Dear Diary -

Downtime today...chance to be the REAL me. Went to the park to watch the kids playing. Watching was all I intended until some teenaged girls started a touch football game -- one side needed another player.

Was drafted from the sidelines to join blue team - GAWD, that sounds like Section-speak! Played for an hour, non-stop. Thought I was in great shape - which I AM, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!! - but I'm not a teenager anymore!! Blue team won by a touchdown!!! Yea!!!

Can't remember having such FUN -- running - sweating - getting my ass kicked. Isn't this what living's really like??????????????????????

Two Views on Cancellation

A

This time, compassion cannot overcome rage at your material's deliberate disregard of your direct order.

"I can't do what you want me to do. I'm not a killer."

Your fury builds at hearing the truth you've suspected, confirmed by an operative who seems close to giving up. You cannot allow this so you strike out, in anger and desperation, trying to revive a weakening will to live.

"The moment I believe that, you're cancelled."

Your voice threatens, but your eyes entreat—asking for understanding and trust.

"Of course, Jurgen, " Michael concedes.

Your strategy works. Your Michael has chosen life.

////////////////////////////

B

Facing your angry trainer, you decide the only explanation left is telling the truth. You're close to giving up, anyway.

"I can't do what you want me to do. I'm not a killer."

Something tells you he already knows your confession is true, but his next words make you doubt your speculation.

"The moment I believe that, you're cancelled."

His eyes entreat understanding and, for a moment, you consider going on. But the lure of cancellation—being done with it all—proves too strong. You play along.

"Of course, Jurgen," you concede.

He doesn't suspect. His Michael has chosen death.

He closed the door behind him with exaggerated care, his movements measured, his pulse racing, his words echoing in his thoughts.

It’s not what I would choose for myself, or for us.

She had looked at him as though he was speaking gibberish, an understandable reaction. After all, what sane person would choose such a life?

No, it wasn’t what he would have chosen, yet he’d chosen to embrace it. To atone. To make amends. To survive.

He could barely understand it himself, so why had he tried to explain it to her? Michael frowned, uneasy. Why had he tried?

Nikita stepped into the spring sunlight. Since becoming Operations, she'd had too few days off. She strolled, seemingly casually, but with a definite destination.

As she sat in the park adjacent to the church, she observed the hum of everyday life as the world knew it... mothers with baby carriages, businessmen bustling, teenage girls window-shopping, police cars cruising...

I'm isolated, insulated from it all. Yet it's what the Section strives to preserve.

Nikita smiled as she breathed deeply, the fresh air reviving her spirits.

I guess if I have to have a purpose, this one is as good as any. Maybe better.

“You’re angry at me.”

“We didn’t have to kill him.”

“He was collateral.”

“So just like that? Are we God to make that sort of choice; who dies, who lives?”

“We’ve been through this before.”

“I know we have and each time I tell you that I believe its wrong, Michael.”

“Stop looking at the world as if it’s black and white, Nikita. Just do the job.”

“I hate this life. And I hate you for making me live it.”

Michael moved close. He put his hand to her cheek. “I love you. That’s why I make you do it.”

“... and then when we went back to the counter they didn’t even remember we’d been there, we had to start all over...”

Birkoff had been listening to this woman babble for 20 minutes without speaking a word -- even if he’d had something to say he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get it out. He couldn’t imagine how this little excursion could get much worse. Nikita had told him he needed to get a life, and he thought a trip to a coffee bar couldn’t be that hard, but that was before he met, what was her name?

Life.

Death.

The opposite emotions of a double-edged sword … I have experienced them all here in Section One. How many times have I pulled the trigger on a Target? So many now that I have lost count. I feel nothing … no emotion when they fall at my feet. They are collateral, expendable terrorists that we must rid the world of. To exterminate them, means that many innocent people live.

What do I, the Angel of Death choose? I was indifferent until she came into Section ...The Angel of Light.

I now choose life. I live for her.