If you're still following this story, a thousand thanks! Sorry it's been so long – here are 2 chapters in 1. Just skip the Previously... section if you still remember what's happened so far :)
Previously...
Michael slowly rose to his feet, "I can't help getting the feeling you're up to something. The secret training, the journal, the phone on silent...and the case full of SIG-Sauer's, Heckler's, Beretta's and a Remington 700 PSS sniper rifle?"
!
At Division, there are many ways to send a message. One could choose to attack an agent in hopes of conveying a warning. Or one could merely say a few choice words into the receiver of a phone. Either way, that chosen message would be heard loud and clear: You are our creature.
!
"I was moved from place to place after my real parents died. So when I finally came across Caroline, my last foster mum, well...let's just say that I was pretty rough. I was probably the toughest eight year old you'd ever find," she said quietly. "But she cleaned me up. Sent me off to school and cared for me. Not like the other mothers, she didn't do it for the government pay out. She loved me. In her own way."
!
"Look," Michael grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose with a pained expression, "Amanda's right. Let's just forget tonight ever happened. It's not like we learnt anything new."
"Except that Amanda's a double, double agent," added the tech guru.
"And that Percy's working with the Triads," said Nikita.
"Oh, and that everyone knows about you two. It's so obvious they're even using your weird relationship to complete Ops, now."
!
"I'm sorry," he said with a mocking lilt, "I thought you were Nikita the Righteous. Now you want to kill people?"
She made a face at his teasing, "If the alternative is Percy taking the names and making some back alley deal with them in return for playing ground and cash...well then I'm not sure eliminating them altogether would be the smarter way to go."
!
After every mission, she would be angry. Regardless of whether or not it was elimination or counter-intel. She seemed to hate it all and he had no idea where the sudden change had come from. She was even more aggressive than before she'd been activated to Code Red. Every time they spoke, she would either be jumping at his throat or subdued and sarcastic. He couldn't get her to break a smile.
!
"So what was that? In Italy, was that just 'nothing'?"
"Yes," he found himself saying.
"I was just your cover for the week..."
"Yes."
"Do you believe that?"
Michael found his throat had constricted. "Yes."
She stepped in front of him, hands on hips, "Then why are you here?"
!
She gave an astonished laugh, "We've been working on intel for five months and you're just going to bail?"
"Percy," he emphasised the name, "has ordered me to stay here."
"Of his own accord or by your suggestion?"
Michael blinked, "What's the difference, either way I'm out."
"It makes all the difference in the world."
!
"You're safe with him, I promise," she said, lying the girl gently in the back of the car.
"You're worth both of them," Michael's voice echoed in her head.
But he was wrong. Because being worth two men would imply that she was human. And whatever she was, whatever she had become, whatever Division had moulded her to be – it was not that. It was not human.
!
He glowered, "I didn't ask you to kill an innocent girl."
"Well then Percy did," Nikita cried, "And I thought you never asked questions."
He slammed a fisted hand against the wall, "Percy has his reasons."
"Are you trying to convince me or yourself...?"
"She was not a danger to our country. You should have – "
"What?" anger getting the better of her, "I should have what, Michael?"
!
Realising, with all the enthusiasm of a dousing of cold water, that he was the same as ever – the same, immoveable figure of soldierly obedience was the only thing worse than thinking things would change. It was knowing that nothing had. And she accepted the sinking feeling that nothing ever would.
That was what shattered her.
It hurt, knowing that if she wanted to change things she was going to have to do it alone. If she wanted to run, she would have to run alone. If she wanted to fight against Division, she would have to fight alone. It hurt. It all hurt.
!
Michael nodded slowly, scanning down the short list of the names, "Ready for what? Who's Eliot?"
"A Cleaner, about to learn a particular branch of his trade. He and two other lucky fellows will replace your new students once they're ready. All I need is for you to promise me that you will keep these actions under wraps," Percy peered at his man's face.
"Of course, sir," he replied, "But if I'm inactive, then who'll replace me?"
Eyes sparkling, the big guy behind the desk leant back in satisfaction, "Nikita."
!
Double Helix involved more scientific espionage than protecting the nation. Another hired job. Only this time it seemed Nikita hadn't disapproved, there was only his own conscience tugging at him. She had executed the plan spotlessly and without a single peep of discomfort. He wondered why that was causing him some unease.
!
"Just hear me out," he held out a hand. She simmered in barely concealed fury again. "Until you stop working for us – you're never going to say 'no'."
!
Without thinking, Michael said the first thing that jumped to mind. "Nikita! You have no mother! She died, then the only foster mum who ever cared about you died as well. We built you up again. The least you could do to thank us is to at least have a bit of faith."
She looked like she had been punched in the gut. A huge wall of guilt quickly settled in and his spurt of anger deflated with all the anti-climax of an un-popped balloon.
"Niki – "
"Don't."
!
Amanda leant forward intently, "There has only been one person you've ever trusted and that's Michael. But now you feel that connection is waning and you only ever talk to argue. That must be painful."
She gritted her teeth without realising it. "Maybe I like my pain."
Amanda reached forward and rested a manicured hand on her knee, "You don't have to suffer alone. I'm here to help. We can use that feeling to make you into a better agent...a better person. You're a good soldier, very naturally gifted, but you could be great. You could be the best. And I want to make sure you reach your potential – it would be such a shame if you didn't."
!
Percy had overstepped himself with Oleander last year and Oversight had been waiting for a window for months. Amanda was that foot in the door, but alone, she was useless. She was incomparable at what she did but to take down the current dictatorship, they needed a fighter – a warrior. So in stepped Nikita, who, from the moment Amanda had seen her as a recruit, had been privately groomed to be the weapon that would topple Percy. Her combative skills, her mental steel and her perpetual questioning of her boss made her perfect. She had the physical ability to beat him to the ground. She had the mental ability to earn his trust. Most importantly, she had the desire to change things.
!
She looked up. "You think I'm not capable of turning on the heat?"
Michael's eyebrows rose dramatically. The very real anger in her voice surprised him. "I just thought..."
"When are you going to understand that I can look after myself? The man was a drug dealer and a smuggler. It was necessary," she said with an edge.
"You've changed your tune," he commented wryly.
!
