---

He thought he was past being surprised. He thought he had mastered himself. He was wrong.

Michael sat cross-legged beneath an oak tree to wait for the inevitable. Section had won. He looked skyward, a bitter smile trembling on his mouth. The irony of it all. The betrayer is betrayed.

He felt as if someone had scooped out his body and left it a hollow shell. It hurt more than when he thought her dead. But then, he thought her dead--her sweet soul, free. Now he knew the truth. Like everyone else in Section, Nikita's soul was irretrievably lost. It could only be his fault.

And because Ops had induced him, he could neither cry nor seek the abyss of death.

Condemned. By the women he loved. To Hell.

* * *

"Mr. Jones!" Nikita was surprised to see him waiting for her in the woods. "Cupcake." Mr. Jones stared past Nikita's shoulder and shook his head. "I knew you couldn't do it. I'm a teensy bit disappointed luv, but, considering your feelings for him, it was to be expected." The head of the Agency slipped into his Mick personae for a moment.

"Will you let him go?" She asked, stepping closer, her hands curling into nervous fists inside the pockets of her leather jacket.

"For now. I like Michael, despite the fact he tossed me out of a moving car and punched me in the face." Giving her a half-smile, he rubbed his chin in remembrance.

"Thank you."

He smiled wider.

"No need for that. The truth is, I was hoping you would save Michael. If you were his only vice, he's too good a man to let slip away."

"I wish I'd known that you felt that way." Nikita looked down and shifted her stance slightly. "I told him I didn't love him. That I never loved him."

"And he believed you?" Mick asked slightly surprised.

"Yes. Yes, he did." Nikita said softly. "Based on all that's happened in the past 24 hours, what other conclusion could he come to?"

"You've become quite the actress, my dear, if he did."

"I had help. I induced myself."

"Hmmm," Mr. Jones commented. He took her chin in his gloved hand and leaned over to kiss her mouth gently. Nikita accepted his touch with no emotional response. The drug covered her feelings like novocaine did for a toothache; she knew her pain existed, but for the moment, she was too passive to care.

"Pity," he said with a slight lift of one shoulder. "Shall we return?" He offered her his arm, which she took.

They made their way back to Mr. Jones' car. The silver Mercedes sat driverless on the side of the road.

"You came alone?" Nikita asked, a little surprised.

"Witnesses are always so messy to do away with, don't you think? Better not to advertise to the subordinates that one is bending the r-rules a bit." He rolled his eyes along with his 'r'. He seemed to enjoy fading in and out of his Mick alter ego. "You can drive, if you like." He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them to her on the tip of one finger.

* * *

Michael looked at his watch. In twelve minutes, the military tracking satellite would pass overhead and pick up his newly embedded tracking chip. Suicide mission or not, Section had taken every precaution that Michael would not survive his last assignment. In twelve minutes, Jason's board would light up showing Michael's heat signature and bio-readout, proclaiming that he was still alive. Minutes after that, a retrieval team would be sent to hunt him to termination.

Leaning his cheek against his arms, as they rested on his knees, Michael watched the seconds of his life tick away.

His heart was numb but his brain continued its inquiries. Why, he wondered, why had Nikita spent the last three years pretending to love him? He remembered their stolen moments; they had been passionate and real. If she felt nothing for him, why did she pursue him when she had returned after those six months out of Section? If she felt nothing, why had she bothered to save him at the very last moment?

Michael lifted his head and looked upward. His watch ticked silently as the Earth turned beneath the satellite. Ten more minutes. Now nine . . . "Why?" He whispered softly, his heart broken.

A cool breeze caressed his face like a lover and rustled the leaves over his head. He closed his eyes, pretending-remembering Nikita-her fingers against his face.

"I love you, Michael." She'd said, lying in his arms on the beach. He'd felt such peace, such security as she said those words. If he had died at that moment, he would have gone perfectly content.

He loved her. He trusted her. Only her . . .

And now . . .

"I don't love you. I never did." She'd said only moments ago, without a hint of emotion in her voice or her face.

His head shook with disbelief. How could she say that? How could she have so thoroughly lied to him? And she had lied. By claiming she loved him-or now, by claiming she didn't. Both couldn't be the truth.

And Michael desperately needed to know the truth. More than that, he needed to know why.

"Why?" He shouted, emphatically up at the sky. His only answer was the sun, warm against his face as the fickle breeze went off to play in the leaves.

"No." He muttered softly as his face suddenly set in machine mode. He would not die, not without knowing why. If nothing else was left for him but that, he would live to find out. And if it was true, there was still one more reason to live: to destroy Section, as it had destroyed him and defiled Nikita.

He took his knife, still red with his own blood, jerked open his combat jacket, and hiked up his black T-shirt. Feeling the small, encapsulated tracker under the skin beneath his ribs, he sliced open his side and squeezed it out into his hand. Still warm from his body and slippery with his blood, Michael tossed it down, stood and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot. Without the warmth of his body surrounding it, it would immediately stop functioning, which Section could only interpret as his death.

Pinching his torn flesh together with one hand, he searched through his jacket with the other for the first-aid kit, which was standard combat issue. While there were no sutures, there were bandages, and surgical glue. He glued the wound shut, and put on ointment to fight infection, before covering the whole with a gauze bandage, and taping it tightly against his body.

