He sat up straight in his bed, the covers shoved to his hips, his skin glistening with sweat, his heart pounding as if unanchored behind his ribs. It was the dead of the night and Michael was experiencing it again - the unreasoning fear that bordered on panic. It was always the same dream, with variations in the cast of characters and the location. The primary players remained constant - himself, Nikita, Madeline, Operations, and a mysterious figure that, in the dream, he sensed he knew but on whom he could never fix a face. Michael had once heard that people only dreamed in black and white but he knew it was a fallacy - his dreams were always blood red...

His throat was dry and he needed a drink - he refused to accept the possibility that his hoarseness was because he'd been sobbing in his sleep. Weakness was not allowed, not in section One, not in his life outside the Section - if it could appropriately be called a life. He got up, went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, taking the container of bottled water and gulping down almost half the contents, wishing it were something strong enough to create total oblivion, at least until morning.

He knew people in the Section wondered about him, tried to get into his head and figure out what made him tick. A couple of the female operatives had even made the grievous mistake of attempting, unsuccessfully and to their humiliation, to fill the emptiness in his heart which had been a constant since he'd lost Simone. Thinking about that day - how, in agony, he'd been forced to watch her take her own life, the impenetrable wall between them keeping him from dying with her - Michael felt his insides clench and then shudder; the vibrato of nerves was beginning in him again and he knew there would be no solace. This night, like so many nights before, was just another enemy he had to face and fight...

Unexpectedly, he thought of Nikita. She'd been there with him when he'd lost Simone forever. Nikita had been the sole reason he'd been blessed with one last look at Simone, had been able to hold that cherished, small, cat-lithe body close one last time. Nikita had made it possible, with no small sacrifice, for him to have a brief moment of true happiness, even if it had been bittersweet. Michael felt a sharp stab of something close to love which pierced his heart and took his breath away for a second. He didn't know if it was because of the memory of Simone in his arms, or if it was because of his feelings for Nikita.

Michael returned the water bottle to the refrigerator and closed the door, then went back to the bedroom, took his bathrobe from the foot of his bed and wrapped it loosely around him, feeling the chill in the room. He went to the patio doors where his favorite chair was positioned, opened the doors and sat down, staring out at the lights of the city, thinking about a million things, none of which had anything to do with Section One. Except Nikita...

He watched the sky grow gradually lighter as dawn approached and finally, exhaustion hit him and he yawned, glancing over at the clock by his bed - it was almost five A. M. He was due at Section at seven for an early briefing, and he'd had only a few hours' troubled sleep. He knew he'd be feeling the effects of sleep-deprivation; he also knew he couldn't afford to let it show. People depended on him to be in control, and not just Section people. The weight of the responsibility was like a fist squeezing his throat and heart. He ached for the chance to let someone else be the strong one. Nikita could have been that someone - she was too much like him, even though she didn't know it. She was more overt in her reactions and responses, but it was this trait that drew him to her. She hadn't yet learned to internalize her feelings and use them in more subtle ways, as years of training had taught him to do. If she were to find out how similar she and he were, she would--

Michael stopped the dangerous thought process. Nikita was unpredictable in some ways, unnerving and unsettling. It was almost as if she were one jump ahead of him all the time, no matter how inscrutable he tried to be. He sometimes felt like she could see every single thought in his head, and he knew it was more than simply unwarranted paranoia that elicited these feelings. Nikita had eyes that saw far beyond another person's eyes - they pierced to the soul. She'd probably been born with that intuitive, perceptive characteristic and from what she'd told him about her early home life it was likely that her innate curiosity had caused her mother and whichever man-of-the-hour who happened to be around at the time no small discomfort. It had probably contributed to Nikita's unplanned-for exit to life on the streets.

Michael finally pulled himself together, showered, and dressed in his customary black jeans, black pullover and black leather jacket. He grabbed his car keys and his overnight bag with a change of clothing in it, as well as a few other necessary items, and exited his domicile. He couldn't even think of it as a home - home had been a house full of good memories, occupied with a woman who loved him more than God, who could set his mood with a simple smile or a shadowy frown, who could move him to tears or take him to ecstasy in a heartbeat.

