His mind, therefore, hid once more from this terrible possibility by focusing on the last several hours, desperately needing a way to escape. He had been surprised when Adrian had attempted to kill him, of course, but he still cursed himself for having been so distracted. He supposed, however, that he was just fortunate that she had seen reason enough to be able to side with him eventually. It obviously, after all, hadn't been her first plan.

He went on trying to focus here. Still, he knew, things between them were turning out about as well as he could have ever hoped, now that her memories had returned. He hadn't exactly expected her to embrace him, indeed, when she remembered about his part in her original capture, his role in bringing her into the hell she now suffered through. That she hadn't simply shot him herself, then, was probably a positive thing. . . . Anything else which came of it was simply lagniappe.

He sighed, his mind going on, his pacing continuing. Now, too, she was holding up her end of the bargain, was down analyzing his beloved. He wanted, of course, to be present, but she had denied his request, had needed to be able to isolate his beloved in order to gain an accurate reading. He had to, then--once again, simply be patient.

His thoughts traveled, therefore, once more, to his earlier capture of his beloved today. It, truly, hadn't been easy--had, in fact, been one of the more intense torments of the last several months. Adrian's confident, easy advice, indeed, to just "kill them all" had shocked him, had robbed him of breath. Even once he had fully understood her words, as well, he still hadn't been easy with their import. . . . There was just no way he ever could be.

He had known, of course--however, even then, that she was right; only the real Nikita would survive against him. True to form, too, all of the other "Nikitas" had fallen. . . . But seeing that happen to each of them, he was sure, had eliminated at least a year from his life. The simple trauma of watching someone who *might* be his beloved fall at his own hands had almost been too much to bear.

Still, bear it he had, and the result was that what was left of his soul's wife was finally here with him. Now, too, he just prayed that Adrian would be able to have some result.

His heart ached once more, his mind drawn back again--as he thought through his last talk with the beautiful object of all of his desire. Once, truly, Nikita hadn't been able to look at him without passion; even in the times when she had, justifiably, despised him, there had been a flare to her blue eyes, had been a spark in her soul which--even through all of his horror at his latest actions toward her--he had still found more intoxicatingly desirous than even the most beautiful other woman's most ardent and loving advances.

His heart ached. Now, however, everything was so, terribly, altered. . . . No, this Nikita was no longer his, in any sense. It wasn't, either, just her words about when they had once loved each other, her definitive statement that "that time is gone." As much as those--and her following--words had tormented him, truly, that, really had been the very least of his pain.

No, what tormented him the most still was her current emotional state, was the utter emptiness of those emotions, where he was concerned. She didn't even need to make it obvious--although she certainly had--that she no longer cared for him. Now, her absolute disgust with him--and with everything he was--was clear in her every breath, in her every calm, measured heartbeat. The utter silence of the bond they had once shared still rang through him torturously; there was just nothing left of what they had once been. . . . Dear God, it hurt.

He sighed shakily once more, as he continued to pace. He knew he should stop, of course, knew that she could probably hear him, but he just couldn't. There was simply too much pain to take standing still.

His one hope that was left, then, was now in the basement with this thing that Section had mis-crafted from the body of his beloved--and his one hope's health, may whatever fates controlled the universe help him, was failing. If she couldn't break through to the woman he loved soon, then, all hope was lost.

God, he hated this. A final thought shuddered through him again. Maybe, indeed, he would have to take that final path with her yet, would have to end both of their now miserable and meaningless existences. It was, after all, better than the alternative. . . . Anything was better--for both of them--than this silent sort of death.

*********

This was boring--and very, very annoying. She didn't want to be here; she wanted to go home. Section, after all, needed her. . . . These fools she was with now were useless.

Nikita sighed, as she stared at the wall across from her with growing disgust. She couldn't believe that she had been captured in the first place; she had been sent in with the specific agenda, after all, of taking out Michael--of bringing him back alive for interrogation, if possible, of simply killing him, if not. She had been so certain, too, that she could do it; Madeline herself had believed in her. That she had failed them both, then, was galling.

The whole issue had given her a headache, in fact. What disgusted her even more, though, was who it was that she had let capture her--*Michael*. She still couldn't believe that she had let herself be brought down by him. Yes, he was good, but she was better. He, after all, had become so weak, had gone against everything Section had gone to such trouble to teach him. She, though--she was strong, was invincible; she couldn't be swayed by stupid notions like loyalty and love anymore. She wasn't that same old fool.

Her anger was building further--was getting stronger as this stress headache she had had for about an hour grew worse. She couldn't believe, too, that even her body was now betraying her. First, it had succumbed to Michael's fighting skills; now it was daring to let her anger become physicalized. It was disgusting.

Her simple disgust with the feeling, however, seemed to make the pain all the stronger. She tried to ignore it, then, to focus on her surroundings. She had, she thought, heard someone go out a little while ago--probably Michael. That just left her with that fool Adrian. She smiled ferally. If only she could get her down here, then maybe she could somehow get free. Anything was possible, she supposed, with someone so naive.

She thought back through the growing pain to the days when she had been assigned to help bring the older woman down. She couldn't believe that she had once actually sympathized with her--that she had once even gone so far, had been so brainwashed, as to challenge Operations openly within Section because of the nonsense the woman had put in her head. Gross.

Her headache was starting to get even worse, and her anger and frustration grew along with it, as she thought back once more to her long ago, foolish sympathy with the woman who had begun Section One. It was disgusting, was hard to believe, of course, but it was revoltingly true, nonetheless; she had once actually believed Adrian enough to think her lies about the real leaders of the organization were true. Revolting. . . . Why had she ever been so stupid?

She gritted her teeth, as the pain grew louder in her head. God, she wished she were back planning missions; that *always* got rid of her headaches. Still, she couldn't get away from it now. Now, she just had to try to think through it--and hope that her opportunity for escape would come soon.

Her pain, however, was breaking down her civility even further. She was trying to focus, indeed, on that stupid bitch who had, by some miracle which she didn't deserve, started Section--had started the place where Nikita so wanted to be once more. God, the woman didn't deserve her status as its founder. The bitch had even come down here to tell her a little while ago that "No one belongs in Section." She had even said it in horror. Nikita sneered. Ungrateful cow. How dare she mock the people who had taken care of her for so long, who did such good things in the world? How dare she question any of it? If she came back down here, Nikita was determined, she would do something to repay her; she wasn't sure what, but *something*. . . . Would only serve her right for that sort of insolence.

The headache, and its resultant effects, were growing far worse. Her eyes were now closed from the sheer torment of it, but she was trying desperately to focus on something, anything, to try to ignore it; it didn't help her attitude at all. Of course, she remembered, even while the ugly whore had been down here grilling her, that she had apparently had some sort of minor seizure. Good. Maybe if the world was lucky, the next one would kill her.

The pain was almost unbearable now; she was groaning slightly. Her tortured mind, then, grasped for something to focus her programmed venom on, and its next target was the obvious one: Michael. She still could not believe that she had allowed the son-of-a-bitch to take her out. Hell, he had even rendered her unconscious, so that--when she had come to--all she knew was that she was in some fucking house, but she didn't even know where it was to tell her leaders about when she got back. Damn it.