That completed, he started walking. He needed time to think and to heal. And time to plan . . .

* * *

Operations stared sullenly down at his domain. Seven years. Seven more years! Damn Nikita! Damn Mr. Jones! Yes, and damn Madeline for leaving him alone! How galling to have Nikita, a mere level three operative, tell him his business! She wasn't even a glimmer in her father's eye when he had taken the reins of Section One. How dare she tell him anything!

No! He deserved the promotion-risked body and soul for it! He hadn't gone this far for nothing!

Operations folded his arms across his chest and frowned down at those who walked below.

He would prevail, he decided with bitter arrogance. Only now he wouldn't be satisfied with just Oversight. Now he would become the head of the Agency, or the Agency would not survive the year! It would take some time and some careful planning, but Operations had learned patience and determination in a hell called Southeast Asia. Besides, he thoroughly enjoyed a challenge. He smiled evilly at the thought.

* * *

Nikita returned to her small office at the Agency and sat down at her desk. It took a full hour before she could bring herself to call Jason at Section One and inquire as to Michael's status.

She was counting on Michael's love for his son, to keep him alive. Michael was strong. He'd been betrayed before and he'd thought he'd lost her before. He had survived it all. He would again.

Dialing Jason's number for confirmation, Nikita wondered mildly how long it would take for the inducement to wear off. It felt similar to being under the Gelman process: a powerful feeling, of being ruled solely by intellect and not emotions. She wondered if this was how men felt all the time since they seldom let their emotions interfere with their jobs.

"This is Jason." His voice clipped the words, sounding much like Seymour in one of his moods.

"This is Nikita. I'd like a status on Michael's mission."

After a long pause, Jason coldly replied, "The mission went exactly as profiled. Michael did his duty to the last." Then, still feeling the sting of his own lover's betrayal, Jason added nastily, " Happy now?"

"Thank you," Was all that Nikita could think to say. It took a moment to realize that she had fallen into her former mentor's habit of being polite even in response to incredible rudeness. It was so ingrained that Michael had even thanked her for his own cancellation. Her head bowed for a moment, reliving the moment.

"Is there an abeyance mission?"

Nikita heard some emotion in his voice, but very little. He had already resigned himself to his fate. Part of her wanted him to express that emotion, in anger if in no other way, but she knew he would not.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

Thank you. Succinct. Polite. Calm as stone. If Nikita could have felt anything at that moment, she might have wept. He'd brought her to tears many times before . . .

Nikita's thumb terminated her phone conversation with Jason. She had learned what she needed to know: Section believed Michael was dead, therefore no termination team had been sent. She surmised that Michael had successfully rid himself of his tracking chip before the satellite had reached his position. He would live and he would be free. She could give him that at least. Her freedom would come in time. That was the deal she had struck with Mr. Jones. Eventual and permanent freedom, as soon as she helped him clean up Section One.

A part of her wished Michael had taken her offer of the field router, but she wasn't surprised that he hadn't. Michael still had his pride and would live or die, on his own terms. As she would. It was how he trained her.

* * *

"Nikita," Mr. Jones spoke from behind his desk.

Standing rigidly at parade rest, Nikita looked down at him. "Sir?"

"Please, . . . sit down."

Nikita slipped into a well-cushioned chair opposite Jones' desk.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you . . . " he paused briefly to light a cigar and take a brief drag on it. "I'm very pleased with your performance. I think we just might clean up Section One yet."

"Thank you." She smiled suddenly and looked away.

"What?" Jones asked noticing her grin.

"It's hard not to think of you as Mick," she replied.

Jones laughed. "I enjoyed Mick. I actually miss him."

"I do too," Nikita admitted.

"Even though he was a obnoxious pest?" Jones inquired, his smile widening into a chuckle.

"Yeah," she replied. "But he had his moments."

Jones returned the cigar to his mouth and leaned back in his high-backed leather chair.

"I asked you here this morning to discuss your next mission." He said, returning to the business at hand.

Nikita sat back to listen.

"I want you to return to Section One, as Chief of Tactical Operations." Nikita frowned slightly, "Michael's position?"

"Yes. For two reasons-one, of course, is that I need someone to keep an eye on Operations. The other reason is, I can't think of anyone better qualified to lead in that position. It will mean a field promotion to Level Five, of course."

Nikita nodded. "For how long?"

"Well as long as it takes to get a handle on Operations and until we can find someone qualified to take that position permanently. Of course, while Operations will have combat command authority over you, you will still report directly to me."

"When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow will be soon enough. Oh, and one last thing. I'm moving you from your apartment into a house of your own. It's one of the benefits of the Agency that I'm extending to you. Section One is only borrowing you for the moment-you still work for the Agency. Talk to Rachel. I'm having her see to the details."

"Thank you." Nikita returned with a pleasant smile.

"Of course I'll miss getting to borrow sugar at odd hours," he commented, referring to their stint as neighbors.

Nikita nodded and got to her feet as Jones pushed a button on his desk. "Rachel, I'm sending Nikita out to you. Show her the houses available in the inventory and let her choose something."

"Yes sir," came the assistant's brisk reply.

"Thanks again sir."

Jones gave her a very Mick-like wink as a dismissal.

* * *

"Hey Sug-uh Nikita," Walter amended quickly.

She gave him a sad smile. "Hey, Walter. Packing?"