As he got into his car, he sighed softly, "God, I miss you, Simone..." and his eyes were sea green and cloudy, distant and full of sorrow. He choked back his feelings, but he couldn't stop the questions - why am I still alive? Why am I fighting so hard to keep my own life, when my only reason for living is gone? Why do I struggle to go on, when a bullet to the brain or a deliberate mistake on a mission could end my pain forever?. Even as he thought about it all, he knew the answer - Nikita. She'd had no way of knowing his internal torment, his past and his misery. She'd been dropped into his life against her will and his, and they'd been forced to work closely together. In the two years they'd spend in intensive training they'd developed an unspoken bond, but Michael doubted either of them had taken the time to analyze that bond - they certainly hadn't taken time to talk honestly to each other about their feelings. He knew it was difficult for her - it was for him, too. They'd both been conditioned to keep everything under the skin, buried deep. An operative couldn't afford to reveal emotion, even anger - it could be used as a weakness. Michael remembered the first time he'd been forced to use Nikita to see if she could improvise. She'd said, her voice shot with a hushed anguish, "You don't want a person - you want a machine..."

He'd been startled at her words, not because of their harshness, but because he'd agreed with her silently. Section One didn't want humans with very real human feelings - it wanted robots. He remembered watching a movie about scientists developing a strain of cyborg, part human, part machine, with no threshold for pain. If cut down, the being would get up and continue. If a limb was severed or lost, a new one sprouted and grew within minutes. The creation was the ultimate warrior, the perfect killing machine, the optimum soldier. And an entire race of them was being produced like assembly-line parts for a television set. The question of whether or not the race should have been considered alive and deserving of rights came into play - if they were not considered human, the technology would have been required to be made public and available to anyone, which would have invariably resulted in global catastrophe. If they were classed as human, it would have been mandatory to grant them the same rights as every human - namely, the freedom to choose whether or not to be slaves.

Michael had watched the movie and had seen himself in the same dilemma. Section considered all their operatives "slaves." They were all expendable in the face of the "greater good". But sometimes, Michael believed they lost sight of what the "greater good" really was. It was Nikita who brought it back, again and again. She was always the one to remind them that their job was to protect innocent people - even if it was only one at a time...

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

Nikita made her way down the hall, zipping open her canvas pack, walking with the loose-limbed, easy grace of a dancer. She didn't see Michael coming out of his office - she was preoccupied with putting her lipstick away and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She wondered for a moment why she was being called in so early, and then assumed it was because time was crucial for this particular mission.

Michael had heard her before he'd seen her - he knew the cadence of her footsteps, and he hung back until she'd passed, seemingly impassive as he watched her walk. For reasons he could never fathom, he always heard the song "In A Daydream" by the Freddy Jones Band whenever he observed her without her knowing he was watching. There was an almost carnival-feel to the air around him when she passed by.

The song had been playing on her stereo one afternoon shortly after she'd earned operative status and he'd stopped by to see if she was settling in all right. He remembered that day - the sun had made a rare appearance, bathing the entire scene in light and warmth, and it had seemed to affect Nikita's demeanor as well. She'd been almost airy when she'd answered the door, and Michael had noticed immediately that she'd customized her place with her own personal style. He hadn't expected her to be whimsical in her decorating, but the discovery had been a pleasant surprise to him and had reinforced his certainty that she was full of life and hope and optimism, no matter what was thrown at her.

