The young woman strode quickly through the halls of Section One, shoulders back and head held high with confidence. Her deep brown hair, which normally came to rest a few inches below her shoulders, was neatly gathered into a French Twist, leaving only a few strands to loosely frame her youthful face. Her appearance and the impression it made upon the operatives meant a great deal to her, and few ever viewed her wearing anything but a tailored suit. She wanted to seem professional and confident--both characteristics which betrayed her adolescent and often insecure personality.

Fortunately, no one knew enough about her to even suggest she weren't as she seemed.

Not that living behind a facade of confidentiality was a great joy in her life--she would much rather let the secret out and be herself; but that was not her decision to make. In her newly reunited family, Mom made all the calls.

She continued her journey across the central lobby area of the Section, her heeled pumps, which added a good two-and-a-half inches to her five-foot-seven-inch frame, resonated an echoing click on the tile floor. Only when she stepped directly into a beam of light in the room did the rich auburn highlights set deep into her hair color become visible. In any shadow, they disappeared back into the chocolate mane.

As she passed through the lobby, she noticed that all activities taking place continued and no one even bothered to acknowledge her prescence. Only a single operative in the room raised eyes to watch her--a gesture she responded to with a glance of her own. Their eyes met shortly and in those few moments, she detected one emotion on the operative's face: curiosity. She refocused her gaze forward and wound her way through a labyrinth of back halls until she reached her small apartment.

* * * * * * *

Nikita followed the girl's retreating figure with her cerulean eyes. As the girl vanished around a corner, Nikita spoke to the man busy at her side, "Who is she, Michael?"

Michael's eyes never wavered from the laptop on the desk in front of him. "Who is who?"

"Her--that girl who just walked by. Is she new?"

"She's been around for a few weeks."

"Oh." She hated evasive answers. "New recruit? Computers? Weapons? What does she do?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No one knows, Nikita." He looked up her now. "She just came. Madeline and Operations won't say anything . . ."

"As if they're protecting her," she finished for him.

"It's possible." Michael's computer began whining a high-pitched tone, diverting his attention back to the monitor and the file window that had surfaced on it.

"Well, doesn't anybody talk to her?"

"No. She's usually secluded in one of the living quarters."

"Do you know which one?"

"No."

"Then I'll ask Made-"

"Nikita, do yourself a favor and don't try to socialize," Michael interrupted. "If she were here for any important reason, I'm sure she would be introduced to the rest of us. Until then, I believe it would be wise not to get involved."

Nikita sighed--defeated. She pulled up a chair next to Michael and feigned interest in observing his work. Her mind, however, continued to devise ideas as to how she could find out more about the "new girl."

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

Krystall Zander collapsed on her queen-sized bed, sprawling her body out as if she were making snow angels. "Relief" was the only word that came to mind to describe the feeling of changing out of her suit. Her "meeting" with Operations and Madeline had ended and she had learned to savor what spare time she could reap. How?

Actually, that was a question that puzzled Krystall herself. After searching for what seemed like an eternity for something to occupy herself with, she almost always wound up doing one of two things: busy work for the Section or blasting a few games of Tekken on her Sony Playstation. She preferred the latter--no contest--though she did sometimes enjoy prying a little deeper into the Section's business.

Scrambling into a cross-legged position, Krystall hit the power button on her Playstation, watching as the startup screen slowly overtook a rerun of The Monkees that the television had been tuned to. No sooner than Round One had been announced did Krystall hear a voice paging her via the intercom by her door. "Damnit," she muttered. She had only had time to get in a few good punches. To her electronic opponent: "Hold that thought. I have not yet begun to kick your ass." To the voice:

"Yeah?"

"We'd like to see you upstairs right away."

"Again?"

"Yes."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"Give me ten minutes."

"Now."

"Seven minutes?"

"Three."

"Five."

"Agreed."

