Paper Tiger (rated R)

By KT

Copyright December 17, 2001

(Spoilers for "On Borrowed Time")

PRESENT TIME

Walking the hallway to Apt. 412, the few steps that he knew so well seemed to take a lifetime.

Baffled by the way Nikita had disappeared after the destruction of the Genefex plant, Michael's nerves were stretched as thin as they ever got. The sickening feeling in his gut increased by increments until it all but stopped his feet from connecting their steps. As he slowed his pace to a near standstill, he took a deep breath and let his mind trace the events of the past two days.

Their clandestine meeting previous to the mission had been as dangerous as any they had ever had in Section... Michael recalled how Nikita's eyes had burned into his, how her index finger had tripped over his mouth, her simple touch sending him over the edge, the heat of her body, so close to his, forging its irresistible pull on him until kissing her was his whole world.

It had all been perfectly arranged. Everything had gone according to plan until Nikita's strange disappearance. After that the universe was a different place - her seeming unawareness of missing their tryst, her unavailability since their return, and, most extraordinarily, her blowing up the building before she knew whether or not he had made it out... the whole thing stank of Section and Madeline.

Michael knew in his heart that the freedom that he and Nikita had been enjoying would be paid for sooner or later, but he had no regrets. He had pushed her into it, and though she had resisted at first, she knew that time for each of them might end at any moment, and so had surrendered to her desires.

The past few months had been pure heaven on earth. They had spent every waking moment away from Section in each other's company, eating, sleeping, cooking, making love, taking long walks, pretending to have some semblance of normalcy to their lives. His body tightened, eyes closed, as he pictured them cocooned in the deep hot water of his bathtub, skin against skin...

They hadn't spoken of love or commitment or any of the things that lovers talk about. They had simply lived.

He turned the corner abruptly and the hall loomed ahead. His legs moved unbidden until he faced her door and raised his hand to knock. His arm held itself up, suspended by some unseen force, as he hesitated. Michael could hear nothing coming from inside. Perhaps she wasn't there... but he knew she was.

* * * * * * * *

PREVIOUSLY

Nikita completed her debrief in record time. It was amazing. Suddenly, everything seemed incredibly simple... no games, no deceptions, no excuses, no justifications... short and sweet. At first she had been deeply puzzled by her hesitation after receiving the direct order from Operations to destroy the Genefex plant. But the more she thought about it, the less she wondered. Michael did not need her protection. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

She stopped at the hardware store on the way home. Time for some serious redecorating. As she looked over the bright paint colors, she felt herself repulsed by them. Her brows closed into a frown and her breath came short. She felt her hands grip the edge of the counter, her knees starting to buckle beneath her. A wave of nausea spread through her body. Her arms crossed themselves over her belly and held tight as she doubled over with pain. She could feel a fine sheen of sweat break out, and began to gasp for air.

My God, she thought, I'm having a heart attack!

Then it was over as quickly as it began. Nikita slipped her elbow onto the counter and leaned against it, eyes closed, as she monitored her reactions. She straightened up and breathed deeply several times, just to make sure that she was really OK. When she opened her eyes, she found the clerk staring at her. A ghost of a smile graced her lips. She struggled to speak, but was incapable at the moment.

"Can I help you?" came the predictable query.

At last, words formed. "Yes, thanks. Some paint. I'm sprucing up my apartment."

Nikita stared at the colors again, but this time, her reaction was different... no... indifferent. Her expression went blank. Her body shivered slightly as her focus turned inward.

"Something in white."

* * * * * * * *

She stood in the middle of her apartment, hands on her hips, staring at the walls. The box of paint supplies sat idle on the kitchen counter as Nikita began to turn in a slow circle, her legs crossing and tangling until she was forced to sit down abruptly. Her hands glided over the fibers of the rug beneath her, and she became totally engrossed in the texture of its surface. Her fingers curled as she dug her nails into the fabric, then rubbed harder, faster, until a charge of static electricity jolted through her.

She gave a short yelp, then fell backward, her head landing heavily, her body feeling like it was completely detached from her mind. The ceiling stared at her, moving slowly downward, the weight of it pressing on her lungs until she felt the air being slowly hissed out of her. The room rocked like a boat in heavy seas. Her gut rebelled... she wanted to retch.

