"I don't love you, Michael. I never did."

Michael had known Nikita was lying. As cold and neutral as her voice had sounded, as schooled as her expression had appeared, he had known she had only done him the greatest kindness she'd had in her heart. She had set him free, as he had set her free during the Shays mission.

Like for like. Water seeks its own level. And Michael had rejected her offer of freedom. Had it been pride? Or, had it been something deeper - something like integrity? To have accepted Nikita's offer of "freedom", on her terms, would have certainly assuaged her conscience, but it would not have justified his own existence.

No, to be "free", on his terms, would have been to have conquered and destroyed Section, won the battle outright, and obtained absolute freedom. Michael knew he would have settled for nothing less. He had not been surprised that Nikita had settled for less. She was young, and she had not yet learned all that he'd had to teach her. That their romantic involvement had complicated the teaching and learning process went without saying.

~ ~ ~

Now, Michael sat, his back against a tree, all avenues of approach visible to him. He formulated his next move, and was a little surprised to realize that he was still thinking in terms of "we" - himself and Nikita. His strategy, whatever it would be, was planned with Nikita in mind. Somehow, he would reach her. Somehow, they would both take down Section and be absolutely free. Whether she loves me or not, he thought, and a pain stabbed his heart like a hitch after too much running.

And I have NO idea how we can make it happen, he continued the thought. His mind raced. His trump card - Adrian - was neutralized, now that George was dead. He would still have to see to her well-being - he'd promised her he would, and after all else, he was a man of honor, as much as he could be.

What next? What aces did he still have? His contacts? No doubt Section would be scrambling to find out who Michael knew. At least his files had been erased. They would have to start from scratch. Birkoff wasn't alive to cover for him, and Jason was concerned about his own neck, so would be of no help. Walter was at the farm, teaching new recruits.

Could he be teaching the Section Six group? Michael wondered, and idly noted his growling stomach - it had been three days since he'd last eaten anything more than berries. He pondered the thought of Walter teaching the "Farm team", and filed it away as a possibility. Then, knowing he could do no more for the moment, he scanned his perimeter, listened intently for any unrecognized sound, and finally dozed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nikita slouched in a chair, sipping a glass of red wine. Her once-alive turquoise blue eyes were glazed and dark, reflecting her mood. The dust had settled, the smoke had cleared. Michael was gone - most likely dead. His clock and his tracker had been removed, and he'd rejected the field router. He was, in a way, naked to the elements. Nikita knew he was capable of survival in the most adverse of circumstances, but he'd always done it knowing she was alive. Now, she'd spurned him. She'd rejected him more completely than if she'd willingly married someone else. I did, she thought. I married Helmut. Willingly. I told Michael I didn't love him. I looked straight in his eyes and told him. Didn't bat an eye. Didn't give a thing away. Just like the Center taught me. All those times when he asked me where I was, thinking I was betraying Section, I was really betraying him, and I was so damned good at it that he didn't even know.

Nikita felt sick. Her wine was a lump in her throat, and at the same time the tears came, the nausea overwhelmed her, and she dropped her wineglass on the floor and dashed to the bathroom to throw up.

It took a long time. It was as if she was purging her body of every single injustice and betrayal inflicted on her and on Michael since her introduction into Section. For each heaving of her stomach, there was a regret, a vendetta, a requiem.

She crawled back to bed, her eyes raw and red from tears, both from vomiting and from weeping. She resolutely ignored the remembrance of the sound of her voice, sobbing Michael's name in her shame and sorrow.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Michael awoke, feeling the vestiges of residual sorrow, but not his own - Nikita's. She's sorry, he thought. She's been crying. Somehow, the knowledge reinforced his inner strength. She was sorry. She cared for him. She - possibly - loved him.

She'd lied.

She lied because she knew it was the only way she could make me leave.

Michael stood, stretched, and heard several joints pop in protest. He worked out the kinks with an abbreviated kata, and suddenly, he knew his next move. Nikita cared. She loved him. She'd set him free, or so she'd hoped.

I'll be free, Michael thought, reveling in his new-found humanity. And you'll KNOW I'm free, Nikita. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, noted the position of the sun, and gave a small smile as he trudged into the woods. His destination was fixed in his mind, and with that destination, a message to the woman who made the sun rise in his world. She would know. And, with her power, she would make true freedom happen, for them both...

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