"Would you care for more tea, my Dear?" offered Adrian, holding up the delicate china teapot and letting it hover over Nikita's almost empty cup.

"No, no thank you," said Nikita, bewildered.

She looked around the beautiful cottage, with its broad stone fireplace, gleaming hard-wood floors, and understated, comfortable furniture. Outside, the sun shone brightly down on the garden, its design intricate, logical, but somehow femininely soft and welcoming like its designer.

Just outside the window, the tree-peony that Adrian had planted months ago before her death flowered in ecstatic abandonment, each branch heavy with the weight of the profuse, ruffled pink blooms.

*How can I be here?* Nikita wondered. *This can't be real....*

Adrian seemed not to notice her guest's confusion. "I see you are admiring the results of my brave experiment," she said wryly, nodding her head toward the tree-peony.

"It survived the winds of winter after all, and, as you can see," the old lady said with a wise smile, "sometimes it pays to take foolish risks, and to go with your heart's imprudent promptings...."

She sighed a sigh of deep satisfaction, and took a delicate sip of tea from her cup. "And now, at last it is Spring, and my lovely experiment has produced for me more joy and pleasure than I could ever have hoped for."

Nikita turned back from the window and the spectacular display of blooms, and saw that Adrian was not looking at the flowers, but directly at HER.

"You see, my Dear," said the woman that Nikita had double-crossed and betrayed, "I wanted you to know that I consider myself blessed to have weathered the winter with you, and the results of what we planted together have not dissappointed me."

Agitated, Nikita jumped from her chair, and gazed wildly around the room. Everything was neat and in place, polished and serene.

Surprisingly, it occurred to her, it was the one place, here in Adrian's cottage, that the homeless child she was inside had felt really at home.

Adrian had been more like a mother to her than anyone she had encountered before in her life. Although the elegant old lady had kidnapped her and used her for her own ends, somehow her apologies for doing so rang true.

Adrian, unlike Operations, had used her but felt remorse about it. And, also unlike Operations, Adrian explained things, let Nikita in on her thinking, and treated her like a trusted comrade-no, a daughter, that she confided in.

There was no mistaking Adrian's affection for the younger woman. And the afection had endured, even after the old lady had learned so brutally in the main hall of Section, deep in enemy territory, that Nikita had not been on her side after all.

But that was months ago. Nikita paced agitatedly to the window, and fingered the lace curtain hanging there. It felt real. But it couldn't be real. She couldn't be here in this beautiful house, having this conversation with the beautiful woman she had led to her death.

"You're not real!" sobbed Nikita, whirling on her heel to face her hostess. Tears stung her eyes and ran down her cheeks. You can't be!"

Adrian only smiled warmly at her, and poured Nikita more tea. "Come, my Dear, calm yourself. Sit down, before your tea gets cold...." Nikita, chest heaving, exploded in a rage. "The tea's not real! And neither is this house, and neither are you!"

The blonde choked back a sob, and sank back in her chair, the truth hitting her.

"You're dead," Nikita whispered.

Adrian smiled and nodded. She lifted her tea-cup up to her lips and took another delicate sip, leaning contentedly back in her chair."Of course I am, My Dear," she answered soothingly. "Of course I am."

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

In the cold sterility of the Medlab bay, Michael swayed on his feet and closed his eyes against the glare of the harsh white lights. He had been standing by her bedside for what seemed like days, but had only been 18 hours. It was late, and the bustle outside the door had slowed to a dead calm.

"God, why? Why?" he cried out in his mind. "God, please..."

The sound of the door whooshing open made him open his eyes and look up as one of the MedLab doctors stepped in.

Michael stiffened, then relaxed, as he realized that the doctor was his friend Brian Whicker.

Michael knew that Brian, unlike the rest of the doctors on the Medlab staff, would not try to kick him out of the room, or demand that he rest. Or, Michael amended, at least, if he did, Michael would not resent his attempt.

His friend approached him and laid a hand lightly on Michael's shoulder. He gazed down at the unconscious woman on the bed.

"How is she, Michael?" Brian asked softly.

Michael sighed. "The same. No change." He bent down and stroked a lock of blonde hair back from the patient's forehead, careful not to disturb the bandages.

"She hasn't come to.... she hasn't said anything..... she hasn't moved...." Michael stopped, words catching in his throat.

He turned tormented green eyes to his friend. "Why hasn't she moved?" he pleaded. "Why won't she wake up?" He took in an anguished breath.

"WILL she wake up?" he begged for an answer.

Brian's grip on Michael's shoulder tightened and he pursed his mouth in a grim line. He could give Michael some standard, hearty assurance, but he balked at giving his friend false hope. He would tell him the truth. Michael deserved that much.

