The following is a character study set after the events of "Down a Crooked Path" and "He Came From Four"; it will include heavy spoilers for each of these episodes, as well as ones for "Imitation of Death," "Hell Hath No Fury," "Hard Landing," "I Remember Paris," "End Game," "War," "Four Light Years Farther," "Sleeping With the Enemy," and "Missing." In many ways, too, it will follow along in the line of Season 4 character studies I've been doing and will have spoilers for most of these earlier S4 episodes, although knowledge of these stories isn't really necessary to understand anything here. I'm rating it MA-14 for adult discussions and language. I'm also--because of the mention at the end of "Hell Hath No Fury" of the events to come in "Time To Be Heroes"--assuming that HHNF is actually the next in order in the season after HCFF. Just a few more warnings, too, before we get started. :) It would probably be helpful for understanding some of what happens here to have read my story, "Protective Instincts," since I'll be referring back to some characters from it (ones we just got a hint of in "Imitation of Death"); you can find it in Ranma and Hopposai's archives. If you've seen "Imitation of Death," though, you should be able to follow along basically, nonetheless, even without reading it. One more note, too. :) You may recognize these characters, as well, from Kadyn's wonderful (but, sadly, unfinished) "Kismet." I don't, in any way, mean to discourage her from finishing her story (hint! hint!). This story just demanded to be written, though, and, as an obedient author, I had to obey. :) Oh, since this story is partly a response to "He Came From Four," as well, you can expect that many of the traits we learned about in Section Four are explored here in more length, so be prepared for this slightly more sci-fi approach. :) While I will be referring back to many events from LFN, of course, no infringement of any sort is intended with the following. :) The poem I begin with, too, is by William Blake; I intend no infringement there, either. :) One of the characters here, however, is partly my own, and--while I'm making no money off him and do not own his predecessor, so I really don't need to be sued--I would appreciate you asking me first, if you want to borrow him for a fanfic. :) Please send any comments or requests to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

Nurse's Song

When the voices of children are heard on the green,
And whisp'rings are in the dale,
The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,
My face turns green and pale.

Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Your spring & your day are wasted in play,
And your winter and night in disguise.

--William Blake, *Songs of Experience*

It had been a . . . difficult couple of days, ones she realized now that she should have handled much differently. Still, she had been able to perceive no true threat to her from a child, whatever his supposed skills. This assumption, however, had been foolish. . . . He had been a very dangerous enemy, indeed.

Madeline sighed; she was sitting once more in the office which Jerome had so inexplicably made his way into earlier, the one where he had confronted her with one of her worst fears and memories--with the murder of her sister. Just the thought of his small eyes, too knowing and malevolent for one so little, chilled her in a way she wouldn't have believed possible before. . . . It was a memory, as well, which rankled.

She took a deep breath, however, trying to pull back together her less-than-obedient self-control, as her mind turned away from this path. She wouldn't have admitted, of course, that she had needed to make this mental change out of fear; that was an emotion she could only ever fleetingly realize existed within her at all. It was far too much to expect her to accept that it had been given to her by a *child*, then. She just couldn't do it.

She focused, therefore, on another emotion, one she was far more comfortable with--disgust. George had been engaged in a war with them for years, of course, acknowledged or not, but his raids of the past few weeks had grown more intense--and more successful. It was a rather disturbing thought.

She leaned further back in her chair, allowing her mind to scan back over these recent forays of their enemy. The first in his latest series of attacks had been his attempt a week or more ago to scrape their minds clean, to harvest their knowledge and use it for his own purposes--as a prelude to cancelling them all. She sighed once more; it was a memory in which there was still much regret. By the time it had been over, after all, they had truly believed that they had gained the upper hand over their old foe--that they had actually, finally, turned him to their own purposes. But this had--quite sadly--not been the case at all.

She took another calming breath, as her thoughts lingered here. It had only really been around the time of the latest effort of their enemy that they had realized just how unaffected he had truly been by their efforts. Even if she hadn't, at first, understood how he had managed to escape their grasp, it was obvious that he had. And this was a sad, if too often repeated, state of affairs, of late, indeed.

She hated this last thought, of course, and she didn't much like where her mind went next, either; her eyes focused down onto her lap distantly. She knew, however, that they had gotten careless, had been sadly overconfident--and it had led them to their latest loss. If they had simply watched their enemy more closely--if, truly, they had just taken him more seriously--they could not have endured this latest ambush without warning.

She shook her head slightly, still appalled. But no, they had not taken care. After so many years of war, they had allowed themselves to rejoice in their victory far too soon. . . . They truly should have known better by now.

She supposed, though, in their own defense, that it was the very length and intensity of the war which had finally taken its toll. After so many years of plans, plots, and counterplots, there was only so much stamina they had left; she felt a small chill run down her spine at this thought, which she quickly repressed. She could not allow that to happen again.

She sat back up and looked over to her computer, pulling up a file. She knew that it wasn't simply this failing which had led them awry, either; it was also the oversimplified view they had taken of their rival. It was always easier, after all--she knew from long experience--to pretend that your opponent was not as well-prepared and capable as yourself; it was an all-too-human failing--one so many countries had taken on as well, to their eventual shame. That they had allowed themselves to be comforted in this way, however, to be taken in by such a rookie mistake, was galling. They could *not* be allowed to underestimate him again.

She scanned determinedly through the document in front of her, part of her mind preparing for the mission to come; it was a well-tried stratagem for channeling off her self-reproach. In the next few days, she would be allowing herself to undergo some extremely complex and dangerous surgery, all for the purpose of bringing down an important opponent in Red Cell. It was a dangerous mission, of course, but a necessary one--and one which only she herself could truly accomplish; there was no one else who was even remotely qualified for it. She did, however, have to force herself to remember in the future, even after she would have temporarily burdened herself with useless emotions, that underestimating her enemy would end in disaster; that, at least, she could gain from the last few days.

She continued to view the file's intimately-detailed pictures of the coming surgery, allowing herself the comforting distraction, as her mind went on. There were parts of this latest mission which simply disturbed her too deeply to face in any depth--and all of them centered around the machine-child Jerome. It wasn't just his ability to enter her office with impunity or his knowledge of her childhood indiscretion which truly bothered her, either--both of which could have been gained by less than preternatural means. No. It was something deeper than that--something in his eyes. It reminded her of two different people. . . . The most disturbing of these revelations, too--in some ways--was his resemblance to herself.

She took a deep breath and began viewing an .mpeg of the surgery, calming herself again. She remembered all too well now looking into the mirror when she had been his age; the eyes which had looked back at her had been so like his--the emotion in them a little flat, analyzing all those strange, older creatures around her and looking deeper into them to find their deepest fears before playing on them with little mercy. The words she had used to provoke him, even--that he had never understood a mother's soft touch or a father putting him on his back for a ride--had actually been out of her own experience; she too had foregone those warmer details of youth in favor of the power which she had too-quickly understood she could exert over her elders. It was a lesson Jerome, apparently, comprehended just as well.

She took another deep, slightly shuddering, breath and turned off the screen in front of her; its calming substance wasn't helping anymore. Her mind, instead, was being drawn back to more of the similarities between herself and the young operative she had seen today--ones she could no longer ignore.

What possibly disturbed her the most in the comparison, as well, was the way that both of them handled being ignored, the way they handled being denied the power they quietly demanded. For both of them, it was simply an instinct to lash out--to do damage to the person who refused them what they wanted; she was still recovering her mental balance a little, indeed, from his foray into her mind earlier. It had felt, in fact, like a small hand grasping hold of her thoughts and then squeezing tight, waiting to shut out all light. She shuddered a little. She hadn't been able to fight it at all.

She repressed another shudder at the memory a second later, as well, forcing her mind on. For her, her revenge had taken form, for the most part, in smaller ways. With her parents, she had taken to baking them cookies and desserts which were laced with just enough of whatever dangerous weed or root she could get her hands on--enough to make them very ill but not enough to do permanent damage. It had even taken them to the third time she had offered such goodies to stop accepting them--but by then, at least, the fear in their eyes was a permanent feature. Her victory, therefore, had been complete.