She let out a small growl, as a crest of pain hit her. Fuck, she wished he would come back down here, so she could kill him. She couldn't believe that he had brought her here, had somehow put her in such agony. She knew he had done it, after all; no one else had, that was for sure. Now, she just wanted to pay him back.

Her eyes closed tighter, tears forming in them, as the torturous migraine-like headache continued. She couldn't stand the fact, either, that he had come down here earlier to try to win her over. It made her furious just to remember that she had ever been stupid enough to believe that she cared for him. . . . What the fuck had made her think that, anyway? What had he done to her once to make her believe it? When she got back--and she knew she would--she would ask Madeline. Section, after all, knew all the answers. Section was the only fucking thing to believe in anymore.

She heard a small thump above her and had a hopeful vision of that bitch Adrian falling down dead on the floor. She gave a disgusted, feral, little grin. Good.

She began to lose consciousness, the pain overcoming her. If this last wish of hers had come true, too, then at least something was going right for her today. She had one last thought about this new hope, as well, as she finally lost hold on consciousness completely. Section would be so pleased.

It had only been about a half hour before this programmed, mental rant of Nikita's that Adrian, too, had had her last several moments of lucidity. She, however, had spent them trying to plan; it was, she knew, the last thing of value she could do in this life.

Adrian knew, after all, that her mind was dying, that she would never make it to see the man she loved again; it just wouldn't happen, as desperately as she wished otherwise. She needed, then, to see that certain things were handled correctly. It was the least, really, that she could do for Michael.

She caught her breath painfully, though, as she tried to make it over to the computer; her hand grasped the back of the chair tightly, and she bit back the scream of pain, as yet more of her synapses seemed to collapse. Oh . . . Jesus. If she could have remembered one of her childhood prayers she would have given one, but the pain was just too intense; nothing was left except it and the fear.

After about 30 seconds this time, however, it did finally pass away. She found herself shaking, almost falling, as she tried to get into the chair--making it with far less grace than she had ever managed before in her life--and took a very turbulent breath. Dear Lord, that was close. If she didn't do this soon, she simply wouldn't be able to anymore; all of the information she had would be lost--and so would almost everything and everyone else she still cared for: Michael, Nikita, Section, and the world itself. She was its only hope now.

She started up the computer, then, and started to slowly type in a series of codes. The message she needed to send to Michael was *vital*; the last day or so had convinced her of that. Yes, she had been more than reluctant--understandably, she thought--to help him out originally, but now that had changed. Once she had overcome her initial and lingering resentment toward some of the people who had once sent her into this mental hell, indeed, she had started to see things more clearly--and those thoughts, too, had brought her to a series of inescapable conclusions. She just hoped, truly, that she lived long enough to act on them.

She continued to give the computer her instructions, as she mentally reviewed the revelations she had had of late. One of these, indeed, had been that she actually had some growing affection for Michael; it was a rather new sensation. For many years, after all, he had been simply another cog in the Section machine to her--in many ways; his only redeeming or unusual factor, at that time, had been his desire to protect his young protegee, but even that hadn't been without its problems. His methods of "protection," indeed, often seemed more like torture. He had, truly, been a hard man to sympathize with, then.

Still, the man who had rescued her and with whom she had spent the last few days was not the same, had changed significantly. Yes, he was still single-minded and thoroughly obsessed with the very same woman, but the emotional changes within him--the emotional *advances*--had been astounding. They just weren't the sort you could easily look past.

She entered a long string of numbers into the computer, as her mind continued to work. The main change within him, too, was that he was now capable of some form of devotion *besides* obsession; he was now truly capable of love.

Her mind continued on this path, as her fingers worked on. Yes, she thought it likely that he had shared that emotion with his first wife, as well, but--when she herself had first been trapped by her old enemies a year or more ago--he had been utterly incapable of transferring those emotions to anyone else. All he had been able to present Nikita with, then, had been a possessiveness which she was unsurprised the young woman had found uncomfortable. . . . Now, however, he had opened himself, she knew--had allowed the woman he loved to see inside him. Everything, then, had changed for the better.

It was mostly for this reason, as well, that Adrian had begun to feel a much deeper sympathy with and trust in him. He was now a man who seemed worthy of those traits, indeed, was a lover to Nikita in the deepest sense of the word. It was possible, then, to believe in him.

She sighed, her eyes still focusing intently on the screen. There was more to the change in her approach to the younger man than even this, though. She and Michael had actually started to form a bond of sorts. Yes, she knew that he had simply rescued her from her cryo-hell for his own purposes, originally; that went without saying. As they had spent the last few days together, though, there had been a growing sense of respect between them; they had begun to understand and empathize with one another. They had even discovered, in fact, that they had much in common.

She picked up the strand of his hair she had found, entered it into a relevant space on the well-equipped, purloined computer, and waited while the machine began to run down its DNA; her thoughts continued. Chief, she supposed, among their common traits, as well, was the way they analyzed and thought. Both of them, indeed, were capable of deeply assessing a situation--of even doing so cold-bloodedly, if necessary. Neither of them, however, fell into the trap which Madeline had been born into; neither of them enjoyed it.

This wasn't all of their similarities, though. She suspected, in addition, that Michael's I.Q. was roughly the equivalent of her own--which was to say that it was formidable. Madeline's would have fallen about 10 points below either of them, slightly higher than where George was, but she lacked the moral qualities which were needed for purer decision making; Nikita's, too, she knew, would have been about the equivalent of Madeline's, but she had yet to acquire the lifetime's worth of education which would continue to hone it--assuming that she ever escaped from her brain-numbed hell to be able to.

She closed her eyes for a second. The aphasia, she suspected, was beginning to set in; her thoughts were wandering badly. She pulled them back into line. What was important in her similarities with Michael, after all, didn't just extend to their intelligence. They shared, as well, what at least could become a very similar moral sense. Neither of them, in fact, was incapable of putting people down for the sacrifice, but neither of them enjoyed it, either; if possible, too--now that Michael was no longer simply his masters' creation--he might try to find ways around having to sacrifice lives in order to achieve his ends. . . . It was only when all other means failed that he would give in to the inevitable.

She sighed, as she saw the DNA scan approaching its end. Her mind turned once more. This, she suspected, was where Nikita truly differed from either of them, as well--or, at least, it was the area where she once had. Now, though, she was more Madeline's creation than her own. . . . That, truly, needed to be changed.

The scan completed and she began to give the computer another set of instructions, storing the data and telling it where and how it should be sent--with a failsafe to allow her to retrieve it, should a miracle come along to save her. Her mind, however, was truly still on her analyses. It was this last fact, indeed, which had most made up her mind to take the path she was now on; it was Nikita, in her right mind, truly, who could save them all, who could save all of Section--and the world outside it. Without her in her truest form, however, they might well all be lost.

This last thought, too, led to one more. There was, after all, one other area where she and Michael had much in common; they were both capable of great and everlasting love. Just as, she was sure, George would still be in her heart long after her mind had ceased to function properly, so too would Nikita always be in Michael's, whatever may come. Anyone, too, who could love in that fashion deserved her respect. . . . For that reason, as well--then, she would make the tape she was about to send.

