The return journey to Section is a silent one. Nikita is hunched down in her seat, apparently asleep. Safe in the knowledge that Walter is engrossed in Shays' explosives, I lean back in my seat and study her.

She looks tired, I think with a sudden pang. There is an unhealthy pallor beneath her already fair skin, and dark smudges under her eyes that were not there a few months ago.

I let my mind drift, thinking of what I have seen Nikita endure over the last few months. Her unhappiness has been almost palpable. Her breezy persona is starting to splinter under the strain of keeping the sorrow buried deep inside from overwhelming her. I have stood by and watched life in Section gradually wear down her spirit, unable to help her and unable to explain why.

Her mood swings have been more erratic since Madeline saw fit to use her as a guinea pig six weeks ago. Exposing Nikita to a mind-altering program was a gross error of judgment on Section's part. Nikita spent five days swinging between subliminally induced elation and the horrors of withdrawal, a week of private hell that only ended when she unsuccessfully tried to put a bullet through her head.

When I found her smashing the phasing shell to pieces, my relief was almost overwhelming. It meant that she was angry rather than afraid. Her anger was what made her strong. It kept her focused. It kept her alive.

But it's not anger that I see in those clear eyes any more. There is a dull weariness beneath her usual bravado, a sense of accepting the inevitable that makes my heart ache.

My cell phone rings, quietly breaking into these pessimistic thoughts. Nikita stirs, and I avert my gaze quickly, not wanting her to wake and find me watching her once again.

"Yes?"

"Michael, we've got a problem."

"What is it, Birkoff?"

"A small aircraft on a routine flight from Tel Aviv to Sarajevo exploded in mid-air an hour ago, only forty minutes after take-off."

My mind floods with an unwelcome certainty. Tel Aviv airport has some of the most sophisticated anti-terrorist security procedures in existence...any known explosive would have been detected instantly. It appears that we were not the only ones interested in conducting a test on Shays' polymer.

"Tyler?"

"Exactly. He was in Tel Aviv this afternoon. Drayson confirmed it a few minutes ago. Operations wants you back here now."

~*~*~*~

Operations is waiting at van access when we disembark. Never a good sign. I glance at him quickly, taking in the heavy scowl, and my pulse quickens. Something else has happened since my last contact with Birkoff, and I have the sinking feeling that our involvement with Shays and Spidel is far from over.

Walter hastily disappears down the other hallway towards munitions, but Nikita remains at my side as Operations begins an agitated briefing while we walk quickly towards Comm. "We've just heard. The NSA vehicle was ambushed."

Given Operations' urgency, it's what I was expecting, but a flash of anger still surges through me. Damn. "What happened?" "The NSA guards were killed, along with Spidel."

I think briefly of Spidel, but cannot dredge up any regret at his passing. My mind races furiously. The NSA guards and Spidel are dead. Evidently, they were expendable.

"What about Shays?" Operations gives me a weary glance. "Apparently, he was the target. There was no sign of him."

Nikita stiffens beside me, and I hasten to forestall her inundating Operations with a barrage of questions. I can understand her concern for Shays' welfare, but Operations is not in the frame of mind to make allowances for displays of emotion.

"Do we know who did it?" Even as I ask the question, I know full well what the answer is going to be. Operations looks at me grimly. "Tyler. We know Spidel gave Tyler a sample of the polymer. The flight from Tel Aviv seems to have been Tyler's personal test of the material. Unfortunately, he now knows just how valuable that polymer would be to the Freedom League."

I let out a tense sigh of frustration. Why would Tyler pay for the polymer if he could acquire it free of charge? NSA's failure to understand the magnitude of the task they had taken over from Section is inexcusable.

"They grabbed Shays to extract the formula." I state flatly.

Operations flicks me an impatient glance. "Exactly. We have to get Shays before that happens. It's back in our hands. NSA obviously has no idea how to deal with this mess they've created."

We reach Birkoff's workstation to find him frowning over his keyboard. Nikita joins Birkoff and puts her bag down behind his desk. She seems more than a little shocked by this turn of events.

Operations stands over Birkoff, his manner more abrupt than usual. "Birkoff, where are we on a location?"

"I haven't been able to pick up the signal." Birkoff glances up at Nikita, a hint of doubt creeping into his tone. "You put it on Shays, right?"

Nonplussed, she looks down at him. "Yeah, on his shirt when I hugged him."

Birkoff frowns at her. "His shirt? I thought I told you his skin!" Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Operations watching this exchange through narrowed eyes.

Nikita shots back a defensive reply. "What difference does it make?"

Birkoff shakes his head, annoyed with her apparent lack of concern. "Thermal conductivity is completely different." Nikita bites her lip and looks down, a faint flush of embarrassment colouring her pale face.

As if sensing that he has been unnecessarily harsh, Birkoff drops the subject, turning his attention back to his screen. "I should be able to..." His fingers fly nimble across the keys. "...got him."

Slightly appeased, Operations slaps his hand down on the top of Birkoff's desk. "Good. Don't lose him." He turns to me. "Put together a convergence plan." Our eyes meet in a look of perfect understanding. There is no 'best case scenario' here.

He pauses and then sweeps an impatient gaze over us as if annoyed by some lack of urgency on our part. "Let's go. Let's get Shays out of there."

~*~*~*~

"Michael, I need to see you in my office."

I eye the intercom on my desk warily. I've just spent the last thirty minutes hastily profiling a workable sequence to pull Shays out, and already changed into my field gear. The last thing I'm interested in are last minute adjustments from Operations. But disobeying direct orders from a superior is not a luxury that Section operatives enjoy.

Operations is alone in his office, looking out over Section in seemingly quiet meditation. He turns when I enter, and I'm shocked at how weary he looks. His voice, however, is as strident as ever.

"It is highly likely that Shays is still alive. Even if he has already given the Freedom League the formula, Tyler is intelligent enough to realize that they still can still use him in the future."

"I agree."

Operations stares out over Section once more. "If you can get him out alive, do it...but your primary concern is to stop Tyler from getting that formula. Regardless of whether Shays has handed over the information or not, that base must be incinerated."

"And if Shays hasn't broken?"

"He's acceptable collateral, Michael." He turns to meet my eyes, his pale gaze unwavering. "That formula would die with him."

The image of Nikita laughing with Shays leaps into my mind before I can stop it, and I can't stop myself from replaying Walter's earlier words of warning. She's not going to be too happy if it comes to that. Nikita is profiled at second position. It's too late to take her off the team without attracting unwanted scrutiny from Operations and Madeline.