She sighed a little, part of her torn over how to feel about these memories. This last, indeed, hadn't truly been the most dangerous of her outbursts. No-- that had come with her sister. That was one, truly, which she would never forget.

Her eyes unfocused further, as her mind went back yet again. She didn't actually remember consciously what it had been which Sarah had done to immediately upset her; possibly it was simply the way her quiet obedience was seen as "good-natured" by her parents. Still, her revenge had focused on one object, on that girl's most precious possession--her doll. She had determined then and there that to possess it would be to have a sort of juvenile power over her younger sister, one which would always gain her a victory with any threat to the precious object. When her sister had, however--for the first time that she could remember--denied her access to her goal, her desire for revenge had been unconquerable. The stairs, then, had simply been too convenient a method of justice to ignore.

Her breath shuddered from her, as she remembered it once more--although it wasn't a memory which was ever very far from her mind. While she had been headed down a certain path for as long as she could clearly remember, in fact, it had been this one event which had most permanently sealed her direction in life. There had been no way back anymore after that.

She took another deep breath and refocused across the room, trying to pull her mind away from this familiar path--but with little success. Instead, her thoughts simply turned sideways, going back to analyze once more those memories she knew had flashed through her mind, as George's helpers had scraped it clean. Of course, whatever knowledge they were looking for, she was quite certain that the machine had been badly miscalibrated; instead of vital information about Section, they had only gained . . . reminiscences. She was certain, truly, that this hadn't been his goal.

Her mind wandered further here, however, analyzing again. Ever since she had first looked back on these thoughts, she had been dissatisfied with herself in what could have been her final moments; the sentiment she had shown had been appalling. She knew she needed to force herself to look into them, nonetheless, though. However little she might like them, they could be instructive, indeed.

What she remembered of her memories, however, unsettled her; they had focused almost solely on three people: Nikita, Paul, and her mother--and, disturbingly, it had been the former who had taken the biggest place there. It was enough to make her a little fearful of her present state of mind.

The fact that her memories of Nikita had been some of her most cogent final thoughts, though, could not be overlooked. She was forced, then, to admit--if only very briefly--that she rather missed the closer relationship she had shared with the woman during her first few years in Section. True, she had partly been simply analyzing her, seeing what useful information she could gain, while overtly guiding the younger woman into the organization's life by filling in the maternal role she needed--but she had to admit that this hadn't truly been all. She had actually . . . liked her.

This, of course, was a rather disturbing idea to her now. For at least a few years, she had been regarding the woman--more and more--as her enemy. It was hard to look back.

In those earlier days, though, she had actually been rather fond of the woman's company; for all her naivete, there had been a calmness which had soothed her, one which was rather familiar. . . . And it was the familiarity of it which still distracted her the most.

Her eyes unfocused a little, as she looked back into the past once again. From almost the moment of her recruitment, Nikita had actually reminded her most of her sister; her presence had taken her back, had made her wonder about what opportunities of sisterly bonding she had destroyed forever that day on the stairs, made her even wonder whether that action had been her conscious decision or whether it simply came from a deeper, unspoken will. In truth, she still didn't know this, although it was far easier to believe the former. It gave her life more meaning than to think she had ended up here by accident.

In those first years the younger woman had spent in Section, then, Madeline had actually rather enjoyed her company, had liked watching her growing capabilities. She had even, for awhile, not had any particular reaction against the woman's growing tendencies to turn to and trust Michael. True, she had been forced to put those to an end, in some ways, from simple Section necessity, but she had taken no real joy in it then. Perhaps she had thought that Michael, at least, would grow out of it; she really wasn't sure anymore.

What she did know, however, was that she had been more open with Nikita in those early days than she had ever been since. Of course, her mysterious reappearance--after the Shays mission had supposedly seen her cancelled--had been worthy of note and close observation, but she had actually had no deeper objection either to Nikita's return or her ex-mentor's continued predilection for her. It had yet at that point, though, to truly grow dangerous.

She let out a tired sigh, as she looked down on her desk, her mind turning slightly. This closeness, however--and this acceptance--had not lasted, had not been allowed to. The fact had remained that Michael had, very likely, helped his ex-material to escape from them--had turned against their orders completely for the first time. Yes, he had no doubt flouted them in smaller ways to protect her before, but his loyalty had never been in any real question then. This, however, had been different.

It had been both this beginning of the poisoning of Michael's stronger will and Nikita's growing distance from her which had made her change toward the young woman necessary. In her first three years in Section, after all, if the recruit had felt herself particularly harmed or endangered, she would have come to Section's doyenne for explanations or advice; there had been a trust there. As that trust had-- possibly necessarily--disintegrated, however, things had changed; Nikita had become more wilful. It had been the beginning of the end.

It had really been the mission against Adrian, though--or, rather, Nikita's gross attempt at mutiny after it--which had been the final end of any hope of closeness between them. It had been at that point, truly, that Madeline had understood just how dangerous her earlier coddling of Nikita had been. . . . She had never again made that mistake.

A small sigh--one she wouldn't have admitted was an unhappy one--moved from her, as she thought back once more to the memories which George's recent scheme had forced to surface. It had become evident, when her subconscious had been in control, that part of her actually did miss her bond with Nikita, wished that the younger woman's conduct hadn't necessitated their present extreme distance. It was even this latent desire for contact with her which she suspected had partly made the Gelman experiment so soothing; Nikita's unquestioned acquiescence to all her superior said then had comforted some long-buried instinct in her leader. It was a trust she had dearly missed, too, once Michael had forced the woman to turn on them again.

These thoughts, of course, were bitter ones--were a bit too much for her now; she shook her head just slightly and tried to pull herself out of them, forcing her mind on. The other main memories she had of the neural scrape were more acceptable--or, at least, more understandable--to her. Her bond with Paul, after all--and, more especially, her need to have him healthy and in control of Section--had been well-established for sometime. It had taken her years, indeed, to completely cultivate his trust and dependence. That she had thought of this in these last moments had not been surprising, then--and it still caused her no pain.

She smiled a little, but it faded quickly. Neither, too, had it surprised her particularly that she had thought back to her mother--and her final, extremely one-sided, conversation with her-- in what could have been her last moments. That, really, went back to Sarah at its heart--and that, no matter how little she may like it still, was the defining moment of her life.

She took another deep breath, trying to calm herself again, and pulled her mind away from these thoughts--focused in elsewhere. Her next mental destination, however, was truly no more comforting than the last. Jerome's eyes, after all, had reminded her--very vaguely--of one other person's, one she had thought dead, until now. And this idea shook her *very* deeply, indeed.

She couldn't avoid the thought now, though, not reasonably. Jerome's knowing, too-old eyes reminded her of one of the experiments she had so long watched in Project Gemini, when it had still been intact. Michael alpha, indeed, had long since looked at her as though he had understood what was happening deep in her soul--and that was a thought which disturbed her more than she could ever have expressed. . . . She had never gotten over it, still.

She pulled herself together, however, trying to tell herself that the alpha program had been destroyed when the first Section One had been self-destructed. The small replicants had all served their purpose by that time, after all, and it had simply seemed too great a waste of resources to try to get them all out in time. Besides, she had really been none-too-upset to see the smaller Michael and Nikita gone; everything about them --from their unquestioned bond to his knowing, too-deep stare--had disturbed her, had overturned her every attempt to understand the older couple. That, then-- along with the fact that attempting to raise a group of operatives from such a young age had become an obvious waste of valuable resources--had sealed their fates. She hadn't looked back since, either--until today.

She felt a deep internal shudder, although she attempted to ignore it. Looking into Jerome's eyes, however, had raised a question in her--one she had been none-too-happy to have to face. While Section Four was supposedly filled with the children of operatives, it had finally dawned on her that to use clones and hybrids would actually have been far more productive. That way, you knew what you were getting --or, at least, you had a closer idea of it. Her question, then, was this: if George had found out about the Gemini program somehow, could he have gotten the alphas out before the destruction of the old One? And, far worse--if he did, were Michael and Nikita among them now?

