Chapter Eleven - P2(R18) -- The Beta Board

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Date Posted: 14:12:38 02/02/04 Mon
Author: Cyanide
Subject: Chapter Eleven - P2(R18)
In reply to: Cyanide 's message, "Acephaly." on 20:12:12 01/21/04 Wed

Things had worked out better than expected. Not only was Nikita dead, but so were her most ardent supporters - Janet had done exceptionally well. Too well. Section One's new Operations would have to take care of her.

Of course, they need to appoint him first; which was why they were meeting again so soon.

This time, however, there were additions to their numbers - namely the three operatives currently in charge of Center and the leaders of the other Sections.

It made him somewhat uneasy having every member of the leadership in one place at the same time; but it could not be helped. They were in the most secure location available - 500 meters beneath the earth - surrounded by the best operatives Section had to offer. Nothing had been left to chance.

Well - almost nothing, he amended.

Heavy fog in San Francisco meant that Sue's arrival would be delayed - indefinitely. She would be arriving late, if at all. Luckily, there was no need to wait for her; she had already announced her intention to support his candidate who was - incidentally - completely loyal to him.

"Shall we begin?" he asked pleasantly - he could afford to be pleasant.

"Sue has yet to arrive," Masters pointed out, no longer quite so arrogant.

"She has instructed us to proceed without her; I already have her vote." He smiled brightly.

Masters opened his mouth to object, but then seemed to think better of it.

Not as crazy as you make out, are you?

In truth the meeting wasn't necessary; Curtis had already ensured he would win the vote.

Might even be unanimous, considering the change of fortunes. He had been proven correct; it was unlikely anyone would oppose him. Especially now, just after Center had appointed him Chairman of Oversight.

He smiled widely; smiling came easily to him these days. "All those in favor?"

He counted hands.

"Opposed?"

Not a one.

"Abstentions?"

Johnson.

He was victorious and, with the election of his candidate, he would be unstoppable.

It doesn't get any better than this.

************************************************************************************************************************

It was to be her final assignment; once completed, she would be free.

Her fingers flew over the laptop's keyboard; she felt alive for the first time in years. Six to be exact. That was how long she had lived alone, with her grief and regrets. Six years without him.

Actually, it had been longer - she'd been without him eight years. The first two had been her fault; she accepted that. She had hurt him deeply, tossed aside his love - as though it meant nothing - and lost him.

The first two were her fault; these last six were not.

Tears burned in her eyes; she wiped them away, but more followed. Now was not the time for grief; now was the time for revenge - she needed to focus.

I have to succeed. Tears blurred her vision, jumbling the code on the screen.

"I have to focus," she repeated to herself out loud.

I tossed aside his love as though it meant nothing. It had meant everything. He was everything, but she had only discovered that when it was too late.

NO.

Not too late - not till THEM.

She might have had the opportunity to set things right. She might have earned his forgiveness; given time, she might have won back his love.

Time they took from me. From us.

She angrily wiped away the tears, clearing her vision.

With the codes Janet had provided, she once again sailed through every security measure. In no time at all, she was deep in the system, able to access every level in the enemy camp. She knew what to look for and found it quickly.

Gotcha! "So very predictable," she mumbled to herself, as she accessed the appropriate system. Her fingers danced over the keys with a life all their own.

Finally, she finished; the code was complete.

It was right. She knew it. She believed it. And yet, she hesitated.

It's not just them; there are others. She reminded herself. Did she have the right to decide those others' fates as well?

Too bad, if she didn't. Her hate for them was all consuming, a hunger that could only be quenched with blood. Theirs would cleanse her of her hatred; only if they died, would she have the chance of a future.

I wanted the chance to earn his forgiveness and they took him from ME.

She had wanted that chance; she took this one.

She hit enter. Though the laptop offered only a beeping acknowledgement of her success, in her mind, Gail watched them burn.

************************************************************************************************************************

53 days after she was captured, she was awakened with a sharp jab to her ribs.

"Get up," a cold voice ordered.

She opened her eyes; it was still dark.

Another sharp jab. "Follow me."

She watched the darkened figure walk out the door; she jumped to her feet and rushed out after him. She found herself in a long, dark corridor that appeared to stretch out forever in both directions. There was movement on her left, she went that way.

"Try to keep up," the man said.

Above her a light blinked on; it was weak, casting a pool of light no more than a meter in diameter. Along the corridor, a number of others blinked to life - spots of light at regular intervals. Up ahead, her mysterious guide passed through a shard of light, allowing her a brief glimpse of a tall, well built imposing frame with dark brown hair sprinkled with grey. He marched through the pool of light and appeared in another further along, disappearing completely in the hanging darkness between.

She quickened her pace.

Along the left side of the corridor there were doors; each appeared no different than her door, each resided in a pool of light - she counted them as she passed. On the right side, there didn't appear to be anything, but she couldn't be certain.

He left one pool of light and did not appear in the next. She stopped. Where the hell?

"Hurry up," he said.

