Michael closed the door to Nikita's apartment behind him and walked away. There was nothing else he could do. His lover, the woman who he adored, the woman who had given herself to him in impassioned abandon in all the secret places he had contrived for them to meet, would now not even kiss him here, openly, in her own home. Nikita, the woman who before had insatiably craved his touch, now cringed back from him, as if in his touch lay the path to her own defilement, and not the source of rapturous joy it once had been.

His heart wrenched. She had even said the words of emotional rejection that her withdrawal from him had already revealed, the words that had rocked him to the core of his soul, knocking out from under him the foundation of his world….

"I don't love you anymore."

The finality of this sentence had left him breathless, stricken with despair. She wasn't angry, or hurt, or upset with him. There was no emotion in her voice whatsoever, no emotion, not even hate- in her heart for him remained. Her voice held no passion, just a flat-toned indifference, with a possible hint of annoyance. It was as if he were a magazine that she had once enjoyed reading, exploring all the pages, but now found old and dull, and was ready to discard into the dust-bin. She seemed, if anything, impatient to be rid of him.

He had no choice but to leave. He thought he would crumble into a million pieces and die if he stayed there one more second.

Michael shuddered, and walked on, eyes unseeing as he mechanically descended the stairs and exited to the parking lot.

It wasn't her, of course, he thought grimly. The woman in the apartment was not his Nikita. She had been replaced by the woman Section wanted her to be. They had finally achieved their goal. They had turned Nikita into a robot, a perfect operative, willing to take order, devoid of any human weaknesses..

Devoid of her love for him…..

Michael sighed shakily, and fumbled in his coat pocket for his car-keys. His hand trembling, he barely managed to fit the key in the door lock and collapse into the driver's seat, leaning his head on the wheel. That's when the anger took him.

His despair flared into rage, white hot, searing his very soul. He wouldn't let them do this. HE WOULD NOT. Section had taken everything from him. His past, his life, his son. He couldn't let them take the one thing that held any meaning for him anymore, the one thing that made his wretched existence in this Hell worthwhile- Nikita's love.

He would fight them, Michael vowed silently in the darkness. He would never give up until he had won his Beloved back, until her heart -and with it his own- was restored to them. He would rather die than go on living with this horrid emptiness clawing at his soul.

But before Death or Failure claimed him (both being equal in his mind), Michael would fight, and fight hard. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find a way……

Buoyed by his anger, he straightened, and started the car, green eyes staring coldly ahead. How had they done it? Why? What did they WANT from him?

There was only one way to find out.

He turned the wheel and headed back to Section, where all the answers to his questions awaited him…..

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

Michael decided that subtlety was no longer an option. Working this one in his usual covert style was impossible. Section had thrown the gauntlet down at his feet, had openly challenged him. Madeleine and Operations were playing hard-ball this time, and Michael knew he must do the same.

The skirmishes were over. This was war.

Boldly he walked into Madeleine's office, ready to confront the enemy head-on. Without preamble, he attacked.

"What have you done to Nikita?" he demanded bluntly, before the door had barely closed behind him. Despite his best efforts to control it, his lower lip trembled involuntarily as he choked out one further question. " And WHY?"

Madeleine, who had been standing in the middle of the room attending her plants, turned slowly to look at him. The brown eyes pierced into his, narrowing shrewdly. She gave him that cynically appraising look that had always made his skin crawl, ever since he was a recruit- the look that said that he was some kind of lowly insect at the end of a microscope, and that she was the cold scientist, ready to analyze him, to cut him open and dissect him….

Michael locked his gaze with hers, and returned the contemptuous look with a blank, haughty stare of his own. The battle was on.

Madeleine blinked first, but she did it with a shake of her head, and an equally contemptuous laugh. "What did we DO to Nikita?" she echoed in a taunting tone. The lovely brunette smiled evilly, her expression a triumphant leer. "We only did what was necessary," Madeleine answered, not the least bit ashamed of the destruction she had caused. "We …adjusted her…"

Michael blanched, enraged that she could refer to the emotional rape of his beloved as if it had been as simple a procedure as turning a radio dial, or changing a battery.

"Why?" he asked again, the question forced out of him. He took a step closer, his voice unconsciously pleading. "Her levels were up, her performance on missions couldn't be better….." He shook his head, bewildered. "What more could you want from us?" he begged, unaware that he had used the plural pronoun, linking his fate to Nikita's.

Madeleine scowled and tossed her pruning shears on the desk with a clatter. "Don't pretend to be innocent, Michael," she spat out sharply, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him icily. "We know what you were up to. We had a deal, and you broke it…" She let out a slow, angry sigh. "You ignored the directive, and now you must pay the price…."

Michael grimaced, and took a step closer, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if with each breath his rage increased. "So this is about punishing us, is that it?" His green eyes flashed dangerously. "Because we dared to fall in love?"

Madeleine stared at him, her face blank for a moment, as if she did not understand the concept. Her eyes hardened, her face becoming a stiff mask.

"Let's get something perfectly clear," she said tightly, her gaze locked with his. "If we thought that all you and Nikita were doing during your little trysts was sharing some basic and carnal physical pleasure, we wouldn't have gone to the lengths we did…" She raised one eyebrow, and regarded him cynically. "But we know there was much more to your relationship than simple f%cking…."

Michael flinched, affronted by crudity of her characterization of his physical adoration and expression of feeling for Nikita. "We made love," he corrected her baldly, lifting his chin in defiance. "Why did you have a problem with that?"

Madeleine shook her head in disbelief. "If this was only about your own physical release, a straight-forward trip to a whore-house once a week would do," she went on coldly, crudely. "But instead, you chose to pursue some clandestine, complicated assignations with your ally…"

Michael was puzzled at first at this appellation of his lover, but then the light dawned. Section thought there was more to this than just two lovers meeting. Madeleine was actually cold-blooded enough - and perhaps paranoid and egotistical enough- to think that he and Nikita were forming some plot against Section instead of spending their precious time together just enjoying each other.

For a fleeting moment, Michael pitied Madeleine, and her passionless existence. His own heart had been rended and broken, but at least it still beat, the flame within his chest was still alive. Madeleine's heart, in contrast, was a burned-out cinder. The fire, or what little warmth there had once been, had been extinguished long ago.

His pity evaporated with Madeleine's next words. "We had to make sure Nikita remained loyal to the correct side…"

Michael sighed impatiently, his jaw clenched in frustration. "Nikita and I ARE loyal to Section," he insisted acidly. "We weren't plotting anything. We just wanted to be together…." He finished wistfully, knowing that until he found a cure for the "treatment" they had inflicted on his lover, that he and Nikita would never connect intimately again, on any level, physical or otherwise.

Madeleine paused, regarding him appraisingly. "That may be what it's all about NOW," she conceded reluctantly. "You may even have convinced yourself that it's true- that you just want to assuage some physical, and/or possibly emotional- need with her…." Madeleine stared at him grimly. "But this is Section, Michael. Your partnership with Nikita- how you act as a TEAM- goes way beyond just sex…" the Section strategist sighed and shook her head. "Whether you believe it or not, that kind of bond between operatives is a powerful thing…."

Michael closed his eyes, fighting the feeling of despair that engulfed him. Madeleine had made up her mind. She wouldn't believe that he and Nikita were just lovers, and not co-conspirators plotting to take over Section, no matter what he said to the contrary. She had already made her judgement, and, he thought miserably, carried out the sentence.

"The bond is broken now," Madeleine went on in a pleased tone. "Nikita's loyalty is where it should be…" She smiled, and Michael's skin crawled. "Only with us…"

Michael swallowed hard and then licked dry lips. "What happens now?" he asked, croaking out a hoarse question through his suddenly fear-constricted throat. "What are you going to do to us?"

Madeleine threw him a puzzled look, and sank into her chair, settling behind her glass-topped desk. "Why, nothing, Michael," she told him nonchalantly, folding her hands in front of her and giving him another creepy smile. "Things are fine," she stated serenely. "No need to change the status quo…."

Michael let out a tense, frustrated sigh, realizing that talking to Madeleine was getting him nowhere, and that convincing her to revert Nikita back to her untampered mental and emotional state was impossible. Still, he had to try.

"What…. Did…. You …. Do…. To …Her?" he demanded again, his voice anguished as he enunciated each slow, desperate word.

Madeleine gave him her Mona Lisa smile.

"That will be all, Michael," she said serenely, waving her hand in dismissal and ignoring his hopeless plea. "You can go now."

Conceding this skirmish, Michael could do nothing but withdraw. But the battle was not over yet. Not by a long shot. More determined than ever to free his lover's soul, Michael nodded, and turned on his heel to leave, silent and stealthy as a jungle cat gliding into the night.

He left Madeleine's office, not bothering to look back. There was more to do ahead of him….

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

Returning to his office, Michael had time to think as he strode quickly down the Section corridors. Having found out basically WHY they had done it, Michael realized now that the convoluted reasoning behind Section's re-programming of Nikita didn't really matter. Fathoming Madeleine's contorted motivations for tampering with their lives was impossible, and would get him nowhere. The question he needed to focus on now was not WHY, but HOW.

And possibly WHO…

He slipped into the chair behind his desk, seated himself, and in one smooth motion, booted up his computer. His fingers flew over the keys as he tapped into every known file available to Section about mind-control, brain-washing, and psychotropic drugs. The amount of material to sift through was enormous, and several hours later, Michael gave up in disgust.

Again, he was getting nowhere. He rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes. He needed more specific information than what his files contained. He needed to know not about mind-control in general, but about what they had done to Nikita, in particular. There were hundreds of ways they could have achieved the results they had, but he needed to know what had actually taken place on the top floor of the Genefex laboratory. He needed to know exactly what they had done to Nikita to make her stop loving him….

He turned off the computer screen abruptly, and then rested his head in hands, his mind racing.

Genefex, he thought darkly. A large, seemingly legitimate company that was the front for some of the most dangerous new designer viruses and biological weapons in the world. He frowned deeply. Was there perhaps some connection between the two, Genefex's underground research and the brainwashing of Nikita? Was the fact that she just happened to be "adjusted", as Madeleine put it, during a mission to destroy the Genefex lab more than just coincidence?

Michael raised his head, thinking furiously. How could he find out more, without Section discovering what he was up to? The Genefex facility had been destroyed, after Section's last raid to catch the plant manager, Damon Farrell, exchanging the designer drugs for cash. Both Farrell and the buyers had been killed, and the facility itself turned to rubble after the blast. But Michael was sure that somewhere in that rubble lay his answer.

How? How could he find out what that answer was? To access Section's computer base on Genefex would alert Madeleine to what he was up to. No, he would have to go to other sources for the information he needed. For a moment, Michael thought of going to Walter, who must have been briefed on the mission. He might know something, since he was versed in all things technical, including the latest mind-control techniques. But then, he remembered that Walter had been pulled off this assignment, just before the mission, and had been forced into retirement.

How convenient, Michael thought dryly. Another coincidence. Obviously Section didn't want him to find out just what had happened that night.

Michael sighed. His only other possible source of information inside Section was Birkoff. The young man knew everything that went on here, sometimes understanding the mission parameters better than Operations did himself. Michael shook his head, declining that avenue of approach. Recently, Birkoff had turned in Michael, Nikita, and Walter when Madeleine had asked the computer genius to investigate the possibility that the two lovers were having any extra-mission communications. Birkoff had given up he fact that Michael was encrypting coded messages to Nikita on their mission panels, with Walter's help.

No, thought Michael despairingly. Going to Birkoff for help would be a mistake. He couldn't afford the possibility of having his plans to be with Nikita again exposed to Section's merciless gaze. He would have to find someone else….

After a second's pause, Michael jumped from his chair, knowing the answer. There was one person who could be relied on to rat out even the most dangerous of terrorist allies, for a price. And usually that price had nothing to do with money, but with wanting to keep his own skin intact.

Mick Schtoppel, Michael thought grimly. That was his answer.

Hurriedly, Michael buttoned his coat and locked the office door behind him, heading out to save Nikita, to save their love….

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

It was hard for Michael to walk down the hall to Nikita's apartment and not go in. He wasn't sure if she were home or not, but it didn't matter. He knew for certain that he wouldn't be welcome there. Madeleine had seen to that, by stealing Nikita's love for him. Instead, he hardened his resolve and schooled himself to face the apartment door across the hall from his Beloved's, number 413, and knocked.

The door was opened immediately by a 5'8'' bundle of hyper-active energy known as Mick Schtoppel.

"'Allo, 'allo, 'allo!" the low-life informant greeted Michael effusively, beaming at him with a broad smile. "How's it going, there, Michael, me ol' chum?" Mick asked, giving his intimidating visitor a hearty slap on the shoulder.

Michael's lip twitched up slightly in surprise. There were very few people of his acquaintance who had the nerve to address him so familiarly, and even fewer who dared to approach close enough to touch him. Schtoppel's total lack of reserve always shocked him. Most of the operatives and contacts Michael knew had the wisdom, as well as the basic instinct for self-preservation, to treat him with wary caution.

But not Mick. Caution was definitely not his style. His next words proved that.

"What's the matter, Michael, my man?" Mick demanded in a loud voice, frowning in concern. "You look real down…" He clucked his tongue in sympathy. "Tsk, Tsk, you look like you lost your best friend or something…."

