Sometimes, she hated him; it wasn't simple anger or even rage but actual hatred. . . . And she hated him all the more for making her feel this way.

Normally, this wasn't really an emotion Nikita was overly prone to. Sure, frustration, anger, irritation, and outrage all surfaced in her from time to time; that had begun in her mother's house and had continued on into the streets--only to be raised to a near art form in Section. But hate was different; that emotion could make you callous and cruel, so she had always tried to avoid it. . . . Michael, however, had taught it to her in its purest form.

The outrage, anger, and despair had started from the day she was recruited, from the day he had held her down on the floor of the white room and calmly told her her first lesson. The hate, though, had begun--subconsciously--on her first mission, had started gestating in her from the moment she had looked up from his "present" and seen his blank, hollow-souled expression across the table.

In lie after lie, action after action--and sometimes in inaction--over the past two years, her hate had grown. At times, it filled her so completely it felt like it was the only thing inside her.

Nikita was walking back toward her quarters, while pondering all of this. She, Birkoff, and a couple of others had Walter under a--very unofficial--suicide watch; she couldn't afford to go home just now. Besides, she and Birkoff were going to take their bereaved friend to a bar later to have a sort of private wake for Belinda.

If it weren't for this, though, Nikita would have left already; she didn't want to take any chances of running into Michael again. She had practically wanted to yell at him earlier, "Of course I leaked the information about Formitz! What did you expect me to do, you soulless bastard?!" She had, however, taken some cunning pride, instead, in lying back to him--knowing, all the while, that he knew the truth as well as she. If that was the sort of game he wanted to set up, after all, she could play it too.

It hurt her, of course, that he *was* playing it, however; it hurt her deeply that the old, manipulative Michael had returned. She had, for the most part, been free of him, for awhile. She punched in her code and entered her quarters. For several months, Michael had been relatively honest and straightforward with her; even at the worst times, then, if she asked a direct question, he would answer her truthfully. . . . Now, even that was gone.

This reversion to his old pattern might have started with Terry, really, she thought, as she sat on her bed; she still wasn't certain whether or not he was the father of Terry's child. She had simply decided, over the past several weeks, to try to forget the entire question; it was easier on her heart.

This was different, though. Now, it was obvious that he was lying; there was no real question about it. He had helped distract her while Section had turned Danielle over to face a death of mutilation. . . . And he had known damn well what he was doing the entire time.

She could see it pretty clearly now, as she leaned over to prop her head in her hand. Something hadn't been right about the way he had called her back in, the way he had told her about their newest prisoner. He had never told her, in fact, that they might be able to forgo using Formitz again; he had allowed her to jump to her own--hopeful--conclusions. He had been stalling.

It hadn't felt right to her, even then. Something about his whole air and attitude had put her on guard, but she had tried to ignore her foreboding; she had wanted to believe there was a way out, . . . but there never was in Section.

She couldn't believe, either, that he would go along with the whole "it's either a few insignificant prostitutes or a lot of innocent people" reasoning.. . . Well, yes, she could believe it, but that only made her hate for him flow more freely.

Section's whole attitude toward Formitz and his victims sickened and disgusted her. How dare they, after all, pick and choose who lived and who died--who was important? How dare they see people as useless commodities to be disposed of? She sat forward slightly and clasped her hands together tightly. Wasn't that the sort of thinking they were supposed to be fighting? Wasn't that why the terrorists were the bad guys--and not them?

She shook her head disgustedly. It was all lies--all of Section's logic. Yes, the victims of Bright Star's bombings were important, but it *didn't* then follow that Formitz's victims weren't; prostitutes or yuppies, Danielle and her friend were every bit as worthy of protection as a busload of city commuters.

Nikita hated that Section didn't see this--or refused to. God, Madeline had even tried to *excuse* Formitz's actions, trying to get her to sympathize with a man whose hobbies were torture, mutilation, and death: poor little Formitz--he's just frightened and looking for a way to feel better; here, why don't you have a few dozen prostitutes to rip slowly into shreds? No one will miss them. She shook her head. Bastards.

She swallowed back a slight lump in her throat; she knew she would hate herself to her dying day for going back to that evil psycho and apologizing. That one act had seriously damaged something inside of her, and the fact that she had tried to keep Danielle from him after that capitulation couldn't make it right. She shook her head. They all belonged in Hell.