The thought, really, made a deep fear begin to move through her blood, beginning to poison her sense of calm. She had noted in her own observations of the pair, after all--although she hadn't pursued it any further then--the almost preternatural way that the young Michael could look into you, with a gaze which shot straight to your soul. She repressed another shudder. Even worse than that, though, was the unbreakable bond between the pair, one which had started from the moment they had met. It had even possibly been this latter fact which had made her so particularly adaptable to the idea of destroying all remains of Project Gemini, at the time. . . . She just couldn't quite accept that anything so tender could run so deep.

Her eyes unfocused further, her mind going a little blank for a second, before she realized that she needed to pull herself back together; it wouldn't do to be in this state for long. Whatever Jerome had learned of them--and whatever may have become of the young alpha pair--it was, sadly, beyond her control now. George, without contest, had won this round-- had won it because of their own failings. She would have to see that, in the future, that wouldn't happen again.

She refocused her mind once more, then, turning back to her computer screen and pulling back up the previous image. Yes, this was where she needed to place her attention--on something she could control and understand, on a place which didn't leave her with such terrible, unanswered questions. She would go through this operation now and--after a few weeks of unnecessary emotion--she would be able to return to normal once more, would come back after having brought down another dangerous, if intriguing, opponent. The alphas and Section Four had to be forgotten; all she could focus on was victory. . . . Nothing else, now, led to sanity.

**********

All in all, it had been a very instructive day. He had gained a minor victory over his constant opponents for power and, in the process, had also learned some rather valuable information about them. It had been quite successful, indeed.

George leaned back in his large, black leather chair, his hands clasped before him, index fingers steepled, as he thought. He was glad for this latest victory, of course, for more than the usual reasons. Of course, it was simply one small battle in an ongoing war, but it had been an important one, symbolically, after his last, unfortunate failure. His enemies, then, were on their guard once more--and that, all in all, was for the best.

His contentment, however, was incomplete; his mind ran back again to his last, still too recent, defeat. He had used the same technique on One which had been so effective on Six, which had placed it entirely under his power. Of course, Six had already run its course, had fulfilled its function; it, then, had just been the guinea pig for the neural scrape process before he had tried it on a more formidable opponent. It had been their last call to duty.

He sighed sadly, as he pondered this further. The early results at Six had been so promising, had misled his expectations; he had learned a great deal from it, even if some of the information had, admittedly, been a bit random. His biotech team had assured him, though, that they had readjusted the machine to account for this --that he would gain the exact knowledge he wanted from One. His hopes, therefore, had been high.

He shook his head slightly. These wishes, however, had proven to be vastly overestimated. He had both given his team too much credit and One's personnel too little. In the end, too, he had been forced to sacrifice one of his doubles to the mind-bending process One's leaders had put him through as revenge. . . . It had been quite embarrassing, indeed.

Still, he decided, at least he had had the sense to not survey the results at One for himself, preliminarily; it had been a fortunate bit of foresight, truly. Had he taken the time to enjoy his supposed victory, he would have been utterly defeated--and that would have been an unforgivable lapse, indeed.

He sighed a little, then, remembering still. It was sad that his well-organized plan hadn't worked; it would have made things so much simpler. He could have replaced One's recalcitrant and treasonous leaders, and other higher personnel, with those who would be more readily obedient; he could have finally molded it back to his standards--back to the standards he knew Adrian would have wanted, as well, . . . but none of that had happened at all.

He let out another, slightly tired, sigh, then as he looked back over the details of his failed plans once more, looking for their flaw. He had set up the order of those to be neurally scraped very carefully, he had thought, but he had obviously let his emotions get in the way of his intellect again; it was a failure his once-partner had warned him against more than once. He took a moment to think sadly of the woman once more. Had she been with him still, she would have known the exact way to proceed, would have known just what order would have worked. Had she still been around, though, this whole exercise would probably have been entirely unnecessary. He drew his mind away once more, then.

No--he looked back--he had thought that his order of cancellation had been sound, at the time, had seen no problems with it. Walter had been chosen first--had been chosen at all--for several reasons. First, despite the lingering fondness George suspected the man may have held for Adrian, his continuing loyalty to the current regime in One had been long unquestioned. Further, although the older man had long since attempted to cultivate a rather harmless facade, he was actually at least as dangerous as any other member of the entire organization. True, he sometimes tended to panic in a crisis--if he felt that all hope was lost--but his mental powers were unfaded. Besides, from his long experience within Section, he understood too much of what happened within its walls, might have been able to work around his plans; he, then, had been a necessity.

That he had chosen this man first, as well, had seemed only logical to Oversight's leader. Walter, after all, both had a long line of extremely valuable knowledge at his disposal and was too capable of working his tinkering magic to find some way to dismantle the biotech's long-labored-over machine. With him out of the way first, then, the rest of the process was made easier. Besides, had either of One's leaders been called first for the process, suspicion may have arisen. When it was simply the ordinance specialist, however . . .

He smiled, thinking back over his logic, as his mind moved on to his next choice; the pleased look faded. Nikita, admittedly, while she had partly been next for the same latter reason as Walter, was a personal choice of George's. She not only had been the single most important element in bringing down the woman he had once so loved, she had also failed him so recently --had not completed her assigned mission against Operations at all. That sort of disloyalty, indeed, required swift retribution. This, then, had been it.

He had had no fears, either, that his plans might have been detected by including Nikita in the line up of his targets. Despite the fact that she was still only technically Level Two, her leaders had long ago granted her all the de facto responsibilities of a Level Four, at least; they understood her intelligence and her efficiency, even if it galled them. That she had been considered important enough to receive the "treatment," therefore, would have flown just below their radar.

He smiled slightly again, enjoying his next thoughts. His next target, of course, had not been quite such a safe choice. Still, Paul had needed to be next; he had needed to be out of the way for this plan to continue on. He had had to ensure that he had been taken before Madeline, too, since--if that woman had gone first--her partner would have become unmanageable. Only he, as well, could really have mustered enough allegiance to have thrown the biotech ops. out of Section and won, in the long run. He hadn't been able to waste any more time there.

His smile deepened, his enjoyment lingering. His next choice, too, had followed much the same logic, even if she was actually more dangerous than her partner. Madeline was not, truly, a force to be trifled with lightly; to do so, indeed, was to take your life into your hands. It had been necessary, then, to eliminate her next, before she had-- hopefully--been able to make any plans to counteract him. It had been of paramount importance, indeed.

It had been here, though, that he saw--in retrospect --that he had most failed; he should have moved Nikita down in the order and pushed up both Paul and Madeline. It had truly been the order of his next two choices, however, which had been so deadly to his plans. Had he simply switched them, he might have succeeded.

He was still a little unsettled by this fact, but he tried to console himself. His original thinking on this subject had been sound enough--even if it had proven erroneous in execution. Birkoff, after all, was the computer expert. Had he--he had reasoned-- been able to get his hands on the machine which had carried out the neural scrapes, all kinds of damage could have been done. He had been wary, then, of leaving him to last.

What he had overlooked in his reasoning, however, had been his erroneous analysis of Michael; while he never entirely underestimated the man, he had still simply not taken him seriously enough here. And that, indeed, had been his final undoing.

He shook his head sadly, pulling his eyes back into focus. He could see the errors he had made now, most of which--unfortunately--had rested on not moving Nikita further down the line of cancellations. It was just as Adrian had always warned him: he had allowed his emotions to run him again--and he had failed because of it.

He didn't want to think about this, though; he sighed sadly and tried to turn his thoughts. At least, since he had sent his double in his place to survey the results, the mission against Section had not been a complete debacle. In fact, his very failure here had actually provided him with an opening for his latest, far more successful, foray against them. Finally.

