~Pain is inevitable;
Suffering is optional~
- Anonymous

The soft, barely audible click of women's heels echoed off of the stark walls, and he could feel the shiver of anticipation - or was that fear - race down his spine. He had known that she would come back; she always did. He leaned back into his chair, plastering a smile on his face. After their last encounter, over breakfast of all things, they had been avoiding each other as much as possible.

It had been a foolish notion. In reality, how long could the two heads of Section elude each other? Hours if they were lucky, days if they were blessed.

The initial warning of Madeline's arrival was now paired with other tell-tale signs. If he concentrated enough, he could almost hear her skirt, undoubtedly black, swish against her legs, and, without concentrating at all, he could vision those legs - permanently engraved in his mind.

The final indication of her emergence was the quiet that rapidly set over Section, the equivalent to placing a blanket over a canary's cage. Of course, if you were being sought out by Madeline, and were unlucky enough to pick up on this and this alone, consider yourself caught.

Operations lit a cigarette in preparation; he knew he would need it.

Madeline slowly climbed the metal grid stairs, a huntress stalking it's prey. She smiled as she thought of this conversation; confrontation was likely to be more accurate, in that metaphor. She certainly did not intend to turn Paul into her prey; he was more of a toy just before the kill.

By this time Madeline had amused herself throughly, her eyes no longer icy and detached, but warm and dancing with humor.

As she advanced on Operations office, however, she adopted an indifferent look and took a deep breath upon opening the door.

It was time, and she had to wonder what would occur next.

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

"Come in," Operations offered, his back facing in her direction. Madeline stepped inside of his office, barely tolerating the smoke, and shut the door behind her.

This could get loud.

"My, this is appropriate," Madeline muttered, glancing around the dreary room. The window had been dimmed, they could see out - no one could see in. The lights were dimmed, the only light coming from a small lamp on the other side of the room.

"Explain," Operations demanded, swirling around in his chair, his face agitated. Madeline smiled as if she held the key to a secret, almost visually sweeping her comment away, and leaned against the doorframe, returning Operations' stare with one of her own.

"If you've called me here to engage in these delightful staring contests, I would rather pass," Madeline stated matter-of-factly after a short time had gone by.

Operations broke eye contact and lit another cigarette, deciding how to start.

"How are the recruits progressing?" Operations started, hating himself for not being able to face her.

Something that resembled disbelief flashed across Madeline's eyes, and she straightened her posture, her shoulders starting to ache from the hard wall already.

"Delightfully," Madeline sighed and sat demurely in a chair, giving up on her standing position, "since when did you become so verbose?" She was obviously frustrated and bored with the mindless chit-chat. Her message was clear, almost painfully - cut to the chase.

Operations allowed a small, forced smile, and tried a different tactic.

"About Charles," he began, his gaze fixed on a spot above Madeline's auburn hair.

Madeline's head snapped up, a move which she would later berate herself for, and she watched Operations with a measure of poison in her gaze, encouraging him to go further.

"There was a high probability that he was, or had been at one time, a traitor, Madeline, and you know it. I know that it must have been . . hard for you, to have him meet that end, but you have to accept this and move on. I've ordered so many other deaths, why should this be different?" He launched into his speech headfirst, not noticing the look that cloaked Madeline's face like a mask.

"What you did," Madeline began slowly, her voice monotone, "is order my husband's death," Madeline pushed herself to her feet, taking a stance against the window.

"What I DID was order the death of a loose end. You should be thankful that, not only did I attempt to take care of it, but that I didn't initially ask for you to cancel him yourself. As I have said in the past, you didn't have to kill him," Operations was standing now also, his last words escalating to shouts, and the fact that Madeline was not intimidated only fed that anger more.

"And, as I have said in the past, yes, I did. You tell me that I didn't have to cancel him, let Nikita take care of it, is that not what you have implied here? Yet, I don't think you wanted Charles canceled as much as you wanted to see Nikita follow through with your orders, and me suffer because of them. You know perfectly well what that would have done to her, I took matters into my own hands and I don't regret that. He died knowing that I loved him, which is how it should be. I don't really blame myself, not nearly as much as I blame you," Madeline's voice stayed calm through her vernacular, her voice not wavering the slightest.

