This story is set after the end of Series Three

Nikita sat rigidly, eyes fixed to the screen in front of her. At regular intervals Birkoff's head tilted slightly, sneaking a glance towards her, clearly unnerved by her silence and brooding intensity. Genial ease now replaced with disquiet and suspicion. The tension in those around her was palpable, as if she now existed in a domain unknown to them. The same and yet changed, dead to them in the present, surviving only in past. In memories, blithe and mellow.

She followed the rules, did the job, as best as anyone could. Yet it wasn't enough. Only one conclusion to draw from that. It could just as easily have happened to any one of them. That's what made the pulse race and the head throb. In a life defined by subjugation and control, it was difficult to comprehend that, in the end, there were no rules. The irony wasn't lost on any of them. This new pariah serves to remind them of the ephemeral nature of their life, how fragile the concept of time is, when it is shrouded in fear. Another one, untouchable and seemingly untouched by the world in which they subsist.

*********************

The metallic click of my heels ricochets down the quiet corridor. I consider, again, if I wouldn't be better off employing stealth, like the prowling, muted footfall of Michael. One look around at the wary faces that glance furtively in my direction, fearful of catching my attention, and this momentary doubt is quickly dismissed. An audible assault on the psyche, superfluous but effective.

I walk with purpose, although I have none for this promenade through my domain. In my own way I am prowling, observing detail, devouring nuance. I can see them reflect, questioning if they will be today's casualty. Carved off from the rest of the herd and shepherded back to my office with excruciating civility. Minds consumed with fear and apprehension. It presupposes minds full of guilt. This is the fertile ground I cultivate, and the playground in which I hunt.

I smile delicately as I pass four second year recruits standing talking with Thomas, their trainer. I greet them by name, a cool smile as my voice makes contact with each one in turn. They mumble their "good morning Madeline" with a look of fear and awe, clearly unsettled that I know who they are among the anonymous populace of the Section. Eyes shift awkwardly to the floor, to a small stain on a tshirt, a loose thread on a jacket. Fear. I can almost smell it in the air. I resist the strong temptation to run my tongue over my lips to see if I can also taste it. Instead, I ask Thomas to send me their progress reports by midday. He nods and then urges them down the corridor towards the training room. I will ask for their reports again next week, certain I will see a spike in their percentages as a result of this brief encounter.

I round the corner into comm's and immediately savour the encompassing tension. Nikita's behaviour has them bewildered and bewitched. I had expected it in the target, but the reaction of the others is unexpected and I feel my mind reel with sudden possibility. Without missing a step I move to stand behind her, singling her out immediately, aware of the image this creates. I lean down and review the profile she is working on, I make some suggestions which she quickly accepts. I keep my voice smooth, approving.

I glance towards Birkoff and catch him watching us. I pitch my voice in a sharper tone than the one I used with Nikita and ask him for an update on the mission about to load. He turns quickly back to his screen and provides me with the information, his voice strained, a little higher than usual. I nod towards him and smile, noticing the fear registering in his eyes as he realises I have picked up on his unease. He moves his lips wordlessly, desperately wanting to ask the questions they all share. I can see his mind working, the fear quenching his thirst for understanding. With a dismissive glance I look up to see Michael striding towards us.

His face reveals nothing as he glides in to stand in front of me, judiciously positioning his body between Nikita's and mine. His face is very close. His eyes glisten with controlled antagonism. It seems strangely out of place in his otherwise emotionless face. His voice is whisper soft as he informs me they are ready to leave. Without really thinking I reach out and smooth down the collar of his leather jacket. He accepts my ministrations without comment, but shifts his face downwards, suddenly, as my hand is about to withdraw. The backs of my fingers momentarily brush the soft texture of his cheek and then the masculine coarseness of his chin.

The contact is over in an instant, but it burns with an intensity that is eternal. It takes all my concentration to smoothly replace my hand at my side. I continue to stare at his collar for a second, ordering my emotions, still feeling the electric tremble in my fingers as I hold them like a searing brand against my thigh. Seemingly without missing a beat, I shift my gaze back up to his. I'm surprised by the look I see this time. Pity, almost crippling in its precision. In a heartbeart, I realise he understands what has happened, perhaps even why it happened.

The pain of this exposure grips me like a vice, the simple act of breathing seems unfamiliar. I force in a jagged breath, camouflage my helplessness with a look towards Operations office, as though this might help restore my balance. He's watching me, as always. I can see his curious gaze, an almost whimsical curve to his mouth. He nods, imperceptibly, a slow arc of the head, a narrowing of the compelling eyes, a slight rise of the left eyebrow. I recognise the gesture immediately. A summons, hopeful, carnal, the intent left to my discretion, as though existence comprises choice. My fingers smart again as I contemplate and try to process this latest assault, struggling with the denial that has brought this sequence of events upon us all. I'm momentarily distracted from my calculations by Michael, as he inclines his head slightly to take in Operations office.

Michael shifts his attention back towards me. I feel his gaze as though his eyes are arrows, deadly accurate as they aim and pierce my own. He repositions his body and leans close. My carefully constructed walls lay in ruin and there is nothing left to repel his assault. He raises his mouth to my ear and says softly that he is expecting no further complications with the profile we now have in place. His soft lips lightly graze my earlobe as he pulls back. The contact sparks memories like eruptions of blinding light behind my eyes. I imagine I catch a melancholy look as he takes a step back, but it's fleeting and quickly replaced with a mask of calculated indifference. With a leisurely blink of his eyes he releases me, pivots gracefully and runs his fingers gently, possessively, across Nikita's shoulders. With a nod towards Operations he moves off in a casual saunter towards Van Access.

I look imperiously around, expecting to meet embarrassed, questioning stares. Instead I see no change from the scene I walked in on only moments before. This whole incident has been played out between only the three of us in a secret moment of revelation. The only difference I observe is the confused, slightly irritated gaze of Nikita as she watches Michael disappear through the doorway.

***********

Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger. I appreciate the truth in these words. But for each measure of strength I gather to myself, something in me dies. Just a little. How much of me is there left? The metallic click of my heels ricochets down the quiet corridor. A lonely echo, recoiling into space. Not touching anything.

Finis

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