She smiled sweetly in return, her own look loving. She was moving him, was leading him to the entrance to her depths, begging for his love. "Please," she whispered.

"'Kita," he sighed, his love for her overwhelming him. He took her face in his hands for a second and kissed her softly before catching her hands in his; he drew her away from his shaft and entwined his fingers with hers, holding them by her head. Then, his loving, saddened gaze on her every second, he adjusted himself completely and began to slide his large shaft inside her.

"Michael," she gasped, her eyes wide. She never got over how good his entry felt; it always came as a blissful shock. She tried to break her hands away from his grasp to touch him, but he just entwined his fingers with her own more firmly and kissed her softly.

She watched his eyes, then, as his large, gorgeous cock moved deeper within her; she arched her back, accommodating him, wanting more. The way he filled her, making her tight walls whimper and beg for more of this addictive sensation, took her breath away. God, he made her feel so whole--and so in need.

She was trying to move her hands again--wanting, he knew, to encourage their union, to speed him up. He wouldn't allow it yet, though. He smiled at her, too addicted to every sweet revelation of this slow entry into her sweet, caressing walls to speed up at all.

He moved a little further in, stretching her further, and she moaned out an "Ohhhh." Her legs wrapped around him, trying to speed him where her hands could not. She couldn't help it; he made her desperate and needy. She wanted him in her deep, stroking roughly. She wanted everything he could give her and more. She had no patience. She wanted him now.

Michael, however, had no intention of rushing. The joy of her sweetness wrapping around him was not something to waste; he wouldn't abandon a single second. Once he was forced to separate from her, after all, he wanted to remember every moment of this tight, rapturous, erotic acceptance and smile at what had been--and what would be again. He wouldn't let her go now.

She could see that he had no intention of giving her what she wanted so easily. She closed her eyes on a moan, then, panting slightly--trying to survive the incredible, deep beauty of that lovely, thick cock's slow entry, of his quiet conquest of her soul.

He smiled at her, loving her need--and the incredible perfection of his angel--as she invited him deep inside herself. Still, he wanted to see her eyes. He kissed her nose quietly.

She opened her eyes to see a happy, possessive smile on his unbelievably handsome face. Her eyes teared. He moved yet further into her, and she moaned desperately, closing her eyes again. He just felt so incredible.

She had opened her hands, stretching them, as she arched against him again. He smiled, giving her a deeper stroke of himself--to her moan, and kissed both of her cheeks. His fingers scratched lightly down the palms of her hands in a mimic of another time and place between them--a time when he had tempted her to stay, kept her from a freedom that wasn't.

The memory of that time, too, lit deep in both of their gazes. He leaned his head down to capture her mouth in a deep, intense kiss--reminding her that this was real, that he would never turn her away again. She moaned and broke from his hands, coming to run her fingers deep into his hair, holding him to the kiss.

The emotions of that one small memory, however, seemed to open up a hundred others; betrayals, lies, and torture mingled with love, ecstasy, and devotion. He stroked his fingers into her hair, holding her deeper in the kiss, as the memories plagued them both. He couldn't wait any longer.

He began to give slow strokes out of her before sinking his long shaft further back in each time; each stroke made her moan for more. He refused to stop, too, one hand on her hip, giving more of his cock to her by the second.

He couldn't stop--didn't want to; his memories were tormenting him. He had been a fool for too long, after all, had let them hurt her--had *helped* them to hurt her. He had held himself back from her--had held her back from him--for years, with so many thin excuses, almost relieved when some new pain he had given her made her turn away once more, allowed him to continue on in his inhuman state. No more, though--no longer. He wouldn't be held back from her again.

She was moaning out constantly beneath him, her back arched, receiving each sweet, thick new inch of him with love and desire. She held him further in the kiss, too, her legs tight around him. Oh, she wanted him all.

She remembered all of these times, as well, after all--remembered all of the pain and torment of their early years together. For so long, she had wondered whether she were just a fool for this unconquerable need she felt for him, had felt certain all her instincts about him were wrong. To have finally come to this more beautiful point with him now, then, was a blessing. She would *not* turn back.

The fire, therefore, was raging in both of them. He had filled her completely, but there was still more of him left. He pulled back from the kiss on a deep groan, needing her. He could *not* let her go now.

He could feel the flames running rampant through them both, singeing everything between them. His hands took hold of either side of her head, his eyes boring into hers, as his hot breath scalded her face. "I need you," he rasped out in warning just before he pulled back and--in one tremendous stroke--sank himself in her to the base.

He heard her cry out in trembling desire, felt her nails sinking into his back, and he closed his eyes, barely able to withstand the perfection of it. God. Nothing else on earth felt like this--like being buried deep within the tender depths of this most holy of lovers. He could feel the shocks of jolting pleasure running sharply through the length of his ultra-hard shaft and then sinking deep within his body, seeping into every pore. Oh, he wasn't sure how to survive it, how to hold on. No one on earth could tempt like his angel, after all.

She was letting out deep, gasping breaths, shocked and overwhelmed once more by the shudderingly sweet sensation of her most beloved lover sunk deep within her walls. She closed her eyes and buried her face against his shoulder, trembling--an incredible light of need lit far within her. "Mi-chael," she breathed.

"Uhh," he whispered. His whole body shook from her soft sound. His control was already scattering wildly. How on earth would he ever survive her sweetness?

It was only a few seconds later, however, that he had to find an answer to this question. He could feel her need for him growing, but his own was made sharp and desperate when he felt her nails lightly trailing down his back, sinking into his soft curves, begging him for more. Her mouth, too, suckled at his shoulder, her teeth grazing over him. He trembled wildly. Yes.

He survived the immensity of this pleasure, then, in the only way he knew how--he took control, allowed his desperate possession of her to surge without check. She would *not* question his devotion to her tonight.

His hand grasped the soft strands of her hair and kissed over her cheek, before he began to nibble ungently down her neck. She gasped and let his shoulder go. He smiled and concentrated on giving a pronounced love mark to a delicate patch of flesh, while his other hand grabbed her hip tight. He reveled in the moan she gave, too, as he ran his whole, long cock almost out of her and then pushed it deeply back inside, nudging her core strongly. She trembled. He kissed his way up to her ear. "Like that?"

She let out a little whimper of need; he was already repeating the slow, commanding move--the strokes deliberate and unyielding. "Y-yes." She held him to her more tightly, her nails sinking into his back.

He smiled, adoring the sensation, and ground himself into her core more strongly, as she whimpered. When her hands moved his mouth back towards her neck, too, he let out a growling laugh and kissed her cheek before complying.

They rode, then, in that slow, undulating way for several long, lovely minutes. Her hands were grasping hold of his soft curves again, were pulling him roughly, deep within herself; she was giving long, loud moans with each one.

God, it felt good--her hands caressing him, encouraging him; her hot, tight depths holding him close and deep; her sweet flesh between his teeth, as he nibbled on her; her beautiful body trembling below his own. The fire she was creating within him, though, was just too much--called to him too strongly. He needed to make love to her in a way she would remember for as long as she was left outside. Even if she took his advice and found someone else, found some needed pleasure there, he still never really wanted her to forget that no one else was him--that no one else could please her like he did. No matter what his better intentions, after all, he just couldn't be that altruistic.

His hands, then, moved to cup her soft curves, and he held her up to him. He forced her to meet every deep stroke of him, giving her a harder, rougher thrust each time she moaned--and she was moaning for him constantly.

Her hands ran back up to sink back into his shoulders, as she panted, holding him close. Oh God, it felt so good. He used the head of his big cock to rule her, to stroke into her tender, aroused core in a rhythm that had her drowning, pleading, her mouth open in her moans. Oh . . . Yes.

She was being quickly overwhelmed by him, her whole body trembling, bracing herself for the shocking pleasure to come. Her legs wrapped around him more tightly, too, her moans growing louder in her throat. He was working a spot which had her shuddering, aching for him. The searing light within her was overwhelming. She didn't know how much longer she could last.

Dear God, she felt good. He let out a deep groan of need. Her whole body was molded to his, was arching and riding along with his instinctively; he had to close his eyes to hold in the drugging surge of power that gave him. God, he had to have more.

He sank his hands even deeper into her soft curves, loving the feeling of them in his touch; he molded her, too, even more completely to his desires--his thrusts rougher and faster, still stroking through the whole of her tender walls with each one. The shallow gasps of arousal she gave on his every deep strike to her core made him growl, closing his eyes tightly to try to control his desire somewhat. He kissed her cheek softly. If he wasn't careful, he was afraid he might destroy her.

Nikita, however, was far beyond caring, was lost to conscious thought. All that was left within her were the sweetest sensations and emotions: the rough, constant rhythm of his giant cock; the sweet jolts of ever-building arousal which shot through her with each lovely strike to her core; the incredible sliding of his slick, muscled body above her own--his small nipples tight and needy; the unyielding grasp of his hands on her flesh, making each sweet shock even stronger; his tender lips kissing so softly in adoration over her face, his breath hot and shaky against her; the beauty of his sparkling love overflowing him--washing into her; and the overpowering intertwining of their souls, holding each other tight, refusing to let go. She tangled her hands in his hair, her breathing increasingly shaky. "Michael--more," she gasped.

