Michael woke from a peaceful sleep –the one time where he didn't have to fight to live, struggle to survive. He slipped out of the tent, naked, careful not to wake the slumbering figure of a woman. He found his brown leather pants some distance from the tent. Wondering how they got that far away, he pulled them on.

"Going commando?" A voice called to him from inside the tent.

He turned and smiled at her. Her features were still pale, though brighter than they had been the day before. He blonde locks fell limply around her face, which was smudged with dirt. Michael had wanted to take the revenge he was worthy of against the man who had imprisoned her, yet operatives of the terrorist faction `Bright Star' had beaten him to it. The man, a weak member of the male species, had plummeted with a single bullet through the head.

He had almost lost her, as he had many times before. It was no secret that this woman was important to him, far more than Simone ever was.

Yes, he had loved Simone and part of him still did. Nikita was different from those he had known and trained. It was something that was agreed upon by many people in and out of Section. Walter.

Birkoff. Mick. Helmut Volker.

Michael shuddered at the thought of that man. Helmut had been a part of a mission profile, another attempt by Operations and Madeline to drive a wedge between them with a sham marriage. Much to their dismay they discovered that, although Helmut and Nikita shared views on the ruthless tactics of their masters, she had longed for him. How she had survived life in Section while maintaining a functioning part of

her humanity was beyond him. Though, she had taken the time to teach him meaning of being human in a place where her humanity could have cost her life. He had been the ungrateful student in the beginning, taking what he wanted of her and dismissing the rest. However, he couldn't do that anymore, his heart had unwillingly yielded to her love.

"You should rest," he replied, his tone suggesting his worry.

"I'm fine. Really," she assured her love.

The fire had died down and there was breakfast to prepare. Michael reached for the bunch of kindling he collected the day before and went about setting the fire. Inside the tent, Nikita pulled on the pants and top Michael had thought to bring her and gathered the remains of the wedding dress. Michael had ripped it from her body under the guise that he needed to check and redress the bullet hole in her side. It was the last tangible object that remained of her imprisonment and she wanted it gone. The dress was a colour that fell between baby pink and off white, the latter of which most likely came from being stored too long.

She stepped out side the tent and glanced around. The slight breeze was refreshing; the smell of the forest was invigorating, the sun, as it shone through the trees, provided her with a renewed strength. She had survived, but for how long?

It was a question, which deserved an answer, yet she could not provide it. Her fate rested someplace else. Not with God, as many assumed, but with a simple man and woman. She had been taught to fear them for they had the power to give life and enforce death, taught that they did not possess the same qualities that made her human. As time passed, six years she had `lived' in that place, she had observed, not been taught that those who held her fate and the fate of many others in their flesh-and-blood hands suffered that same downfalls of emotion that befell those on the outside.

Greed. Jealousy. Fear.

They were not superhuman, not omnipotent. They, too, would die someday. And, although Operations had granted them this short reprieve in return for a favour, he had lost his power, as with Madeline, over Michael and herself. They had lost it by entangling their feelings of supremacy with those of fear. They actually had feared their relationship, thinking that it would someday mean their dethronement in Section. Their ultimate fate had been sealed through their actions, and not those of the people they presumably `controlled.'

Michael was at his bike, getting food. He had built an adequate fire for breakfast. Before the thought had time to process within her, Nikita threw the wedding dress into the flames. The synthetic fibers crackled and spat, and melted with the intensity of the blaze.

Michael returned from his motorcycle. He looked at the burning dress and then towards Nikita, saying nothing. Words were not necessary. She wasn't burning the dress, as such. She was burning what it had come to represent. For a large part of her life, she had been controlled, been used as a puppet for the bidding of others. She was not free, her masters had seen to that. And, when Section had left her for dead, she was still not free. Captured and imprisoned by a lunatic for the same reason Section had wanted her –her beauty. But it was Section, who had seen her as the essential operative, beautiful to the point that terrorists never saw the gun.

He wondered what it would take for her to be free. Truly free. Would he offer his life up to his masters just to see her liberated from this hell? No, it wasn't that easy. Operations and Madeline already owned him. And, he possessed no knowledge to give them for her life. Except Adrian. Nevertheless, Nikita would never allow her freedom to

be exchanged for Adrian's. It wasn't right.

It had been Adrian, however, who created the hell in which Nikita and he lived. Conceivably, it was only appropriate if the Mother of Section relinquished her life for Nikita's. Besides, she was not recruited by normal standards. She had done no wrong to deserve this nightmare like the rest of the trainee scum. She had not killed, not tortured, not maimed, until Section One. Shouldn't that lone detail permit her to leave, based on that she was not violent to begin with?

