"My name is P.J. Maybe later, I'll tell you what those initials stand for. Right now, though, I only have a little time left and I'm supposed to tell you everything I know about life. Someone close to me once said it isn't how long you live that matters, but how well. I guess this telling is part of the "wellness" of my life.

"I'm thirteen years old. Born in Twin Falls, Idaho on October 12, 1987. It was the first time my mother could remember ever having seen two feet of snow in October. Maybe it was some kind of sign of what she could expect for our lives from that day on. Dad was gone a lot - he worked on a construction crew for a company that built microwave towers and strung waveguide, and business was good. Mom used to tell me I was a miracle baby and up until a few months ago, I never knew what she'd meant. I'd thought she was referring to some kind of genetic malfunction I'd survived, but then I learned that she'd been talking about the absence of Dad for most of my life - my conception had been a kind of "hit-or-miss" affair, and one time, it hit.

"It's March as I tell this, and Dad hasn't been home since last year November. He calls once in awhile from whatever remote town he has a few days in, but I can see it's taking its toll on Mom. She appears older than I've ever seen her and sometimes when she turns those sad eyes to me I see my own reflection on her face, and it scares me. We look so much alike, right down to the oldness of our gazes. We both have mood-ring eyes - they change colors in harmony with our emotional status at any given moment. Most of the time lately, our eyes are indigo - the mood hasn't been good. I can tell that Mom is suffering and she misses Dad, but her pain goes deeper than that, even though she thinks she's hiding it from me.

"She doesn't know that I know I'm dying. I've known for a couple of months - since the time I had to leave school and was taken to the emergency room because of a bloody nose that wouldn't stop. The attending physician did everything short of transfusing me - he finally ended up laser-cauterizing both nostrils, which hurt like nothing I'd ever felt before. The school nurse authorized the treatment with prior permission from Mom, who had been gone and couldn't be reached, even in this day of cell-phones, pagers and surveillance. Mom had known before I did that I'd most probably need some sort of medical care in my duration, and she'd discreetly arranged for it with the school, in case something like that bloody nose happened when she wasn't around.

"I remember the nurse took me home. I had a wad of cotton stuffed up inside each nostril, a tube of antibiotics I was under orders to use four times a day, and a small bottle of pain pills I was told to use very sparingly, as they were highly addictive. After she'd gone, I flushed the pain pills, ripped out the cotton balls and dabbed a touch of the Vaseline-like antibiotic up my nose. Then I went to my room, turned on my stereo and fell asleep to the sounds of "Sweet Child of Mine" by Guns 'N Roses.

"Two days later, I intercepted a cryptic communiqué from the hospital where I'd been taken. It was addressed to Mom, but I was good at steaming open her mail, reading it and sealing it before she ever saw it - I know all sorts of things about her that she'd never suspect I know. anyway, the letter said something about my "condition" and how it was rapidly deteriorating. It said the doctors were being pragmatic when they estimated I had about a year left.

"I didn't fall apart then - I sealed the letter and stuffed it in with all the other mail, then went to my room. It took awhile for the reaction to sink in. When it did, I felt like I needed to do everything I could to live my life to the fullest; I wanted to learn to fly, to skydive, to ski, to hack into the Pentagon's computer. I found all kinds of crazy things I'd never done but wanted to try, like bungee-jumping, riding every rollercoaster in the United States and Canada, kissing the girl I'd always thought was beautiful but could never get the courage to approach - these things went through my brain so fast I almost couldn't register them.

"So I spent a long time writing all of them down. Then, I put them in order of importance. After that, I rearranged them in order of urgency, with my time frame in mind. By the time I had the list finished, Mom was home, carrying two bags of groceries and calling my name, asking me to help, even though she didn't know I was already halfway to the car.

"Dinner was my favorite - pork chops, wild rice and steamed vegetables, with pumpkin pie for dessert, something we rarely ever had. I suspected she was spoiling me because she knew she'd only have me for a short time. It hurt me to know she was putting on a good face for me, when I really needed for her to be real with me.

"About a week ago, during another favorite dinner (which by this time I seemed to be getting every night) I finally told her that, and after she finished crying she hugged me, and dinner went cold while we sat in front of the fire, talking about everything and nothing. She played her favorite music for me - Nat King Cole singing, "Unforgettable", Billie Holliday singing "Good Morning Heartache", a whole set of songs I can't remember now. It was warm and special to me, seeing her let go of her pain for awhile and just be my mother. She told me stories about Dad, about how she and he met and fell in love, about traveling with him on the road when they first were married, about the time she climbed a four-hundred foot tower when one of Dad's crew members was incapacitated, and helped him get it built under deadline.

"She made Dad more real to me, telling me all that. He'd always been like a shadow - there once in awhile, gone more often than not, and sometimes I couldn't even remember what he looked like until Mom showed me pictures of him. I told her about the girl in my physics class who passed me notes telling me she thought I was cute - I remember Mom smiled at that and ruffled my hair, whispering, "Well, she's got good taste in men."

