Okay, I'm finally getting to the Season 4 stories. :) This one will cover the whole opening arc--and will include spoilers for all of it, as well. It also has spoilers for "On Borrowed Time," "Third Party Ripoff," "Beyond the Pale," "Friend," "Simone," "Half Life," "Playing With Fire," "Any Means Necessary," "Gray," "Soul Sacrifice," "End Game," "Not Was," "Adrian's Garden," "Three Eyed Turtle," "All Good Things," and "Brainwash." This will build, too, on the previous interpretations of LFN episodes in my stories "Dark Approach" and "Heaven's Gate," although you don't have to have read them--I believe--to understand much of anything here. I'm rating this MA-14 (with one NC-17 part later), as well, for language and adult situations and discussions.

As always, of course, although there will be a few parts here which will include dialogue and action from the episodes, no infringement of any sort is intended with the following; I didn't write and don't own the episodes, and I'm making no such claims by writing this. :) Please send any comments or requests to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

Hope you enjoy!

*********

Three months. It had only been three months since they had been happy, since they had been together. Then, they had been fighting Section as one to spend even an hour in each other's arms. Now, however, he wasn't even sure that she remembered it. His heart ached. . . . He wasn't certain that this was a torment he could ever recover from.

Michael was in his office, was supposedly going over a profile for the next mission. His mind, though, was very far away. He wasn't sure he would ever be focused again.

He sighed slightly, as he closed his eyes. There was no way around it. Nikita's current situation, obviously, had him seriously distracted; his focus on anything else, indeed, was only superficial. . . . No one in this much pain, after all, could ever be expected to think outside of it.

He opened his eyes once more, his mind focusing back. He still wasn't entirely certain of all that had happened to her, . . . to them; he was still piecing it together. What he did know, though, was that Nikita was not herself; there was something missing in her--something vital. . . . He just had yet to be able to figure out what it was.

No--this wasn't entirely true; he did understand at least a part of it. Nikita was no longer his, no longer even seemed to care that he was alive. He had seen it over the month they had worked together before she had--apparently--been taken out of Section temporarily, and he had again witnessed it today in their sparring session. It was like a silence in her soul--and it was all, for him--as well, absolutely life-chilling.

His mind worked back, remembering all of his painful observations once more. For the month he had been in Section after the Genefex mission, indeed, he had been watching her change. It had shown up first, of course, in the fact that she had no longer seemed interested in their meetings, in the fact that the woman who had so adored their growing partnership had begun to avoid him altogether. Then, too, there had been the follow-up mission to Genefex, where she had--for all he could tell--pushed the button to detonate a building she thought he was still in.

He sighed tormentedly. All of this, indeed, had been the beginnings of his fear, but it had certainly not been the end of it--or of his immense pain. No, some of the worst of it had still been to come, then--had taken place at her apartment, soon after that mission. That, indeed, was when she had told him that she no longer loved him; that was when she had destroyed his heart.

He smiled sadly to himself, for only a second, seeing the irony in his words. No, that wasn't true, either--unfortunately. Had his heart been taken from him, he wouldn't have felt as he did at this moment; he wouldn't have felt the echoing, aching sense of emptiness in his chest along with his every breath. It was as though his life had been taken from him, was as though his soul were dying. He wasn't certain at the moment, truly, that he had ever felt more pain.

He couldn't stand to think into this for too much longer, then. He forced his mind back, therefore, to its previous path--back to tracing Nikita's loss.

It hurt so much to think of that one moment in her apartment, still. The torment of her awful words, "I don't love you anymore"--the ones he still, so frequently, heard ringing through his whole person, through his mind and soul--had been reinforced continually for a month thereafter, as she had done her absolute best to avoid him. For awhile, too, she had seemed to at least feel a little guilty or anguished when they were together, had seemed upset when their paths had crossed, saddened at her own lack of emotion. As that first month had come to a close, however, all of that had begun to disappear--and what had replaced it had been far, far worse.

He took a deep breath, repressing a shudder. He had seen then what he had witnessed once more earlier today--her absolute lack of interest in him. Even as they had been sparring, he could tell that she had taken no particular interest in the session--beyond the session itself. Yes, she seemed to have enjoyed it, but--with a cold sense of fear and dread--he suspected that her pleasure had come not from the fact that they had been together, not from the truth, either, that they had been seeing each other for the first time in two months, but from the opportunity to further hone her fighting skills with a well-trained opponent. . . . Had he been a highly-skilled robot, he suspected, she would have approached him in much the same way.

He felt a shudder of terror pass through him once more, as his mind followed this thought--coming to a necessary but unpleasant conclusion. This, indeed, was what she had been acting like lately--a robot, a pre-programmed fighter with no interest outside of her orders. Even her response today, when he had noted the improvement in her fighting style due to her newly-honed moves--her uncomprehending "What else is there?"--had hinted toward it. The Nikita he had always known before, of course, would never have said that, would never have thought it; she would have known the answer to improvement in any area. It was the woman he still so dearly loved, after all, who had taught him that "it comes from inside." . . . It was a lesson, too, it had taken him many years to learn.

He took another deep, shuddering breath, trying to hold onto himself, as his mind switched tracks slightly once more, attempting to protect itself. He could, certainly, if he had wanted to, tried to write off her actions of late--could try to understand and ignore them. She had, after all--more than once, tried to write him off, had tried before to simply rid herself of him. She had previously, as well, forced him into distancing himself, when she feared that he was in danger.

None of these arguments, though--he knew, worked at all. He couldn't do this, couldn't convince himself; he knew this wasn't the same. With all of those other--former--times, in fact, he had always done something to hurt her, to cause her to pull away. But that, most decidedly, was not true at the moment. In the months before the change in her, in fact, he had been more open with her than at any other time in their relationship; they had shared themselves on a deeper level than ever before. For her to pull away from him on her own now, then, just didn't make sense.

He could, then, try to decide that she was simply afraid for him--or for them both; her warning of "they're watching us" certainly seemed to hint at that. . . . Still, he felt no sense of danger in her, saw no fear in her eyes. He just couldn't, therefore, pretend that this was true.

His heart trembled horribly, as his mind worked. No, there was only one logical explanation which he could see at the moment--and that was that she had been tampered with, had been damaged. . . . Dear God, he hated it.

It made such, terrible, sense, though, truly, on so many levels--as much as the thought tormented him. He had, for the first real time in his Section life, put someone else completely above his masters, had seen their bond as far more real and important than his work. This wasn't to say, however, that his work had suffered any. It hadn't. Still, he suspected that their cruelty-addicted masters simply hadn't cared about this latter fact--had taken out their displeasure by robbing him of the one person he loved. All that mattered to them, after all, was control.

The ache in him continued. This wasn't the only reason this interpretation made sense to him, however. One of the other major reasons, indeed, was simply that Nikita had never truly turned away from him before. Yes, there had been bad times between them--all of them, he realized yet again, caused by his own, tormenting actions toward her. During none of these times, though, had she ever been so completely indifferent to him as she had been during the last part of that month just after the Genefex mission; no, there had always been too much anger for that.