Operations looks at me impatiently, waiting for confirmation of an order that he hasn't really given. The cancellation order for Stanley Shays.

For once, we are in complete agreement. The knowledge that Shays possesses cannot be allowed to be exploited by the Freedom League...or anyone, for that matter. Already reconfiguring the mission profile in my mind, I nod at Operations brusquely. "I understand."

~*~*~*~

"Michael, what's the procedure for retrieving Shays?"

I look at Nikita carefully. She's trying desperately to appear unconcerned, but I know that she has taken this abduction to heart.

"Leave him to me. You're at second position...I need you to get to your mark quickly." She nods at me briefly and looks at her panel with a deliberately casual air, but I can almost hear her mind whirring.

The van stops with a sudden jerk and the opportunity to take Nikita aside is lost as she leaps to her feet and heads for the door, stuffing her hair up into a black cap at the same time. I let the rest of the team disembark before following, feeling oddly apprehensive. I have reconfigured the sequence with myself on point to ensure that I will be responsible for carrying out Operations' orders. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that it will not be that simple.

Not for the first time, I rue the fact that I was unable to take Nikita out of play. She is going to have a difficult enough time accepting the cancellation after the fact. To have her involved, even peripherally, creates a potential emotional minefield. I watch her as she joins the rest of the team and swear silently. For the first time since the phasing shell debacle, Nikita seems to be filled with a sense of purpose. This profile could not have come at a worse time.

The urgency of orchestrating Shays' 'retrieval' has meant that we are approaching the Freedom League base in daylight, never a comfortable situation. But the wire security fence causes few problems, and we encounter no resistance as we approach the building. The team scatters, leaving Nikita and I to enter from the west. I watch Nikita slip through an open doorway about 15 yards ahead of me before quickly ducking into the darkened entrance on my right.

The warehouse is in a state of disrepair. To my alarm, I find that what should have been a clear passageway through to the lower level has been blocked by a section of the roof collapsing. Shays is being held on the lower level, and unless I exit the building and follow Nikita, I haven't a hope in hell of getting to him before she does. Damn it! The low murmur of voices drifts towards me, and I take a step back into the darkness.

Nikita's breathy voice is suddenly in my ear. "I'm in."

I let out a frustrated sigh and lean back against the wall, a sense of weary defeat overwhelming me. This is not good.

"Everyone hold...Nikita's taking point."

~*~*~*~

I always wondered what people meant by "having your heart in your mouth". Now I know. I think my stomach and lungs are in there too. I'm so wired by the fact that I managed to penetrate the second layer before Michael did that I'm feeling more than a little invincible. Exhilaration zaps along my veins as I inch my way down the darkened corridor, hardly daring to breathe.

The rumble of male voices a few feet away makes my skin prickle coldly before I realize that I'm hidden from their sight by a pile of old wooden barrels. Ducking my head, I take a deep breath and keep going, more than a little relieved to reach the top of the staircase. According to Birkoff, Shays is being held somewhere on the lower level. Despite the circumstances, I can't keep a little grin from my face. I can get him out.

I hit the lower level and keep walking, peering urgently into each dimly lit room as I move quickly through the dusty hallway. When I see Stanley, it almost doesn't register and I have to backtrack my steps. I didn't expect to find him so fast, and I can hardly believe he's actually here.

He's alone, tied to a chair in the middle of the room. How easy is this? I'm so happy to see him I have to stop myself from rushing up and hugging him. But as I walk towards him, his eyes widen in fear, the blood draining from his face. I look behind me, but there's no one there. I suddenly give myself a mental slap on the forehead. I'm wearing a black balaclava...poor Stanley, he has no idea that it's me, rather than a Freedom League op. I yank my woolen cap off and smile at him broadly.

The look on his face says it all. He's so happy to see me that he's actually speechless. We grin at each other foolishly for a few seconds, and then I reach out to tug at the ropes binding him to the chair.

"Nikita, be careful! I'm wired." Wired? I look into his eyes. He's not joking. Fingers suddenly clumsy, I undo the buttons of his shirt, dreading what I'll find. Oh god. It's much worse than I expected, and my temper flares at the cruelty of what they've done to him. The bastards have strapped a bomb to the poor kid's stomach, and my gut churns with anger as I desperately try to think of the best way to get him out.

He looks up at me, his eyes ablaze with panic in his pale face. "Nikita, get me out of here!"

"I will, Stanley."

"They're going to kill me. I gave them a bogus formula, it won't take them long to figure it out." "Just stay calm. I'm going to get you out of here." My whole body is shaking and I'm telling him to say calm? "Hurry..."

I can't do this by myself. Praying that Michael has the right channel open, I appeal for help. "Michael, I've got him. He's restrained and booby-trapped. I'm going to need some help to get him out.

Michael ignores my request. "We have incoming hostiles."

Hello? Need help with Stanley? I take a deep gulping breath and push the issue again. "OK, so what do we do about Stanley?

There is a slight pause before Michael answers my question with one of his own. "Did he give them the formula?" Something makes me hesitate, an inflection in Michael's voice making me strangely uneasy. "Uh...not yet."

"Okay." Michael pauses, and I wait expectantly for him to give me a solution. When his voice crackles to life in my ear again, his tone is so brutally casual that for a split-second I can't believe he's serious.

"Cancel him and get out."

When I was ten, I went to the local swimming pool with my mother. I snuck away to the high diving board when she wasn't looking, so confident that I could do exactly what the big kids were doing. I couldn't. I slammed into the water with a force that pushed the breath from my lungs and made my skin sting hotly. Panicked, I thought I would never be able to breathe again, and I knew that I could never feel that bad again, ever.

But this is worse....oh god...this is so much worse.

My stomach flips over in nauseated shock, and for a few seconds I find myself fighting the absurd urge to laugh in hysterical disbelief. Cancel him?

No. There has to be another way.

But even as I stand here, my mind screaming no, I know that there is no other way. There's no way to get him out alive in the few minutes I have left before our team is discovered. To leave him here to be tortured is unthinkable.

How did I ever believe I could do what they wanted me to do? I'm the same stupid kid I was at ten, still convinced that I can do anything, so sure that nothing can hurt me. Hot tears of anger well up in my eyes, blurring my vision. Damn you, Michael! How could you ask me to do this?!

"Are they coming to get me?"

I swallow hard and look over my shoulder, unconsciously looking for incoming hostiles. "Yeah. They're coming."

