My existence is a dark, cold dungeon of misery and depravitiy. Exploitation of a human frailty is the method by which I advance my career. A career that rewards my loyalty and abilities with punishment, that leaves me friendless and alone.

Terrorism is a worthy opponent, yet I am more terrorist that righteous in my war on this foe. I have become that which I fight; no better than their worst, no worse than their best. Death, my own or someone else's, is a constant companion. Is it any wonder, then, that I shroud myself in black?

They called her Mahogany. She had been color-named at birth to reflect the lustrous beauty gleaming in her deep brown eyes. She was a passionate Chameleon and would change her color at will—coolly blue, intensely red, mysteriously mauve, vibrantly orange.

Elders cautioned her to conceal this emotional kaleidoscope, but the headstrong young woman ignored their warnings, until faced with the need to survive in the black/gray world of Section One. Mahogany left her name and colors behind, embracing the blackness as she had once reveled in the rainbow.

Unreadable, unfathomable, enigmatic—Madeline would never again show her true colors.

His eyes were the colour of unrefined oil and when stared into, swallowed things whole. He was not handsome -- his face was small and round and beneath his dark skin his cheekbones were too prominent. He stood at 5’6” but few noticed his slight build ; they noticed his eyes instead. She, however, noticed his hands.

They were coarse and callused, the palms twice as light as the backs, and deeply intimate with both old Cold War Soviet arms and smuggled American laser-guided technologies.

Those hands, tapered and stained with congealed blood, fondled by silver titanium cuffs.

Shame, Madeline thought.

The hairdresser and makeup artist gush over the colour of my eyes. I barely hear them.

My skin looks absurdly tanned against the white silk of my dress. The sight makes my stomach roll over.

When I step outside, the sky is so blue that it almost hurts my eyes. I pray for sunglasses, for a sudden tropical storm, to wake up and this nightmare to be over.

The wedding gazebo looks like a doll’s house, as though it’s been spun from pure white fairy floss.

My future husband gives me a dazzling smile, and my aching heart turns black.

Michael woke to the gray cinderblock of his quarters, rose and donned his mission clothes. He paused to view his reflection, a black-clad figure against the cool white light.

Sleep hadn't come easily. His rebellious new material had upset his equilibrium.

He slipped out of Section.

********

Apartment 412. No need to knock. He knew Nikita wasn't there. The key turned quietly and he stepped into her world.

Sunglasses! Pink, purple, green, yellow, red, orange, green... Garish clothes that clashed and vibrated lay strewn about. It was gaiety, magic.

Michael walked to the center of the room and turned slowly in a circle.

We’ve been in place for a couple of hours, squatting in the dark so we can get a jump on a bunch of gun runners. Intel says they’re here, and that they’re most vulnerable just after 6 am. The night-vision goggles always give me a headache, so I slip them off after we get in position. Right now I can’t see my hand in front of my face, but that will change. I don’t like to think about how many times I’ve done this, waiting for black to become gray, and gray to become pink. Waiting for the dawn so we can kill someone in the light.