Tagging: Nikita, Michael, Alex, Birkhoff, Ryan, Sonya. More to come, but secret for the element of surprise.
Ships: Undecided. I'm going to see where the story takes me and I will listen to readers' input so let me know what you want!
Rating: T for now, for blood and language. Will change to M later on for dark and twisted themes, sexual stuffs and more of the usual.

Special thanks to Ayushi95 for being an incredibly patient beta and really good at motivating people to write and improve.

| Chapter 1 | June 6, 2015 / Washington, DC — Fairfax, VA |

I know you're out there
And I know you care
'Cause I feel you
Like an angel watching over me

Birkhoff peels out of bed at six am, grunting and muttering to himself as he combs through his hair and looks for his glasses. (He finds them on his nightstand. It's a nice change, for once not having to do a full-on search.) The tablet on his other pillow blasted him awake and he looks up to see several displays have lit up, the digital lights weaving together with the sun that falls through his unclosed blinds.

His mind used to be quicker; always running fast, always anticipating, always immediate reaction. But there hasn't been a reason to always be hyperaware of everything anymore, no more actual threat on his life or on that of those he cares about, so he has relaxed—it takes him a minute or two to realize not just any alarm has been triggered.

It's Nikita's.

When that thought finallystrikes him though he settles behind his computer, fingers tapping away on his keyboard so furiously he might wake up Michael in the next room—and that is the only thing he doesn't want to do. He can handle chasing after these leads alone; scope them out, make sure they aren't traps or accidental triggers.

More than once he has woken up from nightmares that feature his best friend in some state of injury, covered in blood and beaten to pulp by the people that triggered his searching programs. They're echoes of the reality they lived in for a while. Michael has come too close to dying trying to find Nikita a few too many times.

So Birkhoff lies, says he's going out of town for a while to visit Sonya when truth is he hasn't seen her in over a year, and every time he goes out of town it is because maybe this time he will come home with Nikita.

He doesn't know why he keeps on doing it. He might not get aggressive or suicidal whenever those leads end up in nothing, but he, too, gets hope when that alarm sounds. Nikita might've not ever been his girlfriend or his fiancée but that doesn't mean he doesn't love her just the same. He has been devastated so often by now, resorting to praying to whoever is out there to please bring Nikita back, please.

For a moment he contemplates not pursuing this, but then that thought dissipates because how can he not? If there's a chance, however small it is, that he can find her—he'll take it over anything.

So he reads up on what has happened and retrieves an address and then he's out the door, every sign of the lead erased from his computer, a note on the kitchen table that says he had to leave immediately because "Sonya might be in the hospital, I can't get a hold of her, I'll be back shortly – don't burn my house down while I'm away." and two guns missing from the armory.

His knuckles turn white and ache as he clenches his fists around the steering wheel and forces his car to go faster. Virginia isn't too far away from Washington, DC but it's still two hours, at least, and he isn't sure if Nikita is going to stay on the radar for that long… on the off chance that it is, in fact, Nikita.

Driving is boring. He never liked it, not before Division, definitely not during, especially not after. He prefers claiming shotgun and minding his business on his laptop or whichever other device of choice, and succumb to the world he believes to be his own.

He is more than accustomed to the typical American road.

He swerves to dodge cars, follows his navigation system through small towns to avoid traffic jams and police controls, and spends fifteen minutes on the phone with Alex.

(He forgot she is coming home today. He makes do of the limited internet access on the board computer of his car to arrange her flight from Moscow to Washington. There is a silence on Alex' end when he tells her he's off to Sonya again, and he fears she might be onto him—but then she tells him to give Sonya her best and he breathes a sigh of relief when the call disconnects.

He used to be bad at lying. So, sobad. He isn't sure if it's a good thing that now he is so, sogreat at it.)

He remembers how different it was the first time they thought they could find her. He hadn't been there with them, opted to man the computers, keep an eye on everything through cameras streamed from satellites, put Sonya and Akira to work on further establishing the new and improved ShadowNet. Ryan, Alex and Michael in a car and oh how fast they had gone, how sure they had been that they would find her.