"It was a good night, and she let me stay home from school the next day because we'd been up until sunrise. She'd let me drink beer while she had wine, and we played a board game, both of us cheating our eyes out. I felt like Rocky Dennis from the movie "Mask", wanting to do it all before I was gone.

"This new perception makes me see things more clearly. I don't complain as much about stupid things like how tired I am, or how someone said something that made me angry. I don't insult people anymore. I don't like dirty jokes or cruelty, and I'm not afraid to tell anyone that. I figure I've only got a little time left to take care of all the necessary things. I have to help Mom plan for my death - I've already told her I want to be cremated and my ashes scattered from the sky. She laughed, even while she was crying, and hugged me for a full minute. "You're your father's son," she sniffed in my ear. "Will you settle for the top of a five-hundred foot guyed tower?" and we both laughed like we'd lost our sanity.

"I haven't told anyone else about me. I don't even know if Dad knows - it's been so long since I've seen him that I wonder if he'd even care. I guess he'd HAVE to care, being my dad. But then again, I've seen parents who cared less for their kids than they did for some axe-murderer across the country, so maybe my skepticism is warranted.

"You're probably wondering why a thirteen year-old kid is using what Mom calls "Ten-dollar words". I inherited my intelligence from my dad's side of the family, Mom told me once. She said Dad's dad was a college professor who taught physics, and HIS dad was an inventor. Mom didn't give me specifics about her side of the tree, so I did some digging on my own and found out that her mother had dropped out of school to have her, then resumed her education while she was really young. Grandmother worked, studied, and was a good mother to my mom, teaching her basic values, sensible skills, and giving her a taste of simple joys in life. My mom may not have had book learning, but she was a genius in the living of life, and she passed that childlike wonder on to me. I think maybe I have the best of both sides of my family - my mother's joy and curiosity, and my father's sensibility and practical intelligence and foresight.

"That's what made me decide to tell my story - the looking to the future. After I'm gone, I want someone to be able to hear my story and take something from it. Well, isn't that what most people want from the future, anyway?"

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

Michael and Nikita listened to the cassette in silence, their expressions unitedly mystified at first, then wishboning as Nikita began to feel sympathy and Michael, cynicism. They'd been tracking the signal of a hacker who'd somehow managed to get into even the triple-level encrypted files of Section One. With Birkoff's help, they'd narrowed it down and finally had pinpointed it.

Given the location of the transmission, the profile had been to secure the target, blow up the site, and return to Section. The complication had been the fact that the target hadn't been on site - he'd fooled Section's surveillance and had slipped out of their grasp, leaving only a tape and a taunt.

Now, as they stood in the bedroom of the seemingly-invisible cyber-wunderkind, their thoughts converged once more. "We've gotta find that kid," Nikita breathed, and Michael had silently agreed, though he'd known their reasons for wanting to have the boy in their custody were different. Nikita wanted to save him - Michael wanted to use him. The boy had extraordinary intelligence, and it could be beneficial to Section, if he could be brought back alive.

The problem, and it was a monumental one, was how to find the kid again. There had to be something, a clue somewhere in the dialog on the tape, an encrypted message. "We'll give the tape to Birkoff," Michael said softly. "He can take it apart and see if there's anything we can use."

Nikita nodded once in cursory acknowledgement, and they left the house with the tape. On impulse, Nikita quietly palmed another cassette, labeled "Home Movies", without Michael seeing her. She knew if Michael had questioned her about taking the tape, she would not have been able to explain her feeling about it - she never could explain her hunches - and she would have felt embarrassed and foolish even as she held onto her conviction that there was something there. Mercifully, Michael was focussed on getting the primary cassette to Systems for analysis, and he didn't see her slip the other cassette into her pocket.

~~~

At Section, Birkoff pounced on the cassette as if it were a new type of junk food with infinite possibilities. He said, distractedly, "I'll check it out. Will you be around for the next hour or two?"

"We have to debrief," Michael said in a level voice, his eyes betraying nothing of what he was thinking.

Birkoff took his response to be an affirmative, and he lowered his head, unconsciously dismissing the two cold ops standing in front of him. Anyone else would have been all-reverent in their dealings with the two top operatives in Section One - Birkoff, however, was jaded and had seen things, both in Michael's life and Nikita's, which gave him deeper insight into the two. He didn't fear for his life - he knew they would not harm him, no matter what he did.

He remembered, briefly, the time Michael had uttered huskily, "If you betray me, I'll kill you." He'd known why Michael had said that, and he'd also known that of all the people in Section One, he cared most for Nikita, Walter, and Michael. He had developed a crush on Mad'laine, early on, but that had been quashed when he'd inadvertently seen her interrogating a young man. Birkoff shuddered inwardly as he remembered that day - she'd very deliberately sliced open the man's wrist, and had told him she was fully prepared to let him bleed to death unless he told her what she wanted to know...

Birkoff relaxed into his chair, and Michael and Nikita exchanged amused glances. Michael headed for the debriefing - Nikita hung back, handed the other cassette to Birkoff and said very quietly, "There might be something you can use here. Check it out." Thus far, there was no reason to be defensive - they'd followed the profile to the letter, and the intel they'd been given had been accurate. Somehow, P.J. had eluded them. It had been expected. He was a genius kid, and for some reason, geniuskids always seemed to have to one-up everyone else.