He wasn't happy with his analysis, but he continued, nonetheless. Now, indeed, she was different; even in their sparring earlier that day he had seen it. He could, of course, have interpreted some of her more taunting actions as anger--had he wanted to, but that really hadn't accounted for them all--such as her inability to understand his words about the internal qualities of combat. More than this, though, had been the look of utter incomprehension she had given him when he had pointed out that he was well aware they were being watched. She simply hadn't seemed able to figure out why he would continue to endanger himself to talk to her, when his status might be in trouble. It obviously just hadn't computed.

He sighed, hating all of his terrible conclusions. Along with these, too, however, had been her fighting itself. Yes, it was much improved--although it had long been excellent--but there was something else about it, too; it truly did have no soul. Had she simply learned the moves from a book without any internal feeling for them at all, indeed, he wouldn't have been surprised.

His saddened mind turned once more. The old Nikita, though, had been very different. For her, fighting came from inside as well as her training. . . . But that could not be said for the glacial-eyed creature he had fought today. No, she was very different, indeed.

His heart ached still, thinking about it. It was where this thought led, really, which hurt him the most, though. What he felt to be the most off about his beloved, truly, was just something in her soul--or, rather, something which was no longer there. They had always, after all, had a deep and intoxicating bond, even in the days when they had both attempted to ignore it. Lately, however--ever since the Genefex mission, it seemed to be missing--or, at least, seemed to be very badly off. Yes, he still could sense her--where she was, when she was close, but he could no longer *feel* her. Whenever his heart seemed to reach out to test their bond, indeed, what he got back was . . . nothing--silence. It was, by far, the most disturbing sensation of his life.

He sighed again, pulling his mind away once more from this tormenting path. There was still one other major piece of evidence, as well, which truly seemed to give the final bit of proof for this theory--and that had been their respective paths over the last two months.

His heart ached more deeply, as he thought back once more. He had just been about at the point where he was now two months ago, truly; he had just been about to try to investigate this horrible change in his beloved more thoroughly, when he had suddenly found himself to no longer be in Section. Now, too--as then, he suspected the worst.

It had been a seemingly normal, and rather simple, mission, at first, of course--but it hadn't turned out that way at all. Indeed, when the first meet had gone badly, he had suddenly found himself undercover--and on dark approach--for two more months.

His frustration at the memory built once again. It had, he had thought many times, been an absolutely unnecessary move, but he had been able to find no way around it, once it had occurred; there had been no warning, no time to plan. He had simply had to stay there, to play things out, until he had finally been able to bring it all to the conclusion it should have reached a couple of months before. . . . It had all been very clever of his masters, indeed.

Once he had come back to Section finally, too, his first concern, of course, had been for Nikita. When he had checked, though, he had found that she hadn't been in for those same two months--and nowhere he had yet checked had given him any extra clues of her intervening activities. Now, however, he certainly had some, terrible, ideas. . . . He just wished he could believe they weren't true.

He swallowed heavily, trying to continue to hold himself together, while he made his plans. Today would be her first mission back, the first one in quite some time where he would be able to watch her in action. It would be a good test for her, he supposed, a tricky--if not impossible--hostage retrieval; she had taken part in hundreds of similar ones before. He would watch her closely, this time, though--would measure her reactions to see whether his fears were correct. And he would hope, so desperately--once again, that he was wrong.

His heart trembled once more. He just wasn't certain, anymore, that he could survive the brutal truth his logic seemed to be presenting him. He just wasn't sure it was possible.

His mind turned once more, then, looking for some sort of light, ready to hold onto any explanation. Maybe, indeed, she *was* simply trying to protect him--was holding herself distant as she had once before, out of fear for their mutual safety. Maybe he was simply reading more into it than was there.

His soul ached terribly once more. He certainly hoped this was so. If he wasn't, after all, then the darkness had finally begun to close in--and he feared that, this time, there would simply be no escape for either of them.

Things, it seemed, sometimes did turn out according to plan; she was pleasantly surprised, indeed, at how well the process was working, as Nikita had certainly given them ample proof of today. Now, then, they just needed to see that this progress continued--and then all their future plans could be secure.

Madeline was waiting quietly for her latest project to arrive; they needed to have another one of their "little discussions." She had been having them with Nikita at her home, of course, off and on, for the last two months--but now the stakes had gone up. . . . Michael had returned.

Her mind turned on this thought further, poring through her plans once more. Today, of course, wouldn't be the first time they had discussed the man who had shared the younger woman's previous disobedience, but it would be a significant conversation, nonetheless. Today, after all, she had to help the woman to form a plan which would keep Section One's highest trained--and now, occasionally, most insubordinate--operative from acting on any of his suspicions. She would need to, then, be very precise, indeed.

She looked up, as the door to her office opened. Nikita came a little way in, her eyes slightly wide and unfocused; Madeline analyzed her. Good. She had just been in maintenance. She would, then, be at her most suggestible now.

"You wanted to see me?" the woman before her asked mechanically.

Madeline put on her warmest smile, the one she always used on the unsuspecting. "Have a seat, Nikita." She waited for the woman to follow her orders without suspicion or complaint. Oh, yes--she could get used to this Nikita. "We need to have a little talk."

The younger woman's mind functioned, more and more, like a computer--simply responding to and waiting for the data which was entered into it. "About?" she awaited her new commands.

Madeline smiled further. "Michael."

Nikita nodded acceptingly, but her eyes showed a little confusion, as well. The older woman picked up on it immediately. "Was there something you wanted to ask about him?"

Her programmed subordinate's eyes met hers, but they were never really quite clear; still, she was obviously trying to process something. "I was in love with him once?" She found it very difficult to remember.

The penetrating brown eyes before her looked deep, the expression surrounding them still overtly serene. "Have the dreams returned?"

The blonde woman blinked, trying to remember. Finally, she shook her head, seeming a little unsure of her answer. "No."

Madeline suspected otherwise, but let this go; it was likely she wouldn't remember, if they had. "What was your real question, then?" She knew she had the answer to the first one.

Nikita blinked once more. "Why did I love him?" Her eyes were glazed and absolutely uncomprehending.

The older woman let out a very small sigh. They had had this conversation before, of course, but she had known that actually seeing Michael again might bring back the woman's questions once more. "We've discussed this," she reminded gently. "He was your trainer. We encourage our mentors to form bonds with their recruits, so that the trainee's will can then be broken more easily with their rejection."

Her subordinate nodded, understanding completely; that was only good logic, after all. "Eliminates emotional component," she said mechanically.

"Yes."

There was a pause, as the robotic woman attempted to gather what now passed for her thoughts. "Then why did I persist?"

This time the woman before her repressed the sigh altogether, but she certainly felt it in her. This, after all, was a question she had herself asked far too many times to ever be able to answer adequately now.

Still, she had to come up with something for her. She gave her, then, one of the possible explanations she had developed. "You were following instinct. It's natural to be attracted to the pack leader, and that's what Michael has always been for you."

Something lit very vaguely in the eyes of the younger woman. "Oh," she accepted, as much as she could. Her thoughts turned, however. "I still don't see why we went so far to disobey Section, though."

