She often drank, but rarely to the excess she was currently. Over the years, Janet had lectured him on the importance of maintaining discipline and focus. She had told him that Section would have been destroyed years before if people had been a little more careful, taken a little more time, been a little smarter.

Janet had impressed upon him the need to remain alert; to wait until after you had destroyed the enemy to celebrate - like the old adage "Don't count your chickens..." And yet, here she was, on the eve of their greatest victory, knocking back scotch - quickly approaching intoxication.

He sat on the other side of her ancient desk, and watched her drink, growing increasingly uncomfortable as she rode an alcohol high. Daniel had no idea how much she had consumed, but looking at the half-empty bottle, he decided she was liberal when pouring.

"I think you've had enough."

"Why would you say that?" Her tone light - her expression alternating between puzzled and amused.

"Because any minute now, you intend to regale me with that damn elephant joke." He couldn't help smiling as she laughed happily in response.

"It is a classic! I don't know why you hate it so." Light danced in her eyes, defeating her attempt at looking sad.

He knew it was coming, knew he could do nothing to stop her; still, he hoped God would give him a break and send a bolt of lightning his way.

No.

Such.

Luck.

"Why did the elephant cross the road?" She was laughing before the punch line - if one could call it that.

He couldn't see the point in answering.

"Because he didn't like the chicken." She laughed a little louder.

Daniel cringed. Like the rest of the civilized world, he didn't see the joke.

Regaining control, she said, "I'm a comic genius!"

"Where was the comedy in that?" he dryly replied.

"Oh come on! It's hilarious! And I made it up at the young age of two!" She didn't pull off the shocked look she so obviously was aiming for - one cannot look shocked while grinning like a madwoman.

"We shall have to agree to disagree." He grinned back at her.

"Richard thought it was funny," she informed him as she headed to the bar.

"Do you have a point?" He watched her pour two glasses - straight up - with a surprisingly steady hand. Perhaps she hasn't drunk quite as much as I thought?

Or maybe she's drunk a little more! He amended the thought, as she tripped over her own feet on the way back. In the way of all true drunks, she managed to avoid spilling a drop of alcohol as she fell flat on her ass. He stood and helped her up.

"Why, thank you, kind sir."

Taking the glass she held out to him he reclaimed his seat. "Now I'm sure you've had enough." Still, he made no attempt to confiscate her glass. He quickly downed his - no point being the only one sober - then got up and retrieved the bottle.

While she moved on to Englishman/Scotsman/Irishman jokes - of which she knew a great deal too many - he drowned in alcohol, knocking them back in quick succession. The alcohol suffused through his body, spreading warmth from head to toe and erasing most of his discomfort.

After what felt like her hundredth joke, she wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at him appraisingly. "You hate my jokes."

"They're not so much jokes, as torture."

She laughed loudly, her eyes dancing with amusement, but then she stopped suddenly, the life seemingly leaching from her face. He thought at first she was going to throw-up, but she made no move to grab the rubbish bin or rush to the toilet. She sat motionless in her chair and stared off into space, seeming to search for some answers in the pattern of the floor carpet.

He watched, transfixed, as the light died in her eyes and the temperature around them seemed to drop a few degrees. She came back to him then, back from wherever it was she went on these occasions.

He did not know what had happened to her in those few brief moments, but it seemed to him that all the joy in her had died.

"In the entire world, you are the only person I consider to be my friend." She seemed completely sober now.

"I'm honored." He smiled kindly, while hoping for another of her dreary jokes. As much as he found "Janet the comic genius" uncomfortable to deal with, he found "Janet the morose" more so.

"What do you think that says about me?" She looked at him intently, as though his answer was the most consequential thing in the history of the world.

"You have impeccable taste." He kept his tone light, wanting to kill the conversation there.

She laughed softly, but it didn't sound real. "What would I do without you?"

"I sincerely hope you never find out," he chuckled and was rewarded with a soft smile.

Janet studied the carpet again, and then the sadness seemed to lift; the light, however, did not return to her eyes. Of the three, this was the Janet he preferred - her apathy was strangely comforting. He knocked back his scotch. "Another?"

"I've had enough."

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

It chilled through her skin and settled in every vital organ; a shaft of ice drove its way down the length of her spine, rooting her to the spot. Though for her an uncommon emotion, she recognized it at once.

Fear.

She was petrified; so afraid, that the simple process of opening a door seemed impossibly difficult - the type of activity one would die attempting. What frightened her most was the certain knowledge that her fear was rational - her primitive brain screaming at her: survival lay in flight.

Behind the door: hardship, pain and despair. The door was her shield; fling it aside and she would face her own personal nightmare. For the first time in her life, she considered walking away.

Turn around. Go back up the corridor. Take the lift to the ground floor. Walk out the door, down the steps. Get in your car and go. Drive away. Never look back.

No one would stop her, not the men behind her and not the guards outside. No one. She could go; she could escape. Or, she could stay; she could walk through the door.

Salvation was an island in the Pacific Ocean, with hot white sand, crystal blue waters, and few neighbors. It was the place where recovery was possible - if not likely; the place without a memory where even Janet Helene Baldacci might forget. She might regain what was lost, be the person she imagined she could have been. She might find contentment - there she might live.

After ten years worth of blood and sweat she had earned it; after twenty-six years of pain and suffering Janet deserved it. She had gone as far as she wished to go. Someone else could finish it. Yes, it would take them longer, but they would succeed - eventually. It wasn't her problem; she didn't need the responsibility. She needed to go, start a new life while she still could; rejoice in doing nothing.

