She fought for consciousness for several seconds, determined not to succumb easily. Finally, though--inevitably, she did.

He lowered her down against the wall, then, having gotten what he needed. Now she would be safe and out of the way, as he finished his plans here. He knew, too, that--in just a few seconds, he would have to tie her up and leave her, but he hated it--hated it all.

He was almost gentle with her, therefore, as he wasted a few more seconds he could ill afford. He knew he should go now, indeed, but seeing her unconscious brought back too many memories. Now that she could no longer react with her brainwashing, truly, he could almost imagine that she still was the woman he adored, that she still was the bright soul who so shone for him. He hated to let go of that moment, then--even if it was so illusory.

He sighed a second later, however, knowing he could afford this time no longer. He brushed a bit of shortened hair back from her face gently, though, and spared one more moment missing its length, missing how it had felt to run his hands through it, as he had kissed her passionately--how she had looked when she had leaned over him in desire, her hair falling like a silken waterfall around his face, letting him look at nothing but those lovely eyes, those features he adored. He would miss it, just as he missed the woman who went with it--the one who hadn't decided that such a beautiful feature was an unnecessary nuisance.

He sighed finally, though, and resigned himself to what had to be done, beginning to tie her up, as gently--but still as efficiently, as possible. He spent a second realizing, however, something more positive, that--if those bright locks he so adored could grow back, could return--perhaps her soul could return along with them. He hoped so. Every day he had to spend apart from her, after all, was a little death; every one diminished him. . . . He could never, then, survive it for long.

*********

"Nikita's just the beginning."

It was these words which were still ringing horribly through his head, the words of a man who couldn't quite be called a friend but who--at least in their mutual affection for one woman--could be called an ally. If what he was saying was true now, however, it was not just Nikita who was going to suffer from Section's tampering. Soon, indeed, they all might.

Birkoff gave a look over at the, now eerily efficient, Dori--his newest recruit, as this thought continued to ring through his mind. At just the beginning of this day, after all, she had been looking for ways out, had been desperate for an escape--full of plans to try to execute. Now, though, she seemed both out of it and almost spookily focused on her work, as though nothing else was of importance to her anymore. As little as he wanted to admit it, then, Michael's words seemed to have a little truth to them.

He was still running various sims. for his leaders now--sims. on how Michael had escaped detection for so long, on who was at fault for letting him slip by, on possible retreat points he might have gone to, on a variety of plans he might try to execute. Of course, he wasn't actually being given all of the information to run most of these; neither Operations nor Madeline had ever mentioned Adrian, for instance, but he knew that truth from Michael, nonetheless. Whatever was going to happen, then, he knew it was going to get messy.

He gave a very slight sigh, trying not to make it too noticeable. Dori had, along with her astounding new efficiency and focus, been watching him a little too closely since her return from break an hour ago. It was creeping him out. He suspected, indeed, that--if she saw any weakness or any prevarication about his orders in him--it would have very nasty results. . . . He really didn't want to think about it.

He tried to focus elsewhere, then, as his programs ran, his mind tracing from one brainwashing victim to another. He had suspected, truly, what had happened to Nikita ever since soon after she had returned from the Genefex mission, but that time didn't cover all of the differences he had observed. The month after that, as well, had seen even more--had seen her growing distance from not just himself but all of her friends. . . . It still scared him.

This wasn't the end of his fears, however. It was her distance from Michael, in fact, which had disturbed him the most. Even this part of her behavior, though, hadn't fit any previous pattern he was aware of. It wasn't, truly, that she had never pushed away her ex-trainer before; Lord knew, she had--repeatedly. This hadn't really been the disturbing part, however. All of those other times, there had been an anger to accompany her actions--frequently, indeed, there had been an absolute fury. In that month, however, things had changed. There had been no anger in her distance. In fact, there had been very little in it at all. Mostly, there had just been . . . silence.

He took a quiet, deeper breath, repressing a shudder, as his mind went on. The increasing self-isolation had been disturbing enough in a woman who had always been so sociable, of course. What had been even more unsettling, though, had then been her disappearance from Section without explanation, had been the fact that she had just stopped appearing on teams--or even in the building at all. And--even more suspiciously--she had done it just the day after Michael's mission had suddenly become undercover and long term. . . . It just hadn't added up to anything benign.

It had all, indeed, been too much to overlook--had just been too disturbing. He would have liked, of course, to just pretend that everything was alright, but he simply couldn't. . . . He had Walter's strange behavior, as well, to prove otherwise.

He swallowed heavily, remembering it all once more. For at least a month after he had been sent to, and then retrieved from, Retirement, after all, Walter just hadn't been the same. He had been vaguely friendly, yes, but still constantly distracted by and focused on his work. If you had tried to complain about their lives here, too, he would just look at you as though you were nuts, and then dismiss whatever you were saying--usually telling you to get back to work, as well. It really hadn't been the same gregarious, slightly cantankerous, person he had so long grown used to and fond of.

At least here, however, the change had ended more fortuitously; for Walter, thankfully--indeed, the effects of whatever had been done to him had worn off. Sometime during that first month that Nikita had been gone, in fact, the man had started to bitch about Section again just like everyone else, had gone back to seeking out his friends. It had been quite a comfort, truly.

Birkoff sighed slightly, though, beginning to ponder another aspect of all of these changes. He knew--to his guilt and horror, after all--that he was at least partly responsible for all of these terrible changes around him. It had been his own sudden desire for survival over humanity which had left him to abandon Michael and Nikita's cause in the first place--which had led him to turn in both the two of them and Walter. Had he not been, he thought now, so terribly foolish, as well, then maybe none of this would have happened.

His heart ached at the thought. He hated that it had been his own cowardice which had led to his friends' downfall. He had been so distracted by Walter's situation, too, during the Genefex mission, that he hadn't even questioned the orders which he now suspected had led Nikita to her newly-brainwashed state; he just hadn't been paying enough attention to notice.

A shudder of pain passed through him once more at these thoughts. He knew that he had dropped the ball, had let all of them down--had allowed Section to tamper with them in terrible ways. . . . Still, this didn't quite mean, either, that he was no longer concerned with his own safety, as well. Ever since he had been abandoned to die on the Rousseau mission, indeed, he just couldn't allow himself to think entirely altruistically anymore. It just wasn't an option.

He knew, though, on the other hand, that his actions during the few days which had led to his friends' pain were insupportable, nonetheless. Had he just tried to balance out his own need for safety with that of his friends, after all, they might all have avoided these situations; it would, certainly, have made life better for everyone.

The pain of all of this shuddered through him slightly, as his mind turned further. He looked up, as well, his eyes searching through what he could see of the awful place which had always been his home. The whole atmosphere had changed subtly with Nikita's alteration, he knew; nothing was quite the same. It wasn't just all that had happened with Michael since then, either. No, it extended back long before that.

His saddened eyes fell once more to his screen, as his mind looked back. For so many years, he remembered, the blonde-haired operative had been the light of Section. Sure, she had her enemies--had always had those who were jealous of her or who were simply unimpressed by simple goodness--but they weren't many. Most of the people unfortunate enough to call this place home, in fact, were enamored of her. She was almost everybody's favorite person.