Neither, of course, did Madeline. Still, . . . "You were both looking for a release. You just took it too far."

The confusion came back to the blue eyes in front of her now, her vague objection to this logic rising. "But I don't need a release now."

The older woman smiled; this actually led her to another point she wanted to discuss. "Perhaps you should find one, though. It's difficult to work off all of your aggression in a mission."

Nikita pondered dimly. "I work out."

The brunette smiled. That always had been the younger woman's way. "I'm not sure that's enough."

The blue eyes before her were trusting--if glazed. "What do you suggest?"

Madeline smiled again. She did love to be turned to as this woman's mentor--loved, if she let herself admit it, that she had stolen her from Michael. "There are some clubs in town where you can find a temporary partner. I'll give you the addresses."

Her subordinate nodded acceptingly again. "Alright."

The slight sigh Section's doyenne gave this time was a pleased one. "Good. Now, about Michael, we need to discuss a way to handle him."

Nikita blinked. "Am I not doing that?"

The smile before her was tender but a bit condescending. "Yes, but there's more to it than simple distance."

"Oh." She looked away, for one of the first times, as a new thought worked its way out of her. "I don't want to have to talk to him."

Madeline's smile disappeared, her concerns rising. "Why not?"

The honest blue gaze met her completely once more. "He's," the young woman struggled for a second to remember the emotion's name, "annoying. He expects something from me I don't care to give."

Her superior's concerns left once again, her tender smile returning; she did adore this victory. "I realize that, but he will force the issue eventually. You need to be ready to handle it."

Nikita nodded, accepting yet again. "What do I do?"

With a small, tenderly cold, smile, then--one which now seemed permanent, Madeline told her.

*********************************************** His heart was hammering. For two months, he had told himself that he could handle this situation when he returned, that he would be able to help her--whatever had been done. Now, however, he wondered if that were true. Nikita, after all, had just that day done something so terrible he could never have imagined her taking part in it willingly before--and especially not with the cold calm she had exhibited today. Worse, too, had been the fact that she had not just been a party to it; she had been its instigator. . . . His fears for her, then, seemed to have been, if anything, underestimated; she was an utterly compromised soul.

Michael was waiting for his tortured beloved on a darkened corner now, knowing she would come by soon. He had followed her to a club already which her former self would have found so disgusting he could never have imagined her willingly going to. Now, however, she had been there, blankly, and gone. His heart ached. At least she would have to pass by here to make her way home.

His mind ran back over all of the events of this horrible day, as he waited for her, then. When it had started, certainly, he had had fears for her--had worried over where she was in her mind lately. After the embassy mission, though, everything had changed. Now, indeed, he was concerned for more than just her mind. . . Now, he was worried about her very soul.

His heart ached once more, as he forced his mind to think through it all again. Never before had he seen Nikita so willing to carry out her orders, never before would she have *suggested* the incineration of so many people, would she have willingly sentenced a roomful of children to death. Before, truly, she would have found a way, would have gone out of her way to work out a path which would have rescued the hostage and saved the innocents, as well. . . . But that, apparently, was no longer the case.

Today, truly, everything had changed for him. She had shown no concern whatsoever for the people in the building--from Kirinsky, a woman and a Level 4 operative, on down to the tiny occupants of the nursery. She had, in fact, simply seemed annoyed when he had told her about the children, when he had tried to find another way. She had, quite obviously, just wanted to be able to blow them up and get on with her day. . . . In all of his long years in Section--and with all of the atrocities he had both seen and performed therein--it was still, because it was Nikita, the most disturbing thing he had ever witnessed.

He swallowed heavily. His soul still seemed to vibrate with the pain of the memory, indeed; he couldn't get past it. His beloved, after all, had always been so bright--so inexpressibly beautiful. Today, however, she had acted like a soulless robot, carrying out whatever brutal orders she had been given. It was just impossible to understand.

God, it hurt to think about, too. What might have hurt him even more, though, was a realization he had had on the way back from the mission--one which tore through him mercilessly. This twisted soul who had been calmly sitting across from him, after all, was the operative he had--so often in those early years--encouraged her to be. How many times, he still remembered, had he told her those awful words, "Just do the job"? How many times had he pointed out that she was only useful if she had no soul? He shuddered. Too many--far, far too many; they rang through his nightmares now, like some sort of terrible, demonic prayer, one which--years after he had finally gained the sense to change his mind--had indeed come true. . . . He wished to God, truly, that he could take it back.

His heart seemed to be melting within him from the inferno of torment these thoughts gave him. He knew, however, that he couldn't retract the wish now; he couldn't take it back. Now, it was real. And there was only one option left.

He sighed, waiting for her to arrive, feeling that she was closer. He knew now that Nikita was not herself; it was not just him--was not just her actions with him, either. Had this just been some sort of romantic miscommunication between them, indeed, he could have accepted it, in a certain sense--would at least have known how to proceed. . . . It wasn't, though. No, this was far bigger than just the two of them; this was Nikita's soul at risk. And, for those sort of stakes, he would have to think far bigger in order to be able to win it back.

He would, tonight--then, start to develop a plan. If he could talk to her, truly, he hoped to at least be able to establish some data on her. He no longer, sadly, needed to be convinced of whether she had been tampered with, in his own mind, however; that had been established. No, what he needed to do now was discover exactly what had been done to her. Then, maybe--with anything like luck, he might possibly be able to save the bright soul she had, for so long, previously possessed. He swallowed heavily. . . . Without that, after all, everything like light in the universe was lost.

*********

Things had not been going perfectly, of late, it was true; the last few days, indeed, had been uncomfortable for her. She was now, however, beginning to rediscover a sense of peace. In a few hours, after all, Michael would be dead. And then, maybe, those tormenting dreams he provoked would disappear.

Nikita's mind was tracing back through much of the last few days now, was analyzing them with a sense of, mostly satisfied, detachment. She was back in her apartment once more, was working out in order to have something to do. She hated being stuck here, of course, but Madeline had insisted that she have some more downtime. She didn't understand this, either--would far have preferred, actually, to be on the cancellation team for Michael--but she trusted the older woman's decision. Madeline, after all, had never led her wrong before.

She smiled, as she began lifting some weights, her thoughts still circling here. No, the older woman had never been duplicitous with her, but the same could not be said of Michael. He, indeed, had done nothing but bring her pain from the beginning, as she supposed he had been assigned to do; why he had gone on trying to possess her long after her training, though, was still a mystery, but a rather meaningless one, she guessed. . . . She just wondered, now--once again, why it had taken her so long to realize that.

She began pumping a bit harder, as her smile at her new insights continued. She had come to realize quite a few things these past few months, actually--had come to see life *so* much more clearly. Everything, before, had seemed so fuzzy, indeed; she had wasted so much of her time trying to work out some odd concept of right and wrong, had spent so many valuable days worrying over methods and means. Now, though, everything seemed so much more comprehensible; now, truly, she understood everything important in her life. Her smile deepened. She just thanked God that this had happened to her.