Oh . . . God. There was a split second's pause in his lovely rhythm, as he ruthlessly grabbed the nearly-scattering strands of his control, and then his pace quadrupled--turning into a frenzy of motion, of a beautifully-riding, large cock.

She let out a scream, her nails digging into his shoulders--unconsciously cruel in her near-bliss. He had pulled back to look at her, his eyes teary--his look reaching out to her, touching her. Everything within her was building--was too bright, too intense, was bleaching out the sun.

He closed his eyes for a half-second, wrapping the fraying strands of his self-control tightly around his fingers one more time. God, he wished he could give her more than this--wished that he had more to give. He looked back at her, his love for her absolute. It was just too much for him, though--her beauty, her need, the sweet sense of her which clung to every pore of him. He had never been anywhere near as desperate, had never felt so intense--and had never been even half so in love.

Neither of them could take much more. Their gazes locked, their breathing erratically synchronized, as their souls cried out desperately for each other; his earthshaking rhythm never stopped. He ran his hands up into her hair, his tears beginning to overflow; hers already had. He gave her one more, shockingly intense thrust, too, and felt her jerk beneath him--her descent into perfect bliss unavoidable now. He gave a small, tremulous smile, as he lowered his lips to hers.

"I love you," he breathed into her mouth. Then they both closed their eyes, holding each other tight, giving themselves up to the kiss--and lost themselves entirely to the storm.

The loud, whimpering moans they both gave were lost in the deep, impassioned kiss. Everything in and between them was melting, was binding them to their one, true partner. Everything was being swept away in a blinding flood of soul-filled light and heat.

The physical sensation of it was almost inconsequential, however, compared to what seemed to be happening to their souls. Still, this sensual side was almost too bright to bear. They were both trembling, aching--her slick, sweet, trembling walls clinging unbearably tightly, a second skin, to his overwhelmed, quaking shaft; every ounce of sweet, hot need was being coaxed from him--welcomed deep inside her, to the only home it ever really knew. They were both crying.

All of this, though, was overpowered completely by the total merging of their souls. Everything either of them ever were or would be, indeed, was shared, in every fiber of being, with the other. There were no differences then.

The kiss, and all of these unspeakably powerful sensations, continued, too, for longer than either of them had any power to understand. It was a sweet eternity of bliss, experienced entirely outside of time. Neither felt like they would ever let it go.

It was quite a long while later, then, that either of them began to pull back. Even when they did, as well, it was only to mold themselves into a slightly more comfortable shape and pull the dislodged sheets up to cover them. They let out a mutual sigh, still sharing every sweet emotion.

They held each other, too, as they began to drift off to sleep. It was only then, indeed, that Nikita looked up at him, her eyes worried. He just smiled, understanding her fears; his voice was passion-hoarse, when he answered her. "I won't leave you."

She smiled in love and leaned in to give him a tender kiss before settling herself once more. She understood. Tomorrow a physical separation would come between them, but that was for then. Besides, there was a bond between them which went much deeper than that. Whatever was to come, therefore--whatever Section might have in store--no real break would ever come between them. They were bound forever. They were each other's alone.

Chapter 5

Hands--soft, touching her, making her wild. Lips--sweet against her own, leaving a fire over her skin. A strong body--warm and willing in her arms, taking control, making her weak. The sweet weakness mixed with need, became a fire, till it burned, began to roar, began to . . .

She woke, tossing again, her back arched, as the dream took her over. She was smiling in the deep, aching pleasure her dream lover was giving her--until she opened her eyes, her hand stretching out on the bed to find him. Of course, he wasn't there.

Nikita sighed, closing her eyes, all of her passion and pleasure fled--again. . . . Michael. She had dreamed of him once more, had relived in her sleep all the erotic beauty of the days and nights she had spent with him--both the ones just before this mission and the ones long before it. They were such sweet images, such tender memories; she sighed again, her face falling, and forced herself out of bed. But there was nothing left of them now in reality.

She got up to grab her coat, wrapping it tightly around herself, over the simple underclothes she was wearing to bed. It had been six weeks now, and still the dreams hadn't subsided--had only seemed to grow stronger with every day that passed. God, she wanted . . .

Her mind trailed off, and she sighed, beginning to head toward her kitchen, deciding to make some tea. Her small amount of sleep was obviously over for tonight; her mind, however, continued on. She didn't know what she wanted, really, couldn't have begun to tell anymore. All she knew was that it wasn't this--wasn't this half-life she was trudging through every day now. Anything seemed better than this.

Her lips curled into an ironic little smile, as she padded her way to her stove; the kettle was already waiting, used to this nightly ritual. It was amazing that she could feel this way, of course--was sad. Once she had wanted the life she was now experiencing desperately, would have done almost anything to achieve it. When she was on the street, or in her first few years in Section--certainly at any time before that--she would have dreamed of this simple existence she enjoyed now. She had a warm place to live, enough food to eat whenever she needed to--had an easy job with people who seemed to care about her, who would have helped her out in any small way, had she needed it. Her kind boss, in fact, Yvonne, always tried to open her up, to get her to talk about her problems; had she been able to--had they been anything Yvonne could have even marginally understood--she would have listened to them, as well, would have given her an unquestioned sense of sympathy and comfort. It was really quite sweet.

These weren't all of the advantages she enjoyed now, either. She had other people who were friendly and open to her, who were trying to cultivate her acquaintance, both male and female. Some wanted things from her, it was true, but no more than anything your average person might expect out of life. It was, really, what she had wanted for so long.

There was another benefit to her life now, as well. She also wasn't fighting for existence, wasn't being tossed about in the middle of constant mind games--or being shot at as a daily routine. Being physically tortured, in fact, was unheard of in this life, would have been a shocking thought to anyone she knew here. There was no particular reason to look behind every door when she entered a house, either; the true levels of her paranoia would have frightened those around her. It was everything she had dreamed of for years--was cushy in its simplicity. Why, then, wasn't she happy?

She let out a short, saddened laugh--her question absurd, its answer too simple. It wasn't anything in particular that was in her life that caused her to be so lacking in joy; it was all about what--who--*wasn't* in it. She swallowed heavily. That loss, indeed, made all the benefits seem meaningless.

She sighed, as she turned off the boiling water, beginning to steep her tea. Her heart still ached every second from the sense of loss she was living with; her eyes were teary. She just didn't know how to begin to survive it.

She swallowed heavily again and took her tea over to her kitchen table, sitting down. She had known, of course, that leaving Michael would be difficult, would be hell. Still, she hadn't understood just how intense it would be, how constant. For awhile in Section, after all, she had come to simply accept torment, to see it as her allotted portion in life, had stopped even trying to escape it. When this new assignment had come, then, she had seen it as just another painful event to survive, another one to suffer her way through. . . . What a fool she had been.

She lowered her head into her hand, staring down at the table, her drink ignored. This, somehow, was different from all the other torments, indeed. At least with them, she had known that she was on a mission; it had been admitted to her openly. Now, however, she was obviously being used for some end, but she wasn't even being told what it was--was being told that this new "life" she was in was real, instead. . . . They didn't even have to courtesy to admit she was still theirs.

It was this delusion of freedom which got to her the most, as well, which wore on her. There was no specific end game to focus on, was no perceivable hope for when it would all be over. She was, in this weird way, being warehoused in the outside world, left to her own devices, until they wanted her again, until her real mission became clear. She was a sleeper, but without the more obvious purpose such operatives usually had. She had been abandoned.

She rubbed her temple over her hand, her tired breath leaving her. It was this aimlessness which got to her the most, as well, which made her even more miserable. Had she had some profile--as she had at least had some marginal one with Helmut--she could have gotten through it, could have focused each day on making it through to the next, with the lingering half-hope that it might bring her to her goal, might see her to an end. As it was, though, there was no stated purpose here, and--therefore--no end to look toward. She had to just keep pretending that everything was normal and go on.

She rubbed her hand over her face and sat back in her chair. This pretense, too, was harder than it appeared, worked on many levels. Section, after all, was still claiming that this was real--despite the utter lack of logic in that thought. To them, then--or, rather, to her one examiner, Henri--she had to present a brave front, had to pretend that she actually believed that this was happening. If she didn't, after all, they would use her logic, her learned incredulousness, to punish her--would take that as the excuse to bring her back, and probably separate her from Michael for good, if not kill her altogether. Even though they knew well that she would be a fool--a fool they would despise--if she believed this implausible new twist in her life, she still had to go on playing their unnamed game.

