A lone naked light bulb spotlighted the bare gray floor below, surrealistically giving the prostrate form a pasty-white haloed appearance. Hollowed, lifeless eyes like soured grapes gazed out blackened orbits; shelved below, beads of perspiration lined his upper lip. His frame shook under the pressures of death, muscles sporadically jerking and convulsing. Tranquillity began to settle over goose-pimpled flesh, covering it in a blanket of pseudo-warmth. Through parched and swollen lips, a sigh-like hiss escaped in conjunction with a trickle of blood. It was nearly finished. Mortality had intimately laid claim on its super hero.

Footsteps, the tweaking of rubber soles on concrete, echoed off the bare metal walls piercing individual daggers through his head. A familiar voice, deep and dark, pitched itself from within the void, making known its presence with a fitting eulogy of Shakespeare's Hamlet. Each annunciation rang flat and emotionless, giving no hint of flavor to the discourse. He listened, the voice serving as the only tangible connection still binding him to this realm.

Like shots of anesthetic, each syllable numbed his failing body, 'til in the end he felt nothing of pain. Without pain's company, and once again thrust into the silent roaring between his ears, he became acutely aware of a smell beyond sweat, a taste beyond blood and bile, a thought beyond fear. Death with its saccharine-sweet, encircling tongue had kissed every part of him, marking him for her consumption. He felt her nearness and welcomed her sinister fate.

As his flesh failed him, he struggled to comprehend the magnified sensations which rifled through his person. The hair on the back of his neck was standing as if to salute the Grim Reaper. His fingernails scraped along the floor sending vibrations to his very core. He felt each bead of sweat tremble at the beating of his heart. The entire process was exhilarating - for once he felt only the physical aspects of living. However, his treasonous memory clawed its way to the surface, demanding expression in this final hour.

Freed from the shackles of repression, his mind instigated with startling clarity and objectivity a lifetime of rights and wrongs; while his soul judged and corroborated in a spiraling circle downward ....past bias..... past censorship. From above Truth shone her virgin light , endeavoring to set the raging soul at peace. It soothed the rumpled feathers of his being, providing solace in the comfort of her arms.

How bittersweet to find such revelations under death's pretense, but verity was necessary to provide cleansing - answers to long-since forgotten questions. Finally at peace with past, present, and future, his spirit rapped at death's door, gently knocking, pleading entrance. A curtain of light covered unseeing eyes, and in dying he felt more alive than living.

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

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

Sweaty palms gripped the hot vinyl of the steering wheel. The hot sun beat mercilessly through the window as rush hour traffic effectively clotted the flow of commuters into the heart of the city. The occasional sound of an angry car horn broke through the hazy horizon that seemed to waver in the exhaust fumes of the thousands of cars ahead of him.

Michael batted away the swarm of distracting thoughts that circled his head like a swarm of buzzing gnats. He cursed the traffic. He cursed Operation's foul mood of late, but more than anything he cursed the blue screen of the computer which sat abandoned on his desk back at the Section. Three words had sent him into this dark mouth of city waste. He wondered how ordinary people battled this carnage of vehicles day in and day out.

"I have her." Three words. Benign. Threatening. Disturbing. His mouth twitched at the thought of them. He pushed the re-dial button on his cellular for the twentieth time, it rang endlessly serving only to further heighten his frustration. Each ring felt like a lengthening cable between him and Nikita. He urged the small black phone "Pick up."

Lately things had been steadily escalating downward. The slew of failed missions lately had caused an undercurrent of tension within the Section walls. Operations' barking voice and outrageous tantrums were becoming regular daily events.

Good fortune seemed to have turned her back on the Section. Something was different, Michael couldn't put his finger on the change nor could he understand the ramifications behind the building uneasiness.

Starting two weeks ago a sea of foreboding had overtaken him in a driving gale wind of doubt and uncertainty. For the first time in a long time, Michael felt totally out of control. Like a marionette puppet, Section One played out a deadly drama unaware of the hands that played them.

By the time Michael arrived at Nikita's apartment, he was in no mood for standing on formality. He knocked once, waiting a total of two seconds, before kicking her door down. He moved with the force of a hurricane throughout the small room, noticing the smallest lint ball that might be misplaced.

Clothed only in a white V-necked sweater and underwear, Nikita emerged from her bathroom, dripping soapy water all over the floor. Shaving cream candy caned her half-shaved legs. With her razor still clenched in one hand and her raised gun in the other, she cursed him silently. Lowering the gun with a salutatory roll of her eyes, she turned to evaluate the bright red streak of blood pouring from the gouge in her leg, which she now sported thanks to Michael's grand entrance.

"God, Michael!" she shot at him, wincing as she discovered the layer of skin her razor held. Her lips curled in disgust as she picked at the sliced skin.

He scaled the stairs in one flying leap, gripping her arms and giving her the once over with his searching eyes. Despite her violent protests, he turned her roughly in his arms, so that she faced away from him. With one arm he circled her waist, the other brushed back her wet hair and ran over the slope of her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" She clenched her teeth, stifling the urge to hit him.

Wriggling like a snake she managed to evade his grasp for a fleeting second, before he pushed her onto the bed. One hand held the back of her head, and he straddled her waist, lifting the sweater over her back.

Sensing resistance was futile, she lay still though her limbs were rigid with fright. He smoothed his hands up and down the indentation of her spine, 'til they found their prize.. A little pinch and when she rolled to face him, finally free of his weight; she saw a smooth diskette, flesh colored on the tip of Michael's finger.

He muttered something softly under his breath and stood, moving past her into her bathroom, continuing his exploration. She pushed herself off the bed, angrily adjusting her sweater over her hips and surveying the stained silky sheets of the bed now covered with creamy white shaving gel. Her hand went to her hips and she angrily shook her head. From the bathroom, she heard him explain, "He was here. He must have put the tracker on you while you were in the shower."