Her mind circled on this last thought further, as she remembered briefly, too, how horrified the young man had been over her advice on his mission to retrieve Nikita. She could hear the shock in his voice, in fact--the horror--over her order to "Kill them all"; it had even taken a few seconds for his logical mind to kick in once more and understand, unable--originally--to process past his love.

She smiled slightly, a little shakily. Even for this, too, though, she respected him--both for his horror and for his ability to reason, for his ability to carry on with what had to be done. He was formidable, indeed--and he was just the man they all so needed.

She took a deep breath, pulled her shawl around her shoulders more tightly and then pressed the remote to begin talking to the computer, storing the image of herself to send to Michael, should they--as she suspected--be unsuccessful in helping Nikita now. With her gone, after all--and her mind would be gone soon--he would have to do it alone; this tape, then, would be his only guide.

She spoke slowly, the words hard for her. The pain grew greater, even when the attacks weren't constant, and trying to verbalize her thoughts made it far worse. Still, if she could only focus enough, her necessary words would get through to him soon--and, hopefully, he would then have enough time left to save Nikita before the process was irreversible. It was their only hope left.

Even as she spoke, though, her thoughts were elsewhere. She was sending this tape to Michael at Section, indeed, because she had come to understand his mind of late--understood it as well as she did her own. If he was no longer able to help Nikita on the outside, then, he would have to return; that woman needed the maintenance to avoid her own fate, after all. She knew, then, that--if he failed here--he would go back and bide his time until he saw his opening. She hoped this tape, then, would be it.

Her words, too, were--of course--culled from no documents; she had received no written information on the process they had used on her. What she did have, for a little while longer, though, was her mind, and her mind could process all that had been done to it--could remember, too, the words of her tormenters as they had carried out their experiments. With all of this, then, she would give him a way out.

She had to focus closely on the tape, however, in order not to think about the main concern she had at the moment: the safety of her own beloved. The words came slowly, the thought overwhelming her. It hurt her too much to think of what the terrible pair who now ran her precious Section intended to do with him; it had taken her finding yet another few of her remaining operatives and asking them to go on a suicide mission in order to protect him, but, fortunately, they had agreed. Thank God. If they hadn't, she had no idea what she would have done.

She took a deep breath between her words, trying to calm herself about this path, though. Michael, after all, was in charge of this mission, and he was the best operative which Section--probably--had ever seen. Also in their favor was the fact that Section operatives would not be on site, would not be able to recognize him--would not be there to attempt to catch him with all the results of their rigorous training; the dreaded pair would use someone else, some patsy to do their bidding. She smiled internally. . . . What else was new?

Her calm, slow words for the tape went on, as her mind continued working, turning once more. As final days went, of course, these last few had not been grand. To have seen the terrible places where they had managed to take Nikita had actually frightened her. Here, indeed, had been such a bright and intelligent soul--but now, she was reduced to nothing. . . . Dear Lord, she hoped this helped to bring her back.

She continued to talk to the camera, telling Michael one more thing he would need to know; she still spoke slowly: "There's something else to remember, as well. I'm sending this to you, as you're helping protect George. That should give you a time line, if the date on this doesn't process correctly. As I understand it, from what you've told me of when Nikita was first processed, you should only have another two weeks from today before her conversion is complete and irreversible. If you do not take action before then, there will be no way back." She took a deep breath. "Please remember that."

She had told him almost everything she knew, everything she needed to--except for one thing. She sat for a few seconds, gathering herself together in order to tell this tape a few final things; her eyes were sincere and saddened. "Michael, there's one more thing I want to tell you, before you begin." She paused once more; her gaze grew deeper. "Thank you. You've given me a hope for Section's future which I haven't had for many years." She gave a small smile and then added one last thought. "God bless you." She cut off the recording.

She sighed slightly, seeing an irony in her own message. The words were almost uncharacteristic of her, she knew, but she had needed to say them; neither she nor Michael had any real practice at expressing their emotions, but that had never meant that they were without feelings. Now, at least he would know.

She took a deep breath and punched in a series of numbers, preparing to send her message on a delay. Oh well. It was over now. Now, she could rest.

She received a message telling her that her work was complete. She cleaned up from her little effort, therefore, erasing all trace of her pathways, and stood up determinedly, deciding to try to check on Nikita once more; she would be feeling the real effects of the withdrawal by now, and it was bound to be bad. Maybe, then, she could use this time to get through to her.

She was only about a few steps away from the chair, however, when the final attack hit. She let out a small cry of pain and fell to her knees, only barely managing to catch herself from falling to the floor entirely on her outstretched arm. Oh God, this was the worst yet; it felt like an inferno was moving through her, starting in every tiny synapse in her brain and then moving along--growing stronger--to take over her entire body. She knew she wouldn't survive it intact.

Her strength gave out on her, as well, as she finally fell to the floor completely; her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. Dear God, she hoped this killed her, hoped that she wouldn't have to live to have any more of these. Even as she thought it, though, she also knew that Michael would probably need to have her alive as collateral; she just hoped he did something not too unpleasant with her.

The inferno was making it impossible to think anymore; all that was left was the fire. She curled over, her last thought, her last action going to the wedding ring she still wore on her right hand--the one she had moved there when she had been tossed out of Section, when her last true visits with George had been eliminated. It was then, really, that she had been made a widow.

This, too, was the last thing she thought about, was her last conscious image--of herself and the man she still loved, standing in her father's garden. "George," she murmured. . . . Then, the darkness came for her, and everything that was truly Adrian existed no more.

*********

It had been an . . . odd few days. First, there had been a series of screw ups at One which had somehow resulted in him being called in on a Y directive; then, even stranger, he had begun hearing Adrian's voice. Now, too, had been the truly bizarre incident with his attempted assassination. . . . Something, truly, was up.

George let out a deep, discontented breath, as he sat in his office again--having safely returned, finally, from his meeting; he was pondering all of this. They had traced the Azni Group, of course--the ones who had pulled the trigger on him, and had found that their orders seemed to extend back to Section Three. He had just finished, however, with a long, supposedly pleasant, grilling of that Section's Operations, and had come to an inescapable conclusion: he hadn't known a damn thing about it.

He sat back further in his chair, as his mind pondered. It was times like this, truly--when there was a series of unsolvable riddles, when he especially wished that Adrian were with him. She would see it; she would understand. She had always been able to fathom the unfathomable, could always look deeper than anyone else. How she managed it was still a mystery to him, but it had always been true. . . . It had just taken him awhile to accept it.

His mind went back, remembering again his early days as her assistant, pulled back into his memories of her once more. When he had first, of course, been told to report to Adrian by Oversight, he had only heard vague rumors about what had been accomplished with Section One; he had, then--quite naturally for the time period, for the workings of power in general, and for his upbringing--believed that his new superior would be a man.

