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Paxton stared at the man and the woman. She had taken her beating well, considering. She was whimpering in pain, but her blue eyes were defiant. The man, he was another story. He hadn't made a sound, and Paxton knew that he had broken his ribs. But the man's eyes were cold, clear green...his face, expressionless. Well, almost expressionless, Paxton ammended. For there was a slight curve to the sensual lips that suggested a smirk. A challenge for them to try do their worst.
Heyliger stood beside Paxton. He was studying the prisoners as well. "We can break the girl easily," he said, his dark eyes glinting at the prospect.
Paxton nodded. "Yes...we can," he allowed. "But she's merely a peon. She doesn't know the information we want" Paxton gestured to the man. To Michael. "He does."
"We won't break him," Heyliger grumbled. "He'll die first."
"I know." A cold smile curved Paxton's thin lips. "But he just might give us what we want, if we torture the girl."
Heyliger didn't follow Paxton's reasoning. "Why would he do that? They're both Section Operatives. He'll let her die."
Paxton was watching Michael closely, and he smiled all the more at what he saw. At what the young man was trying so hard to hide. "I don't think so," he drawled. "Michael could have escaped, my friend. But he didn't. He allowed himself to be captured....to save Nikita. He wouldn't leave her behind."
"So what?" Heyliger frowned. "He probably did it so that he could cancel her himself, rather than allow her to talk."
"You aren't very observant, are you, Heyliger?" Paxton countered, heaving a sigh. "Michael...cares...about Nikita. And that is going to be Section One's downfall."
Michael came awake to the sound of Nikita's screams. She was in agony and he could almost feel her pain. But a moment later, Michael realized that he had heard Nikita screaming in his dreams. He hadn't meant to sleep, but the drugs that Paxton had injected him with had taken their toll on Michael. He knew that it was a form of truth serum. Section used something similar. So far, Michael had been able to control his reaction to it, but it was becoming more and more difficult for him to remain focused.
"Good morning, Michael," said a deep voice, as the door of the cell opened and bright light flooded in. Michael blinked as his eyes readjusted, painfully. A moment later, strong hands pulled him to his feet. Then he felt the weight of cold metal as handcuffs were snapped into place, binding his wrists. Michael didn't resist as he was pushed out of the cell. Resistance was futile. If he refused to walk, then he was carried. It was to his benefit to keep as much control as possible.
He was taken to the same room. It was small, had no windows, and Nikita was there. Her wrists were shackled and pulled up over her head, and suspended from a hook. She pretty much dangled, for her toes barely reached the ground. Michael didn't have to look at her face to see the pain she was in. It fairly emanated from her, and the torture for the day hadn't even begun. There was a chair in the room, directly before Nikita. Michael was pushed into it and recuffed, one wrist to each arm of the chair. He didn't look at Nikita...he couldn't. But Michael felt her eyes burning into him. He couldn't help her. He would have sold his soul to trade places with her, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. Their captors were very smart. They knew that he was the one who had the information they wanted, and that he would die before revealing it. So they were betting on his feelings for Nikita to give them what they desired. That he would talk, rather than let her suffer.
Paxton was pleased to note that Michael couldn't look at Nikita. Her torture was getting to him, it was clear from Michael's body language, and even the cool eyes were beginning to show the pain that Michael was suffering...emotionally. His own, physical, pain was easily ignored. Heyliger was beside Nikita, ready to inflict more pain. When Paxton nodded, Heyliger lifted a soddering iron. Paxton knelt beside Michael's chair and whispered in the other man's ear. "Tell us what we want to know, or we put her eyes out."
MIchael felt himself tense, and he swallowed convulsively at the image of Nikita's beautiful eyes being burnt out. But he only shook his head. "No."
"Do it!" Paxton ordered. Then he curled his fingers in Michael's thick hair, forcing his head up so that the other man would have to watch. "Last chance, Michael," he offered.
"No," MIchael repeated, even as his eyes locked onto Nikita's face. He saw the soddering iron move in, saw Nikita try to pull back. Heard her whimper, then she began screaming and Michael flinched. Each scream was like a blow to his body. "WAIT!" he shouted.
Paxton nodded to Heyliger, who pulled back. Then Paxton knelt beside MIchael again. "I'm listening," he drawled.
Michael couldn't stop himself from shaking. What he was considering doing was unthinkable. He took a deep breath, then said, "Give me one day with Nikita, then I'll tell you what you want to know." He had to have the time with her. She had to understand.
"All right." Paxton was willing to allow it, because he felt certain that it would mess with Michael on an emotional level and make him even more inclined to talk. Gesturing to Heyliger to release Nikita, Paxton did the same with Michael. Then the captives were taken to a cell and locked in.
It was Nikita's cell, and Michael picked her up into his arms, cradling her broken body as he sat in the corner on the matress. Nikita's hair was matted with sweat and blood, but Michael didn't notice as he smoothed the pale strands away from her bruised face. Then he pressed a kiss to her temple, soft as a whisper. He felt her tremble and held her more securely. Michael could feel her pain, it far overshadowed his own. Nikita's body was pressed hard against his broken ribs, but he didn't even notice it. His every fiber of awareness was tuned in to her.
NIkita hated that she couldn't stop shaking. Hated that she was weak and that the pain was winning. It controlled her and surrounded her, and was defeating her. She knew it, and had finally accepted it. Now she had to get Michael to do the same. If he confessed, she would still die. Nikita knew it. Knew that MIchael did too. He just didn't want to see it. Licking her dry lips, Nikita forced her vocal chords to work. "Michael..." The sound of his name was like a prayer to her soul.
"Shhhh.." he whispered into her ear. "Just rest, Nikita." She was so fragile, and Michael wanted her to conserve what little strength she had left.