It wasn't, however, that she wouldn't have liked it to have happened sooner. Maybe, if it had, truly, then she could have been saved from all of the years she had wasted with Michael.

She frowned now, remembering again, and stopped her workout long enough to grab her stereo's remote, turning up the beating rhythm a little louder; it helped her when she began to think too much. She had, actually, gone through her CDs about a month and a half ago, and had thrown out all the slower stuff she had collected. She had even had some awful disc of an old French singer which she had bought after Michael had supposedly escaped with her from Section, only for her to discover later that it had been just another set up. . . . Why the hell she had bought or kept the music, though, she had no idea.

She sighed, her mind circling back around to the man who annoyed her again, as she began her workout once more. Once again, she really could not remember at all what had ever motivated her to start a relationship with him--to run after him for all those years. Why would any sane woman, indeed, put up with all of the garbage he had put her through--lies, manipulations, beatings, . . . there were too many incidents to recount, were too many to adequately remember. And had he *ever* helped her out of even one of them--had he ever shown her any sort of support? No. Not even once.

She thought back again now to just one of these times, to just one instance of his deception. It had been him, after all, who had tricked her into a situation which had led her into a basement to be tortured by a woman who had claimed to be an old friend; she couldn't remember the details of his involvement clearly, of course, but she knew he had been its instigator. And had he helped her survive the experience? Of course not. Had she not overpowered one of her torturers, she would have died a long time ago--wet, in pain, and bloody in some smelly, dank basement. He hadn't even seemed concerned when she had dragged in finally, half-dead--had simply looked her over and told her to get cleaned up for the next part of their mission. . . . Bastard.

She smiled a little, though, her mind turning. She didn't really, however, know just what it was she had expected out of him. What--he was supposed to come flying in the window like Batman, shoot her guard, and drag her out, protecting her all the way? . . . Yeah, right.

She forced her mind back on track. This, however, was only one of a hundred different incidents--was only one of a million different times he had tricked and betrayed her. If it weren't for her own ingenuity, she knew she would have been dead a long time ago. God knew, she had nothing to thank him for.

What, then, she wondered once more, had she seen in him? Why had she been so obsessed? She knew she must have been, after all--she did remember breaking protocol and orders in order to establish secret trysts with him. The sex, she very vaguely remembered, had been relatively decent, too--but not good enough for all that she had put up with in return. There were plenty of other ops., she was sure, who could have gotten her off--probably much better. . . . Why, then, had she ever bothered with him?

She really couldn't understand this--couldn't even get close to it. She gave up on the weights and began to strap on the restraints which would help her to hang from the ceiling--a favorite part of her workout. It gave her a sense of being above all of the stupidity she had once been guilty of.

She maneuvered herself into position, then, and began to do sit ups--well, if they could be called that--as her mind went on. She was still relieved that she had finally had the sense to dump Michael, but there had still been a time--around that period--when she had had some very disturbing dreams about him. In them, too, he was a very different sort of person--considerate, loving, tender, passionate; the Michael there, indeed, had been interested in something other than his own pleasure sexually, as well--which certainly couldn't be said for the real one. The dreams were an anomaly, then--had haunted her, had practically scared her, when juxtaposed with the total lack of emotion she felt for him, otherwise. She still didn't understand them entirely.

Fortunately, however, they had finally started to taper off a bit, after Michael had gone onto the, suddenly extended, Latrell mission. She had then, too, been given a month off from missions--which had later been extended to two months. She had been upset at the time at being out of the action--away from the distractions they provided, but she was now grateful. It had given her time to think.

What she had discovered, as well, had surprised her--but had also made her far happier. She had realized, truly, just how little she needed Michael--a fact she had somehow been overlooking for years. She had also come to see just how good her life in Section was, had come to understand just how ungrateful she had been for it before. It pained her to realize it, of course, but now, at least, she had changed; now, she knew the truth.

This hadn't been the only advantage of her break, either, though. It had been about two weeks after she had been left to her own devices, as well, that Madeline had come by for the first time. She had been surprised, of course; her superior, after all, was a very busy and important woman. She hadn't expected her to come to see anyone who had long been as astoundingly ungrateful for her kindness as she had.

She smiled, thinking back again. Still, she had tried to make up to the older woman for this lapse, had tried to tell her the new way she was seeing her life. She had been extremely happy when the woman had been pleased by her change, too; she could imagine little now which seemed a better goal than making her happy.

She let out a happy sigh, mid-exercise. Madeline, in fact, had just been so understanding. Her visits, as well, had become more frequent. When Nikita had worried about her lack of participation in missions, too, her superior had provided her with access to some of them through her laptop. It still made her happy just to sit there profiling for hours. She felt refreshed after it, the whole world making more sense. . . . It was, really, *far* better than sleep.

Her frown returned, as her mind wandered to this area once more. She gave up on her current exercise and lowered herself to the floor. The dreams about Michael had become far less frequent and less intense, of course, but they still occurred, from time to time, when she let herself go to bed. She hated them.

Her mind worked on this disgusting path a little further, as she repressed a shudder. The dreams were so different, indeed, from anything she remembered with him--were so incredibly passionate and intense. They had, as well, some emotional element to them she couldn't name or put her finger on--one she was certain she had never really experienced before. . . . She had never wanted to have them again.

She let her mind turn once more, trying to block out this thought, as she removed her ankle braces. She had realized lately that Madeline had been right about something else, as well; she still was mentally thanking the woman for having introduced her to the club she had gone to for the first time the other night. There, she had found a man who was passingly attractive and with whom she could work off a half hour or so of the tension which even a good mission hadn't taken care of. It had been meaningless, of course--and that was precisely why she had enjoyed it. No longer was she deluding herself about "love"--like that fool Michael still did; no longer was she looking to a man for approval. She had found him; she had had him, and she had gone home. It had been perfect. . . . Perhaps, indeed, she would go there again tonight.

Her frown returned, however, more pronounced this time, as her mind shifted again. Well, no, not quite perfect. Michael, after all, had still caught her on her way home.

She sighed, moving to her refrigerator to retrieve some water. She had hated having to lie to him--had hated having to waste her time with him; it was, to her mind, an unnecessary dispersal of her energies. Still, Madeline had wanted her to pretend, to try to allay his useless fears, so she had spent a few minutes doing just that. . . . The fool.

He had, too--she had thought at the time, believed her; she had, after all, been very convincing. She had put on the whole, "poor Nikita fights nasty Section" act she had so long been stuck in, had told him about some fictional brainwashing encounter with Madeline during the Genefex mission, as well--a lie which was a piece of genius on the older woman's part, in her opinion. She had, truly, done very well.

She knew now, however, that--somehow--she hadn't done well enough; Michael had seen through it. Maybe, indeed, it had been her short lapse when he had touched her; it had just taken her a second, truly, to both get over her anger that she had been touched without permission and to try to remember how he expected her to be acting. The slip, though, had been *very* brief--and she had even gone so far then as to kiss him after it. . . . How could he ever have seen through that?