"Yeah. A few things. Have to have everything ready . . . for my replacement." He explained lamely.

"Hmmm." She nodded and walked around his workbench.

"I'd like to know something," Walter began, his face a crag of curiosity.

"What would that be?" She returned gently.

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why all of this. Why are you playing The Game?" He asked emphatically.

Nikita leaned wearily against Walter's workbench. "I've learned that I must play The Game, Walter. You should know how it is, if anyone does."

His expression indicated he did understand, but was disappointed anyway. "When did you end up working for the Agency?" He asked.

"Remember my escape from Section for those six months?"

He nodded, and folded his arms as if against a chill. "How could I forget?"

"While I was out, I was recruited by one of Mr. Jones' agents. Much later, after the C-Clone mission, I was officially introduced to Mr. Jones. Imagine my surprise to learn that he was none other than Mick Schtoppel."

"I'm still having problems believing that!" Walter interjected, unconvinced.

Nikita smiled and nodded. "Well, at first I thought it was just another one of Mick's ridiculous stories. I didn't believe him until he took me to the Agency to prove he wasn't lying."

"I still don't understand. If you hated Section so much, why would you move up to the Agency? If anything, it should be worse-more cut-throat than Section!"

"Mr. Jones offered me my freedom for a price. The price was my help in doing what Adrian would have wanted-to make Section One the crime-fighting organization it was meant to be. To clean up the corruption and abuses. Walter, haven't you ever liked what we do in Section?"

He glanced over at her, and then dropped his eyes. The truth was, Walter had loved his Section job.

"Well, I have." She continued when he didn't answer. "I've learned to like it. Not the killing, of course, but the fact that there is evil in the world and Section's main purpose is to fight it. The problem has been how Section does its job. We have lost our way-there's been too much abuse of power. Mr. Jones understands that, which is why I was recruited."

"I chose you because you haven't forgotten your humanity," Jones had said. "You're loyal to your friends, and you still have a heart."

Nikita frowned at the memory; she had a heart, past tense. Taking a deep breath, she continued.

"Mr. Jones, as Mick, had been studying Section One closely for three years. He was fully aware of the war going on between Operations and George. At first, he thought it was simple rivalry. Then he found Agency business being leaked to Red Cell. We know now that it was George, which is the only reason Operations is still standing."

"And no more George means no more war?" Walter asked.

"Not necessarily. Operations will be watched and tested. He can't be too happy that his wish to move to Oversight has been postponed. Mr. Jones wants to see how he handles the setback."

"And you. What happens to you? You going back to the Agency?"

"No. I'll stay in Section as Chief of Tac Ops."

"Michael's job." Walter said grimly.

"Yes."

Walter walked over and leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. "Were you successful with the rescue?"

She nodded carefully. Her eyes shuttered themselves briefly, as if to hide tears. Tears that wouldn't come. And couldn't fall.

Walter looked relieved at the news, and then asked quietly, "Why didn't you go with him, Sugar?"

She looked down at the floor and shook her head. "I gave Mr. Jones my word. It's a chance to change things Walter, not only for myself, but also for everyone in all the Sections. My relationship with Michael has harmed us both. If I am to do what I promised, I can't let anything, or anyone distract me. Michael, of all people should understand that. He pushed me away using the same criteria more than once." There was bitterness in her admission. Michael had had many secrets he hadn't willingly shared with her because of his sense of duty to the Section. Was her sense of duty any less important than his?

Walter stroked her face. "Did you love him?"

She gave him a sad smile, "Like Juliet loved Romeo-but, hey, look how they ended up."

Walter drew her into his arms and held her for a long moment. "So sorry, Sugar."

"You know I love you very much, Walter." She said, hugging him back.

"But you're still sending me off to the Farm." He chided gently.

"To keep you safe. I have the feeling it's going to get pretty ugly around here in the short run. If you're out of here, that's one less thing I'll have to worry about."

"Will I ever see you again?" He asked, a little afraid.

She cupped his dear face between her two hands and gave him a brief kiss on the lips. "Yes, Walter. I'll always need my anchor."

* * *

Home.

Michael stood silently in the doorway of the darkened farmhouse. It had taken three days to get here, and he wasn't sure that coming was wise, but in the end, decided he had nowhere else to go. At least here he had clothes, money, and some stashed equipment. Besides, if Section believed him dead, it was doubtful they would have his house under surveillance.

He carefully lit a fire in the small stove that heated the living area. Doing so brought back a rush of memories-of Nikita lying in his lap, then lying in his bed. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think of other things.

He began with making a list of equipment and assets that he had to work with. They included his weapon, a laptop, some comm equipment, several passports and identity papers, and enough information on Section to destroy it in one afternoon.

One item he turned over in his hand-the long missing Directory. Perhaps this had been the turning point of his Section career-having pocketed the Directory instead of turning it in. He had regretted it, but only because it caused Nikita's unnecessary involvement with Gray Wellman. It had been his insurance policy, taken out mainly because he feared for Adam and his sister, and might one day need a bargaining chip. He could have used it when he and Nikita escaped-but somehow his loyalty to Section had made that an impossible option. Too many innocent people were on his conscience already without adding to them, his comrades-in-arms.

