******Spoiler warning*****: This story is set before the tag scene of the episode "Down A Crooked Path" and explores an alternative ending. It contains only minor spoilers.

And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration: feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the frenzy of the last few hours time seems to hesitate, expectant, indulging me. To what end isn't clear, though it fills me with consternation. The room is so still its suffocating. I take a deep breath, it feels so strange, as though my lungs are suddenly aware of a need my brain is only dimly acquainted with. It's quiet.

Only the gentle whisper of breath from motionless bodies invades the space around me. It's quiet.

Too quiet. Too much time to think. Another deep breath and I feel the sudden cooling of sweat on my skin, the familiar churning in my gut. The grip of fear slowly takes hold, seducing body and mind into unwanted acquiescence. Navigating me unwillingly into that well-worn zone of self-recrimination.

I'm surrounded by silence. Alone in a still battleground where the vanquished lay in reluctant placidity, minds stolen as bounty in their petty war. As if all that has already been surrendered isn't payment enough. But I should know by now, it is never enough. They take and they take until there is nothing left. A shadow, ravaged and empty. And still it is not enough.

But behind all this subterfuge and petty power play is the real battle. The one that brought us all to this place. This reality. This now.

The battle for goodness is fought with the souls and psyches of imperfect soldiers. Anonymous and unwanted to the outside, I struggle to make sense of these imperfections in this inner, surreal world I have created through necessity. A self shaped kismet in which I am unimpeded to search for some meaning, some truth.

Search for an answer to the question that has been haunting me. Am I a good man?

The search has torn me apart. And each time I play this deadly game the answer slips further away. The game defines my life, consuming me in agonising piece after piece.

But here before me is a chance, a decision. And nothing surprises me more than the fact that I am even considering it as a decision. What fury or, perhaps, disappointment would I see in those familiar faces if they knew what I was contemplating. I am, after all, their only chance.

Their only chance for what, though? More of the same. Is this what I would choose for myself? Would a peaceful, vacuous departure from this life saturated with violence be less cruel?

They are depending on me. And I have no answers.

These thoughts combine, swirl around me, leaving me utterly ragged and apathetic. Like too much noise.

I walk the razor edge, the divide so fierce I can feel its stab with every breath. That fine line between good and evil.

We have watched each other so closely, for so long. Like a pack of dogs in an uneasy alliance for the good of the hunt. Always wary, constantly circling. Sniffing the air and each other for any scent of fear or deficiency that might reveal a weakness. Weakness that might bring the pack down. Weakness that can be used and exploited.

Each time I have stumbled they have been there, waiting to pounce. Lover, friend, master. It makes no difference. They are all more than willing to pass judgement on me. Imperfections dissected until I am raw and exposed. Even when it is not clear, at least to me, to which side of the razor's edge I have fallen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What do you want?"

"I wanted to ... explain."

"A little too late. There's nothing to explain, you made your choice- your own decisions, as you always do."

"That's not what it was about."

"Don't bullshit me Michael, you knew exactly what you were doing. You constantly test my authority. Quite frankly, I'm beginning to tire of it. Managing you is not without difficulty."

"There was no choice. I am what you have made me."

"Yes, and I can just as easily *unmake* you. You would do well to remember that."

"Of course."

"Yes, I'm quite sure you understand, yet you continue to disappoint me."

"Yes."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"I'm not sure what more you expect."

"I expect your obedience. I expect you to carry out orders. Instead you blatantly defy me and put all our plans at risk. You wanted the chance to explain, so go ahead. I want to know - why?"

"I ... I couldn't."

"You couldn't! That's it?! Come on Michael, give me a break. You're letting your feelings interfere with this mission. I thought we trained you better than that. I thought *you* were better than that!"

"Perhaps *you* trained me too well."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I understand what a man is willing to do to save his son."

"That was completely different."

"You ignored the rules to protect someone you love. How is it different?"

"Don't try and vindicate your behaviour by drawing dubious comparisons. You understand nothing about me."

"I could make the same claim."

"Oh, I know you Michael. I know you too well."

"Though not well enough, it would seem."

"Stop pushing me. It's counterproductive, you should appreciate that."

"I concede my appreciation of many things is somewhat diminished at this point in time."

"How gracious of you to concede anything. I don't give a damn about your bruised sensibilities, it's irrelevant."