Hyun Kim chuckled, "Not much of a talker since he started taking the happy pills..."
"You mean after we started taking them," Dana Winters corrected in a teacher-like way, "But it's not like any of us will be in contact with anyone much."
Kim looked down at his own box, "Funny isn't it. Months of training just for...this? Wonder what all the fuss is about. Safety deposit boxes...secure lines and 10 pages of protocol to read."
"So where are you off to?"
"Montreal. You?"
"Pennsylvania. Plainville," she scrunched up her nose, "Sounds like a happening place."
!
"What exactly is on these...boxes?" the Senator asked slowly.
"Everything."
"Define 'everything'..."
"The truth about the Roswell Incident, JFK's assassination, military bases in Jordan, Operation Pine Gap, the Axis of Evil investigation, Oliver North, the entire Stalin campaign...I could go on but I'm afraid the Admiral's about to go into cardiac arrest," Amanda finished sarcastically.
"By God!" cried Mr Joint Intelligence. "The man's untouchable!"
!
They needed to bring back her inner compassion and...gentility. All those feelings they'd ordered Amanda to crush in favour of cold calculation and detachment. As with any species in the natural world, adaptation to ones surroundings was essential for survival. New plans had been made. Plans involving a sweeter girl, with charismatic ability to draw in strangers and build a cover so strong that no one could see through it. Who Percy would see as an agent suitable for an undercover Op, with enough expertise and mental stamina to stay at her prime even through prolonged periods of inactivity.
Who Percy might, one day, see as a suitable person to entrust with a box.
!
Percy watched her carefully as he said his next line, "Ari Tarsarov, a highly ranked member of the Russian mercenary group 'Gogol'. In my mind, a lone sniper attack or an infiltration and some arsenic in a carelessly placed glass of water would suffice but Amanda seemed to think that it was two-man Op."
"Sir?"
"You'll be working with Michael."
Nikita kept her eyes drilled into Tarsarov's and gave no indication that the news affected her.
All changes, even the most longed for,
Have their melancholy;
For what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves;
We must die to one life,
Before we can enter another. ~Anatole France
"Hot towel, ma'am?"
With a polite shake of her head, she leant back into the roomy seat and put on her complimentary headphones. Resisting the intense urge to glance sideways at the stoic man to the left, she concentrated on deciding between George Clooney and Russell Crowe. I wonder if this is what it feels like to choose a recruit from a catalogue, was the more than usually bitter thought that dashed across her mind.
Nikita tried to forget her first recruitment ordeal. And yes, it was an ordeal. Having to trawl through the shattered histories of two dozen broken and beaten men and women – most barely out of their teens – and literally decide which got another chance at life with the tick of a red pen was too closing playing God for her liking.
She shuddered.
"Michael," she gasped, "What are you wearing?"
He grinned, "You don't like it?"
"I...just never figured you to be the ironic t-shirt kind of guy."
"I'm experimenting," he stated, then quickly hid his smile and passed her a manila folder of sheets, "Here. This was always my favourite part of the job."
Nikita frowned, rifling through the documents, "Really?"
"I found a...sense of right in giving troubled souls a new start," he explained with hands deep in pockets. "You get to watch them grow. It's very...gratifying."
Eyes lingering on a random sheet of paper, Nikita spaced for a moment, imagining she heard a double meaning in his words – something to do with her as a recruit and him as a teacher. Gratifying? Shaking herself to reality, she noticed with a lurch that she was reading the death sentence of a Nathalie Meil. Licking suddenly parched lips, she avoided his eyes and asked the question that had been bothering her ever since she'd heard about the assignment.
"How do you choose which life is more important than the others?"
Michael shook his head in confusion, "Come again?"
"What do you use to decide whether or not one person deserves to live?"
"Well, physical characteristics are the easiest to spot. Someone attractive, toned, with no particularly outstanding tattoos or piercings – "
"That's not what I mean."
"Then what?"
"You know what," she spoke into the ground through gritted teeth.
Michael chose to misunderstand, "And I'll show you tomorrow. If we get to the compound before breakfast we can usually catch them at their most vulnerable, right after they've woken up and before they've eaten. I've found it's the best time to observe. And we might be able to see some outside in the physical recreation box before lunch."
Nikita had a vivid memory of a tiny caged area with a single barbell and a medicine ball. Unlike other prisoner's, those doomed to die were only allowed a half hour stay in the recreational area. It couldn't be considered 'outside' since the wire fencing around the box didn't exactly promote the feeling of freedom and it could hardly be called 'recreational' since prisoner's were only ever allowed out one at a time. They feared that if they let several at once, they'd smash each other's skulls in with the equipment.
Michael's words made it seem like he was talking about going to the local animal sales to look at the season's best calves and bid for a young bull. Like they were animals to be weighed, judged and handpicked for the slaughterhouse.
It made her sick.
Two beeps from her partner's phone brought her back to her senses. The airhostess looked sidelong at them, probably wondering whether she should ask business class passengers to turn off their electronic devices. Still staring at them uneasily as she passed on, Nikita felt Michael curse under his breath.
"What happened?"
He rammed the phone back into his pocket with undue aggression, "We have a situation."
I'm through accepting limits,
Cause someone says they're so.
"Yes sir," Michael replied in the affirmative as soon as they were in the airport. Nikita was several strides ahead, walking purposefully towards the baggage carousel with ears pricked. "Understood. I'll handle it."
At the snap of the phone being flipped shut, she turned around and silently questioned him with an eyebrow. Michael didn't reply, heaved a trunk and marched forward with a scowl. She halted for a minute in slight indignation and then muttered, "Fine. Don't tell me."
Pretending not to hear, he fumbled for his fake passport and wondered how he would break the news to her.
"Higgins, Leslie," she read out across the plastic fold-out table. A courtesy cup of cold tea had been provided by the prison warden and was the only object that adorned the bare room. "She looks good."
Michael shook his head, flipping through her file.
"Why not? She's fits the criteria."
"Higgins is from a big Irish Catholic family. It's too likely that once she's an agent, someone from her old life will recognise her," he stated, "Too much of a risk."
"Three of her brothers and her parents died in a house fire. Her youngest brother never got over the loss, was hospitalized twice for attempted suicide and is now in a rehab clinic. Her sister's been sent to live with relatives back in Ireland and both sets of grandparents died within the last three years. Who could possibly recognise her?" Nikita argued.