Janet felt his hand on her shoulder, a familiar gesture of concern. He had sensed her unease, was wondering at her hesitation. His touch was a source of unbearable pain - excruciating, unendurable. The warmth that bled from his hand, through her clothing and into the cool skin of her shoulder, served to remind Janet of how completely her past had obliterated whatever future had been possible.

No such things as happy endings.

Janet felt the sob as a constriction in her chest; she fought it down and reached for the door handle. Her hand shook, the act of rebellion too weak to prevent her fingers clasping around the deathly cold steel. The door swung open with barely a sound, as though it knew what was to come and had no wish to be a party to it.

Janet entered the room, not with assurance, but with a listless acceptance of an immutable fact - after this, there was nothing but oblivion. She knew it. She believed it.

She smiled with perfect insincerity, every muscle in rigid control. "Hello Nikita. So sorry to have kept you waiting."

The blonde did not reply, but Nikita's eyes were so full of hate, they shone.

Janet wondered what it was like to hate someone that much, what it was like to be so invested.

"I don't believe I introduced my assistants when last we met." She waved a hand at each of the men that had followed her into the room. "Industrious as you are, you've discovered Daniel's identity; allow me to introduce Karl Dayton. Karl, say hello to Ms Nikita Wirth."

Neither Karl nor Nikita bothered exchanging greetings.

"Now that we are all acquainted, shall we get down to business?" Janet asked in a carefully controlled voice.

"Torture or death?" Nikita asked in a bored tone, with matching expression.

The boredom was manufactured - as cultivated as Janet's own smile.

"We are foregoing the torture this time. I do intend to kill you, but not quite yet," she answered.

"Why the wait?" Nikita continued in the same bored tone.

Daniel intervened. "She's not yet come up with an elaborate, but easily escapable death trap; though she downed some very fine scotch in pursuit of it."

And had one very fine hangover this morning, she didn't add.

"I prefer vodka," Nikita stated, dropping the bored tone.

A brief flit of laughter escaped Janet's throat. "De gustibus non est diputandum - there is no disputing about tastes." She moved further into the room and took a seat on the unoccupied bed across from the one upon which Nikita sat. Sitting straight-backed upon the edge, she turned slightly towards the door so that she could observe every person in the room.

Daniel and Karl stood either side of the still open door. Daniel's eyes were twinkling with amusement; Karl looked puzzled, she shot him a questioning look.

"Escapable death trap?" Karl identified the source of his confusion.

Daniel took over again. "All the great villains - in this case that's Janet, place the hapless hero - Nikita here - in elaborate but easily escapable death traps." He paused a moment. "Usually after they have disclosed their diabolical plan to attain world domination." He winked at her.

Janet found herself distracted, no longer dwelling on what was to be; she was enjoying herself.

"You haven't told me your plan for world domination yet," Nikita obliged by pointing out.

Janet released an exaggerated sigh, getting into character. "I'm bereft of one I'm afraid - not very villainy, I know." Is villainy a word? Hmmm.

Nikita smiled; it appeared forced. Janet returned it, full wattage.

"So what now?" Nikita asked, sounding pleasant enough.

"I thought we might chat," Janet responded.

"Chat?" Nikita repeated, incredulous. "About what exactly?" Blue eyes narrowed.

"Life, hyenas, the World Series - whatever you wish." Janet really didn't care.

"I really thought the Dodgers would do it this year." Nikita stated.

She smiled warmly. "They didn't have a hope in hell."

Nikita's eyes flashed. "You'd know of course."

"What is it like to hate someone so much?" Janet surprised herself by asking.

"It burns." Nikita appeared equally surprised to have answered.

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments.

"Why are you the way you are?" Nikita questioned.

Janet couldn't find the energy to lie. "Because I lived, Nikita. Because I was sent to the darkest of places and survived." She gave no details, because she knew Nikita had no wish to hear them. She was the enemy and Nikita needed to hate her - pity was a weakness.

"You murder people." Nikita's contempt was palpable.

Et tu, Nikita? "I play to win and will do all that is necessary to that end." She always had, and she always would.

"You torture people," Nikita asserted.

"When necessary - I take no pleasure in it."

"Why was it necessary to torture me?" Nikita's face was impassive, but there was a bitterness in her tone.

"I needed you to hate me," Janet replied, keeping her tone even.

"You said it was to discover what kind of leader I was," Nikita reminded her.

"Yes, I lied." She was calmness personified.

"You do that a lot," Nikita snapped.

"Why do you think I tortured you?" she asked, genuinely interested in what Nikita would say.

"You're a sadist," Nikita spat out.

"An awful lot of trouble for kicks." Janet paused. "Was your performance hampered by my actions?"

"No," Nikita quickly replied.

"You destroyed Red Cell."

Nikita appeared calm. "Yes."

"All by yourself?" Janet asked.

"With Section." Nikita looked weary.

"No one else?"

"No." Nikita was definitive.

"How very ungrateful you are." Janet smiled, showing lots of white teeth, but no warmth.

Nikita didn't reply.

"I gave Michael the information he sent you," she added.

Nikita laughed.

"You don't believe me?" Janet continued calmly.

"Why would I? You want to destroy Section."

"Yes, and I will. But at that time, I needed Section to survive."

Nikita looked at her as though she was certain Janet was insane. "What?"

"It's rather difficult to pin the blame on an organization that's already been destroyed."

"Blame for what?" Nikita looked puzzled.

"The destruction of Meyer's group, Black Order, for example."