"Well, they're going to need some ballast weights and a voltage supply. You'd better tell them."

I let his words wash over me, knowing there is no point in taking notes on how to dismantle the bomb. Hopelessness soaks into my heart and I struggle to give Stanley an answer that won't frighten him. "Yeah, they already know."

Stanley lets out his breath in a relieved gasp. "I thought I was going to die in here." I can hear the smile in his voice, and the guilt tears through my gut like a bullet. "You know, Nikita...when I get out of here, I'm going to grow you a diamond."

Please Stanley...please be quiet. Don't be happy that I've found you. With a shaking hand, I raise my gun until it is aiming at the back of his head.

He babbles on, his words tripping over each other in a rush of relief and adrenalin. "I can do it...all it is is a carbon plasma, but it'll be real, you'll love it." Stanley hesitates and through my tear blurred eyes I can see him trying to turn his head, trying to see me. "Nikita?"

I find myself shaking my head, my thoughts confused and disorientated. No...no diamond. I have to close my eyes to blink away the stinging tears, wishing foolishly that I could just open them again and be far away from this hell.

I stare down at the gun as it trembles in my unsteady grip, my mind and heart shrieking together in a confusion of sorrow and denial.

I can't do it.

You have to. You can't leave him here to die.

I can't do it.

You can't save him. Do it now! You can't leave him here to their mercy.

Stanley's frightened voice jerks me back and my heart lurches unsteadily. "Nikita!" I look at the gun, and I look at Stanley, waiting in excited relief for me to save him.

I can't do it.

"I'm sorry, Stanley." I lower the gun and turn my back on him, walking quickly towards the exit. My breath is burning in my lungs, my legs shaky. I'm going to be sick.

His terrified voice chases after me. "Where are you going?!"

I put my head down and keep going, choking back the bile rising at the back of my throat as the realisation of what I've just done slams home. I've just left Stanley to certain torture and death because I'm not strong enough to end his pain before it can truly begin.

What have I done?

~*~*~*~

Cancel him and get out.

I stand behind the security fence and wrestle with my conscience. I had no choice. When Nikita took the point position, she took the responsibilities that came with it. I had no choice.

I watch my team appear from several different directions, noting with detached satisfaction that we have sustained no casualties. Scanning the approaching operatives, I realize with a sinking feeling that Nikita is not among them. My pulse quickens as suspicion flares into life, a hollow echo from the past pushing past my defenses.

I can't pull the trigger.

Nikita finally emerges from the building, walking quickly across the grounds. Something about the way she is moving sets off every alarm bell in my mind. She's highly agitated and trying to hide it. She turns around to look over her shoulder with every second step she takes, nearly stumbling over the rough ground in her distraction.

Nikita ducks underneath the wire fencing, a look of panic crossing her face as she realizes that I'm waiting for her. Head bowed, she brushes past me, obviously intent on reaching the van without having to speak to me. I take two steps and reach out for her, curling my fingers around her upper arm tightly, forcing her to stop.

"Did you cancel him?"

Nikita won't look at me, but I can see that her eyes are damp and red-rimmed. A shiver of dread skitters down my spine. I try to tell myself that tears would be her natural reaction to carrying out cancellation orders on an innocent, but the sickening certainty churning in my gut grows as her face pales and she stares at the ground. She finally answers my question, her voice flat. "I couldn't." My mind reeling at the implications of her admission, I can only stare at her, disbelief warring with the dull realisation that I was half-expecting her answer.

Nikita tries to wrench her arm out of my grasp before attempting a determined step past me. I tighten my grip and pull her closer, panic roughening my movements. I only just manage to resist the urge to shake her. Pushing my face close to hers, I bite out the words angrily, afraid to believe what I've just heard.

"What do you mean?" She finally looks at me with a haunted expression. "I just couldn't." Nikita's eyes burn into mine, silently beseeching me to understand. "Not in cold blood."

I let go of her arm abruptly and she hastily moves past me and climbs into the transport. My mind staggering under the enormity of the consequences of her actions, I stare unseeing at the Freedom League base camp. For a few foolishly hopeful seconds I consider the possibility of a second assault, but I know it's not possible.

Stanley Shays is still very much alive and very much in the hands of the Freedom League. We have failed.

~*~*~*~

Michael slams the door of the van hard behind him, his face tight with fury. Unable to watch him any longer, I scrunch my eyes up tightly, hoping to block out his anger as much as stop myself from bawling. I try to swallow the hard lump in my throat, but it just won't go away.

What the hell was Michael thinking, asking me to cancel that kid? Is he so blind to who I really am that he believed I would be able to do it without batting an eyelid? I shake my head. This isn't Michael's fault. It's mine...my fault for letting Section take over my life, for letting them put a gun in my hand and death in my heart.

The van suddenly lurches violently over the rough terrain, nearly jolting me out of my seat. Startled, I open my eyes to find Michael watching me, his expression totally unreadable. The tears that I have been fighting prick hotly at the back of my eyes. Embarrassed, I brush my sleeve across my eyes. The other team members are very carefully ignoring me. I don't blame them.

For once, the journey back to Section passes quickly. The thought of facing Operations is making me feel sick. I cross my arms across my chest and stare miserably at the back of Michael's head. He had a very short, very terse conversation with someone at Section about ten minutes ago. I think it was Birkoff, but he was ended the call so fast I couldn't be sure.

I look around the van. Everyone is either sleeping or talking quietly. Suddenly uncaring of what the rest of the team might think, I leave my seat and make my way to where Michael has sat, unmoving, for the last two hours.

His expression doesn't change as I slide into the empty seat beside him. I can almost feel the waves of anger rolling off him. I've only seen him like this once before. I hadn't been able to pull the trigger that day either. But at least he yelled at me then...why doesn't he chew me out? Anything would be better than this icy wall of rage that he's thrown up.

Praying that he can't hear the frightened hammering of my heart, I lean towards him and whisper softly. "Michael?"

His head snaps up and I recoil instinctively. His eyes are dark with fury in his pale face, his body almost vibrating with tension. We stare at each other for a long moment before he blinks and looks away, as though he can't bear to look at me.

My mouth is so dry with nervousness that I can't speak. Please understand...I couldn't do it.

I take a deep breath and reach out hesitantly, touching him gingerly on the upper arm. Michael flinches and I jerk my hand away, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment flooding my face. Swallowing my nervousness, I try again. "Michael, please..."

Michael slowly turns his head to look at me with dull eyes.