The music on her stereo had caught his ear - it was melodic, cheerful and all a part with her apartment, bathed in light and color. It had caused an unanticipated reaction in him, that of an almost lighthearted joy, a feeling he hadn't experienced since before he'd lost Simone... He'd wanted to stay in that magical place forever, because it had been the closest thing to happiness he'd felt in what had seemed like an eternity.

~~~

Back in the present, Michael watched Nikita disappear around the corner, and glancing at his watch, he slowly made his way to the briefing room. He wished he could tell her how she'd changed him, but he knew she wouldn't believe him. He wasn't at liberty to show his true feelings or divulge anything even vaguely resembling weakness - indeed, he'd trained her like Svengali and had played her like a guitar. He knew her almost better than she knew herself, and it had been a constant source of disharmony between them from the beginning.

Yet, even with as close as he was to her after three years, he felt like he didn't really know her at all. There were so many spiderweb-like avenues she'd concealed from him, from them all. In many ways, she'd outsmarted the Section. They hadn't expected her to catch onto their methods as quickly as she had, and she knew it and was clever enough to play ignorant. Her instincts for survival ran deeper than anything Michael had ever seen before. He knew part of it was because of her life on the streets, but part of it had to have been DNA-bred.

Nikita's mother had had it, too. Her track record - of dancing from man to man, jackrabbiting when things became too complicated or threatening and leaving no trail - spoke for itself. Michael knew about it all, and he grudgingly admired and respected Nikita because she hadn't sold herself - she'd been sold, and she'd fought every inch of the way. She would probably have died fighting, had Section One not "rescued" her from life in prison. Nikita would never have committed suicide - Michael knew that beyond a doubt. She was too alive, too full of vitality and energy to give up on living.

He realized that it was exactly this quality about her that pulled him to her like a child to a butterfly. She possessed the life force he'd lost when he'd lost Simone, and he fought every minute of every day to cling to that spirit. Nikita knew he'd saved her life many times, and had acknowledged the fact to him. But what she probably didn't suspect was that though she'd come to his aid on as many occasions and had saved his life in obvious ways, she was rescuing him in a much more intimate way every second of his existence, just by being who she was and allowing him to be near her in his peripheral, restrained way...

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

In the briefing room Michael was distracted. He'd been thinking too much, thinking too hard, about things he should have shelved long ago. He registered the pertinent details about the mission, as he always did, and when the meeting was over he remained seated for a moment, re-running the information in his head, recording it immediately, and retaining it indefinitely. It would be a cut-and-dried operation, probably no more than a few days and a plane-ride.

His face was troubled, though - it surprised him, lost in thought as he was, when a touch on his shoulder snapped him back to reality. Nikita was at his left side, her sky-blue eyes concerned. "Michael?" she asked softly.

He focused and stood up. "You heard Operations - we leave in two hours. Be ready."

He would have walked away from her, but she caught his arm, her eyes relentless on his. When she knew she had his attention, she let go of him. "What's going on? You aren't you - you aren't here..."

Michael longed to break his self-imposed control and tell her what was in his head, but he knew he couldn't - not now. There were too many eyes, too many ears. Yet he sensed a strange desperation inside himself which had been building for a long time. He'd managed to bury it so far, but it was surfacing now, rebelling against all his suppression-tactics.

Very softly, his eyes locked hers in the same riveting stare and he whispered, "After this mission. After the debriefing. Meet me at 'Xanadu'." And he walked away from her, leaving her completely mystified...

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

The mission was, as Michael had known it would be, a textbook case. It had been simple enough to locate the rebel faction and take them out quietly - they had underestimated the long arms of Section One's databases and had made a seemingly minor transaction which had been traced. Birkoff had pinpointed their base, even providing the number of agents involved. It had almost been too easy - but no one was celebrating. There was no place for rejoicing and frivolity in Section One.

As Nikita headed for the debriefing she heard an echo from her past in her head, against her will. "The wicked are always with us." Nikita had remembered hearing it from some distant relative or other, and she'd shrugged it off along with all the other shallow platitudes that that one had uttered during a summer stint Nikita had spent with her. Her mother had been diligently in search of "Mr. Right" at the time, or at the very least, "Mr.-Passable-Until-Mr.-Right-Comes-Along". Nikita had been pawned off on various aunts and acquaintances in the course of her young life, and she'd learned a lot about denial. She'd also learned much about survival and cynicism and, in the long run, that knowledge had kept her alive even as she'd watched her companions from the streets fall. She wondered, now, why they hadn't heard the voice of reason resounding inside them the way she herself had. They'd been exposed to the same elements as she had - they'd been her "closer-than-the-next-breath" mates, and yet they hadn't come through.

Nikita had puzzled over it even after being "recruited" into the Section. It hadn't registered until she'd finally settled into her apartment, post-mission. She knew then that she had a gift not graciously or indiscriminately given. She had a way of surviving by means of something deep inside, something not identifiable by anyone doing a surface-scan or even a sub-level mind probe. And Nikita knew it drove Mad'laine a little crazy because she could never predict Nikita's next move with an absolute degree of accuracy.

Nikita could afford to be a bit smug over the fact - it was a triumph hard-earned, but a victory nonetheless. And each victory was a measure of strength added to her cache of weapons, a touchstone to gauge where she'd been, where she was now, and where she wanted to go...

