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Nikita fiddled with the bodice of the sequined dress that she was wearing. It was an extremely low cut halter, that just missed revealing her navel. Not only was it drafty, but itchy as well. She hated it when Madeline dressed her as a barbie doll. Glancing over to her right, she eyed Michael with envy. He was dressed in pleated, black trousers and a black silk shirt, with a red, patterned, satin vest. The attire of all employees of the Sahara Club, which was attached to one of the glitziest casinos in Las Vegas. Michael was serving drinks while keeping an eye out for their mark. What Nikita envied was that he looked so comfortable. Gorgeous too, she acknowledged to herself with a grin. Red was definitely one of Michael's colors. Too bad he wouldn't wear it casually.
"Nikita...to your left," Michael whispered, knowing that she could hear him on her comunit. He didn't know that she was watching him. He was too busy watching everyone else. They were looking to intercept a man by the name of Reggie Cannon. He was a courier for a mobster by the name of Anthony Shou. They needed to *borrow* Mr. Cannon for a time, to get him to reveal where he was delivering his goods and to whom. Then Michael would step in and take his place. It was Nikita's job to lure him to a suite upstairs and slip him a Mickey.
"Where?" Nikita countered, swiveling her head to the left. She knew that Cannon had reddish brown hair and was about her height. He was about fifty pounds overweight though, and balding. But he did have green eyes.
Michael sighed. "Green jacket," he said, helpfully. He could sense that Nikita was distracted, but didn't bother to tell her to focus. She knew how to do her job, and he trusted her to do it.
Nikita's eyes locked on a man in an ugly, green blazer. "Got him," she whispered. Then she put on a smile and glided forward. Time to introduce herself.
"Good girl," Michael whispered to himself, as he watched Nikita make contact with Cannon. He kept an eye on her, even as he continued to serve drinks. But he nearly dropped his tray when he suddenly spotted a face from his past. Eleven years rolled back and he was eighteen again, standing by his grandmother's bed, her blood staining his hands. Then there had been the trial, and the verdict...guilty. Michael had been sentenced to twenty-five years to life. He found himself in a correctional facility wanting to die. But in place of death had come Section.
"Let's go to my place," Nikita was saying to Cannon, but it was actually a message to Michael to get ready to take Cannon out. She waited for his response, but there was none. So she rephrased her comment, ignoring the look Cannon gave her, for he had already, eagerly, agreed to go to her room. Still nothing. Nikita huffed, then gazed around the lounge, searching for Michael, but he had disappeared. Feeling Cannon tugging on her arm, Nikita forced a smile and led him off. She had faith that Michael would be waiting for her.
But Michael had wandered off, following the man who had sent him reeling back into the dark shadows of the past. Because of his attire, he was constantly beseiged by patrons needing their drinks refreshed. Even as he continued stalking the ghost from his past, Michael's senses returned. He knew that Nikita would be waiting for him in the suite upstairs, so he came to an abrupt halt and turned around. To his amazement, he found himself face to face with his ghost. The other man smiled at him, apologized for not seeing him there, then stepped around and continued on his way. But in the brief moment that their eyes had locked, Michael knew he had been recognized. But the past would have to wait while he dealt with the present. Banishing his memories, Michael headed for the elevator.
The mission went smoothly. Cannon was a wimp when it came to pain, so Michael was able to convince him talk with barely an effort. He then took Cannon's place for the meet, received the goods, took out the bad guys and he and Nikita were able to return to the hotel and contact Section with the news that the missioin was a success. But, for Michael, there was not yet closure. Excusing himself from Nikita's presence, he went out onto the balcony to inform Madeline that he may have been compromised. Michael told her about the man from his past. She knew the whole story anyway.
On the other end of the line, Madeline was silent for a moment, contemplating what should be done. Then, her decision made, she told Michael to take care of his ghosts before returning to Section. When Michael confirmed and said that he would send Nikita back, Madeline counteredmanded him, insisting that Nikita remain to back him up. She believed that it was time for Nikita to learn about Michael's past, even as he was forced to face it.
Michael would have preferred that Nikita not be involved, and he was too wrapped up in his emotions to recognize what Madeline was doing. In his typical fashion he obeyed orders. Michael hung up and informed Nikita that they would be staying for at least another day while he wrapped up some loose ends.
"What loose ends?" Nikita queried.
