Chapter 22 - These Lives
“Twenty-two people. *Dead*. Most of them linked with your family’s company-- bodyguards, right?--and two I *know* run with *your* group; your… ‘Kanagawa Kotetsu’.” The young inspector sucked on his cigarette--Ryosuke hadn’t bothered to catch his name when he’d announced it after flashing his badge, waving the thing around with the arrogance authority afforded, like a kid with a toy no one else had--and breathed smoke into the air out through his nose, in the manner of a snorting bull caricature. His eyes darted back and forth through the slowly rising wispy grey plumes to where yakuza still loitered, although under the wary scrutiny of more police officers.
Ryosuke stared at the ashen nub that lit up in the man’s fingers during his drag. The courthouse’s no-smoking rule didn’t apply to the inspector it seemed. But of course--he belonged to the rule makers.
“The rest were civilians,” the inspector blathered on, big shot for a day. He was making the most of his soapbox time. “And *cops*. Good men that didn’t deserve it. Men with families. Men with *worth*, unlike you and your punks!” Another jittery puff on his cigarette, and the scent of smoke teasing Ryosuke’s nostrils, mocking his deprivation. “I know you know what’s going on. Yokohama’s turned into a… a…” he shook his head and flicked some ash onto the lobby’s floor, “…an American city. Homicides are becoming the norm, and they’re being committed with firearms. *Illegal* firearms. Not just the peashooters I know you scum have, but serious hardware. For fuck’s sake there was an RPG attack out there!” The inspector gestured heatedly toward the foyer’s exit and the cordoned off street that lay beyond, flinging ash and embers. “Shit like that had to come from somewhere, and *someone* is doing the killing with them.”
The cop bent down to Ryosuke, wagging the two fingers with the cigarette in the seated gangster’s face. “And I know you know something. The gangs are pretty much sitting back, except for *yours*. The victims are random; lowlifes to law-abiding salarymen. Solitary murders to massacres of scores of individuals. And now your little pharmaceutical company’s ‘employees’. A lot of bodyguards to bring to a trial. Were you worried about something? Or just wanting to put on airs? Nice coincidence they were actually needed. Not so nice for them though, eh?” He blew smoke in Ryosuke’s face, but the stony killer didn’t so much as bat an eye. “Who was it, Ryosuke? Who’s doing this?” The inspector had lowered his voice; secretive and coaxing, as though Ryosuke was some two-bit thug who sang to the Satsu after they applied the slightest pressure, or after they pathetically pretended to be a sympathetic ear.
“You’re the police. It’s your job to protect the people and investigate, not beg me for answers,” Ryosuke murmured. In the panicked crowd apparently no one had seen him draw his firearm, apart from the woman he was aiming for. Without that, the cops had nothing on him--if they had, they’d have sent a senior inspector to lean on him, not this young pup.
“They tried to kill your sister. Your *sister*,” the inspector continued to push. “That’s your entire family, isn’t it. They’re going to wipe you out, just like your mother and father.” He sneered now, low and mean; no longer a friend.
“Enough with your feeble rhetoric. We’re both in the dark,” Ryosuke responded coolly, the jabs concerning his late parents obvious in their intent and weak in carrying it out.
The inspector scoffed and straightened. “Why don’t I haul your ass down to the precinct and give you a *proper* interrogation? Check to see if you and your pals are packing? Is that how you want it? Maybe one of the bullets we dig out of the corpses here will match one of your guns, hmm?”
“You’re wasting your time,” Ryosuke said evenly, unflappable. “I didn’t kill anyone… today.”
The policeman scoffed again. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you.” Seeming to realise the futility of harping on to Ryosuke, he began to walk away to find better use for his time. “Maybe next time I see you I’ll be covering *you* with a sheet.”
“If it must be so,” Ryosuke said softly, mainly to himself. He sat forwards, elbows on his knees, and took out a cigarette and his lighter, sparking a flame into life.
“Hey,” the inspector called, turning back. He smirked obnoxiously. “There’s no smoking here.”
Ryosuke snapped his lighter shut and watched the cop finally go, smoke ribbons following after him. He’d never met a cop he liked, and it seemed today wouldn’t be changing that. But they were on different sides of the law; lived in different societies--it was the natural order of things.
Ryosuke stared blankly ahead, however the scene around him was at odds with his disinterest. Cops in suits clustered in small gatherings spread across Yokohama District Courthouse’s lobby; every once in a while one leaving and a new one joining, the latter typically snapping off latex gloves or pocketing a notebook as they did. Their uniformed lessers had their hands full keeping the curious public and media outside and the courthouse staff from getting underfoot… and also ensuring Ryosuke’s brothers didn’t inexplicably create some kind of fuss in the lobby’s lounge--unbeknownst to them a very easy and ultimately unnecessary duty. Natural order of things, Ryosuke wearily reminded himself.
Paramedics killed time on the courthouse steps, probably awaiting the word to cart off the bodies once the police had done whatever it was they were doing. Forensics and chalk outlines if they still did that sort of thing. They’d be drawing them for a while.
The inspector hadn’t mentioned them, but there had been plenty of wounded for the ambulance personnel to treat and several to rush to hospital sirens blaring, however everything had cooled down in the last hour. All court affairs had been cancelled and rescheduled for another day too, voiding the majority of the building, although Ryosuke suspected some of this morning’s visitors still remained, providing witness statements to the Satsu. He bet their interviews were being conducted more cordially than his and his fellow yakuza’s had been, but in any case he was sure they had given up little more useful information to the cops than he and his tight-lipped gang had. Ryosuke wondered if Dominique’s Soldats rebels had been interrogated and what they had said, if any had survived to be questioned that was. It was the dead that had all the answers the police were looking for. Wasn’t that always the case.
The lobby’s lounge was where the Kanagawa Kotetsu’s second found himself, waiting with his comrades but sitting alone. Most of Kaede’s Kanagawa Kotetsu entourage had been sent home to gang offices or back to Ishinomori Tower; the remaining few stuck by Ryosuke out of dedication or the mildly insulting belief he needed the protection--yet understandable considering the morning’s events--and two no longer had the life in them to walk out of here.
“Yo.”
Ryosuke’s eyes swung to and focused on Ken as the man hobbled up to him, his right pant leg bloodied and split down the outer side. He had been among the people that the paramedics had ministered to in the backs of ambulances assembled in fleets on the street outside. Thankfully Ken’s injury was not in the ‘rush to hospital’ category which put survivability up in the air. He had acted courageously and selflessly, plucking Ryosuke’s sister from what should have been death; his own death would’ve been a regretful cost for his noble actions, and undeserving. He’d never say it openly, but Ryosuke was indebted to him. However, Ken’s behaviour wasn’t a new marvel. For him, the gang, and its boss, came before anything, even if it landed him in trouble meant for them.
