Red And Black - By Kirika
k_yuumura@hotmail.com
http://users.bigpond.net.au/kirika/
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The fifteenth chapter.
**Dedicated to Heta, my arguably biggest fan in Finland. Happy belated Birthday wishes to you! ^_^
**Lightly tinkered with. Note the change of title. I felt it more appropriate.
- Kirika
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Chapter 15 - Homeward Bound
A small furrow surfaced upon Kirika's forehead and her eyebrows drew together, doing their best to unite at the vertical crease and form a frown. Kirika was asleep beside Mireille, the two nestled snug together in their bed, the younger girl having unconsciously cuddled closer to her beloved partner at some stage during the night. Ordinarily the cosy and comforting presence of Mireille pressed against her would keep Kirika in a deep and peaceful slumber throughout the twilight hours and onwards, right until the morning's sun had risen well above the horizon. But not this time. This time it was far from peaceful and unwelcomely deep. This time Kirika was dreaming. And an unsettling dream it was.
Kirika's shuttered eyes shifted uneasily below her knitted brow, the orbs rolling fitfully beneath their closed lids and visibly disturbing the normally sleep-calmed coverings. Her lips parted and a soft, barely audible gasp of air escaped from between them; a gasp of quiet shock, one that could be easily mistaken for a simple exhalation whist sound asleep. Yet for a reticent girl like Kirika, whose introversion extended even to her unconscious periods, it was the equivalent of a distressed exclamation.
Kirika's eyes suddenly opened unbidden, perhaps the trauma besieging her mind provoking it to at last flee from the unpleasantness of the dream world into the safety of the waking one. Her mind's likely hopes were realised as the morning sunshine pervading the apartment from its uncurtained windows struck the girl's now equally unshuttered reddish-brown eyes, the mellow, soothing rays penetrating their depths and onwards to chase the images of the dream away and back to whatever dark place they had emerged from. But all memory of just what those images had contained were banished also, leaving behind only residual tatters of the dream and a vague impression of the once strong feelings it had induced. In effect, it was almost as if Kirika had never dreamt at all in her time of slumber. Consequently, she could not recall what the dream had been about, why it had upset her so, or even how long it had lasted. All that survived upon her awakening was a hazy recollection of her walking somewhere--somewhere she had recognised, maybe even had been before--along with the aforementioned vestiges of the emotions that had accompanied the dream. Vestiges that imbued a sense of anxiety in Kirika; anxiety… and fear. That the dream had instilled fear--a sentiment seldom experienced by Kirika except during the worst of circumstances, circumstances typically related to Mireille in some way--in itself was enough to worry the teenage assassin, her mind being in the waking world no damper to the full weight and meaning behind that ominous emotion.
But a dream was still a dream. Kirika knew that all too well, her dream of a tomorrow where she and Mireille lived free from violence and death still as elusive as ever. Dreams were fantasies of her mind's making. They had no basis in the waking world, no foundation in reality. Kirika's worries were groundless. Yet she couldn't deny that her feelings were as real as any others she had experienced, and as a result they were not so easy to simply dismiss.
As Kirika slowly blinked her troubled eyes into complete focus, she was greeted with the glorious sight of Mireille's breathtaking profile engulfing her vision, rising like some sort of divine mountain from the ruffled slopes of the pillow, the graceful tapering curve of the woman's nose its crest. Mireille was still fast asleep, her delicate features relaxed, at peace, and her breathing expressed in a gentle, quiet rhythm. It was a beautiful scene to Kirika's eyes; a sight to greet the morning with that could not be matched by anything else in this world. But then of course Mireille was the epitome of beauty; regardless of her physical state she would still be the most wonderful thing in imagination and beyond to her younger partner. Waking up to Mireille's lovely face almost made Kirika totally forget about her dream and the fear it had conveyed, its persisting ghost teetering on joining the rest of its body in the shadows of the girl's mind. But, alas even that heavenly vision turned out not to be enough to grant oblivion and quell the unpleasant feeling of dread nesting in Kirika's heart.
While the final memory of wakefulness Kirika could hark back to from last night consisted of her lying flat on her back at least a hand's breadth away from Mireille, it was not surprising for her to find that her position in bed had drastically altered for the better. That she was now lying on her side squashed up against Mireille on the opposite half of the bed; her cheek resting on the slope of the woman's upper chest, an arm draped across her slender waist and a leg mingling amid her longer ones, the combination effectively restraining the blonde to the mattress; was about as natural to Kirika as the act of waking up in the morning itself. It was a customary arrangement for the girl to wake up in; latched on to the person who meant the most to her in her life. It was as if her unconscious self was somehow drawn to Mireille during the night, her body automatically seeking the gorgeous woman out, her instinctive urges to be close to the one she loved bestowed supremacy over everything else that floated in her mind while slumbering.
Mireille never complained about the nocturnal invasion of her personal space… or she didn't anymore at least. In the early days of her and Kirika's relationship she had conveyed irritation at the quiet girl's clinginess, but those days were fortunately long gone, replaced by a heightened degree of tolerance on the blonde's part. Now Mireille had seemingly become accustomed to Kirika's habit to the point that she graciously indulged it without a hint of displeasure, not so much as even mentioning it regardless of just how intimately her partner's limbs were arranged around her body. And if her occasional surreptitious touches in the morning when she thought Kirika asleep were anything to go by, the diffident girl suspected that Mireille had grown to like their closeness possibly as much as she herself did.
Kirika simply lay where she was, not moving a single muscle, just basking in the joy of tightly embracing the woman who owned her heart. Her eyes stayed where they were upon the picturesque portrait of Mireille's serene face, taking in and adoring its fine details; the smooth, baby-soft alabaster skin; the faint shadows cast by her long eyelashes, helping to define her high cheekbones; the perfect shape of her full, slightly parted lips; the way her sandy tresses, a colour akin to the shores of an unsullied tropical beach, fell about her shoulders and spread out on the pillow under her head. They were sights that Kirika could behold forever and still cherish as if seeing them for the first time. She felt unworthy being in Mireille's presence, a lesser existence--a speck far beneath her. Once again she marvelled at how such a person could deem her deserving of affection, and how blessed she was to be the woman's chosen companion. Kirika again pledged that she would dedicate her life to protecting this wingless angel in her arms. It was the sole reason she lived, her motivation for each of her breaths. Never before had she possessed such strong, sure purpose in her life. Her prior calling as Noir was no equal to it.