"I don't know," Brian began softly. "The bomb blast was powerful and she was the closest one to it. She has a severe concussion -a bruising of the brain- and some internal organ bruising as well. The cuts from the glass and the twisted knee will heal; it's the concussion we have to worry about."

Michael nodded. He had been told all that already. He had also been told that every hour that went by that she didn't wake up, her chances of ever doing so lessened.

"She's strong, Michael," Brian went on. "And young, and in good shape. Those things are in her favor. There's a fair chance she'll come through.."

The young doctor took a deep breath and told him the rest. "But I have to be honest with you, Michael. There's a chance she won't."

He patted Michael's shoulder again, and felt the other man trembling under his hand.

"At this point," Brina went on grimly, "I'd say it's no longer about physical strength. That's not what will pull her through...."

The young doctor ran his hand through his hair and sighed. "Now it's all up to her soul.."

"Her SOUL?" gasped Michael, startled, turning to look at his friend. "What do you mean?"

Brian stepped back from the bed and, arms crossed, began pacing the small space at the foot of the bed.

"It's not something they taught us in Medical School- it's not scientific, I know- but, dammit, I've seen it too many times not to know it's real," Brian said with intense sincerity. "I believe in it."

He stopped his pacing and looked up at Michael, his gaze tender and sympathetic. "People in comas are... waiting. They're in a holding pattern. They're.... weighing their options..."

"Options?" said Michael softly, not sure he wanted to hear more. Brian nodded. "She's hovering now, Michael, between the two worlds. This one, and the next. Between life and death..." He sighed. "She's making a decision..."

Michael shook his head violently. "No! No..."

"Yes," Brian insisted, crossing over to his friend and gripping his shoulder again. He finished his explanation.

"All that's keeping her here in this world is her will to live. If she wants to stay on this Side badly enough, she'll fight for it. She'll make the decision to stay...."

The doctor took a deep breath. "And then, in the next few hours, she'll wake up......" he finished.

Michael froze. What was there for her to hang on to? This was Section-- what was there to stay for?

He knew the answer, but he had to ask the question. Michael swallowed hard. "And if she doesn't want to stay?" he whispered.

Brian's only answer was to grip Michael's shoulder again. They stood side by side, looking down at the blonde on the bed, still breath-takingly beautiful despite her injuries.

Brian, knowing that Michael was struggling with the reality of what he had told him, with his fear and grief, maintained a respectful silence. Several minutes went by as the men contemplated the extent of their potential loss.

Brian was the first to move. He put his hand on Michael's arm and pulled him away from the gurney. "Come," he said gently. "Let's go..."

Michael resisted. "No! No, I'm not leaving...." he shouted, pulling his arm free from Brian's grasp.

Brian let him go and then shook his head. "I don't want you to leave," he explained gently. "I want you to rest..."

The doctor pulled another wheeled cot that was shoved against the far wall toward the center of the room. He positioned it close to the patient's bed, and patted its surface. "Come, lie down," he urged again.

Michael only stared at him, the lines of exhaustion plain on his face, along with his tears.

"Michael, please," Brian asked again. "Climb up here and lie down." Michael hesitated.

"If you collapse from fatigue," Brian explained gently, "they'll put you in another room. Probably in restraints...."

He patted the cot again. "I'm trying to help you stay together, Michael," Brian said in a solicitous tone. "Nikita needs you."

Michael let out a breath, and relented. Somewhat reluctantly, he sat on the edge of the cot and then lay slowly back. His eyes never left Nikita.

Brian shoved the beds closer, so that their sides touched. Michael turned on his side so that he could see her better.

"She may be unconscious, Michael, but I promise you," Brian assured him, "On some deep level, she knows you're here."

He took Nikita's limp, I.V.- taped hand and placed it in Michael's out-stretched one. Michael gripped her fingers hard in his.

"Hang on to her, Michael," Brian urged him hoarsely. "Don't let her go."

Michael's lips trembled. "I won't," he vowed fervently. "I'll never let her go."

Brian nodded and walked to the door. "Get some rest," he ordered one last time, and then he left, closing the door behind him.

Michael squeezed the hand in his once more, but her fingers did not squeeze his back. He caressed the still fingers between his, and gazed at her beautiful face, her eyes still closed, her lips silent.

"I need you, Nikita," he whispered softly. "Please... Please don't leave me...."

He closed his eyes tightly shut to stop the flow of fresh tears, and took a deep breath. Then another. And another. Quickly, completely, his exhaustion claimed him, and he was pulled down, without a struggle, into a deep, and, for the moment, dreamless, sleep.

