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Ploughing through the hanging layers of darkness she fought her way back to a state of consciousness. The first sensation that greeted her waking mind was the clenching of her abdominal muscles, followed by the contraction of her oesophagus as the bitter acid began its upward journey. As the bile rose in her throat, her mind exerted its limited control, forcing the foul liquid back to the depths of her heaving stomach. With her eyes closed tightly, she breathed deeply, focusing on each breath - imagining the oxygen entering her lungs, expelling the carbon dioxide. After several minutes the nausea dissipated to a more controllable level.

As her breathing slowed, she became more aware of other sensations. The floor beneath her was cold, the clothes on her body damp, and her mouth dry. With an effort that seemed almost mammoth in proportions, she lifted her torpid head and opened her eyes. She soon discovered that with her lids open or closed, the darkness was complete.

Her sluggish limbs fought her; she attempted to stand and collided with a solid metal object - a wall. Breathing heavily, to keep the resurrected nausea at bay, she leaned against the wall - waiting for her limbs to start working. For a while she didn't move, couldn't move; she leaned against the wall, attempting to focus her foggy mind. As she stood there, some part of her brain bleated a warning: I've been drugged.

Having been drugged before - on more than a few occasions - it was easy enough to recognize the residual effects. Her mind struggled to assess the situation: she had been drugged; was being held in a cold dark room and knew nothing of the people who held her.

'How the hell did this happen?' She couldn't quite believe it; this wasn't supposed to happen. 'When I was an operative: Sure. But I'm Operations now, this can't be happening.' Yet, even as she thought it, she recognized the futility of denial. It didn't matter that it shouldn't happen, because it had happened.

A stab of ice-cold fear replaced the disbelief and her stomach heaved for a very different reason. Fear motivated her into action; she moved from her perch against the wall and with her hands searching the way, she proceeded to map out her prison. Her fingers glided over the wall, finding little to comfort her - besides a few strategically placed hooks on the walls there was nothing in the room.

Alone in the darkness she felt an odd compulsion to talk to someone - she was about to yell out when she remembered her training. She had just displayed classic behavior for a kidnap victim: denial, frozen fright, compulsion to talk. That wasn't comforting either.

Nikita was no longer nauseous, she was, however, extremely cold and hungry. She didn't know exactly how long she had been sitting in the dark, but judging by her growling stomach - it was at least twelve hours. She had determined that after her earlier lapse she would show no weakness, and so in twelve odd hours she hadn't moved. Her body was protesting the rough treatment but the physical discomfort was easy to ignore. What was more difficult to put aside was her captor's decision to ignore her.

It was troubling that they hadn't begun their interrogation; it denoted a certain arrogance that she found frightening. They were acting as though they had all the time in the world. What if they did? It was a horrifying thought. Did they not know who she was? Or was she alone in the dark because they did know? Somehow she doubted an enemy that was skilful enough to capture her would be ignorant of whom they held. So they knew who she was; what else did they know? Probably too much.

But what did it matter? It didn't. She closed her eyes against the darkness, no longer interested in her surroundings.

"Exogenous depression." The voice seemed to rise out of the darkness - it was oddly familiar.

"Madeline?" A second too late she realized her mistake - no one was there, the voice a memory.

Nikita bit down on the desire to curse out loud. Her eyes snapped open and she carefully unwound her numb body, stretching her deadened muscles as she fought her growing anger.

How stupid was she? It was an obvious trap. I should have known, just when Section was stretched to the limit, a new terrorist organization materializes out of thin air and needs to be dealt with quickly. Being understaffed, I myself decide to lead the mission and voila! Captured.

Her internal rant was interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Nikita found herself blinded by a light that made her eyes continuously blink. It was for that reason she never saw the kick coming - it hit her midsection forcing the air from her lungs. She attempted to roll away from the continuing blows, but having sat in the same position for hours, her limbs failed her. As the mysterious captor beat her to within an inch of consciousness, she wondered why she had ever thought being ignored was a bad thing. Then as quickly as it began - it stopped - her captor retreated and the darkness returned. Nikita gave herself over to the blinding pain that coursed through her body with every breath; she faded into unconsciousness.

Her body ached with each movement, but she kept her face expressionless; she limped around her cell awaiting the next visit. Nikita had been their guest for well over two weeks and her captors had alternately abused or ignored her - she was uncertain which she preferred. They had never spoken to her - never asked a question - Nikita wondered if that was because she had already told them everything they wanted to know. She had no idea how long they had held her before she awoke in the darkness - it could have been months. If they had held her for so long, they could know everything. Guilt closed in; what could she have given them? Whom could she have compromised? Whom could she have put at risk? What damage could she have done? Too much, too many, too many, too much.

The beatings and her own revolving questions had prevented her from getting much sleep; she slept only an hour or two at a time, and when she awoke, she never felt rested. She had lost her appetite and was constipated, but she was determined to fight off further victimization, though she believed it was likely to prove a losing battle. They had not beaten her for a long time - she was certain they would soon return.

As more time passed she became less certain and more tired. Moving to the wall furthest from the door, she settled her battered body down and closed her eyes. No sooner had she closed them than the door opened. With renewed strength she jumped to her feet, ready to fight her way out, unfortunately, her attacker was more than ready.

She felt a sharp prick in her neck. Reaching up, she felt the protruding dart and pulled it out - too late. Her body began to weigh her down and even as she tried to cling to consciousness, she felt it slip from her fingers.

Through her closed lids, her light deprived eyes were burning. Nikita felt the light searing its way through her eyes, embedding its white-hot talons in the soft tissue of her brain. She kept her eyes tightly closed and tried to raise her arm to shield them, but found it firmly restrained.

With the resulting pain throbbing through her brain, she lost all sense of time. Eventually, the pain faded and her eyes began to adjust. When they did, she opened them a crack and after blinking owlishly for a few minutes, took note of her new surroundings.

Everywhere she looked, she saw grey: the walls, the ceiling and the floor - all were the same - even the chair she was strapped into was the same monotonous color. It reminded her of the white room and she wondered if that was the intent.

The door before her opened; the once painful light above her barely penetrated the dense blackness. Though she strained, she could discern nothing in the dark shadow, but she felt eyes raking her form. After staring into the blackness for a few minutes, she refocused her attention to the restraint on her left arm - waiting patiently for the inquisitor to show him or herself. It was a long wait.

Eventually, Nikita heard the scrape of a heeled shoe as it came in contact with the metal floor. Her head snapped up and her eyes focused on the moving shadow as it stepped towards her from the darkness. The shadow took shape as a sleek figure cut itself from the black cloth, entering the light.

Nikita found herself staring into the clear green eyes of a twenty-something female, whose straight dark brown hair fell to her shoulders and shone in the light from the ceiling. The woman wore a fashionable black skirt suit, but no visible jewelry, not even a watch. She would have been tall without the excessively high heels that made her towering. Nikita wondered how she managed to walk in such things - they certainly didn't look comfortable.

"To inflict great suffering, one must know great suffering."

A small smile played on the full lips of the woman, but it didn't reach her eyes - not that Nikita was surprised. The voice on the other hand was a surprise; it was almost musical in nature. Low and soothing, it was the type of voice you might expect a mother to use whilst attempting to calm a small child, that, or the voice of a lover whispering sweet nothings in your ear. It was almost luscious.

The nature of the sentence, however, wasn't soothing, and staring into the woman's eyes Nikita was far from amused. The woman's eyes were hollow; there was no emotion within them, they reflected nothing. Nikita felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck but kept her face expressionless.

"Welcome. I trust that you have found our service up to your standards?" The smile remained, the eyes unchanged.

Nikita fought the urge to shudder.

"Do you have any questions before we begin?" The pause was brief. "I didn't think so." As if by magic, two men appeared from behind the brunette, they pushed a sheet-covered table, positioning it within easy reach of the woman, then took positions on either side. Nikita decided to name them One and Two. One was very tall with black hair, olive skin and deep grey eyes, built like a Greek God. Two was perhaps two inches shorter with blonde hair, bronzed skin and blue eyes, and built more like a wrestler. Though both were intimidating creatures, it was the woman between them that Nikita's eyes gravitated towards.

"Your name is Nikita, you were formerly a Center mole and are now in charge of Section One. The previous Operations died in an attempt to save the child of your lover. In exchange for the boy's life, your father, who at the time headed Center, turned himself over to the Collective and was executed. Stop me if I make a mistake."

Nikita's mind was reeling, how much did they know? Had she told them? What did they want?

"Before he turned himself over he elicited a promise from you, which lead to your taking the position of Operations. You are unhappy in the job and woefully under-qualified for the position."

Nikita's teeth ground against each other in reaction to the last statement.

"And in case you're wondering, you may call me Janet."

"I wasn't." Staring into those hollow green eyes, Nikita was surprised when she detected a glimpse of the amusement Janet felt as Nikita broke her silence. It was gone in a flash, but Nikita was certain it had been there.

"Are you familiar with the principles of torture, Nikita?"

The silence stretched between them and Nikita found herself uncomfortable under the younger woman's blank gaze, it reminded her too much of another pair of green eyes. She was tempted to close her eyes or give in, but either response would be seen as weakening.

"The slightest sign of giving in shall doom thee. It can be as simple as blinking, or grinding one's teeth." She let the sentence hang between them before continuing. "Under threat of pain, people will tell you whatever they believe you want to hear, it's critical that the questioner be able to distinguish between someone playing a role, and one who has accepted the reality of their situation. That is where your Madeline excelled. Such a brilliant strategist, the most formidable of foes; such a shame for the 'good guys' your father never recognized her worth." Janet moved towards the table, and as she reached it One and Two pulled back the sheet, displaying the instruments beneath.

Nikita watched Janet's delicate hands as they roamed the table fingering a variety of ghastly looking objects.

"Torture is an art form where few excel. Compared to the methods used by Section, mine are quite archaic, but I have always had a fondness for the old ways. The instruments have such a timeless beauty." Janet's hands hovered over an object for a moment before her left hand folded itself around it; she turned back towards Nikita displaying the metal object. "For instance, this instrument. The Pear."

The resemblance to a pear was vague at best, it reminded Nikita more of a vibrator, though it was rather intricately engraved and had what looked like a handle at one end.