"It wasn't your fault." He says nothing, and I fumble for the right words. "It's my mess...my responsibility." Frustrated by his silence, I hiss at him urgently. "Please tell me what I can do to fix it!"

He lets out his breath on a frayed sigh and closes his eyes, wincing as though in physical pain. Opening them again, he replies without looking at me.

"Let me handle it. Say nothing."

Guilt surges through me. I can't let him take the blame for my mistake. "But it wasn't your fau..."

Michael's eyes are suddenly boring into mine with an intensity that almost frightens me. "Say nothing, Nikita."

~*~*~*~

We arrive at Section all too soon. My delaying tactic of switching to B channel while in transit without informing Birkoff will have only served to antagonise Operations further, but I needed to buy myself some time...time in which to think of a plausible explanation for the mission's failure that wouldn't incriminate Nikita.

It's an impossible task. Operations will have already had Birkoff retrace the mission sequence. He will already know that the operative at fault was Nikita. They'll put her in abeyance. Cold panic grips my chest, squeezing the breath tightly in my lungs. Impossible task or not, I am still going to try.

I glance at Nikita quickly as we wait at van access. She is pale but composed, staring straight ahead with a stubborn set to her jaw. I told her to say nothing, to let me deal with Operations' questions. She only shook her head at me, blinking back tears before stalking to the back of the van for the rest of the journey.

As he was when we returned from our first meeting with Stanley Shays, Operations is waiting in the hallway outside van access. The rest of the team slip past him quickly, as though trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the storm that is about to hit.

To my dismay, Nikita doesn't follow the rest of the team through to the debriefing room, but remains standing behind me, positioned at my left shoulder as if to present a united front.

Operations stares at Nikita for a moment before turning to me. "What happened?"

"Shays was wired with explosives. There was no time to get him out."

He glares at me impatiently. "That's not what I mean. You had orders...why weren't they implemented?"

There is a hint of betrayal in his voice, as though he cannot believe that I failed to follow his oblique directive to cancel Shays regardless of whether he had broken or not.

"We had incoming hostiles. Nikita was in danger of imminent discovery." To my dismay, I sound rattled, my words coming out in a nervous rush.

The threat to Nikita's life makes little impression on him. "So?"

"Our team would have been exposed. We were at a tactical disadvantage." I press the point home. "None of us would have made it out. "

Operations looks at me through narrowed eyes. "What about the formula?"

Before I can speak, Nikita answers the question, stumbling over the words slightly. She's trying to appear unconcerned but I can feel her arm trembling against mine. "Shays...gave them a fake."

Damn her...why did I think that she would do as I asked? My stomach drops as I see the sneering disbelief in Operations' eyes, his cool stare raking her face.

"So, let me understand this." His pale eyes bore into mine. "We had the opportunity to contain the situation, but we didn't...because we were at risk." Sarcasm drips from every single word. He looks at Nikita, his gaze glittering with malice before turning his attention back to me.

Our eyes hold for a long moment, a silent exchange of blame and acknowledgment, before his expression hardens further. "Michael...in my office."

He turns and walks swiftly down the hallway. I can feel Nikita's panicked gaze, but I can't speak to her, can't look at her. There is no time to explain that I am so furious with her because I am afraid...afraid for her.

I can try to steer Operations' focus away from her role in the mission, but the futility of such a tactic is brutally obvious. I know him too well. He has already laid the blame for our failure squarely at Nikita's feet, and nothing I can say will dissuade him.

I move away from Nikita, but not quickly enough to avoid hearing her quietly whispered words, a miserable plea for forgiveness that pierces my heart. It's all I can do to keep walking.

~*~*~*~

"I'm sorry...sorry." Michael doesn't look back. He can't hear you, Nikita. I stand and watch him follow Operations swiftly down the corridor, feeling useless and wretched.

I couldn't do it, just couldn't do it. I think of Stanley, telling me that he's going to make a diamond for me, and a hot wave of shame floods my heart. What have I done? It would have been kinder to cancel him, but I just didn't have the guts to do it. What you did was far worse...you abandoned him.

I lean against the wall in the hallway, trying not to think of Stanley's face and failing miserably. He trusted me to save him, and I let him down in the worst possible way. What he will go through now will be worse than death, and it's all my fault.

After a long while, I walk slowly through Section but I don't know what to do, where to go. Walter and Birkoff are both at their workstations but I can't bear to see the pity in their eyes. News of a mission gone bad always travels fast in Section, and I'm not sure I could bear their questions right now.

I hover outside Michael's office, but he is nowhere to be seen. He must still be with Operations. Guilt swamps my thoughts, my skin flushing hotly. Michael didn't hesitate to take the blame for my mistake, taking the full brunt of Operations' anger. I now understand that his silence on the return journey was not only because he was livid with me...he was trying to think of a way to keep me from being blamed for the mission's failure.

Standing in the middle of a room filled with people, I feel totally isolated. Alone. A fragmented memory floats through my consciousness and I grab hold of it gratefully.

We're your family now, Nikita.

I square my shoulders and walk slowly to Madeline's office.

Madeline is studying surveillance tapes when I arrive. I hesitate, hovering in the doorway. She doesn't look up or invite me in, but I have the feeling that she's been waiting for me to come to her. I force myself to walk into the room, but I still don't know if this is the right thing to do.

"I heard about your mishap." I glance at her quickly. Bad news certainly does travel fast around here. She's still not looking at me, but there's no reproach in her voice, just a silent invitation to explain my actions.

Now that I'm actually here, my words seem to be all choked up in my throat. I sit down on the stool near the window with my back to her. I don't know where to start.

"What's wrong?" Madeline's voice is concerned, almost motherly.

I suck in a deep breath. I don't want to cry in front of Madeline, but I just have to get this off my chest. Turning around, the sympathy in her eyes is nearly my undoing but I finally manage to answer. "I don't know if I can do this anymore." The tears start to sting behind my eyes as I struggle to get the words out. "I don't know how I ever did."

Madeline studies me intently, her voice soft and reassuring. "That's what you said when you first came to us. But...in spite your own self-doubts, you've performed quite well. "

I look at her, knowing that any grip I had on my emotions is rapidly slipping away. My voice doesn't even sound like mine any more. "Where you see targets, and security risks..." I swallow the knot of anguish that is thickening my throat, fighting to get the words out. "...I see flesh and blood. Someone's son." I think of Stanley and want to weep. "Someone's friend."