So, how did it come to be that this angel had fallen from heaven to hell so quickly? The information needed to unlock the secret was hidden with what could be the devil himself. Michael would never know the truth, or at least not the actual truth. And, if he happened to ask, it would not only provide them with another clue to his psyche but the necessity to lie. It was when he approached this conclusion

he vowed silently that if he ever held the life of the `devil' at the end of his gun he would drain the information from him like blood from a bullet wound.

***

Nikita clung silently to Michael's jacket as they rode deeper into the forest. She had watched the sun cross the sky on its daily journey from the back of the motorcycle. He would not divulge any information of where he was taking her, except it was a place where Section didn't exist. Where could that be? Nowhere, she decided rationally. Section existed everywhere, and the only place it failed to permeate was the minds of the blissfully unaware, or arrogantly oblivious.

The outside world didn't want to know about the daily threat she and other operatives constantly thwarted. However, as she occasionally brushed shoulders with public masses during her travels to and from Section One, she wondered, how were they to know that she defended their freedom in place of her own? One word from her superiors and they could cease to exist, for the sake of the greater good, never knowing what the world had truly become.

She had learnt that when Oversight had granted her freedom, or so she had thought. To him, she had been was the same pawn that Operations and Madeline saw her to be. He neither cared whether she was free nor did he desire to, all he wanted was to be rid of Operations. He had meticulously manipulated her, giving her a reason and foremost a desire to kill.

The track on which they rode narrowed sharply until it was merely a meter-wide line in the dirt. Branches brushed their shoulders, sometimes scratching them. It was peaceful out in the open, with the only artificial sound being that of the motor that propelled them through the trees. The loud purr, though grating at first, had grown to be a comfort like the sound of a steady heartbeat.

Nikita imagined that despite Operations claims that they had

some `section-free' downtime for a while, they would be watching. Maybe it was just the paranoia, she'd accrued a lot of that during her time as a Section poker chip. Nonetheless, had she not been told that someone was always watching? She didn't know how they could, but they owned technology along with Quinn's (and Jason's) technological genius to back them up. She was sure they'd be watching.

***

Madeline absently wandered through the many corridors of Section. Operatives, profilers and other personnel attempted to avoid her as best they could, and those who did pass by did so because there was no other way to evade her. She was feared, she knew, for she was heartless, inhuman, unfeeling. None of this was a bother to her, in fact, it was a necessity required to get her job done.

Madeline made her way into Operations' perch. She silently positioned herself beside the powerful man. He gave her a brief glance before returning to his vigil over Section. He needed this box, she realised long ago. It was an essential part of what made him authoritative and commanding. It also added to productivity, the operatives demonstrated improved performances when reminded they were being watched continually.

She, too, occasionally found it comforting to watch the worker ants go about their duties, allowing herself a languishing sense of pride. Although, it was a pleasure she rarely participated in. While Operations was largely visible to the whole of Section, she kept a low profile as a prerequisite to remain ambiguous. The less anyone knew of her, the more they feared her interrogation and the easier it was in obtaining the information she demanded.

Madeline gazed out at the routine scene before her. Quinn and Jason worked at computer terminals with brief social interactions with each other and their dominion of technological drones. Walter fiddled in munitions with some explosive or piece of faulty equipment. Operatives, some on their yet unbeknownst last walk through the halls of Section One, strolled passed the perch. However, despite the fact

the day was running smoothly and as it should, there was something missing. It hung almost tangibly in the atmosphere as operatives worked.

Moments of restrained silence passed between Operations and Madeline. Then, it hit her all of a sudden. She knew what was lacking, why a disconcerting stillness had ensued through Section.

"I gave Michael and Nikita some downtime," Operations stated as if her could read her thoughts.

Madeline could see the annoyance awash in his partially transparent blue-gray eyes. Months back, Operations had informed her that he had sent them on a mission to Zaire after unsubstantiated reports of a Red Cell activities. It had been a lame and untenable excuse; nonetheless she had accepted it, knowing it was easier to extract information when those who possessed such knowledge knew nothing of

her curiosity. Michael and Nikita were taking their `fifteen days.'

He had spent time chasing a pipe dream coupled with a faded memory. She understood that Paul needed to fulfill such erroneous fantasies to bring himself closure, and of course, in doing so, had shown her weaknesses that had the potential to be manipulated.