The past few months, then, had been hard. Ever since the Genefex mission, indeed, Nikita had pushed away all those around her--first subtly and now with a lingering, cold precision. For awhile, too, she had been trying to at least keep Walter on her side, but that seemed to have stopped, as well, with the latest mission against Michael; there wasn't a whole lot of point trying to convince anyone that she was still her old self, after all, when she had stood and shot, point blank and expressionlessly, at the car she had thought contained him. Everyone who had been unfortunate enough to be on that team, too, had said that she seemed almost excited about her chance to get him--had been a bit deflated when it hadn't worked. No one, then, questioned her change anymore.

That didn't mean, however, that everyone found this new fact easy to accept. There was, indeed, almost a silence which had taken hold over the operatives in general, a sort of shock which had set in. Everyone knew that Nikita was no longer herself, but none of them could quite believe it; it was the main talk, indeed, of the Section grapevine.

His thoughts turned a little further on this subject, defining somewhat. This last fact didn't mean, however, that the discussion about her flowed too freely; the rumor mills of Section One hadn't discussed this even as semi-openly as they did all of their normal chat--which was usually about Michael and Nikita, anyway. They had all always known that you had to be damn careful who you talked to here, of course--and where you did it--but now the rumors were practically treated like precious currency in a terrible depression. No one traded or gave any of it away easily, and suspicion was everywhere; trust, too, simply didn't exist. If Nikita was no longer one of them, after all, then--everyone knew--other traitors could be anywhere. . . . And, except for the loss of their main operative--and now, he suspected, Adrian--Operations and Madeline were loving it all.

This very fact, however, really proved something about their leaders and their priorities. He wasn't entirely sure what the overall effects of these terrible changes had been to Section, numbers-wise, of course; he hadn't cared enough to even look--but the morale was at an all-time low, tensions at their greatest height. No one, after all--if the few rumors of brainwashing which made the rounds, along with a vicious number of speculations about what Michael might have done to her this time to finally break her, were true--wanted to be next. He looked at Dori out of his peripheral vision. Nope. He certainly didn't want it to be him.

He repressed another shudder, as Dori caught his look, and he refocused quickly on the screen. All of this, then--he supposed, was a lot of the reason why he had helped out Michael so much these past few days. He was determined, truly, that--not only would he not become one of these Stepford operatives--he wouldn't let anyone else he cared for become one either--if he could help it. His determination was fixed; he wouldn't change it without a fight.

He felt an internal objection to this last pronouncement, though, and sighed quietly. The presence of this more noble desire wasn't to say, however, that his feelings were particularly settled on all of this. Every time he helped out Michael, indeed, he felt a few years of his life slipping away from him. . . . Still, seeing Nikita willingly blow up an embassy--completely unconcerned even about the children therein--and then gunning for her ex-lover were a bit too much for him; he still felt *incredibly* guilty, too, about possibly having landed her in this position. He really wanted her back, then, wanted Section back the way he had always understood it--a definite Hell, but with just a few people he could trust. He didn't want to let that go.

His mind moved back to his objections again, though. As strong as all of his convictions were, indeed, he still feared that they might be overthrown once more. His determination to keep on living, after all, was a lot stronger than he would have thought, a few years ago. He really didn't want to die.

He tried to repress another soft sigh, his emotions so desperately entangled. Things were so chaotic, of late. Michael--the man whom he had always had a rather tenuous relationship with, the one who had threatened to kill him more than once to get what he wanted, all of it related to Nikita--was now their official enemy. He had had the courage to side with the older man for awhile, too, but--as desperately as he hoped that he would be able to keep this determination in the future--he couldn't really be certain. . . . Breathing, after all, did still have its appeal.

It had, all in all--to understate things drastically, been a very rough day. Still under cancellation orders, he had gone back to the place where he was most likely to be found and killed and had there--as well--confronted the shell which was all that was left, for the time being, of the woman his soul so adored. He had, too, taken from his enemies the one thing which was most likely to make them even more frantic in their search for him. . . . He really hoped, indeed, that he survived long enough to look back on it in retrospect.

Michael was sitting on the hotel bed now, stroking over Adrian's hair gently. He had to get her to wake up, be alert, and make the tape before Nikita captured Mick and forced him to come back.

His mind shifted focus for a second, pondering his latest orders to this newly-found ally. He was sorry, in a way, that he had been forced to use Mick so, but--as clever as the man could often be--he truly didn't feel that he could trust him to lead Nikita here if he knew the entire plan, couldn't trust him to be convincing. He needed, then, to keep him unaware.

He was broken from his thoughts, as he felt Adrian rousing herself finally; he called her name once more. "Adrian."

There were a few more seconds before her eyes finally opened; they never entirely focused, however. Lord, he hoped she remembered. "Adrian," he repeated softly.

She blinked, the fear entering what had once been her brilliantly-incisive blue eyes. "Who are you?" She looked around herself nervously, down to the blanket she had wrapped around her and then back to him again. "Where am I?" A chill passed through her. "Why am I so cold?"

He took a deep breath. So far, so good--she was asking all the questions he would have expected after just awaking from her shock. Still, he didn't like that glaze over her eyes.

He focused on the first question, trying to bring the memories back. "I'm Michael." There was no twinge of recollection in her gaze. He continued to speak softly but authoritatively. "You know me, Adrian."

Her confused look grew even more wild, her desperation sparked by the realizations growing in her. "Who's Adrian?"

The two words destroyed something in him; he closed his eyes for a split second, his hopes dissolving. He had wished for her true consciousness--for her awareness, but it seemed that he had, once again, asked for too much.

He looked back at her, then, his plans changing. He needed to gain her trust in order to coach her to take part in the plan he had in mind. . . . If she refused, after all, then they were both lost.

His hand stroked over her hair softly still, his look gentle, trying not to scare her further. Right now, she reminded him of nothing so much as someone's slightly senile and rather sweet old grandmother. "You're Adrian," he explained softly. "You don't remember?" he tried, hoping still.

She shook her head, as another deep chill passed through her; he tightened the blanket around her once more. His voice was still gentle. "I'm afraid that what I'm going to tell you might upset you, but I need you to listen to me carefully. Alright?"

Adrian nodded shakily. She couldn't put anything together at the moment, but she could feel that something awful was off inside her. She waited to hear what the polite man had to tell her, then.

His eyes caressed her platonically. "Something very bad has been done to you. You've been used in a medical experiment, and it's affected your memory." He watched her eyes for a second to see whether she were following; after a moment, she nodded, taking him in. He went on. "I'm afraid I don't have time to explain everything right now. I rescued you, but the people who hurt you are after us. If we're going to escape them, I need you to help me."

The deep confusion set into her gaze again. "How?"

He smiled gently at her, his hand running over her hair. "I need you to remember a short speech for me and then deliver it while I record you. You need to do it with confidence." His eyes probed her softly. "Can you do that?"

She thought for a second, her eyes focusing away, before she looked back to him, nodding slightly again. "Yes, I think so." Her gaze seemed to sharpen a little further in the next few seconds, however, as some of her old instincts returned; her voice was slightly distrustful. "Why did you rescue me?"

