Walter pushed the half-eaten remains of his lunch around the plate out of boredom. He had been stuck in this medical bed for over a week, busy healing broken ribs, a ruptured spleen and lacerations he had suffered in the explosion.

God, of all the moronic things I've done in my life . . .. He replayed that day over and over in his head, kicking himself for his own incompetence. Michael had brought him detonators taken in a raid, detonators with a unique design. Michael gave Walter the ignition transmitter, so he assumed he could just gut the things and learn their secrets by reverse engineering. Wrapped up with ruminations over Belinda's death, showing off for his apprentice Griffin, and meting out fatherly advice to Birkoff, he never considered the detonators might be riddled with traps-and they were. He and Birkoff were caught in the blast.

"Hey, you," Nikita said, interrupting his silent tirade of self-recrimination.

"Hi, sugar," he pasted on a smile and set aside the plate.

"Not too hungry, huh?" She glanced at the mostly full plate at his bedside.

"You know: hospital food." He passed it off with a tilt of his head.

Nikita sat on the edge of his bed. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better."

"Walter, don't fool with me," she warned.

"Really, getting better all the time." He found it harder to keep the smile convincing, and judging from Nikita's expression he was failing anyhow.

"I . . .." He gave up the subterfuge of joviality. "Nikita, how could I have been so completely stupid? I nearly killed Birkoff!"

"Well, you didn't," she pointed out. "And he doesn't blame you."

That much was true. Birkoff never aimed any resentment at him, and it was probably pity restraining him, for the boy had little patience for idiocy. Frankly, Walter felt as if he were the king of idiots. Far worse than weathering his possible contempt was seeing the damage done. Birkoff stopped by to see him after he woke up from surgery, stumbling through for a brief visit before he went to recuperate in his own room after a night of observation. Groggy with drugs, Walter was still clear-headed enough to see the stitches, the bandages, and a classic black eye Birkoff sported.

"How are you feeling, Walter?" he had asked in his softest voice after settling carefully in a chair next to the bed.

"Been better," he had muttered in return. "You?"

"Headache. Big one." He had gingerly rubbed a temple. Obviously the light bothered him without his tinted glasses.

"'M sorry," Walter muttered, nearly inaudibly. He turned his face away on the pillow, ashamed not only of his ignominious actions but also of his inability to control his emotions. "God, 'm sorry . . .."

"It's okay. I'll see you later Walter. Get some rest."

It's okay. Walter wished it were all "okay". A week had passed, and he had yet to see hide or hair of Operations . . . or Madeline. He was still some weeks away from total recovery but he knew he was well enough to hear the sentence for his stupidity. There was some comfort to be taken in the fact he was alive. If Ops meant to cancel him, he could have saved the expense and time of surgery and let him bleed to death.

"Whether or not he blames me, I know I've messed up," Walter told Nikita.

"Oh, Walter," Nikita rubbed his good arm high up by the shoulder. "You'll feel better about this when your wounds have healed. Mistakes happen."

"Not in here they don't," he returned with some heat. "Not without repercussions."

Nikita chose to ignore his nay saying and changed the subject. "I wish I could come see you more often. It's been busy."

"I'm sure it has been," he replied sourly.

"Come on, Walter. I'm trying to cheer you up, but you're not cooperating much, are you?" Nikita cocked her head, smiling at him to encourage a response.

"Hm," he snorted, but couldn't hold back an upward twitch of his lips.

"There, that's better!"

Nikita left shortly after, citing yet another mission that required her attentions, but not until her lighthearted patter eased some of his anguish. The girl had a good heart and it showed. He felt grateful he could call her his friend in a place where friends came few and far between.

"Hey, Walter." A soft female voice, low in register as Nikita's but less throaty, caught him unawares yet again, underscoring just how much healing he had yet to do.

"Hey, Madison," he put on his smile again, but after Nikita's visit it felt far more comfortable perched on his face.

Echoing Nikita's movements, Madison sat on the side of the bed. She visited Walter during his internment in medical every day. Of all the well-wishers that came by, he looked forward to her visits most of all. His apprentice David Griffin seemed to have genuine affection for him, but Walter could do without the loud jokes and boundless energy with which he paced around the room. Nikita was far too busy to visit much, and when Birkoff came around, well . . .. Walter kept his gruff amiability on hand but he could hardly look the boy in the face for each time he saw him, his stomach would hit the bottom floor of shame in a flashback of regret. As for Madison, she had a soothing presence and a modulated voice that did not fatigue him.

Transferred from a sub-station of Section two months ago as a sharpshooter, Madison had broken her ankle in a desperate leap on her very first day. She was a sniper, a single-task op and very good from what Walter heard. Since then, Madeline had taken an unsettling interest in the girl, burdening her with language lessons and book learning in addition to the physical recovery programs-for what reason Walter couldn't even begin to guess at.

When she found time, Madison would limp down to Walter's work and learn what she could at his elbow. Polite and friendly from the get-go, she had joined in the banter that flew around the armory yet somehow she kept herself at arm's length. The first time she visited Walter after the blast, it seemed her genuine warmth of presence was finally obtainable and he noticed the difference. It seemed an unusual silver lining, but Walter approved of the change. Girl-next-door pretty, petite, and bustier than Nikita, he enjoyed her fellowship and not only because he could easily leer down her shirt. She was a good kid, one of his "five percent club".

"What? No Griffin hanging around to pester you?" Madison asked. More times than not, she would run into Griffin coming or going or sometimes visiting at the same time.

"Oh, he's not interested in keeping me company. He just hangs around because he knows you come every day," he said. "And you know what? He annoys the hell out of me, the little bastard. Why don't you bed him already and get him out of my hair?"

"As if!" Madison laughed merrily and tucked an errant lock of dark hair behind her ear. "Besides, you like him and you know it! You're just an old softy."

"Like him? Hardly!" He fussed with the sling immobilizing his shoulder, accepting the gentle ribbing since it came from her.

"I think the gentleman doth protest too much. He's like a son to you, isn't he?"

He made a disparaging noise deep in his throat.

"What about you?" Walter turned the question back on her.

"What about me?"

"Do you have the hots for Griffin?"

"The hots? Hardly!" She tossed his exclamation back at him. "He's not my type."

"Who is your type?" he asked, craftily.

"Like I'd tell you if I did fancy anyone, you letch!"

"Oho, so there is someone." Walter leaned back on his throne of pillows in satisfaction.

"You're dreaming, Walter. Has the nurse upped your pain medication?"

"No, no matter how much I beg her to," he said sourly. "Nobody has appreciation for recreational drugs anymore."

"So when do you bust outta here?"

"Soon." He sobered. "Maybe tomorrow. I'll be back to light duty in a week or two." He shifted his weight against the pillows, uncomfortable. "Maybe three."

"About time you pulled your weight around here," she teased. "As soon as the cast came off I've been thrown to the wolves. Strength-training, martial arts, hand-to-hand combat . . .."

"So whose material are you?"

"Michael's, I guess." She shrugged. "Although I don't see much of him. I think it's his program, but he makes everyone else do his dirty work. It's mostly review anyhow. Tomorrow I'm off for my first assignment outside since the cast came off."

"Yeah? Can you tell me about it?"

"It's just surveillance, very low key. I'm not yet 100% physically up to speed, but smooth moves are not essential criteria for this mission." She smiled mischievously and waggled her eyebrows at Walter. "I'm going to be watching some woman, see who keeps her company-especially if it happens to be male company. And I get to take pictures."

Walter nodded, but he didn't rise to the bait. He looked far more robust than he had in the first days after his injuries, but he still had a fragile look around the edges and pallor in his skin. Madison recognized he needed to rest and leaned forward in her chair to press dry lips against his cheek.

"You sleep some more," she said gently. "You need rest to get all the way well."

Since he didn't try propositioning her for anything besides a chaste peck on the cheek, she realized he must be very fatigued.

"See you later," he said as she quietly departed. He let his eyelids drift south in a mellow drifting of thoughts that-for the moment-held nothing at all.

"Walter."

His eyes snapped open at the sound of that imperious voice, his pupils dilating in disconcerted fear. Operations stood at the foot of his bed, reflected white light hiding his bespectacled eyes with a sinister blankness.

"Care to enlighten my as to why we no longer have a complete and functioning armory?"

"Ah. . .." Walter scrambled internally for some iota of energy he could use to bolster himself against Ops' assault. Pulled from the precipitous edge of unconsciousness, he despaired of finding the resources for defending himself against what he knew Ops was working up to: a verbal attack.

"While you're at it, you could also explain for the budget why I had to pull in additional personnel to cover for you and Birkoff."

Walter looked down.

"Well?"

"Well what?" he snapped. "I screwed up!"

"Yes, spectacularly. What the hell were you thinking? Or were you thinking at all?"

"I dunno," Walter mumbled. Damn, too tired to think.