Nikita was gritting her teeth by this point. There really were days when she wanted to just blow this whole place up. They weren't protecting anyone; they weren't needed. That was just the bulls---excuse for their existence. No . . . they were here to grab power for themselves; anyone they might help along the way was purely accidental.

That Michael had been a knowing part of this--as he obviously had been—made her feel sick. He had even seemed angry with her when she had been shocked and outraged by finding out the truth about her new contact. She shook her head. . . . The ruthless, callous bastard would probably gut his own mother on orders. What the hell did she ever think she saw in him, anyway?

She was almost, at the moment, sickened with the fact that she had ever cared about Michael. How could you love someone, after all, who supported and excused the work of a modern Jack the Ripper--who helped him to procure his victims--who chastised the person who tried to protect the innocent? What kind of a freak was she to want him? What the hell was wrong with her, anyway?

"f--- Michael," she decided. Let the evil son-of-a-bitch rot in Hell. She wasn't going to waste any more of her time caring for him.

She also wasn't going to think, right now, about the fact that she knew this was a lie. She understood full well--and couldn't face right now--that Michael was under her skin and that nothing besides death--and she wasn't even sure about that--would get him out.

She sighed and moved back further onto her bed, leaning her back against the wall and resting her arms on her knees. As much as she wanted to cleanse herself of him, he wouldn't go; her mind and heart kept spinning around, centering themselves on him, telling her that there was something decent and pure in him, even though he seemed determined to prove otherwise.

She was still trying to figure out his motives. . . . Why had he sent her to be Formitz's contact? He had obviously known what the man was when he had ordered her to get an incomplete profile of the forger from Madeline. Why make *her* go? Had he hoped she wouldn't find out the truth about her new contact? . . . Or was he just purposely trying to hurt her?

Nikita looked at the ceiling and shook her head against the wall. She wasn't at all sure of his motives. If he had been ordered to hook her up with Formitz as a test, he had ludicrously misjudged her willingness to give up her soul in exchange for the continuation of her physical life. Even if he *had* been trying to protect her in some demented, backward way by his actions, what did that say about his feelings for her? Did he *want* her to be brutal and cruel? Was that what turned him on? . . . Was he really that sick?

She closed her eyes for a minute; they had begun to get red. She didn't know what Michael expected of her. . . . She almost feared that she might one day find out.

What she did know, right now, was that Section had compromised her. They--and Michael--had forced her to unwillingly play pimp for a sadistic murderer; they had destroyed her effort to protect an innocent, brutalized soul. Even if her actions had led to Formitz's death, in the end, Section had still won the war.

She opened her eyes. They had succeeded in one other way, too. They had, quite effectively, driven her and Michael apart again--had even gotten him to take part in their efforts. . . . Damn them.

She had to be more careful in the future--not in the way Michael had suggested a few weeks before, though, not by fulfilling Section's demands to protect her own life. No . . . she had to be on a constant watch over her soul. Otherwise, she was going to wake one morning to the realization that Michael had stolen it from her, using it to barter for her life. . . . Well, she wouldn't be bartered.

Nikita looked over at a small clock in the room. She had two more hours, before she was scheduled to go out with Walter and Birkoff--two more hours to brood. Maybe then she could get drunk and force herself to forget, for awhile, that the man she loved was the man she hated--that her sometime lover was also her worst enemy. Maybe somewhere in a drink-induced fog she could understand him, as well. . . . She was certainly never going to be able to do so while sober.

***********

It was a good thing, really, that he had taught himself control a long time ago. Otherwise, he would have destroyed everything in his office by now in a fit of frustration and despair.

Michael was sitting, apparently calmly, behind his computer; he was very still. His jaw was set, his muscles tightened almost to the point of self-injury. He was half-convinced that he had turned to stone, that if someone put their hand on him, they would find nothing but cold marble underneath their fingers.

This was a foolish thought, of course; no one was going to touch him. Everyone knew better. He had half-consciously created his deadly persona as a way to avoid touch--to avoid all human contact. And, with the exception of Nikita, it usually worked.

He hated, sometimes, that Nikita could arouse him so. He had spent years ruthlessly repressing his emotions and needs. At the very sight of her, though, all of his discipline vanished; he wanted to touch her, but--more oddly for him--he wanted to be touched by her, to give his body over entirely to her discretion. He may not trust her to carry out Section's orders, but--where he was concerned, regardless of all of his injuries to her--his trust was complete. All of this, however, made the fact that he seemed destined to hurt her even more painful. She encouraged him, after all, to open up--to feel--to care about other people. He, in return for her offer of life, gave her brutal retaliations for her kindness.