Operations turned away from the window once more and stared at his enigmatic second-in-command. He pondered whether telling her was the best option, and concluded it was not. Certain things had to linger unknown in the space between them.

Madeline had remained in his company a while longer before retreating to her office. She spent some time tending to her menagerie of plants, then, somewhat reluctantly, sat down at her desk. She swiveled the computer monitor around so that it was positioned directly in front of her. She entered the mainframe, seeing that she had seven recruits to analyze and the cancellation of Monrose, a tech, who had mistakenly hacked into one of Operations files.

Choosing to ignore these tasks, Madeline tapped a few keys on her keyboard. Within seconds her command was displayed on the screen. The monitor showed her two little red dots moving at a reasonable speed across a green and brown map. She smiled for a mere instant and begun her analysis of the recruits.

***

When the sun had finished its journey for the day, Michael stopped the bike and nestled it between two diverging trees. There was a farmhouse on land spread before them that had been cleared for cattle grazing long ago, and it would have appeared derelict expect the faint glow of lamp in an upstairs window. Closer to the edge of the forest stood a dilapidated barn. The paint, probably once a brilliant

burnt-red, had peeled and faded after decades of exposure, leaving little more than a murky brown covering to the timber.

Michael collected their belongings from the satchel on the bike and took Nikita by the hand. Together they slipped through the night air and into the barn. As Michael lit an oil lamp he found hanging by a rusty nail near the barn door, Nikita smiled in an attempt to suppress the giggles bubbling within her.

Michael adjusted the knob on the base of the lamp, causing the flame to flicker momentarily, and then stabilize. He turned around to confront her muffled snickering, his handsomely chiseled features illuminated in the radiance of the lamp. "What?"

"I feel like we're a pair of horny teenagers looking for a night of wild passion," she explained, her giggles subsiding.

It was not Nikita's unusual __expression of embarrassment, which caused the desire to touch her and have her touch him rise up in Michael, but something else. Perhaps it was the way the light accentuated her iced-blue eyes, causing them to sparkle in the glow like icicles slowly melting in the sun.

He closed his eyes, if only to clear his mind. There was a herd of cows, and possibly a few horses somewhere. They surely couldn't screw like rabbits, especially not here. But, unaided, the desire rose in him higher and higher with each heart-clenching breath. It was spurned by a deep sense of trust and fondness. Love, yes, was there too even with a light covering of denial.

"Up here," Nikita called down seductively to Michael at his frantic glances around the barn for her whereabouts. Why did she love him? Another question without an answer. That was what Section had created for her. A life of questions and inner turmoil. But, out of the darkness that place had shrouded her in came Michael. Madeline had polished him nicely into a stoic, emotionless baboon –a manipulation

she evidently took pride in. He had remained cold and indifferent to her for years after her arrival, using her as he saw fit. All the while, Nikita had already begun to wear away the glossy apathetic exterior Mata-Hari had perfected. Now, to Section and all others concerned, Michael was still somewhat the emotionless baboon, yet to her, he was tender, passionate and caring. It had been him, after all, who had rescued her from a similar devoid state of the Gelman

process.

He looked up, capturing her in his hauntingly green eyes for the slightest instant. The look, his look, was enough to make her skin tingle with anticipated excitement. She watched him climb the ladder, muscles pulsing lightly under the weight of him. Her mind filled and twirled with their past conquests of each other's body, causing the breath to seep from her lungs.

There was no air in the world for her until Michael pressed his lips tightly to hers and replenished the oxygen supply. He played, fleetingly, with her bottom lip, and then recoiled from her grasp. He reached up, hung the lamp from another nail hammered into the wooden post beside the ladder, and opened the satchel from motorcycle. He shot her a concerned look through the shadowiness of the barn loft. "Lie back," he ordered softly, turning to the contents of the satchel.

Nikita did as Michael wanted her to, resting her head upon a half-dismantled hay bail. "Don't you think this whole situation is a little trite?"

Michael knelt down beside her and slowly unzipped her top just enough to expose the bandaged wound she'd received on the mission a week earlier. "Perhaps," he replied at her insinuation. He carefully removed the bandage, her skin quivering beneath his touch. It was obvious to Nikita that he was taking great pleasure in making her wait for what they both knew was coming.

The anxiety he was causing grew to become a steady throb rushing through her veins. The craving to put part of himself within her was overwhelming, yet through her torment, Michael took his sweet time. "A barn?" She paused. Please hurry up, she prayed inwardly. "I mean . . ." She wanted to scream, to yell at him for allowing her this sufferance while he toyed with her.