Ken dropped onto the couch beside Ryosuke, slouching slovenly into the cushions. The pant leg fell open as he sat, bandages wrapped around his thigh peeking through.
“How’s the leg?” Ryosuke asked.
“This? A scratch. Had worse after that night in Shibuya with Jun. Remember that? She was a beauty. Too good for me, but she was charitable.” Ken grinned lopsidedly and nudged Ryosuke with his elbow. He was in high spirits for almost getting killed. “I’ll have a limp for a couple of days, maybe,” he said, sobering up a tad. “Nothing that’ll slow me down.” He fingered the surgical cut made along his trouser leg by the ambulance personnel. “Bitch that they had to trash my suit. It was one of my favourites.”
“I’m sure you have plenty more like it.” It was too stereotypical yakuza for him not to.
“Well, yeah,” Ken admitted, almost sheepishly. “But that’s not the point. It’s mine. And it wasn’t cheap.”
For Ken, he hadn’t had a choice in staying with Ryosuke or leaving, owing to the cops dragging him off behind the doors of the lobby’s security office straight after he’d been patched up. The grilling the Satsu had given him had probably been severe; certainly more so than the fairly brief bullying Ryosuke had received. Ken had been missing for nearly two hours, that alone telling of the police’s keen interest in him. He’d been one of the rare survivors directly involved in the violence, and if not a chief suspect in several of the murders, then a chief witness. Ryosuke was surprised the cops hadn’t held him for at least twenty-four hours. He was surprised they hadn’t held everyone from his gang just out of spite.
Ken rubbed the black fuzz on top of his head. “I lost all my guns. Good thing, I guess. I’d nothing incriminating on me. Just an innocent bystander who got lucky; that’s me, heh. The Satsu that saw me bust through the checkpoint are dead too, which helped. Dead men tell no tales, eh, aniki?”
“No. They don’t,” Ryosuke said. “Can the guns be traced back to you?”
“Nah. Serials filed off, standard stuff. Jokers don’t have my prints, either.”
Ryosuke didn’t need to ask Ken if he’d mentioned anything the cops could use against them or even Dominique’s people. If offered the choice earlier, Ken would have been among those who stayed at Ryosuke’s side, gunshot wound be damned.
Ryosuke sighed. “Takeo and Nobuo?”
Ken released a longer, more forceful breath. “They died well.”
No, Ryosuke thought, they had just died. Dead was dead--whatever honour they had earned meant nothing to them now.
“I’ll tell their families,” Ken said, sombrely taking on the duty this time. He’d go personally, into homes often where the bitter abuse of heartbroken parents and siblings waited, or worse, sobbing wives or girlfriends and confused children. It was sadder still when the fallen had no kin or lover to mourn their passing, where family had been the gang itself. Ryosuke liked to think that he and his brothers had provided those lonely men with something before the grave, but sleepless nights featuring old faces rising from his memory spoke of his doubt.
Too many times Ryosuke and Ken had had to darken families’ doorsteps as bearers of bleak news no one wanted to hear. Too many dead, and too many for no good reason. Word on the streets was the Kanagawa Kotetsu was bleeding, and it looked mortal. No young men came to the group’s offices seeking recruitment, and those whose loyalty or nerve was flagging ended up disappearing one day. Ryosuke and Ken disciplined those they managed to track down with a han-goroshi--a vicious beating--but Ryosuke’s heart wasn’t in it, and afterwards he let them go without looking back. He understood. The smart ones ran far, far away… to the country, or to Kansai, or south to Okinawa. Anywhere Soldats was less in the open and not on the warpath. The men who still stood by Ryosuke and the Ishinomori family were to be lauded. Their guts and faithfulness were unique. Men like Takeo and Nobuo had been.
“How did you know there was trouble?” Ryosuke quizzed Ken out of the blue, recalling that he himself hadn’t heard the opening gunshots whilst hanging around mere metres from the courthouse’s front entrance.
Ken barked a sour laugh. “I wasn’t totally sure there was, at first,” he explained. “I heard gunfire--*real* faint, but damn if I don’t know gunfire when I hear it. I didn’t think about it; I just reacted. I took off past the security checkpoint with Nobuo and Takeo, and who knows who else followed us.” He smirked cynically. “It was lucky we weren’t shot by the cops. I guess the other guys who heard me shout and ran after us didn’t make it through like we did.” He fell quiet for a moment. “Maybe it would have been better if Nobuo and Takeo hadn’t either.” Ken turned his head to look squarely at Ryosuke. “I should have called you, aniki. I’m sorry.” He dipped his head.
“You reacted,” Ryosuke remarked impassively, neither approving nor disapproving. He had brought Kaede out, that’s what was important.
“Hey,” Ken grunted, attracting Ryosuke’s attention as he nodded towards something in the foyer.
Vin wandered over to them, hands in his pants pockets, his dishevelled yellow suit spattered with burgundy spots--dried blood. “Everyone okay?” he glibly inquired.
“No,” Ryosuke rumbled back.
Vin seemed taken aback. “Huh? Is Kaede okay? I… misplaced her in the mess.”
“It’s cool, man,” Ken succinctly assured him, not possessing the arrogance to elaborate on his pivotal role keeping Ryosuke’s family alive.
“Two of ours gave their lives,” Ryosuke detailed. “Furthermore there was a second attack outside, on the motorcade. Many civilian casualties.”
Vin sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Shit, that’s going to cause some bother.” His anxiety was not for the dead and maimed innocents, just for the extra attention from the public and police they would inspire. Like slaughtered sheep, no one mourned them but other sheep and the shepherds. “The cops are already all over me. As usual they threatened to deport me and did everything short of a cavity search… and there wasn’t a single woman among them.”
“Hah!” Ken chuckled. “You wouldn’t date a cop.”
“Sure I would. If she was cute,” Vin clarified, true to his predictable, shallow protocol pertaining to the fairer sex. “And if I *was* going to get a cavity search, I’d want a woman doing the violating.”
Ken slapped his knee at that, his laughter charming several of the Kanagawa Kotetsu men to draw closer and see what had their senior brother in sudden merriment against the tone of the day.
“Oh yeah…” Vin reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pinkish object. “Here.” He tossed it into Ken’s lap. “Leaving pieces of yourself everywhere….” He sighed like he was the other man’s longsuffering mother. “It wasn’t easy to snag. Fortunate for you I had the opportunity. Just don’t ask me where I hid it.”
Ken’s mirth was cut off despite Vin’s additional joking as he juggled with the object on his lap. He picked it up and blinked at it, then quickly looked at his left hand. “Damn, I didn’t realise…” he whispered, staring at the pinkie stump where the prosthetic should be.