Operations remained speechless, even as she advanced upon the door. As Madeline swung it open, he seemed to find his voice.

"I haven't dismissed you yet! I swear to God, Madeline, if you walk out of that door you will regret it!" He yelled after her, not caring how many people heard him. Madeline looked back over her shoulder and, with an infuriating smile, replied to his tirade.

"Sir," she began, her voice filled with respectful, almost mockingly so, making Operations smile smugly, "if you don't like it, you can always cancel me."

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

Madeline stared across the room, her copper eyes leveled and motionless. The setting sun highlighted her cinnamon hair, the subtle ruby strands standing out, fire set to them. Her lithe body, clad in black, reclined against the back of a wicker chair, hands folded neatly in front of her body.

The door to her left opened, and Madeline barely glanced over, knowing who it was.

"Thank you Christopher. You can leave that on the table."

Waiting until he had exited the room, Madeline exhaled deeply, closing her eyes. Lately, it had become so hard for her to keep up the blasé expression she had always maintained. She knew that certain people suspected that something was wrong, but they were kind enough to honor her dignity and not mention it.

Madeline leaned her head back against the chair and regulated her breathing. Then, slowly, she began to search for the solution to her problems. And the only way to do that, she knew, was to go back, go back to the beginning. Where it had all started.

After all, she asked herself, what was that saying? If we are ignorant . . .

Madeline stretched her legs out, sighing with the effort of relaxing. This was dangerous business she was delving in; her past was not the most favorable of her memories.

If we are ignorant of history, we are doomed to repeat it . . .

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

When Sarah died, my parents were devastated. Day after day they would walk to her grave, accompanied by brothers, uncles and parents, with armfuls of flowers and shower her headstone with the colorful blossoms. I, however, would watch from my bedroom window as they descended upon the graveyard, until the party had disappeared from my watchful gaze.

Soon, shock gave over to reality and my parents became terrified of me.

"She's the devil," I heard them whisper, so many nights, "how else could someone so young kill their own sister."

Meanwhile, I became withdrawn and distracted, as you can imagine one might. I started to detach myself from my surroundings. Instead of playing outside or downstairs, I would sit up in the attic, quietly reading to myself in my late grandmother's favorite chair as I knew she had been the only one who had really loved me, and the previous summer had been hard with her passing.

The whispers became louder, and my parents began to talk of sending me away.

"The hospital would be best Margaret," I heard my father whisper, "they can give her the proper care she needs, and we will be rid of all of her evil."

By the time they called a doctor to the house, I was eighty pounds and getting lighter. My mother would spend her nights crying, not knowing to send me away or nurse me back to health.

I would not eat anything, I avoided contact with anyone and, most frightening, I began to see Sarah. She would follow me about the house, chanting childhood songs and accusing me of all the wrongs in the world. The only place I could find relief from her seemed to be my bedroom, a quaint wooden room with large windows.

The pattern was incessant. I would wake up and dress, only to step out of my bedroom and be faced with the cornstarch white face of my dead sister. I would flee, down the stairs and out the front door, but she always seemed to be there. Watching me.

Until one starless night, I woke up to the velvety darkness embracing me and Sarah's fragile body sitting on the end of my bed, singing quietly.

Finally, this seemed to push me over the edge I had clung so desperately to. Dashing up to the attic, I left Sarah in my room, out-running her for once, and locked the door behind me.

Morning came, and my parents searched for me high and low, without prevailing. When they did discover the locked attic however, it seemed to be too late for me. I was shaking, cold and numb, in the corner, my eyes transfixed across the room. It has been said that, after my parents broke down the door, they heard me singing an old song, one that used to be Sarah's favorite. One that I would not hear again, until Gregor Kessler many years later.

After that incident, I was a statue. My eyes glazed, no life apparent in them, I rocked back and forth, hugging my legs to my chest.

"She's sick," the doctor confirmed, "get rid of her as fast as you can."

My parents listened to his warnings, as they gave them reason to get rid of the guilt of making the decision for themselves.

So, I left Baton Rouge for a strict, discipline school in Europe where I would prove to spend the rest of my childhood and most of my teenage years.

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

I spent a great deal of my time studying, mostly science and literature, and I taught myself different subjects on the side. Admittance to the school required an IQ test, something for which I had little tolerance, and it was discovered that I obtained an unusually high score of 162.