By this time, Michael had finished cleaning and redressing her bullet wound and he unzipped her leather top to expose her breasts. He gazed upon her bare chest as if it were a work of pure art, visually appreciating the natural curves and lines. He watched as she yearned for his body through hurried gulps of air and the closeness that pursued.

"I don't know what I mean." Her words poured out of her mouth quickly like she was gasping. The way he was able to trigger her mind to focus utterly on him and their acts of love was unmistakable. He had similar effects on women throughout his many `valentine' missions, yet none of them had been worthy to cause an honest return of such emotion. Nikita, with her Icelandic splendour, had not only caused him to return the sentiment, but to feel it in first place. He had denied the existence of emotions, believing as he was taught that he

was simply beyond it. That was until she arrived, having the same effect on him as a lightning bolt across a pitch-black horizon.

Again, he pressed his lips to hers, allowing his tongue to explore areas of her his eyes could not. Nikita, unable to bear a second longer of the pleasurable anguish, forcibly pulled her beloved down on top of her with all the strength she possessed, never permitting her lips to lose contact with his. A hasty sequence of movement followed, in which there seemed to be arms failing everywhere, as they aided one another in the removal of clothes.

Michael backed away from her, arranging himself in a sitting position between her legs. Nikita lifted a hand, and with her index finger traced the muscle tone of his abdomen, moving forever downward, a lust-induced smile dancing across her lips. Her actions were teasingly provoking him to remove the brown leather that formed an impenetrable barrier between them and their sensual goal. He stood and removed his pants in a blur, a feat which left her wondering about its accomplishment.

He stood over her in naked magnificence, providing her with an opportunity to view his manhood as it arose at the sight of her beauty. He lowered himself tenderly onto her, tasting beads of sweat as they formed on her stomach. Nikita arched her spine athletically towards the twists of his tongue, propelling him towards the area that ached for his touch. She had given herself over to him and he clearly reveled in his domination over physically. He caressed each of her thighs with a palms of his hand as his mouth became lost within her. "Michael," her scream rang out into the night the moment

he suckled at her delighted, sensitized hub.

She could hear crickets adding their song to the atmosphere of the night, along with the mooing of cattle somewhere outside of the barn. "Michael, please," Nikita pleaded with him, her voice a low murmur. Relishing a few final flicks of his tongue over that delectable mound of flesh, he raised his head at her voice, taking in the uninterrupted view of her unclothed majesty.

Then, as Michael thrust himself into her well-apt cavity, her thigh muscles tensing at the sudden addition, all sound stopped. It was more than probable that the abrupt termination of noise was her imagination, for what existed beyond their pairing could not know of the sensation they experienced at that moment.

He rocked her gently, at first, into a steady form of movement, listening as her breathing became a mingled release of elated moans. He watched fanatically as her __expression contorted to a form of unadulterated ecstasy. Madeline had drained away his freedom of __expression long ago, so he envied and took pleasure in Nikita's ability to feel uninhibited emotion with him. And, despite that Madeline had taught her that emotion had the capability to cause greater losses of innocent lives, she had remained the same compassionate, though somewhat wiser, woman who had resisted the ruthless doctrines presented to her.

She reached up with her lips and found his. He still tasted of her and together they shared it, plunging deep into one another. He ground himself into her further with increasing speed and voracity. He wanted every part of her to ignite in an explosion of passion. She held onto him with what was left within her. Both time and thought had melted away, leaving Nikita oblivious to the world except for Michael and his gratifying momentum.

He sat up and pulled her upwards toward him, leaving permitting himself to exit her cavern prematurely. She wanted to voice the sheer exhilaration he was producing, but all she could manage were loud growls. He smiled at her vocalization, then, rode her intensely until she teetered on the edge.

"Please," she begged for the final onslaught of frenzied bliss.

He gave in to her appeals, forcing her onto her back for the ultimate climax. Simultaneously, they trembled through waves of contentment beyond description, the sensations rocketing beneath layers of skin, muscle and bone to percolate within the very core of their being.

For an undetermined length of time, they remained in the embrace with Michael's spent appendage laying limply inside her. Their desire to be close lingering as the physical symptoms of passion subsided.

***

Nikita opened her eyes, and waited while they adjusted to the

dimness. The oil lamp had long gone out and the sun was yet to rise in the sky. She sat up slowly, disentangling Michael's limbs from hers and ran a few fingers through her disheveled blonde mop.