"I'm not searching for absolution or compassion, just ... understanding."

"Understand this then - you *will* do what I say. The rest is just semantics."

"Do as I say, not as I do?"

"Be careful, Michael, you're walking a fine line here."

"As always."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silence.

Ambition, love and all the thoughts than burn
We lose too soon, and only find delight
In withered husks of some dead memory.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of afternoons a week my mother used to work as a volunteer in the library next to the church in our village square. Like the church, it was a magnificent old building, with swirling staircases tracing the path of massive timber beams up to the heavens. On those days my sister and I would wait for my mother until she finished at the library so we could all walk home together. While we waited we were supposed to sit and do our homework.

My mother would sit us at one of the huge wooden tables, her instructions always the same. Sit quietly and do your work, don't disturb the others, be good. We would smile and nod our obedience, diligently opening school bags to retrieve our books. As though we were intent on doing our school work. This would earn us a kiss, delivered to each cheek with unreserved affection and tenderness. With a wink she would reach down to the lower shelf of her book trolley and slip a pile of discarded office paper onto the table in front of us. The smile she directed towards us circumfused the cavernous silence, flooding the musty air with the sound of birds, the smell of honeysuckle and the brilliance of a summer day. With grins on our faces we would reach for the paper, turning to the blank side, imagination's already working furiously to fill in the silence with the sweep of our pencils.

I came to love the silence, the unfettered opportunity to express myself in action rather than the clutter and ambiguity of words. I loved the observation and perception of silence. The gentle movement of my sister's head as she bent over her page, drawing in furious concentration. The tap of fingers as an elderly gentleman stood reading the paper. The riveted eyes of a mother turning the pages of a book, her knee methodically yet gently bouncing the sleeping baby in her lap. I'd capture it all, through eyes, to brain to hand to paper and there in front of me would be the image. The transformation complete.

Silence. Soothing and secure. A silence in which I could find myself or lose myself. A silence in which I could understand myself. A silence in which love was unqualified and unencumbered. A silence in which I could see the good in others and, happily, in myself. A golden silence filled with good that warmed this life, inside and outside.

For so long now my world has been filled with noise that no silence can subdue. I feel it consume me, feeding on despair, devouring the good, piece by piece. This is my life now. Playing their games as it twists me apart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What's up kiddo?"

"Training mission, Madeline sent the inventory."

"Sure, I was just getting it ready, didn't realise it was for you. Playing with the real stuff this time, huh?"

"I haven't seen the list. Madeline said to report to you."

"Hear no evil see no evil. Sometimes it's the only way to get through the day."

"I guess."

"So, another week out for their golden boy. The other recruits must be spitting chips, locked in this dungeon while you're out, gallivanting around. They giving you a hard time?"

"I don't know, maybe. It doesn't matter."

"They're pushing you hard, at this rate you'll be finishing six months early. Be careful Michael."

"I will."

"Yeah well ... wish I was going back down there with you. I wouldn't mind an excuse to spend another couple of weeks in the sun, a little surf, a little mambo with my lovely senorita. What's that look for?"

"What look?"

"That look, you know what I'm talking about. Anyway, you'd have a shit-eating grin permanently plastered on your face too if you'd just had two weeks in heaven like I did."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Walter."

"Enjoyed it, hell, you are the master of understatement. There's not too many things left that make this old boy feel good, but I can tell you, she rates right up there. Right up there. Splendido. Oh man!"

"Do they know?"

"What? That's there's life in the old boy still? I think they got the message, loud and clear. Never underestimate them, kiddo, they know everything. They knew about it, but they're going to let it slide. I had a bit of down-time due anyways."

"Such a thing exists?"

"Yeah, comes around once every decade. Listen Michael, I want to thank you for helping me out down there, getting Madeline off my case. I didn't mean for you to get involved, especially not like that. I hope it wasn't too bad."

"Just the usual."

"That makes my skin crawl a thousand difference ways. But I mean it, thanks. You're a good guy."

"I did nothing."

"Sure, if that's how you want to play it. Thanks for nothing."

"De nada."

"Yeah amigo, de nada. Mucho gracias de nada."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silence.

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
It's human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The outside.

As I sit down here, in this false silence, my mind wanders to the outside. What's happening out there while I'm buried down here, dealing in the business of life and death. Good and evil.