As Kirika drank in Mireille's enchanting features, she noticed that not every facet of the woman's visage was as flawless as usual. The scars from the elder assassin's near fatal encounter with the contents of a shotgun shell had faded some yet were still plain to see marring her left cheek, a trio of parallel lines paler than her normal complexion. Looking at them made Kirika feel queasy, and she had to resist the impulse to trace her fingers along the damaged tissue, although why she had such a desire to begin with she couldn't say.
But those old wounds weren't all that spoiled the otherwise heavenly vision of Mireille's peaceful face. Kirika could detect the shade of darkened flesh under the woman's closed eyes, and a general puffiness around the area. They mutually spoke of fatigue, and were a testament to the pair of assassins' skirmishes across Paris last night that had only ceased a few hours before dawn.
Kirika on the other hand felt quite well rested despite yesterday's lengthy outing, bad dreams notwithstanding. However, her physical endurance had been groomed to be virtually inexhaustible in accordance to her creation as the perfect killer, the superior fortitude enabling her to go for days without sleep yet still function at one hundred percent. Such a level of stamina was ideal for long missions where even a short respite was not an option, for instance holding a sniper position whilst patiently waiting for an assassination target to pass before the crosshair of her rock-steady rifle's scope.
But apparently Mireille didn't share her partner's vaulted energy levels. Kirika felt instant sympathy for her, and was more than happy to let the worn-out blonde sleep. It also gave the girl more time to simply gaze at the enthralling person she loved in silent appreciation, an opportunity she was not wont to squander, especially not after being deprived of one for so long. It had once been a scarcity for Kirika to witness Mireille in this tranquil state, stripped of her masks and reserve until only the benevolent woman herself beneath those misleading layers was laid bare in all her splendour. The gunshot wound Kirika had sustained at the Manor had thrown off the darkhaired girl's normal sleeping patterns while her lissom body struggled to recover from the life threatening trauma, meaning that more often than not she had woken up to an empty bed, her partner having awakened and started the day a good deal before her. It was true though that her injury had been virtually healed now for the past week and her derailed sleeping patterns restored as a consequence as well, but Kirika still relished the privilege of seeing Mireille in this naked condition regardless of how many times that privilege came about.
However, this particular opportunity turned out to not last as long as Kirika had envisioned, broken moments later by Mireille's dark-smudged eyelids creeping groggily open to expose a sliver of dazzling blue irises to the morning light; glittering clear skies peeking out from between black clouds. Disorientation swam within the blonde's half-lidded and bleary eyes for a second, but then they dropped lethargically downwards to where Kirika's head rested atop her chest, locking with the girl's own which stared spellbound up at her.
"Good morning," Mireille said with a warm, gentle smile, although her obvious tiredness laced her greeting and dulled her melodious voice's usual lustre.
"Morning," Kirika responded softly in her customary subdued pitch, made more so by her disappointment that the blonde's slumber had concluded so soon. Disappointment not roused because it robbed her of her continued delight at gazing upon a sleeping Mireille--that was in fact the farthest thing from her mind--but because it meant her partner had not received all the rest she so clearly yet needed.
Mireille fidgeted for an instant underneath Kirika's willowy body that partially covered her own more developed one, her muscles briefly tensing to rigid, momentarily hard and unyielding against the girl's enveloping limbs. She then relaxed, but next made to get up and leave the bed, leave Kirika's embrace, her body pressing insistently in opposition to her young colleague's imposed binds of flesh and bone. As was common, Mireille didn't verbally acknowledge Kirika's confining hug or express her want to abandon it, however her wish to do so was unmistakable. And as was common, Kirika didn't want her to go.
But this time Kirika found her limbs that lay across Mireille suddenly stiffening, securing the woman's torso and left leg inescapably where they were, her small body becoming taut as densely packed muscles flexed like coiled steel. Mireille had no choice but to halt her rise from the bed, her eyes opening a little wider in spite of her weariness at the abrupt and unexpected impediment keeping her a captive beneath the sheets.
Mireille frowned faintly and searched her partner's gaze probably for some clue towards the girl's action, but after apparently finding a suitable one, allowed her body to relax once more and settle back upon the mattress. She smiled, a tolerant smile a considerable margin more affectionate than her previous, the fond gesture reaching her dark-ringed eyes.
"I suppose I can stay in bed a little longer," the blonde remarked kindly though somewhat wryly as well, one corner of her mouth curling upwards to turn her tender smile into a tender smirk.
Kirika smiled too, a small smile of gratitude mitigated by the anxiety that still dwelled within her, an unwanted parting gift from the dream. She let her muscles slacken since it was clear Mireille was not going to abandon her, not going to leave her by herself, but the knowledge rather surprisingly did little to alleviate her feelings of apprehension. Furthermore, the fact that it didn't only served to rekindle the impression of fear inside her heart to its former strength, whatever amount that had been diminished thanks to her losing herself in the admiration of Mireille's sleeping face wiped clean. If the continued presence of Mireille in bed with her--while they were both awake *and* cuddled close together, a rare happenstance--could not pacify her unease, then the fear must stem from something in the dream that had been terrible indeed.
Mireille held Kirika's gaze for a second more before she sighed exaggeratedly towards the ceiling, her eyes rolling upwards to the head of the bed. "I guess I'm just your teddy bear, hmm?" she said in a resigned voice, still smirking, and obviously teasing--Kirika had seen teddy bears and Mireille was nothing like them.
The woman's eyes returned from their ascent, meeting Kirika's once again. "Or perhaps you see me as your life-sized doll?" Mireille sighed again, despondently, and an inquisitive blonde eyebrow crawled high on her forehead. "And here I thought you were *my* doll…."
Kirika wasn't exactly certain whether her partner was still teasing or not; Mireille's skin was similar in hue and texture to many of the delicate porcelain dolls' that she had examined once during one of their numerous shopping trips together. Several of the dolls had the same fair hair colour, too. All Mireille required was her blonde locks to be in ringlets and to be devolved into a miniature toddler for her to mimic their general appearance. And also maybe a tiny white dress with frills and lace to fit her new stature.
