Prologue

"….Have you tried, Michael?  Have you really tried to crush out her feelings?"  Operations' probing questions regarding the destruction of Nikita's compassion, her sense of feeling, her "final flaw" kept roiling around in Michael's thoughts.  He covered his true response to Operation's inquiry well enough, he thought, but he knew that he would have to do something about it.  It was an order, plain and simple.  Operations had finally seen something in Nikita, some of her strength and steel had revealed itself to him, and he approved of it. He was slowly realizing that Nikita could become one of the best and brightest, however he felt that one last tweak to the material was required.  And, just by his mention of it, Operations expected it to be done. And, like all tasks put before him, Michael would complete this one, too. 

Nikita's compassion had to go.

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

First

"Arrrrrgh!"  Slap, kick, punch, grab….breathing heavily, Nikita wiped the sweat dripping down the side of her face with the back of her right hand. Through her headphones the music was pounding in a rhythmic beat, giving her the energy to finish up with her intensive workout.  She'd started with cardio, spent two hours at the hologram target practice room, and had just finished beating the kickbag senseless.  She was sweaty and tired, but wanted to try out some of the quick grabs and jabbing moves the Sensei had shown the class earlier in the day. 

Nikita glanced over at the other end of the workout room, catching a glimpse of Michael instructing a few new recruits in the fine art of hand to hand.  The Sensei was at his side, observing the class and demonstrating with Michael.  Michael, as usual, was fully focused on the task at hand, his hands moving effortlessly through the motions of snapping a neck, or breaking an arm.  His demeanor was cold, calm, efficient, . . .  emotionless.   He was barely sweating.  Yet he'd been there for the past six hours. He'd started with his own heavy workout, followed by the painstaking, single-minded, exhaustive procedure of molding these newest charges. Those same charges, however, looked like they had been ready to drop ages ago. 

Nikita caught all this in a glance, and swiftly looked away…it wouldn't do for him to notice her staring.  "hmmmmm, he looks good…" she sighed, and she suddenly caught herself, "what am I thinking?  I am not letting myself get involved…."  She wrenched her mind back to her workout and thought, "now, how did that grabbing move go?"  

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

Second

Michael did notice Nikita's glance, yet beyond the smallest flicker of the eyes, showed no emotion.  He had become used to holding his responses in check; it was now second nature to him.  He had decided upon his plan; the starting point was today.  It had been a few weeks since Nikita's first mission as team leader, and she had performed flawlessly leading the missions Section had assigned to her since the burst of activity earlier in the month.

Nikita had started on the specialized wrist holds the Sensei had demonstrated this morning, he noticed, and she was having a little trouble with one of the more complicated moves.  He itched to touch her skin, smell her hair, feel the heat of those neon blue eyes.   Except for the few moments he'd spent in her apartment when he was telling her about his past and his dealings with Rene, she had been by turns haughty or icy cold towards him.  Michael knew Nikita had erected her emotional barriers against him, and he had mixed thoughts about that.  On the one hand, he knew she needed to learn how to keep herself from being hurt by Section's manipulations, and the "whoring" she had to do in Section's name, but he really didn't know if he wanted her spark, her light, her joie de vivre to be extinguished.  Yet, that was his task, set to him by Operations, and one he must fulfill.

"We're finished here. Go clean up. Be ready tomorrow at 5 am," Michael instructed the recruits.  He stood stoically by and watched the newest batch drag themselves off to the showers.  Grabbing a towel from the rack, he slowly walked over to where Nikita was working.  "You need to transfer downward pressure to the fingers on your top hand," he murmured to her.  Nikita's workout partner's eyes widened as she did so, and suddenly he dropped to the floor.   Nikita let up on the hold and turned to Michael.  "I was applying the pressure, I was just detailing the move slowly," she said, her eyes flashing.  Michael stepped closer, "Yes.  But the counter-move goes like this."  He grasped her wrist and a moment later tightened his grip.    She reacted as he expected her to, and he countered with an opposing motion.  She was trapped, and he knew it.  He applied calculated pressure, and down she went.  Michael released her a second later, acknowledging her barely audible gasp, and her immediate grasp of the concept.  "Good.  Try it that way now."  Michael stood back and let her practice on the forgotten partner.  "Good."  Michael turned to go, but hesitated, "We have a briefing in one hour.  I'll see you there."

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

Third

The village was lively tonight.  Police sirens blared, car horns barked, the neon buzzed incessantly.  An oily sheen covering the asphalt reflected the lights of the taxi cabs as Michael strode down Spring Street in Greenwich Village.  He was dressed in his usual black, but with a harder edge.  A long black overcoat swept the ground, his black boots were heeled and pointed, he had a heavy silver ring on his left hand, along with a banded bracelet encircling his right wrist.  Michael's flat sterling silver belt buckle caught the light of a dozen headlights, and his eyes glistened as he noted the opening times spray painted on the outside of the security gates hiding the entrances to a few loft gallery spaces. 

He was headed for the Zinc Spot, an underground artists' cafe to meet with some of the other art buyers in town.  He needed to find out how the microchips were getting into Zurich. Two chips were discovered by a deep cover op based in Amsterdam at, of all places, an art gallery.  The gallery was not one of those posh quiet little places where big money splashed its way around, rather it was an experimental sculpture gallery, with an attached studio.  Section One had already interrogated the owner, who didn't know a thing...except that Zog, the artist whose work carried the chip was on the emerging front, and a new art contact had suggested the gallery show Zog's work.  Zog was known to frequent lower Manhattan, Zurich, Amsterdam, and Paris, but he was a hard fish to find, he typically kept out of the limelight, living the underground life, acting the cool dude.  The primary theory was that Jeremy Hertzog, or Zog, his artist name, was given the chips to include in his sculptures, and the "buyers" picked up the work, destroyed it, and grabbed the chips for their own manipulations.

During the briefing, Operations explained that these microchips were used in controlling the flow of cash worldwide, thus controlling the world's economy. They were especially important now because of the advent of a global currency in Europe. Operations had hammered in the fact that if these chips are tampered with and not discovered before the Euro goes into circulation, the world's economy would be in danger.  The terrorists could hold the whole world hostage - they would have the ability to collapse the European market with ease.  The American and Asian markets would be not far behind, and no one would be able to do a thing.  

How Zog got pulled into this mess was anyone's guess. But because of Michael's art cover, he was selected to head up the surveillance and gather more intel. Nikita would come onto the scene later, after Michael had set up his cover with the artists.

All of this ran through Michael's mind in a split second.  He had reviewed his contemporary art knowledge, and was prepared to face the world he had thought was long gone to him.   His professors had said that he was a promising art student during his years at Paris University.  However, because of his affiliation with Rene and the Bloody Owl, followed by Michael's arrest after the bombing demonstration, all of that promise had been methodically destroyed.  Or, that was what Section thought.

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

Four

"aaaah Michel!" exclaimed the short, squat man with the angled buzz cut cropping his dark hair.  "I'm delighted you could make it.  Sit down, sit down, please."  Charles reached out with one finely manicured hand and pulled a chair out for Michael.  "Pascque, may I introduce Michel LaBlanc, direct from Paris. Michel owns "Y2K" the hottest new gallery in the City of Light.  Michel, Pascque Santos, originally from Argentina, he's now THE contact for the underground arts scene.  Pascque, I've invited Michel here to meet with some of the newer experimental artists in town.  And, since you know Everyone, I thought you two would make a fabulous match. Don't you think so, darling?"  Charles caressed Pascque's hand, batted his eyes, and smiled first at Pascque, then Michel. 