Janet displayed the piece for a few moments before continuing. "This device was inserted orally, anally or vaginally."

With a quick movement of Janet's hands, 'the pear' expanded outwards and Nikita felt her internal muscles clench.

"When expanded it ruptures sensitive membranes and tissues, causing a great deal of damage inside the body cavity. It's quite painful." Janet turned slowly, returning the instrument to the table and then allowing her fingers to caress the metal briefly before selecting another.

Janet held within her hands a leather whip with multiple metal tipped tails; she moved forward holding the whip a few inches from Nikita's face. "This archaic device is called the 'cat o'nine tails,' rather vicious looking." With one quick flick of Janet's wrist the metal tipped tails slashed through Nikita's pants and into her right thigh. The resulting pain wasn't great, but an uncomfortable burning sensation lingered as Janet returned the whip to its place on the table. When she turned back towards her, Nikita was surprised to discover she was empty handed.

"The most effective weapon in any 'interrogator's' arsenal is knowledge."

Nikita watched as the other woman approached her, stopping within half a meter.

"Do you happen to know which of your fingers is the most sensitive?"

Nikita couldn't prevent her confusion from showing in her eyes. Janet's dead eyes held hers for a moment before she reached out and grabbed Nikita's index finger, with one swift movement she bent the finger back, breaking it with a sickening crack.

"That was one of your proximal phalanges."

Nikita's finger throbbed but the pain was manageable - her mask intact. Janet returned to the table; retrieved a bottle and an eyedropper, then took position in front of Nikita. Drawing some of the colorless liquid into the dropper, the dark haired woman then held it above Nikita's damaged hand. When the liquid connected with her skin the air was expelled from her lungs with one short scream.

"Hydrochloric Acid might not have been the right choice to get your mind off that phalange."

The eyedropper was returned to the bottle, and Nikita breathed a sigh of relief. Janet retreated and One stepped forward, throwing a powdered substance on Nikita's melting hand - after causing intense pain it neutralized the acid.

When Nikita regained control, Janet was once more in front of her, smile firmly in place, eyes as empty as before. Within her hands she held a stout wooden pole - the length of a pogo stick, about a hand in width.

"This is a ghotna. It comes from India and has but two uses. The first - and more common - is for the grinding of corn or spices; the second is for the grinding of a person's will. As a device of torture it is used one of three ways: either it is placed behind a person's knees and then they are forcibly bent over it; placed between the thighs and then the person's legs are tied tightly together; or rolled up and down the thighs with two people standing on top of it. They are all painful, but the last is excruciating and causes irreparable damage to muscles; whereas with a little attention your hand will be fully functional."

Not an old-fashioned pogo stick then.

Nikita looked deeply into the emotionless green eyes, feeling her hatred of the younger woman swelling within her.  "I'm not telling you anything."

Janet's smile brightened briefly.  "Did I ask you a question?"

The ghotna returned to the table and a truncheon took its place in Janet's hands. The dark haired woman stood for a moment, unmoving, before wielding the weapon against Nikita's ribs - pain followed in its wake. Nikita tried to relax her body and detach herself from the pain as the blows continued - each stroke of the truncheon agony. Nikita's body tensed, and pain shot through her as the truncheon found the whipped flesh of her upper thigh.

Her eyes tightly shut and her teeth grinding against one another, she endured the powerful blows in determined silence. Drowning in the sound of her heartbeat, she breathed deeply, keeping her eyes shut even after the blows stopped.

A few minutes untouched and she opened her eyes to discover Janet gone, One and Two's backs facing her. Two turned towards her and approached holding a number of leather thongs; he stood close but did not touch her. One soon joined them holding a scalpel; he pulled at the front of her shirt and cut his way down neatly, separating the halves, exposing her battered flesh. He then walked back to the table, returning the scalpel, before coming back and collecting a thong from Two.

One after the other, he firmly secured each thong around her midsection; while One secured the last, Two moved out of Nikita's field of vision. She heard Two grunt as if lifting a heavy object and listened as his footfalls brought him closer.

One had finished securing the thong by the time Two came back into her line of sight. Two carried a large container filled with what appeared to be water. He moved to her side, lifted the container above his head and deposited its contents on her.

It was just water, but when it came in contact with the leather thongs, they soon began to shrink - constricting her and her broken ribs. Nikita found herself screaming, her voice deafening in the enclosed space. She noticed Two had returned to his place just before she lost consciousness.

Nikita was welcomed back to consciousness with a stinging slap. Her eyes snapped open to find Janet back in position and the leather thongs gone, along with most of her clothes.

"It's really not that bad. Five ribs, the phalange, your left radius, right patella, a little torn flesh, some burns and bruising, hardly enough to warrant fainting. You really should work on your control."

With some effort Nikita managed to lift her head enough to look Janet in the eye. "Screw you."

The dark haired woman didn't even blink. "That isn't very ladylike language, perhaps you need adjustment."

With a movement of her arm, Janet drew Nikita's attention to the 'black box' beside her. Then she stepped back as Two came forward, attaching electrodes to Nikita's fingertips and ear lobes. He then took position by the machine. Janet smiled briefly, then turned on her heel and left while Two began his manipulations and Nikita resumed screaming. After what felt like hours, Janet returned and Two removed the electrodes from Nikita's quivering body.

"Did you know that a result of electroshock therapy is amnesia? When the patients' memories start to return they often provide useful information. If we were to shock you into amnesia, you'd no doubt inform us of your unfortunate childhood, your alcoholic/drug addict/whore of a mother, the time you spent on the streets. You'd stop when you remembered Section, but you'd have provided us with more than enough information to break you."

Nikita tried to spit in Janet's direction, but ended up just drooling.

"Of course, that is at a higher setting and focused in a different area."

Nikita closed her eyes and imagined Michael's beautiful green eyes in an effort to calm herself; a faint smile touched her lips but was soon wiped away.

"He's not coming. He's quite happy living his life with his son; he doesn't need you."

Nikita felt something tightening around her arm and opened her weary eyes to see a tourniquet in place and Janet drawing a syringe from an ampoule; the younger woman taped its side and expelled any air with the smallest depression of her thumb.

"Whhattareeyougivingme?" Even to herself her voice sounded slurred.

Having found a vein, Janet slid the needle in and slowly expelled the syringe's contents into Nikita's blood stream.

"Whaaat did yooo geeve me?"

"Heroin. It will kill the pain but shouldn't interfere with muscle control, sensation or intellect. Not like that's a concern of yours. You may feel a little nauseous."

For a while Nikita felt nothing, but as her blood vessels widened, she began to feel warmth spreading throughout her body. The pain, which had been almost unbearable, diminished as she became more detached.

Someone removed her bonds - she did not fight them. As they dragged her back to her cell she began to feel drowsy; an odd feeling of contentment consumed her. Nausea struck and she found herself vomiting, but didn't really care. She was dragged the rest of the way back to the dark cell, wrapped in a blanket and placed on her side - she fell asleep.

When Nikita awoke she found herself back in the grey room and Janet was drawing another syringe. Before she could object, she felt the needle pierce her skin; Janet ejected its contents and passed the syringe to Two, who stood to her right.

"No heroin this time. Atropine. It's time we talked."

"I won't give you anything." Nikita almost spat the words at the younger woman.

"I know."

Nikita allowed her head to rest on her chest, becoming more indignant, but unable to find enough energy to do anything else. "Then what's the point?"

"Does there have to be one?"

"Why the torture if you knew there was no point?"

"Because I can? How about, because I'm a terrorist?"

"Killing me won't change anything - Section will survive."

"You're quite right, which is why you're not going to die."

The revelation energized her; Nikita's head snapped up and she locked on to the empty green eyes, hoping for another glimpse of what lay beneath.

"You can't break me." She wasn't sure at first if she had said the words out loud, but even if she hadn't, they were written in her eyes.

"Actually I can - all it takes is time." Janet smiled almost kindly before she continued. "Lucky for you, my time is much too valuable to waste on extracting useless information."

Nikita was dumbfounded. "Useless?"

"Yes, I know everything I need to."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you ever get sick of saying that?"

Nikita allowed her anger to flow un-hindered. "Section is going to hunt you down and kill you." Nikita's eyes blazed, but Janet was unaffected; her smile actually widening as a brief laugh flitted from her throat.

"Oh please, they couldn't even find you and you're tagged - in what fantasy realm will they catch me?"

"If you let me go, I will find you."

Janet's voice was almost a whisper when she replied. "No, you won't, at least not until I want you to. Now, I've arranged for Section to 'rescue' you in little under two hours. I'll be leaving shortly. Is there anything I can get you first?"

"A gun." So I can shoot your ass.

"You can have one if you like, but it might be detrimental to your health when Section arrives and finds their hapless leader armed. Sure you want it?"

Nikita looked away.

"I didn't think so."

Nikita met Janet's eyes again. "I will kill you."

Janet's expression didn't alter. "More empty threats, Nikita?"

"A promise."

"Whatever. Now, I really must be going. Have a great life." Janet turned her back and began to exit - Nikita's voice stopped her.

"I know you won't let me go."

Janet turned back to face Nikita. "Now why would you say that?"

"I'm too valuable, I know too much - without me Section is vulnerable." Nikita watched as Janet's eyes widened, clearly displaying her astonishment.

"You actually believe that don't you? I am releasing you, Nikita."

"I don't believe you."

Janet's laugh filled the room. "You don't need to believe me - wait the two hours."

Nikita's voice took on a whining tone. "You can't afford to let me go."

"I can't afford not to."

"I don't understand."

"Can't you at least pretend you're in possession of a brain cell?" Janet sighed wearily. "Never mind - I'll explain. If I kill you, Section replaces you."

"And?"

"That isn't in my best interest."

"And my controlling Section is?" Now Nikita really was lost - how could her continued control of Section possibly help the bad guys?

"And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free." Janet's voice was low and soft, making the quote seem more like a chant.

"I don't believe it." That earned Nikita a real smile and she was surprised to note how warm it was.

"I know the feeling. A lot of things have happened in the last couple of years that instilled disbelief."

"Such as?"