Despite that Mireille had noticeably woken up in a good mood even with her persevering fatigue, Kirika couldn't manage more than a non-committal mumble at the woman's light-hearted comments, even the last one; her profound worry blanketing her spirits. Nevertheless, a more resilient part of her did muse if it was customary for dolls to receive a lot of clothes as presents that they were expected to wear at least once, recalling Mireille's fancy for buying her scores of garments and compelling her to don most of them no less than one time--if not more--before they could depart the store they were purchased from. Kirika empathised with the dolls; they had a difficult and tiring job. Changing repeatedly in and out of clothes and then contorting yourself in varying stances took its toll on your stamina, even Kirika's having trouble enduring. The girl wondered if Altena had incorporated a comparable training program to help build her staying power to what it was today, her patchy memory providing no clear details if the woman had or not. If Altena had, she was sure that it had not been as enjoyable as participating in the activity under Mireille's supervision. Her compliance to seemingly act as a doll invoked happiness in Mireille, and if her partner was happy, then Kirika was, too. No matter how demanding it was to generate that happiness.
Kirika's smile slipped, the introverted assassin's characteristic sombre expression returning to the fore with its collapse. Her restless eyes fell away from her partner's happy ones made slightly arched by Mireille's playful yet compassionate smirk, and focused instead on the bow below the collar of the woman's lilac pyjama top. Kirika's vision blurred, however, not really seeing the tied ribbon except for a white splodge in a plain of lilac. For some reason thinking about Altena caused the already substantial fear chilling her heart to turn all the more icy, a fresh shot of frost injected along the frozen network of tendrils deeply rooted inside it. Kirika shivered as the cold permeated outwards from her chest to the rest of her body, as if her heart was pumping the chill through her very veins in concert with her blood.
"Are you alright?" Mireille asked, concern now ruling her voice. Kirika's tremble had been practically indiscernible to the naked eye, the barest ripple passing through her body from her slim shoulders to her dainty feet, but to Mireille it had apparently been plain to see. And to feel. Kirika was all but lounging on the woman's chest; she should have realised that it would've been unlikely for her partner not to pick up on it.
Feeling guilty to have harmed Mireille's fine morning spirits, Kirika contemplated merely murmuring wordlessly in the affirmative and hopefully avert any further demolishment of them. But as her mouth opened to utter that insincere sound, she thought of her time spent with Mireille at the bar in that colourfully lit neighbourhood of Paris yesterday, specifically at what the blonde had spoken to her about. Kirika had been honest when she had stated that she knew she could talk to Mireille about anything; it was just that she frequently found it a struggle to put her thoughts and feelings into the proper words, or words that she was sure her partner would understand, at any rate. Or else, as in this particular case, she sometimes believed it better not to mention anything at all for the greater good. And then of course there was the fact that Kirika was on the whole really not the talkative sort, preferring to listen rather than contribute to a conversation, even if its participants were solely she and Mireille.
Since Mireille had judged it necessary to seek verification that Kirika recognised she was there to talk to, the stoic assassin wanted to try to be more open with those thoughts that cropped up in her mind and those emotions that swelled or shrivelled her heart, and thus reassure the woman she loved that she did indeed know she could come to her for anything. Kirika didn't want Mireille to think she wasn't needed or that she was unapproachable. Certainly, the blonde could be standoffish on occasion, especially to other people, but for Kirika that aloofness was always significantly if not wholly toned down… although admittedly it was to some extent relative to Mireille's state of mind at the time.
Kirika tilted her head upwards a bit on Mireille's chest, her unnerved reddish-brown eyes welcomed back by her partner's tired ones, their depths more troubled than she last remembered. "I… had a dream," the girl said with some difficultly, her throat inexplicitly drying out, as if she had been abruptly stricken by a severe thirst. She swallowed, attempting to dispel the disagreeable sensation.
"A dream?" Mireille repeated, her brow creasing a tad as she considered this. "Was it a good dream?" Her lips twitched, and Kirika could tell she was trying hard not to smile. "About me, perhaps?"
"Mm," Kirika mumbled, dismissing the blonde's speculation as incorrect. She would have loved for her dream to be about Mireille instead of… whatever it had really been about. Kirika's dreams about Mireille ordinarily made her feel nice inside, even if she couldn't remember their details in the morning. The few that didn't were connected to the past, or involved Mireille leaving her all alone or the woman being hurt in some horrible manner. The mornings following those particular dreams Kirika tended to cling to her partner in bed just a little tighter than normal. "I can't remember what it was about," the disturbed girl revealed quietly, "but I know it was bad."
Mireille stared at Kirika for a moment, as if mulling over something, and then there was a rustle of bedcovers before the latter young woman felt the blonde's fingers lightly caress the nape of her neck, a ticklish yet tantalising sensation that sent a shiver of a different kind to her last one through her lithe body. Mireille smiled, a comforting, reassuring smile that's mere sight calmed Kirika's fretting heart a large fraction. "Try not to worry about it," Mireille said, her fingers an idle but gentle, massaging pressure on the back of Kirika's neck. "Dreams are a window into your mind. If you've been thinking a lot about something before you go to sleep, then chances are you'll dream about it. A favourite activity, the day's events, worries; whatever was on your mind before you fell asleep."
Mireille exhaled softly and looked up at the ceiling while her fingers travelled higher behind Kirika's neck, reaching her tousled dark locks. She began to toy with them, entwining tufts around her graceful fingers over and over again, in a way that was very similar to when she played with the girl's hair while she believed her to be napping. "After leaving it with my uncle, as a little girl I used to dream a lot about my home in Corsica," the blonde recounted, her blue eyes taking on the tint of a distant sky. "I used to miss it a great deal, you see. It was never far from my thoughts." She blinked suddenly, and looked down at Kirika. "But that's not the case anymore," the blonde quickly clarified with a bright smile, perhaps recognising that the reason behind her exodus of Corsica might still be a touchy subject for her partner. She would be right. "I see this place as my home now." Mireille appeared as though she were going to say more, her mouth remaining open for longer than required, but instead she closed it and then simply smiled at Kirika once more.
"We've had some substantial worries lately," the woman went on in a more serious tone a few seconds later as she looked to the ceiling again, although she didn't cease fiddling with Kirika's hair, "so it's little wonder that you had an unpleasant dream."
"Mm…" Kirika gravely agreed, her gaze dropping to regard the bow on Mireille's pyjamas again. There was no mention of the most recent source of those worries however, no mention of last night's proceedings and the implications behind them. But the topic hung heavily in the air between the two assassins, unacknowledged yet still present, like a bloated black cloud waiting to burst and spread its wretched rain over an otherwise sunny day. Neither wanted to broach it, knowing that all it would do was cause the atmosphere to irrevocably turn sour. The rain could fall later, when it had to. Not now, in this period of fleeting peace.