"That happened before we destroyed Red Cell." Nikita pointed out.

"But after our first meeting." She reminded the blonde.

Nikita blinked, hard.

She could almost see the progression of Nikita's thoughts.

"Why did you destroy them?" Nikita asked after a few moments of silence.

"It was a convenient way of plugging leaks." Which was true, but not the whole truth. I was once Meyer's "guest"; Janet didn't add.

Nikita made the leap. "Jason."

"Yes," Janet nodded.

"You killed him." Low and deadly.

"Yes."

"After you tortured him." Nikita's voice had risen.

"How else was I to confirm his information?"

Nikita moved quickly, but not nearly quickly enough - Daniel there in an instant. He slammed the blonde into the ground; he didn't hesitate to kick Nikita while she was down, doing so more than once. When he appeared confident that Nikita wasn't going to try anything else, he moved back to his position by the door - leaving Nikita to cough up blood on the concrete floor.

"It wasn't personal. He suffered no longer than was necessary," Janet didn't know why she bothered with such empty words; they would be of little comfort to Nikita.

Nikita didn't respond, though her breathing had returned to normal.

Janet waved a hand in Karl's direction and he immediately moved forward, picked up the blonde and deposited her back on the bed.

Nikita said nothing for a long time; then finally, speaking very softly. "You're a monster."

Janet smiled. "No, Nikita - I'm not."

Not yet anyway.

Not yet...

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

Hugging the ground, she crept slowly forward. At the edge of the tree line she stopped and bringing a pair of goggles to her eyes scanned the area. All seemed peaceful, looked perfectly normal; but looks were deceiving. Less than a mile before her goggled eyes lay the residence of Janet Baldacci; within its walls, Section One's Operations was being held captive.

Not for long.

Jasmine zoomed in on the western end of the property, searching for the guard she knew to be there. He was barely visible, blending almost seamlessly into the background, but she found him nevertheless.

After watching the property for the better part of two days, she was fairly certain she had located each and every one of the perimeter forces. There were no more than twenty patrolling at any given time; currently there were only fourteen, including the five guards stationed on the roof of the main house.

From all reports, Janet's security systems were no better than those of her wealthy neighbors - small army aside. The woman appeared to place more value on appearances than actual security, with the fewest number of guards working during daylight hours. That was not to imply the property was unsecured.

Far from it.

Though relatively few in number, the guards appeared to be highly disciplined, extremely well equipped, alert, and cleverly positioned. To reach the main house where Operations was being held, Section operatives would need to cross the length of two football fields of flat open ground, under the ever watchful gaze of five guards equipped with the armory of a small country. The property was secure against such attack - they had as much chance of taking it that way as elephants had of flying.

Their ability to acquire this type of target was the reason they were the most covert anti terrorist agency in the world - that, a healthy budget and freedom from obeying inconvenient laws. Today they would break at least twenty of those laws.

Having ensured her target was where he was supposed to be, she removed her goggles and keyed her mike once - receiving some static in acknowledgement. Jasmine watched the blue sky through the covering branches, searching for something she had no earthly chance of seeing.

She sat on the damp earth, staring up at the clear sky for what felt to her an eternity. What's taking so long?

A series of loud explosions came in answer. Her eyes, which had failed to sight the planes, had no difficulty detecting the dense black smoke, emanating from the roof of the main house.

She leapt to her feet, fixed her gas mask firmly over her face, pulled her goggles back over her eyes - adjusted the tracking to normal, drew her gun and raced across the grounds. No rain of bullets was forthcoming and she thanked her lucky stars, before deciding the bombs might bear a greater responsibility.

She reached the position where she'd previously sighted the western defender; at the same time she heard a smattering of gunfire from the southeast. It ended quickly, and the western defender was covering too much ground to be among the living - she ignored both. Jasmine keyed her mike once more and headed for her assigned entry point.

She reached the door at the same time Simon strolled up, minus his gas mask. "Enjoy the fireworks?" he offered with an accompanying smirk.

He appeared a touch disheveled; Jasmine decided he'd seen a little action. She removed her gas mask, but didn't bother responding. She examined the door using each setting on her goggles while Simon scanned the area, his back to her.

"All clear," she announced. "Where are the others?" she inquired while fixing a charge to the door's lock.

He shrugged non-committally. "They'll be along."

She shot an irritated look at his back, stepped to the side and detonated the explosives - blowing the door wide open.

Cassidy and Mitchell appeared, looking a little worse for wear. Mitchell handed Simon a gas mask remarking, "Think you dropped this mate."

Simon surprised her by thanking the man. Will wonders never cease? "Where are Kevin and Lore?" Jamine asked the newcomers.

"Don't know about Lore, but Kevin took one in the head," Mitchell answered, somehow managing to contain his grief. "I've got his gear," he added.

Jasmine felt a burst of anger and put it to use, tossing a gas canister through the open door. She pulled her gas mask back on and followed the canister inside. Forget about them. Operations is in here, she's alive. For now. Keep moving.

She saw movement up ahead. She fired.

So did they.

******

Though Janet's smile didn't waver when the sound of explosions reached them, a glance in Karl's direction sent him from the room.

Nikita didn't need to force a smile. "Trouble?"

"Not at all," Janet muttered, somehow remaining calm.

"Sounded like an explosion," Nikita helpfully advised.

Janet dropped the smile. "It was a series of explosions, emanating from the roof." She looked up at the ceiling and continued, "Probably five explosions."

"Why five?"

"There were five guards on the roof. I would imagine your friends took care of the perimeter guards at the same time." Janet didn't seem too upset.