She looked down upon the man who lay sleeping beside her. He was there for her, would give his own life for her protection. And if she perished untimely, he would wither into an empty shell in her absence. For untold years he had survived the horror of Section without her, but gradually he began to give himself over to her despite fighting his very soul for doing so.

Her thoughts changed course a little. What would her life have become without him? Without him, there would have been no Section One for her. If she had to make the same choice she had that first day, Section or death, would she choose death? Did the pain that hell had caused her outweigh the happiness Michael gave her?

She sighed, wanting to give a firm `no' to the last question.

Nevertheless, she couldn't force herself to think anything. She, or anyone else for that matter did not regulate the pattern of her thoughts. They were simply too varied, too obtuse for any manner of control. People had tried though. Michael at first, under Madeline's advice, with romantic suggestions and resolved commands. Then, when Michael had succumbed too greatly for the `advice' to achieve its

purpose, it had been Madeline herself with a semi-tested mind control process. Yet, despite the routine maintenance drugs and the gentle directing, it had failed also.

Besides the pain and the infrequent happiness, Section had given her a partial version of a life. They had taken her in from the streets, taught her etiquette and then released her back into the world, which she now saw differently, with a gun and a means for survival. Shouldn't they, as a form of payment, use her for whatever purpose they nominated? Nikita had not been on the streets long before being recruited, though in such a short time as that was she had learnt

that people did not stay long. Death or a fortunate salvation was all the future held for the homeless. And, death was what welcomed most.

A sentiment she had long forgotten emerged from within her. She wanted to cry, let the feeling flow visibly from her, however she was unable. A hand reached up from behind and gently clasped her forearm. The touch implied he was aware of her sorrow at the millings of her ill-fated past and the non-existence of her future. Perhaps by doing it he was trying to take a slice of her sadness into him, to make it his, just so she would not have to be troubled by it.

"Hey," she greeted him, coolly.

Michael sat up, stroking the nape of her neck sympathetically. Nikita turned then, staring directly into Michael's eyes. "Would you take me somewhere?"

Saint Etienne. He had not asked her why she had wanted to go there and she had not offered the information freely. He had simply made the arrangements required. Michael took his eyes off the road for an instant to check his beloved. She sat next to him silently, gazing blankly out over the expanse of countryside ahead of them. It would be another two or three hours before the cityscape of Saint Etienne came into view, and maybe another hour more before she would release

the reasons she held hostage from him.

Michael and Nikita had begrudgingly eaten Section ration bars for breakfast earlier that morning, watching the sunrise. When the woman, whose property they had trespassed onto, came to let the horses out into the day paddock, they had hid as far back from sight as they could. Then, after she had gone, they packed up and left the barn far behind them. He had traded his motorcycle to a twenty-something pilot in return for a flight across the border to an airport outside of Lyon, France, which subsequently compelled them to hire a Jeep for a week in which travel to Saint Etienne.

He stared down at the road as the wheels swallowed mile after mile. For the first time in years, he had direction, a purpose to live by. But was that what real freedom was? A mere sense of direction? He had found his freedom hidden within her, and wound himself around the very essence of it like a coiled snake. His escape lay with a beguiling blonde beauty, because if she wasn't free than neither was he. He didn't know when he had made the choice to entwine himself

with her in everyway possible. He didn't know if there ever was a time where he could have made such a choice, and if there was such an instance, the decision had never been a conscious one.

His thoughts turned a corner, as he steered the jeep onto a dirt road. The wheels sent up clouds of dust around them, partially obscuring the view. It had been Section who brought them together, and Section who had forced her within his grasp. As much as he hated to admit it, they would have never found each other on the outside, even if they did happen to pass one another on the street.

There was the age difference, and the fact that Nikita would probably still be living on the streets. Their backgrounds could have presented another problem; he had been raised in a loving environment before his parents demise while she had been unforgivably dragged through the lows of humanity. She had been left with various emotional scars, though Section had obviously re-opened and deepen a few of them. They –Madeline, Operations, her mother, and society in general –spared her nothing, and she had barely escaped with the

strong sense of compassion he loved her for having.

A sudden realization struck him down, was Section One all they had in common? It was a question he had struggled with before but it had returned, now, with a renewed vigor. If the answer was an undoubtedly `yes,' it unleashed another disturbing reality. Could they survive a life together if they ever managed to escape Section? Did they love each other enough to live a lifetime together? He denied himself the hassle of fielding the replies, switching his focus back to the road. Not every question needed an answer, he compromised with an internal silence.