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

"Of course I am, My Dear," said Adrian in a slightly amused tone. "Very, very dead."

Nikita blanched, and felt like her world had tilted. Head spinning, she closed her eyes.

It was true. Adrian was definitely dead. She knew Madeleine had personally cancelled Adrian months ago. Nikita expected to follow; she had been sent on mission after mission since then, each more hazardous than the last.

Nikita had stayed alive, but just barely. There had been several close calls. If it hadn't been for Michael, and his frantic, at times desperate, attempts to help her, she would have been dead weeks ago. They both knew that, sooner or later, she would go on a mission and not come back.

It struck Nikita suddenly that that's exactly what must have happened. It was clear now. Her luck had run out. Madeleine's plan to get rid of her had worked.

"So.. So I'm dead, too..." Nikita whispered.

The small, dainty Adrian gave a high, tinkling laugh. "Oh, no, no, no, My Dear," the old lady said, shaking her head. "I assure you, you're NOT dead."

"I'm....... not?" said the younger woman, bewildered.

"No, definitely not," her mentor said firmly. "You're just visiting."

She took another delicate sip of tea, and then tilted her head, regarding Nikita thoughtfully. "You're here to decide if you like it enough to.... stay."

Nikita's eyes widened."So.... so this the..." she paused and licked her lips nervously. "This is the Afterlife?"

"Well, yes, in a way," Adrian qualified, with another tilt of her head.

"This is MY afterlife...." She gestured at the beautiful cottage around them.

"Oh!" said Nikita, not understanding.

She had thought that, at best, at the moment of death there would be just .....nothing, just sweet, endless oblivion. Peace. Her other vision of the afterlife had been less appealing.

She had had nightmares about dying, and then being confronted by all the faces of the people, good and bad, that she had killed, and the innocents she had not saved. They would all point their fingers at her in accusation, and curse her, judge her...

Then she would be cast into Hell, to burn in torment in the eternal flames....

The last thing she had expected was to end up here, in this cottage, in this place of peace, having tea with someone who was like a mother to her, a tender, solicitous, loving care-taker....

She shook her head, confused. "Why am I here, then?" Nikita blurted out. "Why am I not in Hell?"

Adrian laughed heartily. "Oh, my Dear," she said, trying to control her chuckles, "Don't be silly."

The old lady shook her head. "There is no Hell. At least, not on THIS side.."

She nodded wisely and looked up at the young operative. "Don't you realize Hell is where you've already been for, say, the last five years of your life?"

Nikita closed her eyes, struck by the truth of this. Five years ago, she had been caught by the police and accused of murder. She had been sentenced to life in prison, and then imprisoned in the living death of Section One. She truly had been in Hell.

"So, is this Heaven, then?" Nikita asked breathlessly, looking around the cottage and out the window at the garden.

Adrian sighed. "Ah, my Dear, it's not so black and white as that." She paused, and steepled her fingers together.

"You must understand," she went on, "the Afterlife is not really that much different from Earth-life- It IS what you make of it."

Adrian leaned back in her chair and looked contemplatively at the ceiling. "I'm not here to judge you. No one can do that but you, yourself," she mused on.

"If your life is a success, or a failure- If you did well in life, or not- If you are rewarded or punished, well..." She smiled at her guest. "That's entirely for you to decide."

"Me?" gasped Nikita.

Adrian nodded, and went on with her ruminations. "When I ...arrived here, on this Side, I was given a review of my life. I was shown everything I had ever done.."

The gracious hostess paused, lost in thought. "I saw the past, how I had founded Section, and then lost control of it...."

She frowned. "How I spent the rest of my life trying to get back control... how I failed...."

She closed her eyes. "Operations won; I lost."

BUT," she said emphatically, with a small proud smile, "I did try. Tried to do good in the world. To do what I thought was right..."

The old lady looked away, becoming teary-eyed. "I regret some things deeply," she said with deep sadness. "Most of all I regret what happened to Carla... and you...."

Adrian dabbed her hand at her tears and then smiled. "But, taken all in all, I think I left the world a better place than the way I found it. I was satisfied with that."

She nodded again. "I made a difference."

Nikita sat raptly listening, taking in the strange new concepts, hope building in her heart.

"And so, my Dear, here I am with you." Adrian smiled. "I still want to make a difference. That's why I asked for this assignment."

"Assignment?" asked Nikita, bewildered. " What assignment? I don't understand."

Adrian stared at the younger woman thoughtfully. "You- of course. I asked to be assigned to you. To remain your mentor, as it were." Nikita quivered in sudden fear. After all, this was the woman she had betrayed, the woman she had led to trust her, and then had handed over to her enemies.