"Well, why don't we get acquainted?"  With a motion of his wrist, Charles signaled a waiter, and ordered martinis for everyone.  "oh, Michel, so silent, so strong, so-o-o...hmmm, I must apologize, I can be such a flirt with such men as you,"  Charles laughed, and said, "and so, on to business."  "No, don't apologize, I'm just a bit tired from the jeg lag," Michael replied, as he reached over to stroke Charles' shoulder.  The corners of Michael's lips turned up slightly, and he inclined his head, "Mais oui, business before pleasure. Oui?"

The trio spoke long into the night, exclaiming over the latest art conquests, the closing of several galleries, the re-opening of a few more.  Michael wowed them with stories of his latest discoveries and brought out some of his own work to display.  There were the requisite oohs and aaahs, until he brought out one last drawing.  This was a charcoal rendering of a fierce looking blonde staring right out of the canvas.  Her eyes were aflame with passion and, something else, something indefinable.  She looked like a wild thing brought out of the jungle, caged, yet still deadly.  "And this....this is one of my most recent discoveries. She's strong, she's intense, she's talented. I've attempted to capture her essence on the page.  But it doesn't do her justice.  You'll meet her. She's arriving here in a few days," Michael explained.  "Her work is very experimental, primitive, intuitive, and yet playful.  She's been on the underground front in Australia for a few years, and I think she's ready to break through any minute.  Pascque, I thought you might introduce her to some of your colleagues."  Pascque nodded, "But of course, my friend, anything I can do, especially for you."  Pascque smiled, eyes twinkling mischievously.  "And what may I ask in return?"

"Well, well, well, why don't we go off to the clubs?" Charles interrupted, "it's 2am, and the night's just starting.  We'll go dance the night away.  There's a new rave going on in Chelsea, and, of course, the night's not complete without a visit to The Cellar.  We've completed business for the evening, now it's time for pleasure.  Michel, let us show you how we party New York style!"  As the three men got up from their chairs, Michael murmured to Pascque, "I'll let you know," as he eyed Pascque from head to toe.

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

Five

She strode into Section, blonde hair swept up into a loose French roll, her ice blue eyes reflecting the grey walls of the hall.  Her slim black leather skirt and red leather vest accented her lithe figure, alternating with her long black overcoat, which dusted the floor as she walked.  She had a meeting with Madelaine, and she was late. She quickened her pace, noting Walter concentrating on one of his special projects, and Birkoff seemingly staring into space at his computer. "He's probably making one of those amazing leaps of logic that will set up the rest of the mission," she thought to herself.  As Nikita approached Madelaine's office, she schooled her face into one of Michael's patented blank stares, and entered the lair.

Madelaine looked up briefly as Nikita settled herself in the blue chair across from her desk.  She noted the severe yet sensual look Nikita had adopted for this mission, with a certain sense of satisfaction.  "Nikita truly is becoming one of us," Madelaine observed, as she collected her thoughts and began with Nikita.

"Michael has just set up his cover with the art buyers, and he is awaiting your arrival. I know you've already reviewed your PDA, however I have a few salient points to add.  You know that your cover is that of an experimental artist, very hard-edged, very radical.  I have arranged for your artwork to be delivered to the hotel where you will be staying, however, I have a few pieces here that you may want to familiarize yourself with. Because you may be asked to demonstrate your techniques, I expect you to work on these, and be ready to perform as required.  You'll be leaving for New York tomorrow."

Madelaine unveiled the first of two multimedia assemblages.  The first looked something akin to the inside of a computer, with chips, wires, plaster, paint, chicken wire, and tubing, yet it also looked like a human torso.  There was a distinctively menacing quality to the work, as if it were the heart and brain of a larger body, a controlling body.  After the first look, the tubes changed into I.V. lines, the chips into eyes, and the wires into limbs controlling….what?  The other sculpture consisted of a plaster framework which was covered with twigs, feathers, bones, and other general detriment affixed in a seemingly random pattern.  After a moment, a grisly face appeared, the visage a sickly fleshy color, its eyes boring out of the skull, the mouth a misshapen hole screaming soundlessly.  Nikita shuddered, "This is so tortured, it makes me sick. I'm supposed to create this stuff?" she asked.  Madelaine's eyes hardened as she replied, "Yes. You can do it.  I know you have the ability to create work such as this."  Nikita groaned, "yeah, you probably did this one yourself," she thought inwardly. 

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

Six - Rated R

Soft cries split the night.  Panting with passion, twin pulses pounding, chests heaving, the sweat-slicked bodies moved in the timeless erotic dance of the ages.  Blond locks whipped frenetically, their bright strands mingling with darker ones. His mouth suckled an earlobe as hands wildly caressed broad shoulders and made their way down the back, lower, lower, gliding around to the front, where the furnace was fully in flame.  Nails scratched and love bites trailed from chin to chest. Bodies arched, and with one final plunge and gasp, shuddered and released. Clothes lay forgotten snarled in a heap at the foot of the bed.  The two bodies slept, their passion lay spent, waiting for dawn to rise again.

Michael gently ran his hand down the finely muscled shoulder and arm of the body nestled spoonlike next to him in bed.  "Mon chere," he murmured softly into the ear hidden among tangled blond tresses.  "Tonight was exquisite, but we must face the day.  We both have much to accomplish.  I must be at the airport….Nikita's plane lands at ten."   Pascque groaned sleepily, "Yeah, I guess I hafta make myself presentable to meet with your 'young rising star'.  I've got a bunch a' calls to make today, and a shitload of stuff to handle."  Pascque rolled over to face Michael, kissing him lightly on the lips.  "We'll meet laytta, say sixish, for drinks? You can introduce me to your Nikita. We'll do dinner and afta I can show her off to some of the others." 

Michael nodded, "Yes, that would be fine."  Pascque went on to say, as he traced his finger down the side of Michael's face, "but be ready, a hard day of work will make me hungry again, and I may just wanna feast on you for dessert!"   Something indefinable passed over Michael's features, then he gave a small smile, whispering, "perhaps…. but some desserts are better left well anticipated and ….. varied.  You may be entranced by Nikita."  Michael's hand traveled lower, tracing the elaborate Asian tattoo from shoulder to hip as he continued, "you never know just what will happen."  

The golden-tinned ceiling glittered. The neon bands wrapped around the blond wood bar as if hugging it close.  Conversation ebbed and flowed, with small geyers of laughter here and there.  Pascque and Charles had met them for dinner, as promised, reserving the best table at Circque 2000, the hot nightspot of the moment. They were situated a little away from the crowd, yet within sighting distance of all who entered.  Nikita, surrounded by the beautiful, the bawdy, and the ones who chose to startle with appearance, was swaying the crowd. 