I put my past behind me that year, and though the memories may have been out of my initial thoughts, Sarah's face was never far behind, particularly during the dawn of a new day.

I was not what you would call popular in the school. I kept to myself - reluctant to join any social activities and, to be frank, bored with the mindless chatter of other people my age.

While my peers were talking of dating and gossip, I was working out complex physics problems and this did not bother me one bit. I found the solitude gratifying; the quiet periods gave me enough time to work out anything that needed to be thought about.

I graduated my school with high honors and emerged quite different than when I had come. I had arrived a small, fearsome child with slightly frizzy auburn hair and dull sienna eyes, and, when leaving, I was a grown woman, my hair shiny with a slight cinnamon wave, my eyes a bright chocolate cream once more.

I had been accepted to Princeton back in the States and returned ‘home' that summer with an eager outlook on life. I avoided my hometown as much as humanly possible with once childlike fear remaining - that when I went back, she would be there, waiting for me.

Enrolling in Princeton, I found the college experience worthwhile, challenging and a terrific opportunity. I decided to major in psychology, with a minor in criminology, as the two subjects fascinated me.

Four years later, I also graduated Princeton as one of the heads of my class. It looked as though my life was finally looking up, and I anticipated starting over, getting a respectable job and living without the fear of her being there, haunting me.

The next week, I was accepted into the FBI as an Intelligence Director, where I would preform many tasks based solely around my area of expertise - psychology.

It was on my first target practice that my whole world crumpled before me, all my dreams lost. All because of one little girl.

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

"Madeline," she heard her name being called in the distance, a welcome distraction from where her thoughts were headed next. Shaking her head, as though to clear it, Madeline turned her body around to face the voice.

Christopher stood in the doorway, hands on his hips and an upset expression written across his features. Madeline looked at him and knew automatically that she had just insulted him in the worst way.

"I thought you requested this," Christopher stated, casually sweeping his hand toward the table and the food, trying to maintain his calmness. She smiled, a sweet sight on her normally serene face, and stood gracefully.

Standing on her tip-toes, Madeline gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Of course I did, and I was just getting to it. Thank you," Madeline sat down dutifully at the one-person table and inclined her head.

"Alright," he responded gruffly to her teasing, "I'm going home."

"Good night, Christopher," Madeline called out in her even voice.

"Good night, Ms. Madeline," she heard him say from down the hall. Madeline smiled and shook her head. Christopher, fifteen years older than herself, had always tried to be a sort of father figure and, though she would not hear of it most of the time, some nights it was nice to have.

Lifting the cover off of the ceramic bowl, Madeline inhaled deeply, savoring the spicy aroma. She looked down, spoon in hand, and began to stir the thick, tomato soup, red droplets sprinkling the sides of the bowl.

The thick crimson liquid swirled in her bowl, a harsh reminder of her past.

"How ironic," she thought, "the choice of soup tonight."

Uninvited, her thoughts came back to her, a wave washing over the shore.

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

I had chambered the bullets in my gun, paying tedious attention to the task at hand. Soon I was firing clean, straight shots into a black, shadowy target, one hundred feet away. I had always been a good shot. I had the eye for it.

Suddenly, I heard a commotion behind me and, pushing the safety on the Glock, I turned, only to be faced with the gaping expressions of twenty miniature first graders, taking the yearly tour. A slight smile worked it's way onto my face and I could hear my SAC now, "Humor them a little, Agent."

Deciding that I would do just that, I took the safety off and began to shoot, allowing them a view of my target.

Suddenly, the sounds around me faded as I watched a little girl cross the distance towards me. Her hair the same shade as mine, and her eyes, while the same color, were wide and expressive - the same figure who had haunted my nightmares for over twenty years.

In a state of panic, I whirled on her, my tormentor, and began to fire shot after shot, long after she had fallen. I laughed, a chilling sound, as I rejoiced the final death of my sister.

People swarmed around me, calling out my name, checking the child and hysterics breaking out.

Everything in front of me collided as I realized what I had done. The little girl, whom I had mistaken for my dead sister, had been a small mirror image of Sarah, and had managed to separate from her group and come into the shooting range, only wanting to see, close up, my shooting abilities.

Tears streamed down my face as I collapsed onto the floor, in shock.