Mick leaned forward, lowering his voice only slightly to a theatrical whisper. He put his arm around Michael's shoulder and leaned in to ask an intrusive question. "Why aren't you across the hall there, having it on with that prime chippy of yours, instead of here with me?" the incautious Englishman probed indelicately. "What happened? You two have a fight, or something?" Mick queried with earnest curiosity.

Michael stared at him coldly, then sighed. As much as he admired, although in a strange way, Schtoppel's chutzpah at times, he found it very wearing.

"May I come in?" Michael asked gravely, not wanting to discuss his private business standing out in the hallway, particularly THIS hallway, where they could run into Nikita at any second.

Mick stared blankly at Michael for a long moment, uncomprehending. Then the light dawned, and the older man smacked his hand against his own bald forehead. "Acch, you're right, Mate!" Mick exclaimed loudly. He put his finger to his lips and peered knowingly at the door across the hallway. "It wouldn't do to have your little bird know all of your doings….."

He grabbed Michael by the arm and unceremoniously drew him into to apartment and shut the door behind them. To Michael's relief, the other man took a few steps away, giving him some space. Fleetingly, Michael took in the look of this apartment. It was a mirror-image of Nikita's, but decorated quite differently. The walls were painted a soft hunter green, and covered in oak book-cases, giving the room the feel of a quiet library. The deep leather sofas and masculine furnishings were done in surprisingly good taste. Michael had only a brief chance to note this, however, when Mick assaulted him once again with his overwhelming camaraderie.

"Come on in, then, Mate," Mick demanded, enveloping Michael once more with his arm around the taller man's shoulders. "Just tell me now- what can your ol' pal Mick do for you, hmmm?"

Michael took a deep breath and began. "I need some information," he said in a soft, desperate tone. "About Genefex."

Mick raised one eyebrow, looking at his visitor askance. The name had obviously registered with him. "Whoa, now, Chum!" Mick answered with an incredulous shake of his head. "No, no no! That Genefex crowd is definitely NOT your style…" He stepped back from his guest and stared at him appraisingly, as if he had never seen him before.

"Well, well, now, who would have thought it?" Mick mused to himself in amazement. "I never fancied you for one of THEM…." He chuckled under his breath. "Looking for a different kind of thrill, are you?" he asked with another shake of his head. "No wonder you and Nikita aren't together tonight…"

Michael glared at him impatiently. He had no idea what Mick was rambling on about, and he didn't care. He had no time to decipher the informant's vapid musings. He just needed information and he needed it NOW.

"Where can I find this "crowd", as you call it?" Michael demanded sharply, resisting the urge to throttle the words out of his host. "What is their location?" he hissed tensely.

Schtoppel sighed, and then threw up his hands as if giving up on persuading Michael from his inexplicable course of action. "Sure, sure, ol' man, I'll tell you, whatever you want…." He soothed, still shaking his head in incomprehension. "But if you want MY advice, I think there's a much better way to go…"

He clasped his arm around Michael's shoulder again, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "If what you really want to do is break out of your straight-laced stuffed shirt…" Here Schtoppel patted Michael teasingly on the chest, "I think you should start a little slower, you know, work your way up to the big time…." Mick nodded his bald head vigorously. "You know, sort of like trying out the training wheels for a week or two before you ride the bike…"

The older man winked broadly. "Let's face it, old chum, you're not quite ready to party with the likes of Damon Farrell just yet…."

Michael froze, his back going rigid. His head shot up at the mention of the plant manager's name, the man who had been there the night Nikita had had her heart and emotions stripped and rearranged, when she had been brutally retrained by Section to no longer love him…

Michael's mind raced furiously. Schtoppel's ramblings were beginning to make sense. Michael could only assume that Farrell had used his position at the drug company to not only manufacture and sell illegal biological weapons under the table, but to also dabble in producing recreational chemicals. There was a huge profit to be made from the public's never-ending demand for new and novel ways of getting high. That had to be why Mick, who was known to have a weakness for such things, knew about Damon Farrell, and why the informant had warned Michael about "partying" with the big boys.

There was no reason to think that Damon Farrell didn't know about mind-control as well. If he had been fine-tuning chemicals to manipulate people's memories and moods, it was likely that he was the one who had custom-designed the drug that had altered Nikita's emotions.

And that meant, Michael thought, his heart leaping with hope, that Farrell would know how to cure her.

He clutched Mick by the shirt-collar, gripping hard, intent on shaking the words out of him. Then Michael remembered.

He sighed raggedly and let his victim go.

"Farrell's dead," he said wearily. He had seen the man go down in the crossfire just before the Genefex facility had been blown up. Michael shut his eyes in despair.

To his shock, Mick only grinned at this news, and then shook his head. "No, Mate, I don't think so," he said in a teasing tone. His grin widened. "Unless that was a dead man I was talking to on the phone this morning…." Schtoppel drawled archly.

Michael blinked, his breath catching in his throat. He tried to stifle the wild rampant thrill of hope that surged in his breast, but couldn't. A gasp of wonder escaped him.

"Farrell's alive?" he repeated breathlessly.

Mick nodded vigorously. "Yup, VERY alive," he assured him, his eyes twinkling. Mick always enjoyed knowing things that other people didn't know, and he liked it even more when he could show off that knowledge. It made his job as a Section informant perfectly suited for him.

"Damon's got a new package of goodies for me to try," Schtoppel elaborated in a voice full of pride. "In fact, I'm going to see him tomorrow…."

Michael stepped forward eagerly, and placed his hand on Mick's shoulder. "I'm going with you," he stated emphatically, his green eyes hardening with determination.

Mick blinked, his smile fading. "Oh, now, Mate, I don't think so…" He stepped back, and gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. "These things are very delicate, you know.." Mick explained nervously, plainly uncomfortable with Michael's demand to be included in his drug deal. "Why don't you let me handle this alone?" he pleaded anxiously. "You know, I could ease your name into the conversation slowly, put in a good word for you…."

Michael's icy glare assumed glacial proportions. He had no intention of letting Schtoppel weasel him out of his chance to save Nikita, to restore her to the way she once was. His mouth firmed grimly. "I'm …going with…. you," he said again, in a dangerously stubborn tone.

Mick sighed, and gave in. He wanted to protest the folly of this plan, but he knew Michael well enough to know that there was no sense in arguing with him when he had made up his mind. Mick didn't like it, but he accepted Michael's going with him as inevitable. Stopping him now would be like trying to stop a speeding freight train….

He just hoped it wouldn't be a total disaster…

The informant scratched his head and gave Michael a speculative look. Maybe, he thought shrewdly, something could be salvaged from this impending fiasco.

"And if I take you to Farrell," Mick probed bluntly, "What's in it for me?"

Michael inhaled sharply, as if in pain, and then turned to look Schtoppel squarely in the face. His eyes had softened to jade, his voice pleading. "You'll be helping me save Nikita," he confessed roughly. "Please," he begged.

Mick paled, his face going white as he let out a sharp gasp. The beautiful blonde operative had always been a weakness of his, and since they had become neighbors, his initial physical attraction to her had deepened into a warm and caring friendship. He adored her; it was no secret.

"Well, Hell, man! Why didn't you just say so?" The sentimental Englishman quipped with a smile. "Of course, you can come…." He grinned fondly at Michael again and then slapped him on the back so vigorously that the auburn-haired operative staggered forward. But this time, Mick's rough camaraderie didn't bother him. Michael felt better than he had in days, even though he knew his shoulder would be sore from being punched so much. It was a small price to pay to gain Nikita's love.

Michael smiled gratefully back, his heart light. "Thank you," he said warmly, looking forward to tomorrow.

He didn't know that tomorrow he would be fervently wishing he could call those words back…..

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

At precisely ten o'clock the next evening, Michael pulled up to the curb in front of Nikita's apartment building, put the black Mercedes in park and left the engine running as he waited. A scant second later, a dark figure detached itself from the shadows and rushed toward the car. The passenger side door was flung open, and a breathless Englishman plopped himself inside.

"Right then," Mick said grimly, settling into his seat. "Let's go."

Michael nodded silently and then put the conservative dark sedan in gear, carefully checking the traffic in his rear-view mirror before he pulled out into the street.

"Which way?" he asked gruffly when he reached the intersection at the end of the block, asking for directions. Mick had not yet told him the location of Farrell's hideaway.

"Right, and then a left at the next light," his passenger ordered, looking around the vehicle distractedly. "Jesus, Michael!" he complained, shivering. "These wheels of yours are really grim, you know?" Schtoppel grimaced in distaste, and shuddered. "Why didn't you just rent a bloody hearse, for Chrissake?"

In spite of himself, Michael smiled. One thing you could always be sure of with Mick- he was never afraid to voice his opinion.

Michael forced the conversation back on topic. "How far is it?" he asked calmly, switching on his turn signal before he made the corner.

Mick shrugged. "We'll be there in half and hour or so," he answered absently, and then went back to critiquing Michael's conservative taste, this time harking on the operative's choice of wardrobe.

"GOD, mate, you look like a bloody funereal director, too, in all that black!" Mick complained testily, eyeing Michael's well-fitting wool suit askance. The informant was nervous about their meeting with Farrell, and the griping served to distract him from his real concerns, namely the feeling of panicked foreboding that was overwhelming him. "Don't you have any other colors to wear?" he whined.

"I like black," Michael answered serenely, un-offended. He went on driving, staring straight ahead.

Mick sighed, and leaned back in his seat. "I've got a tailor that could jazz you up a bit, you know," he continued helpfully. He patted his own garish attire of vivid red jacket and matching (and loud) yellow-and-red striped tie. "He could help you change that EXCRUCIATINGLY dull style of yours," Schtoppel offered. "You really are pathetically drab, you know…." He said pityingly.

Michael glanced at his passenger, and then looked back, eyes on the road. "Thank you, but no," he declined in a bored, uninterested voice, " I'm quite happy with my own tailor." He let Mick's irritating complaints wash over him, unaffected. He was too distracted to respond in annoyance, lost as he was in his own anxious, depressed thoughts about Nikita. He missed her so.

The car trip continued in silence, both men lapsing into uneasy quiet with their own unsettled thoughts, each absorbed in his own worries.

"Left here, at this corner!" Mick instructed suddenly.

Michael obeyed, turning as ordered. Another short silence ensued, and then Mick licked his lips nervously, and screwed up the courage to ask a desperate question.

"Well?" the informant demanded peevishly. "Are you going to tell me what's going on with Nikita?" His brown eyes softened in concern. "She's in danger, isn't she?" Mick choked out. He had no idea what the threat was to his neighbor and friend- he only knew that Michael was upset and anxious about the beautiful blonde, and that had him worried.

"And what does Farrell have to do with this?" Mick demanded gruffly, twisting around in his seat to face Michael, his voice rising tensely. "Just what the bloody Hell is this all about?"

Michael sighed, and answered in an apologetic tone. "It's… complicated," he said tightly. The green eyes flickered over his passenger once more, his expression almost guilty. Nikita's brainwashing and subsequent rejection of him was a touchy subject, one that he really didn't want to get into. He was still too emotionally raw to discuss it with anyone, especially not with the flamboyant, opinionated Mick, even though he trusted the other man enough to accept his help.

"It's hard to explain…." Michael finished lamely, with a shake of his head.

Mick stared at Michael thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes narrowing. After a minute, he sighed, and held up his hands. "All right, all right," he conceded with a heavy exhalation of breath. "I won't push…" He frowned, and gave Michael a worried look. "I suppose you know what you're doing…"

Michael glanced at his passenger, meeting the concerned brown eyes. "Yes," he answered softly, in his typically succinct style.

Mick rolled his eyes and snorted in disgust. "At least promise me one thing, mate," the informant demanded peevishly. He pointed his finger at Michael and shook it for emphasis. "Promise me you'll watch your flank around ol' Damon, okay?" The Englishman sighed heavily once again. "The bloke has pretty boys like you for breakfast…." Mick nodded vigorously. "Literally, if you know what I mean!" he added with a knowing look.

Michael held the look for a moment, then went back to driving, eyes straight ahead. "Farrell's gay," he acknowledged calmly, unperturbed. "I know."

The plant manager/chemist had already politely propositioned Michael on their first meeting, and had been equally as politely turned down. Farrell had said he was interested; Michael had informed Farrell that he was straight. Farrell had apologized; Michael had said no apology was needed. They had parted on cordial terms. Until their next meeting, at the Genefex plant where a bio-weapons for money swap had been ambushed by a Section team.. Both men, Michael and Farrell, had been on opposite sides, shooting at each other. Michael wondered wryly just how cordial a meeting between them would be now. The fact that Farrell was gay was the least of Michael's worries.

Mick rolled his eyes once more. "Jesus, man, he's not just GAY, he's a flaming militant about it. Marches in parades, probably. Very OUT, if you know what I mean…." He sighed heavily again, and then flushed with embarrassment. "He invited me to one of his parties once," Mick admitted uncomfortably. "I almost took him up on it, strictly because I thought the drugs there would be so good, you understand…" Schtoppel clarified. He cleared his throat and flushed nervously. "Then I decided not to go because I figured it wouldn't be fair…."

Michael frowned, puzzled. "Fair?" he enquired sharply.

Mick blushed, then lowered his eyes modestly. "Yeah, it wouldn't be fair to all those poor blokes to flaunt this gorgeous body in their faces, you know, for me to tease them with something they couldn't have….."