Mireille became silent, seemingly content to carry on absently stroking her fingers through her younger partner's mop of hair. Kirika was silent too, digesting the worldly woman's remarks. One thing Mireille had neglected to point out is that dreams could be a premonition of the future. Kirika had once dreamt that another her existed inside of herself, a dream which had been in part responsible for prompting her to write a letter to Mireille in case that dark self ever fully roused and had to be slain. It had been a dream that had come true. But she hoped that Mireille was right; that her earlier dream was just a manifestation of some unconscious worry. It could have been that her premonition hadn't been a dream to begin with, but rather a lost memory resurfaced in the night, after all.
Minutes ticked by in hushed serenity, and Kirika found the strong, even thump of Mireille's heart beneath her right ear a lulling rhythm in the quiet, its drumbeat serving to scare off the origin of her fear, exiling it. Meanwhile the reassuring warmth of the beautiful blonde's body radiated into the slender girl's own, defrosting the lingering traces of cold dread in her veins until they melted away, gone as if they never were. And finally Mireille's affectionately dancing fingers mended Kirika's frayed nerves, smoothing the roughness that had formed until none remained; a steadfast will revitalised to its usual staunchness.
A small, lazy smile came to Kirika's face, her eyelids feeling heavy and her breathing rate slowing. She felt a lot better. She should have known that talking to Mireille would have been more than enough to alleviate her distress. Just being with the woman she loved would have sufficed. It always did.
"I hope my hair doesn't smell too acrid," Mireille said softly, almost in a whisper. "I'm not sure I got all the alcohol out."
"Mm…" Kirika mumbled dreamily in the negative, no more than vaguely aware of the bundle of blonde silk strands lying near to her nose. "It smells nice…."
It eventually dawned on Kirika that her eyelids were shut and had been for several minutes. She was dozing off, balanced on the boundary of sleep and awake. She wasn't afraid to give in to the desire either; positive that Mireille's continued presence by her side would chase away any bad dreams that dared threaten to attack her mind and taint her slumber. It seemed that her extensive training in combating drowsiness counted for naught when set against the chance to snooze on Mireille's chest. Kirika briefly pondered why Altena apparently hadn't taught her to resist this type of lure. But perhaps it could not be resisted--the girl frankly believed it was beyond human effort to even come close.
"I think it would be best for us to get up now, before a certain someone nods off," Mireille's caring yet amused voice suddenly suggested, lyrical eloquence filtering through the fluff shrouding Kirika's head. "Honestly; I thought you were no longer a sleepy head!"
Kirika's eyes opened slothfully while she moaned in confusion, blinking with matching sluggishness up at Mireille's smiling face. The blonde just shook her head wryly at her partner's sleepiness, and then following a split second's hesitation, she fondly patted the girl twice in succession on her darkhaired head. "Come on," she lightly urged, "we can't stay in bed all day."
Mireille's gaze was then yet again cast to the white-painted ceiling above, accompanied by an exhausted sigh emitted from her throat. Kirika noted that the woman's dusky-rimmed eyes were tearing up with fresh moisture through her own now almost likewise watery orbs. Fresh pity similarly flooded the girl's heart, a different kind of anxiousness from the one so recently purged from it, nonetheless only marginally more tolerable. "But the way I'm feeling right now, I certainly wouldn't mind to," the blonde assassin added wearily, candidly admitting and not to mention exhibiting the strain she was undergoing. It was a seldom seen thing; Kirika could count the number of related incidents on the fingers of one hand. Mireille tended to be unforthcoming in relation to what could be perceived as weakness of any sort afflicting her. Kirika could understand that if in the presence of strangers or enemies, but not so much when it was just the two of them. She supposed however that her partner merely didn't want her to worry--it was a practice Mireille often engaged in.
But the thing was, as odd as it sounded, Kirika *wanted* to worry. She--like Mireille in respect to her, the girl realised in surprise--wanted to know if anything was troubling the woman, upsetting her, or if she was in pain of some kind. And Kirika wanted to help resolve those troubles, allay those upsets, and ease those pains. It was as if her obligation, her desire, to protect her partner extended beyond the mere physical. It dawned on Kirika that she wanted to safeguard *all* of Mireille--physically *and* emotionally. She wanted to ensure that the blonde was… happy, as well as in good health. Not in particular happy being with her; simply generally content with life. She wanted Mireille to always be able to smile. *Truly* smile. A genuinely, happily smiling Mireille made Kirika want to smile in joy, too.
As was typical of her character, Mireille's compulsion to delay getting up was quashed in favour of what she deemed the more appropriate behaviour of boldly facing the new day. Kirika had known that her partner's yearning to remain would be brushed aside, yet couldn't prevent feeling disappointed when the blonde moved to roll out of her embrace and end their peaceful, blissful, time together in bed. Reluctantly she let Mireille slip out from under her as the woman turned over onto her right side and then sat up on the edge of the bed, Kirika's limbs--once akin to the potency of iron bands--willed into contrasting flaccidity with notable effort; toned muscles made limp and the reflex to tighten them, to hold on desperately to the person she loved, overridden with the dearth of vigour. Kirika considered asking Mireille not to leave, but she had already requested it once--if not out loud--and the thought of asking again made her feel uncomfortable, though why she couldn't pinpoint. Besides, she didn't believe that Mireille would treat her again anyway; it had been a small miracle that the blonde had consented to staying in bed the first time. Normally once Mireille ascertained that Kirika was awake, she couldn't leave it fast enough.
Mireille took a moment to put on her slippers where she had left them by the bed last night, and then stood up, stretching her arms behind her head with a faint groan of discomfort, her muscles no doubt aching. Her departure of the bed proper pulled the sheets off of Kirika's lean body all the way down to the girl's waist and bared her to the cold air of the apartment, a product of the winter's weather outdoors. But rather than the air's cool touch, it was the loss of Mireille's cosy body that produced the shudder which consequently wracked Kirika's forlorn form. She missed her partner's presence pressed next to her as soon as it had left, and it was as though that sentiment had manifested itself in a physical reaction. She felt naked without her, exposed to the elements… and alone to face them. Kirika's craving for Mireille was akin to her need for breathing--an eternal, crucial factor mandatory for her to live. But she always suffered the same acute separation anxiety whenever the blonde departed her company, not just when the woman left the bed in the mornings. Incidentally, the length of that separation had no bearing either; it could be for a minute or an hour, irrespective the feeling and its intensity were identical.