The intercom clicked off and Krystall smiled triumphantly to herself. Madeline may be a stoic professional, but she certainly wasn't impossible to bargain with. Still smiling, Krystall turned back to her game, unpaused it, and began pushing a torrent of buttons--never ceasing her offense until her opponent fell to the ground.

The five minutes she was allowed gave her just enough time to K.O. a few people before she needed to return to the tower. For what reason this time, she didn't know.

Emerging from her sanctuary, Krystall set forth retracing her earlier path from Operations' office. Not until she reached the perimeter of the lobby did she take notice of her appearance. Gone was the tailored pant-suit--in its place was a pair of faded denim shorts frayed where she had cut them off and a tie-dyed halter-style shirt that clung loosely to her upper body. Also gone was the professional French Twist, which had been replaced by a hasty half-ponytail that let several tendrils escape its hold and dangle freely about her face. The sensible pumps, too, had vanished. On her feet was a pair of vibrantly colored heeled sandals.

Guess they'll all know who they're dealing with now: not a business savvy young woman, but an everyday, run-of-the-mill teenager who truly serves the Section no purpose other than to haul her ass around the building doing errands for the powers-that-be. Hell, if I weren't busy doing that, I'd be hanging out in my place, Madeline's office, or doing my best to annoy Ops.

She hurried across the lobby and dashed up the staircase, somehow managing to only use every other stair while maneuvering in her heels. Once at the top, Krystall took a single deep breath and raised her hand to knock on the door . . . when it opened. She replaced her hand at her side and walked into the spacious room overlooking the lower level of the Section building. She lowered herself into a chair opposite Operations' desk, which he was currently sitting behind. "Can't a girl get any spare time around here?" she asked rhetorically with an edge to her voice.

Operations answered regardless. "Not usually. We don't yield much ourselves."

Krystall turned her head, searching the room for Madeline. "Where's M-"

"Meeting. She'll be up shortly."

The harshness of the remark caught Krystall off-guard. She kicked her feet onto the surface of the desk and crossed one leg over the other at the ankle. She snickered. "Yeah, right. Your idea of a meeting is estimating the amount of torture it will take for someone to reveal something to you."

"Perhaps." He glanced down at the feet now propped on his desk. "You just feel free to make yourself at home, don't you?"

She shrugged. "Why shouldn't I? After all, this is my home now, is it not? Or did I miss something here?"

"You're direct, too."

"So I've been told."

"You remind me a lot of your mother. You inherited her attitude, for one thing." Operations took the time to scowl at Krystall who smiled sweetly in return. "Your mother always comes across as being so strong, but I've found an Achilles' heel of sorts in her--in you, too. I think that weakness has always been each other."

"How profound."

"You look like her, too--same hair, same smile. The eyes are another story, though. The strangest similarity--certainly the eeriest--is the appearance you inherited her mind. You both have a conniving, devious streak buried in your thought processes. You think just like your mother, did you ever reali-"

"Speak of the Devil . . ." Krystall interjected, allowing her voice to trail from the familiar phrase. Madeline had entered the room.

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

Nikita's eyes wee subtly raised to keep watch on the upper level tower and the conversation seemingly blossoming into a heated argument taking place within it. The almost inaudible noise of a door being electronically opened caught her ear, followed by the much louder shout of a girl's voice.

"I'm only eighteen years old! I do have the rest of my life to get back to, you know! You can't keep me here forever!" Krystall took the mechanical door by hand and forcibly slammed it shut.

Nikita noticed Madeline wince slightly at the action before lowering her head and turning back to speak with Operations. Soon after, she heard someone clamoring down the stairs and caught a glimpse of a tie-dyed flash sprinting into the lobby. The girl reached the hallway then stopped abruptly as if she had forgotten something. Jogging ovver to Birkoff, the girl stated, "I looked over your SIMs for the Diablo mission. The sonar waves the satellite is giving off are too loud, that's why the operatives are still being detected. Try using the GTX transmitter I installed last night." With that, she turned on her heels and stalked off.

