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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.
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.
She can see him; he is lying face down in a mass of rubble, just a few meters in the distance. She slows her pace, approaching with caution, carefully weaving her way through the broken furniture, construction material, and blood-caked bodies. If she falls again she is certain she will not be able to get back on her feet.
She has reached his side. She grabs an arm, pulls him over on to his back. His eyes are closed, his face a mass of bruises; she feels for a pulse but cannot find one.
Please God, no.
Suddenly his eyes are open; he stares at her, pain etched in every feature.
"I'm here, it's going to be alright. I'll get us out of here." She tries to lift him and falls to her knees - gravity and exhaustion keep her there. She cannot give up; he needs her. "I'm going to save you, I promise."
He looks confused. "But you're too late."
She is staring into a pair of lifeless eyes; one half of his face is a bloody mass, the other a picture of agony. He is dead; she has failed.
There is a noise - cackling, evil.
She turns in the direction of the noise - nothing but shadows. Darkness closes in; she attempts to ward it off but is unsuccessful. It comes closer; there is something within it, something evil.
She looks for something to defend herself; everything she grasps turns to ash in her hands.
The darkness consumes her.
There is nothing and then there is grey - it is all encompassing. She is in a room, sitting in a chair - alone. There is a door, it opens; someone is there, they are watching her - she feels their eyes.
She must escape; something horrible will happen if she does not, she cannot stay here. Her friends are going to die.
She stands, looking for some other way out - there is none.
She cannot move.
Someone is holding her - two men, tall and strong with vice-like grips.
There is a woman with dark-hair; blood trails down her face from two gaping holes where her eyes should be. She is speaking but the language is foreign.
The woman laughs; she sounds like a hyena.
Pain.
Black.
A voice. "He is dead."
Who? Who is dead?
She tries to remember - there is a face with lifeless brown eyes.
Red.
Death.
Someone is beside her - she is in the Perch.
Paul.
Blue eyes meet.
"What happened here?" She needs to know.
He smiles. "You did."
Her father. "You alone."
Laughter.
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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