"You mean, you're going to judge me?" asked the blonde in a faint voice. "You're going to review my life?"

Adrian shook her head, and set down her tea-cup. Her gaze met the frightened blue eyes across from her.

"Nikita, my Dear, that is totally unnescessary," she said gently. "I think you have already tormented yourself enough with reviews of your life, and your own judgements of it."

"Rather harsh judgements, I must say," her mentor went on. "You have been very hard on yourself, my Dear.."

Adrian nodded sagely. "And you are such a good person, with good intentions," she said, pointing her finger for emphasis. "And good intentions count for quite a lot here, if you'd like to know."

Adrian rose from her chair, and crossed to Nikita, holding out her hand. "Come take a walk in the garden with me," she invited.

Nikita nodded and rose, no longer afraid, but still confused. "Tell me more," she said eagerly.

Adrain laughed, and linked arms with her protegee, and together the two women strolled out the open cottage door into the sunlight.

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

Madeleine sat in her office, huddled in her chair, trembling. Things were back under control now, after the horrid scare of that morning, but she was unable to let herself relax again into what would undoubtedly be a false sense of security.

She doubted she would ever feel really secure again. She was badly shaken by this most recent incident, an incident so horrifying it seemed fitting that it would come now, to top off a series of horrors that had marked the whole year as the worst in her life.

The increased pressure and scrutiny of Oversight and their shortness of personnel after last year's War was only part of it. To Madeleine, her mother's death had only deepened her feelings about the wretchedness of her life, and its keynote of failure.

She had never pleased her mother, and now she never would.

Another failure had been driven home to her this year- her relationship to Paul. Her kidnapping earlier this year by a terrorist and his own brush with death had triggered him to renew his pursuit of her.

Feeling the pressure of time and the imminence of their own mortality, Operations had courted her relentlessly, like a terrier with a bone.

It had thrown Madeleine off balance; she was no longer sure she would be able to compartmentalize her feelings so neatly anymore, to split her personal and professional life in two, as she had tried to teach Michael to do.

Because she had not handled this situation with Paul well enough, so many other things had gone spinning out of control, like the death of her husband, for which she blamed herself.

Another, more recent failure ate away at her. She hadn't enjoyed killing Adrian. Adrian, who had been her mentor and her mother, more than her own mother had been.

Adrian, who had taught her to love flowers, and to love herself, to appreciate her own femininity and beauty. Adrian, who had taught her the meaning of grace and control, elegance and dignity.

Despite what people said about her, Madeleine did have a heart, and it had broken in a million pieces when she had pulled the trigger like Operations had ordered her to and killed one of the few people in this world that she had ever loved-Adrian.

She hated Paul for that. But she hated herself more.

Yes, it had been a horrible year, and its horrors had somehow come full circle again. It ended as it began- with an assasination attempt on Operations by one of his own people, right here in Section.

Early this morning, Nikita had been with Operations in his glass-tower office, going over her latest mission.

Stanton Jamison, an operative who had been close friends with Ames, an innocent who had been thrown to the wolves in the scheme to take down Adrian, had seen it as a perfect time to revenge his friend's death by killing his betrayers in a suicide bombing.

Jamison had strapped a large quantity of explosives to his chest, then mounted the stairs to Operations office, entered, and set himself off.

The blast had started as a flash of fire and sound, followed by billowing smoke that roiled out into the main area of Section as the transparent walls of the office blew out and shards of glass rained down on the briefing table below.

Madeleine had dashed out of her office at the noise and, along with a hastily assembled security team, had rushed up the steps to Operations office.

Because of the smoke, she could not tell from the Section main floor if he was still alive. With the force of the blast, she doubted that he could be.

Madeliene steeled herself for what she would see when she entered the office.

It was as she feared. The back wall of the office, the floor, the ceiling, everything, was covered in blood and spattered body parts. She gagged, and staggered forward, her shoe coming in contact with something solid on the floor.

She looked down through the smoke and almost fell again in shock. There was Paul, lying on the floor, in one piece, unhurt, under the body of the operative who had saved him- Nikita.

It was obvious that Nikita had thrown herself on top of him, shielding him from the blast. She had taken the full brunt of the attack; Operations did not even have a scratch.

Later, Paul would tell Madeleine that when Stanton Jamison had rushed them, Nikita had had time to kick the assassin away, shoving him several critcal feet away that had made the difference between life and death.

Immediately after the kick, Nikita had shoved Paul to the floor and thrown herself across him. The blood everywhere, of course, had been Stanton's alone.

Now Nikita lay in Medlab in the limbo between life and death. Again, she had saved Section. This time, as before, she had chosen Section's, and Operation's, survival over her own.

