| Subject: Mea Culpa (Sequel to Unto Death) |
Author:
Rox
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Date Posted: 16:16:41 12/07/01 Fri
In reply to:
Rox
's message, "Mea Culpa (Sequel to Unto Death)" on 16:09:49 12/07/01 Fri
The grumble of distant thunder, the scent of rain in the air and a strong breeze that fluttered the curtains violently woke Nikita out of peaceful sleep. She slipped out of bed and quickly closed the half-opened window. It was nearly dark, more so because of the approaching storm. A quick glance at the clock on a nearby nightstand made her smile. It was nearly eight in the evening, and she had spent the entire day in bed - - and only a little of that time sleeping.
She looked over her shoulder at Michael, who was still asleep, his tangled cinnamon hair hiding his eyes as he lay on his belly, hugging his pillow close. She sighed with appreciation. He had the nicest butt!
Taking advantage of the moment, Nikita stepped into the bathroom. She washed her face and rinsed her mouth, then dragged Michael’s brush through her hair.
As she inspected her reflection in the mirror, Nikita caught herself smiling, unable to stop. She was so happy, so utterly content. At long last, she and Michael were together. She caught her lower lip between her teeth to trap a giggle, as she made her plans for the evening.
“First, a seduction, then dinner, then a long, hot, sensual shower, then. . . “ Nikita was startled out of her daydreams as a nearby lightning strike shook the house.
“Maybe we should call out for pizza,” she said to herself as she opened the bathroom door and reentered Michael’s bedroom.
“Nikita! No!” Michael screamed aloud. Nikita dove to the floor and rolled, as her training had taught her to do. She got to her knees, her hands in front of her, to block an incoming blow, but there was no sign of danger in the room. The rain began to pound against the window, and another flash of lightning illuminated the room with blinding, blue-white light, but she and Michael were alone.
Michael cried out again; this time his words unintelligible. Nikita climbed onto the bed to get to him, realizing he was in the throes of a terrible nightmare.
“Michael!” Nikita flung herself against his chest and caught his wrist, as his left arm batted at some unseen terror. An instant later, Michael was awake. He stared wide-eyed at Nikita’s concerned face for a moment, before slinging an arm around her neck and pulling her into a taut and silent embrace. With her ear against his throat, Nikita could hear his heart racing.
Nikita was alive! Not dead -- alive! Michael held tight to that knowledge, forcing the half-remembered nightmare back into the dark recesses of his mind.
“Michael, are you all right?” Nikita asked against his neck, as her arms held him close. His breathing was ragged, his skin was clammy, and all of Nikita’s pleasant plans for the evening were forgotten.
Desperate to hide his fear, Michael rolled over with her and pressed her into the bed with a grinding kiss. He heard a little grunt of pain before he pushed himself away. Nikita looked up at him and caught his tormented, wide-eyed expression in a momentary flash of lightning. She remembered seeing it once before, moments after Simone’s death. She closed her eyes, feeling sick with absurd jealousy.
When Nikita opened them again, she cupped his despairing face between her hands. “Were you dreaming about Simone?” she asked bravely, as she stroked his hair from his forehead.
“No.” His voice was soft, yet so full of pain; Nikita’s eyes filled with tears.
Michael bowed his head, concealing his face and emotions. The dream had been a reminder. No woman was safe in his arms, Nikita least of all. It had to stop. To save her life, he would have to kill her love for him. He slowly lifted his head and looked into her tender, worried expression. But how could he hurt her again? How could he bear being alone -- again?
‘I wish things could be different.’ He’d said those words to her and meant them with all his heart and soul. But things couldn’t be different. He had no future to share with her. Each morning he awoke knowing it might be his last. More often than not, he prayed it would be.
Every sweet thing Michael had ever longed for, he saw offered in Nikita’s eyes.
Forbidden fruit. Love, marriage, watching his baby growing inside her… none of it could ever be. Would ever be.
Not ever.
Michael knew a normal life was denied to them, but Nikita still innocently clung to her dreams. Which was more cruel, he wondered, to allow her false hope -- or to kill her now with the truth?
“Michael?” Nikita watched as his face played out his thoughts. What tormented him so? she wondered. They were together. Knowing that, Nikita could face anything. Couldn't he?
“I love you, Michael.”
He shivered as her slender fingers combed through his hair, cupped his head and drew him down to her mouth.
She whispered, as she kissed him. “I’ll love you forever.”
But Michael knew all he would ever have was now. For her kiss, he traded all of his tomorrows.
Nikita sensed something was bothering Michael. There was desperation in his kisses, as if each one might be his last. And yet when he buried himself deep inside her, he whispered her name with such tenderness that Nikita’s fears evaporated. He hadn’t said it in words, but she knew he loved her. Nothing else mattered, as long as they were together.
* * *
Madeline had given Michael three days. She hoped it would be enough.