This, indeed, was the harder of the fronts she put up, too. To the world around her, after all, she was used to being distant and afraid. The one time she had really made a friend outside of Section, she had turned out to just be a plant sent there to evaluate her for another, supposedly greater, purpose. How anyone expected her to open up to outsiders anymore, then, was beyond her.

She sighed once more. Still, this was what she was expected to do, was the game she was expected to play. She shook her head. The only problem was she just didn't know how to do it and stay sane.

She let out a tired little breath, her tortured thoughts continuing. She knew how to pretend this for awhile, though, could play this particular game; it was what she had been taught during all her years in Section, in cover after cover--was what she had painfully perfected with Helmut. Hell, she had even practiced it long before that, in her childhood--learning early that she couldn't tell the truth about her mother's drinking or her home life, that no one would believe her anyway--would blame *her*, accuse her of telling lies. She was very good, then, at pretend.

None of this, however, was the real problem here--none of them were the most difficult parts; she pulled her coat around her more tightly, trying to avoid the chill in her heart. No, that was the aching sense of loss which haunted her every day--every night. Her breath shuddered, as she forced herself to face this echoing torment again. It was that which made her feel so . . . empty.

She leaned her head back for a second, before her pain-filled musings went on, trying to blink back her tears; thoughts of Michael haunted her everywhere. Everywhere she went, she imagined that she saw him. She would turn and catch a glimpse of auburn hair and broad shoulders and practically cause accidents, as she made her way to look--always finding nothing, or a very surprised man she would then have to convince that she wasn't interested. She would see books in the store where she now worked that made her smile and think of him; she had made her way through half the love poetry in the place by now, in fact, relating every one back to the man she missed so dearly. Even when she tried to read something which would take her mind away from him completely, she would still find something which brought him back to her--a few words remembered from a conversation, a bit of knowledge he had used on a mission, anything. Always, he was there, haunting her days, his memory trailing after her like a ghost. She closed her eyes, the tears threatening. She just couldn't let him go.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and forced her eyes back open, her arms surrounding herself more tightly. This, though, wasn't really the worst of it. At least during the days there were distractions. She could work at the bookstore until Yvonne forced her to go home, could try to lose herself in a book or a meaningless conversation--could even find a nice meal and just attempt to enjoy it alone. But no--it was the nights which were so much harder, the nights when his absence seemed to echo through her soul. It was then that she looked for him most.

She sighed once more and sat back up, propping her head in her hand again, leaning on the table; her eyes were misty--pain-filled. It wasn't just the sensual side of him that she needed, either--although her memories of it were aching and intense--filled her dreams in a way which shook her with pain when she awoke to find him missing. No, she just needed his presence in her life, needed to know he was there. Even in those days when they hadn't been lovers, over all the years she had known him, there had been a sort of comfort just seeing him alive and well--a heart-quaking joy in finding her eyes locked with his for a brief, stolen second of love. There was a calmness about him, truly, too, which--although it had frequently frustrated her incredibly--also soothed her, made her feel more certain that everything would work out, despite all appearances. . . . She needed that again.

This, though, wasn't even all; she swallowed heavily, trying to push down her rising terror. She normally worried at least a little about him, of course, but this was different. The separation made her anxiety for his safety ache in her even more than usual, made her fears rise unbearably. Now there was no way to know if he was well--was no way to even know whether he was alive or dead. Had he died terribly, brutally, in fact, in the time since she had left him, she would simply have gone on, never learning the truth. Her gaze was haunted. And, if that were true, there would be nothing left for her at all.

She closed her eyes, trying to fight the lingering torment of this thought. It was this, almost more than anything else, which shook her, which made each night so long and terrible. Sometimes, indeed, making love with him, before, had been most importantly a reminder that he was alive and well--that he was still real, was still there. She had cherished every night she could spend just resting with her head on his chest, listening to the soothing sound of his heart, as it beat along so steadily, so comfortingly. It had given her a sense of peace and rightness unlike anything else she had known--unlike anything else she probably ever would. Her eyes closed more tightly. But now even that was gone.

She let out a deep, shuddering breath and forced open her eyes. It was this thought, too, which made this new non-assignment so terrible. She lived every second with the fear that this was simply a way for her cruel leaders to cancel her beloved without question or argument. She lived in terror of the thought that she might, any day now, be pulled back in to a Section where he no longer was--where his very memory had been banished. She swallowed heavily, as she prayed. Oh please, God--no.

This torment didn't subside, as her mind went on, either. In fact, a moment later, her eyes widened, as she traced back through her last few thoughts--an even greater fear striking deep. Oh . . . no. What if the real reason for this wasn't as simple as just killing her beloved; what if they wanted to remove her for just long enough to turn him--to subject him to the terrible brainwashing she had endured, that he had rescued her from? What if she came back to Section in a few months' time only to discover that he was still there, but was unutterably changed, was now robotic and unresponsive? How could she possibly change him back, make him hers again? She shuddered, the horrible truth shaking through her soul. She couldn't. Unlike her beautiful beloved, she just didn't have that sort of strength.

She closed her eyes again, then, a tear running down her cheek. She hoped desperately that this fear was unfounded, that her masters hadn't thought of this--that there was some other reason for her current, unbounded, confinement. She let out a little breath, another prayer echoing in her. Please just let him be alright.

She swayed slightly in the pain of this thought for a few more seconds, before she forced her mind to continue on. All of these fears, indeed--combined with all of the painful experience of her past--were what caused her current state of horrified suspension. She was waiting every single day--every minute--for the other shoe to drop, was left wondering when the real torment would come. She knew better than to believe their lies anymore--than to think for even a second that there was such a thing as freedom. Her anger raged. Bullshit. This was a mission, or a test, or a cruel experiment of some kind, nothing else. Nothing in it, then, was even remotely real.

The numbed state of acceptance which she had been living in for so many weeks, therefore, was growing stronger--even if it was mutating, as well. She knew, without anything like doubt, that her current position was something akin to either a laboratory rat or a caged farm animal waiting for slaughter--a situation which wasn't entirely new for her. Still, all that she could really do now was wait, was waste her time in the colorless world she now inhabited--the one which would once have been so beautiful to her--until they deigned to explain their motives, to tell her about her mission. Nothing else was left.

She scrubbed her hand over her face, as she let out a sigh. She knew she might as well just go ahead and get up finally, might as well just look out her window and wait for dawn; it had become a habit by now. There was nothing good to be gained from sitting here with her cold tea.

She stood up and took her untasted drink over to the sink, then, dumping it in, before she wandered over to her window, looking out to the street. Her mind turned on her new home. Mick had been right when he had said that this place suited her. There was no real privacy to it; it was opened to anyone's gaze--just like her life.

She smiled. Still, she had grown used to this by now, had lived with it for too long to question. She might as well just try to deal with it, then.

She leaned her head against the glass, staring into the sky, her heart aching a little, as her mind turned. She was remembering some of Michael's words to her on their last night together; he had told her to enjoy the sunrise--or was it the sunset? She shook her head. Didn't matter. She was certainly following his advice, too, if not at all in the way he had meant. She sighed. If only she could manage that miracle.

Her mind whirled slowly once more around his well-meaning words. He had wanted her to enjoy this time, to try to use it to heal. She sighed again. If only that were possible for her.

She swallowed heavily, her mind answering this last thought. It wasn't, however. There was no joy here; there wasn't even any real freedom. She was living in a glass house--the object, as always, of observation by God-only-knew who; she was living, too, by the rules of the life her beloved had so long ago trained her for, was waiting to be activated. It was just a matter of time.

This lingering sense of tormented lassitude, however, wasn't even all of her pain. The one decent thing in the whole of the world she had inhabited before had been taken from her, as well; the one thing she lived for had been eliminated. And, without her Michael, nothing else seemed quite as real.

She barely heard the slight moan which escaped her, as she thought more deeply here. Yes, she had once wanted something like the life she now, temporarily, had--but her needs and desires had changed long ago. She still would have liked to be free of Section, of course--if that were possible, but she no longer believed that it was. What she needed, then, was her beloved. If he were with her--she would endure anything, any sort of torment her masters might inflict. Without him, though . . .

Her heart ached desperately, her tortured thoughts continuing. She could be a good soldier--had been for so long. She followed orders without question now, was getting better and better at it. She had a better p.o.s. on missions than almost anyone else in Section, in fact--was very nearly flawless; she even carried out side missions for her masters at their request. And the one thing, the *only* thing, she asked for in return was the right to spend just a little time with a man who loved her dearly--a man who was even a better soldier, a greater asset, than herself. She swallowed heavily. Why, then, was that so much to ask?

She closed her eyes, her tears flowing. There was no answer to this, of course; she had long since stopped attempting to understand her tormentors. What was the point, after all? It didn't stop them; nothing did. All that there was in her life anymore was the pain.

Her breath shuddered from her, as she cried quietly against the glass, her mind turning again. She couldn't help berating herself, too, for her foolish distancing of her beloved, for the way she had held him away from her before. Had she once truly hoped that things would improve, that she would find some magic remedy which would make her feel whole--had she really expected that she could find such a fantasy cure outside of him? She sighed. She supposed, sadly, that she had. . . . How very, how inexpressibly, naive.

