welcome to your life
there’s no turning back

~ everybody wants to rule the world

“I don’t understand why it had to be that way.”

“Your job isn’t to understand.” She looks at you steadily, and you wonder again how it’s possible that her eyes can be so warm yet so cold at the same time. “Your job is to follow orders.”

Your shoulder aches where you crunched it against the door of the van during the flurry that was your retreat, and your boots are covered with a slippery substance you hope is merely mud and dead leaves. Madeline’s familiar word play holds little appeal at the best of times, but all you want at this moment is a hot shower and the refuge of sleep. “I don’t see why the two things have to be mutually exclusive.”

She smiles, and you can’t help but suspect she is silently laughing at you. “Until you do see why, Nikita, you will never understand.”

You sniff. “Suits me, if that’s the price.”

Madeline’s smile grows, a gentle curving of her mouth that confirms your suspicions. “You’ll think differently one day.”

Shaking your head, you move towards the door. “I doubt it.”

~*~*~

“Where are you going?”

Your next step falters at the sound of his voice, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see. Not today. “What’s it to you?”

One elegantly shaped eyebrow lifts at the snippiness of your tone. “We’re on close quarters standby.” Five softly spoken little words, but you know better than to think he’s feeling soft-hearted. Nothing will ever temper the edge of steel that runs through this man’s veins. “It’s my business to know.”

“Tough.”

One step and he’s right in your face, the hard curve of his thigh an inch from yours, his gaze cool and assessing. The faint odour of blood and grass lingers on his jacket, and you hate yourself for noticing that it doesn’t quite mask the peppery scent of his skin. Your hands clench at your sides, but you give him your best withering glare. “You’ll have to try harder than that, Michael. I’ve just had a two-hour session with Madeline.”

He doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Where are you going?”

Maybe one day, you think, you will not become breathless whenever his gaze lingers on your mouth. Sadly, it’s not today. “Well, Michael,” you begin with something akin to a pleasant snarl, “I’m going to do my darnedest to wash all this crap off me, then I’m going to eat something, and then I’m going to sack out somewhere on one of the most uncomfortable beds ever invented by mankind.” You smirk. “Enough intel for you?”

His hand is suddenly gripping your elbow, his thumb hard pressing into soft flesh. “There was no other way for it to play out. You know that.”

“Well, you see, that’s the problem.” You don’t bother trying to pull away from him. “You all keep telling me that I should understand why two innocent people had to die today, but the thing is, Michael…” The smell of blood grows stronger as you lean towards him, and you wonder vaguely if that’s the reason why your pulse is suddenly pounding. “I’ll never understand. Ever.”

His grip on your arm eases, changes. The press of his thumb becomes a subtle caress, sweeping across your skin, making the fine hairs from your wrists to your neck stand on end. “You will,” he murmurs with something that almost sounds like sadness, then he’s walking away without a backward glance.

You stare after him, your skin tingling, your clothes stinking of blood and dirt, your furious whisper of, “I won’t,” doing nothing to stop the shadow stretching across your heart. “I won’t,” you say again, louder this time, but the words of denial crumble and scatter in the air like the crushed autumn leaves that still cling to the soles of your boots.

~*~*~

Send suggestions and comments to Genevieve