This rug... erotic memories rose of her and Michael wrestling naked as they abandoned themselves to their tempestuous passions... Nikita turned her head sideways and her body followed, tucking itself into a fetal position. Another flash of Michael wrapped around her from behind like a hard shell protecting its soft center, lips sensuously caressing her shoulder... her neck... her ear... fingers like feathers raising goosebumps as they flitted over her breasts, then moved lower to tease, torment, transport...

"Oh... God..." A groan, loud and rough, broke from her as her eyes closed and the visions intensified. The sickening feeling grew beyond tolerance and Nikita crawled toward the bathroom. Another wave of nausea clenched her gut, tensing every muscle. She stopped, sprawled out on the floor like a lizard in the desert, waiting for it to pass. A gray shadow moved across the floor.

"M... Michael?"

There was a dull metallic taste in her mouth. Her tongue felt swollen and her neck muscles struggled to keep her throat from closing. The floor felt hot and cold at the same time. Nikita's eyes glazed as she lost consciousness, her skin glistening from sweat, her mind restless with half-formed dreams and jumbled images.

* * * * * * * *

Bells in the distance... The pounding of ocean surf...

Nikita's eyes opened slowly to the ringing of her cell phone. Her hands moved to cover her ears as the roaring grew louder. A pool of pale liquid stretched out like a pane of glass across the floor next to her nose. All her senses went on alert as she rolled away from the stench of her own vomit and rose to her feet in a single swift movement. Her eyes swept the room, but there was no one else there.

Her sudden rising hit her hard, made her feel as if she was going to faint. She stepped forward and leaned against the kitchen counter, breathing deeply to fight the nausea. Damn that phone! She grabbed it and hauled back as if to fling it across the room. The noise in her ears began to fade, but the ringing persisted. She pressed the TALK button, her elbow digging into the white formica surface.

"Yeah?"

A gravelly voice answered. "Josephine."

"What?"

"Hey, sugar, it's me." Walter's tempo was upbeat.

"I know."

"How ya doin'?"

Nikita froze. "What do you want?"

"Happen to be in your neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. You know, have a glass of wine and some laughs. Just like always."

She was silent as her usually friendly reaction to Walter battled with the confusion and coldness triggered by the sound of his voice. What was happening to her??? She shivered, her mind tripping over itself.

"I'm... busy."

Walter cleared his throat. "Now you sound just like Michael."

Michael.

"Ohhh..." the sound escaped before she could stop it. Agony...

Walter was alarmed. "Hey! Nikita! You OK?"

Unable to answer, she clicked off, the phone clattering to the floor as her hand gripped the edge of the counter. Nikita slid to her knees, then turned and sat, her back propped against the base of the cabinet. She gasped, felt the sweat rising again.

Breathe, just breathe!

Her body calmed. She rose, slowly this time, and went to the sink. She filled a bowl with soapwater and cleaned up the floor. As she worked, the world around her dimmed and shrank, and she became totally engrossed in her simple task, as if nothing else existed. The sick feeling subsided, the sweat cooling, her breathing returning to normal, as she scrubbed and dried, scrubbed and dried... scrub... dry.

Nikita emptied the dirty water into the toilet, staring as it swirled down and away...

There. That was nice. Nice and clean. Clean and white. White...

She returned to the kitchen and unpacked her supplies. As she stirred the paint, her mind relaxed. The concentric circles in the wake of the stir stick seemed to soothe and console. The smooth texture was so very chaste. She poured some paint into the pan and unwrapped the roller, moistening it carefully. Nikita went to the bedroom and pulled an old shirt from the closet. White. Perfect. She buttoned it carelessly, then focused on her task.

This was simple. This was good. Her life was changing. Something better... no needs, no desires. Her anxieties slipped away as the hypnotic rhythm of the roller on the wall resonated with her heart like a drumbeat.

* * * * * * * *

The fact that she didn't have any music playing didn't penetrate Nikita's psyche as anything unusual. She stopped rolling paint for a moment, listening to the silence. Her head cocked to the side, her brow wrinkling, as she struggled to determine what was missing. Unsuccessful, she shrugged her shoulders and returned to her task. She finished the patch she was working on, set the roller down, and stepped back. Surveying her work, hands on her hips, she felt quite satisfied. Now for moving the furniture.

