Nikita shook her greying head in silent wonder, remembering - ah, to remember - a long ago exchange with Madeline. After only five mind numbing days at The Golden Centre, she mused: How wrong I was to want ever this Miami condo; a bullet to the brain would be welcome.

Every moment of the residents' lives, waking and sleeping, was strictly regulated. Relishing the only break in the daily boredom, Nikita plodded along with other retired Section personnel to the dining hall. The walk was slow and difficult; to preclude any form of unauthorized communication, all had been surgically blinded and muted.

It is only in the morning, in the brief moments before he is fully awake, he is free—free of the old man who looks back at him from the mirror, free of the pain that accompanies his every move. He no longer leads his team in the field. Now, although he sometimes wonders why, he leads others to survive another day in hell.

Always, he had wished for an end. He smiles wryly. The once skillful profiler had never foreseen this unbearable end—not with the bang of a bullet, but with the whimper of an aging body's degeneration.

Michael and Nikita observed their reflections in the polished elevator doors. Healthy and fit, only the color of their hair hinted at their aging years. They still held hands whenever they had a private moment.

The doors slid soundlessly open. Level 20.

Neither spoke as they stepped into the lab. Seven familiar pairs of eyes filled with steel and recognition met theirs.

Michael nodded. "Continue."

He and Nikita moved to Genetics as the group returned to their activities. They donned their cryosuits, eyes locked in sober silent conversation.

A metallic voice came over the comm system.

"Temperature stable. Condition green."

Michael shook his head to clear it, his memory returning like a film on fast-forward. He had resigned, resigned from Section One. He had headed to his apartment, perhaps driving a little fast, a little reckless, but free, free at last, but something had happened, everything had gone black. He staggered over to the window, intent on getting some fresh air. He stopped, his hands on the interior shutters as the most macabre sight greeted his eyes. A beam of sun glanced off of something on his jacket and he glanced down, staring at the button on his lapel. "6."

Madeline’s 11

Smiling in amusement, she profiled their next target. Whoever said retirement was bleak simply had no imagination. Success in the real world was limitless with skills picked up in Section.

Madeline, with Paul’s help, had convinced each one to join and then covertly forced the Agency to retire them one by one.

Now Madeline’s crew consisted of Paul, Michael, Nikita, Walter, Birkoff, Jason, Mick, Davenport, Henry and Elizabeth.

They still took down terrorists, just differently and more profitably by conning them out of their money, thereby stripping them of their funding.

Madeline found the weaknesses and her crew exploited them.

Huddling over the racing guide, studying the form, an emaciated, old man concentrated. The blanket wrapped around his legs warding off the chill of the evening air was the only warmth he had felt in a long, long time.

“Hey, remember when you went to the farm?”

He tried to focus on that voice he had not heard for some years. With glasses perched on his nose, Walter peered over to the person who had roused him from his new favourite pastime.

He answered slowly, “I … remember…”

“Well, was it any better than this?”

“Yes … Much better Amigo.”