"Friends of the family. Cousins. Locals. People remember faces that have been on the news."
She stared down at the picture of a pretty, though pale, and ghostly grey girl in her early twenties. "Why can't we just make sure she never goes back to Charleston?"
Michael looked up warily. Nikita had been pleading the case for every inmate they'd come across – as if they'd all make brilliant Division operatives when he knew that she knew only one in a million had the goods. For someone who had become as efficient and detached as he was, the unusual change made him uneasy. He knew that Amanda had been working on her for months now. He had reluctantly seen those changes from afar. Once upon a time, the idea that Nikita feeling justified about her work was an impossibility that he could only dream about. Then suddenly, she was at Percy's right hand, never asking questions, walking around with a self-satisfied glint in her eyes and a stiffness he didn't quite like. But now, without so much as a week of transition, she was back. The recruit with the overly large conscience. He couldn't think of any reason for why Amanda would allow such a relapse. The silence of his instincts frightened him.
"Higgins won't do. Let's look at the next one...a Mr Sullivan Foster."
Michael passed the passport through the glass hole of Customs and sighed. Targeting Gogol's man was always a going to be a touch and go Op. Anything could happen when one large organisation went up against another – as if France's Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire crossed the FBI. But now...well...
Some things I cannot change,
But 'till I try, I'll never know.
MONTREAL – 1505, 01/02/06 (week before)
Kim huddled into the collar of his jacket, still unused to the biting winds. Forecasts showed that this was the last cold front for awhile so he could expect some reprieve in the days to come. Still, he didn't think he'd ever come to love the cold as much as he did the searing heat of the south. At the time, the suffocating humidity made him want to tear his hair out but after years stuck underground at Division and now banished to what he considered the Arctic, those days were dearly missed.
The door of the cafe opened with a jingle, its heated interior was a comforting blanket that wrapped around him and immediately started to thaw his fingers. Catching the eye of a girl in the corner, he headed over, an involuntary smile spreading over his cold-chaffed face.
"Hey," shrugging off the jacket and alerting a waitress, "Sorry I kept you waiting. Got...caught up."
The girl swept a strand of hair out of her face and nodded silently.
"What's wrong?" he said, reaching for her hand. She shrank away at his touch and stared at the ground. "Lydia, what's wrong?"
"I got a text," she said in a small voice. He narrowed his eyes in confusion. "From who?"
"From you."
"Me...how?"
"It said that...Hyun...what's your job?"
"Come again?"
Biting her lip, she repeated her question, this time with a harder edge, "What do you do for a living?"
Hyun Kim hesitated, suddenly uneasy at telling the lie he'd been spilling for months, "I'm a landscaper. Work's hard to get in the winter...Lyd, if this is about money, you know I can – "
"It's not about money," she closed her eyes. Then taking out her phone, she passed it to him. "This is a text you sent. This morning at 4am. I don't think it was meant for me."
Heart sinking, Kim read the short, familiar words. The numbers for 'Lydia' and 'Landscaping and Gardening Guild' were next to each other. He mentally punched himself. She looked up, "Protocol? Uploading some XS encryption file? What does that even mean!" Eyes pleading him to tell her it was a mistake, that it was a malfunction from the phone company, or that it was a hoax, or spam, she grasped her coffee mug tightly. But Kim's face remained impassive, and from his silence, she knew that the terrible fear that had been building inside her was real.
"Lydia..."
"Please, just tell me what's going on."
"You won't understand."
"I'll try."
He grimaced, "You won't."
"I'll try," she repeated, carefully taking her phone back and fumbling with it under the table. "I'll listen. I don't care if it's...it's...just, please, give me a chance."
Kim looked up and thought of the black box nestled safely in the bank. It felt so far away and the woman in front of him was so close. She was in earnest, he could feel it. Suddenly his heart jumped and with a great relief, he truly believed that once he was honest, they could start a life together. Division never had to know. He'd keep the relationship under wraps. He'd protect her. She was a freelance journalist, so if he ever suspected she was in danger, he could send her off to some country miles and miles away – get her out of range while he dealt with it. Then, once the storm passed, she'd sneak back under the radar.
"Okay," he breathed, "But hear me out first..."
Lydia looked up eagerly, he'd explain that he worked for the FBI, or that he was developing a program for a IT company, anything other than...than...
"I'm a part of a secret Black Ops organisation called Division."
Her heart dropped. Her instincts were right. This man was too good to be true. There was always a catch, and here it was. With tears welling up in her eyes, she felt for her phone and silently started to record the conversation.
Something has changed within me,
Something is not the same.
I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game.
"What happened this morning?" she asked carefully.
Kim shrugged, "Another upload. I get a batch of information every week on a USB. This morning was just like any other Wednesday."
"What are the files about?"
He shrugged again, taking it as a positive sign that she was curious, not fearful or disgusted. "It's against regulations to look in it."
"And you've never wanted to?"
"No," he replied slowly, "It's encrypted, anyhow."
"But you said that at this school, they teach you how to work with computers and stuff. So couldn't you decode it?" she pressed. Part of her was barely able to contain the scream in her throat. But the other part knew that this was ground breaking news, career-making. She didn't want to hurt him, she truly cared for him – but if he was some...assassin...
"Yeah I could," he chuckled, "If I had a thousand years to spare and millions of dollars worth of equipment. Why do you want me to hack it? You think it could be important information...?"
"Must be. If this Percy man told you to do all that training you can't just be guarding pay cheques and admin, right?"
"Right...If you really want me to, I could...try and take a crack at it. I'm not promising anything though. Why don't you come by my place tonight, we'll have dinner and then..." he gave a lopsided grin. Lydia stared out the window for several moments before nodding. "Alright, I'll see you at seven."
You won't be the first journalist,
I've seen them kill. –Maggie Q (as Nikita to Jill Morelli)
Michael was staring at a very angry Nikita. That sight wasn't unnerving in itself, he'd lost count of the number of times she'd fired up at him, but it was the distinct lack of clothing that was making it hard for him to retaliate with the necessary amount of logical reasoning.