He could, of course, have told her at least a hundred different things in order to gain her aid, but none of them satisfied him. He didn't, either, want her to suddenly become more suspicious of him, should her memories return. He told her, then, something like the truth. "We need each other. The people who hurt you are after me, as well. Together, I think we can stop them."

She shook her head. "But how . . . ?"

He put his thumb on the side of her face gently, shaking his head in return. "There's no time for explanations now." His gaze looked deep into her, allowing her to probe him, as well. "I promise to tell you all about it later, but now we need to work."

She took a deep breath and nodded. She was still pretty uncertain about all of this; things still felt pretty fuzzy in her mind, but she realized, too, that she had little choice but to help him. Besides, he did seem honest. She nodded once more, therefore, and their real work began.

************************************************* As weeks went, this past one had been a total pain in the arse. True, he hadn't exactly been having a good time of late, anyway, but the last few days had gotten even worse--if that were possible. Now, really, he just hoped that he was able to find someplace to hide which was far enough away to protect him from Section--if such a place even existed. Still, he supposed he would just have to look.

Mick took in a deep breath and checked in his rear-view mirror again as he drove out of the city--way out of the city. He knew a bird in Lyons who was just the sort who might be able to stay totally outside of Section's radar. Still, he had to survive to get there, didn't he?

God, this was all too much. He took another deep breath, trying to calm himself. He knew, of course, that siding with Michael had been the right thing to do, though--for a lot of reasons. Even from a self-preservation angle, truly, it made sense. After all, you might be able to hide from Section, but there was *no* hiding from the man in black.

He focused on trying to look calm; he didn't want to raise any flags for anyone who might see him, at the moment. As much as he would have liked to simply empty his mind of everything, too, one, obvious thought kept coming back to him, one which had been tormenting him for days: whatever his excuses, he had truly done it this time to Nikita, had landed her in a mammoth-sized pickle, the type you did *not* work your way out of alone--if you ever did it at all. Jesus, he was going to be lucky if he didn't burn in Hell for this one.

He let out another short, tired breath. What a few weeks it had been since he had first started spilling unidentified liquids on the blonde bombshell's floor. She had, at first, though, just seemed a little out of it--a little distant. Of course, it had been his first clue that something was up--even before the whole new orders thing had started--when he had discovered that she had given Michael his marching orders. That was a little oddity, indeed, which could not be explained away by something simple like "that time of the month." No, that was a strangeness of biblical proportions, instead, considering just what a little hypnotism number the man had apparently had her under before; hell, he could just walk into a room, and it was like Pavlov's dog, wasn't it?--sad, really, in a woman so beautiful--if it wasn't directed toward himself, that was. For her to just tell that man to bugger off, don't leave a forwarding address, then, went way off the whole "ground control to Major Tom" scale; he hadn't had a trip psychedelic enough to hallucinate that, in fact, in years.

Still, the sheer strangeness of all of these events hadn't changed them--or made her actions any more explicable. . . . And this, too, had only been the beginning.

He sighed once more, wiping at his tired eyes for a second before refocusing on the road. After about a month, in fact, Nikita seemed to no longer leave the apartment, unless it was for something like to buy a few groceries, or a lot of exercise equipment, or to go for a run. Other than that, she had just stayed there and worked out *constantly*. The racket from the bloody stereo alone had been enough to drive a person insane.

It had been then, however, when he had discovered his new orders from Section. For many months, of course, he had been assigned to watch her apartment, to report on who went in and out and if he saw anything unusual. He had hated this job practically from the time he had first been given it, truly--and it had gotten even worse once they had started to get chummy, once she had taken him in a bit more as a friend, even going so far as to agree once to help convince his mother that he was still an upstanding citizen--but the orders had been his, nonetheless. He couldn't exactly get out of them, not without facing the barrel of something particularly nasty, anyway.

His old orders, however, had been nothing to his new ones. Okay, so he hadn't exactly understood them, but he had known bad karma when he saw it coming at him. What else, really, would you call an anonymous p.d.a. with instructions on how to administer some unidentified substance on a friend's floor? He had even received short, one word, phone calls every time they wanted him to move--hadn't recognized the voice. . . . He wondered for a second, too, whether Section recruited their own telephone operators, but then pulled himself back on track. It really hadn't been the sign of a good day.

Still, not knowing what he was really up to, he had followed his disturbing new orders, anyway. It had been soon after this, though, when she had begun to change in earnest. After awhile, indeed, she seemed to barely recognize him. . . . Not good for one's ego, on the best of days.

He shuddered slightly, however, as he remembered again the moment of his actual, full realization. It had only been the other day, indeed, when he had seen the new, and thoroughly unimproved, Nikita at work--and it had scared him half to death. He had never, to the best of his recollection, truly, looked into any other person's eyes which were *that* cold. Yeah, okay, he remembered too vividly having been interrogated by Madeline after his brief employment by Benko, but even her eyes had seemed warm compared to Nikita's that day. His now, apparently, ex-friend, indeed, had simply looked at him like a rather hungry cobra examining a very tiny mouse. One of the most frightening experiences of his life.

He remembered back once more. He knew that his relationship with both Michael and Nikita, of course, had not exactly been without its problems--had not exactly been uncheckered. After all, it wasn't really a brilliant beginning to a relationship to start by holding a gun to a woman--although he couldn't say that his one-sniper-bullet, *way*-too-close-to-his-head, introduction to the man in black had exactly been much friendlier. Shoulda guessed then that they were in bed together, he supposed, but he had been too busy trying not to crap his pants, if truth were told. Never had liked guns. . . . Helping out Terry, to their total disadvantage, hadn't helped much, either.

Still, his mind shifted, his employment with the singularly singular--and totally loony--Mr. Benko had been fortuitously brief, and Terry, too, had paid a heavy price for her maternal feelings. He thought back to the former once again. He still half-blessed the day, now, that Section had found him, though. He knew he hadn't exactly been hard to turn for their own benefits, but they had promised to keep him in style for a simple exchange of information. It had seemed a good idea, at the time.

In the years since then, however, he had learned more than once just how deadly Section could be. This latest little horror with his friend--with their own bloody operative--though, really was the limit. Where, truly, did they get off brainwashing her, just because she had sought a little comfort in the arms of a tall, dark, strange man? He let out another breath. No bloody where. . . . He had had to put a stop to it.

He let his mind shift a little, however, contradicting his previous thought. Okay, so he hadn't exactly been in on this alone. In fact, he was quite certain that--had Michael not come to him a second time, ignoring the time he had come solely to beat him up--he himself would have just gone on watching from the sidelines and feeling like hell.

Once the opportunity had come, however, it had been a little hard to resist--or refuse. Michael, truly, was not the sort of person you turned down if you enjoyed having two, working lungs--not to mention various other, assorted, functioning organs. Ruthless, he was, when it came to his bird--not that Mick blamed him, really. With a woman like Nikita on your mind, after all, he supposed it was easy to forget basic lessons like manners. He sighed wistfully. If only he could have found out.