She opened her eyes, laughing slightly at herself, as her thoughts went on. She had been a fool. There were no remedies or answers, was no way out. Life was pain, usually without remittance or end. Maturity was just coming to accept that as truth.

She let out another saddened breath, as she stared helplessly at the ground outside. She had grown up, then, these last few months, had turned into someone far more mature than the juvenile girl who had still believed in freedom and happiness, had finally caught up with her mentor. Hell, he had tried to tell her this for so long, for forever, now--from the very beginning: "You still believe in free will. In here, there's no such thing." She shook her head. Had he ever been right. . . . It was just a shame she had wasted so long fighting to believe otherwise.

Her strength to stand up seemed to be draining from her. She wrapped her coat more tightly around herself, therefore, and sank down onto the floor to lean up against the glass, still waiting for sunrise.

What was truly ironic, of course, was that--as she had learned this painfully necessary life lesson--Michael had apparently *un*learned it. She let out a little laugh. She loved him for this, indeed, for the sweet belief he still wanted to give her, but she knew it was meaningless now. All that ever led to was pain.

Her heart ached, as she wrapped her arms more tightly about her legs and rubbed her saddened face against the glass. His advice on that last night they had been together still rang in her head, but she, really, should have given the same advice to him, should have been the one to try to convince him to move on, to find a way without her. His devotion to her warmed her soul, of course, but it was a dead end for him, wouldn't bring him anything like happiness. She swallowed heavily once more. She just wasn't capable of doing that.

She closed her eyes, the tears flowing again. Part of her wished, then, that he could find someone sweet and innocent to fill in the gaps he perceived in his heart; it was a role she had played for awhile--but one she no longer could. She shook a little with her tears. He would be so much better off without her.

This thought, however, was too much for her; the tears were choking her now. She leaned her head to rest on her knees, crying against her coat. As much as she knew that she should just let him go, though--as painfully as she understood that he would be infinitely better off without her--she just couldn't do it, couldn't even begin to imagine life without him. It just wasn't possible.

She let out an unhappy little laugh again, her tortured thoughts continuing here, as she rubbed her face against the cloth. This, really, was the irony of their lives together; as much as both of them would have been so much healthier apart, they couldn't let go, refused to. Even when she hadn't been able to be his lover for the several weeks before this assignment, she couldn't just tell him to move on, couldn't bear the thought of it. And he, too--despite his permission and advice to her to find someone else--couldn't let go. They were both just too needy.

She still smiled a little, however, as she remembered that last night. Even as he had told her these things, indeed, he had gone to great lengths to show her with his body that there would never be anyone else for her, that whoever she might be with besides himself would always be meaningless. They were caught--were bound to each other, then, regardless of all the reasons they should part. There was just no way out.

She knew she had to stop thinking about this, knew she was just tormenting herself. She sighed, therefore, swallowing heavily, and looked up, trying to stop crying. There was no reason to keep pondering this, indeed. Nothing would lead them out.

She let out another sigh and rubbed her tears off against her coat, her mind trying to settle itself once more. Her torment, she supposed, was an indulgence, really; there was no good it was doing to anyone. She might as well just put it aside and wait for the end, whenever it was coming. There was little else to be done until then.

She looked back up toward the sky, waiting for the first rays of light--the ones which would signal that it was finally getting closer to time to start the day, to begin her few-hour-long distraction. She had begun trying to accept the truth back in her last few weeks on the inside, but now she had to face it completely; there was nothing to life but pain. Michael wasn't even a real exception to this rule, was a simple necessity for her existence, nothing more. All she could do, therefore, was wait for her masters to tire of this new game and finally let her in on the rules. Then she could find a way toward closure and get back to the one man who made her existence real. There was nothing else to be done.

Until that time, too, there was just the wait. She would follow the unspoken rules, would pretend to live, to "enjoy" the life she had been given. Maybe that was even what they wanted--maybe they were just waiting, once again, for things to get good, were waiting to punish her for any mild pleasure she might experience; it would be a complex way of accomplishing this end, of course, but that didn't make it completely unlikely for them. Maybe that was what they were looking for here.

She smiled slightly, looking up into the dark sky, her mind having turned. Yes, this was her new plan. She would try to make it look good--would try to pretend that her life outside had meaning for her; then they would be sure to bring it to a close. . . . They would never even consider allowing her a moment of pleasure.

She sighed, a little happier, her thoughts focusing in. Things were turning around; she had a strategy now. Finally, then, there was hope.

Chapter 6

Spec. Op.: Henri 84-W-106 Assignment #: 3428-947-681/0907 Subject: Nikita 31-J-7 Reason for Evaluation: Monthly Psychological Review and Assessment of Integration Levels Rating: Psych.--75%; Integration--45%

Summary: Subject Nikita shows continuing signs of inability to adjust or function in non-regulated environment. Moods are varying and unhealthy; paranoia level is high. While continued exposure to current outside integration scheme may vary subject's reactions, probability of failure remains constant.

Review: Evaluator arrived without appointment to find subject alone. Probability of company was low, subject seeming to be used to isolation. Having a visitor made her nervous.

She exhibited several signs of nervous tension during examiner's visit, in fact--excessive perspiration, need to control hands to avoid anxious gestures, barrier signals. Further, her aggressive tendencies, when questioned, continued. While she submitted to the evaluation without attempting to derail questions excessively, she still showed marked disinclination to answer candidly; responses were fully thought out and evaluated before being spoken. Once said, as well, her attempts to evaluate the evaluator continued. All of these habits persist unabated from first meeting with subject.

These traits being noted, however, there was also in the subject a quiet acceptance of the evaluator's presence. Although she showed considerable, if veiled, paranoia about the results of the visit and the purpose of her new life, she also seemed to be allowing events to unfold as they will. Whether this is a positive habit or not, though, is debatable.

As to her environment, discussion of her present quarters and her method of acquiring them have been detailed in previous reports. Her continued residence there, however, shows not so much a determination to cling to past habits as another example of her indifference to this choice. Am convinced that she is simply waiting for it to be taken from her.

Her residence, too, was kept very neatly, but this is a recognized trait of this particular subject. Very little in it revealed a personality or mind at work, however, as she continues to cling to her previous habits as an operative. She has yet to see any advantage in making the place her own, as she seems convinced that it is merely temporary.

Still, her home did show small signs of inhabitancy. Subject has made herself comfortable there and continued to show the same habits of her former, non-regulated, time on the outside. While this is partly a sign of her integration, too, it also seems more likely to show--once again--her arbitrary acceptance of new quarters, until they are changed by outside order. Further, one of her primary traits on her downtime as an operative was her inability to find a complete focus outside of missions. This continues. While there were a few books around her residence, there were no more than she ever had while inside. She is not developing an inner life, then, and shows no particular interest in doing so.

Subject has been evaluated at her new employment, as well. Her interactions with her co-workers, superiors, and other variables were friendly and surfacely polite. However, she showed no deeper interest in either her work or those around her. Her politely outgoing manner, as well, is again another constant from her life on the inside.

As to personal contacts, she has very few--and almost none beyond her employment. While she has shared lunch with co-workers, there are no deeper bonds perceivable in any of these interactions.

This unwillingness to form allegiances, too, was witnessed even further in her more intimate life. While there have been several men, and a few women, who have shown interest, she has politely turned down all of them with almost no outer reaction at all.

This desire to hold herself apart from the world around her, further, is more disturbing, because it breaks with the pattern she has consistently shown in her record within the organization. She is known to have formed bonds with several members inside and has had intimate contact on a number of occasions with another operative in particular. It is possible that subject is having trouble disengaging herself from these prior attachments, but, when the previously-noted operative was mentioned by the evaluator during questioning, subject showed little marked difference in responses, besides a slight shifting of the shoulders. It is difficult to evaluate her continuing attachment to this man, therefore, but she does seem to expect, again, that she will not be outside long enough to form such bonds here.

There is one further note to be made on this subject's interpersonal bonds and motives, as well. When the evaluator commented, as instructed, that her success or failure here could impact the futures of many of those within the organization, much of her manner changed, becoming more cooperative. She still seems to possess lingering traces of empathy, then. While this is quite obviously a dangerous trait for any operative, it could very well be used to her advantage in the outside world.

Recommendations: Subject's current responses to her environment are not encouraging. Still, she has been shown in the past to be easily adaptive, so possibility of success is still high.

There are several areas which will have to change to ensure that this program will succeed in its alpha test, though. The first is the subject's marked lassitude, her unquestioned acceptance of what she feels may come. While this can be a highly valuable trait within the organization, it is maladaptive for the outside world, where a greater sense of determination and ambition are required.