"Some Canadian journo found out about this Op and decided that she was capable of stopping us. Alone. And Percy's asked you to take her out?"
"That about sums it up."
"Well, she obviously doesn't know who she's up against, meaning that she obviously doesn't know that much about us. So she obviously doesn't deserve to die! I'm sure if we just explained to her that it was some elaborate...Russian...reality TV show, she'd believe us. Then she'd just go back home and blog about how Russians have strange taste in television."
"Funny," he quipped, mildly regretting telling Nikita just as she'd come out of the shower. Then again, he also congratulated himself for choosing one of the only times she wouldn't launch herself on him in a barrage of fists.
"Alright, so we'll go look at Foster, O'loan and Kentucky," Michael concluded, pushing aside the rest of the files and taking the slip of paper with their cell number and name. Nikita stood up silently, lost in her own head of muddled thoughts. So this was how they chose new recruits, by looking at the facts and figures in their life. What if they'd passed on someone who would've made a great agent but simply looked unpromising on paper? It was like sentencing them all to death all over again.
"This here's Foster," a gruff security pointed around a mouthful of gum.
Through the bars they saw a bulk of human arms and legs sitting huddled in the corner. A mop of unkempt brown hair appeared over his knees, underneath which two bold eyes stared unblinking at his new visitors. Nikita found she couldn't quite hold the creature's glare. There was something too eerily familiar about the knees-to-chest pose that filled her with strange shame. She still remembered the days when she'd struggled to hold herself together, clutching herself in a vain attempt to keep all the angry, confused thoughts under wraps – so afraid that she'd go mad listening to her own voice. Never completely weaned off the Ketamine, hots flushes of uncontrollable need would drive through her in aggressive pumps leaving her weak and dry heaving once the desire trickled away.
Michael leant towards her and muttered something about needing a better look. She nodded at the ground. A memory of days and nights, drifting into one strange blur, food and water acting as a short break in the monotony. The perpetual cold that never seemed to go away. It chilled more than flesh and bones; it chilled her heart to a numb indifference. Life was over. Caroline, the only person she'd ever loved, was long gone. Everyone else had used and abused her until she'd been forced to find solace in the drugged stupor that made her do horrible things. Things she never remembered once she woke up.
"Nikita?" said Michael.
"What was that, sorry?" she murmured, returning to him in a daze.
"I said, let's see the next one."
"You mean, you don't want him?"
"Too passive."
She remained rooted to the ground. Nikita had been just like Sullivan Foster. Almost always curled up in a ball and yet Michael had come along and saved her. Why? She could barely remember the day he'd showed up. She'd been led to the Rec area when a sudden burst of that need had punched her in the gut. The craze lasted for all of two seconds, but enough for her to smash her guard's head into the wall and bolt, screaming out into the sweet, fresh air. That was, until a whole barrage of men pinned her, thrashing, to the ground. But what if...what if the addiction hadn't hit that day. What if it was just another time when she'd been 'passive' in the corner? She'd be dead. Division would have lost a valuable asset. What if...
And here was someone who reminded her so much of herself. Someone they weren't even giving a chance.
"I think we should take him."
Michael doubled back to where she was standing and looked at her in confusion, "Why?"
"Because..."
"Because? That's it?" a teasing smile flickered across his disbelieving face. It angered her. She launched.
The next thing she knew Michael had her arm twisted behind her back and her face up against the wall. "What are you playing at?" he hissed, grip tightening around her wrist. Like that poisonous need all those years ago, her rage filtered away, leaving her head aching and eyes stinking. He relaxed his hold and she shrugged him off, walking down the corridor towards the O'loan's cell, thinking 'there but God's grace go I'.
"Look, I'll ambush Lydia Garcia at the stadium, take her in and work out how she found out about our Op. You take down Tarsarov from above as planned. Percy's sent a team that'll meet us the day after so if there's trouble, they'll be able to bail us out."
"Are you going to kill her after she gives up her source?"
Michael stayed silent.
"Right."
He watched her walk back into the bathroom. "Right..."
Basketball doesn't build character,
It reveals it. - Author Unknown
KAYSERI STADIUM, ANKARA – 1900, 07/02/06
The basketball match raved below. Coloured figures darted across the wooden floor with the squeak of sneakers against a backdrop of grunts, whistles and yelling. Half the time, the crowd cheered in some crazed festival spirit, bellowing and screaming out the names of their favourite players. The other half of the time, the 7 500 strong arena simultaneously held its breath – spreading the nervous tension that could be felt even high up in the catwalks.
Whenever one of those eerily silent moments occurred, Nikita instinctively looked down. A part of her expected to see thousands of pairs of eyes staring upwards. She felt that every creak or groan of the metal boardwalk would give her away. Irrational as it was, she hadn't felt so insecure on a mission since her provisional days.
So why now?
Shrugging those paranoid thoughts away, she continued on her shaky path to the vantage point. Not that the contraption was shaky...more her knees.
The catwalks were a criss-crossing set of crude iron sheets with insufficient half-metre high bars protecting a person from a death-plunge down onto the merciless stadium floor. Usually accessed by technicians to adjust the lights and the cameras that televised high-profile matches on pay TV, their dark colour and the glare of artificial rays meant that any spectator would look up and see nothing but a vague outline of a roof somewhere high up. This effect should have calmed her nerves but then again, she was fighting Gogol. Perhaps they already knew of the attack and Tarsarov had men positioned to take her down.
"Michael, update," she whispered into her Comm, glancing around.
"Target acquired, waiting until half time for the grab."
"Copy that."
The giant scoreboard and timer showed that she had another three minutes. As long as her shot was true, she should be out of the stadium before the third quarter even started. Taking aim, carefully lining up the scope, she honed in on the section where Tarsarov would be seated. The crowds were like pieces of glitter flashing in the sunlight, the colours and movement disorientating her. Then something caught her eye, someone running down one of the aisles. She followed the woman only to see another figure running several feet behind her.
It was Michael.
"What are you doing?" she spoke into her receiver.
"Target on the move. Heading towards Tarsarov. Eliminate him now."
Spotting the sharp cut lineaments of her target's face, she adjusted the weapon and flicked off the safety. Then breathing slowly, she focused, knowing that there wasn't any room for mistake.