His smile returned slightly, as he pondered this again. True, he had been forced to sacrifice one of his doubles, in the end, but that had been a minor loss, in the long run. For a few weeks, indeed, One's conspiratorial leaders had thought him their pawn, had believed him to be absolutely compliant. He had even presented the necessity of the command clone to them as the idea of others within Oversight--one he had claimed to have argued against. When he had asked that Jerome be allowed to come help them with the retrieval of the nonexistent program, as well, he had simply forwarded it as his best, simple-minded attempt to aid them in their search. Sometimes killing with kindness, indeed, was the most satisfactory approach.

Everything, therefore, had worked perfectly this time. His enemies' overconfidence had provided the door for this latest test of them, and--if he had finally been forced to reveal their earlier failure there, had no longer been able to hide behind his obedient facade--it had paid off, in the long run. The information he had gained, truly, was priceless.

He turned his chair slightly to his computer, pulling up his debrief with Jerome once more. The boy had been quite formidable, if rather uncontrollable, on this mission. And, while he could only partly admit that he feared him a little, his powers were really quite useful. Section Four, indeed, was turning out quite well.

He continued on to look through several of the files on this latest pet project of his, congratulating himself silently. It hadn't been around for very long, but it was an experiment which was already paying off generously. Good.

His eyes ran randomly over the information in front of him, therefore, as his mind continued back, remembering the project's origins. Section Four, of course, had--up until fairly recently--been their Northern Europe bureau. It had become altogether too obvious to him, however, that One was actually handling most of their work already, that they were only duplicating what was being accurately handled elsewhere--and such a waste of funds, of course, was entirely unnecessary. Besides, he had been presented a long time ago with a proposal for a new experiment: Project Phoenix. It had, then, simply been too perfect an opportunity to waste.

He sat back in his chair again, as he continued to remember, the pleased smile lingering. Four's original, essential personnel had been dispersed among the other Sections, of course, while the fat had been channeled into no-contest missions. The building which had once housed them had then become the home for a conglomeration of projects in genetics from among the Sections--and the new Four had thus been born from the ashes of these first, abandoned, experiments.

He had, though, he remembered, been surprised originally that so many of the Sections had begun to attempt their own cloning programs in secret. Still, his informants' information had been accurate; there had been a great number of children to choose from for the program--including the natural-born children of several misguided operatives. All of them had been tested or observed, therefore, for any latent psychokinetic or other telepathic talent, and many, too, had passed the test. The round-up, then, had started.

He was still smiling slightly, as he remembered. The fact that there had been so many potential candidates for the program didn't surprise him particularly, either. He had long been convinced that those operatives and leaders who were most successful--and they were the ones who were most likely to be chosen to be replicated--had some sort of tendency toward such abilities. Many of them, of course, would have just referred to it as "instinct," if they had admitted to it at all, but it was there nonetheless. It had not been surprising, therefore, that their younger versions possessed it as well.

His mind moved on slightly, running back to the particulars of their plans. There had needed to be a few changes in how these children--if most of them could be called that--would be raised. While their older counterparts might possess the nascent abilities for these more incisive talents, it had taken special training to develop it into a higher arena. It had been this reasoning, then, which had led to the regimen of Four-- almost total sensory isolation during training. Each future operative, after all, had to be bred to be completely focused on mind and not body, as well as both obedient and independent--and interaction with others of their kind was not always conducive to this. Their subjects' lives, then, had been more firmly planned out than most of their adult counterparts--and their early success had begun.

He smiled, remembering it all once more. It had actually been from Section Six that he had gained this technique, however; he had, indeed, taken their main creative genius in this field away from them to run Four, long before he had disposed of the rest of that man's colleagues. With his guidance, then, these future operatives were trained.

Some of the feats these mini-agents could perform, too, were quite astounding--even a little frightening. While remote viewers had been a dime a dozen in the black ops. community for almost as long as he could remember--even the CIA had tried their hand there--his new batch of recruits could perform acts far more intriguing than simply being able to see scenes at a great distance. No, many of the members of Four actually were beginning to excel in remote *projection*--in the ability to control the will of those at a distance, or to kill them, if necessary. It was all extremely encouraging, truly.

It was this last ability, too, which was so useful. After all, if one of Four's personnel reached into your mind and twisted, there was no chemical trace to be found afterwards, was no way that anyone could prove murder; even nano technology was lacking, comparatively. These children were the assassins of the future.

It was these very important skills, as well, which they were most interested in perfecting in their young operatives. Of course, none of them quite had a complete grasp on its finer details yet, but he was sure that would come. For many, in fact, their experiments had resulted in more random kill patterns than they had wanted--sometimes not even acquiring the actual target at all. Still, all of them were young, and time would change this. Besides, any mistakes were easily covered up by claiming that it had been a new chemical weapon or gas attack by whatever terrorist organization they were diverting attention toward that week; no one questioned it--and the funding was always particularly generous after these aberrations, as well. This learning curve had been quite helpful, indeed.

George's mind turned once more, then, focusing in on his choice for this latest mission. Jerome had some exceptional skills in both telekinetics and visual projection, but this had been his first real test run. He wondered, though, if the boy were aware of how important it had been to his future. Very likely. Sometimes, unfortunately, there was little that escaped him. It was why you needed to keep him at a distance.

He sighed, his mind shifting a little, as he thought into this last fact further. Of all the tests they had done of these future operatives, none of them had yet perfected their skills at any real distance; all of them needed close contact to their targets to be effective. They all still needed time.

Jerome's abilities, however, while he did share this same problem, had stood out for quite some time--but some of his behavior had also been deemed erratic. Of course, he was one of the few hybrids in the program--was a slightly more advanced version of a test-tube baby, and--considering the genes which this particular hybrid had been created from--that unpredictable behavior wasn't really surprising. It would have been a little shocking, in fact, if there had been none at all.

It was because of this latter fact, as well, that George had truly chosen Jerome for this mission. Both of the primes which he had been created from were in Section One, so their reactions to him-- regardless of their lack of knowledge of his origins --would be instructive.

Oversight's leader smiled again, letting out a little sigh. He admitted, of course, that the particular combination of DNA he had chosen for this project might seem a bit odd, but he had his reasons. Birkoff, indeed, had a nearly symbiotic relationship with his computers--could understand them on an intuitive level which few others could come close to. Combining his particular genius, then, with Madeline's analytical skills had seemed like a reasonable experiment at the time. . . . If only they could more accurately have predicted the results.

He remembered once more. This early hypothesis of success, truly, had only been partly successful; his smile faded. While he had learned much from Jerome on his journey through Section, some of his tendencies were a bit too wild to make him viable long term. First of all, his predilection for Nikita--both within Sections One and Four--was disturbing; he supposed this trait, along with the hybrid's growing desire for a normal life, might spring too deeply from his Birkoff half--surprising as the continuance of those emotions was in his double. It, however, still needed to be watched.

This wasn't all, though; all of these variables might have been acceptable, could have been handled, had it not been for the completely ungovernable spirit which Madeline's half had given him. The child had a cold, calculating look to his eyes at times, in fact, which he had only before fully witnessed in the woman who had unknowingly provided some of his DNA; his outbursts during this last mission, too, had been extremely dangerous. He would have to see, then, what recommendations his trainer had for him, when he sent in his report, but he feared that--as successful as the boy's first mission had been--his existence itself might prove to have been an error. It would have to be seen to, indeed.

He sighed slightly, not particularly pleased with this latest thought; he turned his mind, then, to focus on another element which made up part of the current core of subjects at Four. Madeline's Project Gemini had provided several good sources for study, even if it had also given them several disposable elements, as well. He was quite grateful, then, to her original foresight.

His mind turned a little. That the woman had abandoned her science-created charges to be incinerated in the destruction of the old One hadn't surprised him, either; she was not a patient woman, when her results didn't match her expectations. The lead-up to the explosion had, too, provided him with the perfect opportunity to extract several of the projects which intrigued him; in all that confusion, it was easy for his operatives to slip them out without any undue notice. It had been perfect.