~~~

Michael waited at "Xanadu" in a secluded booth, nursing his glass of wine, glancing at the carafe in the middle of the elaborately set table, watching for Nikita and mentally bracing himself for her no-show. She'd done it to him several times, and he suspected it was because she was afraid of what he might do to her emotionally.

He didn't resent her for her guarded attitude toward him, although it did hurt him - he certainly hadn't given her any concrete reason to trust him. The times he'd covered for her, the times he'd kept her from taking a bullet or a bomb, had been "in the line of duty". She took those instances in the context in which they were presented, he knew. An operative's life in the field was little disparate from the life he or she had outside Section - the two were always intertwined.

The waiter approached Michael, interrupting his thoughts, asking if he wanted an appetizer before dinner. With an almost cursory negative shake of his head he dismissed the man. He finished his wine and poured another glass, knowing it would affect him in unpredictable ways, but impulsively wanting to obliterate the activity of his mind. He wanted to be reckless, wanted to throw caution out the window and explore the man he'd buried when he'd said goodbye forever to Simone...

Glancing up, he saw Nikita, wearing a black sheath dress which hit to mid-thigh. The sleeves were long, but the front was deeply scoop-necked. She wore high black stiletto heels and her hair was down. She carried her black cape on her arm. Michael noted wryly that several men in the restaurant stared openly at her and he felt a strange pride knowing she was, for this moment, with him.

He lifted his hand and motioned to her. It was a small gesture, but it elicited a reaction in her that he hadn't expected - she smiled, obviously relaxing, and went to him confidently.

As she was putting her cape on the seat beside her, across from Michael, she met his eyes and smiled again, almost shyly. Even though her expression was guileless, Michael read her eyes and they were wary. He poured her a glass of wine, a mild Beaujolais, and handed it to her. "Thank you for coming," he said softly, a quirk at the corners of his mouth which could almost have been a smile, his eyes betraying what he was trying to hide.

Nikita saw his look, instantly remembering the first time she'd been in a restaurant with him. He'd given her a gift and it had been a gun - a two-edged sword. She hadn't known his motives then, and she was still mistrustful of his intent now, in this intimate setting. But then she was startled to recognize rare stark honesty, and her smile became unguarded and natural for the first time since she'd been recruited.

In spite of what she saw on Michael's face, she was still a little apprehensive, still expecting an ulterior motive. Aloud, she asked, "Michael, what are we doing here?"

"Having dinner," he replied softly. Then, hesitantly, his eyes gazing a little past her head in that disturbing way he had when he was avoiding something or regaining his emotional balance, "and...talking about the future..."

Nikita was getting a little distressed. For a few tense moments she feared he was going to tell her Operations had made the decision to have her cancelled - he seemed more vulnerable, as if he had something monumental to tell her but didn't quite know how to begin.

She was surprised to feel sympathy for him, in spite of all he'd done to her, all the betrayals, the lies, and the emotional devastation he'd inflicted on her over the past three years. Something about the greenness of his eyes, the way he watched her like a child awaiting a parent's approval, disarmed her.

