Nikita answered the demanding ring of her cell phone, "Yeah?" Expecting Michael intoning, "Josephine...", she was startled instead to hear "Nikita", in Madeline's voice. "I'm here," her standard reply was uttered virtually without thought.

It was at that point the conversation became surreal. "Well, of course you are, but where is here right now? Are you home?"

"Yes, I just came in from running some errands. Do you need me to come..." Nikita's question was interrupted by, "Naw, I thought we could chat for a while. It's been, like, forever since the last time we had any girl talk."

"Ooo-kaaay."

"Adam, go and put on your pajamas, then bring your book into the den. We can read till your daddy gets home."

A short time later the sound of Michael's car in the driveway drew mother and son to their front door. Since it was cold and dark, Adam didn't launch himself outside for a typical little boy greeting, but hovered right behind Elena awaiting his turn to welcome Michael home. After a passionate kiss to his mission wife, Michael bent to greet Adam. Suddenly Adam backed away, staying out of Michael's reach and crying, "That's not my daddy."

“This is a waste of time. Terminate him.”

“That won’t be necessary. Leave us alone.” Sparing not a glance at the rigidly frustrated head of Section One, her nod toward the exit was his dismissal.

The door squawked open and clanged shut with a finality that made the prisoner squirm within the restraining straps of the metal chair. There were alien slits under his eye sockets.

Pacing slowly around the hostile, fingers linked behind her back, eyes dark and amused, she stopped in front of the man; let a liquid smile touch her features. And began to giggle uncontrollably.

It was such a minor thing, really, a very normal thing that should have gone unnoticed in the dark, shadowed surroundings of Section. He prided himself on attainment of perfection, and he had come very well prepared: patented blank stare, black Gaultier suits, 'of course' and 'be patient.'

As a matter of fact, he had been quite cross with his superiors for giving him this assignment—felt it was a waste of his considerable talents. After all, his original never reacted, said little and did even less.

Then, Nikita sauntered by, trailing jasmine and pheromones......

Betrayed by a burgeoning bulge.

“What’s the hold up, Birkoff?”

The reply was petulant, almost aggressive. “I’m processing it as fast as I can!”

Scowling at Birkoff’s tone, he patted his pocket, then he withdrew a slim silver cigarette case. “As fast as you can isn’t good enough. I want that code turned inside out now.”

Lighting his first cigarette of the day, he inhaled deeply, savouring the dark, bitter taste at the back of his throat. Glancing at Birkoff, his spine stiffened, his senses spiking. Birkoff was staring at the burning cigarette with an expression that was at once both familiar and alien.

Hunger.

“Tough mission?” Walter asked as Nikita appeared before him, her head hanging dejectedly.

Dumping her pistol on the bench, she said, “Just like all the rest... some lived, others didn’t.”

“Tough break,” he replied, taking inventory of the operative’s weapons.

Watching him, she noticed something out of place. “New bandana?” she asked. It was covered with tiny white roses on a green background and unlike any other one he’d worn before.

“Picked it up the other day – you like?”

Returning his question with a playful smile she said, “On you Walter, everything looks good.”

Grinning, he replied, “Thanks honey.”

Honey?

What the ... that can’t be right.

In all these years, in all those mission profiles, hundreds of them probably, he’d never done that before.

It wasn’t a mistake, really. It didn’t make any difference in the simm. But it was like going into the bathroom and finding the toothbrush across the room from the sink. It just wasn’t the right place to put it.

Why would he make a change like that?

Birkhoff looked up from his usual seat in Comm, and watched Michael walk across the floor to the Perch.