He sighed and then winked broadly at Michael. "It's a problem I have, you know," Mick bragged, puffing out his chest. "Being sexually irresistible…" He nodded sagely. "I just have to live with it, I suppose…."

Michael struggled to stifle a laugh. He forced his features into a serious expression and then choked out a reply. "It must be very difficult for you," he said straight-faced.

Mick nodded, warming to his subject. "Oh, yeah," he agreed with alacrity. "You wouldn't BELIEVE how often I've got to fight the women off of me, just to get some rest, you know?" He crossed his arms across his chest, and nodded his head. "Nikita, now, she knows how to treat a bloke with respect," he went on in a fond tone. "She wants me badly, of course, but she tries not to show it…" He leaned over to whisper the rest confidentially in Michael's ear. "AMAZING self-control, that one…."

Michael bit his lip to stop the smile that came to his face. Mick's fantastical lies were closer to the truth than he knew. Michael remembered the nights when Nikita had given herself to him with total abandon, when they both had lost all self-control, and had loved each other with a passionate fervency that burned beyond all reason.

Michael sighed. It was that same passion that had alarmed Section somehow, the intensity of it forcing Madeleine to do what she did.

And now that passion had been expunged. Nikita did not love him anymore.

"But to get back to my point," Mick went on garrulously. "Farrell might very well fancy you…" Mick placed his hand encouragingly on Michael's knee. "You need to make it plain to him you're not into that scene, got it?"

Michael turned his head, met Schtoppel's eyes, and then looked pointedly down at the hand resting on his leg. "Got it," he said curtly.

Mick removed his hand as if he were touching a hot stove, then gave Michael an innocent hurt look. "No offense, mate!" he protested loudly. "Just being friendly, ya know…." He shrugged the shoulders of his red jacket huffily. "No need to be all touchy, now is there?"

"No, there isn't," Michael answered dryly. He was touched, emotionally, by Mick's apparent concern for him, but was becoming weary of the literal touching that the other man had subjected him to. He knew it was just Mick's style, but Michael preferred any physical contact he encountered to be on his own terms, i.e., he like to be the one to initiate the touching- he needed to be the one to be in control.

Except he wasn't in control now. Section was. And they had taken away the only touch that meant anything to him- Nikita's. He ached for her; his whole body yearning to be near her, he needed to feel her heart pressed against his, needed to drown in her kisses, to be enfolded and consumed in her embrace. This need was like a thirst, a rampant hunger that tore at his soul. And the longer it went unassuaged, the more powerful it became.

Michael let out a hiss of pain, a soft sigh that Mick interpreted as an expression of Michael's continued annoyance at Mick's presence.

The informant subsided into silence, throwing Michael a hurt look before he turned to stare out the window. They drove on, past the city lights, further and further into the countryside. Civilization was soon left behind. The only sound was the wind rustling through the trees and the steady drone of the Mercedes' engine. The stars were clearly visible in the clear night sky, twinkling coldly above them- the hot, white points of light their only company on their travels.

After a while, Michael stopped the car at a crossroads and asked for directions again. "Left or right?" he said softly, turning to Mick.

"Right," the passenger barked out in a resentful tone. He sighed deeply, and then let out the words that had been burdening him for so long.

"I care about her, too," Mick confessed huskily, his mood totally serious for once. "She's a fine one, she is," the informant said defensively.

Michael sighed. He didn't pretend to misunderstand about whom his passenger was talking. There could be only one woman on their minds that night, and that was Nikita. Impulsively, Michael turned to his lover's neighbor and blurted out an anxious plea.

"Would you do something for me?" Michael begged softly. "Please?"

Mick hesitated a moment, then leaned forward eagerly. "Of course, mate," he answered, his eyes wide in surprise. He was at once astonished and honored that Michael trusted him with whatever burden he wished to bestow. He knew it took a lot for Michael, the consummate self-sufficient loner, to admit he needed anything at all. "Whatever you need, you can count on ol' Mick, you know that…." He promised seriously.

Michael nodded solemnly, then turned back to focus his eyes on the road. "If anything happens to me," he began softly, "I want you to take care of Nikita for me…"

Mick blanched, not liking the implications of this request. "Hold on, now, mate!" the older man protested. "You don't think anything's going to happen to you tonight with ol' Farrell, now do you?" He licked his lips nervously. "This is supposed to be just a friendly meeting!" He spluttered unhappily. "You and he were just going to TALK, right?"

Michael cut him off. Through clenched jaws he made his request again. "Will you or won't you?" Michael asked tensely. For some reason he couldn't explain, instinct perhaps, Michael knew he needed to hear these words. He turned his head to meet his passenger's eyes, his own like two glittering emerald lights in the darkness.

Mick swallowed hard and then nodded his head. "I promise," he vowed, equally as solemnly, and then made an x motion over the left side of his chest. "Cross me heart and hope to die…." He swore sincerely.

Michael let out the breath he had been holding, and let his shoulders relax. Mick's childish vow had made him feel better somehow, less anxious, less tense. He felt he and Nikita might just come through this ordeal after all.

He peered through the windshield at the dark, deserted road ahead. He could see the lights of house twinkling through the trees faintly some distance in front of them. Michael threw a questioning look at his friend.

"Is that it?" he asked, jerking his head toward the house. "Is that Damon's hideaway?"

Mick nodded nervously. "Right you are, chum," he said in a voice totally lacking in cheeriness. "We're here…" he answered glumly.

A second later Mick's words were unequivocally confirmed by a sudden, deafening gunblast that cracked through the silent night, followed quickly by three others. Mick yelped helplessly while Michael fought for control of the car as the vehicle lurched and bucked beneath them, spinning out as all four tires had been shot out from under them.

The Mercedes did a 360 degree turn, then at last came to a sudden, screeching halt, ending up at a sideways angle across the road. Before Mick or Michael could catch their breaths, a searchlight aimed at the windshield blinded them.

"Sh*t…" swore Mick, his hopes for a quiet conference with Farrell fading into dust. Michael squinted his eyes, and was able to discern through the glare of the spotlight that their car was surrounded by a team of armed men.

Next a rough voice shouted an order through the open window, the words backed up by the intimidating black muzzle of an automatic weapon pointed in their direction.

"Out of the car!" their captor barked. "Now!"

Mick sighed, and turned to Michael. "Yup, mate," he said morosely. "We're here, all right….."

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

Michael stepped out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition- the vehicle was useless to him now, anyway. He raised his gloved hands in the air, slowly, not wishing to give Farrell's guards any reason to shoot him before their meeting could take place.

He was spun roughly around, and thrown against the car's hood, then swiftly, but thoroughly, searched. The men relieved him of his holstered glock under his shoulder and the small caliber weapon tucked into the small of his back.

When he turned around again, the muzzle of the machine-gun was once more brandished in his face.

"Start walking," the guard ordered, gesturing with the business end of the gun down the dark path to the house.

Michael complied, falling in step in front of his guards. He spared a glance to the other side of the car, and caught a glimpse of Schtoppel bringing up the rear, flanked by two more of Farrell's men. The jacket of his vivid red suit was open and mussed, the garish tie askew, and Michael knew they had searched him, too.

Looking ahead, Michael noted that the path he was walking on widened gradually, and he suddenly that realized it was not a road but a gravel driveway that swept up to the front of the house. He peered curiously through the trees, and was astounded at the size of the structure ahead. This wasn't just a house, it was an estate, a mansion. The building rose three stories high, built in the Greek Revival style, with an impressive porch adorned with Doric columns. The house was painted classic white and looked like something out of Gone With the Wind.

Dismayed, Michael reassessed Farrell's situation. He had assumed that the Genefex manager had been on the run, hiding from Section, and perhaps from the Libyans he had been selling the drugs to as well. Michael had expected to find Farrell in reduced circumstances, possibly wounded, and ready to deal. Michael had hoped to find his target desperate, and willing to help him in his bid to restore to Nikita her lost heart.

But now, he knew the situation was different. The house, and the plentitude of guards to protect it, bespoke of an entirely different set of circumstances. Farrell would be the one coming from a position of power, not Michael.

He grimaced wryly, and kept walking. Merde, he cursed softly to himself. He hated feeling helpless like this. Michael scanned the house again, noting the rich gardens and well-kept lawn that he glimpsed as they passed down the lane. Michael had planned to offer Farrell money, and safe passage out of the country. But apparently, Farrell had no need of those things. What was Michael going to bargain with now?

"Inside," the guard's voice gruffly interrupted Michael's gloomy thoughts. He looked up to see that there was a side door standing open on the west wing of the house. Michael stepped from the dark path into the well-lit interior and blinked.

Chandeliers dazzled him, reflecting brilliantly off of polished oak floors. Persian rugs glowed with colorful designs throughout, and the ornate ceilings, painted a brilliant, stark white, set off the expensive, jewel-toned wallpaper perfectly.

And this wasn't even the main entrance of the house, Michael thought dryly. More like the servant's entrance. He wondered what the rest of the place looked like.

Beside him, Mick was shoved forward so that the two prisoners stood side by side. The informant stood staring wide-eyed at the splendor around him. Mick leaned over and gave Michael a knowing look. "Blimey," he whispered conspiratorially. "Leave it to the fags to know how to decorate a place all fancy and all…."

"Shut up, Mick," Michael whispered angrily back. The green eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Did you know Farrell had a place like this?" he demanded peevishly. It crossed his mind briefly that Schtoppel might have set him up, that perhaps Farrell had offered Mick money, or maybe drugs, to lead Michael into a trap.

Mick shrugged, and gave Michael an innocent look, his eyes wide. "Absolutely no bloody idea, I swear!" the informant protested. "I've never been to Damon's place before. We always met on neutral ground, you know, the train station or the airport…" Mick explained hurriedly. "I had no clue he had digs that looked like this…."

"QUIET!" one of the guards barked, interrupting the captives' conversation before Michael could answer. "In here…." The man directed, emphasizing his words with a shove of the gun muzzle into Michael's back.

Michael obeyed, walking forward into a room that could only be described as a large study. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, done in the same burnished oak as the floors. A small fire in the fireplace in one wall added to the golden-toned warmth of the room. The chamber was large enough to accommodate several sofas, chairs and tables, and still be dominated by a large desk in the center of the room.

A man sat behind the desk now. A small man, with wavy brown hair touched with gray, curling back from a balding forehead. Warm brown eyes shone from a pleasant face. The spare, trim body was dressed in an expensive gray suit, his hands precisely manicured. He looked as rich and well-cared for as the house he lived in.

He stood up and bowed politely to his visitors, as if they were welcome guests and not prisoners.

"Come in, gentlemen," Damon Farrell invited with a warm smile. "Please, come in….."

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

"Please, come in!" Damon Farrell said again, rising from his desk and gesturing the men to come into the room.

Mick and Michael, with guns in their backs, had little choice but to comply with their host's polite invitation. The guards shoved them forward, then took positions on either side of the door. Michael took a step forward to stand a cautious distance in front of the desk, warily eyeing Farrell. The man's surface charm, he knew, most likely hid a deeper hostility. Mick, however, took Damon's gracious warmth at face value.

"How ARE you, Damon, ol' chum?" the informant gushed in a relieved tone, coming toward his "host", his arms wide. He slipped one arm around Farrell's shoulder and pounded him firmly on the back. "It's so good to see you, all fit and in one piece, as it were…" Mick leaned closer, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper. "I heard you were in a bit of a scrape…." The Englishman nodded, an expression of concern on his face. "Got yourself shot at, did you?"

Michael cringed, made uneasy by Mick's phony effusiveness, and by the look that Farrell shot his way. Damon's warm brown eyes met green, hardening to ice. His smile, however, never faltered. Mick, oblivious, was not to know that it was Michael himself who had fired what should have been the fatal shot at Farrell during the ambush on Genefex headquarters.

"I'm supposed to be dead, actually," Farrell answered pleasantly, his eyes never leaving Michael's face. The small man patted his chest, tapping the white shirt under his gray suit. "But an extra piece of wardrobe prevented that…" their host drawled dryly.

Mick chuckled as if he had been told a good joke. "Wore a vest that day, did you, Ducks?" he commented happily. "VERY clever of you….."

Farrell sluiced his eyes away from Michael to regard Mick suspiciously. He stepped back, removing himself from the Englishman's embrace. "It always pays to be…. clever when dealing with Section One…" Damon said tartly. He tilted his head and gave Michael a piercing stare.

"Isn't that right, Michael?" he demanded acidly.

Michael flinched, and turned pale. Mick, however, chose to ignore for now the ugly undercurrents of this exchange, taking the words at face value, and, typically, turning it to his advantage.

"So you two know each other already, then?" Schtoppel said cheerfully, then beamed a bright, phony smile. "Well, well, fancy that! Small world, isn't it?" He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of leaving and inched anxiously toward the door. "Well then, no need for me to stick around and make the introductions, is there?" he offered hopefully. "You blokes probably have a lot to talk about- you need to catch up on old times, and all that…" He beamed a great smile. "I'll just mosey on then, and leave you two to have a cozy chat in private…."

Before Mick had gone two steps toward the door, Farrell snapped his fingers. The guards instantly obeyed his signal, the four men immediately flanking their targets, two on each side of Michael, the other two hovering close to Mick.

"I'm afraid no one's going anywhere until I find out what you're up to…." Farrell said sharply, his tone no longer friendly.