Subject's sleeping patterns, too, are worth watching closely for this trait. While internal surveillance is not available, she has been easily observed on many nights to be restless and to even ignore the need for sleep. The significance of these insomniac traits should not be underestimated, as they signify an ongoing adaptation to Section life--and a continuing lack of adjustment to normal, outside sleeping patterns.

Further, the possibility of psychological impetus for this habit--as opposed to simple readjustment from longer working hours on the inside--lingers. Should they prove to be an indicator of subject's refusal to accept her changed situation or her desire to return to a more regulated life, the likelihood of her adaptation to the outside world is small.

The second area to be watched closely will be the subject's marked desire for isolation. Unless this changes, any integration into the greater world will be impossible.

The third area to watch, however, is possibly the most important. Subject still shows a high tendency toward paranoia; she is unwilling to believe anything she is told. This, truly, is maladaptive to both her life within and without of the organization. Even if this test fails, therefore, this trait would be worth watching out for.

Conclusion: Evaluator would continue to test this subject. While she has yet to progress particularly in the weeks since alpha test has begun, her scores and history within Section show consistently that she is the best candidate for this study. Should she fail, others would be unable to succeed in her stead.

This study's p.o.s., then, rests on subject's ability to readapt to a non-structured lifestyle. Should she begin to succeed here, and should she be able to start making necessary interpersonal bonds, evaluator would then recommend a wider test of this program.

He read the report for at least the third time, every word of it making him ache. His beloved, it seemed, had not followed his advice. She simply wasn't able to find her peace.

Michael closed his eyes briefly and then typed in a few commands, turning off the report, filing it away again. He wasn't supposed to have seen it, of course; it wasn't intended for him. Still, he had needed to know, had hacked into it anyway--as he had both of the prior ones on her. . . . It was the closest he got to Nikita anymore.

He closed his eyes again, trying to hold in his pain, as his mind ran back through endless days of torment. . . . Six weeks. It had been six, painfully long, weeks, since he had last held his beloved, since he had last seen her face. Every day of them, too, he had spent torn--wishing for a reprieve from his loneliness while still also, ironically, praying that she would come to terms with being free, that she would find some joy there. It was the least he could hope for her now.

He sighed, opening his eyes once more. It seemed so little to ask. All he wanted was for a little pleasure to return to her, was for something--*anything*--to pull his most treasured beloved back into the realm of life. He swallowed heavily. But nothing yet had come close to achieving that. Not even him.

He realized that he couldn't simply sit there all day, not quite so obviously, anyway, and typed in a few commands, pulling up a profile--giving himself something to pretend to be doing. There was only so long he could shut off the surveillance in his office before suspicions would grow. He had to give them something to watch.

His mind, however, continued on with his thoughts. His desire to see Nikita rediscover her sense of self, though--wherever it may be found--didn't mean that he was just quietly accepting her absence from his life. Every second she was away from him was a torment, made his soul ache with longing. He wanted--needed--her back in his arms, needed this precious woman back where he could watch over her. Especially--given the report--if she wasn't gaining any joy in her new life, then he needed her back alongside him. The least he could give her, after all, was his presence.

He sighed, pretending to focus on the words before him, but, in his mind's eye, he was still seeing the report. Every word of it, truly, had torn at him, made him ache. It all sounded so clinical, so detached. Every evaluation it put forth was based on such meaningless criteria, too, ones he found it impossible to believe in anymore. She had taught him otherwise.

His thoughts worked through it all sadly again. He had seen so many reports like it before, had seen some nice, neat--supposedly logical--evaluation of a subject whose pain and traumas had been boiled down into precise, clean language--bleeding out all life. Even the ones he read about Elena and Adam followed this pattern; for months after his supposed death, in fact, he had forced himself to read terrible assessments, detailing in detached language just how torn apart his assigned wife and child had been at his loss. All of the pain was there still in the words, of course, but the evaluator always tried to distance it by an adopted detachment. It was terrible to read.

He swallowed heavily. None of it, though--none of their clinical phrases--hid the truth; they were hurting, and he was the cause. And now, with Nikita, it was exactly the same. . . . He had failed the ones he loved yet again.

His breath was shaky, but he forced himself to keep up the mask, to pretend to a sense of control he no longer felt, as his tormented thoughts went on. His sense of self-hatred was growing lately. With every day of distance between himself and his beloved, he was reminded again of how useless he was to her, of how utterly unable to protect or aid her he had been. So often in the last half year or so, in fact, he had failed her utterly; the instances rang out in his soul, shaking him: the Gelman process, the mission with Volker, her lingering loss of self. All of it could have--*should* have--been avoided, should have been predicted and prevented by him, but he had let her down every time. Now, too, she was paying the price once again for his incompetence.

His heart ached terribly, as his mind ran over the report once more; its every word showed his failure. He had tried to convince her to enjoy her time away, to use it to piece back together her scattering fragments of self, but she simply hadn't been able to--he hadn't given her that ability. She needed something now, some sense of strength and determination in order to be able to go on--a sense which had been bled out of her purposely over the last several months, but, despite his attempts, he hadn't been able to give this to her. Something within her was dying.

He blinked back his threatening tears heavily and tried to move his mind on. He knew, of course, that she had at least found a way to continue, a way to get through the days--knew that, had she been able to stay in Section, she would have returned to him again--but her new approach to life was really no better than the state of lost confusion which had preceded it. Now, she was where he had been for so long, indeed, until she had rescued him--was living within the painful delusion that there was never any hope or joy to living at all, that all there was was survival. She, however, had brought him back from this terrible half-life, had taught him to live again. . . . Why, then, couldn't he return this blessing to her now?

His breath shuddered out heavily again, as his heart moaned at the answer to this question. He couldn't succeed, was doomed to fail, because he wasn't her--he wasn't blessed. He had more love for her than she had ever experienced before; he would have done anything to please her. Still, none of this had been her true beauty for him in those early days. No. That had been the simple, angelic, innocent light she carried within her--the one he had helped to extinguish. And that, truly, was something he could never hope to have the ability to give her back.

Everything within him mourned horribly at these thoughts, at their terrible truth. None of his pain, though, could change any of these facts. There was nothing he could do to help her.

He tried to refocus his mind, then, tried to look at something, anything, which would cause him less pain--but the attempt failed utterly. There just wasn't anything else.

His tormented thoughts went on, therefore. He had thought he had taken the right approach; he had wanted to believe that this new path, this new assignment, might actually be good for her, might provide her with the time she needed to be alone. He was beginning to see his mistake, however--was beginning to understand the facts. Solitude wasn't what she needed right now. The most sense of life he had seen in her, of late, in fact, had been on the one night they had shared together before she had been sent away. He wanted her back, therefore, so that he could give her whatever it was she found in him which gave her comfort. He might have no idea of what it was, but it was obviously there. So long as she would accept it, then, it would be enough for him to give.

This new revelation of his, though, was of little use to him now. Neither he nor his beloved had any real ability to choose an end to her current isolation. That, instead, was for their masters.

His mind went on, then, to attempt to understand this latest course, trying to decipher his leaders' motives; their cover story was so obviously untrue. What was it, then, that they really wanted with her?

He spent several minutes scrolling through the profile in front of him, making a few minor changes by instinct, while his mind tried to analyze. He could come up, however, with no real answers. All he could see were the lies.

He had to give up on this approach finally, therefore; he would just have to wait to see what their fates would bring them. He had pulled in some favors, indeed, to ensure that she was watched out for--that she was physically safe--but, beyond that, there was little he could do but wait and hope that, once the truth was revealed, it wouldn't be too brutal. She had had enough of that to last a lifetime.

His mind focused back on her latest evaluation, then, zeroing in on one detail in particular. While he was partly relieved at her continuing aloofness from men, at the fact that her bed was still empty without him, part of him wished, as well, that she could find some comfort there. There had been one night of pleasure she had shared with Volker, after all; maybe, if she could just force herself to let go of her guilt over her needs, she could draw enough strength from this course again to go on.

He ignored the internal scream part of his soul gave at these thoughts, of course, telling himself that it would be for the best. Nikita was a passionate creature, indeed--one who had always desired a lover's or friend's soft touch to remind her that she was really alive. So long ago, he had even used that need to manipulate her, to twist her to the evil ends he had once believed in. Now, though, he wanted her to find this part of herself again, to focus on what comfort it could give her, on the desire it might provide her to be able to continue. Maybe, even if he wasn't there, that would be enough to get her through.

He blinked back the tears which were threatening to sting his eyes, his soul still screaming at these thoughts. All of these newer beliefs, after all, were the result of his logic and of the more generous part of his love. There was another part of him, though, which ached when thinking, for even a second, not just that she might be intimately involved with another soul, but that she might so much as *focus* on another man in desire. His love for her had always been greedy, indeed. He had yet to overcome it at all.

Part of him, then, cried out like a possessive child that she was his and his alone--cried out, like the cold op. that he was, that he would brutally kill anyone who came close to moving her. No one else--ever--could have his beloved.