“So you lost more than just your weapons,” Ryosuke stated. A prosthetic specially designed for yakuza found at the scene of over half-a-dozen murders was definitely traceable evidence. Ken was too careless too often.
“It’s not like I can feel this thing,” Ken protested, screwing the fake finger back in its place beside the three real digits and then rapping it against one of his thick gold rings on his other hand. “It usually doesn’t come off so easy.”
“Your nose,” Ryosuke said, looking at Vin as blood languidly spilled from a nostril, stemming at his split upper lip, and serving to let Ken off the hook from further reproach.
Vin gingerly touched his face, over bruises and cuts, and then wiped away the blood under his nose. “That little brat fucker,” he vehemently cursed, the ferocity of his hateful expression matching the violence exhibited on his pummelled visage. He glared at the red smear on his finger. “It was *them*,” Vin snarled, his amber gaze lifting to bore into Ryosuke with boiling intensity.
“‘Them’, who?” Ken queried, out of the loop on France’s resident assassins.
Ryosuke merely nodded to his foreign friend; filling in Ken was for a later time in a safer environment. Noir. He’d personally seen the French woman on the street in front of the courthouse, and with Vin’s scuffle against her Asian cohort all doubt was removed--they had followed. Dominique’s blunder and Ryosuke’s fears were made flesh. He didn’t ask if the girl was at least dead--Vin’s anger wouldn’t be what it was if she wasn’t still kicking around. Ryosuke had had a feeling they wouldn’t be let off that easy.
The standalone rooftop attack on the motorcade might have been Noir’s work, or Soldats. Or were they one in the same? The rockets had been suspiciously timely, coinciding with Noir’s assassination attempt and turning the best escape route for Kaede and her escort into a firestorm that could have seen the young woman killed if not for Ken’s loyalty to Ryosuke first, over Dominique and her goons. The French assassin had said that Noir were not aligned with Soldats, however it could be Ryosuke had caught her in a lie. Why else were she and the other girl here? For a book of strange medieval poetry? Dominique gave the impression that Langonel’s Manuscript was extremely precious, and perhaps Noir knew what she knew about the tome, which had spurred their trip across the sea. They had seemed to want it back in that mansion in Paris. Or more rationally they were with Soldats from the very beginning, and had joined their ally in the street war here in the Kanagawa prefecture, their desire for the Langonel’s Manuscript being just an excuse, or simply to deny Dominique something she sought.
Whatever Noir’s reasons, they mattered to them only. Ryosuke could have done without the renowned contract killers targeting him and his comrades, but fate had decided differently. The women had skills and plenty more rumoured talent for their underground trade--but they were just another enemy, lumped with Soldats, marked for death. Noir would die just as easily as anybody else would under the gaze of a gun.
There was one pleasantry to be found in Noir’s appearance. Dominique and her associates had suffered the brunt of the assassins’ arrival, the massacre of her people at last along the same vein of what Ryosuke’s losses had been combating Soldats in prior weeks. Ryosuke could almost smile. Dominique herself had nearly become a fatality, and for a too short instant of mixed bliss at the thought of freedom from her and dismay at not inflicting her ruin himself, Ryosuke had believed it true. But alas he had subsequently witnessed her stumble away with his hopes, led in paramedics’ and her soldiers’ arms, from the battered armoured limousine to later whisk Kaede off home. That woman’s time would come. No one lived forever on this side of the law, and old age was rarely the reaper’s instrument.
Ryosuke flipped his cigarette between and over his fingers, before tossing it to his mouth, catching it between his lips. “Time to go,” he said unceremoniously, the cigarette bobbing up and down with his speech. Vin was the last of Ryosuke’s men to be accounted for, and fortunately was alive. Meeting Noir delivered no guarantees, even for one of the Luen Kung Lok triad’s best.
Ryosuke stood up and lit his cigarette, then proceeded for the exit, his hands stuffed in his coat’s pockets. He felt his brothers at his back, trailing after him. Through the glass doors at the courthouse entrance he noticed the paramedics were gone, surely wheeling out bodies on gurneys in either black bags or under white sheets; sort of the carrion birds for a modern city.
The police inspector that had questioned him glowered as he and his outlaw group sauntered by, as though it were a shock that Ryosuke was smoking in the face of consequences. He was young and yet to realise that they were his rules, not Ryosuke’s. Ryosuke was meant to defy them; he only chose when. There were no angels in disguise where Ryosuke tread; there was no grey area, no romantic misunderstood heroes, no matter what anybody liked to think. On his side, in *his* society, there was only the dead and those that had done the killing, and everyone was guilty. People *chose* this life, and they lived ruthlessly by it. And thus the police killed criminals, criminals killed the police, criminals killed each other, and the rest got in the way. Nearly every outlaw like Ryosuke ended their life bloodying a bag or a sheet, or staring at four walls of a prison cell. None could help it. It was the natural order of things.
******
Dominique cradled Kaede’s head in her lap as the sedan traversed an uneven part of the street, bouncing its passengers in their seats. The car made short work of the road home, barrelling through red lights and stop signs as smoothly as it could, bogged on occasion by unavoidable pedestrian interferences. A police squad car paved the way ahead and another tailed the sedan, their presence providing license for the hasty and uninhibited drive through the city. It wasn’t the manner Dominique would have chosen to return to Ishinomori Tower in, but if she’d had the luxury of choice she wouldn’t be where she was right now. Besides, to be returning at all felt like luxury aplenty.
Approximately an hour earlier Dominique had woken up to the faces of paramedics hovering over her, and the sensation of hard, rough tarmac digging into her back. And then the pain had come. It was later reported to Dominique that her motorcade had been the subject of two RPG hits-- doubtless presents courtesy of Soldats; it was too crude for the surgical instruments Noir are. The blast had knocked her off her feet and into unconsciousness, but fortune had orchestrated her escape from serious injury or even death. Bumps, bruises and a concussion, and not to mention the bullet hole through her arm--that was the woman’s tally of injuries for the morning. Not too severe, considering she had met Noir face-to-face. The thought did nothing to dampen the aches and pains, however.
Her sisters had assisted in dragging her away from the wreckage into further paramedic care waiting in one of the ambulances that were suddenly crowding the street along with police vehicles. Some of those sisters had had wounds of their own, but a larger number were beyond what modern medicine could administer. It was not pretty, but the women had died for their cause; Dominique was certain they were at peace in the afterlife.