~~~

Nikita was at Walter's station, flirting with him subtly, needing that playful, double-entendré atmosphere more than usual, but not really understanding why. Perhaps it had to do with the seriousness of the mission - the somber vocal quality of P.J. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't faking when he'd talked about cancer...

Michael touched her shoulder, startling her out of her lighthearted ambiance - she hadn't even heard him approach. He had a way of moving, catlike and silent, that Nikita knew had come from years of Section training. She wondered, briefly, if there was anything Michael couldn't do... In the next second, she answered her own supposition - "He can't have a baby!" She almost smiled at that, but smothered it when she saw the look on Michael's face.

"Birkoff's found P.J.," he said softly. "We have to go - now."

Nikita was baffled. "What kind of hardware are we taking?"

"Nothing," Michael replied neutrally.

"N-nothing?" Nikita's expression was disbelieving. It was so very UN-Section to send a team out without some kind of artillery - she began to wonder if she was in trouble again, and if this was to be a suicide mission.

Michael read her look and said softly, "Don't worry, Nikita. The target is passive. He'll come quietly."

"How do you know that?" she demanded then, her hackles rising at his obvious condescension. His next words stunned her into silence and submission.

"Because he really DOES have cancer. He's at County General Hospital, getting a radiation treatment."

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

They made a macabre threesome as they left the hospital - Michael, dressed in black like death incarnate, holding one fragile arm of P.J. in a curiously tender grip; P.J., dressed in jeans and T-shirt, his eyes accepting everything; and Nikita, dressed in pastel colors like the sky and the springtime season, holding P.J.'s other arm, her eyes filled with tears. The procession was somber and reverent as they made their way to the Section van.

Michael glanced over at Nikita as they walked, supporting the boy between them, and he saw tears in her eyes. His heart broke a little - he knew what she was thinking, and now, after having seen the boy first-hand, he was feeling the same. Section would take this child apart, cell by cell, and use everything he knew. Then, the entity without a face would move P.J. to some obscure part of Section, where he would live out his remaining days alone, with his meals slipped under the door...

