******************************************************************* The following is a character study set during the events of "Inside Out," and it will make *far* more sense if you've seen that episode. It contains spoilers for "Inside Out," "Hard Landing," "Old Habits," "Psychic Pilgrim," "Fuzzy Logic," "Mandatory Refusal," and "Not Was." I'd rate it an MA-14 for strong language and discussions of sex.

Some of the dialogue and action here, it should be said, are taken from the episode. However, I mean *no* infringement by it. Believe me, I'm not getting paid for this.

Events here, as well, may go forward and back a bit in time in order to follow certain groups of characters, but they should be fairly clear.

Also, for anyone who doesn't know about this and would want to, I refer to the 5 stages of grief and dying here. If you don't know about this, they are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I sort of take this knowledge for granted in this story; see the various works of Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross for more information on this theory. Again, no infringement of any sort is intended with the following. Please send any comments to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

Enjoy!

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

It was a day he had dreaded for some time now--the day when Nikita finally pointed out the lie he had been telling her for years, the lie which was his only slim foothold on sanity. He had told her that relationships between operatives were forbidden, even though it had never been true. It wasn't against the rules; it was just easier--safer not to.

He could have lied to her again today, of course, Michael thought, as he sat in his office, planning the next mission. He could have claimed that Operations and Madeline had never been lovers. It would have been so blatant a lie, though; it was better just to tell her the truth: "A lot of things can be done. Doesn't mean they should be."

He had done the right thing, he told himself. She needed to hear it. . . . The look in her eyes, however, was haunting him; she had tried to just accept it, but she had been deeply hurt.

Seeing the evidence of yet another wound he had given her was tormenting, but his mind quickly turned the tables on that thought, placing the blame on her instead. . . . What did she think, anyway--that he didn't *want* a relationship? That he didn't dream of waking up every morning to find her lying beside him? That he didn't want to be given the right to touch the skin he dreamed of pressing his lips to--that seemed to call out for the stroke of light fingers; to sink his face into that halo of hair and inhale the scent which owned his soul; to press his lips to the soft pink of hers and relearn--time and again--the honeyed secrets of her mouth; to hold her, trembling, against him, while he . . .?

Michael closed his eyes for a second and swore silently. This--*this* was why they couldn't be lovers; she infected his thoughts to the point where he found himself concentrating less on the missions and more on fantasizing about her touch. . . . It was a dangerous weakness.

He opened his eyes. He *needed* his control; it was the one thing which kept him . . . no, not sane, but . . . functional. Without it, he was useless . . . to anyone. The walls he had ruthlessly built around his emotions had to be constantly guarded; otherwise, God only knew what would happen. Nikita, however, could destroy them completely without even trying.

It had all become truly dangerous, really, after he had found her in Paris. Before that night, he could tell himself that his vivid and uncontrollable fantasies about her were unrealistic--that he didn't really need her. He shook his head slightly. What a lie that had been. That night had proved undeniably that, no matter how overwhelming his fantasies had been, Nikita surpassed them all to a sanity-shattering degree. She had the power to control his body and his desires completely, to build his passion to a threatening level and then to satisfy it--to satisfy him--to his very soul.

How could anyone fight an enemy like her? How could he, when he knew full well that making love to her was like being able to dive into her soul? It was a benediction--a sacred blessing--a baptism in the soul of God.

He closed his eyes again. How could she not know all this? Didn't she understand just how vulnerable he was to her--that a single look from her made him want to forget *14 years* of Section duty and focus only on making her smile?

No. She didn't understand at all. His eyes opened again. She saw him as some robotic creation, programmed to follow only Section. . . . And, worst of all, he was going to have to let her keep thinking it, if he planned to function at all.

The reverse of this unpleasant compromise, however, was also true; he couldn't function without her. He sighed slightly. Her six-month absence had proven that. He set his jaw in frustrated determination, made one final touch to his mission plans, and then went to deliver them to the profiler.

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

Only slightly later, Walter was in the process of trying to drop-kick himself across the room. He had been silently ranting self-castigations for a half hour now.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid," he was telling himself. "The kid's been in one relationship in his life, and--when it ends-- you expect him to be willing to face the big picture?"

Walter sighed and pulled rather testily at a wire he was working with with his pliers. He should have known better. Still, there was something about Birkoff that made him treat the young man half like an adolescent and half like a contemporary; it was too bad he was screwing it up big time lately on when to do which.

He put down the pliers and wire to avoid doing any real damage. He had just meant to sympathize with him on being dumped, but he had gone about it in a really bad way. Birkoff was still in denial.

Hell, breaking up was hard enough when you had done it a million times; how did he really expect Birkoff to be able to handle it? The kid was intelligent and could be incredibly understanding, at times. He was still, though--which was rather an anomaly in Section--inexperienced as hell. It was going to take him another few years to get up to speed on all aspects of adult relationships.

Walter sighed and shook his head. He was actually still alive because of Birkoff and Nikita. Without their intervention, he would have killed Operations when Belinda died--and been cancelled himself in response. It was only the fact that they needed him which had made him decide to live.

Losing Belinda still hurt; he wasn't going to stop grieving for quite sometime. He wiped a tear from his eye, pretending it was just a stray eyelash. His friends needed him, though, and that gave him a purpose--a reason for continuing. Without them, . . . .