"Tell me about the future, Michael," Nikita breathed, her crystal-blue eyes fixed on his, leaving him no recourse but to tell her the truth.

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

"Nikita, we've been together a long time," he began, and in his own mind the words sounded foolish, but she seemed to be listening intently so he continued before his resolve gave way to survival tactics. "We've been through a lot together and there have been times when I've had to lie to you to keep us both alive. Maybe you don't forgive me for those lies and I don't blame you - I haven't given you any reason to trust me, and a lot of reasons to hate me. I've come to accept your mistrust and live with it."

His voice lowered, and he leaned over the table toward Nikita, his eyes shiny with an emotion she'd never seen in them before. She, too, leaned forward to catch his words, sensing a significance in this moment.

"Nikita, I've never been able to tell you what you've done to me," he whispered, stunning her speechless. "I've tried, but the words won't come out... I was dead inside after I thought Simone was gone. I blamed myself for the whole thing and I died because of it. My life has been a shell and I haven't been anyone worth knowing since it happened. Then--" and he broke off suddenly, his eyes closing in pain. He resumed his sentence after a second, "--out of the blue, Section One threw me back to the wolves..."

Nikita watched his face and saw his torment as he relived that mission, the one where he'd seen Simone alive and had watched her die again... She wept for Michael silently, feeling his heartbreak, just as she'd felt it that day. She hated the Section for the ruthlessness of its actions. Never mind that Operations had wanted to put Michael on the second team - the fact that he'd been called in on the mission at all was a heartless act. Operations and Mad'laine had known Michael's pain and they'd still specified that he be a part of the plan.

It had taken her some time, but Nikita had learned that even though Michael seemed just as cutthroat and diabolical as the rest of Section One, he had a softer side, one that came out unexpectedly, like a rare, timid, blooming flower. It seemed to manifest itself mostly when she was in mortal danger, or when she was at her most vulnerable.

Michael always seemed to know when she needed him - showing up inexplicably at her door at odd hours of the morning when she was awake and restless, troubled, crying, banging her head against the wall, sobbing until she couldn't breathe - those were the times his unobtrusive presence was least expected and most welcomed, yet she always lied to him about her condition, sometimes even shutting the door in his face to protect herself from his stark objectivity.

Now, she realized she'd probably wounded him more times than she'd saved his life, just in her efforts to protect herself from emotional heartbreak and/or psychological betrayal. She'd lashed out at him everytime he'd lied to her, even though she knew his motives had been in the Section's best interest. It had been difficult for her to come to the realization that Michael wanted to live - he acted out of deep-seated training to preserve his own life - but the wild card had been his unexpected actions concerning her actions. She knew Section would have cancelled her many times for her willful disobedience to rules and procedures, but she'd been spared time and again, and she knew it was because Michael had pleaded on her behalf. She didn't know what horrible deals he'd made with the devil to keep her alive, and she hadn't asked him - she'd been too involved with her own agony and reconciling herself to her own abhorrent actions.

Now, though, as they sat together alone - away from Section's omnipotent, omniscient eye - Nikita felt driven to break down Michael's walls and to get to his heart. She asked, "Michael, how much of your soul did you sell to keep me alive?"

He sat up in his seat, all the relaxing effects of the wine disappearing instantly at her question. He knew he couldn't lie to her - not this time.

"I told Operations that I'd take full responsibility for you," he said, very quietly. "If you failed, I was to submit to your cancellation, and then my own."

Nikita felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. "Michael--" she gasped, and almost couldn't continue. The rush of emotion she felt threatened to render her senseless, but she knew she had to stay cognizant. "Why would you make that kind of a commitment to Section? You can't be that loyal to them - they let your wife die!"

Michael was painfully reminded of the fact and he winced from the words, hoping Nikita hadn't seen. "I know," he said softly, and was interrupted when the waiter approached to take their orders. Michael was mortified to realize that in his preoccupation with Nikita's presence, he hadn't made a menu available for her.