Nikita found Janet's enduring calmness irritating; even with gunfire sounding in the house, Janet didn't appear agitated.

That will change; she consoled herself. Janet hadn't even bothered to get Daniel to close the door; when Section's forces arrived, they would find it all too easy.

"Doesn't sound good. Perhaps you should surrender," she suggested in a pleasant tone.

Janet and Daniel exchanged an amused look.

Am I missing something, or are these two crazy?

"Nikita. If you had to kill one person in order to destroy me, would you have done it?" Janet asked, green eyes intense.

She considered it. "One for the thousand you would kill? Yes." Of course I would.

Janet nodded. "And if you had to kill a thousand?"

Would I? Nikita thought perhaps she might, but she didn't feel inclined to tell Janet that. The brunette was going somewhere with this, she wasn't certain where; it was better to remain silent.

Janet smiled. "What about a million? Do you hate me that much?" Janet's eyes clung to Nikita's face.

A million? "No," Nikita quickly replied, but she wasn't entirely certain.

Janet's smile widened. "If I hadn't intervened the first time, Section would have fallen; you were running it into the ground. Hate is a powerful tool Nikita - it gave you the strength you required."

"You are wasted on terrorism, you should have been a comedian," she replied.

Janet turned her gaze on Daniel. "Hear that? She thinks I'm funny."

"She's hardly discerning," he replied.

Janet pouted. "I have feelings you know."

Daniel laughed, "I hadn't noticed."

Nikita was puzzled by the exchange; on the surface it appeared light-hearted, but she couldn't help but think she was missing something. She felt it in her bones.

"I overestimated her," Janet was telling Daniel.

He shrugged. "It happens."

Janet nodded and turned back to face Nikita.

For the briefest of moments, Janet's deep green eyes appeared consumed with sadness - Nikita saw it, but doubted Daniel had.

Only when the beeping began did Nikita realize the gunfire had stopped.

Janet held the beeper in her hand, reading the code. The brunette sighed deeply. "Time's up."

To Janet's credit she didn't seem the least bit happy.

"Thought of something easily escapable?" Nikita asked in a surprisingly calm tone of voice.

Janet smiled wanly. "Only if you can dodge bullets." The brunette stood, pulling a gun from inside her jacket.

Nikita found her feet - if this was it, she would die standing.

The gun came up. From the corner of her eye, Nikita saw Daniel move to block the doorway.

"I'll see you in hell," Nikita intoned - she had always wanted to say it.

Janet nodded. Her green gaze shifted, her smile fading - she tried to hold on to the edges of it, but her lips quivered with the effort. "Xin loi," * she said clearly.

Nikita followed Janet's gaze.

The blast was deafening; it bounced off the walls to assault her eardrums. Nikita watched in shocked silence as blood blossomed from an open wound in Daniel's chest. He seemed suspended in air - eyes widened in shock; then, as his legs went out from under him, he crumbled - losing his precious hold on life.

Nikita's eyes flew back to Janet.

The brunette's gaze was fixed on Daniel. The gun hung limp in her right hand, barrel pointing at the floor. Her eyes closed tightly, as though Janet was attempting to hide from what she had seen; a single tear traced a line down her cheek.

Nikita noticed all this as she moved forward to take the gun.

Janet's eyes snapped open; the gun coming up quickly - too quickly - Nikita was still too far away. She turned to the doorway, desperate for assistance.

No one was there.

Only then did Nikita understand. Janet had killed him. "Why?" she asked shocked.

Had she spoken one second earlier or later, Janet would have shot her dead, but Nikita had timed her question well; it came at the precise moment Janet was willing, and perhaps even needing, to explain. The gun lowered slightly.

"He deserves better," Janet said; her voice modulated, seemingly calm. Her face stern - unyielding - but her eyes were weak, guilt, despair, misery, and rage all vying for supremacy within them.

Keep her talking. "Than what?" Nikita asked, moving ever so slightly forward.

"Than what awaited him," Janet spoke entirely without inflection, her eyes unblinking.

Nikita stepped closer, if given opportunity she would be able to clasp the gun with one more step. "What awaited him?" she asked softly.

The brunette's eyes grew weary and the gun rose. "The destroyer of worlds." Janet blinked then, and when her eyes reopened she appeared dead inside. It was with a steady hand that Janet pulled the trigger.

Something like an egg cracked open upon Nikita's forehead, and then her head burned; her world slowed and the floor rose up to greet her.

In the harsh light of impending death, Nikita reviewed her life, her choices, and herself. She found each flawed, found each wanting. She spent her final moments upon the earth condemned to a hell of her own creation - she relived every failure, examined every flaw.

Every second was an eternity of pain, suffering, and anguish.

Nikita had the misfortune to live another thirty.

*Xin loi - I'm sorry.

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

She had awoken not in some hellish afterlife or blissful paradise - but within nausea's embrace, in a sparsely decorated room, lying upon a particularly uncomfortable bed. The nausea abated; no demons came to claim her and no angels serenaded her with their harps. Quinn came to the conclusion that she remained a resident in purgatory - she had lived.

Her first days passed slowly; one boring hour blending into the next, watching the minutes pass on the wristwatch her captors had kindly left her. The cell was a three meters square space - no windows, one door - crammed with a bed (bolted to the wall), a desk (bolted to the floor), a chair, a toilet, a small basin, and what one could charitably call a shower.