She moved cautiously forward, following the sound of his voice. She discovered another corridor to the right. When she entered, another set of lights came on as the lights in the first corridor went out.

He was five pools ahead - she ran.

After weaving through another six corridors, she lost her bearings. If the man decided to abandon her, she would never find her way out.

At length, her guide stopped in a pool of light and waited for her to catch up. When she came up beside him, he took her arm and entering the next span of darkness, led her to a door. He opened it and pushed her through.

She came out into a well-lit corridor. It was a relief. It appeared warm and inviting; the same could not be said of her guide who looked positively sour.

"Someone will come." He disappeared behind the door.

She didn't have to wait long; barely a minute later a tall wiry man came striding towards her. She was surprised. "Simon?"

He smiled brightly. "How you doing?"

"What are you doing here?" She suddenly thought she would have been more at ease back in the dark corridors.

"I work here," he replied.

"You work for terrorists?" Bastard!

"Hardly," he said as though he found her deeply amusing. "Enjoy the tunnels?" he asked pleasantly.

"Not particularly," she mumbled. What the hell is going on?

"Be glad they turned the lights on, they usually don't."

"They?" she tried to sound neutral.

"Henry and Elizabeth's personnel."

Henry and Elizabeth? Surely not... "You don't mean..."

He cut her off; "They are really quite lovely when you get to know them - wicked senses of humor."

I'm in the twilight zone. "I'll take your word for it."

He grinned. "No need, we work quite closely with them."

"We?"

"You and me, honey buns." He pointed down the corridor, "Shall we?" He didn't wait, just started walking.

"What is it we do?" she asked when she had caught up.

"I run Psych Ops - when you finish your training you'll help me."

"You run Psych Ops?"

"I'm not as dumb as I look." He winked at her.

"And how am I supposed to help you?" she asked, curious.

"You'll be my Second," he said.

"Your Second?"

"You are going to be a barrel of laughs, I can just tell." He stopped outside a pair of double doors.

"Are we in Section?" She rather thought not, but decided to ask anyway.

"Nope. Section doesn't exist anymore, nor does Oversight. Nikita is dead. Jacob is dead, pretty much everyone is dead," he said seriously.

"Nikita is dead?" she repeated. "How?"

"Janet shot her in the head - who would have thought a head shot could kill her?" He winked again.

"Janet shot her?"

"Didn't I just say that?" He grinned.

"And Janet works for who exactly?"

"Herself. She helped us on occasion." He opened the doors.

Past tense. Hmmm. "Janet was contracted to destroy the Sections'?"

"When the timing was right," he explained. "Janet loved a challenge."

Past tense again. "And now she's..." she trailed off.

His shoulders tensed. "Debriefing." He didn't meet her eyes.

What kind, I wonder? Janet interested her, she wanted to find out all she could. "How long have you known Janet?" She tried to keep the eagerness from her voice.

He laughed. "Never have - no one really knew Janet." He sobered. "I've met her a few times." He motioned her inside the room.

She looked around the room. It was a large boardroom, like one you'd find in corporate offices. Simon didn't follow her in; he stood holding the doors.

"What was she like?"

"You're to wait in here," he said, ignoring her question.

"Who am I waiting for?" she changed the subject, deciding it was pointless to push.

"The Boss."

"The Boss?" she repeated.

"Well, one of them," he amended.

"And they are..." she trailed off again.

He smiled. "You'll find out soon enough." He began to pull the doors closed; when they were half-way, he paused. "She was sparkling," he said so quietly she barely heard him.

Janet. "Was?"

"She is..." he trailed off.

She waited.

"I do not know what she is, or even if she is."

She didn't understand his meaning.

"Janet had to win," he added and closed the doors.

She stared at the closed doors, confused. Is Janet dead? Alive? Something in-between? Is she free? Has she turned? What?

"Good morning, Kate."

She hadn't heard anyone enter.

I know that voice.

A shiver traveled up her spine; she turned to face him.

It can't be.

The air rushed from her lungs. She blinked hard. "Jesus Christ." She barely recognized her own voice.

"Not quite." His eyes twinkled.

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[> Epilogue. (R18) -- Cyanide, 14:37:12 02/02/04 Mon

My body is a testament to their skills; each breath requires concentration, each beat of my heart is lent a conscious thought. My body is collapsing upon itself, but were I to choose to speak I would be understood.

I do not choose to speak and they have not the means to make me; my indifference now too complete to be assailable. With a scalpel, they trace a line down the back of my bruised hand. A burning sensation follows the path of the blade; a tingling sharpness travels the length of my arm.

They ask me questions as they cut - always the same questions, the same order. They ask them again as they pierce my flesh with hot needles and again while the current flows through my body.

Flexing my shattered fingers, I can feel the bones grinding against each other; it does not seem possible that I should be able to do this. How can my fingers still respond? It is intriguing; I twist my wrist and every injury in my arm flares at the same time. I do not cry out, for, though I experience the resulting sensations, I feel nothing.