A musical rap on the door... Nikita glanced at her surveillance monitor. Ah, just in time to help... She opened the door.

"Hello, hello, hel-lo!" His eyes swept over her raggy shirt. "And aren't we looking chic today?"

"Mick." Her voice was flat. She blocked his entrance.

He was not intimidated. "Mind if I come in?"

Without waiting for Nikita's answer, he stepped past her, immediately noticing the change in décor.

"Well, well... this is a bit radical, even for you, isn't it dollface?"

"I hate it when you call me that."

"That so? You never said so before."

"Look, just get on with it. Why are you here?"

"Oh, just the usual... cup of sugar, glass of wine, advice to the lovelorn..."

Nikita shut the door and turned to face him. Mick waited for a quick comeback, but none came. Her lack of reaction confirmed Madeline's briefing... that Nikita had undergone some kind of anti-stress drug therapy, and would be somewhat unresponsive. His right hand closed around the little plastic bottle in his pocket. Now, how to complete the mission...

Mick twirled in a circle with an expansive gesture, then sat abruptly. He knew that the rug, among other objects in Nikita's apartment, had been impregnated with the maintenance drug used in the therapy. Madeline had explained everything... that the drug eventually evaporated and had to be renewed. One drop in specific areas was all that was needed.

"Mick, what are you doing?"

The bottle had an automatic release feature that measured the dose with just slight pressure. Done. He rose and moved in the direction of the bedroom, quickly skimming around its perimeter.

"New linens? Love-ly color." Done.

"Mind if I use the WC?" He disappeared into the bath and shut the door. Done. As he emerged, Nikita was dragging furniture.

"Here, give me a hand with this, would you please?"

"But of course. Anything for you luv..."

* * * * * * * *

Mick insisted on helping her move her other furniture out of the way so she could complete her painting project. He chatted incessantly the entire time about some new bird he was seeing. He would have worn Nikita out if she hadn't been so successful at tuning him out.

After his departure, she sat on her sofa, a faint expression of amusement about her mouth, as she recalled how he had fussed over the location of her sofa and chairs, sitting on each one to verify that its view was correct for the room, mumbling something about feng shui. How easy it had been to ignore his usually irritating presence.

Nikita decided that Mick was harmless, at best... the well-meaning pesky neighbor. Section certainly hadn't chosen him for his people skills - he undoubtedly was as obnoxious as any person could get. But his wit and friendliness could charm the birds from the trees.

As for intelligence, well that was another matter. He'd had dealings with some of the most dangerous criminals and terrorists around, yet had managed to remain unscathed by their vengeance. Centre had never said a word about his level of importance, so she'd always assumed he was disposable collateral. Interesting...

Nikita stretched out on the sofa. I'll just take a minute's rest, she thought, noting the time. 3:30... still early, but the back-to-back missions had taken their toll and fatigue was beginning to catch up with her. Her eyes drifted shut.

* * * * * * * *

The beeping of her computer woke her gently. Nikita shifted her gaze to the clock. 7:30... she must have been more tired than she thought. She rose, went to her desk, and logged on. Something was incoming on a secure channel. Nikita typed in her access password. The concerned face of Birkoff appeared a few seconds later.

"Birkoff. What's up?"

"Nikita, hi." He got right to the point. "Just thought you'd like to know. They've reactivated surveillance on your apartment."

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, resting her arms on the desk, and switched to video mode.

"Yeah? So what?"

"It's more intensive than before. They've created a thermal imaging program that profiles emotional responses. Uses color for stress, excitement, resting, you name it." Birkoff noted Nikita's shadowed eyes.

A flash of anger surged through her. "An animal in the zoo" she had once shouted to Operations. What did it matter? She had become that animal. Her anger died away, replaced by resignation.

"So, I'm not just a pretty face any more, hmmm?"

Birkoff was not amused. "Nikita..."

"It's OK, Seymour." She was done with games. "I don't care about it." Nikita glanced over her shoulder, her eyes darting about the room. "So are they listening now? Are they watching me?"

"No. I've temporarily disabled the system for this transmission." Birkoff sighed deeply. "Nikita, listen to me. They mean to separate you and Michael once and for all."

