Milady  continued

by Titta (rated NC-17)

CHAPTER 16

"So you see, you shouldn't take his words too seriously. He's obviously not in his right mind," Walter finished.

Nikita set her tea mug down on the coffee table. She stared at the floor, contemplating Walter's words. He had given her a totally new perspective on things. The pain eating at her hadn't disappeared completely, but hearing Walter's take on the situation had eased it considerably. For the first time after leaving level eight yesterday she felt able to see beyond the deep well of hurt inside her.

Nikita looked up at her friend again. "So, what do we do now?"

"Nothing." Walter shrugged his shoulders. Seeing that his answer didn't please Nikita, he continued, "Michael is under Milady's authority. Nothing we can do about it now. And from what I've heard, she might even know what she's doing."

"But I don't trust her!"

"I know. You don't trust rattlesnakes either, do you? Doesn't mean they weren't created for a reason."

"What a great comparison, Walter," Nikita muttered, staring at the floor again. Her chin jutted out stubbornly. "I still don't like the situation."

Walter gently turned her head so he could look her in the eye. "There's no point fighting wind-mills, Sugar. Keep your head down and bide your time. You don't want Operations and Madeline on your case." Seeing that he was getting through to her, he added on a lighter note, "Trust me, it takes more than one red-head to steal Michael away from you."

Hope and despair fought each other in Nikita's eyes. "I hope you're right, Walter. I hope you're right."

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

"Good Morning, Michael."

There was a quick flash of emotion in Michael's otherwise hooded eyes. Pain, anger, apprehension... Sara couldn't tell. There was no way she was going to try probing his mind for an answer today.

Sara walked around the end of Michael's bed, keeping her cool eyes squarely on him all the time. "Did you sleep well?"

No reaction.

Sara came to stand next to the bed and rested her hands lightly on the railing. She waited for Michael to meet her gaze before asking; "Do you remember what happened yesterday?"

In reply, Michael's eyes instantly darkened into a mossy grey-green color. It was obvious to Sara that whatever he remembered, the feelings his memories invoked were not pleasant. However, Michael's eyes stayed unwaveringly on hers.

"You went ballistic. We had to tranquilize you." Sara kept her voice light and very matter-of-fact.

Michael's eyes widened ever so slightly.

Yes honey, it's fantasy hour. Stay with me!

"The usual after-effects of the drug we used include slight dizziness, dryness of mouth, possibly also problems with vision." While talking, Sara moved her eyes slowly to the left. She knew the surveillance camera was in plain sight above her left shoulder in Michael's field of vision.

Michael's gaze slowly moved to his right, then returned to Sara. His eyes signaled that he had gotten the message. He didn't know what was going on, but he was willing to go along with her - at least for a while.

"You got quite a big dose - it's likely you'll feel the after-effects for several hours to come."

Michael's body relaxed almost imperceptibly. It wasn't necessary to try and keep up appearances in that regard right now.

"Are you thirsty?"

A moment of hesitation, then a tentative nod.

Sara rewarded Michael with a smile. "One of the guys will bring you something to drink in a minute. Meanwhile, I want to remind you that your trial period starts over from zero. Behave yourself, and tomorrow morning we'll take one of the restraints off. Okay?"

Her answer was another nod from Michael.

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

Michael stared at the door a long time after it had closed behind Sara. His face was blank and his body motionless, but his eyes betrayed his confusion.

Michael felt...odd. He couldn't explain even to himself what exactly was wrong. He had never been one to over-analyze his own feelings, but he was accustomed to taking stock of his own abilities, including his mental abilities, in a compromised situation. He had the knack for breaking through the noise of synapses screaming in pain or the distorting effect of chemical interference in order to communicate with himself. It was the very thing that had ensured his survival over the years.

Yet, now he seemed to have insurmountable trouble keeping his thoughts together for longer than a fleeting moment. His mind was filled with seemingly unrelated flashes of random reflections, broken threads. The bits of thought were like loose feathers drifting in the breeze - slipping through his fingers when he tried to grasp at them.

