Wondering if the darkness of his mood transformed Section surroundings into an even darker abyss, Michael felt the oddly familiar surge of his defenses bulwarking that part of him which didn't belong here. Muted lighting, the discomforting background of dueling operatives, and the ever present static of an intercom. His quiet sure stride took him unnoticed to the nest area of Section One.

From the doorway he observed the silent stance of his leader. Slightly hunched over a table, clenched knuckles supporting his weight.

Without turning to acknowledge Michal, Operations began to speak. “It's time we tie up some loose ends, Michael.”

Michael approached slowly, his stance never fully facing Operations. It seemed natural for him to present the least amount of body surface - necessary to always leave one options for escape.

     The eyes that at long last turned to face Michael were serpentine in nature. Tracking every nuance of Michael’s profile, the hint of a sardonic smile tugged at one side of his face. Michael turned to fully face Operations, straightening his shoulders and taking a deep steadying breath.

     “Nikita.” Operations formed the words, tasting each syllable as they twisted ‘round his silvery tongue. His teeth clicked their disgust and his eyes darted angrily side to side. “She’s outlived her usefulness to the Section.”

     Michael absorbed the words, and turned to face the briefing area below. “I agree.” Michael felt a twinge of satisfaction as his words served to push Operations backward a step.

     Operations covered his shock by clearing his throat and shoving his hands deep into his side pockets. “You agree." A low rumble of sarcasm and humor colored his next word, "Interesting.”

     Operations studied Michael before abruptly breaking Michael’s line of vision by stepping directly into his line of vision.

     Michael’s eyes came up slowly to the interrogating gaze. His jaw dropped briefly as he inhaled deeply and repeated his statement in a controlled meter.

     Operations laughed out loud, “You’re getting better, Michael.” He allowed with a raising and lowering of his eyebrows. “Still the twitch in your left eye....it gives you away.”

     “Maybe.” Michael allowed, his lips formed a thin tight line, his eyes emotionless.

     “We’ve discussed this before, Michael.” Operations walked slowly away, his posture seeming almost resigned

    Michael heaved an inward sigh of relief and felt his blood pressure and pulse returning to normal.

     “Nikita is a problem. Breaking Section code, disobeying direct orders, putting missions at risk...” Operations squinted and felt his lips forming a sneer.

     Michael turned from the window, taking a moment to regard a leader lost in thought.

     “I want it stopped.” Operations’ head snapped upward, and he jerked his head toward Michael.

     Michael nodded, his eyes closing briefly and feeling that all too familiar twitch over his left eye. “Is that all?”

     Operations closed the physical distance between them, taking in the ultra calm exterior that Michael evidenced. “Nikita has an evaluation in two weeks, one involving a certain test.”

     Michael felt his nostrils flare in the hot onslaught of his superior’s breath. A sticky lump was forming itself in the back of his throat, making it seemingly impossible to breathe, but his only response was a slight nod. Michael knew the test, knew it well.

     “I think that at your level I will have no need to explain the consequences of such failure.” Operations turned abruptly, presenting his back to Michael as he walked to the exit.

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

     The computer screen blurred as Michael’s thoughts once again drifted to today’s earlier conversation - if one could can call a veiled treat such.

     Michael's office door opened, and his weary eyes were treated with a bizzare spectacle - Nikita, obviously back from her two day mission.

     “You had asked to see me.” Her blue eyes flashed indignant as she ungracefully plopped in a chair and settled her legs on his desk. The silk wrap dress, simple in design, made the average man desperate to thank whoever dreamed up the idea of a dress.

     Midnight blue skies parading as fabric whispered quietly with every move, catching each fleck of light as if the sun itself had blessed it.

     He only lifted his eyebrows in response and directed his attention to the scrolling scene in front of him. The words he read created no lasting imprint, but the action gave him time to school his erring thoughts. ‘Had he asked to see her? She’d been gone for two days, and certainly the idea was plausible.”

     “Sooo...” She studied his demeanor, gauging her attack plan as he occasionally tapped the keyboard in front of him. “You heard about the mission, and I’m here to get my proverbial spanking.”

     Settling on a plan, Nikita dropped one foot, then the other. Encroaching on his position carefully, she perched herself a top his desk and leaned over his keyboard.

     Biting her lip, she awaited his response, delighting in the way his fingers immediately ceased in activity.

     ‘Spanking’Michael thought. ‘Lord, no.’ Truth be told, a detailed report of her mission had appeared on his screen, but like the others before it, the report had gone unnoticed. Mentally, he reminded himself to check the logging system that kept track of such things.

     Pushing his chair back from his desk and back from the heat of her body, he crossed his hands in his lap and looked to the half-closed blinds for support..

     Nikita took in the quiet, reflective nature as one of annoyanace or worse yet complete indifference.