"Too bad you aren't doing much to help them," he thought. His encounter with Birkoff hadn't exactly made him feel useful.

He had never really expected this out of Gail, either. She was a nice kid, who seemed to be genuinely fond of Birkoff. . . . What in hell did she think she was up to?

Walter shook his head once more and returned to his work. All he could do, he supposed, was wait for Birkoff to find out the truth . . . and then be there to buy the poor kid a beer.

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

There was a certain point at which--after many years--some missions became fairly interchangeable. This was, so far, one of those missions.

This wasn't an excuse for failing in your duty, of course. Michael only needed to use about half of his attention to focus on technical oversight, here, though; the rest he was using to concentrate on his own end game. He had planned this mission to allow him some time alone with Nikita.

Admittedly, he wasn't entirely sure what he would do with it, but he was hoping the proximity might help to heal the rift between them.

So far, however, it didn't seem to be working. Nikita wasn't being unfriendly or cold, but she was trying to avoid looking at him. Even though there was nothing particularly extraordinary in the mission so far, she was focusing on it fairly intently.

Michael, conversely, seemed able to look at nothing but her. He had to purposely try to drag his eyes back to the screen. Part of him wanted, almost desperately, to pull her into his arms, turn her face to his, and beg, "Pay attention to me, dammit!" He wanted to hold her crushingly close, to taste the depths of her sweet mouth, to feel her body pressed close to his--*all* of her body, to trace his hands along her curves, to . . .

Michael stopped himself with a silent, rare curse word. "Shit." He dragged his mind back to the mission again and ordered the other teams back to Section.

He and Nikita were staying. Maybe 12 hours alone with him in a van would get her to start paying some attention to him. . . . "And no," he snapped mentally at the part of his mind which had made the observation, "I'm not being petulant."

"He's trying to drive me insane," Nikita pondered, propping her face in her hand. "First, he tells me, basically, that he doesn't want me. Now, I've got to sit in a van alone with him for half a day. . . . He's gotta be trying to get me committed."

Their relationship had been terrible lately, admittedly, but his present behavior seemed far too symbolic. After all, she had been so hopeful after the Armel mission, only to watch him regress--to become so much more like the man she had hated--who had hurt her repeatedly--during her first year as an operative.

It had really only been seeing Operations and Madeline fighting earlier--and the revelation that had brought to her--which had made her feel there was a chance. After all, if relationships here *were* possible, and she and Michael could form one full-time, they might have a future, since it was only when they had been recently intimate that he consistently told her the truth--that he opened up to her.

She wanted back the belief in him she had felt after both of their nights together. If that became the norm for them, maybe the pain of the manipulations would lessen.

It had been an unrealistic desire, of course. Even if she didn't expect perfection between them, trust itself was--sadly--an outrageous demand to make in Section.

She didn't know what she had expected from him, really, when she had arrived in his office earlier. Did she really think he was going to take her in his arms and say, "Oh, darling, you're right--we belong together"? She managed, with some effort, to stifle a laugh. . . . No, that hadn't been it, really. Still, she had hoped for something more.

Any concession would have pleased her. If he could have just admitted he had been lying--if he could have come up with a better excuse for his distance, even that would have reassured her--strangely--that he cared. She swallowed back tears slightly, however, remembering what he had told her; to her, it just meant he didn't want her. She sighed. When would she ever learn that she meant nothing to him?

A half hour later, Michael's petulance had given way to sorrow. He had already taken the first watch and was allowing Nikita to get some sleep. Watching her--the nearly-empty surveillance screen was coming close to being ignored, his heart kept tugging at him--telling him to take her in his arms, to explain the reasons for his distance, to not allow her to wrongly assume his indifference.

He sighed. That couldn't happen, though. He knew, on some level, that letting her think he didn't care would be safer--that if she could convince herself to destroy her feelings for him, she would have a better chance of survival.

He wasn't that unselfish, however; he couldn't do it. He needed her. He would just have to keep dragging her back and forth between belief and disillusion.

He sighed and forced himself to stop watching her sleep, returning his attention to the screen. Nothing between them made any sense. He had actually allowed himself to be angry with her, earlier, both for letting him know-- again--that she wanted a relationship and, conversely, for pulling away to protect herself at his rejection.

Michael rubbed his eyes briefly. When he let himself see the truth of their situation, he knew that he had her trapped. He wouldn't allow her to be free, but he wouldn't hold her close, either; he grew unspeakably angry when she closed herself off from him, yet he discouraged any attempts to speak about her emotions. . . . It was an intolerable situation for them both.

Their relationship had become increasingly difficult lately. He had been forced into his growing denial to her of his feelings by the demands of Operations and Madeline--both of whom wanted her colder, less human. In an attempt to keep the relative openness they had shared for some months, however, he had tried to circumvent Section's leaders by getting her to play along in this emotionless agenda, but Nikita's warning to him that she would rather die than compromise her soul had led him to his recent, scarring manipulations of her with the brutal Formitz. He was determined to keep her alive, even if it drove them completely apart.

He quietly swallowed back a lump in his throat. It was obvious; they couldn't be lovers. That would be far too dangerous and potentially painful on any number of levels. His denial, however, while it allowed him to exist in many other ways, worked not at all with her. Not surprisingly, really, it only strengthened his feelings.