"That's OK. "

All the furious feelings of anger and guilt that I've held inside for so long spill over at her calm dismissal of my misery. "It's not okay!" Madeline's dark eyes widen slightly at my furious retort, but she says nothing. I hold her eyes with mine, silently pleading with her to understand. "I can't live like this...I can't take it"

She studies me, concern etched on her face. "What about when you're not here? How's that going?"

I look at her. When I'm not here, all I do is think about how miserable I feel when I am here.

"I don't sleep, lost my appetite." I think of my lonely apartment, and all the hours that I've spent by myself, too paranoid about that damn phone ringing to go out. I think of Carla, and all the times I've have to lie to her. "I'm afraid to make a friend outside of the Section."

"What about Michael?"

Giving her a brittle smile, I throw his name back at her sarcastically. "Mi-chael..?" What about Michael, Madeline? Bitter resentment wells up inside me. "A friend's someone you can trust."

Even as I say the words, I know that my misery is blinding me to the truth. I do trust him. I trust him with my life. But not my heart...not any more. I don't trust the way he makes me feel when I'm with him. He makes me want things from him that I know he'll never be able to give, and sometimes I hate him for it.

Madeline seems to understand exactly what I am implying. "It's true, Michael has played a role with you from time to time. He's doing his job." She tilts her head to one side, her voice softening. "It doesn't mean he's incapable of caring."

My heart lurches. I know that...but it's just not enough any more. I bite out the words angrily. "Michael's not the solution to my problem, Madeline."

"What is?" She is being so kind to me, and it's almost more than I can bear.

My heart in my throat, I manage to ask the question that has haunted every waking thought for the past three years. "I need to know that, one day, when the Section is done with me..." I take a deep breath, struggling to hang on to my composure. "... and I have performed all the functions I'm capable of...that I'll be free." I turn to watch Madeline's face, unable to keep a foolishly hopeful smile from my face.

"Will I?" My whole body seems to grow taut in the short silence that follows, my blood humming in my ears as I wait for her reaction.

Madeline gives me a sad smile that sends a shiver of dread down my spine. "What kind of answer would you like?"

My own smile drains away as her implication hits home. She will tell me the truth if I ask for it, no matter how brutal, and I'm suddenly not sure I want to hear it. I take a deep breath and look her in the eye, a cold sickness churning in my stomach. "The truth."

"No. You will never be free from the Section."

I was waiting for them, expecting them. Yet her words still pierce my heart like a thousand shards of glass, ripping any hope that I hid deep inside myself to shreds in a split-second as I finally accept the truth of her answer. I will never be free from the Section. The sadness swells inside me as I let Madeline's words bleed into my heart and I can't hold back the tears any longer. They slide unchecked down my face as I lift my head and look at her, my soul torn between hate and gratitude. I could rage against the injustice of it all, run riot through Section demanding to know why I was chosen to live in this hell, but what would I gain? A swift trip to Containment, more than likely. No. My life is still mine. I'll decide when it's over, not Section.I won't let them win. I let out my breath on a ragged sigh and reluctantly let gratitude overpower the hatred, quietly giving Madeline her answer in a voice that sounds thick with tears. "Thank you." My breath feels tight in my chest, and my legs are shaky as I slowly get to my feet. I have nowhere to go, and yet I cannot be in this room for one second longer. I will never be free from the Section. I asked Madeline for the truth, and she gave it to me. We look at each other for a long time, and I realize that she understands exactly how I feel. She's no freer than I am. We're all trapped together in this hell on earth, and at this moment...I have no idea how I am going to make it through another day. My eyes stinging with tears, I give Madeline one last sad smile and walk slowly from the room.

~*~*~*~

"Do you understand the severity of the situation that Nikita has created by her failure to carry out Shays' cancellation, Michael?" Operations turns from his perusal of Section life below us to stare at me with hostile eyes.

"Yes."

"Are you quite sure?" I say nothing. Frustrated by my silence, he goes on the attack again. "Why didn't she follow your orders?"

"Our team was at risk of exposure." Even to my own ears, my excuses sound feeble; a totally inadequate attempt to explain a mistake that should never have been made.

"Because of the incoming hostiles?" Operations throws my own words back at me mockingly.

I say nothing.

"Why weren't you on point as profiled?"

"The intel was incomplete...I was unable to gain access to the lower level from my point of entry."

Operations' face is taut with anger. He looks at his panel.

"Nikita knew that Shays had given Tyler a bogus formula?" Hopelessness fills my mind. There is no use in lying...Nikita has already given Operations this answer herself.

"Yes."

He takes a step closer to me, his light eyes never leaving mine. "Nikita is quite intelligent." He says the last word with a sneer. "She must have realized that Tyler would eventually discover Shays' deception, and that Shays would more than likely be tortured for the genuine formula?"

Acid burns the back of my throat, and very single word I speak seems like a betrayal. "Yes."

"How much of a window did Nikita have to carry out the cancellation orders before she would have been exposed?"

I look away, my mind racing frantically for an answer that will not damn her. Operations, however, seems to sense a weakness. He takes yet another step towards me until he is standing right in front of me.

"How....long...Michael?" Beaten, I turn to meet his rigid stare. I'm sorry, Nikita.

"Three minutes at most."

His gaze seems to rake the very skin from my bones. "It doesn't take three minutes to put a bullet into the back of someone's head, Michael."

We stare at each other for a few seconds, unspoken hostility bristling in the air around us. Operations finally breaks the silence, his voice hard and unforgiving.

"Fix it."

~*~*~*~

My legs feel as though they've been filled with lead. I walk slowly through Section, Madeline's words still tumbling through my mind.

I'll never be free. Never.

No matter how hard I work, how many innocents I save. A sense of miserable hopelessness wells up inside me. And there's nothing I can ever do that can make amends for Stanley's life.

I tried so hard to stay my own person, to do what I thought was right. But for every innocent I try to protect, another one dies. There is evil everywhere...for every single piece of scum that I remove from this life, there will be another to take its place. Nothing I do seems to make a difference.

I stand on the main floor of Section and think of all the people here that I've been close to, made friends with, laughed with. I've seen them die, one by one, either by the enemy's hand or by Section's. I'm afraid to get close to anyone anymore, too scared that as soon as I come to love someone, I'll lose them. But I can't stop myself from caring about these people. Walter, Birkoff. Michael. How much longer can they survive? No one is safe in Section. Panic flutters through me, and I clench my fists tightly as the thought of losing them stabs my heart like a knife. I can't bear it. I just can't.