He glanced over at his `Kita again. There was a new torment concealed deep inside her blue eyes. Something nagged at her soul, giving him just as much pain as it was to her. He pushed his foot down harder on the gas pedal, his urgency borne of her anguish. Trees, farmhouses, herds of sheep, fields of wheat –all of them sped by faster than before, leaving little time for either them to absorb the details of

the scene that surrounded them. The sooner he got her to Saint Etienne, the sooner she could release the veiled agony.

Regardless of his attempts to ignore the thoughts streaming through his mind, or shift his concentration elsewhere, they continued. He loathed watching her seethe in pain, despised having to silently observe as cruel acts were brought against her. His protection of her had been inadequate, in the very least, for he had been unable to recognize the moves made in opposing their relationship and her passionate sense of humanity.

He blamed himself for what that callous Section Queen had done to this exquisite creature, and having saved her from the Gelmanization she had faced hadn't been enough to reduce any of that guilt. Her torment that continued persistent with being rapidly ordered into a marriage of convenience to Volker, followed by her utter loss of self-identity from the endless mind games, had been something he couldn't have prevented, though his heart screamed illogically that he could have . . . no, should have found a way.

Nevertheless, it had been clear Nikita's pain was too much apart of her to shield her from it completely. Without pain, or despair, how was one to know what happiness was? The highs and lows of existence went hand in hand, and only through experiencing one, could you experience the other. So, Michael could never fully eradicate her sorrow, because if he did he would take her happiness –their happiness with it.

Michael reached over and gently swept her hair from her shoulder, his fingers gliding sensually across the skin of her neck. Nikita turned at his disturbance from her mind, forcing a smile for his sake. She would tell him whatever it was he wanted to know soon enough, she just needed some time to get things in order.

She had unraveled the memory from the neuron it were stored in and found it was too jumbled, too contradicting to be explained in its current state. The memory, somewhat faded from years of neglect, ran through her mind like an old black and white movie. She was powerless to halt its continuance, and feebly resigned herself to the muted, grainy scenes it presented over, and over again.

***

Walter walked past the Southern Egress Portal on his way back to Munitions. The door clanked open and a team of the usual black-clad operatives wandered in from the outside. He greeted several of them by name and continued on his way. He would see them soon enough when they came to redeposit their weaponry.

He had half-expected two of them to be Michael and Nikita. Yet, he understood the couple were taking what was left of the fifteen days Operations had permitted them. They deserved such a reprieve for everything they had endured, and though he would never know the extent of what everything encompassed, he knew the pair had shouldered enough to warrant this small piece of freedom from Section's confines.

He went by Comm. He would have stopped except Quinn and Jason seemed too busy for idle chitchat. His gaze lingered for a second longer on Jason. This twin was the one he liberated with that fateful toss of a coin. He was definitely a genius, though there was a more than a necessary amount of the comic variety in him. Walter had found it refreshing, and wondered how long it would take before Madeline tired of it and was able to dispose what set Jason apart from Seymour, as

unfortunate as he was.

As he entered his usual arena of weaponry and assorted gadgetry, Walter found his thoughts move from Jason back to Nikita. She was another captivating character forced into the atrocities that ran alongside a life within Section One. He had mischievously hit on her in the first few years in a vain attempt to bed her, although their relationship had always been more like a father and daughter's than that of lovers.

It seemed sad to Walter that Nikita had to be brought into such a hell to know what a family was. She had a mother, of course, but she rarely spoke of her, and everyone rarely spoke of his or her lives pre-Section. It was as if those lives, that past had died at the same time the world believed they, themselves had perished. What was he before Section One? He could barely remember, whether he wanted to or not. Section was his life and that was all he had known for such a long time.

A small part of him wanted the freedom Nikita had been offered by Oversight. Nevertheless, when he went home at night, it frightened him half to death to imagine a life without Munitions, Section, and his explosive toys. Out in the world he would just be another rapidly aging hippie with an eccentric fascination for guns, bombs, and high-tech devices. Section, without even meaning to, had become the

territory for those who could neither live on the outside nor fit in there.

His Sugar had given life outside a chance, but he had realized that she wouldn't have survived out there when a part of her was still trapped within these walls. He wondered what she saw in Michael. He, it seemed, was a rather poor match for her. He was a somewhat emotionally devoid being while she had been an expressive individual from day one. Yet, Walter had observed, especially in the last year

or so, that he had allowed more of his humanity to seep through his cold exterior since he ceded to her touch. It was that thought that gave him a slight smile. Sugar had evidently had an infectious personality; it was because of her that this place never seemed as cold, or as unfeeling as it had prior to her recruitment.

