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 in the wake of his stare.

She blinked, returning her concentration to the slim ledge that separated her from the icy ground below.

"Do what?" She shot back, extending her hands out in front of her as if she were exacting a dive. Her thoughts wandered, piling end over end, making no particular sense. She had always wanted a pool with water deep enough to support a dive. It occurred somewhere deep inside her that perhaps she should be scared of this stranger. Instead his tall imposing figure brought a sense of safety.

"Fly.... You can't fly." he answered, stepping through the doorway and extending a hand to aid her in her descent.

Nikita studied him with great interest before taking his proffered hand. Once on the ground, she found that he towered above her; his tawny hair shaping his face like a lion's mane. Most people wore apparel, but this man's clothing wrapped him like fancy paper on a perfect gift, perfectly encasing a physique fit for the gods. His eyes were the deepest brown, so dark that she could barely make out the pupils.

She smiled at him, giddy with the sense of danger that he emanated. Touching his face gently as if testing his reality, she remained mesmerized by his obvious appreciation of her. She felt like a queen in the shadow of his eyes. He treated her with reverence that equaled royalty.

"You're Michael's friend." Her statement broke the magical spell that had held them transfixed in some mystical instant.

He smiled as a way of an introduction, "Aslan."

"The lion." she mouthed, referring to Lewis' Narnia Chronicles.

"The Legend." He countered, raising his eyebrows up and down playfully. "Why are you here?" She asked in a hushed whisper, almost afraid of the answer. Her mind wouldn't let her forget the state in which Michael had left. He had been positively shaken at the thought of meeting this man. But looking in Aslan's eyes, she couldn't imagine ever feeling afraid of this beautiful creature.

Aslan's name signified everything rich and exciting about him. Nature worshipped its Creator in the power of his biceps. His legs - like tree trunks - supported his frame in a sublime mixture of elegance and strength. His whole persona was a paradox, a conflict of interests between power and beauty. Moving, he made no noise, instead blending effortlessly into the surroundings, more a ghost than a man.

"I need your help." He grasped both her hands bringing them to his chest, pulling her to her tiptoes.

She opened her eyes wider at his proposal. "With what?" Looking briefly at her encased hands resting on his chest, she found it hard to distinguish where his began and hers ended.

"I want to save Michael." His voice hypnotized her making her feel dizzy. The world around her seemed to float away under the gentle pleading of his dark and rich voice.

She nodded, suddenly mute. He turned to leave, beckoning her from the doorway. His eyes sparkled something akin to danger and suppressed evil.

Nikita followed obediently, feeling all the while as if she were strolling through some dream world, finding her prince astride some glorious white horse. What a wonderful dream she thought as she passed underneath his tight smile. His eyes traced her movement as he closed the doors firmly behind them.

**********

Three-thirty a.m.

Michael pulled into the deserted mining town. Skeletal buildings with yawning doorways and clapping shutters greeted him. The translucent moonbeams lacquered shards of window panes, creating sparkling prisms to contrast the unbearable grayness of the surrounding structures.

In the safety of his car, the ritualistic weapon's check and deep breathing cemented Michael inside the role of a Section One operative. Everything else faded. His senses, honed, blocked out all unnecessary sounds.

Outside, the elements blasted their visitor. Dust swirled indiscriminately covering the tips of his boots with brown powder. Sand gritted between his teeth, but he felt nothing. Through the screen of fleeting particles a figure was emerging.

High heeled ostrich boots scuffed the ground as a portly man swaggered into view. The large brimmed hat shadowed the majority of a hairy face. Trails of brownish fluid trickled from a small mouth staining blond hairs. A thick tongue perpetually darted through wire-thin lips, revealing a set of yellowed teeth. Navy-blue fabric barely covered a bloated belly which overhung a pair of tight blue jeans.

Michael looked away from this short squatty man, a slight curl of disgust wrinkling his lips. He rolled his eyes to face the stranger, allowing brief eye contact.

Michael prompted, "You got something?"

"It's here somewhere." The man's words pushed the stench of stale alcohol and tobacco through the air. His meaty hands roamed his shirt and pants. Seeming to come up empty in his endeavors, the man shrugged with a toothy grin.

"What do you want?" Michael rubbed his eye wearily. Looking skyward, he tensed the muscles in his jaw sporadically in time with the twitching of his mouth.

The man's blurry, blood shot eyes gleamed with excitement as he slurred out his request for money. Michael reluctantly palmed a wad of cash into the man's hands. He was rewarded with a slip of paper, nothing more.

"Much Ado About Nothing," Michael murmured. His hand aided the furrowing of his eyebrows, folding the skin beneath his fingers. He shook his head, walking towards his vehicle remaining deep in thought.

Almost as an afterthought he faced his contact once again. The disgusting man was now flopped on the ground greedily counting his cash, totally unaware of the sand that covered him like a dusty relic.

Reaching the car, Michael wiped the accumulated dirt from his black suit before sinking behind the wheel. He studied the strip of paper against the dome light.

Suddenly the truth behind this quote hit him fully. This whole trip had been a wild goose chase - much ado about nothing. Manipulated like pawn in a chess game, Michael realized that he had been played.

He cursed his short memory concerning Aslan's past deceptions. The black sedan jerked out of the sandy lot, creating a monstrous cloud of dust in its wake.

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

Hours later and nearly morning, Michael struggled to maintain awareness in this desolate stretch of road. Terrors ordinarily reserved for his dreams resurfaced in the windshield's reflection of his dust-covered hands.

The men and women of that village swarmed his thougths with taunting accusations. His mind recalled with startling detail the exact moment that his soul had become lost to Section One; each scene played itself on the movie screen of his windshield

***

It was six years ago .......... Michael's first attempt at leading a team. His job - to track Major Kytlet's movement and then deploy appropriate operatives to dispose of a well-known arms dealer.

"Michael!" Aslan's voice broke through his com set, alerting him of the entering team's presence. "You're sure?"

"Yes." Michael replied with certainty. He had seen the major enter that village with his own eyes.

In a matter of minutes it was over. The unprepared villagers were slaughtered, never offering a sliver of resistance to the Section operatives. Michael hung back, covering the penetrating team.

After suffering through a miniature eternity waiting for the all clear signal, Michael heard Aslan calling him from inside the village. Not since his father, had Michael seen such frank anger and loathing in someone's eyes.

"Kytlet's not here, Michael." As Aslan spoke, each word bounced off of Michael's chest as if he had suddenly sprouted rubber skin.

Michael refused to believe them. Couldn't believe them.

Aslan brushed past him, while Michael remained fixed to his spot, processing the atrocities that he had allowed. For hours he sifted through the corpses, heaving back wooden frames, leaping like a mad man over fallen beams, soaking himself in their collective blood. He checked for pulses on every body, forcing himself to look into their blank stares of death. The air reeked of the smoke and burning flesh.

The memory had seared itself inside his psyche. For weeks, even years after he would wake with the stench of their deaths filling his nostrils. Mostly though, he remembered her...