Her arm was bandaged and in a sling, her deepest cuts had been cleaned and plastered, and a hearty dose of numbing painkillers had been injected into her veins. She had been uneasy throughout the ambulance personnel’s attention and dismissed a visit to the hospital, fearing successive attacks from Noir or Soldats while she was out in the open and vulnerable, however none came. Still, Dominique had gathered her able-bodied sisters to guard her, and, chiefly, to watch over Kaede and bring the girl to the safety found at her side. Noir had tested that safety and revealed it to be far from absolute, but it was still the best Dominique could offer. Better than what Kaede’s brother and his rabble could muster, in any case.
Dominique’s agitation remained with her; she didn’t feel it would depart until she had Kaede within the walls of Ishinomori Tower again. The car they were in was meant to be one of their escort vehicles, not one they actually travelled in. The limousine, while intact despite its fiery and explosive encounter and probably still drivable, had been impounded by the metropolitan police for ballistic tests or for evidence or some such annoyance. Dominique would have liked its armour shell around her and Kaede instead of the much more lightly reinforced chassis of the sedan, however better the latter than riding in one of the police patrol cars chaperoning them, as some of her sisters were forced to do. They would stand no chance against a determined Soldats assault, just as their occupants would not.
Fortuitously the police’s intrusion stopped there. Nobody that Dominique vouched for had been taken aside to be interviewed in spite of the major incident on official city property and her sisters’ obvious bearing of arms and intimate involvement. Mentioning the need for a multitude of translators for all the foreigners in her employ had probably persuaded the law some--and of course her so sadly having no translators she could lend to aid them with their inquiries--but with the paid off courthouse officers, none wearing a badge were likely eager to detain her or her sisters and perhaps have their payoff come to light. The results of the interviews would invariably bring up questions that the public would look to the police to answer, and then their corruption would only be evaded so long. Dominique didn’t expect to have to talk to the police at all.
With her unbound hand, Dominique teased a lock of Kaede’s hair behind her ear. It was a miracle the girl was here with her now, without as much as a scratch. Dominique wished she could credit Kaede’s good health and survival to the loyal defence her sisters’ had put up, but she was not the type to delude herself with misplaced optimism. The women had played their part, however it was luck that had been Kaede’s greatest ally. And *that* had Dominique very scared. At any moment in the maelstrom she might have lost the child; a helpless babe no less; to a twist of fate that would collide her with a bullet, or have her caught in an explosion. It had been a mistake to bring her outside of her home. Kaede’s appearance had been necessary at the district court, but Dominique should have thought of a way around it, to--!
Dominique took a breath, and released it slowly. It was futile getting worked up after the fact. Kaede was all right. They would be home momentarily. She had to think forward; focus on the future that *could* be changed, and utilise the wisdom garnered from past experiences to improve that future.
Kaede dozed, snuggled into Dominique’s lap, unresponsive and docile since the attack. Dominique wondered if the girl had any understanding of what had occurred, or if recollection of the events had been ripped asunder somewhere in that muddled mind of hers. Such memories were best suited for forgetting; Dominique wouldn’t shed a tear if Kaede could not remember this morning.
Dominique touched her thumb to one pale cheek and drew it lightly downwards. The skin beneath dimpled; it was so soft and silky--so perfect, like hers had been. Kaede’s fate would not be like her mother’s. Dominique wasn’t confident she would survive a second hell.
She glanced surreptitiously at the other backseat passenger, that Dominique wasn’t alone with Kaede tainting their quiet time together and the French woman’s similarly quiet reflection. Most occasions it was challenging to remember that Fumiko was there; like she was part of the décor or a faceless servant taken for granted; however that the pretty plaything of Kaede’s was here in any measure had Dominique’s attention, small amount that it was. That Fumiko had lived through Noir’s barrage of gunfire was a marvel in itself, but contrary to the drenching of dried blood over her clothes and more caked on her face and caught in her tangled hair, the young woman was astoundingly even without any injury. She sat demurely with her hands in her lap, unfazed by the jarring gory image she presented. She still even had her hat, its frayed bullet-ridden remains placed neatly beside her. It was too bad Fumiko hadn’t been wearing it when those holes were created. Kaede could do far better than her.
“Who were they?”
Dominique rubbed her hand over Kaede’s neck, letting the girl’s heartbeat press rhythmically against it, and then kneaded the flesh between her fingers and palm. The child was awake, in the sense that she was liberated from her deranged torpor for the moment, judging by the steadiness of her voice. Dominique could always tell when it was the real Kaede speaking over the insanity that possessed her; there was a quality to her voice and gestures that harked back to her mother’s strong and astute character. In these painfully ephemeral periods of lucidness Dominique wished Kaede would rethink her avid abstinence from drugs; there could be hope for her contained in a pill bottle somewhere, some medication to hold her from the edge of madness. The woman had tried talking her charge around to the benefits of modern medicine, but opposing Kaede too vigorously was a precarious undertaking, even for one as entrenched at her side as Dominique was. Kaede instinctively threw up resistance whenever pushed, and sooner or later resorted to violent means of defiance if continued to be harassed. The child’s mind was a mercurial mess, yet changing it when set was almost impossible.
Kaede’s question came somewhat as a shock, but Dominique masked it effortlessly, carrying on massaging the girl’s neck while chewing over how to answer her. The psychotic haze that had gripped Kaede during the gunfight had not been barrier enough for her attackers to escape memory, or for her to recognise they warranted singling out from the standard Soldats agents. It was not the mercy Dominique had sought. For a second she considered glossing over the details concerning the two assassins that had captured the girl’s attention, but relented quickly. She kept things from Kaede when she had to, but it was not too early to reveal the existence, the *true* existence, of Noir the way Soldats knew it to the curious child. It was important for Kaede to understand the peril that Noir was, now that the maidens were apparently united with Soldats in an abomination against everything Altena had valiantly strived for--the peril that Noir was, and the holy avengers they were born to be.
Indeed, hiding Noir’s significance might inflict the greater harm.
“They are the Black Hands of Soldats,” Dominique narrated just above a murmur. Everybody in the sedan bar Kaede and Fumiko were aware of what Noir was, and with the latter woman’s eavesdropping insignificant, talking quietly was unnecessary. However, speaking of the timeless killers invoked hushed reverence, obligatory and inevitable when the speaker *truly* knew them, as Dominique and her sisters did. Noir had appeared as enemies before her and her allies, but they were always worthy of honour and respect. “For nearly as long as there has been Soldats, there has been those that carry out our--their--will with the sword. But they are greater than mere soldiers; more than simple murderers; and more divine than the most devout among us. Their kingdom is death, and they reign over it with an iron fist like no one else can.”
“Tell me everything,” Kaede said.
******
“…was crazy! Like something out of a movie! I didn’t know what was happening at first, then suddenly, ‘boom’! The loudest thing you can imagine! I ran.”
“It was terrible. I saw people running outside, and, ah, I thought it was a fire, maybe even just a drill, you know? Then those explosions. Those people…. It was terrible.”