There was an exception however; the separation anxiety was vastly heightened in these morning cases. Kirika suspected it could be because of her and Mireille's wonderful close quarters throughout the entire night beforehand. The captivating bodily contact was a dynamic that made the subsequent absence of Mireille more… real. The loss of Mireille's touch, her scent, her warmth, was a loss that was tangible and hence was felt more keenly. Nevertheless, Kirika had survived it before and would recover from it… eventually.
Mireille, as if sensing Kirika's deep feelings of isolation, turned her head back to the bed following her stretch, back to the now glum girl she had left behind. Her look started out mildly inquiring, but merely an instant after her tired eyes fell on Kirika her expression softened considerably, making her appear even more fatigued yet somehow more resplendent all at once. She smiled tenderly and almost a shade sympathetically at Kirika, and for a brief, shining second the hopeful girl actually thought Mireille was reconsidering her choice of getting up, and may well be rejoining her under the sheets momentarily to once more grant her the luxury of her cherished companionship.
But sadly neither Mireille's look nor her loitering lasted--a moment later she turned her head away from Kirika and set off with slumped shoulders in a somewhat staggered path towards the bathroom, stifling a wide but civilised yawn with a hand as she went.
Kirika watched her partner go until the woman reached the bathroom and shut the door, thwarting her view. The young assassin exhaled softly and then simply lay where she was on her stomach, making no attempt to readjust the covers over herself and keep the apartment's chill at bay. The bed was cold and uninviting now without Mireille; it held no appeal at all for Kirika to remain. She could not linger for too long even if she wished to anyway, unless she wanted to be scolded by Mireille once the blonde came out of the bathroom. No, like Mireille, Kirika must boldly face the new day. Make no mistake, however, it wasn't a displeasing prospect by any means. She had breakfast with Mireille to look forward to, and that was always a pleasant affair. Food seemed to have a richer, fuller taste when it was eaten with the woman, as if her sheer presence added some sort of mystery spice to every morsel consumed. But before Kirika could revel in such delicacies, breakfast would have to be prepared first.
Gently shaking the residual lethargy from her head, Kirika sat up and then scooted over to the edge of the bed, before climbing out of it. She padded bare foot across the rug by the bed and then down the short flight of steps into the living room. The floorboards were frigid planks beneath the soles of her feet, and the general cold of the room wafted on her arms and legs, the limbs uncovered by her nightwear comprising only of a thin vest and petite shorts. None of it bothered Kirika though; the temperature was not life threatening, just unappealing, but easily within tolerable limits for her. It was below her notice.
However, Kirika was not so indifferent to the iciness of the apartment that she wasn't mindful that her more sensitive partner probably found it disagreeable. Mireille didn't benefit from the environmental conditioning she had undertaken whilst in Altena's 'care'. Kirika had been inured to withstand extreme climates and in turn continue to perform at peak proficiency as an assassin in them; blasted desert plains; frozen, snow-encrusted tundras; muggy, monsoonal jungles; none of those settings' hardships debilitated her as they would an average individual. Kirika possessed the ability to simply block them out, to forbid them from taxing her mind and thus weakening her body. Nevertheless, this didn't make her body immune to the harm those harsh climates could inflict upon it in the form of dehydration, frostbite, pneumonia and the like, and consequently measures still had to be taken to protect her health.
Kirika switched on the radiators under the apartment's row of windows, and turned the heat up to a level she was sure Mireille would feel most comfortable in. The girl hoped that at least the bite would be taken out of the chill before her partner completed her ablutions in the bathroom. She couldn't imagine that it was any warmer in there than it was in the rest of the apartment at present, so it would be a nice surprise for Mireille to step out of the frosty bathroom and into contrasting warmth.
But there was a good chance that the radiators would have barely had an opportunity to do their job before Mireille returned, so Kirika scurried into the kitchen to assemble an alternative remedy to stave off the cold and also to make a start on breakfast. Once there, the diligent girl threw herself eagerly into her chores. Picking up the kettle, she filled it with water and then placed it on the stove, the latter she then turned on. While she waited for the kettle's contents to be heated, she trotted over to the breadbin and took out a crusty white loaf with one hand and placed it on the nearby breadboard, while her other deftly drew a breadknife from the knife block. Kirika twirled the knife unconsciously between her nimble fingers as she lowered its serrated blade to the loaf--a whirlwind of silver in her hand--and then cleanly sawed off four slices from one end. She left the knife on the breadboard and then scooped the slices up in her hands, before moving over to the toaster, plopping them into the appliance. The busy girl next pulled down the lever on one side of the toaster causing the bread slices to be swallowed into its interior, and then after sparing a perfunctory glance at the kettle, nodded to herself in satisfaction.
Kirika's preparations thus far were naturally only for the scant beginnings of breakfast. Because of the winter weather, she had opted to make something more ample than simple cereal and toast, and moreover something hot cooked to help both her and her partner through the evidently chilly day ahead. But before that, her alternative heat remedy for Mireille took priority. Kirika could hear running water coming from the bathroom now, which was her signal that the blonde's reappearance was imminent--she had to hurry.
Kirika took out a brightly polished, ornate silverware tray from a cupboard and then began setting it with all the necessary tableware and crockery for tea. By the time she had finished arranging the tray and supplying the requisite sugar to the sugar bowl and milk to the milk jug, the kettle was whistling its come to boil. She quickly turned off the stove before hoisting the kettle gingerly from its spot, and then poured its hot contents into the teapot which was already the home of several teabags, deposited there earlier by the girl. After replacing the lid on the teapot and putting the kettle back on the stove, Kirika placed the centrepiece of the tea set on the laden tray, beside the pair of matching cups and saucers that sat in amongst the other pieces of crockery. For the final touch, she popped an embroidered tea cosy on the teapot, ensuring it stayed warm on this cold morning.
"Yoisho," Kirika uttered as she lifted the now complete silverware tray from the counter, and then carried it into the living room. The water in a drinking glass also allotted a spot on the tray by her earlier swished in its confines as she went, the clear glass looking out of place amid the fine china, although its presence there was almost as important as the tea set itself.
Kirika carefully set the tray down on the round table by one end of the living room, it visible from the narrow kitchen. Free of her burden, she looked to her right in time to see Mireille wander down the bedroom stairs, appearing a little fresher than when she last saw her but nonetheless still exhausted. As Kirika had anticipated, once the woman traversed the steps she immediately headed for her computer on top of the billiard table to presumably check her email--it was her typical morning routine, one the observant girl knew well. Mireille did, however, make a temporary halt to inspect her lavender coat she had slung over the uneven black partition after coming home last night. The woman raised the bottom hem of the garment between a finger and thumb while she frowned crossly at the mud-caked grass stains striping its back brown and green, reminders of her tumble across Laroque's lawn after diving through his broken library window.
