Whatever you're doing at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, you will be doing the rest of the year.

As a youth, Michael really hadn't believed in that old wives tale. Now he was beginning to think it was true. He tried to remember where he had been last year around this time. Japan. Strangling a drug smuggler. He hadn't been able to spend it with Adam and Elena, and then he'd spent the rest of the year without them. Now here he was in Sydney, on a private yacht floating on Sydney Harbour, preparing to assassinate an arms dealer in the middle of a frenzied millennium celebration.

Actually, it was Nikita who would be doing the assassinating this year. Michael leaned against the bar as he sipped his drink, trying to catch sight of her as the opulently dressed partygoers swayed drunkenly to a sensual jazz tune. Through his com unit he heard her flirting with her mark. Mitchell Bergland. A very nasty, ruthless man. It hadn't taken long for him to become ensnared in Nikita's trap. A coquettish smile, a toss of her newly shorn blond tresses, and Bergland was hooked. So was Michael. But he'd been caught up in the Nikita mystique the moment of their infamous first meeting in the White Room.

They danced into his view just then. Nikita was dazzling as usual in a pale gold, ankle-length sheath. Thigh high slits revealed miles of creamy smooth legs. Back bare to the top of her enticingly curved derriere. Michael watched as Bergland's meaty hands traveled downward and cupped her bottom. He couldn't tamp down the jealousy that seeped into his blood stream. He could scarcely remember how it felt to touch her so, even though it had only been six months since her mind had been altered.

Michael didn't know exactly what method they had used to adjust her. But he knew he would find a way to reverse it. He could still hear her painful words reverberating in his mind. I don't love you anymore.

Her new programming hadn't turned her into a cold-blooded killing machine. It had made her more focused on her Section duties. She took orders without question. She was polite but aloof. She concentrated more on honing her tactical skills. If she could achieve successful closure while avoiding unnecessary casualties, she did. If she couldn't, she didn't obsess over the loss of human life. She was a more intelligent, efficient, and skilled operative.

She reminds me of me, he thought. He had left her apartment in devastation that day, silently vowing not to let Madeline and Operations get away with what they had done to her. He hadn't forgotten. Because he hadn't collapsed in despair or grabbed an Uzi and pumped bullets into them, his superiors probably thought he had acquiesced to their tinkering with Nikita's mind.

Unbeknownst to them, Michael was simply biding his time, waiting for the right moment to implement his plan. He didn't usually make New Year's resolutions, but he had two to fulfill this year. He couldn't tack them up on his refrigerator as a reminder, like most normal people did, but they were imprinted in his mind for future reference.

Michael's Millennium Resolutions: 1). Restore Nikita, 2). Screw Operations and Madeline.

He listened as Nikita enticed her mark away from the party for a little privacy. Michael straightened and scanned the room. Bergland's three beefy bodyguards were deep in their cups as they joined their employer's guests in the revelry. They didn't notice him leading the statuesque blond downstairs into the belly of the boat.

Michael followed surreptitiously. He watched and listened as Nikita and Bergland fondled and kissed each other, then disappeared through a doorway. He grimaced as his former lover laughed huskily and sighed pleasurably as Bergland detailed exactly what he was going to do to her before the new millennium arrived. He stood sentry outside the door and gnashed his teeth together as he listened to the unmistakable sound of zippers unzipping and bodies crashing down onto a mattress.

Whatever you're doing at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, you will be doing the rest of the year.

Bergland was panting with excitement into his ear. Michael prayed that Nikita wouldn't actually have to have sex with him before killing him and that she would complete the task before the stroke of midnight. He glanced down at his silver wristwatch. Eight minutes to the New Year. He wasn't superstitious, but anything that would give him back his Nikita was worth trying. He seriously doubted they would ever be free of Section, but maybe, just maybe.

A gasp of surprise and a horrible gurgling sound. Michael breathed a sigh of relief. He heard the rustle of clothing being tugged into place. His eyes flew to the stairs leading back up to the party as Nikita emerged from the room. He caught a glimpse of Bergland's body sprawled across the bed before she closed the door with a soft click. Her cold blue eyes met and held with his silver-green ones before she looked away and patted her hair. He hooked his arm towards her and she took hold of it as they casually moved back upstairs.

The partygoers had shifted to one end of the yacht in preparation for the countdown and the fireworks that would erupt over Sydney Harbour Bridge. They moved past a couple who were close to fornicating in a darkened corner and slipped to the rear of the vessel. Michael hastily stripped from his tuxedo, revealing a clinging black wetsuit, and Nikita divested herself of her gown to reveal the miniscule black bikini beneath it.

Simultaneously, they hopped up and perched on the railing, bodies close as they listened to the raised voices counting the seconds to the new millennium.

10, 9, 8, 7. Whatever you're doing at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, you will be doing the rest of the year.

It was foolish to think the old wives tale had merit. But as he caught a whiff of her perfume and his hand brushed against hers as they held on to the railing, Michael wished for this year to be different. He didn't want to spend it in total servitude to Section One and he had a feeling that if he let things go as they were, that's all he would be doing in the coming year. Despite the hopelessness of their situation, the optimistic side of him that had long been buried flared anew as he leaned towards Nikita and raised his hand to her face.

6, 5, 4. Her eyes widened and her lips parted softly in surprise as his trembling hand cupped her cheek. Out of habit, his thumb traced a feather-light path across her delicately arched brow.

3, 2, 1.

They barely registered the loud chorus of voices welcoming the New Year or the iridescent plume of the fireworks rising over Sydney Harbour. There was only the two of them as Michael's lips touched hers. He felt a renewed faith that he and Nikita would be together again as they should be. The contact was unbearably sweet after months of not being able to touch her. He allowed himself to enjoy it for only a few seconds, then he forced himself to pull back and he briefly examined her confused expression. "Happy New Year, Nikita." He whispered.

Her lips were still slightly agape, but she pressed them shut quickly and tore her eyes from his. He'd seen a tiny flicker of remembrance in her eyes and he sighed. A little reaction was better than no reaction.

Still, his spirits were buoyed as he slipped his hand in hers and together they leaned backward and fell into the dark waters below.

THE END

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