......The smoke had cleared with the sound of the helicopter; the brush of hot wind heated his skin through the black outfit. A small figure moved toward him, floating through the haze of smoke. He blinked continuously as if his eye lids could somehow erase the visage.

A young woman emerged. Her blank expression, completely devoid of emotion, was more effective than a slap in the face or senseless hysterics. Her dress hung like sackcloth over her shoulder. A small breast was bared to him, yet she afforded no effort to conceal her nakedness. She floated continuously toward him with phantom-like presence. One shoe carelessly flopped under her foot, pounding out each step as she neared him. Soot and blood painted her face. Paths of tears accented her pale skin in jagged patterns tracing her cheeks.

She clenched a dagger of sorts in one hand. Within inches of him, she lifted the weapon, never taking her black eyes from his. Shouting at him in her native language, she repeated the same phrase over and over.

Michael looked to the raised saviour of death with reverent discretion, mesmerized by the captured light that gilded its jagged silver edge. The glare reflected sunlight into his face essentially blinding him. His eyes shut simultaneously with the sound of a shot that ripped through the once quiet jungle air.

The shrieking of birds vicariously supported his soul's cry as he opened eyes to the collapsing form of the young woman. He caught her in her path backward, her blood drenching him and marking him with her death.

A shadow blocked the light and warmth of the sun for a moment. Towering above him, Aslan tilted his head toward the sound of the helicopter, extending a hand to Michael.

Michael stood, refusing the hand.

Loosening the dagger the girl still held clenched in her hand, he threw it hard against the trunk of a tree. It reverberated under the pressure of meeting the solid bark, but it held firm implanted in the heart of the tree. Backing out of the village, Michael blistered its memory in his mind.

***

Later, Michael learned the woman had been shouting, "White man, I will have your soul." In the end she had been right, his soul stayed inside that village. He re-visited it nightly in his dreams.

Michael realized that Aslan knew him better than any enemy. As friends, they had been privileged with the knowledge of each other's fears. However, one thing separated them in their congruity.

Aslan had never been afraid of anything, and Aslan had NO weakness.

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

The blacktop road stretched endlessly to a horizon of infrastructures. Vehicles, like multi-colored ants, moved in coordinated clumps into the city, each falling into a rush-hour rhythm of braking and accelerating. However, cars had now ceased their jerking movements in favor of complete stand-still for nearly fifteen minutes.

"This just in," the radio announcer's lilting voice filtered from the speakers, pouring into the soft leather environment of Michael's sedan. "Interstate 10, heading westbound into the city was closed early this morning due to reports of a bomb threat in the area. Police are working to resolve this situation, meanwhile expect delays of two to three hours. Alternate routes are being devised. Stay tuned to KFLR......."

Michael stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He could almost hear the collective groans of people everywhere in response to the announcement. Viewing his fellow prisoners of commerce from the shield of his four door prison, Michael found himself envying the humdrum of the working class.

To his left a young woman traced lipstick around her lips, pressing them together and checking them in her rearview mirror. Behind him the wild, waving hands of a business man punctuated some point to his cellular phone in which he seemed to be shouting.

With a sigh Michael stretched his aching muscles and rested his head resignedly against his seat. An amused smirk surfaced, realizing that Aslan was probably behind the "bomb threat" causing the delay. He nodded in respect to his mentor as if mentally chalking one up in Aslan's favor. Truth be told, Aslan had been the only one scoring in this sadistic game.

The penitent pealing of a phone pulled him from the tortures of self-depreciation. Until that moment he had forgotten about the mysterious instrument which he had retrieved from Nikita's apartment.

Flipping the unit open, Aslan's voice greeted him, "I must commend your taste in partners, Michael." Even through the static, Michael couldn't miss the smile in Aslan's voice.

"Why the wild goose chase, Aslan?" Michael's hands tightened over the wheel. He jerked his car into the adjacent shoulder. Pressing downward on the accelerator, the black car jumped forward with a burst of speed. Around him angry horns blared their indignance, but he barely heard them.

"I needed you to remember the type of adversary with which you're dealing." Aslan replied conversationally.

"Adversary." Michael repeated, testing the word choice.

Aslan continued lowering his voice, becoming both boasting and menacing, "Think of me as the Puppeteer. I know exactly which strings will 'rouse you to do my bidding."

"Let's dispense with the games, Aslan." Michael snapped, tiring of the endless melodramatics.

"I'm hurt, Michael." a clicking sound marked Aslan's disapproval. "You think this all a game."

"You're good at games, Aslan." Weaving indiscriminately around the slower-moving traffic, Michael pressed onward, disregarding any and all traffic laws.

"Yes, and sadly, you only seem to be good at falling for the wrong women." Sarcasm dripped thick and sweet. Aslan's tone became deliberately patronizing and inciting.

"What do you want?" Michael hissed, cursing the medium of communication that barred him from striking his attacker.

"How about - your soul." The laugh that followed this declaration was chilling - a true sign at how little a soul the speaker possessed

"I can't give you what I don't have." Michael responded flatly. Straining for any sign of weakness Aslan might divulge, Michael listened for a crack in Aslan's voice, a sigh, any clue that might paint this figure human.

"Soon the Section will become privy to information concerning three assassination attempts. You may stop two assassinations, but Lord Branko Getz must die." Aslan spelled out the demand with the indifference of relaying directions.

"You want me to kill him?" Michael wondered in disbelief, somehow doubting that the death of one man could possibly be reason enough for Aslan to break five plus years of silence.

"I want you to look the other way." Aslan corrected.

"Where's Nikita?" Aware that Aslan planned to exploit any weakness if necessary, Michael prepared himself for the worst.

"Do you accept?" The voice pressed. Michael noticed the tinge of expectancy that colored the words.

Michael paused, weighing the options before responding affirmatively at long length.

Aslan's all-business tone returned as he further relayed his parting instructions. "The hypnotic I gave her will wear off; but the metal band will not. It stays until the job is complete."

"Where?" Michael pushed.

"Stay focused, Michael." Aslan virtually ignored Michael's request.

"Aslan," Michael looked out the window, surveying the red-tinged smog that overhung the high-rises. The bile that warmed his throat forced the whispered promise, "When this is over, I will hunt you down."

"You forget whom you're dealing with, Michael." Aslan chided, making a tisking sound, seemingly unaffected by Michael's oath.

"You forget that I have no soul." Michael's eyes darkened with burning hatred. His voice was laced with unabashed loathing, directed both at himself and his former mentor.

"You may be right, Michael; but right now, I hold whatever's left of your soul." Aslan diffused the challenge with an air of flippancy, serving to remind Michael yet again exactly who held the strings of the puppet.

Silence held dominion. Words held no meaning under the treaty that had been established. Michael heard the retreating sounds of footsteps and Aslan's booming voice slowly growing distant ...

(Cymbeline Act V, Scene II).

***********

The cold winds blew hard against the stoic figure atop the black sedan's hood. Trained in the fine art of minding their own business, the locals milled around Michael, hardly casting him a perfunctory look. In his database search this location had piqued his interest. A used book store, "The Comedy of Cymbeline" privately owned, would not provide much challenge for Aslan. It made perfect sense.