"...and so I grabbed this big muck of a man and told him my work was not for sale to the likes of him.  He wanted to put it up on the wall 'cause it matched his couch!" said Nikita, gaily, to a round of sympathetic laughter and groans.  "Yes, indeed, it's terrible when people don't want to even try to understand the work," consoled Charles, "oh, the work, the work is the most important thing, and the message, of course, the message that you're trying to convey, it must be heard, it must be absorbed, it's just too important to be ignored."  Charles leaned over to Nikita, "I understand, dearie, and am proud that you stood up for your values and refused that lout and his money."  Nikita laughed, "Oh, well, I did sell it to him...at double the price!  I needed to pay the rent!  But I gave him a copy, not the original.  He wouldn't have known the difference, anyway."    

"I know of a number of openings that are happening tonight; we must make at least an appearance at a few of them. It would be a wonderful chance for Nikita to get to know the group, don't you think, Michel?" Charles asked, his liquid brown eyes sliding from Michael to Pascque to Nikita. Michael nodded, "yes….it's just what the evening requires."  As he placed his fingers upon Pascque's hand, he continued, "Pascque has promised me that he would spread the word about Nikita." Michael gazed at Pascque, and asked, "they are waiting for us, yes?" 

Nikita's eyes widened as she caught a piece of the unspoken message in Michael's eyes.  Was it a threatening look he shot over to Pascque, or that of a promise to be kept?  Or, of things unnamed, yet to come?  God, he said so much with his eyes, sometimes it was frightening how much she could read into them, she thought.

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

      Seven

They went to more than half a dozen galleries, lofts, and studios, meeting and greeting, until they were almost stumbling from the effects of wine, champagne, and overly rich foods.  "I've never seen so many varieties of piercings and tattoos in my life, and I know lots of aboringine folk!" exclaimed Nikita  "I'm pooped, can we go back to the hotel now, Michael?" she asked, as she leaned onto Pascque's shoulder, balancing on one foot as she massaged her toes.

"Hey, wait, we can't go yet," complained Pascque, "we've gotta get to Zog's place...he almost never has openings, and when he does, they're by strict invite only.  I had to almost bribe the guy to get 'em to let us come."  Michael's eyes glittered, finally, a chance at the target!  "He has this paranoid artist thing goin', he never stays in one place very long and his openings are always in some nasty hell-hole downtown," Pascque explained, "he sez that if he interacts with other artists all the time, his "muse" is gonna get contaminated...like we're gonna mess him up?!?  Anyways, he don't want people to get to know him.  Zog won't talk about his art, or himself….I guess he wants the art to speak for him," Pascque finished slowly. 

"Well then, we will go see his art ......and.....find out what it can tell us," replied Michael.  With Pascque sandwiched between the two operatives, each of his arms linked comfortably around Michael and Nikita's waist, they sauntered down the street in search of a cab. It was about 430 am, and the last of the revelers had straggled off to their homes.  It had been an opening to go down in the history books. All of the works had been tagged as sold, with bidding wars going on for a few selected pieces.  And, he had gotten a new contract with that hot gallery buyer from Paris.  Man, the things that one could say with his eyes….and that walk!  Good old Pascque had set him up beautifully, and Zog was glad to have played the game with Pascque.  Why, Pascque had practically begged to be 'allowed' to come to the opening, and now he knew why.  Pascque always was a sucker for a beautiful body, and shit, did Michel know how to use his for professional gain. "hmmm, wonder if he uses it for other purposes…." Zog briefly let his thoughts stray into what he would like to do to that particular body, then he wrestled them back to reviewing the evening.

Allowing Pascque and his friends into the party had always been a part of his plan.  He knew he could depend on the usual crew showing up, but he always kept room for a few select individuals he 'arranged' to attend.  He had spent considerable time and energy  cultivating his reputation as an eccentric recluse, selecting his openings carefully, (although to the casual eye, it looked quite haphazard), and scattering the gallery locations to the winds.  It actually made for better attendance at the few openings he publicized.  Having heard the buzz on the street about Michel, knew that the name 'Zog' was about to break big in Paris.  Plus, he had other reasons for wanting to get his work into Paris.  His mind slammed shut…. "NO, don't go there!" he mentally shouted at himself with a start. Just concentrate on the art, the art is the important thing, not the money, not the fame, not the….whatever.

Zog shivered, his whole body had caught a chill just thinking about what those guys would do to him if he messed this up.  He rubbed his hands together quickly, as he picked his way through the leavings of the opening.  He had been very clearly instructed to get his work into Paris, and on into Italy.  They told him it was imperative that his work be available throughout all of Europe by the end of 1999.  He had no idea why they wanted this, and he never asked, too afraid of the answer, and of what they might do to him if he showed any resistance or questioning.  He told himself to be happy that the work sold, that he was getting deserved recognition for his art.  And he damn well did deserve it, after all the years of toil, grime and sweat, he had sworn to himself that he would be on top of the world one day.  And he was going to get there, no matter what he had to do, and was damn well proud of that fact. 

Now, that blond chick, Nikita, she was a kicker.  Zog had the feeling that she was on the same wavelength as he, dying to make it big, but not showing the world her hunger.  And, the surprising thing was, he liked her stuff.  He had seen a few shots of her work passed around the scene, and was actually intrigued enough to want to see some of it in real life.  …and she wasn't too bad to look at either, but, he'd have to tread carefully, it wouldn't do to seem too interested, he had to remember his personae.  He remembered that she'd slipped him her number at the hotel before the trio had left.  Pawing through the papers on his desk, Zog decided that he would call her tomorrow. 

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

Eight

Another gallery scoped, inspected, and clean, thought Michael, as he and Pascque strolled out of yet another gallery.  This mission was taking more time than he had planned.  And, it was exhausting him, what with the daily treks around the art galleries and the active nightlife of an art dealer, especially a gay art dealer.  He hardly got a chance to close his eyes.  He glanced at his watch, noting the time.  He allowed himself to be slightly annoyed.  "Man, you look bushed!" Pasque exclaimed, "what, didn't you sleep well last night?" he commented, chuckling, "I sure did! I thought I tired you out.  Well, I'll just have to try harder tonight."

"No, I didn't" replied Michael, "and, actually, I have other plans for this evening."

"What? Hmmmm other plans…are you slipping away for another rendezvous?  With your blonde bombshell, perhaps?" Pascque teased.  "And I thought you were a one-man man!" 

Michael looked Pasque in the eyes.  He gave him his patented blank stare, waited one beat, then two, and said, "Yes….. to both questions.  Nikita is meeting me at the hotel.  We have some things to discuss." 

"Well, do ya wanna meet afta? I can wait…hey, I'll even take sloppy seconds!"  laughed Pascque, stepping closer to Michael. 

"Pasque!" Michael replied quietly, eyes turning a decidedly darker shade of green, "That subject is closed."

"oh, all right, all right, don't get yer frenchies in a fire!  I was just teasin'" Pascque said in a hurt voice.  "it's just that I can't seem to get enough of you and you're gonna be leaving soon.  I wanna get as much of you as I can get."

Michael slowed his pace, turned and looked at Pasque for a full minute.  "Later," he promised.

"Michael, report," Operation's voice barked over the comlink.  "What is the status?"  Michael gazed out and down into the concrete canyon of the city from his hotel suite window.  "I've infiltrated the experimental artists group, they call themselves 'CYRK.'  Pascque Santos, CYRK's leader, accepts me as a peer and as one of the group.  We've been inspecting galleries and meeting with artists and suppliers.  Everything has come up clean.  Nikita is meeting with Zog tonight.  He's bringing her to his primary studio.  I will track them and scan the studio while she's occupying him." 