Too late for second guessing,
Too late to go back to sleep.
It's time to trust my instincts,
Close my eyes; and leap...
Michael cursed. With an extraction team still a day away, the easy option of shooting her was out of the question. She was running towards Tarsarov, probably to warn him of his impending death. Stupid girl, didn't she know that he was a part of a mercenary group who tortured and purged like modern day pirates, dealing drugs, weapons and assassinating? What did she think the world would gain by his continuing to live?
Damn, Garcia would be on him within the minute.
Speeding up, the crowd suddenly jumped to its feet. All around him, masses of bodies cheered and screamed as something happened in the last few seconds of the first half. The target disappeared out of sight and he pushed his way blindly through the rows and over the seats, down towards the middle of the stadium. Breaking out into a clear aisle, he spotted her, and Tarsarov too, sitting calmly in his courtside spot. She seemed to be yelling his name, unable to reach his prime spot without stepping on people's heads.
Air Tarsarov looked around for the voice. Michael slammed on the brakes. He grabbed the vendor next to him and shoved him down the stairs. The gobsmacked man and his hotdogs plummeted downwards, ricocheted off one of the railings and smashed into the back of Lydia Garcia. She fell headlong into the courtside section and the vendor landed splayed on his back, dazedly staring up at the lights. In the commotion, Michael rushed forward, saw an arm and yanked at it. The rest of his target's body was pulled along and he bundled her away.
The pair were gone by the time security reached the area. Horn blaring for half time, the crowds sat down, most completely unaware of the accident. Tarsarov dusted himself off, a woman had fallen on him, probably intoxicated and overly excited that Anadolu Efes had finally drawn even with CSKA Moscow.
"Papa! Они могли бы выиграть!"
He smiled at his son and settled back into his seat.
High above him, Nikita was running across the metal boardwalks with her heart in her throat.
Scrambling down the twisting staircase towards the ground, Nikita wondered just how much trouble she'd be in. She could have taken him down. She'd had him. But then the crowd had gone wild, everyone had stood up and she'd spotted a boy. Jumping up and down in excitement and yelling out, clapping his small hands together. Tarsarov had beamed, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder to try and contain his son's joy.
And she couldn't do it.
She just couldn't pull that trigger.
It was Michael, she was sure. He did this to her. When he had been off training agents, she'd never hesitated, she'd never considered those consequences. But now that he was back...
And so she'd failed her first mission.
Why didn't you take the shot?
Because your eight year old son,
Was sitting next to you. – Ari Tarsarov and Nikita
NEW YORK – 0800, 17/05/06
Nikita wandered into a small and messy shop in a lane just off from a main road. She was dressed like a civilian; a long trench coat, jeans and a woollen scarf to protect her from the last of autumn drizzle. The only difference was that civilians didn't have a knife disguised as a decorative belt clasp, a small explosive cigarette or a shotgun in the inner pocket of their coats.
"I want a consultation," she said across the grimy counter. The man snorted disbelieving.
"A consultation? What's that?" he asked in a voice that bore the scars from a lifetime of smoking. A huge green and grey dragon ran down his forearm. She guessed he probably kept a pistol hidden just behind his chair.
"This place," she said, looking around, "Attracts some seedy characters, I suppose?"
The man surveyed her suspiciously. She was too well spoken to be a customer, too dressed up to be a police officer and too female to be one of the mobsters.
"The tattoo parlour isn't the only thing you guys work in," she stated, looking at a wall of prototypes. There were Asian characters, flowers, peace signs, animals, skulls...
The unmistakable click of the safety of a gun being flicked off penetrated the heavy silence. Nikita grimaced. She turned around to face the unsurprising wooden barrel of an old hunting rifle. Arms up in the air in an act of surrender, she simply flashed him a toothy smile and went on, "I'm looking for Karen Fawkes."
"Never heard of him," the man replied gruffly.
Nikita smiled wider, "Of course you have. If you really didn't, you'd have thought it was a woman. 'Karen', a popular girl's name. Or a very good alias...I've heard he comes here."
The man gripped his rifle tighter, "Who are you?"
"A client," she said, "For Fawkes, and you."
"You want a tattoo?" he said sceptically.
She nodded, "I have a rather ugly scar on my hip. From a cut about three years ago. I'm looking for something to cover it. Word on the street is that you're the best."
He looked her up and down, "You're from money. Why not just get some plastic surgery?"
Nikita feigned thought, "Well, they'd ask questions."
The man seemed to reassess her stand as he took the hint that she was tougher than she looked. The rifle was slowly lowered and put back in its place. He stepped around and towered over her, arms folded.
"What do you want?"
"This phoenix looks lovely," she said, pointing to one of the designs on the wall, "How much?"
He sniffed, "Fifty."
"Thirty," she countered quickly.
"Forty-five," he growled. "No lower."
Nikita considered, "And no questions?" He nodded. She smiled, "I have a bit of a problem too. There's an obstruction just under my skin. Not sure how deep it is."
The man reached out a hand, "Let me have a look."
As Nikita took off her coat, he noticed the bulge in the inner pocket. He'd been working with the mobsters and Karen Fawkes' gang long enough to know that not only was this woman someone, but she was a dangerous someone.
The scar was quite large, not particularly obvious either. He'd seen uglier. He felt around for the obstruction the woman spoke of and found it immediately. It was quite shallow on the skin, near the scar and he believed it might have been a piece of metal trapped inside from when the wound was fresh. As he explained the situation, the woman's mood seemed to lift.
"So you can get it out?" she asked.
He hesitated, "I know a guy."
"No questions?"
He smirked, "Lady, I don't know who you are or what you do. But if that scar is from what I think it's from, then you'd know that in my line of business – asking questions can get you killed."
"Rule number one, right?"
He shook his head, "Nah, rule number two. Number one is each man for himself."
Nikita looked at the phoenix again, "You sound just like a guy I know."
Taking out a ten dollar bill, she slapped it into his hand and put on her coat. The weight of the gun reassured her slightly and with a fleeting touch of her tracker, asked, "Thanks for the consultation. Where can I find Fawkes?"
The man held the bill up to the dusty light and seemed satisfied. "Two miles east from here, number seventeen opposite the State Coroner's Office. Ask for a glass of water in a plastic cup."