Their increasing distance since the Armel mission had only served to goad his imagination into overdrive. He couldn't see her without wanting to touch her, without wanting to be touched by her. He longed to have her scent invading his senses; his mouth--his tongue yearned for the chance to be able to savor all those parts of her he had only begun to learn. His hands were aching to stroke her smooth flesh. . . . His entire body was her pliable slave, wanting every moment to be near her, to please her.

He was staring at her again. He felt some tears building and closed his eyes tightly, his jaw set. He cursed himself. . . . This Was Not Acceptable. *Focus*. Distraction this great led to death. He opened his eyes and dragged them back to the screen. He was going to teach them both this lesson . . . even if it destroyed them.

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

If there was one thing Birkoff never expected from himself, it was that he would become territorial. Here he was, though, trying to order Mowen off, trying to keep him away from Gail, like some possessive tiger.

It would have been funny, really, if he had felt capable of any sense of humor at the moment--a tech. op. trying to scare off a cold op. . . . It was a bit like a slightly nervous chihuahua barking at an invading, rabid pit bull; the pit bull was unlikely to be frightened.

Walter's words had scared Birkoff, though. As much as he had tried to deny them, he now found himself assessing every passing guy as the one Gail had left him for.

Once he was faced with the truth, however, he was unprepared for the pain which accompanied it. . . . Jangklow. Of all the guys he could have imagined being dumped for, Jangklow had to be near the bottom of the list.

Birkoff had never really liked the guy. For someone who was usually just running urine samples, he was incredibly egotistical. . . . The way he came up to kiss her when he knew Birkoff was there, too . . .

It was with this one revelation, really, that Birkoff got catapulted from denial much deeper into anger. What the hell could she see in that guy, anyway? And then to *lie* to him about it . . .

When Gail came to explain, he wanted to just throw things at her. Instead, he made a sort of lame attempt at denying that he cared and ordered her off to do some work. The last thing he could stand at the moment were her attempts at kindness. . . . What the hell was he, anyway--a charity case? What, she had been dating him out of pity?

He would show her. "Let's see if she gets any slack from now on," he thought, in an attempt at cruelty. . . . He wasn't ready to face the fact, right now, that he really couldn't hurt her.

"This wasn't how things were supposed to work," Gail thought, after Jangklow had tried to kiss her. She had wanted to tell Birkoff the truth earlier, but she just couldn't. . . . She didn't want to hurt him any more.

She was feeling a growing sense of confusion. If someone had asked her when her discontent with Birkoff had begun, she wouldn't have been able to answer, because, in fact, it never really had. She still cared about--still liked being around him; he could still make her laugh--a trait she valued highly in both lovers and friends. He was intelligent and kind and considerate. He was becoming quite a skilled lover. . . . What was there to be unhappy about?

None of the other women in Section, however, seemed to agree with her, and Gail was still a bit too young to be able to ignore their chat. She got teased a lot about being "the kid's" lover; some of the "jokes," in fact, were downright cruel. She got asked all the time about why she had wanted to take on the task of training the virgin . . . as though she were really the Whore of Babylon herself.

Gail hadn't been inexperienced before she was recruited, but she had only actually had three lovers. She had kind of liked the fact that Birkoff had been a virgin; it simply meant, to her, that she got to train him in the ways she wanted. And, although *no one else* seemed to believe her, he was quite an apt pupil.

It was possible, in fact--although Gail wasn't fully seeing this at the moment--that, if she hadn't been so constantly harrassed about their relationship, she wouldn't have looked at anyone else. She just wasn't strong enough, though, to resist.

And there were so many others who came on to her. Somehow, just because she was relatively perky, it seemed to be open season. The bantering she didn't mind. The innuendos, however, she had had to learn to ignore; if she allowed herself to think about them, after all, she would probably flip out.

Birkoff, in truth, was about the only one who didn't treat her like that. Frequently, *she* had to pursue *him*; it was a reversal she enjoyed.

There had been nothing overtly calculated in her relationship with Jangklow, but Gail wasn't allowing herself to examine her motives too deeply. Even if she hadn't planned to choose him, her subconscious had been goaded into it. She was tired of the jokes. Even more, she was tired of the other tech. ops. whispering about favoritism--about how she got a lighter load, or whatever, because she was boffing the boss. . . . If they had actually paid any attention, they would have seen that she worked *at least* as much as them, and Birkoff showed her *no* favoritism in her work. If she screwed up, she knew about it.

Still, the rumors had gotten to her. She had subconsciously assessed her options. All of the valentine ops. were out. They gave her the creeps and could be cruel as hell; the way Michael treated Nikita was probably the Section's most rumored example, . . . although Birkoff seemed to half-disagree with her, on that one. A lot of the cold ops., too, were rumored to have a much rougher definition of intimacy than she did. . . . Housekeeping didn't even get considered.

That only really left the tech. ops., but most of them worked with her and Birkoff, which was just too weird. When Jangklow had come on to her, therefore, she had agreed, telling herself--consciously--that he was older and romantic. She interpreted his unfounded arrogance, as the deeply inexperienced sometimes do, as an air of maturity and self-assurance.