     She sighed loudly, picking at the lint that accumulated on her nude nylons and straightening the flimsy excuse for a dress. “I would think that the Section would know better than to ....”

     “You’re not here for a....” He stumbled slightly, then stood to close the blinds and shut the door that she had left open

     “Spanking.” She supplied flippantly, chuckling under her breath.

     Her back to him, his pause in motion and gulp passed unobserved. Shutting the door, he remained temporarily at loss for words.

     Coming to face her, he caught the hand that absently trailed patterns over his black-laquered desk. “We need to talk.”

     Her eyebrows scrunched together, her chin simultaneously lifting a notch. “About what?” She questioned, scanning his face for tell-tale signs of what was to come.

     He cursed inwardly, feeling the small, mutiounous twitching muscle over his left eye. Her attention seemed focused there for a nanosecond, and unknowingly he held his breath.

     “You know." Nikita began slowly, maybe even seductively in her deepest drawl. "Everytime you say that we need to talk?" She paused, licking her lips and smiling with sacchrine sweetness "...We end up here.” She gestured wildly before pushing herself from his desk.

     It was a poorly thought out reaction, because she found herself trapped between Michael and his desk.

     Face flushing crimson, she slid sideways free of the contact. At the door she regarded him, face down, hands plunged deep in his pocket, once again seeming lost in thought.

     “I’m sorry.” She whispered hoarsely. “I shouldn’t have acted autonomously as I did.”

    By the time Michael processed her words and lifted his head to respond, Nikita was gone. In her place Madeline stood; her delicate smile a definite sign that all was not well in the land of Oz.

***********

     A short one, but all that my mind can contend right now. Couple of long days ahead, but my brain and fingers are working overtime.

     A small sigh cued her contemplative manner as Madeline stepped through the doorway. “I need your help in a matter concerning Nikita.”

     Michael nodded, taking a minute to position himself behind the comfortable barrier of his desk.

     “I'm sure you still have quite a bit to accomplish, so how does 600 a.m. tomorrow sound?” She questioned, her direct gaze giving nothing away while taking every nuance of him to task.

     “Fine.” Michael responded with a slight nod.

     Madeline graciously smiled her reply and exited.

     Michael sat briefly at his computer, realizing that Madeline’s timing was no accident. Her presence served rather as a reminder.

     Sitting back in his chair, his hand unconsciously approached his jaw.

     In a mere seconds the cards had been tipped in Madeline's favor. From his unproductive afternoon, she knew that he had been rattled by the conversation with Operations, and obviously she now knew that he had seen and talked to Nikita.

     Yes, with a few sentences' exchange Madeline had cleverly enforced that Section One knew the activity of every operative.

     In ways a warning had also been served. Warning for him, for Nikita, for a trap - he could have no way of knowing.

     He did know that whatever he did here tonight would be fruitless. So Michael retreated from Section One. - his absence, however, did not go undetected.

     From the nest above Operations surveyed Michael’s hasty exit, turning to greet Madeline as her reflection joined his in the glass.

     “Well?” He questioned, sharply.

     “I don’t like this.” She answered slowly and calmly, her blank eyes staring straight ahead and refusing to meet his inquisitive stare.

     “Sooner or later, one’s weaker link must be tested.” Operations dismissed her subtle suggestion with a nervous chuckle. Hands reached automatically for his pack of Ultra-thins.

     “Later would have been a better choice.” She answered softly, raising one eyebrow to drive her point home. She walked past him, creating a chilling draft in her wake - one that seemed to leave the entire room cold.

     Operations stared at the empty space she left, one corner of his mouth souring his lips into a snarl. Licking his lips, he tapped out a cigarette angrily lighting it and fiercely puffing.

     The heat of the smoke and his anger did nothing to ward off the chill. His image on the glass reinforced his uneasiness.

     Part of him wanted to rescind his latest order, based solely on the starkness of his face. Turning from the disturbing image, he immersed himself with details of the Section’s every failure that had Nikita’s name attached to the mission profile.

     Armed with these details, he felt his shoulders relaxing. “I’m doing the right thing.” He said aloud.

     ‘Are you?’ It echoed in his mind, an accuasation that ended not.

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

     doo dee doo dee doo

     Nearly a week had passed, and Nikita had heard nothing from Section One. Activities focused mainly on concocting a plausible cover story. The phrase - “what do you want to be when you grow up” - was one that Nikita realized she had never heard as a child. And if the question had been posed, she was quite sure that being a secret government agent would not have hit her top ten list.

     In a life without choices, this Section-less week had been liberating. The hours piled indiscrimanently one on top of the other, and in her mind she had time to visit places about which she had only dreamed. Stacks of books, some open, some closed, laid face down intermingled with video cassettes and CDs, creating a veritable castle.