When he had gone to her office and had had the door open to reveal an extremely attractive redhead only a year or so his senior--who had been pruning some sort of small plant, then, he had attempted to be polite and had asked if he had lost his way. When she had only looked at him with a rather wan smile and informed him that this was the correct office, in very proper tones, he had grown slightly more concerned, wondering if she were Adrian's secretary. She had taken another deep breath, fixed him in a stare which clearly was meant to put him in his place, and told him simply, "I am Adrian." . . . And it had been then when things had truly gotten ugly.

He shook his head now, a slight smile on his lips, as he further remembered his own, long-ago, stupidity. So assured had he been, indeed--having come from a world of gender and monetary privilege which had featured boy's schools, male-only universities, and men's clubs--that he had actually had the gall to insist that she was lying. She had nodded once, while giving him a rather resigned "oh Lord, another fool" stare, and then had gone over to her phone to call Center.

His memories went on. When she had reached the man who had originally given the assignment to him, as well, she had put the entire conversation on a, then fairly-revolutionary, speaker phone. Sadly, although it had all lambasted him righteously in the most proper tones imaginable, he only remembered one part of it now, her first words after her greetings: "Is this George you've sent me a rather unattractive blonde man with an extremely insulting manner?" . . . He had been even more mortified when she had been told that he was.

He let out a slightly amused chuckle at his own expense, as he did every time he thought of the incident now. Adrian had very rightly put him in his place then and had not thawed for some months to come. Every time, too, that he had ventured to give an opinion during those first few weeks, she had simply looked at him levelly and said, "I'm sure that's very intelligent of you" and had then gone on to put into action whatever--far more intelligent plan--she had originally had. . . . It had taken quite some time, indeed, to recover his self-esteem.

He sighed. Still, he had survived this rather ritual emasculation and had triumphed in the end. After some time, in fact, he had actually begun to prove himself to be useful--but only about three months after he had let himself realize just how absolutely brilliant she truly was. . . . It had been another two years entirely before they had fallen in love.

His heart beat a little more warmly once again, as he thought into it. He still wasn't certain, however, just what it was she had seen in him. It certainly wasn't that he was unaware of his charms, in general; it was more that, compared with her, he realized that he was fairly well lacking. Adrian, after all, had come from more money and better breeding than he had--and had far more intelligence and analytical ability to boot. Still, after his initial attack of testosterone poisoning, he had started to prove himself capable of something resembling brains. After awhile, indeed, she had begun to even listen to some of his ideas. The first time she had actually implemented one, too, he had known he had arrived.

He sighed once more. He remembered all of their growing affection so well, still. The truth of it was, however, that he knew he had been in love with her for at least a year before she had shown even the smallest sign of any return in inclination.

He could feel the change in his heartrate, as he thought back once again. It had been, supposedly, just another late night when something had seemed to click between them. They had just been finishing a few reports, a few evaluations, had been pre-prepping a few missions, like many another day; nothing had been absolutely urgent. At one point, however, as he had any dozen of other times in his years with her, he had come over to show her a small discrepancy that he had found in a report, had leaned down near her, and had been accidentally caught in her gaze. . . . It had been in the minutes which had followed, as well, that everything in both of their lives had turned absolutely upside down.

He sighed, trying not to let his mind follow too far in this direction. Still, he couldn't help but think about it somewhat. Everything between them romantically after that had been sweet--had represented a combination of utter tenderness and passion. It had never been simply sexual, either; they were both too wise for that. No, what they had shared had been long-lasting and deep. He was certain, still, that he would never get over it.

His heart ached a little, as he tried to clear his mind of these thoughts again. Adrian, after all, was dead; as deeply as he despised this fact--and, even more, the demented couple who had brought it into being--he couldn't change it. All he could do was survive, alone.

He brought his mind back around, then, to the last few days once more. He had no idea, really, of exactly what was happening around him; what he did have, though, were a few random clues. . . . Now, he just needed to put them all together.

One of his clues, indeed, was the fact that Michael seemed to be conspicuously absent from any of One's reports of late. He had asked about him recently, as well, only to be told that he was on special assignment--but all of the details there had been sketchy in the extreme. He was sure, then, that something was going on. . . . He just wished he knew what it was.

The other oddity he had seen in that particular Section, as well, lately, however, hadn't been even that easy to pin down--had simply been the atmosphere of chaos which came from it. Yes, Paul tried to cover for it, but it existed, nonetheless. Still, even the sense of . . . strangeness in the air within the building the other day had no explanation he could find yet. Something, though, was definitely up.

What led him most to this conclusion, however, was the simple fact of his attempted, but purposely botched, assassination. Why, indeed, would someone go to such trouble to save him from it, only to do their absolute best to keep their identity a secret? He sighed disgustedly. He still wasn't sure of that, as well.

The only thing he was certain of, lately, was who had *really* put out the order to kill him. That one, truly, was rather simple; Paul and Madeline had been after him, actively, for at least a year--if not more. Now, if only he had the proof . . .

He shook the thought from his head, however. He had ordered Mr. Hillinger to try to rake the records for any links to One, but even he had come up empty. He would just, then, have to wait.

The mystery, though, which still plagued him the most of late was why he had so recently heard Adrian's voice. Had it really been there? Had Paul or Madeline played it simply to taunt him? No, that wasn't likely, given how desperate the man had been to shoot out the monitor that the voice had seemed to come from. Had it, then, indeed just been random signals which his old brain had reshaped into the form of a voice he always still heard in his dreams?

He sighed, his mind still searching. Perhaps. Anything he supposed, was possible, especially with them. . . . He just hoped, then, that he could somehow manage to gather together the clues he would need to figure it all out--before some future attempt on his life proved successful.

He had simply been unlucky, he knew; fate, indeed, had backed him into a corner, one he had no way to escape. Now, he was left with only one choice: he had to go back with her, had to return her to their masters. . . . There was just no other way.

Michael continued to steer the car quietly, as he took Nikita back to her "home" in Section. Everything--all of his carefully-laid plans--had been destroyed in less than a week. Now, the only place left to go, the only place which could save his beloved physically, was the place where his mortal enemies resided. He swallowed heavily. It was just too bad that there would no longer be any saving of her soul.

He closed his eyes tightly for just a second, before he refocused on the road. The woman he loved was strapped in beside him. She had passed out hours ago from the sheer pain of the torture the withdrawal from her maintenance had caused her--and it hurt him desperately to know that he was powerless to help. All he could do now, indeed, was return her to her tormentors, to the soulless creatures who had already so defiled her. He let out an unhappy, ironic sigh. And this, he was doing from "love."

He could feel a tear coursing down his cheek, but it went unnoticed; the brainwashed Nikita wasn't awake to gloat. Still, love her he did. He could feel it in his heart, in his soul; it soared through him constantly, as it always had. There was only one difference now, truly. Now, indeed, it existed alone.

A wave of overwhelming emotional pain shuddered through him for a minute, and he pondered its cause once again. He knew, however, that it was the result of his deep love banging against the physical walls of his body, needing to be let out, needing to search for its missing partner. For so long, after all, he had never quite been alone; Nikita had always been in him--no matter how far away she may have been otherwise, physically or emotionally. Now, though, there was an emptiness within him, was a vast space which screamed for her. For the very first time since he had first seen her face, however, it screamed in vain. . . . There was nothing left in her any longer to answer it.