He took a deep breath, however, trying to repress this part of himself. He truly felt that he had to let this go. If she were on the outside, were away from himself--the one person he knew she truly wanted to be with--then she still needed someone, needed a source of comfort. She had to get that from somewhere.

He hurried through to the end of the profile before him, only tweaking it slightly; he couldn't really focus on it at all. The truth of all of his thoughts was weighing on him terribly, was making everything too painful; his most beloved partner was away from him--was bound in a freedom which wasn't worth the name, which would only, no doubt, lead her to more torment, and he was, once more, nowhere near to be able to alleviate it at all.

He was failing her again, then, was failing her miserably--and all he could do in this enforced impotence was wait. God, it hurt. It was just a brutal irony, too, that the only sense of release she seemed likely to experience was by being brought back into this hell, . . . but--when she returned--he would be waiting. If nothing else, his angel would have his comfort--even if that were only of another lost soul.

Chapter 7

She had told herself that she was listening for the other shoe to drop, that it was what she wanted. In part, too, she had been right; at least it had brought her constant waiting to an end. Still, it amazed her no less how--even with all the dire scenarios she had created in her head in six weeks' time--the truth of the matter had managed to outdistance them all.

Nikita sighed, as she sat back on her bed in Section--well, no, not *her* bed; nothing here was really hers. She gave a disgusted little smile. Even the bloody gun under the mattress had been put there by someone else.

Her mind was reeling now, was struggling desperately to find some sense of calm or reason. None, however, was apparent. Her situation was worse than she had ever imagined it to be, than she ever could have believed. She sighed. It didn't help her sanity, either, that she was convinced that she had yet to even understand how bad it really was.

Her mind worked through everything, though, nonetheless; she did need to at least try to come to terms with it all. The whole half-mission she had suffered through for the last month and a half had been a set up--but she had figured that. What she hadn't counted on was just who was setting her up.

She was still reeling from the terrible information she had been given by her new superior--the real reasons for her recruitment. She had known for awhile, of course, that her unjust murder conviction, and the events which had led to it, hadn't been simple, unfortunate chance--as she had originally imagined, had known that Section had set her up. What she had never yet been able to discover, though, was the reason why she--a young woman with no skills and little education--had been chosen. Now, however, it was possible she knew the truth.

She shuddered a little, trying to take this terrible new twist in: her father--a member of Section; the thought hurt a little, in a way she couldn't quite explain. She tried to analyze the feeling. It was like the whole damn thing had been inevitable, as though all the torment of this existence had been brought upon her by genetics as well as fate. . . . Maybe she was really damned.

She shook her head slightly. But no--it wasn't quite fate, not really; it was Operations. A brutal frisson of anger shuddered through her. He had known about her innocence all along--had planned her entry into Section "to prove his strength"--George had said. He was beating his chest, showing the world what a big, brave man he was by framing a young girl for murder and then ruining her life, knowingly attempting to steal her soul. . . . Damn him.

The pain of this revelation just didn't seem to end at all. If it were true, then all of her suspicions that the torments of her life within Section's walls had been both planned and evilly-intentioned were absolutely verified. She had been brought in for the amusement of her cruel master, of this man who wanted to claim her soul. She could, indeed, kill him for that--for all the wrong he had done her, for all the things he had stolen. There was just no end to the list of those injustices, indeed.

She took a deep breath, trying to clear away the fury that threatened to envelop her. She had to force herself to focus, to remember the truths here. She had no way of knowing, after all, whether anything which George had told her was true or not; he did have a very definite agenda. It was possible, for all she knew, that he had been the one to bring her in, for some thin reason or another, and was now using his lies to try to convince her to kill his rival, instead. Anything in this snake pit was possible.

She let out a tired sigh. Where, then, did all of this leave her? What real options did she have? On one side, George was poised to strike--was waiting for her cooperation in his deadly plans. What he might do if she refused was unknown but would probably be entirely unpleasant. On the other side, too, there was Operations--her constant tormentor. His obvious, unshielded pleasure at her failure, at having her back in his clutches had been galling, to say the least. But his retribution if she should fail to kill him would be, at a minimum, every bit as harsh as his rival's. . . . There was no way out.

She didn't know which way to turn, then, had no idea whether either side could help her, could offer her anything but pain. She thought into it further. Would she, though--would anyone--really be any worse off if she killed their master? Was that really something to avoid? He had used them all, had brutalized the souls of every single person who had ever been under his command. None of them owed him anything at all. Maybe, therefore, this path would be the best.

She let out a deep sigh, her heart torn at all of these thoughts. Still, she had no particular desire to carry it out, had no love of killing in cold blood. If she had to, though, she would. . . . It was just down to the variables.

One of the biggest of these variables, as well, was just what would happen to her if she took this path. What would they do to her? George, of course, had promised that someone would look after her, but he could easily be lying; she had no way to know. Who, then, did she trust?

She sat quietly for another few seconds, her mind working. It was obvious that one thing which George had said was true--he did have someone on the inside; *someone* had put that gun under her mattress. It was who that person might be that was entirely up to question.

Her mind, therefore, jumped to the answer she had been trained to so often--to the one the constant weight and pain of the years had taught her to believe: Michael. He was the next in line, once Operations was gone, after all; she suspected, too, that he had sided with George in the past, at least during his brief stint in his leader's role, although she didn't know all the details. Was it possible, then, that he was now using her to further their goals--that he had been the one to put George on to her? She shuddered a little, not liking the answer. God help her. . . . It was.

She closed her eyes and let out a heavy sigh. She hated this, but it made sense to her, really. He had been the one who believed that some time on her own would help her to rediscover the parts of her soul she had lost; he had been the one to encourage her to use that time for herself. Maybe, then, he, too, had been the one to help set this in motion, maybe he had even convinced George to include this in his plan as part of the deal. Maybe he really believed it was for the best.

She shuddered slightly again, however, as a wave of anger went through her, her emotions changing course. How dare he do this, though--how dare he ask this of her without her permission? She had thought they were beyond all this garbage, that they had left it behind. . . . Maybe, however, she had been wrong.

She forced open her eyes, her gaze intense. She supposed there was only one way to find out. She would go to him and see what he knew, what he would tell her. Usually, indeed--even if he didn't fully admit his role in some new torment which swirled around her--she could tell whether he were involved in it. She would just have to see this time, too.

She pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt and tucked away the purloined gun, before beginning to sneak out to find him. Her mind, though, continued on, a desperate hope--possibly born, she realized, out of denial alone--going through her. Maybe she was wrong about Michael; maybe he wasn't George's link. Of course, if he weren't, then she was really lost, was truly on her own. She decided, then, not to think into it too far.

There was only one more random thought about this, therefore, as she snuck through Section toward his office. Her heart still hurt, truly, at having manipulated Michael--at having used him to get back in. She had *hated* having to do it, especially given his immediate response to her call for aid; just seeing him as he had entered the restaurant for their meet, indeed, just watching his beautiful face and form as he arrived, as she had waited patiently to be grabbed, had made her heart call out for him. She did so hope that he could forgive her, if he didn't prove to be George's aide.

Her casual walk through Section, toward his office, went on, most of the other operatives too lost in their own thoughts to notice--or not aware enough of her current status to think her free movement strange. Her mind, too, watched them quietly, changing paths. She wondered now, indeed, how many of them actually had believed the supposed reason for this last mission--that she was really a "test case." Were there really more like Walter and Birkoff who were foolish enough to think there was still a way out from this life? She shook her head. God, she hoped not.

She shuddered a little, as her thoughts were drawn back to her earlier encounters today with her friends--and with Michael. They had been entirely unable to understand why she might return, why this false "freedom" wasn't so tempting a concept for her. She had told them part of the truth, as well, had tried to explain her need--that she had to have Michael in order to truly feel free--but they hadn't gotten it at all, had mocked her, instead. She shuddered slightly again. She had had to, then, resort to a painful truth she had discovered on the outside, to the fact that life all on your own was not easy. What hadn't been true in her account of it to them, though, was that she would have gladly risked the uncertainty of that life, had Michael just been with her. Without him, though . . .

She sighed slightly, scanning the area near Comm. for the right moment, before she reached his office and slipped inside, shutting the door behind her again; she had to take in her breath, too, as the memories of the room overwhelmed her. God. So much of her life seemed to have happened here, both beautiful and terrible. She would never be able to process it all.

She took a deep breath, therefore, and forced herself to sit, to wait for him. She took his chair this time, however, rather than her own--taking a second to tap his code for privacy into the panel in his desk. This, after all, was a private conversation.

She waited, then, waited for the man she could never quite figure out. Even now, even after all this time, she only had a half-grasp on who he really was, it seemed. She had no idea whether to see him as George's conspirator or not.

She leaned back in the chair and pulled her hood more securely over her head, her heart pounding just slightly. For better or for worse, though, she supposed she was going to have to find out now. She sighed heavily. . . . She just prayed that, should her suspicions turn out to be false, he would learn to forgive her for them someday.