Outside the sun might be shining. Children might be wandering home from school, scuffed shoes kicking at piles of leaves or soccer balls. Lovers may be talking nonsense on the phone, no greater decision ahead of them than what movie they will see tonight. Someone's reading the paper as they travel home on the train after a slow day at work. My musings of the outside are always filled with the mundane.

Every day things. A normal life. Will I ever have that? Could I ever have that? It scares me more than thoughts of my own mortality.

She told me once that they couldn't understand us out there. That no matter how much we hate it inside, there are, at least, certain things we can depend on. People we can depend on. I had no answers for her. I rarely do. Yet I dread the day she will stop asking. I hide in my silence, hoping she will understand.

Silence. Like a drug. In silence I can find a fragile truce between action and thought. A chance to lick the wounds of my battered psyche and indulge in the delusions of autonomy and redemption. A chance to seek out what is good. But it is a joyless pilgrimage. I can find few things that are good in my life and so the corollary I am forced to accept is that there is no good in me. Was there ever? I have been brooding on this ever since she uttered those words.

No amount of rationalisation can clean the blood from my hands. The blood mixed with destruction, duplicity and concealment. It clings to me, leaving its deadly taint on everything and everyone I touch.

Yet in silence I can imagine that I am what I would wish to be, rather than what this life has made me. And what am I? Here, now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"That's it, let's go, we have thirty minutes. I'll call second team out."

"No."

"Huh? The detonators are in place now and ... shit! Shit!"

"I need the other timer, in my left pocket."

"I should have known ... abeyance ops ..."

"Birkoff, the timer!"

"What? Umm ... yeah okay ... oww ... sorry, I'll just ... I can't move my arm around, it's ... there, there you go."

"More cable, now."

"I can't stand this, I can hardly breath in here, let alone move. Where is it?"

"Backpack."

"Mine?"

"Yes. Stop that."

"What? Ohhh... ummm sorry ... nerves. I didn't realise. What was that noise?"

"Be quiet."

"It's so hot in here. How much longer?"

"Quiet."

"Okay, sorry, it's just ... shit ... don't you ever get scared?"

"No."

"Why do I believe that. ummm ... Michael, I've been meaning to ask you ..."

"Birkoff, not now."

"Not now ... not now. Huh? What was that?"

"Relax."

"Relax? Stuck in a cement drain thirty metres under a building that's about to register on seismographs all over the eastern seaboard with a man whose ..."

"...pass me the flex cable."

"Here, I'll feed it back, okay, here you go. Cool stuff, Walter's a genius. Not that I'd ... well ... they won't let me near anything, Madeline keeps hovering. I don't think they trust me anymore. What do you think Michael, do they?"

"Not now Birkoff!"

"Do you, trust me? How could you after ... Shit Michael, I have to know. It's driving me crazy. I keep thinking you're going to shoot me."

"Why?"

"Well it's not as if you didn't have a good reason. You know ... I ummm... I slept with your girlfriend."

"No, you didn't."

"I did, but I didn't, but ... I thought I did."

"I'm sure it wasn't the first time."

"What do you mean? Ohh... I see. Well, ummm ..."

"Here take this ... run the transmission frequencies."

"Okay ... ouch, what the hell was that ..."

"Birkoff, focus."

"Sorry ... I'm scanning four at 162."

"Reset and move to 165."

"Done, I have three."

"Good?"

"Huh?"

"Did it make you feel good?"

"Did what feel ...? Ohhh ... yeah, sure, it felt real good, at the time."

"Then stop worrying."

"I want you to be able to trust me. I don't want you think I'm a bad person."

"I do and I don't."

"Cool, I think. Ummm... how much longer Michael, we've got 14 minutes."

"Don't make me shoot you Birkoff."

"Okay, okay ... I'll be quiet. Sorry."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silence.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am scared.

Scared of what I am and the depressing thought that perhaps it is all I will ever be.

Scared of what I am required to do, and how easily I can be managed into a pattern of unquestioning compliance.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Michael? In the gentle cocoon of youth I imagined I could be anything. I wonder did I ever imagine this. I don't remember having nightmares as a child, so perhaps not.