But the car Nikita had taken to flee she had dumped on a parking lot of an airport and there were no images of her entering, of her taking a flight. He remembers sifting through hours and hours of footage just to catch a glimpse, only to come up empty-handed.

He got so unreasonably drunk that night, in some sketchy dive bar downtown that didn't card but fuck you, he is well over 21 anyway. (Why doesn't he feel like an adult? Well…)

There is another moment of doubt when he crosses the border to Virginia. He is an hour away from home, pretending to be headed for California, and maybe this will be his end. Maybe but unlikely but still, you know, possible. He'd hate to die with the last thing on his mind an ugly lie.

But then he realizes he hasn't only gotten better at lying, but he has also gotten better at fighting. He remembers shooting someone from The Shop in the head and knows that today is not the day Seymour Birkhoff dies. He has come too far.

So the doubt washes away, makes place for energy drink cravings that never stray far, and he wonders if it would be alright to stop to get some.

It probably isn't alright. He pushes up his speed a tiny bit more.

The minutes spent on the highway blur together and he properly tunes back in when it's about time he pulls into one of the exit lanes, so his navigation system tells him. With the voice of princess Leia, courtesy of Akira—best freakin' birthday present ever.

Twenty more minutes and he parks his car in front of a mental hospital. A building of white concrete and steel construction work, a minimal amount of windows and all-in-all a place he wouldn't want to be caught dead.

(Poor bastards that were.)

The shivers run down his spine when he gets out, even though the sun beams on his skin. There are several ambulances at the entrance, as well as police cars. It's swarmed with people and inside the building there are screams, piercing and impossible to be ignored.

Inside his veins his blood turns to ice.

He doesn't want to be here, but nevertheless he pushes through the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach and grabs a badge from the glove box and tucks a gun in his waistband before he locks his car. (His grey and red Bugatti stands out tremendously among the caboodles filling the spaces.)

"Ezio McField, FBI," he says and flashes his badge before ducking under the tape. There is so much blood. He is used to it by now, but the smell still makes his head spin a little. His eyes move quickly, scrutinizing, but he asks the question anyway. "How many?"

"Four dead, several wounded." One of the deacons looks up from a body bag with a sad smile. "They didn't stand a chance, she knew what she was doing."

Birkhoff bends over one of the corpses and sees pale skin littered with dark bruises and dark liquid.

His heart lurches with a simultaneously pleasant and unpleasant jolt when he realizes that everything about this screams Nikita and he hasn't been this close before.

"She?" He tries to sound anything but eager to know, but it's so hard.

"You remember when everyone thought president Spencer was dead? The patient that did this looked a lot like that woman…"

He does remember. He remembers it as if it were yesterday and not so many months ago.

"It can't be her," Birkhoff blurts out and it's too fast, so they look up at him from their crouched positions with a frown. He coughs and fidgets just a little. "I mean—she has been under FBI watch since the truth came out. In order to prevent that organization from framing her again, you know?"

He would die defending Nikita's innocence because he sees how they look, and she didn't do it, damn it, but before the conversation can spin out of control he is pulled aside—he guesses he's thankful. Or they should be thankful. He has grown a mean punch.

The man that talks to him is nothing out of the ordinary, but the look in his eyes… It's the same look Michael has sported for a long time now, one that tells of being tired and worn out.

"Josephine Le Sang," he says and hands him a file. Birkhoff's stomach churns when he hears the name, sees the picture. Nikki. "She escaped. We didn't know she was gone until she came back, covered in blood…"

The man looks across the courtyard, at the dead people and his face drops. (Birkhoff knows everything about losing people that work for you.) "Those four people were the ones tending to her. She went for them first, and then knocked everyone out that came in the way between her and the medicine storage. I have every reason to believe she stole drugs."

Birkhoff nods and makes sure everything is taken care of before he bolts.

Meanwhile all he can think is, "Nikki, what have you gotten yourself into?"

He tries to hold onto the fact that this is Nikita, that there is always reason behind her madness, that surely there must be a reason she was holed up in amental hospital for, according to her file, over four months. That there is a reason she took her daily dose of Adderall.