"Please..." she breathed, and felt him tremble. "I want you...to do...a favor." Nikita found the strength to force out the words. They had to be said.
Michael wanted to hold her tighter, but he was afraid of hurting her. "Anything, Nikita," he told her.
She laughed, but it turned into a choking cough. "Careful, Michael," Nikita teased, despite her shortness of breath. "Don't be so generous." But her smile soon faded as pain washed over her and she couldn't help but cry out. Nikita felt Michael smoothing her hair and whispering to her in french. His gentleness help to ease the pain...to make it bearable...for the moment. Her eyes locked with his as she whispered, "Cancel me."
"No!" Michael had been expecting Nikita to ask him that. Had been dreading hearing her say it, for it meant she was giving up. "We'll get out of here," he told her.
"I won't," Nikita countered, desperation coloring her voice as tears filled her eyes to spill down her face. "Please, Michael," she beseeched him. "I'm not like you. I can't bear the pain any longer. I...I don't want...to be the...traitor. Promise me..." Nikita broke off and began to weep in earnest. She hated herself for being so weak, but she had reached her breaking point.
Michael held her close, undmindful of the stabbing pain in his ribs. His own eyes filled with tears and he blinked them back as he rocked Nikita as he would a small child, one hand smoothing her hair.
Between sobs Nikita begged, "Promise me....Michael."
"Shhhhhh..." Michael whispered. He couldn't bring himself to make that promise.
Early the next morning, Michael and Nikita were dragged out of the cell and back into the torture room. It was as good a name for the place as any. Nikita was chained to the ceiling hook, as usual. Michael expected to be cuffed to the chair. But Paxton settled for him being handcuffed and flanked by two guards.
Heyliger hosed Nikita down, then picked up electrodes. He was grinning as he touched them to her wet skin. She screamed in agony as her body spasmed.
Paxton watched Michael's face, waiting for the young man to beg them to stop. After all, he had agreed to tell them what they wanted to know, so he should have been protesting this act of torture. But Michael stood, imobile, his green eyes...strangely...empty. Paxton frowned, then gesture for Heyliger to jolt Nikita again.
Her screams echoed through the chamber and slammed into Michael's soul. He looked upon her face and for a moment their eyes locked. There was pleading shining through the pain in Nikita's crystal blue gaze, and in that moment, Michael reacted. He attacked his guards, pulled the gun from the holster of the man on his right and he fired one bullet into Nikita's heart. He watched her body jerk, then the screaming stopped, abruptly. Silence echoed about him now, but only for a heartbeat. Then Michael found himself tackled from behind. He was pinned to the floor as Paxton knelt beside him. There was a moment of pain as a needle was shoved into his neck, then a haze of red. The haze faded and pain washed over him...wave after wave of white-hot agony. But Michael was numb. His body didn't react, for the physical pain couldn't compare to the pain in his heart.
* SECTION ONE *
Operations and Madeline stood beside Michael's bed in Medlab. Ten days had passed since they had retrieved him. He had spent eleven days locked up and tortured. His body had been battered his mind burned, his heart and soul shattered, but he hadn't broken. Operations was proud of him, even though it pained him to see Michael now. His bruises were just beginning to fade and he was impossibly thin, his skin pasty white, and his left arm was in a full cast. There were other injuries, but Michael was...physically...recovering. It was his...spirit...that Ops was worried about.
Madeline was worried as well. Michael was unresponsive to outside stimulae. He was somewhat catatonic, a condition that they could, partially, blame on the drugs he had been injected with. But the other part was the loss of Nikita. Madeline knew, from Michael's tortured ramblings in his sleep, that he had killed the beautiful blond, and she could guess why. Michael had done what he had to do, but Madeline wondered if he could live with the consequences of his actions. She prayed that he would come back to them.
"He's getting better," Operations said, as if saying the words would make it so.
"Yes, he 's getting better," Madeline allowed. But they both knew that recovery for Michael would be a long road, filled with dark shadows.
*TWO YEARS LATER*
*****************************
Michael stood on the second level with Ops and Madeline, looking out the window to wear a young woman was working out with a martial arts master. Her name was Holly, and she was Michael's trainee. Her time was up and a decision had to be reached as to whether or not she lived or died.
Operation's was watching Michael closely. The young man stood in profile to him, his green gaze locked on Holly, below. "Keep her," he said, then he waited.
"I think that would be a mistake," Michael whispered. He saw Holly suddenly stop and look up at them. She pushed a lock of red hair out of her eyes, then waved to him. He didn't respond.
Madeline moved to stand beside Michael. "Why a mistake?" she asked him.
Michael turned to face her, his eyes were cool, green ice. Emotionless. "I don't trust her,' he replied, bluntly.
Operations chuckled. "Neither do I," he admitted. Then his smile faded as he got in MIchael's face. "Keep her." It was an order, not a suggestion.
"Of course," Michael replied, not blinking as Ops smiled, then left the room. Michael knew that Holly was now his responsibility. One that he did not want.
Madeline placed one hand on Michael's shoulder, to focus his attention on her. She knew what he was thinking, and she didn't want him to fall back into that shadow. Bringing him back to the living hadn't been easy. Madeline didn't want to lose him again. "Ask yourself this question, Michael," she said softly. "Is it Holly that you don't trust...or yourself?" Madeline waited for a reaction, but Michael just stood there. So she added, "When you've figured out the answer...come see me. We'll talk." With that, she turned and left the corridor.
Michael let his body relax then. He had heard Madeline's question, but it was just an echo of sound in his mind. Words without meaning. Michael sighed as he let his head fall foward till it rested against the glass, then he whispered one word. "Nikita..." And as the image of her beautiful face shimmered before him, Michael's lips curved into a smile.
THE END
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