"I'll let you know when I'm ready," Michael replied, more coldly than he had intended. He wasn't angry with Nikita, he was scared. And that was not an emotion he was used to. Michael was familiar with fear, especially when it was connected to Nikita. He feared for her safety seemingly twenty-four hours a day. But this was different. In a sense, it was fear of the unknown. "Stay here, I'll be back soon," Michael ordered, as he picked up a pair of sunglasses, slid them on his nose, then exited the room.
Nikita glared at the closed door as she flopped down onto the bed. "Damn you, Michael," she muttered, then she jumped to her feet and grabbed her coat. Like hell she would wait for him. Where ever he went, she would follow him. Nikita knew how to be a shadow, after all, Michael had trained her.
Michael had done his homework. He had located his ghost, learning that he was staying at the Majestic hotel. Room 717. It was only two blocks down from the Sahara, so Michael walked. He reached it and nearly passed it by, for he was deep in thought. But he stopped himself and stared at it. He needed to go inside, but a part of him wanted only to run. It had been eleven years, Michael reminded himself. The past no longer had the power to hurt him. With that thought echoing in his head, Michael crossed the street and entered the hotel. He didn't see Nikita watching him from the doorway of a resturant, a few yards away.
After climbing the stairs to the seventh floor, Michael walked down the corridor to room 717. It was a suite and Michael stood before the oak door, but didn't knock. Memories rushed over him and he felt as if he might drown in them, but he found the strength to banish them, then he raised his hand and punched the door bell.
Only a moment passed before the door opened and a man stood there. He was dressed in an expensive suit and had a drink in one hand. He smiled and said, "Hello, Michael. Long time no see." When Michael didn't respond he gestured for him to come in. "Join your uncle for a bourbon or two," he invited.
Michael stepped past him then waited for the door to close. The room was brightly lit, so he left his sunglasses on. He had intended to anyway. He felt the other man's hand on his shoulder and he jerked away, turning to face him, his eyes glaring, it didn't show.
Jarrod Blaine studied the young man before him. Eleven years had passed since he had seen Michael, and he had forgotten how beautiful he had been. He was even more beautiful now, but cold and distant. Like a perfect statue that was to be admired from afar. So different from the warm and loving young man of eighteen. Moving to the side bar, Jarrod poured bourbon into a chunky glass, then refilled his own. As he held one out to Michael he said, "I thought you were dead."
Ignoring the glass, Michael whispered, "You're going to wish I was."
************
Hearing Michael's words, Jarrod wasn't exactly surprised by them. Still, he fortified himself for what he was about to face by tossing back the fingers of Scotch in both glasses. Then he returned to the bar to fill them again. "I realize that you're angry, Michael," Jarrod began, as he turned back to face his nephew. It irritated him that he couldn't see the younger man's eyes. They were hidden by dark glasses and Jarrod had the feeling that they were piercing. "I don't blame you for being angry," he allowed, although he was by, no means, apologetic.
Michael allowed his lips to curve into a smile. "I'm not angry," he said softly, but there was steel in his tone.
"So tell me," Jarrod prompted, waving his glass. "How did you get out of prison, Michael? I was told you were dead."
"I am dead," Michael replied. His right hand slid into his coat pocket, fingers curling around cold metal. "Dead to the real world," he clarified.
Jarrod nodded, even though he really didn't understand. "Well...to be honest, I was kinda glad when I heard you had died after just a few months."
Michael didn't respond at first. He moved to the open balcony and lifted his face to the breeze. Night was falling and the sky was streaked with red. "I'll bet you were glad," he said at last, and his meaning was clear. His death meant that Jarrod would never get caught for his crime.
"I was glad because you...you couldn't survive prison, Mikey," Jarrod was swift to explain. "A pretty boy like you...hell...the other inmates would eat you alive. I know. I spent a few months in county lock up."
"I know," Michael whispered. His back was still turned, his eyes on the fading sun.
Jarrod heaved a sigh then tightened his fingers around his glass as he felt his palms grow sweaty. He didn't want to admit it, but he was scared. Michael scared the hell out of him. "Listen!" Jarrod hissed, flaunting a bravado that he didn't feel. "Just what the hell do you want, Mikey? Hmmm? Why did you come here?"
Michael turned to face him then, enjoying the scent of fear that permeated the room. "I want you to know where I've been for the past eleven years, Jarrod," he replied. "I was recruited from prison, by a place called Section One. They're a covert, anti-terrorist group. They trained me for two years, then offered me a second chance to live."
"Trained you?" Jarrod countered, shaking his head. "What does that mean? Trained you to do what?"
"To kill," Michael whispered, taking a step towards the other man. He smiled as he watched Jarrod backpedal, reflexively. "I'm kinda like James Bond," Michael continued. "Licensed to kill. And like Bond, I'm something of a secret agent. No one knows about Section One. No one in the real world."