Michael thought of Walter's brave attempt to save him-his offer of explosives to escape from the abeyance mission. His small act of kindness humbled Michael even now. He set the Directory aside, knowing he could only use it as a last resort.

There were other disks as well: Copies of the memory downloads of Walter, Birkoff, Operations, Madeline and Nikita, computer codes, location data on all of the other Sections, to include schematic blueprints of their facilities. What equipment he lacked, Michael could simply steal from one of the Sections; any information he needed, he could hack into nearly every vital system.

He sat back and stared into the flames flickering in the small stove. He had everything he needed, except a plan of action. His heart tugged at him in two different directions. Part of him wanted to forget Section One altogether-to be free to find Adam, but another couldn't let go of Nikita.

He wanted to hate her. She had stripped him of everything of importance to him. But hadn't he done the same to her? He'd played with her heart, all the while knowing they couldn't be together because of Elena. He put Section above her many, many times, knowing full well the hurt it would cause, and now that she had done the same to him, how could he think of revenge?

"I don't love you. I never did."

Her words haunted him. Were they the brutal truth, or a lie? Despite willing himself not to think of her, memories flooded back.

Michael closed his eyes, remembering . . . that first moment of emotional awareness . . . dancing with her in her apartment. It had been a deliberate act of seduction, as Nikita had so accurately accused, but in the end, it had been Michael who had been seduced.

He had been secretly amused, and somewhat impressed that she had seen through his attempt to seduce her. It made the game more difficult and interesting to play. But then she touched him-physically, and emotionally. He found himself telling her the truth-that if he ever cared for anyone again it would have to be someone in Section-someone who could understand the pressures of their environment. Not like Elena-the sweet, innocent, little wife, in whom her husband could never confide. Even in her arms, Michael had felt alone and always on his guard.

"I don't love you. I never did."

Then why had she cried when she learned that his seduction had been only to keep her in Section? She could have been merely angry at being used, but those tears had fallen from blue eyes filled with the anguish of betrayal.

And what of the time when they had been captured by Red Cell? She hadn't broken under torture, but she had broken when she thought he was in danger.

And when he had lost his memory, she risked cancellation by shielding him.

"You lie when you say you never loved me, Nikita." Michael whispered into the darkened room. "I've tasted your tears and held you to my heart. You loved me."

The only question that remained to be answered was: Did she still love him? And if so, why break both their hearts with her words, unless she had an underlying reason?

* * *

Nikita stood on the balcony at her apartment for the last time. It was evening, the beginning of fall, and cool. She rubbed her arms as she stared out over the city lights. They flickered in the cool breeze, as the wind blew clouds across the moon like sailing ships across the sea.

She would miss this place, Nikita thought with sudden melancholy. It had been the only real home she had ever known, and it held many cherished memories-nearly all of them of Michael.

Leaning her arms on the balcony wall, she remembered the first night he had brought her to this place. She'd been hurt, frightened, and angry-distrustful of anything he said or did. It would be much later-years later-before Nikita understood that Michael's seeming betrayal had been nothing of the sort. It was simply the standard test given to all Section operatives. If anything, she was surprised he had had enough confidence in her abilities to take her out when he did. Madeline informed her months later that she had graduated much sooner than her peers. Nikita had been foolishly proud of that accomplishment at the time.

Nikita smiled and shook her head; she'd been such a child then. She was stronger now. Harder now. Her smile faded at the thought. Harder, like Madeline had been.

Odd. She missed Madeline. There had been times they had come close to being friends. There had been few moments of camaraderie, but they had existed nevertheless. It was because of those moments that Nikita had not rejoiced over Madeline's death. Then again, she was still under the influence of the inducing drugs and could still feel very little-a little nostalgia perhaps, but nothing stronger than that.

Nikita didn't want to feel anything, anyway. Emotionalism had been her greatest weakness in Section and the drugs had helped her overcome that. She made a decision to continue taking them as long as she had to remain in Section; she'd need an edge if she was going to duel with Operations.

The breeze turned into an icy wind, forcing Nikita back inside to finish packing her few possessions. Tomorrow she would start her new job and her new life, alone.

* * *

Michael gently placed the disc containing Nikita's memories into the computer drive. Ideally, he needed the equipment in Section to experience the information as it was mean to be experienced, but with a decoding program, he believed he could get the essence of Nikita's thoughts by stimulating the chemicals in his brain to echo those recording the thoughts from hers. Since memories were essentially tiny bundles of sequenced chemicals stacked in the brain, in theory, learning the type and sequence of those chemicals, one could recreate the memory. In theory.

Of course what Michael was trying to do had never been tried before.

Downloading another's thoughts and memories onto computer discs had been accomplished, but reconstituting those thoughts and memories in another person's brain had not.

Michael inserted a small needle into his arm. A bag of saline mixed with neural inhibitors slowly began to drip into his vein. That done, he lay back upon his bed, careful not to dislodge the wires attached to his forehead, and waited. Michael's first sensation was one of being cold. For a moment, he thought it was his body's reaction to the neural inhibitors, until other sensations and emotions followed.

He closed his eyes and was instantly bombarded with the rank smell of old garbage and stale beer and the taste of cold, greasy French fries on his tongue. It took a moment to orient himself, but Michael finally realized he was reliving Nikita's memories of living on the street.

Like a dream, bits and pieces of sensory data moved in and out of his consciousness. He heard himself whimpering in Nikita's voice, begging her mother to believe her . . .