"You don't know?" Ops set his hands on his hips, his volume raised. "We have no use for people that can't perform their jobs, and we don't have time for people to carry on about lost loved ones."

Walter met Ops glare with a threat of his own. "You don't talk to me about my personal life or what I've lost." His voice lay next to the visceral violence he was capable of dealing. When his wife Belinda died he knew Ops was responsible. Walter nearly planted a bullet deep between those pale eyes then but Nikita and Birkoff pulled him back from that precipice. The desire to carry through and shoot the bastard felt strong right now.

"I'll talk to you about anything I see fit to!" Operations roared.

"Screw you!" Walter retorted, throwing coherent thought and caution to the wind and angrily defending his memories of Belinda.

Operations' face worked, holding back his rage. He lowered his voice. "Get better soon, Walter, so you can see just what you reaped from your mistake."

He turned and marched out, leaving Walter alone.

Madeline requested Madison's presence in her office before she left on her assignment. Madison obliged promptly, dressed in clothes chosen for the assignment. She conquered the urge to fidget but she felt uncomfortable in the tight pants and tighter top.

"You received all the details of surveillance from Simon?" Madeline inquired.

"Yes. I have it memorized."

"You'll be a waitress in a bar. It is far from glamorous, but your sojourn into the streets several years ago will serve you well," Madeline reiterated the bare bones of the mission. "Cynthia Donlin is the object of your surveillance. She works at this bar. Befriend her. Her home is already wired and monitored; your job is to see who she associates with at work."

"How long do you anticipate this might last?"

"Oh, no more than a couple of weeks," Madeline took a brisk breath. "This is more of a confirmation of rumor than anything. We want to see if she's cheating sexually on her relationship with our primary target, Jonathan Cummings." She glanced at her monitor. "Griffin will see to it you have the proper photographic equipment to gather any evidence should Cynthia give you opportunity. You have your wardrobe prepared already."

"Yes, I'm all set."

"You told me the first day we met that you would prefer to chose your own accommodations when your ankle had healed," Madeline abruptly changed the subject. "I see no more crutches . . .."

A nervous chuckle escaped Madison. "Ah, no. I guess I've put it off, but there is no reason to put it off any longer, is there?"

"When you are not working at the bar, you will have ample time to find a place of your own."

"Might I ask why?" Madison leaned to one side in her chair. "I mean, at my last assignment there were are several operatives who spent all their time within Section walls. Granted, most don't, but . . .."

"Do not presume that things run the same here as they do at other Section locations," Madeline verbally lashed her. She re-modulated her tone and tilted her head slightly. "Might I ask why you seem so reluctant?"

"I'm not. I've just been busy." She reflexively defended her position, rattled by the abrupt changes Madeline took.

"You've been inside for nearly a year now, ever since your roommates were killed. Are you frightened to live outside of these walls?"

"No, I-it just seemed convenient." Madison grabbed a quick calming breath and regained the professional mien that she began this meeting with. "Is there a part of the city you might recommend? I haven't had time to explore much."

The manager hired Madison on the spot at the bar. Convincing him took little foresight on her part; merely a lot of cleavage. The clothes Madeline chose for Madison's undercover persona accentuated her full bust-line and youthful curves. She found them far from comfortable, but she knew it was the thing to wear for the job.

Cynthia Donlin proved to be a very obliging target of surveillance, friendly to a fault and very forward. She introduced herself as Madison struggled into her uniform in the back room and offered her insider's knowledge of how things ran at the Vine Tavern and Grill.

The commute to and from Section was manageable, if long, but Madison came to look forward to the interlude of droning highway song. Between tedious hours slinging drinks and pounding the pavement looking for a flat, she did little more than sleep in her room at Section. At least she could forego the German lessons for now.

A long week dragged its feet. Cynthia was indeed cuckolding her boyfriend with many partners. Madison pondered what the information she gathered was for, but she didn't care one way or the other, except that watching Cynthia pump away on a transient busboy in the back room the very first night reminded her how long it had been since she had sex last. Dutifully, she clicked pictures of Cynthia's lewd adventures in and about the bar and turned them in to Simon every night.

Eight days after beginning her career as a waitress, she captured Cynthia in yet another orgy of fleshly delight in the cellar storeroom. When her shift ended, she gratefully climbed into her car and drove back to Section.

"Another roll of porn for me?" Simon took the disk Madison offered to him. His eyes blazed a trail south on her body, absorbing the laced corset and bountiful fountain of cleavage her waitress garb boasted with appreciation. The two-hour drive gave her ample chance to wind down after pounding bass lines, spilled beer and restless hands on various parts of her anatomy but did nothing for her fatigue-or annoyance.

"Enjoy," she replied with dreary sarcasm and turned on her heel to leave before Simon tried to engage her in more conversation and deny her further quality time with her pillow. Instead of her pillow, however, she stumbled right into Birkoff as she tried to take her hasty exit from Simon. He dropped his computer printout and the plastic sleeve of chocolate cookies riding on top.

"I'm sorry," they said simultaneously. He knelt and gathered up the papers with one sweep of his hands, set the cookies on top once more, then straightened.

"No, it was me," Madison insisted. "I'm so tired I can't even see straight. Sorry, really."

"I wasn't looking where I was going either," he said. She seemed taller than he recalled. He decided it was the lack of crutches. "You're got that surveillance job at the bar, don't you?"

"Yeah, that's me. I'm not in the habit of wearing a cocktail waitress uniform just for fun," she said wryly. She worked the late shift with Cynthia Cummings, and by the time she returned to Section it was often three AM in the morning, just as it was now. She rarely saw anyone but Simon at this hour. A crumb of curiosity prompted her to ask, "Hey, aren't you supposed to be sleeping this time of night?"

"Something came up," he said. It occurred to him to add, "I'm almost done, though."

"I'm done, too-done in, so, goodnight." Talking to Birkoff was far more enjoyable than talking to Simon in any given situation, but she was so tired and her feet ached so badly that finding her bed was fast becoming an urgent necessity. She hurried away past him with the slightest of limps, intent on getting home. She paused out of earshot near the mouth of the hall, bracing herself with one hand on the wall, and extracted her feet one at a time from the high-heeled shoes she wore.

"Just a little more," Simon said quietly, speaking about Madison's backside as he watched her egress from behind Birkoff. "Bend over, you can do it . . . yeah." He sighed. "That is some mini-skirt."

Birkoff grimaced at him in distaste, but he let his own imagination wander off its leash for just a moment before he called it to heel. Nah, he thought. His photographic memory called up her file, re-read the birth date in his mind. She's older than me . . . she'd probably tell me she just wants to stay friends. It was embarrassing enough to have that excuse tossed in his lap once: he wasn't about to open himself up to more of the same kind of humiliation. Her back turned, Madison missed the exchange and disappeared down the hall. Birkoff returned to his station, his mind racing forward to finish the task at hand so he could find his own rest.

Nikita surprised Madison at the bar while she worked, sauntering up to the bar in boots and a slinky dress. She gave Madison a "come here" gesture with a crooked finger.

"Hey, Catherine! Long time no see, girl," she said with enthusiasm.

"Nikita! It's been months! What are you doing here?" Madison picked up her end of the role playing with ease.

"Well, I found myself in town, thought I'd look you up . . .."

"I'm glad you did. Hey, I've got a break coming up. Can you stick around until then?"

Her cover assured, Madison escorted Nikita to a corner of the bar where they could talk more frankly.

"What's up?"

"Jonathan Cummings is dead. We don't need you here anymore," Nikita explained.

"Thank god!" Madison exclaimed. "Can I quit right now?"

"No. We're to pick up Cynthia Donlin and bring her in-willingly if we can, and keep her insulated."

"Mm." Madison's mind raced. "Is there any back-up with you?"

"It's just me and you."

"I've given Madeline my reports." Annoyance colored her voice. "Why didn't she just send in a Valentine op? This girl would go home with just about anything in pants."

Nikita shrugged. "I dunno. But it's up to us."

Madison fingered her watch thoughtfully. "I don't have a lot of time here. Let me think about it for a bit. She gets off her shift in . . . two and a half hours. We've got that much time."

"Okay. I'll wait for you."

Madison resumed serving drinks, brushing off drunken advances with hardly a thought and thinking hard about how to get Cynthia to come with her and Nikita. If Cynthia were half as interested in girls as she was in boys, there would be no problem, but that was not the case.

An idea washed over her unexpectedly.

In the back room, many illegal dealings were given free rent, one of which was the vending of roofies or Rohypnol, a tranquilizer much stronger than diazepam, sold to wannabe Lotharios with no guts to court a girl honestly and sexual predators who liked their prey docile. Madison carried out another drink to Nikita and gave her a sketchy outline of her plan.

"Okay. I'll go buy what we need. Who do I talk to?"