Nikita said softly, sensing Michael's temporary imbalance, "Michael, I'm so hungry I'm in no shape to read a menu - I'll have whatever you're having. I trust you." She put special emphasis on the last words, letting him know that she was, for this night, his.

Caught off-guard by her acquiescence, he ordered quietly in French, the waiter left with a smile, and they were alone again. Michael whispered, "Just so you don't worry, I ordered steak and seafood, not escargot." He smiled a little, and Nikita met his look with a smile of her own - not the usual, "I'm fine" countenance he was accustomed to seeing, but a shyer, more genuine one that revealed a once-hidden side of herself to him. Michael was temporarily rendered breathless by that smile and he memorized it, knowing that if anything ever happened to him on a mission, he would keep it as the last thing he saw in life.

He brought the conversation back to Section One and Simone, needing to get everything said before he thought too much about it and pulled back from her. "You told me once that you didn't know me at all - but you do. You know me better than Simone did, in some ways. She never saw the dark side of me, because there was never a reason for it to show. It seems like that's the only side you ever do see of me."

His eyes dropped from hers, and he sighed sadly. "I wish things could be different between us, but they can't. We're both prisoners. All we can do is try from now on to be as honest as we can with each other. We can stand against Operations if we stand together. We can keep each other alive for real, for each other and not for the good of the Section."

Nikita was staring at him, incredulous. It was the most she'd ever heard him say outside of a tactical review, and his words were different - not evasive and guarded, but open and truthful. Cautiously, she whispered, "Michael - are you sure you want me to hear this? You're not gonna wake up in the morning and take it all back, are you?"

Michael gave a half-smile and shook his head. "These are the things I've wanted to tell you but couldn't. Everytime I asked you how you were and you'd say you were fine, the lie was like a knife-wound. Everytime you pulled away from me when I touched you, everytime you stared at me with that look of betrayal in your eyes after something I'd had to do to keep you alive - it all added up until I felt like I'd drown from it. I'm so sorry, Nikita - for all the lies and the head-games. I can't do it anymore, not even if Operations orders me to do it. I'll find a way around it somehow."

"Michael, don't risk it," Nikita interrupted him. "You can't refuse Operations to his face - he'll cancel you!" She wanted to add, And who'd protect me then? but she didn't. For Michael to be telling her these things at all was an indication that the pressure had become too great for him. He needed a friend, a "closer-than-the-next-breath" kind of friend. She reached across the table and touched his hand, her eyes soft on his. "We can do this, Michael - you and me. We can beat Operations at his game and stay alive. We can win. I know we can."

Speechless, Michael could only stare at her, mesmerized, dazed, half-crazy from all his conflicting emotions. He felt the same way he'd felt when she'd leaned close to him as "Sage" and had gently and unexpectedly bit his cheek, throwing his emotional balance into a tailspin. He felt like he was flying, falling... It could have been the wine, but he didn't think so. It was a completely different feeling than an alcohol-induced spin. He heard "In A Daydream" again, and it sealed the moment forever in his mind.

Nikita's voice came through to him, quiet and reverent. "All the times you've saved my life, and I've never once thanked you. I'm sorry, Michael. Thank you. For everything." His stare was dreamy and revealed more to her than he'd probably intended. She was touched when he took the hand she'd extended and held it lightly in his, not breaking eye contact. Time seemed to freeze - they were brought back to the present when the waiter arrived with their meal, and they separated reluctantly.

Dinner was good - the background music was soft and romantic, and Nikita felt comfortable, completely unguarded, completely safe with Michael. She watched him over the course of the evening, saw him gradually, progressively become more human, more animated - he even laughed once or twice at things she said. Michael glanced down and noticed in amusement that Nikita had taken off her heels and had put her feet up on the bench next to him. He'd never seen her so relaxed in his presence, and it made him feel good. Before either of them knew it, their wine was gone, the table had been cleared of the dishes, and it was getting late.