Before either prisoner could protest, Farrell gave another order. "Cuff them," he barked, "Just to make sure…."

Michael raised his arms, submitting quietly to having his wrists shackled in front of him, then stood staring unflinchingly forward. He knew resisting the armed guards was futile at this point.

While Michael submitted, Mick objected to having his suit rearranged once more. "Here! Watch it, lads!" he whined in a disgruntled tone as the guards grabbed him by his forearms and placed the cuffs around his wrists. "You're going to wrinkle the material!" The informant scolded. "You can't get red suede to lie flat again once it's all crushed up like that….."

Schtoppel shot Damon a hurt look. "I thought we were friends, mate!" He shook his head disbelievingly. "You know, more than just blokes that did business together…."Mick scowled furiously, and raised his cuffed hands to display them in protest. "I thought you knew you could trust me! There's no need for this! When did I ever double-cross you on anything? When did I ever not pay you fair and square for the… er… recreational substances you provided?" Mick's voice grew louder as he warmed to his subject; he threw Farrell a martyred look. "Since when have I ever done anything to make you think you couldn't trust me?" Schtoppel wailed, his eyes wide and innocent.

Farrell's back went rigid, and he glared icily at his old associate. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his gray suit jacket and removed an intimidating silver Glock from its depths. Mick froze as Damon leveled the weapon straight at him, directly at Mick's heart.

"To answer your question, Mick, my dear old friend…" Damon replied scathingly, "I DON'T trust you.." Damon went on, glancing with knowing disdain at Michael and then back at Mick again, "Not since you joined with Section One to bring me down…."

Damon's brown eyes narrowed coldly, and then steadied his aim. "Just how much did Michael pay you to betray my location?" He shot Michael a piercing look. "That was the point of this visit, wasn't it?" Farrell spat out. "To kill me, to ambush me again, to do what your bombs and your bullets failed to do on your last attempt?" Their host shook his head, then stared again at Michael. "You wanted to finish what you started…."

Mick gasped, and shot Michael a hurt look. "Now hold on!" he protested, holding up both cuffed hands as if to ward off Farrell's bullet. "Hold on now one minute!" The Englishman took in a deep breath and squared his shoulders indignantly. "I don't know anything about bloody bombs and bullets and ambushes!" He shook his head emphatically, and then turned pleading eyes to Farrell. "I'm telling the truth, mate! As far as I knew, you and Michael were just going to have a little business talk…."

Damon regarded Mick incredulously, his hand tightening on the handle of the gun. From the sour expression on his face, it was plain Farrell did not believe a word he was hearing.

Michael swallowed hard, his heart sinking. Things were going miserably so far. He had alienated the one person, Farrell, who could help him get Nikita back, but that might be the least of his problems. If he and Mick got out of there with their lives, they would be very lucky.

"It's true, that's why I'm here," Michael interjected quickly, attempting to explain. "We had no intention of hurting you. I.. I just want to talk, I swear it…." He assured his captor desperately.

But Farrell wasn't buying it.

"A likely story," Farrell sneered. "But, unfortunately for you, I'm not quite the gullible idiot you take me for…" His mouth contorted into a wry, if pleased, smile. "Let's get this over with, shall we?" He snorted derisively, steadied his aim at Schtoppel's chest, and began squeezing the trigger.

Mick froze, his face going deathly white. He was too scared to move, or make a sound, caught helplessly like a deer in the headlights.

Michael, however, was moved to action. He realized with sudden, brutal clarity that Mick, however flawed and flamboyant he was, was indeed one of the few friends he had, one of the few people in this world that he trusted. He had lost so many comrades- he couldn't lose another. Not now, now when he had lost Nikita, too.

Michael lunged forward, only to be hauled back forcefully by the guards. "No!" he protested desperately, struggling in the men's grip. "Don't kill him!" Michael yelled. "Please!"

Damon turned his head to contemplate this interruption, but did not lower his gun from its bulls-eye on the center of Mick's chest. He raised one eyebrow in surprise, his mouth twisting up at one corner in wry amusement.

"And, pray tell, why ever not?" Farrell inquired curiously, his voice impatient, as if he were eager to get on with the unpleasant, but necessary chore of eliminating Mick from the face of the earth.

Michael swallowed hard and blurted out his plea. "He's NOT Section," Michael avowed urgently. "He's only a contact, and he's only here because I asked him to set up a meeting between us…" Michael strained against the guards' hold once more. "Mick is harmless!" he pleaded desperately. "He doesn't know anything! If you want to avenge yourself on Section, then deal with me!" The Class five operative challenged.

"Please!" Michael begged wrenchingly. "Please, just let him go…."

Farrell paused, considering these words. A tense silence ensued, while Damon contemplated his options.

After a long moment, to Michael's shock, and Mick's amazed relief, Farrell lowered the gun, then pocketed it once more. The dapper man smiled slowly and rubbed his chin.

"You know, I think I believe you," Damon said politely, in his pleasant host-voice. He nodded his head, looking straight at Michael. A speculative look glittered in his brown eyes. "You're right. Schtoppel is rather a light-weight- obviously not Section material…." The brown eyes narrowed shrewdly. "You, Michael, are the formidable one to deal with…." Farrell's mouth twisted into a grim smile. He snapped his fingers sharply at the guards and gave an order.

"That one," their leader commanded, pointing to Mick. "Put him in the blue guest room for safe-keeping until I decide what to do with him…."

Mick did not protest this time when his two guards took hold of his the sleeves of his red suit. He greeted this reprieve from death with grateful, submissive silence. He shot Michael one last worried look, however, as he was escorted quickly from the room.

Farrell placed his gun squarely on the center of his desk, within easy reach, and then waved Michael's two guards away, indicating they should wait outside. He waited until they had obeyed, shutting the door behind them, and then he turned back to look at his remaining prisoner.

"Now, my dear Michael, we can have that conversation you wanted," Damon said in the pleasant tone again, settling once more into his seat behind the desk, eyeing his captive with attentive curiosity. He gestured at the chair in front of the desk.

"Sit down," he ordered firmly.

Michael closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. Mick would live to see another day, and Michael might live to have Nikita in his arms again, if he could convince Damon to hear him out. So far, so good.

"Thank you," Michael choked out sincerely, meaning it. He clenched his cuffed hands together and then collapsed into the chair; it wasn't until he was seated that he realized he was trembling.

Farrell tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk-top. "Well?" he demanded. "Why are you here?" He leaned his spare body forward, watching Michael intently. "I'm listening…."

Michael stared back, meeting the steady brown eyes, and began.

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

Michael tensed, realizing he was alone with the one man who could give him his heart's desire- the return of Nikita's love- and that that love- the most important thing in the world to him- could remain lost to him forever if the words he spoke now were not the correct ones.

How? Michael wondered miserably. How could he convince Farrell, this enemy that he had tricked and lied to before, to trust him? How could he get Farrell's help?

"Well?" Damon snapped impatiently. "I'm listening…."

Michael lifted open, wide green eyes to look at his captor, allowing all the hidden emotions of his heart to be read plainly on his face.

"It's like I told you," Michael began in a soft, husky voice. "I'm not here on behalf of Section. This has nothing to do with them….." He licked suddenly dry lips and began again. "I have no intention of harming you. I just needed to talk to you….."

Damon raised one eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, regarding Michael with a fascinated stare. "Nothing to do with Section, eh?" he repeated in a cynical tone, shaking his head incredulously. "You're telling me you came here all on your own, for your own…. personal reasons?" his captor asked quizzically.

Michael lifted his chin, then swallowed hard. "Yes," he answered directly and plainly. "Completely personal…."

He bowed his head and looked away, his heart seared with the agony of the loss of his life, his mate, his soul, his raison-d'etre- Nikita. Black, aching emptiness stretched out before him. There was no purpose, no reason to go on, if she no longer loved him. If he couldn't get Damon's help to bring Nikita back, he would rather be dead.

Michael went on in a soft voice choked with emotion, confessing the complete truth. "You're the only one who can help me restore my soul….."

Damon blinked in surprise, then laughed suddenly, in reaction to these dramatic, if nakedly honest, words. "Well, well," he chuckled, shaking his head in amazement. "I've had a lot of people ask me for things they wanted- biological weapons, drugs, money, things to bring them power, and the like- but never to restore their lost souls…" He smiled in amusement. "This is a first for me!" he chuckled again.

Farrell stood suddenly, and crossed the room to the liquor cabinet on the far side of the room. "I think this calls for a drink…." The small, wiry man fit actions to words, pouring himself a generous amount of red wine from a carafe on the bar into a crystal goblet. He tossed half of the drink back, and then returned to lean on the desk in front of Michael, cradling the glass in his hands.

"You fascinate me, Michael," Damon drawled, with a droll smile. " I suppose you just earned your right to be spared annihilation just on the grounds of sheer entertainment value alone…." He sighed deeply. "Although I really was looking forward to killing you, after all the trouble you caused me…."

Michael flinched, not missing the bitterness behind the merry words. "I'm sorry," he apologized quickly. He knew his next words sounded lame even to his own ears, but he said them anyway. There was nothing else he could do. "I was just following orders. Infiltrating, then destroying Genefex was our mission profile…."

Damon glared at Michael, then tilted back his glass and drained the rest of the wine. He set the goblet with a harsh clatter angrily back on the desk. "I see," Farrell spat out scathingly. "So killing me was just your job," he sneered, throwing Michael's words back into his face. "It wasn't PERSONAL, is that it?"

Michael paled, and remained silent. There was really nothing he could say.

Farrell's anger flared higher. "Do you want to know what really burns me, Michael?" the former plant manager spat out tightly. "Section One had an arrangement with me, a deal…." He sighed raggedly and ran a hand over his bald forehead. "In exchange for certain supplies and services, and occasionally some intel on some of our buyers, Section would leave Genefex alone…"

Damon sighed again. "The arrangement worked very well for YEARS…." He continued in a resentful tone. "Everything went very smoothly. I made a lot of money- for Genefex, as well as for some of my pet projects- and Section had access to the latest in high-tech drugs-- and drug buyers-- whenever they wanted it….."

He looked up to stare into Michael's green eyes. "But after that last special project, things changed," Damon mused on. "I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew something was different…." Farrell took a deep breath and smiled bitterly. "I took precautions accordingly…."

Michael nodded solemnly. "You wore a bullet-proof vest to the last drug exchange," he said in a serious tone, "And, I assume, you must have planned an escape route…."

Damon chuckled again, his mood lightening. "Even Section didn't know of some of the cubby-holes and tunnels in that building," he went on, his voice tinged with a slight note of pride. "When the ambush went down, I cut my losses and got out, before the bomb went off…."

Farrell gestured to the room around him. "It's a pity to have lost such a well-equipped facility, but I have some of the same equipment here, like I had at Genefex…." He nodded his head, self-satisfied. "I have plenty of funds, and I can start over, without Section's "help" this time…."

Michael's heart sank. He knew there was nothing he could offer Farrell to make him want to help him save Nikita. And worse, since Farrell identified Michael, logically, with Section, Damon could only see him as an enemy. When Farrell was through being momentarily entertained with this conversation, Michael and Mick would no doubt be killed. Farrell would pick up the gun on the desk, and blow Michael's brains out, saving him the trouble of doing it himself, Michael thought bitterly. He stifled a groan, and forced himself not to give up.

Michael knew it was hopeless, but he had to try.

He pounced on the words Farrell had mentioned earlier, the words that gave him a brief flash of hope. "You said there was special project Section made you work on, right before the ambush…." Michael asked eagerly, his tone breathless. "What was it?"

Damon paused, somewhat taken aback by Michael's abrupt change of subject. His lips twitched upward in a sudden, amused smile. "My, my, you do switch channels quickly, don't you?" He peered at Michael closely, taking in the intensity of his expression. "What does that have to do with the topic we were discussing?" He tilted his head and assumed a vacuous, bored pose. "What was it now? Ah, yes, I remember…." Farrell grinned slyly. "Something about saving your soul?"

Michael flinched, then scolded himself inwardly for feeling wounded at this taunt. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. It didn't matter what Farrell felt about him- contempt, pity, rage- as long as Michael got his help. And Michael was ready to abase himself totally in order to do that.

"It has everything to do with my soul," Michael answered tensely. He closed his eyes and confessed the rest. "I think Section made you brainwash the woman I love, to make her completely indifferent to me…" Michael choked out brokenly. He raised pleading eyes to Farrell's cold brown gaze. "Your project ruined me….."

"Please, help me…." Michael begged. " Only you can put her back the way she once was. I have no life- no soul- without her…." He lowered his head, totally broken, and fought back harsh tears. "Please…."

Farrell stared at his prisoner, stunned into silence by his captive's complete emotional disintegration. The change from cold op to weeping lover was too total, too sudden, not to be real.

"So that's the way it is," Farrell sighed, leaning forward to pat Michael's cuffed hands. Michael started, and looked up with shock into Damon's face. He was stunned to see the sympathy shining in those once cold brown eyes.

His next words confirmed all of Michael's hopes, as well as all his worst fears.

"Madeleine didn't tell me about that," Farrell mused softly, nodding his head. "She didn't tell me that you loved Nikita…."

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

"You love Nikita. That's not what Madeleine told me…."