Something inside Michael snapped, then. It didn't show outwardly - even Nikita didn't sense it, he hid it so deftly. But he knew he could not allow the dehumanizing effects of Section treatment to harm this boy, and he would do whatever it took to ensure that the child lived his last days in joy, not sorrow. He revealed nothing - it was essential that he let no one, not even Nikita, know about his decision. At least, not yet...

~~~

P.J. went willingly where he was led. There'd been no need of restraints - he was too weak and nauseous to fight - and as he was taken to Medical, Michael whispered to Nikita, "My office, now."

Nikita stared at him as he turned to leave. "But, what about debrief?" she'd been ready to ask, but the question died on her lips as Michael walked away, and she knew then that something serious was about to take place. She shrugged and followed, glancing around the corridor for anything that would reveal surveillance, a test, or a trick.

In Michael's office, she closed the door, and she watched him disable the surveillance. His expression frightened her - she'd seen the same countenance on him when she'd done something exceptionally stupid because of her conscience. Now, that look was more prominent than ever, and Nikita wondered what she'd done to deserve Michael's disfavor.

"Nikita," he began very softly, and his eyes changed from sea-green to dark emerald when he said her name. It was all a part of him, and what made him magnetic north to her internal compass. She waited, breathless, as she sat in her chair across from his desk - subordinate to employer. It was a formality they almost always seemed to observe unconsciously, each slipping into their roles easily.

Michael's voice was unnaturally gentle and strained as he spoke his next words. "We both know what Section will do to P.J."

Nikita stared into Michael's eyes, waiting to hear what else he would say. She knew what Section would do. She'd tried with all her might to accept it, because she knew now, after the debacle with Adrian, what Michael had sacrificed for her. She would not willingly put his life or integrity on the line again. She would not force him to sell a piece of his fragile soul for her again. Whatever it took, she would do it - to give him back even a fraction of what he'd given to her, for her. She knew about his long-term mission of being husband to a woman he did not love. She knew about the child who was half Michael's. She knew it all, and after she'd survived the pain and sense of betrayal, she'd risen above it and had realized what Michael had endured for the sake of the greater number - for her sake.

As she stared at him now, Nikita realized that Michael was the most noble, honorable, principled man she'd ever known in her life, and she was silently grateful that he'd been her trainer and mentor. He'd imparted valuable skills, but more than that, he'd imbued a sense of himself into her, in the way he dealt with a given situation. She'd observed him, and had learned from him, and because of his actions, she knew more about the kind of person she wanted to be...

Michael was puzzled by the softening of Nikita's features when he'd delivered his only sentence. He'd expected her to rebel - at the very least, he'd expected her to snap back at him with a heated retort. She had done neither. Instead, she was looking at him with a dreamy expression, and once again, Michael had no idea what she was thinking. She was the only woman he'd ever known who could keep him totally off-balance without even realizing it.

Finally, he was forced to speak again. "Nikita - do you understand?" he asked, a little alarmed that she seemed to be so placid when the situation demanded she be defiant.

"Of course, Michael," she said tenderly. Her gentle, almost wistful tone caused Michael's resolve to slip a notch, and he felt a simultaneous wrenching in his groin and his head. She was doing it to him again, and she didn't even know it. Mon dieu! he groaned silently. Will the woman never understand?

Aloud, he said, more firmly, "Nikita, tell me what you think about this mission." He leveled his eyes to hers, braving the fire, and waited for her to speak. When she did, he was struck mute.

"All right, Michael," she said, her voice almost sing-song. "I think that Section will take P.J. and turn him into a mushroom. They'll keep him in the dark and feed him bullshit until he dies. I think you don't want that to happen to him. I don't know what your personal agenda is, but I know you have a plan to keep him from suffering. As much as you try to come across as a monster, I've seen too much to believe that anymore."

Michael was astonished. His mouth dropped open in a very un-Michael-ish mannerism, and he thought frantically, How did she do it? How did she figure out my motive, when I wasn't even sure of it? He was staring at her, his eyes lighter than they'd ever been before. He knew his eyes were changing, because he watched Nikita draw in a silent breath, her own eyes soft and dreamy.

With an effort, he pulled himself back to the mentor-trainee mode of conversation, and he watched in invisible pride as Nikita read his expression and did likewise, sitting up straighter in her chair, crossing her leg, and waiting for his next words. God, he thought, she's good! She's too good for this place...

"My personal feelings aren't relevant," he said, and tried to make his voice stern and unemotional. Nikita nodded, her eyes riveted to his. "The boy has talent. Section will want to exploit it. He's too fragile to survive that kind of interrogation. I think we can give him something better."

Nikita's eyes went wide then - she was watching Michael as if she expected him to suddenly break into song or start juggling. Is he saying what I think he's saying? she thought in amazement. His next sentence confirmed her wildest hope.

"Nikita - I need your help to shelter P.J. until he dies."

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

After coming up off the anesthesia and scanning the white walls of MedLab, P.J. had decided he didn't want to be in any type of medical facility. He'd carefully taken the I.V.'s out of his wrists, stopped the bleeding, and groggily made his way out of the room, his eyesight blurred and his head humming. He hadn't known what surgical procedure had been performed on him, and he really didn't care - it couldn't have been any worse than the radiation treatments he had been forced to endure in the past.

He'd been through the "interrogation process" as provided by Mad'laine. He'd told her everything he knew about Section and how he'd hacked into their databases. He'd even provided suggestions to safeguard the files from future invasion. He thought about the conversation between himself and Mad'laine. She'd seemed warm and beautiful and motherly. That illusion had been shattered when she'd taken his chin in her hand, leveled her eyes to his and said in a voice rich with threat and venom, "If you don't tell me everything you know, I will break every bone in your body, one at a time. And if you faint, I will revive you so you will feel every ounce of pain."

P.J. shivered as he thought about what she'd said, and the firmness of her hand on his jaws. "I'm not hiding anything!" he'd said to her, almost desperately. "I'm not a threat to you! Jeezus, I'm just a KID! Don't you have a HEART?"

Mad'laine had relented then, and her expression had become almost tender. She had remained silent as he'd told her how he'd accessed Section One's databases and why he'd done it. He told her about his mother, and his cancer, and how his mom dealt with his frequent nosebleeds and trips to emergency. How she was working two jobs to pay for the medical treatment he seemed to need to stay alive. How he only had a few short months left, and how he wanted to live every minute to the fullest, because he knew he'd never have another chance. By the end of the session, Mad'laine had released him, hugged him, and let him go. P.J. still could feel her arms around him, and it warmed him- Mad'laine had hugged just like his mother...

P.J. walked the corridors of Section One, unbound. He wore his baseball cap backwards, hiding the evidence of his radiation treatments. His jeans hung loosely on him - he'd lost weight and had not been provided alternate clothing, so he wore what he had been allowed to take into Section when he'd been brought in a week ago.

As he strolled through the halls, his hands in his pockets, he thought about his mother. She would be hysterical with worry, he knew. Not knowing what had happened to him, or where he was, she was most likely combing the streets, sending out ads in every major paper, calling the police and the F.B.I.

P.J. felt tears rise to his throat. God, he wished he could be home again, even if it meant subjecting himself to that nurse who could never seem to find his vein when she took his blood. I'd give anything to be in my own bed tonight, he thought, and he couldn't fight the tears anymore. In a darkened, abandoned corridor, P.J. slid to the floor, his back against the wall, wrapped his arms around his knees, and cried softly. "I'm only thirteen," he sobbed, his eyes swollen, his nose running. "I'm only thirteen..."

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

Birkoff said softly, "He's on Level Five." Nikita nodded curtly and left him hastily. She knew P.J. had to have been completely disoriented to end up in a restricted area like Level Five. She knew he didn't know about the tracker which had been surgically implanted in him when they'd been testing him for cancer. His cancer had been confirmed, as Nikita had known it would be, but the tracker had seemed like, not a violation, but a protection for the boy. It would enable the people who truly cared about him to keep tabs on where he was, and to shelter him, if necessary.

She found P.J. on the floor, sobbing into his knees. Her heart went out to him instantly, and before she thought, she dropped to the floor beside him, taking him in her arms and hugging him close. "Oh, P.J.," she whispered, soothing him as she rocked him gently and let him cry. "Don't be afraid - we won't let anything happen to you..."

P.J. pulled out of her arms, his face flushed, his eyes liquid. "Who's WE?" he asked plaintively. "That dark-haired bitch who threatened to break every bone in my body? Those surgeons from hell who implanted me with a tracker?" Nikita was stunned. How had he figured it out? Before she could analyze it further, P.J. went on vehemently. "That silver-haired guy who thinks he's Caesar? That guy you hang with who doesn't talk?" Nikita, despite the severity of the situation, was hard-put to keep a smile from crossing her face at P.J.'s description of Michael.

He seemed to run out of energy then - his body wilted, and Nikita was alarmed for a moment. "P.J. - are you all right? Do you need--"

"--I don't need anything from you!" he shouted angrily. "I just want to live! I don't suppose your medical team can give me a few more years of life, can they?"

Nikita thought about her life - about Michael's life, Walter's, Birkoff's, Mad'laine's, Operations' - and she wondered if they would ever know the pain P.J. was feeling. They all lived on the razor's edge. They all knew that every second counted, that every breath could be the last. But - did any of them truly appreciate life? Even the limited life they all lived within Section constraints?

Did Michael ever relax enough to enjoy the smell of freshly-popped popcorn with real butter? Did Mad'laine ever stop to smell the roses she so meticulously pruned in her office? Did she ever venture out to smell the ones that grew wild in the park? Did Operations ever close his eyes and listen to a symphony from beginning to end and imagine himself playing the cello in the orchestra? Did Walter ever ride a Harley at eighty miles an hour across a straight stretch of highway with the wind in his face and a smile on his lips? Did Birkoff ever separate himself from Section long enough to surround himself with warm, loving people who only wanted to have fun?

Nikita was struck silent for a second. Then, pulling herself back to the boy's question, she shook her head slowly, sadly. "No, P.J., they can't." She paused a second, then said, "But I know a way to make the time you have left the best days of your life."

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

P.J. stood next to Walter, watching as he built a tiny device which would blow up an entire city block. "But, if you use that configuration, you'll short it out and it won't work," P.J. was saying. His small hand snaked around in front of Walter and pointed. "Put that wire there, and attach it here." He put a finger on a spot on the circuit board, and Walter grunted.

"Kid, you're right," he muttered. "Dammit - where'd you learn that?"

P.J. snickered and wiped his face - it was too hot in this room. "I stayed awake in my astrophysics class." His eyes were shiny and full of life. He liked Walter - the man treated him like an equal, not a kid, and together, in the last week, they'd created some definitely worthwhile explosives.

"I gotta go," he said softly. "Too hot in here."

Walter nodded, but even with his smile, he felt tears rising to his eyes. He knew P.J. was sick, but the kid was so full of life it was hard to believe he was dying. Walter growled, "C'mere, kid," and when P.J. stepped closer, Walter pulled him into his arms and bear-hugged him, fighting to keep the tears from escaping.

P.J. finally squirmed free, peevishly adjusting his baseball cap and mock-glaring at Walter. "Geez, you'd think I was never coming back!" he quipped, and turned to leave before Walter could see the pain in his eyes - pain caused from that loving hug. I wouldn't take a second of it back to keep from feeling the pain, P.J. thought, his eyes closed. Walter's hug had strengthened him even as it had hurt him physically.