I have to get out of here. I've never suffered from claustrophobia, but I feel as though the walls are closing in on me. I can't stay down here another second. I need to see the sun...I want to breathe real air. I turn on my heel and walk quickly toward the ground access elevator, my heart pounding, feeling absurdly as though I am running from a danger that no one else can see.

As I pass by Michael's office, the door opens. Damn it. I don't look at him.

"Nikita." It takes every scrap of strength that I possess to keep walking. If I stop, if I talk to him, I don't know if I'll be able to leave. I shake my head in confusion. I just can't be with him at the moment. I don't trust myself. My head feels as though it is going to explode with the pressure of my conflicting thoughts. I have to get out of here. I feel as though I'm walking along a razor's edge, and one concerned look from Michael is all that it would take to rip me in two.

I flee to the world above, running from demons that I know I can never outrun. I stifle the almost hysterical laugh that bubbles up in my throat at the brutal irony of my actions. Trying to find solace in a world that thinks I'm dead.

Standing on the pavement, I tilt my face to the afternoon autumn sun, reveling in its feeble heat, still hugging my arms close to my body. I feel as though I will never be warm again. What am I going to do? I don't want to go home to my soulless apartment, and I can't bear to return to Section. I start to walk slowly along the street in the vague direction of my apartment, oblivious to the people pushing past me impatiently. I have nowhere to go, and all the time in the world to get there.

~*~*~*~

I close my eyes and press my fingers hard against my temples, hoping to ease the relentless throbbing that is making it hard to concentrate. Staring at the figures on the screen, a feeling of utter futility comes over me. I've gone over this sequence a dozen times, and there is no feasible way to bring about a satisfactory result without major losses.

The need to get out of this office, even for a few minutes, seizes me. As I push back my chair and glance through the open blinds, a flash of blonde hair snares my gaze, and I stand motionless and watch Nikita for a few seconds. She is standing in the middle of Section, her hands clenched tightly by her sides. She turns her head and looks around, her dejection so palpable that it makes my chest ache. As I watch, she seems to come to some kind of decision and starts to walk quickly in the direction of the ground exit access.

The urge to speak with her is too strong to resist and I open the door just in time to see her stride past my office.

"Nikita."

Nikita pales, visibly flinching at the sound of my voice, but doesn't stop. She puts her head down and increases her pace, and all I can do is watch her disappear into the shadows of the access corridor. Slightly taken aback, I slowly close the door and return to my desk, staring unseeing at the figures in front of my suddenly blurry eyes.

She's been with Madeline, I know that much. Was she summoned, or did she seek out Madeline's counsel of her own volition? I think of the sense of defeat she radiated, and my gut clenches with anxiety. I've never seen her like that. Even during the incident with the phasing shell, there was still that hidden core of strength beneath the fragility. Today, there was nothing.

In a vain effort to keep from dwelling on Nikita, I immerse myself once more in the profile, finding temporary solace in the solid world of percentages and detonation marks. The light knock at my door takes me unawares.

"Yes?"

Madeline is the last person that I expected, or wanted, to see, and I hastily blanket my surprise. She shuts the door behind her with a soft click, and walks gracefully to stand in front of my desk.

"I've had a rather enlightening conversation with Nikita." The combination of her sudden appearance and her opening remark conspire to lower my defenses, and I find myself replying rather too quickly.

"What about?"

"She came to see me." Madeline watches me as she speaks, her gaze calm. "It seems that her refusal to cancel Shays is merely a symptom of a much larger problem."

She pauses, waiting for my reaction. Suddenly weary of the never-ending word games, I drop any pretence at indifference.

"What do you mean?"

Madeline walks slowly over to the window before replying. She gazes through the blinds for a few moments before turning back to me.

"Nikita feels that she can no longer perform the duties required of her by Section." Her answer is no surprise, and yet hearing the words spoken aloud sends a cool shudder of dread skittering through me.

Madeline continues, every softly spoken word effortlessly piercing my carefully constructed shield of detachment.

"She asked me if she would ever be free from the Section."

Pulse jerking unsteadily in my throat, I meet Madeline's eyes with a calm I am far from feeling. "What did you tell her?"

Madeline smiles at me almost sadly. "What she asked for, Michael. The truth."

Nausea churns deep in my gut as the full implication of Madeline's words slams home, the poignant memory of Nikita standing alone in the middle of Section rearing up inside my mind. She's given up.

Panic flutters in my chest, and I stare at my hands on the top of the desk, struggling to keep my thoughts hidden from Madeline. After a few seconds, I raise my eyes to hers once more.

"What was her reaction?"

"She seemed to take it quite well." Madeline looks at me, her dark eyes searching mine. "Perhaps too well."

Our eyes meet in a look of perfect understanding before she turns on her heel and walks out of my office, shutting the door gently behind her.

My god.

~*~*~*~

Legs stretched out carelessly in front of me, I slump on my favourite park bench and watch the children squealing as they dart among the playground equipment. I come here whenever I have down time, as though to reassure myself that life still exists outside Section. Sometimes it cheers me up. Today, it was a mistake to come here.

I watch a couple with a newborn baby, smiling at them through my tears. They are totally wrapped up in their child and each other, and I can hardly bear the pain that rips through my heart. Unbidden, my hand drops to my stomach, suddenly despising the taut muscle and smooth skin beneath my shirt. Empty. Lifeless.

Will I always have this emptiness inside me? Hell, I don't even know if I ever wanted a child, but that choice has been taken from me. My whole damn life has been taken from me, and I'm so afraid that I will never know why.

What would my mother think of me, of what I have become. A killer who lies and cheats. I'm sure it's no less than she expected. Why do I still love her? She treated me like garbage...worse than garbage. The drugs and the alcohol can only excuse so much...she threw me out of her life without a second thought. I drop my head into my hands and try to picture her face, trying to think of a time when we were happy together...when I knew she loved me. I can't do it.

And yet I still love her...even though she didn't love me enough to protect me. I trusted her and she failed me. Just like I failed Stanley. Oh god...how did I get here? I can never wake up from this nightmare...it will just go on and on and on.

For what feels like hours, I simply sit and watch the children playing, tears streaming down my face. The hovering parents occasionally dart curious looks in my direction but they soon realize that I'm no threat to them. They probably think that I've had a fight with my boyfriend, or just lost my secretarial job. The thought brings fresh sorrow, my already swollen eyes brimming again with stinging tears. I would give anything to have those sorts of problems...anything.

You will never be free from the Section. I shut my eyes and replay Madeline's soft words in my head, over and over again. Never free. Never.