She had been gone for the average working week. Five days. And the atmosphere of Section had already begun to change in her absence. It felt . . . he couldn't quite find the word. `Empty' came to mind, though that didn't quite sum it up properly. Hollow was a better description, yet it still lacked something in its meaning. Maybe there wasn't a word to express the feeling. Maybe it was just a feeling that no word could clarify –at least not completely.

He walked over to his computer terminal and accessed the list of jobs that needed to be completed before certain times and missions. He looked up and saw the team that had returned ten minutes earlier approaching his workstation. His stream of thought broken, Walter took the weaponry from the team leader and processed it. Then did the same for the remaining members of the team.

***

Michael steered up a driveway flanked by manicured lawns scattered with evergreen cypresses. White weatherboard chalets with red roofing tiles, that overlooked a small lake on which ducks floated, greeted them on the way to the reception office. He guided the Jeep to a stop beside the concrete footpath leading to the office and took the keys

out of the ignition.

He opened the door and lifted a leg out. Nikita placed a hand on his, looking into his green eyes. "I'll go," she told him. Before he had time to argue, she had begun the walk up the path. He watched her until she vanished into the reception office. Then he stared at the tinted glass door, barely able to discern her figure standing at the desk inside.

What did this place represent in her private white room? It was clear to him that the Auberge Petite was a vital segment in her torment, though the real answers avoided him. On the outside, any normal relationship was built on trust, honesty and understanding. Michael and Nikita possessed none of these qualities in their relationship, but life was different in Section. For them to survive, they needed to be smart, able play dumb in certain situations and never rely on anyone (especially each other) too much. They kept hidden from one

another many things in the hope of bringing salvation to the other. It was their way of surviving Section as a couple, because knowing too much often led to undue cancellation.

She reappeared with a room key hanging from a pale yellow tag. "Room nineteen. Around the bend and to the left," Nikita informed him, climbing into the Jeep. Her voice sounded trained and overly emotional. It was evident that her mental blockades were crumbling and would need to be reconstructed before returning to Section.

***

Nikita sat, leaning against the edge of the bed, absently staring out the window a meter or so in front of her. The weather had changed in the hour they had been in the room from brilliant sunshine to dreary gray and over clouded. It could have been said that the memories this Inn dredged to the surface from within her had formed the masses of clouds because it had been raining the day the memory was created.

Michael had been patient with her, allowing her the time to process a part of her childhood she assumed had been buried. The row eight, plot thirty grave that theoretically held the remains of her former life was possibly not deep enough to include this, or the recent epidemic of torment she'd suffered had resurrected this segment of her old life that had lingered in the background of her memory since her `death.'

She could invent many reasons why her mind chose this particular piece of her past to revive and air in the breeze of her present situation. She could stand in this moment forever, not permitting herself to step in any direction. However, time moved on of its own accord. And she possessed no newfound technology or ancient knowledge that would halt its continuance. Therefore, she had to give herself over to time, and permit it to decide when things were spoken and

when things were to remain with her.

No words had been passed between them, or at least no particular combination of words that possessed any meaning to either of them. Nikita had welcomed the silence, actually needing it to resolve the inner complexities this recovered memory drew out of her subconscious. However, as much as the silence had been invited, it was now an uninvited visitor to the room and its occupants. She had to be the one to break the cycle of noiselessness and speculation, for Michael, who had lived under a similar veil, speaking only when necessary, would not have the required indecency to utter a single

syllable.

"I was thirteen the last time I visited," she began, with her arms wrapped around herself as if to prevent the emotion seeping from her body and out into the open, the last ditch effort to maintain the falling walls she'd resurrected to prevent her weaknesses from being manipulated. Nevertheless, that was the reason Nikita had ventured to this place, to remember and in the process of remembering, forget this place and those times as it held no worth in her life as an operative. She glanced fleetingly at Michael, who was on the bed behind her. "There was a festival or celebration on in town, and I was somehow separated from my mother."

Michael slipped down from the bed to sit next to her. His movement was meant to comfort her; although, she gave no outward indication that it his support was helping her overcome the demons she'd succumbed to. Michael assumed it was because Nikita wasn't there, in the room with him, but in a different time. A time that he was unable to venture into because this was a period in her life that he could not be a part of. He stroked her arm lightly, with a tenderness he

saved only for her. The primal, emotionally devoid Section beast had been worn away to reveal a gentle man whose love for this woman was what drove him to keep breathing.