Parking across the street from the small store, Michael discreetly watched for activity. Metal grates covered the store window preventing an inside view. Anything that moved within a hundred foot radius of the building received attention from Michael's scrutinizing eyes. In the half hour that he waited, not a soul had entered or exited the building. Satisfied with the store's vacancy, Michael stepped into the icy street.

His eyes roamed, taking in over overflowing dumpsters, rickety wooden fire escapes, and graffiti-colored the walls. The remains of snowfall more gray than white, traced the foot of the building and side walks.

"The Comedy of Cymbeline" was not much to look at. Rusty hinges of the store's sign squeaked unbearably in the wind; the chipping paint on the door revealed multiple layers of various colors. Black three inch letters conferred a simple explanation -"Closed for Business". Below it a county seal read "Unsafe conditions, fire hazard." Cupping his hands over the grate Michael peered inside, it looked vacant. With a cursory look behind him, he forced the lock and opened the door.

Entering the shop, Michael studied his new surroundings. He flipped the light switch up and down; nothing happened. The room housed mainly shadows created by the grated store-front window. The light filtering through served mostly to highlight the large clumps of dust and blackened apple cores that decorated the gray-green carpet.

Walking past the front desk, he trailed his fingers along its splintery edge, his fingers returning dusty, The smell of antique books and dust hung thick, covering the air with almost a visible cloak.

"Cymebline" consisted on one room -oblong, longer than it was wide. The bare stucco walls, stained in large brown water marks, provided little insulation against the penetrating outside air. Two rows of rickety plywood bookshelves aligned themselves, piled high with an array of old books. Other furniture, old and battered, cluttered the chamber. Particularly interesting were the overstuffed red plush chairs that seemed somehow out of place in the otherwise homely environment.

The sounds of a muffled cough brought him to attention. He plunged down the center aisle, looking right and left through the flanking bookshelves. Nothing.

"Nikita?" He asked the blank faces of yellowed books.

A mummified Nikita had sat bolt upright from a old couch to his left. She shook away the covers, her static-filled hair tracing the path of her movement. In the darkness the white hair glowed with blue-sparkling electricity. Reaching her side in moments, Michael leaned cautiously over the back of the couch, studying her pale, white face.

Eyebrows furrowed, and her mouth formed a perfect "O" She attempted to move, but the massive covers impeded the process. Each movement served only to further entangle her inside the maze of quilts. She rolled to the floor, kicking furiously and finally leaving the blankets discarded around her in massive defeated bundles. She issued them a look of triumph while pulling angrily at the bunched fabric of her black sheath dress.

Michael watched trying to hide the smile behind a closed fist. Hiding that smile became easier once he saw the metal band circling the majority of Nikita's forearm. Michael studied the blankets and the couch, searching for evidence. Nikita's shoes and two bottles of water lay at the end of the over-sized couch; nothing else appeared out of place.

Nikita pulled herself from the sea of blankets, reclining against the safety of the old sofa. Keeping her back towards Michael, she ignored him as she tried to recount previous events. "Where are we?" she finally managed.

"What do you remember?" Michael questioned.

Nikita stood wrapping a quilt around her frame and casting him a look of annoyance. Padding past him, she made her way toward the more-lighted store-front. She shivered as her bare feet moved across the thin carpet. "I remember a lion." She murmured, questioning the statement with her expression.

"A lion?" His eyes widened, and he followed her. They looked through the grated window together, tracing the paths of people populating the dirty street. Michael placed a re-assuring hand around her shoulders. She shrugged away from it, pacing in a broad circle.

"Not a real lion, a man. He...." Frustrated at her lack of memory. She sank in a disgruntled heap on the floor, holding her head between her hands. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed the sides of her head trying to squeeze the memories into place. She fell backward on the floor shaking her head in disgust, "I don't know, I just don't know."

She nervously flicked at her rotten apple core companions, curling her lips in disgust. It was then that she noticed her strange adornment. Looking inquisitively at the anomaly, she held it above her head and fingered its smoothness. The tiny bump on the underside seemed its only flaw.

"You're okay?" Michael asked, sitting straight backed beside her on the floor.

For a moment she regarded him deciding which felt more out of place, Michael sporting grimy hands and a dusty suit or Michael sitting Indian-style on the floor. It was a toss-up, but in keeping with the likelihood of all the events that had transpired lately.

An exaggerated sigh signaled her reply, "Besides starving to death," her stomach growled loudly right on cue, "I'd say I'm doing fine." She sat up quickly, too quickly. She swayed as the blood rushed from her head.

Michael grabbed her arm, contacting cold metallic skin. His fingers held their ground over the metallic sheath. His eyes met Nikita's inquisitive gaze momentarily.

He turned, staring off into space murmuring, "Let's get out of here."

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

The setting sun winked at Nikita as the sedan weaved through the passing foliage outside the city. In the warmness and safety of Michael's shadow, she was suddenly aware of how exhausted she felt. She shifted deeper into the soft leather seat, resting her head against the cold glass.

Her questions concerning the past events had been answered satisfactorily, and now they both retreated to solve their individual pieces of the puzzle. Traveling in comfortable silence, Nikita couldn't help but notice the way Michael's hand intermittently gripped and relaxed over the contours of the steering wheel.

"What's wrong?" She asked, flippantly not exactly expecting an answer. The sound of his reply startled her and she raised her head to regard him.

"Your lion... the man that you remember...." He looked at her briefly, before continuing. "We were.....partners."

"Aslan." The name uncorked in the recesses of her mind and popped out of her mouth in nearly the same instant. Part of her was shocked to hear Michael's attempt at transparency. Nikita kept telling herself to stop staring at him, but her head stubbornly refused to turn away. She didn't want to miss a single syllable, deep breath, or saddened sigh.

"Aslan ....escaped Section One a little over 5 years ago." Michael paused, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat and continued. "The Section sent me after him, figuring that I was the only one whom he wouldn't shoot on sight."

"He's still alive." She winced. It seemed she was still operating in straight from mind to mouth mode, because the obviousness of that statement sounded foolish outside the safety of her head. She waited for his retort, but Michael appeared not to notice.

He continued, "My orders were to retrieve him dead or alive."

"So.....you never found him?" She wondered, forcing her gaze to drift absently out the window.

"I found him." Michael pulled the vehicle to the curb, and leaned against the steering wheel. Peering over the steering wheel, he tilted his head sideways as if he actually hearing the words that he recalled. "He told me that he needed time to make things right. I never saw him again." A deep sigh escaped as Michael fell back against the brown leather seats.

"Wait here." He instructed, exiting the vehicle.

She watched him, marking his entrance inside a little coffee shop. She started chewing on her fingernails, contemplating Michael's past in the Section. Somehow it had never occurred to her that Michael could possibly have a past. He had always seemed so timeless.

***

Darkness had settled over the city. Flickering city lights mirrored the twinkling stars, creating their own constellations. The darkness seemed to have invaded Michael's mood. His motions were automated, machine-like. The radio added a suitable background for the melodrama, filling the interior with its melancholy melodies.