No. I clench my fists tightly and open my eyes to stare blurrily at the happy families playing all around me. There is more than one sort of freedom. My heart starts to bang unsteadily against my ribs, my mind momentarily struggling to comprehend the enormity of my dark thoughts, one word reverberating inside my soul.

Free.

A strange feeling of peace comes over me slowly...an exhausted acceptance of a decision that I no longer have the strength to resist. There will be other people to protect the innocents. I just can't do it any more.

I've had enough.

~*~*~*~

Despite the chill in the air, I can feel the sweat trickle down my back as I take a left turn onto Rue Martinet, hands damp in their gloves as they grip the steering wheel tightly. Where is she? She must be along here somewhere.

Nikita may be unpredictable, but in many ways she is a creature of habit. I know that this is the route she takes home. I also know that there is a park near her apartment that she quite often visits on her way home from Section. The park boasts a largish pond with ducks and other wild birds, and is a popular haunt for local families.

I drive slowly, my eyes straining to catch a glimpse of that achingly familiar blonde hair while Madeline's parting words hum in my ears.

After Madeline closed the door behind her, I picked up the phone with an unsteady hand. There was no answer. If Nikita was there, she wasn't answering. I tried her cell phone with the same result. No answer. I sat in a dazed fog of indecision for no more than a few seconds, before pushing my chair back abruptly and leaving the office.

I knew quite well that my viewing the surveillance tapes from Nikita's apartment would be logged, but I was beyond caring about protocol or consequences. I fast-forwarded through the day's tape with a growing sense of unease as the footage revealed no sign of Nikita returning home.

I slow the car to a crawl as I approach the park, my heart thumping unsteadily against my ribs. A family wagon rejoins the traffic a few yards ahead of me and I ease into the empty parking space.

Self-doubt suddenly assails me. What am I doing here? If Nikita is distraught because of the Shays fiasco, my presence will hardly soothe her nerves.

I scan the area. The park is not busy, and it doesn't take long to spot Nikita. She is sitting alone on a park bench near the playground equipment. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her head slightly bowed. I feel my tension ease at the sight of her, despite her obvious distress. I sit, hardly daring to breath, as I watch Nikita watch the children. Her eyes follow them avidly, and as I look at her face, I think of all that has been taken away from her.

A young couple with a baby are enjoying an afternoon picnic only a few yards away from her. Nikita smiles at the child through her tears, and something tightens inside me as she closes her eyes and presses her palm against her abdomen.

Buffeted by a wave of feeling I no longer have the strength to withstand, I can only sit and watch as Nikita weeps for everything that she can never have.

~*~*~*~

The elevator seems so slow, and the sense of calm that I had found in the park is rapidly evaporating, leaving behind only a misery that twists deep in my chest. I lean against the elevator wall and close my eyes, not wanting to see my reflected image in the mirrored wall opposite. I can't bear to look at myself...not now.

Fumbling deep in my pocket with fingers that tremble coldly, I finally find my key and open the apartment door. As soon as I step inside a thousand memories and regrets assail my senses, and I freeze, confusion filling my mind. This is my home. I shake my head in an angry denial. No. This was never my home. This is my prison...my living death sentence. I never asked for this. Resentment simmers beneath my fear, breaking through as I look around me with eyes that can finally see the brutal truth.

I can't live like this.

There is a cold mustiness in the air, as though I have been gone for weeks instead of two days. I toss my keys onto the kitchen bench and shrug out of my jacket that smells of the dust of another city. Amidst the bewildering tangle of thoughts crashing around inside my head, one despairing desire is clanging like a bell.

I have to make them understand that I never deserved this life.

The laptop is sitting open on the dining room table and I move toward it as though drawn by a siren's song. My breath catches hard in my throat as I walk unsteadily through the kitchen, unable to stop my gaze from drifting towards the place that has been in my mind for the last few hours...the top cupboard, where I hide my personal weapon. My gun. My gut churns with sickness as the fulfillment of a desperate decision inches closer, and I have to force myself to keep walking, one slow footstep after the other.

I stare at the screen for few seconds, suddenly afraid. As soon as I touch the keyboard, there's no turning back. Do it. Do it now. My fingers seem to move over the keyboard of their own volition, but the words are all my own, a cry wrenched from deep inside, a final plea for someone to believe in my innocence, that I never belonged in Section.

The only sins I ever committed were on behalf of the Section. I'm only guilty of not taking charge of my own destiny.

I stop typing and let the darkness wash over me, the memory of three long years of pain and regret, confusion and suffering seeming to scald my heart and soul. Staring around at my luxuriously appointed home, I've never felt so alone in all my life.

Every time I pull the trigger, a little bit more of myself withers and dies, my very soul slowly being crushed with every day that passes.

I wake up each morning in a sweat from dreams in which I can't breathe, can't move. I can't live like this. If this is the only life I can have, I don't want it any more. I stretch trembling fingers over the keyboard, fighting the urge to slam the laptop shut with every word that I type.

A fake obituary claimed I died in prison. In the end, that statement is true.

My heart pounding in my chest, I stare at the words for a few seconds. Will Michael read it? Will he finally believe that I was innocent? The thought of Michael sends a fresh wave of despair crashing over me. But Michael can't help me any more. No one can.

Don't think about him. Don't think about Walter or Birkoff. Just do it

Almost in a trance, I get to my feet and walk into the kitchen. One bullet, and all this will be over. Gone. No more killing. I open the cupboard and take out the gun. No more lying. I chamber the clip hard. No more blood. I click the safety off. No more pain. Somehow I end up standing near my laptop, my back braced against the wall. Just peace.

I was so sure that I would cry, but my eyes are hot and dry. Don't think about it. Just do it. The world thinks you're dead...dead to the world...dead inside...dead.

The metal of the gun feels cold where it rests against my forehead. I push it harder into my skin, desperate to feel something...anything...even pain. The tears finally come, scalding my eyes as I put my thumb on the trigger, but I feel numb... anesthetized, as though all my grief and pain has dissolved into a dead nothingness. I close my eyes, desperately wanting to shut out the faces and memories that are hurtling through my head.

Do it. No more pain. No more lies. You'll be free. Free.

I push my thumb against the trigger, bile rising in my throat. The blood is pounding in my ears so loudly that the knocking on my door takes a few seconds to register. I freeze, the gun still pressed against my forehead, as the realization that someone is outside my door sinks in. Another knock comes, and then a voice calling my name loudly, urgently.

Michael.

