Prologue

At St. Alban's, recess period was ending. The third-grade teacher stood at the back entrance to the school. She glanced at her wrist watch, pulled a whistle out of her pocket and gave a sharp blast on it; children began swinging off jungle gym bars, leaping off swings, making just one more basket, skipping just once more before the jump rope was coiled neatly in the games box.

Saul, as usual, was last, and Zeb, his constant shadow, followed. Saul bounced the ball three more times, then slowly carried it to the games box, bouncing it in; Zeb paused to examine a rock, which he then pocketed.

"Saul! Zeb! Come on, we're waiting for you!" the teacher called, but Saul and Zeb, still trying to make recess last longer, lingered.

A black van pulled up, just outside the fence, and the teacher looked at it curiously. The doors opened, and three people jumped out, but instead of going around to the front of the school, they began scaling the fence, faces grim and set.

Alarmed, she started forward. "Who are you? What do you think you're --"

"A bomb," one of them gasped. "Planted under the swing set. Get the children inside, quickly --"

"But who --"

"Do it!" Already herding the children in, the other woman spoke to them calmly. "Come on, quickly, quickly, no running, let's go ..."

She shoved the teacher in last, then closed the door, ignoring the puzzled faces pressed against the glass, and turned back around.

She'd missed two.

The little boys stood watching two men in black combat gear. One held a small black gizmo in his hand and was sweeping it over the swing set area; the other was crouched on the ground, as if he'd lost something he needed to find, and one of the little boys trotted up to him, his friend following as he always did.

"Mister? D'ja lose something?"

The man looked up, startled, and began to say something. The woman took one step toward the children. "Boys!"

They turned toward her, one blonde, one dark, eyes questioning.

From her viewpoint inside, the teacher saw two things happen at the same time: the woman took another step forward, almost off the back stoop, and in a sudden gust, the swing set disappeared. With a huge clap and a deafening roar that crumbled the safety glass of the window, the entire schoolyard erupted in a gigantic explosion.

*********************

"Was our intel faulty, or was the bomb early?" Operations asked.

"There's not that much left," Michael said. "The residue is being tested, though; we should know by tomorrow."

"What did it look like? Could you see anything on the ground?"

Nikita answered this time. "No," she said calmly, voice steady and eyes clear. "Nothing. No cords, no wires. Anson was using the explosives indicator Walter gave him and Chilly was searching the ground."

"You're sure?"

"Yes," Nikita answered, with no hesitation. "Positive."

"Very well," Operations said slowly. "We'll know more tomorrow. Michael, check with our source, make sure there was no ... miscommunication. And let's start calling in some favors. I want to bring this guy in."

"Of course. Are we dismissed?"

"Yes. I want answers tomorrow," Operations warned, and Michael nodded.

Nikita led the way, and as he followed her, Michael touched her shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"Fine," she answered.

"Nikita." He stopped her and turned her around to face him. "Are you all right?" he repeated.

"Michael, yes. A little tired, that's all." Her eyes were calm and clear, showing no emotion. "May I go?"

"Yes." He watched her walk away from him, feeling distinctly off-balance. Not too very long ago, she would have been a basket case. Too many times they'd fought about the good of many in relationship to the destruction of the few. Two boys were killed, yes -- and 28 other children, because of Nikita's quick thinking, were alive. Injured, but alive. The Nikita of the past would have mourned the two dead, though, and as Michael went to his office, he found he was unaccountably annoyed.

It's becoming easier for her to disengage, he told himself. Easier, maybe, he thought. But that's not Nikita. Is it?

As he sat at his desk, he remembered that they were both still in mission clothes. That meant Nikita still had her tracker on. Michael frowned, feeling a tiny pin-prick of conscious, then he shrugged and activated his computer. He put in Nikita's code and hoped she hadn't changed clothes.

***********

As Nikita took the elevator down, she occupied herself with a familiar math problem.

"Capacity 1200 lbs," the sign read.

If everyone weighed 100 pounds, that's 12 people. She looked around; the elevator wasn't that big. And 100 pounds ... pretty light. Not many people in Section were that small. Okay, make it 120 pounds. 120 into 1200, that's ten people. Still a lot in a little space ... suppose there were an equal number of men and women. The women would weigh 130. Ummm ... 130 times six ... three times eight is eighteen, carry the one ... 780 pounds? 1200 from 780 ...