Madeleine had seldom felt this conflicted. Usually her choices, though often hard, were nearly always clear. Almost always, Madeleine knew instinctively what she must do.

But not this time. Nikita's loyalty, though wavering at times, had held. She had tested Section that day of the stand-off, and she had found it worthy. Nikita could have brought them down, but she didn't.

Operations had convinced her there was still something worth redemption in the organization she was ensnared and tormented in. She had proven that conviction beyond a doubt this day by once again sacrificing her own life for that of the greater good.

Madeleine sighed, her heart wrenching. Though she was steeped in Death, walked with it intimately every day of her life, the thought of this death, the death of a heroic young girl, brought her great pain.

She slumped in her chair behind her desk and put her head in her hands. *Please don't die, Nikita* she prayed. *Please, don't die.*

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

Michael slept, and then the dreams began.

He found himself in a garden. Adrian's garden. He recognized the stone-lined pool,its blue water shimmering in the sun, and the gravel paths between the knot of carefully designed flower beds.

The flowers were beautiful; everything seemed to be blooming at once. As he walked on through the garden, he realized with a start that he had seen Spring lilacs blooming alongside Winter camelias and Summer roses.

By his feet on the path tulips flourished next to orchids, and desert plants bloomed next to ones native to the rainforest. And everywhere was the emerald green of the brilliant, bright grass.

There were no seasons here--- it was a timeless place. He felt strangely at peace. As he strolled contentedly on, he realized he no longer felt tired, or distressed, or anguished.

Instead, he felt wonderfully full of hope.

"What am I doing here?" he wondered to himself, and walked on, deeper into the garden.

Nikita saw him coming toward them across the lawn and was slain with dread, her knees almost buckling under her. She gasped, and gripped Adrian's hand in her own. *He couldn't be here- he couldn't...*

"No! No! Michael! Michael's dead! Michael's dead???" she screamed. "No.... no..."

The old lady quickly set her straight. "No, no, my Dear, calm yourself," soothed Adrian. "Don't be silly. Of course he's not dead.."

She patted Nikita's hand reassuringly. "Michael's just visiting, like you. He's in your hospital room, sleeping.."

She smiled slyly. "He thinks this is all just a dream.."

Nikita found her breath returning to her, and everything seemed at once very clear. She turned back from Adrian to look at Michael.

She called his name and broke into a run, racing toward him.

Michael looked up and saw her coming across the lawn toward him, blonde hair flying behind her. He gasped and ran the the rest of the way to meet her. As they drew closer, he opened his arms and she flew into them. He lifted her, her feet off the ground, and clasped her to him, rocking her in his embrace.

"Nikita," he groaned hoarsely, relief flooding him, as he buried his face in her hair. "I thought I'd lost you..."

"And I thought I'd lost you.." she gasped, hugging him tightly in return.

From her place on the path a few yards away, Adrian watched the young lovers and smiled.

Everything was going according to plan.

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

Adrian gave the young lovers another moment, and them came toward them on the path. She stopped a discreet distance from them and then cleared her throat and spoke.

"I took the liberty of arranging for Michael to be here because I thought his presence would be a much more effective argument than the one I had planned," she pronounced.

Michael and Nikita tore their eyes from each other and looked warily at Adrian, still holding each other protectively.

"Argument?" asked Nikita, eyes wide.

"Yes, my Dear," said the old lady. She paused to lift a branch of lilac bush in her hand and inhale the fragrance. She broke off the branch and held it out to Nikita, almost as a peace offering.

Nikita held her mentor's gaze and then accepted the spray of delicate purple flowers from her. Michael stood with his arm around Nikita's waist, listening intently for Adrian's explanation.

"My assigment was to get you to live---- to get you to decide to stay on the other Side," the old lady went on.

"I was supposed to convince you that there was still so much ahead of you, still so much you could accomplish, if you would just hang on..."

She nodded her head. You are needed, Nikita." She gave a small laugh. "You may not believe this, my Dear, but even Madeleine does not want you to die..."

"What!?!" gasped Nikita, surprised. "But... but..."

Adrian nodded. "Oh, yes, I assure you, it's true. She's even prayed for you. and there have been so many others who have prayed for you as well..."

The old lady looked pointedly at Michael and smiled. "Oversight HERE,"

Adrian said, gesturing upward, "takes such requests VERY seriously."

She smiled again, and titlted her head, regarding the young couple thoughtfully. "Well, that was to be my argument- that you are needed, Nikita- that you can still make a difference..."

"Oh, my," lied Adrian, feigning weakness. "I'm feeling very tired all of a sudden."

She fanned herself with her garden hat. "And I think you two have indulged an old woman in her ramblings long enough..."