A few seconds later Mireille then sighed and let her coat slip from her grasp, before pursing her lips in distaste. She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing her short blonde fringe back, and then scratched her head as she went on glowering at her dirty coat, as if attempting to intimidate it into becoming clean again. Kirika wouldn't be surprised if her partner really succeeded--her blue gaze could be as piercing as steel daggers if she wished it… and just as painful for the one under it. Many times Kirika had borne that look, but it was tranquil blue skies that fell upon her diminutive form nowadays. It was certainly a great improvement. Being stabbed by Mireille's disapproving eye had been a blow she could never hope to dodge, and caused a wound that festered for weeks.
Mireille eventually gave up glaring at her coat and dropped her hand back to her side, resuming her well-worn path to her computer before settling herself in the chair in front of it. Kirika looked away from her partner and focused on finishing what would probably become her own morning routine if the current weather persisted. The apartment still felt rather chilly, the radiators, as previously predicted, having done little to rout the cold assaulting the place. That was the purpose of the tea; to heat Mireille right down to her bones, and subsequently enable her body to fend off the still present cold until she ate a nice hot breakfast or the radiators prevailed in their endeavour, whichever came first.
Kirika removed the cosy from the teapot and poured Mireille a cup of tea, adding one teaspoon of sugar and just a dash of skimmed milk, the resulting concoction appearing as though a white tempest had been caught in a mocha sea. She then ran the teaspoon through the full cup once and once only before laying it down on the saucer--just enough for the sugar and milk to blend with the tea and no more. One teaspoon of sugar, one splash of skimmed milk, and no stirring whatsoever--it was just how Mireille liked it. When Kirika had first learned how to make tea, memorising the precise servings of milk and sugar that made up the woman's ideal cup and understanding exactly how to prepare it had been the topmost item on her agenda. It had taken practice however, through which Mireille had been very patient stomaching some unappetising if heartfelt attempts whilst providing supportive remarks and useful feedback after their tasting. Now Kirika had Mireille's blend ingrained in her mind like her techniques on assassination; a permanent nugget of knowledge among countless that she would never forget.
Kirika popped the cosy back on the teapot--it would not do to have the tea go cold while breakfast was being cooked--and then picking up Mireille's cup of tea and the half-full glass of water, she walked over to the billiard table where her partner was sitting.
Mireille didn't look up as Kirika approached, the woman occupied with staring grimly at her computer screen, her expression far colder than the room's low temperature. Kirika wondered what had educed such a sour look, but as she rounded the billiard table and neared Mireille, the blonde immediately swivelled her chair around to face her, all smiles, and her shoulder now subtly obscuring the monitor and whatever unpleasantness it might have displayed.
"Thank you," Mireille said gratefully as she took the tea Kirika offered to her, before lifting the cup to her lips and taking an experimental sip. When she lowered the cup from her mouth back to the saucer her smile had grown fuller, and she favoured the girl responsible with a pleased look, obviously approving of the flavour.
Kirika smiled demurely back at Mireille, though thrilled to have satisfied her. It was moments like this that made all the effort she put in worthwhile. It awarded an immense sense of gratification to her, one that had no rival. Pleasing Mireille with her skills in murder left her feeling hollow, but pleasing the blonde in any other way left her feeling fulfilled. It made Kirika feel warm inside.
"Are you not cold?" Mireille inquired curiously before taking another, longer, sip of her tea, eyeing her partner from bare shoulders to bare feet over the cup's rim.
"Mm," Kirika said with an emphatic shake of her head, her small smile still strong on her delicate features. She then turned around to cater to the orchid resting on the end table a couple of feet behind her, it too awaiting a beverage from her, albeit a cold and flavourless one, but one just as beneficial all the same.
"Of course…" Kirika heard Mireille say wryly under her breath as she moved.
Kirika could feel Mireille looking at her as she watered their orchid from the glass in her hand, spreading the life-giving fluid meticulously around its stalk, smiling all the while. The plant hadn't made much progress towards blooming, but Kirika was dedicated to one day witnessing its flowers; she somehow believed that they would be breathtaking, and worth the time and hard work she and her partner devoted to nurturing their advent.
"Do you need any help with breakfast?" Mireille eventually asked following several moments of silently observing Kirika's back and her gardening labours. The woman's voice was somewhat soft and distracted as if her query wasn't a serious one, or as if there was something heavier on her mind than mere breakfast.
Kirika hesitated in answering. If truth were told, Mireille's assistance with breakfast wouldn't go amiss. While the teenage assassin had committed the recipes for the most popular and straightforward breakfast dishes to memory, her pains to follow them and duplicate the end product were not perfect and some endeavours even flopped outright. Mireille had told her that her theory was sound, but her execution was unfortunately lacking in some areas. Kirika blamed her failures to date on the recipes themselves. They simply weren't detailed enough and were devoid of contingency directions; for example in the event her pancake stuck to the frying pan, how was she supposed to free it without it crumbling? If instructions written in the same style were used for munitions deployment, then the girl was sure severe injuries would result and possibly even fatalities. Cooking wasn't as easy as killing.
"Okay, I'll help," Mireille said with a slight smile in her tone, no doubt picking up on her partner's uncertainty.
Kirika was relieved. She still couldn't go without Mireille's assistance whilst trying to cook. Furthermore, with the more experienced woman's mentoring she was confident she would in due course master the skill of cooking for all mealtimes, not just breakfast. No matter what Kirika would persevere. Like her toiling with making tea, she wanted to be able to become thoroughly proficient in preparing meals for the woman she loved, with the blonde's favourite dishes naturally given special preference. The withdrawn but soft-hearted girl just wanted to demonstrate to Mireille how much she treasured her, how much she adored her; how much she loved her. It was but a small demonstration of course, like the tea, merely the tiniest statement of her feelings for her partner. Yet that didn't make it not worth doing. Every gesture counted in Kirika's view; every way she could show her enormous affection for Mireille was important. The size of the gesture didn't matter. The sentiments behind it did.
"We have a meeting with Breffort," Mireille divulged in an abrupt and grave change of subject, her tone all business to match it. Kirika's smile vanished with equal alacrity.