     Tea in one hand and a freshly - bought croissant in the other, Nikita sat at her table leafing through her latest interest - scuba diving. Adjusting the headset over her ears and bobbing in time to the beat, she barely discerned the faint knocking sound at her door.

     She finished the last bite of her croissant, licking her fingers and wiping the grease on her black stretch pants.

     Looking disdainfully at the coffee - stained stretch top, Nikita quickly threw a nearby sweater over her head and moved to answer the door.

     With a deep sigh the blonde operative opened the door greeting Michael with a lopsided grin. Leaning partly against the doorway, with a sideways glance she signaled for him to enter.

     Michael's gaze took in the crazy blonde explosion of hair, tenatively held in place with two pencils. A downward glance found crumbs dotting her lower lip, and black pants sporting greasy hand prints. Care tags protruded the charcoal sweater, jabbing at the base of her throat, as she tugged nervously at the its base.

     Conducting her own appraisal, Nikita noticed the nearly imperceptible quivering of his lower lip and the slightest twitching over his left eye. His typical black attire didn’t give him the sense of power and doom that it normally did. Iinstead it created him decidedly pale - almost sickly. Features seemed sunken, and the former spark or flame that normally furbished those hazel eyes was decidedly missing.

     “What are you doing?” He finally spoke, motioning to the background of stacked literature.

     “Deciding on a cover story.” She answered, defiantly at first, covering the tone with a hesitant smile.

     Lately, any conversations that Nikita conducted with Michael were tinged with reluctance or worse - outright defiance. Sensing no attack in his demeanor, she now felt somewhat guilty that her reply was so laced with venom.

     “Why?” Michael asked, picking up a paperback book titled, “Playmates.”

     “That’s not one... I mean...” She stuttered, moving to snatch the offensive book from Michael’s hands.

     ‘Damn him’ she thought to herself ‘He always flusters me.’

     Tossing the book into another pile, Nikita closed her eyes briefly before asking “Why are you here?”

     Michael stalled his response, re-establishing the equilibrium of power in his favor. His gaze fell to the floor, taking in the collage of enlarged photos and drawings that highlighted homeless children.

     “Michael!” Nikita objected, following his line of vision. Angry that he should should find her so vulnerable and angrier still that he persisted in dropping by unannounced, she stooped to hurriedly dispose the pictures.

     “What was it like?” He asked, so simply, so quietly that she thought she might have just imagined it.

     Her lips started to form a reply, but stopped as Michael’s hand stroked the side of her face.

     “Stop that!” She exclaimed, standing abruptly and glaring at him fiercely.

     His face seemed to pale considerably, making the dark circles and stubble stand out like words on a blank sheet of paper.

     “I'm here to warn you.” He choked on the words as if they had capacity to drown him.

     “Warn me of what?” Nikita shot back through gritted teeth. She began piling up the remainder of her private inquiries, creating an excessive amount of noise doing so. Slamming books together, gathering papers roughly, and glaring up at Michael all the while.

     Michael paused a moment, not expecting this reaction.

     Her activities ceased, and she positioned herself directly in front of Michael.

     “Warn me of what?” She taunted him, her sneering lips and swaying head both physical symbols of her protective walls.

     He proceeded with the details, telling her much more than he had wished.

     Once finished, he saw her features soften. Inserting a knuckle between her lips, she bit down on it unmercifully for some time. Strolling a circle around him and appraising him, she seemed to replay every word that he spoke.

     At long last she disbanded her activity. Walked to her table, placed the head phones in place, and began to leaf through the pages of her book again. The tea was cold, but the numbness of her body prevented that detail from registering.

     Michael stood rooted in place, head turning slightly to regard her.

     “You don’t believe me.” He stated, eyes beginning to glaze, muscles seeming suddenly to heavy to support his bursting heart.

     “No.” She answered simply. “I don’t believe you.”

     For a quite some time the only sounds heard were the music escaping the Nikita's headset and the occasional whisper of a turning page.

     Michael closed his eyes, and bit the inside of his lower lip in an attempt to prevent it from quivering.

     Wordlessly, he exited.

     Wordlessly she stood a few minutes later and locked the door.

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

     A bead of liquid zig-zagged a maze of blond tresses, finding its way across a cheek to a valley of opened lips. Moisture registered in sparkling, salty flavor covering a swollen tongue.  Instinctively the swollen, parched member flicked at the corner of two lips.

     Dryness of mouth contrasted a body cloaked in sweat, while inside warmth and outside coolness conducted a muscle dance of perpetual shivers.

     Awareness presented in the form of cold pressure against the right shoulder. Tension - it traveled a slow maniacal path , tracing a side-lying body until the very toes seemed rigid.

     Inhaling that first deep breath of waking, Nikita gagged on the putrid smell of her surroundings.

