ATTENTION: Stories marked with an * may contain material which would be better appreciated by those over 18. Parental Discretion is advised. This is your responsibility, not ours. Under a stoop, she hunched her back against the bite of the winter wind. Persistent light-headedness and a dry mouth reminded her that she had lost more blood than she could afford. "Stay focused, Nikita." She cursed. Even now, finally freed of Section, she could still hear his voice. "Damn you, Michael. Get out of my head," growled Nikita. "It's always a man, ain't it, honey? Always a man," hummed old Pearl, as she rummaged through her shopping bag. Pearl pulled out two battered bottles and sniffed cautiously. "Still good," she chuckled and handed one to Nikita. "Looks like you could use it, honey. Drink up. Cheers." "Cheers," muttered Nikita. When the old orange juice hit her tongue, she felt a little better. Nikita took another swig. Tangy sourness swirled inside her. "I was expected something different," smiled Nikita. "Thank you." The dizziness was dimming to a mild tolerable fog. "The old grape is the last thing you need. Us girls gotta stick together...He break your heart, honey?" "Yeah." Nikita stared at the old street woman. "You could say that." "It's always a man," sighed Pearl. They shared their drinks in companionable silence. Somewhere a blaring car alarm pulsed through the cold night air. Nikita drew her memories around her like a cloak, warding off the eerie emptiness she felt. She'd fantasized about this very moment for months. She'd anticipated the sweet joy of freedom once the bondage of Section had been finally severed. Instead she felt curiously...adrift. "Suicide Mission. Run. You're Free." "My God. Another test," had been her first thought. Her heart had warred with her mind, but not for long. Time was a luxury never afforded. All along she sensed something had been wrong with the mission. She knew Michael would be unable to shield her from the repercussions of the Shays disaster. A disaster which had been of her heart's own making. When she had stared at Stanley Shays, strapped to the gurney and strung out on drugs, Nikita had realized that her initial impulse not to kill him had been no kindness at all. She had left him alive, but only to be cruelly tortured instead. Nikita had bolted out of the building. Her hesitation had been split second. Time was running out. Quickly. The fiery fist of the explosion smashed her. She'd woken up, crumpled under a bier of twisted metal and smoking concrete. Her head pounded painfully. Images blurred. "Girl, get out," screamed her inner voice. "Michael?" whispered her heart. Somehow through two-third's grit and one-third stubbornness, Nikita had stumbled through the underbrush. With almost unholy satisfaction, she ripped off the tracker and its back-up unit, and squished them like bugs. Then she made her way out, hiding in the anonymity of crowds, buses and trains, crossing over and back-tracking, again and again and again. But with each mile her strength had been sapped. Each step required more effort. Survival soon took precedence over guile and caution. When the streetlights started looming like two-headed monsters, she had found protected shelter off the streets. And somehow, she had also found Pearl. Or more accurately, Pearl had adopted her. With an instinct first honed from her street days, Nikita knew that Pearl was no danger to her. That is, unless the orange juice caused food poisoning. The thought made Nikita smile inwardly. "Thanks, Pearl. That really helped." "Got some clean newspaper too. Pad you up real good and keep the wind out, honey." "What do you have in those bags?" asked Nikita. "Ooh, my little treasures," hummed Pearl, as she rustled through them. "Come see." As Nikita shifted to get a better view of a weary mud stained teddy bear, her face was suddenly silvered by the street lamp. Pearl sucked in her breath. One gnarled finger traced Nikita's battered face with startling gentleness. "Honey, did he...?" Nikita looked down quickly. "No, Pearl. It's not what you think." Looks like more than your heart got broken here. Let me help you, hon'. You need help." "I'm...fine." Pearl snorted. "If you're 'fine' then I'm the Queen of England. You're 'bout ready to pass out. Right here on my door step." "No. I'm fine," she said almost defiantly. Nikita shuddered, realizing she even sounded like Michael. ""Honey, there's a place to go. Ruth's House. You could get seen to." "No, Pearl." "They don't ask questions, honey. They don't ever ask you. Let old Pearl take you there." "Maybe tomorrow," hedged Nikita. She shifted to all fours, and tried to stand. Easier to move a mountain, damn it. She felt worse than she wanted to admit. "Maybe now, honey." Pearl helped her up, and straightened Nikita's coat as if she was a small child setting off for the first day of school. She fussed over Nikita's bruises. "C'mon. It's just few steps this way. You're going to make it fine." Half staggering, half leaning, the two walked down the alley way. The wind plucked and tugged at them. Snow drifted downward, an eerie lacy contrast to the urban ugliness all around them. "Just a little bit this way, honey," encouraged Pearl. The growing fog in Nikita's head dimmed everything into distantly remote images - like blurred photographs from long ago. A door way. Four steps down. Then sensations only: hands tucking a blanket around her, rough wool against her cheek. Pearl's voice hovered somewhere over her. "You're safe now, honey. Don't you worry none. You're okay." "Safe? In Med Lab?" thought Nikita. "Never. Not ever." When she awoke, the thunderstorm in her head duly informed Nikita that this had been no dream. Although the military issue blankets were no different than Section's, the gentle-voiced woman in denim overalls and long feather earrings was certainly no Med Lab physician. Nikita suppressed a half-smile at that thought. If nothing else, the butterfly strips lining one cheek, and the sharp incessant tug of her right arm's stitches reminded her. "I must look like Frankenstein," thought Nikita. She combated the fuzziness in her head. The concussion was swamping her senses. "You don't have to worry, "said the young woman. "No one can find you here." "No one," whispered Nikita, and drifted, clutching the teddy bear, into her first dreamless night in four years. "Papa Echo." The only light in her room was from the green glow of the PDA. "Repeat Papa Echo." "Where are you, big guy?" she muttered, yanking the finger-less gloves off her hands. "Whiskey, here." "Big Wally, how's tricks?" she typed. She could imagine Walter's grimace. She'd been the only fellow trainee who'd dared to twist his code name into that hideously cute nickname. Of course, she had paid for the privilege in full when he had retaliated with loud but harmless strategically-placed explosives. "News?" "Found her. She's safe." "Where?" "She needs to heal, Wally." "Don't call me that. Tracker?" "She needs time. Don't tell him." "Of course I won't tell Ops! You crazy?" The words fairly leapt off the screen. "Might as well just cancel her myself instead of asking you to watch." "Damn straight it was a favor, Wally. Now I'm asking the same of you. Leave her alone. He doesn't deserve to know. Michael broke her, but time will mend. Maybe." "Tracker?" repeated the query. She paused, before keying in the answer. "She's safe now, honey. Just don't tell Michael. That's the favor. Terminating." She closed her PDA with a decisive snap, and stuffed it inside her shopping bag. Humming to herself, she downed the last of the orange juice. - FIN - BACK TO AUTHOR'S W-X LFN STORYBOARD ARCHIVES MAIN PAGE LFN LINKS PAGE Send suggestions and comments to Wild Wahine