He gave a sidelong glance at the woman beside him. He didn't know her anymore, couldn't understand her. She was absolutely nothing which had come to define his beloved. She was empty.

He sighed sadly, looking back to the road once more, however, as his mind shifted again--contradicting himself. No, maybe that first thought wasn't true; he did understand her--too well. For years, after all, he had been something very similar to her--driven and focused on his Section life alone, empty of emotion or love.

He swallowed heavily and tried to move his mind along, not wanting to face the pain of this thought. Ever since his recruitment into the underworld they both now existed in, as well, he had known others like her--those who didn't need to be physically tampered with in order to make them fanatically loyal. There was always at least one in every set of new recruits--was one person who was already so empty of life that they would cling to anything they were told, would grasp on to anything which looked like meaning. . . . God help him, in too many ways, he supposed, he had once been one of them himself.

He let out a deep--slightly shaky--sigh, unable to think into this any longer; he needed to focus elsewhere. His mind went back, then, to the place he had so recently left, before he had once more gone to retrieve his non-beloved at the safe house; it focused again on the woman who had almost made his dream of having his Nikita back come true. Sadly, though, it hadn't worked. She had been destroyed before her secrets ever came out.

He let out another saddened sigh, as he pondered this once more. He knew--he was sure--that Adrian had known the secrets, had known what he needed to do to bring back his beloved. . . . Why, then, hadn't he simply sat her down and asked her--why hadn't he made a record of her thoughts? His heart shuddered a little. Why had he let his one chance at life slip away?

He swallowed heavily once more. He knew the answer to all this, of course, even if he wanted to deny it. There had simply been too much to do, had been too many places to focus in too short a period of time. He supposed, really, that he just hadn't known, either, how short their time truly was. He sighed. Now he knew.

His heart thumped loudly in regret, but this time it wasn't just for his beloved. Adrian, indeed, had reached into him, had connected with him in a way he had never expected--in a way he suspected that neither of them could have foreseen. Yes, he had rescued her at first simply in order to cull her secrets, in order to gain her aid in bringing Nikita back to him, but his association with her hadn't ended the same way. He had, after all, started to identify with her. In a sense, indeed, he had grown to love her.

It was all of this, then, which had led to his sorrow when he had found her collapsed body on the floor of the safe house. He had wanted, indeed, to bring George back to her--had just wanted, for something beyond even his own personal reasons, to see happy one person who truly loved another. It seemed the least, really, that the world could ask for.

He had been saddened, then, by her request to keep George away, but he had understood it, as well. He appreciated, too, that she wanted to protect him--appreciated the fact that his tenderness for the woman had been so briefly returned. She was extraordinary, after all; anyone she cared for, then, was, as well.

Nikita let out a little twitching moan, but she wasn't conscious. He sped up, his mind distracted by the sound. He had to get her back to Section, as little as he liked the fact. He had to get her back to maintenance.

He couldn't stand to focus on this truth for very long, however; he needed to look elsewhere. He thought back again, then, to Adrian's new home. He had found somewhere for her where she could be both protected and happy; both the money and his threat had seen to that. Still, her blank face, as she had said goodbye to him had hurt. For a little while, indeed, she had taken him into her heart; at that moment, however, he had just been another stranger to her--and it had hurt unaccountably to be made so again.

What had frightened him even more, however, was the thought that this blank-minded path might be one which Nikita was destined to walk down sometime soon; he couldn't stand it. He sped up once more. He had to, then, protect her body, until he could find some way to save her soul.

His heart ached further within him. He wished, of course, that he knew what this would be--wished to God that he had a plan, beyond the simple return of her, himself, and his former status. That part, though, was simple; bringing back his true beloved seemed nearly impossible. . . . He just wished he knew where to start.

He supposed, however, that he could only start at the beginning; where else, truly, did anyone begin? He could go back to his masters, then, and demand his old place--and then he would pray very, very hard to a God he no longer believed to be real for a miracle.

*************************************************** This was such a pretty place, she thought for at least the hundredth time today; she had no memory of the previous 99. The flowers were beautiful and some of the plants were in bloom. There was that nice man, too, and his two assistants who gave her things she wasn't even aware she wanted. Yes, she liked it here.

Adrian smiled once more, as she stared off at the blooms in the backyard. She was sitting on the back porch of the big house which was now her home. Yes, this was a nice place; she was glad she lived here. Maybe someday, too, that nice man who dropped her off would come back to visit her. She didn't really remember who he was but he seemed pleasant. He probably, then, liked gardens, too.

There was a small smile on her face, but it denoted nothing like deep thought anymore. She had no memory, of course, of anything which had come before this place in her life; all she knew was that she was here and she liked it. . . . All traces of the brilliant strategist who had been the mother of Section One were absolutely gone.

Or, at least, they were gone when she was awake. She did, sometimes, though, have these strange dreams. Most of them were pleasant, too, but there were definitely a few nightmares--with a lot of blood and pain and unpleasant people in them. Sometimes, as well, these cold, dark brown eyes would come at her from out of the dark, indeed, and chase her around her new home, would try to hurt her--but she always won in the end. She just went into the garden, and then everything was alright.

Of course, the garden in her dreams was much bigger than this one--and there was frequently a man there, as well, one who would hold her close, and then the scary brown eyes would disappear once more. She smiled again. She didn't understand it, of course, but she knew she was safe; he and the nice man who had left her here somehow saw to that. . . . She didn't understand that feeling, either.

No one in her new home, of course, knew anything about the background of this newly-retired guest. As far as her keepers were aware, she was just someone's pleasant old granny who, after living a rather sweet but nondescript little life, had been struck down by Alzheimer's to take it all away from her. Only her head keeper had his doubts, but he had the sense to keep them very much to himself. . . . No one with eyes like the man who had left her here, after all, should ever be trifled with.

The days, therefore, stretched out before and behind her in that garden in a way which defied time. She didn't know today or tomorrow; she only understood the flowers and the feel of the breeze on her skin. And, if she were often very cold, that was alright, because someone would bring her a blanket or shawl to make her warm again. Nothing, then, very important ever happened, but that was okay. Life was just fine as it was.

************************************************** Not everyone, though, was so quietly blissful. Some people, indeed, had more definite plans.

It had been about a week since he had returned to the Hell which had long ago made itself his home, and very little good had happened most of the time since. For the most part, in fact, all he had been able to do was run missions and watch Nikita's continuing moral decline, while looking fruitlessly for some sort of way to bring her back. . . . Until just a very few minutes ago, however, he hadn't found even a glimpse of one at all.

Michael had just finished watching Adrian's tape, though--the one she had made just before her mind had wandered away into the garden forever. Finally, then, he had some hope. Now, for the first time in several months, indeed, he truly saw his path; now, he saw the road home.

He repressed the smile he felt welling inside him. Soon, this hell would be over; soon, Nikita would be his once more. . . . And God help any man or devil who tried to pull her away from him again.

*********

It had certainly been an . . . interesting last week or so. For awhile, however, she had feared that all of their well-developed plans had failed them, that they would lose despite all of their long, careful efforts. Now, though, she was more confident; all she had to do, indeed, was keep Michael in line for a few more days--and then everything she wanted would be hers.