Michael could only gasp, all his fears confirmed. It was true. Oh, God, he thought, it was true. Now the slight, nagging remaining sliver of doubt that perhaps Nikita's change of heart toward him had been of her own choosing evaporated like mist. Her sudden indifference to his kiss, his touch, her painful rejection of his tender, ardent devotion was not of her own choice, but something induced, something forced on her from the outside.

Forced on her specifically by Farrell. At Madeleine's request.

Why?

The horror of it stunned him anew. Madeleine- Madeleine had orchestrated it, planned it, designed it. He had to know why. Why was she manipulating them, using them, destroying their lives once again?

"Madeleine?" he choked out, trying to control his sudden surge of jagged, tearing anger. "What did she tell you?" Michael demanded, his face flushing with rage. "What did she WANT?"

Michael's distress seemed to amuse Farrell greatly. He smiled, and then backed up to seat himself on the edge of the desk, settling in, ready to tell his tale.

"I don't know Madeleine well, actually," he began in a slow, bemused drawl. "As you know, I prefer the company of my own gender….." Farrell teased, his brown eyes twinkling. "To answer your question, though, I have no idea, really…" He shrugged. "I have no idea what she wants. Or what she thinks…."

Damon sighed and shook his head. "A cold inscrutable, bitch, that's what she is. You know her, you know her kind," He gave Michael a comradely knowing look. "She's the type of person that will smile sweetly in your face and then put a knife in your back…" Michael's captor said bitterly. "I found that out…"

Damon fell silent, brooding over this betrayal. Michael held his breath, then dared to nudge his jailer to go on.

"What happened?" he asked with quiet intensity.

Farrell sighed once more, and then waxed loquacious again. "Usually we would do our business over the phone, so I never had to interact with her much," he continued. "Fortunately for me," he added, raising his dark eyebrows. "But about three months ago she began wanting to see me in person, at Genefex. She practically haunted the place," Farrell sneered. "Said she needed something unusual, something special…." He shook his head, bewildered. "She was almost frantic, obsessed about Nikita…."

Michael flinched, squirming in his chair. Three months ago, he thought. Of course. It was making sense. Three months ago was when Operations had been called away to Center and Michael had taken over command of Section. During that time Madeleine had learned how well the mantle of power fit Michael's broad shoulders. She also learned that he was not above using that power to put her in her place. Michael had been his own man, not Operations' docile, obedient devotee. If Section had expected Michael to roll over and play the good little sheep dog, they had been sadly mistaken.

They were punishing him for that now, Michael thought grimly. By taking away Nikita. He had made her his second in command, and together they were efficient and formidable, the synergy of them as a team exponentially more intensely powerful than they could ever be separately. Each gave the other the strength that they needed, each fed the other's confidence, balancing perfectly. Alone, Michael was impressive. With Nikita, he was unstoppable.

Now, without her, he was lost.

And, he knew, Madeleine wanted it that way…

Michael looked up to see Farrell watching him intently, his eyes narrowing. "Madeleine told me that Nikita was a satisfactory operative, except for her one flaw-…" Damon said tightly. "Her groundless, unrelenting obsession with you. Madeleine said you found Nikita's attentions annoying and distracting, sometimes disturbing, and that it was beginning to affect your work. She wanted me to devise a way to fix the problem." He tilted his head and gave Michael a speculative look. "I gather that wasn't the truth?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Michael saw no reason to deny it. Farrell already knew of his feelings for his Beloved. "No, none of it," Michael answered tersely. His voice shook with emotion as he went on. "I wanted her with me; I ..wanted HER…" He looked away, his lower lip trembling. "We were in love….."

"I see," his captor responded thoughtfully. "So the relationship wasn't a problem for YOU, or for Nikita, only for Madeleine…"

Farrell grinned suddenly. "What happened, Michael?" the older man teased. "Were you putting it to Madeleine regularly until Nikita came along?" he sneered. "Is that why she was so keen on breaking you and Blondie up?" Farrell laughed out loud, greatly amused. "How extremely entertaining!" he chuckled. "A love triangle, with Madeleine playing the third wheel…." His eyes twinkled merrily. "She went to a lot of trouble to pay you back for dumping her…."

Michael shifted uneasily in his chair. There had never been anything sexual between him and Madeleine. She had always been too focused on Operations as her emotional interest for that. The Section strategist had gone through, so Section gossip went, a string of Valentine ops to fulfill her physical needs, but Michael had never been one of their rank. Madeleine's desire to punish him now was not due to his withdrawal of his sexual favors, but rather because of her jealousy about something else---

His power. He had some now, power of his own, power with George, power within Section. And Madeleine envied him that power, and did not want to share…..

"Well, were you?" Farrell demanded peevishly, annoyed at Michael's lack of response to his gossip. "Were you screwing her?"

Michael did not want to dignify this remark with an answer, but he forced out a reply, because Farrell seemed to expect it. And pleasing Farrell now was all important to his survival, both emotional and physical.

"No," Michael choked out tersely, staring Farrell in the eye. "I wasn't screwing her."

"Hmm…" said Damon, nodding thoughtfully. He gave Michael a look, his eyes raking the operative's body from head to foot, his gaze finally settling and lingering on his prisoner's full-lipped, sensual mouth. Something flared and ignited in that gaze, and Michael tensed in his chair, wishing fervently he wasn't shackled and helpless, forced to submit to those feverish eyes, burning through him.

"So you never f*cked her, but I bet she wished you had…." Damon said huskily, his eyes never leaving Michael's face. Farrell leaned forward slowly, and with just the tip of his index finger, grazed his hand slowly along Michael's firm jaw. "I think I know how she feels…." The older man went on, his voice ragged with desire. "You are quite irresistible, you know…."

Damon closed his eyes and slowly leaned forward, intending to brush Michael's lips with his. But before the kiss could be completed, Michael instinctively jerked his head away, flinching back and withdrawing as far back into his chair as he could. Even cuffed, he could have fought off the smaller man easily, but he controlled his urge to push Farrell away, no matter how uneasy his captor's nearness made him. It wouldn't do to alienate this man, not now. Michael wondered worriedly how Farrell would take his withdrawal, this unspoken rejection. He hoped fervently that his refusal of the other man's advances had not already ruined his chances to save Nikita….

To his relief, and his revulsion as well, Farrell just laughed, and then patted Michael's cheek. "Oh, that's right, you told me…." The other man chuckled good-naturedly. "You're straight…" He leaned back on the desk, regarding Michael thoughtfully. "Unless that was another lie, too?" he asked hopefully.

Michael lowered his eyes to his cuffed hands, and answered through tense lips. "No, it wasn't," he murmured tightly. He wondered if this, too, had been a mistake, telling the truth. But he was sure Farrell would see through a lie about something so basic as his orientation, and Michael, even though he desperately needed to get on his captor's good side, was unable to bring himself to pretend to return Farrell's desire.

His captor sighed heavily. "What a pity," he said with genuine regret. "Straight, and in love, to boot," he went on with a wistful smile. "I suppose Nikita is now the sole beneficiary of all your… bounteous gifts, hmmm?" Farrell teased.

Michael felt the words like a blow, Farrell's light-hearted tone making the heaviness of his despair seem like an even greater weight to bear. What Farrell had phrased in his unromantic, sarcastic way was indeed the truth. Once, those words had been true. Once, he and Nikita had been bonded together, mated, each the other's twin soul. But now, everything was different.

"No," Michael choked out harshly. "What you did to her changed everything…."He threw Farrell a resentful look, his eyes glittering with pain. "She doesn't love me anymore…" he whispered mournfully, turning his head away to hide his stinging tears.

Farrell paused for a long moment, contemplating his prisoner's gaunt profile and defeated air. Madeleine had done it, he thought shrewdly. She had broken him. Farrell knew without a doubt that's what the Section strategist had wanted all along. The real purpose of her request to Farrell to alter Nikita's emotions had had nothing to do with making the Section operatives more efficient. This was personal. Madeleine had wanted to punish Michael, to make him suffer. Whether it was because of sexual jealousy like he suspected, or for some other platonic reason as Michael had avowed was the case, Farrell neither knew nor cared. He only knew that being betrayed by Madeleine gave himself and Michael something in common. The bitch had tried to destroy them both.

"What do you want from me, Michael?" Damon asked gently, his cynical heart moved to pity. "Why are you here?"

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

Michael took in a sharp breath of surprise and turned his head to look into Farrell's brown eyes. They no longer glittered with amusement at Michael's expense. The cold taunting expression was gone, replaced now by one of genuine- or so it seemed- warm sympathy.

Amazed and bewildered at this softening toward him, Michael did not understand the reason for the change. But he decided he didn't need to. He only needed to grab this moment, this opening that Fate had afforded, before the faint hope of repairing his shattered life was snatched from him again.

"I want you to undo what you did," Michael pleaded urgently, leaning forward eagerly in his chair. "I want you to change her feelings back to what they were before you tampered with them…." The prisoner begged. His voice grew thick and husky with emotion. "I want you to give me my 'Kita back…" Michael choked out brokenly. "Please…."

Farrell sat very still, watching Michael for a long moment. The warm expression faded, to be replaced by a frown. The chemist/terrorist sighed and shook his head. "I'd like to help you, my Dear Boy, really I would…." He answered softly, "But I don't think I can…."

He shook his head once more. "The effects of the emotional conditioning were supposed to be permanent. That's how Madeleine had me design it…" Farrell regarded his prisoner with regret. "I'm sorry, but I'm not at all sure that it's even possible for the procedure to be reversed…."

Farrell patted Michael's shoulder sympathetically. "I'm very sorry," he said again.

Michael sat stunned and stricken for a moment, then crumpled forward with a low groan as the meaning of these words hit him.

Nikita would always hate him. No, worse. She just wouldn't care. He would never hold her again. Ever. For the rest of their lives, he would be alone, cut off from his soul mate. She would still be alive and functioning, but part of her would be dead. She would forever walk the earth with the part of her heart that belonged to him cut out, an emotional amputation. The living Nikita that he loved, the compassionate, fiery, tender, human part of her- would be gone, leaving only an outer shell to contain her mutilated, zombie soul. And, because of that, he knew it would be the same for him. His body would go on breathing, but the piece of his own heart that belonged to her would wither slowly, agonizingly, and then die, too.

He knew he would rather be dead.

"No….." Michael sobbed desperately, the word wrenched from the depths of his tormented soul. He felt one last surging flame of desperate hope that flared deep inside, for a moment overshadowing his despair. His mind fumbled and groped in his bitter darkness, grasping at straws, clinging to life.

It couldn't be over. It just couldn't. Farrell had not said that restoring Nikita's heart was impossible. He had only said he didn't THINK it was possible. What if????

Michael jerked his head up, facing Farrell squarely. He met the brown eyes with his own determined green and then demanded his salvation. "No," Michael ordered gruffly, willing his captor to save him. "It's NOT impossible. You have to do it. You have to TRY…." He insisted, with a stubborn set to his jaw.

Farrell stared at him a moment, then, to Michael's shock, just laughed. "My, my," his captor drawled, amused again. "Forceful, aren't we?"

He shook his head and then shrugged his shoulders casually. "Give it up, My Boy. It can't be done. You might as well face it…."

Damon tilted his head thoughtfully at his guest, who was still glaring resentfully at him from his chair. Farrell sighed again. "Come," the older man said gently. "I think we've exhausted all our topics for this visit, both business and personal. You can't do anything for me, and I can't do anything for you…"

He fumbled in the pocket of the silver gray suit and brought out the key to the handcuffs, meeting Michael's eyes sympathetically. "Here," he said cajolingly, as he stepped forward and unlocked the metal bands around Michael's wrists. "Go now. I'll have the guards bring your friend Schtoppel and the two of you can leave…"

Freed now from his bonds, the prisoner made no move to escape. Michael did not rise from his seat. He only moved his hands to clench the arms of the chair more firmly, determined not to go.

"No," he announced stubbornly, his voice harsh with the intensity of his determination. "I'm not going anywhere until you help me," he stated flatly, defiantly meeting Farrell's eyes.

Farrell blinked in surprise, and then uttered a soft grunt that was half annoyance, half admiration. "You should be careful, Michael," Damon warned in an irritated tone. "As much as I adore a man with… tenacity," he quipped sharply, "You really are treading on thin ice, here…." His eyes narrowed angrily. "Don't push it. You're lucky I'm letting you go, and not having you dragged outside and shot, as was my original intention…."

He reached forward, and without ceremony, took hold of Michael's arm and hauled him to his feet. Michael rose reluctantly, still unwilling to give up his last chance at hope. He stood morosely staring at the floor, making no move to the door.

He flinched in surprise as he felt Farrell thrust his hand into his, shaking it firmly.

"Here, my fine fellow," his host said jocularly, but with an underlying note of deep respect. "Let's have a pact between us. A gentleman's agreement, if you will…"

Michael lifted his eyes to meet Farrell's soft gaze, his hand still clasped in Damon's warm grip. "Agreement?" Michael choked out gruffly.

Farrell nodded. "I'll let you live, let you and your friend Schtoppel go on your merry way, and in return, YOU agree not to tell Section about the fact of my continued existence, hmmm?" He smiled gently. "That's more than fair, isn't it? Do we have a deal?"

Michael pulled his hand out of Farrell's, refusing to shake on it. He wanted no part of this agreement, when it meant he would leave without restoring his lost soul. He crossed his arms across his chest and planted his feet squarely on the floor, bracing himself, determined to stay and fight for what he had come for.