"Mister Jones provokes Madeline, the chief strategist and brains of Section to commit suicide - then orders the cancellation of Michael Samuelle, Section's best operative. Hard to believe? It gets better. Thanks to your father's manipulation and disregard for his life following his partner's untimely end 'Operations' is murdered by the Collective, thereby making Section not only brainless, but heartless as well. Then, in a moment of sheer lunacy, Mister Jones hands himself over to the Collective and arranges for you to run Section One. Unbelievable? I certainly thought so, and I had all the information. I knew that what I had heard was the truth, and yet.....I couldn't bring myself to believe it. Do you know why, Nikita?"

Nikita gave a pained - but indifferent - shrug in response.

"Because despite everything I knew, I couldn't accept that my enemy was that stupid. Madeline and Paul were Section; it didn't make sense to kill them, certainly not to replace them with you. Unless you were better. That was rather unbelievable too, though certainly more probable than the head of Center being so delusional as to kill off his best operatives. And why? So he could satisfy a bizarre need to place his daughter in a position of power?" Janet shook her head, laughing lightly. "I brought you here so that I could see the truth for myself, and in seeing it - I realize my mistake. I gave your father entirely too much credit - he was truly insane. I see you for what you are Nikita; the best chance to destroy Section."

"You're a liar!"

"I am many things, but that doesn't change the truth."

"And what truth is that?"

"Section survived Bauer, Suba, Kessler, Philo, Enquist, Vacek, Chernov, Red Cell, Glass Curtain, Black March, the Freedom League, the Cardinal, Brutus - even the Collective couldn't destroy it. It survived Petrosian's insurrection, Adrian's revenge, George's treason, your father's lunacy, Madeline's suicide and Paul's murder. It survived all that, but Section won't survive you. Goodbye, Nikita."

Janet disappeared into the darkness beyond the door, leaving Nikita to consider her words. One and Two had, sometime during their discussion, packed everything up and left.

After about half an hour, a guard she had never seen before entered the room and untied her bonds. He led her back to her cell and locked it behind her. She did not resist, she didn't even think of resisting. Her mind was in turmoil.

"Section won't survive you."

What if it's true? No, I'm saving Section; I'm making it better, returning it to what it was meant to be. That wouldn't cause its destruction.

Voices from the past came back to haunt her.

"How can you be so ruthless?"

It's not true. It's not true. It's not true. "It's not true. It's not true! IT'S NOT TRUE!!"

No matter how loudly she screamed the words - she was unable to banish the doubt that had taken root within her soul.

Section arrived within the hour.

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Nikita wasn't certain if the pain was real or imagined, but it was relentless. Running her thumb along the unnaturally smooth surface of her scarred hand, she attempted to block it out - with little success.

Section's doctors had informed her that the hand was perfectly functional, but there were times when the pain was so excruciating it felt as though pieces of glass were boring into her bones. Now was not such a time - the pain merely a dull ache, uncomfortable but by no means debilitating.

She stood in the Perch, looking down upon Section while contemplating her obsession.

Janet.

It had been over two years since they "met" and Nikita still hated the woman with the intensity of a thousand suns. She had never hated anyone so much in her life; had never felt the desire to drown in someone's blood, but she felt it now - God help Janet if she found her.

And she would find her.

Nikita paced the well-trod boards of the Perch while she awaited Quinn's progress report. In the beginning of her tenure as Operations, she had had a chair brought into this office - following her capture she found she couldn't sit in it. She now preferred to stand, finding the comfort of a chair stifling not just to herself, but also to the general productivity of the whole of Section One.

In the last two years she had come a long way - at the time she was captured, Section One's success rate was a pitiful 31%; 66 teams had been reduced to 32 and not because of budgetary restraints. They had been on the brink of extinction. Not any more.

Her time in captivity had made a difference and one - she was sure - her captor had not intended. She had, at first, doubted her abilities and so had reviewed each and every one of her decisions, hoping to find within them some justification of herself. She had not been successful. She had found herself lacking, her decisions in some instances foolish. Though in many cases the fault was not hers, but the result of faulty information, still she could not completely exonerate herself. She had never felt so defeated nor been so depressed.

If not for her burning hatred of Janet she might have given up then and there. Her hatred empowered her; it gave her the strength and resolve she needed. With it, she became the leader Section One was sorely missing. She re-established order and though some decisions were against her moral code, she did not hesitate to make them.

As a direct result, Section's success rate was up to 63% and her 44 teams had a reasonable chance of surviving. If she ever found a suitable Second-In-Command that percentage would rise, perhaps one day even surpassing that of Paul and Madeline. She smiled at the thought.

Of course none of that mattered in the great scheme of things. Two years on and Janet and her assistants still eluded her. Section's technicians had managed to retrieve Two's fingerprints from the water container, they had her detailed descriptions of the three, and yet they could not find them - she could not find them.

There were times when she knew she was close, when she could sense Janet's hand in something. But for all Section's technology and know-how, they could never provide enough material to prove it - and Oversight wasn't about to fund the type of operation needed to bring Janet down without proof. The problem with Oversight was that they didn't understand the very real threat Janet and her people represented - they couldn't see it and wouldn't allow her to pursue the woman until they did.

There was no one in the world more dangerous than Janet. This woman had captured Operations; she had knowledge of Section's organization, history, and systems. Janet was dangerous - it was obvious! So why didn't anyone else see it?

Nikita stopped mid-stride when she heard a throat clear. She turned to find Quinn standing at the threshold with a PDA in one hand, wearing the slightly arrogant expression that was her annoying norm. Nikita didn't like the woman - Kate Quinn was a snake.

"Is that the progress report?" she asked curtly.

"Actually no, a Center operative just dropped this off. It's for your eyes only." Quinn held out the PDA.

Nikita took it and dismissed her, wondering if Quinn hadn't read it first - she wouldn't put it past her.

It was unusual to receive a message from Center in this manner, especially as she had received no notification of its impending arrival - it was intriguing.

She opened the only file contained on the PDA and found a jumbled mess of numbers and symbols. Slotting the PDA into her terminal she opened the file again, waited a few moments for the decryption process to complete and then began to read.

Five sentences were all it took for her to blacken the Perch and wish she hadn't removed that chair. She felt cold, as though her blood had turned to ice.

This can't be right!

She read it again, and then once more - it made no difference.

Strangely it was the fifth sentence she latched on to.

No evidence has been recovered.

There were three things she was sure of.

None ever would be.

Janet was involved.

And if she ever got the opportunity to destroy Janet, there was nothing she would not do, nothing she would not give and no one she would not sacrifice.

In Janet's case the end definitely justified the means.

Through a barely discernable mouth, he groaned in agony on the floor before her, no longer bound by shackles but by pain. Every visible inch of the man's body was a battered mess - a series of broken bones concealed only by bruised and bloated flesh - every breath a raspy torment.

Had she not monitored the process, Janet wouldn't have recognized the lump of quivering flesh as the vibrant young man brought in just a few weeks before. Janet supposed she should feel something for the shell of humanity lying in its own filth, but she did not.

There was a time when she would have pitied him, or at the very least been disgusted at her own participation in his destruction; but now - excepting a slight discomfort at having to inhale his foul stench - she felt nothing.

The man had been a wealth of information and had given his knowledge with minimum effort on their part. Unfortunately for him there was only one way to confirm his data; now he was no longer of any use to them.

Janet held her pistol firmly, bracing herself for the resulting recoil. She fired once - the bullet entered the man's brain behind his left ear - death as instant as it ever is. Not bothering to check his pulse - if he weren't dead, he soon would be - she left the room, confident it would soon be back in pristine condition.

She hadn't gone a meter before she heard someone calling her name. Recognizing the man's whining tone she continued without pause, forcing him to run in order to catch up.

"Janet. I've been looking for you," he managed to get out whilst breathing heavily. He wasn't what you'd call fit.

She didn't spare him a glance. "It appears you've found me." To her everlasting regret, he chose to ignore her caustic tone and continue.

"About the prisoner, I really think..."

She decided it best not to allow him to finish his sentence; they were entering dangerous territory. "I just put a bullet in his brain." Janet didn't need to look to know his chin was about to hit the floor.

"But, but, but..."

Noticing the tall well-defined frame of the dark-haired man heading towards her, Janet took the opportunity to get rid of the man beside her. "Always a pleasure to have these discussions, Richard, but you'll have to excuse me. Karl and I have business." She directed Richard's attention to the approaching man and then watched him turn a lovely shade of green.

Looking as though he was about to throw up, Richard nodded a little too enthusiastically before practically running in the opposite direction.

Turning her attention to Karl, Janet noted his slightly puzzled expression. "He wasn't feeling well."

Karl nodded as though that made sense. "Taken care of the prisoner?" He'd taken on his commanding tone.

"Of course," Janet meekly responded.

Aside from her team and a few select others, no one was aware of Janet's real role. It was her own decision, believing - quite rightly - that someone of her age and gender would not be respected in their world. In public, Janet played the role of the subservient - only in private did she dominate.

Karl took her arm and steered her back to their private quarters, all the while engaging her in insignificant conversation. Whilst pretending to find their conversation simulating, Janet paid careful attention to everyone they passed - searching for a glint of recognition.

Normally, Janet wouldn't have taken such a risk; she would have sent someone else - preferably someone who had never met her - but that hadn't been possible. So instead Janet had become a blonde and gained 10 pounds - much to her disgust - Karl declared it suited her, but she sincerely doubted it.

They finally reached their quarters and entered, Karl still maintaining his light grip as though she were his property. Taking a small device from his pocket, he activated it with a light touch and then nodded once.

"Richard should be online with Meyer." She smiled contemplating that conversation.

Karl nodded, now appearing slightly uneasy. "It might have been a mistake to kill the guy."

She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.

He nodded his understanding. "We need to move; it won't take long before they realize the information I gave them isn't accurate."

Janet really hated it when he stated the obvious. "Oh gee, I thought we'd stick around a little longer, do some sightseeing."

Karl shot her an evil glance.

She sighed. "We leave in an hour. Meyer will arrive shortly after - the team will be here no more than an hour after that."

He looked annoyed; she had no idea why.

"What about containment?" he asked in a tone that matched his expression.

"It's taken care of."

"Will Richard still be coming with us?" a whining quality entering his voice.

That explained the annoyed expression - Karl had taken an instant dislike to the portly little man.