The bloated black cloud suspended overhead had burst, and bad memories were suddenly cascading down like acid rain. Everything that had happened last night came surging back to Kirika, stinging blows on her mind--the cacophony of gunfire, the shed blood on the floor, the bodies of the dead, their quarry's escape, a dark text's resurrection--everything, along with all the potential ramifications of each that were no improvement on their forebears' caustic bite. Bad memories to be sure, but in retrospect Kirika realised that she wouldn't have done anything differently. The people she had killed, the lives that had been lost--they had all been deserving of death, sinners duly expunged from the face of the world and back to the wicked place that had birthed them. And as long as Mireille's life was not among those snuffed out, what did it matter who died? Kirika didn't regret killing those men who had been so intent on doing the same to her and the woman she loved. She felt they had deserved it. Anybody who raised a hand to Mireille deserved it.
Yet that premise sat uneasy in Kirika. That, and that she hadn't woken up truly horrified this morning at the murders she had carried out. A part of her whispered why should she be, why should she have compassion for those she had killed, for those who had threatened Mireille? She had simply been fulfilling a promise, a duty; one worth far more than those men's lives. Deserving of death indeed. But who deemed someone deserving of death; who was she to decide who lived and who died? She was the executioner, not the judge… or was she too the judge? She had judged those men last night, and those men before in the Metro. Who or what really determined who was deserving of death? Her, the one who held the gun that delivered that end, the one who exercised it against another? Or the people who hired Kirika and Mireille's services perhaps, those clients who paid money or provided another incentive for someone's untimely demise? Both parties acted as the judge to some degree. Maybe it was those who held the means to inflict that death who decided who warranted it. Kirika didn't know; she had never really thought about it before now. She had never thought about how her skills at killing bestowed the prerogative for her to choose who lived and who died. The girl held the fates of countless sinners in her hands… hands that could easily extinguish them.
Kirika set the now empty drinking glass on the end table beside the potted orchid, and then straightened. She turned back to Mireille who regarded her soberly. Her face was expressionless, all business, as if having already donned the veiling executioner's hood. She reminded herself that all peace was short-lived for her kind.
Kirika nodded to her fellow assassin in compliance.
******
Mireille looked up through the dark tint of her sunglasses at the massive glass pyramid that jutted out of the ground before her, bordered by triangular pools of water that boasted a series of high-spurting fountains at their centre. It was quite an impressive sight, a modern architectural marvel. Or so people said. Mireille believed the pyramid a bit of an eyesore herself in this setting, clashing with the distinct amalgamation of sixteenth and eighteenth century French and Italian design that made up the sprawling Louvre palace that partially enclosed it. Still, both structures were works of art in their own right. Fitting for the largest museum in France, and one of the largest on Earth.
Situated almost at the heart of Paris along the banks of the Seine, Mireille had seen the vast and regal structure of the Louvre museum from the outside many times whilst traversing the streets of the capitol city, but had never had the opportunity nor in fact had ever felt the inclination to venture within the expanse of its walls before now. However, that didn't mean she wasn't familiar with it. It was after all one of the most famous and 'must see' attractions in Paris, perhaps even in the world, home to around three hundred thousand artefacts, sculptures, and paintings--including such distinguished works as the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo--spanning a variety of civilisations and cultures, some dating from as far back as six thousand years before Christ. But despite how impressive it all sounded, Mireille and Kirika were not here for the fine art. Regrettably.
The assassins were instead reluctantly standing here, with the Richelieu and Denon wings of the Louvre museum flanking them, at Breffort's request, it having been received via email on Mireille's computer earlier this morning… although why exactly they were convening at this precise locale was a mystery understood only by him. The message had been in the standard style of the stern Soldats official, short and to the point, the time and the place for the meeting stated but nothing else. He'd made no comment on last night's unproductive carnage, but Mireille knew without a doubt that it would be his topic of conversation for this little get-together. Believing it coincidence that he had scheduled a meeting so soon after the false Noir's latest escape of her and her partner's bullets was a fool's conviction. As Ryosuke had said, there were no coincidences when Soldats was involved.
Mireille certainly didn't think Breffort would be congratulating her and Kirika on a job well done, either. Not that she particularly cared. She wasn't seeking Breffort's approval in any way, shape or form. While her and her partner's goals may coincide with the man's, that was where their association ceased--they were independent parties to him, and independent parties to the despicable organisation he belonged to. Mireille did not see herself and Kirika as working for him, but rather working *with* him, and extremely tenuously at that. She had even debated earlier to perhaps dispense with patronising this meeting all together, just to make a point that she and Kirika were not at his beck and call. But she had obviously decided against it, on the grounds that Breffort was still an ally of sorts against the Ryosuke and Vincent, and could have information beneficial to their mutual cause… even if that cause was made mutual by his scheming.
Maybe Breffort believed different about Mireille and Kirika's relationship with him--Soldats' arrogance knew no bounds, and he was no exception--but if he did and attempted to manipulate the blonde today as he had done--with, the Corsican grudgingly confessed, tremendous success--in their previous meeting, then he would be in for a *very* rude awakening. Never again would she abide outsiders twisting her feelings for Kirika to their own benefit. Breffort had cunningly used them before to strongarm her into agreeing to throw away a perfectly tranquil and perfectly enjoyable lifestyle in order to dispose of Ryosuke and Vincent, two criminals completely unconnected to her and her partner in any way beyond their use of the young women's old alias, Noir--an awful revelation that had fully hit Mireille far too late, and one that had demonstrated to her with total, staggering clarity how much of a liability her once staunch heart had become. It had been the first time that Mireille's love for Kirika had worked against her, but the woman swore it was also the last. She would *not* allow anyone to ever again sway her good sense by playing on her fears concerning her relationship with Kirika. Or at any rate, she would try her utmost to uphold that oath. She knew it would be intensely challenging indeed; her own rejuvenated sentimentality could be labelled as the most formidable adversary she had ever faced in all her years in the assassination business. And this hardening of her heart against outsider's taunts was but the first line of defence in protecting herself from it. *Protecting* herself from it, yes, because she neither had the desire nor the power to smother it wholly.