"No," he said firmly, shaking his auburn head, denying the possibility of failure once more. The soft mouth thinned to a grim line. "No deal."

Damon laughed again, this time from shock. Was Michael crazy? Why wasn't he taking the extremely gracious chance at life that he had offered him, his captor thought in bewilderment. Did the man want to die?

Farrell suddenly held his breath, an ugly, dark suspicious thought occurring to him. Was Michael crazy, or was this about something else?

Was this some kind of Section trick? Damon thought worriedly. Was Michael here not on a personal agenda as he claimed, but because he was under orders from Section? Was that why he was refusing to leave, because he hadn't yet finished his mission?

Was his mission to kill him? Damon wondered. He had to be careful. And he had to know more…..

Forcing a smile, Farrell settled back onto the desk, perching one hip on the edge. He, too, crossed his arms across his chest like Michael, and then took a deep breath.

"All right then," the now wary host said in the pleasant tone once more. "So, you don't like my deal. Tell me. Do you have a better idea instead?" he queried, raising one eyebrow. "What kind of bargain do you want to make?"

Michael sighed heavily, letting out a shaky, relieved breath. Farrell was listening to him. There was still a chance….

"I told you. I want Nikita back…" He lowered his arms to his sides and turned his palms upward in a posture of open and submissive offering. His voice was no longer demanding, but soft and pleading. "I know it might not be possible…." He admitted reluctantly. "But I just want you to try.." Michael begged. "Please…."

Farrell eyed him speculatively, and then rubbed his chin, frowning. Michael's anguish was very convincing, and Farrell wanted to trust what he saw, but doubt nagged him. He had to be sure.

It was time for a little test.

"That's not a bargain," Damon stated tensely, slipping off the desk to stand in front of Michael, almost toe to toe. He looked up, unafraid, into his prisoner's ravaged face. "That's only what you want me to do…." He whispered.

Slowly, deliberately, Farrell raised his hand and stroked his fingers across Michael's cheek. He leaned closer, until his face was only inches away from Michael's own. His eyes riveted again on the full, soft lips.

"If I help you, dear Michael…." Damon whispered huskily, "What will you do for me?" His fingers then trailed downward to seductively caress his prisoner's full, firm mouth, gently tracing the outline of the sensuous lower lip, pulling the clenched jaw open, his eyes devouring the soft pinkness inside.

Michael tensed, but did not move away. He had no choice.

He closed his eyes and let out a soft, surrendering breath. "Anything," Michael choked out in answer, submitting totally. He shuddered, but said the words anyway. "I'll do anything you want….."

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

"Anything…."

Michael, eyes still closed, heard Farrell laugh throatily, then murmur his acceptance. "It's a deal, then…." His captor agreed in a breathless voice. "You give me what I want, and I'll give you what you want….

Michael's stomach knotted; he was at once intensely relieved that Nikita might now have a chance to be herself again, and the same time he was horrified by what he had agreed to. Before Michael could decide whether to be elated or terrified by this decision, Farrell leaned closer, and sealed their bargain with a kiss.

Damon's mouth descended on his, softly exploring. The kiss was not intrusive, or forceful, but rather gentle, almost curious, even respectful. Michael went rigid, tensing under this careful, but unwanted caress. He balled his fists at his sides and submitted, staying completely still while Damon did as he willed.

Michael knew he had no choice.

After a moment, as the kiss went on, Michael realized something. The pace of the kiss stayed slow, Damon only nibbling and nuzzling his tongue on Michael's lips, not forcing his way in. It was as if he were waiting for Michael to signal his readiness for him to go further, almost as if he were courteously holding back until he received an invitation. Why? Michael wondered, tensely awaiting the assault. Why didn't Farrell just go ahead and take what he wanted?

Michael groaned inwardly. He wants me to prove what I said, he thought with sudden insight. He's waiting for me to surrender….

No, that's not it, Michael amended to himself, feeling chilled. He's waiting for me to respond.

Michael steeled himself, not unlike how he gathered himself inside before preparing to dive off a high cliff into the sea below. He took in a breath and then let go.

Relaxing his mouth under Farrell's, he opened his lips for the other man's entry, at the same time determinedly thrusting his tongue forward to do some exploring of his own. He lifted his arms up to wrap them around Farrell's shoulders, pulling him closer.

The taste was not at all unpleasant, a mixture of the sweet wine Farrell had drunk earlier, combined with peppermint. His cheeks were smooth shaven, and he smelled pleasantly of the clean-scented aftershave he wore. Damon's hands on his shoulders were gentle, the feel of the smaller man against him not unlike the embrace of a woman. Michael thought fleetingly that if Farrell WERE a woman, even a beautiful one, and Michael had made this same deal, that his feelings, or lack of them, would not have been any different. His body craved only Nikita; his heart longed only for her. Joining his flesh with any other- man or woman- than his soul-mate would feel just as wrong, no matter how compellingly appealing the partner. Farrell's kiss, no matter how sweetly gentle and expertly done, repulsed him.

As much as he disliked being touched against his will, Michael did not flinch when Farrell tangled his hands in Michael's hair, holding his head steady while he deepened the kiss. In fact, Michael was relieved that the other man had taken the lead, so that he didn't have to. He doubted he would be able to feign enthusiasm for the kiss much longer. The more he submitted, the more the feeling of revulsion was building. Michael trembled, struggling for control.

Just before Michael felt he could endure it no longer and that he would have to offend Farrell by breaking free from the kiss, the other man did it for him.

Damon put his hands on either side of Michael's face and pushed him away. Michael almost groaned aloud from relief. Still holding the other man's chin in his hands, Farrell looked deeply into Michael's eyes.

"Very good," his captor murmured, pleased. He patted Michael's cheek and smiled. "I think I'm not going to regret this bargain at all…."

Michael stiffened, aware of the sudden look of intense longing that Farrell shot his way. He stood in silent apprehension, muscles tensed, awaiting the older man's next move on him.

To Michael's shock, Farrell turned and sauntered back to the liquor cabinet, then poured himself a drink, whistling happily, taking his time with the ice, the bottle, and the glasses. Michael bit his lip, and shuddered.

So that's how it would be. Nothing rushed and fevered and hurried, the way Michael would have preferred. That way, at least it would be over with quickly. No, Farrell was going to make this evening last. He was going to savor every moment of taking his prize…..

Michael felt sick.

He forced a tentative smile as Farrell turned from the bar and settled with his glass into an easy chair by the fire. Damon smiled back, and lifted his glass in a silent toast, then carefully sipped his drink. Cradling the goblet in front of him, Damon leaned back in his chair and let out a contented sigh, then waved an impatient hand at his prisoner.

"Well, go on, go on…." Farrell murmured encouragingly, if somewhat impatiently. "We had a deal and I'm waiting…"

Michael frowned, confused. "I don't understand," he said uncertainly, regarding his captor uneasily from across the room. A chill of apprehension went through him, joining the knots in his stomach to make him feel cold, alone, and helpless.

He was genuinely frightened. What the hell did Farrell want from him?

He took in a shuddering breath and then surrendered in compliance. "What should I do?" Michael asked submissively, in a quavering voice.

Farrell laughed, and settled more firmly into his chair. "You'll give yourself to me, of course," he said matter-of-factly, taking another sip of wine. He pointed to the couch on the other side of the fire. "There on the sofa will do nicely," he ordered, waving his hand toward the large piece of furniture done in deep burgundy leather.

Stricken, Michael paused, staying where he was. His eyes met Damon's, unconsciously pleading.

Farrell's smile faded, and he pointed commandingly at the sofa, raising his voice. "Take your clothes off and lie down," he ordered harshly. He grimaced wolfishly, baring his teeth in a predator's smile.

"Do it," Farrell hissed, "Or our deal is off."

Michael took in a sharp breath and forced himself to obey. Slowly, he crossed the room to stand on the carpet in front of the fire, between Damon's chair and the leather couch. He focused his eyes on a empty spot on the far wall, letting his mind go blank, trying not to feel anything. Mechanically, he began undoing the buttons on his suit jacket, swiftly, with his left hand, as was his custom. He pulled the sleek, black wool garment from his shoulders and tossed it on a nearby chair, revealing an even sleeker set of trousers and shirt underneath.

Damon made no comment, except for a small grunt of satisfaction as the coat came off.

Michael gritted his teeth and began on the shirt-buttons. When he reached the ones at his waist, he pulled the garment out of his belt and then finished his task on the last few buttons, letting the shirt fall open to reveal, bare, muscled chest. He closed his eyes, and tried to pretend he was in his own home, in utter privacy, undressing for bed after a long day at work. He kept his movements as casual as possible, lulling himself into this fantasy of safety he had created in order to get through this ordeal.

His felt his mind beginning to go numb, to shut down, but his body was not fooled. He was shaking badly, his fingers trembling as he gripped the edge of his shirt-tails and pulled the black shirt up and off, tossing it on the chair with his coat.

"Ahh…" Damon sighed approvingly, his eyes drinking in the vision of contoured abdomen and chest. "You are quite as beautiful as I imagined…."

Michael stared blankly ahead as his host's gaze devoured the sight of his slender, yet powerful body. He tried not to feel anything, but a sharp remorse hit him, along with a blinding sorrow. His heart longed for Nikita. He regretted having to defile their love this way, to whore himself once again, but he had no choice.

"Nikita…" he cried inwardly to his soul-mate. "Nikita, forgive me…"

Damon's impatient command interrupted his agonized reverie. "Continue," Farrell ordered imperiously, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "I want to see all of you…."

Michael flinched, then obeyed. He felt his face flush with heat, felt the beads of sweat trickling down his bare back, although the room was only pleasantly warm. He shivered, and then took a deep breath and bent forward, quickly stripping off socks and shoes.

When he straightened, he found himself breathing hard, panting from exertion, as if this small movement had exhausted him. He felt dizzy, his heart pounding. He could hear only the deafening thunder of his own blood in his ears. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of Farrell's avid, fascinated gaze on him, and then fought to get his breath.

Gritting his teeth for this last, final step, wanting to get it over with, Michael hurriedly placed his trembling hands at his waist, frantically fumbled open his belt and undid the fastening, then began to wrench down the zipper….

Farrell's voice stopped him, as the man called out an incomprehensible command.

"That's enough," Damon told him pleasantly. "The experiment is over….."

Michael opened his eyes to see the older man rise to his feet, and come toward him, smiling. Michael stared at that smiling face, disconcerted and confused, both by Farrell's words and by his own reaction. Michael's felt almost faint with relief that Damon wanted no more from him than this modest show of skin; he was flooded with a rush of warm gladness at this welcome reprieve from total humiliation. But at the same time he was overwhelmed with a crushing sense of disappointment, wanting urgently to follow through with their bargain-

He HAD to, Michael told himself grimly. What would happen to Nikita if he didn't? He thought in anguish.

Damon approached him, still smiling, hands thrust into his pockets. "That's all," he said in a pleased tone of voice. "The deal's off. You can get dressed now, if you like," he offered in a kindly tone.

Michael met his captor's beaming gaze, blinked dazedly, and made no move to obey. "I don't understand…" the young operative choked out, confused. He shook his head. "I… I thought you w-wanted me….."

Damon sighed deeply, rocked back on his heels and then leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. "I thought I did, too," the older man mused, almost to himself, "But I find I just can't seem to get excited about a partner who is as unwilling as you are…." He smiled regretfully. "I like my lovers to display just a little bit of interest in the proceedings. I'm sorry, but, this was a mistake. I should have known not to expect- er, shall we say-enthusiasm from someone who's straight…."

He sighed deeply again. "The problem, dear Boy, is not that I don't want YOU, but that you don't want ME…" He reached out and caressed Michael's cheek again, tenderly. "You wouldn't be a good lay," Farrell told him wistfully, "No matter how beautiful you are…" He leaned forward and gave Michael a chaste kiss on the lips, a kiss goodbye.

Michael stared at him, stunned and conflicted. He was too shocked to move.

"It's all right, my Boy," Farrell said, patting Michael patronizingly on the shoulder. "No hard feelings. We'll just call it even, and you and your friend Schtoppel can leave whenever you like…."

Michael stared at him, stricken. He had failed her. He had failed Nikita.

He couldn't let that happen.

"No!" he shouted, his eyes blazing fire. "I'm not letting you back out of our deal…" Michael cried in desperation. He gripped the other man by his shoulders, took a breath, then passionately kissed him, putting all his heart and soul into it.

Damon kissed him back, briefly, but then squirmed out of his grasp, pushing him away. "Forget it, dear Boy," he said sadly. "It's just no use…" The brown eyes flickered over Michael's handsome face. "You can go through the motions, but the spark just isn't there…." He shook his head. "I'm very sorry…." He said softly, and then made his way to the door, intending to leave.

Tormented, Michael pressed on, unwilling to accept this refusal.

"Please!" he cried, falling to his knees in front of his captor, blocking his path. He couldn't allow the only person who could give him a new chance at life to walk away from him. A harsh sob escaped from his throat. "I'm begging you, please…." Michael sobbed brokenly, at the end of his rope. "Please…."

Farrell looked down on his tortured prisoner, enjoying the sight of the enemy's total capitulation. "Please…" Damon repeated slowly, enjoying the flavor of the word on his tongue. He smiled widely, his eyes twinkling. "Please… what?" he taunted merrily.