After that fateful day, Sarah never came again.

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

Madeline stared down into the hot liquid, gazing at her expression reflected back at her. She was aware of her burning eyes and, after all this time, her hands still shook with that memory.

Lifting the spoon to her mouth, Madeline sipped the soup slowly; cherishing it's warmth as it spread through her body.

Repulsion bubbled up inside of her however, and Madeline quickly discarded the utensil; forcing herself to cross the room.

Madeline collapsed onto the couch, suddenly becoming tired and weary.

And, with her ever present guilt, she closed her eyes; reliving scene after horrifying scene.

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

Soon after the incident, I was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole after claiming temporary insanity. My lawyer said that I was lucky I hadn't been sentenced to the death penalty. I don't recall feeling particularly lucky.

For two sleepless nights I endured the hardships of prison, becoming cold and carefully manipulative as a necessity to live.

Then, on a cold, windy night, the lights in my block went out; cloaking us all in blackness. Chants and screams of obscene choice comments littered the air not five seconds after the black out. I turned on my side and faced the wall, trying to block out their voices.

I can still hear the metal barrier squeaking as it opened, and my fate awaited me.

My first two years in Section were uncommonly easy for me to adjust to. I had the discipline, intelligence and willingness to live, the only thing I had to accept was the control over my every move. I had no problem with killing, it seemed as though after my first kill, the act lost it's meaning.

They say that I passed with flying colors, in every department. My strength, obviously, was Psych Ops and I was to be placed there after a routine period as a field operative.

I was Level One, as I can recall, and, already, everyone was frightened of me.

Adrian was my mentor, Paul my comrade; the only people in Section that I got along with. I will easily admit, however, that I was cold to both of them, and did not make any indication of ever wanting their company.

They stuck by me never-the-less, and I soon began to relax in their presence. It was Adrian who introduced me to Charles, at a government party that we had attended just for kicks.

Charles and I fell in love quickly, dated for a little over four months and were engaged shortly thereafter. Our wedding was small and quick, our honeymoon non-existent. He was a First Tier Operative with the Section, and hardly ever home; while I was moving quickly up in the ranks and had earned Level Four Operative within one year.

Both of us were dedicated to our work and, it seemed, a perfect match. There was a drawback, as there usually is, being that the hours I didn't spend devoted to Section, I spent with Charles. I had begun to neglect my other friends.

Adrian, being able to see a woman's point of view, understood and welcomed me with open arms any time I was free to visit. Paul was less forgiving.

Paul's and my relationship deteriorated, while the bond between Charles and I grew stronger.

It was not long after that I learned of Charles ‘death'.

I was devastated, as a good wife should be, and spent my now free hours mourning the loss of my husband and best friend. Paul appeared to be there when I needed him, and was my support and common sense until I got back on my feet.

We remained good friends for four years, until Adrian's death.

I had always suspected that Paul had wanted something more for us, but, with Adrian in power, he knew that it was not possible and I had no need to worry about any advances he might have made in a different situation.

Adrian had a stoke in the summer of 86; Paul was promoted to Operations and I to his Second-in-Command.

Section flourished under our watchful eyes, being more effective and precise than in years.

Operations, as he had come to be known, and I had a summer ‘fling' the year after our take over and, as I had suspected getting into the relationship, it was short and sweet. No bitter feelings were left over and we went back to being each other's soul support, as it had been before.

Now, so many years later, how did it all get so complicated?

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

A knocking at the door shook Madeline from her reverie with a suddenness that she was obviously not expecting. She began to rise from the couch and found that there was no need.

He had used his key.

A key she was not aware he had.

"Where did you get that," Madeline called out in annoyance, not bothering to look at him. Operations glanced down at the gold key in his palm and then back at her, a smile on his face as he decided that it would be best not to answer.

He crossed the room slowly, taking in her shadowy appearance against the backdrop of the setting sun; seen through the amazingly large windows in her living room.

He came to stand behind her and rested his hands hesitantly on her shoulders. Madeline stiffened at his touch, unable to relax.

"Mind if I sit down?" Operations asked quietly, removing his hands. Madeline shrugged, indifferent either way.

Operations came around the couch to sit beside her, and took her hand with discretion.

And there they sat, until the break of day, all forgotten, if not forgotten, - until the next time.

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