Trent willed himself forward, forcing his eyes past the oblivious crowd. He wondered what Nikita must be thinking, feeling. He wondered.

This is just how I imagined our parting, Nikita thought. A fire of a different kind igniting body and soul seeming to last forever even his gun's blast pushed her into the arms of her ocean. Carried with her a captured vision, his lips formed words that she would dwell on long after.

Trent couldn't believe what he had seen. He rushed the railing seconds after Nikita had disappeared. Trent cried, kicking the wooden post. For the first time in his life, Trent thought of violence. Hands scrambled for the gun that must have been given to him as a joke.

Anger smeared his features. One thought consumed his erratic heart and heaving chest - retribution. "Damn you, Michael." He pulled the trigger and an audible click sounded instead of a roaring explosion.

The gun clicked and something inside him clicked as well. Trembling hands held his gun. Without a second thought, he threw it as far into the ocean as he could.

Collapsing against the wooden side of the pier. Trent curled into a protective ball. "She was beautiful." He mumbled. "She was kind." His eyes closed tightly, reproducing her carefree entrance into his life.

"You're making a scene." Michael issued through clenched teeth. His stoic figure seeming ten times taller from this position.

"Yeah, well murder still gets to me, Michael." Trent snarled.

Trent couldn't put a finger on the exact cause of his anger. He told himself that it was because he had lost Nikita, but part of it centered on his faulty judgment of Michael. Obviously, the man had had nothing to do with this charade of Section justice.

"It's better this way." Michael turned to face Woodward. Green eyes not erring from Trent's.

"Better for who?" Trent heaved himself to a standing position. Using his slight height advantage to look down at Michael and deliver his parting blow. "Better for Nikita?"

"Especially for Nikita." Michael returned evenly.

Trent watched Michael walk away, watched the other operatives move slowly behind him.

"Flower, dear?" A benigh old lady questioned.

Looking down blindly, the sweet smell of roses made him ill. The image of a crystal rose flashed through his mind, and he smiled through the tears.

"It's better." He smiled to the wrinkled face below.

***********

Michael settled into the mundane activities of Section life - typing, filing, and issuing orders to any that dared speak to him. Yesterday a team had found the bloated body of a young operative. He kept telling himself that the body wasn't really Nikita's.

A thought kept plaguing him, tapping incessantly on his mind's door. What if she hadn't approached him? Would he have shot her on that pier? The answer frightened him.

The questions piled seamlessly trapping him with doubt. That was all he had left of her - unanswered questions. Nikita had taken the reigns of her life from him. She no longer needed him, and that, more than anything, stung like a horse's whip.

His door burst open, and he frowned slightly as four operatives filed in noiselessly. Their expressions seemed grim almost sheepish. Behind them entered Operations, Madeline, and Trent.

"We'd like to know about Crispus Atwood." Madeline stepped forward, spearheading the inquisition. Her fury barely contained, her lips sneered at him, while her eyes delivered a message of contempt.

Michael's gaze drifted to Woodward before settling on Madeline. "He's one of my contacts."

Madeline stepped closer. Her chin nearly equaled his. "No." She refuted simply, stepping back and motioning to the group of male operatives. "Take him."

"What's going on?" Michael questioned quietly as two men secured his hands behind him.

"It's a good question, Michael," Madeline conceded. "... An answer we'd like to know as well."

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