“Where the hell are we, the Middle East? I’m so sick of the damn yakuza bringing their feuds into the streets and getting innocent people involved. Some dumb gangster got himself shot near my apartment last week. I thought *that* was bad. The police have no control over organised crime in this city.”
“Witnesses had plenty to say, however the police have yet to comment on this morning’s *incredible* violence that took place inside *and* outside Yohohama District Court. Speculation is rife on the perpetrators and the purp--”
Mireille bent down and switched off the television set, shutting up the dramatic reporter, and tossed the remote that had gagged her back onto the kotatsu. She didn’t want to hear about this morning right now. It had been far from Mireille and Kirika’s slickest operation, but Soldats’ stunt had ensured an explosive and brazen finish to it. Breffort had promised her that it was Noir’s show here in Japan….
She sighed grimly. Had she actually believed his word for even a second?
She should count her blessings--she and Kirika had gotten out cleanly; always a plus on any assignment. There were plenty of witnesses to Soldats’ interference, however no one had seen her or her partner’s face to her knowledge; none that could link them to the shootings anyway, or who didn’t already know what they looked like. And Yokohama’s police could scour all the courthouse surveillance tapes for as many hours they wanted too; they wouldn’t find the recordings starring their killers. Noir were as good as ghosts.
The situation had become too hot after Soldats had slapped Ishinomori’s motorcade with a couple of rockets, shaking the streets and the Corsican assassin, and by the time the fire engines had started pulling up, Mireille had left the wail of their sirens far behind. There had been a tense few minutes of waiting at the train station for Kirika, each assassin taking their own unique route to the rendezvous point to disassociate themselves from one another in case of tails or onlookers, however the girl had wordlessly appeared beside her tousled but standing. There had been no reason to think her partner wouldn’t otherwise, yet Mireille had felt the stress of the wait acutely before reuniting with Kirika. These days Kirika seemed all the more younger and vulnerable, and the danger Mireille put her in all the more menacing.
From there on out, Mireille and Kirika had travelled back to Kawasaki the way they had come; silently in each other’s company. With a shared look both had told their respective tales in their longing eyes, of missed chances and narrow escapes; of hearts still beating that should have ceased… and the memory of their faraway home.
Kirika, kneeling on the floor, looked from the blank TV screen to Mireille. “It’ll rot your brain,” the blonde quipped, pushing the first aid kit on the kotatsu closer to where her partner was and placing the small basin she had just filled with warm water next to it.
Kirika turned back to the television, warily inquisitive, as though it were a rattlesnake that had suddenly shaken its rattle. Mireille wondered what strange thoughts she had ignited in that mop-haired head. Kirika had a tendency to take things she said too seriously, or misunderstood them completely.
Mireille smirked wryly to herself. She supposed that was something of the girl’s charm.
Mireille stood up and unbuttoned her lavender jacket and shook herself out of it, letting it drop off her arms onto the floor, and then pulled her shirt out of her skirt. Her pantyhose she had already removed immediately after returning to the Yuumura household--they were scrunched up in the kitchen’s bin, streaked with runs, of course. Mireille had never worn a pair that hadn’t become a casualty midway through an assignment; she much preferred the sturdier and less intrusive classier alternative of stockings with or without garters. The constrictive nylon trappings were the only option for hosiery as the hem of her skirt climbed, however.
The woman knelt beside the stubby table. “Kirika,” she beckoned.
Kirika dragged her bottom across the tatami mats with her arms until she was kneeling in front of Mireille. She was still dressed in her grey suit and her tights--and with not a single tear in the flimsy sheer material. If that wasn’t testament to the girl’s slick ability in combat she didn’t know what was, Mireille thought dryly.
That said, even experts met with injury some of the time, and Kirika had seen a little roughing up during this morning’s affair. It was nothing more serious than a bleeding nose, a few bumps and bruises, and a slightly grubby face, but Mireille felt it serious enough to merit her close attention. Needless, the woman’s mind had spoke, a waste of time. Pointless mothering to a bloody nose already dried and bruises she could do nothing for, and dirt that the shower could and would better handle. Yet Mireille had still gone through the motions throughout the diatribe, preparing the water and fetching the medical supplies. There was such a thing as thinking too much.
Mireille undid the buttons closing Kirika’s jacket and pushed it off her passive partner’s shoulders, before taking it away and laying it on the kotatsu. She told herself it was for Kirika’s comfort, or even to facilitate her ministrations. When she didn’t think about it, it seemed plausible, and the only truth.
The blonde tugged loose the ribbon at Kirika’s neck that held her tight collar together, and undid several buttons down her shirt, stopping before it felt as though she were undressing the girl. Mireille lightly soaked a cotton ball in antiseptic retrieved from the first aid kit, and wiped it under Kirika’s nose, cleaning the small traces of crusted blood there. Warm water replaced the antiseptic after Mireille had swabbed what trifle facial wounds Kirika had, and the woman painstakingly washed her partner’s soiled face with sodden cotton and tender rubs.
Kirika blinked lethargically under the care, shading reddish-brown eyes that grew glassier with every moment and loving wipe. Mireille cradled the girl’s chin in her free hand to hold Kirika’s slightly lolling head still, and smoothed the cotton wool along her jaw line that framed her cute face. The blonde had realised that her partner was cute the first time she had seen her picture on her laptop’s screen so long ago, but up close it dawned on Mireille that she forgot that Kirika was exceptionally pretty…. Beautiful. Staring at her, looking past the youth, the docile nature and the naïve manner, the partner and the colleague, Mireille finally *saw* Kirika. *Truly* saw her, as the gorgeous young woman she was.
Mireille was attracted to the person Kirika was, not particularly to the girl’s physical makeup. It was her personality she had first fallen for, her heart and soul and everything else inside that made Kirika, Kirika. On the outside Kirika had been simply ‘cute’; Mireille had been conscious of the fact her newly acquired partner wasn’t ugly or unattractive, but it had been taken for granted, distant knowledge never genuinely explored. The girl’s looks weren’t the typical type to ‘woo’ Mireille, or so the woman had believed at the time; for that matter, Kirika hadn’t been her type in any shape or form whatsoever. Her type had habitually been beautiful mature and feminine women around her age or slightly older; independent women like she was, and sometimes even more strong-willed than her with a dash of overbearing. But had they made her happy? Had Mireille really known what she’d wanted at all?
When she thought back to the days and nights of ephemeral relationships and no-strings encounters, Mireille didn’t miss them and recognised that she had garnered nothing else but the physical solace from them. What she had with Kirika was so much deeper and more rewarding than the physical realm’s fleeting delights and transitory connection; indeed, the two young women had yet to delve that domain to any real degree and still Mireille felt more fulfilled than she ever had with any acquaintance or outright stranger. Of course, she hadn’t loved any of them.