"Michael, our intel shows that Zog is not the only artist within this group that has been contacted by NAFA," Operations instructed.  "Another manipulated chip was found in Zurich!  Do whatever it takes, Michael," Operations replied angrily.  "George is breathing down our necks, we've got to get this moving!  The suppliers and their contacts must be in our hands within the week."

"Yes," Michael replied. 

"well, Zog, this sure is a great studio, how'd you ever find one so large?" Nikita asked, teasingly.  "I just love your work, it really speaks to me,"  she continued.  "In fact, where'd you get your inspiration?  And how did you ever find this?  I've got to pick your brain on a few techniques and suppliers, if I may. 

"Nikita, keep him busy for ten more minutes," Michael instructed through the comlink, "I'm completing scanning now." 

"so, do you start with machettes, or is it all free-form sculpture?" she asked.  "What do you use for models? I like to start with clay, and build a structure, and then the ideas just start coming to me as it grows.  It's more ambiguous if I don't have a concrete plan…" she giggled, smiling enticingly towards him.

Zog was entranced, although this bubble-headed blonde seemed as empty headed as a balloon, he could see the wheels turning in her head as she spoke.  Her work spoke volumes to him, and he wanted to see the controlling menace that was portrayed in her work in her, yet it wasn't visibly apparent at the moment.  Not at this particular moment, that is, he amended to himself. "Now I wonder, did the controlling aspect show itself only in more intimate circumstances?" he wondered.  How did she do it?  How did she split herself in two? Or, perish the thought, was the work even really hers?  He needed to find out, and decided to be blunt about it.  "So, is the work really yours?" he asked.  Nikita looked up from the weird sculpture she was studying and a slow wicked-looking smile crept across her face.

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

Nine 

During the briefing Michael had given Nikita prior to the rendezvous at Zog's studio, he had mentioned that Zog had peculiar tastes.  Nikita gritted her teeth, and had asked, "how peculiar?  When these artists call themselves 'experimental' they really mean it ­ in all aspects of the word, don't they, Michael…" 

"Zog is into control…" Michael had replied, slowly, "he's into role playing, and pain turns him on. You will need to be strong ­ take the upper hand.  I will be on-site, but unable to help you.  Be warned." 

With that, he subsided into his usual silence, and thought to himself, "merde, I don't know if I can listen to them together."  He blinked, and his head shook in a minute quick motion.  "Perspective, Michael!" He admonished himself strongly, "You know she can do this.  And she must….per Operation's orders……I must make her take this next step…I don't want to do this, but I can't protect her anymore…."

Michael turned and walked away, anguish roiling within him, yet on the surface, it was as if nothing mattered.  The mask was more firmly in place than ever.  Nikita watched him a moment, and decided to herself, "well, I can play that control game just as well…look who I've had for a teacher!"  She continued, "and role playing?  God, Michael has certainly played a role with me, from time to time, as Madelaine has often reminded me.  In fact, he's doing quite well playing this 'role' for this mission.  It seems like he's enjoying this particular role more than any others he's had to do recently."  Nikita paled, and sudden realization hit her, "is this his real orientation? Is this the reason why he's so conflicted by our nights together?  Is this why he seems so much more relaxed than I've ever seen him?  He actually lets Pascque touch him!  Is this the 'thing that must remain hidden?'  God!"  She sat down with a thump.  She shot a quick glance at Michael, noting that he was heading off towards his room to prepare for tonight, and she let out her breath in a short quiet huff, not realizing that she had been holding it in.  Her head was spinning, her thoughts clouded, she didn't know what to do.

"No, no I refuse to believe this.  He was married!  He had a child!  He..he.." Nikita closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.  "Calm yourself, girl, this is just another role, another part of the puzzle that is Michael…and Section," she thought angrily, adding the last part with a vengeance.  "I've finally learned to accept the different roles we are forced to don for the Section, but, when is comes to Michael, I need to know when and …if …. the passion is ever real."

"oh, do you really want to know if the work I do is mine?" cooed Nikita as she slowly straightened up from the sculpture she had been studying.  She ran her hands down the sides of her fitted red leather dress, smoothing it down. Her arms were bare, except for two sterling silver cuffs encircling one wrist.  The spun silk blonde hair was fashioned simply, pulled back from her face loosely. She wore a silver choker wrapped around her neck, and her heeled black leather boots were laced up from toes to kneecaps.  "Now, why would you have doubts as to the true birthmother of the art?"  Nikita asked, a dangerous glint to her eye, as she sinuously sauntered towards Zog. 

Zog stood, open mouthed, staring at the transformation that had taken place in the space of heartbeat.  He was staring straight into the eyes of a predator.  An image of a great stalking cat came unbidden to his mind's eye.  He felt himself start to stir; his breath quickening.  He stood up straighter.

Nikita slid her hand along the metal railing of the walkway; the glint in her eyes had caught fire as she closed in on Zog.  "No. One. Questions. My. Work." Each syllable was clearly defined, and each word was strategically directed to specific portions of Zog's anatomy.

"I do," countered Zog, instantly recognizing that a power struggle was about to commence.

"Well now, aren't we the stubborn one...you don't realize who you're playing with, do you?" crooned Nikita.

Her hand cupped Zog's chin, and her fingers squeezed. "Now. Do. You. Understand?" She asked, placing her face barely an inch away from Zog's.  "Yyyy  y….y…" Zog stammered, his face flushed, eyes staring fixedly, while he internally wrestled to control his body. His hands were sweating, breath coming in labored gasps, beads of sweat started at his hairline. God, he was enjoying this!  He usually preferred to be the dominant one, but this, this was a whole new role.

Zog gulped, took a measured breath, and asked, "Wwwwhat …..do you want me to say?"

Nikita gave a feral smile, and stroked the back of Zog's head, "you will say whatever I want…won't you?"  Zog had backed up against the wall of his studio, Nikita grabbed Zog's head and pulled it back, licking her lips sensuously, breathing, anticipating, and finally, striking.  She gave him a feather touch of her lips, and as he eagerly tried to develop the kiss, she slapped him once across the face. Hard.  

"ah, ah, ah, not too much, too soon, now..." she murmured.  "Down, on your knees!" she commanded. "Look up, face me," she continued, as she removed her double bracelet and twisted it once.  It turned into a pair of handcuffs.  "One hand...and the other..." she clipped each of the cuffs to his wrists, behind his back. Then she removed her silver collar and pulled it apart.  It stretched out into a long chain, which she then wound around his neck and tethered to the iron railing.

"My, don't you look much much better..." she exclaimed.  "Now this is how the game is played...you answer me with what I want to hear, and you get a gift...and that gift may be a good one, or it may be a nasty one....do ya wanna play?" Nikita asked, sliding one hand down the front of Zog's shirt, as she leaned down giving him a good look at the valley of her breasts.

Zog nodded, very excited now, not sure if he could utter a word.  His heart was pounding, his eyes were swimming, he felt like he was about to burst.  When she put the cuffs on him, her touch was like lightning, firing up the nerve impulses all over his body. God, she was good, and if this played out like he thought it would he would surely have something to talk about tomorrow.