Fleeting tangents rocket through my mind, one catches and takes hold. Bizarre. That outlandish orange figure I remember, laying idle in the bottom of the toy box. Thoughts transform and suddenly it's me laying there, forged into the quintessential gumby warrior. A rubberman that bends instinctively back into shape, no matter how much you twist and torture that unnatural body with its perpetually grinning face.

That image makes me laugh. It takes a moment to register that I am, actually, laughing. The sound erupts into the quiet, morbid room before I can bring the impulse under control. It's so garishly out of place, except for the hysterical edge to it. Perhaps I'm going crazy, finally. Am I too young for a midlife crisis? Is that what this is?

I've never thought of my fucked-up life in terms of mainstream neurosis but perhaps it is that simple. Another bizarre thought - that I could be so ... normal. It makes it easier, or so I tell myself. I tell myself lots of things, it's a source of some amusement that I still listen so readily. Even more amusing is that, sometimes, I believe what I say.

Sometimes I don't know if I am still strong enough to do this. I feel like a frayed net, barely holding myself together, terrified of what else will slip through in a careless moment. I want to hide in the silence again, nursing my guilt and pain without the overwhelming glare of expectation.

Silence. Sometimes it's like dying.

And what is it. What is left in the end when we are finally ready to make that decision? Like their machine, this life has extracted so much feeling and humanity that I think it is only stubbornness that has stayed my gun from the final act of self-obliteration.

Like a mother protecting a precious child from lethal danger, I hold what is left of me deep inside. Silence like a shield, a projection of interiorised brooding. Keep them thinking but don't let them in. Wondering. He might be plotting or merely composing a mental shopping list. That's what they think because I bury it deep. Locked away from the incessantly curious probing of my masters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silence.

Dying,
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so its feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Thank you Michael, please, have a seat. How was your downtime?"

"Fine."

"Operations and I were both realise this last mission was difficult for you, confronting issues from your old life. I'd like to discuss a few of these issues with you, if I may?"

"Are you suggesting I have a choice?"

"No."

"Then please ... continue."

"I've been reviewing the tapes. You called off the team before all the targets were neutralised. Can you tell me why?"

"Positioning. It was more efficient to take out the last target from my position."

"Yet, *you* didn't fire."

"No."

"From my interpolation of the tape you would have had a zero error kill."

"Probably."

"Nikita took out the last target."

".... yes."

"You failed to complete the sequence. A member of your team had to break position to cover your reckless behaviour."

"We achieved closure."

"That's not the issue."

"Then what is?"

"Shall I tell what I think happened?"

"Please."

"You wanted to confront issues from your past and you compromised the mission and your safety to achieve this."

"Since when has my safety been a mission priority?"

"Do I need to explain to you that your behaviour is unacceptable?"

"No."

"Then I also don't need to explain to you that your past is irrelevant to us here. The only thing that matters is getting the job done, today, now. Is that clear?"

"The great lessons of history dictate that we should learn from the past in an attempt not to repeat mistakes."

"Thank you for the history lesson, Michael."

"Your welcome."

"... And so, what did you learn?"

"That mistakes are unavoidable. Walter tells me it's called living."

"He's said the same thing to me many times. Walter is ..."

"... very wise."

"Yes, he is. However, despite Walter's erudite observations on the frailty of the human condition we still come back to the same problem, don't we Michael?"

"Yes... always."

"Any suggestions?"

"Concerning ...?"

"... your ..."

"... my ...? ... mistake?"

"You acknowledge you made an error of judgement?"

"I made a judgement."

"You compromised the mission."

"I was compromised."

"Stop playing games with me. You made a mistake and it's my job to identify mistakes and eliminate them."

"Eliminate? Don't you mean camouflage them?"

"As you've been doing? What is it you are covering up, Michael?"

"I ...."

"You ...?"

"We've all made mistakes or we wouldn't be here."

"Don't obfuscate the issue."

"Encroaching on your speciality area, Madeline?"

"Very droll, Michael."

"How do you intend to 'eliminate' this particular mistake?"

"What do you suggest?"

"You could cancel me."

"I see ... that's your suggestion?"

"It has a certain appeal."

"Thank you, that's all I needed. I'm confining you to Level 3 for re-evaluation. You'll be under constant surveillance, until I'm satisfied that I can trust you again in the field."

"... trust?"

"Yes, trust that you can get the job done."

"At what cost?"

"Whatever it takes."

"It has taken everything. I'm not sure I have anything left to give."