An hour before her shift ended, Cynthia began to feel poorly. Madison graciously offered to help the girl home, and soon she was bundled in the car between Madison and Nikita, en route to Section.

"How's she doing?" Nikita asked. She drove her car, for housekeeping would pick up Madison's car after they took down the audio bugs that littered the bar.

"She's out of it," Madison pulled up an eyelid. Cynthia lolled her head emitting wordless sounds for a moment. "She won't remember any of this."

"Good for her," Nikita said emphatically, landing hard on the "her".

"What do you mean?"

Illuminated from the soft cool glow from the instrument panel of the car, Nikita's face was a porcelain mask washed in blue. "There's a good chance she'll give Madeline what she wants and just walk back to her life."

Madison felt confusion. "Yeah, well, that's what Madeline is supposed to do. She has no value as anything else. It would be silly to keep her."

"Or kill her?"

"Why would Madeline order that? If she has no idea who it is questioning her, and we get her back in a similar way, she'll never know what the hell happened to her."

"Still." Resentment colored the word.

"Still what?"

"She gets out. She gets back to her life." Nikita's accent thickened.

A passing car's headlights drew all color from Nikita's face. It passed, and the coolly blue light returned. Madison wasn't sure what to say.

"She didn't have much of a life," she said thoughtfully. "I sure haven't enjoyed living it this past week. Over a week."

"Yeah, but it'd be better than what we do."

Madison shook her head. "I like my job."

"What?" Nikita turned her head to gape at Madison over Cynthia's oblivious form. "You like your job?"

"Well, yes."

"Wouldn't you want to go back to your life before Section?"

"No. It was terrible," she replied simply. "All I had was an obsession with revenge. It was a hellish time for me. I never want to go back to that emptiness. Since I joined Section, I've had purpose. I do my share to stop truly evil people."

Nikita fell silent.

"What about this girl here?" Nikita nudged Cynthia with her shoulder. "Is she evil?"

"Evil? No. But she has made many poor choices in her life. She's the one who chose to consort with that Cummings guy. She probably deserves a little shaking up before she gets to go home."

"She might not go home ya know." Nikita spared her another glance.

"I don't see the purpose of that."

"That has nothing to do with it. If she's to be cancelled, she'll be cancelled." Nikita's voice hardened. "Is she evil enough for that?"

"No!"

"Then who is bad enough?"

"Jeeze, Nikita, I don't know," Madison shrugged. "It's too late at night for me to get all philosophical right now." She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to scrub away tension and succeeding only to charge the fine dark hairs with static. They clung to her fingers with ghostly abandon. "Terrible things happen to people who least deserve it, right out of the blue. This is the only way that I know of to try to put a halt to some of that."

"I wish it were that easy for me." Resentment lay at the foundation of that statement. Madison mustered some silent offense at her remark, but said nothing. She couldn't explain her inner philosophy to herself, let along another person, so she let the subject drop.

Operations passed two of Madeline's assistants in the hall on his way to her office. They strode past purposefully in sync, slim briefcases in hand, sharks on patrol. At Madeline's door he paused and entered the code. It slid open silently.

"Hello," Madeline presented him with a warm smile, pruning scissors in hand as she tended to her plants.

"I owe you an apology," he said.

"Oh?"

"About Walter. You were right: I should have given him time after Belinda died."

"Ah." She returned to the careful grooming of the dead and imperfect leaves. "How is the reconstruction coming?"

"Oh, it's completely finished now," he came closer and fingered a cut leaf that lay on the shelf.

"And Griffin? How do you think he's doing?"

"I was about to ask you that."

"He is a good fit with Walter, but he needs far more generalized instruction if he's ever to take Walter's place," she replied. "I meant specifically, how do you think he's doing on the job?"

Operations shoved his hands in his pockets. "He's cocky, and a pain in the ass. I don't like his attitude."

"That's not surprising. He has nearly as much trouble with authority figures as Nikita does. As I recall, that is how he ended up in jail."

"Mm," he grunted, unimpressed.

"What are you going to do about Walter?" She carefully wiped her scissors clean before sheathing them.

"I let him know how unhappy I am with his sloppy work. He could have killed himself and Birkoff." He shook his head, annoyed as he contemplated how difficult replacing either of them was. "As it happened, he denied us the use of Birkoff for almost a week, and Walter himself won't be fully operational for several weeks yet."

"Do you want my suggestion?"

His lips thinned and he bit off the word. "Yes."

"Do nothing. Considering how much affection he has for Birkoff, he has been punishing himself plenty for nearly killing him, I am quite sure." She dusted the detritus of her gardening work into the palm of one hand and brushed it fastidiously into the waste bin.

"No sanctions at all?" He intensely disliked that idea.

"Take away his down-time if you must. Otherwise, let him ponder what he has done, knowing this could come back to haunt him." She carried her scissors with her behind the desk and gracefully sat. Operations fidgeted in that way she knew he allowed himself to do in her presence, processing her opinion and internalizing it. He made no comment, however.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," Ops took his hand from his pocket and gave her a computer disk. "Here is the information you requested on Madison's previous commander, Jensen."

"Thank you." She smiled, not only in gracious appreciation, but also because she knew he never "nearly forgot" anything.

"How is your investigation coming? I realize it's a low priority, but . . .."

"I seem to find as many questions as I do answers." She placed the disk in the computer. "For instance, why did she arrive here with such an outdated file photo?"

He searched his memory. Some underling had taken care of it from his office. "It was dealt with right after she arrived."

"Hm. I have also been testing Madison, teaching her. She rises to the occasion."

"The Donlin girl last night, right?"

"Yes, that was one. She accomplished the task easily. Having Nikita there was completely superfluous. I've advised Michael to revise her program for recovery and re-training." She gestured to the computer, deciding to keep not only the fact that she had surreptitiously bugged Nikita and but also the interesting conversation she captured to herself. "I am hoping this file here will tell me if the balance of error lies with Jensen, or with some limitation of Madison's that I haven't yet discovered."

"I wouldn't mind if we found a more, shall we say pliant replacement for Nikita," Ops mused aloud, his smile tight as a leather glove.

Madeline pointedly stared at him. "Madison is far from a replacement for Nikita. Her strengths seem to lie in a more technical direction. Her girl-next-door wholesome looks are useful to us, but are utterly unlike Nikita's cosmopolitan beauty. We need both kinds." She chose her next words carefully. "Besides, there are other considerations for not replacing Nikita. You do realize Belinda could have been a bone to keep Walter happy."

"What? Belinda? She was in abeyance, and over due at that thanks to Birkoff's meddling."

"And we all saw the results of the loss of that bone," she quickly drove home her point. "Nikita is a bigger bone-for a much bigger dog."

"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" Operations' nostrils flared wide as he took in a deep breath, visibly controlling himself. He tugged on his jacket, smoothing non-existent wrinkles. "I'll have Birkoff look into the discrepancies on Madison's file, and Jensen's as well if you think it pertinent."

"It's an excellent idea. Thank you."

Michael stood outside Madison's door when she answered his knock. Surprised, she stepped back and offered the meager hospitality of her room, but he declined.

"Come with me, please."

"All right, let me get my shoes on."

Michael hesitated for a moment and she had the shocking impression he was about to deny her her own shoes. "Go ahead. Be quick."

As she walked down the hall, her sense of unease born when the door opened grew. She asked soberly, "May I inquire what this is about?"

"No."

He escorted her to a higher level within Section and stopped at a door. "Go in, please. You are being tested."

She nodded slowly and the door opened. Inside, she recognized the test, for she had it administered once before during her time as a recruit. Through a dark window she saw Michael settle himself behind the controls and she picked up the light-gun, thankful that he chose the time after breakfast to test her for she always felt her highest peak of energy in the morning.

Holographic images of people popped up out of oblivion, most shooting at her. She fired back at the armed ones, passed over the unarmed ones, her reaction time nearly instantaneous and deadly accurate. However, no human could match the speed of a computer, and soon shots from the holograms penetrated her devastating offense. Each hit stung hard, seizing the muscle with a painful spasm.

The first hit surprised her: she had forgotten just how much the damn things hurt. She cleared her mind of her aching hip and held tight to the objective-continuation of attack no matter what-and easily "killed" the next three projections. Two appeared at once and she was stung again, this time in the thigh. She staggered, pricked again in the shoulder.

Clear, she thought. Focus. Shoot.

Multiple hostiles emerged from all sides now, and with them corresponding hits on various parts of her body. Focus, she pleaded silently. Focus!

Then, her mind clicked. The pain receded like a stone to the depths and she methodically shot again and again and again . . .. The urge to get back at them drowned her until she could barely stand under the continued assault of electrical charges.

And then they stopped.

Madison stood panting and smeared the sweat-dampened hair from her eyes with her gun hand. Michael entered the aseptic white room, a solid apparition dressed in black.

"Well?" she panted.

Michael lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "What were you thinking during the worst of it?"