Michael closed his eyes, submitting completely, his soul torn in anguish. "Please.. f*ck…. Me…" he begged hoarsely. "Please…"

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

"F*ck me, please…." Michael begged. "Please…"

Distraught, desperate, broken, he buried his face in his hands, sobbing. His heart was torn, his mind reeling. He couldn't face the future without Nikita, and abasing himself to Farrell was the only way he could salvage that future, that life he so desperately wanted to have with her. Farrell's offer to help him, at a price, and then his abrupt rejection of that offer had stunned Michael into doing what he never dreamed he would ever do-

He was on his knees, begging. Begging to be raped.

Blinded by tears, quivering, hopeless, Michael did not see Farrell retrieve his gun from the top of the desk. He didn't know it was there until he felt it suddenly when his captor shoved the weapon against his bare back.

"Get up," Damon ordered curtly.

Michael's head jerked up, his eyes wide. "W-What?" he gasped, completely shocked. Farrell was looking at him soberly; there was no hint of lust in his eyes, nor any trace of amusement at his expense. The brown eyes were clear and calm, regarding him steadily.

"We're done now," Farrell repeated softly, even as he pressed the hard steel barrel of the weapon harder into Michael's back. "Get up. The deal's over."

Michael staggered to his feet, anger suddenly replacing despair. "I'll give you what you want!" he shouted, incensed, driven beyond all reason. "You can't leave it like this!" He stepped forward, directly into the line of fire, until the gun Farrell brandished was pressed directly against the center of his chest.

Unafraid, eyes flashing, Michael ranted on. "You f*ck me, you bastard!" Michael yelled, enraged. "You f*ck me NOW! And then you go help Nikita!"

Farrell met the wild green eyes, shook his head, and then laughed. "My, you are quite glorious in your anger, my dear Michael…" the older man chuckled, amused. "Quite glorious, indeed…"

It was the last straw. Infuriated, unable to endure his captor's emotional torture any longer, Michael lunged at Farrell, intending to get his hands around the other man's throat.

He had forgotten about the gun.

Farrell did not shoot him with it, but rather raised it upward in a slashing motion. The barrel impacted with a bone-jarring thud against Michael's cheek, knocking him backwards and sending him reeling to the floor. Stunned, seeing stars, Michael collapsed on his side at Damon's feet, mewling with pain.

Farrell looked down on him calmly, then raised his voice to call his guards. "Bryce! Winters!" he shouted. "Get in here!"

The door to the study flew open, and the two burly attendants rushed in, their guns at the ready.

Bryce glanced at the half-naked man writhing on the floor at Farrell's feet, and then gave his employer a bored look. He had long since given up trying to figure out his leader's quirky taste in entertainment.

"Yes, Boss?" he asked tonelessly.

Damon gestured at Michael. "Put him in the room with his friend," Farrell ordered. "Make sure he's well restrained," he admonished. "I don't want him to escape…."

Bryce stifled a yawn. "Yes, Boss," he answered. He holstered his gun and then, with the other guard's help, hoisted Michael to his feet.

Though groggy and dazed, and blind with pain, Michael still struggled. "Bastard!" he mumbled faintly, feebly clawing the air, trying to reach his enemy again. It was no use. The guards, one on each side, dragged Michael with ease to the door.

As they left, Farrell turned to watch them go. He smiled a sudden, merry smile.

"Don't worry, dear Michael," Farrell called after them. "I'll take good care of Nikita for you…."

Perhaps luckily for Farrell, his remark went unheard. There was no response; Michael had passed out.

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

Mick Schtoppel was bored. Bored, and anxious.

He had been locked in the upstairs guest-room of Farrell's mansion, a lovely suite done in dark blue toile, furnished with a king-sized bed and chairs, and boasting it's own bathroom, for hours now. He had explored the room minutely, noticing, besides the fact that the furniture, carpeting, and art accessories were of the highest quality, that the French doors at the end of the room led out to wide balcony that ran the length of the house, which in turn led to some stairs to the ground floor.

In other words, he realized that he could easily escape.

It would be a simple thing for a man of his vast talent and experience (he had been arrested for breaking- and- entering, among other things, in his youth) to jimmy open the door, or, if he had to, crudely smash a pane of glass, turn the knob, run down the stairs, and be free.

Therein lay his dilemma.

If he had been alone, the choice would have been a simple one- get out while the getting was good, look out for number one, discretion is the better part of valor, run and live to fight another day- self preservation at all costs had always been his motto. But this time, he wasn't alone. There was Michael to consider.

Ordinarily, another person's well-being and/or survival would not have caused him any great qualms of conscience. In the spy business, it didn't pay to get too attached to one's comrades and associates. The sides and the players in this game changed too swiftly for that, and the team-mates that disappeared abruptly one week were soon replaced by others the next. Mick had learned it was best to be flexible in his loyalties, stay fluid, go with the flow, and align himself with whoever happened to be on top at the moment. That had been the best way to survive.

He sat disconsolately in his chair, twisting his cuffed hands together in his lap. He stared at the tempting French doors that beckoned him to freedom, and then sighed. He stayed where he was. He had, for once, decided to keep his loyalties right where they were, and his precious English arse right where it was- here, in Farrell's house, with Michael. He closed his eyes and waited.

It wasn't that he had a particularly warm and fuzzy relationship with the Section operative. Michael was definitely not the warm and fuzzy type. In fact, in Mick's opinion, the bloke was entirely too reserved, a real cold fish. He wondered sometimes what Nikita, his Popsicle, saw in him. Mick figured Michael must drop his reserve just a little with her. Otherwise, she wouldn't love him so.

But Nikita's affection for their mutual friend was not what had made Schtoppel stay. No, it had been the words Michael had said to Farrell, which still echoed in Mick's ears…

"Let him go," Michael had pleaded on Schtoppel's behalf. "He has nothing to do with this…"

Mick squirmed uneasily in his chair, and pulled nervously on the hem of his red coat to straighten it. Seldom had he ever had anyone to defend him like that, like Michael had. Mick had not expected it. He would have quite a bit less surprised if Michael had thrown him to the wolves instead, and used Farrell's anger at Schtoppel to his advantage.

But Michael hadn't done that. Instead, he deflected Farrell's ire off of Mick and put it squarely on himself. The result was that now Mick was here, lounging safe and unmolested in this rather pleasant, luxurious room, and Michael was downstairs with Farrell, enduring who knows what….

The informant frowned uneasily. He didn't like to think about what an interrogation by Damon Farrell might entail. As he had warned Michael earlier on the way here, Farrell had a weakness for pretty men, of which Michael could definitely be classed in their ranks.

Bloody Hell, Mick thought bleakly to himself. Poor Michael.

Mick sighed and rubbed his bald forehead worriedly. He didn't like just sitting here, waiting, but there was nothing else he could do. Despite how much he twitched with anxiety and wanted to flee, he would not.

He would not leave his friend.

Friend? Mick pondered the word. He didn't know exactly when that had happened, the transformation of Michael from a business associate to a friend. Mick only knew that somewhere along the line Michael had come to think of Schtoppel that way first. Perhaps Nikita had worked her magic on him. At any rate, it was plain that Michael had come to regard him as someone worthy to be relied upon. Otherwise, why would Michael have trusted Mick so completely at his did, earlier that evening, when he had made Mick promise to take care of Nikita if anything happened to him?

Schtoppel groaned. He hoped to God that he wouldn't have to come through on that promise…

He jumped suddenly as he heard shouting downstairs. Rising to his feet, he rushed to the bedroom door and pressed his ear against it. There was more shouting, too faint to make out the words, but Mick was sure it was Michael's voice.

A chill ran through him as the shouts were followed by deathly silence.

"Oh, Lord," Mick prayed fervently. "Don't let him be dead…"

After a minute of anxious listening, Mick heard noises again. Not words, but scuffling footsteps on the stairs, coming closer. It sounded like someone was being dragged along the carpeted hallway…. The sounds grew louder until they stopped just on the other side of the door. Then the door-knob slowly turned…..

Mick stepped back in alarm as the two guards burst into the room. Between them they supported an unconscious man, barefoot, naked to the waist, trousers undone to reveal a soft line of hair. The prisoner's face was tear-stained, swollen and bleeding under one eye, his body covered in sweat. The guards dragged him inside and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed.

"Michael!" Schtoppel moaned, cringing at the sight of his friend in such a state. "Jesus!"

He tried to rush forward to Michael's aid, but one of the guards held him back, gripping him harshly around one arm. The loud red jacket Schtoppel was so proud of was receiving quite a bit more wear and tear than he had intended for it, but he ignored that now. Mick's only concern at that moment was Michael.

He watched grimly as the other guard rolled Michael roughly over on his back and then pulled the unconscious prisoner's arms up over his head. Michael did not stir, remaining limp and unresisting as a rag doll while the guard removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and then cuffed Michael's wrists to the headboard.

Eyes closed, pale and wan, his head lolling to the side on the pillow, Michael looked dead. Mick blanched, then stared hard at the naked, muscular chest, holding his breath until he saw the prisoner's lungs expand slowly with the intake of air.

He was alive, Mick realized with relief. No thanks to these bastards.

Schtoppel glared furiously at the guards, and bit back a stream of curses. Enraged, wanting to shout and scream, Mick forced himself to hold his tongue. He bit back the urgent question on his mind, and did not ask the guards just what the hell Farrell had done to Michael.

The truth was, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

The guard by the bed jerked sharply on Michael's bound wrists, making sure he was secured, as ordered. His companion released Schtoppel's arm unceremoniously, shoving him away, and then Farrell's security team left the room side by side.

Mick waited til he heard the key scrape in the lock once more, and then listened for the guards' footsteps to fade down the hall. Then he rushed forward, panicked, and clambered on the bed. Michael looked ghastly; if this was how his friend was after one session with Farrell, Mick thought grimly, he sure as hell wasn't going to wait around to see what he looked like after Round Two.

He placed his cuffed hands under Michael's chin and slapped him, none too gently.

"Wake up, mate!" Mick hissed frantically. "Wake UP! We've got to get out of here!"

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

While Mick hovered anxiously over him, Michael dreamed.

He wandered, drifting aimlessly, lost in the darkness. But it was not a peaceful, welcoming darkness, offering the comfort of sleep. There was an ominous feel to it, and Michael was aware that the empty shadows through which he walked held no promise of comfort and rest, but only hidden dangers. This darkness was a cold cruel, nightmare.

He was not alone here. Monsters lay ahead.

He heard a sound behind him and whirled, senses all on alert. A light emerged from the shadows, a figure of white and gold, an angel, who came forward and addressed him sweetly.

"Hello, Michael," the angel said with a soft smile, her face glowing.

Michael gasped, his heart soaring. "Nikita!" he cried in relief, rushing toward her, his arms outstretched. "Nikita, I've missed you so!"

The angel held up one hand to stop him, palm out, and then yawned. "That's…. nice," she said in a bored tone. "But I don't have time for you now. I'm busy."

Michael stopped in his tracks, his arms falling, empty, to his sides. "But we belong together," he choked out desperately, frustrated and hurt. His face contorted in an anguished expression of need and longing. "I love you…" he pleaded, reaching for her again.

The angel stepped back out of reach. She brushed off the skirt of her long, white robe as if his nearness has contaminated her. "I know," she answered with the same bright, yet distant, smile. "But things are different now…"

She tilted her head and tossed back her long blonde hair. The eerie smile widened. "But I don't love you anymore….." Nikita pronounced flippantly, as if proud and pleased with this fact. "I don't want to ever be in love with you again…"

"Nooo….." Michael wailed, falling to his knees at the angel's feet. His heart shattered in his chest, imploding with a wrenching loneliness that was too horrible to bear. Sobbing, bereft, he clutched at the angel's robe, and, wrapping his arms around her legs, he begged for another chance.

"Please!" he entreated tearfully, in a desperate tone. "I'll do anything you want! Anything!" Michael cried inconsolably. "Just let me love you! Let me be with you! Please!"

The angel chuckled throatily, a soft, masculine laugh. Michael looked up, startled, to see that the angel had transformed into a short, middle-aged male with brown eyes.

It was Farrell.

"We have a deal," the angel said, and then laughed again.

Michael, panicked and struggled to rise, but found he could not. No matter how much he strained to pull away, he could not get his muscles to move as he commanded them.

It was the angel that controlled him now.

"Get up," Damon ordered. Michael found his body obeying of its own accord, even as his mind screamed in protest, fighting vainly this new slavery. He stood, obediently awaiting further orders.

"What a fine fellow," the angel/monster praised him. Damon reached out and patted Michael's cheek. "Take off your clothes, now, my Boy, and go lie down…"

"No! No!" Michael groaned aloud, flinching sharply away from the insistent hands on his face. He sat up straight in the bed, eyes open, but unseeing. "Don't!" he panted in revulsion. "Don't touch me!"

Mick stopped slapping Michael's face and sat back on the edge of the bed, staring at Michael piteously. Dismayed, he had never seen Michael like this, all trace of composure gone, completely panicked, gulping in air through heaving lungs, eyes blank and wide with fear.

But what did he expect, Mick thought morosely, assuming the worst. He had never seen Michael after he had been raped before.

Jesus, Mick cursed to himself. Poor Michael.