So if you care to find me,
Look to the Western Sky.
"Fawkes," Nikita smiled. The men around him shuffled uncomfortably. "Or should I say, Whitfield."
The muttering grew louder. Whitfield waved the men away and stepped forward, extending a hand. "Ah, Nikita, I was wondering when you'd come. What brings you here?"
She took the offered seat and glanced around at the backroom of the diner. Whitfield was what you'd call a Skinny Tough Guy. His small eyes bore holes into his victim's heads and were tiny windows into a sharp mind with a quickness for figures and math. A sadist like all mafia bosses, his cruel mouth was currently smoothed into a content smile. He knew who this woman was, and he owed her one. Only a fool would deny the debt that existed and being a businessman, he knew that such things were better paid than drawn out into long, unsavoury alliances where neither party cared very much for the other. Smarter to get it over and done with.
"Can I offer you a drink?"
Nikita politely declined. She had enough experience with Amanda to know that accepting liquid from a stranger was next to suicidal. "I've come to ask for a few things...and to offer some."
He raised his eyebrows. "The money you can have. I can get the North Koreans to make you as much as you need." She inclined her head in thanks, "I'd also like a few other things."
Acutely aware that his life had been at her mercy, he pushed aside the distaste that being selfless gave him and gestured for her to continue.
"You know people. I want a few items manufactured, with no double-dealing. Can you pave out a clean path for me?"
"What type of manufacturing are we talking about?"
She pulled out a journal. It had been resting in her apartment since her first few days as an agent. Inside, the pictures of explosive devices, transmitters, signal jammers and countless other designs held the future of her success. Whitfield flipped through and nodded in approval. He knew certain people and as long as she mentioned his name, there would be no funny business.
"I also need a safe house," she went on, "Somewhere in the city."
He thought for a moment, "Most of my properties are country manors, my dear. Since my 'death' two years ago, I've sold all my investments in the city and spent my time at Johnny Dohanny's."
"What about your old place? The loft you were living in when Division targeted you?"
"It's still there. Obviously. Your people had that place under surveillance, I couldn't very well sell it or they'd know I was still alive," he explained, "I don't go back there anymore. Too risky."
"So who lives there now?"
"To my knowledge, no one. A couple of chairs, carpets, furniture I didn't want. There's a piano too, it was too big for me to carry out of there. Why? You're not thinking of using that as a safe house, are you?" he asked aghast, "They'll know if you do."
"Not if you get my devices made."
"When do you need it?"
"As soon as possible. Do you know a good arms man?" she asked.
He rifled through a mental list of names before settling on the most suitable one, "Yes. Henry. A bit of a fruitcake but he keeps his store classy and the hardware is always quality. But I thought you already had your dealers?"
She shook her head, "They were busted a few months ago. Scattered across the country; some in state prisons, others gone to down to Baltimore, Chicago, or up to Cleveland."
"Right," he mused, "Anything else?"
"Yes. I need you to go see Gustav."
"The forger?"
"Him," she agreed, "Things are changing for me. And once I get out, they'll do all they can to find me, including anyone I might have ever had contact with. That means that simply changing your name and selling you property in the city isn't going to be enough. You'll need a complete background wipe."
"You're breaking out?"
Nikita clammed up, "Like I said. It's time for change."
He smirked, "Sure thing. Extra protection by all means. But what's in it for you?"
She was silent for a while. When she finally looked up, he expected her to make more demands. To his infinite surprise she frowned and said sadly, "Redemption."
As someone told me lately,
Everyone deserves the chance to fly.
Nikita wandered into the restaurant opposite. The clean air and bright lights were such a contrast to the dingy backroom that she halted on the steps for a fraction of a second just to get her bearings. When she opened her eyes, she saw a figure sitting alone quickly turn away.
"Trust," she muttered, making her way towards Michael. "You've been following me?"
He lifted his head with an apologetic blink, "You could say that."
"Percy?" she said, sliding down opposite. "Or Amanda..."
"Neither," he said. She raised her eyebrows. "Operations. New case."
Nikita noticed the way he cut off the end of his words. It was like he was trying to keep himself in check. Ever since Amanda had suggested the three month extended cover, he'd been keeping his distance. So surprised that she hadn't been dropped on the spot for failing a mission, the added shock of being allowed some down time had sent her reeling.
Percy touched the tips of his fingers together in deep thought. His three man audience waited in nervous anticipation. Michael scowling, Amanda blinking slowly and Nikita glaring aggressively as was her way whenever she couldn't think of anything to say.
"The failure was on me sir," Michael pitched in, "There was no way for Nikita to get a clean shot on Tarsarov with my target and the civilians in the way."
The boss made a sour face and looked between his two best agents, "Sloppy. Careless. But you made the right decision. The target was more important than Gogol's pit-bull. For now. So did she give us her source?"
Here, Michael hesitated. He knew it was crunch time, and his head would be on the platter by the end of it. "Yes. Garcia says that she was involved with Agent Hyun Kim. He told her about Division and managed to decode part of the Op, enough to know the target and the coordinates."
Percy leant back in his chair and nodded slowly. "And where is she now?"
"I had a Russian asset clean her."
"And Kim?"
Michael froze. His own agent. "Awaiting your orders, sir."
"I'm disappointed in you Michael, I thought you trained them better than that. Nikita," Percy nodded in her direction, "you may leave. But fetch Roan, would you."
Michael remained in the room, awaiting the verdict. Percy sighed then nodded grimly, "It was a mistake, you're mistake Amanda," he looked to the woman beside him, "In putting those two back together. Do you remember, Michael, how I once said that you would be the best team in the world? Hmmm...well, I'm thinking that I was wrong...I see now, in hindsight, that you are not so much a team as you are individuals. Together, you're much more liable to make mistakes – but apart, you're skill is unparalleled. So with this in mind, meaning no disrespect to either of your talents, I'm afraid I just can't afford to have you working together anymore. From now on, solo missions only. Clear?"
As a silent and thoughtful Michael left, Amanda raised her eyebrows. "That was rather blunt."
Percy shrugged, "You should have known what Michael does to Nikita – brings out all that softness in her."
"To be fair, the reporter did get in the way of her shot. Audio files of their Comm units confirm the timing. There was a 70% chance she would have missed."