I wrench the gun away from my temple, but I can't seem to move, my thoughts a confusion of fear and resentment. What is he doing here? Why can't he just let me go?

He knocks again, louder this time, and I know that he won't stop until I answer the door. I have no doubt that he will kick it down if I don't open it. My heart fluttering madly against my ribs, I click the safety back on the gun with unsteady fingers before walking slowly through the kitchen toward my front door.

Fighting back tears of both anger and relief, I put the gun carefully back in its usual place, take a deep breath, and answer the door.

~*~*~*~

I press my hand against the cool wood of Nikita's apartment door, feeling my heartbeat gradually return to normal. After what seemed like hours of silent contemplation, Nikita left the park with a worrying sense of urgency. To my frustration, my efforts to stay with her were hampered by the late afternoon traffic, causing me to finally abandon the car and follow her on foot, but the delay has given her a good ten minutes' head start on me.

Her apartment is deathly quiet, and for one terrible moment I start to believe that I was wrong, that she hasn't come home but sought refuge elsewhere.

I knock on the door with a heavy hand and an even heavier heart. "Nikita."

Nothing. I rap my knuckles against the wood again, and lean closer to the door, ears straining. After a long silence, the door finally opens as I am contemplating breaking the lock for the second time in six weeks, and Nikita is looking at me with empty eyes.

She's been crying, her face wet with tears she hasn't bothered to wipe away, her eyes are red and swollen. I wasn't too late. An immense wave of relief washes over me as I push the door open and step inside, holding her gaze with mine. "We have to talk."

Nikita doesn't move but puts her hands on her hips, her voice flat and incurious. "About what?" Shutting the door behind me, I quickly scan her apartment, unconsciously searching for some hint as to her state of mind. Why did she take so long to answer?

Frustrated by her lack of response, I try to shock her out of her complacency. "I can't protect you any more." It hurts to admit it, but it's true. She's just handed Madeline and Operations the perfect ammunition they need to rid themselves of their most difficult operative.

Nikita stares at me, totally unmoved by my statement. If anything, my warning only seems to puzzle her, a frown creasing her forehead as she stares at me. "I never asked for your protection."

"Without it, you'd be dead now." More times that you will ever know.

Nikita looks at me hollowly. "You seem to care more about that then I do." At this point, I would have to agree with her. We exchange a long look in silence before she turns on her heel and walks back into her apartment.

I follow Nikita slowly into her living room, desperately searching for the right words. What I say to her now could mean the difference between life and cancellation. Fear of losing her floods my mind, washing away every carefully pre-constructed argument. Finally, I abandon my prepared speech and ask her the question to which I already know the answer.

"Why can't you just...do the job?"

She stops and looks at me over her shoulder, weariness etched on her pale face. "I tried to tell you." Her eyes, burning into mine, fill with a remembered pain. I look into her anguished eyes and know exactly what has caused her haunted expression. She's right. She did try to tell me.

I'm not who you think I am...I can't pull the trigger.

The moment I believe that, Nikita...you're cancelled.

I'd looked into her eyes when she finally did pull the trigger, killing one of Van Vactor's bodyguards to save my life...and I knew. She was innocent. The realization sickened me to the core. It still does. I know what she is going to say, but I need her to open up to me. "Tell me what?"

Nikita turns her back on me, her shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'm not who you think I am." Her head bows slightly, and I move closer to her, longing to take her in my arms and comfort her, knowing that I shouldn't. "I never killed anyone before I came into Section. I know you don't want to believe it, but you know it's true." With this sad declaration, she finally turns around and meets my eyes. Another step brings me close enough to touch her. I clench my fists at my sides in an effort to keep from reaching for her and search her face, desperately looking for a sign that her spirit is still alive

"It's not important what you did." I can hardly control the urge to take her by the arms and shake her until she understands the very real danger that she is in. "It's what you do...now."

Nikita stands with her hands on her hips and stares at me, her voice rough with emotion. "I...can't...change...who...I...am."

Hopelessness fills my heart, and I feel totally defeated. "Then I can't help you."

Nikita's face tightens in an effort not to cry, but her eyes still fill with tears. Tilting her head back slightly, she looks at me with quiet despair. "Why did you ever?

My heart seems to stagger in reaction to her blunt question, and I think of all the words I can never say. Why? I let my eyes roam over her face, a face as familiar to me as my own. The frustrated disillusionment that has my soul in its grip is no match for a truth that I no longer wish to deny. Because I need you too much to let you throw your life away.

I cannot tell her the truth, and yet I can't find any other words to explain my actions. Silently, I stare at her, realizing sadly that all the light has faded from her beautiful face. She has given up. A sense of panic floods my heart. Please...I need you to live. Looking into her tear-swollen eyes, I can no longer fight the urgent need to touch her.

Reaching out a suddenly unsteady hand, I caress her face lightly, her skin soft and warm beneath my fingertips. Nikita watches me intently with puzzled eyes, and I hear her breath catch in her throat as I touch her hair, something I have ached to do for so long. The luminescent strands almost feel like silk as I rub them softly between my fingers, the delicate golden threads clutching at my fingertips.

Unable to stop myself, I let my hand drop to her shoulder before gathering her in my arms and pulling her into a gentle embrace. She doesn't resist, but it is a few seconds before her arms hesitantly creep around my waist.

Her hair is soft and fragrant against my face, the warmth of her body pressed against mine instantly rousing my longing for her. Every single thought in my mind recedes until there is only one left, the one desire that has tormented my heart and soul ever since I met this woman.

If only. I rub my hands lightly across her back, feeling the muscles tense then relax beneath my touch, rejoicing in the feel of her body against mine.

Rene.
My family.
Section.
Simone.
Elena.
Adam.

A daily litany of sorrow that has crippled my heart and silenced my tongue, an impenetrable wall of secrets that I let no one break through - until now. Without realizing, Nikita has slowly been exhuming my soul, and I wish to God that she did not have to endure this life...that we did not have to endure it.

I take a deep breath, the clean scent of her hair filling my senses. "I wish...things could be different."

Nikita hesitates for only a split-second before answering me sadly in a tear roughened voice. "Me too." I feel her arms tighten around my waist, and she finally lets her body relax against mine. I know I should pull away, but I can't let her go.

My arms tighten as she buries her face against my shoulder, her body trembling with emotion. Nikita's sobs are shaking my own body, and my heart aches for both of us. For the first time, all barriers and walls between us have disappeared and there is no longer anywhere to hide from what is between us.