His eyes unfocused slightly, however, as his thoughts turned again. There were two elements in particular which he had salvaged from Project Gemini who intrigued him the most; they, indeed, had been given special privileges, were being raised in a different way than their fellow subjects. Their talents, after all, had focused primarily on the strong psychic bond they seemed to share, the one they had shown from the very moment of their introduction--or so he could see from Madeline's purloined notes. The boy, too, had scored exceptionally high on both the telepathic and projection tests, while the girl's talents had run more toward the empathic--which was, of course, less useful to them--but her projection scores were equally high. They, then, were quite intriguing on their own.

His mind rested here, as he turned back to his computer and typed in his memorized commands. A few seconds later, he was viewing the room which Michael and Nikita alpha shared.

The pair were sleeping together on the cots which Michael consistently pushed together at his small companion's request; the little girl, in fact, was now being held lightly in his arms, as she slept soundly. George let out a small sigh at the sight, never entirely certain what to make of the pair. They were quite a few years apart, and--while that might make little difference once they were older--it was usually an insurmountable barrier at their ages. Nevertheless, like every other night he had watched them, the 11-year-old Michael was holding the younger child close, not only without complaint, but with a look which dared anyone to try to take her away. He shuddered a little. They had only been so foolish once so far--and they had regretted it mightily.

There had been a change in the scene in front of him, however, almost from the moment he had begun watching; the boy's eyes had opened, staring warningly into the, hidden, camera. His grip on the girl in his arms seemed to tighten slightly, as well. Nikita, too, had woken up, apparently alerted by the change in his mood, and the boy had spared his gaze from his observer for only a moment to focus tenderly on her. George had continued to watch. After some silent communication, the six-year-old had lowered her head once more, drifting back off to sleep with a sigh, while Michael's eyes had returned, still burning, to the camera. . . . It was all-too-typical a scene.

George rested his chin on his fist, then, as he observed the two closely. This small bit of interaction was absolutely normal for them; the one time they had tried to part them, in fact--as an experiment--they had almost lost Walter alpha, Four's teenage watcher. He had never forgotten it since.

It hadn't been a pretty sight, truly--and wasn't one George much wanted to see again. Michael had been so enraged--had, apparently, been able to sense his partner's distress at his removal to such an extent-- that he had used his projection abilities for the first real time, with almost deadly results. It had only been the intervention of his own voice in the room, assuring the boy that he would be reunited with his young companion which had saved the teenage Walter's life; he had still needed several days in Medical to recover at all.

Since then, too, for obvious reasons, they hadn't once tried to separate the pair. It was simply common knowledge in Four that--if it were decided to eliminate one of them, both would have to be sacrificed--and, while Michael's abilities at projection were proving to be more quickly developed, his partner had an uncanny facility for reading anyone's emotions and understanding their motives. In the future, then, as she grew to her partner's present age and older, they could develop that further--and along other lines.

He smiled. In the long run, truly, the boy's abilities might end up making him the greatest of their silent, long-distance assassins, and--in tandem with his constant partner--it had yet to be seen just what they were fully capable of. Their future could prove to be quite bright. They just had to see.

He turned off his view of the alphas and sat back again, allowing Michael some rest; the boy, he knew, wouldn't close his eyes, until his observer had gone. It was a pattern they had never been able to get him past.

George sighed slightly; there was only one possible problem he could see with this pairing. So far, Nikita alpha had proven to be innocent in the extreme, nearly naive. While, too, for many children her age, this wouldn't have been unusual, it certainly was an anomaly at Four. They had yet to see, then, whether they could mold her into the viable operative they needed.

He smiled once more. Despite this small problem, though, he was hopeful for the pair. There was only one other possible setback he could see, and that was Jerome himself; he had, as long ago as he had been allowed any interaction with the pair, proven to have quite a set of designs on the young girl. True, it wasn't sexual--yet--but a few years would change that. He suspected, in fact, given Madeline's DNA, that he may have very few scruples at all. While this could be an extremely helpful trait in an operative generally, of course, it was not proving to be the case here. If Four's operatives became too wilful, after all, all hell would break loose. They would have to watch him very closely, indeed.

He let this possibility go, then, knowing there was little else to be done about it right now, but his next thought made him no more happy. He was thinking yet again about how wilfully blind he had been when he had tried to use Nikita as Operations' assassin recently. True, he didn't think she was incapable of the job still, but his inducement to go through with it had been ill-conceived in the extreme. He had, once again, allowed his emotions to overrule his logic--had ignored the small truths which were being revealed to him at Four and had thought, instead, that, as it once might have been, freedom was the greatest of Nikita's hopes. It had been an unforgivable mistake.

He saw now, indeed, that he had erred terribly. Freedom wasn't what the woman wanted the most; Michael was. . . . If only he had paid attention to that motive to begin with.

Still, he supposed, in his own defense, he wouldn't have been able to use Nikita against Section's leader had he allowed himself this knowledge; Michael would never have allowed it. To satisfy his desire for revenge against the young woman, then, he had been wilfully blind--but it was a failing he would have to check very carefully in the future.

He sighed slightly, then, as his mind turned again, returning to his original thoughts. It was true that Section One had slipped from his grasp once more, recently, but this wasn't necessarily an inoperable condition; there were still plans to be formed, were still paths to be taken which could lead him to success. Section Four, indeed, was presenting him with quite a few new and intriguing options, was building him his own core of future operatives, ones which might well be able to rid him of his obstacles at a distance--and with far fewer problems. He just had to have a little patience and allow them to mature. There was only the wait before success.

**********

It had not been a good few days--a good few weeks; not only had there been almost no time to even be near Nikita outside of Section, there had been no time alone with her at all. This, though, wasn't all. In the last couple of days, too, he had met a person--a child--who disturbed him more than he had thought possible; it was a thought which plagued him. He would just never be comfortable with having someone else so close to his thoughts.

Michael was on his way to his quarters now, was waiting for the next mission to begin. Nikita had, fortunately, been released from Medical and allowed a few days of downtime, but, sadly--once again--she would be spending them alone. He sighed. It was a pattern he despised.

His heart ached, as he thought back through these last few days. It had been such a torment to see her hurt, to have been forced to crawl back through what was left of the van to find her barely half-conscious, her body battered. He was relieved, then, that she was better, but it truly gave him no deeper sense of peace. If only he could have just one day with her . . .

His eyes went a little blank with pain, as his thoughts continued on. But no, that wasn't happening, hadn't happened since just before she had been sent to live in the outside world alone for six weeks. They had had one brief moment to discuss those events after it, had been able to air out the lingering pain between them and come to some saner place, but there had been no real opportunity to connect again. God, he missed that now.

He barely saw where he was heading, his mind completely captured in his torments. His fears for his beloved were growing stronger again, truly; she just seemed so permanently resigned to pain, even seemed to expect it--to think it deserved. He had been in the dark place she now inhabited once, as well, had known the depths of that inner loneliness, and it tore his heart to tiny slivers of sadness that his angel had to endure it, too--had to understand it at all. He, after all, had deserved such pain and torment--still did--but she . . . no. She would never deserve even a moment's discomfort, much less the never-ending line of atrocities she was forced to undergo at their masters' whim. It would just never be fair.

He almost wanted to laugh at that last thought, however, at its terrible irony. That he had even come to think in terms of "fairness" was more than a little odd, indeed, but--when it came to his beloved--he could think in no other way. Whatever happened to him he would face, but he couldn't bear witnessing even a second of her torment. It was just too much to ask.

He sighed, as he drew close to his quarters, his soul aching. Still, he had to face this new knowledge nonetheless; Nikita was in a terrible internal place, one she was finding it impossible to combat, didn't even see the point in trying to anymore. He hated it, of course, but he knew it was true. She was fading away again.

He made it into his quarters and swallowed back his anguish heavily, his whole body feeling the weight of his torment. The pain of his beloved's diminishing sense of self was just too much for him; he didn't want to face it at all, but it couldn't be avoided forever. He sat on his cot and tried, then, reluctantly, to analyze it.

One thing comforted him slightly now. He knew, at least, that she was better off than she had been a few months ago. During those few weeks after her mission with Volker--especially those she had spent alone--she had been close to breaking apart entirely. This, therefore, was a marginal improvement.