Nikita yawned and reluctantly looked at her watch - it was after ten. She looked directly at Michael and said very softly, "It's late - we should be going. We have a briefing tomorrow morning." Then, she added, "Thank you, Michael. I've had a nice time."

"So have I," he agreed. Then, more seriously he added, "Nikita - everything I've told you tonight has been the truth. No matter what happens in the future, tonight you've seen the man I really am - the man I was before Section One. If it seems like I'm playing games with your head, don't believe it - I'll be pretending so Operations won't get suspicious. As soon as we have a moment alone, I'll find you and tell you the truth about everything.."

Nikita was relieved and a little shaken. Tonight had certainly been one of surprises and revelations. She could only wonder what tomorrow would bring - would they revert back to the way they'd been before this new truth happened, or would they cling to each other in honesty? Time would tell...

Michael saw her safely to her apartment, and as they stood outside her door, he surprised her yet again by taking her shoulders, leaning forward and kissing her very gently and briefly on the mouth, then stepping back and smoothing a strand of hair away from her cheek. "Goodnight, Nikita," he said. "Sleep well."

"You too, Michael," she replied warmly, and ducked into her apartment, shutting the door very quietly before he could see the astonishment on her face.

As he left her doorway he whispered, "I will, Nikita." He allowed a smile to linger on his face, and for a disorienting minute, he had a strange urge to whistle as he walked to the elevator...

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

The next morning, Michael was all business as he greeted Nikita in the briefing room. His eyes betrayed nothing of the previous night, and she mentally prepared herself for an emotional letdown. He hadn't really meant what he'd said - he was using her, manipulating her for some mission. She choked on tears; just when she was all but closed down, Michael reached under the table and unobtrusively took her hand and squeezed it, his thumb caressing her skin for a moment. It was a bold move, carried out under the nose of Operations - Michael had risked a lot to touch her, and Nikita shot a glance at Operations - he obviously had no idea what had just taken place. He could not have been a part of a hidden agenda, or his lizard-eyes would have betrayed him.

Nikita thought, Mad'laine - it has to be Mad'laine pulling Michael's strings. She's got something on him... But it made no sense, and Nikita was starting to feel the throb at the base of her skull that signaled the onset of a horrific headache. She made a mental note to take a couple of aspirin after the briefing. In the meantime, she squeezed her eyes shut tightly for a several seconds, then opened them. The enforced pressure made the nagging pain go away for a few moments, enough so that she could concentrate on the mission profile. Like Michael, Nikita was always able to grasp the pertinent details, memorize them, and perform her functions completely and effectively.

"We'll run parallel teams. Both will leave in three hours," Operations was saying. "Birkoff will give you your tacticals. Make sure you know every inch of the perimeter - these people are your worst nightmare."

As Nikita stood up, she thought cynically, No, Operations, YOU'RE our worst nightmare. She turned away from him, hating him more each time she was forced to be in his presence. She honestly believed that if the devil were to walk the earth in human form, he would be Operations. And she realized, even as she thought it, that there was no way a mortal could fight a demon. She felt a sense of despair well up in her - it almost doubled her over from the pain, but she remained standing straight, not allowing anyone to see her anguish.

Michael, however, noticed her haunted look. He didn't know exactly what had caused it, but he suspected it had something to do with him - it always did. Outside the conference room, when he was certain no one saw and no cameras were trained on them, he caught her arm and whispered urgently near her ear, "Nothing's changed for us, Nikita - I'm still with you." She met his eyes secretively, smiled a smile only he could see, and they separated before anyone saw them.