     A humming sound wiped slowly through her mind’s mist, teaching her that only opened eyes could see. A small blonde bird in a wire cage, Nikita hung suspended. The gentle rocking matching her staccato pulse in rhythm.

     The humming grew insistently louder -the tune of a kettle - unrecognizable yet somehow familiar. Oversized bushy eyebrows appeared over smoking cigar draped loosely over burn scarred lips. His sour scent of sweat and sex riled her nostrils.

     When he spoke, his yellow, meaty tongue flicked over cigar-stained teeth creating a sucking noise. The voice, clipped and harsh with an accent she couldn’t place, asked if she was Section material.

     Hearing no answer, the cigar dropped slowly, taking its time before hitting the bare concrete.  Its smoldering flame extinguished with a sharp twisting motion of a heavy, black boot.

     Nikita’s appraisal of her captor countinued. Distinctive, probably in his fifties and just short of handsome. His physicality was marred by the ugly brand-like burn covering his lower lip and chin.

     Closing her eyes, Nikita's mind hop-scotched through her accumulated data, searching for something to use for advantage.

     The bird cage shook and rattled, dropping slowly until Nikita felt the coolness of concrete and smelled the stench of an abandoned cigar.

     Strange memories flirted with her awareness until the increased pitch of voices around her demanded her attention.

     “What are her readings?’’

     “Normal, no signs of stress.”

     “Begin.”

     Her muscles tensed as a deluge of water slapped her body.

     Water.

     Sputtering to clear water from nose, thirst took precedence. Her tongue licked every drop of liquid from her skin and then sucked her soaked clothing for any retained moisture.

     Attention diverted, Nikita's response to a world of gloved hands and indiscriminate faces was poor. The room spun uncontrollably long after she was secured in a stiff-backed metal chair.

     Ribcage thrust outward from the tight line of her bound hands, every breath required conscious thought. Driving through the pain, she strove to compensate her lungs with oxygen.

     Blue eyes chartered the room, nothing but darkness outside a small ring of light. ‘Focus’ She told herself. ‘Find a focal point, and focus.’

     A single red dot of blood shimmered a neon sign of hope below her, and her eyes claimed its message.

     Creaking sounds of an opening door and scuffling temporarily unnerved her focus, and in shock she took in the sight before her.

     Behind a panel of sorts, four men and one boy stood grimly in line.

     “These are the men found with you” was followed by a trail of smoke that blurred her vision. Nikita turned slightly from the smell, but found herself mesmerized by the display in front of her.

     “Don’t worry, they can not see you.” The voice provided while fingers traced a line between her shoulder blades.

     Nikita’s gaze dropped to the spot of sanguinous fluid, responding with silence

     “I know their names.” The captor continued, placing a hand on either side of her skull and forcing her head upward to the line of operatives.

     “You will tell me if I get it wrong?” The accent had changed, becoming thicker from raw emotion. His grip tightened, making her head feel as though it might explode from the pressure.

     “Mowen. Now this man’s name is tricky; you’ll let me know if I pronounce it wrong. Won’t you? Pietal?” The inquisitor's face appeared along side hers - as if to check his pronunciation.

     Nikita merely closed her eyes and sighed .

     “Ahh....”He shrugged, “No matter.” He released her head, and traveled to the windowed panel, walking by the last three operatives as he said their names, “Walter, Birkoff, and Michael.”

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

     “I know that you are Nikita.” Her captor kneeled beside her, tracing with his index finger marks of brutality necessary for her capture. “You should know my name too. Call me Isaac.”

     Standing suddenly, Isaac slapped her with such force that she nearly passed out. “Say it.” His mouth was by her ear, yet he was shouting. Spit collected below her ear lobe, combining with tiny beads of perspiration and oozing down her neck.

     “EYEZAC!” Her tongue contended the word, torturing its pronunciation.

     “Good!” He congratulated her, patting where the imprint of his hand glowed fiercely red. “Your spirit will sustain you.”

     She raised both eyebrows in response, staring straight ahead at the showcased operatives.

     “You with these others took my son from me last night.” Isaac stated, approaching the panel that separated them from the line of men.

     Nikita peered at the image. All men subdued and standing in line. Birkoff looking decidedly younger in his oversized fatigues. Walter’s outrageous outfit creating quite a splash of color compared to the black field gear of the other operatives.

     “One of these men will die in fifteen minutes, one more every hour, until there will only be you.” Isaac offered simply, stalking towards her position. Standing over her, he tipped her chin upward, demanding her eyes. “You have fourteen minutes to decide who will be the first.”

     The other voices had not left, but Isaac did. The spot on the floor was gone, scuffed away no doubt. The small circle of light seemed the only world.

     Her mind rested not. First, she searched for options, then she searched for truth. In less than fifteen minutes one of her comrades would die.

