#1

Strapped into the White Room's ominous metal chair, Birkoff was nearly paralyzed with fear. Long before any interrogation began, his panic filled mind was providing a torture of it's own making - worse than any recently perpetrated on Section's guests.

He knew Operations would be the inquisitor this time; knew he had respect for the years of loyal service Birkoff provided, so at least he'd make the boy's death quick, if not painless. As the heavy door creaked open, Birkoff's last coherent thought was 'please don't let me soil my underwear.'

#2

Michael purposefully entered the men's wear department for the first time in several years. One previously unrecognized advantage of his blood cover was that Elena had handled the shopping chores, even buying his unmentionables.

Approaching the well stocked shelves, he was overwhelmed by the variety of choices. Not only were there several major brands, but more than a dozen styles - and the colors! On missions, he made instantaneous life and death decisions; in no way was he prepared to make this selection.

There was no alternative. Reaching for his cell, he hit #1 speed dial; once connected, he spoke, "Josephine."

She’s so innocent. She has no idea why I’m here – she thinks I’m attracted to her. It’s this part of my job that disgusts me most.

I undress her, pretending to be aroused, and she responds – silly fool! – as I slip the silk strap from her shoulder. She giggles coquettishly, which doesn’t help my libido. I feel my erection deflating under my supposedly seductive black thong, and in desperation, I draw upon images I don’t want to cheapen: Platinum blonde hair. Long, lithe legs. Sky-blue eyes.

I can do the job now. But I hate myself.

I’ll burn the thong later.

#1

"So... How does Michael get out?"

I look around the cubicle that has been my "home" for the last fifteen years, nothing added, nothing taken away.

The mirror reflects my body, unadorned, defenseless in the end. One garment at a time, I don my mission clothes.

Socks, pants, shirt, boots, suicide vest...

I stare at the bulletproof vest lying undisturbed, the "skin" that has protected me every time I've gone out. I run my fingers over its rough surface. It feels like an old friend.

Goodbye. I don't need you any more.

I turn my back and walk out. Forever.

#2

Michael tugged at the ruffle of his cuff, then began drinking. It was imperative he appear that he'd "had too much". He felt uncomfortably conspicuous in the formal red jacket.

Nikita entered on the arm of Alec Chandler. Michael's jaw clenched as he observed their bodies touching, shoulder to hip.

But her pale blue satin dress!

Madeline must have chosen it.

***

Nikita looked around at the "beautiful people" who had come to give money to the homeless shelters. She felt uncomfortably conspicuous in blue.

But Michael! A red dinner jacket! And ruffles on his shirt!

Madeline must have chosen that!

Nikita examined herself in the mirror. The dress was long, off-white, with a wide pink sash. She looked ridiculous, she felt wonderful, at last adorned with a mother’s love.

These are the kind of clothes a mother buys her daughter.

“You like it?” Helen asked.

“I feel very different in these clothes,” she responded, as a memory buzzed through her nerves. The sound of tearing fabric as her mother ripped the dress from her body. You look like a fucking whore!

“You are different, you have a mother now,” Helen said.

One Nikita would betray. She was a fucking whore.

My black dress feels far too short and tight, exposing more of my flesh than it covers. Madeline says I look beautiful, but I feel awkward. When Michael enters the room his eyes widen slightly as they roam over my body. Maybe the dress is okay after all.

I feel such happiness as Michael and I sit in a restaurant drinking wine, chatting about everything and nothing. When he surprises me with a gift tears well in my eyes. As I lift the lid, cold reality hits me like icy water. It’s a gun and it’s black, like my dress.

The bench was wet where I dropped my clothes on the way to the shower, but I was so tired I didn’t notice until I picked them up again. There on the seat is a little pink puddle, a bit of Franklin’s blood from my jacket mixed with the spray that escapes from the shower curtain. As I wipe it up with my towel I realize it’s the only part of him that came back to Section.