Madeline gave a small smile, as her eyes ostensibly studied a profile in front of her; it showed her her plan for temporarily controlling Michael, for keeping him out of the way. They had put him undercover on an extended mission when they had needed time for Nikita's initial change before; there was no reason, then, why this same technique wouldn't work again.

She smiled, very pleased with this latest train of thought. They were so close--and, if it did work, they had won. . . . All they had to do was wait.

The organ which passed for her heart warmed slightly through the several layers of ice which had coated it from birth; she clicked off the profile with her continuing smile and took up a distant perusal of the opposite wall, her mind working back once more. There had been some very frightening moments of late, of course, ever since Michael's escape from his cancellation. What had truly made things untenable, however, had been his planned disappearance of Adrian. . . . Without that woman, indeed, the chances for success of they had hoped for had suddenly become unforgivably tenuous.

She sighed, her memories still working here, drawn back once again to the woman who had long been her defining enemy. For at least a year, of course, their victory had been secure; Section's founder had been both their best kept secret and their trump card. Still, with her gone, everything seemed to have been falling apart. They had already been working hard enough just to get Michael either back or canceled; to have Adrian to work around, as well, had been a bit too much to ask.

She ignored the slight quiver in her heart that thoughts of the older woman always brought to her. Even after she had discovered that Section's founder's mind was now a blank, indeed, she had still not lost her fear of her. Adrian, after all, was just too resourceful, was too resilient; time and again, they had thought they had bested her, had won--only to have her prove them, sadly, wrong, in the end. Underestimating her, then--in any state, was a mistake.

Her heart still rankled slightly, her eyes unfocused, her thoughts preoccupying her. The woman's disappearance had even forced them to take on an action which she herself had been quite uncomfortable with--the cancellation of George. They had just been lucky, indeed, that their failed plan there hadn't backfired even more dramatically. . . . The next time they were pushed into a move like that, she suspected, they wouldn't come out of it half as well.

She let out a long breath, trying to calm herself, her thoughts turning just slightly. It didn't sit well with her, either--even now, that the older woman was still missing, that Michael alone knew where she was. For all they knew, after all, Adrian was back to her old self, was plotting with Michael to overthrow them. . . . Nothing, no possibility, where that woman was concerned, could afford to be overlooked.

Her slight sadness sat heavily in her. Still, there was nothing to do about that for the moment. They had tried everything, had looked everywhere, and the woman had yet to be discovered; they had yet to even turn up a relevant clue.

She knew, too, that--even if the woman were still the psychic vegetable she had certainly been upon first reawakening--her very presence, her continued existence, was a problem for them, nonetheless. Yes, they had begun to backfill Michael's file to account for her whereabouts since their original capture of her, but this was just, in truth, a ruse to keep Paul in line; George wasn't fool enough to believe such a scenario--no one with any sense was. No, it would have been extremely obvious to anyone who had kept her originally, should she ever suddenly turn up alive, wouldn't have taken too much insight to discover at least part of what had been done to her, either--and, if that happened, then she and Paul were finished. . . . No amount of outside influence would help them then.

A small shudder almost ran through her at this last thought, but she repressed it quickly. No, she wouldn't let her mind linger here any longer; the thoughts were not worth entertaining. If the worst were to come there, after all, there was nothing they could do about it. All they could do, then, was plan their next contingency.

Her mind shifted, therefore. Their next contingency, too, was how to handle Michael, at least until Nikita was fully theirs. She was firmly convinced, after all, that all they needed to do in order to finally conquer their best--but recently most troublesome--operative was to take away, once and for all, his motivation to act out. With Nikita--as he had grown to know her--finally gone, but her physical presence continuing on, indeed, there was no reason for him to be anything but the operative he had once so perfectly been: cold, concise, and ruthless. It was, truly, what they valued in him most.

She let out a small sigh. Still, this side of him had, obviously, been slipping from them, of late. Not only had they lost sight of him during the whole fiasco which had happened when he had been given control over Section temporarily several months ago, but he had firmly begun to side with his ex-material for comfort *far* too often for quite some time thereafter.

This, though, wasn't even all. He had even gone so far as to arrange missions in order to give him time alone with her; that, in fact--since he was the only one who had ever led the relationship, had obviously been his continuing plan before the Gelman process had been implemented. She had known it, too, even before her newly-programmed helper had confirmed it, as best as they had allowed her to remember her time with him, . . . and that, truly, could just not be forgiven. That, indeed, was absolute treason.

She sighed once more, her mind turning slightly again. Still, there had just been no way to handle him on his own; he had grown too willful in the past several years--and was far too talented to be consistently outsmarted. They had had to, then, target his lover.

Madeline smiled a little, remembering the whole event fondly, even now. It had settled something deep in her soul, indeed, when they had finally handled Nikita, when they had finally made her their own. Paul, too, had enjoyed it immensely; it had always been his dream, in fact, to have her capitulate to him entirely. She had, as well, become their absolutely most reliable operative--capable of carrying out any order, even those which might cause other, weaker operatives to blanch. It had been lovely, truly.

Her smile remained, as her memories here continued, her happiness not entirely contained to these thoughts. She admitted briefly, too, that she had also enjoyed Michael's reaction to all this. Yes, his distraction from his work was annoying, but he was too good an operative to let anything sideline him for long. It was his horror at having lost this game which was most satisfying, though--was his obvious concession which had made her the most pleased. That, indeed, was something she had waited far too long to experience; that was something she could happily enjoy much more often, in the future.

The smile she had been cultivating disappeared, however, as her mind continued along this path. What did not please her, though, was what a poor loser he had turned out to be. Yes, it was amusing for as far as it went, but--after awhile--it had simply become annoying. . . . Soon after that, as well, it had become downright critical.

She let out a displeased little breath, her memories here still too fresh. It wasn't, indeed, just that Michael had mourned his loss, had pouted over it; it was the far more frightening fact that he had simply refused to admit long-term defeat, that he had gone on the war-path, looking for a way to win the young woman back. It had, truly, been absolutely appalling and childish. It was all quite unbecoming for a man his age.

Her look was still unhappy. He had done all of this, nonetheless, however. Even more disconcertingly, too, he had won--at least in part, had taken from them their once most valuable pawn and had used it as his own. That, indeed, still rankled her badly.

She moved her mind along again, then, not willing to think into this too deeply anymore. Fortunately, though, he had not won, in the long term; indeed, he had been forced to return to them just to keep Nikita alive, had been the one to demand that she be returned to the maintenance she was well aware he despised. He had, then, seemingly admitted their victory for now, but she couldn't help but feel that this wasn't really all, that he wasn't really finished. Somewhere behind his quietly accepting facade, indeed, she was certain there was a much darker truth.

She let out another tired little breath, unhappy with where her mind was headed. In fact, she didn't even like to think back to the meeting she had had with him only a little while earlier; it still . . . frightened her slightly. There had just been an absolutely chilling lack of emotion to him when he had admitted that he no longer feared death--when he had, even worse, focused on her with a very cold, accusatory look to his eye, leaving her with a simple summation of his illogical reasons for this utter lack of concern for his own life: "You've seen to that." She repressed a shudder. What he might do in the future, then, was troubling, indeed.