"Nothing." She looked bewildered. "Point and shoot. Kill them."

"Kill them before they could kill you?"

"What else is there?"

Michael allowed displeasure lay like a veil on his face. "There are orders, as well. You hit two non-hostiles."

Madison nodded her lowered head, chagrinned.

"Go shower. You're done for now. Tomorrow you will be tested in an interrogation situation."

"Thank you," she said, her tone docile. "I'll be ready."

His measured stare seemed to indicate he thought otherwise.

After her shower, Madison felt much better. The shocks were meant for educational purposes and left no lasting effects. The test and subsequent immersion in cold, killing reaction were cathartic for her, leaving her feeling quite mellow and not a little hungry.

She dressed slowly, recognizing a need to care for herself after the ordeal of the morning. Her favorite denim jeans, her favorite tee shirt and her favorite navy blue sweater engulfed her in comfort. An intense desire to leave gripped her and she figured she could eat out as well as in, so she stuffed her cell phone into a purse with some cash and walked down the hall, intent on reaching the egress.

"Hi."

Catherine turned. Birkoff caught her up as she waited for him. They continued together to the exit.

"Hi," she said, unaware until that moment how desperate she was to see a friendly face. "What's up?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just heading out for something to eat."

"Yeah? So'm I."

They passed the last checkpoint together and opened the door. Bright midday sunlight made them both wince and Madison fished in her handbag for sunglasses.

Birkoff glanced down the sidewalk in the direction he was bound for. It seemed impolite to hustle off. "Uh, want to join me for lunch?"

"Sure," Madison agreed, sunglasses now firmly in place. "Do you know a good place to eat around here? I haven't got my own car yet."

"What do you like?"

"Anything. Surprise me." She smiled and felt like a real person as she stepped out and raised her face to the sunshine and gentle rustle of colorful leaves caressed by a flow of air rich with autumnal scents. Section Headquarters lay in a far less temperate environment than her sub-station, and while Madison regretted the weeks of summer she spent inside the cool machined walls, yet she felt a piquant joy walking through a balmy fall noontime that would so soon succumb to driving cold winter nights.

They chatted as they walked, lazily flitting from subject to subject, never delving too far into the intricacies of either one's job. Birkoff hadn't seen her around much while she worked surveillance so the conversation remained fresh without much effort on his part. He recalled how easy she was to talk to.

"Oh, we're eating here? I wanted to try this place," she said as he led the way to a deli-café-coffeehouse. Located not far from an upscale arcade, he ate there often as he slowly expanded the radius of "out there" from Section. Nikita's methods had been scary as hell at the time, but dragging him out of his cozy cocoon nearly two years ago was the beginning of something that continued to grow even when she didn't hold a gun to his head.

Inside, Madison led the way and settled at a table looking out of a north-facing window to await the server's attention. Usually Birkoff sat near the back of the place, unconsciously sitting with his back to the corner to avoid the expanse of plate glass at the front of the shop. Mellow, natural light illuminated people walking by on the sidewalk and washed over Birkoff and Madison as they sat at the table, bringing details into clear, immediate focus. He had never noticed that the tables all had different festive designs painted on them.

"You drink double cappuccino coffee?" Madison made a face after the waitress took their order for sandwiches and coffee. "Seems I've seen you with sweet stuff at your elbow a few times. I thought you'd go for a mocha instead."

"It's the caffeine." Her eyes darted to the healed crescent-shaped scar in his hair as he absently scratched at it. Buzzed short, his hair had grown back nearly enough to cover where the doctors had shaved a patch to set the stitches.

"Yeah, but you can get chocolate and caffeine in one fell swoop with a mocha," she enthused. The server brought out the objects of their discussion.

"The sandwiches will be up in a minute," she promised.

"Chocolate, huh?" he said after the waitress left.

"Oh, god, yes, chocolate! Didn't you know all woman are secretly addicted to it?"

"Oh, really?" He looked amused.

"Why do you think it plays such a significant role in dating rituals and Valentine's Day and all that?"

"Never thought about it much." He ducked his head down to blow the steam around the top of his cup.

"And your girlfriend hasn't screamed bloody murder about this appalling lack of chocolate in your courtship?" Madison chuckled sarcastically.

Birkoff looked up over his glasses at her. He could feel his face slacken into surprise and quickly hauled his mouth closed. "I don't have a girlfriend."

"Oh." Her cheeks bloomed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry; Nikita had said something that made me think you were going out with someone."

"I was going out with someone, but we broke up . . . a while ago."

"Ah, well." Madison studiously devoted attention to her own beverage, stirring in the whipped cream and taking sips off her spoon. Her preoccupation with her beverage gave him a chance to observe her more frankly. The soft gray tee-shirt that peeped over the v-neck of her flecked blue sweater was a shade lighter than her eyes. Her fingers manipulating the mug and spoon seemed too dainty to handle the deadly weapons he knew she was capable of wielding.

Birkoff hated how the friendly give and take succumbed to embarrassment, and he felt responsible somehow. But then a sudden elevation of expectation accompanied an impetuous conclusion. What did Nikita say? he thought. Had Madison asked about him before?

Two sandwiches descended from above and paid restitution on the awkward moment, courtesy of the waitress.

"All set?" she asked cheerfully, her face split in a broad smile composed equally of genuine friendliness and desire for a good tip, then promptly answered her own question. "Great! Enjoy your lunch."

The mechanics of eating gave them time to regain the natural ebb and flow of conversation. Madison felt like an idiot, assuming things she didn't know for fact and embarrassing herself and Birkoff as well, although he played it polite for her sake. Well, then, for his sake she'd try to be better company.

"This is an excellent sandwich," she said when she cleared her mouth of enough turkey to speak. "I see why you come to eat here."

"Yeah, I kinda stumbled onto it after hanging out at the arcade down the block."

"Arcade? Really?" Madison grinned broadly. "God, my brother and I used to drop so much money in video games when we were . . . well, before." Her exuberance dampened only slightly and surprisingly refused to shrink away from the past.

"I've got a little time before I'm due back. We could go after lunch," Birkoff offered. "If you want to."

"You don't have to do that! I could just go by myself. I mean," Madison amended her comment, blushing when she realized how insulting it sounded, "I don't want to use up what free time you've got."

Birkoff quelled a grin and kept his voice level. "I think I can manage how I spend my free time."

Madison squirmed, feeling more heat pouring from her and cursing her traitorous cheeks as she pondered why the hell was a simple lunch with a friend getting so damned awkward?

"Well, sure, it'd be fun if we went together." She caught hold of her runaway embarrassment and throttled it mercilessly, but could think of nothing else to say.

With a definite agenda, they abandoned lingering over lunch and walked further down the street to the arcade Birkoff spoke of. Stepping through the door was not unlike stepping into Section for it was a whole other world living and breathing just a few inches away from the street. Noisy, flashy, trashy, the arcade held every new game on the market and nearly all the old ones as well. The machines stood at attention in ranks arranged in concentric circles on four different levels, the balcony being the largest circle and the sunken pit in the middle of the cavernous space being the smallest.

Madison looked around, absorbing the entire gamut of sights and sounds. Birkoff busied himself with a vending machine and cash from his pocket and returned with two flimsy plastic cards with magnetic strips on the back.

"What's this? Where's the tokens?" she asked when he handed her one.

"These are the tokens," he said with an amused smile at her expense.

"I told you it's been a while since I've been in one of these places. I guess it's a good thing I've got a guide."

"You've been . . . in . . . for a while now, huh?" he asked carefully. He knew exactly how long, having seen her file once.

"Uh, huh. How about you? Been in long?" She spoke casually, looking down at the token card as her hands flipped it over and over, knowing he was talking about Section.

"Yeah." Spoken softly, the single word could scarcely be heard over the ambient noise that surrounded them, but Madison perceived a week's conversation imbedded in that one syllable.

"Well, then, show me how to use this."

Birkoff ran the last two blocks to the entrance of Section, arriving at the checkpoint out of breath and greasy with sweat. The guard on duty raked him over with a disapproving stare and made him give a counter code to confirm he was under no coercion.

"I'm just late," he complained under his breath, obligingly typing the required alphanumeric code. A headache began to thicken behind his eyes. "It's nothing more than that, you moron."

The guard frowned and finally let him through. He trucked down the hall, half-blind as his eyes had not yet adjusted from bright sunshine to cool florescent light panels. As he wormed his way deeper into Section, he alternately kicked himself for being late and telling himself not to regret why he was late.

He had fun. Madison had fun, too, he could tell, playing video games and skee-ball and air hockey. He didn't even mind that she won every game of air hockey, even though the last game might have been his if he hadn't suddenly noticed the time.

"Luck! Pure luck!" Madison had shrieked in outrage. The score was tied. How he caught up to her spree of goals scored she did not know, but she did not intend to lose now. She yanked the puck from the slot behind her goal and slammed it back on the table. It clattered until the cushion of air gave it a lazy back and forth motion.