Nikita whacked him across the face once again.  "Answer me!" she repeated, quietly.

"yes, I want to play," Zog breathed. 

"Good boy. Now, how do you get your art work all over Europe?" She asked, as she started to rip Zog's shirt down the middle...pop...pop...pop...each button bounced to the floor, as she waited for an answer.

Now Zog was really confused...and....a little worried...he didn't like thinking about why his work went anywhere, especially to Europe.  And he thought she was going to ask, well, um, sexual questions.....he decided to banter..."I use an art agent, like your pretty boy, Michel," he replied.

Riiiippp! Went all the buttons on the shirt.  Slap! The shirt was whipped against Zog's body, stinging his chest.  Soft hands caressed his chest, then pinched his nipples, nails biting into flesh.  The chain linked around his neck squeezed tighter, restricting his breathing.

"Noooo.  I want to know who brings your work to Zurich, and Amsterdam, and who your buyers are, and where you get your supplies....," Nikita commanded. 

Her hands released the tension on his chain, and started working their way downward, toward his belt buckle.  She crouched down, leaning closer, whispering into his ear, "I want a piece of that action....and ..... you will give me that piece now."  She slowly unzipped his pants, pulling them down around his knees. 

"I can't..." Zog began, "you don't know what they'll do to me..." he was actually starting to whimper.  The contrast between the hot secret she was promising him if he answered her and the chill realization of what would happen to him if he really told her was making him tremble with more than just plain desire. 

Slap!  Slap!  Slap!  She whacked his rear, watching in appreciation as his cheeks crimsoned regally.  Satisfied, her hand started towards his front. 

"Nikita, I've received confirmation.  The chips are here. Find out where he gets them,"  Michael's voice came over the comlink, startling her. 

She had almost forgot he was there....she had been actually enjoying herself, getting rid of some unnamed frustration.  Well, she amended to herself it really wasn't unnamed, just unspoken.

She focused herself back on the task at hand, grabbed Zog's throbbing member and squeezed. 

"Uhhhhhhnnnnnnnnngh!" groaned Zog, "uh, uh,"

Nikita lowered her mouth to the tip of Zog's shaft, and licked.

"ohhhhhhhh, pleeease, more! mmore!" Zog moaned, his control barely there.  He could barely form a coherent thought, his brain was buzzing, his blood was roaring, he was seeing spots before his eyes. 

Nikita pulled back..."and the answer to my question is?" she asked, sweetly, promising...

Zog took a deep trembling breath, and gasped, "Charles."

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

Ten

Charles stared out the window of his lavishly appointed office. His ornately carved antique desk was pristine, piles of papers lay ordered neatly in a row to the right of his blotter. To the left his computer sat, patiently awaiting orders.  His meticulously trimmed and buffed nails beat a measured pattern upon the desktop, as he sat, waiting for a call, a very important call.

Orders had come down that a new shipment of microchips were ready to be disbursed.  He knew the last two shipments had gone on their way, safely reaching the final destination.  However there had been a delay in supplying him with the latest materials, therefore this new shipment was going to be twice the size of any others. On top of that, Zog's most recent work had just been completed and sold; he would have to lean on Zog to create more, and supply him with the materials.  It was imperative that this particular shipment met the deadline. Hence, Charles would have to make sure, deadly sure, that Zog completed the work on time.

The phone finally rang.

The sounds of retching traveled faintly through the hotel wall.  Michael closed his eyes, and sighed.  Nikita had barricaded herself in her room's bathroom as soon as they returned from Zog's studio.   She had played her part well, almost too well, getting the desperately needed intel without blowing her Section identity.  The degrading acts which followed Zog's capitulation had sickened Nikita, Michael knew, but she completed the scenario anyway.  Zog had taken the dominant role afterwards, and from the sounds that Michael heard, had been quite brutal in his sexual conquest....infinitely more than Nikita had been.

Nikita had spent the ride back to the hotel in silence, eyes staring straight ahead, unseeing.  Michael had understood intimately, her barriers had been raised, and he knew that no amount of knocking would lower them until she was ready. So, he waited.

She had been in there for over an hour.  The ugly sounds had quieted slowly, and Michael itched to see how she was doing.  After much thought, he moved to her door.  "Nikita?" he called quietly, knocking at the door with his usual three soft raps, "it's Michael, let me in." 

After a moment or two, he heard the chain rattle, and the door swung open.  Nikita stood there, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, her hair pulled up in a towel.  Her eyes were red and puffy, and her mouth and neck looked like it had been rubbed raw.  She backed up quickly and attempted to give him a challenging look, which shook, shuddered, and collapsed.  The look failed utterly. It slowly turned into one of self-loathing, and her eyes started to fill again. 

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

Eleven

"Nikita..." Michael began softly, as she slowly turned away from him, shoulders shaking with repressed sobs.  He ached to take her in his arms, soothe the hurts and caress her tortured flesh.  He himself had been put through much in his years of service to Section. He had proved to himself and to Section that he could take any abuse; be it physical or mental.  He knew what was expected, and was prepared for it, had used it, and had made it nothing to him.  However, the last few hours had been horrific, for Nikita, and for Michael.  He had sat there, listening to Nikita's charade, approving of her tactics, and the strength in which she wielded them.  However, Zog's turn at manipulation, degradation, and the various small acts of physical torture had enraged him. Unfortunately, or fortunately for Zog, he had been bound to inaction and simple observation. 

"Ni ki ta...." Michael began again, "I wanted ..... to see.... if you were okay....," he continued, unconsciously echoing an inquiry he had made over six months ago.  Memories of Operation's order to crush out her feelings warred with his urge to offer comfort and support.  He had always felt drawn to Nikita, but had denied those feelings, had denied even the fact that he had feelings for the longest time.   His words during the tumultuous time right after Nikita returned to Section came back to him, unbidden, "....This is how I live my life, Nikita, split in two.....," reminding him of the other parts that were kept hidden, hidden away from Section, even away from himself.  Although, during this particular mission, some of the long buried parts were slowly unearthing themselves yet again.

Michael took a step in her direction, noting that Nikita had gone very still.  He was almost about to reach out to her with his right hand, when she whirled around and looked him straight in the eye.  This time her gaze was strong, unwavering, and full of defiance.  "I will not do that ever again," she stated stressing each word carefully, "you can tell Operations, or Madelaine, I don't care, I refuse."   

"No." The word was unequivocal, yet the meaning was unclear.  Nikita's mind whirled, No - there would be another episode with Zog? ...No - he would report this insubordination to Ops and Madelaine, or No - he wouldn't? Or, please, she sent a small prayer to anything out there, No - he wouldn't put her through that again? As these thoughts rolled in her head, she noticed that his mask was definitely coming askew. She thought she could actually see flickers of indecision flash through his eyes.  She decided to push the issue. 

"Did you hear me?" she asked, waiting for an answer, an explanation, a confirmation.

"There will be no repeat performances," Michael replied, slowly.  "We have what we need to complete the mission."