~~~

P.J. touched everyone, in some way. And the beauty and sorrow of it was that he didn't realize he was changing people. He was just being who he was, for the short time he had left on earth, and it never occurred to him that everyone else wasn't doing the same.

As he ambled through the stark corridors of Section One, bored and restless, wondering what would happen to him, thinking about his mother and how worried she must have been, he walked straight into Michael. Startled, P.J. stepped back with a gasp and an apology on his lips, then felt a shudder of fear at the dark man who towered over him. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and made to leave hastily, wanting only to get out of Michael's way before the man everyone called the "Dark Angel" grabbed him by the throat and took his life even more prematurely than the cancer promised to do.

To his surprise, Michael gripped both his shoulders, knelt down in front of P.J., and met his eyes. "Are you all right?" he asked in a hushed voice, his own green eyes searching for any sign of pain.

P.J. relaxed a little, and said, with false nonchalance, "Yeh, I'm fine." He didn't tell Michael that the collision had pulled the breath from his lungs and created a painful reverberation in him that almost knocked him to his knees. He didn't want this legend of Section One to know he was weak, when, from what he'd heard about Michael, the man had survived insurmountable odds countless times. He was practically immortal - a god, according to the women. And, P.J. admitted silently, this Michael guy scared him.

He was stunned when Michael straightened up, left a hand on his shoulder, and said very softly, "Come with me, P.J."