Mireille recognised that she'd been getting too sentimental of late and perhaps had been for a long while now, it starting quite possibly as far back to when she had conceded to work jointly with Kirika on a 'pilgrimage for the past'. Small and trifling it had begun, hardly noticeable if at all and thus permissible, albeit whether she liked it or not, but these days it had developed to such a scale and strength that the woman was now so wrapped up in her feelings for her cute partner that she had been unwittingly allowing them to influence her ordinarily stable and impartial judgement. It was a clear and present vulnerability in her otherwise professional conduct as a contract killer, one she had flagged as having to be dealt with as soon as possible if not immediately before it gave rise to her untimely end. She didn't aim to be a stone cold murderer by any means, but she didn't want to be a soft one either; it would threaten to plant undesirable seeds of doubt in her heart, doubt that would eventually bloom and cause her to question every pull of her gun's trigger, to question every life she was hired to take, to question who truly was deserving of death. It would not be good for business nor for her health, she predicted.
However, separating her business life from her personal life wasn't so simple, since both were intimately entwined with one another, like two lovers' clasped hands, or their joined lips, or their writhing bodies locked together in the throes of heated pass--Mireille winced slightly, wondering where those comparisons had come from, and then ruthlessly reigned in her errant imagination before it came up with any more romantic--yet highly disturbing--analogies. Heaven help her; she was more far-gone than she'd thought.
But back on track--Mireille's lone business partner was Kirika, the girl who also encompassed the Corsican's entire personal life, which made the division of the two aspects of her existence nigh on impossible. It left the woman with quite a dilemma on her hands. She could always do as she had done before; close off her heart, embrace formality and act as if she were nothing more than a colleague to Kirika whilst on assignment. But Kirika was a needy girl emotionally, and such aloof behaviour would--and had before, Mireille recalled with an unappetising cocktail of sadness and guilt--result in the younger assassin becoming upset until she too closed off her heart, retreating back into her introverted shell. It would certainly bring ruin to the relationship they shared and that Mireille held so dear; that much was evident from the similar distressing happenings that had taken place only a couple of weeks ago. Furthermore, the blonde wasn't sure that her heart would let her be apathetic to Kirika again even when they were on the job, not after those aforementioned happenings that had ended with the sensitive girl crying her eyes out against her chest. Mireille had vowed to never again deny Kirika the love and attention she so plainly needed, and the woman would *not* break that vow.
But perhaps there was a way for the latter approach to work if Mireille were to somehow rationalise it to Kirika so she'd understand not to take any of her professional detachment to heart. The girl would have to be taught to understand as well why there was call to have a clear distinction between their business life and their personal life. Kirika was as stoic as ever presently, but if Mireille's labours to beget the contrary in her partner came to fruition then who knew what she'd be like in the future. Regardless of how indifferent Mireille was, it would not do to have Kirika's own affection completely uninhibited; the woman's efforts to keep things business-like would be severely undermined. She could just see herself, coldly pointing her Walther in her right hand at a target, her face grim as Death… while Kirika was snuggled under her free arm and hugging her enthusiastically around the waist with one of her own, the other dutifully aiming her pistol at the target. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad… but still, it just wouldn't be proper comportment at all, and couldn't be good in the long run. In any case, it was a method that had potential. Mireille would have to give it some more serious consideration however before she could pursue it with Kirika, and also determine how to best explain it all to her.
There was a lot to be said about the single life, Mireille thought sardonically, her lips twisting in mild exasperation. She certainly didn't have these concerns before accepting a partner into her business and life. But nonetheless, she wouldn't have it any other way.
Along with Breffort's message being brief and succinct, one more thing it had been was incredibly prompt, or it had at least initially given that impression. The timestamp on his email had been scarcely a handful of hours after the time Mireille and Kirika had returned home last night, which, in view of the barely pre-dawn period when the assassins' violent jaunt across Paris had come to a standstill, was rather remarkable indeed. Yet it wasn't as if Mireille and Kirika's activities the previous night had been at all quiet, despite their efforts for the opposite. They had been forced to storm a strip club belonging to a local criminal syndicate--a local criminal syndicate that had *somehow* learned they were coming, the precise explanation for that little phenomenon still a mystery Mireille doubted she would ever solve, now--and then engage in a frenzied shootout with possibly the entire, suddenly well-armed and well positioned group, before subsequently killing every member present and then walking out of the premises with it left ablaze in their wake. Then for the finale following a quick detour to pick up a trail and inadvertently stumble upon a few fresh corpses that were this time not the product of their hands, the assassins had infiltrated a wealthy man's manor to trade gunfire with their elusive quarry inside, and then fight their way out of the building and the estate proper, chasing vainly after them all the while. Very little of it had emulated the elegant manner in which Mireille preferred to operate in, to put it *very* lightly.
As a result, the majority of Mireille and Kirika's bloody handiwork last night had been splattered all over this morning's news, the mediums of newspaper, radio *and* television each judging it worthy of the public eye's glare. Perhaps Mireille should feel honoured for her and her partner's deeds to obtain such widespread interest, but it wasn't as though the rotting fruits of their vocation hadn't been awarded media attention before. As a general rule, the higher the profile of the hit, the greater the level of press coverage. However, a high body count also invoked comparable attention. Mireille could understand the rationale behind both. It was to be expected that if someone famous--or infamous, as was usually the case in her and Kirika's line of work--met their downfall, then likewise their death would be renowned as well, maybe even more so depending on the circumstances and the person concerned. As for a high number of fatalities attracting similar notice, that was purely based on human beings' fundamentally barbaric natures. When it came down to it, that was always what inspired the public's fascination--the tragic loss of life itself. People were on the whole fond of bloodshed, real or make-believe, no matter what they said to deny it. Why else would they pay to see it in the movies, watch it so avidly on their television sets? It was a form of entertainment, a macabre one, often glorified by the media and film industry. Not until they had lived a life on the black path surrounded by slaughter, the blood and death up close and personal, would they wise up and shake off their ghoulish attachment. As for Mireille herself, she hadn't been to the cinema in years and didn't even own a television, discounting her computer's ability to mimic one.
The news reports so far had been restricted to the massacre of Millet's pitiful gang in Pigalle, the bonfire the dead man's headquarters had become surely having acted as a signal flare in the murky sky last night that the authorities and press had flocked to. After the flames of the impromptu pyre had been put out, Mireille imagined it had been quite a shock for them to uncover over a dozen broiled carcasses shot full of holes, carcasses belonging to thugs probably well-known by the police. The newscasters and journalists were labelling it the fallout of a feud between rival gangs, possibly related to the car bombing approximately two weeks prior. They were no more than vaguely correct, as usual. Once a thorough examination had been performed on what remained of the bodies, only then would it be realised that they all were linked to the same, now defunct, organisation; invalidating the gang war theory. Mireille knew that neither the authorities nor the media would ever learn the truth behind what really had taken place in Slick Chicks last night. They r
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