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Date Posted: 15:21:24 05/03/02 Fri
Author: Repost Fairy
Author Host/IP: 64.193.19.25
Subject: Part 34 - language
In reply to: Lila 's message, "The Beginning - Part 33 and Up" on 15:11:24 05/03/02 Fri

Part 34

Walter was on the verge of getting drunk for the first time in five years. He had six hours before he and Michael were to rendezvous. He knew his body; he could indulge in this pathetic display and still be sharp when the time came. Walter filled his glass with scotch, already having finished the bottle of vodka. “Willie Kane ain’t got nothing on me,” he said, disgustedly. Who was he to judge Willie, their differences so slight.

Walter took a drink from his glass. Ironic, he thought. Last time he got polluted was because of Michael – this time, hell, everyone. He thought he could control the situation. He blustered his way across Europe acting like he owned the place. Now who’s laughing he wondered, taking another sip.

Michael. Will he ever forget that day? Can he? He’d seen that look one other time in his life – in the jungle. Men who’d had it. The hollow, empty stare that said an ally or enemy bullet was the only way out. Michael had that look. Walter hadn’t seen him since his release from prison. He had wondered how his friend was doing, had heard that the police were trying to get him back, but with no luck.

Walter had asked him to come over to help him with something. He couldn’t even remember what lie he had told Michael, but whatever it was, it had worked, and he came.

“Hey stranger,” Walter had said, pasting a smile on his face, trying to act as if everything was fine. He couldn’t. “Damn it, Michael,” he had said, “You look like shit.”

Michael said nothing, just stood in his doorway. He was at least twenty pounds lighter than before his life had been turned upside down. His face was gaunt, hollow, life missing. His eyes were dull, lifeless.

“Come on in,” Walter said. He had to nearly take him by the hand and lead him into his living room. “Sit,” he gestured to the couch. Michael sat.

Walter immediately poured them each a drink. “You probably didn’t get much of this in…” he stopped.

“You’d be surprised,” Michael whispered, emptying the glass into his mouth. Walter was stunned. Michael was a man of moderation – at least when it came to alcohol. “What was it you wanted?” he asked.

“Oh, I needed some help with… oh Jesus Christ Michael, I was worried about you. You gonna be ok?” Walter asked.

Michael finished his drink and handed his glass to Walter for a refill. Walter refilled Michael’s glass and his own. “No,” Michael said, “I’m not.”

“You want to talk about it?” Walter asked, afraid for the life of his friend.

Michael had his glass in one hand and with the other he reached into his jacket and took out his gun. He rested it on his lap. “No,” he said, “there’s nothing to talk about.”

Walter was afraid. His platoon had been decimated by the war; too many guys had given up, death better than the relentless jungle, the rain, the fire, the tunnels, the dirt, and the dying screams of their friends. Michael wore the look of each and every one of those guys.

“Michael,” he said as sternly as possible, “give me your gun.” Walter stepped towards him carefully, hand outstretched. His eyes trapping Michael’s. “Please,” Walter said, “that won’t solve anything.”

“There’s nothing to solve,” Michael said, hand curling around the handle of the gun. “Everyone’s dead.”

Walter had had enough. He reached for Michael’s hand. “Give me that you asshole,” he said, motioning for the gun.

Michael looked at him quizzically. “Please,” Michael said, “I deserve this.” He had moved the gun towards his head.

“Give me the fucking gun!” Walter screamed. Risking life and limb, he grabbed for the gun, and to his surprise, Michael relented. He had no fight left. Walter took the gun, and went into his kitchen. He unloaded the gun and put it in his freezer. He went back into the living room, Michael sitting in the same place, same expression, not a single muscle having been moved.

“Let’s get drunk,” Walter said, emptying the remaining contents into each of their glasses.

“Yeah,” Michael said, defeated but alive.

Walter thought about that day now, as he emptied the rest of his glass down his throat. Jesus, how did it come to this? He thought he was protecting Nikita and instead, he was dooming her to a life of…he didn’t know. He looked at his watch – five more hours. He hoped it wouldn’t be too late, but knew it wouldn’t matter. They were all doomed.

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

“He didn’t kill my mother,” Nikita said, “she died in a bar fight.” She looked back at the photo and then at O’Brien. “You know that,” she said, wondering what kind of game they were playing.

Marco laughed. “You are so naïve, Nik. Did you see the fight?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. She looked down at the photo of the man. “Who is he?” she asked.

O’Brien walked over to the dresser in the room. He opened a drawer and removed some clothes. “His name is Phillipe Charbon,” he said handing her the clothes. “Put these on,” he said.

She accepted the clothes, wanting to go into the bathroom for some privacy, but had no choice but to change in front of him. She stood, and discreetly changed. “So,” she asked nonchalantly, “how does he know my mother?” O’Brien had her changing into work out clothes.

“Too many questions, Nikita,” he warned.

She felt the fear rising in her throat, and desperation attacking her. She wanted him to hold her and make it go away. “Stop it,” she said, trying to calm herself down. She didn’t want him, her body was betraying her.