"Ha!" Birkoff retorted. He crouched over his end of the table, paddle in hand moving proprietarily in front of his goal. A tight smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"Ha, you say?" Madison said. "Eat this!"

A lightning snap of her wrist sent the puck ricocheting first to one side, then the other and straight for his goal. Birkoff's eyes tracked it, his hand wavered as he tried to anticipate where the puck would shoot. Almost too late he snapped the paddle back to cover the left side of his goal and whacked the puck hard. With too much force behind it, the light plastic disk flew off the table.

"Eat what?" he mocked her.

"Hmph," she glared at him. "Just get the puck already. I haven't got all day to win."

Her comment had reminded him of the time. He had checked his watch and his insides seemed to jump a foot back from his body.

"Oh, god, I'm late!" He had dropped his paddle on the surface of the air hockey board, puck forgotten.

"This isn't going to get you in trouble, is it? I could go with you, explain-."

"No." He had contradicted her strongly. Being late was his own damned fault and he knew it, even if he dreaded the possible consequences. "Stay and use up the rest of the money. I'll see you later."

"See ya," he heard her say as he had walked as fast as he could back to the street.

No, he didn't regret lunch one bit.

Simon was waiting for relief as Birkoff finally reached the Com area, and unhappy about the wait.

"I've been waiting for almost an hour," Simon complained.

"Sorry," Birkoff replied, not really repentant and giving up the minimum of courtesy out of habit. His headache began reaching tentacles into his temples as Simon launched into a list of jobs needing to be started, tasks needing to be finished, and current data fields needing to be analyzed.

"Operations wants these two personnel disks ripped apart," Simon added, picking up a small, locked case containing two circular rainbows.

"What's he want me to look for?" Birkoff took the case, his curiosity piqued at the unusual request.

"He wants to know if there has been any tampering done to either disk and make sure all the dates coincide on both or if you find any anomalies at all. He said to report your findings to Madeline."

"Hm." Birkoff set the case down next to his station. "Anything else?"

"Yes," Simon said. "I covered your butt earlier. You owe me one." He left.

Oh, great, Birkoff thought. What the hell will that cost me?

Later, when the priority work had been dealt with, he picked up the case again, unlocked it and took out the twin disks. Both labeled, the first one was of a man named Jensen, which jarred him for a moment, for he had just heard the name today. It was the name of Madison's former commander; she had mentioned him while they played video games. He set it down, moving slower as he read the name on the other disk.

Catherine Madison.

He felt great reluctance to touch that disk. Operations and Madeline were digging for dirt, and using him as the shovel.

God, it had to be Madison, didn't it? he thought as his headache squeezed tighter. He looked up for a moment and happened to see Gail walk behind the Com area, intent on some errand, and recalled how he had been tested with her. Madeline had no compunctions chastising him for not knowing about her little talent for theft nor about letting him believe that his testimony had condemned Gail to sanctions . . . or worse. She survived unharmed to his great relief. And it wasn't as if Madison was his girlfriend, either, although he had to admit to himself that he now had hopes in that direction.

This disk of Madison's could be innocuous. He placed it back in the case, however, and loaded Jensen's in the computer. He had no choice but to perform his job, but he could delay the inevitable.

Madison got the call for a hot mission later in the evening while practicing her rudimentary German with Madeline. Her very first reaction was relief for she hated the language and hated even more the microscopic scrutiny inflicted upon her by her teacher.

"Well, that will be all for now," Madeline said as she closed the com link, ending Michael's request for Madison to report to Walter. "I'll see you tomorrow. Your pronunciation is improving; keep up the practice."

Madison gathered her notebooks hurriedly with a distracted smile. "Thanks, I will. Same time tomorrow?"

"Yes, that would be fine."

Madison jogged through the halls to her room where she spilled her schoolwork on a cluttered desk and changed into mission gear. For the first time in a long while she felt the purity of adrenaline hit her hard and she liked it. She marched where she needed to go, her limbs crackling with energy. Walter sensed it in her before she got close enough to hail him in greeting.

"You're full of piss and vinegar tonight," he said.

"Yes I am!" she agreed cheerfully. "Hey, no more sling?"

Walter carefully hinged his arm up and down at the shoulder joint in demonstration. "Looks like I'll fly again."

"Whatcha got for me?"

He raised his forefinger in a gesture of patience, reached under the counter and presented her with a standard rifle with night scope. "Nothing fancy tonight, not according to the mission profile. I think you're just floating backup."

"Guess I'll find out soon enough." She shrugged and stripped down her weapon, readying it for transport. The intercom chimed.

"Walter, send Madison to the briefing table," said Michael's disembodied voice.

"She's on her way," Walter hit the button.

"How does he do that? Is surveillance constant in here?"

"Well, those level five ops; they can do a lot. I think it's all in the wrist." He demonstrated a lewd motion with his good hand, grinning and looking for a response.

Madison laughed, gratified that Walter was able to crack jokes. Still healing, he had returned to his job two days ago, performing those tasks that he could. "Wish me luck." She set down her equipment for him to safeguard while she attended the briefing.

"Luck? Nah. Keep your mind on what you're doing and you'll do fine. Just stay off the rooftops, huh?"

"Ah, sage advice, Sensei." She bowed mockingly at him and left.

Landry sat, his tall frame hunched over, the lone occupant at one end of the briefing table. Madison had not seen him since the night of her rooftop leap. She approached him obliquely, recalling all she could about him from that night. Frankly, she couldn't remember much. He had yelled when the transport window smashed open from a flying brick, but said nothing else in her presence.

"Hi," she said and took a seat at the opposite end of the table. "Landry, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh," he replied. "You're the shooter. Madison."

"Yeah, that's me."

"D'ya know what's up for tonight?" His voice was nasal with some mid-western American accent.

Before she could speculate, Michael and Birkoff walked over from Comm, talking about probabilities.

"-the numbers would look better if we went with the usual drop point," Birkoff said, shaking his head.

"We've already eliminated that possibility. Forget it." Michael turned away and settled next to Landry at the table. Birkoff moved immediately next to Madison and sat down, tightness around his mouth betraying his ire.

"Tough day at the office?" She propped her head on her hand, elbow firmly on the table and elfin smile firmly on her lips.

"I've had better," he said sourly. He turned to face her so he could put his back to Michael sitting three chairs down and absently rubbed his temple.

"And you've had worse." She lowered her voice. "Did you get in trouble today for being late?"

He lowered his hand. After he had processed the personnel file belonging to Seth Jensen, Michael interrupted with the latest crisis. Madison's file remained as yet untouched. Her comment reminded him of the only bright part of his day. "No. Simon covered for me."

Two operatives sat down just then, no one Madison knew, one male and one female. Simultaneously, Operations walked up from the direction of the entry to Systems with a purposeful stride. Surprisingly, Walter ambled over, moving slowly still, and sat in the last empty chair next to Birkoff.

"A newcomer in the terrorist arms trade has been identified," Ops launched into the mission profile without preamble. "From what scant intel we've been able to gather, they call themselves ARM. It seems they've made themselves available to some of the smaller terrorists groups, equipping them with impressive firepower and new technologies. It also seems they were the ones who supplied the detonators Michael brought back from his raid three weeks ago."

More than one of the chairs emitted small protestations as their occupants shifted restlessly.

Ops ignited the holograph and a dreary picture of a balding man with pale hair and hooded eyes stared out at them. Information about him streamed by in glowing blue letters.

"This is Alexander Flannery, active with the Irish Guard, a small and, until now, fairly ineffective group of dissidents in Northern Ireland. Rumor has it that they are about to make a major statement to educate the world." His expression showed derision for both the reasons and methods. "We have intel that he knows how to contact ARM and we want him. Michael has set up a meeting with him, posing as another arms dealer proposing a competitive bid. When we have confirmation that it's Flannery we'll take him in. All other hostiles are acceptable collateral, but we want him alive and able to speak." He nodded to Birkoff.

"The Irish Guard have always been small potatoes in the scheme of things, a generally unproductive splinter group with very loose ties to the PLO," he said, "which makes it so surprising they have ways to contact ARM. We've been trying to find hard facts on ARM for weeks now, and can't find a thing." His right hand clenched into a fist under the table. "Somehow, ARM is getting the word out, but it's not by conventional channels at all."

Landry was to accompany Michael to the rendezvous in an unsavory industrial area outside of Belfast. Tall and beefy, he fit the bodyguard role well. Madison and the additional two operatives would provide backup, taking hidden positions around the meeting place. Her spine stiffened, controlling her excited energy when she heard she'd be first out and last in for it was a position of responsibility.

"We don't want anyone able to say what happened to Flannery. Make sure that's not a problem," Ops said forcefully. Silent nods of confirmation rounded the table. He nodded once, signaling dismissal, killed the holographic imager, and returned to his aerie.