The elevator stopped and Nikita got out.

When Section was built during the Cold War, it was thought the more distance between Us and Them, the better. So in the beginning, they were 1,500 feet underground. As time went on and the space was outgrown, layers were added on top. Sometimes it was a matter of electronics -- it was easier to build new than to try to rewire all the equipment and worry about power outages and overloaded connections. Fire was a prime concern, and chancy circuits weren't tolerated. It's rather like an old city, Nikita thought; dig a hole, hit a civilization that thrived 2,000 years ago.

This part of Section had been closed down for perhaps 20 years. It was used for storage only, and dim emergency lighting lit the passageways. Nikita walked down the main hallway, made a left, and took another elevator down a few more levels.

This level was darker, but still light enough for her to see her way. She made a left, then a right, then, looking both ways (though she knew no one knew where she was), she opened an office door.

She'd found this place in her early days in Section. Alone, afraid, furiously angry, she needed someplace that was out of Section's prying eyes. She lit a pilfered candle (highly illegal in Section because of fire hazards) and sat back in the abandoned leather chair. Then she let the tears come.

_________________

Michael watched Nikita descend. Before she went to the second level, he turned off his main monitor and switched to a hand-held, then he followed in her footsteps.

The elevator opened with a sigh, and cautiously Michael got out. Walking lightly, he slowly turned the corner, then he stopped.

He heard a kind of ragged breathing, and frowning, he crept forward, not making a sound.

Nikita had her head down on the desk, and her whole body shuddered, wrenching with sobs. The candlelight flickered over her, exaggerating her movement and casting weird shadows around her. She cried for her friends and for the boys that were killed. She cried for the other children, witness to the destruction. She cried because she was angry that someone would even think of planting a bomb in a school yard; she cried because she was on the team; she cried because there was nothing else she could do.

He'd never heard such anguish and anger and helplessness. Stunned, he fell back to where the shadows were darker. He knew every inch of her body, both clothed and unclothed; he knew what she liked to eat; he knew her favorite sleeping position and what kind of hand lotion she used. But what he witnessed now was so personal, so private, his face flamed in embarrassment.

She cried until she was hoarse, then, gradually, the sobs stilled. Her breath was still uneven, and she sat back in the chair, eyes closed in grief and weariness, face swollen. She sat quietly for about fifteen minutes, then she opened her eyes and sighed. She wiped her nose and patted her eyes dry, then, when she could breathe normally, she got out a compact and tried to tone down her red face. She laughed, a little shakily, at her reflection, then snapped the compact closed, rose, blew out the candle and left, stride unhurried but firm.

Michael shrank close to the wall, reverting to the childhood habit of not looking at someone when you don't want them to notice you.

Nikita didn't look his way. He waited for another few minutes until he was sure she was gone, then he followed.

***********

Nikita felt better after her crying jag. No one noticed her or her red eyes as she left Section, and by the time she got home, she was feeling that salty, half-sick, headachey feeling that results from too much sleep or too many tears.

She got a sudden flash of two small faces looking at her, questioning. She caught her breath and bit her lower lip, waiting to see if tears would come; but she'd evidently cried as much as she could for one day. Her eyes remained dry, though her heart grew a little heavier.

Nikita stripped and bathed, dressing in her favorite pajamas. She wrung out a cold washcloth and put it on her forehead to make the headache go away. Treating herself like an invalid, she heated water for tea and considered making soup, but that seemed like too much trouble. So instead, she poured her tea and made herself comfortable on her bed, flipping on the television and going directly to the children's channel.

She'd missed a lot of things growing up, and television was one of them. They'd never had a set. For the most part Nikita didn't watch television, but sometimes, like tonight, a little escapism did her good, and Nick at Nite was running back-to-back "Brady Bunch." She settled down with a happy sigh, immediately immersed in the plastic astro-turf saga of six children whose biggest problems were popularity, talking on the telephone, wearing glasses and going through puberty.

