"I can't do this anymore." The thought was completely out of left field, absolutely unwarranted. But, it was the truth. The breaking point had finally been reached - Michael had wondered, almost idly, sometimes, what would bring about his rebellion against Section One.

Now, he knew. Nikita had lied to him, as smoothly and skillfully as he had lied to her countless times. He'd never believed she could turn the tables on him - yet she had, and so effectively that he hadn't had a clue. She'd been working for Section, to take down an adversary so cunning and insidious that he himself could not have breached her security. No amount of knowledge or talent could have done what Nikita had done, just by being who she was.

Section had played upon her innate personality, knowing that Adrian would respond to it and trust it. And now, because of Nikita's unwilling cooperation, she was to be killed. It was so very Section-like, Michael thought, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in an effort to stop the throbbing pain. Then, he jerked his hands away, remorsefully. He didn't deserve to be spared any pain. Not this time. Not when Nikita was agonizing over her certain cancellation.

Michael wanted to be with her, to hold her in her last hours - but Section forbade it. He would have preferred to cancel her himself, if it had come down to brass tacks, just so he could tell her all the deep things he'd held inside for so long. He could have given her all the things in death that he could not give her in life.

Now, he was being cheated even of that small comfort. Section was holding his very soul in a grip so tight he felt strangled, beyond what he felt for Nikita. She stood so tall, he thought, and a smile fleeted across his lips. She wasn't afraid. She faced her executioners and she didn't back down. She didn't beg for her life. She was brave... Michael allowed himself a brief feeling of pride. He'd trained her well. Even when he'd thought she hadn't been listening, had been miles away from his earnest instruction, she'd been absorbing everything, he realized. She'd given him the impression of a typical ditzy blonde, despite the fact that very few blondes were actually as they were portrayed in jokes and television series.

He'd lost his patience with her on many occasions, though he'd only raised his voice to her on very few. He lived on the razor's edge all the time - worrying that she would forget a lesson or break cover, wondering if she even retained a fraction of all the things he'd tried to impart to her in order to ensure her survival. He remembered wishing, back then, that he could just tell her why he said and did the things he said and did. Section, of course, prohibited such confessions, so Michael had been forced to lie, to hide, to hedge.

And Nikita hadn't been the kind of person to buy into that subterfuge, then. But now - she'd not only bought into it, she'd sold her soul and was paying, like for like. Michael, as he fought nausea, could not allow it. It was too late, but he still could not allow her death.

He stood, not even logging off from his PC. He didn't put on his jacket, as was his usual habit. He left his office unlocked - another anomaly. He strode towards the aerie and Operations - his mind-set was definite and determined. Hapless operatives who were unfortunate enough to wander into his path were thrust aside as if so much kindling for a bonfire. Michael had had enough. He had been pushed past his limit - and he hadn't expected it to come so suddenly, but come it had.

He appeared like a deadly, ghostly spectre in Operations' peripheral vision. The older man turned slowly, confidently - almost smugly, his ice-blue eyes Arctic cold and calculating as a cat's eyes. "Yes, Michael?" he said perfunctorily.

Michael refused to allow the superiority of Operations to deter him from what he knew was the most important mission of his life. He took a deep, silent breath, gathered his defenses around him, and said, his voice low and threatening, "If you cancel Nikita, you will have to cancel me, too."

Operations stared Michael down, coolly appraising. He'd expected this confrontation - Mad'laine had warned him of the impending showdown. What he hadn't expected was the vehemence of it, the vitriol in Michael's words and manner. Perhaps he'd underestimated the loyalty of his Level-5 operative...

"Tell me, Michael," Operations began in his condescending manner. "What brings you here, really?"

Michael had played games with Operations before, and had won his fair share of victories. Now, he recognized the strategy - disarm with false friendliness and comraderie, then go for the throat. Michael was having none of it. He knew what to do. "You know why I'm here," he said softly, his eyes such a dark, murky green that Operations was momentarily unnerved - he'd never seen Michael's eyes that color, in all the years he'd been in Section One. He recognized, then, that the parameters had changed. This was not a chess-game - this was not a game at all. It was survival - of himself, of Michael, of all each of them held dear, of Section, of life as any of them knew it.

"No, Michael, I don't," Operations countered, his eyes never leaving Michael's. "Why don't you tell me?"

