***AUTHOR’S NOTE*** This is a short piece based upon ANY MEANS NECESSARY.

He had endured Nikita’s statement of the obvious in his office. Had endured, even though he knew she had been in Walter’s area, in clear view of the eyrie, minutes before she waltzed into his office with her arms wrapped tensely about her abdomen. He had maintained his calm politeness when Nikita brought up the fact that Operations had changed Birkoff’s mission parameters.

He had managed to bite back an irritated response. He was the team leader of the mission. Third in the chain of command at Section One. Of course he knew.

But that was the way Nikita operated. She threw everything she had onto the table and demanded action. Michael had only seen her hold an ace up her sleeve under direct orders from Operations during the Adrian debacle. He knew that, too.

For a moment, Michael had wished Birkoff were not on the mission so that the young man could rap his knuckles against Nikita’s forehead and ask if anyone was home.

He certainly could not roll his eyes at Nikita. It was not something he should do as her superior. Much less something he should do to his sometime lover and reason for continued existence.

It was not something he had done in years, in point of fact. Jurgen had been quick to quell Michael’s rebellious streak.

But sometimes...sometimes he wished he could escort Nikita out of Section with his hand at the small of her back, sit her down, and ask her to explain exactly what she thought she was doing.

Despite his assertions as to her predictability, Nikita often had him blinking in utter confusion.

He had endured, and barely managed to stifle a bark of laughter after the briefing in Operations eyrie. He had orders to take Birkoff out. His mind had immediately began humming, trying to configure a way to save Birkoff’s life. To protect him.

Birkoff was, if not exactly a friend, someone he knew he could occasionally trust. The young man was also, in a very twisted sense, like a younger brother. A younger brother he had threatened to kill on more than one occasion, and had meant it.

“It’s Birkoff,” Nikita had protested.

Michael had frozen, broad shoulders physically unbowed by the heaviness of the assignment he had been given. He had turned, given her a brief glance. He could not focus on her face right now, her disbelief and underlying disgust.

Right then, he had wanted to walk back to her side, press gentle kisses to the lacerations on her beautiful face, and tell her everything would be all right.

But he had promised himself that, if he could help it, he would no longer lie to her.

Instead, Michael had answered with a succinct, “I know.” He had walked away and prepared for the mission. He had endured her censure yet again.

Bringing Birkoff in alive seemed to ease her suspicion. Nikita had actually flashed him an apologetic smile. His actions of late had reassured her, but Nikita seemed to need a daily reminder of the fact that he was not evil incarnate.

Michael did not blame her. He had no right.

And he did not blame her when she transferred her anger to Birkoff. The young man had seemed apologetic for luring her into a trap, but certain of his convictions. Birkoff was growing up and beginning to understand the politics behind surviving in Section better than Nikita ever would.

But Michael endured that, as well. Nikita accepted his protection more often than his love. It was usually the only way he could show her he cared. He needed an outlet. Any outlet.

Michael had felt his shoulders lift in a small sigh as he saw Nikita prowling towards Birkoff’s area, blue eyes flashing as she prepared to intervene in Birkoff and Hillinger’s staring contest at the center of an array of flashing computer screens.

He was closer to Comm.

And Operations was watching.

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

“Birkoff,” Michael spoke, his green eyes assessing the situation. Birkoff was looking down on Hillinger from his height advantage. Neither had yet to achieve a conclusive victory in the confrontation. “I need you to run a Sim.”

Michael’s eyes fixed on Hillinger’s angular face as Birkoff finally moved away in compliance. He saw arrogance. Pride. Greed. And not nearly enough fear.

Michael moved closer to Birkoff’s hunched-over form, watching Nikita speak to Hillinger in low tones. He could tell by her body language that she had threatened him, and that he was putting on a show of bravado.

He did not like the smug smile on Hillinger’s face as he watched Nikita stride away, eyes fixed low enough to take in her long legs. Sexy legs...legs that belonged to Michael.

He did not like the young man’s attitude.

In fact, Michael did not like him. At all.

Michael reviewed the revelation as Birkoff ran the Sim, one part of his brain recording the details for the upcoming mission while another part dissected the flare of emotion.

Hillinger lacked a basic trait: respect. For anyone. Therefore, he was untrustworthy.

The computer emitted a high-pitched beep and Birkoff turned around in his chair, brandishing a disc. His eyes were averted behind the dark lenses of his glasses. “Here you go, Michael.”

Michael reached out and plucked the disc from Birkoff’s unsteady fingers, tucking it into his palm and clasping his hands together in front of his buttoned suit jacket.

“Birkoff?”

The young man’s eyes skittered upwards and he leaned back in his chair to look Michael in the face. Michael turned his head and stared at Hillinger’s back for a moment, then reconnected his gaze with Birkoff’s brown eyes.

“Don’t let him.”

Birkoff blinked rapidly and dropped his gaze to his lap. “Thanks.” His voice was soft, but Birkoff’s eyes had hardened as they traveled back up to meet Michael’s impassive stare.

He had learned since the last time Michael had used those words. Birkoff had panicked when an operative name Felix had threatened him and pleaded for Michael’s help. Michael had not given it.

But then, Birkoff was still alive.

The young man understood him, now. He had to learn how to defend himself, because there would come a time when Michael could not, or would not, do it for him.

There were always occasions when one could find oneself without a single friend in the world. The trick was to keep breathing. To know one’s enemies, and outmaneuver them.

And to never stumble in the sight of one’s superior.

Michael resisted the impulse to glance up at the eyrie as he took a small step backwards in preparation to leave Comm. Birkoff began to swivel his chair around as Michael turned his shoulders away, each returning to work.