Mireille’s desire for Kirika stemmed from her heart, but gazing upon the captivating visage before her, that desire unearthed a new font, though one equally laden with guilt and shame at its implications--perhaps even more so, being that much more base… more bodily. Nevertheless, the beauty persisted in front of her, tempting her, stirring her. The feelings were a sibling to those in her breast; they meshed together, different but part of the same, like the raging currents sweeping over the top of deep, still waters underneath. They fed off each other, stoking each other, the desire stronger with the love, and the love enriched by the desire. Glorious…. Without her rational mind telling her so, Mireille would have never known them reprehensible.
Mireille brushed her thumb across Kirika’s cheek, just under the girl’s partially lidded eye, taking away a stray droplet of water. A touch of makeup would look terrific on her; nothing too heavy that would cloud her already fine features, just a little to bring that innate beauty into clearer focus. Kirika’s hair could be styled a bit too, or grown out; that look would be interesting to see. But the adjustments were absent-minded ideas, brought on by Mireille’s own pursuit in cosmetics and fashion. If Kirika were to somehow be frozen in time just the way she was now, perfection would last forever in Mireille’s eyes.
The cleaning, if that’s what it still was, descended to Kirika’s neck. The girl’s eyes had closed, which was perhaps just as well as Mireille avidly watched warm water roll down the contours of her partner’s neck to her chest, then dribble lower still. There were no bra straps on Kirika’s shoulders, Mireille acutely observed inside her half-open shirt. That sort of thing simply wasn’t proper; however objections were difficult to come by while Mireille sat staring.
Kirika’s eyes inched slowly open, seizing Mireille’s breath as the younger girl gazed back into the eyes that ravished her. What was going on in Kirika’s head was a mystery as usual, but that mystery was a blessing right now. Or did Kirika even understand the heat she saw in her partner’s gaze? That thought had Mireille feel even greater discomfort.
The doorbell broke the tension, at least the tension building in Mireille, and it was with zest that she stood up to answer it. That enthusiasm dipped considerably when it occurred to her she and Kirika shouldn’t be receiving visitors at the safehouse. A benign though grating solicitor waited behind the front door, or there lurked someone that knew who resided in this house--someone that Mireille might have to greet with her gun.
The door chimed again, summoning Mireille to hasten answering it. She quickly took off the harness holding her gun and its ammunition to her body and after drawing the Walther P99 from the holster, threw the leather straps out of sight. If it really was a door-to-door salesperson or the like, it would not do to spook them with the sight of the pistol harness, something usually only law enforcement wore.
Her gun at her hip, Mireille opened the door a crack; half as far as the security chain allowed; ready for the police, an Ishinomori assassin, or any woman or man with a weapon. However her caution was unneeded, although her hostility might still be in order--it was Jacques on the doorstep.
Mireille lips twisted, but she undid the chain to let him in before walking away, leaving the man to see himself inside. Her frosty reception exposed her back to a Soldats lackey, but Kirika had him in her eye, alert and fully awake now--the blonde wasn’t really exposed at all.
“I thought I’d drop by,” Jacques said as he shut and locked the front door and flicked off his shoes with his thumbs. “Just to see that you’d settled in.”
“How thoughtful,” Mireille said, purposely as banal as the Soldats operative’s explanation. Jacques had his briefcase, and he was Soldats; a social call was as far-flung as his homeland. The Corsican hadn’t expected to see him ever again. “But no housewarming present?”
“I…” Jacques looked surprised for a second, the idiot taking Mireille too seriously, but collected himself while adjusting his trademark black sunglasses on his face. “It… didn’t go like we’d foreseen,” he said, discarding the congenial airs and getting down to the real reason for his visit. “Plenty of collateral, yet none of the priority targets.” He paused deliberately. “Targets we wanted dead.”
Mireille sat down beside Kirika, and laid her Walther P99 in front of her on the kotatsu. Since leaving the city she had been trying not to think about what had happened in Yokohama; trying not to let what little was accomplished and the subsequent second guessing that always cropped up sooner or later with assignments of a personal nature eat her up inside. Jacques’ appearance put an end to that, but she had to confront reality eventually. She just would have preferred if it had been on her terms, and especially not when she was valuing her privacy with her partner.
“I realise that,” Mireille admitted acidly to the interloper. “You saw fit to even try yourself with that ham-fisted attack. It wasn’t a help and it wasn’t the agreement.”
“That wasn’t us,” Jacques said, sitting down at the table, across from the blonde. He quietened for an instant, and Mireille mused whether behind his dark lenses he was gauging the open medical kit on the kotatsu and its implications. “None of my employer’s, at any rate. We would never be so public,” Jacques went on, making no further indication that he saw the kit. “Plus we keep our word.” Mireille almost laughed at that one. Bitterly and on the inside, anyway.
“And besides, we know how capable you both are by yourselves. I mean, we *thought* you…” Jacques trailed off for his own benefit, with the sense to appear uncomfortable. “Alas, an opportunity I doubt we will get again has slipped through your--*our*--fingers,” he continued somewhat more carefully, his diplomacy still shaky. “They’ll lock Kaede Ishinomori in that tower of hers for weeks and won’t let her peek out a window even.”
“Then we’ll take her there,” Mireille said evenly. “As soon as possible.”
“Don’t you think *we* would have done that if we’d assessed it feasible?” Jacques argued. “Not with all her allies. The level of security there is just--” His voice raised and one hand swept across the table in exclamation; however he calmed when he realised his excitement. “And it’d be *worse* for you. They *know* you…. They all do.”
Mireille looked away and chewed on her lower lip for a moment before restraining herself. She could feel Soldats’ grip tighten around her; suddenly feel the strings on her limbs that had always been there. It didn’t unnerve her--it was too familiar to. But it did anger her.
“You understand now why her empire, her supports, must be taken out piece by piece,” the tool of Soldats spoke. “If just to simply make Ishinomori vulnerable. But her hierarchy isn’t strictly a pyramid; pop off the cap and the foundations crumble--every rebel beside her could be another Kaede Ishinomori should she die; another anarch for the zealots. Le Grand Retour…” Jacques shook his head, looking down at the table. “Naïve fools. The world became too complex for that.”
“Maybe they aren’t completely wrong,” Mireille said. She turned back to Jacques, staring directly at his sunglasses. “I know the world would be a better place without *you*.”
Jacques snorted. “The world would be chaos without us. The peace we have now is as realistic as paradise gets. It’s the people, you see. You should know this, in your line of work. Wherever there are people, there is conflict. It’s human nature. And damned if I don’t prefer it that way; I’d rather be a brute than lobotomised like the Retour advocates.”