Seated at her desk, Madeline folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. She had seen the tapes. Operations had not. Neither had he witnessed Michael’s tender, but foolish, attempt to comfort Nikita in medlab. He had been away at the agency, reporting in person on the success of the mission in Iraq, fortunately.
It was also fortunate that Operations did not inquire into the details of Michael’s “accidental” exposure. Madeline’s explanation -- that a small tear had been found in Michael’s bio-suit while he had been visiting Nikita -- seemed to suffice.
Michael was Operation’s most valuable asset. He was intelligent, spoke a dozen languages fluently, was a brilliant tactician and a natural leader. He could also kiss a woman, learn her secrets, swear undying love to her and kill her without compunction -- all in the span of an evening. He was, as Operations had hoped he’d become, a perfect killing machine. Perfect, as in having no weaknesses to exploit. Until now.
True, there had been the Simone episode; Madeline still wondered over it. Why had Operations allowed the marriage and the child? It had made no sense at the time, but as it turned out, the deaths of Simone and the baby had hardened Michael, making him twice as lethal a weapon as he had been before. Perhaps that had been Operations’ plan from the beginning.
Ops had known Simone had been captured, not killed. Glass Curtain had contacted the Section, expecting to use Simone as a bargaining chip. When the Agency refused to allow Ops to bargain for her return, Sparks kept her alive as a trophy rather than admit he had miscalculated. With no reason to trade for Simone and no hope for her rescue, Operations decided to let Michael believe his wife was dead. After all, Simone had been Michael’s one vulnerability, and killing machines didn’t need vulnerabilities.
And now, Madeline thought, he has another. Nikita.
Madeline knew Operations sensed this, which is why he daily watched for a good reason to cancel Nikita. He had spent a decade of time and resources training Michael, grooming him to one day take his place. Nikita endangered those plans, because she divided Michael’s loyalty to Section and, ultimately, to Operations himself.
While Madeline understood Operations’ motivations where Michael was concerned, she was less cold-blooded. She sighed as she replayed one of the medlab tapes. Michael was as close to a total emotional breakdown as she had ever seen him, and she was greatly concerned over it. She had known him for nearly a dozen years and had seen him through the deaths of his wife and child. Through it all, Michael seemed to get stronger and better as an operative. Now suddenly, he was completely in pieces.
Madeline tapped her forefinger against her chin while her thoughts drifted back to the first time she had met Michael. He had been 21 when he had arrived in Section, and Madeline had been chosen to do his psyche evaluation. It had been an interesting case.
Section One, January 21, 1985
“Michael?” Madeline studied the face of the new recruit carefully. He’s handsome, she thought. That’s a plus. He was also young and untried, but Madeline was sure he would excel in seduction scenarios. She made a few notes.
The young man sat completely still in the chair in front of Madeline, his head bowed and his silvery green eyes fixed on the top of Madeline’s desk. His rust-brown hair had been clipped short in prison. File pictures showed his hair had been long. It looked better long, she thought, and made another note. Long hair. More romantic.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Madeline asked quietly.
He didn’t answer, but Madeline saw his lips press together and knew he was listening.
She watched him for several moments before opening his computer file and scanning its contents. The file said he was born in Marseilles, France, was currently 21 years old and a former student of Paris University.
“You majored in chemical engineering…” Madeline murmured aloud. The file also said he had been scheduled to graduate at the top of his class, prior to the incident. She continued reading, lifting her eyes occasionally to check on his expression. “Should I assume your training as a chemical engineer aided you in building the bomb?”
Although he still refused to answer, Madeline saw his eyes squeeze closed, as if she had hit a sensitive spot.
“Do you still insist you acted alone?”
His voice was soft as he uttered one word, “Yes.”
Madeline leaned her chin on her hand, focused on Michael’s stone-faced expression and asked, “Why did you do it?”
Michael eyed Madeline for the merest moment before he looked away. In that fraction of a second, Madeline saw the answer and nodded to herself. Michael, she decided, hadn’t a clue.
“I’m assigning you to Jurgen. He’s waiting outside,” Madeline stated crisply.
Her words sounded like a dismissal, so Michael pushed out of his chair. But Madeline caused him to wait when she continued. “You will report here again, first thing in the morning.”
Sullenly he nodded, then left.
Michael met Jurgen standing outside of Madeline’s office. The tall blond leaned casually against the gray stone wall of the corridor with his well-muscled arms folded across his chest. His voice was husky as he spoke.
“Hi, Michael.”
Jurgen regarded his new student with some curiosity. The boy didn’t look like a mad bomber, but he’d read his file -- 56 people dead. Nearly a hundred maimed and injured. Fifty-six people -- for no apparent reason.
Michael gave no acknowledgment of Jurgen’s presence.
Jurgen pursed his lips, unfolded his arms and moved away from the wall. “I see,” he said quietly, then decked Michael with one well-placed blow to the face.
Pulling a dazed and bleeding Michael to his feet by the back of his shirt, Jurgen commented dryly, “Rule number one: Always pay attention.”
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