Ex nihilo nihil fit. (Nothing comes of nothing.)

They look at me now - not with the eager, hungry looks of the beginning - but with troubled, curious expressions, that reflect their growing unease. They are becoming impatient; they are no longer enjoying their work.

Ce n'est pas une victoire. (It is not a victory.)

Such things are no longer possible. I have defeated them, yes, but I have not won - there is no glory.

They have become desperate; they drag in Karl, and torture him. They hope, perhaps, that I will be moved by another's pain, while still so indifferent to my own. He begs; he screams; he cries.

He tells me he loves me - I believe him.

I do not speak.

They kill him, their faithful servant of five years. He was my watcher - their contact, their overseer. He blended well; Daniel never knew - Daniel didn't know a lot of things. Karl was diligent in the execution of his duties; he performed them well. He made one mistake which led to others; he fell in love with a person who was unable to love him in return.

I think he deserved better than he got; but I do not mourn his death. I do not care.

To them I am an impossibility. They met me before and I appeared no different than any other. I was charming, I was witty, I was inconsequential - deliberately so. I had envisioned the meeting, I had looked forward to it; I had planned everything. I followed the plan, I saw no reason not to.

It was such a stunning performance, I almost convinced myself.

They have become disheartened, now simply going through the motions - they have given up. Their failure should bother me, but it does not. I should fear my lack of reaction, but I do not. It has happened, as I always feared it would. I am living in hell, and I do not think it all that bad.

Etiam ovlivisci quid sis, interdum expedits. (It is sometimes expedient to forget who you are.)

I lost myself to the void. It is not likely I will find a way back. The torturer's cannot draw me out, nor can my soft-spoken questioner, who bares a startling resemblance to Daniel - no coincidence, nothing ever is.

"Quid afis, dulcissime rerum?" (How are you, sweetest of creatures?)

Quid deceat, quid non, obliti. (Lost to all self-respect, all sense of shame.)

What am I now? A shell in which life once existed - all too briefly. Is there a way back? I do not know and no longer think it matters. Nothing matters now - not even that I won.

"That's enough. You can go," she says, entering the room with a man trailing behind her.

The man comes to me, takes his time examining my wounds; he tells her he can do little here, I should go to Medical.

She studies me with that neutral expression of hers and tells him to do what he can; she needs to speak with me first.

He does not argue; he mops up blood, applies salves and bandages, then injects something into my I.V. When he is finished, he leaves us alone.

She has aged. Tiny lines make etchings at the corners of her mouth and, like cracks in fine china, they spread from her eyes. There are a few strands of grey in her dark locks - her hair is shorter than I remember. I do not think she has slept; there are dark circles around her eyes, and I can see them beneath the carefully applied make-up. She is still beautiful - I think she always will be.

It is four years since I saw her last, twelve years since our first meeting. I have never known her. She has always distanced herself, always been an enigma, impossible to read.

No longer.

And that should bother me too.

"You caused some trouble," she states.

She is both amused and annoyed; amused by me, annoyed with herself. She believes she should have more accurately predicted my behavior, anticipated my rebellion.

"Why did you do it?" she asks, her voice soft.

She is trying to draw me out, to engage me; she is wasting her time, I have no reason to answer her questions. I have no desire - nothing.

"Why let Gail steal the money? You gained nothing," she continues.

Why let Gail have it? Why not? I could argue. I have no use for it now. I am no longer their creature, no longer controllable - no longer anything.

"You are smarter than this."

She sounds a touch disappointed; she isn't, but she should be. A dismal performance, I can see the calculation in her eyes.

"Why go through this?" she asks, looking slightly saddened when I do not respond.

In the past, I would have been amused.

Rien. Tout la monde est rien. (Nothing. All the world is nothing.)

She observes me in silence, allows the silence to dominate.

"Where is Michael?"

She asks it suddenly, attempting to catch me off guard.

Sint ut sunt, aut non sint. (Let them be as they are or not at all.) I could say, but do not. I do not see the point; she knows as well as I that there is no way to bring him back.

She stares at me, searching my eyes for answers. I stare back and at length I see it. A dawning comprehension of the truth of things. She blinks.

"This is pointless," she says, more to herself than me.

She is uneasy; she has made an error and knows that now. She has yet to comprehend the nature of it, but she suspects. There is something like fear within her eyes. It is possible we shared the same nightmare.

Du bleibt doch immer, was du bist. (You will always remain what you are.) I almost tell her. For her it will remain a nightmare; she cannot follow me.

"You don't fear death, do you Janet?" she questions, watching me intently for a reaction - any reaction.

I consider.

I have a choice. I can pretend; I can fool her. She is willing - I am capable. If I do this, she will send me to Medical - I will live.

Alternatively, I can allow her entrance; I can let her see. She does not want to - I can force her. If I do this, she will kill me - I will die.

"I never did mind about the little things."

The bullet killed only a ghost.

Acephaly: the state of possessing no head.

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