"What do you suggest we do with them then, seeing as you're the specialist," he said with a patronising lilt.
"For Michael, put him back on agent training. Only activate him for extractions – you know that's his strength. With Nikita... she's too volatile. We've tried her on Code Red. We've tried her on Code Green. But as soon as she gets back in touch with Michael, things go wrong. Unless you plan on cancelling one of them, the only option is to place her under inactive status."
"Inactive? Now why would I want her sitting around while there's work to be done?"
"You will need a replacement for Kim," Amanda reminded. "And I think that you have the perfect one right in front of you. Nikita is as fast and strong as any Reaper. She's naturally gifted with skills that allow her to build cover. Guarding a box would mean limited killing, which is a bonus."
Percy pulled together his eyebrows, "You think we should train Nikita to be a Guardian..."
"She has the makings. If we place her under extended cover we could monitor her progress. I predict that unlike many other agents, she won't feel the need to connect," Amanda continued to explain at the man's disbelieving scoff, "You see. Her feelings lie with Michael. While he lives and works for Division, she won't be tempted off by other men. Her one weakness can become our greatest weapon. It may just turn her into the best Guardian you could hope for."
Unable to think of a better way to use her at that moment, he agreed. "But if this comes back to bite us...Well, until she's well and truly trained – and you're certain she's fit for the job – I still need someone to fill in for Kim. We can't have an unguarded box, now can we? Who would you recommend?"
"Janson," Amanda replied directly, having already foreseen the question.
"If you're right about Nikita, I'll put her on one of the others," Percy said as Roan walked in, "The engineer is making me an extra three. The more the merrier!"
Amanda's heart sank at the thought of more black boxes to destroy. Oversight wasn't going to be happy.
"Roan, I need you to clean Kim in Montreal. And also, there's this man, Owen Eliot," Percy passed a file across the desk, "He's looking very promising. Start him up on Reaper training."
Nikita had spent her first month of cover trying to remember what people did in their spare time. Unused to the general public, the majority of her day had been indoors. But then, feeling stupid for wasting such freedom, she'd decided to mingle. With neighbours, waiters, shop keepers, mothers at the supermarkets, drug dealers on the streets, taxi drivers – everyone.
She'd met Daniel.
"Hello?" said a voice on the opposite end of the receiver.
She looked around, at the dim room with the case of weapons on the floor beside her. A dark blue dress caught her eye. She'd never worn it before and found the sudden urge to try it on. Throwing caution to the winds, she cleared her throat and asked, "Are you free tonight?"
"I had a date with my television, actually," he joked.
She smiled, "I'm sure she can wait. Meet me at that place around the corner?"
"Los Jugadors? That's a bit posh," Daniel teased.
"It'll be my treat."
"No no no," he jumped in, "What kind of man do you think I am, I'll pay."
She smiled. After a beat, he spoke up again, this time quietly, almost shy, "Is this a date?"
"If you want it to be," she held her breath.
"Yeah...yeah, I guess I do," he laughed nervously, "Sorry Nikita, it's been awhile. I'm a little rusty."
She grinned, "Oh, you have no idea. I completely understand. And...call me Nikki."
Daniel, the bartender, who she told herself was just for her cover. But after the constant covert activities, the constant looking over her shoulder and questioning, forever questioning the reasons she killed and killed – Daniel was like desert rain.
Refreshing, unexpected, welcome.
He made her smile. He had endless stories of his trips around the world and though she could match his adventures with her own, for once, she didn't feel the need. She was always, always trying to get the upper hand. At Division. On missions. With Michael. But with Daniel, she was content to let him fill her head full of new stories and new feelings. He complained about the public transit system and the cost of petrol. She smiled, indulged his whines and fantasised about his world.
The normal world.
He ordered take out because he couldn't cook and enjoyed sleeping in on a Sunday. His best friends were a married couple off on their Honeymoon and his father still cherished the hope that he'd drop his 'vagrant ways' and take over the family business. Nikita soaked up his life. Hearing his day to day troubles, teasing him about taking out the trash and dreaming of a white picket fence – an all-consuming obsession with being normal.
He made her question Division even more. He fuelled her need to get out.
"You've been reactivated. And your first job is with a man called Voss. We need intel on his suppliers. Amanda wants a debriefing of your extended cover and then head over to logistics," Michael said across the booth.
With an almost angry glare at him, she nodded and reached for her car keys. Just two more months...two more months until I leave with Daniel...start a new life...just two months...
Some women love only what they can hold in their arms;
Others, only what they can't. ~Mignon McLaughlin
Amanda sat rigidly in her chair, watching and re-watching the surveillance tapes. She was beyond furious. She did not, could not, have predicted the disastrous turn of events. Who was this Daniel fellow? Where did he come from and why did he matter? Oversight had been impatient for Nikita to start Guardian training, or even better if Amanda could convince Percy that she was good enough not to need any training at all. They wanted a black box and they would stop short of nothing to get it. A list of cryptographers were already lined up to work on the encryption.
And Percy too, how would she explain Nikita's new beau when she'd been the one to confidently state that Michael's existence would stave off any cravings for human contact? She'd believed it too, she'd been so certain that her feelings for Michael would outweigh any that she might develop with mere civilians. Boring civilians. Weak men.
Her phone rang. She could guess who it would be. "Senator."
"Amanda, have you decided on your course of action yet?"
"Daniel is a temporary distraction," she found herself saying with surprising calm, "I will assert my authority and he will be taken care of."
"I hope that's the case. You know we want possession of a box before Percy makes three more. Time if of the essence here."
The line went dead.
Amanda sat back and told herself to breath. Everything she had ever wanted was so close. There was only one more obstacle. The date on the screen was two months prior.
"Goodnight Nikita," he said softly.
"Goodnight Daniel," she replied, reaching up on her toes to peck him on the cheek.
Amanda furrowed her brow in disgust and skipped forward several days. It was Daniel's apartment, they were in bed in the early hours of the morning.
"So what do you do exactly," he asked, stroking her hair, "For the airline I mean."
"I'm a consultant."
"Which means you...?"
"It means I work a big, corrupt company," she joked lightly, "figuring out creative ways to cheat honest Americans out of their money with gimmicks."