Jarrod felt more confused than ever. After a long swallow of scotch he asked, "If it's such a secret...then why are you telling me all this?"
Michael shrugged, he was a little surprised that Jarrod wasn't able to answer his own question. He thought it would have been rather obvious. "I've told you because you won't live to tell it," Michael drawled.
"You can't kill me..." Jarrod sputtered, as the light of understanding suddenly flared on.
"I can...and I will," Michael replied, solemly. He removed his right hand from his pocket, and his fingers were curled around his gun. Michael pointed the muzzle at Jarrod's heart, and his aim was steady. "Don't you recognize the face of a killer, Uncle?" he queried, a cold smile curving his lips. "You should. You see one everytime you look in the mirror."
Jarrod felt his heart thud in in his chest. Sweat broke out, sheening his skin and his glass fell from numb fingers. "Michael.." he beseeched. "Look....I'll give you half of the family fortune. Yeah? It's millions, Mikey. Remember?" Jarrod knew he was babbling, but he didn't care. He was bargaining for his life, and he knew it.
Michael shook his head, unswayed by Jarrod's pitiful pleas. "I never wanted the money," he whispered.
"Why are you doing this?" Jarrod demanded. He desperately wanted another drink, but he was shaking too badly to hold the bottle.
"For Grandmother," Michael replied, hearing the sudden tremor in his own voice. He took another step forward, the gun in his hand never wavering from it's target. "She was the only family I had," Michael explained. "You took from me, Jarrod. And I can never forgive you for that." The words were difficult to say, for they came from deep within the heart that Michael had long ago tried to shut down. But Michael didn't reveal his pain now. All Jarrod heard was the cold truth.
Backing up in an attempt to put distance between himself and the gun, Jarrod tried to reason with his nephew. "I'm your family, Mikey. If you kill me....then you really will be all alone." Jarrod used his shirtsleeve to wipe away the sweat that dripped into his eyes as he waited for a response.
Michael lifted his left hand and pulled off the sunglasses. He wanted Jarrod to see the true darkness of his soul. The reflection of his hate. When he spoke, Michael voice was softly melodic. "I think that our fate is determined on the day that we are born. Mine is to always be alone." Michael believed this to be true. How could it not be when he had loved, and lost, so many. His parents, his grandmother, his son, Simone...even Nikita. Now Michael locked eyes with his Uncle as he whispered, "I've accepted my fate, Jarrod. Now it's time for you to accept yours."
"And what, exactly, is my fate?" Jarrod countered, with a touch of defiance in his tone. He had backed into the wall and now he had no where to go as Michael stalked him. The young man stood before him now, almost radiant in his dark....exotic...beauty. Silence fell between them, mocking Jarrod, and he suddenly screamed, "Tell me, dammit! What is my fate?"
"To die," Michael whispered, as his finger curled against the trigger. He didn't blink as the bullet hit it's mark. Didn't look away as blood stained his uncle's chest and Jarrod's eyes rolled back in his head. Michael simply watched the other man crumple to the floor at his feet. He was still standing there when Nikita entered the room.
She moved to stand beside Michael, then she reached out and took his gun. He didn't protest. Nikita bit her lip then said, "I called housekeeping. They'll be here soon."
Michael nodded, his eyes still on Jarrod. "Good."
"I heard everything," Nikita confessed. She had been listening from the balcony of the adjoining suite.
"I know," Michael replied, his voice barely a whisper. He had sensed her presence, and it had been his thoughts of Nikita that had courage to face his past. But he knew that this had been the easy part. Knew that Nikita wouldn't just let him walk away from her this time.
Nikita heaved a sigh, her eyes never leaving his face. She had so many questions that she wanted to ask, but he wasn't ready for them, not yet. A cinnamon-brown curl was dangling in Michael's eyes and Nikita reached out and smoothed it back. "Are you all right?" she asked, her voice colored with compassion. She didn't understand what Michael had done, but her faith in him was unshakable.
Michael blinked once, then shook his head. "No," he confessed, then he turned and left the room, the sunglasses he had let fall from his fingers, crunching beneath the heel of his boot.
A heartbeat later Nikita followed him, as they both knew she would. But she gave Michael the space he needed right now. There was no place for him to run. No place to hide. The past clung to Michael like a ghost in the darkness, but Nikita knew that, together, they could banish the darkness with her light.