He drew his mind back from this path once more, though, too well-trained by Michael's constant watchfulness. Sometimes, Mick half-suspected the man could see into his dreams. Still, when the man who had first introduced himself with a single bullet had asked for his help, he had given it without any threats being necessary. He still felt, truly, *way* too guilty over his part in the whole thing. If anyone could bring Nikita back to them, too, it would be Michael. . . . It was only if he failed, that she was lost to them forever.

He took another deep, steadying breath and turned his thoughts once more, then, refusing to take in this last one fully. He needed to focus now, indeed, on staying alive. The sort of knowledge he had ended up with in the last few hours, after all, was the kind that cold ops. had wet dreams of wiping people out for. He had to be damn careful, therefore, if he hoped to be able to ever go home again.

Still, maybe he would be lucky enough to have whatever gambit Michael was working on pan out; maybe, indeed--if he were really fortunate, he would return to find the ever-friendly blonde making more annoyed threats on his life again, rather than her more recent, deadly serious, ones. In a strange way, truly, it was something to look forward to. . . . That, after all, was the strangely lovely bird he had always known.

*********

It was all rather unfortunate, really. For awhile, of course, it had seemed that things were going so well. . . . Sadly, however, that impression had not lasted; Michael, lately, had made a mockery of everything they had worked so hard to achieve. She just hoped, too, that she would be able to keep some kind of control over the further events to come. If she couldn't, then everything they had worked so hard for would be lost.

Madeline was in her office, having been left alone again after the bombshell of the tape Nikita had brought. . . . Adrian--alive and aware: that had *always* been her worst nightmare. She wasn't sure, really, how she would even handle it now.

She sighed softly. Her mind, without her permission, as well, thought back to the days when Adrian had been in control--her dark days; they were unpleasant even to remember. Just one look from the older woman had made her quail in a most unpleasant and annoying way; she had hated it. No one else, since her own mother, had affected her that strongly.

There had been no way around it, though; the other woman's control over her had been undeniable. She analyzed it, then--not for the first time. With everyone else, after all, she had been able to exert either a certain fear or control, had been able to convince them to do just what she said with little effort. With Adrian, however, any attempt to intimidate or move her had simply been answered with a small, amused smile and a "That will do for today, dear. Why don't you work on it and try again tomorrow?"

She felt a deep, internal shudder, as her mind ran through this again. *No* one else had dared to talk to her like that--no one but Adrian. It was probably one of the many reasons why she had made herself a promise that she would one day repay the older woman for her defiance. . . . Finally, too, she had.

A small smile--one she had never entirely realized that she had picked up from her most mortal enemy, minus her enemy's warmth--graced her lips; she did love to think about her victories. For awhile, for a year or more, they had first done excruciating experiments on the woman, after her doomed coup attempt; then, too, they had locked her into cryo, had left her as a vegetable. It had, really, all been quite satisfying.

Her mind turned further on this, then. For quite a few months, indeed--whenever she had been feeling uncertain, she had gone down to view the woman; the technicians on that level had grown used to her presence. It made her feel warmer, more safe, knowing that she was there, that the woman who had once tried to control her was now under her control. She had never quite gotten past the comfort of that.

Her smile faded, however, as her mind turned away from such beautiful memories. The last several hours, though, had overturned all of this, had changed everything. Now, not only was their best-trained and most-valuable operative working against them--with far greater success than even their programmed subject, but he had stolen her main source of comfort, as well. That, really, couldn't be forgiven.

The anger began to build in her further, as her thoughts simmered. It still hurt her immensely, of course, that Michael had decided to go against them, that he had turned down all of the well-meant, sound advice he had been given by her. Instead, he was now on a quest to regain the one thing he had lost, was determined to do it. She just feared, really, that he might prove successful.

She repressed another shudder and moved her mind further along, forcing it down another path. This wasn't her only problem of late, though. Now, too, she was forced to try to continually renew her control over Paul. The man, indeed, had become entirely too willful of late; he had first chastised her for their joint miscalculations about Michael and had then brushed off her careful reminder about the parameters of Nikita's programming. It was, truly, intolerable.

She let out another weary breath, as she pondered her long-time ally further. He had always, of course--like anyone who had no real ability to handle power, looked for someone else to blame his mistakes on, but it still angered her deeply when it was herself. It had, indeed--too, been his final decision, even if it was her suggestion, to keep Adrian alive for use in their testing of the Gelman process. To blame her alone, then, was just a weak self-deception.

Her mind turned once more, too disgusted to think into this anymore. In some ways, of course--it was true, she was chastising herself for not seeing the young man's plan earlier. Still, she had truly believed that he was still just testing Nikita when he had asked for the capture card. She had never imagined that he was actually planning on trying to reenter Section, had never imagined even him to be that bold.

Her mind turned back to her current problem, therefore, not wanting to focus here much longer. That Operations had also ignored her advice about how to handle Nikita, too--when she had always been the one with the first-hand knowledge of this process, was just an extra irritant. She needed to find a way to get this whole situation back under her control, indeed, or she was going to lose everything.

Her eyes became even harder than usual. This last thought, however, was unacceptable. She would *not* lose again; Nikita was her trump card--was the one thing which Michael truly wanted. The young woman was so completely under her control now, indeed, that it no longer even mattered to her whether she had been brainwashed or not; that was too perfect a result to give up. . . . She would *not* lose her hold on her again.

Her mind turned slightly once more, then. She needed to find an advantage against him, though, needed to find a weak point, something other than just the young woman herself; her thoughts turned back to the tape. Yes, that might be it.

She looked back to her computer, punching in the codes to begin playing the disk. She didn't want to have to view it again, of course, but there was really no other option; it had to be done. The image began:

"Hello, Madeline."

She paused it. Yes, that was very Adrian--a direct challenge to her. She continued.

"I'm sorry things didn't turn out the way you planned. I'm sure Operations must regret the decision to keep me alive."

Two more challenges--first assuming the plans were hers, then assuming the decisions were Paul's. She was right, of course, on both counts . . . but damn her.

The image went on again. "I imagine the next few days will be trying for you both, as you try to anticipate our next move." The older woman then threw in a small, entirely unnecessary, smile.

Madeline's stomach drew tight over this. She despised Adrian ever more each time she watched it. She needed, though--she knew, to look for clues in it; if she let her emotions get the best of her, after all, she was lost.

She played it once more, then. This time, however, her mind really began to focus; she paused it halfway through the third line. There it was--staring her in the face: "Operations." . . . How many times had Adrian willingly called him that? Had she ever to his face?

A smile formed on the beautiful but cold face of Section's doyenne, as her mind turned, a new, wonderful thought making its way through her. This wasn't Adrian speaking; it was Michael. He had directed the challenge to her, hoping to throw her off, had tossed in the information about Paul as a way to try to prove that the older woman remembered. But he had overlooked one thing in his rush to carry this plan out--had overlooked one little word. The older man was, after all, only "Operations" to his subordinates. Adrian, sadly, didn't count.

She began to type parameters into her computer, starting a voice and retinal scan of the woman whose image so taunted her; her heart was beating more calmly, her hopes rising. A few seconds later, too, she had her results; they showed--nothing. The woman was thinking absolutely nothing. Her mind was a simple blank--was silence.