Still, when she was sitting there, watching the look of shock and pain on Birkoff's face, part of her really wondered why she was doing this.

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

Michael had kept his surveillance--of Nikita and the area, his resolve to focus on the screen faltering often--going for several hours. He had wondered frequently, during that time, what she was dreaming about. When it came time to wake her up, he had drawn close to her, leaning down to take in the scent of her hair. He had closed his eyes for a second and remembered--everything. His hand, rebelliously, had run lightly over her head.

"Michael," Nikita breathed happily in her sleep.

His eyes popped open. . . . Damn. He stood up and went back to his chair. He hadn't really needed his hopes confirmed.

"Nikita," she heard, breaking through her dreams. He sounded very matter-of-fact, very mission-oriented. When she looked up, he was facing the surveillance screen, completely oblivious to her. "It's your shift."

So much for the Michael she had been dreaming about--the one who had been holding her close, stroking her hair. She wasn't even sure this Michael knew her. "Yeah," she murmured, before she changed places with him, Michael never even making eye contact.

She sat there for hours, staring out at nothing. It was intensely boring work, or, at least, it would have been, if she hadn't been so tense.

She stole little looks at him from time to time, and it occurred to her that it was only on missions that she had ever really seen him sleep--and then only in surveillance work like this, or occasionally in prolonged transit. There had been missions where they had had to sleep near each other, but they really didn't count; he had always gone to sleep after her and woken before. Their two nights together, as well, she had fallen asleep so quickly that she hadn't had time to watch him.

Nikita squirmed a little, not very happy at her next thought. Was that why he didn't want to be her lover? Had he been left unsatisfied with her? . . . Had she bored him?

She looked up and blinked back tears. It wasn't pride which bothered her about this idea, although it certainly wasn't helped by it; it was that Michael *could* satisfy her--body and soul. She had been more content and fulfilled on those two nights than in any of the other sexual encounters of her life.

It was more than Michael's sensual talents, however, which had made her feel this way. It was the fact that she actually *believed* that he cared, at those times. She really trusted him, then--could feel his love. If that were all a lie . . .

Nikita swallowed hard and focused on the screen, before her eyes were pulled back over to watching him sleep. He was so beautiful. She wanted to brush back the stray lock which had fallen over his face, but she didn't dare; Michael woke so easily. She wished she knew what he was dreaming about. He was, of course, dreaming about her; about a life with her; about seeing unconditional--and earned--trust in her eyes; about being able to hold her close and let the sense of peace and contentment--of complete fulfillment-- which had always immediately followed their lovemaking take him over, instead of being overpowered by his fears. He dreamed of being able to tell her his secrets without her turning away, of being redeemed and brought back to life by her--of being able to allow that to happen. . . . He dreamed of the impossible.

By the time Nikita had taken, in boredom, to watching a stray dog--being amazed when it had paid off--and had woken him, he had succeeded in torturing himself nicely.

It was only a half hour or so after this when what had been an ordinary mission took a turn for the disastrous. Michael had never expected, when he had ordered them to stay, that he might be condemning them.

Still, he had managed to keep Nikita out of the building--a few seconds when his heart had beaten altogether too quickly. Now it was down to their blood tests.

Michael took Nikita's sample relatively quickly, avoiding eye contact at first. He looked back up at her briefly, however, to gauge how she was doing; she was trying to keep a stoic mask in place. He returned his attention to his work.

"So, what happens if we get infected?" she asked.

"We could die," he answered matter-of-factly, looking at her briefly.

"Oh." She paused. "Would that matter to you?"

He flinched internally but finished what he was doing before focusing on her. "What do you mean?"

"You seem so calm about it, Michael. Almost--resigned."

"We're in danger of death every day," he responded, looking deeply at her.

"Why is this any different?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "This is more . . . certain."

Michael's eyes trailed down to her lips unconsciously before tracing back to her eyes. "There's probably a cure."

She smiled slightly. "And if we don't find it in time?"

He looked away and started to draw his own blood. "We have to die someday, Nikita." He managed to jab his finger with the needle a bit harder than necessary.

He couldn't tell her what he wanted to . . . not yet. Only if they both had to die, only then could he tell her how much she meant to him; how much he needed her; how sorry he was that they had never had a chance; how devastated he felt that death would separate them forever, since he knew they were headed in opposite directions, and--where an angel went--he couldn't follow.

Instead of telling her all this, he turned to his work and ignored her . . . and made contingency plans. If he were dying and she were clear, he would make damn sure she never saw him again; he would die on his own without endangering her. And, if the opposite were true, he was staying with her till the end, regardless.

He was thinking, as well, of ways to kill her painlessly, if the worst were true; he wouldn't let her death be brutal and plague-ridden. . . . He wondered, too, if he would have the time--or if she would be in any shape--for him to make love to her one last time before saying goodbye. He hoped so; it seemed too cruel, otherwise.

Nikita watched him--the machine man at work. He didn't even care that they both might die; it didn't even seem to matter to him.

She wasn't panicking, but she had no real desire to die yet . . . and even less to watch him die. She wondered if she would have the courage to put him out of his pain, if the worst happened; she hoped so, for his sake, but she doubted it, somehow. She couldn't look into those eyes and pull the trigger. . . . She would, however, if it came to that, hold him until he was gone. If that killed her, so be it; this life stunk, anyway.