After fumbling with some keys, Birkoff's eyes widened and his jaw dropped, gaping at the screen. "It worked. It worked!" he exclaimed with more than a hint of surprise in his voice. "Genius. That was pure genius! Now you guys won't get shot to pieces out there!"

Nikita responded with a raised eyebrow. "And we're so grateful for the amount of concern you show, Birkoff," she replied with mock sarcasm.

The young hacker shrugged and turned to address Krystall. "Hey, tha . . .." He turned to find the girl gone. "Where did she go?" he asked no one in particular.

Nikita began to get up from her seat. "I don't know. But, I'm going to find out." As she started for the hall, Michael spoke.

"Where are you going?"

Damn. Her mind raced to find a suitable excuse. "I . . . have some business to take care of." Although I'll have to settle for a vague one.

He nodded.

As Nikita rounded the corner, Krystall was almost to her room. Following at a safe distance, Nikita traced the girl's steps until she, too, reached a door to one of the Section's residential complexes.

The soft, relaxing tunes of an alto saxophone drifted through the almost non-existnet opening at the seam of the doorframe.

Krystall lie on her bed, eyes closed in thought as she listened to her CD. She used it as a relaxation technique. When she heard a faint knock at her door, she didn't bother to move, thinking She probably wants to lecture me on what I said upstairs. "Come in," she called.

Expecting to see Madeline's tall figure enter the room, Krystall was more than surprised to see a different person--a blonde only about an inch shorter than Madeline--pass through the doorway. She knew quite well she wasn't permitted to speak with the operatives since it was feared she would reveal information to them they weren't to be concerned with.

"Hey," Nikita offered as a greeting.

"Uh . . . hi," Krystall replied apprehensively, using her remote control to switch off her music. "Who are you?" she inquired.

"My name's Nikita."

"Cool accent." Small talk, she knew; but it usually worked.

The blonde smiled. "Thanks."

"What are you doing here?"

"Don't know, exactly. Guess I'm just curious."

"About . . . ?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Who are you?"

"What's it to you?"

"I already said. I'm just curious."

"Yeah, well, unfortunately curiosity doesn't cut it. You shouldn't even be in here, and I certainly shouldn't be talking to you." Krystall stood and moved to open the door, suggesting that she aimed to show Nikita the way out.

"Well, you are."

"Excuse me?" Krystall was shocked to be challenged. No one had ever dared to defy her before.

She took pride in her ability to make Madeline bend her will--even Ops was lenient with her.

"You are. Talking to me, I mean. You have been, and you still are."

"I'm not anymore. Now, will you please leave before you get us both in trouble?"

Nikita could tell that the conversation was quickly going nowhere. Having no other place to restart, she asked, "Will you at least tell me what your name is?"

The operative watched as contemplation passed across the girl's face. Her head had fallen forward, and she rested her chin on her chest for an instant before raising it to look directly into the azure eyes staring at her. "Krystall Zander."

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

"Krystall, huh? Pretty." Determined to stick around for a while longer, Nikita slowly paced the area of the room as Krystall stood by the open door. She paused in front of a wall with a series of framed photographs hanging from its white surface. Though each was different, one similar theme was visible: each picture in some way or form depicted a horse, usually with a rider. "Are these all of you riding?" Nikita studied the pictures carefully, noticing that in each case, the rider was a young brunette, though the eyes were often shadowed by the brim of the helmet.

Damn. Of all things, she had to mention the pictures. Krystall mentally scolded herself for giving in to her weakness. To that day, she had never been able to resist a conversation about her horses. "No, they aren't all of me." Gently, she closed the door and wandered over to the fall wall at which Nikita stood. "There are some shots of my mom when she was younger and some from the time period I last saw her--about eleven years ago."