Nikita concentrated on the hot coffee cup warming her hand. She stuffed the remains of her third croissant in her mouth, licking the crumbs from her lips. She eyed Michael's untouched pastries hungrily. His steaming coffee, also untouched, stood testament to his total withdrawal inside himself.

It wasn't his lack of appetite, nor his foreboding mood that bothered Nikita. She was slowly being driven to distraction by his ceaseless review of each car mirror. His head jerked out the perpetual rhythm like clockwork.. Up. Across. Back. Up. Across. Back.

With an exaggerated sigh she turned to face him in the seat, regarding him with frank interest, "So.....do you know what Aslan been doing?"

"I don't know." He answered quickly. His lip twitched. Usually her signal to cease fire, but she wasn't willing to stop, not now.

"What does he want?" She pressed, determined to strike while the iron was hot.

"He wants to assassinate someone." Michael replied, shortly.

"Really?" She questioned that statement. "He seemed so... innocent." She tested the word weighing it against her memory of Aslan. Innocent wasn't exactly the embodiment of Aslan, but somehow she doubted any one word could describe such a man.

Michael raised an eyebrow in response to her surmisal as his hand brushed a mutinous curl away from his face.

"How good is he?" she asked hesitantly.

"Good enough to need neither my help nor my permission to kill someone....anyone." His knuckles turned white over the soft brown steering wheel. The car edged forward, the roar of the engine echoed Nikita's frustration.

"Why ask?" She traced the lines of worry extending from the sides of his eyes and from the corners of his mouth.

Michael shrugged, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and resuming his "up, across, back" motions.

"Can you stop him?" She leaned forward, trying to engage eye contact.

"No." he whispered, turning his gaze to the view of his side window.

"Why not?" She wanted to touch him, to alleviate this vice-like grip of tension that was slowly crushing his erected barriers of control.

"Aslan trained me, Nikita." He looked at her, his expression blank, but his glassy eyes relayed volumes.

"So? It's been 5 years."

"Beauty. Charm. Experience. Intelligence. Instincts. Power." He listed a slew of Aslan's qualities, stopping abruptly at the last word. "Alone, each of these elements are effective." He squinted, rubbing his forehead. "Combined in one Section operative, they're virtually unstoppable." Michael's gaze shifted back to the road.

"I'd say you're pretty evenly matched then." she offered boldly, lifting her chin in challenge.

"I have something to lose, he doesn't" Michael answered quickly.

Nikita watched as Michael increased the radio volume. The violinist and cellist battled each other in their descending and ascending harmonies. The music was deafening. Her eyes narrowed, and she reached to shut off the invasion.

"It's me; isn't it?" She swallowed nervously, trying to read the reflection of his face in the window.

Michael's only answer was to return the radio to its former deafening levels. But tracing the band closed tightly over her forearm, Nikita had her answer.

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

"Swallow." Michael commanded, holding Nikita's mouth firmly shut.

Nikita shook her head violently at his order, pushing against his vice-like grip of her jaw. The wafer-like pill had turned to a bitter-tasting froth, filling all of her mouth and seeping out the corners of her sealed lips. Her eyes traveled around the circle of white lab coats and goggled eyes, trying to gain their sympathy. They stared back at her apathetically; the line of their lips so straight they appeared stone-like.

Michael tipped her chin, forcing her eyes to focus on his. "Swallow!" He insisted, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Nostrils flaring for oxygen, she finally submitted to Michael's wishes and managed to swallow the vile substance. She grabbed for the water that he offered and drank deeply. Vigorously swishing the water in her mouth before spitting it into the sink, the terrible taste was rid from her tongue.

"It identifies foreign objects inside the GI tract." Michael offered as an explanation.

Nikita turned, weakly leaning against the wall. "Is that it?" She asked, looking around the room. Section One's sanitation center consisted of a large sterile-type room, housing shower heads, toilets, sinks. No privacy was allowed its subjects, everything was kept open. Five white-coated figures manned the machinery and orchestrated their various cleansing rituals.

"No, now - the outside." Michael answered, briefly scanning her exposed skin areas with a sweeping glance.

She raised her eyebrows, shooting him a rueful look. "Remind me to be unconscious next time we do this."

He didn't comment; instead his arm extended to the hissing sounds being emitted from an impressive looking tank. Structurally, it reminded her of a zoo display. But once inside the red soot covering the tiles and painting the windows engendered thoughts of a bloody massacre. She half-expected to find skeletal remains tucked beneath the metal seating.

Narrow-sided, the tank didn't allow for much movement. Her fingers pressed against the thick glass, the coolness in a way comforting. She leaned her forehead against it, watching as the group of lab coats dispersed to run the machinery. Michael was half-undressed by the time she turned to question him.

"Discard clothing and secure door." an automated voice instructed.

"Just to your underwear," Michael added.

Michael grabbed their discarded garments and deposited them outside the door. She rubbed her arms nervously as he secured them inside the tomb-like tank. The initial sighing sounds, reminiscent of the howling winter winds, were followed by a rush of cold air. Soon a crimson powdery spray filtered from the ceiling. It's sanginuous stream turned to liquid upon hitting their skin.

"Coating." the electronic voice sounded.

Nikita turned her head toward the sound of the voice, and felt Michael's hand on her shoulder. Turning to face him, she observed blood-like fluid streaking down his face, creating a ghoulish sight that caused her to shiver.

He pulled her arms up high above her head. Rivulets of spray flowed in intertwining currents down the contours of her arms. He lifted her hair. She was shivering uncontrollably as the cool air continued to blow through the tank. The chattering of her teeth and his were echoing off the reinforced glass.

"The red should cover everything." Michael informed, scanning her shivering body.

She nodded. Her teeth chattered so vigorously against each other that she was sure they would break.

"Turn it off," Michael ordered, satisfied that they were indeed covered.

The cold air ceased, replaced with a searing hot breeze.Surfacing goose bump were highlighted as the liquid dried almost instantaneously turning to a red soot. The dusty grains brushed off, sticking only to the metal casing of her forearm.

Michael sent a towel-clad Nikita to the observation room and instructed a thorough search. He toweled the remaining red dust from his body and left the sanitation area with one parting instruction, "Don't let her out of your sight. She only moves for me." The white-coated figure nodded acquiesce to the order.

In Michael's office Operations greeted the fatigued operative. Opertaions' hot displeasure wrinkling his face so that it concealed most of his features. "Meet me with Nikita in my office. Twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes later, Michael sat in Operations' office clothed in his usual black attire. Nikita's sanitation was taking longer than expected as technicians struggled to analyze the form-fitting substance that covered her forearm like a second skin.

In Nikita's absence, Operations had plenty of time to reinforce the importance of containment, protocols, and trust. Michael listened patiently, feeling like the naughty child receiving an age-old lecture from a displeased parent. He nodded appropriately, answering the barrage of questions in short, automated responses.

Nikita joined them - the reddened skin surrounding the band her only malady. Operations snarled and snapped at her. Nikita looked uneasily at Michael who was biting the inside of his cheek and avoiding her eyes.