O’Brien marched over to where she was standing. “Stop what?” he growled. He put his hand around her arm and pulled her forward. “Don’t force me to make you understand,” he said.

Nikita’s eyes blinked rapidly, holding back the tears. “I’m…I’m sorry, I wasn’t talking to you,” she said.

Marco looked around the room, and then at her. “I don’t see anyone else here, sweetheart,” he said, “Don’t lie to me, what do you want me to stop doing?”

Game time. She wiped her tears. “I was talking to myself,” she said, lips pouting. “I know you said something about training, and I..um…just was hoping we could be alone a little longer, but then I was thinking that you probably didn’t want to and so, um, I thought, you know, I just told myself to stop it.” She hoped she read his face properly, and that he had no intention to indulge her sexually. If she had to she would, it was only her body, not her heart, her mind or her soul. These were truths she had learned a long time ago.

Marco laughed, “Maybe later, Nik, but I need to see how rusty you are.” He signaled her to follow him and they left her room. She tried not to gawk at the vast chalet as they walked through it on their way to what she supposed was a gym. She was correct.

“After you,” he said, opening the door to a smallish gym. Nikita entered the room, noting exercise equipment, mirrors, mats, nothing unusual.

“How’s your foot?“ he asked, following behind her.

Nikita hopped on her right then her left foot. “Feels fine. Maybe a little tender, but ok,“ she answered.

She stood in the middle of the room on the mats, turned to Marco, and said, “Now what?” Before she heard an answer, Marco kicked her right thigh. She collapsed, grabbing her leg. It didn’t hurt that much, but she was annoyed that she hadn’t been alert to his movements. She climbed to her feet, stood several feet from him, wary, watching.

“That wasn’t very good Nik,” he said, moving towards her. She backed away. Marco kicked towards her and she repelled it with her sore foot. “Ow!” she yelled, jumping backwards.

“Chabon killed your mother,” he said, lunging towards her. Nikita stepped back quickly, and deflected his kick with a kick of her own.

“I don’t care,” she said, trying not to be drawn into a fight. She just wanted to stay alive long enough for Michael.

O’Brien stood in front of her again, moving forward, preventing her from escaping his range. “She loved him and he killed her, and he wants to kill you too,” he said. He stepped into he space and jabbed his arm towards her neck. She blocked it with her forearm and kicked him. She connected with his thigh and he jumped back, yelling. “Ow, damn it!”

Nikita couldn’t help but smile, he deserved that. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

O’Brien cautiously advanced. “You used to care about your mother,” he said, closing the space between them. “You used to cry and tell me that you would do anything to make it right.” He moved quickly, ahead of her reflexes, and easily tossed her to the floor. She landed hard.

“Ow!” she yelled. After her experience with Marco the first time, she made sure to keep up her self-defense skills, but she had forgotten how he played. He walked over to her and extended a hand. She refused it and got up herself. He moved to knock her over again. She was ready, and kicked him hard behind his knee, sending him face down to the mat.

Nikita backed away and leaned against the wall, watching him. What was all this nonsense about her mother. Yeah, she loved her, but she couldn’t set it right. She never could. That was the hardest part to accept.

Marco got back to his feet, and beckoned to her to come at him. “Come on,” he said, “give me a shot.”

She laughed, this was ridiculous. “I’ve had enough,” she said, shaking he head, forgetting she wasn’t fighting some self-defense instructor.

He paid no attention to her comment, and moved forward again, his strong legs closing the distance quickly. She had let her concentration slip for just a minute, and he took advantage. She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she was lying on her back, and he was on top of her, hands closing around her throat. She pushed her hands at his face, trying to get him to stop. He relented slightly.

“What would you do if I told you I killed your mother?” he asked, menacingly.

Nikita looked up into his eyes, searching for any sign of humanity and found none. His hands closed around her throat again. She struggled harder, scratching at his face, pushing him, and finally managed to untrap one of her legs. She kneed him as hard as she could into the side of his leg. He released her. She scampered to her feet, backing away from him, gasping for air.

He lunged at her again. “Don’t you want revenge?” he shouted. “Don’t you want to make him pay?” She didn’t realize that she had been backed into a corner. He was coming closer. “Fight back, Nikita,” he said, “fight back.” He removed a gun from a holster around his calve and tossed it to her. “Defend yourself, bitch,” he said, coming closer.

Nikita held the gun in her hands, rage overtaking her body. She didn’t want to kill anyone. She saw her mother staggering home from one of her evenings out. She was disgusting, ruined, depressed, and she took it out on Nikita. “Marco,” she screamed, “Get away from me.” She held the gun out in front of her, both hands holding it at arms length from her body, just as he taught her. “Don’t,” she said.

Marco was inches from the gun. “You are a stupid little whore, just like your mother, and I’m glad I killed her. She didn’t deserve the air she breathed.”

“Please, no more!” Nikita cried. Marco sprung at her and Nikita pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

Marco stepped back, laughing. “I guess you’re ready,” he said. He left the gym, locking the door behind him, leaving Nikita alone with her fear and an empty pistol.

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Replies:

  • Part 35 - language, yet again -- Repost Fairy, 15:22:54 05/03/02 Fri
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