Nikita chuckled softly. "Some of these bring back memories. I was raised in Australia until I was seven. My parents had a ranch out there, so I learned to ride when I was young. I remember waking up at dawn and jumping on the first horse I saw so I could gallop bareback to the top of a hill and watch the sunrise. We always had to clear a few logs and branches on the way; but I never had any formal jump instruction. That was before the divorce." Nikita knew she had the edge now, and she was resolved to milk it for all it was worth.

"I grew up on my parents' horse farm. Dad rode every once in a while, but Mom and I did most of the riding, and all of the competing. My mom was a great rider--one of the best, in my mind. She'd been doing it all her life. She taught me everything I know, and more." Krystall's face softened as she remembered what good years of childhood she had managed to experience. Her eyes were looking at one of the pictures, but focussing on nothing. "I always admired her--her height, her figure, her grace, her mind, everything about her was so very . . . dignified. That's how I wanted to be. That's her there." She pointed a finger to an 8x10 of a woman astride a slate-gray gelding. The pair was soaring toward the camera over a wooden brush box whose top was lined with crimson and white silk flowers.

Nikita scrutinized the image. Again, she observed a brunette female, this one probably in her late twenties--though she still retained a youthful appearance. And, again, the eyes were hidden in shadow. "If you hadn't told me otherwise, I would have passed that off as you. It sure looks like you from that angle."

"That's what a lot of people tell me. But, no, that is my mom with her horse Secret Agent Man. You know, like the song? We just called him Spy. Spy was a true champion in every sense of the word. Still is. After mom left, I continued to compete with him. I don't think he was ever the same though--he missed Mom." She picked up another photo bordered by a delicate silver frame and handed it to Nikita. "Here. This is one of my personal favorites of my mom and Spy. And you can tell she's not me." The picture was a close-up of the same brunette with her head level to that of the gray gelding. The woman's hair fell loosely about her face, softening her features and she was leaning her temple against the horse's cheek.

Nikita's eyes widened upon seeing the portrait in front of her and at the idea--the crazy idea--that flickered across her mind. She caught the idea and pondered it for a few more moments before she realized it was the truth. True, it was obvious the picture was not of Krystall, for the woman in the picture had chocolate brown eyes as compared to Krystall's vivid green-hazel. She still shook her head in disbelief, scattering a curtain of downy hair over and around her face.

"She always managed to look elegant even when she wasn't trying. One of few reasons I wanted to be like her."

"There must be some mistake, Krystall. Who did you say this was again?"

Krystall was confused. "Mistake? I don't know what you mean--that's my mother."

"Noooo, that can't be your mother. That's Madeline."

"Point being?"

"Point being that's Madeline. It's just she can't be . . . you can't be .. . . it's not . . . I mean . . . that's Madeline!"

"Yeah, I realized that. Though it's still hard to adjust to hearing her called that." Krystall smiled as her news gradually sunk into Nikita. Surprisingly, she didn't even feel guilty about letting her secret out; in fact, it was sort of relieving.

"Sooo," Nikita drawled as acceptance set in, "Madeline, our plotting, conniving, scheming Madeline who killed her own sister and now psychoanalyzes the rest of us for a living, is your mother?"

"She's guilty as charged. But the sister thing never happened. She was recruited out of the FBI--she was a criminal psychologist. Her sister was killed in a riding accident and Mom always blamed herself."

Nikita's eyes roamed between the photo and Krystall's face. "Krystall," she placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, "I think we should talk."

"Pull up a chair."

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

Fifteen minutes later, Nikita found herself entranced by Krystall's story.

"So, you really thought your mother was dead?"

Krystall nodded as she took a lengthy drink from the Dr. Pepper can she held. When she finished, she spoke in an exasperated voice, "I didn't know any better. I was only seven when it all happened. Dad never mentioned her again until I was about thirteen--right before he died. He had gotten a letter from Mom two years after she died. That in itself almost gave him a heart attack. Of course, he never told me anything about it--never did until the day he died. That day, he told me everything." As she narrated the past eleven years of her life, Krystall stared blankly over Nikita's blonde head at the pictures on the wall.