Michael’s shoulders swung lightly back and forth as he approached the gray door of his office, mulling over the ramifications of Operations’ latest move. Blatantly trying to rid himself of Birkoff was certainly Operations’ style; indeed, Madeline and Operations had appeared to be in disagreement over the handling of the mission.

Michael’s lean fingers wrapped around the handle of his office door and he gave a graceful flick of his wrist, entering the doorway without breaking stride. His left hand automatically moved to unbutton his jacket as he moved behind his desk and lowered his tall frame into the black chair.

Madeline had been allowing the rift between Section One’s leaders to become readily apparent to anyone as observant as Michael. Therefore, he had to plan his next moves with the assumption that she knew what she was doing.

And what Madeline seemed to be broadcasting was that they had all endured enough...

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

Hillinger’s lips were pursed as he walked down a dark hall in Section One, his feral features relaxed and one hand jammed carelessly into the baggy pocket of his cargo pants. When Birkoff had turned his back on his computer, Greg had taken the opportunity to steal a few IDE cables and disconnect the floppy drive. He whistled the theme to Gilligan’s Island tunelessly, trailing one hand along the waist-high runner lights built into the gray wall.

It was easily fixed, but it wouldn’t do to let Birkoff get too comfortable...

Greg turned a corner, sweeping around the edge without concern for who might be on the other side. The whistle died on his lips. His hand dropped from the wall.

And for one moment, he experienced a moment of pure and utter panic.

Michael was standing directly in his path, feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped loosely in front of the single breast of his buttoned black suit. Michael was waiting...for him.

“Hillinger.”

At the sound of Michael’s quiet voice, Greg felt his bravado roar back into his veins. He wasn’t afraid of Michael.

The guy’s probably scared of me, Greg boasted to himself silently. Yeah, right. Reality check. Michael could probably kill you six different ways with one hand tied behind his back and two broken legs.

“Nikita spoke to you.”

“Jealous?” Greg shot back without thinking, rocking forward on his toes. He stared avidly at Michael’s face, looking for a reaction. Greg knew Nikita and Michael had a thing going. Hell, the whole terrorist community knew. They might as well take out an ad in The Times.

Michael’s impassive expression didn’t waver, but a greasy knot started forming in Greg’s stomach. Michael didn’t say anything, didn’t even move, but Greg could tell the man was pissed.

That was probably a bad idea, Greg told himself, shoving his other hand into his pocket and hunching his shoulders. It’s not like you know the guy.

Then Michael ducked his head slightly and took a step forward. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Greg swallowed and took a step backwards, tripping slightly on his untied shoelace. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think you’re ready to assume all of Birkoff’s responsibilities?”

“Hey, man,” Greg said, spreading his hands in all innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

When all else fails, Greg told himself, format the hard drive and pretend you know nothing. There one minute, gone the next.

Michael blinked and cocked his head, remaining silent.

“Okay, Michael. I’m getting the picture,” Greg said, a smiling curling the edges of his lips. “You’re trying to threaten me.”

“Am I?”

“Hey, just because you can pull Seymour’s strings and he’ll dance like friggin’ Pinocchio doesn’t mean that I -” Greg paused, taking a deep breath.

Michael’s lips parted and the older man took a quick breath, interrupting Greg’s diatribe. “Birkoff has...friends...in Section. You have only enemies.”

Greg pulled his hands out of his pockets and aggressively crossed his arms over his chest. “So what’s your point?”

Michael took another step forward, invading Hillinger’s personal space. “I advise you to not try anything like you did to Birkoff and Daniels while I am in the field or on tactical oversight.”

“And why is that?”

“It will not go unnoticed.”

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

Madeline smiled slightly and nodded towards the chair across from her desk. “You threatened Greg Hillinger.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Nikita shifted in the uncomfortable chair and gently tapped an index finger on her lacerated cheekbone. “I felt it was necessary.”

Madeline cocked her head and clasped her palms in the lap of her plum skirt. The bob haircut she had adopted made her look softer, less threatening. “What do you think of Greg?”

The tall blonde widened her eyes in confusion and stalled for time by tugging at the hem of her pearly gray dress. “I think,” she began quietly. “I think that Greg is someone the other operatives endure. Birkoff is someone operatives respect...trust.”

“You would feel uncomfortable with Greg running the board on a mission?”

“In a word, yes,” Nikita answered, tilting up her stubborn chin. “This is a game to him. The people aren’t real.” Nikita poked one glitter-painted fingernail at her temple. “He doesn’t get it up here that there are consequences.”

“And Birkoff does.”

“Yeah. He does.”

Madeline curved her lips slightly and began to turn in her chair. “Thank you, Nikita.”

With a twist of her lips and a speculative glance, Nikita stood and climbed up the stairs. Madeline completed some more work, closing down several windows on her computer screen, and followed Nikita out moments later.

“So Nikita put the fear of God into Hillinger?” Operations asked when Madeline appeared in the doorway of his eyrie.

“No. Michael did.”

“Really.” Operations half-turned from the window, an amused grin tugging his craggy face to one side.

“Greg is greedy, but intelligent. He will plan more thoroughly the next time he attempts a coup.”

“And meanwhile, Michael will be breathing down his neck?” Operations asked, the smile fading as he turned his gaze back to the hub of Section One.

Madeline took a step forward, standing slightly behind Operations as they watched Michael emerge from a caged area and confidently stride across the hub.

“Yes. Despite all that Michael has endured, he continues to work for the greater good of Section One.”

Operations turned and settled his hip against the metal bar as Michael’s broad back disappeared inside his office. “Why is that, Madeline?”

Madeline gave him the full benefit of her gaze, her dark brown eyes thoughtful.

“That remains to be seen.”

THE END

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.
OR
If you would like to send comments to Shrift, click HERE!