Another LFN birthday ficlet, this time for Jaybee. Big thanks to Artisan for the lovely little plotbunny that morphed into the story below. *g* Summary: Sometimes things make more sense when you see them from a distance. Set post-S5, spoilers for all five seasons. Rated PG-13.

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She discovers the surveillance footage in her third month as Operations.

Her first instinct is to destroy the small PDA that she finds - quite by accident – behind an almost indiscernible panel in the main bedroom of the Tower. She assumes – as much as one can assume in Section - that either Paul or Madeline had placed it there. She can’t imagine that it would contain any piece of the past she would care to revisit, and yet she hesitates, torn between the bliss that is ignorance and the power that is knowledge.

It takes her a day to decide, and another twelve hours for Jason to crack the encryption code on the obsolete PDA. There’s only one file on there, but whoever buried it wanted to make sure it would stay that way, he says to her, curiosity etched on his painfully familiar face as he puts the PDA in her hand. I don’t suppose you’d care to share any juicy tidbits you might find?

No, I don’t suppose I would, she tells him. She knows she sounds more abrupt than usual, but she doesn’t bother to apologise. She will never know him as well as she knew his brother, but she does know that criticism and sharp words slide off his ego like an oil slick on water.

Fair enough, darlin’, he says, grinning and proving her point, you can’t blame a man for trying.

Curling her fingers around the PDA, she turns away without bothering to rebuke him for his familiarity. She doesn’t particularly care how he addresses her, as long as he does as she asks when she asks it. It used to bother her that the soul of a shameless letch – not to mention a borderline-charming conman - resided inside an outer shell she knew so well. Now she welcomes the idea. The more she learns about Jason, the less he reminds her of Birkoff, and anything that reminds her less of Birkoff is a very good thing.

She checks the security in the Perch twice before she accesses the data stored in the PDA, and vaguely wonders when she crossed the line from ‘careful’ to ‘paranoid’. Looking at the PDA in her hand, she suspects paranoia is something that comes with the job. Taking a deep breath, she starts the sequence to retrieve the encrypted file and feed it through to her monitor. She doesn’t know what she’s expected to see – herself and Michael, or perhaps even George – but what appears on the screen is something quite different. For a few seconds she is confused by what she sees – the scene seems strangely familiar yet she knows it is foreign to her memory – but then the slender figure holding ground in the middle of the large room begins to speak.

Well, I can’t say that I’m not disappointed in you, Paul.

Nikita shifts uneasily in her chair, conscious of the sudden acceleration in her pulse. Adrian’s voice is stronger, her eyes clearer, her face smoother, and Nikita stares in fascination at the younger incarnation of the woman she had once known.

I’m sorry you feel that way. Paul Wolfe’s voice is also stronger than she remembers it. His hair is sandy brown, rather than its familiar steel gray. His eyes look very blue. But you’re an intelligent woman, Adrian. Surely you suspected this day was coming?

On the screen, the electronic image of Adrian smiles a weary smile. Of course I did, Paul. Her smile vanishes. But what disappoints me – even more than your disloyalty – is your predictability.

Predictability? Paul Wolfe frowns, and Nikita finds herself unconsciously mimicking the gesture.

I could have set my watch by the timing of your machinations. George left the country an hour ago and will be nicely out of the way for the next two days. Tell me, Paul, Adrian continues pleasantly, was he summoned to a genuine meeting at Centre, or was that your doing as well?

The shadowy figure that had been hovering at the edge of the screen moves into view, and Nikita inhales sharply. The meeting is real enough, a much younger Madeline says as she takes her place at Paul’s side, each word infused with a subtle challenge. A manufactured meet would have only ensured George’s absence temporarily.

I see. Adrian’s finely sculpted nose wrinkles in distaste, her nostrils flaring. How very capable of you, my dear.

Madeline’s eyes flash with a dark anger that, from the distance of several years, makes Nikita’s stomach lurch. She hadn’t expected to be revisited by that particular ghost quite so soon. She had seen that very same anger during the last few moments of Madeline’s life. It had haunted her dreams for weeks afterwards and, even now, has the power to twist her insides unpleasantly.

Perhaps you can take comfort in the fact that you trained me so well. Madeline’s reply is the epitome of a politely and carefully aimed jab.

On the contrary, Adrian shoots back, her disdainful gaze sweeping Madeline from head to toe, I’m rather sorry I disregarded my initial impression of you.

A ripple of apprehension disturbs the surface of Madeline’s serene expression, and Nikita finds herself holding her breath, Walter’s long-ago words flashing into her thoughts. Let’s just say that Adrian is the only person that Madeline was ever afraid of. She hadn’t really believed him at the time – it had seemed impossible that Madeline would ever be afraid of anyone - but now, looking at the screen, she recognizes it for the truth it is.

Paul stands silent, his focus flicking between the two women as Madeline offers Adrian a brittle smile. Really? And what was that?

Adrian’s gaze narrows. That you were, are, and always will be, nothing more than a prostitute to the pursuit of power.