It was a little too much for him to handle, was too much to be able to cope with well. She had come back--his angel had returned to him. But, instead of the joy this might have brought, that he had expected it to, there was only torment. She, after all, had come willingly back into Hell--and she had done it for him alone.

He let out a silent, shuddering breath, as he sat quietly at a briefing, his mind anywhere except on the information before him. He had wanted, had been praying, that he would get his beloved back soon, of course, but he hadn't wanted it to happen like this, hadn't wanted her to give up her one chance at resurrection because of him. His heart ached. It was just too cruel of fate to have made him her tormentor once more.

He continued to pretend to listen to his master, his face impassive--denying the torment in his soul. The image of her in that tiny Section room earlier today--the sight of her beautiful face, as he had come to see her in disgrace--was burned into him. They hadn't even had the decency to return her to her full role, had exiled her before putting her back into "probationary status," had set her up for it all along. . . . It was just too much to bear.

His mind focused here, despite the torment the thoughts brought, as the briefing continued on around him. He wondered now, as well, if this had been their plan all along. Had they just been hoping to damage her field status for some reason, as a prelude to cancellation, maybe? He felt a shudder run deep inside him, one he barely managed to repress the signs of. Please, God, . . . no.

His mind turned, then--running from this thought, needing to find a way out. There was another possibility, after all; maybe they had just been playing a shell game, had been diverting both of their attention away while they carried out some deeper plan. He took in a quiet, deep breath. He almost hoped so. It looked good, comparatively.

There was something else which was plaguing him, though--was something else which he couldn't get out of his mind. There had been something in his beloved's look today, in the gaze in her eyes. He had a deep, aching fear, truly, that this wasn't all, that there was indeed some deeper, more terrible plan in the works again--one of which he was entirely unaware. Lord, it hurt.

His heart shuddered, too, as he thought into it further. Dear God--had they done something to her again while she had been out there, something his informants had missed? He struggled to keep his torment inside, as he fought down his sense of panic. He could only pray not--but he would have to keep a very close eye on her, nonetheless.

He was just playing further with this thought, with the sad fact--as well--that one of their few safe places to discuss their feelings, while mobile in his car, was now gone, when the briefing was dismissed, and he was allowed to return to his office. Finally. Keeping his torment internal had been becoming a bit too much.

His relief, however, was short-lived; his heart seemed to stop once he was there. She was here, was sitting in his chair, her back to him. Yes, she had the hood of a sweatshirt pulled up to partly hide her face, but it wasn't any mere physical fact which let him know of her presence; he felt her. Something in her, too, was terribly wrong, was off. His fear shuddered through him more strongly, as he shut his door, looking out the window briefly to be sure no one had seen her, his mind racing. Please let his fears be wrong.

She knew it was him, could feel him entering. He was nervous. She wondered whether that meant he was innocent or guilty. Whichever it was, she would learn soon.

She took a deep breath, her face still partly concealed from him. "We need to talk."

He walked around to take up a place behind her, almost afraid to come too close--afraid of what he might learn. "You're not supposed to be here."

She resisted the urge to laugh; it wasn't a particularly humorous situation, after all. She leaned her head back against the seat, her back still to him. "There's a lot I'm not supposed to do."

He looked up at the door again, his heart quietly pounding. His terror about what might be going on--about what might have been done to her--was warring with the fear of her possible discovery here. Satisfied that they were momentarily safe, however, he refocused on her--and on the gun she had set on his desk. "How'd you get that?" His terrors were growing.

Ah--the denials were starting; his discomfort--his fear of her discovery--was pushing her into a judgment against him. She pushed back her hood and started to sit up. "I found it." She turned the chair to face him, but she was still looking at the weapon. "Under my bed."

He tried to keep his expressions controlled, waiting to see where this would lead. He had to force himself to see this through, after all, had to try to understand--however terrible the knowledge. He focused down on the gun, shaking his head, before looking back to her; his voice was calm. "Can't keep it."

His denials were wearing on her, were *way* too familiar. She was certain she felt something in him now--some sense of guilt; she had already made her determination about him, then. Damn him.

Still, there were things she needed to know, things she had a right to. She went on, gazing down, her eyes distant, sad, and thoughtful--a little angry as well, as she nodded, waiting for him to break, to just tell her the truth. "Why was I chosen?" She looked up at him again, expectant.

He still wasn't entirely clear on what was happening here, but one thing had become evident. She was being used again--for what he had no idea. His gaze saddened, but he was utterly silent. It hurt him more than he could say that she would think he would manipulate her again.

She was still waiting. This knowledge, indeed, was the least she deserved.

When his answer didn't come, though, she took a deep breath and shrugged slightly, looking away. Maybe she should have predicted that, if he were using her like this again, he would have no compunction about keeping her in the dark, as well. She tried to fill in the blanks herself, therefore. "Is it . . . because of my relationship with you?" She paused again, tired of his games, but forced into playing them once more, nonetheless. She waited to see what would bring on his next move, then.

He continued to watch her silently, afraid to speak at all. His fears had changed direction, it was true, but they were at least as overwhelming now as they had been before. Dear God--what was this about? What had they forced her into the middle of this time? Where was this going to lead them now?

Her wait was for nothing, of course. Damn him again. She gazed up and away, tired of this game, her anger merging into her pain. "I can't do this without some answers, Michael." A few tears clogged her throat slightly, her doubts and fears tormenting her. She swallowed heavily.

He looked up and away, trying desperately to repress his own terrors, before focusing back on her; he couldn't be silent anymore, needed to know what was going on. Still, he was more than a little afraid that--once he spoke--any clues she might have unintentionally given him would evaporate. "Do what?" The fear was evident in his voice, but he was trying to contain it, was trying to convince himself to stay calm; if he could just focus enough, he could figure this out. He had to.

She looked up at him--surprised, but the emotion fled her quickly. The look then showed her hurt--her pain that he would manipulate her like this and not even let her in on all the reasons for it. His own eyes met hers--saddened, worried--but she didn't see his real emotions at all.

Her gaze pinned him, accusing, her heart thudding a little in torment. She was saddened at his attempts at denial, of course, but she still wanted answers. "I think you know."

An internal tremor of torment ran through him, overwhelming him. He couldn't take her accusations anymore; the pain was just too great. He looked up at the door--terrified, as well, that someone would make this terrible situation even worse by spotting her; he moved closer, then, changing the subject. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere?"

Ah, now she was getting to the truth; he was getting to his real agenda. "Where?" She leaned on her arm, running her hand through loose strands of her hair--waiting.

God, how had he set off that knowing look in her eyes again? What had he done? . . . What had she gotten herself into now?

He squatted down by her chair to be on eye level with her, praying for some leverage, some way to bring her back. No matter how great his pain, after all, no matter how little he understood, he still needed to connect--to protect her. His gaze probed deep, trying to remind her of the only reality he knew for now. "Training."

She nodded, seeing that he had backed off--had shut her out again; her hand was running through her hair still, a little absently, as she met his eyes. She saw no quarter there, though; he wouldn't explain. She looked down for a second before she focused on him once more, accepting resignedly; she had to.

Or maybe she didn't. Her mind turned, remembering something--saw her chance. She looked down to the gun and picked it up, holding it in her palm, focusing on it for a second, before gazing back at him again; her eyes looked deep. Her hand displayed the weapon to him, her eyes challenging him--giving him a way to prove his innocence, or for her to prove her point. "You don't want to confiscate this?"

God, what was in her mind now? He couldn't do that, of course; she should have known that. He looked from her to the gun and back, as he whispered his response--trying to make the obvious thoughts as private as possible. "If I do that, and they find out, they'll put you in abeyance."

She had him now; her look was knowing, as she focused away and on the weapon. "Is that the only reason?" She was playing with the safety.

God. His heart ached, as he gazed over the weapon and back to her. He had never seen so perfect a living metaphor before; she was a loaded gun.

He was afraid to say anything, but he couldn't refuse to respond entirely; he didn't know what that might do to her, in her present state. "I trust you'll take it back."

She understood, so she thought; she looked up at him again--that knowing look there once more. "When I'm done," she insinuated.

He gazed into her, saddened, worried, trying to understand; he just couldn't get past the pain. One thought played in his head--one he didn't speak. "What have they done to you, my love?"

She got up and walked away, leaving him there by the chair, still squatting down, unable to force himself to move. A cold fear was working through him, after all, was freezing him. . . . He was no longer certain he would ever be warm again.

She was content, as she left, if not really happy; she had him, she knew. She left with the conviction, indeed, that she had found George's conspirator.

Her heart beat more calmly now--now that her life made a little more sense again. She understood it, understood the last several weeks, and she could once more live relatively peacefully--even if she wasn't entirely pleased with the knowledge. She could see his motives, indeed; he was just keeping her out of the loop yet again, was being cautious by revealing nothing out loud. To her mind, however, everything had been spoken, nonetheless. Now, then, at least, she could go on.