He had actually allowed himself to believe, for awhile, that there had been some fundamental changes for the better between them. He had been wrong, though. Instead, he had reverted to a very old role with her: playing Judas to her Christ.

It wasn't that he approved of Formitz; he had no love of mutilation. Section, however, saw the man as a necessary evil, so Michael had agreed. After all, he only had the energy to protect one person: Nikita.

He tried not to think too often--although it frequently filtered through, nonetheless--about what his "protection" entailed for his former material. He was, after all, asking her to give up the one thing she was most insistent on keeping--her soul--in return for something she valued far less--her own life.

Once again, though, her desires didn't matter to him. He needed her too much to ask how she felt. He was going to keep her alive, even if he had to destroy her to do it.

If he really loved her, he had thought more than once, he would let her go, would allow her to follow her conscience, even if it led to her death. . . .He couldn't, though; as much as he despised himself for it, he knew he would damage her in anyway necessary to keep her close to him.

He had worried, many times, that all of the self-professed love he claimed to have was simply need--an unconquerable desire to be close to her light--the light he had denied in himself so long ago.

Was he just interested in possessing her--in owning her--in having his own personal symbol nearby of the things he would never be? Michael closed his eyes momentarily. Yes, to a certain extent, that was it. . . . He knew, however, that it wasn't all.

As well as his possessiveness, there was a protectiveness; they weren't the same, but they coexisted in him. He opened his eyes. The former was based on his need, his almost-feral desire to rule his chosen mate; he wasn't proud of this side of him, but he knew it was strong. The latter emotion, however, was more gentle and was based on his love--on the fact that his heart contracted slightly every time he thought of her--the fact that he wanted, almost painfully, to hold her close--to keep her . . . keep them both from harm, physically and spiritually.

Simply put, he was a tormented man. His desire for her was both violent and tender, greedy and giving. His need, however, won too often.

This was especially true lately; both Operations and Madeline, after all, had made it clear recently that Nikita was being more closely watched. They weren't placing her in abeyance or threatening cancellation, though; no . . .their plans were far worse. . . . They were targeting her soul, . . . and he was helping them do it.

He had known the truth about Formitz from the beginning, had fully understood why he had been told to assign Nikita to be his contact. . . . He was being asked to conduct a very brutal test on her.

Michael had done it, though, out of fear of what worse fates may await her, if he refused. He had hoped that she would remain ignorant of Formitz's depravity and that Madeline and Operations wouldn't feel it necessary to flaunt it, once things were over. . . . He had even ordered Birkoff not to give her Formitz's home address, in order to try to assure this end. Unfortunately, it hadn't worked. Her ignorance had been too much to wish for.

He had played the part of her distraction unwillingly, only going along out of fear for Nikita's life and because it allowed him to avoid being the one to find Danielle and lead her to her brutal death. Even if part of him agreed with Section's logic in the matter, it would have been a distasteful job.

He had been trying to avoid lying to Nikita for awhile--had been attempting a new honesty with her, to a certain extent, in an effort to win her trust. That was why, when she had been called in from Formitz--when he was beginning the distraction, he hadn't directly lied to her; he had told her the relevant information and allowed her to draw her own, erroneous conclusions. . . . Since his door had been open and his office unsecured, as well, that had really been the best he could do--a subtle manipulation in place of an overt one.

The real pain had come, though, when she had asked him--basically--to follow through on their new honesty by telling the truth about what had happened—by just admitting his part in deceiving her. It had taken a feat of brutal will to look in her eyes and lie. He had been ordered to keep quiet, however; he had had little choice, . . . or so he told himself. He couldn't blame Nikita for seeing to Formitz's death, really, or for lying about it, . . . but that didn't make her deceptiveness any easier to take. Even though he had just broken his unspoken pledge of honesty to her, he had been deeply hurt when she had done the same with him. . . . He tried not, as well, to think about the hypocrisy of this emotion.

He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. With all of his musings, and the conflicted feelings they led him to, he could see only one, inevitable conclusion: his relationship with Nikita was on a downward slope, was in the process of reversion to a time when he had hurt her brutally on an almost daily basis. He opened his slightly bloodshot eyes again. Although he could see no way out of this coming catastrophe, he prayed that something soon would come along to save them from the waiting abyss.

[The End]

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