Her only contact to the outside world was through a slot in the door. Through the slot, she daily received clean clothing and towels, three meals of hospital standard, bottled water, and any necessities - such as toilet paper and soap - that were required. If she placed her dirty dishes, clothing, and towels in front of the slot, they were removed; if she did not, they remained in her cell. No one came in; no one spoke to her.

The first two weeks were spent staring at her watch, eating, exercising in the small space available, or sleeping - there was nothing else to do. Every evening - at precisely 10:00 PM - the lights began to dim, slowing fading till 11:00 PM - when darkness reigned. At 6:00 AM the lights were turned back on, gradually gaining intensity; by 7:00 AM they were up to full power. She thought it was a rather kind gesture.

After two weeks alone she was starving for human contact, bored out of her wits. On the 16th day of her captivity, she received four books with her breakfast. Each was an exceedingly thick tome on the psychology of the human species - she finished them all by the week's end.

The very next day she received another four, five days later she received ten tomes of varying subjects: medicine, mathematics, hunting, geology, chemistry, weapons, military tactics, martial arts, logic and ethics.

Quinn had never read more in her life.

******

It wasn't over, but it soon would be.

Before her, six men, each worthy of a special place in hell; she felt not the slightest bit of fear. When the first offered his hand, the one that met it was steady enough for surgery. When the second kissed each of her cheeks, her plastered-on smile did not slip. When the third bowed, she bent not a single degree too far when returning it. When the fourth coughed in her face, she did not flinch and when the fifth came forward, she slit his throat in one clean action. Then - drenched in his blood - she calmly inclined her head in greeting to the sixth, before offering each remaining man a seat.

Janet felt not a single measure of fear.

Two female assistants entered, bringing refreshments for the men and a towel for her.

One of the men - Hand - was so subtle as to glance in the direction of the twitching body before pushing his drink away. The others simply ignored theirs; in a show of solidarity, she ignored her towel.

"Thank you ladies; have Richard come in please," she spoke in a low monotone that fit nicely with her blood-caked appearance.

They nodded and left.

Richard had to have been waiting by the door as he entered almost immediately. He visibly paled when he saw her; his eyes quickly surveyed the room and when he sighted the body, he shuddered in comprehension.

"Set up, Richard," she instructed, motioning towards the seat beside hers.

He managed to move the few paces required and took the seat. He opened his laptop and a few minutes later muttered that he was ready. Richard had never enjoyed the sight of blood; he kept his eyes on his screen.

"We are ready for the transfer," she announced.

Hand found his voice. "I think an explanation is in order."

She smiled, or rather, grinned maniacally. "Regarding?"

"Our lately departed colleague," he replied.

She dropped the grin. "He betrayed my Uncle to his death." She added some heat for effect.

Hand paused, considering. "I wasn't aware of that."

"Now you are." She maintained eye contact.

He nodded slowly. "Now I am." Then almost as an afterthought, he said, "He was a great man, your Uncle."

"Yes, he was," she responded softly. "If that is all?" She swept her eyes around the room, no one else appeared to have a problem. "Richard will confirm the transfers."

"How can we be certain you have what you claim?" asked Cheek.

"You wouldn't be here if you believed I was lying." Even with the blood, she thought she appeared reasonable.

"I want some proof." Bow backed up Cheek.

"Proof costs money." She smiled, showing lots of teeth.

"How much money?" asked Hand, rightly suspicious.

"20 billion dollars." She aimed for sweet.

"You can't be serious." Cough was shocked into speaking.

"20 billion for your proof - the rest you may have for free."

Nod laughed loudly, seemingly amused. The others waited for him to quiet down before continuing their campaign.

"Would you be more flexible if we broke your fingers?" Cheek politely inquired.

She had expected the threats to start earlier and be much more inventive. She caught Cheek's gaze and curled the fingers of her right hand around the little finger of her left. She snapped the finger back, breaking it with a sickening cracking sound - in her peripheral vision she saw Richard jump. "I shouldn't think so," she said in a calm, even tone.

It wasn't difficult to keep the pain from her voice; what was difficult was keeping the surprise from her face - it hadn't actually hurt. She'd felt it all right, the burning, the sharpness, but it was merely sensation - neither painful nor pleasant.

Nod started clapping. "Very well done."

"I'd like my money now." She kept her tone pleasant.

Aside from Nod, they all shot her murderous looks, perhaps hoping she'd drop dead. When that didn't happen, they obediently slipped out their cell phones and made their calls; Nod cheerfully followed their calls with one of his own.

"Confirmed," Richard muttered, still glued to his screen.

"Excellent!" She theatrically clapped her hands. "Your people should now have the means to destroy the Sections - or rather, they will have in 25 hours, when I send them the decryption code."

Nod broke out in a fresh gale of laughter, drowning out the others' threats.

"Should my money disappear, or should I die an untimely death in the next 25 hours, you won't get the code and the files will self-destruct."

They stopped yelling.

"If you need to make another phone call, please do so now."

Hand and Bow quickly complied; Nod continued laughing and Cheek looked embarrassed enough to convince her he hadn't even thought about it.

"A toast!" said Nod.

She smiled widely; he'd saved her some trouble. She hit the intercom. "Champagne."

Less than a minute later, the women returned carrying a bottle and glasses. She motioned towards Hand, and they took it to him. "If you'd be so kind?" she directed at him.

He took the bottle and carefully examined it. Deciding it was acceptable, he opened it with a flourish and poured each of them a glass.

She stood, sculled hers back and then held it out to be refilled. Holding up her second glass, she made her toast. "To the end of the world."

"Hear! Hear!" Nod affirmed before gulping down the alcohol.