     Isaac’s son was dead, she had killed him herself. Her test had been to search for something evil in this man of twenty-four, for truly he was innocent, but his father was not.

     A change in lighting momentarily blinded Nikita. A muted discussion took place behind her, and then the sound of approaching boots. With each step she felt her heart deadening with dread.

     “The location?” Isaac questioned, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped almost dejectedly.

     Nikita made eye contact, staring at the dark brown eyes until she felt that her point had been made. Her attention then focused on Isaac's silvery belt buckle.

     Isaac inhaled deeply, rifling his salt and pepper hair and considering her for a moment.

     He spoke in another language to the other people present, and they responded back. She couldn’t understand their language, but the anger and rage behind the tones was clearly communicated.

     Nikita tensed, expecting a blow, but felt nothing.

     “Tell me who to kill.” Her captor stated after a prolonged sigh. “Which person will you betray for the honor of your Section?”

     Nikita clenched her jaw,feeling her nostrils flare. Training made the choice easy on one level - kill the one most likely to divulge information.

     “Perhaps, your heart is stone like theirs?” Isaac questioned, eyes blackening further with his widening pupils.

     “The boy.” Nikita answered over her catapulting pulse. She would not say his name, she would not humanize this sacrifice.

     Almost immediately a shot pierced the air, and Nikita choked back the protest that rose with the bile in back her throat.

     “Present me with answers within the hour.” Isaac breathed to her forehead. Turning slightly, he rested his cheek against hers and whispered. “Know that each of these men begins a separate interrogation process that will continue until one breaks, you have given me what I need, or you have killed them all.”

     Nikita’s facade of cool demeanor washed irrelevant, erased by a flood of hot tears. No longer left in darkness, only the spotlighted image of Birkoff’s body hung a cold reminder of the gauntlet.

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

     The hour passed slowly as if Time - on her side - wished to prolong the inevitable.

     Nikita did not rest. Quite sure the plip - plop sound was that of her own blood dripping from bound hands, she ceased not her attentions. Stretched tendons, straining muscles, burning lungs - nothing inhibited her quest.

     Too soon, the sound of heavy footsteps sent a heart rate skyrocketing. Isaac came to face her.

     She studied a face more ragged, a scar more pronounced. Something was rattling this man.

     “Give me my son.” He rasped, maybe begged.

     The request twanged her hate, forcing her to reconsider the quality of man that stood before her. His form filled her line of vision. What did she see? A man desperate for his son. Grief. Sorrow. Hatred.

     A slight crack formed across the surface of her heart. Sympathy sprouted, nourished by her own grief.

     But that crevice effectively sealed as Isaac stepped aside, revealing a showcase of four tormented men and one dead boy.

     Tugging one last time on the rope, she felt the knot give way and loosen. Inside something shifted, and pain was no more. Revenge fueled every labored breath, hatred fired each muscle, and anger wrought clear vision.

     “Then which of your friends will you choose this time?” Isaac turned to the display, watching the men find support against the walls.

     Nikita whispered her reply, tucking her head dejectedly.

     “Which one?” Isaac repeated, turning over his shoulder to find Nikita’s face obscured by a mass of tangled tresses. He placed a hand beneath her chin.

     And Nikita made her move. Twisting the thumb backward and pulling him off balance. She landed a barrage of punishing blows first to his nose and then to both ears.

     Blood spurted from his nose, and with a yelp Isaac dropped to the ground.

     Hurriedly, Nikita loosened the bonds of her feet and stood. Blood rushed to her swollen feet; and the room became a spinning kaleidoscope. Crawling towards the door, she sighted two pairs of boots. Looking up, the last thing that registered was a band of brown light crashing downward.

**********

     A purple nose packed with blood- tinged gauze slowly came into focus. The vision in her left eye, blurry at best, stung like fire. Her right eye watered profusely. The need to blink excessively made vision seem a patchwork quilt of individual, captured frames.

     Feeling somewhat obligated to listen to the nasal, accented monologue of her tormentor, Nikita lifted her chin and re-routed all energy to the Isaac melodrama.

     Each syllable he spoke invoked a sense of giddiness - a prerequisite for surrender. Apathy suffused her psyche, warming body and soul with total disregard.

     “I am not angry.” Isaac offered, pulling strands of her hair from the trickling blood flow over her left eye. “I understand your desire to live, to protect your friends as I’m sure they’ve protected you.”

     Trussed up like a Christmas turkey, Nikita focused on other methods of diversion. Feed the anger, dissolve his control.

     “Congratulations are in order though...for your actions. However, desperate and stupid, they have managed to bring your people another hour of interrogation.” Isaac conferred offhandedly.

     “This is ridiculous!” Nikita spat out. “Why don’t you just kill us and get it over with?” She shouted loudly.