She sighed again and took another long pull on her water bottle, moving over to her bar to sit down. Still, the fact remained that he apparently had. He had even arranged a window in the mission they had gone on later in order to go after someone he apparently thought would help him in his quest to "save" her--or whatever it was he wanted. She smiled. She was just happy, at least, that it would be his last such action.

Something within her warmed at the thought. Soon--maybe even already--Michael would be dead; she would have to worry about him no more. She could carry out her Section duties without the distraction of the man who had so repeatedly used her, the one who wanted her back for another round. She sighed once more. Life was good.

His demise, really, left her with only a few people she still had to deal with. She was already rather bored, indeed, with having to chat up Walter; the "cute little Sugar" act was wearing thin.

She thought back once more; she had, really, been a bit, internally, annoyed that she had to make such huge efforts around others--that they seemed to expect so much from her. She didn't care about their emotional crises, or girlfriend problems, or where they were going out to get a drink. So what? What annoyed her the most, however, was when they complained about Section--about the organization which had freed them and kept them alive, which gave them nice homes and plenty of spending money and good food. They all even got days off to spend in whatever way they pleased. . . . What, then, was there to complain about?

All of this, too, had been some of the reasons why she hadn't looked forward to having to talk to Walter. He was the worst of them--the most sentimental, the most emotional, the most nostalgic. He had even been upset about her decision to blow up the embassy, which had certainly been a path which had made sense in every way that counted. It had taken her a few seconds, indeed, to remember that he expected her to feel bad about this. What sort of fool had she once been that she would have?

She shook her head, deciding to try to shift off these thoughts. Perhaps, with Michael dead, Madeline would soon allow her to stop pretending, would let her simply approach life mission to mission--the way she wanted to. It would, really, make her much happier. Now, truly, she just had to hope that she would be allowed to do it.

She smiled, as she watched a live feed of Nikita in her apartment. Everything, truly, was happening just as she had hoped. The young woman was taking to the process splendidly, was becoming just the operative they had always hoped for. Everything, then, was turning out perfectly.

Madeline clicked off the feed and set her gaze across the room, her mind working once more through the last few months. She had, for sometime, of course, wanted to try out the Gelman process outside of the lab; Adrian, after all--as amusing an experiment as she had been, and as much of a comfort as it was for her to view her inert form from time to time--was not the strongest subject they could have used, was too old, her body too frail to give a perfect test. She smiled. Nikita, however, was an entirely different story.

There had been, probably, a hundred different reasons for choosing the young woman in the first place, of course. A few of these, though, were most important.

Among these, too, the first which came to her mind wasn't the woman's physical strength or tactical skills--all of which were a plus--but her connection to Michael. It had been, indeed, in besting him that her real joy had lain.

She smiled to herself, as she remembered again. There had been a time, indeed--she admitted to herself, when she had felt the young man to be hers, had been--quietly--quite possessive of him, in fact. In return for her attentions, however, he had only shown her selfishness--had bestowed his wayward affections on first Simone and then Nikita. It really had been too much.

Simone, of course, they had taken care of years ago--had traded her off to Sparks for a period of inactivity from Glass Curtain. Nikita, though, had proved harder to be rid of--although, heaven only knew, they had tried. They had attempted to cancel her numerous times, truly, had tried to break her spirit and her sense of self, as well--but, every time, she had pulled through, frequently with Michael's help. It had really been too annoying.

For all of these reasons, then, Madeline had been happy with their choice for this project. The fact, indeed, that Michael had repeatedly shaped missions in order to be with her was intolerable, was entirely unsuccessful. If, then, they could not cancel her, they would do something better. Madeline, truly, would make her her own.

Her smile grew deeper, as she continued on with her pleasant memories. This, too, she had done--quite successfully. Now, indeed, Nikita no longer looked to her former lover for advice or encouragement; she came to her. A contented sigh passed from her. Nothing, really, could be more perfect.

Her smile faded slightly, as her mind switched tracks once more, however. The one part of this latest decision she didn't entirely relish, though, was what was about to happen soon. She turned to her monitor and tapped up an image of Michael pacing in his office, panel in hand. Soon, of course, he wouldn't need that panel. . . . Soon, indeed, he would be dead.

She sighed a little sadly, as her eyes traced his image on the screen. Such perfect features, such a brilliant, calculating mind. It was such a shame that he hadn't seen reason. It was such a shame that he had to be killed.

Still, she knew that there was no way out of this; he had to go. One of the other reasons, after all, that Nikita had been such a brilliant choice of subject was that she was so inherently willful. If, indeed, they could break her, could make her docile to their will, then they could break any of them. If Michael, however, was allowed to learn more of what was happening--of what they were planning for the rest of Section, he would try to stop it. They had already had to have him shadowed, had had to kill Gelman, as he had met with him--hopefully before any essential knowledge had been gained. Michael had, indeed, been influenced far too poorly by the old Nikita. Now, he actually seemed to believe in free will.

A small frown formed on her face, her sadness over this truth burning a large void within her. It was such a shame, really. He could have been so much more, after all; they could have been such a good team. Now, however, she would never find out what could have been. Now, it was all over.

She changed the image on her screen, her mind summing up. It was possibly a shame that they had yet to be able to actually contact George about this turn of events. Still, perhaps it was best. Once it was done, truly, there would be no way back; no one could stop them. George, indeed, would never find out in time.

She watched Davenport and his small team beginning to suit up for their approach to Michael's office. Well, it was too late now for regrets. She turned off the screen and began to make her way to Operations' aerie in time to watch the final showdown from there. Soon, Michael would be no more--and Nikita, and the rest of Section, would be theirs. . . . Nothing could ever stop them again.

********************************************** He watched her making her way down the street, walking back to her apartment from the club she had once more patronized. In so many ways, he knew, she was no longer his. In so many ways, in fact, he no longer really existed.

Michael sighed, leaning against a tree, as he watched her pass in the night. He had never expected, when he returned from his unexpected, two-month mission, that he would be in this position soon, had never imagined where his return would lead. Now, however, everything in his life had changed. Now, he was a marked man.

He watched her disappear from his sight finally and turned to make his way back to his car. They would be after him soon; he needed to be moving.

His mind, however, was still running back over the last day or so. He supposed, in some repressed part of it, too, that he had been hoping his talk with her the other night would have somehow calmed his fears, would have told him that she was really alright--as she had claimed to be; he had wanted so much, indeed, just to believe.

Belief, however, had not been an option. Nothing about her had been real--not her eyes, not her touch, not the sense of her which always flowed into him. All that was in her now was an emptiness, a void. His touch on her arm--which he had used to test her--had only confused her; it had taken her a few seconds to be able to even recall the proper response to him. Her kiss in return, as well, had been devoid of either warmth or passion. . . . There had just been nothing left within her with which to respond.

His heart ached, as he drew close to his car and got in, pulling off once more into the night. By now, they would know that he was gone, that he had predicted their deadly response to his love. He knew he had to keep moving.

His mind ran back again, though--once more remembering, taunting him with--what had once been. Before the Genefex mission, he and Nikita had been in love, had been lovers in the most complete sense of the word--had had unions so pure and absolute that they had raised them both into a heavenly state. It had been perfect.