Mireille smiled faintly; coldly. “You’re all the same to me.”
Jacques smiled wanly back. He opened his briefcase, producing a dossier that he slid across the kotatsu to the blonde. “Updated reports on our situation. With your stay indefinite, you’ll need them.”
“No.”
Jacques frowned, confused. “Trust me, the information inside is price--”
Mireille looked at Kirika, who favoured the blonde with her deep soulful stare. “No,” the woman uttered again, holding her partner’s look. “We’ve done enough. We attacked, we killed; it’s enough.” She took a breath and turned her head back to Jacques. “We’re going home.”
It felt awkward as soon as Mireille announced it; going against her plans, her nature; her good sense. It was a spur of the moment decision determined by emotion; dangerous and not without its price; but what choice didn’t have danger? There were *degrees* of risk, her rational mind advised, yet at that second logic seemed to demand unreasonable things from her. She was tired of being pulled where Soldats led; she was tired of Kirika being dragged along with her to share her fate. Mireille’s instincts screamed at her; screamed about loose ends, vengeance for Paris, about the possibly fatal ramifications. But none of it seemed worth giving up the control over her life she had just reclaimed, nor did she deem that any of the consequences were insurmountable. She could only focus on her independence, and how it would bring her and Kirika home.
Kirika was giving Mireille a new look, obviously mildly taken aback by her partner’s uncharacteristic ‘retreat’ as it were; however the blonde was positive Jacques on the other hand couldn’t interpret past the girl’s stoicism, and moreover certainly not while wrapped up in his own much more flagrant show of shock.
“It’s *not* enough,” Jacques spluttered, his eyebrows lifting above the upper rim of his shades and his hands slapped flat on the kotatsu, as though he were about to lift himself up too. “Y-You’re not serious, are you? My employer expects results, I mean, you can’t just *leave* a job unfinished!”
“This was never a ‘job’. This was Soldats sticking their fingers in lives they should have known to leave alone.” What would keep Breffort from insisting that the Soldats council still needed more proof of where Mireille and Kirika’s loyalties lay? Soldats would have Noir fighting their battles in Japan until there was no one left they wanted dead to kill, if they had their way. Instead of Altena pulling the Black Hands’ strings, it would be Breffort and his ilk. Noir had fought Soldats’ enemies; they had killed some. They had punished for the improper use of their mantle. In the eyes of reason, they had done enough. If Soldats wanted more, then their true intentions were beyond doubt… and there wasn’t a chance Mireille would abide them.
“You must realise the consequences,” Jacques persisted. “You can’t just-- just--! Not even *you* could hope to live longer than a month, two months, tops! Because that’s how long you’ll buy! You’ll be on the run until they *choose* to erase you from their world!” His protests were clearly heartfelt; Mireille wondered if he felt his own life would be at stake if she and Kirika left Japan permanently. But what he spoke of were still the same vague ‘hammer of God’ threats Soldats were good for. Mireille had heard it all before, and from more powerful people than Jacques.
“We’re not a part of Soldats, and we never were,” Mireille said. “If they think to dispute that…” She fingered her pistol. “Then as you said, they’ll know were to find us.”
Jacques was shaking his head from side to side, gaping, and had started to perspire, a sheen developing across his forehead. “You’re smart,” he croaked, rubbing his sweaty hands over his suit sleeves. “Be smart about this. It’s not just us, but Ishinomori too who’ll be out for your blood. They know you just as we do. They’ll come for you too, eventually. You….”
He sighed heavily and stood up with his briefcase. “It’s not good that I come here too often,” he muttered quickly. He kept his head down, avoiding looking at Mireille or Kirika. “I’ll send further updates via email. I’ll see myself out.”
Jacques strode to the genkan and hurriedly put on his shoes. He opened the front door, but stopped with it ajar and his hand on the handle. “You are *them*… *Noir*,” he breathed. “You’ll always be until you’re both dead. You’re part of this world, and Soldats…” He exhaled slowly, and at length. “Soldats *is* the world. That makes Soldats part of you. Each of us figures that out, soon enough.” He stepped outside, shutting the door after he’d gone.
Mireille looked at Kirika. The girl knelt there, unfazed. She’d follow Mireille into hopeless odds if the woman asked. She’d face the world itself in a violent opera sang with guns and in a bullet ballet danced by killers, as Mireille had considered herself once before when her young partner’s life and heart had been at risk… when both of their lives and hearts had been at risk. However to face the world was no hyperbole; Soldats indeed was everywhere, rooted in every level of society and in every nation on earth. All death was certain sooner or later, by the bullet or the blade or blessed old age, yet openly calling down Soldats upon them was tantamount to suicide, or at best sentencing them to live a life even more constrained by peril than the one Mireille and Kirika lived now. In her pursuit of freedom, Mireille might instead throw away the cherished amount she and her partner had.
******
There was history in every item; a unique history unheard of among the ranks of most scholars and historians, even the most learned and respected; a saga no less, stretching from the Dark Ages to this modern day and age. The privileged knew it in some shape or form; at least those who had been privileged for long enough; but people like Dominique and her sisters knew it better than anyone. It was people like her and her sisters who had recorded it.
This room was as close to the Manor as any in Dominique’s fold could venture; this monument to an illustrious ideal that had rung around the world--would ring again. Encased behind glass were fraying tapestries, faded paintings, tattered books, discoloured weaponry, battered shields, decaying documents--rotting relics from time immemorial, and their worth far more than all the precious metals on earth combined. This room was an alien and ignoble resting place for them, but time had proved it could reach even a timeless place. Some had felt it blasphemy to remove the artifacts, however Dominique and others who had possessed the same fears and reverence as her had taken it upon themselves to save what they could from the Manor, smuggled out under Soldats’ noses at extreme risk. Who knew what the old men might have done, when they’d had the gall to lay siege against that sacred ground’s unswerving defenders? The Manor and its surrounding buildings and everything within could be pulled down to their foundations now, with the rubble collapsing and sealing off the subterranean levels, and nearby vineyards put to the torch and the blackened soil thereafter salted. Dominique had apologies for no one.
With the importance of the items inside, naturally the room was off limits to anybody who wasn’t a sister, even Kaede, despite it being on the penthouse floor where she lived. The glories of Soldats, the *true* Soldats, and their holy warriors weren’t for defiling by commoners’ eyes, of which there were regrettably many residing in or frequenting Ishinomori Tower.
Dominique would never demean Kaede by lumping her in with the rest of the rabble-- namely her brother’s ragtag group and Japan’s criminal element that she’d had no choice in allying herself with--she was certainly no commoner; she was a sister by her righteous deeds if not already by blood. Yet a sister in all but name was still not truly a sister. In another life she probably would have risen officially to the full title, following in her mother’s footsteps, but in this one it was a loftier legacy that saw Kaede’s informal early admittance to Soldats’ annals. The world didn’t need another sister--it needed its champions.