Nikita closed her eyes quickly for a moment, and let out her breath. The mask had dropped for a moment, briefly, but it had been shoved back into place within a heartbeat.  She was truly relieved that the mission was not going to require more sexual acrobatics from her, but she was curiously disappointed.  She had thought for a moment that he was going to offer her a small bit of comfort and understanding.  Understanding - that was something that only an individual who lived this life could offer. Comfort, well, that was something she wasn't sure if Michael really knew how to give.  But, it was all moot, because once again, she had misread his intentions. 

"Good," she nodded, gritting her teeth, "then, I'll be getting some rest, we have much to do tomorrow."

Michael stood there for a full minute, motionless, as if rooted to the ground.  Finally he replied, "Yes, tomorrow we will contact Charles."  With that, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

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

Twelve

Zog had gotten the word.  More of his work was required, much more than last time, and that was a problem.  Of course, he hadn't let on that there was a problem, he didn't dare show a shred of non-cooperation.  Not to Charles. 

Zog had learned long ago not to cross Charles.  Oh, Charles could be swank and debonair, charming and flirtatious, but under that veneer was a cold hard ruthlessness that brooked no argument.  He would have to figure out a way to meet the deadline, or he'd be like that line ­ dead. 

Pascque strode out cheerfully from Michel's hotel.  The sun was shining, birds were singing, even the city's early morning air was refreshing.  He felt like he was on top of the world.  Michael had called him late last night. He had sounded so strange.  Pascque had implored Michael to let him come over. At first, Michael had refused, saying there was no need. The reason he was calling he said, was that he wanted to meet with Charles again.  but Pasque knew something was up.  Michael could have called the next morning to set up a meeting with Charles, but he didn't.  And he had this strange raspy voice thing going. 

Their night of passion has been wild, rough, and desperate.  The moment Michael opened the door, Pascque's misgivings had been confirmed.  Michael wouldn't talk about what was bothering him, but he displayed through his actions his need for release and oblivion.  It was a strangely silent coupling, no words, just harsh breathing, gasps, groans, and sighs.  Until at the final climax, Michael had cried, "Oh....Merde…merde" and collapsed.

The next morning, Michael had drawn Pascque aside.   His green grey eyes were glassy and had a bruised look about them.  He opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out.  Pascque nodded, "I unnerstand.  I don't know what's eating you up inside, but I been there, done that, and I want cha ta know that I'm here for ya." Pascque had grinned, lopsidedly, "any place, any time....if ya get my drift!"

It was Michael's turn to nod, he gave a small sigh, and said, "I'm...." Pascque put his fingers to Michael's lips, effectively silencing him.  "Naaah," Pascque shook his head, "don't say it.  I enjoyed being here with you tonight, and everything you did was fine by me.  Sometimes ya just gotta let it all out - and I was happy to be the vessel for that outpouring.....Now, let me get outa here, I gotta go talk to Charles for ya."

Pascque smiled to himself, remembering.  That Michael sure got under his skin, and he thought that he was just a little bit under Michael's.  He was a hard man to figure out, but Pascque knew that there was a deep passion buried within him.  Michael just had to learn to let it out more often.

Michael walked over to the window of his suite and stared out, not quite unseeing, at Pascque's retreating back.   His thoughts were all jumbled, like socks and clothing hanging out of an upright dresser.  He used to have all his emotions and issues neatly compartmentalized, each item stored away, some dusty with disuse, others tattered and ripped apart, but stored there anyway.  These days, his internal armoire was a wreck; everything was pulled apart, disjointed, yet overlapping.

He gave a small sigh, and with a steely resolve focused his thoughts on the mission.  His emotions could wait.  His dealings with Nikita could wait.  And, his feelings of self-loathing and guilt over what he did to those around him, whether for Section, or for himself would wait, too.  He had a mission to complete.

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

Thirteen

The teams were assembled and ready.  The van had brought them and their equipment, along with Birkoff and his beloved computers. 

Pascque had set up the meeting with Charles three days ago, and Michael had placed trackers on his person, as well as a lead on his phone lines, and had downloaded the files on his computer.  Michael had transferred the intel to Birkoff, who was able to locate other artists whose work contained the chips.  Birkoff also discovered where the next shipment would be off-loaded.  The sims were run,  and the plan was set to get Charles, the chips, and the supplier.  Section would then squeeze until it got everything it wanted...most importantly, information regarding participants further up the food chain; namely, the European connections.

Charles was in fine form tonight.  The Art Bar was packed, with trendy hipsters touting multi-colored hair, shaved heads, multiple piercings, and tattoos.  But the regular black clad guidos, the big haired bombshells, and flower child wannabes were there too.  With its gothic architecture, draped ceilings, exotic art on the walls, and small rooms with couches and low lamps breaking off to all sides of the dance floor, the bar catered to all types and all persuasions, and was doing a brisk business tonight. 

Charles caught the eye of someone across the dance floor.  It was Pascque.  He motioned to Pascque to join his table, and ordered a martini to greet him with.  "Hey, what's goin' on?" Pascque asked, "I got the message to meet cha here, what gives? You never go to this place...trying something new?" Pascque grinned, grabbing Charles' shoulder in a quick hug.  He looked around, noting the crowd, the lights, the scene.  "A little young for you, ain't it?" Pascque continued.

"Well, I occasionally like the young ones, my dear, but actually, tonight I have some other friends I really want you to meet," Charles replied, his eyes twinkling, and teeth gleaming.  "They should be here in a minute or two.  Why don't we go get some air?"

"yeah, sure, whatevah you say...you know me - I'm always up to meet new people," Pasque answered, "and by the way, I gotta thank you for setting me up with Michel, he's really great. In fact, we have a hot date set up for later tonight.  He's told me he's leaving soon. Gawd, am I gonna miss him." Pascque went on, expanding upon Michael's abilities, in bed and otherwise as they made their way out through the back of the club.  "Hey, aren't your friends meetin you inside?" Pascque asked.

"No, we're meeting out here."

Michael tensed as soon as Pascque entered the club, and when he walked straight over to Charles, Michael's eyes blinked, once, twice, then he looked away.  A small muscle in his cheek twitched briefly then was still.   Then he gazed, dispassionately, as the friendly banter ensued.  They could hear the whole conversation through the bug planted earlier on Charles.  Nikita looked at Michael, watching for his response as they listened to Pascque brag about Michael's prowess in bed.  "Hmmmm," she thought to herself, "more pieces to the Michael puzzle.  Some things are coming together." 

Birkoff's voice came through the comlink, "A car is approaching the alley.  I think these are the guys...it's slowing down, no, wait, there's another car, it's turning into the alley, too." 

The cars pulled up, and two burly guys got out.  They looked like bad copies of the guidos inside the club.  Except these guidos were brandishing automatic weapons in their hands, rather than flashy rings on their fingers.  A few more carbon copies got out of the car behind, along with two nerdy looking dudes, each carrying a tin briefcase.

Finally, like a star waiting for the right moment to make an entrance, a tall, black haired man with coal-black eyes and severe dark brows stepped out of the car.  Power and menace oozed from him like blacktop on a hot humid day.  Pascque involuntarily took a step back.

"Team two, position.  Team three, on mark.  Remember, let them make the trade. We want Charles and supplier from the car alive."  Michael gave his instructions in a carefully measured tone, he sounded as if he was going to go on, but he didn't.  "Wait for my mark."