"Yeah? So what's new? Why don't they just cancel me and get it over with?" She purposely baited him, knowing that Centre would never let Section One cancel her.

"Nikita!"

"Hey Birkoff, gotta go."

"Nikita, wait, there's more... Michael is..."

Michael.

She cut him off. "'Bye Seymour."

She hit the button that abruptly ended their chat. The mention of Michael's name was doing something different this time. Nikita started to shiver as if her blood was thickening. Her body became sluggish, her breathing shallow. The temperature in the room seemed to be dropping rapidly. She wanted to wrap herself up in a winter coat, wanted to turn up the heat. Michael's face appeared on the empty monitor screen, moving in wavy vertical lines like a mirror in a freak show.

"Aaarrrhhh..." Nikita pushed her chair away from the desk. Her groan was loud, crazy, as her arms stiffened, hands clenched into fists. She shook her head, violently trying to dispel the hallucinations. Michael's name was circulating round and round in her brain as the shivering morphed into convulsions.

She slid heavily off the chair and lay shaking uncontrollably until her body went numb. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, wilder every second, and she turned onto her side. Her mind was screaming. What's happening to me??? As her cheek came in contact with the rug, chaos...

Nikita lost consciousness once again. This time the dreams and images of all her beautiful tender liaisons with Michael turned stark, two-dimensional, colorless, like a bad porn movie. Her body twisted, flailed, as her head whipped from side to side. The visions receded gradually until there was just a blank screen, a white light that faded to gray, then black. Nikita began to breathe deeply again. Her convulsions passed, and she slept yet another hour.

* * * * * * * *

She wakened, alert, feeling strangely refreshed, as though she had slept for days. She lay hugging herself as warmth crept back into her body, then sat up slowly. Michael's face had disappeared from her monitor screen, and the apartment had lost its claustrophobic hold on her. The serene white walls stared back at her. Had they eyes to see, they would have beheld her blank stare and detached expression.

Nikita stood up slowly, running her hands through her hair. She stretched her arms upward, rising onto her toes as the rest of her body stretched. The numbness turned to tingling that diminished quickly. She felt suddenly free. Memories of her sickness, nausea, pain, cold, flashed and fled. Try as she might, she could not recall the hallucinations. A great feeling of relief swept through her. Relief... but no joy.

Nikita moved back into the kitchen. The paint in the pan had dried while she slept. She poured a new supply and picked up her roller. Only one more wall to go.

* * * * * * * *

Madeline daintily patted her lips with her napkin and set it down next to her plate. The day had, on the whole, gone well. With Genefex completed at 100% containment, there were no complaints coming from either Oversight or Centre. At the moment, there were no critical missions in progress. She leaned back in her chair and allowed herself to relax. The door to her office opened and Paul's presence permeated the room.

"You're here late." Paul's voice was neutral. She had turned down his earlier invitation to meet him.

"Yes." Madeline's eyes met his without ceremony. "Are you hungry? I had Christopher hold some food in reserve in anticipation of your return."

"Good. I was just about to order some dinner. Where are we with Nikita's situation? "

"I'm about to contact her. Would you like to observe the final stages of the Gelman process? You're aware that we've taken Nikita to the maximum level, much further than we took Adrian?"

Operations nodded. "I was aware that there were more levels, but not that you had executed the procedures on Nikita." His eyes searched hers. "When did that happen?"

Madeline's voice turned suddenly demure. "During the Genefex mission. You were busy. I didn't want to bother you with it. I knew you'd approve."

Operations looked at her with a cool smile. Sometimes he thought that they'd known each other too long. "Thank you. It has been rather a busy week. Can you elaborate on the Gelman process?"

"Yes." Madeline rose and poured him a glass of wine. She pressed a button on the wall. "Christopher, would you please bring in dinner for Paul? Thank you." She watched as Operations took a seat opposite hers. He seemed tired and a bit unfocused. Food would take care of that. His predisposition toward low blood sugar always made him cranky until he had a proper meal. Madeline sat.

"I've used the post-hypnotic protocols as dictated by the process. We're at 99% saturation, and the maintenance program is already in place." Operations raised eyebrows made her smile. "Mick Schtoppel has been most cooperative."

