#1

"Hey, watch it," Birkoff squawked when I mopped near the two consoles he was scootin' between. How one little guy can work two stations atta time just boggles the mind. Hope that idea don't catch on with the boss.

Figured Michael'd be leavin' soon once I saw Nikita duck inta his office twenty minutes ago. Uh oh, here they come. Damn, it's just Nikita and she don't look none too happy. Hope he don't hole up in there all night like the last time she stormed out like that. I'll never get home to watch my soaps at this rate.

#2

The tall grey-haired man paced behind the long table, at which sat seven men and women each wearing a tired and blank expression. Stopping near the table's end, this formidable leader turned to the assembled group and began the briefing.

Fixing each in turn with a glare, he said, "Harris, you're to finish the sweep of levels two through six. At the same time, Scott and Jamison, you'll be preparing the solutions needed at egress. The rest of you, proceed to the offices and clean everything in sight. Any questions?" Hearing none, the Supervising Custodian of Section One exited the broom closet.

He mourned.

The job he’d held for so many years was invisible, yet unrelenting. He’d seen … so much. Madeline demanded he carry out assignments with unquestioning efficiency – and he did. Despite occasional revulsion at what Section wrought. He’d earned her respect.

But today it was her still body he carefully washed and placed in one of the simple pine coffins Section used for its dead. Loaded into the unmarked hearse.

And, as was all too often the case, he provided solitary respect as she was lowered into the ground. Nothing in Section would ever be the same.

He mourned.

"So – who died this time?" I ask, rolling out from under the badly crinkled van, wrench in hand.

"Nobody. Nikita and Michael were pretty messed up, though," my partner replies as he replaces the smashed side-view mirror. "Gonna take a week to hammer out the dents. Wish I got paid for this."

"Yeah," I agree. "Guess our payment is we get to live another day."

"And the expense account doesn't suck. To tell the truth, though, I'd do this job for free, just because I love to pound on stuff."

We both laugh, carefully avoiding the mention of Section Four.

#1

Seated in the 'guest' chair of the white-walled room, Operations awaits his host. He has been purposely placed in the unfamiliar 'guest' position, given no advance intel, in an attempt to weaken his vaunted control.

By the time his host enters the room, Operations' anxiety is palpable.

"Relax, Paul. We're going to handle this as a team." He fails to hide the condescending smile contradicting his benevolent words as he produces a large, drug-filled hypodermic.

"Is that really necessary?"

"Trust me, Paul," the white-coated man laughs irreverently, "ten long-drawn-out Novocain shots before the triple root canal—and you'll only feel one…..little…..prick."

#2

She was lucky.

He prevented her cancellation, but the price was a lower level of life, without him. Once his material, she is now one of Section's anonymous drones.

But, she's a survivor. She grins wryly—two years of martial arts training enhances her floor-washing skills, and hard-won computer literacy makes toilet-swabbing much more efficient.

Her smile falters. Scrubbing floors on her hands and knees, she sometimes feels his hot, hard force thrusting into her—still hears the wet slap of skin against skin. She cries out in silence, tears blurring the grimy white tile beneath her coarse-bristled brush.

Lucky.

He watched as she flirted with the munitions guy, teased the computer guy, and practically melted at the sight of that level five op.

Whore.

Making his way back to Interrogations, he counted to one hundred, calming his frayed nerves. He liked it here, but if he'd been free, he'd permanently wipe that smile off her face. That had been his specialty on the outside.

A knock on the door, and suddenly she was asking if he’d learned anything about the Prague mission.

"Drink later?" he asked, smiling.

Flashing the hated smile, she replied, "Thanks, but I have plans."

Whore.

To most people in the Section, Leon and the Housekeeping crew were invisible. Housekeeping could be counted on to come at a moment’s notice, to clean up after any mess an operative might make. Yet most operatives remained blissfully unaware of the Housekeepers.

Today, Leon had spent several hours mopping up various bodily fluids and remains after a particularly messy interrogation. As he left, he pulled a small bottle from his pocket and puffed a small amount of pulverized rust into each of the door’s hinges. He smiled to himself as the heavy door swung shut with a loud screech.

Sighing, he glanced at his wristwatch before entering the Perch. Certainly not his latest night, but late enough.

As jobs in Section went, cleaning the Perch and The Tower daily was a pretty good one. Much better than being a field or tech op, where the smallest mistake could get you canceled.

Many asked him what kind of mood should they expect from their leader that day and he curried favors for his knowledge.

The answer was simple. All he did was note how many pulverized cigarettes and crushed cigarette butts lined the ashtrays of the Perch and Operations’ residence.