice."
"Vigilantes," Mireille said, raising an eyebrow. The woman gave no response, allowing Mireille to take another bite of the danish.
"Why? Why should I – we – join you?"
"It is your birthright. You have inherited the title of Noir. You must take your rightful place amongst the Soldats."
She'd heard this before. "What's in it for us?"
The woman hesitated, as if gathering her thoughts. "You will claim your birthright. You will have the power and prestige that is rightfully yours."
"So this was your offer?"
The woman nodded.
"I've had this discussion already. The answer is no."
"You should... think about it," she insisted. "It would be best for you and your partner."
She repeated herself more firmly: "No."
The woman hung her head, shaking it sadly. She then looked up, making eye contact again. "We will have you, one way or the other."
"Was that a threat?" Mireille asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," the woman replied, taking a final sip of her coffee and rising from her seat. "Merely a statement of fact."
From the author: Sorry it's been so long since I last updated this story - I hadn't figured out how to continue the story from my first chapters; plus, I haven't had much time for writing.
Thanks for your patience, and for reading. Please let me know what you think!