Madeline's smile grew deeper, as the information flashed before her. Her day, her plans, were saved. She now had her edge.

************************************************** The last several hours, ever since he had forcibly gained the release of Adrian, had not gone according to his plans. As often as he tried to encourage himself about his future success, as well, he was finding it impossible. Everything, really, had hinged on Adrian's memory.

Michael sighed once again. He had left the older woman alone to try to work out her thoughts, to try to come to terms with all of the information he had just given her once more. He remembered a little too well, after all--even if he had once told Nikita otherwise, what it was like to have to try to put all the pieces back together, especially when all of them were so totally unbelievable. He knew it was hard to even begin to believe.

His memories continued to turn here once more. He knew, too, though, that he had been lucky, compared to the woman who was now fighting so hard to regain a sense of self in the other room. He, after all, had woken up to the beautiful vision of the woman he loved; Adrian had woken up to find a man who had once delivered her to her enemies. It really wasn't, obviously, the same at all.

There was, as well, one other huge difference here, too. He had not been subjected to the far deeper horrors of the Gelman process. What he had undergone had simply stripped him of memory; what Nikita had gone through, though, had turned her into another person. . . . He just wished, indeed, that Adrian would now remember enough to be able to get her back.

He sighed slightly. He had tried to give Adrian the shorthand version of her life already, of course--had tried to spur some recollection; he would try again soon, as well. So far, though, she had only remembered one thing--George's name. It made sense to him, truly; he rather suspected that, no matter what might be done to him, he would always remember Nikita--but he wasn't really sure whether this brought them any closer to where they needed to be.

His mind turned, tracing along the paths of these thoughts. He had opted, then, for an alternate plan, had looked for another way to regain his beloved. Now, indeed, he was relying on Walter's love for Nikita--and, probably, his fear of Michael's wrath, as well--to work in his favor, to force him into aiding him. If he could secure the older man's help, after all, he could also enlist Birkoff. Then, with their aid, he would expose Adrian's continued existence--and, eventually, the circumstances which had led to it--to George. Maybe, then--with that man's help, too--he could once more regain the actual steps of the Gelman process. If so, then maybe both he and George would be able to live once more with the women they adored--and a light which Section had tried to extinguish would once more be relit.

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

The last few months had been, well, odd. First, there had been his little trip to Retirement--which he still didn't really remember too clearly, then a few months without both Nikita and Michael in Section, then the horrible realization that what Birkoff and Michael had been telling him about his Sugar was true; Nikita wasn't Nikita. She was a zombie.

Walter sighed slightly, as he returned from having convinced Birkoff to help out the rogue Class Five operative. The hardest part of it all, of course, had really been the last one, but the rest had been no picnic, either. He suspected, in fact, that he had--for a little while after his failed Retirement, and in a less serious way--been where Nikita now was. . . . And it hadn't been pretty at all.

His mind rolled back once more over what he could remember of the last several months. Whenever he tried to access some specific memory about his time in Retirement, however, all he came up with was a hazy sort of, practically drug-induced, vision: women, parties, Belinda, children . . . hell, it just went on. None of it made any damn sense at all.

All he could figure out, then, as he tried to piece all of this together again, was that he had been tampered with, his real memories of his time in the shadowy world of "what came after Section" having been stolen. The more he tried to access them, indeed, the further away they slipped. There was just no going back.

What he did remember a bit more, however, was how he had acted once he had come back up to what passed for the surface of Section One. He had, truly, been so weirdly devoted to the place, had looked down his nose at anyone who questioned why they were there. . . . Yep, heavy drugs, indeed.

All in all, really, it had been a very bad trip--one he was glad he was finally over. That didn't mean, though, sadly, that everyone he cared about was out of danger, too. Nikita, indeed, was even further into the whole thing--and was going to a *whole* lot scarier places--than he had. He wanted, truly, to find a way to bring her back.

Still, those ways seemed very hard to come by. His mind switched paths slightly, then, as he thought back over a few of the other developments of the past few months. He knew now, in hindsight, really, why Michael's mission had suddenly been extended; that man was the only one with any hope, after all, of getting through to their girl. Beyond him, indeed, the rest of them were novices.

Fortunately, though--in a weird sort of way, Michael was now in a position to bring her back, with a little help from his friends. He smiled, thinking through the relationship. Okay, so maybe "friend" was too strong a word, but he was certain that the younger man did have Nikita's best interests at heart--and that alone was enough for him. . . . Operations' warning be damned.

This thought gave him a smug half-grin, as well, before he then repressed it; he realized once more, after all, that he would be directly disobeying his ever-cruel leader with his decision. Good. "It eliminates choice," indeed. Too bad for the old fool; Walter had made his choice--and no dime-store-novel, bad-gangster-imitation of a threat was going to suddenly dissuade him from it, either.

He thought into this further, wondering now whether his amoral leader ever even saw the irony in the fact that he ran an organization which claimed to be looking out for the freedom and justice of the world, while keeping its own operatives enslaved. . . . He doubted it. He really doubted, then, that it ever even occurred to the man that there was anything wrong with digging into someone's mind and shifting around their entire personality--eliminating anything which looked like humanity, while you were at it. Nope. To understand that, indeed, you had to be human yourself. Operations was way too underworldly for that.

He repressed another smile, then, as he focused in on his latest decision. In a choice between Operations or Nikita, he knew which side he took. If they killed him, too, fine--better than ending up a moral vegetable like his Sugar had. Better to go out in a blaze of rebellious glory, trying to revive the mind of the woman who had once made all of their days brighter, than to live on in the moral coma his leader wanted. Hell, anything--death included, was better than that.

His mind turned to his recent conversation with Birkoff, then--and his enlistment of the man in their fight for some sense of freedom. He hated that he had had to use the old "choice of deaths" ruse to get him to help, but he had needed to force the young man past his initial fears of dying. Birkoff was, really, a little too young to any more than half understand that death was pleasant compared to some options. This, really, was one of them, too.

He sighed, repressing his regret. Anyway, he remembered, it really hadn't been this path which had finally secured the computer genius' help. It had actually been an appeal to conscience which had done it, had been, indeed, the thought of having Nikita back among them--*really* among them--which had won him over finally. . . . Michael's ever-present threats had just been a cover.

He felt a little sense of rightness coming to his heart, as he returned to his work station once more. Now, he had part in some plans which--if he was lucky--might actually yield Michael a victory. If they did, too, then their goal would be one step closer to being reached; Nikita's real soul would, once again, be within their friendship's grasp. . . . That, really, was all they would ever ask for again.

*********

It was all finally becoming clear to her now. A few minutes ago, of course, she had only been a walking, conscious void, but now she was beginning to understand everything. Her memories had returned.

Adrian watched, as Michael wandered away again, probably to prepare for their upcoming transmission. She suspected that her supposed inability to remember anything had disappointed him, as well--that he needed a little distance. . . . Good. It would give her time to think--to plan, time she needed alone.