"What was everything?" Nikita prodded.

"Everything included the fact that my mother was still very much alive and that she had contacted him since what I believed to be her death. I was so angry and so hurt that my father never told me these things; but I tried not to let it show--those weren't the emotions he needed to receive from me. I tried to understand, Nikita--I did try; but I couldn't. That's when Dad gave me this." Krystall reached over from her seat on her bed and opened a small drawer in the nightstand, retrieving a flat, rectangular box no more than half-an-inch thick. When the top was removed, Nikita's curious azure eyes scanned the contents: a few loose photos, some newspaper clippings from years back, a forest-green velvet pouch, and an envelope that had been torn open with obvious speed and carelessness.

"What is all this stuff?"

"Momentos, mostly. Dad kept a scrapbook of my mom's and my own riding career. I continued it when he died, and there are still a few things I haven't had time to add yet. I'll let you look at it sometime."

Nikita smiled her trademark catty grin. "I'd like that."

Krystall returned the smile. "He let me read the letter as I sat by his bed. That's when I realized Dad hadn't made the decision to keep me in the dark--Mom had. She told him to not ever tell me for fear I'd never forgive her. At least if I thought she were dead, I couldn't hold anything against her. She also didn't want me to endanger myself in any was by searching for her. That plan obviously failed."

"Is this it here?" Nikita gingerly picked up the envelope, from which the corner of a sheet of stationery emerged from the torn seal.

"Yeah."

Nikita inclined her head, raising her eyebrows slightly in a silent request for permission.

"Go ahead." Krystall waited patiently as Nikita unfolded the letter and began to read.

Even before she had read an entire sentence of the lengthy letter, Nikita had managed to draw some inferences about its author just by the stationery design. The colors used on the paper were all shades of mahogany, brown, and Indian red--the same used to decorate the interior of Madeline's office. It was obvious that not only did Madeline herself feel comforted by the warm hues, but that she wanted others to experience the same comfort. She also noticed that the script itself was written with exquisite preciseness, with every letter and figure crafted with the same flowing edges--a style perfectly suited to Madeline. Everything about her was smoothly structured to create a demeanor of power and control. Not to say she didn't have plenty of both--even Operations respected her.

Following her initial analysis of the letter's physical appearance, Nikita decided to concentrate on its content.

Krystall's eyes wandered through her other belongings. A few memories were tossed forward from the back of her mind when she gazed downward at some of the newspaper articles in the box. The first headline to catch her eye read:

"Mother and Daughter Win Dual Championship at Charity Show."

She remembered that day. The week prior to her mother's death, they had both competed in an annual charity horse show, each winning her respective devision. Krystall had since outgrown the pictured decent-sized pony she used to jump in her childhood years and had moved on to horses of a more appropriate size. Her mother--Madeline, as everyone at Section One addressed her--was sitting as stately as ever on the back of a young, then inexperienced, five-year-old Spy behind and to the side of Krystall and her mount. Krystall blinked away the paper-thin layer of saline that misted her sight and extended a hand to lightly finger the smooth fabric of the velveteen pouch. She delicately lifted it from the box, resting it in the palm of her hand before carefully prying open the drawstring that sealed it. Holding an open hand underneath the mouth of the satchel, she tilted it until it was upside-down, allowing its contents to spill into her cupped hand.

The slight jingling noise Krystall's action produced caused Nikita to raise her head from her reading. Her eyes traveled over the glinting objects Krystall was fondling with the tip of an index finger. "What are those?" she asked, breaking the silence, though she had a feeling she knew what the objects were already.

Krystall held up what she had in her hand. It was a gold chain with two other adornments hanging from its fragile braiding--two rings. One a simple gold band, and the other a band identical to the first albeit thinner. The second band was sautered to a third ring--this one having space occupied by a solitary one-karat diamond. "My parents' wedding rings."