"I believe Richard can be of use to us; it seems a shame to deny ourselves the chance to obtain such a valuable resource."

His expression didn't alter.

Janet found it disappointing - however unsurprising - that Karl should allow his personal opinion of the man to cloud his judgement in this manner. Granted, Richard was an annoying little toad, whose loyalty could be bought with the occasional screw and a bottle of whiskey a month; but the man was a financial wizard who knew where six separate organizations kept their funds. You didn't pass up such an opportunity because the person who provided it made you want to shoot yourself in the head to avoid another evening in his company.

No. You smiled, spread your legs and allowed him to screw you because that was what was required. Preference, comfort, and principles were meaningless; you did what you had to, in order to win.

It was all about the game.

He deactivated the shield then smirked knowingly. "We're packed already. What did you want to do with our hour?"

Men could be so tiresome. If he thought this was a way to punish her for deciding to take Richard with them, he didn't know her very well. She smiled sweetly, "I don't know - what did you have in mind?"

He closed the distance between them to bestow a violent kiss, his grey eyes sparkling. She allowed him to take control and responded in the manner everyone expected - like she gave a damn.

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He was out-numbered, outmaneuvered, and overruled. Despite all the evidence he had presented, the majority of the Oversight Committee had decided against his proposal, opting instead for mass suicide. Clearly they were all delusional.

Nikita running Section One made as much sense as the insane Mr. Jones running Center - oh wait, Mr. Jones had run Center and they'd supported him, too. Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't in the wrong profession; he was obviously too sane for this type of work.

Of the eight other members of the Oversight Committee, five had voted against his proposal to remove Nikita from the position of Operations. Two of those were certifiably insane, two were new - probably not secure enough in their positions to go against the deranged two, but there was no excuse for the fifth, who fell on the pathetic excuse that she deserved another chance.

Regardless of the consequences.

Not for the first time, he wondered how these people had managed to survive childhood.

Their parents must have taken a prodigious amount of care of them. Probably kept them in bubbles so they couldn't grievously injure themselves. Shame really.

He was brought back from his musings by the gloating voice of crazy no. 1 - Gerald Masters.

"Right then, that's two in favor, five against and two abstentions. Motion is put-down. Was there any other business?"

Where to be buried?

"Section One still requires a Second-In-Command."

This came from one of the two abstentions and the only female member of the Committee - Sue.

Crazy no. 2 - Johnson was quick to agree. "Yes, yes. They've been without since that chap we appointed died. Damn shame that, showed a lot of promise."

And he'd still be alive if Nikita wasn't so incompetent.

"Unlucky affair." Masters.

"We gave Nikita the opportunity to appoint a new Second, did we not?" Sue handled the crazies with the patience and ease of long practice.

"Yes, but she has yet to make a decision." Masters. Two heads nodding in unison.

"She's been taking her time." This was the other abstention - Cress.

"These things take time; very important decision." Johnson again.

"She's had over a year," he couldn't resist injecting.

The two crazies glared in his direction before returning their attention to Sue.

"Curtis is correct," she said.

"It isn't any easy decision to make." Masters.

"It needs to be made." This from Cress.

He got the distinct impression it was scripted.

"Things can not continue as they are," he just couldn't shut up.

"I agree; more importantly so does Center." Sue shot him a meaningful look.

He understood it perfectly; he was to remain quiet for the duration.

"Our last appointment did not go well," Masters reminded everyone.

"We should give her six more months to decide and then, if she is still unable to recommend a candidate, we will need to decide for her," Cress responded in an even tone.

"Agreed?" Sue inquired - looking directly at Curtis.

Everyone nodded in agreement, including himself. He personally doubted a Nikita run Section would last six months, but he could not so openly contradict Sue - disagreeing would have been suicidal.

There was no quicker way to advance than a high mortality rate, but surviving was the real achievement. Jasmine had managed to survive and was now a level four cold operative about to lead her team on their sixth successful mission in a row.

"Hey Troy," she greeted, entering Munitions.

He looked up from the gadget he was tinkering with, smiling uncertainly. "Hey Jasmine, you look uncomfortable."

Jasmine was dressed for the mission - in a body-hugging barely-there black dress, killer stiletto boots and a butchered Bambi coat. "I am. Got my stuff?"

"Right here," he pointed to a number of small items on a nearby table.

Jasmine retrieved the items, placing them in her purse before removing her coat so Troy could place the transmitters on her back.

"Now let's fit your communicator and get you out of here." He smiled brightly.

Jasmine didn't think she'd ever get used to him - she kept expecting Walter to appear with one of his patented leers. She missed him; she wasn't the only one.

"Has my team collected their equipment yet?"

"Everyone but Simon." He smiled with sympathy.

Jasmine resisted the urge to curse. Simon was a ten-year veteran; a good operative, reliable in the field but insubordinate off. She probably should have reported him but he never jeopardized a mission, was an inspiration to the other members of her team and was often responsible for their success.

Besides, he had his moments; his outlandish tales, depicting the many virtues of the gray-haired Nazi and his psychotic partner, were always amusing. His bizarre dream of returning Section One to the bad old days and tales of the old regime's "second coming" were so entertaining that his occasional acts of insubordination were almost worth putting up with.

Almost.

"I'm sure he'll be along shortly." She managed to sound convinced.

Troy looked doubtful, but didn't comment.

She collected her coat and headed to van access swearing that if Simon was late this time she would, at the very least, issue an official warning. She arrived to find the rest of her team waiting and nodded a greeting to each.

There were five operatives in her team, Simon, Cassidy, Mitchell, Kevin and Lore. Cassidy - petite blonde, class two operative with two years experience - would be working the target this mission. Mitchell - a giant of a man with shaggy brown hair, class two, three years experience - would be on extraction with Simon. Kevin and Lore were the newest members of her team. Kevin had been with them three months - it was Lore's second mission. Kevin was their field tech; Lore would act as back up.

With ten seconds to spare, Simon wandered down the corridor and joined her at the door. The clock hit zero and when the door opened, he was the first into the van. He promptly sat and fell asleep. Cassidy and Mitchell sat on either side of him and spent most of the trip in animated conversation, pointedly ignoring Kevin and Lore who sat staring at their shoes.

Jasmine wasn't worried; though divided off the field, her team was efficient, focused and solid while on missions.

They got the job done.

What does it matter if they don't get along?

After almost five years in Section One, Kate Quinn was still running Comm. It wasn't where she thought she would be, but considering the current leadership, it was to be expected. Quinn knew she wouldn't even be running Comm. if Nikita ever managed to find a competent replacement; luck and some preemptive action had eliminated any chance of that.

Quinn had built herself a rather impressive power base despite - and in some cases because - of Nikita's dislike of her. The operatives that worked beside her were loyal, understanding - as Nikita did not - that Quinn would not be stuck in Comm. forever - or even much longer.

In the first two years of Nikita's reign operatives had died left, right and center; there had been little faith in the leadership. And less respect. Nikita's determination to protect new recruits and forge an impossibly idealistic Section had been of immense benefit to Quinn. New recruits and substandard operatives were protected and given numerous chances, at the expense of the more experienced, battle-hardened "veterans" - the backbone of Section One.

Inexperienced and incompetent operatives endangered both lives and missions; gone were the days when a team leader could cancel them on the spot. Instead, they had been forced to pull double duty, take extra risks, and do it while carrying the useless team member's dead weight.

Many good operatives had died in the process.

Few had been impressed with the new leadership, including most of those "recruited" from other Sections and related agencies. Had there been one among them willing to take command, or had they then been willing to support Quinn, Nikita's leadership would have ended on the spot.

It was not to be.

When Nikita was captured, Quinn had sincerely hoped the terrorists would do her a favor and put a bullet in the blonde's head. Once again, fate dealt her a bad hand. A rival group had given Section Nikita's location and they had been forced to rescue her.

With Nikita's return to duty, Section One underwent some changes - within a month mission success rates were up, casualty rates were down. Senior operatives found themselves in improved positions, with increased chances of survival. It was not enough; few changed their opinions of Section One's leader.

What the changes did improve was some of those operatives' opinion of Section One's previous leadership. Nikita's new regime appeared so similar to what had come before her rise to power that it was difficult not to think of it.

A person's memory is subjective - we remember what we wish. What often happens, when people are dissatisfied with what is before them, is that they look to the past; with time they will see what they want to - something better.

Those who had once barely endured the previous leadership now looked with kinder eyes upon Paul and Madeline. Two people who had been so universally hated while alive, in death were touted as the very epitome of all that was good and just in Section's world. People remembered them not as they were, but as they desired them to be.

Paul and Madeline's newfound popularity was a godsend for someone as closely associated with one of them as Quinn herself was. Because of her association, she found herself accepted among those operatives; they respected her, trusted her and, most importantly, they would support her.

Only a matter of time.

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Adrian Vetti.

He would never forget the name; never forget the man.

He would never forget the man's fate.

He could still see him - on the couch in Kristoff's office - right hand swollen beyond belief; two barely visible holes; bloody threads falling from his gums; his face streaked with red tears. The Terciopelo had bitten Adrian only once and delivered with its venom the most gruesome of deaths - his body had died piece by piece.

A black mouthful of blood had signaled the end of the man's suffering and anguish - punishment for his betrayal; it was too long in coming for Daniel's taste.

Daniel had feared both Kristoff and snakes ever since - twenty-one years later he was still haunted by the image. Kristoff was long dead, conveniently killed by Section over fifteen years before. But snakes were everywhere - he was looking at one.

Andrew, turning pink and grinding his teeth with enthusiasm, was coiled and ready to strike.

It was both fascinating and unsettling for Daniel as he watched Janet baiting the man.

"Andrew; I was wrong. You were right. Are we happy now?" She was snide, condescending and obviously so.

Daniel didn't believe the words any more than Andrew did.

"No." He looked about ready to burst a blood vessel.

"Such a hard man to please - I said you were right." She smiled sweetly.

"You didn't mean it." He was beginning to turn purple.

"You could tell? I thought I was an excellent liar." She managed to sound disappointed.

Daniel suppressed a smile.

"My fifth grade drama teacher told me I had the makings of a real star." She jutted out her bottom lip, looking truly forlorn.

She'd been home schooled and drama had not been a part of the curriculum - Andrew was only too aware of that.