************
Michael didn't return to the resort to pick up his and Nikita's bags. He simply hit the street and kept walking. It wasn't until he had reached the end of the strip that he felt a hand on his arm. Turning, he saw Nikita's face. She was like a pure and beautiful light in the blinding, neon shimmer that was Vegas.
Nikita smiled at Michael, but it was forced. She could see pain glimmering in the depths of his silver-green eyes, and a sadness that made her heart ache for him. "Let's go find a cup of coffee," she beseeched, as she threaded her fingers through his. She discovered that Michael's were ice-cold, yet the night air was hot and humid. Nikita tugged on his hand and almost sighed with relief when Michael followed.
There was an all night cafe about a block down, and Nikita led Michael inside. They found a corner booth, that offered a modicum of privacy. When the waitress appeared, Nikita ordered for both of them. She could see that Michael was lost in the shadows of his past. She let him wander there until their coffee arrived, then she asked the waitress not to disturb them. Nikita didn't want Michael interrupted, should he finally open up to her. At the very least she expected an explanation for what had happened in suite 717.
Michael felt Nikita's eyes upon him, but he couldn't meet her gaze. He knew that she deserved the truth, and that it was time for him to face it. Time to let Nikita in. As he tried to gather his thoughts and make some sense out of them, Michael took a sip of the steaming coffee, then he left his hands cupped around the mug to warm them. His voice barely more than a whisper, he began talking. "I never knew my parents...they died when I was six months old. I spent the next ten years in and out of various foster homes in France. Then, one day, this beautiful woman with snow-white hair appeared. My Grandmother, Genvieve. My Father's Mother. She had never forgiven him for marrying my mother, but when her youngest son, Jarrod, left home at twenty, she realized that she did not want to be alone, so she searched for me."
"And found you," Nikita interjected softly, when Michael suddenly fell silent.
He nodded. "Yes. She took me home with her, to Paris, and we lived there till I was fifteen. Then we came to the states. I wanted to be a lawyer and Grandmaman wished for me to attend Harvard." Michael paused again as memories washed over him. He had loved living in Massachusets. Remembered evenings spent with his Grandmother in front of a crackling fire as she coached him on his English. But those days were long gone and Michael dissolved the memories. Locking eyes with Nikita now, he continued. "When I was seventeen, Jarrod came back home. He was wonderful to me, like a big brother, and a true friend. Or so I believed." Michael paused to shake his head, remembering his naivete. "Grandmaman was angry with Jarrod at first, but within a few months she had forgiven him for leaving her and welcomed him back into the family. I started my freshman year at Harvard, and life couldn't have been more wonderful."
Nikita reached found herself reeling as she listened to the story of Michael's life unfold. She had never imagined such a past for him. She had thousands of questions for he was leaving out detail in exchange for relaying the facts, but remained silent. Michael wasn't ready to let her all the way in past his shields. Nikita would be patien, knowing that it would be worth the wait.
"One night I was at the campus library, studying for an exam," Michael said softly, drifting back in time again. "It was late, but the librarian trusted me to lock up when I left. It was just after midnight when I got home. The front door was unlocked and that worried me. I could....feel....that something was wrong. I ran to my Grandmother's room and she was lying there, blood everywhere." Michael closed his eyes in a vain attempt to blot out the memory, but it was etched in his soul. He swallowed hard and continued. "I couldn't think...I just stood there. Next thing I know sirens were blaring and the police were in the room. They handcuffed me and took me downtown. I was booked on Murder One charges and tossed into a cell. I sat in the corner all night, waiting to wake up, because I was certain that it was just a bad dream. But it wasn't."
"I'm sorry, Michael," Nikita whispered, reaching out to touch his hand. She could feel him tremble.
Staring down into his coffee mug, Michael persevered. Now that he had begun his story, he would see it through to the end. "I expected Jarrod to come and see me. To help me. But he never came. A lawyer was appointed for me by the court, and she explained to me that Jarrod had told the police that I was the one who murdered his mother. My Grandmother. That I was jealous of him and afraid of being written out of her will." Michael shook his head. "It wasn't true, any of it, and in that moment I knew that Jarrod had killed her. The trial lasted two weeks. The jury found me guilty and I was sentenced to life, no chance for parole. Jarrod came to see me before I was taken away. The judge let us talk in his chambers for a moment. He said he would miss me, but that I would survive and be stronger for it. In truth he expected me to die in prison. I didn't say a word to him, nor did I expect to ever see him again. He collected his inheritance and left the states."