     “Oh, I don’t want to kill you, my dear.” Isaac denied with a broken smile.

     “Why not?” Nikita questioned, using her most insolent tone.

     Rage colored his cheeks, and Nikita conceded a small victory seeing the clenching action of his fists. As if recognizing her tactic, Isaac backed away, nodding what looked to be his approval.

     “Haven’t you wondered how I came to know your names?” Isaac questioned, circling her position.

     His eyes and words speared her as if they had power to physically harm body and soul. She tracked his movement with her eyes, curiosity getting the better of her.

     “I am Section One.” Isaac issued proudly. Chest puffed out like a proud robin, he laughed - maniacal, condescending, a package that firmly transferred the message ‘in your face.’

     Nikita avoided the taunting, turning abruptly from his words. Schooling her features into a outward show of nonchalance, she receded once again to the feelings of apathy.

     “Operations sent you to take my son, solely because he wanted revenge.” Isaac engaged her personal space, placing a hand on either side of her chair. His jaw muscles fiddled their melody of tension as he intently studied every aspect of her face.

     Swallowing her protest, Nikita met his gaze unflinching. A full smile and a simple negative nod were her only response.

     Isaac’s disappointment seemed so real. Stepping back, tears watered his eyes and sadness colored his words. With a shrug of his shoulders and a resigned gesture of the hand, he replied simply “Tell me about my son, or choose who will die.”

     Inside Nikita’s mind, the questions quarreled. Did they assassinate this man’s son for a vendetta? Were they all to die simply fulfilling some sick need for revenge?

     “Your answer.” Isaac’s refused to face her, his voice a perfect mixture of grief and anger.

     She looked at him, closing her eyes against the tears that formed there. “Pietal.”

     “Unbelievable.” Isaac nodded sadly towards her. “I pity you.”

     Another shot was heard, and this man’s death hurt no less than the other. Agony welcomed her with open arms. Nothing seemed real anymore. She noticed her world - the ring of light - seemed decidedly smaller. She felt alone, and isolated despite the exchange heard behind her.

     “Her reading are escalating.”

     “Shock?”

     “Yes. Maybe fear, or maybe both.”

     “Then I will push her further. I need to know the truth.”

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

     Time marched slowly, measured not by light or darkness.

     Lucidity came in small packages.

     Hours replaced seconds; days replaced minutes; and eternity replaced one lonely hour.

     And with a deafening roar of gunfire, Mowen followed Pietal.

     Three dead men for one man’s pain, or three dead men for one man’s vengeance. Nikita tried in vain to resolve the questions, because in another hour she would choose between her dearest Walter and her only Michael. The hour after next could terminate all that had served to define her existence in Section One.

     Too soon the first hour of decision arrived. The sound of footsteps failed to deliver their former foreboding. Instead they dragged the weight of a body towards her.

     To her credit, the body - Isaac - no longer represented a paragon of power. Blood-shot eyes suggested that he too had been crying. Slight trembling in his hands reinforced his weakened state.

     He carried a chair this time, as if the burden he carried made standing too magnanimous a task. His back was to the panel, but his position didn’t block Nikita’s view.

     Nikita anticipated his question, knowing what he would command from her. But how could she choose? Who would she choose? Should she even have to choose?

     “Kill me.” She whispered. “I will not tell you, and neither will they.”

     Isaac stared at her intently, eyes without defensive barrier. Sincere sadness deepening each wrinkle, Isaac became human. A broken man - not a tormentor - sat dejectedly shaking his head with heartfelt pity. Pity, she realized that was directed towards her.

     “Now...” He shook his head, tilting it ever so slightly to the view behind him. “I believe you are in a position to feel what I feel.” Isaac stated sadly.

     Her deep breath caught in the back of her throat. She clenched her jaw, and rolled her lips inward.

     “Did you do this and more to my son?” His eyes came back to search hers. And at that moment Nikita hated herself more than she thought possible. Loathing sickened her, poisoning her from the inside out.

     He reached forward and brushed each side of her face with the back of his hand. Licking his lips, he started, “All I want is my son.”

     The request sounded reasonable, even logical, but it went against everything for which she stood. She shook her head and started sobbing softly. “I won't choose between them.”

     “Choose.” He jerked her chin up roughly, “We can each get what we want, Nikita.”

     Gulping, Nikita shook her head. “No we can’t.” She sighed, her voice but a whimper of denial.

     Nodding to someone behind her, Isaac stood suddenly. “Choose.” He demanded all but spitting on her.

     Getting no answer, Isaac shrugged, “Kill the young one.”

     “NO!” Nikita jerked to attention, staring mesmerized at the grotesque scene behind the panel.

     “The other?” Isaac questioned, hugging his arms fiercely towards his body.

     Nikita shook her head again. “Me.” She answered, never taking her eyes from the panel.