'Believe what?' Michael's mind intruded, feeling confused.

'I didn't do anything, Mama!' Nikita had cried. This denial was followed by the brutal feelings/images of being raped. A face glaring down . . . a mouth with foul breath . . . the sting of forced entry . . . the humiliation of wetting the bed afterward . . .

"No!" Michael/Nikita shouted in rage/horror.

Michael's body curled up on the bed out of Nikita's grief and shame.

'Oh, Nikita . . .' Michael's fingers stroked across the pillowcase, wanting to comfort her, only to knot into a fist when he realized it was impossible.

Nikita's feelings overwhelmed Michael. Anger, followed by hurt and bitter resignation, as her mother's words screamed in her ears; false bravado on the streets, sleeping in restrooms, stealing to eat . . .

There was sudden panic, heart-stopping fear, a struggle with a bloody knife, then confusion, and the horrible realization that no one would believe her-confirmation that Nikita had been innocent upon arrival at Section One.

Michael's arms wrapped themselves around his body as it rocked on the bed. His mouth felt dry, his eyes ached with tears that could not fall. His head pounded.

He began to fight to sort his thoughts from Nikita's. He wanted to know her feelings for Section; her feelings for him, but he was caught in a maelstrom of sensations and emotions that he could not control.

'Where am I?" Michael whispered aloud, just as Nikita's thoughts seemed to turn to him.

A smoky pleasure, like warm honey oozed through Michael as Nikita remembered making love with him. It touched him that she had been so pleased. His own memories entwined themselves with hers.

Through her eyes he got the impression that it was their first time together. The oily smell of petroleum and the tang of salt water filled the air.

"Michael."

He heard his name in her thoughts, and relived the feelings of her physically around him/him physically inside her. The intensity of the accompanying emotions made him dizzy and painfully aroused.

It became too much to take in all at once. Michael struggled to pull the electrodes loose from his forehead, just as he blacked out.

***

Nikita stepped through the door of Michael's old office, finding it little changed. Nothing on the desk or in the room itself reflected its former owner's taste or personality. There were no photographs, no handwritten notes, not even a nameplate to testify that a man named Michael Samuelle ever sat there, or even existed.

Nikita sat in Michael's chair, suddenly realizing that she had never seen the room from his prospective before. It gave her a hollow feeling. She frowned and realized she was overdue for another shot of the inducing drugs. She had too much to do to have her emotions boil over at the wrong moment.

Switching on the computer that still sat where Michael had last placed it, Nikita tapped into the main frame and ran reports on all the active missions. There were four in Africa, two in Europe and two in the Far East; the most serious of which was the rebel takeover of an embassy in Indonesia.

She had a briefing in four hours, where she had to lay out the initial battle plans for two of the upcoming missions-something that Madeline would have done had she lived, and now fell to Nikita, as it would have fallen to Michael had he been here.

It would probably take several weeks to replace all the key operatives that had been lost during the recent purge. Not only had Section lost Madeline and Michael, it had also lost Davenport, who was proving to be an excellent field commander. Add to that, the loss of Walter to the Farm, and Jason's less than cooperative mood, and Nikita realized she had quite bitten off more than she could chew.

As if Mr. Jones had been privy to her thoughts, her phone rang.

"Nikita. I see you are all settled in. Any problems?"

"Just in replacing key personnel." She said with an overwhelmed sigh.

"That's why I called. I have four operatives on their way to Section One. I believe you even know two of them."

"Who?"

"O'Brien is one--I believe you were instrumental in recruiting him, and Ken Stillman, who asked to return to Section One from Section Two."

Nikita rolled her eyes. O'Brien rather than being an asset, would probably be out for her blood! At least Ken Stillman was competent; she'd worked with him before when Michael had been on mandatory refusal.

"And the other two?"

"Marla Walsh, from Section Four, and a new inductee named John Sheffield. Walsh will handle Madeline's position; Sheffield will take over for Walter; Stillman will take your old position and O'Brien will replace Davenport. If that's not enough help, let me know."

"Thanks. I assume that Operations is aware of these placements?"

"No. But I'm sure you can handle the explanations."

"It's not following the chain of command," Nikita reminded him. "He will be annoyed if I tell him."

"Exactly!" Nikita could hear the smile in Mr. Jones voice. "That's what I want to happen."

Nikita leaned her cheek on her hand, with a faint smile. "All right then. Consider it done."

* * *

When Michael awoke, it was to find that he'd been unconscious for eighteen hours. He was thirsty and slightly disoriented, but oddly euphoric at the same time. He now carried part of Nikita inside him, and it gave him the comforting feeling of not being so totally alone.

He also knew that Nikita had lied when she told him she never loved him. As far as knowing whether or not she still loved him, he was thoroughly convinced she did--loved him enough to lie to protect him, as he had done for her several times past.

There was still much he wanted to learn, not only from Nikita, but from Operations and Madeline as well. To know all that they knew would give him a significant advantage in the fight to come. A fight to free Nikita, even if it meant destroying Section One to do it.

Michael got up and went to the window to watch the rise of the morning sun. He would explore Madeline next. From her he was sure to learn where Section had moved Elena and Adam. If he were to declare war on Section, he would need to know where his son was in order to protect him.