She patted Michael on the arm, and then kissed Nikita lightly on the cheek. "If you don't mind, I'll just go back in the house and lie down." The anything-but-frail old lady excused herself. "Good-bye, my Dears.I leave my assignment now in Michael's very capable hands," she said with another fond smile. "I believe his argument will have more power to persuade you than any of mine could, hmm?"

"Adrian.." Nikita took a step forward toward the gentle old lady, holding out her hand as if to pull her back.

Adrian stepped out of reach. "Good-bye my Dears," she said again. "Have a nice life."

And then she vanished, dissolving into the sunlight.

Nikita stared at the empty place where Adrian had been a moment before and blinked.

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

Michael stepped forward into the empty place on the path where Adrian had been standing a moment before. He whirled on his heel, looking in all directions, but there was nothing. The gentle old Spirit had gone.

There was nothing, that is, but an exquisite butterfly, that flitted and fluttered around the lovers, circling and swirling, almost playfully, around them.

It was unlike any butterfly seen on earth, Michael thought, as his eyes followed it, getting a closer look. It's wings were jewel colors of glowing yellow, pink, blue and green, almost technicolor in their intensity. Despite his bewilderment, he smiled at the beautiful insect's antics.

Nikita gave a litle laugh of joy- she was filled with comfort, her heart at ease. She knew somehow that Adrian had not gone, but was still here with them, in the form of the butterfly, swooping intricately around them, colors flashing with each delicate flutter of its wings.

Michael caught Nikita's look, and he sobered instantly from a mood of amusement to one of awe. He gazed into Nikita's smiling eyes, their color no less intense or less beautiful and glowing than the wings of the butterfly.

Suddenly he knew that this was more than a dream. It was too real, too detailed for that. He could see Nikita, could touch her, could talk to her, could be with her, here in this real world on some other plane than the one they lived in, the one that held Section.

Tears filled his eyes suddenly as he realized the enormity of this gift.

Back in his ordinary reality, there was no way to reach Nikita- she was unresponsive, silent and still, lying motionless on her hospital bed.

She might never open her eyes again, never know he was even there... But here, here in the garden, which existed in its own space, its own time, and had its own rules, here he could touch and talk to the woman he loved.

He remembered suddenly Adrian's "assignment" for him, and the seriousness of this charge, this responsibility that he had, to bring Nikita back. It was the same assignment Brian had given him- "Don't let her go," his friend had said.

And Michael had vowed that he wouldn't. The urgency of his task hit him then, and he stepped forward to embrace the lovely woman before him, to persuade her to come back to earth-life with him.

The butterfly stil swirled around them.

"Nikita," he breathed, holding her in his arms. "Nikita..."

"Yes, Michael?" she said, laughing happily, and holding him in return.

The spray of lilacs that Nikita was holding was crushed between their bodies, its sweet, almost magical, fragrance filling the air around them. The lovers did not notice.

Michael paused; he suddenly felt selfish, wanting to pull Nikita away from this magical place, this beautiful garden, to return to the painful reality of their life in Section One.

Michael suddenly felt bereft. He didn't know if he had strength to let her go- to let her stay here in the peace, while he struggled on wihout her. Maybe he could try; maybe the most loving thing he could do would be to push her away, to leave her here in the garden, and go back alone....

As if to remind him of his assignment again, the butterfly landed on Michael's shoulder then, and fluttered its wings in a quivering dance that Michael would have sworn was a fit of impatience.

He heard Adrian's voice in his head again, loud and plain- "Nikita is needed on the other side. Persuade her to live..."

Taking a deep breath, Michael began, his words spilling out in a rush of emotion.

"I don't have a right to ask you this, Nikita," he said breathlessly. "I know it's beautiful here on this side, it's everything you ever wanted, and that your life with me is so painful, so imperfect..."

He held her tighter, and the butterfly on his shoulder flicked it's wings once in encouragement.

"I don't know what's ahead for us; I don't know how long we'll be together, or even if Section will let us be together-"

"I have nothing to give you, no real life," he said softly. "I can't promise you anything..."

Nikita burrowed her face in his shoulder, and the smell of lilacs became stronger. "It's o.k., Michael...." she soothed.

Michael shook his head. "No, no, it's not O.K.," he said tensely. "I wish... I wish I could give you what you need... I wish I could make you happy...."

Nikita sighed and pulled back to look at him. Her bright blue eyes looked tenderly into his. "You do, Michael," she whispered. "You do..."

He began caressing her cheek with his hand, with almost reverent gentleness. He shook his head again, as if to deny the truth of what she had said.

"No," he said, voice breaking. "What I've given you, what I can give you- I know it's not enough...."