They were absorbed in their thoughts for some time. Michael worked to avoid having to speak. Too much was unsaid to start now.

It was only once Nikita, unintentionally, forced the issue by asking about Mowen that he looked at her and tried to find the words to reassure her, to give her some hint of his feelings. He would have, as well, if Birkoff hadn't chosen that moment to give them the all-clear. . . . Although relieved at the news, Michael wasn't sure if he were pleased or disappointed by this rescue from his emotional confessions.

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

Having to begin a containment situation hadn't helped lift Birkoff's mood. What had made it even worse, however, had been watching Gail look to *Jangklow* for comfort.

He hadn't contained his anger very well, when he had heard the med. tech. assuring her that they were all safe; he had wanted to strike back at them. "That's a stupid thing to say. What if one of us is already infected?" It was the truth, of course, but it had still been a cruel thing to say.

Gail was scared, and he--who claimed to care about her--was purposely deepening her fear. . . . Of course, it had also kept her away from that idiot Jangklow, so he felt a little ruthlessly triumphant.

It was watching Mowen die, actually, which finally brought Birkoff back to his senses--that and talking to Walter. The older man had become his friend, and it had lessened both their fears slightly--holding them at containable levels--to have the other in contact, while they watched what might be their fate playing out before them.

Seeing Walter arm himself, in fact, preparing himself in case the worst happened, had forced Birkoff back into a sense of responsibility for his friends. . . . He had to get them all out of this.

He was so wrapped up in what he was seeing on his screen, however--as he thought, as well, about Nikita and Michael's pending lab results and Walter's threat should the worst come--that he was completely oblivious to Gail's rising fear, as she watched Mowen die over his shoulder. Once he realized what was happening, though, having been reminded of his friends' importance to him, he felt badly about frightening her earlier to assuage his pain at being dumped. He tried, therefore, to encourage her. "It doesn't mean anything, Gail. We're gonna be fine."

She didn't believe him. "That's not what you said before."

He needed to be truthful with her, to put his pain aside; he opened himself up. "I was wrong. I shouldn't have said that. I was mad . . . or jealous-- I don't know." He paused; there was little he could do to convince her, so he distracted her instead. "Why don't you find out if they have the result on Michael and Nikita's blood test?"

She seemed calmed a little and did as he said. Birkoff was angry at himself, though. He had attacked her out of jealousy--had allowed it, as well, to distract him from his work. He sighed; he needed to focus, or they didn't have a chance.

Walter watched all of this from his corner. The poor kid . . . a lethal infection and his first break-up all in one day. That was a hell of a way to start a week.

Birkoff was doing an amazing job of holding up, though--far better than he thought he would have in that situation; the young man was keeping things running as smoothly as possible, was trying to find a cure for all of them, and was nursing his first broken heart. . . . Their computer genius was made of stronger stuff than he looked.

Awhile later, when he checked in with him, he tried to encourage him, suggesting that the stress of this situation might give him a second chance with Gail. Sadly, though, the kid wasn't buying dreams today.

Walter sighed. If ever anyone had lost a childhood, it was Birkoff. . . . He just hoped they all got out of this alright so that he would at least get a real crack at adulthood.

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

Madeline knew a thing or two about losing a childhood, and--although she suspected that this might be a topic which would return to her in a delirium-- it was the last thing on her mind at the moment. Right now, she was occupied with making contingency plans.

She had been thinking in terms of these since the news of the plague had first reached her; she always thought about such things to a certain extent, but her focus had grown sharper once she had started to feel the disease's effects herself. She needed to make her plans before she became too ill to function properly.

The contingencies for Section as a whole were easy. To ensure that they were carried out, however, she had to take precautions; she had to protect Operations from himself. She flicked off the video input on her screen. When it came to any other area of his life, Section's chief was cold and unfeeling. This was as it should be, Madeline thought, but his necessary resolve broke down when she was involved.

In many ways, the reason they were in this situation was because of this weakness of his. He had been taking her continued distance from him out on her by shooting Reneburg, instead of listening to her warning that something was wrong with their information; now Red Cell had succeeded in infecting and--if they weren't careful--in eliminating them.

Still, there was no time to be bitter; that would be a waste of energy. They had to stay focused.

She conferenced with him calmly, hearing his report about the spread of the disease. A part of her--a very small part--was afraid; she didn't want to die. Still, it was worse knowing that everything that she had helped to build and support was collapsing around her.

She signed off from Operations and decided that, if they made it out of this, she would have to test his resolve--to try to burn out his emotions. After all, it was what they were doing with Nikita; it would hopefully work for him, as well.

It took until after the teleconference with Jangklow for Operations to begin really worrying about Madeline. It wasn't like her to keep her camera off, whatever her excuse. She had sounded . . . different, too. He needed to know the real story.

It was a simple matter for Birkoff to clear the picture; Operations almost wished he hadn't, though. His heart caught at seeing her; although she would have seemed fine--for most people--for Madeline, she was obviously being affected. She was not a woman who allowed herself the weakness of huddling under a blanket, unless it would decrease her efficiency not to.