She felt a small ripple of anger at the man who now so, supposedly, benignly held her captive. She supposed, however, that she should be grateful to him, in a way; it had been his encouragement to try to remember her dreams, after all, which had brought it all flooding back. It was his apparent determination, as well, to try to win back the long-held object of his obsession which had brought about her own release. She would, she supposed--then, try to remember that in the future.

She heard him retreat completely and moved quickly to the computer. Whatever sort of mercy she might eventually show him, however, was for the future. Right now, she had to get in touch with what remained of her organization; she had to be freed. Nothing she could accomplish would be possible without that.

She typed quickly, therefore, thankful that her memory at least *seemed* to be intact again; a few seconds later, too, the message was sent, and she was able to retreat once more to the corner of the room she had occupied previously. Soon, her rescuers would come. She hoped, however, that they would get there just after she sent her message to George. If she could manage that now, after all, the first big step in her return would already be forged. There would be one less, gargantuan, step to be made.

As she was moving back to the place Michael had left her in, though, the blanket she had been wrapped in for so many months began to slip, leaving her shoulder bare, besides her several layers of clothes. A shudder passed through her, one which seemed to start in her deepest tissue, as though she were still frozen through to the marrow in her bones; she closed her eyes, as it passed through her. Dear Lord, it was almost too much.

She heard a voice, as she was shuddering; she hadn't even noticed his footsteps before. "Are you alright?" She nodded and tried to reach for the crude shawl, attempting to keep him away. A second later, though, Michael's hand was adjusting it gently, bringing a bit of warmth back to her body. "Are you alright?" he repeated softly.

She opened her eyes finally to see the concern in his eyes--but she knew that it wasn't really directed toward her; she was simply his only chance--his one way to reach his goal. She took a deep breath, then, before answering him. "I'm fine. It was just a chill."

He nodded, the concern not entirely gone. "There's more tea, if you'd like it."

She shook her head, a little unsteadily, remembering to try her best to stay surfacely insipid. "No." She smiled slightly. "Thank you."

He stood in front of her for another second, evaluating her quietly. Then he nodded and moved back to the computer.

Adrian let out a silent sigh, as he moved away, his attention diverted again. Except for his plan to contact George, she rather wished that she had the strength to be able to take him out herself. It would, really, make her plans much simpler--would be rather easy at the moment, as well. Right now, truly, she suspected that he saw her--as she wanted him to--as more than a little feeble-minded. Good.

It wasn't, however, that she had any joy in the process which had brought about this impression of herself. She was well aware that--a few minutes ago--his evaluation of her would have been quite correct. The only parts of her life or herself she had been able to recall at all then had been some random images of both her father's garden and George, although she hadn't known consciously what those flashes were of--and they had only been vague ones, as well.

She repressed another sigh, trying to stave off her self-disappointment. She knew, indeed, that she couldn't expect too much more of herself. She had been through quite a lot; her mind and her entire physical system had been deeply in shock. Gelman's process, after all, had scrambled her mental processes pretty badly--and her long stay in cryogenics hadn't helped, either. It was only predictable, then, that she would feel their effects.

She remembered back once more, despite herself, to those terrible days she had spent with the older man in his lab, as his experiment--frequently watched from a distance by either Madeline or Paul. She had been struck, really, though, with just what a juxtaposition it was to look at the man who had created this process and the work he had been engaged in. She had expected such depravity, of course, from her two captors--but this man himself, indeed, had been an affable, gentle person, while his work--diametrically opposite--was the lowest and most unforgivable form of psychic rape. Although she suspected that the choice of herself as his subject had made him nervous, as well, the work itself had still obviously fascinated him. . . . The Mengele syndrome, it seemed, still lived.

She felt a small shudder and moved her thoughts along slightly, not wanting to linger here. She had been a little surprised, too--at the time, to find herself the subject of his experiments. She had certainly imagined, when she had so unfortunately lost her war with her two ex-operatives, that she was facing a death sentence. . . . She had just never imagined what kind of sentence that would be.

She shook her head just slightly, trying to pull her mind back from these awful paths. Her eyes, then, went back to watching Michael silently, as she returned to her analysis of him. It wasn't actually that she had any particular dislike of this man; he wasn't of any especial distaste to her. No, it was more simply the situation, was just the fact that she was being used. . . . That, truly, she could *never* appreciate.

Her mind shifted slightly once more. It had been this man, however--she knew, who had brought her back from mental darkness, who had given her a way out. Had he not prompted her to remember her dreams--those strange, long passages of images of her life, of love, birth, death, calculation and betrayal--she might never have come back to herself. . . . Of course, he was doing it for his own definite reasons, but she could--generally--forgive him for that, even if she didn't care to be a party to it. At least there was some passion to him now.

Her gaze evaluated him again. He was much as she would have expected him to be at the moment, really, was a taut cord of tension and energy. It was predictable, of course--as those fools who now ran her organization should have known. Michael's one outlet, after all, had been taken away from him. They should have had the sense to realize that he needed an unbrainwashed Nikita in order to function properly; it wasn't really that much to ask. Madeline, truly, should have known him at least that well by now.

She smiled a little, remembering her early analyses of him. The young man, it seemed to her, after all, was rather easy to figure out. He was obsessed--and had been for many years now--with his ex-material. Of course, she realized that this had been Madeline's original reason for pairing them, as she had hoped to shock him out of his grief over Simone's loss, but the bond had gone much further than that. . . . Now, too, she suspected that it had turned into much, much more than even she had once thought.

Her mind turned further on this unexpected path. She wondered, as she watched him, what truly had happened between himself and the woman he loved in the time she had been held. Had his mission with Elena and Adam finally come to an end? Did the young woman know about it, as well--had she forgiven him, if she did? Her eyes bored deeper. Was it possible, indeed, that they had finally moved beyond the uncomfortable stasis they had been in when she had last known them? Her gaze took in the physical signs of his tightly-controlled anguish. Yes, yes, she supposed it was.

She let out a little breath, as the revelation settled in further. It seemed that Nikita had finally managed, then, to perform a miracle, had finally managed to open up the man whom she had always so deeply loved and so little understood. That was quite an interesting turn of events, indeed.

She smiled slightly once more. Yes--the results she was seeing in front of her were not quite the same as they had been when Nikita had betrayed Section for Adrian so long ago. Then, he had been upset that the woman he had always felt such a need to keep so unbearably tight a possession of was slipping away from him, but the sense of desolated love hadn't really been there, hadn't been the same.

It was all quite fascinating, truly. Still, she had never entirely been certain, of course, whether his previous distance, because of his assigned marriage, from the woman he deeply--if rather twistedly--cared for was the result of some higher moral stance in him or simply out of fear of discovery, but its result had still been a rather schizophrenic romantic approach toward the true object of his affections. It had, in some ways, too, been quite disturbing to witness. . . . No wonder Nikita had been so torn about her own emotions.

Now, though, things had obviously changed; the man in front of her now seemed very different. Adrian suspected, therefore, that the Vacek mission must have ended, that he must have seen the last of his assigned wife and child. Sometime after it, too, he must have finally allowed himself to openly admit his desire and affection for his ex-material--must even, in fact, have ceased to treat her solely as his ex-trainee. That, really, was the only way she could imagine Nikita truly and openly letting him in.