Nikita was stunned by Michael's revelation. "You were innocent," she whispered. "You didn't murder anyone, just like me." To Nikita it was like a light shining through the darkness. Because Michael was so adapted to Section's ways and means, the perfect operative, she had believed his past to be filled with shadows. Had imagined him being recruited from prison after committing some heinous murder. He seemed to kill so easily. But now Nikita realized that he could sympathize with her position, and a part of her was angry that he wasn't more understanding of her feelings. "What happened next?" she prompted, needing to hear the rest.
"I expected to die in prison," Michael acknowledged. "I wanted to die. One night I went to sleep and I woke up at Section. You know the rest. It was the same for me as it was for you, except I was greeted by Madeline."
"She trained you," Nikita stated, having suspected that all along.
Michael smiled. "She was one of my trainers," he confirmed.
Nikita sighed, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She squeezed his hand between both of hers and whispered, "I'm so sorry about your grandmother, and for Jarrod's betrayal. Now I think I understand why you...at least a little."
"You don't understand me at all, Nikita," Michael replied, sliding his hand away from hers. He leaned back in his seat, feeling the need to distance himself from her. All of the sudden Michael felt overwhelmed by the compassion that glimmered in Nikita's beautiful eyes. "Don't feel sorry for me," he beseeched, unaware of how desperate he sounded.
"Michael.." Nikita reached out to him again, sliding out of the booth to confront him when he would have risen and walked away. "I can't help but feel sorrow for what you've suffered. I care about you," she confessed, not that it was such a revelation. But it right to say the words out loud. "I care about what happened, and about what you think...and how you feel."
Michael slid into the corner, wishing that he could disappear. He closed his eyes as Nikita slid into the booth beside him. Her nearness made him tremble and it frightened Michael that he couldn't control it. "You can't understand what I feel," he hissed, his eyes opening now and locking on her face. "I was never as innocent as you, Nikita. I sold out...sold my soul...to Section. You never will. And what you will never, truly, understand...is that I have no regrets." Michael's eyes glimmered like emerald ice as he forced Nikita to hold his gaze. He wanted her to see the truth.
But all she saw was pain and sorrow, and Michael's desperate need to believe the lies he had been telling himself for years. The lies that had been his salvation. Nikita was finally beginning to understand that Michael's detachment, his ability to distance himself from people and events, was his defense mechanism against a heart that cared deeply. Nikita shuddered to consider all that he had lost. His parents, grandmother, his life. Simone, his son...his soul. Michael had lost the ability to trust, and Nikita found herselfing unwilling to blame him, as she had in the past. What she wanted to do was comfort Michael. To promise him that she would never betray him. That he could believe in her and his trust would be rewarded. But one look into his eyes and Nikita knew that she couldn't reach him. Couldn't pull him out of the darkness, or erase the shadows from his soul. But that didn't mean she would give up on him.
Eyes never wavering from Nikita's face, Michael tried to read her thoughts, but he couldn't. He expected her to run from him. To be unwilling to face the truth. That what she had said to him during the War was true. The *real* Michael would disgust her. Only he couldn't remember who he was anymore. He only knew who he pretended to be.
"Let's go home," Nikita whispered, holding out her hand. There were no words that she could offer that would comfort Michael. Nothing she could do. Section fullfilled his needs, for now, and she would accept that. A smile curved her lips. She was learning.
After a moment's hesitation, Michael took Nikita's hand. He paused to toss a twenty on the table, then he let her lead him out into the gray dawn.
Nikita stood on the terrace of her apartment, watching a gentle rain fall. From the moment she and Michael had left the coffee shop an unspoken agreement had been made between them not to mention his past again. Nikita would abide by Michael's wishes, for she knew that the time would come when he would let her glimpse into his soul again. Until then, however, it was business as usual between them.
Smiling to herself as she hummed along to the CD that was playing, Nikita strolled over to the kitchen table and picked up a flat, rectangular shaped box. Popping off the top she studied the contents, a pair of mirrored sunglasses. She had found them at a pawn shop and knew they would look great on Michael. Nikita believed that after what had happened in Vegas, Michael's outlook on life had changed. He had buried a few demons and now he needed to see himself in a new light.
Putting the box top back into place, Nikita picked up a red ribbon and a matching bow and wrapped them around the box. Then she scooped up her keys and headed for the door. Michael needed a little color in his life, and a little hope, and Nikita believed that she was just the one to provide him with both. Whether or not it was true didn't seem as important as Nikita's ability to believe that it was. It was her faith that made her strong, and hope that kept her alive. But a little voice in her head reminded her that it was Michael who shielded her from the darkness of Section One. He was the candle to her flame.
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