"Michael..." Nikita breathed, resting her cheek against his hand. The butterfly on his shoulder stomped its feet and fluttered its wings urgently.

"It's not enough," he went on, "but I don't know what else to do, but offer myself to you- everything - all that I am..."

He gripped her by the arms and pulled her closer, looking intently into her eyes.

"Come back to me, Nikita," he begged hoarsely. "I.... need you...."

He leaned forward and bent his head to kiss her on the cheek; the kiss was so soft and so light, so reverent, it was as if she had been brushed by a butterfly's wing....

The scent of lilacs filled the air.

"I love you, Nikita..." he whispered.

Nikita closed her eyes. "I love you, too, Michael..." she breathed. His lips came down on hers in a tender, passionate kiss, full of deep promise, full of profound magic. If there was a Heaven, it existed right here, right at this moment, in that kiss.

The butterfly on Michael's shoulder twirled in a happy dance, fluttered gaily around them in a dizzying circle, and then was gone in the dazzling blue, blue sky.

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

The light in the garden flared brightly as the lovers kissed, then shaded softly through a rainbow of colors, each one softer and deeper than the next. The air changed hues first from white to pale wheat, next from yellow-gold to russet-red, then from rich sea-green to dark indigo-blue, and finally deepening and dissolving into endless, velvet black.

The dream was over.

Michael stirred, shifting uncomfortably on the hard cot. He came awake with slow certainty, the dream staying with him.

He knew without a doubt that he had been somewhere else, somewhere real and at the same time utterly unworldly, in a place that was at once beyond? above? under? through? the universe he was familiar with.

It had been a place so utterly different, but so utterly real.

His eyes felt gritty and his muscles stiff; a tired heaviness assailed his body, but his heart was light. The dream had been real, hadn't it? He had been with Nikita...

Nikita.

Michael's eyes flew open and he jolted up in the bed, his gaze sliding over the sterile Medlab surroundings and riveting on the woman sleeping on the bed next to his.

She lay, pale and still, as before.

"Nikita?" he cried, desperate for the dream to have been real. She had to come back, didn't she?

She did not answer.

He swung his legs over the far side of the cot and quickly stood.

Impatiently, he shoved his bed back against the far wall and went to stand beside hers.

He lifted her relaxed fingers in his own and held her hand in both of his. She didn't respond to his touch; she only lay there as before, beyond his reach, a Sleeping Beauty in a world of her own.

"Nikita!" he said more loudly, gripping her hand harder. "Nikita, please...." he begged urgently.

Again, no answer.

He bent closer, desperate tears welling as great sorrow wrenched his heart. She had to come back to him- she HAD to.

"Nikita, please," he sobbed. "I need you..."

He lowered his lips within inches of hers, and whispered his heart-felt, urgent plea.

"Don't leave me, Nikita," he choked out, voice rough with tears. "I love you...."

Then he kissed her.

For Nikita, the dream world and the real world intertwined in the kiss, elements of both realities swirling around her in a jumbled kalaeidoscope of images and sensations.

Was this real? Was Michael really here? Was she still in the beautiful garden, or in the ugly hospital room?

Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks as the Section world reasserted itself, taking ascendancy over the gentler universe she had briefly visited.

Her head ached horribly, her knee throbbed, her insides burned with the deep trauma the blast had inflicted. She felt shaken and bruised, down to her bones, down to her soul.

This was the real world, all right, she thought. The world of pain and fear, the world of cold loneliness- This was Hell. This was Section.

A longing filled her for that sweet cottage, for that beautiful garden, where Winter never entered, where the sun shone down on the flowers that were always exquisitely, perfectly in bloom...

Heaven. If she could only hold on to that world, if she could just slip back into that tempting, pain-free universe, that dimension of comfort and peace.....

In her mind, she froze. No- that Heaven, that other Side, however beautiful, was lacking. It was empty of the one person who gave this world, this life, or the next, meaning. What she needed, what she longed for, was not on that other side, but here.

Michael. Michael was here, on THIS side. This was where he was; this was where she needed to be.

She moaned against his lips, coming fully back into her body from the ephemeral dream world, awakening to the even sweeter reality of his kiss.

Michael pulled his mouth from hers, and with renewed hope, searched her face for signs that she was indeed coming awake.

"Nikita?" he gasped. "Nikita?" he called to her.

She opened her eyes and looked lovingly into his. She laughed weakly, and tried to lift her head up to his for another kiss.

"I'm .... here, Michael," she said softly, her eyes glowing. "I'm ... back..."

Michael let out a cry and then lowered his lips to hers once more, in an infinitely soft and gentle kiss, vast in its tenderness.