His heart ached even further, as his mind moved on. Still, it just wasn't enough. She might have managed a slight rebound from that tormenting time, but it hadn't seen her truly healed; there was still pain, was still a terrible amount of it. It was just that, now, she had become resigned to it.

He sighed tormentedly and lay down on the cot, trying to relax a little--or at least not make as good a subject for study, should anyone be watching; his mind, however, was still circling around his pain. His beloved one's immediate torment had dimmed somewhat, truly; she was able to take small joys in now, didn't seem as desperate to simply forget anymore. It was just that--unlike all of her life up to the Gelman process--she saw any pleasure she might receive as a rare and undeserved reprieve, as one she might like but could never expect to last. She was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

His eyes closed with a tormented sigh, as he tried to confront his pain; he wasn't sure it was really possible to overcome it now. He wished that they could be together, though, that there had been even a spare *moment* for them of late. Instead, they had been kept on constant missions, their only downtime taking place separately, allowing them rest but no real comfort or relief. God, he hated it.

He sighed once more, the pain throbbing through him. If only he had a chance to be with her, though--to really be with her--he could at least give her a distraction from her lingering sadness, could provide a small respite from it. They didn't have to end up in bed--their frequent destination; he knew he could give her some sense of warmth just by being able to spend time with her alone--away from Section. It was all the two of them really needed to be whole.

He tried to move his thoughts on again. He knew, though, that this wasn't an option, for the moment. He took a deep breath, then, trying to pull himself together--encouraging himself to move on. There had been enough worry and pain the last few weeks to go around, indeed, without obsessing over it.

His mind looked back again, therefore; the war that his leaders had begun with Oversight was escalating. He didn't know all of the details of each individual skirmish they had had, of course, but he understood without doubt that they were all targets now, were under fire because of their masters' overweening ambition. A small bolt of anger echoed deep inside him. There was no excusing it at all.

He tried to hold down the simmering sense of fury that these last few weeks had lit, however--knowing that it could lead him to nothing good. Still, his mind didn't entirely listen to his orders. That George had used Nikita as his pawn to try to kill his rival was bad enough, but his next foray had nearly been worse. He had then been forced to see his dearest Nikita lying there mindlessly, ready for cancellation--just another lifeless pawn in their cruel, ongoing game. The frisson of anger grew stronger. There were no words for how deeply he hated them all for it now.

His thoughts still didn't diverge, continuing his torment. He shuddered to think of all they had done to her mind of late, of all the times it had been reprogrammed and scraped in just the past few months. It was no wonder, really, that she was suffering emotionally now. How anyone could survive all of that at all was amazing.

His anger crashed into his torment at this last thought, however, forcing him away; he couldn't bear to think about this for too long--to think of all the suffering she had undergone so frequently, that he had failed to protect her from--without going insane. It just wasn't possible anymore.

His thoughts, then, turned instead to his own memories of the neural scrape--or what had been completed of it before the compound he had put together had fortunately kicked in. As the reflections had all come directly from his subconscious, they were instructive to examine. And what they told him, too, was, sadly, not a surprise.

He remembered it all now, remembered it unhappily; his thoughts had centered around just three people: Nikita, Simone, and Adam. They were, in truth, the only real connections he had ever formed since his life in Section began; minus his sister and Rene', in fact, they were probably the only ones he had ever formed at all. It had been appropriate, therefore, that--as he had prepared himself once again for the possibility of death--it had been the three of them he had remembered.

He let out a slightly tortured breath, the pain still deep. Even his memories of these three dear people, however, had been desolatingly instructive. With Adam, indeed, he had remembered the video they had made, of planting the tree together; it was a reminder he had watched more times than he clearly remembered, was his only real visual souvenir of the three of them together. And, while Elena had been in there somewhere, it had been appropriate that she hadn't been predominately featured; his connection to her, truly, had always been more one of guilt than of love.

Adam, however, was different, always had been--despite the number of times he had tried to deny it. The child had snuck his way into his heart without seeing or understanding his progress; it was so like his sweet Nikita had done. . . . Still, his son was only a memory for him now, was just a face he saw on a video, or in an occasional report on his progress. He had no part in who he really was anymore.

He moved his mind on, then, knowing there was no more to learn here. His memories of Simone, as well, had been telling. As opposed to all the beautiful, more comforting memories he still had of his first wife, he had seen her instead as she had looked that last time--broken and torn, barely human from pain and torture. His heart ached. If only he could find some way to forget.

But no. His mind turned slightly. He didn't deserve such a reprieve. He had failed her, after all, had failed her miserably and irrevocably; he had turned his back on the one suggestion of hers he should most have followed--and she had paid for it with first her safety and sanity and then her life. . . . He would never forgive himself for that again.

He let out a soft, shuddering sigh, therefore, as his mind moved on to his truest beloved; even his memories of her had been painfully instructive. Instead of all their sweet moments of joy, indeed, he had seen just two instances from their life. In one, he had been betraying her, had been using his kind and tender words to manipulate her into turning in on herself; it was a torment he had never forgiven himself for--never would. In the other, too--the one he had flashed on just before he had finally come back awake--he had been breaking in to rescue her, had managed to save her in a way he had, lately, so often failed to emulate. The memory had been his wake-up call, indeed. This one time, more than any other, he couldn't be allowed to fail.

The pain shuddered through him strongly again; he took another deep breath, then, as he tried to move his mind along. These thoughts, after all, while instructive, were too painful to linger on for very long. He had betrayed, abandoned, and tormented all three of the people he held so dear. . . . There was no way he could ever make that up.

He swallowed heavily, therefore, and tried to focus elsewhere, his mind going back to the last couple of days. George's latest gambit against them had been, he feared, too effective; Jerome had, no doubt, gained information from them which could be gathered in no other way. His heart ached. He just wondered what new hell it would lead them all to now.

His breath shuddered forth softly again, too, as he tried to deal with these thoughts, not very successfully. The boy George had sent to spy on them had unnerved him in a way he couldn't entirely explain yet. He knew it was more than the fact of what he could do, however; it was just something about him, something in his eyes. He had felt like whatever tiny consciousness animated that form, it knew more about him--could look into him--more intimately than almost anyone else alive. And that, indeed, was a thought he could *never* find comforting.

His mind circled here for a moment, digging deeper, trying to understand himself. While he had been comfortable with physical intimacy in his younger days--still was with one person alone--he had never truly wanted or welcomed any sort of deeper emotional or mental intimacy; it frightened him. He supposed, really, that he had always seen something in himself--something painfully twisted and unnatural, some ability to put conscience aside and follow someone else's commands without question; it wasn't something he wanted others to see. It frightened him still.

This darkness, as well, had made him shy away from so many people in his life. Even Simone had never entirely understood him or he her; all they had had of understanding were their similarities, instead. To have a small, rather malevolent, boy look into him so deeply, then, was entirely disturbing. He hadn't overcome it yet.

He couldn't escape these last thoughts, either; they dug in, forcing him to continue here. Even the one, truest love of his life had disturbed him with her intimacy, once or twice; even she frightened him slightly at times. Yes, he wanted it now, wanted her to look into him and see who he really was, but he always feared, as well, that maybe she had--up until now--just been willfully blind; maybe she had just seen what she had wanted to in him, ignoring his more demonic inner truths. It was still entirely too real a possibility to dismiss.

His soul shuddered at these thoughts. He still feared, then, that she would look into him some day and be repulsed, would turn away and run--would go back to the angels where she belonged; she had tarried with this demon long enough. Maybe her time here with him would end.

His next breath was especially shaky, and he had to focus hard on not letting any tears show. It was terrors like these, however, which woke him at night, which made him fear his beloved's desertion. He couldn't really even discuss them with her, for fear of putting the idea into her mind. . . . Besides, she was far too tormented of late to force his own fears onto her; he had to be there for her, not the other way around. So long as she was there at all, indeed, he would be content. He wouldn't survive in any other way.