For all of these reasons, therefore, she wished very strongly that she knew what his plans were, where his mind was heading. She didn't wish, unless absolutely necessary, truly, to have to lose him; he was too potentially valuable to be taken out for anything other than the most compelling of reasons. They had started down this path, after all, with the intention of controlling *him*, not his once partner. That they seemed to have lost hold of him so badly, then, was disturbing, indeed.

She ignored the continuing, internal shudder. She didn't know what to think of all of this, still; there just wasn't an obvious conclusion. All she could think to do, then, was wait and see--and hope that he didn't gain an unexpected advantage anytime in the next five days.

She took another deep, calming breath, as her mind shifted paths, therefore. If they could simply stymie him for those few days, in fact, then they would have won absolutely. They were *so* close to their goal. Nikita, truly, was almost, irreversibly, theirs.

She smiled at this thought, comforted by it. The young woman, after all, had proved herself to be gaining strength with every move, of late. Not only had she taken out all but one of the target on one of her latest missions, but she had then enjoyed immensely--as much as she was capable of that emotion, anymore--the resulting interrogation.

Her happiness here continued. At one point in her development as an op., of course--Madeline was well aware, Nikita could never have willingly watched Section's interrogation ops. weave their instrument-driven spell over a target, would have practically fainted from the pain and blood before her. Now, though, she was beginning to see them in the proper way--as efficient ways to extract necessary information. It was heartening, indeed.

She smiled again. She suspected, as she thought about it now, in fact, that the young woman might once have called what was done in the white room "torture"--an antique concept, if there ever had been one. What was "torture," after all, but the most simple and efficient means of gaining the truth? Where, especially in work as important as theirs, could ever be the harm in that?

Her smile was reflective, as her pleasure at this new course went on. There was no harm, of course--and now the younger woman was coming to understand this, as well. She was progressing very well, then. . . . Now all they had to do was keep her on her current path, and all would be well.

Her mind, satisfied at this train of thought, returned to Michael, therefore. Her pleasure at Nikita's new path was, sadly, not continued in her reflection on that woman's previous mentor, however. Michael, truly, had strayed so far from any real sense of justice lately, had long since lost grasp on life's most important details; they needed to give him a reminder, then, that nothing--*nothing*--was ever as important as Section. No other, petty, concern should ever be allowed to take its place.

She let out a sigh, her pleased smile returning once more. This, too, was why this new path was so perfect for them all, as well; it was a wonderful way to teach their most strayed op. a lesson he had so deeply forgotten. If they could only manage him for just a few more days, in fact, could just keep him temporarily distracted, then the future of Section was secure. Everything, truly, would be in place.

Her smile deepened, therefore, as her mind summed up their plans. All they had to do now, then, was wait, and their victory would be placed at their feet. Five days, and the world was theirs. . . . No one could ever stand in their way again.

She was in one of her favorite places now--en route to a new mission. This, really, was what made life here so perfect; this was what made her complete. Soon, indeed, she would be out in the field once more, any annoyances a distant memory. And then, too, another of Section's foes would be no more.

Nikita looked over her operatives from the back of the plane, her gaze evaluating, her mind pleased. She had already decided, of course, who would be coming back from this mission intact, minus--of course--anyone who just happened to screw up along the way. Myers and McCluskey, indeed, would no longer exist by the time the rest of them returned; they had both messed up far too often, were too grave a liability to be allowed to go on. That had always been Section's main truth, in fact; anyone who couldn't perform was always expendable.

Myers seemed to feel her eyes on her and turned to catch her feral look. The other woman's large brown eyes grew slightly larger, too, before she turned back to the front of the plane with a barely-repressed shudder. . . . "Doe eyes," Nikita thought--the kind you would see through the sites of your gun, just before you pulled the trigger.

She felt an internal sense of contentment with her new path once again and looked out the window. Yes, this was the way missions should be run--the way Michael seemed to have been able to handle them, once. Her contentment faded. It was just such a shame that he had become so incredibly weak. They could have used more ops. like the one he used to be.

She shook her head just slightly, her thoughts turning here. Yes, her ex-trainer had been so perfect once; she had been such a fool not to see it. He could torture, manipulate, lie, and kill with a minimum of effort--the perfect op. . . . It was just such a shame that he had become such a fool.

She let out a disgusted little breath, but she was trying to keep her mind from wandering too far here. She was pleased, of course, that he had finally returned her to Section, where she belonged, but she could take no real sense of comfort even in his reasons for doing so. He hadn't, after all, brought her back because he had remembered Section's importance in the world; no, he had done it, instead, because he had, for some reason, been worried for her health. She shook her head once again. Weak.

Her heart rankled still at the thought. It was so sad, too, that he had become this way, that he had fallen so far. At one time, she remembered, he had been Section's best, had been capable of anything. Now, however, all he seemed truly capable of was some sentimental delusion. It was as close to tragedy as life ever came.

She pulled her mind back from this path, then, trying to focus on something brighter. She was pleased, truly, that Madeline was allowing her to sit in more frequently on the interrogation sessions nowadays; this, indeed, was an area she would like to learn more about. The ways the specially-trained ops. caused pain, after all, were fascinating to her; it was amazing to watch the looks on the subjects' faces, as the probes were put into various parts, was wonderful to view their reactions to various sorts of negative stimuli. She just wished, really, that she could be spared from cold ops. enough to be able to try her hand in this field for awhile; she was sure she could go far there. . . . Still, she knew that wasn't possible, sadly; what with the complete loss that Michael had become, indeed, she was needed. Someone, truly, had to fill the void.

Her mind, though, wouldn't let her focus on the negatives here for too long; there were too many pleasant positives to divert her, truly. There was just so much in Section, after all, to be explored--were so many career options; she just hoped, indeed, that she proved herself valuable long enough to be able to explore them all. Section was just too wonderful and important to not do your utmost for. . . . Nothing, ever, could beat this life.

************************************ Michael's words kept ringing in his head: "We don't have time." What a nasty little concept that was. Still, he feared badly that the younger man was right; he was, most of the time--unfortunately, when it came to protecting Nikita. . . . Now, then, he just had to find all the ways he could to help him.

Walter sighed, as he stared out of his area at Birkoff, who was working--supposedly calmly, in Comm. . . . Yeah, right. If only the younger man had really been showing what he was feeling, then everyone would have known that something was up. Damn good thing the kid had turned into such a good actor, he supposed; if he hadn't, then they would all have been dead.

He let out a tired breath and returned to his work table. He really did hate all the things that had happened around here of late, but he was hoping, as well, that his willing part in some of these latest conspiracies might help them all out. If they didn't, after all, . . .

He sat down and pretended to be enraptured by some gadget or another, while his mind worked through the last week or so. He had been shocked--and a little horrified--to see Michael returning to Section with Nikita, of course, had been praying that the man would be able to find some way to cure her, before. Still, when he had seen her dazed state when he had brought her back, it had been obvious that this simply hadn't happened. . . . Sad.