Their relationship, too, had--for the most part, then, wonderfully--moved beyond the betrayals and lies he had tormented her with so often early on. He had been making a determined effort to open himself to her, as well, to let her see that he meant every loving action he had ever given her. . . . Now, though, there was simply nothing in her anymore which was capable of responding to him; there was nothing left in her which felt. As much, as fervently, then, as he wished for the days when they had been one, he knew they were no longer possible. He had to rescue her first, indeed, from the prison of her programming, from the cell of her, drained, heart. Until he did, truly, there was just nothing like light in the world at all.

He sighed, continuing to drive into the night. His plans for the future were set now--as much as they could be. Really, they consisted of one main part--of a series of steps which would get him to Adrian. Then, he simply had to hope that there was enough of her left--after whatever had been done to her--to help him, and that--if there was and she remembered--that she would.

His heart shuddered a bit at the thought of all of this; he made a conscious effort, therefore, to push the taunting possibilities away, to focus elsewhere--but even his "elsewhere" held no comfort for him. There was only, ever, one place where his heart and mind ever truly centered, after all--and that was on Nikita. . . . Now, however, for the first time in her life, that was a very, very dark place.

He traced back once again through her movements the last day or so, thinking into them once more. He had been incredibly hurt to see her enter the club, as he had been following her the other night; she had, no doubt, been sent there by Madeline. He wasn't certain, actually, whether she was there for some sort of brush-up valentine training or whether she were simply looking for some sort of outlet for her excess energy--and for a way to keep her thoughts away. He suspected, really, that it was both.

Whatever the reason, though, the facts of her presence were real enough. It was a private club which you only went to for one reason--anonymous sex. There were back rooms you could use and a variety of available partners, most looking for some perversion of love or another. It was an empty place, one he had had nightmares of seeing her forced to enter before. Now, however, it seemed she was there of her own free will.

He gave a brief, saddened smile, as he caught his choice of words. "Free will"--she had nothing like free will anymore; she was a robot, was preprogrammed to fulfill whatever roles were forced on her by her masters. She had no real memories, he suspected--didn't know who she really was. All she knew anymore was what she was told.

The thought sent a cold sinking of emotion through him, as his mind revolved around her newest hangout once more. He couldn't work up the will to be jealous of whatever partner she had found in that place; there was nothing to be jealous of. All that anonymous person had received, after all, was her body--and, as beautiful as that was, it alone was meaningless to him. What mattered to him--what had always mattered to him--was her soul.

His heart ached even further at the thought, his mind pulled to this path inevitably once more. Nikita, however, had no soul anymore--or, rather, they had interred it so deep within her that it was in constant danger of suffocation. . . . Dear God, he hoped he could save it.

He knew, then, that he had to act soon--that he had to break Adrian out in order to, hopefully, find a way to bring his beloved back to herself, and to him. Without that, indeed, he was every bit as dead as his cancellation orders were intended to make him. . . . Nothing in him, after all, could ever live again without his soul.

*********

Her heart was pounding faster by the second, the way it always did on a really good mission. This, though, was one of the best so far. Now, she was going to do something she had wanted to for sometime. . . . Now she was going to get to kill Michael.

Had it been in Nikita's makeup anymore to smile, she would have, as the van she was riding in sped out of Section One, on the trail of the man who had trained her, the one who still, so illogically, loved her. Ever since she had returned to Section and missions a week or so ago, of course, she had learned to adore the chance to go out and put her training into action--but today's prey was different than the others she had seen so far. Michael, after all, had been their best. And, now, if she could just kill him, she would be able to inherit his place.

Her excitement built further. This, really, was the thrill of the hunt, was the joy of the pursuit and the kill. When she finally pulled the trigger on him, she would have taken down the most dangerous and deadly prey there ever was. She, truly--she thought once more, would be the master hunter then; no one could top her.

She felt a sense of peace mingling with her excitement now. This, really, was full circle; this was the way Section worked. The teacher eventually became the target; the student would replace the master. It was as it should be.

Yes, indeed, this was what she wanted. She gave a half blink. Why, then, was there still something far, far inside her which said this wasn't right--why was there still some tiny, millimeter or so, spot which told her not to do this? Was she still so weak, after all she had done lately to grow stronger? Could she really be held back still by the memories of a past which never was?

Her eyes grew more determined, as they heard reports of the location of Michael's vehicle; they were still too far off to be able to close in yet. She refused to let herself be distracted from her goal now; she wouldn't let that happen. Yes, sometimes--in those few moments when she slept--she thought she might remember a different sort of person, a different sort of lover, from the trainer she had truly known, but these were only misguided fantasies. The real Michael, had he not grown so unforgivably weak, in fact, would have approved of her current actions--would have been proud of the creation he had forged. She now, indeed, was simply the culmination of his years of training.

The indescribably minute, subconscious scream within her moved further off, then. She would no longer be the weak little girl who had come into Section. It sometimes amazed her, in fact, that she had lasted here as long as she had; she was still uncertain why they hadn't simply canceled her before.

She thought back further, disgusted with her former self, once more. She had been so useless, indeed, she remembered--hadn't even been able to carry out simple cancellation orders, time and again. She had repeatedly, as well, questioned her leaders' motives, had suspected them of ridiculous dishonesties. . . . It was all just too illogical to want to remember.

Still, remember it she, sadly, did. So many times she had reacted to her leaders with some ludicrous sense of disdain, of horror; she had questioned their tactics, their goals, and their morality. Now, however, she knew that "morality" was a juvenile concern--the sort of thing which parents only hoped to instill in order to keep their children from becoming a threat to them; no right-thinking, mature adult would waste their time with it. Soon, too, she hoped that she would be able to give up the pretense of caring about such things in front of the other members of Section. It was extremely tedious, indeed.

She repressed a sigh, however, as her mind circled here for another few seconds, remembering again. She had been forced to chummy up with Walter for almost a week now, and the feeling the situation had given her was not a pleasant one. It was just such a waste of time. What she needed to focus on--what they *all* needed to focus on--was their jobs. Some misguided sense of "right and wrong" was simply a loss of valuable energy. It could never be as important as the missions. . . . It could never be important at all.

Her sense of satisfaction returned, though, as her mind altered paths slightly. Still, soon she would hopefully be able to treat Walter with the abruptness which was the easiest way to deal with any of them. She could no longer waste her time on such trifles.

Her mind switched tracks once more, then. No, what was important here now was very definitely different. Soon, she would take down Michael--would repay him for his betrayals, would teach him the error of his defection from his leaders. Soon, indeed, she would be purged of him, and his loss would be a lesson to every weak link in Section. . . . And then everything in life would, finally, be so much simpler.

*********************************************** It all had, so far, been as simple as he had hoped. He was back, and no one yet was the wiser. Now all he had to do was pray that his luck held until he could escape once more. . . . He just prayed, however, that there was enough good will left for him in the plans of fate to allow it.

Michael was waiting in Tactical, where he planned to ambush Nikita, now, his mind working over his recent path once more. The last several hours had been very trying, indeed--the last several *days* had been. Simply having to escape from Section and his ordered cancellation had been hard enough, in fact, but having to see and use the un-Nikita in order to be able to further his plans had been *far* worse. . . . He just hoped he had the strength to continue.