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

     Catatonic, Nikita’s breathing slowed. Skin crawled. Tears hid, finding cheeks below unworthy of their salty fervor.

     Alone.

     A dead heart beat slowly. Dullness rattled her mind, while guilt planted tortuous reminders of friends now gone? Her will to live surrendered, preferring instead the comfort and cowardice of death.

     The white, dull room fully lit, bathed her with brightness, serving only to increase the filth and stench that she felt.

     Mind and heart warred the same issues. Logic told her that she would die here, or worse, live with the agony of her decision.

     Scuffling sounded behind her, and a thrill of hope found a new home in a dark corner of her dead heart.

     Michael, bruised and bloodied - yet still her strength, supported in the arms of two men. Her eyes closed briefly in unvoiced thanks.

     A somber Isaac flanked Michael’s position. He barked some orders, and magically two chairs were produced.

     Nikita waited. Every ounce of her being strained at reading Michael. Wondering when he would move, knowing that he must have a plan for escape, a small nervous smile wrinkled her lips.

     Twitter- twatter rung her heart. Deep breaths once again filled her lungs. Pain twinged each muscle, but the feeling - any feeling - felt like heaven itself.

     Hope waned as Michael’s limbs were secured. Yet such was Nikita's faith in him, she thought that this too was all part of some plan. If only he would look at her, then his plan could be her plan.

     Isaac strolled to the metal chair arena, sitting perpendicular to the pair. Legs crossed, eyes closed, he spoke. “Michael, Nikita has the means to set you free. We’re here together to see what she will decide.”

     Nikita’s eyes darted nervously towards Isaac and then to the man priming his gun behind Michael’s drooping form.

     “Michael.” Nikita spoke. It was soft, coarse with emotion. Yet it demanded a response.

     Nikita watched as Michael’s head lolled from side to side. Raising briefly, he locked eyes with her. Nikita saw there...something different than she had expected.

     Resignation.

     Stared at the sweaty head that had drooped forward, replaying his response. Burning - it started in her eyes, and followed an acid trail to her heart. There its fire burned out Hope, leaving an empty shell behind.

     “You’ve already lost so much, Nikita.” Isaac said with some sadness. “Will you loose this too?”

     Nikita shook her head, biting her lip until she tasted blood. “I love you, Michael.”

     Isaac’s face twisted - a jigsaw of raw emotions. “Do it.” He commanded.

     If her hands had been free, Nikita knew that they would not have struck out. They would have torn at her face, until Self could be recognized no more. She would have hid behind those hands... maybe cut them off.

     But instead Nikita ducked her head, trying in vain to plant it deeply in her hollow chest

     She jumped at the roar of gunfire, thinking that never before had such a sound seemed so loud and final.

***********

     Fingers curled around Nikita’s buried chin, pulling her head upward. “Nikita.” Isaac started, slowly brushing his thumb across her closed eyes. “Sequence completed.” He whispered.

     Two words became fingers that pried Nikita’s tear-swollen eyelids apart.

     Isaac stepped aside. Nikita’s attention went first to the two empty chairs, then to the Madeline’s form hosting the panel of dead operatives.

     What words could come? How could one pick among the jet wash of questions hurling towards her mouth? Lips opened, but all she could do was stare.

     Stare as Madeline directed Isaac to leave. Stare as the horrid picture of her dead friends dissolved into a blank, gray screen. Someone loosened her bonds, and now her hands hung limply at her sides. They curled instantly into fists, the only external clue to her tumultuous thoughts.

     Assistance was offered her, in the form of gentle hands hoisting her to Madeline’s eye level. It was truly an odd feeling. Body, soul and spirit weeping together over the same grief and fury.

     “You have questions.” Madeline stated the words as though they were facts. The kindness and sympathy in her smile falling just short of genuine.

     “After you’ve had a chance to re-group, you will need to de-brief.” Madeline’s eyes stared straight through Nikita. Her voice sounded somehow rehearsed, and opened mouth ending the speech looked full of unsaid words needing to be said. Instead the staccato beat of leather pumps hailed a brisk retreat, carrying Madeline away.

     The pair that supported Nikita started to move, but she halted them. “No. Leave me here.” She commanded.

     Feeling weak - more inside than out- she wished only to remain stationary. Grief solicited stillness just as it seduced tears.

     Knees hit the concrete floor, and the young operative collapsed sideways - a rag doll lying expressionless on the floor.

     Pulling her knees inward, she hugged her lower body fiercely, rocking silently.

     Then she gave Grief what it demanded - tears. Everything whether good or bad washed outward in a downpour of weeping.

     Crying continued until Anger surfaced - raged that no more tears could be found. Suddenly, there was a rush of energy, breathing sharpened to hissing.