Nikita closed her eyes, and, for a fleeting split-second of time, was transported back to the garden. She felt the sun warm against her skin, and the soft grass beneath her feet....

And, just for a moment, the air around them was filled with the heady, intoxicating fragrance of lilacs.....

One of Michael's tears fell softly on her cheek, and it was as if she had been brushed, oh so delicately, by the wing of a beautiful butterfly- a butterfly from another world.

And in that moment she knew, with deep, unshakeable certainty, that she was Home.

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

In his newly restored glass-tower office, Operations stood, like a King surveying his domain, smoking his cheroot and looking down on his people below.

The debris from the bomb had been cleared away, the blood removed from the walls, the broken glass swept up and disposed of. It was as if the assassination attempt had never been.

Except that it was now all Operations could think about. The fear and terror such a near brush with death would have created in any other man did not touch him- he had lost the ability to fear violence or death long ago in a VC prison.

Instead of producing fear, the incident had created in him a need that he seldom, if ever indulged in- a deep desire for self-introspection; he was re-examining himself, and his life, judging the man he had become. There was no better measure of a military leader, he thought, than the loyalty of his people.

Paul sighed. In the span of less than a year, he had twice been the target for assassination from the ranks of his own operatives.

And, in the span of less than three months, his life, and his life's work, had been saved by another one of his operatives-- the one he was cruelest to, the one to whom he had been the most harsh, the most exacting, and the most unforgiving.

Nikita.

She had always been a thorn in his side, a consistent irritant, a royal pain in the a**. He had targeted her for death once before, sending her on a suicide mission over a year ago. That had failed, and now she was still being sent on suicide missions, although not as openly or overtly as before. But it amounted to the same thing.

Their policy had been to rid themselves of her with the fewest political waves as possible.

But now he knew that could not go on as before. Nikita had first saved Section, and then saved his life, almost sacrificing her own in the process. He, Paul Wolfe, her enemy, had somehow, despite their blatant animosity and instant dislike for each other, despite the years he had toyed with her, enslaved her as his reluctant soldier in Section, had, amazingly, inspired in her this deep and completely inexplicable loyalty.

Such loyalty could not go unnoticed, or unrewarded. He would have to change his policy toward her now; after all, to punish her for saving his life would be seen as truly capricious and high-handed, even for him. Not to mention what it would do for morale.

No, he had no choice but to back off from his plan of disposing of her.This idea dis not perturb him- now he found he no longer wanted to be rid of her. Not just out of a sense of gratitude, although that was of course part of it.

The real reason he wanted to keep her around was that she had made him look at himself in a new light. Maybe he was not the hard, frozen, implacable judge, the cold task-master/ soulless killing machine he had believed himself to have become.

Maybe he was what the tender-hearted, compassionate Nikita saw him to be instead- a human belng worth saving. A human being, like herself, that deserved to live.

Operations stirred himself and hit the intercom button. He had come to a decision. He would return the favor.

"Birkoff!" he barked out.

"Yessir," came the instant response.

"Latest status on Nikita?" Operations asked curtly.

Birkoff's voice sounded happy as he replied. "Dr. Whicker says she'll be fine and can go home in a few days."

"Good," answered the older man, and meaning it. "Tell her to take all the time she needs to recuperate. Go on vacation for six weeks, maybe two months, whatever it takes..."

Birkoff gulped. He had never heard Operations use such an indulgent, affectionate tone when talking about Nikita before. Birkoff felt a little stunned.

"Uh.. sure, I'll tell her," the young computer genius stammered.

"Oh, and Birkoff," Operations added before the younger man could sign off. "When Nikita comes back to duty, see that she's taken off all missions with a level 3 risk factor or higher."

Birkoff broke out in a wide grin. "Yessir!" he responded gleefully. "Yessir!"

Operations cut the connection and then relaxed in a familiar stance, arms crossed across his chest. He sighed and lifted his hand to take a deep drag off his cigarette, then blew out the smoke slowly in a foul-smelling cloud.

He closed his eyes and inhaled again. *Strange,* he thought to himself. *Why does my tobacco smoke suddenly smell like fresh lilacs?*

He felt something light and delicate settle on him, a small tickle, a weightless flutter, as if a butterfly was doing a joyous dance on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and went to brush the insect away. There was nothing there.

"Hmmmpphh," he grunted. *Better stop imagining things* he scolded himself sternly. *Time to get back to the REAL world.*

He stubbed out his cigarette forcefully, brushed off his jacket, and strode out of the room, bent on carrying on the business of saving the world.

The heavenly scent of lilacs followed him as he descended the steps that took him deep into the Hell of Section One.

The End

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