* * *

Operations stood aside as Mr. Jones handpicked team took their seats in Tac Ops. Other than flashing Nikita a hard look, he kept his animosity internal.

"Welcome . . . " He smiled a tight smile, "to the team. Your assignments are on your panels, along with the current missions. You have three days to study the profiles. If you have questions, ask them of Nikita or myself. I'll skip the sentimental pep talk, except to say what we do here is important. There are great rewards in doing your job well and swift punishment, if you fail. Dismissed!" With that he strode briskly out of Tac Ops, then, without turning his head or breaking stride he added sharply, "Nikita, I need to see you in my office!"

* * *

Madeline . . . was all oppressive darkness and a depth of self-loathing that shook Michael to the core. Unlike with Nikita's thoughts and memories, he found it difficult to delve too deeply into Madeline's mind. It was almost as Madeline herself were alive and fighting him off.

When his own mind questioned why, he got the sensation of everything around him shattering, like dark glass.

He was standing at the top of a shadowy staircase, holding a doll. He/Madeline smiled.

'My doll.'

She'd had to steal it back from Sarah during their afternoon nap. It had been a birthday gift from Daddy. Sarah had her own dolly from Daddy too; only she wanted the one with the blue dress, not the one with the pink dress. But Daddy couldn't understand the problem.

"It's the same damn doll! Just a different dress so you can tell them apart!" He'd shouted, pulling his daughters apart that morning when they first argued.

To shut up Sarah's screams of rage and quell the look of animosity from his wife as she tried to comfort her angry daughter, Daddy pulled the doll from Madeline's arms and gave it back to Sarah. In exchange, he shoved the doll with the pink dress into Madeline's arms.

"Maddy, take the pink one. That's a good girl."

That's a good girl. The resentment choked Madeline as she watched her sister's smug smile of triumph.

On some level Madeline understood. It was the same reason her parents dressed her and Sarah in different colors--to tell them apart. But Daddy had given her the one in the blue dress. It was hers! Not Sarah's! Sarah was always getting her way because Madeline was "the good girl."

Madeline cuddled the doll with the auburn hair tightly. 'Mine!' She thought tenaciously! "It's mine!"

"Maddy! Give her back!" Her sister came screeching out of the bedroom, dragging the other doll by the hair.

"No! She's mine! Daddy gave me the blue one!"

"Give it back, or I'll break this one and you won't have any doll! Daddy gave that one to me!" To make good her threat, Sarah walked over and held her doll precariously over the edge of the landing.

Madeline looked down. If Sarah dropped the doll, its porcelain face would shatter into a million pieces and since her father had traded the dolls only that morning, she would be without a doll. Sarah knew that. Madeline saw it in her nasty little smile.

Defeated, Madeline held out the doll in her arms. Her sister grinned, then just for spite, let go of the doll she was holding and rushed over to grab her prize.

The doll in the pink dress fell and as predicted, shattered noisily on the hardwood floor below.

Enraged, Madeline snatched the blue-dressed doll to her chest. Sarah grabbed air instead, and in her eager momentum, toppled headlong down the stairs.

Amid the screams and shouts that followed, Madeline stared down with a sense of cold satisfaction. She didn't understand that Sarah was dead. She only understood the justice of what had happened.

'Serves you right!' Madeline thought smugly, echoing a phrase oft heard from her mother.

"Madeline!" It was her father, his face gray with shock as he stared up at her.

"It's her fault! She broke my doll." Madeline whined, feeling she needed to explain.

"And you killed her?" His words carved into her soul. His face was a mask of horror.

"Monster!" Her mother screamed and screamed and screamed . . . .

Unnatural. Psychopathic. Sociopath. Danger to herself and others. Word by word. Brick by brick, Madeline's prison was built around her. But in the end, she herself had locked the door.

Sent away. Institutionalized. Unforgiven. Murderer. Good for nothing else. She and Section were a perfect match.

But the 'good girl' still needed validation. If she could only be good at being a monster, then Madeline decided to be the best monster she could be. To please her father--to make him love the 'good girl' again.

Michael gasped at the revelation. Madeline's relationship with Operations wasn't one of a lover, even though it was true they shared a tenuous sexual partnership. In her mind, Operations was the father she desperately wanted to please. Even more stunning was the knowledge of who Madeline was in love with. Himself. Michael.

Michael was the doll Madeline could never have. And Nikita was Sarah. The sister she hated; the sister she loved.

It explained so much . . . Madeline's alternating kindness and cruelty to them both.

He was the doll that she couldn't have--but didn't want Nikita to have either. Nikita was Sarah, the envied sister, the one she wanted to hate, and yet wanted to love and get forgiveness from. Yet having Nikita win the game had been like watching Sarah getting the doll all over again.

Madeline, Michael realized as he disconnected himself and fell into the void of unconsciousness, had died by her own hand for sins she had not committed, yet could find no forgiveness for.

* * *

Nikita got to her feet. True to form, Operations had not been happy with the replacements. It wasn't that they weren't good people and extremely well qualified. It was simply that they were being "shoved down his proverbial throat."

As she turned to leave, her way was blocked. It was Mark O'Brien, formally of the Paris police department.

"Remember me?" He asked, standing much like Michael used to, his hands clasped together in front.

"Yes." Nikita sighed, expecting an ugly confrontation. "I do remember you. I've also read your file. You seem to have done very well for yourself. You're Level Two."