He tried to convince her to let him send someone from Medical to help her, but he knew--even as he suggested it--that she would never allow it. When he tried to argue with her, to convince her, she cut off the link, ending the discussion.

He looked away in frustration. Damn her! Sometimes being in love with that woman was like loving a block of ice.

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

Michael could tell how serious the situation at Section was by talking to Birkoff; the young man was telling him things he was well aware Michael already knew. For most operatives, in most situations, treating Michael as though he were a recruit who needed his information spoon-fed to him was tantamount to a death wish. If Birkoff were doing it, he had to be really distracted.

Michael was worried for him. In a rather distant way, he cared about the young man--who had been only a boy when he was recruited. He had watched that boy grow and mature into a well-trained, highly-efficient operative and a decent person--a hard combination to manage in Section. He hated to think of him suffering from this disease. "What's your status over there, Birkoff?" he asked almost gently.

"Not good. . . . It's spreading. Mowen might have infected *everyone* before the shields came down." He sounded calm but worried.

Michael needed to know the scope of their dilemma. "Is there any way to synthesize an antibiotic in the house?"

"Jangklow's working on it, but our hope is that you and Nikita find Bisaroff, and he can get one for us."

Michael understood. "I'll check in as soon as we make contact."

"Yeah," Birkoff managed.

By the time Michael and Nikita got to Bisaroff, Michael had decided that there was no way the scientist was getting away from them. When he was told, therefore, that Bisaroff's family was being held to assure his cooperation, he knew he had found his way in; it was time to play friend instead of enemy.

"What if we get your family back?" Bisaroff looked like a kid at Christmas.

His message to Birkoff was coded in a way he hoped neither Bisaroff or Nikita would pick up on. "Red Cell has his family. We need a way around that." Fortunately, neither of them understood his real message: "We need a trick to convince him to help us."

It wasn't that Michael was unsympathetic to Bisaroff's plight. If he had no tactical skills and someone threatened Nikita, he would do anything asked in hope of her safety--regardless of his own.

He couldn't allow himself such empathy now, however. His life was Section, and--right now--that life was threatened. If a man and his innocent family had to be destroyed, he wasn't going to waste time looking for options. . . . He just hoped Nikita remained unaware of his deception until after the mission; her humanity, at the moment, might get them all killed. . . . He would worry later about how much this revelation would make her hate him again.

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

The conversation with Michael was just beginning to give Birkoff hope when all hell broke loose; the disease reached his segment. Everyone was in motion. Gail ran to help Andy when he collapsed; Jangklow freaked.

If Birkoff had had to muscle anyone other than a tech. op., he might have been in trouble. Jangklow, however, fortunately, wasn't that hard to intimidate.

In the few minutes after it, when he had time to reflect, Birkoff realized that it had really shown everyone's true colors. Gail, being compassionate, had run to help her friend, regardless of her fear of being infected.

Jangklow, though, had shown himself for the jerk he was, uncaring about anyone's fate but his own. . . . What the hell did Gail see in him, anyway?Gail, it should be said, was starting to wonder the same thing. Here, the "mature" guy she had started dating was having to be forcibly returned to his senses by the "immature" one she had dumped.

Birkoff, in fact, had acted pretty damn together throughout the whole thing. She, on the other hand, felt like some dumb chick from a slasher film, standing around screaming instead of taking any action.

She ignored in her self-evaluation, of course, her immediate rush to help Andy. Since he was a friend, she didn't see her attempted aid as heroic. . . . Birkoff, though, was another story. He had taken complete control of the situation, getting Jangklow through it by sheer force of will.

God, Jangklow . . . Gail looked over at her so-called boyfriend. What a creep. He was ready to abandon Andy just to save his own skin. She was feeling little doubt about how he would have reacted, if it had been her instead.

She watched Birkoff again, as he continued his efficient coordination of Section--getting them through this crisis; she turned back to download the transform to Michael. Her former boyfriend was taking the situation in grace, refusing to give in to the panic everyone was feeling. She shook her head slightly. If they all got through this, she was really going to have to reconsider her relationship choices.

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

It had been too long since Operations had had a report from Madeline; he tried to contact her. Her screen was off again. . . . In fact, she was slow in answering at all.

It was her attempt at reassurance, though, which finally prompted him to act. Madeline didn't rest on Section's time--not unless she were near death. He was slightly stunned, however, when Birkoff refused his demand to let him out; after all, the young man had never directly disobeyed an order before. While part of his mind realized Birkoff was simply doing his duty, the rest of him was furious. Didn't he realize how important this was? It was about Madeline, for God's sake!

Faced with Birkoff's unexpected opposition, Operations paced. He knew what he was contemplating was irrational, rash, and based on compassion--all tendencies he tried to destroy in others. He didn't care, though; there was no other choice. He put on his glasses, pulled out his gun, and--to the astonishment of the many subordinates watching him--broke his way out of containment.

Upon finally reaching Madeline's office, however, he was not greeted happily; she didn't want him there. Even facing death, her first priority was Section's survival.

She had been trying to force him out of this emotional pattern, after all; it wasn't the first time he had threatened the end game in an attempt to save her life. She didn't like being the cause of his failure.