"Sit!" Operations barked.

Nikita and Michael sat while Operations paced in front of them expending his pent-up tension.

"Let's start from the beginning." Operations stopped in front of Michael, pinning him to the chair with his icy glare.

"I received a message..." Michael started.

"Not that beginning." Operations leaned inches away from Michael's face. "Why isn't Aslan dead, Michael?"

Michael opened his mouth to respond, but Operations continued in his tirade. Nikita shifted uneasily in her seat, glancing over her shoulder at nothing in particular.

"For what....over 5 years, we've had a level 5 operative acting as a loose cannon." Operations voice got increasingly louder, echoing so that operatives below the deck looked up with curiosity and sympathy.

"He has abilities to initiate any and all of our security access codes. On a whim he could bring Section One to its knees." Operations scanned both operatives for a reaction before shouting his final surmisal. "This is a disaster!" he spat vehemently.

Operations paused; Michael and Nikita remained silent.

Operations shook his head side to side. His voice lowered almost resignedly. "Michael, Activate MRW 5 precautions for rogue warrior. Access any and all mission profiles that Aslan detailed over the years that he was with the Section. Let's try to see what our man has been occupied with for the last five years. Close quarters stand-by. Let me know when you have some answers. Dismissed." He turned his back to the seated operatives, crossing his arms and pursing his lips.

Nikita stood, waiting for Michael, but he remained glued to his chair. She left, breathing a sigh of relief outside the door.

Operations turns to look at Michael with disgust, "You know better. We'll decide appropriate punishment once this mess has been resolved. I don't want to hear from you until you have some answers."

Micahel stood, lowering his eyes submissively and exiting.

"And, see Madeline!" Operations barked in parting.

Michael found himself in Madeline's office. She looked up at him from her position on the couch. Her smile let him know that she had been expecting him.

She stood, crossing to her desk and reclining in her chair. Michael sat as well, rubbing the knuckles of his hand impatiently. While he would never admit to it, he was interested in what she thought of Aslan's behavior.

Madeline pushed a profile of Aslan across the table. It was nothing Michael didn't already know.

"You know that you're not equipped to beat him." Madeline offered quietly, observing the nervous mannerisms that Michael exhibited.

"I know." He scanned the document briefly before pushing it back across her desk.

"Do you think that eliminating your weakness will put you on equal footing." She prodded.

"NO." Michael avoided her all-knowing gaze, preferring instead the empty eyes of his button holes.

"Michael, so far Nikita has been the only effective weapon that Aslan has used against you." Madeline restated the offer in terms that Michael had no way of disputing.

"Find another way." He hoarsely whispered, rubbing his forehead and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What way?" She stood, looking at the operative with great sadness. "We both know of what Aslan is capable. If you feel that you can not win, then we will eliminate the only weapon powerful enough to impede your mission."

His head dropped. When he raised his eyes to meet hers, there was a sense of unvoiced pleading behind the hazel orbs.

"I'm sorry, Michael." she offered as a way of dismissing him.

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

The steady beeping of his watch alarm wakened Michael from a troubled slumber. Three a.m., the soft glow of the Timex revealed. His feet dropped quietly from the desk to the floor, and he ran the palm of his hand over the three day's growth of stubble. The sounds of rough hair against skin sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

The soft whispers of another's breathing sounded below him. Looking over his desktop, he observed Nikita sprawled on the floor. Her head nestled in the crook of her arm, fingers still touching the keyboard of the laptop. A curtain of golden tendrils raised and lowered over her face with each expiration.

His darkened office had been their catacomb of late. Working until they fell into an exhausted sleep, they rarely left the small confines. The room had grown smaller in response to the upheaval of events.

Ten or more coffee mugs decorated his desk and floor like shrines. In the shadowed lights of Section One at rest, his office appeared to be a war zone - a battle between the paper files of yesteryear and the metallic diskettes of today. Files and diskettes covered the floor like grass, leaving only a small pathway that extended from his desk to the door.

Michael pressed against the back of his chair, tipping it slightly to regard the ceiling. Section One was vacated for the most part. Lights dimmed, a skeletal crew ran the communication centers, and in the quietness of the hour he pondered Aslan. It had been two weeks since Aslan's initial contact.

Aslan had been quiet for quiet some time now. All those involved in this dance of marionettes held their breath in expectation waiting for the next move of the Puppet Master.

Aslan was well-versed in the art of manipulation. He knew better than to strike early, while energy levels were high and anxiety was more friend than foe. Now with morale low, bodies exhausted, and anxiety at panic levels, Michael was sure that contact from Aslan was immanent. At any time all of Section One would be thrust into whatever drama Aslan had contrived.

Call it premonition; call it intuition; call it what you will. Michael felt in every part of him, that today was that day. In a way he would be forced to choose between his past and his future - Aslan or Nikita. As his mind formed the possibilities of future, he stood looking down at the vulnerable position of his partner.

"Nikita." He gently prodded her leg with his foot. Throughout this ordeal, she had more than supportive. Putting up with his wild mood swings, and refraining from questioning him endlessly, she had been a constant fortification.

She shifted mumbling, "Cairo, '88... Operation Great Eye..."

He squatted beside her, gently tracing the wrinkles of her forehead until her eyes flickered open. She pushed herself to a sitting position, rubbing her eyes and mouth like a sleepy child.

"I'm fine." she insisted, scooting away his supportive hands. "I just need some coffee."

He nodded and she left him, still reclining on his heels crouched over the abandoned laptop. In less than two hours he and Nikita were scheduled to present what they had unearthed concerning Aslan's past activities. He resigned himself once again to the stiff-backed chair, his fingers flying furiously across the keyboard.

A few minutes later Nikita tipped her head through his door, catching his eye for a second.

He pushed out the chair opposite his with his foot. She sat down adding another mug to the growing collection on his desk. In silence they prepared for the battle of their lives - first Section One and then Aslan.

***

Five a.m. sharp Michael and Nikita strode into Operations' perch.

Madeline and Operations watched with great interest the couple before them. They fed off of each other, completing each other's thoughts, taking turns in answering the barrage of questions thrown at them. They acted as one body, one soul, one spirit.

Nikita started by carefully spelling out her discoveries. "We've found some evidence of revenge concerning missed targets. According to our records every lost target is either dead or missing." She pushed a printed brief in the direction of her superiors.

"Our system is designed to alert us concerning any acts of vengeance." Operations interjected abruptly, looking half-heartedly at the report.

Madeline watched in interest as Michael's hand protectively cupped Nikita's elbow. Nikita appeared not to notice the proffered support. She continued, "Typically, these type of deaths would not alert our systems, as they appear to be accidental."

"Even so..." Operations started to argue, but Madeline intervened as she viewed Michael's tightening and relaxing fist held rigidly at his side.

"Great care was probably given their deaths, I'm sure that an operative of Aslan's caliber knows how to avoid detection." Madeline offered.

Nikita's shoulders slumped visibly in relief. Operations nodded and directed a question towards Michael. "What about Lord Getz?"