He managed to rise finally but stared after her even long after she had gone, his gaze an absolute reflection of his emotions. All of his earlier terrors had been proved right, even more horribly than he had thought; she had been gotten to, maybe not brainwashed but still tampered with badly. They were using her for something, for some terrible plan they had devised, and they had done it by convincing her that he was involved, as well. It was all just too much to accept.

He continued to stand there, his heart freezing even further, his terror bone-deep, as the knowledge sunk in completely--bringing everything like life in him to a halt. What new hell was visiting them this time, he wondered, his silent thoughts echoing through him, aching, once again: "Where did I fail you this time, my one? . . . What have they done to you now?"

Chapter 8

So far, it was going quite well. He had given his chosen assassin a taste of the life she had missed--the one which had been stolen from her by her target--and had then simply pointed her in the right direction. Now, all he had to do was put Operations in the right place at the right time and wait. And then everything, finally, would be as it should.

George indulged himself in a slight smile at these thoughts, as he sat back in the chair in his office. He knew that it was deadly to become overconfident, however, so he took a deep breath, reining in his hopes. Everything may seem to be going well so far, but that certainly didn't mean that disaster might not still be lurking. He would have to be very careful, then, as he waited.

His eyes traced over to the clock, as he timed the placement of his call; it had to be just right. Since he saw that he had a few minutes left, though, he allowed himself to simply sit and think. In his position, after all, *simply* doing anything was a rare opportunity. He might as well enjoy it.

His thoughts ran first, then, to the history of this game he was presently engaged in. It had been a long time in coming, this revenge against his old foe--had taken years to properly arrange. It went back, truly--he supposed--to Paul's coup, to when the man had displaced the woman George still loved. . . . He had never entirely forgiven him for that.

He thought back through all the years of their acquaintance once more; none of them were pleasant. He had known Paul from the first, had been the one to make the original suggestion that he be brought in, in fact. It had been a mistake. Adrian had told him as much, as well--had allowed him to play out this hunch, but had warned him thoroughly that his new recruit would have to be carefully watched; she, indeed, had seen in the man something his own eyes had missed--and he had regretted, ever since, doubting her word.

He took a deep, supporting breath; any memory of his murdered partner was always, at least partly, a painful one. Still, he had been young in those days--too young, he supposed. He might have gained some sense since he had originally met and egotistically, chauvinistically, challenged his female leader--might have even grown enough to finally slightly merit having become her lover--but he was well aware that he had never quite been her equal. Yes, he had tried, and she had trained him well--even in those earlier days when he had fought against such training--but Adrian had possessed a certain quality of spirit he had never been entirely able to emulate, as much as he might have tried. He sighed. He missed her still.

His thoughts were carrying him off, were losing him in days so long ago. He had been a fool not to listen to her about his choice, had been blinded, he supposed, by some sort of young man's ego trap, one which--despite all the evidence he had been given, despite the fact that he had come to respect her immensely--had still taken precedence in him, from time to time. He had believed that Wolfe would work well for them, therefore, that the young man had just the qualities they had needed. . . . But he had been very, very wrong.

He sighed deeply once more, still saddened by his own stubborn blindness. It had taken him quite awhile before he had truly started to admit his foolishness, however--had been, he supposed, when Paul and Madeline had truly begun to click. There was something about the pair, indeed, which made his blood run cold; Adrian had, more or less, dismissed them, at her eventual peril, but he had looked in their eyes and seen something which frightened him immensely. And he had never been able to rid himself of the feeling yet.

He took another deep breath, trying to distance himself from these emotions, intellectualizing--his mind running back to his once-partner's evaluation again. He had never entirely understood why Adrian hadn't seen the pair's true danger; it was the one and only error in judgment he had ever really known her to make. He supposed--as much as he could penetrate it, though--that she had simply not feared them because they were so obviously below her in both intelligence and experience. No, she hadn't entirely discounted them; they were still valuable operatives to her, if ones she never entirely trusted, but she had never seen them as the threat which he himself had. . . . It had been her one great mistake.

He couldn't pull his mind away from this track; his eyes unfocused, as he looked back further. He supposed, however, that it had really, for her, come down to the fact that she simply knew no fear. Never once in his life with her had he ever seen her even mildly afraid. Yes--all the other times--she had known a threat when it was before her, but she had always met it with an immense, quiet calm and dignity. It was a trait he still envied, one he had only been able to imitate outwardly. He had never had it, inherently, himself.

Given this particular strength, then, Adrian had become slightly reckless, when it came to her two most effective, if ruthless, operatives. She had allowed their relationship to continue unabated, even though she had been well aware that--as she had put it--Madeline had been "grooming" him for bigger things. Still, she had always rather discounted Madeline, had almost laughed at her, when the younger woman had tried to intimidate her; she had seen nothing in her younger counterpart which was impressive enough to fear. And, he suspected, this was the one thing for which Madeline had never truly forgiven her.

He shook his head a little, saddened, the memories still causing him pain. No, she had never understood the pair's real threat, had smiled when he had begun to refer to them as the "Siamese twins," but had discounted any notion that they could harm her position significantly. How he wished she hadn't been wrong.

Still, he took another deep breath, forcing his mind on, she obviously had been--and the results had been disastrous, for everyone. He wished, still, that he had been there, as well, that he had been closer, to help her. It was ironic, really, that he had been the one pegged to command Oversight; she was the one who was made for the job, despite his qualifications. She, however, had been adamant, when the offer had come to her; she would stay in One, would continue to oversee it, to make certain that it functioned as it was supposed to. He shook his head again. Perhaps if she had simply moved on, if there had been roles for both of them in Oversight--or beyond--Paul and Madeline would never have made their move, since the jobs they now inhabited might well have landed on them, anyway. It had been, he suspected, really her refusal to step down which had made their desire for power so suddenly desperate. It had been the last straw.

There was a sadness in him still, as he pondered back over this chain of events; it had been then, indeed, that the war between himself and Paul had begun--if not before. He suspected, really, that the younger man had found out about his own part in his recruitment and had never quite forgiven him for it since. That, combined with his own, continuing attachment to Adrian, had sealed the hatred between them, had made it irreversible. The battle had begun.

All of these events, of course, stung him, even now, although he didn't truly regret the war. No, he had vowed his revenge early on; all of his actions since had simply been an attempt to keep that vow. Now, too, maybe he was close.

His mind changed directions slightly, therefore, as he pondered over this coming attempt, this latest siege. Nikita had been a stroke of brilliance on his part--even if he were the one to say it. She, after all, had been the one to help bring down Adrian--had been the one to betray her own father's place in that woman's heart by bringing her to her death at her enemy's hands. She, then, would be the one who would finish out this little game for him, would be his last sacrifice in his battle to take down his mortal enemy. It was the least she deserved for her acts.

George knew, of course, that Nikita had not been aware of her parentage--had never even known that her father had been part of Section, before she had been told the other day. For all he knew, indeed, she might even have been unaware of the fact that her arrival in Section had been no simple fluke. Further, it was quite obvious that her mission against Adrian had been taken up entirely under Paul and Madeline's orders--the young woman completely unaware of the irony her leaders had been indulging in. She, then, had never knowingly set out to betray that man or Adrian--but he still could not forgive her. Whatever the excuses, she had been the one to deliver his beloved into the hands of the enemy--and he would never consider forgiving her for that.

His plan, therefore, had been beautifully simple, once it had come to him. He had read over enough of Nikita's files--had kept enough of an eye on her to know--that her one real goal was freedom, that she still believed it was possible. Giving her that freedom briefly, too, and then taking it away, had been a wonderfully easy matter. He had even enjoyed it quite a bit.

He still wished, of course, that he could have been the one to deliver his ultimatum to her in person, but his absence then couldn't be helped. Should this plan be traced back to him, once it was done, he had to have a failsafe. His well-designed double, then--one of a few--had had to go in his place.

His brow furrowed slightly, though, as his mind turned once more. As much as he had felt confident in this plan all along, he had still been forced to worry somewhat once it had actually started. Nikita, indeed, had not initially acted as he had suspected she would; she had not seemed at all pleased with her newfound freedom, had only taken to it marginally at best, as though it were just another assignment. Perhaps, then, he had thought for awhile, he had left her in too long before he had tried this--had let her experience a bit too much. In her earlier days, indeed, it might have been easier for her to accept her freedom without searching for the curtain to look behind. He had almost feared that he would fail.

This, though, hadn't been all of his concerns; there had been another thought to cross his mind at this point, as well. During the days when he had been able to keep up his internal surveillance in Section--back before the Key File debacle--he had certainly seen more than a bit of closeness between the woman and her former trainer. He had known, of course, that she had formed some sort of bond with him in her early days, but such things were expected--and were not to be taken too seriously. After the first few missions, at the latest, such predilections usually wore off. That hers had made it past that point was something to take some notice of, then, but he still hadn't given it any deep thought. These things happened.