"Ah."

"All that's left is to finalize her emotional separation from Michael, and her ability to kill without remorse. She'll be as ruthless as Michael. Actually, she'll be more ruthless." Madeline observed as Paul sipped his wine. She was particularly pleased with the success of the process so far.

The corners of Paul's mouth twitched, his pale eyes narrowing to a steely glint. "Maybe we should use the process on Michael. Imagine how much more efficient he'd be."

Madeline shook her head. "Michael doesn't need Gelman's process. He's already performing at the top of his game." Her face remained passive, but there was a hint of pride in her voice. "He's the best and the smartest of any operative worldwide. If we make him any more efficient, he'll surpass us, and I... and we... are not ready for that to happen yet." She paused thoughtfully, her gaze direct. "Besides, Michael needs to refocus on what and who he is working to protect. Nikita is his one emotional crutch. I can think of no better way to break him of his habit."

Paul was reminded once again of why Madeline remained his second-in-command. She truly was the best in her field. "So, if we leave Michael to come to grips with the situation with his emotions intact, it will keep him under our thumb, and reinforce his resigning himself to Nikita's new..." he looked at her sharply "...abilities."

"Precisely." Madeline was feeling a bit smug, but nodded pleasantly. "It's time." She picked up the phone.

"Just a moment." Paul's voice was commanding.

Madeline put down the phone with an expectant look, reaching over to switch on her computer monitor. Operations was slightly startled to see the interior of Nikita's apartment in real time, the blonde operative quite preoccupied with painting the walls.

"You've been watching her? Since when?" His soft tone indicated mild irritation.

"Yes. Since the completion of Genefex. It's only temporary."

Showdown time. She knew she would have to bring Paul up to date at some point, but had agreed with George that waiting until everything was in place would practically eliminate the chance of Operations interfering.

"I felt that we needed to collect more data on the deeper levels of Gelman's process, now that Adrian is no longer our working model. Gelman developed a thermal imaging program to monitor the subject's emotional progress. I had Birkoff do a workup, and we are about to get our first demonstration."

Paul was silent, his eyes on the monitor. "Show me."

Madeline pressed a key and the monitor changed dramatically. The interior of the room darkened a bit, showing a neutral gray color. Nikita's form looked like a a very faint rainbow, waves of pale blues, greens, and yellows rippling across her as she painted. Light from her French doors shone bright white.

Operations nodded. "Fascinating. What happens now?"

Madeline changed the scan back to normal. "We implement the first of the regular maintenance sessions. I want to make sure that it's working properly. After we're done, Michael will pay Nikita a visit and we'll record the results. He's on his way there now. If things go well, we won't need to continue the surveillance. We'll be able to collect the data here in Section."

"Brilliant. Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"Gelman is a true genius. So why don't we have him in custody?"

Madeline smiled, her eyes watching the monitor. "We will, soon. He's been very clever at eluding us up until now. But I believe I have a way to bring him out of hiding." She shifted her eyes to his. "First things first. Are you ready?"

* * * * * * * *

Nikita poured the last of the paint into the rolling pan. Her lips pursed as she contemplated another trip to the hardward store. The clerk had assured her that she had purchased enough to finish the job, according to the dimensions she'd given him. Perhaps she had miscalculated. As she rummaged through her tool drawer for her tape measure, the phone rang again. She directed a destructive look at the dratted device.

Nikita flipped the receiver open. "Yeah?"

"Josephine." Madeline's voice was as smooth as glass.

"I'm here."

"Listen carefully."

"Yes."

"White Room."

Operations watched as Nikita's face turned blank. Madeline gave her careful instructions.

"Nikita, turn on your computer monitor. Make sure the video is on, and that your audio is turned up."

Nikita sat down at her computer. As if in a trance, she responded slowly to Madeline's commands. The light from the screen reflected off her face, her eyes became glazed, her body motionless. Operations could hear a rhythm coming from the speakers, a potent rhythm that made him shake his head and stand up.

"What is that??"

"The program uses the resting heartbeat of the subject to sustain the hypnotic trance. We collected the necessary vitals during the initial session at Genefex. The images being cast are using Nikita's bio-rhythms to reinforce the programming."

"What is she looking at?"