She let out a small breath. Still, as obvious as all of these things were--and as obvious as Michael's continuing, unconquerable need for Nikita would probably always be, a need which was ingrained so deeply in him that it went to the core of his very sense of self--she supposed that Madeline and . . . no, *Madeline*'s interpretive skills had once again been influenced by her wishful thinking. That had always been one of her downfalls, indeed.

She thought back over this once more, digging into her memories. More than once, if Madeline had shown a special interest in someone--Adrian shuddered at the thought, since the cold younger woman's "special interest" didn't bear long examination--she had simply expected that it would be returned to her, regardless of her actions toward her newest subject. It never even occurred to the woman that anyone besides herself had free will, indeed--unless she were planning to crush it. No, that would have upset her world view considerably.

Her mind continued to think back. Madeline, however, had always had this particular problem, along with a wide-ranging variety of others. She liked to think of herself as the perfect analytical machine, of course, but it was rarely true. Too often, truly, her own desires had ruined her logic; too many times she had presented her superiors with a poorly thought out mission, simply because she had included too much of what she had *wanted* to have happen, ignoring what probably would. It was regrettable, indeed.

Of course, too--thankfully, it did make her much easier to profile. Yes, there was a certain--large--measure of calculation in the woman, but there was almost always a personal slant to her conclusions; she was always measuring out first what would work best for herself and her future. And, if you knew her well enough--which wasn't hard, really, should anyone inexplicably care to bother--you could easily predict many of her moves. Adrian sighed. So long, that is, as you didn't let your own fantasies or agendas blind you, as well.

She pulled her blanket around herself more tightly, keeping out a chill. She remembered too well now, after all, just how she had ended up in the dreadful experiment which had eventually led her here. She herself had been guilty of wishful thinking; she herself had been blinded by her desire for both revenge and justice.

There was little way past the thought now, indeed--as little as she liked it. Had she been able to look at things more objectively at that time, however, she could have analyzed exactly how Madeline would play things--and, of course, it was only that woman who ever made Section's real plans now. Still, she had just too badly wanted to stop Paul's overweening ambition--had so desperately wanted to bring to an end his reign of terror. She just hadn't, then, allowed herself to see the truth.

The thought, indeed, still rankled her heart a bit, even now. Nikita, truly--the epitome of the concept of fair play, at least as far as the new Operations' world of Section allowed it--had betrayed her, had been working against her from the start. She knew, of course, that the young woman had gained no joy from it, had--in most ways--actually sided with her target over her superiors. Still, there was no escaping the fact that the young woman had made the wrong choice, when she had been called on to decide Section's fate--and that, truly, had led them all down the path they were currently trying to survive.

This, really, was one of the reasons why she would have liked to get out of here now, as well. Besides the fact that she was well aware he was only interested in her for her technical knowledge of the Gelman process, she had no churlish objection to Michael himself. It was likely, truly, that he would see to her safety, so long as Nikita was returned to him, her old self restored. He was not incapable of gratitude, so long as the woman he was so wholly focused on was not harmed by it.

None of this, however, was enough for her now--not even the hope she had that he might be able to reconnect her with George. She just couldn't, indeed, quite forgive her once protegee for her betrayal of her. She would rather, then, simply escape from the woman's lover and find her old friend on her own than stay around to help him bring Nikita back. She just didn't care enough, anymore, to continue on here.

This, though, wasn't really all. Besides this, too--her mind continued, she had never been good with partners. Even in the days when she and George had been together, she had still been his superior. Yes, he had had quite a bit of valuable input into the plans she had needed to form as the head of Section One, but he had never quite been her partner in the organization. In the end, truly, she was always able to simply overrule him, if she thought it best. . . . It was, in some ways--in fact, what had ended their relationship.

Her mind wandered slightly, was pulled back to thoughts of those days once more. She had--she still did--love George, of course; he knew that, too--and had returned her feelings to at least the same extent. Still, they had found, eventually, that they simply couldn't be too close to each other and function, mostly because the equality of their romantic relationship couldn't be allowed to carry over--in her mind--to their working life. It was a decision both of them had regretted, of course, but it had made them stronger, if still unequal, partners in business in the end. Neither of them had ever actually thought it a mistake.

She sighed very quietly, as her feelings turned. Now, indeed, her mind had changed on this issue; she would have been happy, truly, just to be with him again. She knew that he was the one with power now, realized that the best she could hope for--should she be able to recover fully--would be a reversal of their earlier roles. Still, just to be able to have his comfort near her again would have made whatever was left of her life so much more pleasant. For that in itself, in fact, she wanted to get out of here.

Her mind went on, then, to her future plans. She was unsure, of course, about whether all of her physical symptoms would finally go away. She did, if she admitted it to herself, feel distinctly unwell, as though the worst had yet to really come. Heaven only knew what the process that Gelman had created had actually done to her body and mind; that had never been a priority for her experimenters. On top of that, too, was her long stay in cryo. Where all of that might leave her, then, was still unknown.

She knew, however, if she could just get out of here, that a few of her courses were clear--and she would follow them for as long as she was able. Her first priority, of course, was contacting George and telling him the truth of her long torment by their ex-subordinates. Then, even if something happened to her, he at least would be able to carry on her revenge for her, would be able to get justice, as well. That reunion, truly, was a necessity.

Her second priority, however, was almost as important; she had to stop Paul and Madeline. The two of them, truly, were an abomination--had been ever since they had first been recruited. In the beginning, though, they had worked well enough. Paul, of course, had never been her choice--had been pushed upon her by Oversight--but he was capable enough in the field. Madeline, too--whom she had chosen knowing her definite psychological and moral limitations, but believing herself capable of controlling--absolutely *thrived* on her new Section life; deception, betrayal, and death, after all, were precisely the path she had chosen for herself all her life. . . . All of this, however, had only lasted so long.

She felt the old anger brewing in her again. She still cursed herself, of course, for not having seen the plans that the two of them had made long before they had ever come about in reality. The fact remained, however, that she hadn't--that she had simply, one day, found that she had been pushed to the side. She had been forced to watch, then, too, as Madeline had helped her sometime lover to take over the world. . . . It was a very disturbing process, indeed.

The time had come now, though, to put all of that to an end, once and for all. There was no way to undo the past, of course--was no way to give herself back however many months, or years, she had spent in the hell they had confined her to, but she could at least see to a final sort of justice. The two of them, after all, had badly perverted everything she had started Section to be. For that alone, then, they would pay--and the world would once more become a little safer place.

Time passed for Adrian, but nothing happened as she had hoped it would. The best laid plans, she supposed . . . Still, her effort to be free had been worth a try. It had just, unfortunately, failed.

Events, then, had gone on. Michael had just gone off to try to capture Nikita, to bring her back here in order to start on their plans for her attempted recovery. Now, Adrian herself just had to adjust to all of the sudden changes to whatever was left of her life.

She sighed, as her mind worked back over the last several hours. She had almost felt the pain of her operatives, of course, as Michael had killed them, was still taking her loss there hard. Her organization, after all, was far tighter knit than Section One had ever been. Yes, she had run the place differently than Paul and Madeline's constant terror techniques, but there had still been too many people in it to allow herself to become particularly attached to any of them.