Richard looked as though he could do with something stronger, but drank it all the same.

Cheek, Bow and Hand each took a small sip - it was more than enough. In a little over a year, it would begin; if they were lucky they would die quickly. Death would not be coming as a friend.

Business concluded they wasted no time in leaving - none other than Nod offered a farewell; she wished him luck in return.

"That went well," she observed to Richard.

"You should go clean up, so we can leave," he said, still not looking at her. "Why did you have to kill him anyhow?"

"He doesn't drink," she said, crossing the room to the adjoining bathroom.

"Weren't they suspicious?"

"I told them he betrayed my Uncle," she informed him, stripping off her bloody clothes.

"Did he?" he asked, as though the answer was important.

"Of course not - I did." Silence greeted this statement. "Tell Di to send in the cleaning crew," she ordered, entering the shower.

The blood was stubborn - clinging to her flesh - it took some time to remove it all. When she had, she quickly toweled off and dressed in the clean clothing someone had left out for her.

When she returned to the office, cleaning was well underway - Di supervising from a corner. Richard was inspecting a crack in the far wall, conveniently close to an exit.

"No more blood," she announced, coming up behind him.

He turned to inspect her. "Much better."

"Got everything?"

He patted his laptop. "All in here."

"Good. Let's go."

Richard didn't need any more encouragement. He turned to leave; he was reaching for the door handle when she plunged the needle into his neck. It was over before he even realized what was happening - his death quick, if not exactly painless.

She picked up his laptop and handed it to Di, who had come to stand beside her. "Give it to the woman in 204, with my compliments. Once I've left, see her safely on her way."

Di nodded and left through an exit on the other side of the room.

When the other woman had disappeared, she pulled the door as far open as Richard's body allowed, and slipped out into the reception area. As expected, they were waiting for her. "Henry. Elizabeth. It is a pleasure to finally meet you both."

Each smiled widely in response.

Janet felt no fear.

******

Things had worked out better than expected. Not only was Nikita dead, but so were her most ardent supporters - Janet had done exceptionally well. Too well. Section One's new Operations would have to take care of her.

Of course, they need to appoint him first; which was why they were meeting again so soon.

This time, however, there were additions to their numbers - namely the three operatives currently in charge of Center and the leaders of the other Sections.

It made him somewhat uneasy having every member of the leadership in one place at the same time; but it could not be helped. They were in the most secure location available - 500 meters beneath the earth - surrounded by the best operatives Section had to offer. Nothing had been left to chance.

Well - almost nothing, he amended.

Heavy fog in San Francisco meant that Sue's arrival would be delayed - indefinitely. She would be arriving late, if at all. Luckily, there was no need to wait for her; she had already announced her intention to support his candidate who was - incidentally - completely loyal to him.

"Shall we begin?" he asked pleasantly - he could afford to be pleasant.

"Sue has yet to arrive," Masters pointed out, no longer quite so arrogant.

"She has instructed us to proceed without her; I already have her vote." He smiled brightly.

Masters opened his mouth to object, but then seemed to think better of it.

Not as crazy as you make out, are you?

In truth the meeting wasn't necessary; Curtis had already ensured he would win the vote.

Might even be unanimous, considering the change of fortunes. He had been proven correct; it was unlikely anyone would oppose him. Especially now, just after Center had appointed him Chairman of Oversight.

He smiled widely; smiling came easily to him these days. "All those in favor?"

He counted hands.

"Opposed?"

Not a one.

"Abstentions?"

Johnson.

He was victorious and, with the election of his candidate, he would be unstoppable.

It doesn't get any better than this.

******

It was to be her final assignment; once completed, she would be free.

Her fingers flew over the laptop's keyboard; she felt alive for the first time in years. Six to be exact. That was how long she had lived alone, with her grief and regrets. Six years without him.

Actually, it had been longer - she'd been without him eight years. The first two had been her fault; she accepted that. She had hurt him deeply, tossed aside his love - as though it meant nothing - and lost him.

The first two were her fault; these last six were not.

Tears burned in her eyes; she wiped them away, but more followed. Now was not the time for grief; now was the time for revenge - she needed to focus.

I have to succeed. Tears blurred her vision, jumbling the code on the screen.

"I have to focus," she repeated to herself out loud.

I tossed aside his love as though it meant nothing. It had meant everything. He was everything, but she had only discovered that when it was too late.

NO.

Not too late - not till Them.

She might have had the opportunity to set things right. She might have earned his forgiveness; given time, she might have won back his love.

Time they took from me. From us.

She angrily wiped away the tears, clearing her vision.

With the codes Janet had provided, she once again sailed through every security measure. In no time at all, she was deep in the system, able to access every level in the enemy camp. She knew what to look for and found it quickly.

Gotcha! "So very predictable," she mumbled to herself, as she accessed the appropriate system. Her fingers danced over the keys with a life all their own.

Finally, she finished; the code was complete.

It was right. She knew it. She believed it. And yet, she hesitated.

It's not just them; there are others, She reminded herself. Did she have the right to decide those others' fates as well?

Too bad, if she didn't. Her hate for them was all consuming, a hunger that could only be quenched with blood. Theirs would cleanse her of her hatred; only if they died, would she have the chance of a future.

I wanted the chance to earn his forgiveness and they took him from ME.

She had wanted that chance; she took this one.

She hit enter. Though the laptop offered only a beeping acknowledgement of her success, in her mind, Gail watched them burn.

******

53 days after she was captured, Quinn was awakened with a sharp jab to her ribs.