That, really, had only been the start, though. After Michael had returned, having his status reinstated immediately--he guessed with the lingering blackmail of Adrian on his side, he had obviously been in a bad state. Walter had wanted, of course, to be able to break through to him, to be able to help him find a way to get Nikita out of her current, terrible state--but Michael was, well, Michael. He just wasn't a man who opened up to anyone, . . . except the one person who had been turned so radically, of late. Whatever comfort the man had needed, then, had come to him from no one; there was simply no one he would ever have let in besides her.

He shook his head slightly, still supposedly focusing on his pseudo task. What had been the worst of all this, however, hadn't been his simple concern for the silent young man. No, it had been, instead, the cause of his sadness. . . . Nikita, indeed, was no longer one of them.

He repressed the deep-set shudder that passed through him whenever he thought of this once more. When Michael had first escaped his cancellation, indeed, they had all--well, all of the 5% club, anyway--prayed for his success in bringing Nikita, the *real* Nikita, back to them. This, though, just hadn't been meant to be. Instead, the black-clad self-mourner had returned with what remained of the shell of the woman they all loved and had asked that she be returned to her brainwashing himself. . . . It had been, he supposed--though, the only way for her to survive.

Walter tapped his screwdriver delicately against the gadget before him for a second, while he thought--before he realized what he was doing and stopped himself. He hadn't been informed by Michael--or anyone else, of course, about just what had happened during the man's little escape, but he could see a lot of it pretty clearly, nonetheless--and what he saw just wasn't pretty at all.

His mind turned slightly. He had begun to despair, of late, then, that their Sugar would never be returned to them, would never be one of them again. It had only been with Michael's visit earlier in the week--with a long shopping list of high-tech, deprogramming toys--that some sense of hope had returned to him once more.

He kept the smile he felt hidden. He had had to work extra hard in order to be able to quietly procure the things the man had needed, of course. Still, he had fulfilled his role, as the younger man had obviously known he would--as Birkoff had, too, several times this week. Just mention Nikita's well-being, after all, and he was there. There was nothing he wouldn't do for that.

His mind didn't stay here forever, though--turning to slightly darker thoughts. It had frightened him a little, however--it still did--that the Class Five op. had seemed to be in such a desperate hurry to get through to her. He guessed, then, that--whatever had been contained in the curious message Birkoff had told him about Michael receiving--it had also given him a time limit. . . . And it made him want to shudder badly that it seemed to be so incredibly close.

He repressed his sense of fear once more, though, as he purposely moved along his thoughts. It was Michael, after all, who was seeing to Nikita's recovery. Not only was he about as bright, resourceful--and occasionally ruthless--as they came, he was also the closest person to the young woman there was. If anyone could bring her back, then, it was him. . . . No one else had as realistic a chance.

He sighed, putting down his gadget, his eyes focusing blankly across the room, his mind turning. None of this, however, meant that he was incapable of getting upset with the younger man. He had been pretty damn dictatorial of late, indeed--which wasn't exactly anything new. Time and again, where Nikita was concerned, Michael had simply taken control of her and everyone even remotely connected with her; it could be annoying as Hell, too, but he guessed--in this case--that he was grateful. . . . If it just brought the woman back to them all, indeed, then anything would be worth it.

His eyes turned, then, to his young protegee once more, to the unlikely ally Michael had chosen to replace him on his mission. He sighed. Poor Birkoff. Yeah, he had some cold op. experience now--unfortunately, but he didn't really think that was enough to get him through this. He supposed, then, that he would have to present himself as backup.

He smiled a little, thinking into this further. What a team the two of them would make--the young kid and the codger; he wondered, really, what their target was going to make of that. Still, it wouldn't matter in the long run. So long as they were confident and had the merchandise, that was all the slimeball they were after would care about. Anything beyond that was meaningless.

He shook his head a little, trying to shake out these random thoughts, bringing them back to a previous path. Everything around him had been twisted up for awhile, it was true; yeah, the last week or so had been about as weird as they came, indeed, but he guessed, in the end, that everything would be fine. It had to be. . . . That, after all, was what friends were there for.

*********

She had been under for several hours. Michael stood watching her, waiting for her to regain consciousness. It was a little after dawn now; it had been around midnight when he had grabbed her. He had, then, gone to a great deal of pain to get her here, had plotted meticulously in order to bring her with him. . . . He just hoped now that any of it would prove to be worth it.

He watched Nikita, as she slept in the chair he had cuffed her to, only an occasional twitch hinting at her internal restlessness. He sighed. He knew his time with her here would be short, would have to be; he only really had about a day in which to bring her back to herself. . . . Lord, he hoped it worked.

He leaned back against a counter near her, as his mind took in this whole situation once more. He hated all of this; he was not unaware of the apparent perversity of what he was doing. He now had, after all, his beloved handcuffed to a chair--had drugged and kidnapped her. Over the next several hours, as well, he would knowingly help put her through hell, as she hopefully fought off the drug and programming's evil influence. He would have to, as well, be cruel to her more than once to accomplish this--was not exactly being a perfect host at the moment, in fact. None of it, truly, made him happy.

He let out a very saddened little sigh. He knew, however, that there was no other choice; Adrian's tape had made that clear. Besides, he told himself, trying to overcome brainwashing or drug addiction was never an entirely pretty process, no matter how loving the attendants. All he could really hope for now, then, was that they would both be rewarded for her suffering with her recovery.

She twitched a bit more, and he analyzed her more closely for a second, finally deciding that she wasn't quite conscious yet. His mind, therefore, continued to trace back over the path that had led him here. It was only, really, because of Adrian's kind foresight that he had had this opportunity at all; she, truly, had provided him not only with the necessary information--in what he hoped would be the nick of time--but also with the one extra bit of personnel he had needed to complete this operation. Without the use of one of her remaining blonde, female operatives, after all, he never could have distracted Nikita's shadow team; he never could have gotten her out without notice.

He sighed, as he thought back into this further. The woman who had been lent to him by the older woman's organization, the woman who had helped him accomplish this task, as well, had been formidable, had--really--been just what he had expected from an agent of Adrian's; she was intelligent, resourceful, and absolutely devoted to the woman who had recruited her. Since she would probably die in this whole mission, as well--unless she proved to be *very* resourceful--he was amazed, too, by her dedication. He could never, truly, have told her just how much her help meant.

Nikita let out a small moan, the very fringes of consciousness upon her. His heart ached, as his attention was drawn back to his beloved once more. He understood what his mind was doing in all of its wanderings now, of course; he was trying to distract himself, to shift his own attention away from his pain. He sighed very quietly. It wasn't working.

Still, he continued trying, waiting for her to wake up. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the safe house he had been using for the past few weeks. He wondered, in some ways, of course, just what had led him to choose this place. Yes, it had the conveniences of being isolated and distant--but not utterly unreachable--from Section. His gaze searched further. What really drew him to it, though, was more than that--was more, even, than just a general fondness for this sort of design. No, what truly attracted him most to the place, he suspected, was its resemblance to the cabin he had once taken her to on the mission against Zalman, was the sweet memories that place had held for him. He had never quite forgotten it, indeed.