Now, however, everything was very different. Her own organization worked in quite the opposite way; her operatives were all hand-picked and undeniably loyal. Every one of them had been willing to die for her. . . . Now, sadly, so many of them had.

She sighed once more, her regret over this welling in her still. She knew who all three of the dead men today were, knew their entire backgrounds and histories--had had many meals and long talks with each of them. Still, Michael had dispatched them all in a matter of minutes--and had then turned to her. . . . It had all been quite unfortunate, indeed.

She felt a dull ache, as she thought over it again. Of course, it wasn't just the deaths of three valuable men which had been so hard, either. It was, as well, the death of her so-necessary plans. She had hoped, of course, for a few seconds after the failed attack, that she could just call in what few remaining people she had still had to come save her, could try again--but that was when her hopes had died. Michael, indeed, had known.

She sat back in her chair further and pulled her makeshift shawl tighter around her shoulders. Once again, of course, she was impressed by the young man. The P-6s aside, his deduction about her involvement had still been fast, reasoned, and determined. He was *such* an intelligent person, indeed. It was really too bad that Madeline and Paul didn't appreciate him more.

Still, she had understood quickly that her choices in the situation had been highly limited. Had she continued to deny, she had little doubt that he wouldn't have hesitated to kill her--would have found another way to achieve his desired ends. Her only real course, finally, then, had simply been to join forces.

She sighed once more. It wasn't, though, that she hadn't tried to talk him out of it--wasn't that she hadn't presented him with all of the path's difficulties. It had only been a little while before it, indeed, when she had experienced the first of her attacks, the first of her repayments from Gelman for having betrayed her programming. It had been excruciating, as well--had felt as though several sections of her brain had caught on fire and begun to melt down at once. The second one, as well, had only gotten worse.

This, then, she knew now, was her future. She had hoped, of course, that she could hold herself together--had hoped that the results of her imprisonment wouldn't be quite so severe; apparently, however, she had hoped in vain. She was certain now that she was not going to make it.

What had suddenly become most important to her, therefore, was getting to George, was having him know where she was--was having him use her to get their revenge. She needed him for both this as well as for the simple comfort he always provided her in his embrace. . . . Yes, she needed that very badly, indeed.

She pulled her mind away from this path again. There had been one other factor, too--however, which had finally decided her partnership with Michael, and that was the certainty she now felt that something intrinsic had indeed changed between himself and Nikita. They were, she was certain, a truer partnership now--or had been, at least, before Madeline's mind-controlling intervention. And it was this, truly, which had made her decision complete.

Her decision, though, hadn't been particularly drawn-out; there had been a split second, indeed, when she had chosen that path, had been a moment of truth. It had been, as well, when she had looked into Michael's eyes after she had explained her own mental survival of the process. What Nikita needed to overcome it, after all, was a deep and unshakable love--and, as she had looked into the gaze of the younger woman's lover--she had seen that, could see his vivid memories of enjoying just such a bond with his beloved. If Nikita, then--who had never been a foolish, self-deluding, or self-destructive person--had overcome all of the betrayals of their past to give her love to him openly--a path she had certainly not yet taken when Adrian had last known her--then something fundamental had changed between them, something very positive, indeed. With the two of them working closely as one, as well, admitting their feelings, they were a force for good, a force for positive change. That, then, had been all she had really needed to know.

She smiled sadly. It hadn't hurt, either, however, that she had simply begun to identify with the young couple in that moment, too. The young man's love for Nikita reminded her of her own deep bond with George, in fact--and, if the young man could understand the concepts of trust and union that fully, then he could be trusted to reunite Adrian with her still-beloved. That, truly, had been all the reassurance she had needed.

Her plans with Michael, then, were set. All she was doing now was waiting for him to reach the plant where he was certain that Nikita would be sent to find and take him out. All they needed to do, therefore, was to capture her and bring her back, and then the reversal of the young woman's brainwashing--and her own coming reunion with George--could truly begin.

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

It was all so terrible. More and more often lately, even when his plans worked out perfectly as he had planned them, they could still fall through in the end. . . . Dear God, it hurt.

Michael rubbed his eyes for a second, as he sat in the chair at his computer, trying to process all that had gone wrong in the last day or so; there, really, had been so much. He had managed to free Adrian, indeed, only to find her a mental blank; he had managed to get an image of her beamed into Section while George was there, as well, and still hadn't been able to get his attention. Adrian, too, had regained her memory only to try to turn against him--and he had also gone to retrieve Nikita from the chemical plant just to find a half dozen of her doppelgangers there, several of which he had been forced to kill. It had all, truly, been awful.

None of these, however, had been the worst; no, the worst of all of them had just happened to him now. Just a few minutes ago, indeed, he had sat and talked with his beloved, with the bright angel who alone held his soul in her hands, with his heart's wife--and her only reaction toward him had been utter and absolute disgust. . . . God, it hurt.

He let out a shuddering breath. He hoped, truly, that he had the strength to get through this. He looked back up at his computer again, but he couldn't really focus there. He began, then, to simply stare into space.

Adrian was now down with Nikita, was trying to work through to her, to evaluate her. He hoped that she could tell him something more about her, of course, that she could start to break down the processes which had so horribly changed her very nature, which had so stolen her soul. He was beginning to wonder, however, whether that would ever be possible.

He sighed, the pain in his heart echoing through him loudly once more. He was starting now, indeed--especially with Adrian's rapidly accelerating decline--to force himself to ponder the unbearable, as much as he wished he could ignore it: what, though, would happen if his beloved could never be reversed? What would he do then?

Another shuddering, pained breath sounded from him, as he ruthlessly forced himself to focus on this possibility further. He didn't want to think about it, however, didn't want to know--but he knew now that it was a contingency he simply could no longer ignore.

If, then, the Gelman process proved to be irreversible with her, if everything in his future failed, no matter his success in its execution, what would he do? He sighed. He really had little idea.

He became ruthless with himself once more, forcing himself to think through it. What he did know, though, was that he couldn't allow her to go on like this forever; he couldn't let it continue. If, then, her true self ever proved to be utterly irretrievable, he truly knew that he only had one real option: he would have to put her higher self out of her misery. He would have to kill her.

God, he hated this thought. He closed his eyes tightly once more, then, for just a second, before he stood up to begin pacing. His pain at this possibility hurt him more than he could ever have appropriate words for; he could barely stand to let it into his thoughts.

Still, he knew he couldn't avoid it, if the time came, no matter how great his desire to deny it; he couldn't let her go on as the soulless, empty robot she had become. The real Nikita, indeed, would have *begged* him to let her die, rather than have to face that option. He couldn't let that continue.

His breath shuddered once more, his heart aching terribly. If everything else failed them, then, he knew the truth; he would dispose of them both. . . . If her soul were lost to him, after all, there really was no purpose in continuing his existence. Life was nothing without its light.

He failed to repress the slight shudder which ran through him. Still, he prayed that this wouldn't happen, that they could avoid it. There were other options left, he knew. He just had to, then, believe for a little while longer; she herself had taught him that.