O'Brien nodded, and then smiled. "Yeah. Not bad. This old dog has actually managed to learn a few new tricks." He held out his hand.

Nikita looked at it, then up at O'Brien's face.

He laughed. "Take it, I don't have a weapon. I just wanted to thank you." Nikita shook his hand uneasily.

"Thank me? For what?" She said suspiciously.

"By placing me in Section, you have enabled me to put away more bad people in one year than I ever could have in an entire career as a police officer."

"You like Section?" She asked, as if he was totally crazy.

"Yeah." He chuckled. "I do. I'm also looking forward to working with you. Well, I guess I'll be seeing you later. Bye for now." He cheerfully picked up his PDA and left the room.

Not sure she really wanted to believe her strange conversation with O'Brien, Nikita gave her head a slight shake and continued on her way to Operation's office.

* * *

When Michael awoke the second time, he felt drained, but the knowledge that he sought was within his grasp. Madeline knew all of the safe houses in the Section One inventory. Somewhere in the fifty-five locations he found in her memory, Michael felt sure he would find where Section had moved Elena and Adam. It would take some time, but now he at least had hope to see his son again. Michael sat on the edge of his bed, glad of the knowledge he now had, yet disturbed by the random thoughts that flitted inside his head. He hadn't expected the clutter of memories and it was getting difficult to remember which memories were his, and which were those of Madeline's and Nikita's. Worse were the feelings of shame and regret that both women carried. Now he carried those burdens as his own and the pain of them was fresh, not dulled by time or old acquaintance.

His head bowed and he cursed Operations for inducing him, for there was no way to cry away the pent up emotions, or the grief that filled him. It might take days or perhaps even weeks for the drug's effects to wear off, and Michael feared the aftermath. He wasn't sure he could handle his own grief, much less that of Nikita's or Madeline's.

Michael glanced at the third disc sitting atop the computer. There was still Operations memories to explore, and somehow, that frightened him most of all. But if he was to succeed in bringing down Section One, he had no choice but to proceed.

* * *

"You wanted to see me?" Nikita asked as she stepped into Operations aerie.

"Nice of you to acquiesce!" Operations snapped. "Am I still in charge of Section One, or is this another game the Agency is trying to play with me?"

Nikita gave him a probing look before answering, "No game. Mr. Jones knew we were short-handed, and sent in a few people to help. You've seen their records, they are all superior choices."

"They aren't my choices!"

Nikita shrugged. "They'll have to do until we can recruit some suitable replacements. We can't run this place by ourselves."

Operations wrinkled his nose at her use of the word "we". "We aren't running anything, Nikita! I suggest you remember that!"

Nikita knew it would be pointless to argue and simply gave him a slight shrug. "Is there anything else?"

"Do you have those profiles written for the Asian theater yet?"

"Not yet. I am waiting on some intel to arrive from Japan. I have a decision gate that requires stronger data."

"What's the problem? You have unrestricted manpower for those missions."

"No problem. I just don't see the point in wasting assets or lives, if I don't have to. I want a clearer picture of the situation. It won't be critical for at least 36 hours; I have plenty of time."

"You can lose as many lives by delaying as you can by rushing your fences," Operations snapped in annoyance.

"True, but not in this case. I've studied the leader of the opposition movement. He's methodical, cool headed, and highly detailed. He takes his time. Conversely, so can we." Nikita retorted firmly.

"Fine! Remember who will be responsible for any mission failure. Those, by the way, are the Agency's rules, not mine."

Nikita nodded, and wordlessly arched her eyebrows to inquire if that was all.

Operations gave her a curt nod of dismissal and walked over to his computer console on the wall.

Tempted to curtsy in a sarcastic reprisal, Nikita turned on her heel instead and left.

Now was not the time to pick a fight. Given enough rope, she was sure Operations would eventually hang himself. She only needed to cultivate some patience.

Michael's stone-cold demeanor suddenly flashed in Nikita's mind. Mission-mode, was what everyone called it-that expressionless, emotionless face that Michael had carried about like a shield.

'He must never lose at poker.' Walter had once joked of Michael.

"He never lost at chess or Go! either," Nikita muttered to herself as she returned to her office.

She didn't mean to think of him, but Nikita's thoughts continued on about Michael. How good he had been at what he did! She'd read hundreds of dossiers while working for the Agency, and no one came close to the operative that Michael had been.

No one, perhaps, except herself.

And if Nikita was "the best of the best" in Jones' opinion, it was only because of how well Michael had trained her, that, and having shed her emotions.

Ironically, it had been finding his emotions that had destroyed Michael, just as losing hers had saved Nikita.

For years the anger and guilt of Section life had gnawed holes into Nikita's soul. By necessity, she began to realize her survival in Section hung on cutting out her emotions and relying more on rational, logical thinking. She fought it at first, not wanting to believe there was no other way. In the end, however, Nikita surrendered to the inevitable. As Michael had. As everyone eventually did.

Nikita suddenly saw Michael's face, as it was when he was imprisoned by Red Cell and heard his soft confession, "I don't know what love is anymore, but the only part of me that isn't dead, is you."

Her heart gave a funny lurch at the memory. Frowning, Nikita made a sudden detour to medlab. It was time to be induced again.

* * *

"Name!"