Nikita continued to stare out the window, watching as some of the cloud cover had begun to disintegrate. "I don't remember how long I walked, but I kept thinking I had to find a safe place to wait for my mother to find me. I don't know why I came here of all places. I'd like to believe it was the picture-perfect quality of this Inn. I couldn't believe that something this beautiful could be dangerous. . ." Nikita stopped. She was beautiful and deadly. It was a great asset, according to Section prerequisites.

Nikita visibly shivered. Section One had seeped into every molecule of her being, invading her pre-Section memories. It was time for her to implement the tactical strategy and get out. With every passing day, the two who controlled Section gained more power over the world and it was time for her to do what she could to stop it.

Dominating her memories had been the breaking point, and the agreed timetable for her escape had suddenly required more speed. Bringing down Section was not the ultimate goal that was to be served by her proposed `escape,' because the world needed such a covert organization to watch its back, which was what Adrian had failed to recognize. Nevertheless, the balance of power within Section needed to be redistributed to ensure it did not cause what it had been established to prevent –the destruction of human civilization.

She had spent years negotiating for her freedom, determined she would reclaim what Operations and Madeline had no moral right to take from her. However, a clause in the negotiations kept the notion of freedom just of out her grasp. It was this last mission that required completion before she could retire to live how she chose, hopefully with Michael.

"It was dark before my mother found me sitting on a bench overlooking the pond. We had missed the last bus, and she had just enough money left to rent a room for the night. I went to sleep happy, sleeping in her arms."

Michael stood in a single swift movement then offered his hand out to help Nikita up. He wanted her in his arms, not to protect her as they such an action usually did, it was past that, but to provide whatever she needed that could only be found in a warm embrace. She took it, feeling the tears break through to stream down her face. He began to unbutton her blouse slowly and carefully. She allowed him to, her arms hanging limply by her side. When the blouse fell to the floor, he started on her leather pants.

He was peeling away the layers that kept them apart, and it wasn't in the sexual sense. The striping away of clothing had little to do with sex, and more to do with the unique closeness that accompanied nakedness. As soon as her clothes were lying in a heap on the floor, Michael pulled down the covers on the bed and laid Nikita down.

He quickly stripped himself and lay down with her, drawing her body close to him then covering both their figures with a sheet. Nikita let her head rest on Michael's chest and cried. She cried not because the memory evoked a flood of hardship she endured in childhood continuing into the years extending beyond it, but because the moments of happiness and contentment were fleeting, never staying with her for more than a few stolen hours.

***

The elevator stopped at the level Nikita was accustomed to. The doors slid open as they normally did. Van access was the sign that she had returned to the one place she both hated and belonged too. It was a contradiction, but life itself was full of them and required them to maintain a certain `cosmic balance.'

The outside world, which had shown her no mercy in its _expression of cruelty, had happily lost her to this organization without so much as a decent farewell. How ironic and contradictory it was then, that she would crave to be a part of the same world which neither cared nor cried for her.

She was back, not to live forever in this substitute for death, but it was necessary for the time being. Her freedom, she knew, was a long way off and nothing she might do at this moment had the ability to improve her chances or situation. She regretted making the alliances that required her to occasionally step outside her moral judgment. It pained her to have to console her guilt with a strong coffee and the sense that her sacrifices were for the `greater good' after the killing, deception and assignments had temporarily ceased.

It ached to not to have the simple pleasures many took for granted. Independence. Friends. Family. Children. However, her freedom had been forfeited along with a list of every else she could never have so that the oblivious masses could enjoy them. It was partly through her own choosing that she endured this fate, despite that they had not bothered to explain what her choice to live encompassed.

Nikita. The woman without a past, without a future. That was who she was, and all that remained of those tentative years of freedom that had been repressed from conscious thought. Her life now passed in moments, and no process of rearranging or manipulation could mould those moments into anything but a vague semblance of an existence.

Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Although they were different measurements of time, somehow they had meshed to become identical, unchanging, indistinguishable from one another. She had her missions, and her apartment, and her friendship with Walter, and her connection with Michael, forming building blocks carefully positioned to deceive.

However, Section left her little time to wallow in the depths of her misfortune. She had to keep moving forwards. The reprieve was over and despite that she had allowed her herself to go backwards into her past, there was the present moment to contend with.

The clanking-screeching sound the heavy door made as it opened eerily brought death to some, entrapment for others. She slowly walked through into the corridor beyond. Whatever the future held for her was unknown, though she had a deck of cards with which to deal out to her masters.

The End