Shooting. Pain. Mich...ael?... Blackness.

Consciousness...pain...blackness.

Sounds...voices...distant, muffled. PAIN!! Blackness.

Awareness. Music. Opera? A presence...breathing...closer...

"Good morning, my pretty prize. Now now, don't turn away from me. Is that any way to behave when we're just getting to know one another? Section One has abandoned you, left you behind...for me. . . I have your new home all prepared; it's rather basic - a door, a mattress - it will serve. But first a few preliminaries: How do I avoid Section One's interference in my plans?"

"Michael?..."

"Dead, I'm afraid, my pretty Simone; just you and me now."

She forces herself to keep watching the video feed—the 'welcome' speech, the funeral photograph, the dawning realization.

She needs to feel their despair, their aloneness, as the last vestiges of family are wrenched from their beings. Their anguish fills her body and she shudders with its intrusion. But still she holds her vigil, drenching herself in their pain, inhaling and storing it for future reference.

She has quite effectively vanquished empathy and emotion, calling these forth only on rare occasions. In deciding whether to take someone's future, she wants to remember what Section has already taken of their past.

When you’re inside section, you’re never alone. There are operatives buzzing around their workstations. Operatives coming and going from missions. Wounded operatives in the med-lab, men in white coats standing by. Operations is ever present, glaring down from his perch. Madeline sashays through the halls as freely as she delves into your psyche.

Even when you go, “home,” you’re not alone. Surveillance keeps a constant vigil. They watch and dissect your every move, reporting it to God knows who.

Yet, no matter how many crowds surround me. No matter how many eyes watch me, I am always alone. Completely, alone.

#1

So how does Michael get out?

Back against the door.

Birkoff's voice in my ear... gone.

Walter... Operations... silent, listening.

Madeline... gone.

Oh never to see Adam again!

Nikita... my love…I had hoped we'd be together in our final moments...

How many times have I tried to put myself in harm's way without success? I've already died a thousand deaths.

And now the numbers flash red as the detonator counts down, each second like the slash of the knife, cutting another blood vessel, life oozing slowly, only to go all at once.

Now is the moment.

I turn...

Now!

#2

Elena shifted restlessly. She rose and crept to the nursery. She reached into the crib and lifted Adam slowly, then crawled back into bed, cuddling her newborn son, whispering his father's name...

********

Simone lay drowsy, bored out of her mind. She turned out the light, the bed vast in the silence of the night.

"Michael, where are you?"

********

Michael stood in the stinging heat of the shower in his quarters in Section. The water flowed unendingly. He lathered his body, eyes closed, the smell of his Valentine target rising and falling with the steam.

He could only sleep alone tonight.

Walking by the alley, the unmistakable sound of rumbling trashcans echoed. Section training said ignore it, intuition - investigate. Shifting his groceries to his left arm, he removed his pocketed gun with his right.

Stepping closer, he heard a small whine.

“Who’s there?”

Small, soulful brown eyes and a tan and shaggy snout appeared from around the bin. Walter tossed the dog a half-eaten sandwich from his bag. It was devoured.

“Alone?” The dog stared at him, wagging his tail. “Yeah, me too.”

He turned, his new companion following. He reached down and patted the dog’s head.

“Not alone now.”

Alone. At last.

No more distractions – no more torturous, painful, glorious, infuriating distractions. No more being pulled in four directions at once, on good days. No more fighting through hazes of love and lust and hate to remember the goal, the profile, the next move.

Alone. In the center of it all. Centered. Free to concentrate on the task itself.

A deep breath, a cooling wave, letting more tension go.

Focus and clarity emerging at last.

Alone. At peace. In the perch.

Freedom comes in many forms -- and one of them is to be alone, at last.

The speakers in Med Lab crackle with life at 11:00 p.m., when all good cold operatives are safely sedated and continues until 5:00 a.m., sharp. Madeline’s smooth voice echoes throughout the halls:

I, alone, am responsible for mission failure.

I, alone, am responsible for mission success.

I, alone, am responsible for the enemy who lives.

I, alone, am responsible for the enemy who dies.

I, alone, am responsible for those around me following orders.

I, alone, am responsible for following the mission decision regarding safety of the innocents.

I, alone, am responsible for following the mission decision on acceptable collateral.

She knocked out the guard and took his magnetic card. A long corridor, doors at the end. She ran.

They were posing –again– as power-hungry contenders, so this was a remarkable opportunity. She admired his timing.

The lie in Quinn’s voice had been transparent; she was on her own. But not abandoned.

We both are lost and alone in the world
Walk with me in the gentle rain

Sliding the card in the sensor, she glanced to the hallway behind her. It was a second: she only imagined a world where he really could leave her. Alone.

It was agony.

#1

Right hand -- one, two, three, four...

He always practices late at night when there isn’t anyone else around. It wouldn’t do for the rest of Section to watch Operations methodically firing away at the target, just like the lowliest recruit.

Left hand -- one, two, three, four...

He needs to stay in shape, needs to keep on top, needs to be in control, but most of all he needs to keep the constant struggle behind closed doors -- needs to stay ahead without letting anyone see the effort.

Right hand -- one, two, three, four...

Practice makes perfect.

#2

Not too many people come down here, and you can’t really blame them -- even in a world where death is the daily business, it’s still unsettling to look at the final remains. They make their deliveries, get the signature on their panels and they’re gone, leaving the bodies behind stripped of everything, except your memories of them. So as you shift them from the gurney to the oven you think over what you knew, the comments on the elevator or the gossip from the bar. You’re there to say good-bye as the door closes. You’re never really alone when you work with the dead.