"Paul Wolfe, . . . Lieutenant, . . . 4 . . .7-"

Paul/Michael's head jerked sideways as the blow caught his face.

Darkness rose up, and then faded as pain, terrible pain, made itself known. In his back. In his legs. He squatted, his legs blue from the lack of circulation. No room to sit. No room to stand. For months at a time.

His world was a bamboo cage, three-foot square, clothed only in his skin and the filth that surrounded him. He dined on rotten fish heads and insect-ridden, fermenting rice, swallowing hatred with every bite.

Michael's head rolled on the pillow in controlled rage as he/Paul watched the young Marine being savagely beaten through the small opening in his cell door.

"Semper Fi, Marine!" Wolfe shouted through the door "Don't give them the goddamned satisfaction!"

"Aye . . ." the young man groaned, "S-semper Fi. . . ." Blood flowed from every crevice, as he lay naked on the concrete floor.

'He's only nineteen, barely out of high school,' Wolfe thought, as the beating continued. As it did for all of them. Everyday. For seven long years. The faces changed, new ones were added, old ones were lost, but Paul stubbornly survived and kept his men alive.

Seven years of monstrous tedium, broken only by beatings, interrogation and humiliation until one night his cage was open and he was set free. Or so he thought at the time.

Paul's rescue had been nothing of the sort. It was the only time in Paul Wolfe's life that a situation had caught him completely by surprise. To be betrayed by those he trusted most? His government? His country? His comrades-in-arms? 'Good morning, Paul,' came a gentle voice out of the past.

'Adrian?' Michael whispered in amazement. She was much younger, but not any more vivacious than she was in later years.

"Welcome to Section One," she crooned softly to the man lying on the gurney.

"What the hell is Section One?" Paul had replied angrily. There was no fear, only simple annoyance that he had been caught unaware.

Adrian smiled indulgently, "You may well ask." She walked casually around him, as if inspecting him from all angles.

"Tell me," she asked at length, "what is worth dying for?"

"What?"

"It's a simple question. Is there anything in this world worth dying for?"

Paul's eyes narrowed, "Why do you ask?"

She chuckled. "For the sake of asking, of course."

The soldier Wolfe immediately said 'my country', but just as the words left his lips, he wanted to snatch them back. Thinking of his wife and son, he quickly amended, "My family."

"What if I told you, both your family and your country are in the gravest danger? Would you want to protect them?"

Wolfe sat up, his eyes fierce with the anger reflected there.

"Look! I don't like games, or asinine questions! What about them? What danger?"

She skirted his questions as if she hadn't heard them. "Did I mention, you have been declared missing and presumed dead. Your wife has remarried."

"I was never missing! I've been a POW for the last seven years. I sent letters . . ." He stopped speaking suddenly as the last of Adrian's words finally sank in.

"Remarried?" The word wounded him. His wife, the love of his life, remarried?

"Yes, about four years ago, or there about." There was a slight air of regret in Adrian's voice. "She's not to be blamed of course. She'd been told there was no hope, you see, and there was the boy to raise."

"My son, Steven," Paul said dully.

"He should be about fourteen, shouldn't he?" Adrian asked kindly.

Paul nodded. "He was only seven when I left . . . what danger?"

It started slowly. First, they lured him in with the knowledge that a group calling itself Red Cell had smuggled a nuclear weapon out of the Soviet Union and planned to set it off in Korea to restart the conflict. The planet got to within forty minutes of a third World War before the game of cat and mouse ended with the mouse being taken quietly into custody by the former Lieutenant Wolfe.

For a man who had lived his adult life on the edge of crisis, Paul suddenly realized he craved that edge. Like a drug, the act of fighting terrorists intoxicated and fascinated him. In six months, there would be no turning back. Not even learning the truth-that his beloved wife Karen had not remarried, but had died-deterred him from his infatuation with Section One.

But even Paul Wolfe had regrets.

He regretted not seeing his son grow up and he regretted marrying a second time.

In the early days of Section, things had been more normal and top operatives were allowed families.

He'd met his second wife, Corinne, during the short period that he contemplated working for Adrian. For a cover, he kept to his true history, that he was an intelligence officer on convalescent leave from Vietnam. His hurt over losing Karen and his simple physical needs led him to marry again. The fact that Corinne looked remarkably similar to his first wife, was perhaps her singular attraction.

To Corinne, he gave all the passion he'd saved for his first wife all those seven dark years in hell. Paul gave his heart and soul, but Corinne was not Karen. She could not stand the mysterious long absences that Section required of Paul, and in the end, he tired of her jealousies and her unfaithfulness. He disappeared a second time, and Corinne was told that he was MIA and presumed dead in Vietnam-Section's specialty, a bit of truth wrapped in a lie.

Michael's fingers touched the memory of a gold ring. The ring that Paul Wolfe always wore. Karen's ring. The ring of his lost love, his true wife. The mother of his son.

A shuddering sob went through Paul/Michael. One of utter grief and loss.

Karen faded into Simone, Simone into Elena, Elena into . . . Nikita. Michael's hand yanked at the wires as he cried out her name and felt his heart drop into an abyss.

"Nikita!" It was a plea from the deepest part of his existence. He rolled off the bed onto the floor, his body curling in on itself. The inducing drugs had finally worn off and he was in emotional agony.