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

"Yeah . . . your dad gave those to you, too. That was after Madeline returned hers." Nikita state the facts as she had read them in the letter.

Krystall nodded. "Mom wanted him to give her ring to someone who deserved to love him." She paused, sorting through her emotions. "And me."

"So, she wanted you to try to forget about her?"

"Uh-huh. Unfortunately, Dad didn't make that too easy. He thought Mom more than deserved to love us--it was for that reason that he never gave the ring to anyone else. And, when he passed away, he left me the responsibility of finding my mother and returning her ring to her."

"Why haven't you then?"

"Why haven't I what?"

"Returned the ring. You found her, didn't you?"

"I don't know why. I guess I just like having them--the rings--together. It reminds me of when my parents were still married--still happy."

"Does Madeline know?"

"No!" she exclaimed briskly. "Please, don't tell her."

Nikita snorted. "She probably knows anyway. Who's to say this place isn't wired?"

"I'm to say. I don't exactly live a liberated life, but I do have my freedoms. Ops and Madeline both know I'd give them total Hell if they ever violated my privacy. Granted, I'm under their scrutiny whenever they're around me, but I'm not an official operative. So, technically, they have no formal control over me. Besides, I'm eighteen, so they really have no legal parental control, either. I just didn't realize what sort of web I was weaving myself into when I came to the Section."

"Kinda makes you feel like a thread-encased fly, doesn't it?" Nikita sympathized.

"What they may not realize, though, is that I am still twitching." Krystall grinned slyly.

"Good. At least you've learned something. With the way things go around here, you have to keep twitching." She continued with the metaphor, "Otherwise, Madeline will pull a black widow act on you and swallow you whole."

"Surprised she hasn't had Ops for lunch yet. She's got him wrapped around every finger she has." Nikita giggled. "And with eight arms, that's quite a few."

At this, Krystall actually laughed. It had been so long since she had done that. It was nice to have someone talk to her--someone who wasn't trying to run her life.

Nikita chuckled to herself, then lowered her head to finish reading the letter.

. . .Though I fear it will never be enough to compensate you and Krys for the melancholy I know I must have caused you, please know I am deeply sorry. I did what I did because I felt I had no other options, and I hope you can forgive me for any pain you have felt on my account. My new life permits me little emotion; but, know you are in my heart always. Eternal Love, Morgann E. Bradshaw

Nikita's blonde head gazed up at Krystall, who had been waiting patiently for her to finish, and asked in wonderment, "Morgann--was that her name?"

"Still is. Bradshaw is her maiden name. She changed back to it when she was recruited. The Section addresses her as Madeline, just as they call you Josephine."

A pair of azure eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

Krystall shrugged nonchalantly. "Hey, I never said being the boss' daughter didn't have its advantages."

"The boss? Aren't you forgetting about Operations?"

"I suppose. He's the real boss, but Madeline is as close as anyone can get. She's quite proficient at winning arguments--no matter what it takes, so he usually ends up taking her advice anyway. If you piss him off enough, he's not overly hard to deal with."

"Funny. I always thought if you pissed him off enough, he'd have you cancelled."

"Well, that, too. You just have to be sure not to go too far."

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

"Gee, thanks for the advice," Nikita remarked.

"Don't mention it. Literally. Don't mention it, especially to Operations--he'd have me cancelled." Krystall picked up her Dr. Pepper, finding it empty. "Want something to drink, Nikita?"

"Iced tea, if you've got it."

"Sweetened or non?"

"Always sweetened."

"So is that why Walter calls you Sugar?"

"Oh, no. Definitely not. Walter is just uh . . . " she searched for the most polite way of putting her words, ". . . deprived in certain areas of his life." "No joke. I remember the first words he ever spoke to me. I was going to go a few rounds in the firing range like I used to do with my Dad and had gone to get a Sig P229 from him. He started looking me up and down, then said, 'You know, if you're inexperience in this sort of thing, I'd be more than willing to give you some personal lessons in "gun handling".' I took the gun--not the one he was referring to--and thoroughly assured him I was more than capable of taking care of myself."