"Ahhh, my friend Charles, I am so glad to see you," greeted the leader of the group.  He extended his hand, graceful, yet powerful, and waited as Charles approached him. "And who is this young morsel you have here with you?" 

Pascque stared, open mouthed, first at Charles, then at the other man.  "Um, Charles, what's with the goons and the guns..." he began in an undertone.

"Pascque, I'm sorry to explain it to you this way, but I've got a little something I want you to help me with...." Charles interrupted, "Pascque, meet Laurencz.  He's got something for us that we need to disburse."  

Pascque looked at Charles, and a slow grin came over his features, as he said, "Hey, Charles, I never knew you were into the drug thing...you shoulda tole me earlier, I coulda had some takers right away...." Charles silenced him with a look.

He wrinkled his nose and scowled, "You should know me better than that, Pascque, I would never stoop to that level.  This is something infinitely more practical ....and profitable."  Charles looked at Laurencz, "you've brought it then, let me see them." 

Laurencz motioned to one of the suitcase-holding nerds, and he opened the case.  It is filled with tiny plastic boxes.  Charles reached in and selected one, holding it up to view the contents.  Inside suspended by a clear plastic holder sits a single microchip.  "Ahhhh, beautiful.  What joy, what craftmanship, what profit technology can hand to us.   We'll have control of everything.  Why, it's so much better to let others make the world's money, rather than scrabbling around in the dirt, don't you think?  When it's time, we'll just step in and start controlling that money." Charles beamed, gesturing expansively, "You can tell Mazer I'll have these sent out before the deadline, Laurencz."

"It better be, Charles, you know what will go down if it's late," Laurencz replied, ominously, his eyes darkening.  "Never fear, Laurencz, now I have Pascque to help me, and he's got a veritable network of people who can be carriers," Charles responded.

Pascque gulped, "Carriers, of what? What money?  What are you talking about, Charles?  I've never seen you like this.  Who's this guy, and what's with the guns and shit?  Ya know, I don't think I like your friends very much...I think I'm gonna blow outa here.  I got out of Argentina to get away from guys like him, and I'm not getting involved again.  Been there, done that, ya know, don't wanna do it again...."  As he said that, Pascque had slowly started backing up. With the final remark, he turned around, and came face to face with one of the guido brothers, who grabbed him. 

"On Mark" Michael's voice came over the comlink, "Go."  At that word, the world erupted in gunfire. 

Charles dodged back behind the car, as Laurencz returned fire. Laurencz's goons scattered, firing, missing, and dying, as the Section operatives cut down the opposition. Pascque struggled out of the grip of the guy holding him, and started away.  Charles aimed at Pascque, crying "Who did you tell?  You're ruining everything!   You're not getting out of here alive!" as he shot at Pascque.  He missed.  Another bullet or two whizzed by and caught Pascque in the leg and the back.  He went down with a cry. Michael noticed but kept on firing, finishing the job. 

Finally the firefight was over, Charles was lying on the ground, surrounded by operatives, while Laurencz hadd been wrestled to his knees.  The rest of the group that came with Laurencz were either dead or scattered to the four winds. 

Michael looked at Charles, Laurencz, "Get them out of here," he said to the other operatives.  He quickly approached Pascque, still lying on the ground, blood oozing into a puddle beneath him. "Hey, whatta you doin' here?" Pascque said, weakly, clutching his chest.  He looked pale, a sheen of sweat bathing his features, and small bubbles start to froth from his mouth.  "Medical. Here. Now."  Michael crouched down to Pascque, having ordered assistance, he knows all he can do is wait.  "Where'd .....you get....that getup?...I like it,  I like it..." Pascque mumbled. "Don't speak.  Save your breath." Michael softly said, wiping a blonde curl away from Pascque's eyes.  "You shouldn't have been here," he continued. 

Nikita finished directing the rest of the operatives in their cleanup and walked over to the tableau spread out before her.  She hadn't ever seen Michael so emotionally vested in an innocent participant. She kept her distance, but watched closely.

"Guess....we won't.... be having that last .....date, now, .....huh?" Pascque asked, trying to keep his bravado up, and his fear down.  "We still will," Michael replied, softly, as Pascque's eyes roll up in his head, and his breath bubbles out in one long stream.  His body went limp.

Medical finally arrived, and Michael backed away as they gently placed him on a gurney and rolled him away.

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

Fourteen and End

"You wanted to see me?" Michael asks, as he enters Madelaine's office. It's been three days since the completion of the mission; Charles gave all the intel Section needed to crack the microchip ring.  Laurentz was found to be an easy link to the rest of the suppliers, and Mazer had been apprehended in Europe.  Zog was nowhere to be found, but since he really didn't know anything, and, in the end, was only a pawn used by Charles, Section let him be.  Pascque, well, Pascque was dead, he died in transport.

"yes, Michael, come in," Madelaine replied, noting his cool reserve, his darkened eyes, the firm set of his mouth, "please, sit down."  He wasn't sleeping again, she noted, placing her hands neatly in her lap.

"I reviewed the debrief.  Is there anything you need to tell me?" Madelaine asked, not unkindly. 

"No." Michael gave his standard reply, yearning to turn away, but controlling his actions.  It wouldn't do to give Madelaine more information than she could already fathom regarding his state of mind.

"I noticed that you spent an inordinate amount of time with Pascque," she probed, "we both know you have had to use this particular pose in the past, but it has never really affected you before."  She paused, "why now?  I thought we had resolved your dilemma a number of years ago."

Michael was to say the least, uncomfortable.  But then, everyone was when they were within Madelaine's clutches.  After years under her tutelage, he finally knew how to tolerate her questions and give her the responses that she wanted, without revealing too much.  However, this order of questioning raised more issues than he wanted to deal with right now. 

He thought his "dilemma" had been solved long ago too.  He had buried it, along with all the other creative parts of his life; his art, his emotions, his exuberance for life. He buried it, or destroyed it, until there was nothing left but ragged remnants, which surfaced now and again.  Now was one of those times, he reflected, it was rearing its ugly head, and he wasn't so sure it was just because of this particular mission. 

It might have something to do with his feelings for Nikita, and what they brought out in him.  And what those feelings made him do ­ lose control.  The only way he would be able to concentrate, to focus, was to do what Operations had asked him to do to Nikita.  Rid himself of the last vestiges of compassion, that same compassion which had started to grow again with the entrance of Nikita into his life.  Yet he wasn't sure he could, or would, do it.

"It was necessary." Michael replied, answering the first unasked question as to why.  "There is no dilemma," Michael briefly glanced away, "Is that all?"

Madelaine gave Michael one of her knowing smiles, "Yes, for now.  But, you may want to check on Nikita to see how she is dealing with her particular part of the mission."

Michael got up to leave.  "Yes."

Nikita found Michael in the center of the main workout room; depleted operatives were draped about, leaning against the walls and gasping on the floor, as they watched their comrades methodically being beaten to a pulp.

She stood there a moment, then deciding upon her actions, stepped in among the scattered group, identifying herself as being available for pummeling.  She was dressed for a workout, black leotard, baggy black army fatique shorts, and a white tanktop.  He, she noticed, was as usual, all in black.  Black karate pants topped with a latex-tight black sleeveless t-shirt, green eyes blazing, hair pulled back in a tight topnot. He was hot....and dripping wet.