Ogod, he's gonna kill me now! P.J. thought in horror. He felt the despair well up, and despite his bravado, tears leaked out from his eyes. He wanted to plead for life, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. His life was short, anyway - he'd just hoped to live a little more of it with a little less pain...

Michael saw his fear and his tears, and he felt a wrenching in his heart. "Don't be afraid," he said, and his eyes were warm. "I'm not going to hurt you. I have something to show you."

P.J. swallowed hard, fought to still his trembling, and battled the pain which had become a constant in his life lately. He regained some control and followed as Michael led him out of the hallowed halls of Section One and into the light of the world outside. "I want to take you to one of my favorite places," Michael said, his hand still on P.J.'s shoulder. He led the boy to a car parked in the lot, opened his door, and let him in, then walked around to the driver's side. Michael was surprised when P.J. leaned over and unlocked his door for him. At the question in Michael's eyes, P.J. felt compelled to explain. "I used to do it for mom all the time."

Michael swallowed tears. The boy was so much like he himself had been as a youth - concerned, brave, scared, thoughtful, eager to please and to teach... It almost killed him to know that P.J. would not be around much longer. There's so much I wish I could show you, Michael thought, so much I wish you could know about what we do, about who I am - who I used to be...

They drove in silence for several miles, until P.J. broke the pensive quiet with a startling question. "Michael, you're in love with Nikita, aren't you?"

Michael fought to keep his expression blank and to keep the car from veering off the road. He couldn't think of a tactful way to avoid an answer or divert the directness of the question into something more vague. Silently, he thought, I'm about to tell you something I've never confessed to anyone, not even Nikita... Very quietly, almost reverently, he said, "Yes. I love her." He glanced over at the child in the passenger seat, and was a little amazed to see an almost otherworldly wisdom in those stark blue eyes. P.J. already knew. Michael realized something so profound it almost rendered him senseless. It had taken the innocence of a child to bring out what he'd been keeping inside for so many years - he loved Nikita. And, as he drove P.J. to his favorite place when he wasn't within Section constraints, Michael realized something else - Nikita needed to know how he felt. Time was short - P.J. was a painful physical reminder of how precious life was... It was something he'd buried so deeply in order to survive the Section mentality that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to allow joy.

Now, in a sudden, astonishing epiphany, Michael knew he could no longer be the man he once was - the man Section had made of him. He was, almost against his will, traveling past that persona, to the man he'd been before he'd taken up the gauntlet of righteous freedom and the desire to live in an atmosphere devoid of oppression. Michael was changing - and all it had taken was a combination of irrepressible spirit in the body of a woman and the innocence of a child, in the body of a child...

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

Operations paced in the aerie, the ever-present cheroot in his fingers. His silver-blue eyes were laser-sharp and lightspeed-quick. "This is not acceptable!" he fumed, as his second in command sat placidly, waiting for him to finish his tirade. "That kid is walking around Section, free, and god only knows what he's absorbing! He's got access to all the computers - he could be sending the directory to every enemy of Section--"

"--You're being a little paranoid, aren't you?" Mad'laine gently interrupted. "This boy has cancer. His condition is deteriorating every single minute. The doctors are saying he probably won't survive another month. Meanwhile, he's being monitored because of the tracker we've implanted. He's been with Walter, Nikita, Birkoff or Michael almost constantly since he was brought in two weeks ago. He hasn't been near a computer, except under Birkoff's supervision. He's given us valuable tools to safeguard ourselves against future break-ins. He's managed..." Mad'laine paused, an enigmatic smile crossing her stern features, "to make Michael smile."

At that statement, Operations stopped pacing. He strode to face Mad'laine. "Michael?" His expression was one of complete astonishment.

"Smiling," she reiterated calmly.

Operations was silenced.

~~~

P.J. was beating Birkoff at Mortal Kombat. The two of them were lost in the battle, each struggling for supremacy. Nikita stood behind them, silent, watching the transformation. Birkoff was more like a child than she'd ever seen him before, and P.J. was more relaxed and cheerful. She knew the boy's time was short - every time she looked at him, she wanted to sweep him into her arms and hold him until he squealed. He seemed to bring out the best in everyone with whom he came in contact. No one could fault him for his arrival in Section One. He'd been brought in against his will, having committed no greater crime than the one of testing his knowledge in the wrong place. He wanted to live - he wanted to do as much, see as much, experience as much as possible in the time he had left.

Section One would smother his dreams, unless certain people took action to make certain he could live before he died. Nikita had made a pact with Michael that they would do everything possible to help P.J. achieve his dreams, or at least come as close as possible to them. It had been more than an agreement between them - it had been the beginning of a relationship beyond Section constraints. Nikita had not anticipated it -- it had simply happened as a result of the presence of P.J. in their lives. She and Michael had finally united in a purpose that was not Section-oriented. And it felt right, somehow - it felt good.

~~~

Walter watched P.J. as he walked to his quarters. His clothing seemed to hang off his fragile frame, and his body seemed more slight. "Hey, sport!" he said jovially, wrapping an arm around P.J.'s neck. "How's it going?"

P.J. looked up at Walter, and his blue eyes were full of pain. "Not so good," he said. "Walter..."