__________________

Unable to work, Michael shrugged into his jacket and left Section, still very troubled by what he'd done and what he'd seen. I never should have followed her, he thought. It was none of my business.

They were lovers, yes. And friends too. But remembering her broken-hearted sobs, hearing every feeling that she couldn't articulate -- such an intimate moment should never been witnessed by anyone, and certainly not Michael, uninvited as he was.

Haunted by Nikita's crying, he knew sometime, some place, that particular sound would creep into his dreams, unbidden and unwanted. He started his car and headed home.

On the other hand, he was also a little aggravated. She might have confided in him. He might have been able to offer some consolation. Then, thinking of other times Nikita sought human contact and left disappointed, he frowned. Maybe she didn't ask because she didn't think it would be forthcoming.

It wasn't his job to coddle her, he reminded himself sharply. She made it quite clear that she preferred to take care of herself. Yet, there were times, he admitted, particularly rough days, when one of her smiles or a brief touch on his shoulder seemed to lighten his load.

Somewhere along the way, he stopped. Then he turned the car in the opposite direction and in fifteen minutes, he was there.

*************

Standing outside Nikita's apartment, Michael had second thoughts. He shifted his warm bundles in his arms, considering the situation and listening for any tell-tale sounds behind her door.

She was probably was asleep. It suddenly occurred to him he should have called first -- that was the polite thing to do.

Well, he was here and he had food, he thought. If she was asleep, he'd leave a note and put the food in the refrigerator. He listened at the door, knocked, and when there was no answer, he used his key.

"Nikita?" he called softly, but as the door opened, he heard the television. Puzzled, he set his bags down and went to the bottom of her stair. "Nikita?"

Letting out a startled yelp, Nikita stared at him from the bed, hand on her chest. "Don't DO that, Michael," she finally managed, sitting up. "You scared me to death. You never heard of using the doorbell?"

"I thought you'd be asleep."

"I almost was. What is it? Do I need to come in?" She got off the bed and stretched, then ambled toward him.

"No."

"Than why are you here?"

"I thought you might like something to eat."

"What?" She came downstairs and investigated the takeout. "Looks good. Thanks. You're eating, too, right?"

"If you want me to stay."

Nikita turned her back to him and got out plates and chopsticks and put the water on for tea. "Sure, stay if you want," she said vaguely, hunting for some soy sauce.

"I want to talk about what happened today."

Grinning at him, Nikita teased gently, "You so seldom want to talk about anything, Michael ... I'm all ears."

There were times when he felt himself actually get lost when he looked at Nikita, almost as if his body and his mind were separating. Staring into her eyes was very much like staring into the ocean -- changeable depths, mercurial temperatures, unchartered waters.

Nikita suddenly remembered she had on her pajamas, and not the nice ones either. She'd long ago lost the drawstring for the pants; they were held up with a hot pink hair ribbon with safety pins dangling from the frayed ends. The hem was out in the legs, and the piping on one sleeve had come off after numerous washings. They'd started out blue, but now were a sort of dingy gray, and somewhere along the line she'd accidentally gotten a few drops of bleach on the top. But the material was soft as batiste, and she couldn't bear to make rags out of them. "Maybe I should change out of my jim-jams?" she guessed, trying to gauge Michael's reaction to her clothing.

He glanced down, breaking eye contact, and said rather gruffly, "You're fine." He realized now that he had her attention, he wasn't sure how to start. "About the bomber."

"Yes?" Nikita handed him his plate and sat down at the barstool.

"You don't seem too upset," Michael said cautiously, hoping she wouldn't start to cry.

"I was. I'm not now. You want some cashew chicken?" She paused over his plate, and he nodded.

"Sure. What do you mean, you aren't upset now?"

Nikita finished with her plate and sat down at the bar. "What's the point?"

"Excuse me?"

"What's the point of being upset?" She popped a piece of curried shrimp into her mouth. "I can't change anything. Most likely we'll find the bomber and either kill him or let him go, depending on who he is and who he knows ... and Operations's mood of the moment."

"If you had the power, which would you choose? To let him go, or kill him?" Michael took a seat next to her and started to eat.