He couldn't go on with these thoughts for too long, however; they were too tormenting. He moved his mind on, then, needing to focus elsewhere to stay sane.

His next thought, though, wasn't particularly comforting, either, provided him no solace. He couldn't entirely figure out just what Nikita's connection to Jerome was, indeed, just why the small operative took to her so strongly over everyone else. No, he had no trouble seeing why he might do this, generally, but the boy had looked at them all like he knew them, like he knew more about them than he was telling--than they might know of themselves. What was it, then, that he know about his beloved?

Michael shuddered slightly, but tried to repress it, forcing his mind to abandon these questions. His fears by themselves, after all, would do him no good; he had no answers. Nothing right now was giving him those.

His heart ached. All he had, instead, at the moment, was the discomforting thought that they were losing the war they had been dragged into against George--and the certain knowledge that he needed to be with his beloved again soon or go insane. Nothing was left for him without that.

Whatever terror the future might hold for them, then, he knew he needed to face it with her, with his angel--needed to be there for her, as she went through it, as well. He had to make up to her, indeed, for all the times he had betrayed, abandoned, and failed her--had to make amends. Without that, truly, without that opportunity soon, he might go crazy. His entire world was Nikita, after all--anything outside of it, anything else life could ever offer, was only emotional death.

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

It had been a . . . strange day--and not an entirely good one. Jerome's absence from their home hadn't been long enough at all--and his return had brought even more trouble; where the whole situation was leading, in fact, was something he barely wanted to think about. Wherever it was, however, it was sure to be entirely unpleasant.

Michael alpha sighed, as his small companion shifted unhappily on his chest. She had picked up his emotions again; he was disturbing her sleep. He sighed unhappily and sent a silent apology into her sleeping mind. He hated it when he upset her.

He held his Nikita a little closer, running a hand over her bright hair, as his mind continued on with his painful thoughts; they just weren't ones he could ignore completely, after all. They had to be dealt with now.

He focused in again, then. He had picked up an image of the older version of his constant companion from the other boy's mind earlier--or, rather, that boy had sent it there as an attempt at triumph; he had yet to be able to let it go at all. The nearly white color of the hair of the sweet child in his arms would one day turn into a lovely golden shade, one which would pick up the rays of the sun and reflect it, making her even more radiant than she already was--if that were possible. She was already so lovely in her girlhood that it gave him this strange and, paradoxically, sweet sort of ache in his chest to think about it, but--as she grew--she would be more beautiful than he had ever quite believed possible for anyone human. . . . He just hoped he would be around to see it.

She fretted again in her sleep, and he closed his eyes in torment at having hurt her again, her discomfort his greatest rebuke. He tried to calm her silently once more, before he allowed his mind to go on. He couldn't truly think unless she was content.

He was trying to dim his emotions, therefore, was trying to keep them from her, but he had known ever since they had arrived in this new place that that wasn't really possible. Nikita understood everything he felt in a way no one else ever could. Hiding anything from her, then, was impossible.

Still, he tried to keep his tormenting thoughts to himself now, tried to keep from passing them on. He couldn't stop thinking, though, couldn't make himself; there was always something around him here which needed to be examined, which had to be understood, in order for them to continue to be safe. This last day, however, had multiplied the usual, copious amounts of thoughts which needed to be sifted. For both their futures, therefore, he had to carry on.

He didn't really know where to begin in his musings now, though; there was just so much which needed to be examined. Indeed, ever since they had been taken out of their original home, he had had a new, and not always pleasant, world open up before him--one which was even more dangerous than the one before. The only real comfort to it, indeed--and it was a decided one, admittedly--was that he was allowed to stay near Nikita almost constantly. It was the closest he would ever understand to being happy.

He knew, of course, that this privilege was only allowed because they were being closely observed, but he didn't really care. They were together--and, while they were, he could protect her. He couldn't be stable any other way.

He repressed the tormented thoughts this last notion might bring to him, of course, careful of the comfort of the girl he cared for, as his mind went on. This new place they lived in had even greater perils, in so many ways, than the one they had left. True, they no longer had to cope with Madeline's cold evaluations, but the ones they underwent now were much more intrusive; very little at all could be hidden in them--unless you were *very* careful. He had only barely been able to manage so far.

He moved away from this thought, then, remembering their introduction to this place once more. They had been given tests upon entering which he had somehow understood that he had to not pass at too high a level. For years, after all, he had understood things he couldn't quite put a name to, had been able to see what people were thinking without quite knowing that he was. Coming here, therefore, had just, finally, given his abilities names.

He had hidden from his trainers, then, just how much he was capable of--and had told Nikita to do the same. Fortunately, too, their trainers had somehow picked up on the bond between them and, amazingly, had allowed them to stay together. That their proximity was merely a form of study for these men didn't alarm him, either; that had been true of his entire existence. All he cared about was that she was near him. It was all which had ever mattered at all.

He let out a, partly-relaxed, sigh, as he pushed his mind on again. The two of them had been watched and trained in several mental skills for almost a year now; while he had little internal concept of time--having been raised in such an unusual way--he had picked the rudiments of one up from his trainers. He realized, too, that these men actually didn't see Nikita as possessing too many skills, but he knew they were wrong. The less their observers understood, however, the better. It was safer for both of them.

He felt that strange, internal ache in him again, as well, as his thoughts focused in. He couldn't stand the thought of this beautiful child he had protected for so long being trained to kill as he had been; he hadn't actually carried out the act yet--didn't enjoy it, as Jerome did--but he knew it would come. He had already had to admit to being able to find one person's thoughts in a crowd; he knew that if he seemed to progress too slowly, he would be seen as a liability, and--for Nikita's sake--he couldn't let that happen. He felt another internal ache. He just hoped that she would forgive him when he finally became a killer.

This last thought--and the fears it held--were too much for him, though; he closed his eyes, no longer able to bear it. He couldn't stand ever even imagining losing her. . . . There was no reason to go on at all, if that happened.

He opened his eyes a few seconds later, however, to see the little girl he was holding looking up at him worriedly; he had been too overwhelmed by his own pain to notice before. . . . He would have to watch that in the future.

Nikita alpha frowned, her innocent little eyes looking into his young but saddened face--into the features which seemed to show emotions far beyond his years; her eyes, too, saw deeper than her years alone would suggest. Neither of them had truly had a youth.

He took a silent breath at her look and tried to hold in his pain, wanting to spare her--but he knew it was no use; there was no emotion he could hide from her. She looked at him a little scoldingly, then, finally understanding now that his torment centered around her. "No more pain," she ordered seriously with her thoughts, "not for me." She waited quietly for his response.

He couldn't have explained how he felt to her, didn't possess the words, but he knew she understood; she always did. He closed his eyes and smiled softly, therefore, before refocusing on her. "Sorry," his voice whispered in her mind; he stroked his thumb over her eyebrow gently. "I didn't mean to wake you."

She looked as though she were talking to someone rather stupid, although there was still a softness to the look. "I know that." She shook her head. "Just don't."

He swallowed heavily and nodded, hoping he could keep his promise--fearing whether it would be possible. Her eyes softened a little, though, and he knew she understood that he would try. That, indeed, was enough.

This discussion settled, then, she laid her head back down on his chest--right over his heart--and rubbed her cheek there. He closed his eyes tightly, taking in a deep breath, trying to withstand the assault of sweet trust and devotion she had somehow just transferred to him. He had never been able to withstand the sensation without a slight moan.

His breathing was a little faster now with the effects of her kindness, too. She had always been able to do this to an extent, of course, but her ability to transfer certain feelings to other people had increased to a nearly-terrifying degree in the past year. She almost never, though, gave them anything bad--just a sort of sweetness that made them smile, if it didn't frighten them half to death. It was sort of hard to take in that much of something good.

He stroked his hand over her hair softly, thanking her. For him especially, the emotions she gave him were too large to describe--felt like they would break free of his body. He had wanted to cry out from the immensity of her tenderness more than once, from the sweet devotion this little girl he belonged to gave him. No one else, he knew, could ever experience anything like it from her, no matter what her abilities. It existed only between the two of them.