Operations was past caring, though. He loved her, and she was dying. He had to be near her. . . . It never occurred to him that it was his emotionalism about her which had allowed them to get into this situation to begin with. He put his arms around her. "I always thought I'd regret things I've done. Instead, I regret the things I didn't do."

The last thing Madeline needed to hear now, though, were his deathbed confessions. "The pain is bad enough. Don't go poetic on me."

If she were to admit the truth, of course, she was actually extremely comforted by his presence. It felt nice being in his arms; it lessened her pain somewhat, even if she knew it was a weakness on both their parts.

Time lost its meaning for Operations, after awhile. It seemed altogether too long ago that Birkoff had reached him to say that help was on its way--that Michael and Nikita were coming to save them.

He had comforted Madeline with this thought, before she had passed out. Now, it was just him. He had already made plans in case help didn't arrive in time; Michael knew the chain of command and would easily reconstitute Section from the substations. He had full confidence in him. . . . He just hoped Nikita didn't pull him off-track.

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

Of course, Operations wasn't the only one with fears, at the moment. Gail, however, who had taken to pacing, was--incongruously--more occupied with her love life--or lack thereof. She wasn't as worried about their situation, anymore. After all, Birkoff was looking after them.

She caught her ex-boyfriend rubbing his temples, though, and her worry returned. He claimed to be alright, however, so her mind returned to its previous path.

She had to talk to him; she needed to explain--if she could understand it herself, and he finally let her. What she really wanted, though, was for him to take her back--to forgive her stupidity and hold her again. When they got out of this, she wanted to spend the night in his arms, . . . but he wasn't making any promises, at the moment.

She was a bit shocked, too, when he told her they might not get out at all. She guessed she had always figured, subconsciously, that he could get them out of anything.

Birkoff hated to disillusion her. He wasn't trying to scare her, but she needed to understand the odds.

It saddened him, as well, that he couldn't just welcome her back to him. The pain was too fresh, though; he was still too hurt. If he took her back now, he would be watching her every minute, waiting for her betrayal. . . . She deserved better.

Besides, this really wasn't the time to discuss it. As happy as part of him was at her apology, he couldn't focus on this now. If they all managed to make it out of this alive, maybe . . .

Walter contacting him broke through his tangle of thoughts. There were other people here who needed his attention. If this cure actually worked and he was able to accept his friends as friends again--instead of as potential collateral, then he would deal with his feelings for Gail. Until then, there was too much to do, if he was to keep any of them alive.

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

Time was moving entirely too slowly. Michael and Nikita were on one of the last legs of their journey back to Section, waiting in the main part of the plane. Nikita was pacing the aisle, arms folded; Michael was sitting, trying not to watch her too obviously. They were keeping Bisaroff in the back.

Nikita stopped for a moment and leaned down to stare out a window. "What'll happen if we're too late?"

"What do you mean?"

She looked at him, wondering if he was being purposely obtuse. "I mean," she swallowed, her eyes a bit red, "what happens if they're all dead?"

He looked at her calmly. "Then, we won't be able to help them."

Nikita rolled her eyes and went to prop herself on the arm of a seat across the aisle from him, her hands on her legs.

He sighed. "What is it you really want to know, Nikita?" He already knew the answer.

She was staring at the floor. "If no one's left, there's no Section, right?"

He just watched her, waiting for her to reach her point.

Nikita huffed out an exasperated breath and then looked up at him, as she spoke, "Michael, if Section dies, we're free." His face was still blank. She looked a little desperate. "Don't you want that?"

"Do you?"

She shook her head. "You know I do."

"You want your friends to die, so you can be free?"

Nikita repressed a scream until it sounded like a slightly muffled growl; she stood up and paced away. "Damn it!" she muttered. "You know that's not what I mean." She kept her back to him and refolded her arms, leaning against a wall behind the rows of seats. When she had controlled herself, she spoke again.

"I want to save them. I just want to know what happens, if we can't."

Michael sighed and stood up. "We'll never be free, Nikita." It was the truth Section had always taught him. "If Section One dies, the substations will take its place." He was walking toward her.

She turned to him. "And if *they* go?"

His eyes had softened. "If we were the only two left, we'd be hunted down by the agency. . . . There's no escape."

Nikita looked horrified. "You wouldn't even try to run?"

He shook his head; he was within a few feet of her. "Run where, Nikita? Where do you think they wouldn't find us?"

He was very close to her now, but the look in his eyes made her question his words; she loosened her arms, lowering them. "`Us'?"

He wanted to take her face in his hands and kiss her, assure her that--given the chance--he would run with her, would live happily only for her, could make her happy, would kill anyone who tried to threaten them. . . . He couldn't, though. He knew it was a fantasy; that fact had been drilled into him relentlessly. His life--and, because of him, hers--was dedicated to Section.

They would never escape their duty alive.

He mentally shook off the thoughts of a life playing out his dreams with her. He avoided her question, as well; it was too dangerous. "We belong to the Section. There's no escape."

Nikita was frustrated when the invisible walls behind his eyes went back up; she hated that he was closing himself off from her once again. She wanted to take him and crush her lips to his--force him to admit his feelings, his desires--force him to admit that he cared.