"Easy, Mate.." Mick murmured softly. "Easy, now…." He gently shoved Michael back to lie flat on the pillows, and then kept his hand on the wounded man's shoulder, patting him soothingly. "It's okay…"

Michael blinked, and then shook his head, the last traces of the nightmare clearing. The dazed green eyes seemed to focus. He took in a deep breath. "M-Mick…?" he croaked out uncertainly.

Schtoppel gave him a wide smile, pleased that his friend was awake now and seemed coherent. "That's right, mate!" he told him enthusiastically. "It's your old pal, Mick! I'm right here…."

Michael lifted his head and stared at him, just to make sure that the dream was gone and that it really was Schtoppel there, and not some figure that would morph at any moment into something less welcome. He was pleased that this image of Mick before him wore an ugly red coat, and not a white robe. This one, Michael concluded with groggy relief, must be the real thing. Satisfied, he let his head fall back on the pillows and then wearily closed his eyes. His head throbbed hideously, the cut under his eye stinging him painfully.

"Mmffhhuh…" Michael groaned incoherently. He turned his face away into the pillow and grimaced, as the waves of nausea and pain washed over him. It had been a mistake to sit up suddenly like that, even though it was worth it to know he had come out of the nightmare. He squinted his eyes more tightly shut, and attempted to sink back into darkness….

Mick sighed, moved to pity. "Just wait right there, Mate," he said soothingly. "I'll be right back…"

Quickly Schtoppel rose from the bed and went into the adjoining bathroom. It didn't take long for him to find what he needed. He returned to Michael's side with a paper cup filled with water and a hand-towel that he had drenched in hot water and then rung out.

Mick hesitated, then decided from the way Michael looked, with his eyes closed, drifting in and out, he would start with the more passive task of cleaning Michael up, instead of making his patient try to actively drink. He set the paper cup on the night-stand, and then perched on the edge of the bed.

Gently, he began washing the sweat and blood from Michael's face. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fact that along with these fluids there were definite traces of tears on the pale cheeks. Mick cringed, knowing how truly horrible the ordeal with Farrell must have been for him, if such a strong, stoic man like Michael had been brought to weep.

God, Mick thought to himself. It must have been horrible…

Michael did not flinch away from his touch this time. Mick felt him tense slightly when he dabbed the cloth directly on the large, angry cut, but otherwise, the wounded man offered no resistance. Mick went on with his ministrations, carefully wiping the noble brow, pushing back damp auburn curls from his patient's forehead. He turned the cloth and began stroking it along Michael's jaw and down over the strong column of his throat, and then finally worked his way to the broad shoulders.

While he worked, Mick talked all the while, a habit he had when he was nervous. "It's going to all right, Michael," Schtoppel assured his friend in a stage whisper. "You see, mate, I found a way out…" he confided, a bit proudly. "The security on this room is somewhat lax, if you know what I mean. Not professional at all…."

Michael made no response, but just seemed to sink deeper in sleep, his body relaxing under Schtoppel's surprisingly tender touch.

Mick, uncaring if his audience was awake or not, went on. "The French doors over there," he told his patient eagerly, "lead right to the outside. All I've got to do is get these cuffs off of you, and then you and I, my friend, will be free as birds…."

Michael stirred, blinked rapidly and then opened his eyes. They glittered brightly with pain, but he managed to stare at Mick curiously, raising one eyebrow in surprise. Mick took that as a sign of encouragement. "That's right, Mate!" Mick grinned, pleased. We'll be out of here in no time.."

The Englishman's face fell, and he suddenly slumped defeatedly where he sat, dropping the cloth on the bedside. He frowned down at the floor. "Well, we WOULD be out of here," he confided disconsolately, "Except that I can't find one blooming thing in this whole bloody palace to unlock these bracelets of ours…" He lamented, rattling the steel handcuffs on his own wrists. "Not a hair-pin, a nail-file, or even a bloody paper-clip…." He said with a mournful sigh.

Michael's head throbbed sickeningly, but he forced himself to think. He was shackled directly to the headboard of the bed; without a key to the handcuffs, he wasn't going anywhere. But Schtoppel was not so bound. Mick could get out- he could get to safety…

"Go," Michael ordered hoarsely, the effort to speak costing him most of his strength. He lifted his head off the pillow to glare at Schtoppel sternly. "Go…. now…." He croaked out.

Mick was appalled by such a suggestion. "What?" he gasped, offended. "You can't be serious!" the informant protested, shaking his head in disbelief. "You expect me to just skip out on you and leave you here to be.. uh.. er…" He stammered to a halt, blushing uncomfortably, unable to say the words to describe the molestation he believed Michael had been subjected to. He swallowed hard and started again, voice loud and indignant.

"No Way, Mate!" Mick ranted, shaking his head. "No, no, no!!!" He crossed his arms across his chest and glared at Michael stubbornly. "I'm staying right here to protect you…."

Michael writhed with frustration. He was too weak and groggy to argue with Mick now; and he hadn't the strength to physically force his friend to go. Though part of him was touched by Mick's determination to stay and defend him, Michael's overwhelming emotion was fear.

Farrell was capricious, unpredictable. He could be vicious one moment, and then kind the next. He could do anything he wanted to.

He could kill them both. At least, Michael reasoned, if Schtoppel fled, one of them would live to watch over Nikita….

Michael only had strength enough to groan out two words. He hoped it would be enough…

He lifted his head up, gasping. "Go…" he pleaded again, desperately. Exhausted, he collapsed back onto the pillows. "Nikita…." Michael begged in a rough whisper. With a harsh sigh, not knowing if his words had been heard or not, he again succumbed to the blackness.

"Michael?" Schtoppel said urgently, his voice rising in panic. He reached out and shook the alarmingly limp figure on the bed by his shoulders. "MICHAEL!" he cried. "No!"

There was no response from his patient to his shouts, or his shaking. Michael remained still and unresponsive. After a while, Mick gave up trying to wake him. It was no use. What the bloody hell was he going to do now?

Michael's last words came back to him. Nikita, Mick thought in a sudden burst of clarity. At first, when Michael had said her name, Mick thought that he was calling out for help and comfort from his lover, the way a frightened child might cry for it's mother.

Yes, Mick thought. Exactly like that.

He stood up quickly from the bed, a plan forming. He would do what Michael had told him. He would run, but then he would come back, and not alone. Next time, he would bring reinforcements, and get Michael out.

Mick smiled. Nikita would know how to whip Farrell's ass for him, he was sure of it.

With one last glance at his friend, Schtoppel said his farewells, and then headed for the French doors, taking the discarded towel with him.

"Just hold on there, Mate," Mick told the sleeping Michael. "I'll be back soon…." Hurriedly, he wrapped the towel around his cuffed fists, and then, taking a deep breath, he punched out the glass in the door beside the lock.

No alarm sounded. The glass made a faint tinkling sound as it fell, but not loud enough to disturb the guards. Mick tossed the towel away, slipped his hand through to unlock the latch, opened the door, and in an instant, found himself on the balcony. He fled for the stairs, and then into the night.

He was free.

Downstairs, in his library/den, on a bank of security monitors, Damon Farrell watched man in the red coat running through the grounds. He smiled happily, and then called his guards.

"Bryce," Farrell ordered over his cell phone. "One of the prisoners is escaping…." He paused, and then smiled wider. "See that he succeeds."

Without waiting for an answer, Farrell flipped the phone shut, leaned back in his chair, and then sighed contentedly.

"Perfect," he gloated to himself, pleased. "Just perfect…."

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

Nikita had been hanging new curtains when the doorbell rang. In fact, she had spent the last week redoing everything in her apartment completely over. She had started with painting the walls crisp white, and had gone from there. Her art, her furniture, her plants, rugs, even her candles and accessories,- had all been discarded. She had called the Good Will people to come and haul it away. She wanted to start completely fresh. The old things from her past held disturbing memories for her, and she felt compelled by some inner demon to strip all reminders of that past ruthlessly from her space.

It was as if she wanted to expunge everything that Michael had ever touched from her life.

Nikita, of course, did not tell phrase it to herself quite that way. She only knew she had a feeling of deep dissatisfaction, a gnawing uneasiness, a restless terror, that only activity seemed to ease. As long as she was busy, either at Section, on a mission, or here at home- she felt fine. When active and occupied, her mood was cheerful, upbeat, even ebullient. It was as if her busy-ness was some kind of trigger, a valve that when activated, pumped her full of a pain-killing drug.

She was happy. In a crazy, brittle, desperate sort of way. Artificially speedy, high, manic. Working was a total rush.

Her priorities had turned upside down. She LIKED being at Section now. And as for Michael- being with him, thinking about him- once her only source of happiness, now made her quiver inside, with some deeply cold repulsion; when he touched her a strange frozen numbness engulfed her, as if a light switch had been turned off.

And now she was afraid of the dark.

As long as she was busy, she could keep the darkness at bay. But when she wasn't doing anything, the phony sunshine of her mood faded, as if it were not bright enough to scare away the shadows that haunted her. The black, unnamed, depth of despair threatened to swallow her, whole. She couldn't slow down, couldn't stop, couldn't RELAX, or that inky, terrifying blackness would engulf her.….

It had happened the first time when Michael came to her apartment after the Genefex mission. She had been painting then, restlessly scrubbing the rolling brush across the blue wall with vigorous intensity. She hadn't known then why she needed to keep busy, but she was soon to find out.

He said he had come because he wanted to see her. As soon as he had stepped across the threshold, walking tense and lithe with that cat-like grace of his, some of the light in Nikita's new, shiny world flickered out. She tried to ignore this unsettling phenomenon by making small talk. Michael came nearer, and stood behind her, then tentatively began caressing the hair on the back of her neck.

"What did they do to you?" he had whispered softly, his breath warm on her skin. His touch made her dizzy, not as it had before, with delight, but this time, dizzy with dread. She cringed away from his touch, the touch that stole the happiness, the light, the warmth from her world…..

"Don't!" she cried, involuntarily, almost unaware that she had made this plea. "They didn't do anything to me," she answered quickly, shrugging off the disturbing feelings as she had shrugged off his touch. She turned her back to him and went back to painting, wielding the roller with vigorous, if shakily erratic and uneven, strokes.

Michael waited for her to respond to him, to say something more. He couldn't believe she was dismissing him like this, that she was in total denial that something had happened to her that night at Genefex. He had to make her face the problem, had to make her face HIM….

He grabbed her hands, twisting the roller out of her grip, unheedingly letting it fall to the floor. It was a distraction, and he only had eyes for her. Michael pulled her closer, forcing her to look at him, forcing her to meet his longing gaze.

The green eyes melded into hers, at the same time his fingers gentled on her wrists, caressing her now instead of imprisoning her. His skillful hands trailed arousing feather strokes across sensitive skin….

Nikita gasped, tears welling. The lights in her mind flickered dangerously, the world going dark,…

His touch made her afraid…

Oh God, she whimpered to herself in her mind. IT HURTS…..

Desperate, she jerked her hands away, out of range, and then wrapped her arms around her body tightly, trying to protect herself from utter destruction. Part of her remembered that she used to WANT this, this repulsive, awful touch, used to lie awake at night craving what now only brought horror…

"It doesn't work…." Nikita cried in protest. Anguished, she just wanted only for him to go away, so that the light could come back. Michael seemed to absorb the brightness into himself, to suck in her happiness like a gaping black hole, consuming everything in it's path….

She hardly noticed Michael's wounded tears, his stricken, desperate expression, overwhelmed as she was by her own astonishment. "I don't love you anymore…." She blurted out, this truth stunning and surprising both of them.

Michael flinched as if from a blow, his eyes fluttering closed in pain. She stood watching him warily, but then realized these impulsive words seemed to do the trick. He swayed on his feet for only a moment, recovering, and then he turned on his heel and fled.

The brightness returned, even before Nikita heard the door close softly behind him. She felt inexplicably happy again. My, there was so much to do… she thought cheerfully.

Smiling, she picked up the roller again….

That had been four days ago, and she had been working all that time non-stop, sleeping only little. Her redecorating was now almost finished. She only had to hang this last curtain and she would be done. Nikita felt the cold uneasiness in her stomach again. She would need another project soon, she thought miserably to herself, something to occupy her time. Otherwise, the darkness would creep up on her again….

The doorbell rang insistently once more. Then someone began to pound urgently on her door, so hard that it rattled on its hinges.

"Popsicle!" an English accented voice called frantically. "Popsicle! Are you there?" More banging, more shouting. The door shook like thunder. "Nikita, please!" the visitor begged, pounding vigorously. "NIKITA!!" The intruder banged some more. "Open up! Please! I need your help!"

Nikita blinked, and then smiled. This was wonderful! She knew what that voice meant.

She would be very busy, very soon. What could be better? Cheerfully, she twitched the last gathered curtain in place, and then ran to open the door, elated at the prospect of something to do to keep the darkness at bay.

She flung open the door and greeted her neighbor with a dazzling, Stepford smile.

"Mick!" she beamed at him. "Please, come in!"

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

Like Nikita, Michael was experiencing a blackness of his own. However, this darkness was of the sweet, dreamless kind. And he, unlike his Beloved, was not happy when the darkness fled, and the light came…

He groaned, coming slowly awake. His head ached abominably, the side of his face where Farrell had struck him with the gun throbbing sickeningly. Wa