He was trying desperately to ignore the ache in his soul. It was so hard, though--truly, having to be around her now; she was so unlike anything she had ever been on her own. This creature she had become, without doubt, was not Nikita; she wasn't even human. No, she was now the coldly functioning, soulless robot which Section had always desired. . . . There was nothing in her anymore to love.

He sighed, his soul's pain still throbbing. He still didn't entirely understand Gelman's program, however, didn't understand the whole way it worked. He couldn't help but wonder, then, whether there was still some trace of the old Nikita lying in her subconscious, some recurring sense in her that her current path was not the right one. He wondered, indeed--despite his more rational senses, if she could really remember who she had once been. Did she know what they had had, what they had meant to each other--the absolute, pristine beauty of all the moments they had shared? Or--his heart ached, had that all been taken from her, erased as though it were a diskette whose information was no longer valid? He sighed, the throb still there. He really didn't know.

What he did know, instead, was what he had observed and felt around her--and the way he felt around her now was a combination of pained, angry, and incredibly--inexpressibly--saddened. None of these emotions, too, ever seemed likely to leave him, unless the real Nikita came back once more.

He set his jaw, his mind turning again. In truth, though, he didn't want to lose these feelings--not yet anyway. He had no desire to be able to look at this altered, degraded version of his beloved without repulsion. If he ever did, indeed, something would be terribly, terribly wrong.

He sighed once again, thinking back over the last day or so, back to all of what he had learned. He had been partly testing her, he supposed, when he had gone to her this morning, but he hadn't really been testing her current loyalties; they were too obvious. No, he had needed, instead, to attempt to see whether he could find anything recognizable of the woman he loved so dearly in the woman who existed today. He knew, of course, that she was still alive somewhere; he felt it--but he had yet to absolutely be certain whether anything of her still lived in the accessible mind of the robot who now used her body.

What he had discovered in the salon, however, had depressed him deeply--was an absolute lack of any real emotion. Yes, she had *acted* correctly, but that had obviously been all there was to it--acting. It was like she could remember the forms of the feelings she had once held, but could no longer access their content. He wondered, though, whether that actually meant the forms existed in her memory, or whether Madeline had simply taught them to her. That, he really didn't know.

He had tried, then, to keep as physically clear of her as possible, even as he was using her partly to lure Section to him. Yes, she had kissed him as he had talked to her, but she had done it out of expedience, not emotion. He was well aware, in fact, that she had been reaching for the gun in her bag the entire time, had been waiting to complete her orders to cancel him. For this reason, then, as well as the absolute emptiness, the utter silence of emotion he had felt in her, he had tried to avoid her kiss. Just as he had once searched it out, indeed--had dreamed of and been enraptured by it, now it left him with a feeling of isolation so echoing he couldn't bear to even ponder it. Her distance, truly, was what he needed most--until the day when, he hoped, he could change her back.

This wasn't the end of his interactions with the robot Nikita of late, however. He had, as well, known that she would be in the lead of the pack which was sent to kill him. Still, as he had watched the entire scene from the sidelines, he hadn't been able to stop his heart from aching terribly. She hadn't only been numb to the possibility of his death; he even suspected that she would have enjoyed it, would have especially enjoyed being the one to cause it. Another shudder of intense pain rumbled through him. There really was, then--at least on the surface, nothing left of her former self.

His heart continued to ache, as he thought through all of this further, as he thought once more over the path which had led him here. He had entered Section of his own accord today, of course--had come back with the intention of taking something, someone, away. As he had walked through all of the bunker's back ways, however--all of the ones he knew so, terribly, well--he had realized something new--something he had simply not fully allowed himself to discover before: he hated the person he had become. Indeed, for so many years, Nikita had been his only stable point, had been the one safe harbor in a life of overwhelming and turbulent pain. She was still his only guiding angel.

He realized now, though, that something else had happened over these years, as well. He had come, more and more, to despise the life he had built within these walls, had come to resent the years that this place had stolen from him, the human emotions he had once--but no longer--possessed. Yes, he knew, he had been no innocent when he had first been brought here, but this place had still sucked something important, something of extreme emotional value, out of his soul. And, now, indeed, he resented the hell out of it.

He sighed discontentedly once more, as his mind continued to take up his time in waiting by remembering, analyzing. He had been cold, at times, before he had come here, he knew--had helped to take lives, but it was only Section which had turned him into an absolute killer. After the bombing, indeed, he had at least felt remorse--had, in fact, been turned inside out by what he had done. Since he had come to this place of death, however, all of that had changed. For years, he had been able to bomb any building without much of a second thought; he had, in fact--in one way or another, been partly involved in the destruction of places which had destroyed all levels of life--from the oldest to the youngest, had been well aware of the innocents whose lives he was stealing and had paid no attention. He had never quite simply put a gun to a baby's head and pulled the trigger, of course, but he was quite certain now that, for many of his years here, he could have done it, if it had been deemed necessary by his masters. . . . That, truly, was how soulless he had once become.

He closed his eyes for just a second, as the still-new pain of this revelation rang through him; he opened them once more, then, to keep watch on the door. For many years, of course, he had simply seen no other way, had been able to imagine nothing else. One thing--one person--however, had changed this, had brought him back toward the living. . . . And no one besides her would ever mean quite so much to him again.

He swallowed heavily. Nikita, truly, was--had always been--his guardian angel. She alone had restored to him whatever soul he still possessed.

It wasn't, however--his mind changed paths slightly, that he was incapable of carrying out Section's orders anymore; it wasn't that he found it impossible to sacrifice the innocent along with the guilty. No, what had changed now was that his mind actually questioned such acts, would--at times, with a little luck and some time--try to find ways around them.

This, too, was such an *immense* change. Years ago, indeed, he might have followed the brain-wiped Nikita's actions at the embassy the other day, might have casually assigned a nursery-full of children to their deaths. Now, however, he could no longer do this with anything like calm or collection. Now, indeed, he wanted to be more worthy of the bright soul who had brought him part-way back--yearned, so deeply, to be worthy of her love.

He tried to ignore the continuing feeling within him, the sensation of his heart trembling in his body. He collected himself, then, as his saddened musings went on. It wasn't, of course, that he wasn't still a killer. He was. But--since his years with his heart's angel--he had actually begun to question a few of his acts. It wasn't, really, that he suspected that he was on his way to some huge life change; he suspected, indeed, that he would die every bit as capable of taking a life as he had been ever since his "resurrection" within his Section Hell of a home. No, it was more that Nikita had shown him a new way--and just the very knowledge that there was one, the knowledge that he could occasionally take a different path, made him a very different person, indeed.

He drew his mind back around to the present, then. It had been entering back into Section today, truly--entering back into it while he knew that he was under orders of death, while he was its ultimate outsider--which had brought all of these thoughts out in him finally. In so many ways, after all--for at least a year in his actions, and longer before that in his heart--he was no longer Section's Michael; he was Nikita's. And it was for this reason, as well as the million others he still felt swimming through his heart and soul, that he needed to have her back.