Before she could respond to his surmisal, the sound of a cellular phone penetrated the strange stillness. Michael emerged from the bathroom as if the phone had called his name. In one movement he ducked under the railing, jumping to the ground in search for the ringing phone.

Nikita watched with great interest as he picked up a strange black phone. A glance behind her confirmed hers was still on the night stand where she had left it.

"Yes?" He spoke quietly into the black receiver.

"Still a sucker for a woman in distress, Michael. Nice to know some things never change." No greeting. A voice under guise of friendship hailed him.

"Aslan." Michael whispered in disbelief. "What do you want?" Michael asked tightly, glancing over at Nikita poised on one foot, nursing her shaving cut with one hand and sifting through her closet with the other. The clicking of hangers slung roughly along the bar provided a beautiful harmony against her ravings.

"A Meeting." The voice answered.

"Why?" Michael walked slowly to the French doors, opening them and staring across the city. The orange fireball sun hung deliciously poised over the mouth of the horizon. Its steaming embers flushing the sky the reddest hue.

"Tango 2. Go Alpha Green." The man commanded.

"Okay." Michael leaned over the ledge, searching the streets below as if some hidden clue might suddenly reveal itself. People moved in coordinated swarms each driven by dissimiliar interests.

"And, Michael" the voice paused menacingly, "I found her once, I could find her again." The finality of the dial tone pierced through him stabbing every part of him with pangs of fear.

Michael focused on Nikita, intently staring at her as he folded the phone. Now dressed in a long black sheath dress, and leaning against the kitchen counter, she was attempting to appear nonchalant in her study of his conversation. He decided against commenting on the upside down book that she held between her hands.

"What's going on?" She asked, nervously scratching the sides of her arms.

"Old friend." Michael said distractedly; he drifted off in a space above her left shoulder, eyes seeing only pictures of the past.

"Friend?" Her tone contradicted his statement daring him to declare otherwise.

He walked briskly past her, not wanting to involve her any more than necessary.

"Michael!" She pleaded.

"Yes?" He asked softly, allowing his eyes to trace the outline of her curious expression briefly before flitting away.

"Where are you going?" She put a restraining arm on his shoulder as he turned away from her yet again.

He flinched, and turned pleading eyes to face her, begging her to make this easy for both of them.

She misinterpreted, "Sure, break in here, shake me up and leave." She pushed him toward her doorway, before hissing, "Perfect." She searched every detail of his face for a response, but he didn't offer any. His expression held sadness, but he stubbornly refused to let her inside his head. Despite her tantrum, her safety was more the issue than her trust or lack of it.

"Be sure to prop my door on your way out!' she retorted, angrily turning on her heel and retreating to her bedroom. As she climbed the stairs, he took a step towards her, but then thought better of the idea. He left the apartment, leaving the door propped on its hinges.

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

The steady repetitive lub-dub of car tires rolling over bridge connections soothed Michael's state of mind. Tight lines of worry relaxed as he noticed the stars slowly surfacing the black sea-sky.

Alone with his thoughts, puddles of memories pooled in his subconscious. Perhaps it was the sound of Aslan's voice or the sight of such a plethora of stars that brought him back some ten years. A smile played the slopes of his lips, as Michael remembered the challenge that his recruitment had provided the Section.

Running a hand through his tousled curls, he laughed aloud as a long-since forgotten scene re-played itself on the screen of his mind. The expression of his official greeter's face as the poor man realized the full extent of Michael's hand-to-hand combat skills, flashed vividly. Section One's first test - he had passed it with flying colors, effectively knocking the greeting operative senseless and nearly escaping.

Mere inches from freedom a voice deep and rich had flown through the air with the force of a bullet, landing squarely in Michael's chest. An impressive man strode towards him, speaking with great clarity...

"Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene II." Michael had answered, still in awe of the powerful presence this figure commanded.

"Educated....... Good, Michael. Would you please come with me?" A great arm extended, leading the way.

Michael remained rooted momentarily, before allowing the intrinsic pull of this man's charisma to draw him once again into the dark recesses of Section One. He followed, never knowing why he so liked and respected this man that he would later come to know as Aslan.

William Shakespeare became a game for the two of them, an intimate system of communication that only they could understand. Aslan would recite various lines, and Michael would respond with the correct Act and Scene. None of the other operatives understood the banter. But in Aslan, Michael had found the father he had missed while growing up.

Michael sighed, closing off that memory and focusing on the lengthening white and yellow lines illuminated in the glow of his headlights. The golden orb of the moon had replaced the sun. He settled deeper into the leather seat, relaxing under the melancholy violin melody surrounding him. Past the din of the city, his sedan wound along the twisting road, taking him deeper and deeper into the country side. He guessed that he would arrive at the rendezvous point somewhere around 3 or 4 in the morning.

***

Nikita stood on the ledge of her brick wall, defying its inherent danger and feeling incredibly light and free. Throwing her arms wide, she embraced the rising moon. Her laughter echoed off the walls around her, bouncing back at her over and over.

The blustering winds threatened to tip her at any moment, twisting her hair and dress in tangles around her. Four stories below, the ground loomed up at her, daring her to test her flight abilities.

Like wings of a plane her arms extended reaching shoulder level. Taking a deep breath, one foot shot over the abyss, toes perfectly pointed in preparation for flight.

"You can't do it." a voice interrupted from her doorway. Lowering her foot and turning, she found a strangely beautiful man shadowing her doorstep. His penetrating glare seemed at war with itself as it both drew her and pushed her away in the same breath. She rocked