"Transport will be ready to lift off in thirty," Birkoff said before people dispersed. Madison stopped him with a tug on his sleeve as the others walked away.

"Will you be running the communications tonight?" she asked.

Birkoff glanced at his watch. "Sure. This is the last task I've got tonight. Why?"

"You did good by me last time," she said simply. "I'll catch you on the airwaves."

David Griffin surprised Madison at egress.

"Hey, it's Supergirl!" he said.

"Hi to you too. What are you doing here?" she asked. The two anonymous operatives passed by them without comment, Landry on their heels.

"I'll be your chauffeur this evening, madam," he bowed mockingly.

She nodded in understanding. "What are you waiting for?"

"Why, you, of course, girl."

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, I'm waiting for the tall silent one. He's got the parameters for the mission all ready for me to study on the plane."

"Eh, not much to study. It's a standard snatch and run," Madison shrugged.

Griffin's expression altered into almost serious lines. "Babe, there ain't never anything standard around here."

"I'll see you on the plane," she discounted his candor with a roll of her eyes and left.

On the plane, Madison's enthusiasm for the mission had ample chance to wane. Landry seemed preoccupied with some inner upset. Griffin studied his PDA intently, ignoring his surroundings entirely. The two nameless operatives divulged their names after Madison asked, offering them with curt professionalism, but nothing more.

The man's name was Paez. He seemed roughly thirty years old, perhaps younger. He was an ordinary man with a medium build, height, and brown skin, but he had the coldest black eyes she had ever seen.

Strunk was the woman's proper name, and neither offered a first name. She superficially reminded Madison of Belinda; older, tall and blonde, but her face had a dour ugliness that might have been alleviated with a smile. Madison doubted a smile found purchase on that face very often.

Madison had met Belinda on only a few occasions, always in the company of Walter. The day before they married, Walter took her around to anyone who he thought worthy of knowing and crowed about his bride-to-be. Madison considered herself lucky to be counted among the select few. The next day, Walter and Belinda disappeared for several hours, returning with an intimate happiness sparking between them that shined out for all to see.

And then, she died that very night on a suicide mission. Madison shook her head, trying to dislodge such a sad memory. She looked to Michael and wondered if she should try to follow his example.

Michael sat with his head back, arms folded, eyes closed, and his long legs stretched out in front of him. Transport was a cargo plane, and scant on amenities. Madison envied his apparent ability to sleep even amidst the noise and discomfort. At the same time, she was glad she had no reason to interact with him. Although she kept her suspicions to herself, she knew she had met him before. Not knowing how and why troubled her.

The plane lurched with sudden turbulence. The noise increased until smoother air streamed by them and the ride settled back to a monotonous annoyance.

Madison sighed and coped with the tedious wait as well as she could.

Two hours later Operations lurked over Birkoff's shoulder, listening as Michael negotiated with some underling of Flannery's. Birkoff had long ago grown accustomed to the presence of superiors looming over him as he did his work until he hardly ever noticed the annoyance anymore. Tonight, however, he felt great irritation with Ops. Since his crack on the head three weeks ago he found petty distractions nearly unbearable, especially when fatigue set in. The savage headache he suffered this afternoon contributed to his exasperation, even quelled as it was by mild painkillers.

"Come on, Michael," Ops muttered. "Get to target."

Birkoff gnawed savagely on the end of a pen to keep from spitting out a sarcastic comment. Ops' suit rustled as he shifted back and forth.

"The number of hostiles is holding steady?"

"Yes, sir. Nothing's changed in the last five minutes." He replaced the abused pen in his mouth. Nope, nothing changed at all and if it did I'd never notice, sir, with you hovering there, he thought. He looked at the incoming data transmitted from the van. Infrared surveys showed all five of Flannery's party either in or around his car, all well within the perimeter covered by the backup operatives. The only possible trouble spot lay to the north, where the land banked up and the van's sensors would be unable to get an accurate reading until something crested that bank.

"Ah," Ops sighed. Flannery finally agreed to come out and talk face to face with Michael.

"Here we go," Birkoff said. "Madison, Strunk, Paez, close in and hold at ten meters." Each gave confirmation, but a sibilant fragment of sound shadowed the last transmission. He listened hard and tried what tricks he knew to clean up the signal.

"Where is Flannery now?" Ops asked.

"Sh!" Birkoff held up his hand, commanding silence.

"What?" Operations' eyes narrowed.

"Be quiet!"

Birkoff sprang from his chair and opened up an additional channel on another station. He listened intently, monitoring visual data of the mission area at the same time as he chased the recurrent noise.

There. Another fragment of transmission of words that faded in quickly and faded out just as quick.

"You," he indicated one of his assistants with a stab of his finger. "Get over here and monitor this channel."

"What the hell is going on?" Ops demanded.

"I'm picking up some transmission. Not ours and not Irish Guard's. It's intermittent. Scrambled, maybe."

Over the other channel, they heard Michael speaking with Flannery.

"Michael, hold on," Birkoff said. "Don't take him yet. Back-up, keep holding your position." He took the second channel again. As the fractional sound hissed through, he changed the frequency and caught another tag of sound before it faded.

"Yeah," he murmured to himself, displaced his assistant from her station without a thought, and punched up software tools to help prove his idea. Just when he expected, the word fragments whispered. This time, the receiver changed frequencies, chasing the transmission and holding on.

"I've got it, sir," he turned to Ops after putting the ghostly transmission on speaker for all to hear.

Someone-not yet identified, but definitely hostile-waited for Michael's transaction to conclude before moving in for attack. From their com traffic, it seemed they were unaware of Section activities, but were interested in eliminating Michael as the arms dealer his cover said he was.

"Have Michael and Landry move now. Call in the back-up as well," Ops commanded. Birkoff complied.

The sharp pop-pop-pop! of gunfire punched through the transmission with flat finality, mingled with yelling and loud grunts of pain. On the screen, the blips representing the back up operatives rushed up to within feet of the action and members of the Irish Guard dropped within seconds. Michael and Landry had an altercation, but Michael brought it to a close nearly instantaneously.

"Flannery is secured. We're bringing him in." Michael confirmed verbally.

The volume and speed of the voices on the other channel changed dramatically. They had discovered the Section van, waiting west of the team's position.

"Griffin, you've been spotted. Get ready to roll," Birkoff warned him. "Can you get a visual of anything around you?"

"No, everything looks quiet."

"Check north of your position, see if you can give me better thermal readings."

The sensors obligingly moved and the monochromatic landscape shifted, panning over the hillock. A dull glow began emerging over it, growing larger exponentially.

"Griffin, get out of there now!" Birkoff said fiercely.

They could all hear Griffin shout unintelligibly. The screen suddenly flooded with light . . . then fell dark, the transmission cut.

"Griffin?" Birkoff said, his voice back to normal levels but intense. "Griffin? Michael, report. Landry. Madison. Any member of team one, respond."

The com units hissed softly, dead.

"We lost the van."

Madison slunk ahead at Birkoff's command, moving low and quickly. She heard shots fired, confusion over the com link as she stood up tall, emerging from the vegetation she used to cover her forward movement. She processed the tableau before her in less than a second as it lay illuminated by Flannery's car lights and the ambient light from a nearby industrial complex before she opened fire. Four hostiles remained to be eliminated; Landry grappled hand to hand with one. Madison shot two in less than two seconds. The third went down as well. From the direction his head jerked as the bullet entered his brain, she estimated it was from Strunk's gun, opposite Madison. Michael aimed carefully at the man struggling with Landry and fired. Twin shouts of surprise went up, one of them painfully audible through the com, but only the hostile fell.

Madison came closer and saw Strunk and Paez emerged as solid shadows from hiding. Flannery sat on the ground, angry defiance smoldering from him in near-palatable waves. Landry stood toe-to-toe with Michael, cursing him for shooting.

"I'm deaf!" he snarled. "Look, I'm bleeding, too. You could've taken my head off!"

"Complain any more while on this mission and I will take your head off," Michael promised smoothly, his fingers buried in Flannery's shoulder, confining him to his knees.

Landry's mouth opened but whatever he had been about to say was forestalled by shock. A comical chirp escaped before he clamped his lips shut and his shoulders fell in submission. Michael ignored him and administered restraints to the captive.

"Flannery is secured. We're bringing him in." he said and pulled on the man's arm, forcing him to his feet despite his curses of pain.

Madison froze. His words, audible to her as she stood scant feet away from him as well as through the com, flowed through her in waves echoing nearly identical words she had heard delivered in the same voice once before. In conjunction with his coldly professional figure looming over a handcuffed prisoner, it completed the connection. Her memory leaped back five years instantly.

Michael. It was Michael who had captured Krupps on the day she was to have her revenge. The French accent, the stealthy moves . . . of course. Her angel, haloed about with flaming afternoon sunshine, was Michael.