"The only Lord Getz that our data base shows is a man who died seven years ago." Michael answered.

Operations hissed his disgust. "You mean to tell me, you've spent all this time finding out that our target doesn't even truly exist?"

"Lord Getz may still be alive; the circumstances surrounding his death were circumspect to say the least." Michael shrugged.

"SO?" Operations prodded, "Stop talking in riddles and bottom line it for me, Michael." He snapped, slamming the report against the wall for emphasis. Nikita jumped, but Michael remained nonplused.

"My guess is that Aslan discovered his new identity and will brief us when ready." Michael returned.

Silence held the men and women in a still-life pose.

Nikita's eyes were half-closed and black-rimmed from lack of sleep, she leaned more than stood against the wall. Michael's mouth formed a taut line and his eyes flashed a certain repressed rage. Operations didn't bother to hide the extreme dissatisfaction that he felt in hearing these reports. Madeline busied herself in analyzing the unspoken conversations between Michael and Nikita.

"I thought I made it clear that I didn't want to hear from you until you had answers?" Operations finally snarled, splitting his glare between the two operatives. "What you've given me is more unknowns."

Michael recognized the sharp intake of Nikita's breath as a precursor to a stormy response, and he grabbed her wrist to prevent her from speaking. Looking Operations in the eye, he started to form a response, but Birkoff's voice broke through the glaciered office. "We just received word, of three assassination attempts."

"It's time." Michael nodded affirmatively, looking from Madeline to Operations.

"We also have an incoming addressed to Michael." Birkoff added.

"On screen." Operations commanded, lighting the blue liquid screen.

(Julius Caesar Act 2 Scene 2)

"A threat?" Operations turned to look at Madeline, who in turn gazed at Michael's paling face.

"Aslan never died." Michael looked blankly at Operations and Madeline before ushering Nikita out the office door.

"He's right. Aslan never technically existed on paper. His parents were WWII spies incarcerated in the late 1950's and imprisoned for their war crimes. He never 'died'." Operations turned his head in amazement at the words he spoke.

Madeline watched the two operatives walk beneath them to Michael's office. "Cowards, we are." she murmured. "There is no sainthood, nor beguilement in ghosthood." She walked stiffly out the opposite door, and Operations tipped out a cigarette and lit it, reflectively puffing white curls of smoke.

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

Nikita stood, poised over an overstuffed settee, rolling the black sheer silk over the length of her leg. She cursed as her fingers poked through the sheer material creating two holes and a zigzag pattern running downward. Glancing down at the discarded remains of her last three attempts, an annoyed growl emanated from the back of her throat.

Nikita fiercely tore at the silky material, leaving behind a spider-webbed pattern Storming out of the dressing room and throwing open a bureau drawer, she rummaged for another set. Muttering continuously under her breath and completely immersed in her endeavors, Nikita was unaware of her observer.

Behind her Michael cleared his throat. He watched as she straightened immediately. A couple of curlers still decorated the lower portions of her hair; while a fluorescent, pink hair clip clutched a massive tangle of tresses piled atop her head. His eyes traveled downward.

He covered the rising and falling of the upper slopes of her breasts under a tight-fitting sable corset. Red garter straps swung wildly in her turbulent wake. One leg was bare while the other magically supported the sparse remains of her nylons. The look that she shot him dared him to comment, but instead he turned his attention to the obstinate fabric of his bow-tie.

Nikita analyzed him as he tied and re-tied his stubborn bow tie. It was becoming a comical site to see the twisted results of his endeavors. His eyes locked with hers in the mirror.

"Need help?" She offered, adjusting the bodice awkwardly in an attempt to cover herself.

As an answer, he turned and walked towards her. His hands rested on her waist, his fingertips brushing the bared space between corset and garter. Her fingers masterfully constructed a perfect bow, and then proceeded to stroke his broad shoulders brushing away unseen lint. Trailing downward, her fingers covered his hands still located around her hips, and she gently removed them before turning towards the dressing room.

Stripping off the tenuous threads of remaining silk from her legs, she sauntered towards the dressing room. She closed the drapes behind her, the grating of metal rings sliding over the pole sounding loudly in the recesses of Michael's mind.

For a moment Michael stood there transfixed, re-living the last few minutes. The heady scent of her perfume still hung as an intimate reminder in the space around him. A few shreds of glossy silk marked Nikita's retreat, some filaments clung to the tips of his dress shoes. He leaned to pick them up, fingering their silkiness, and in a way envying the way these insignificant fibers had once encased Nikita's legs.

Like a school boy, he felt an intense desire to be near her. Her new resolve, maturity, and strength drew him like a bee to honey. He parted the restraining curtains, slipping between the obstacle with quiet stealth. In front of him, fully clothed in a stunning black dress.

One silky black glove covered her arm band, while the other hung from her mouth as she wrapped her hair in a French twist. A few loose tendrils swayed enticingly around her face. The whispery strands drifted like beckoning fingers, encouraging him to enter.

Standing behind her while she slid the other glove in place, his hands gingerly closed over her shoulders, turning her slowly to look at him. The eyes beneath his were over-brimming with a mixture of strength and vulnerability.

"Nikita... Aslan's dangerous..." He started.

Her lips on his hand silenced his feeble warning. "Shh!" She shook her head and brought his hand to the side of her face. He watched in wonder at the simple act that relayed such trust. She leaned closer, and his eyes drank from the wells of her eyes. "I'll protect you." she whispered.

He shook his head, wrinkling his forehead. "I..."

She stood on tiptoes, reaching to peck the sides of his cheeks before hugging him briefly. "We'll protect each other Michael; that's what we do... "

He nodded appreciatively, new found respect shining brightly in his eyes. In not so many words she had summed up the essence of their relationship. Together they were stronger than either of them were apart.

Nikita dropped her hands, taking two steps backward. Turning again to the mirror, she adjusted the two side slits of her floor length black dress over her hips. "Are we going to stop the assassination?" Nikita questioned.

A rare hint of a grin twitched one side of his mouth as he realized what had just happened. In two seconds she had quieted the demons inside him and proceeded to re-focus him on the mission. "We allow the assassination. Our end game is the recovery of Aslan." He answered.

"Michael," Her forehead wrinkled, scrunching every feature as her mouth formed her next question.

"It's not negotiable, Nikita. Operations is serious about this." Michael cut her off quickly, absent-mindedly fingering a button, high on the dress, that she had missed

"No, I mean.. I was wondering about Aslan. What will happen to him.?" She wondered, clipping a pair of diamond studs in place over each ear. She handed him the matching diamond neck clasp.

"We will be following the target and tracking the gunfire." He avoided her question, clasping the necklace in place and allowing his hands to linger momentarily over her shoulders.

"You'll be in play?" Nikita brushed past him, the short train of her dress brushing over his ankles.

"Operations will be running the teams with Birkoff." He stood in front of the mirror, buttoning his tuxedo jacket. Sure that she had left, he undid the bow-tie, and retied it once again with expert ease.

***

"I omitted this as requested, sir?" Birkoff handed Operations a mass of printed photos.