He was in this room now, therefore, to wait for her, to confront her once more. He had already sent his message to lure her here. Now, he just had to take her on in order to gain access to the person he needed to free. Perhaps, indeed, by taking on this shell of his beloved, he could eventually gain her true twin's return. Hopefully, indeed, Adrian would lead him to this promised land.

His train of thought was broken finally by the arrival of his once-beloved target; he waited in the corner, as she entered casually. He made his move then, before she could sense him, coming from behind her to take her gun away, pushing her forward slightly to get her off-balance. He didn't, if he could help it, want to hurt her any more than became necessary.

Nikita, however, was still formidable; she didn't take this attack without a fight. She tried to kick out, but Michael deflected it. She spun around, then, to see him--and was very surprised at the sight; the gears of her reprocessed brain hummed into place, too, and she realized that this was a time for subtlety. She pretended, therefore, to be her old self. "Michael."

He looked at her for a split second, trying to assure himself that she wouldn't use the next few moments to attack. His eyes were strong, but they covered, as well, all of his immense torment.

He turned to be sure no one had seen this scene and shut the door, as she maintained her air of casual interaction, hoping to see more quickly what he wanted, hoping to be able to force him into a moment of weakness. "Hi." She wiped her hair off her brow and put one hand on her hip for a second, almost nervously. "You frightened me." Her hands finally fell to her sides.

He couldn't keep some of the love he still felt so strongly for her out of his eyes, as he approached her. He knew--he reminded himself--however, that this was not really her. "Are you wondering why I've disarmed you?"

The casual approach continued, since she hoped he was buying it. "No. You're protecting me. If you get caught, I wouldn't be blamed."

The pain of being so close to her was eating away at him again. His eyes were still strong but were also rather sad, their color very light--as though all of their life had been drained with her absence from his life.

He asked her, then, something he so desperately needed the answer to--even if he knew, in the same breath, that his chances for a real response were unlikely; his voice, though he tried to keep it calm, still came out as a tormented whisper. "Do you know who you are?"

She saw her opportunity then, but she covered it with her supposed lack of understanding. She walked toward him. "Do I know who I am? I'm me." She came even closer, her eyes searching him--wondering if this was her chance. "And I love you." She leaned in to kiss him.

He leaned his head back out of her range, his disgust at this soulless creature taking him over once again. His gaze was a little angry, as he focused on her absolutely. "Do you?" he accused.

There was a second of disappointment in Nikita, as she saw her opportunity disappearing; Michael's words continued, though, his eyes accusing. "Or do you want to kill me?"

He stepped to the side and moved away from her. His voice had broken in his pain at the words, but he couldn't help that. The torment in him was total and inescapable. She had just shown him, after all--once again, that there was nothing he could access of his beloved in her anymore; whatever still existed of that bright soul was buried beyond his reach.

Her eyes were to the side, her mind processing the situation, trying to decide how best to proceed now; her back was to him. "Why are you talking like this?" she tried, as she turned back to face him.

In some ways, he was uncertain just what it was which motivated his next move. Still, he supposed he needed some proof to convince his over-hopeful soul that whatever existed on the outside of her was the enemy now. Also, though, he thought, he probably just needed her to stop pretending. He was at least half-convinced, really, that just dealing with the compromised side of her head-on, indeed--without the pretenses--would be far easier; he needed, then, to convince her to give up this terrible act.

He turned back to her to make his point; he seemed a little didactic, as his strong eyes searched deep within her. "If I hand you this gun, are you gonna shoot me?"

She waited for a few seconds to see where this was going. She couldn't decide how best to proceed before she knew.

He went on explaining, his tone matter-of-fact. "You wouldn't have any reason to hesitate. The order has been given." He held out the gun to her to prove his point.

Their eyes met for a long heartbeat or two, their looks evaluating. Nikita was trying to see where he was going, whether he would actually allow her to end it this easily. He simply waited for her to accept. She took the gun finally, though, and he turned his back on her, waiting for her--now inevitable--move.

Her eyes were sad now, as she pondered what had to be done. To her mind, he was committing suicide, had returned to allow her to finish it. She thought, then, that her feelings were based on some lingering pain over a perfect, Level Five operative being brought so low by an emotion this temporary.

This, though--of course, wasn't all there was to it. What she ignored, in that split second, was the low, moaning scream which reverberated from somewhere so deep within her that she couldn't ever have consciously realized that it was there. It, however, was distraught, was so in pain. . . . It wasn't sure it would survive this.

"Michael," she said finally, her path clear, despite the incomprehensible sadness.

He stopped in his pacing away from her, his back still to her. He was resigned. He hated this, but he had known it would come.

Her eyes grew stronger, as she lifted the gun once more, the Gelman process kicking in fully again. She pulled the trigger to end this, but nothing happened.

He turned finally to reveal the cartridge in his hand. He had proved his point. Maybe, too, she would finally give up the pretense.

She tossed the gun back to him, realizing her temporary defeat. All of her constant maintenance finally kicked in completely, however; her eyes grew more angry and intense, as her programmed rage at his weakness grew. "You don't belong here anymore, Michael."

He watched her for a second and then put down the gun and cartridge on a table. He waited another moment before speaking, however, evaluating her reaction, before he started to approach her again; his voice was still breathy but was now a little stronger. She was right, of course, but he wanted to see the reasoning behind her words; they would let him better know the way she was thinking. "Why do you say that?"

Nikita proved yet again that the brainwashed tend to not be very good at logical evaluations, at least not ones which go outside of their programming; she didn't see his motivations for asking the question, just as she hadn't seen what had led him to give her the gun in the first place. Instead, she thought it a good opportunity to tell him the way he should be seeing himself now. "Because you don't know what it takes. If you did, I'd be dead."

He didn't take the opportunity to contradict her; he had already learned everything he needed to know--and could understand--for now. The other goal of his question, after all, had also been accomplished; she was distracted.

He moved on her quickly, then, pushing her face up against the wall, her arms trapped behind her. He didn't want to hurt her, but he knew that he had to treat her strongly enough to gain the advantage he needed.

Nikita's demeanor changed little. She was still angry, but her overall calm remained, even if her voice was a little pinched from pain. "What are you doing?"

He explained the obvious, although he wasn't certain why; if she was discovered early, after all, it could be dangerous. Still, some part of him needed to try to make her understand his reasoning--wanted whatever still existed of her soul to know that he took no joy in his present actions with her. "Taking your access coder."

The determination of her words was betrayed by her current position. "I can't let you do that."

He didn't let her go any further in her objections, however; if he kept her conscious too much longer, she might be able to somehow gain the advantage once more. He tazered her, then--having chosen the way to eliminate her resistance temporarily which he hoped would give her the least permanent results--and which would have the least dangers for her. He didn't, after all, want to try putting her into a choke hold, if he didn't have to; she might be able to break out of it and run for help or her gun. Also, he couldn't be absolutely certain that he would apply just the right pressure; his fears of damaging her permanently, then, kept him from doing that.