(He remembers the girl strung up on drugs, Nikita before she became the Nikita he knows and loves, the one that was brought to Division straight from death row, and he is so sick of remembering.)

But the truth sits uncomfortably in his body, and with every passing minute it swells and swells. He's afraid it'll suffocate him before he'll get to her.

Josephine only has one relative mentioned, her mother. How can a produced alter-ego have a mother? It's the only place he can think of going in this ditch of a town he has never been before.

The house he finds is huge, very elegant and very detailed, one of those houses that survived time and probably date back a few centuries. He can appreciate real estate. He has had to fix safe houses often enough to know that this particular house is worth a lot and one of a kind.

He pulls his gun from his waistband though because the house might look like it belongs to someone harmless, one of the first lessons ever taught to him was to never judge a book by its cover. Or a person by its house, whatever.

His fingers curl tight around the gun, the barrel wavering just slightly. (He thinks for a moment, shit, I thought I got this under control, and then he blames being so close to findingherit is normal he gets the jitters.)

The door gives way to a long hallway, a crystal chandelier dangling above his head. His steps are quick but calculated and he listens carefully, but no sound speaks of company, so he continues to the next room and—

He is surprised to see Amanda in the middle of the room, in the middle of a puddle of blood. He lowers his gun, but just slightly, and looks around. The room is a slightly different version of her office but he notes the similarities.

He moves closer to Amanda and sees there where she was hit by bullets.

"Not so invincible after all, are you?" he chuckles, dry and low, and spits for good measure. Horrible conversations over worse tea, a crushed hand and his bright mind threatened—he doesn't have fond memories of her.

He shoots a bullet through her head to make sure she is really, actually, completely dead. (There are bullets lodged between her ribs though and one pierced straight through her heart, he doubts she could stand up from this.)

And, because he's sure Michael and Alex will want to see this, he snaps a picture.

No other room in the house gives him quite as much satisfaction as that living room though, because none of them hold Nikita (he was foolish to believe), and he leaves the house shuddering from the visual of her chair of doom, needle squeaky clean but without a doubt used, because Amanda is an evil daughter of a bitch.

The neighborhood is quiet. It consists mostly of stand-alone-houses and he wonders if anyone has seen someone go in or out the house. He wants to ask, but first, because he doesn't like social interaction with strangers very much, he walks around the block.

And then suddenly she's there.

His heart breaks. He doesn't believe it. She stands in the middle of the desolate street, a gun at her feet. Her hair sticks to her neck and back with blood that might be her own and it might not be. Skin covered in bruises and wounds, bones that are bent in ways they shouldn't be bend—ever. Trembling. Silently crying.

He hasn't ever seen her like this.

"Nikki?"

She turns around so fast it has to hurt her, at least if his guess is correct and she has more than one broken bone, but her face doesn't show pain. It doesn't show anything. Just empty, so painfully empty. Her eyes are glazed over and she blinks slowly, one, two, three. Her eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings and it doesn't fit in the image of a girl that brought down a secret government unit, and killed so many people, and may or may not be wearing her enemy's blood as a skin coat.

He holds his breath, afraid, unsure—this is Nikita and he has never been good at knowing what goes on in her head. But then she slumps forward and he doesn't think, he just rushes to her and catches her before she can fall.

His gun falls to the ground with a sound that is lost on him as he is suddenly overwhelmed by everything Nikita. "I've got you," he whispers. She smells of blood and sweat and filth, of flowery perfume and something else, something that hurts because it reminds him of Division.

Her head falls to his shoulder and her voice sounds so void when she murmurs "nerd," and clings to his shirt, weeps in his neck, still trembling, eyelashes dusting her tears across his skin. She feels so small, and as he thumbs at her hips he feels how little she must have eaten the past—how long?

It has been well over two years since he last saw her, that fateful day she ran away. God knows what she has been through in all that time.

"Don't let me slip," she asks, pleads, and he nods, of course not but he doesn't say anything, just holds her—unable to fathom that she's back, solid, substantial, not a ghost or his imagination, not anything but flesh and bones and real, right there.

Don't shut me out
I'm an arson to myself
Who can't put out the fires
Until there's nothing left