"Scott." Though Andrew's body was tense and his tone angry, he had yet to raise his voice.

"I'm sorry, what about him?" She was at her desk, absently leafing through files which she had had Daniel create a few hours before.

"The meeting." Andrew looked about ready to send the files and their owner across the room.

Daniel marveled at his restraint, self-preservation was the ultimate motivator.

"Meeting?" She looked up with a puzzled expression and then, as though she'd only just remembered; "It's not for a month."

Andrew took a deep breath, his hands clinched in fists. "Bring. It. Forward." Each word was clipped.

Andrew was allowing his frustration to show just a little too clearly for his taste; Daniel moved to stand closer to Janet.

She caught the movement and winked at him.

"It's not for a month." She dropped the file she was holding, leaned back in her chair and directed her full attention at Andrew, as though deciding the time for play was over.

"You are being unreasonable." His tone was more controlled, but his frustration was still rather poorly concealed.

"It suits me." No smile this time.

"It really doesn't," Andrew snapped.

Janet lifted an eyebrow in response.

He immediately backed down, doing his imitation of reasonable. "I really think we should meet with him."

"And we will. In a month." Her tone was even, deadly calm.

"Daniel?" Andrew pleaded for assistance.

It was so rare that Andrew involved him in conversations that this decision to include him now took Daniel off guard. "I really wouldn't know," he responded lamely.

Janet shot him a serene smile. "Have I told you you're a genius?" Her tone was light but her eyes told another story.

"Only twice this week, but then it is only Monday." He kept his face blank.

"You're both mad," Andrew hissed.

Daniel couldn't resist; "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Andrew's voice had risen, files were sent flying across the room - he faced Daniel, but the question was probably directed at them both.

"Andrew." Her voice was chilling.

Andrew immediately turned back towards the desk - Janet was standing.

Andrew seemed to deflate before their very eyes. One look at Janet's face seemed to drain him of his anger and replace it with fear. He sat down, took a deep breath and then spoke so softly Daniel could barely hear him.

"We need to bring the meeting forward."

"The others would never agree to it," she said in an even tone of voice.

Andrew nodded once. "We could still meet with him."

Sounding somewhat bored now. "Is it really necessary?"

Andrew drew himself up. "I believe so."

Janet sighed loudly. "Then arrange a meeting and talk him down."

Andrew wasn't the type of person who knew when to quit. "We should both go."

"I see no reason for that."

"He's about to go to war." Andrew didn't sound the least bit annoyed, his perceived victory working wonders for his temperament.

"He's not quite that stupid." She smiled.

A little louder now. "He's frustrated, he doesn't have enough information and frankly neither do I."

Daniel enjoyed "indignant Andrew."

Janet was beginning to sound weary. "It's how it has to be, make sure he understands that."

"If we just..."

She cut him off. "No."

"I really think..."

And again. "Andrew." This time her tone was harsh. The conversation was over.

Andrew wisely decided to call it a day. "Understood." He got up to leave.

"I haven't offered you my congratulations."

Andrew looked confused.

Daniel added "confused Andrew" to his like column.

"Anna's pregnancy," Janet intoned.

"Ah, right." There was a touch of relief in his reaction.

"Congratulations." She even managed a realistic looking smile.

Andrew seemed a little taken aback. "Thank you," he managed before practically running from the office.

Janet sat down, turning her seat to face the window. After a few moments' silence. "What do you think?"

Daniel was sure she had already made up her mind, but played along. "He's already arranged that meeting."

"Undoubtedly." She seemed to be expecting more.

"He's going to betray us." He was certain.

"He already has."

Daniel wasn't surprised. "Should I take care of it?"

She turned her chair back till she faced him. "Wait till after the consortium meeting. This could very well work in our favor."

He would have preferred not to wait so long, but trusted her judgment. "Both?"

She nodded. "Mentz as well."

He'd already given the task some thought. "Peters and Allen?" They would be acting as Andrew's protection.

She sighed. "A regrettable loss."

There was only one other contingency. "What about Anna?"

She didn't answer immediately, instead focusing her attention on the bookcase residing on the left-hand wall. For a minute she simply studied it, then in a low voice she replied. "Her husband talks in his sleep."

He understood. "And she's the type that listens."

Janet gave him a half-hearted smile and turned back to the window.

He took it as a dismissal.

"Be careful." Her tone was warm.

He smiled in response. "It's my middle name."

She laughed softly. "I thought it was James."

"It's an honorary type of thing." He reached the door and pulled it open.

"Daniel." She stared out the window, sounding miles away.

"Yes?" He suddenly felt uneasy.

"About Anna."

Her tone turned unease to nervousness.

Another risk?

"Yes?"

"Make it quick."

She has to reach him. She needs to hurry. Time is running out. She knows it, but she doesn't dare go faster - every time she does, she trips and falls. Every time she falls it becomes that much harder to get up, to keep going.

Screaming.

It is she.

Her sheets are drenched in sweat, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. With each waking moment, the details of the nightmare fade from her memory but an overwhelming sense of loss remains. Hot tears flow freely down her checks.

From previous experience she knows there is no point trying to get back to sleep so she kicks off her covers and heads to the bathroom of her Section quarters. She turns on the taps, allows the water to run down the drain for a few moments and then splashes some on her face. She washes away the dregs of sleep, hoping to wash away her guilt along with it.

Looking at the drawn face in the mirror she wonders - not for the first time - what has become of her. It is not a face she recognizes, it belongs to someone else - some stranger who pretends to be her. The same stranger, who orders people to their deaths and allows the deaths of innocents to serve some greater good - it isn't real; she cannot be responsible for such horrors.

And yet it is she - this stranger in the mirror.

She is the person who, just the day before, ordered someone to kill a four-year-old named Katie. She chose to allow a cute little blonde girl, with blue ribbons holding her pigtails in place to die.

To die so that a thousand just like her could live - for the greater good. It was important; it was necessary.

Bullshit - just more excuses.

All meaningless when she has to look herself in the mirror at four in the morning. Her efforts seem pitiful, everything she has done is wasteful and without purpose. She allowed a child to die, actually ordered an operative to murder the girl. It doesn't matter that a terrorist was using Katie as a shield; it doesn't matter that if they allowed him to escape thousands more would die.

It doesn't matter and it never will.

But at four in the morning she wants to believe that it does matter, that she did all she could - she made the right decision and Katie had to die. More than anything she wants to believe she could not save Katie. If she couldn't save Katie, maybe she couldn't save him either, and if that were true, she could stop blaming herself - then maybe the nightmares would go away.

She needs them to go away. She needs sleep - she needs relief.

I cannot continue living like this. I can't.

She is heading for an early grave. She knows it. She believes it.

I need help.

But there is no one left.

All gone; all dead.

A heart attack had claimed Walter over a year before.

Birkoff...

Jason...

Michael...

She was surprised it had taken so long; Karl had been back a whole six hours before he came barging into her office with his self-righteous wrath.

"You killed them!" he thundered upon entering.

There was no point in responding; he hadn't bothered to ask a question.

"What were you thinking? Were you thinking? This could jeopardize everything! We've worked so hard, then you go and throw it all away - why? Because he wouldn't sleep with you anymore or something?" He waited.

He was waiting for an answer to his latest question - she was somewhat amused. "I'm not quite so pedestrian."

He seemed quite pleased with her reply; she didn't waste time wondering why.

"You had him killed though?" He paused long enough for her to acknowledge his question with a nod of her head. He sighed loudly. "Janet, what the hell is wrong with you? We needed him; we needed Scott and Mentz as well, I'm guessing they weren't just caught in the crossfire. Why?" His tone was positively whiny.

"Their deaths will help not hinder our efforts." She kept her own tone neutral.

He looked doubtful.

She repressed her desire to shoot him in the head, deciding it probably wouldn't do him the least bit of harm. "Red Cell will certainly go to war now."

"With us," he moaned.

It's official! I am surrounded by morons.

"They will blame Section."

"What makes you so sure?" A child's challenge.

Why do I bother?

"Ad tristem partem strenua est suspicio - one is keen to suspect a quarter from which one has once received hurt," she lectured.

He disliked such responses and became more agitated. "How can you be sure this will work in our favor?"

"Because we can control the outcome." She smiled brightly, picturing him six feet under.

He gave her a vacant look in return. "Since when?"

"Our assistance has been requested." She spoke to him like she would a four-year old.

I really don't like children.

"By whom?" He'd plastered on his confused expression.

She was getting tired of his whiny tone. "Red Cell."

"How did they even find out about us?" He looked at her accusingly.

Stupidity breeds contempt.

"Either Scott told them or Andrew did."

"Andrew?" The vacant expression again.

She smiled. "Scott put them in touch."

"How long?" Now he was worried.

"Not long enough to matter." She waved a hand in a dismissive manner.

"How much do they know?"

Like a dog with a bone.

She sighed. "Little, and nothing important." If he were punishment for misdeeds in a former life, she had to have done something truly deplorable.

He nodded, looking thoughtful. "This will affect the timetable."

It was doubtful he'd be winning a Nobel Prize anytime soon.

"We are ready."

He began to pace - he seemed to find it easier to think while marching in a rhythm. "It's risky. The odds aren't in our favor."

"Then lets improve the odds," she said standing. She wondered briefly if idiocy might be contagious.

"How?"

"Patience is a virtue." She grinned, feeling anything but cheerful.

"Don't start that shit. I need to know." He came to stand in front of her.

Looking deeply into his eyes, she smiled brightly. "I have a meeting." She could smell the sickly sweetness of his cologne.

"Janet." He reached out, his hand briefly caressing her cheek before coming to rest on her shoulder.

If stupidity were contagious, her I.Q. would surely drop a few points with the contact. "I have a meeting," she repeated.

He sighed deeply - a sad expression claimed his features.

Not this again.

She shrugged off his hand, turned and walked out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

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She'd been given eight weeks, used seven and was still no closer to finding him. If she didn't locate him soon, Jasmine was certain to be headed to Abeyance - if not cancellation. She hadn't expected it to be easy, but she hadn't expected it to be quite so difficult either; she had hit so many dead ends it was a wonder she didn't have a concussion. Michael and his son had disappeared - it was as though they had never existed.