"Intimate images of her and Michael, the same ones used to establish the process. But now they alternate with subliminal messages telling her that there is only one purpose to life: to kill the enemy. These are interspersed with other images of Nikita watching herself kill..." Madeline's hesitation sparked his attention.

"Kill...?"

"Terrorists, of course... and... those she is closest to... Walter... Birkoff... Michael. The images move so quickly that she doesn't have time to think about them. The visual repetition overloads the mind until it reaches its saturation point, as indicated by the thermal imaging. It then automatically shuts off. Time spent in maintenance sessions grows shorter as effectiveness increases."

Operations grasped the implications immediately. "So now, her friends, even her lover, can be the enemy."

"Yes."

"And what's to prevent Nikita from turning against... us?"

"Unfortunately, nothing. But Gelman's process doesn't change Nikita's life, only her ability to form emotional attachments. With her sexual desires and her capacity for compassion completely repressed, she won't have to make those kinds of decisions. As her unquestioned superiors, we make them for her."

"And her relationship with Michael?"

"She'll be able to turn herself on and off as if he were a Valentine target. She should be able to accomplish this after two weeks of maintenance sessions."

"Excellent. We won't have to devote any more time and resources to this problem. And I don't mind telling you, Madeline, that it will be a relief. Oversight has been questioning our activities."

"They should back off after this."

The sound coming from the monitor changed abruptly as the program terminated. Madeline switched on the thermal imaging program. Nikita's form was now nearly completely without color, just white and a delicate violet emanating from her. Madeline spoke quietly as she hit a key on her keyboard.

"Nikita, this screen means you're finished. You will remember nothing. You can resume your activities."

Nikita's computer screen flashed an unseen image, then darkened. Operations was quite satisfied as he watched Nikita "waken" from her session and resume painting. She didn't look any different.

"How will we know it's working?"

"Her next encounter with Michael should finalize the program. We'll keep the tape rolling until we have confirmation."

"Good." Paul was not yet convinced, but with recorded proof forthcoming, he was prepared to be patient. "Let me know when I can view the results." He walked to the door, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "Would you care to spend the night tonight?"

Madeline looked up, her face a mask. "No. Thank you." She turned her attention to her monitor and began typing.

Operations kept his back to her as the door slid open. "Fine. I'll be in the Tower. Please inform Christopher." He left quietly.

* * * * * * * *

PRESENT TIME AGAIN

Nikita was nearly out of paint. She observed her hands, caked with white streaks. She would have to clean up before she went out. Time check: 8:40. The hardware store was open until 10:00. No problem.

As she worked, Nikita draped her left arm over her head, resting her elbow against the wall, her strokes slowing as the roller got drier. The monotony of the work had enveloped her in a cloud of tranquility. Her calm was broached by another knock on the door... one that was all too familiar.

Her eyes fixed on the surveillance monitor, she set her roller in the pan. As she moved toward the door, Nikita tried to quell her racing heart and the liquid feeling in her body. She reached for the knob and pulled.

* * * * * * * *

Michael's hand finally balled itself into a fist and rapped on Nikita's door. He had no idea how long he'd been standing in the hall, just out of range of her surveillance. As his knuckles bit the wood, a tremor went through him. What if she chose not to answer? He breathed deeply, all his senses on alert. The toughest terrorists were easier to face than the possibility that Nikita's mind had been tampered with, that she might be lost to him. The door opened abruptly.

* * * * * * * *

"Hul-lo." Nikita's voice was disturbingly casual. Her hand held the door jamb and she stood aloof. Time suspended as their eyes met. Michael reminded himself to keep breathing.

"Hi." He made no move to enter.

"What're you doing here?" She turned as she spoke, leaving the door open.

Michael's eyes swept the room out of habit as he stepped into the apartment.

White everywhere. All objects of beauty gone.

A chill began to permeate his heart as his worst fears took shape. Nikita was walking away from him. Everyday, until three days ago, she had welcomed him with her warmth, her smile, her embrace, her kiss. He had never, in his life, felt so loved. Now he felt slightly sick as he stared at her retreating back, gathering his courage.

"Wanted to see you." He closed the door gently behind him.