Operations paced back and forth in the conference room, his face dark and angry. He'd already been betrayed once by Michael, and he'd been forced to realize that in this game of global chess, Michael would have been a formidable opponent, had he not been on the side of Section One. Operations grudgingly admitted that if the world scene changed and Michael crossed over to the other side, he would be difficult, if not impossible, to defeat. It was a source of frustration for Operations - Section One demanded loyalty from all its operatives, and the ones who fell out of compliance were cancelled. Section could not afford a loose cannon in the ranks - it created an element of unpredictability, and that uncertainty was potentially deadly in any given situation - it could either deliver the goods or get them blown to bits. There was no margin for error when thousands of lives were at stake.

Operations shook his head slightly, there in the emptiness of the room while the operatives were preparing to leave. Why did he do it? he asked himself. Why did he keep trying to bring a shaky, uncertain peace to a world that clearly didn't want it? Why did he continue to make sacrifices, when it would have been just as easy to surrender the world to its own demise? Why did he care so much for the greater good that he put even his own soul on hold for it?

They were questions with which he'd grilled himself night after night, as he walked the floors of his house, thinking of all the things he'd given up for this fight. He'd seen his wife die of a broken heart because of his commitment. He'd watched his son become estranged from him as a child. He'd come back from Vietnam a stranger, not even having the courage to face his family. He hadn't decried the government's report that he was dead, believing it was better, more conducive to closure, if his wife and son thought he was dead. Easier for them to accept and move on, he thought, if they didn't harbor any hope at all that he'd lived. It hadn't been the first sacrifice he'd made, but it had been the most costly...

Operations remained in the room, battling his own demons even as he knew each and every operative in the Section battled theirs. He had seen the pain on their faces, had died a little each time one of them had been killed in combat or cancelled because of failure to perform their duties. He told himself it was for the best, because the world deserved to be free from terrorism. There could be no mistakes, no weak links.

Yet, no matter how often he repeated the words silently, he could not reconcile himself to the fact that he genuinely cared for Michael, almost like a son, and it nearly ripped him apart to realize that he'd most likely have to cancel Michael someday because of his divided heart. Half of him was pure Section One, but the other half was dancing with disaster because of a strange devotion, like rogue electricity, to Nikita.

Nikita... Operations snorted softly, hating the fact that he liked her. She defiantly broke all the rules and was completely unpredictable, yet she always pulled through, even managing to save his life on a couple of occasions without a direct order from anyone, acting strictly on her own sense of right and wrong.

The more Operations reflected on her qualities, the more he saw the potential for something good coming out of something horrible. Humanity was not an option, of course - the people with whom Section waged war were not humane. But a certain amount of humanity could be tolerated, if it made an operative perform better, more diligently and loyally.

Operations was reminded of a circus he'd seen as a child. The tigers performed on cue, but the hate was in their eyes - they were one breath away from turning on their trainers and slashing them to bits. And the trainers knew it and cracked the whip, applied the stick, to keep the felines in control.

It was no different in Section One. The operatives performed, but they were kept in check by fear, not by concern. They were treated like circus animals, stripped of their humanity for the sake of the "greater good"...

He shook his head again, irritated that he'd be so introspective when there was so much work to be done, so many lives at stake. He left the conference room in search of Madeline. He wanted to go over the profile with her, get her take on what kind of twisted minds they would be dealing with this time and what the odds were that there would be casualties...

~~~

"Michael, why'd they put us on second team?" Nikita asked him as they headed out.

"Because they can't afford to waste us as foot-soldiers," he said dispassionately. "You saw the profile - these people are murderers. They'll shoot first and not bother with questions."

"So - first team is a sacrifice?" Nikita asked, knowing his answer.

"It has to be that way," Michael said.

"I don't agree!" Nikita protested, and Michael's eyes locked to hers in a hard stare.

"Nikita, don't start. We have our orders. Just do the job." Then, very softly, he whispered, for her ears alone, "Please. It's important that you trust me. I'll fill you in later."

Nikita was surprised to feel a sense of relaxation in her chest. She uttered, "All right, Michael." He glanced at her sharply, suspicious of her apparent acquiescence, but he saw no deception in her eyes, and he sighed silently. After all they had survived, apart and together, their new trust was going to be difficult to trust. But not impossible...

End