"Anything promising?" she asked Mitchell, for what felt like the hundredth time that week.

He sighed, running a giant hand through his shaggy hair. "More of the same - a few possible."

Better than nothing.

"Well?" She was impatient.

"Guy in France rescued some people from a fire, didn't want publicity. A guy in hospital in Germany, lots of scars and no memory of how he came by them. Three contacts swear they saw Michael in three separate states in America. Another four contacts insist he's in various countries in Europe. One claims Michael is living in Australia. And then we have the contact who watched Adam play soccer in New Hampshire - USA."

"Right. No doubt our most reliable contacts. What are the other sources like?" She dreaded the answer.

"Doctor at the German hospital and the other I got from the net." He grinned sheepishly.

"Uh-huh." Abeyance here I come! "We'll check them all out."

Her phone started ringing; she answered on the fourth ring, "Yes?"

"Report," Operations' cool voice ordered.

Perfect timing.

"We have a few leads, we are following them up."

"You haven't found him." She sounded disappointed.

"No, but it..."

Operations cut her off. "I don't need to hear excuses."

Jasmine repressed a sigh. "Right."

"Do I need to remind you of how important this mission is?"

Operations asked, and Jasmine was prompt to respond, "No, Ma'am."

"Get it done."

"Yes, Ma'am," Jasmine said to the dial tone. She felt drained of energy. She turned to find Mitchell staring at her, curiosity burning in his eyes. "Operations is not impressed with our lack of progress," she told him.

"What does she expect?" Simon announced himself by asking.

Jasmine was sick of Simon; for the last week all he'd done was criticize Operations and make a general nuisance of himself.

"I'm sorry?" she replied acidly.

"What does she expect?" He willfully misinterpreted her.

"I'm not deaf. What did you mean?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

She remained silent.

"Michael's a pro, if he doesn't want to be found we are not going to find him."

"Your point?" Maintaining control was difficult.

He shrugged. "I just made it. This is a waste of time. Why are we searching for her old boyfriend anyhow?"

He's probably right. "We follow our orders."

"Whatever." Simon sat down next to Mitchell.

"Go get packed you're going to check out some leads here in Europe," she said, her tone now harsh.

He stood. "Yes, Ma'am."

"You'll get an ID and report back; you will not engage, you will not expose yourself. Got it?"

He grinned. "I'm not to expose myself, yep, got it."

"Cassidy will be going with you," she continued.

"Always a pleasure to work with a beautiful woman." He winked at Mitchell and then left the room.

He'll be the death of me.

Jasmine sighed. "Lore and I will check out the sightings stateside," she told Mitchell.

He mumbled an acknowledgement, keeping his head down in order to hide a smile.

Winter was fast approaching; the leaves on the surrounding trees a collection of red and golden hews. The air was crisp. Michael stood leaning against a tall oak, watching Adam play soccer with a couple of friends nearby. It was slightly cold in the shadow of the tree, but some habits died hard and Michael would always choose shadows over the warming sun.

Lately he had become more relaxed - less observant - more the father and less the operative; but he would always be cautious, some part of him forever on alert. He swept his eyes over the surrounding area, his custom every five to ten minutes, and was shocked by the sight of her.

He hadn't seen her enter the park, nor had he seen her take a seat on the bench nearby. But there she was, sitting on a bench not ten yards away from him - somehow managing to make her black pants suit look casual, even with the matching black scarf and dark FBI style glasses.

She didn't belong, and yet, to the average observer she would not have seemed out of place. Michael probably would have dismissed her himself had she not seemed to be staring directly at him. Her attention captured his.

Shivers traveled up his spine, he scanned the park, looking for other operatives, but was unable to detect any and unnerved because of it. Bringing his eyes back to her, she no longer seemed to be looking in his direction, but he couldn't be sure. She seemed to be waiting for something and he suspected that something was himself.

He looked back towards the impromptu soccer game - Adam was still there - then closed the distance between the strangely familiar woman and himself. She didn't turn in his direction, but when he was within a few feet she spoke.

"You were much too easy to find Michael."

He had thought she was familiar before but when he heard the voice, he knew. "Janet."

She turned her face towards him and slowly reached a hand up to remove her glasses. Green eyes met green. "I'm touched you remember." She smiled warmly, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"I was unlikely to forget." Sixteen years on, he remembered it like yesterday. One of his first missions; one of his first mistakes. Michael forced himself to smile back at her and closed the small distance to bestow the expected quick kiss on each cheek. He then sat down beside her, turning his eyes once more to watch Adam.

"Section is looking for you." Her glaze wandered the park in the deliberately casual way of one well trained.

Michael considered her words for a few moments. "Purpose?"

A wan smile. "Recruitment."

"Who?" Michael had a sinking suspicion he knew the answer.

"Operations."

She spoke the name with little - if any - emotion, but that did not lessen its effect on Michael. It was as though she had kicked him in the solar plexus. He watched as Adam kicked the soccer ball from one end of the field to the other, happily unaware that his world was about to be wrenched out from under him.

Again.

Michael's limbs felt heavy. "Why?"

"She requires a second, you are the most qualified." Janet's eyes continued their survey, while her words continued their assault.

"Why now?" His voice seemed unusually calm to his ears.

Would Nikita really do such a thing?

"Pressure from above."

"Reason?"

Who is this emotionless robot managing to ask such questions in that calm, clear voice?

"Lack of confidence in Operations' abilities."

He turned to face Janet, tracing every line of her face for any indication that what she was saying wasn't true. It was a wasted effort and it didn't really matter; he was already convinced. "How long do I have?" His voice broke.

On some level he had always expected the day would come, but just because Nikita's betrayal was expected didn't make it any less painful. He felt as though Nikita had stabbed him in the heart.

"Two days at the most." Janet turned and met his eyes.

"What are you offering?" Michael knew her well enough to know she hadn't come all this way just to give him a warning.

"Payment."

A single word can communicate so much.

His eyes found Adam.

He would never understand; I would never forgive myself. I cannot go back.

He nodded once.

Janet indicated the continuing game. "We don't need to leave straight away; he can play a little longer."

Michael didn't reply.

They watched his son play soccer in the dreary Park that only an hour before had seemed so beautiful to Michael's eyes.

"He's gone," Jasmine announced in a tired voice.

"Then he was there?" Nikita didn't bother keeping the impatience from her own.

"Yes, not two days ago," Jasmine confirmed.

"Any indication of where he went?"

"Negative."

"Any indication that he knew we were coming?" Nikita prodded.

Jasmine sighed. "He's not here."

"Return to Section," Nikita ordered in a cold tone.

"You don't want us to..."

She cut Jasmine off. "You're not going to find him. Come in."

"On our way."

Nikita ended the transmission by banging her hand hard against the console - a sharp, biting pain traveled up the length of her arm.

"Damn him," she said angrily.

He'd deserted her yet again. She felt betrayed. She felt an overwhelming need to break something, to tear the world apart with her bare hands. Michael had to know she would never break her promise unless it was absolutely necessary.

Section needs him - I need him - and he's run away.

Away from Section, away from her - she hated him for his cowardice. She had given so much and asked so little; how could he abandon her in her time of need? How could he do this to her? How could he be so selfish, so uncaring - so Michael.

"Just like old times." She laughed bitterly.

There was no point in raging about it; no sense in wasting her energy screaming about the injustice of it all, weeping over his betrayal. There was too much to do for her to indulge in such luxuries as temper tantrums, not when necessities such as sleep were difficult to accommodate.

He was gone and she had work to do.

She had a briefing in an hour, a report to complete that Oversight needed yesterday, two active missions she was supposed to be monitoring, a failed mission she had to investigate, a dozen reports that had needed her attention for over a month - and more arriving every hour. She had proposals to consider - to approve or refuse and, thanks to Michael's disappearing act, she now had to find a Second-In-Command.

She had no time to rage, no time to weep. She had to work.

That is what she did. She reviewed the failed mission, sent the profiler to Abeyance and would have marked the team leader for cancellation had he not died during the mission. She read over two proposals - rejecting both, briefed the team on the new mission, kept one eye on the missions in progress and managed to review 11 of the 12 reports that had been waiting a month - plus four that had arrived within the month. She even managed to draw up a list of four possible candidates for her Second.

Nine hours later - twenty-one hours since her day began - her eyes were closing despite her best efforts; she knew she should call it a day. There was however that last report - it was last for a reason.

She opened the file and scanned it quickly. She already knew what it said, Quinn had given an oral account - somehow it was more real in print.

I was wrong.

It hadn't been Janet. It was a group called Black Order - in Section's systems for over twenty years - and no one had considered them a threat.

Not exactly no one.

Someone had gone to the trouble of wiping the organization off the face of the planet, and they did it using Section methods. Someone wanted Section to be blamed; someone didn't want to be noticed. Immediately she thought of Janet, but then dismissed the idea.

The woman couldn't be everywhere at once - Janet wasn't responsible for everything.

Black Order had previous run-ins with Red Cell, but no one else - they knew of. Section had dealt Red Cell an almost fatal blow a few years back; Nikita doubted they had recovered enough to manage something of that scale. It was a mystery, one they needed to solve.

You're not going to solve it tonight.

She closed the file, logged off and left the Perch for the tangle of her sheets.

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The car slowed in front of a three-story homestead, neither ostentatious nor pedestrian in nature. It had a classic elegance, difficult to achieve without a great deal of money - Michael was impressed.

Janet didn't bother waiting for them to follow; instead she marched up the steps and straight into the house as though just remembering something of importance. He was only too aware that the most pressing thing on her mind was to get away from Adam before she shot him in the head.

Janet disliked children; Adam was not an exception. Unfortunately, from the moment Adam laid eyes on her he adored her. On the plane he had insisted on sitting next to her, talking her ear off for the entire flight. When they had moved to the hotel, she had barricaded herself in her room, at first citing business as an excuse to avoid them. Adam had whined the entire time that she was absent. Continuously wanting to know where she was, what she was doing and how much longer she would be doing it.

When she finally appeared - two full days later - the boy had clung to her like a leech. For the three weeks it had taken them to complete their journey, Adam had been her shadow. Michael had never seen him behave in this manner. Adam didn't normally accept people so quickly, nor was he inclined to smothering someone with his attention, especially someone that was so little inclined to accept it.