“The world was in turmoil when Soldats was conceived,” Dominique said, admiring her predecessors’ accomplishments with a fond smile as she walked between the rows of display cases. It was sunset, the flagging golden light filtering through the blinds painting each relic with a deserving hallowed aura. The woman enjoyed touring the room at this time of day just for that. She’d wanted Kaede to experience the same sights, feel the same veneration, and as such had held off slaking the child’s thirst for knowledge until now. Temperance and her charge was fickle and trying, however the feat was made significantly easier with Dominique’s arm in a sling; Kaede’s resultant sympathy and anxiety producing a girl more willing to listen, and accept.
“War in every corner, famine, plague and persecution everywhere else. Religion had failed to unite, but rather was the cause of many of the troubles. We saw that kingdoms could not govern themselves without harming their neighbours, or their own people. We saw religion as an excuse for conflict. We saw wealth as the moral defiler.” Dominique stopped where a painting hung, the dull oils depicting a short-haired weasel of a man peeking around behind a throne, whispering into the ear of a contemplative monarch resting his chin on his fist. But lurking behind both, in the shadows barely visible, was a face belonging to a third party. If the work had a title it was lost to the ages, but its meaning was obvious.
“And thus, someone had to govern *everything* as a whole, unbound from Rome’s meddling and stifling edicts, and incorporeal, incorruptible, that not the sword or the pen or the coin could interfere. Benevolent--*supreme*.”
“I’ve heard this story,” Kaede said, making her own path through the display cases. She touched her hand to one glass pane housing stacks of parchment that declared secrets that could rewrite history books. Squeaks erupted as she walked onwards dragging her hand behind her on the glass. “And I know how it ends.”
Dominique smiled faintly, as a teacher would for a conscientious pupil. They’d write their own story, rekindling the triumphs of the first. Their names would be remembered, and their achievements recorded in ink and paint and put on exhibition just as the successes of old were now around them. However, neither woman cared for fame or the past. It was vengeance that drove the change currently consuming Soldats--hatred and sorrow, raw and human. Change was a means to their end.
“Yes,” Dominique acknowledged. “Ideas can be incorruptible, however the people behind them….” She combed her fingers down through her hair, and swept the long tresses back over her left shoulder. “People disappoint.”
The French woman walked over to where a crude wooden mannequin stood; shielded by glass of course; dressed in familiar garb she had worn herself and still had in her possession. Robes of white under lilac and white over lilac again, gold trim and turned up cuffs and a lighter lavender scarf at the neck. It was present day’s livery for the loyal, for the most pious, although it had evolved into this appearance at least a hundred years prior.
“There are always those that have to die for the greater good that they refuse to or are too blind to see. The knife in the dark did its job, but we needed something beyond the crude murderer. Killers as incorruptible as our ideals, yet who did not balk at debasing themselves with the sin they cleansed. Killers who bred such fear that the knife never need be drawn.
“So it was that we grew hands. Black Hands. That was--is--their name. Noir.” The rapture on her face was there before Dominique knew it, and in her eyes she saw the past as those sisters before her must have done, wonderful and full of promise--sublime.
“So they’re French?” Kaede gathered.
“Not as a rule, but it’s accepted the *vision* of Noir was first perceived in what would become France,” Dominique said, the child’s voice fetching her back to the present. “I apologise but some details are sketchy despite our records, however where the first Noir was conceived there is no doubt.” She flourished her good arm around at the artifacts about them. “These items came from that place. The Manor. Ruins now, but back then it had been much more.
“Other buildings sprung up around it as the need arose; living quarters, a grand arena. But the Manor was constant. Yet it hadn’t made its start as a manor house; it had been a convent, founded in a remote and rather barren region at modern day France’s border, but even there the wars reached. It tore at the hearts of the nuns dwelling there, and at their faith. Faith in God, and in Soldats, for every one of them believed in the ideal. They wept, they prayed. Finally, in their reverie, they saw what was needed. What the world needed.”
Dominique moved to a tapestry, one of her favourites if not the most. It showed two women in flimsy robes wielding swords against a huge army, the soldiers, both on foot and mounted, decked out in plate and mail in clear weighted comparison. Hopeless odds, yet looking at it one felt the women would emerge victorious.
“The first were two women; an abandoned urchin and an orphaned noble girl. Why? Do not ask. Perhaps the convent also maintained an orphanage. Perhaps the sisters felt that women’s hearts could feel the plight of the world more deeply. Whatever the reason, the Black Hands have traditionally been young women without parents. Saplings to be nurtured into strong trees. The sisters kept them, trained them, and the Mother Superior loved them. The girls would face scorn for their bloody role, lose their innocence, but in the Mother Superior’s tender arms they could regain it time and again, murder after murder. The Kind Mother.”
Dominique looked over to two crossed tarnished swords erected on a stand. The blades were straight, and long and slender. And still sharp--Dominique had retrieved them from the Manor herself.
“Noir fought armies, or so it was written. Certainly their crusade slew several armies’ worth of men and women. When they fell another incarnation was reaped. Noir was immortal.”
“Why two?” Kaede asked, stepping nearer to peer at the swords. “Why not three then, or ten, or a whole army?”
“Why not? Two is better than one.” Dominique sighed, realising she had dodged the question, and not nimbly.
“But--”
“They had to be connected,” Dominique revealed in a rush, wondering if this was the one secret that might have been better to keep from her charge. Too late to second guess now. “It-- it was the key. The crucial thing that kept them pure in the darkness when the Kind Mother’s affection was not enough. They had to care for each other; their hearts had to be connected. As friends, as siblings…. As lovers was best. With that link, they became an army unto themselves.” Dominique was intimate with the strength love could muster. While the girl’s understanding was different, she was positive Kaede knew as well.
The room fell silent as its two visitors reflected on their respective understandings, and on the deeds they had yet to fully see through. Oh yes, Kaede knew.
Dominique cleared her throat. “The sisters of the convent slowly… ‘reworked’ their faith. Christian paraphernalia was replaced by weapons and other tools of battle, and with celebrations of their creation’s exploits,” she said, walking towards the centre display case. “They’d found something more reliable to believe in--‘Noir. This word designates since a distant epoch the name of destiny. The two virgins reign over death. The black hands protect the pea
[End notes: Author’s ramblings: This chapter was pretty much for plot stuff, and to get characters firmly on the right and believable track, especially Mireille/Kirika. The Noir/Soldats history stuff I just pulled out of the air. I hope it is acceptable! ^.^]