"Thank you." Operations scanned the photos briefly before staring off into space. "You never made it easy, Aslan."

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

Herberger Theater,

Arizona

Arm in arm, Michael and Nikita blended beautifully with the high-class ladies and gentlemen of the posh Scottsdale society. Strolling up the marbled steps flanked by massive towers and crossing through a spacious doorway, they emerged into an extensive foyer. Four crystal chandeliers provided a softened hue of muted yellow, wrapping all below in half-shadows of subtle warmth. The collective din of laughter and extravagance was all-encompassing in its richness. A pair of red-carpeted stairways led upward toward the sounds of the New London Philharmonic progressing through their preparatory scales.

The massive three-tiered coliseum boasted a total of fifty-two separate exits, not counting the roof top helicopter pad, all of which made it nearly an impossible facility to secure. Without a full description of Lord Getz, operatives were looking for the only guest arriving under armed guard. Based on the information available, Michael had formulated a feasible format of security - working in a circle of force around the arrival area for Getz. The assassination would be allowed to transpire, and once shots were fired, operatives would be expected to pin-point Aslan's exact location.

"Check one." Michael breathed the words in a sensuous sigh close to Nikita's ear. She laughed aloud and snuggled closer to his side, perpetuating their charade of the "perfect couple." Two other teams of operatives had positioned themselves within the spacious Herberger Theater entrance; each had taken their turn checking in with Operations.

"You're clear." Operations sounded, and he imparted further instructions. "Michael and Nikita take point, Teams two and three remain near the lobby." Pacing in the small confines of the Section van, Operations intermittently shifted his attention between the outside camera's view and Birkoff's communication system.

Nikita and Michael both made cursory checks of their surroundings. Their trained eyes filtered past the diamond studded and bow-tied necklines and upward to the golden eyes of the gaudy baroque structures three stories above them. Having sufficiently worked the foyer area, Nikita departed from the safety of Michael's arm, giving it one last reassuring squeeze. She drifted away into the sea of black and white, engulfed by the sweeping tide of persons ascending the left stairway. Michael's gaze traveled discreetly, astutely tracking every activity while beginning his climb of the opposing stairway.

"Nikita." Michael voice sounded urgently, trying in vain to locate her through the crowded populace. "Switch to 'B' channel."

"I'm here." Her voice answered in his com set. "What is it?"

"Do you see anything?" he returned weakly, shaking his head at the frailty of the proffered excuse.

A pause followed as she seemed to recognize his concern. "What's wrong, Michael?"

Somewhat reassured of her safety, Michael calmed; and he wished in good conscience that they could keep conversing. "Check in every 2 minutes, Nikita." He ordered coarsely, at the same time clearing his throat.

"Michael..." She started to protest.

"Do it, Nikita." He commanded with a ring of finality. His mouth added the word 'please,' but the plea was never voiced.

Michael set the silent alarm on his watch for two minutes and continued his perusal of the outlying areas in the theater. Several sound booths in the second and third stories sparked his interest, but he could not afford to waste precious time on a thorough search. Aslan's tardiness with his information of Getz's location had left Section One less than prepared.

For the next ten minutes Nikita's voice, albeit tinged with annoyance, sounded like clockwork through Michael's com set, beating his silent alarm with seconds to spare. At the twelfth minute - nothing was uttered in response to the vibrating of his alarm. He waited expectantly, eyes glued to the numerical digits clicking away. Located on the third level, he peered over the railing, straining to locate her position.

"Nikita?" He touched his com unit subconsciously, re-tracing his path to the entrance with steps quickened ever so slightly. On the second floor landing, his eyes shifted to the gallery floor as he observed four blue pin-striped suits entering. Their watchful eyes and rigid poses signaled security. A short, mustached man with salt and pepper hair and glasses entered. His other features were indiscernible from Michael's distance.

"This is it." Michael lowered his voice, looking opposite the entrance for any signs of the assassin.

"Report." He heard Operations' voice issue.

"On mark," the other teams responded, but Nikita failed to answer.

"Birkoff, where's Nikita?" Michael snapped. Descending the stairs and heading towards foyer, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps Nikita was attempting to stop the assassination. Just as he cleared the stairs, three shots rang out. Men and women alike fell to the floor screaming, covering their heads. Chaos ensued as the masses pushed and clawed their way towards the exits.

Beside Getz' fallen body, two body guards sported small black holes in their foreheads. Two other men covered Getz's prone body for protection. In the mouth of danger, Michael's eyes instinctually found Nikita's form amidst the hysterical crowds. Her white-blond tresses half-fallen from their perch atop her head swung back and forth like beacons from a lighthouse. Bounding up the stairs taking three at a time, she propelled herself past the frantic men and women opposing her path.

"Nikita!" Michael shouted above the chaos. She stopped suddenly, spinning towards him possibly at the sound of his shout, or perchance in response to some intuition that he had needed her. Tapping her com, she shrugged her shoulders, signaling that she couldn't hear him. He motioned past her with one arm, causing her to resume her flight upward.

Meanwhile, Michael's gaze traveled to the fallen Lord Getz. His throat constricted and he gasped as people parted, revealing the face of his nightly terrors.

"Kytlet" Michael spat, striding towards the prostrate form.

The man's face registered shock and fear at the sight of Michael's foreboding form standing over him. He cowered while the two protectors looked uncertainly from Michael to the man they knew as Getz.

"You're supposed to be dead!" Michael growled. One of the guards was foolish enough to grab Michael's arm. Spinning the man, Michael twisted the man's arm painfully behind his back.

Operations' strident voice sounded in Michael's ear. "The objective, Michael. Focus." Cursing silently to himself and shoving the man forward, Michael disappeared into the frightened masses. Elbowing his way to the stairway with new zeal and fervor, he followed in Nikita's berth.

"We're converging." Michael imparted while leaping up the stairs.

Nikita waited for him on the second floor balcony. "I saw his location, and I fired once," She informed him.

He nodded in response.

Weaving their way through the maze like hallways, she tilted her head toward the closed door. Michael kicked the door open. They entered checking every corner, hearts pounding with fear and expectation

Only one door past their original entrance remained closed. Their eyes traveled to its location together. Without a word, they burst through the barrier in perfect synchronicity. The smell of gun powder hung thick, burning their nostrils with its acrid scent. A small layer of gray smoke clung to the corners of the room, dissipating as the rush of air flooded the small room.

A large man in black fatigues lay slumped over a high-powered rifle. Tilting back the dead man's head, Michael observed the single bullet hole entering just above the left eye. "Nice shot." he remarked, looking out over the foyer area appearing to be in deep thought.

"That's not Aslan, " Nikita whispered.

"Let's go," Michael instructed, moving quickly through the room.

"Where?" she inquired, backing slowly away from the slumped figure of the assassin.

"I think that I know what Aslan is after." Michael answered, looking grimly at her.

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

The muted sounds of an explosion echoed like a booming cannon's fusillade throughout the great theater. Tremendous aftershocks sent Michael and Nikita tumbling to the floor. The building sighed and groaned, settling in increments. Large pieces of ceiling tiles plummeted from above, and Nikita covered her head in an attempt to shield herself. Michael quickly rolled over her, protecting her from the dusty powder and debris that showered down on them.