Nikita resumed her painting, glancing at Michael, her face attempting a pleasant expression as Birkoff's warning nagged at the back of her mind. "Yeah?" Her strokes started to accelerate, her movements becoming tense, jerky. "They're watching the apartment y'know."

"I know." His voice was carefully neutral as his glance took in the changes in the icy interior around him. Michael walked slowly toward her.

Nikita fixed her eyes on the wall as he passed and stood behind her, out of sight. Her body went hot and cold, fighting as the now-familiar nausea rose in her gut. She pressed harder on the roller, breathing out forcefully, her hand on the wall supporting her until she was sure that she wasn't going to fall down. Michael's presence was like a net, and she was the fish... caught, struggling, floundering, unable to get free.

Not really believing that she was immune to him, he reached up and threaded his fingers lightly through her hair, catching the scent of her. The silky texture transported him to realms of their sweet love-making, the memory of the silver-blonde strands brushing lightly across his face as she hovered above him, taking her pleasure, holding him hostage... He let his hand trail down her back, searching in vain for the electricity that had always flowed instantly between them when he touched her.

Nikita's insides were squirming as she felt Michael's fingers against her back. She glanced over her shoulder at him. The subtle yearning in his veiled expression triggered a flashback of them together in bed... heat... limbs twisting... bodies joined... eyes locked... perfectly matched lovers... She was plunged into a moment of respite, but it was quickly dissipated by the increasing intensity of the discomfort his nearness was creating.

She turned suddenly, her shoulder catching his as she moved toward her work table to soak the last of the paint into the roller. Her hand touched him lightly, then rested on the wall as the painting started again. She focused harder, resistance weakening.

Anger rose in him as Michael moved to face her. He brushed her hair aside and laid his fingers against the soft skin of her neck. Nikita stopped moving and looked at him, her face expectant, her eyes unnaturally bright, finally meeting his full on.

He battled with his emotions. "What did they do to you?"

The pain in his voice magnified her discomfort. "Nothing." She couldn't look at him. Her hand moved over the wall, restarting her incessant rolling.

Rage took over. Michael reached for her hand, grabbing her wrist painfully until she dropped the roller. Nikita wrenched her hand from his, desperation on her face, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle her body out of his grasp. He searched her face for some clue to her indifference.

She was sad... she was cool. Her stomach churned, her eyes widened. She had to convince him.

"N-nothing," she repeated, shaking her head a bit, her expression innocent, as if trying to convince herself as well.

Michael moved closer, powerless against her beauty, eyes probing hers gently. Afraid of what might transpire next, he raised his hand, laying it against the side of her face in a tentative, tender caress. Nikita drew breath, her lips parted seductively, at once both nervous and calm. She raised her chin defiantly, waiting...

Michael angled his head for a kiss, his eyes on her mouth, but Nikita mimicked his movement as if she didn't comprehend his intention. She tried to pull back, but he persisted, holding her fast in his grip. Moving slowly, he kissed her delicately, lingering, his tongue grazing hers. For a second, she returned the kiss, and his heart hammered in the hope that she was responding at last.

Nikita's heart was exploding, was torn in two. When her lips met Michael's, she yielded to his soft pressure. But the intimacy of his tongue against hers sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with sexual tension or desire. Instead of anticipation, all she felt was repulsion. She broke the kiss, pulled back, eyes glassed with moisture, a fine sweat covering her body.

Nikita's reaction pierced him through. Her arms crossed, creating a wedge between their bodies. Michael's hand slid down, tightening like a vise around her upper arm until actual pain registered in her eyes. His voice was harsh and urgent, his expression fierce.

"Tell me."

Nikita regressed rapidly, looking as though she was about to cry. The sickness welled up within as she violently threw her arms upward, freed herself from his grasp, and backed away. She shrugged, as if to shed the feel of his hands on her, her resolve finally crumbling.

"I don't know." She retreated, childlike. "Don't remember."

Michael hated what he saw on her face. Anger... shame... fear. The eloquence of their love had been spoiled, destroyed, obliterated by... how had they done it??

Michael's eyes flashed with wrath. He advanced until he stood over her. Nikita looked up, shaking her head, her tears gathering. He reached down and took her hand.

