Numbness...

Creeping up my legs...easing the constant ache of arthritis. It would almost be a relief but for the cause of it.

Ironic that it should end this way. I always thought I would win. Now I lie here helpless on this gurney as my tormentor leans over with a triumphant smile, looking into my eyes as the numbness creeps ever higher.

"Are you comfortable?"

The saccharine tones infuriate me as I strive to hold on to consciousness.

"Your turn will come."

I can't breathe. Is this what death finally feels like?

Anger. Despair. Nikita, why didn't you listen to me?

Darkness....

The scent stops him in his tracks. He lifts his head, his eyes seeking what he knows cannot be.

An elderly man is standing nearby, hunched deep in his coat against the biting wind, a lit pipe clenched firmly between his teeth. The wind shifts, and again the wispy tendrils of smoke swirl high, filling the air with a spicy scent that is at once familiar and jarring.

George turns away, his eyes stinging. Of all the things that could have haunted him, it seems strangely fitting that it is the memory of her damned pipe that always shatters him.

~*~*~*~*~

A/N: It is either in Adrian's Garden or End Game that we see Adrian with her pipe. I thought I'd mention it because it's a very quick moment and I didn't want y'all to think I was just making these things up. *g*

She loved her flowers. They were her only companions in the last days of her life. Silken, soft petals that teased her shaky fingers. Brilliant red roses, their redness bringing back memories of blood.

Blood spilled to save others.

Lives cut short at her command.

The faces of a thousand operatives passed in a kaleidoscope before her eyes. All dead or dying, all because of her.

It hadn’t been her intent, to create such a merciless world. She just wanted to do some good in her lifetime. How had it gone so terribly awry?

Soon, she’d remember no more. Soon.

Somewhere in France, circa 1945...

His cigarette lighter illuminated both their faces as he offered her a light. She studied his rugged features as their eyes met.

"It's hard to believe they'd send a woman to do this job."

"Do you believe that women hate this war less than men?"

"The spelling of your name was misleading."

"As intended."

"You're prepared to do whatever is necessary?"

"Always."

He grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her. She reacted with a martial arts move that left him flat on his back. He stood up, smiling, offering his hand.

"George."

"Adrian."

"Let's get to work, shall we?"

“You trust her?” Adrian asked.

Carla stopped the DVD and turned to her. “You’ve seen the material. She thinks Operations is the cruelest man she’s ever known. If you show her the truth…”

“Which truth? Each one is worse than the next.”

Carla nodded, her eyes scanning the garden.

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Adrian asked.

“Very,” Carla replied as she lifted her teacup for a taste.

“So how do you suggest we control her if there’s trouble?”

The DVD restarted and paused, holding a frame of Nikita looking at an unsuspecting Michael.

Adrian scrutinized the image.

“So it begins.”

"I have command."

Adrian can still remember that smug tone saying those words so solemnly, as though he were following procedure. The feeling of the chain tugging on the little hairs at her nape as the key was taken from around her neck. The eyes watching her, cataloging, waiting for . . . something.

It was all so very civilized. This coup, this betrayal. All the participants, every single one of them, knew it and pretended not to.

Yes, she remembered and she waited. She tended her garden and kept her finger on the pulse of the mighty beast that was Section One.

Adrian watched the drama play out from afar, observing her former supervisor cross the bridge to his death.

The operative she once thought would help her bring down Section would still be responsible for its demise, albeit as its leader. Nikita’s idealism and compassion would ultimately be her and Section’s downfall.

Fitting, if ironic, revenge for the younger woman’s betrayal of years earlier.

Turning to her companion, Adrian’s tone was somber, “The Agency is finished.”

“Yes,” Madeline sighed, feeling a twinge of regret at the impending destruction of her life’s work. “But it had to be done,” She added grimly.

She stopped him before; she cannot do it now. A repeated mistake.

Desire is always weakness; I even remember the afternoon we discussed that, long ago. It's utterly amazing that, after so many years, she can't overcome this bare desire. The craving for forgiveness, comprehension... justice.

When the time came, I just needed to rub the false accusation into the open wound: Willing to kill mommy?

Things are so easy if you know the right string to pluck.

Perhaps the oblivion, the nothingness waiting for me is worse than death; we'll see. But right now... Oh, I win, my dear.