It was Michael.

Buried deep in her brain, a coldly reptilian node of rage as old as the life's first single-celled directive of eat or be eaten commanded her arms to raise her weapon. As the cold metal touched her cheek another impulse caused her to hesitate. The gun slowly receded.

An expanding light to the north made the Section operatives turn and Madison forgot all about her revelations. A whistling shriek anteceded an explosion that rocked the ground beneath their feet.

"The van, they got the goddamn van!" Landry bellowed.

"Griffin?" Michael said calmly into his com. "Griffin? Birkoff, do you copy?"

They heard nothing in reply but a growing roar of engines.

"Take cover!" Michael moved his arm down, indicating the direction he wanted them to take. Before they could move, the dark mass of Section van hurtled down upon them, trailing flames from the back. They scrambled aside as it skidded to a halt and Griffin opened his door, standing tall on the running board and waving his arm over his head.

"Get your asses in here!" He looked over his shoulder at the headlights of a vehicle bearing down on them. Short bursts of automatic weapons' fire hastened their congress into the van. Flannery's protestations about getting into the van ceased abruptly when Michael jammed his gun barrel into the man's neck. Madison waited until everyone else was aboard before she climbed in and secured the door.

"What the fuck was that?" Griffin shouted from the driver's seat as they jounced along. "Was that an air strike?"

"Birkoff? Birkoff, do you copy?" Michael tried the com-set relay from its location in the van. They all held silence in their ears. "We must have lost the antennae."

"We nearly lost more than the antennae," Griffin called back. "We still could: we're under pursuit!" Insulated by the van walls, still they could hear the rattle of automatic gunfire.

"What are we gonna do?" Landry cried out from his seat next to Madison. She could feel him shaking.

Michael transfixed him with a glare. "Shut up. I'm trying to get sensors online." He tapped away intently at the computer, nonplussed by the rocking jolts as the van hurtled through the night. His efforts seemed to be in vain, for he slammed down the monitor of the laptop and began rummaging in the one of the storage compartments built into the bench seat.

"Madison, I'm opening the door. Cover me from below." He threw an automatic weapon at her that she reflexively caught, then indicated where he wanted her to crouch. "Paez, hang on to her belt-brace yourself."

He drew his gun and opened the van door, locking it stationary. Madison crouched by his knees, hoping she could trust Paez to keep her from pitching headfirst into the dashing night. She squinted against wind-borne dust and darkness.

"There," Michael braced himself, aimed, and began firing his automatic rifle one-handed at headlights bobbing along their flank.

Madison leaned further out, hanging over the rushing ground and firing first high, then low. The wind brutally whipped at her, trying to find enough purchase on her clothes to yank her from her perch. Michael suffered more: his long hair flew unbound, lashing his face, and his loose clothes snapped. He had no one anchoring him as Madison did. She managed, with the one small part of her brain not occupied with fear and combat, to admire his audacity.

A hot needle of light whispered past Madison's shoulder just as Michael uttered a small grunt. Behind them, one headlight darkened while the other swerved violently and receded behind them as they rushed forward. Michael grabbed a handful of her jacket and helped Paez haul her back in before he shut the door again.

"Griffin, head for the airstrip. I'm going to try to establish communications with the local range of the com units. Perhaps I can reach the local sub-station."

He worked silently. A burst of static preceded a heavily accented voice. Michael quickly established security protocols before he inquired into the status of the mission.

"This is team leader. Confirm air strike at mission site."

More static. "Negative, team leader. We are reading an explosion, but there is no air traffic."

"Can you patch us through to headquarters?"

"Hold on. Affirmative."

Tinny from loss of signal, Birkoff's voice emerged from the speaker. "Michael, is your team okay? We lost contact. We need a mission status."

"The team is secure. We're en route to the pick up point. We still have the package ready to deliver."

"Acknowledged."

The van rocked harder.

"We just lost another tire," Griffin grimaced. "Hold on; it's just gonna get worse."

His prediction held true. By the time they reached the relative safety of the airstrip the van had only one inflated tire remaining. All the occupants disembarked hastily, heartily happy to rest on a surface that no longer pitched and rolled.

On the plane once more, the team members struggled into the most comfortable positions they could find to rest, at last able to relax their guard. Strunk had first watch over the package; trussed up as he was it seemed unlikely he would pose any trouble during transit but protocol would not be shirked on a mission led by Michael.

After an hour of monotonous engine drone, Griffin and Paez fell asleep. Landry sat, his head down and fingers woven in his light brown hair obviously unhappy and wrapped tightly in his own thoughts. Through with the futility of chasing down jangled memories, Madison quietly rose to her feet and re-settled herself next to Michael where he sat with his head back and eyes closed.

"I know you," she said to him softly. "I know who you are now."

Michael lifted his head and opened his eyes.

"You, it was you there, that day I killed Krupps and his men."

"Yes."

Madison's focus drifted inward before she looked at him again. "Was it you that shot me?"

In the dim light his eyes glowed as he held her gaze silently. His mouth opened, a breath drawn in and released as a single sound of affirmation.

"Yes."

Madison drew up her legs and hugged her knees. She spoke quietly to the air above her toes. "I wonder why I didn't see it the first day I transferred. Who else could it have been? Before I was a full operative I realized it was Section One that nearly upset my plans that day. Seth confirmed it when I confronted him about it. But . . . it was you that shot me. Twice. Did you realize I was going to be recruited, then?"

"No. Not when I shot you."

"I meant to die that day."

"You nearly did." Michael watched her relive the past, staring hard at memory. His mind darted around with possibilities, trying to braid them into something that would contain all the threads his conflicted conscience dangled. When he first heard she had been brought into the fold he had felt a stab of guilt. Her recruitment occurred because his actions . . . and lack of actions. If he had killed her outright she would have gotten her wish of reunion with her deceased family. If he had done the proper research on her, he would have run the entire mission differently and she would have never been harmed.

His expression softened from its usual stony blankness.

Madison continued to keep her face turned away from his. "I wasn't happy at first, to know I was alive. I was charged with three counts of murder, put in jail. Then I woke up one day in a strange place and Seth began training me to do what I do now."

"He saw your potential that day."

"Did he?" Madison raised her head.

"Yes. He called the ambulance to save you."

"Hm." She rested her chin on her knees once more. "What about you? Was it all in the line of duty?"

"You need to ask that?"

"I think I do have to ask, Michael. You are the hardest person to figure out I've ever met. What exactly did you do that day?"

"I don't have to tell you." As they flew through the air, neither here nor there, isolated from Section and the real world both, Michael knew he could free his candor, if only for the briefest of times.

"I know."

He shifted his weight, obviously uncomfortable. "Jensen supplied the team from his sub-station. While he and the rest of the team ran in a frontal assault, I circled around and captured the target. You walked up, still upright and unafraid, and killed four men in succession. I shot you twice before you stopped. You had killed one of my men. You sabotaged the mission. It was the correct thing to do." He swallowed. "As you lay bleeding on the ground, I asked for you name and you gave it. You were dying. I thought to shorten that and raised my gun to shoot you once more, but Jensen prevented me."

Madison drew in a startled breath, held it for a moment, then freed it silently.

"He was impressed with your actions as much as irritated. He said you may well die anyway, and if you lived, perhaps you'd make a good recruit." Michael re-shifted his position. "He was right."

Madison let her head roll to one side on her knees until she looked up at Michael from a strange angle. His hair was a little shorter than it had been five years ago, windblown and mussed from this night's mission. The color of his eyes looked as gray as her own in the drab light, but they had the same intensity as on that long ago day. Her gaze caught on an irregularity on his black pants where the fabric had been torn. The subtle darkness around the tear told her that he had been hit earlier tonight. The more she looked at him, the more she saw the man he was rather than the green-eyed angel come to take her away. She could even see the regret on his face. Inside her was nothing of blame or fear or anger as he gravely regarded her.

"Thank you," she said, less sure of what her genuine gratitude was for than Michael.

Madeline walked softly through the darkened halls of Section. Few people frequented the peripheral areas at this time of night and no one walked down the hall she did now. The day had been a busy one for her; she welcomed the quiet chance to walk and let her mind go flaccid for just a few stolen moments. The enigma that was ARM frustrated most attempts to penetrate the façade of who they could be. Nothing existed accessible by a remote computer. None of the snitches and players working for Section had ever heard of them-no one had. She also had her normal daily workload; generating reports from interrogations performed, profiles from intel, and performance ratings from what the operatives under her scrutiny did while on missions.

Now she had only one more detail to take care of before she could attend to her own needs for rest and restoration. She knew it should only take a few moments to gain the action she required as she paused in front of the door to Birkoff's suite and knocked. She had opportunity for several cleansing breaths before the door opened.