Though it made him uneasy that his son would choose to associate with the likes of Janet, Michael had welcomed the distraction Adam's behavior provided. It allowed him to forget, for a few moments at least, the reason for their journey.

A man stood just inside the doorway. Michael completed a quick evaluation: The man had the eyes of a killer; muscles strained against the material of his expensive suit.

The man offered a large bronzed hand in greeting. "Welcome. I'm Daniel."

Michael shook Daniel's hand. "Michael. This is Adam." He pushed his son forward.

Daniel shook Adam's hand. "Janet requests your company in her office Michael. I'll show Adam around the house."

Michael nodded his agreement.

"Very good," Daniel said. "Di will direct you," he informed Michael before leading off a reluctant Adam.

"If you'll come this way."

Michael turned quickly. He hadn't heard her enter the room. I'm slipping.

The woman smiled reassuringly. "I'm Di. Janet sent me to get you."

"Yes," he said, mask firmly in place.

Her smile widened. She turned and began walking at a brisk pace. Di led him through the house to the east wing and stopped before a large oak door. "She's waiting for you," she said and then left him, disappearing into the depths of the house.

Michael opened the door and entered.

"You wanted to see me?" he opened.

"Yes, I've some good news for you. Section won't be bothering you anymore," she announced.

"For now," he amended.

"For good."

For good? He raised an eyebrow in query.

"Red Cell is about to destroy them, so they won't be bothering anyone anymore." She smiled.

"Source?"

"I consider it to be very reliable information." She appeared amused.

"Is Section aware of the threat?" If Nikita knew...

She laughed softly. "If they were aware of it, they might survive to be a problem." She considered him. "You want to warn them."

"Yes."

"Even when you know their demise will guarantee your freedom?" She looked at him curiously.

At such a cost? "Yes," he restated simply.

"How very noble of you. You are my guest Michael and you will be treated as such. You are free to do whatever you wish, but I'd advise against interfering with my plans."

He paused a moment, containing his anger by biting down on his tongue. "Is Red Cell's destruction of Section a part of your plans?"

She smiled, saying nothing at first. "I could make it work for me."

"I would like to warn them." He held her gaze.

She sighed. "Do as you like."

He didn't respond.

"Make my job harder, why don't you." She grinned widely.

He doubted he knew a person he liked less.

There simply weren't enough hours in the day.

The appointment of a Second-In-Command should have lessened her workload but it hadn't - it had increased it. She now had to make time in her day to correct his mistakes.

He - Jacob, a transfer from Section Two - wasn't adapting as quickly as she had hoped. He was improving and in time he would be a competent second for her, but she needed one now. She couldn't continue doing his work as well as hers; things were getting missed and the success rate was slipping.

If Jacob didn't improve quickly she would have to request help from Oversight - that she didn't want to do. Oversight was impatient of late; she believed they were looking for a reason to replace her - she didn't want to give them a reason. She needed to hold on; she had to find the strength to continue. If she didn't, Janet's victory would be assured - that she wasn't going to allow.

Paul had it easy.

If Nikita had a Second like Madeline, she'd be on 93% too, if she had Michael...she's dead and he may as well be - stop thinking about it, you've work to do.

I'm tired. So very tired. She wanted to lie down and never get up again - give up and let the world take care of itself, only it wouldn't and she couldn't. She got to work.

Nikita was an hour into the jumble of "paperwork" when she noticed the message; she recognized the code at once. Michael. She opened the files; eager to discover what he had sent to her, perhaps he wasn't going to desert her.

At first she thought it was his idea of a sick joke, but then she remembered he didn't have a sense of humor. She scanned the information; it was real, it was happening. She had to act - fast.

Nikita grabbed her cell phone placing a call at the same time she hit the connection to Comm. "Any missions graded below level two are hereby cancelled," she told them as a voice sounded in her ear.

"Yes." Quinn sounded groggy.

Ignoring the puzzled looks she was getting from the operatives below her, she said, "Jennifer. Come in."

"I'll be there in twenty," Quinn replied.

"Be here in ten," Nikita snapped and cut the connection. Turning her attention back to Comm. "Quinn is on her way - call everyone else in and send someone to wake up Jacob," she instructed them.

They didn't move.

"NOW!" she thundered.

They flew into action. Five minutes later, a scruffy Jacob entered the Perch.

"Red Cell is readying an attack; we are going to take them out first. Get together with the relevant department heads and whoever else you need, I want a profile in three hours," she handed him a PDA onto which she'd downloaded the information.

He scanned it quickly. "Is this accurate?"

"I believe so - now get to work."

He was quick to comply.

We need to move quickly. Section had a window of opportunity, but it could close at any time. If they missed their chance, Red Cell could succeed.

Over my dead body!

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She'd gotten unbelievably lucky at the worst possible time. Somebody up there had it in for him, he was sure. There was now no chance Butler and Mendoza would vote for Nikita's removal - she had destroyed Red Cell.

Butler had already called to inform him of his change of heart.

"We can't very well replace her now, can we?" Butler had said. "I'm sure you agree," he went on to add.

Butler was wrong - Curtis didn't agree and he never would.

It was a fluke. A lucky break Nikita had little to do with.

Far from convincing him that Nikita was an intelligent, talented leader, the destruction of Red Cell had convinced Curtis that Nikita was a complete moron - so far out of her depth that she was treading water. It was only a matter of time before she drowned, taking Section One with her. Luck couldn't hold forever; the other members of Oversight were fools if they couldn't see it.

Red Cell had been planning their attack for years - probably five - and Section hadn't any idea until they received an anonymous warning. How did that denote good leadership? How did that make Nikita worthy of the title Operations?

In his opinion it didn't, but he was very much alone.

There was no possibility of the Oversight Committee removing her now, even if Center would allow it, and he doubted they would. No. They would place their lives in Nikita's slippery fingers and their survival would depend on luck alone. Lady Luck was a fickle mistress. They'd be dead inside a year.

Curtis had sacrificed too much to allow that to happen. He had devoted the majority of his life to Section; his blood, his sweat and tears were shed in building it. He had given up his life, his past and his future for the course. He'd watched others die for it; he'd mourned their deaths. He couldn't stand aside and allow her to destroy it.

While others crossed their fingers and hoped for the best, he was going to find another way - any way. He sat in his starkly lit office considering his options, they were few in number - all legitimate avenues were closed to him.

He considered the illicit ones. Looking at them from every angle, he weighed the pros and cons before rejecting all but one. Armed with a working strategy, he went about putting it into action.

His hand shook as he picked up his phone; he fumbled while attaching the scrambling device. He took time dialing the number.

The man was quick to answer. "Yes."

"Owen?" His voice seemed higher than normal.

"Curtis?"

"Yes."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Owen's voice was like soft velvet.

Now or never. He breathed deeply. "I need you to find someone for me."

"What sort of someone?"

"Your sort of someone."

Owen paused for a moment. "Send the details."

Curtis had the file ready and waiting; he hit send and waited impatiently for Owen to digest it. Just when the silence was becoming unbearable, Owen spoke.

"Interesting." Owen stretched out the word.

"Heard of her?" He knew he sounded too eager.

"No. That's what's interesting." Owen laughed softly. "Sure she's a player and not just a drone?" He asked a few moments later.

Curtis was beginning to think he'd made a mistake. "My Intel is limited."

"You're telling me." Owen sighed.

"You don't think you can find her," he ventured, almost hoping Owen would say he couldn't.

"I didn't say that," Owen quietly responded.

"Well?" Curtis prodded.

"It will be difficult." Owen dragged out each word.

"That is why I called you," he snapped.

Owen sighed. "I have a list of items."

Curtis smiled - Owen was predictable. "Send it. I will see what I can do."

"I'll contact you when I have something."

"You do that." He concluded the conversation, hung up and removed the scrambling device from the phone.

He felt as though he'd just run a marathon - his stomach was a fiery ball of anxiety.

He had taken his first step down an extremely dangerous road. What if the path lead to a future that was worse than the one he was trying to avoid? What if...?

There is no other option.

Sometimes the devil is the only one open for business.

She hadn't left Section in over two months and had spent the majority of that time in Comm. Quinn was sick of Comm., she was sick of Section, but mostly, she was sick of Nikita.

Nikita had decided no Comm. operative would leave the premises until after they had restored and then reviewed Red Cell's entire database. Not the easiest of tasks, it was made more difficult by Nikita's insistence on hourly progress reports and continued visits to inform them their efforts weren't good enough. Morale was at an all-time low.

Under the circumstances, Quinn thought her team was doing exceptionally well; they had restored over 90% of the data, which was more than anyone should have expected, considering its state. Unfortunately Nikita wasn't just anyone, she was in charge and she wanted it all. The last ten percent was lost forever; there was nothing Quinn could do about it.

Nikita wasn't to be reasoned with, however; humoring her, Quinn had left four members of her team on the impossible task of retrieving the irretrievable. Everyone else, herself included, was reviewing Red Cell's database. It was a slow and mostly boring task, most of the information trivial and utterly useless. However, their orders dictated that every piece of data had to be viewed - Quinn didn't really feel like spending time in Abeyance for disobeying Nikita's order.

Currently Quinn was reviewing the security checkpoint records. Page after page listing time, date, personnel - their security clearances, fingerprints and pictures - for each checkpoint they passed through. She'd been looking at files for over four hours. She was bored, she was tired; she was seriously considering walking up to the Perch and shooting Nikita in the head.

She'd moved on to the next record before something clicked - the man's face was familiar. She'd been reviewing files for weeks; a familiar face wasn't uncommon, but this one raised alarm bells. There was something about him.

She went back, reviewed the record again. Nothing stood out. And yet...

She ran a quick search for other records. There was only one. His exit.

He had entered the base, stayed four hours and left the base the same day. He had passed through only one checkpoint, he had never visited the base before, and yet his clearance was high. That was unusual. His face was familiar.

Why do I know you?

Quinn decided to run his prints and see if she got lucky. She moved on to the next record; not expecting the computer to find a match anytime soon, she was surprised when the computer beeped almost immediately.

A match?

The fingerprints of Red Cell's one time visitor - Daniel Reilly - were a perfect match for Janet's second assistant.