He let out a heavy breath, then, and kissed the top of her head. There was no way to repay her beautiful kindness when she soothed him like this; it wasn't possible for him. All he could do was protect her.

"Thank you," he whispered in her mind, and he felt her smile against him; he sensed the small, fluttery feeling in his heart her happiness always brought him. He reached into her thoughts softly with his mind, as well, placing a quiet order to sleep there. She needed that now.

He felt her respond with immediate trust to him and stayed quietly watching her thoughts until she was finally in a deep sleep. It was only then that he let himself continue his previous, fearful musings. . . . Maybe this time, hopefully, he wouldn't wake her.

He pulled back from her mind, as his own wandered back down its earlier paths. He wondered now, indeed--from both what he had learned in his previous home from Madeline and from what he had seen in Jerome's mind earlier--if this bond he shared with Nikita was something like the other, older version of the two of them had. The other boy, of course--his self-styled rival--had tried to claim that there was more pain, fear, and anger there than anything tender, but he had been able to see deeper than that. While he hated some of what he had picked up in Jerome's mind, too--hated what his older version must have done to this sweet woman--he still understood that the tenderness between them always overcame anything else, no matter what they might temporarily believe. There may have been a terrible amount of pain there, then, but he understood that they shared something unbreakable between them, nonetheless. Now, he just needed to wholly understand what that was.

He took a quiet breath, therefore, his mind looking back. He knew that the older pair shared many things, including their bodies and a different sort of touch; he had even picked up some strange, second-hand version of their memories of these times from Jerome. While he could tell that that boy had put some unpleasant mental spins on these moments, too, he was able to look past them enough to see some little hint of the bond that couple shared. And it was that, maybe more than anything else, which gave him some comfort for the future.

He understood the basic physical act that the older pair had taken part in, of course--had been shown it too often by Madeline not to; still, he saw something in these handed-down images which went beyond the physical. What happened between them in bed was more than that--was a lot more than many of the pairings she had shown him; it, instead, came along with words in their minds like "joy," "love," and "ecstasy." They were all very powerful, indeed.

He sighed a little. While he understood these words very vaguely, he had never been trained to comprehend any of them, so his knowledge was limited. Still, he knew that what the older version of himself and Nikita did contained some part of the emotions he himself felt lying here in this cot with his own Nikita. When she transferred her sense of joy and life into his heart, in fact, he thought he could really start to understand all the terms the older pair used--without any clearly-stated definitions. His gaze grew distant. He supposed, however, that he would just have to wait to find out.

His mind turned just slightly once more, not able to focus on this much-wanted outcome for too long. It just meant too much for that.

He began to worry, then; he couldn't stop doing that for too long. There had been some hints, of course, of what their new trainers wanted of himself and his companion--but you could never be entirely certain; their minds, after all, weren't as open as Madeline's. Besides, he suspected, they didn't really know what would happen in the future, were just under orders and waiting for more. There was nothing to be learned there, then.

The one real hint he had had of what might be coming, therefore, had been found in the mind of one of the other subjects who had been transferred to this new home with himself and Nikita; he focused in on her. Many of them, indeed, had been left behind--and, he had a feeling, they were no longer alive to worry about their own futures. Still, a few of the people he had known before had come with them; Simone had been one. She, too, had--he had read in her mind, and the minds of the trainers--been tested high in the area of precognition; he had had to dig deeper, though, to understand the term.

Once he had comprehended it, however, he had remembered it--and, although Simone had been separated from them, had been forced to live on her own like all the others, he had seen her again. There were times, in fact, when all the children were brought out to be tested against each other. They were times you had to be very careful, indeed.

During one of these days, too, a few months after their arrival, he had seen her again; she had looked at himself and Nikita, as well, and suddenly smiled--a moment before she had repressed it and continued on like before. In that second, however, he had had a flash of himself and Nikita--grown up and happy. He really hoped it was real.

He felt a little sad, as his mind turned again, though. Still, for all he knew, it was possible his old acquaintance had somehow picked up on what was happening to their older selves, not to the two of them, but he held the image in his heart, nonetheless. It made all the fears a little less loud.

He sighed again, his mind moving on. He understood some things about this older couple, then, but it still didn't tell him what would happen to himself and his child Nikita. True, he really hoped that they might end up something like the older pair, at least in the good ways. He knew, after all, that his older self could give a sort of pleasure to his own partner which neither he nor the girl sleeping against him were in any way capable of--or ready for--yet. He hoped, though, that, one day--when they were both grown and such desires began to seem more natural--he too would be able to give this sweet girl that kind of pleasure. It might, really, be his only way of ever starting to thank her for caring for him.

The strange feelings within him flooded over him again, and he kissed the top of her head once more; she murmured quietly in her sleep in response, while he smiled at the sound. He wasn't in any particular hurry for this kind of physical meeting between them, of course; he had somehow picked up second-hand from Jerome's mind, as well, that such things required skills which took a bit of learning. All of that, then, would have to wait. For now--for years to come--he would just be able to go on without any excessive worries so long as his Nikita was close to him, was allowed to sleep in his arms. That was all he really needed in life at all.

He smiled a little, still. That he was allowed this at all, indeed--he knew, was a privilege which no other of the inhabitants here were. The happy look faded. Most of them, in fact, were caged up, were kept to themselves, living solely in their own thoughts; he had frequently heard the pained anguish of their minds--in the night, especially, when they weren't distracted by tests and tasks. It had almost been too much for him for awhile, too--the thoughts overwhelming. It had only been Nikita opening up her mind to him, allowing him into her sheltered thoughts, which had finally taught him peace. It was only there he could be happy.

He wanted to linger here, but knew he couldn't let himself; his mind moved on, then, to more, less pleasant, thoughts. Along with the better insights he had gained--unwillingly--from his rival, after all, he had also come to understand that there was a great deal of emotion between his older self and that man's partner which hurt. It had been a stinging revelation.

Jerome had made sure that he focused on that, too, of course, had even tried to force Nikita to listen to the thoughts. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed not to try to kill him then--but he couldn't do that in front of Nikita, no matter how little she liked, or how much she feared, the other boy. He couldn't become a monster in her innocent eyes; it was too much to ask of him. He, then, aside from shielding his partner, had held his mental ground. It had been one of the hardest times of his life.

His mind ran back again. He understood, however, that, to the older Nikita, her partner had sometimes been a monster. This, too, was a revelation which practically made him bleed, which was just too raw to withstand. How any version of him could hurt any version of her was too much for him, was too wrackingly painful. Whatever pleasure that older man gave his partner, therefore, it wasn't enough--could never be. No one got forgiven for hurting his Nikita--not even himself. No one ever would.

He could sense the child in his arms starting to waken again; he took a deep breath and effectively calmed himself, tamping down his emotions. It hurt her, he knew--even more since this past year--to feel these sort of dark emotions in him, and he just couldn't bear for her to see them in his heart. That in itself just hurt too much.

He calmed himself a bit more, then, as his mind went on. He still didn't know what to make of the older pair entirely--or what to think of his own future with his Nikita. Still, he understood that he would keep this child with him or die trying. There was just no other path anymore.

He sighed once more; he knew he couldn't keep this thought and not wake her. He let it go for awhile, then, as his mind moved on again. There were other things still to consider.

He settled once more on the boy who had decided to be his rival, instead. Jerome was someone he couldn't ever like, was someone who had always made his skin prickle with distrust. He supposed, really, it went back to the first time they had met--when he and Nikita had been brought in to this new place. They hadn't spoken then, hadn't even been introduced, but the other boy had looked at Nikita with a gaze which had made a fierce anger rise in his blood. He couldn't have put it into words, still didn't entirely understand it, but he did know that Jerome wanted his Nikita for his own, wanted to own, possess, and mold her to whatever ego-centered needs he might feel. It sickened him. Since he himself had stood in the boy's way, though, they had become rivals of the most determined kind. Michael, after all, wouldn't let that boy win. He would *not* be replaced in her heart.