Contains spoilers for "Cat and Mouse". For sk.

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It is odd, perhaps, that she should be thinking of etiquette at this moment. She is, after all, about to die. As the gun changes hands, however, she cannot help but admire the older woman’s innate sense of grace, the well-manicured fingers that lightly clutch the barrel as she carefully presses the handle into the recipient’s reluctant hand.

“What’s this for?” The question is superfluous, almost ridiculous in its redundancy, and once again she marvels at the difference between herself and the one whose life she has absorbed.

Madeline’s voice is surprisingly gentle, given the cool relationship she knows exists between the two women. “The debriefing is over, we have no further use for her.”

Yes, perhaps it is odd to be thinking of etiquette when she is about to die, but as she presses her spine hard against the cold metal chair, Abby knows that these thoughts are far preferable to the darkness that claws at the edge of her mind.

No further use for her. Her. She. Me, she thinks hazily, wondering if they will bother to discover her full name. They know she is Abby, but she has not told them the rest. The one thing she has not told them. The one thing she wanted to keep for herself. Dominic would not have told them if he was still alive. Perhaps he is still alive, hidden somewhere in this high-tech bunker, his very bones stinging, his flesh burning. Just like hers. The reward and punishment of pain draining his strength, dissolving his will.

Just like hers.

The women’s voices wash over and around her, as light and yet as irritating as the brush of a moth’s wing on her skin. The sweat trickles down her back, the thin material of her undershirt sticking to her flesh, the underside of her forearms damp as they press against the cold metal arms of the chair. They stripped her when they brought her into this room, removed every item of clothing that was stolen from another woman’s life, leaving her exposed and shivering in her underclothes. She can find no comfort in the fact that she will die clad in her own possessions. Perhaps she should. It will be one last reminder that once upon a time, she had been herself. That she had once been Abigail Claire Martin.

Madeline is still speaking, her voice low and lilting. How much easier things would have been if she had been their target. It’s all too late now, of course, but dwelling on such thoughts is better than listening to a debate over which one of them will extinguish her life. She hopes it will be Madeline. Madeline will be quick. Clean. Unemotional. Madeline reminds Abby of herself. Her old self, of course. Her real self. Controlled, cool and disdainful. Always mindful of the proper etiquette of any given situation.

The other woman is different. The blonde woman – Abby cannot think of her as Nikita, in her mind that has been her name for far too long - is all rough edges, boisterous limbs and a rebellious tongue. The stark constrast between herself and their chosen target was once a great source of fascination. She studied her from afar for two long years, but practice and theory are two very different animals. When she finally submerged herself in this new life and face and body, it was intoxicating. Exhilarating. Addictive.

And far too dangerous.

By the time she realised the colourful emotions and ludicrously idealistic beliefs running riot through her head were becoming a distraction, it was too late. They had corrupted her concentration, made her careless.

Made her forget that she was not Nikita.

Made her forget that it is almost impossible to fool a man obsessed with a singular woman.

Making her grieve for the loss of a life that was never hers.

The gun exchanges hands once more – less gracefully this time - and she feels a foolish sigh of relief pressing against the wall of her throat. Madeline will be quick.

“I don’t think so.” The words are dismissive but laced with pity, and Abby’s eyes begin to burn and weep. The salt of fresh tears stings her cracked lips, and she knows she has truly passed beyond the borders of her own life. Abby does not cry.

“If I do it instead, I think you'll regret it.” There is a polite pause. “But the choice is yours.”

Precise and correct to the last, Abby thinks dully. She closes her eyes, and the etiquette of death is suddenly very simple.

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