For some reason, Quinn really wished she'd been a little less observant.

She sat in darkness staring out at a starless sky, softly tapping her fingers on the window ledge without rhythm. The house behind her was deceptively quiet, affording the illusion of solitude.

Janet found the illusion comforting. It allowed her the rare pleasure of relaxing, whiling away an evening of sleeplessness, imagining how the other half lived. She wondered what it was like to live such lives of ignorance - was it truly blissful or simply mundane?

She found it intriguing, contemplating possible answers and considering where - had circumstances differed - she might have fit within that world, if there was ever a place there for her. It was an enjoyable way for her to pass the time - ignoring the demands of her world.

As always her illusion was shattered sooner rather than later.

"Quid agis, dulcissime rerum?" (How are you, sweetest of creatures?) Daniel greeted from the door.

Though his presence was not wholly unwelcome, Janet released a dramatic sigh before responding, "Quid me alta silentia cogis rumpere?" (Why force me to break this pent-up silence?)

"I've brought you a present," he announced, switching to English.

Janet turned from the window to face him, tracing his form with her eyes. "Is it by chance an exceptionally rare and exceedingly fine bottle of my favorite vice?" she asked smiling.

"Why yes, it is," he replied; she could hear the smile in his voice.

"In that case, you may intrude." She raised a welcoming hand.

He strode farther into the room with his usual self-confidence. She heard him place a heavy object on her desk, before he came around the desk and placed a gentle kiss upon her upturned cheek. He plunked himself down on the blotter on her desk, leaning forward, hands on his knees.

He smiled widely. "Heard a nasty rumor about you."

"Oh?" she inquired with studied neutrality.

"I was informed, by a reliable source, that you slithered to the depths of depravity and patronized the village cafeteria Monday last." His tone was grave, but he was smiling.

"When in the throes of starvation, what can one do but rush madly towards the first eatery that comes within view?" she responded in as serious a tone as she could manage.

Daniel had a fondness for the dramatic; his mouth hung open and his hand came to rest upon his heart. "But such an eatery?" He even sounded shocked. "What of your reputation?"

Such moments of levity were now so rare; she had come to miss them. "When demise is the probable consequence, one must dispense with one's snobbery and lunch with the masses."

He gifted her a number of tutts before condemning her actions with words. "Utterly reprehensible behavior Janet!"

Janet had missed him. "Horresco referens (I shudder to think of it) - I can hardly believe I allowed myself to do it."

He laughed loudly.

"How was your trip?" she ventured.

"Decidedly inconvenient." He smiled without enthusiasm. He leaned forward. "There are bags under your eyes," he accused.

She could hear the concern in his voice - she examined her fingernails. "It's the lighting," she lied.

"I was watching on the monitor," he stated.

"Then it's the monitor." She didn't change position, didn't look up. Her tone alone carried the implicit warning, the laying down of boundaries; he was entering an area where his presence was unwelcome.

He sighed heavily. "Semper eadem." (Ever the same.)

"What will you do when this is finished?" she hadn't meant to ask.

"Same thing I do now," he quickly replied.

She looked up. "You could retire, you know; you're a rich man."

He shook his head. "I'm useless without you ordering me around; I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

"Very funny Daniel." She paused. "I'd really like you to consider it," she added quietly.

"Consider retiring?" He appeared surprised.

"Luck doesn't last forever, and you've had more than most," she informed him.

He laughed softly. "I'd die of boredom out there in the "real" world. I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

"You are irritating at times." She smiled.

"I know," he replied, in a singsong voice.

She abruptly changed the subject. "What news from the front?"

"Another base destroyed. Doesn't look good for our friends at Red Cell." He grinned.

"Damn shame that," she said, laughter in her voice.

"Whatever is the world coming to?" He continued grinning.

"Securus judicat orbis terrarum." (The verdict of the world is conclusive.)

He laughed again. "So, did you do anything of note while I destroyed Red Cell single-handedly?"

"A number of things, but only two that would interest one such as yourself," she responded.

"I've a feeling you just insulted me." Hand back on his heart. "Shoot."

"I've secured a new ally," she told him.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Coming out of the woodwork aren't they?" He yawned. "So what was interesting?"

She smiled sweetly. "I've advanced the timetable."

He didn't say anything at first, just stared at her with a surprised expression. Finally he spoke, "I think you had better tell me more about this new ally."

She laughed, "Pull up a chair."

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[> [> [> Well then...(r) -- Cyanide, 15:57:47 02/02/04 Mon

First off, I have to say that the extra spaces between paragraphs is throwing me off somewhat and the occasional bold word is distracting.

Sorry, I was lazy and posted the code directly from another page.

The beginning is a little torture heavy, which I can't even believe I'm saying as most of my own stories are torture heavy all the way through.*g* Still, I found myself wondering why you didn't just tell us it was Nikita being tortured in the first part instead of trying to hide her name. There were a lot of 'she's in there and I don't think it would have hurt anything if you'd used Nikita once or twice.

Hmmm, well I'll read it through again and see if I can eliminate a few of those she's.

I am not sure that leather thongs would really tighten up enough to break ribs or even seriously constrict ribs. I think leather stretches when it is wet and then stiffens as it dries. I've seen/read about Native American indians using wet leather around the ankles, wrists and throat of their victims, to stake them out in the sun. As the leather dried, it slowly choked the victim to death. You've got it a little different in your story so you may want to check on it. And I could be wrong, too.

I'm fairly certain I am right on this, but my being wrong is not unheard of. *g*

At first I thought Janet was a little cliched...you know, the Evil Badguy/girl happy to torture people for no reason. But as I continued to read, I changed my opinion of her.

I am glad as that was a concern of mine.

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[> [> [> Ooops....(r) -- Cyanide, 16:04:52 02/02/04 Mon

Also should have said that the leather thongs did not break her ribs, her ribs were broken before they were put on.

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[> [> [> Ok. (r) -- Cyanide, 16:19:29 02/02/04 Mon

I don't understand the need to include an entire conversation in French. I've heard it said that it makes the fiction more real but if that's the case, then ALL of Michael's thinking should probably be in French, which could pose a serious communication problem to the reader.

Actually, the french conversation had more to do with Janet than it did Michael - she started the conversation, she choose the language. I had thought of having Michael's thoughts in french as well - simply because he was having a conversation in that language and it is usual to think in the language you are speaking - but then decided against it, in order to provide more of a divide between his thoughts and the exchange with Janet. Now, having said that, I will again consider changing his thoughts to french.

Why not just say something like, "She spoke in French and Michael answered the same way". Then I'd KNOW they were speaking French but I wouldn't have to actually look at a sentence and then read the translation.

Having already included a brief conversation between Janet and Daniel in Latin, I thought it best to stick to the same format.

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[> [> [> [> Hmm... -- Shanola, 20:15:36 02/02/04 Mon

First off, thanks for answering. =P I wasn't sure you would. This is a touchy subject for me and I tend to rant when it comes up so I was afraid you'd read it and go, "Silly girl!" and blow me off. Thanks for taking the time to answer me.

I don't necessarily think you should change Michael's thoughts to French. I agree with you that he probably thinks in French but I don't think it's necessary to write his thoughts in that language.

You said that you included the second conversation because it kept to the same format as earlier in the story. I'm questioning that format.

I find it very distracting when entire conversations are written in another language. I've been trying to think of an example of that in a published novel and I can't. Words, phrases, sure. No problem there. Words and short phrases are short and it's easy to include a translation of the phrase/word in the conversation. In books, when characters speak in different languages, the author usually just makes a note of it and goes on. I can't think of one book where an author has written an entire conversation between two characters in a different language. Not even Tolkien. I certainly don't think that if a book is translated into, say, French that the character's American converstations are left in English.

I don't think its okay to write that way in published writing and I find it distracting in fanfic. It's unneccessary. Can you convince me otherwise? I'm very willing to hear another side of this issue.

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[> [> [> [> [> Warning rambling ahead...(r) -- Cyanide, 14:25:41 02/03/04 Tue

First off, thanks for answering. =P I wasn't sure you would. This is a touchy subject for me and I tend to rant when it comes up so I was afraid you'd read it and go, "Silly girl!" and blow me off. Thanks for taking the time to answer me.

lolol, I am not inclined to take these things personally, so feel free to rant all you like.

I'm not the type of person who asks for people's opinions' and then refuses to consider them, no matter how they are delivered. (I've never been able to understand people who do do that either.)

Regardless of whether or not I agree with someone's opinion, I will always consider it, dissect it and then dissect my own to see whether or not it requires editing.

You said that you included the second conversation because it kept to the same format as earlier in the story. I'm questioning that format.

I find it very distracting when entire conversations are written in another language. I've been trying to think of an example of that in a published novel and I can't. Words, phrases, sure. No problem there. Words and short phrases are short and it's easy to include a translation of the phrase/word in the conversation. In books, when characters speak in different languages, the author usually just makes a note of it and goes on. I can't think of one book where an author has written an entire conversation between two characters in a different language. Not even Tolkien. I certainly don't think that if a book is translated into, say, French that the character's American converstations are left in English.

You are quite right, usually only small portions of conversations are written in different languages - personally, I've always felt a little cheated when authors did that.

Though I possess little talent in regards to different languages, I do enjoy the intricacies of the written word and find the inclusion of different languages interesting.

Having said that, I think it is likely that the majority of people would concur with you on this matter, and so, I shall see if my addled brain can come up with a clarifying sentence which will allow me to eliminate the french passages.

I don't think its okay to write that way in published writing and I find it distracting in fanfic. It's unneccessary. Can you convince me otherwise? I'm very willing to hear another side of this issue.

I sincerely doubt I would be able to convince you otherwise, even if I wanted to. Yes, it is probably distracting, but then I enjoy distractions and to me that is what fan fiction is.

Seeing as you used the magic word "unnecessary," I will change it - I do so dislike anything unnecessary. *bg*

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[> [> [> [> [> [> Okay. And hey... -- Shanola, 20:13:53 02/03/04 Tue

It's going to be a few days before I can beta the rest of this story. I'm getting ready to head out of town and working like crazy so I can go. I might need a week or so to get back to you on the remaining bits.

Thanks so much for putting the story here, though. I'm really enjoying it. =P

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