"Get up," a cold voice ordered.

She opened her eyes; it was still dark.

Another sharp jab. "Follow me."

Quinn watched the darkened figure walk out the door; she jumped to her feet and rushed out after him. She found herself in a long, dark corridor that appeared to stretch out forever in both directions. There was movement on her left, she went that way.

"Try to keep up," the man said.

Above her a light blinked on; it was weak, casting a pool of light no more than a meter in diameter. Along the corridor, a number of others blinked to life - spots of light at regular intervals. Up ahead, her mysterious guide passed through a shard of light, allowing her a brief glimpse of a tall, well built imposing frame with dark brown hair sprinkled with grey. He marched through the pool of light and appeared in another further along, disappearing completely in the hanging darkness between.

Quinn quickened her pace.

Along the left side of the corridor there were doors; each appeared no different than her door, each resided in a pool of light - she counted them as she passed. On the right side, there didn't appear to be anything, but she couldn't be certain.

He left one pool of light and did not appear in the next. She stopped. Where the hell?

"Hurry up," he said.

Quinn moved cautiously forward, following the sound of his voice. She discovered another corridor to the right. When she entered, another set of lights came on as the lights in the first corridor went out.

He was five pools ahead - she ran.

After weaving through another six corridors, she lost her bearings. If the man decided to abandon her, she would never find her way out.

At length, her guide stopped in a pool of light and waited for her to catch up. When she came up beside him, he took her arm and entering the next span of darkness, led her to a door. He opened it and pushed her through.

She came out into a well-lit corridor. It was a relief. It appeared warm and inviting; the same could not be said of her guide who looked positively sour.

"Someone will come." He disappeared behind the door.

Quinn didn't have to wait long; barely a minute later a tall wiry man came striding towards her. She was surprised. "Simon?"

He smiled brightly. "How you doing?"

"What are you doing here?" Quinn suddenly thought she would have been more at ease back in the dark corridors.

"I work here," he replied.

"You work for terrorists?" Bastard!

"Hardly," he said as though he found her deeply amusing. "Enjoy the tunnels?" he asked pleasantly.

"Not particularly," she mumbled. What the hell is going on?

"Be glad they turned the lights on, they usually don't."

"They?" she tried to sound neutral.

"Henry and Elizabeth's personnel."

Henry and Elizabeth? Surely not... "You don't mean..."

Simon cut her off; "They are really quite lovely when you get to know them - wicked senses of humor."

I'm in the twilight zone. "I'll take your word for it."

He grinned. "No need, we work quite closely with them."

"We?"

"You and me, honey buns." He pointed down the corridor, "Shall we?" Simon didn't wait, just started walking.

"What is it we do?" Quinn asked when she had caught up.

"I run Psych Ops - when you finish your training you'll help me."

"You run Psych Ops?"

"I'm not as dumb as I look." He winked at her.

"And how am I supposed to help you?" she asked, curious.

"You'll be my Second," he said.

"Your Second?"

"You are going to be a barrel of laughs, I can just tell." He stopped outside a pair of double doors.

"Are we in Section?" Quinn didn't think so, but decided to ask anyway.

"Nope. Section doesn't exist anymore, nor does Oversight. Nikita is dead. Jacob is dead, pretty much everyone is dead," he said seriously.

"Nikita is dead?" Quinn repeated. "How?"

"Janet shot her in the head - who would have thought a head shot could kill her?" He winked again.

"Janet shot her?"

"Didn't I just say that?" Simon grinned widely.

"And Janet works for who exactly?"

"Herself. She helped us on occasion." He opened the doors.

Past tense. Hmmm. "Janet was contracted to destroy the Sections'?"

"When the timing was right," he explained. "Janet loved a challenge."

Past tense again. "And now she's..." Quinn trailed off.

Simon's shoulders tensed. "Debriefing." He didn't meet her eyes.

What kind, I wonder? Janet interested her, she wanted to find out all she could. "How long have you known Janet?" She tried to keep the eagerness from her voice.

He laughed. "Never have - no one really knew Janet." He sobered. "I've met her a few times." He motioned her inside the room.

She looked around the room. It was a large boardroom, like one you'd find in corporate offices. Simon didn't follow her in; he stood holding the doors.

"What was she like?"

"You're to wait in here," he said, ignoring her question.

"Who am I waiting for?" she changed the subject, deciding it was pointless to push.

"The Boss."

"The Boss?" Quinn repeated.

"Well, one of them," Simon amended.

"And they are..." she trailed off again.

He smiled. "You'll find out soon enough." He began to pull the doors closed; when they were half-way, he paused. "She was sparkling," he said so quietly she barely heard him.

Janet. "Was?"

"She is..." he trailed off.

She waited.

"I do not know what she is, or even if she is."

She didn't understand his meaning.

"Janet had to win," Simon added and closed the doors.

She stared at the closed doors, confused. Is Janet dead? Alive? Something in-between? Is she free? Has she turned? What?

"Good morning, Kate."

Quinn hadn't heard anyone enter.

I know that voice.

A shiver traveled up her spine; she turned to face him.

It can't be.

The air rushed from her lungs. She blinked hard. "Jesus Christ." Quinn barely recognized her own voice.

"Not quite." His eyes twinkled.

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

EPILOGUE.

My body is a testament to their skills; each breath requires concentration, each beat of my heart is lent a conscious thought. My body is collapsing upon itself, but were I to choose to speak I would be understood.

I do not choose to speak and they have not the means to make me; my indifference now too complete to be assailable. With a scalpel, they trace a line down the back of my bruised hand. A burning sensation follows the path of the blade; a tingling sharpness travels the length of my arm.