Still positioned over her body, Michael stripped the constricting bow-tie from his neck in frustration and helped Nikita to her feet once the shaking had stopped. Nikita didn't know whether to laugh or cry when she noticed two new runs streaking down her nylons.

Busy unraveling her tangled dress, she started when a stage attendant popped his tawny head inside the room. "Ma'am, Sir, I'm sorry, but you need to clear the building..." his adolescent voice cracked as his gaze traveled behind them to the slumped figure in black.

A thrill of shock ran through his Anglo-features, and Nikita barely had time to react before she heard Michael's gun and saw a bright circle of red forming in the white plate of the boy's tuxedo. Clutching his chest and still blinking in shock, the attendant reeled briefly before dropping to the floor.

Nikita's mouth dropped open, but she didn't have time to form a comment. Michael pushed her through the doorway, and pulled her down the stairway in rapid descent.

In the excitement high-cultured citizens were acting like animals in their frenzied rush to exit the theater. Parts of the massive chandeliers were falling like crystal rain only adding further to the calamity. The smell of burning rubber and smoke had filled the foyer, clouding the view outside and making the theater appear to be a war zone.

Coughing and sputtering Michael and Nikita emerged through the parting mist, having seen no sign of Aslan of teams two and three. Through a smoky haze and darkness. the twisted metal of the Section van reflected the light of crescent moon.

Nikita's eyes widened as she screamed. "Please, God! No!"

Nikita quickly glanced sideways at Michael, trying to gauge his response. His lips drew a tight line, signaling the slightest sign of emotion. She rushed forward towards the van, her flight cut short by his restraining arm. He pulled her around to face him, yet still she continued struggling, kicking at him furiously through the ankle-length dress.

"We have to help!" She said through clenched teeth. Glaring at him, she tried to understand why he was restraining her.

People were starting to stare at the dueling couple. Michael perceived the attraction they were creating, but Nikita remained oblivious to the inquisitive stares. Wrapping his arms around her and pressing the small of her back against him firmly, he trapped her in a full body hug.

She wriggled in vain, straining to look behind her towards the smoldering remains of the van. Eventually, she was forced to look at him as it was obvious that he had no plans of releasing her.

"We fall back to the secondary location now, Nikita. We can't involve ourselves." He whispered urgently in her ear.

"Birkoff's in there." Hot tears burned twin tracks down her cheeks. Turning her head to rest on his shoulder, she at long last noticed the sympathetic glances being cast in their direction.

In the distance the roaring of sirens sounded immanent rescue for the hysterical patrons of Herberger Theater. Michael allowed her to push back from him, certain that she would no longer create a scene. Wiping the tears from her face with the back of her gloved hand, she turned again to evaluate the wreck, murmuring a silent prayer.

They navigated through unfamiliar city streets until they reached the secondary location - a nearby park. Still numb with shock, she allowed him to lead her inside a row of tall trees which served to obscure them from wandering eyes.

Attempting to piece together what had happened, Nikita wandered to the comforting sounds of splashing water resonating from the fountain in the center of the park. A glance behind her found Michael speaking urgently in his cellular, obviously planning their next objective. Standing in front of the watery spray, she hugged herself, allowing the faint drizzle to mask the misty tears that now fell uninhibited.

The fountain head was magnificent - a woman kneeling beside a soldier, offering him water and soothing his forehead. The gray marbled eyes of the woman were raised heavenward as were the soldier's. Nikita followed their gaze upward to the tree-framed night sky, rich with twinkling stars, sending fiery kisses toward Earth.

Nikita closed her eyes as a stiff wind slapped multiple droplets of water across her face and upper body. The tinkling sounds of water cascaded, collapsed, and crashed in a perpetually satisfying rhythm that might easily have calmed the spirit of a raging bull. She stepped uncertainly on the curled border of the fountain's edge, hesitantly kicking off her shoes and rolling off the remains of her nylons before stepping inside the cool liquid.

Exhaling sharply in an extended hiss, her arms moved to support the bundled fabric of her dress above the water level. Wading through the glassy surface marred only by the falling droplets, her breathing slowly calmed. At one with her surroundings, Nikita allowed the sounds and feelings of a city at rest assuage her rigid muscles.

Finally relaxed, she sat on the outside cusp of the fountain's lip. Shivering, she swung her feet outside the freezing water and cursed her poor judgment in not contemplating the misery of being both wet and cold.

Suddenly, she was acutely aware of a sticking sensation beneath her left glove. Jumping to swat away an imaginary bug but finding nothing, she investigated further. Stripping the ebony fabric, she discovered that the small bump on the underside of the metal sheath had dislodged itself. Tiny trickles of blood and yellow fluid trailed downward, dripping steadily off her fingertips. Michael's voice sounded behind her and she quickly replaced the glove, turning to look at him with a faint smile in place.

"There sending a replacement van." Michael offered obliquely, covering her with his jacket as he noted her chilled state.

"What about the others?" she asked, avoiding his eyes and snuggling in the warmness that his jacket provided.

"Teams two and three have reported back to the Section." Michael answered.

"Birkoff? Operations?" she inquired hopefully, unconsciously tilting her head to smell Michael's scent that lingered in the starched fabric.

"We won't know that for a while." He cleared his throat. Absently, his eyes traveled the exposed length of Nikita's leg, still wet from her adventure. Little water beads hung deliciously suspended over silky skin before succumbing to gravity and sliding downward to merge with the developing pool of water about her feet.

They both heard the sound of someone approaching. Nikita stood, her head attempting to track the sounds, but Michael grabbed the jacket surrounding Nikita and pulled her towards him. Kissing her deeply and tasting her fully, Michael satisfactorily sated the intense longing that had preoccupied his thoughts since witnessing her girlish escapade in the fountain.

"Birkoff." Michael spoke into Nikita's mouth as he broke the kiss.

Nikita took a second to control her reeling senses before turning to greet their fellow operative. "Birkoff!" she echoed, wiping her mouth to rid her lips of the wetness Michael left there.

"I hope that I'm not interrupting" Birkoff grinned half-heartedly, grasping his right side in pain.

"Are you all right?" Nikita gave him the once over. Clutched under his left arm the communication briefcase acted as a security blanket. His face was a little bloodied, and it looked like he had broken his nose and maybe some ribs by the way he held his side. Otherwise he seemed to be okay.

"We were ambushed. They took Operations..." Birkoff started.

"They?" Michael and Nikita questioned in unison.

"I don't know... maybe just one man... it all happened so fast. All I know is that I'm supposed to use this to track Operations." He dropped the briefcase and retrieved a tiny box from his jacket pocket.

Michael and Nikita questioned Birkoff further, until they were able to draw some satisfactory answers as to what had happened. Time was of the essence, and Michael preferred not to wait for the Section van. They hot-wired a hideous green Volkswagen bubble van, providing them a somewhat inconspicuous transportation means of tracking Operations' signal.