"Madeline? What do you want?" Birkoff said. He wore wrinkled pants and a shirt hastily donned.

"I would like to come in for a moment."

He wordlessly backed out of the doorway to let her pass, then closed the door behind her. Few times had she come into his room, most of them for reasons he came to regret in one way or another. He followed her in and sat heavily on the side of his bed when she perched on a chair. Even without his glasses he could see her eyes move about his room.

"I received your report on Seth Jensen's personnel file," Madeline settled her gaze on Birkoff. "However, there's nothing about Madison's file. Have you gotten to it yet?"

"No, the ARM mission came up right after I'd finished with Jensen's," he replied. "It had priority."

"Yes, of course." She nodded her head. "I've had Madison's file taken care of already, so you won't need to deal with it."

"Oh." Her information was not what he had expected. He was relieved to be spared the chore, but he worried what someone else might find.

"There is something I would like you to do, however."

Here it comes, he thought.

"Set up a simple e-mail access for Madison so that she may correspond with her former commander, Jensen. Don't let her know I suggested it-in fact, let her believe you arranged it yourself." She tilted her head slightly. "I understand you had lunch with her yesterday, and were in fact late because of it. Did you both enjoy yourselves?"

Birkoff felt naked without his glasses to hide behind. "Um, yeah, we did."

"Good. Come up with a plausible reason and let her think you're doing this as a favor to her." Suddenly Madeline verbally twisted her line of conversation. "I know you haven't been sleeping with her. Are you attracted to her?"

He could feel his face redden and his ears burn. "Yes."

"Taking care of what needs to be done won't be a problem even if you were to have sex with her, will it?"

"No. It won't."

"Good." She smiled and levitated off the chair. "I knew I could count on you."

Birkoff walked her to the door.

"Goodnight, Birkoff," Madeline said. He closed the door behind her and she could hear how he fumbled to lock it securely. She felt confident that he would do as she bid, ruled as he was by fear. Step after step, she left her day's last piece of work behind her and her attentions leapt to what she might now do at this hour of the night. Gentle exercise, perhaps, administered by a young Valentine operative she knew to be talented, might be just the thing. Yes, Russell Burke could be the opiate she needed to find sleep tonight.

Nikita made plans to meet the team as they returned from Ireland. She had been on her own mission when Michael's had been called and returned in time to hear of the near miss the van suffered. She chose to hang around until he came in to assure herself that he was unhurt.

Covering her concern with a liberal dusting of casual attitude, she intercepted Michael as he left the hall leading to egress. Behind him, Strunk and Landry held on Alexander Flannery's arms, leading him to the white room where Madeline would pry what she needed from him, no doubt.

"Hey, Michael. I heard you had a close call," Nikita fell into stride with him. She could smell a faint scent of scorched metal and rubber, dust and sweat clinging to him.

Griffin insinuated himself forward. "Nikita, you should've seen it. I thought for sure I'd been hit by a goddamn nuke."

"Get to briefing, Griffin," Michael said curtly.

"I'll walk you," Madison came up from the rear and took Griffin's arm. She faced Michael for a moment as she guided Griffin away. "Shouldn't you get to medical?"

"Medical?" Nikita's casual attitude fled and she lay her hand on his arm, looking all over his form for injury.

"It's nothing." His hand brushed against the rent in his pants, came up red.

"Come down to medical anyhow," Nikita urged him. He allowed her to lead him there, where a tech cut away his trousers to reveal a three-inch furrow across the outside of his thigh. The tech quickly stitched it up, using such tiny knots there would hardly be a scar.

"There. All better," Nikita smiled. Since she had heard the van was compromised, she waited with worry eating her, even after Birkoff told her of Michael's confirmation that the team was secure, but now she couldn't help but feel relieved elation, mingled with pride. Michael had returned with his team intact and suffered nothing more serious than a minor flesh wound.

"I need to debrief," he said, standing up. He ignored the gaping hole in his pants.

"It's past breakfast time. Would you like to catch a bite to eat after you finish?"

Michael focused on Nikita. He could read her concern for him as easily as he knew he could completely conceal his feelings from her. On the plane he had let loose some truth and emotions to Madison, but the brotherly guilt and responsibility he felt for her was utterly unlike what Nikita evoked in him. His held iron control over those emotions she brought forth but he found it hard to let out just a little at a time and he still had a precarious, precious burden to bear in his life already.

"It will take a while." His tone of voice betrayed the negative and her face altered by no more than a hair. Still, he felt he needed to respond somehow to the rejection behind her blue eyes. "Another time?"

"Sure." She shrugged and left him in medical with her bitter disappointment.

Birkoff saw Madison as she walked across the resonant heart of Section shortly after noon. After Madeline had left him two nights ago, he laid awake contemplating just what the hell he was going to do and how he was going to do it. Madison had spoken of Jensen while she blasted bank robbers into oblivion on a video game, warmly remembering him. It seemed to him that she would welcome a way to casually communicate with her old comrade.

Then, the questions issued forth.

What was Madeline looking for on Madison's personnel disk? What was she searching for on Jensen's? Was she giving Madison rope to hang herself, or Jensen? Should he do something to protect Madison? Could he?

After a moment of indecision, he stood up and waved her over to the com area.

"Hey," she said, stealing Nikita's greeting. "What's up?"

"I gotcha something," he replied. He steered her by her shoulders to one of the terminals and sat her down. "I was going to tell you later, but since you're here, I thought I'd show you now. Look." He quickly changed programs from over her shoulder then stood back to let her see.

"Um, what am I looking at?" She stared at the monitor. The blank form and cursor blinking patiently out of it did nothing to enlighten her.

"E-mail to your last command, Jensen." Birkoff said smugly. "It seemed the way you talked about him the other day that you'd like to drop him a line."

Madison turned back to him, her eyes wide, and he could see how much he had pleased her.

"I could set it up so you can send messages from the station in your room anytime you want," he continued. He heel sat next to her and leaned close. She looked back at the blank form, and casting a glance up to Systems, Birkoff dropped his volume to murmur in her ear. "Trust me on this. Assume that any communiqués you send are screened." It was the most he could do for her for now but the traitorous satisfaction felt right.

Madison and imagined the potential words she could type there to Seth. "I-I just don't know what to say. I could just kiss you!" She reached out and hooked Birkoff's neck in her elbow for a playfully awkward hug then let him go.

"Urk," he massaged his neck and rose from his crouch, red more from embarrassment than oxygen deprivation. "I'd've rather had the kiss," he said ruefully serious.

"A kiss for the boy wonder who can fly through the virtual air, and here I am, fresh out of thimbles." Madison looked up and regarded him with a quirky half-smile.

"Thimbles?" He managed to keep his disappointment off his face, but he found it hard not to cringe when she called him a "boy wonder".

"Haven't you ever read Peter Pan?"

"No."

"Huh!" Madison smiled. "It makes sense, though. He was pretty clueless, too."

"Clueless?"

"Never mind! Never mind anything what I said just now!" Madison laughed out loud as she stood and mischievously shoved him.

"Even the part about a kiss?" Birkoff pressed slyly.

"Oh, don't you worry yourself about that. You'll get your kiss. Later." She looked once more at the computer screen, back at Birkoff and shook her head in disbelief and gratitude before resuming her course through Section. He shrugged and sighed and turned away. Work was waiting for him; it couldn't finish itself. And all the while he thought about Madison's promise of a kiss.

Some days came hard and hot with no time for breaks. Almost as soon as Madison left the com, first one wildfire then another broke out in different parts of the world. Birkoff sat slumped in his chair twelve hours later, his glasses tossed carelessly to one side and his hand over his eyes. Simon would soon show up to relieve him, and Birkoff wondered if he would have the energy to get out of the chair and stumble to his room. He could hear people walk by him occasionally. They moved as quietly as possible, respectful of his fatigue.

Someone stopped next to him and set something down on his desk, but they said nothing so he remained as he was, resting his eyes, and heard the small noises that told him they left. If it were that damned important, whoever it was would have said something, he was sure. He sighed heavily and the scent of citrus and girl made him sit up and uncover his eyes.

Birkoff looked all around, but Madison was not there. He looked down . . . and right there in front of him sat one foil-wrapped chocolate kiss, bravely holding up its white paper flag.

He picked up the candy, carefully peeled away the foil, set the tiny slip of paper aside, and popped it into his mouth. Thick rich chocolate taste coated his tongue and filled his nose as he exhaled. He closed his eyes again, the corners of his lips reaching up in an involuntary smile, savoring the sweetness of the candy and the thought behind it as he recalled what she had said about chocolate. Dating rituals, huh?

"Am I interrupting something?" Simon asked sardonically.

Birkoff opened his eyes. "No. Not at all." He got up, taking the white tag of paper with him.

"Is there anything I need to know?" Simon asked as Birkoff strode away.

"Yeah," he tossed over his shoulder. "I'm going to bed."

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