They ask me questions as they cut - always the same questions, the same order. They ask them again as they pierce my flesh with hot needles and again while the current flows through my body.

Flexing my shattered fingers, I can feel the bones grinding against each other; it does not seem possible that I should be able to do this. How can my fingers still respond? It is intriguing; I twist my wrist and every injury in my arm flares at the same time. I do not cry out, for, though I experience the resulting sensations, I feel nothing.

Ex nihilo nihil fit. (Nothing comes of nothing.)

They look at me now - not with the eager, hungry looks of the beginning - but with troubled, curious expressions, that reflect their growing unease. They are becoming impatient; they are no longer enjoying their work.

Ce n'est pas une victoire. (It is not a victory.)

Such things are no longer possible. I have defeated them, yes, but I have not won - there is no glory.

They have become desperate; they drag in Karl, and torture him. They hope, perhaps, that I will be moved by another's pain, while still so indifferent to my own. He begs; he screams; he cries.

He tells me he loves me - I believe him.

I do not speak.

They kill him, their faithful servant of five years. He was my watcher - their contact, their overseer. He blended well; Daniel never knew - Daniel didn't know a lot of things. Karl was diligent in the execution of his duties; he performed them well. He made one mistake which led to others; he fell in love with a person who was unable to love him in return.

I think he deserved better than he got; but I do not mourn his death. I do not care.

To them I am an impossibility. They met me before and I appeared no different than any other. I was charming, I was witty, I was inconsequential - deliberately so. I had envisioned the meeting, I had looked forward to it; I had planned everything. I followed the plan, I saw no reason not to.

It was such a stunning performance, I almost convinced myself.

They have become disheartened, now simply going through the motions - they have given up. Their failure should bother me, but it does not. I should fear my lack of reaction, but I do not. It has happened, as I always feared it would. I am living in hell, and I do not think it all that bad.

Etiam ovlivisci quid sis, interdum expedits. (It is sometimes expedient to forget who you are.)

I lost myself to the void. It is not likely I will find a way back. The torturer's cannot draw me out, nor can my soft-spoken questioner, who bares a startling resemblance to Daniel - no coincidence, nothing ever is.

"Quid afis, dulcissime rerum?" (How are you, sweetest of creatures?)

Quid deceat, quid non, obliti. (Lost to all self-respect, all sense of shame.)

What am I now? A shell in which life once existed - all too briefly. Is there a way back? I do not know and no longer think it matters. Nothing matters now - not even that I succeeded.

"That's enough. You can go," she says, entering the room with a man trailing behind her.

The man comes to me, takes his time examining my wounds; he tells her he can do little here, I should go to Medical.

She studies me with that neutral expression of hers and tells him to do what he can; she needs to speak with me first.

He does not argue; he mops up blood, applies salves and bandages, then injects something into my I.V. When he is finished, he leaves us alone.

She has aged. Tiny lines make etchings at the corners of her mouth and, like cracks in fine china, they spread from her eyes. There are a few strands of gray in her dark locks - her hair is shorter than I remember. I do not think she has slept; there are dark circles around her eyes, and I can see them beneath the carefully applied make-up. She is still beautiful - I think she always will be.

It is four years since I saw her last, twelve years since our first meeting. I have never known her. She has always distanced herself, always been an enigma, impossible to read.

No longer.

And that should bother me too.

"You caused some trouble," she states.

She is both amused and annoyed; amused by me, annoyed with herself. She believes she should have more accurately predicted my behavior, anticipated my rebellion.

"Why did you do it?" she asks, her voice soft.

She is trying to draw me out, to engage me; she is wasting her time, I have no reason to answer her questions. I have no desire - nothing.

"Why let Gail steal the money? You gained nothing," she continues.

Why let Gail have it? Why not? I could argue, but there is no point. I have no use for it now and it's not the money that concerns her, it is that I disregarded orders. Demonstrated that I am no longer their creature, no longer controllable - no longer anything.

"You are smarter than this."

She sounds a touch disappointed; she isn't, but she should be. A dismal performance, I can see the calculation in her eyes.

"Why go through this?" she asks, looking slightly saddened when I do not respond.

In the past, I would have been amused.

Rien. Tout la monde est rien. (Nothing. All the world is nothing.)

She observes me in silence, allows the silence to dominate.

"Where is Michael?"

She asks it suddenly, attempting to catch me off guard.

Sint ut sunt, aut non sint. (Let them be as they are or not at all.) I could say, but do not. I do not see the point; she knows as well as I that there is no way to bring him back.

She stares at me, searching my eyes for answers. I stare back and at length I see it. A dawning comprehension of the truth of things. She blinks.

"This is pointless," she says, more to herself than me.

She is uneasy; she has made an error and knows that now. She has yet to comprehend the nature of it, but she suspects. There is something like fear within her eyes. It is possible we shared the same nightmare.

Du bleibt doch immer, was du bist. (You will always remain what you are.) I almost tell her. For her it will remain a nightmare; she cannot follow me.

"You don't fear death, do you Janet?" she questions, watching me intently for a reaction - any reaction.

I consider.

I have a choice. I can pretend; I can fool her. She is willing - I am capable. If I do this, she will send me to Medical - I will live.

Alternatively, I can allow her entrance; I can let her see. She does not want to - I can force her. If I do this, she will kill me - I will die.

"I never did mind about the little things."

The bullet killed only a ghost.

Acephaly: the state of possessing no head.

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