He laughed, "That's a bit jaded and cynical."
She snuggled deeper into his chest, giggling, "Eh...reality, my love."
Many more days later, another conversation jumped out at her.
"Daniel, I need to be honest about something," Nikita was saying, her breathing coming off shallow and broken. A piece of bed sheet was being wrapped around her fingers and she stared at a far off spot on the wall. Her partner looked up, worry lining his round face, hands coming up to rub her shoulders.
"What's wrong?"
She looked at him with eyes full of tears, "I'm not who you think I am."
Daniel placed a small kiss on her forehead and pulled her towards him. She allowed herself to cry silently into his neck. He shushed her, anxious, confused, "There's nothing that you could say that would change the way I feel."
She pulled away from him, "No. That's what you think but once I tell you..."
"Is it your job?"
Nikita looked up, the back of her hand coming up and wiping at her eyes, "Yes."
"Then give it up," he cried in earnest, "You know I can provide for both of us. I'll work double shifts and Sundays. It's fine."
"I couldn't let you do that," she sighed, falling back onto the mattress again, "Just forget it...don't worry about me."
Three weeks after that day, the scene that always made Amanda's pristine exterior of control slip, came into focus. The date was the 13th of May, 11am on the Saturday morning. The midday sun streamed through the windows and there was a tinge of surrealism that surrounded it. She saw the small black box, the silver ring, the eternal promise of life and love that passed between their two eyes. It was beautiful. It was dangerous. It was maddening.
One tiny piece of jewellery and a mediocre man could threaten to destroy the years of work she had put into her student. Her object. Her creature.
Leaping to her feet, she stormed into Percy's office, he looked up curiously. Pulling herself to full height, utilising every ounce of superiority she could find, she placed the disk of recordings on his desk. "I'm asking permission to eliminate Daniel Monroe. Please watch these at your earliest convenience. I can assure you that Nikita will be put back on track, once we remind her who's really in charge."
Too long I've been afraid of losing love,
I guess I've lost.
Well if that's love,
It comes as much too high a cost.
The lights were what first woke her. They broke through the muffled thoughts still lingering on the edge of her consciousness and slowly pulled her back to reality. She fluttered her eyes weakly, not quite wanting the dreams to end. Not wanting to face what lay ahead. The vibrating was the final tug that jerked her back to the land of the living. Groggily, she lifted her arm out from under the covers. The cold brought Goosebumps to her skin almost immediately and she shivered. The name on the phone registered 'Michael'. She sighed, about to flip it open when a strong arm pulled her back.
"Who's calling at this time of day?" came a husky voice. Nikita relaxed into the broad chest and allowed Daniel to pull the blankets over them again. She closed her eyes for a few moments, feeling him trail kisses down her neck and shoulders. The vibrating stopped and she felt him smile against her skin, "See? Now go back to sleep."
"I can't," she said, reaching out for the phone again. He wrapped her in his embrace and she indulged herself a little longer.
"Why?" he whispered. She grinned, flipping him over with precise skill, she flattened herself against his chest and nipped at his bottom lip.
"Because you're so distracting."
He laughed, "Ditto," a mischievous spark came to his eyes, "Fine then, forget sleeping. I have another idea on how we can spend the morning..."
She let him run his hands through her hair. The adoration, the complete trust, shone from his face and as the early morning rays painted the room, she could think of no more perfect figure in the whole world. As he kissed her, she let herself sink into him. The softness of his stomach cushioned her, a comfortable layer built up from a lifetime of chocolate and nightly takeout. The thought made her happy, somehow. Further proof that he was everything Division was not. As he touch became more urgent, thoughts of her job flew out of her mind. His legs wrapped around her and their already meagre items of clothing were ripped off. He ran a finger up her thigh and –
The phone started to vibrate again. Nikita sat up like someone had jammed a rod up her spine. Daniel lay where he was and admired the view. She grabbed his roaming fingers and gave them a soft kiss.
"Sorry hun, I have to get this," she said quietly. Michael's name flashed again, like some irritating alarm sent to remind her that she was living the dream. He's just my cover, she thought to herself, wrapping a blanket around her middle and striding towards the bathroom. "What?"
"Morning sunshine," Michael's gruff tones gyrated against her ear. "Sleep well?"
"Lovely, thanks," she replied just as sarcastic.
"Hate to be the bringer of bad news but you're needed in Operations," he stated.
She frowned into the mirror and lowered her voice, "Joy. When?"
Michael laughed humourlessly, "Half an hour ago."
Some things I cannot change,
But til I try I'll never know.
"Haase!" Percy barked into the phone. The Engineer's timid voice peeped back in reply. "Once you've finished making a stronger encryption on the black boxes, so that agents cannot break them, I'd be grateful if you could look at your new assignment."
"Of course...anything you...you...wish."
"Get in touch with our Medical team. I want this new integrated brain circuit ready before the next UN conference, understood? Good. And if you could lift the deadline for my last three boxes up a few months while you're at it – then that would be swell."
And nobody in all of Oz,
No Wizard that there is or was,
Is ever gonna bring me down...
Lyrics from "Defying Gravity" by Stephen Schwartz from Wicked The Musical. Exams nearly flattened me but I'm finally writing again, it's taken awhile to get back in the groove but here you go. A lot has happened in this chapter...the end is nigh! I've been looking forward to so many of the scenes here that it's uber exciting to write them...
So as you know, Henry is the weapons dealer Nikki buys the sniper from in episode 2.0. Gustav is our trusty forger friend. I tried to explain the strange mountain of chairs in Nikita's loft and the broken piano. Johaan Haase is the name I gave the Engineer. The journal from one of the first few chapters of this story makes a return! Janson (the Guardian who suffers from Regiment withdrawal in the deleted scenes) replaces Kim. And of course, Owen ends up replacing Janson...
Oh, and two incontinuities: 1. Kayseri Stadium is in Ankara according to the show but in real life, it isn't...so...yeah. 2. In Coup de Grace, Nikita says to Stephen that she's never failed an Op "I never received one of those demerits but I hear they suck" but then in Phoenix she tells Ari that she didn't go through with her assignment to kill him because his son was there. So I tried to explain it by making the journalist cross paths with Nikita so the failure was forgiven. Hope that makes sense =]