While she in no way wanted Walter, Birkoff, or many others hurt, she wanted her freedom. But freedom alone wasn't enough; she had tried that. She needed freedom with him. If that meant running, hiding, barely living from place to place, fine; so long as he was honestly with her, she would accept it happily. . . . Just to be able to love *and* trust him--that would be enough for her.

Still, from the look on his face, that obviously wasn't going to happen. Even if all her friends were dead, she would still belong to Section; she would just be relegated to another part of it. It was the worst of all possible worlds.

"If you don't want to go in with the antibiotic, I'll do it," Michael offered, after her silence.

She got angry, tightly refolding her arms at his words. "I'm not afraid of dying, Michael. . . . I just want a real chance at living." She shook her head. "You'll never understand that, will you?" She began to brush past him.

Michael took hold of her arm and stopped her, turning her back to him, her body open once more, her eyes angry but questioning. His eyes were soft and full of emotion; his thumb stroked unconsciously near her elbow. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her deeply. He wanted to make love to her; it was only then that she believed in the truth of his feelings. He wanted to prove them to her now.

"Michael," the pilot's voice came back to them over the speaker. "We're on final approach." There was no answer, as the man being addressed and the woman he loved stood unmoving. "Michael, do you read me?"

He answered finally--both to the pilot and Nikita. "Yes, . . . I understand."

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

Nikita arrived at Section with Michael. She was slightly frightened-- mostly at what she might find, but she was determined to help out her friends.

Birkoff didn't want to let them in. The second they were, after all, Nikita was at risk, . . . and she would never be happy, either, if something happened to Michael. He argued with him, therefore, but relented when Nikita backed up Michael's demand to let them help. . . . If Nikita had made up her mind, there was no point in arguing.

Once the antibiotic was there, things began to move quickly. Nikita began injecting whoever was nearest.

Michael, however, had a plan. His first priority, at the moment--even over Nikita, was to help Birkoff. The Section needed him, possibly more than anyone else. Also, though, he felt sorry for him; he was too young to die.

The second person he injected was Nikita; after all, his concern for others only went so far before it returned to center on her.

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

A few days later, life wasn't exactly returning to normal, but order had been fully restored. The antibiotic had begun working on the sick within a few hours. Those not too seriously ill had been able to resume their duties quickly; the more dangerously ill merited a stay in Medical.

Madeline was in this latter category. She had come through relatively unscathed, even if she had lost faith--once again--in Operations' ability to detach himself from his feelings for her enough to do his job.

She was still pleased to see him, though--even more so when Birkoff came by, as she had requested; she needed an example. "Operations and I were just discussing the reactive behavior of many of our operatives. It seems that you were one of the only ones on the floor who kept his head."

Birkoff *really* wasn't liking this. Operations was already staring at him like a hungry rattlesnake who had found a small, tasty mouse. Now, Madeline was pushing the older man's buttons. . . . He was really wishing he had the option of running.

Operations had no intention of letting him off easily. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Birkoff exhibited more control than was even necessary." He eyed his victim, until Birkoff saw something which vaguely resembled warmth in his eyes. "For which I *am* grateful." He gave him a curving of his lips which might pass for a smile.

Birkoff knew a miracle when he saw one. He nodded, eyes wide, and left as quickly as posible, vowing to stay well out of the old man's way for awhile.

Operations was pleased. Section was safe--as was Madeline, and his power was unchallenged once more. . . . What more could a man ask for?

Madeline looked up at him and sighed quietly. He still hadn't gotten the point. Sometime in the near future, she would have to teach him a lesson.

She kept up a polite conversation with him, while her mind scanned through a list of choices for the best person to distance him with. . . . Perhaps a valentine op. would be best, she decided.

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

Nikita hated interrogations. While this man was far from innocent, he had been acting to protect his family. Despite all of the damage he had done, she felt a little sorry for him.

She decided, as they left the room, therefore, to try to push for his family's release--beginning with Michael and going on to work on Madeline and Operations, if necessary. "So, what about his family?"

Michael didn't look at her. "That's up to Red Cell."

They stopped walking; Nikita turned to him. "What d'you mean? I thought that *we* had them."

He took a deep breath. "It wasn't really them. Birkoff simulated the MPEG." He turned his head to her, just as she looked away. God, she was beautiful; his eyes roamed the side of her face for a second. "Red Cell still has them."

He walked away, knowing he couldn't face her anger, knowing he couldn't explain himself enough to cut through her despair. She would never understand, . . . and he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted her to.

She would hate him again now, would spend her time fantasizing, for awhile, about different ways to destroy him. It wasn't as though he blamed her, really, but her goodness was still too obvious; it was too dangerous for her to know everything that was happening. If she had known the truth about Bisaroff's family, they never could have gotten the antibiotic from him.

This excuse wasn't enough, though; part of his mind was playing through the imagined joys of a real life with her--a life without Section or the lies--one where he could be her partner in both name and fact, . . . a life with her in his arms. He hated that he had, once again, ruined his chances of this, . . . and he wondered absently whether it would ever be more than a dream.

Nikita was left standing where he had abandoned her, shaking her head. When would she ever learn? When was she going to let herself understand that life with him was only about lies and pain? . . . When would her recalcitrant heart ever let him go? She sighed, eyes tearing, and wished that the word which had popped into her mind unbidden--"Never"--weren't the truth.

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