     She rose, circling the room, hitting the walls softly at first. Then harder and harder, until hitting wasn’t enough. Kicking at the awful cold chairs that crashed loudly, she turned them into weapons. She hurled them wildly against the wall, the floor, the open door.

     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “Well?” Operations looked from the viewing screen to Madeline.

     “It’s a healthy form of expression.” Madeline answered, meeting his eyes briefly before turning away from the screen.

     “She didn’t betray the Section.” Operations stated, shock tinging the words. He continued watching, mesmerized by Nikita’s bizarre outpouring.

     “Why ” Operations demanded, drawing his gaze from the screen to stare accusingly at Madeline.

     “You wanted her to fail.” Madeline supplied flatly. It wasn’t meant to be an accusation, rather she sought clarification.

     Operations’ eyes widened, and he opened his mouth in exasperation. “No,” He denied, “I simply want to know what has changed for her to succeed.” His voice raised slightly, and he paced briefly seeking to relieve the tension.

     Madeline pursed her lips, considering the question with a slight raising of the eyebrows. Lifting her chin toward the empty room, She offered, “In a minute, you can ask her.”

     The screen revealed an empty room. Twisted metal rested in a slight puddle of tears.

     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Isaac had propped himself against the wall outside the room, obviously waiting. Nikita paused, deciding what she should feel towards him.

     “If you had told a location, the shot you heard in there ...” Isaac jerked his head towards the room. “It would have been the last thing you heard.”

     Dropping her head and shaking it slightly from side to side, Nikita gingerly replied. “It was the last thing ‘I’ heard.”

     “You’re wrong, Nikita. You’re more now than you ever have been.” Isaac said quietly, pushing himself from the wall. He waited for her attention. Getting it, he continued, “Because.. you never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you.”

     Nikita watched Isaac’s noiseless retreat until his form disappeared 'round a corner. Turning to her reflection in the silvery door, she observed the blurred image, finding it an amazingly accurate perception of what she felt.

     Somehow, her wandering travels ended in front of Madeline’s door.

     Hissing open, the door revealed the expected duo. Corralled around a monitoring screen, they stared back at her.

     Nikita stepped inside their half-circle, meeting their eyes briefly. “You wanted to see me.” Quite honestly, her reserve and stamina startled even her at this moment. Voice steady, albeit hollow, Nikita vowed that there would be no tantrums. ‘Let them see what they’ve created’ She thought to herself.

     “In less than five hours, we’ve learned more about you than have in nearly four years.” Operations answered, with a cursory look toward Madeline.

     Madeline stepped forward, dominating Nikita line of vision. “Now is the time for your questions, Nikita.”

     “Will there be answers to those questions?” Nikita asked blandly, treating Madeline with a subdued smile.

     “Within reason.” Madeline allowed, returning the smile.

     Nikita raised a tentative hand. With her pointer finger she traced the curve of Madeline’s lower lip. “Any question?” She challenged.

     Madeline’s eyes flashed a mixture of anger and respect. Definite barriers erected as the smile retreated. Darkening of her features suggested perhaps the devil himself found a home in her calm, careful nod.

     Madeline issued a look of warning before turning to flank Operations. A look seemed to be exchanged between the two Section heads, but Nikita couldn’t discern its meaning.

     “What did you learn?” Nikita’s tone turned accusing.

     Eyes bowed, lips curtsied, Madeline exited abruptly.

     Operations took a step forward. “I didn’t expect you to pass this test. Why did you?” He queried.

     “Guess you didn’t learn as much as you thought.” Nikita challenged, stepping towards him and meeting him face to face.

     Operations smile broadened incrementally, until all at once he was laughing. “Well done.” He quirked an eyebrow before turning to leave.

     Operations left as Michael entered. Nikita turned over her shoulder to briefly acknowledge him before stepping towards the monitor.

     Michael took a deep breath, but Nikita held up a restraining arm. “Please don’t say anything.”

     Shoving his hands in his pockets, Michael took his time in joining her at the screen.

     “It’s empty.” Nikita observed with a low rumble that resembled something between a laugh and a sob.

     “I’m...em..empty.” She nodded as the realization hit her. Nikita felt the soft touch that surrounded her hand in innocent reassurance. Earnestly she drove away the urge to avoid Michael’s touch.

     Neither spoke for some time.

     “Does it get worse ?” She murmured, moving fingers to entangle in the offered hand.

     “I don’t know.” He answered, using the hand to steer her towards him.

     Sensing that he was looking for her something, Nikita met his eyes. “Don’t let this destroy you.” He leaned forward slightly stressing “this.”

     “Who was in your room, Michael?” She questioned, freeing her hand and walking a safe distance from his presence.

     Nikita waited.

     Michael breathed.

     She moved to leave.

     He intercepted.

     “Well done, Nikita.” He whispered, letting his breath kiss her shock-open lips.

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