"Honestly?" Nikita thought a few moments, then said slowly, "When I first came to Section, Madeleine had to remind me over and over that so many of the decisions that are made are not right and wrong decisions. They're compromises. So, depending on what kind of information we get tomorrow ..."

"I think it's a Unit Four job," Michael said.

Nikita grinned at him. "So do I. Just because they've focused on post offices in the past doesn't mean they aren't ready to branch out. If it's Unit Four, I think the best thing to do would be to implant a tracker and let him go. Then keep an eye on him."

"Even if we can directly link him to the bombing? Even though he's responsible for the deaths of two children?"

Nikita sighed, and pushed back her plate. "Yes." She took a drink of water and ran her finger along the edge, listening to the crystal hum. "I'm just ... sometimes I just get so tired of killing, you know? I lost count of how many people owe their death to me long ago. Besides ... who am I to decide? I'm no better than he is. Neither are you, or Operations or Madeleine. We all walk around with bloody hands."

"You know that we are acting for the greater good." Michael finished his dinner and rinsed the plates, setting them in the dishwasher.

"Yeah, I know," Nikita said tiredly. "Most days I can justify what we do. Today, I guess, I'm just having a little harder time doing it."

Nikita brought their empty glasses to him and set them in the rack, then turned and leaned against him. He put his head on hers and gently put his hands on her back. "Can we not talk about this anymore?" she asked.

"Okay."

They were quiet, just standing in each other's arms and enjoying a rare moment of unrushed intimacy, when Nikita said suddenly, "I left the television on."

She made no move to turn it off, so Michael said idly, "What were you watching?"

"Brady Bunch."

After a pause, Michael admitted, "I don't know what that means."

She pulled away from him and grinned. "I didn't either till I was recruited. It's on late nights, and sometimes when I get home, I can't sleep. Come on." She linked her hand through his and led him up the stairs, giving him a push toward the bed. "Have a seat."

Nikita followed suit, tucking her feet under his leg for warmth. She explained the basic premise of the show, then lapsed into silence. Michael glanced at her out of the corner of his eye; she looked sleepy and he noticed tenderly that she'd spilled a little sweet-and-sour sauce on her top. He moved a little closer to her, putting an arm around her. She yawned and patted his chest. "You don't have to stay. I'm sorry I'm a poor hostess."

He drew her into his arms, loosely holding her close. "Some days are more difficult than others," he said, and Nikita closed her eyes. "Nikita, are you awake?"

"Um-hum."

"I'm sorry about today."

"Not your fault," she muttered.

"No, but I wish the outcome had been different."

"If we hadn't arrived when we did, more children would be dead."

"Yes, but that doesn't make it easier."

"It's never easy, Michael. When I first came to Section, I couldn't rationalize what I did with what I knew was right. Then, I decided I was some kind of avenger -- you know, righting all the wrongs of the world."

"And now?" Michael pulled her closer and ran a rhythmic finger down her spine, feeling her muscles relax under his touch.

"I don't know. I don't like having blood on my hands, never mind who it belongs to. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances we don't know about. Maybe he's evening a score, or trying to make some quick money. Maybe he's being used by someone else, blackmail, whatever. It's easier to be merciful than to vengeful. Or maybe it's just apathy, it's hard to tell sometimes. What do you think?"

"I don't think it's apathy."

"No, I meant, what do you think about the bomber?"

"I think he deserves to die," Michael said thoughtfully. "But then, a great many of my acquaintances deserve to die." He paused.

"Say something else," she requested, head on his chest and leg sandwiched between his.

"What?"

"Keep talking, I like to feel your voice through me," she murmured, and he smiled.

"You're half-asleep."

"Mmmm ... please, Michael ..."

He turned off the television with the remote, switched off the light, and moved down in the bed, taking Nikita with him. "‘The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: it blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes the throned monarch better than his crown. His scepter shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. But mercy is above the scepter'd sway. It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ...'" His voice got lower and lower, until he was almost whispering at the end. " ‘.... though justice be thy plea, consider this: that in the course of justice none of us should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy ...'"

Nikita lay loose-limbed in his arms. Michael shifted her onto her pillow, then curved his body around hers. She muttered in her sleep, then as his arm crept around her, she curled up in his body, wrapping his warmth around her.

-end-