Nikita was smiling when Krystall tossed her a Nestea bottle from the refrigerator. "That's typical Walter for you." She twisted the cap from the bottle and guzzled about a third of it in one healthy drink. She watched as Krystall pried open her second Dr. Pepper and followed the same ritual. "So, do you and Ops get along, too? Didn't seem like it when you were up in the tower."

"I guess you could say we get along okay. We certainly have our differences and conflicts, and we try to resolve them as they arise. Other than that, I suppose he treats me as a stepfather should; at least, as well as Section allows."

Nikita nearly choked on her tea. "Stepfather?" she gasped.

"Mmhmm. That's the other reason I never gave Mom her ring back. There's already another occupying its place on her finger."

"I never noticed one there before. I've seen a diamond on her right hand before but didn't think anything of it." Nikita furrowed her brow in thought.

"She normally wears it on her right hand--when she's wearing it at all. You know, she's got that whole code of secrecy thing to live by. She doesn't like to risk her confidentiality."

"So, Madeline and Operations are married." Hypocrites, she thought. Forbidding relationships between operatives yet married themselves. "For how long?"

"Nine years, I've been told." The scowl on the woman's face in front of her was not lost on Krystall.

"Don't hold it against them, Nikita. Their own relationship is their grounds for forbidding the same between operatives. It hasn't exactly been a smooth ride for them, so they've seen first-hand what sort of trouble romantic involvement can cause. That's the only reason they condemn it."

"I am a forgiving person, but even I will have to think about that one." A sudden curiosity popped into Nikita's head. A curiosity she couldn't ignore. "Hey, Krystall?"

"What?"

"If you're in so good with the powers-in-the-tower, you probably know Operations real name, too, don't you?"

The question shocked Krystall. Of all the things she'd expect Nikita to ask her to reveal, Operations' name was one of the last on her list. And one of the last she was willing to disclose. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. And if I do, I can't tell you anyway."

"Please?" Nikita turned her mouth down into a full-lipped pout.

"Sorry. No can do."

"Nikita?" It was Madeline's voice in the com-unit in Nikita's ear.

The operative held up an index finger to tell Krystall to hold on and simultaneously activated the "talk-back" feature on the tiny microphone attached to the collar of her shirt. "Yes?"

"Briefing in five minutes."

"Got it." She turned off the mic and faced Krystall. "Gotta go. Business as usual."

"Understood."

Nikita rose and headed for the door. When her hand fell upon the door-handle, Krystall spoke.

"Nikita?"

The blonde paused and looked back at Madeline's daughter.

"It was really nice to talk to you. Thanks for listening." She smiled weakly.

Nikita's expression mirrored Krystall's, though the smile was drastically brighter.

"Anytime." With that, Nikita breezed through the doorway and down the corridor toward the briefing room.

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

When Nikita entered the briefing room, she found a group of operatives chatting noisily about various subjects. Some spoke of their infinitesimal social life, others of their non-existent social life, and still others simply of the mission about to be detailed to them. This is a new concept: I'm actually early for a briefing, she thought, smiling to herself. She blended into one of the conversations--the one dealing with the infinitesimal social lives (after all, she at least had friends)--without difficulty, not hesitating to throw in her two cents about the current state of her own man-less life.

Michael was on the other side of the room with three other male operatives. He wasn't saying much of anything, as usual. He let the other men contribute to the discussion while he stood emotionless among them, only smiling occasionally to make it seem as though he were interested in their talk--which, of course, he wasn't. His mind was bust turning gears over the briefing. He stole a quick glance at Nikita, who abruptly turned her head back to the group she was conversing with. He knew she had been watching him again.