Michael had anticipated this, too. He said softly, "Nikita played by your rules. She did what you asked. She gave you what you wanted. She proved herself a valuable operative in an uncontrolled situation." He inhaled quietly, closed his eyes briefly, and finished, "She came through for you. She demonstrated she was loyal to Section."

"Is there a point to this story?" Operations asked, his voice flat and deliberately scornful. He hoped to goad Michael into making an unwilling error in wording. He wanted to know how deeply Michael's resentment and hatred ran. But Michael was infuriatingly silent, knowing that eventually, the silence would force Operations to speak.

Moments passed - long, almost excruciatingly uncomfortable moments for Operations, but not for Michael. He was accustomed to living inside his head. He heard a fragment of a James Taylor song Nikita had played for him once - "Trying to leave my body, just to live in my mind..." He knew he had the advantage over Operations, and it gave him a small sense of satisfaction to recognize that he could win yet another victory because of his Section training, instead of winning in spite of it.

Finally, Operations was forced to break the silence, or go mad. Michael had not answered his rhetorical question, recognizing it for what it was - a ploy. Sighing, Operations said, "All right, Michael - what the hell do you want?"

Michael's expression never changed - his eyes didn't flicker as he said, very levelly, "I want you to let Nikita live. To leave her alone."

"And what about you, Michael? What do we do with you?"

"That doesn't matter."

"Oh, I think it does. You're Level Five. Next in line to take over my job. I can't very well cancel you without having to answer to Oversight and George in particular, but I can't allow you to be insubordinate, either. So, tell me, Michael," Operations finished, "what would you do with you if you were me?"

Michael remained silent, his hands clasped in front of him. He thought about Operations' question, and for a moment, he was truly at a loss. What would I do with me? he wondered. Given what he'd just done, weighed against what he'd accomplished as an operative, Michael knew he was still above reproach. Yet, the question had no easy answer, and certainly not one that he'd contemplated in any detail. He'd always lived moment to moment, and after Nikita, he'd lived for her, day to day. Was it the musical way her name slipped from his tongue like beautiful poetry that made him strive to conquer one more mountain, one more river? Was it her body? Her hair? Her eyes? Her mouth? Her temper?

Suddenly, Michael remembered something he'd forgotten. Operations had said it directly after he'd given Michael the order to cancel Nikita - it had been after her two years of training. Michael had defended her then - not out of love, but because he saw something in her, something strong, wild, and valuable. Something that had been cured out of him by Section, something he recognized and almost desperately embraced. He knew, more strongly than anything else he'd ever felt, that he had to preserve her alive. Operations had finally relented, conditionally. "If she fails, you fail."

Now, Michael threw the words back at Operations with a vehemence that alarmed the older man considerably. "You told me that if she failed, I failed." Then, he paused, his eyes still dark and frighteningly intense as they bored into Operations' eyes. "Has she failed?"

Operations didn't answer. Michael's words had forced him to look at the entire scene from a different perspective. He almost laughed aloud at the simplicity of the question. Has she failed? There could be no denial of it - she had not betrayed Section One. Not once. She'd been unorthodox in her methods, true, but she'd accomplished the mission objectives every time. Well, almost every time, Operations amended wryly. There'd been that time with Shays...

He pulled his musings back to the present. No matter what his personal feelings were toward Nikita - and he had very deep personal feelings concerning her - he had to admit that she was, despite her exasperating "loose-cannon" methods, a very efficient, very perceptive, very valuable operative. And she kept Michael thinking on his feet almost constantly - a good training exercise for any Level Five operative to experience.

He broke the silence, his voice strangely thick. "No, Michael - she hasn't failed." He fell silent then, watching his protégé's face. Clearly, Michael was taken by surprise by his response. Operations knew he'd been prepared to fight, to wade into the battle with guns blazing - he'd seen it in Michael's eyes before the conversation had ever truly begun. Now, rather than feeling satisfaction at having successfully knocked his favorite operative to his knees figuratively, Operations was oddly taciturn. He felt no sense of victory - only a shamed recognition of his own weakness concerning himself, his decisions and his choices.

Something about the silences - the poignant, pregnant, weighty silences - had caused a change in both men - a change neither would recognize to the other, but which could not be denied by either. A truce had been reached, unspoken yet acknowledged. Operations whispered, as he fished in his jacket for his cigarette case, "She hasn't failed. And neither have you."

Michael gave a curt nod, and left the aerie without a word...

The End

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