At his touch, Nikita lost all control. Her stomach heaved, her eyes dropped, then closed, her throat tightened and she gave a small gasp. If he didn't leave, she was truly going to be sick all over again. Michael looked down at their joined hands, hers covered with dried paint, contrasting against his tanned fingers. He caressed her hand between his, but she twisted out of his hold. Her next words shattered his world.

"Don't. Doesn't work." She actually looked at him, her voice cold, detached, her tears disappearing. "I don't love you any more."

Michael was overcome by a sensation that he thought he would never feel again. He swallowed, all his bravado dissolving as he realized that nothing he did could undo whatever they had done to her. His face contracted, his eyes brimmed with moisture.

No pain he had endured in all his years in Section could compare to this. Even when he thought she was dead, it was better than this. He closed his eyes, holding the tears inside, and turned away. The few steps to Nikita's door were the longest he'd ever taken. He let himself out without a backward glance.

Nikita's face screwed up in one last attempt to sort out the bizarre mixture of feelings that ran unchecked through her mind and body. As Michael walked out, all her symptoms disappeared... no sickness, no sweat, no hot and cold, no weakness, no remorse, no sadness, no love. She ran her hand through her hair, her breathing calmed, her face relaxed. The same sense of relief that she'd experienced after the hallucinations swept over her again, and she stood still, assessing her reactions.

She felt... nothing.

Nikita cleaned up, checking the time. 9:30. She could just make it to the hardware store. She threw on her coat and blazed out the door.

* * * * * * * *

Michael waited in the shadows just outside Nikita's apartment building. The chilly brick at his back permeated his heavy coat, and he shivered slightly. His heart went into hiding as his brain explored the possibilities. This thing they had done to Nikita was no ordinary form of brainwashing. It was obviously incredibly efficient. Three days! That was all it had taken to effect the changes!!

Still, she had seemed confused during his visit. Perhaps there was a period of adjustment. He had to make sure.

The door to the building opened with a whoosh and Michael turned just as Nikita emerged. She stood still, scanning, her head raised like an animal on alert. There was something... She glanced around uneasily, then walked toward the parking area, fishing her car keys from her pocket.

As she passed the corner of the building, she found herself pinned against the wall, darkness covering the identity of her assailant. But the form and scent were unmistakable. Michael's solid body covered her, his thigh between hers to prevent her from kicking, and his strong arms restraining hers as she attempted to fight him off. His eyes glowed, his face inches from hers, his rage stronger than before.

Nikita could feel his breath on her face. Struggle as she might, the element of surprise had given Michael the upper hand. She could not break his hold. The feel of him against her was triggering a reaction she hadn't had before. She began to relax, let herself go, met his gaze with a hard, vacant stare.

"Michael. Leave - me - alone." The words came out softly, one at a time, with a quiet deadly force.

He was stunned, but only for a split second. He changed his grip, grabbing her hands and raising her arms above her head, pressing against the wall's rough exterior. She gave a small grunt of pain as he pushed upward, the brick abrading the tender skin on the backs of her hands. His hip pressed harder into her abdomen as he secured her.

"Why?"

Michael's uncontained fury hung between them as Nikita attempted to formulate a reply. He could feel the tension flowing out of her, could hear her breathing slowing.

Her brow furrowed, but her face remained blank as she spoke slowly. "I don't know." Her voice was louder this time, firmer, spurred by impatience.

His eyes probed hers. "I don't believe you."

Nikita continued to stare, giving him no clue as to what she was thinking. She countered with a totally unexpected reply, as if remarking on the weather or giving him the time of day.

"Look. Michael. I've got to get to the hardware store before they close. If you don't mind. Please."

He was defused, disarmed. He leaned into her, his nose touching hers, eyes unblinking. She offered no reaction, no resistance, no information. They stood riveted for an endless minute. His insides turned to steel as he made his decision. He released her and backed away with a quick step, but she made no move to attack.

"All right. Go."

Nikita's face softened for a moment, and it was Michael's turn to be confused. The corners of her mouth turned up imperceptibly, her eyes never leaving his face until she turned slowly to finish her walk to her car. Her voice, cool and polite, wafted back to him.

"Thank you, Michael. Good night."

Michael watched, rooted, as she drove off. His heart was crumbling, but his determination was growing. Only one mantra occupied his thoughts.

I won't let them do this.