Madeline’s face tightens with anger. Before she can speak, however, Paul Wolfe’s voice slices through the room, the quiet fury in his voice sending a faint shudder of recollection along Nikita’s spine.

Is it really necessary to sink to that level?

Adrian laughs, a mocking sound that echoes through the Perch and Nikita, fascinated, finds herself watching Madeline’s hands. They’re curled into fists, pressed tightly against the dark fabric of her skirt. I think you’ll soon find that you and Madeline have long since sunk past that level, but by all means, Paul, let’s elevate the tone of the proceedings. She fixes her gaze intently on Paul, her dismissal of Madeline’s presence blatantly obvious. What exactly is it that you have in mind for me? she asks in a mild voice, as though they were discussing nothing more important than the weather or plans for dinner.

Paul takes his time in answering, clasping his hands behind his back and straitening his shoulders. His stance would remind Nikita of that of a soldier on parade if not for the gleam of triumph in his eyes. Retirement.

Adrian clicks her tongue in disapproval. Dear me, how ordinary.

The future – and former – Head of Section raises his eyebrows. Would you prefer the alternative? To be cancelled?

Adrian lifts her chin and regards him almost fondly. Firstly, dear Paul, I doubt very much that you would take the risk of having me cancelled. Secondly, are you still so unable to see the bigger picture that you actually believe there’s only one alternative?

Nikita watches as Paul Wolfe opens his mouth to speak, glances swiftly at Madeline, then nods to the waiting figures in the darkness to his right. I think we’re done here, don’t you? he asks, turning back to Adrian.

So it would seem, she returns smoothly as two burly operatives move to flank her. Nikita has never seen anyone look so fragile and yet so determined at the same time. I’m very sorry you felt it had to be this way, Paul.

So am I. He gives her a grim smile. Perhaps we’ll meet again, under more pleasant circumstances.

Perhaps, Adrian smiles in reply, a slow, knowing curving of her mouth. One never knows.

Nikita stares at the screen long after the three main figures have moved out of sight. It’s only after she doesn’t find him that she realises she is looking for Walter. He is conspicuously absent, and she can’t deny that she is relieved not to see him there. She wonders if he had played the conscientious objector card in this instance, then wonders if he will do the same for her when it is her turn. She blinks, a sour taste touching the back of her throat at the unbidden thought. Your turn? You’ve been Operations for three months and you’re already anticipating an internal coup?

With an abrupt jerk of her wrist, she presses a button and the screen goes black. The room falls silent, the only sound her own heartbeat in her ears.

Why had Paul Wolfe – she has decided on Paul as the most likely candidate, given that he had been the last formal tenant of the Tower – guarded this piece of history so carefully? If he had no wish to it to be stored with the rest of the ‘Level Nine access only’ surveillance footage, then why not simply destroy it? Why secrete it the way he had? Had he kept it as ammunition? A bargaining tool? Insurance? A reminder?

The answers to her questions have died with Paul Wolfe. She will not ask Walter - despite her best efforts, their renewed relationship is still tentative at times, and she has no wish to make him relive any more of the past than is necessary. The only other person she trusts to tell her the truth is - hopefully - thousands of miles away.

She closes her eyes as the bitter memory of Adrian’s last visit to Section swamps her thoughts. Michael? Any words of wisdom? His seemingly non-committal answer that day had frustrated her beyond belief but, as she opens her eyes and glances around the empty Perch, she knows that she would give almost anything to hear those words from his mouth once more. What have you seen with your own eyes?

She touches the small, cold panel of the PDA with her fingertips, trying to distract herself from the hollow ache that always accompanies any thought of Michael. What has she just seen with her own eyes? And what was it that Paul Wolfe had seen?

Walter told her long ago that Adrian had ‘gotten what they all want…freedom’. Had Paul kept this footage as a reassurance that perhaps one day, even if the chain of command was overturned, he would be free, perhaps even free to live another life with someone who meant something to him? Nikita feels an odd jolt of recognition at the thought. It pains her to entertain the thought, but perhaps she and her predecessor have more in common than she cares to admit.

She curls her fingers around the PDA. Perhaps he didn’t know why he needed to keep it – only that he felt he should. Walking to the window, the PDA gripped tightly in her hand, she gazes downward. Shadows stretch across the main floor, an optical illusion of natural light and shade that used to intrigue her. This is the world over which she will preside until someone – be they friend or foe – decides to relieve her of that command. If she is Operations long enough, she muses, will it come to mean more to her than an unwanted legacy? More than an underground enslavement separating her from the things she most desires? Will it ever come to mean anything vaguely resembling what it meant to Paul Wolfe?

She doesn’t know the answer to any of these questions. What she does know, though, is that she will return this PDA to its hiding place in the Tower. Not as insurance or ammunition - the people whose words and deeds she’s just witnessed are well beyond Section’s reach now, and the dead cannot be intimidated or held to ransom.

She will keep it to serve as a reminder, if she ever needs it.

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