Walter knew, then, that he was close to the end of his path. He fought to keep the anguish out of his voice when he said, "What's up?"

P.J. whispered, "We both know I don't have very long, Walter. I don't know when it'll happen, but it's gonna be soon. Would you help me to my room?"

Walter bit back a profanity and swept P.J. into his arms, holding him tightly. "I love you, kid," he murmured into P.J.'s ear, and the boy smiled.

"I love you too, Walter," he said softly, closing his eyes.

Walter strode down the hallway with P.J. in his arms, his eyes full of tears. It isn't fair! he thought fiercely. There are scumbags out there, living the life of Riley, and this kid, who never did anything to hurt anyone, is dying... and all he wants to do is live...

Walter almost collided with Michael, who was on his way to his office. Michael saw the tears in Walter's eyes, saw P.J., pale and drawn, breathing with difficulty, and he knew, without a word having been spoken, that it was essential for him to be wherever P.J. was. He pulled his cell-phone out, dialed Nikita's number, and said, "Josephine - hurry..."

Nikita, hearing Michael's voice and the added command, knew it had to do with P.J. She'd become so interlinked with the boy, and with Michael in the last couple of weeks, that she didn't need complete sentences to tell her what was happening. She left her apartment in an indecent haste, making certain only to lock the place. She didn't care if Red Cell broke in - right now, only P.J. mattered...

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

He lay so still - so white and fragile, so different from the boy who only a few days ago had thrown Birkoff into a frenzy by reconfiguring his entire system with new, more airtight codes; who had caused Michael, the man of stone, to laugh out loud over a cynical observation laced with a snide comment; who had reduced the silver-haired dominator of Section to tears by reminding him of his own mortality; who had given Mad'laine, the frozen maiden, something so private and special that she wouldn't share it with anyone, but would call upon it in times of stress, and receive a smile - a REAL smile - in reward; who had given everyone something life-affirming and individual, without realizing it.

P.J. was dying - they all knew it. And no matter how each of them rationalized the fact that they were at his bedside, they each had a reckoning. P.J. had demanded it of them. He'd said, in a voice shot with pain, "You all are alive - you all have love, and hate, and passion. You have the chance to live on and make a difference. I wish I did, too, but I don't. So I'm giving you my last wish..."

Nikita had begun to cry then, silently, the tears running down her face unchecked. Michael stood near her, and he took her hand unobtrusively, and she had taken it gratefully, knowing that she would never again reject anything Michael offered to her in the way of affection, even if it seemed twisted. P.J. had taught her that Michael, complex as he was, still had a deep, basic goodness and integrity that nothing and no one could warp. She was willing to put all her trust and faith in that quality...

As P.J.'s voice rang out in the room he'd learned to call home for the few weeks he'd been there, he found that he wasn't afraid anymore. He didn't worry about his mother, who had worked so hard to keep him alive and protected. He knew she would be taken care of - Michael had told him so. And, knowing how enigmatic the man of stone could be, P.J. had pinned him down about what "taken care of" had meant. "Dead?" he'd asked.

"No," Michael had responded, his eyes anguished

"Then what?"

"P.J., we won't kill her," Michael had said, and something about the look in his eyes had convinced P.J. that Michael would do everything he could to make sure his mom would be all right. Michael had drawn himself upright with a resolve that had reinforced P.J.'s trust in him.

"Then what?" P.J. had reiterated, wanting to tie up this loose end, this most important one, before he was no longer able to do it.

"I'll make sure that she's provided for," Michael said very softly, his green eyes almost black from pain. "She won't want for anything." Except you, he thought, and for the first time in years, Michael had let tears fall...

P.J. was whispering now, his strength fading rapidly. God, I wish I had a little more time... he thought. There's so much they need to know - so much I need to say... He knew that he had to make every word count, every point had to hit true. Time was so short, and it was all so unfair...

He said, "Michael - tell her... Tell her what you feel..." The words were out, and Michael felt himself flushing with embarrassment at being put so pointedly on the spot. Yet, he knew he could not back down.

"I will," he said, very reverently, meeting P.J.'s eyes. Their conversation was finished - Michael could see it in P.J.'s eyes.

"Operations, I know your real name," P.J. whispered. "I won't tell - but you need to look at the people you control and remember that they're people, too - just like you..."

Operations, to his own consternation, felt tears, and he nodded, a sort of sorrowful smile crossing his features. "I promise," he whispered to P.J., knowing that his promise was good.

"Mad'laine," P.J. continued, and his voice was weaker - he could feel his strength draining from him, but he had so much to say, and so little time... "Don't let life pass you by..." It was difficult for him to get the words out now --please, just a little longer... "You deserve to live..."

Mad'laine let her tears come then, and she didn't care who saw her cry.

"Walter..." The munitions expert was right by P.J.'s side, holding his hand, crying openly. "You are a man among men... I love you..." Walter bent over him, weeping silently, clutching the fragile, bluish-white hand as if it were a rosary. No words formed in Walter's mind, but it didn't matter - P.J. knew...