In actuality, she had only cast a single look his way. He just happened to pick that moment to look over at her.

A low-pitched, buzzing tone signaled to the operatives that the door from the tower staircase to the briefing room was about to slide laterally to allow entrance from the corridor. The talkative groups disassembled and scrambled to their respective positions. Michael, Birkoff, Walter, Nikita, and couple other operatives took seats along the table that spanned nearly the entire length of the room. They left the center seat vacant for Madeline.

Some of the people were still shifting around to get comfortable as they stood at the back of the room when Madeline strode through the doorway, being "guided" at the elbow by Operations, who followed not far behind.

Operations stopped front and center in the room as Madeline continued to step around the table to take her chair. "We trust you have all reviewed the profiles for the Diablo mission," she stated matter-of-factly. If an operative failed to read all files provided, the results of the mission could be disatrous and she and Operations would refuse to take any of the blame for it. The guilty party would of course be found and cancelled.

There were a few silent nods around the room, but most operatives knew Madeline didn't need an answer to her question unless it was a negative one. The choices were simple: if you didn't do your homework, you either admit it, die in the field, or get cancelled.

"Alright, everyone, listen up." Operations took over. "This is Francisco Castillo." As the man spoke, a vid screen materialized just above the surface of the table. Within the holographic image appeared a status profile of a middle-aged Hispanic man. "Castillo has been heading a deep cover smuggling operation that transports everything from illegal drugs to nuclear warheads. A shipment of . . ."

Leaning against the doorframe of the entrance to the briefing room, Krystall easily tuned out the sound of Operations' voice. She lazily chewed on a piece of gum in her mouth, watching as each of the people in the room concentrated intensely on what their superior was saying. Well, each of the people but Madeline. She was busy with her own thoughts and analyses. Thinking and analyzing again, Krystall thought of her mother. What she does best.

At that moment, Madeline turned in her rotating chair and glanced over at Krystall. She raised both brows inquisitively. Her face read "What are you doing here?"

The girl in the doorway mouthed the words "I was bored."

Madeline gave a slight nod of her head, acknowledging her daughter's silent phrase with a trace of sympathy. She flashed a smile toward the door, then turned back to the front of the room to address the operatives. Even when she wasn't listening to a word of the briefing, she somehow knew exactly when she was to pick up where Operations left off. "First Team will enter through the southern gate at 11:21p.m. A series of guards will have to be taken out upon entrance, according to Birkoff's SIMs. Second Team will join up from the eastern end and the co-op ingress will proceed at the back wall of the building." As Madeline narrated her strategy, one of the mentioned SIMs ran on the screen.

After his second-in-command finished, Operations instructed, "Vans leave in twenty minutes. No wardrobe needed, so don't bother seeing Madeline. Standard night uniforms and gear will suffice. See Walter for the rest of your equipment. Dismissed."

The operatives bustled to leave the briefing room and prepare for departure. Operations stood patiently as Madeline rose from her seat to join him at the front. Strides perfectly synchronized, they returned to the tower to make last-minute preparations before heading to the departure bay. The last of the operatives were exiting, the final being a tall blonde.

Krystall had stepped aside to allow the operatives to pass. The blonde breezed by her, offering a faint smile as greeting. The woman had only taken a couple steps when a voice from behind stopped her.

"Alan."

"Huh?" She whirled to face Krystall.

"It's Alan," she repeated. With that said, Krystall leisurely walked away, beaming at having temporarily stumped Nikita. Maybe living here won't be so bad after all.

Realization finally dawned on Nikita. Her blue eyes widened, as did her smile. She chuckled as she looked up at the tower, where Madeline was speaking with the gray-haired, blue-eyed director of Section One. The same man noticed their audience, and allowed himself a glance downward at Nikita. Madeline followed the same action in order to see whom his gaze was directed at.

Nikita smiled up at them, then ducked her head and strode off. "See you and uh . . . Alan back at departure, Morgann."

The End.

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