"Not to worry, I'm sure I'll find something. We'll begin first thing in the morning."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silence.

No, do not talk; but let us rather seize
This intimate gift of silence which we know.
Others may guess your thoughts from what you say
As storms are guessed from clouds where darkness broods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

People are uncomfortable with silence.

For silence is the perfect medium for observation. I watch the blue of eyes that transform a sterile room into an open field of colour. The flick of golden strands that ripple across space like a soothing caress.

I am a connoisseur of silence. From the transient solitude of an empty corridor to the luxurious embrace of my lover when passion has finally drained the last word from her lips.

Those glorious lips. My fingers trace the familiar contours but instead of the constant, familiar glow of noise I find only silence. Part of me craves that noise almost as much as silence. Her noise. A noise that fills me with rapture, punishment and, sometimes, even forgiveness.

She is silent now. Because I hold all the noise in my hand. A precious archive of plastic that gives definition to the slow mechanical beat of her heart, drawn from the whisper of air passing her lips. Here in my hands, all that is good, all that I want.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Michael ... are you trying to seduce me?"

"No."

"I think you are."

"Why?"

"Why what? Why are you seducing me or why do I think you are?"

"Why do you talk so much?"

"One of us has to talk. Arghhh... ohhh ... Michael."

"Mmmm...?"

"Ohhh... You are!"

"Shhh..."

"You've done it before and this is pretty much what it felt like."

"So why do you think I'm only 'trying'?"

"I ... ummm ... "

"Did it feel like this?"

"Mmmm.... yes."

"... and this?"

"Ohhh... yes ummm..."

"Shhh..."

"That feels good."

"Good."

"Ohh... god."

"No, Michael."

"Michael?"

"Yes."

"Speak to me."

"I am."

"I know .... but ... ohhh ... but I need words too. I need to hear it."

"Okay."

"Please ... Michael ...please."

"I love you."

"Thank you. Arghhh... ohhh... mmmm. Michael?"

"... Kita."

"I love you too."

"Why?"

"This ... you ... everything ... so good."

"Me? Good?"

"Yes, you, good ... what's wrong, shhh... get back here, don't do this, please, mmmm..., don't stop now or I'll have to kill you."

"You are."

"Huh?"

"Killing me. I'm dead without you."

"Shhhh babe... listen, can you hear that."

"What?"

"Give me your hand ... there ... can you feel it?"

"Yes."

"In the silence, that's what joins us."

"Yes."

"That's me in there my love, with every beat ... you in me ... me in you. Living."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silence.

Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Things are spiralling out of control. It had to happen eventually, I suppose. I can handle the requirements of my job. It's the emotion I don't understand. Why now? What is it that she has unlocked in me that now makes me willing to test every norm in this absurd world we have been conscripted into.

What do these people mean to me? If I can't find good in myself how can I find good in them. And yet I can, each in their own way. In some more than others. And what has been transferred from them to these small silver discs that sit in front of me? The evil, excised like a cancer. Memories of a life I want so desperately to put behind me. Is this my choice, to give them back a life with the evil erased?

What will be left to define them in that void?

The essence of what they are. A chance to find that golden silence, where the mind is free to explore opportunity in peaceful obscurity. A chance for hope in a limitless future. A reprieve from the tyranny of this life. I am, after all, their only chance.

The spiral ends on a vain chance. The answer so simple. The decision made.

I cannot control the happiness that explodes inside me. Take a chance. The answer is so simple.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Good.

I shall set forth to somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice.
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say, but I shall be gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have found my golden silence, again. Rediscovered in the reflection of blue and the whisper of sunshine. I have found my peace. So have they, of sorts, though it is taking time. We all have the freedom of time now, time to rediscover life.

I have even less to say than ever, but Nikita keeps hearing me. She hears the good in silence. Maybe, soon, the others will too.

Finis

A shameless excuse to include some favourite poetry in a story: 1. William Wordsworth, "Lines"
2. Oscar Wilde, "Desespoir"
3. W.H. Auden, "Musée des Beaux Arts"
4. Sylvia Plath, "Elm"
5. Sylvia Plath, "Lady Lazarus"
6. Amy Lowell, "A Dome of Many-coloured Glass- Dreams"
7 and 8. Robert Frost, "The Sound of the Trees"

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