"Birkoff, thank you..." P.J. coughed, and his thin, almost skeletal body lifted off the bed for a moment until the spell was controlled. "Thank you for giving me the chance to see my potential. I coulda done some great things for Section... And I still have the high score for Mortal Kombat, but I left you some strategies - you can find them under "crap" on the Z-drive."

Birkoff took off his John Lennon glasses; they were too wet with his tears to be of any use to him now, except that he wanted to memorize P.J.'s face...

"Nikita..." At the mention of her name, Nikita sucked in a breath, unable to think, frozen from movement, Michael's hand clenched so tightly in hers that it almost hurt him. He gently freed her hand and nudged her to P.J.'s bedside, his eyes dark with sorrow. He thought, Mon dieu, you are so precious, little one...

Nikita crept to P.J.'s bedside, took his hand, glanced across the bed at Walter, who was still crying unashamedly, and reached across the bed and grasped Walter's other hand. Together, they cradled the boy who had irreversibly changed their lives, listening to his last words to them. "Nikita, Michael loves you... he told me so... I know... it won't be easy for you--" P.J. coughed again, and his unnaturally small body was wracked with spasms for a moment. He recovered, then resumed his earnest request to Nikita, as Walter listened. "Don't let anything or anyone come between you... please...promise me..."

P.J.'s eyes were growing glassy, and Nikita could not keep her tears inside any longer. "P.J...." she pleaded, gripping his hand tighter. He fought to focus on her, even as his life slipped away. "Nikita... so beautiful.... Love him...love.....Michael...."

The hand in her grip went limp, and breathing stopped. Nikita held on to that precious hand, the one that had touched her, that had belonged to the boy who had given her insight into Michael's mind, that had taught her to live, to love...

She swallowed her heart, stood, and exited the room with dignity, to the surprise of all who had been gathered there. Michael stared at her as she walked out, and he knew, from her face, that she would need him later. He steeled himself for another heartbreak, aside from the loss of P.J. He knelt by the boy's bedside, and in an uncharacteristic gesture of tenderness, closed the boy's eyes, kissed his cheek, and whispered, "Thank you, P.J. - I'll miss you..."

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

Nikita sat alone, listening to "Blue Sky Song" by The Gathering Field. She was on the floor, her back against the sofa, the view of the city unenticing. It had been less than a day since P.J. had died, his hand in hers. She was so devastated by it that she could not function. All she could do was to remember his words to her, to Michael, to Walter... He'd been wiser than his years, and he'd died too soon...

More tears came then, and she wondered if they would ever stop. She'd made a copy of P.J.'s tape, just so she could listen to his voice and remember who he'd been... She hadn't been able to listen to it, though. The pain was too fresh to cope with alone, and Michael - well, he'd had enough pain of his own. In fact, Nikita realized that because of P.J., all of them had a lot more to think about than the next mission. He'd overturned their lives, with no exceptions, and no one had walked away untouched.

~~~

In the aerie, Operations watched the latest mission. It was moving like clockwork - yet, he was distracted by a voice in his head. A young voice, with the wisdom of an old man. "...You need to look at the people you control and remember that they're people, too - just like you..."

He stopped his pacing, stared at the cigarette in his fingers, and suddenly saw it as a distasteful taker of life. He tossed it onto the floor, stamped it out with the toe of his shoe, and resolved never to take up the habit again. And he knew he would win this battle, even if he never won another one for Section. He was doing this, not only for himself, but for P.J...

~~~

Michael had been baffled by Operations' seeming benevolent manner. He'd given Michael a week off, and had taken his cell-phone to punctuate the fact. When Michael had inquired whether anything was wrong, Operations had said, cryptically, "Don't worry, Michael. Everything's fine. You've done excellent work - you and Nikita should be commended. Now, go - have fun. Oh, and by the way - I've given Nikita the same amount of time off. I have her cell-phone, too."

Michael had left the aerie in a state of confusion and paranoia. Operations seemed to be pushing him into a liaison with Nikita. Much as Michael wanted that, he suspected it was another test of his loyalty to Section. When will they trust me? he thought in anguish. When will they let me live my life? He had no answer to the question, and his heart closed up again, as he headed to his office.

In the corridor, Michael was struck suddenly with a memory - that of P.J., telling him earnestly, "Tell her, Michael. You love her - tell her... Life's too short..."

He made a decision, then, and bypassed his office, heading to the parking lot. Nikita had the same amount of downtime he himself had - it was a perfect opportunity to tell her about himself. He knew she was aware of his ongoing mission as a married man - he also knew that it hurt her. I'll change that, Nikita, he thought as he drove. When you know how I feel about you, none of the other things will matter anymore... Michael felt a strange sense of completion as he drove to Nikita's apartment complex. He sensed her pain, and knew that he could make everything right - P.J. had given him the strength to do it...

~~~

In various places in Section, at various times, a single voice spoke in the background - a voice that had altered the way Section was run, a voice that had reminded soul-less people that they did indeed have souls, and consciences, and feelings...

"That's what made me decide to tell my story - the looking to the future. After I'm gone, I want someone to be able to hear my story and take something from it. Well, isn't that what most people want from the future, anyway?"

The End