As the latest defeated operative literally crawled away from Michael's deadly barrage, Nikita stepped up to face him.  "Michael, let's go over those grabs and captures you were showing me a few weeks ago." 

Michael looked at Nikita with a start, registering that she was there. He blinked once, nodding his head slightly in agreement.  They bowed to each other, the obeisance more one of respect to one another, rather than one of student to teacher.

They started. 

They locked hands, arms, bodies, each trying to manipulate and capture the other.  Sweat slicked wrists, arms, and faces, yet neither of them could get a clear hold.  After each attempted a grab, the other applied a counter-move.  Finally, realization dawned. 

They were finally communicating.  On a primal level, but they were speaking to each other.  Nikita expressed how she had learned to manipulate. How she had learned to shield.  And, how she had learned to use that inner core of strength she had always had within her.  Her compassion was evident in how she chose to speak to him. Somehow, through those laser-beam eyes, she conveyed that she would be there to help him deal with his emotions, his confusions, and his compassion.    

The compassion would not have to go.  It was her strength, and it could be his, too.

Notes

BACK AT SECTION M & Maddy meeting.  Maddy questions M's feelings of guilt over P's death, and his re-emerging homosexual drives.  M says very little, but he is totally guilt ridden, and is more conflicted than ever about his sexuality, his role with Nikita, and his own image of himself. He's about to turn into a machine man again ­ forever, because it's easier to turn everything off than deal with it all.  That's been his only way of dealing with grief and guilt.  He even feels that he's failed Operations, because he was supposed to get rid of N's compassion, but instead, he destroyed the last vestiges of his own (whatever was starting to come back to life when N entered it).  He vows to never care for another ever again.  He's in despair. N comes to him.  WHERE?  (He's in the gym, working out his frustration, he's already exhausted quite a few ops, and has started on the kick bag, when N comes in.) 

Final scene- N & M ­ want to use the hand grabs/manipulations symbol used in first chapter ­ like how can N show M how he's been manipulated, all along, by section, by his own guilt, by his closure of compassion.  She wants to show him that youcan have compassion within section, it's not an on full power or off all the way thing.  She wants to walk that fine line with him as they discover how to deal w/their emotional needs and desires. 

(NO happy ending, more bittersweet and a bit hopeful for M&N)

Notes  Charles is the contact between NAFA (terrorists) and Zog.  Zog doesn't know Charles is the contact, he's only been given instructs via email, and threats by nasty thugs.  Pascque is being used by Charles to contact the artists, but he doesn't have a clue as to what's really going on.  Charles want's M's art contacts in Europe, and that's why he's set up Pascque with M.  Pascque is falling for M, in a big way, and M needs to deal with this.  M doesn't know C is the main contact between NAFA and the artist, he's barking up the wrong tree thinking P is the contact. However, he is starting to feel strangely drawn in by P ­ emotionally, that is, his two halves are blurring, and he's fighting to keep them apart.  Meanwhile, Nikita is just doing her job, and notices that something is unusual in M's demeanor.  He's living the gay artist lifestyle as if it were his own, as if it were familiar to him after a long absence, and it strikes her that he's actually enjoying it! 

Nikita is seeing a side of Michael that she hasn't seen before ­ his sensitive artistic side.  Although the scene is edgy and the attitude is rampant, something in his drawings touches her.  One of those drawings is of Nikita as she was as a raw recruit ­ full of rebellion, hard edges all over the place, like a wild animal.  The others are sketches of her throughout her transformation into a poised, lethal killer, yet one who has held on to her sense of compassion, however ragged it may be.  All of this comes through in M's drawings of N, and she realizes that he is not as hard as stone.  Yet, she has doubts as to whether these are true Michael drawings, or just something drawn up by Madelaine and Section.  And she also wonders if the gay lifestyle is a pose or is a part of it real?  The lines between Cover and Op are starting to blur, and she doesn't know which M is the real one.  …Hint  the artwork is really Michael's ­ he's decided to let N in on a piece of himself, but this revealing is all a part of his plan to destroy her compassion.  He wants her to feel that he is opening himself up to her. That she is finding things out about him ­ that in fact, he's actually *talking* to her, but in actuality, he's drawing her in, slowly, carefully, precisely, and he "plans" to hurt her one last time so that she never really trusts anyone ever again. 

However, his other side is showing through, and although it has been long buried, this particular mission is making it resurface again.  Yes, he has in the past had to use this particular pose, but it never really affected him.  He was able to just do the job.  But this time is different.  Does he have the strength to just do the job, and destroy N's compassion, or will in the end his last vestiges of compassion be destroyed?  Will Nikita allow herself to be manipulated yet again by him?  Or will she come out the stronger one?  Can he really do this to her again, after he promised he wouldn't lie to her, and had opened his soul (or at least a part of it) to her on the boat?  Or, will he attempt this, only to have Nikita one step ahead of the game.  Will she only act interested in M, showing him her soft caring side, while instead, she is really barriered against him and is prepared for this?  Will Michael destroy himself by doing this to Nikita?  Will Nikita come out the stronger one?  Only time will tell ….

Beginning Notes

Continue w/M showing interest ­ more than before (quietly, yet persistent).  N flashbacks  to how M poured out his heart (told N his past) when dealing w/Rene, showed his compassion for the children in the Balkans, other scenes, and finally his "Be Patient" line….she wonders if he is finally coming to terms with his needs and emotions.  She also wonders if she really wants to deal with him and his yo-yoing again.  She tells herself that she's stronger without him, better off with her barriers in place. She can focus much better on the missions now, on her expanded responsibilities, and really try to have a better life within Section.  She doesn't need him…no, not at all….

HOW?  Show Michael in NYC Art Gallery scene ­ as an artist and a buyer…situation has Michael bursting on the NYC art scene as the buyer for a hot gallery in Paris, France.  Computer chips that are used in controlling the flow of cash worldwide are being tampered with.  These chips are used in controlling the world's economy…and are especially important with the advent of a global currency starting in Europe, namely, the Euro.  IF these chips are tampered with before they go into operation, the world's economy will be in danger.  The terrorists will be able to collapse the European and American markets, with the Asian market not far behind.  Michael needs to find out who is sending the chips to the terrorist groups…and how they are being sent. He gets involved with the cutting edge experimental artists to find out who the supplier is and who is the contact for the terrorists.

Now by getting into the art scene, Michael will have to strut his stuff ­ both literally and figuratively. He will have to show his own art ­ abstract charcoal drawings, harsh, minimal, yet beautiful pen and ink drawings. He will know something about experimental art, and play the artists edgey and kinky games.  Nikita comes into play creating found objects sculpture.  Intel shows the chips are being sent as part of found object artwork, yet they don't know who is actually sending it.  Since the artists who are sending stuff out are doing found objects sculpture, Nikita is sent in to get involved with them.   Michael will introduce N to them as a soul-mate.  N & M's relationship is explained as M discovered Nikita's work in Australia and brought her to light and fame in Paris.

N has heart to hearts w/Walter, who suggests that she take up M's offerings….but to BE Careful!. 

Fifth Sixth Seventh  Eighth - Rated R Ninth Tenth Eleventh ­ Rated R Twelfth End

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