Probably back in Section... not in med lab, though... Madeline's hair was longer than the last time I saw her... When did I last see her? Milady in Section... makes no sense...what day is it, anyway? How did I end up here... where is 'here'?... The situation is unusual... They are treating me as a hostile, aren't they...

The fragments kept dancing around his head to some crazy tune he couldn't hear. Each thought was replaced by a new one before he'd had the chance to examine any of them closer.

Milady's recent words confused Michael further. He could have sworn there weren't any foreign chemicals in his body - over the years he had gotten very good at recognizing and also fighting attempts to subdue his control through relaxing or tranquilizing chemical compounds. Granted, it had appeared that she had, at least partially, been speaking for the benefit of whoever was watching them. Which made no sense to him, either. If Milady was indeed working for Section, why would she try to deceive them?

Or was he under the influence of some kind of a drug, after all? His mouth was dry and his vision seemed a little blurred, just as Milady had said. He didn't feel particularly dizzy, but, then again, he was lying down. It was conceivable that dizziness would only occur if he tried to get up. Which, of course, he couldn't do, for some reason...

The questions swimming in and out of his head, and especially the fact that he didn't seem to be able to formulate any answers to his own questions, should have alarmed him. However, he couldn't muster enough mental energy to be truly concerned. He was bothered and slightly annoyed, much like a hiker in the wilderness slapping at a persistent and obnoxious insect, but that was all. The voices inside his head that should have been frantic screams were dampened into faint background whispers.

Gradually, Michael became aware of a void inside him, a deep empty spot where something very strong had once lived. It was like a black hole - he knew it was there, but, no matter how he tried, he couldn't see it. Nor did he have any idea of what exactly it was. There was a sense of a ghostly ache, a flicker of a flame waltzing on the outskirts of his awareness that made him feel vaguely uneasy every time he tried to get close to the edge of nothingness within himself.

Then there was the image of azure eyes, glistening with tears... the low rumble of a distant thunder... and he grew weary of poking at the hole. He needed to concentrate on making some sense of his situation and forming some kind of a plan of action.

His thoughts kept dancing around.

Section or not... No questions, nobody's asking questions... the feel of a soft hand against my cheek... tension between Madeline and Milady... how did I end up here?... Operations must be thoroughly annoyed...

CHAPTER 17

Ten minutes after she had left Michael, Sara walked into the aerie and found Operations and Madeline standing together by the window.

The leaders of Section One interrupted their conversation upon her arrival and turned to watch her approach. Operations' eyes were cold and his expression rigid. It didn't take a genius to read the signs and conclude that he wasn't in a good mood. Madeline, on the other hand, smiled. As usual, her appearance gave no insight into her state of mind.

Sara resisted the urge to draw herself up. Instead, she consciously relaxed her upper body and hands as she unhurriedly crossed the room.

Two against one - my oh my. That's not enough in this case, you know.

A genial smile lit up Sara's face as she came to stand a few feet from the couple before her. "Good morning." She shifted her attention to Operations alone. "You wanted to see me?"

Operations' lips momentarily drew into an even tighter line than before. "So nice of you to join us." His voice rang bitter with barely-concealed annoyance. "I wanted to talk to you about last night's incident. When I hired you, you told me you could prevent Michael getting out of hand." The words were a statement, but Operations' tone communicated his displeasure in no uncertain fashion.

Sara let a little ice seep into her eyes, to match the look in Operations'. "I said I could control the situation." She stared Operations straight in the eye and challenged him with a hard, uncompromising look. The tone of her voice had turned freezing. "It's a bit difficult to control anything when one's not present."

"Yes, I can see that." Operations voice dipped into sarcasm. "Where were you?"

"Taking care of something that couldn't wait." Sara paused for a fraction of a second, hoping he would take the bait. When nothing happened, she continued, "Andy and Dr. Westlake acted without my knowledge." Another slight pause.

Come on Paul, be a good boy. Humor me!

Sara decided to switch to offense. "I won't take responsibility for mistakes YOUR people make."

"You're right, Sara." Madeline's words were calm, her face still a perfect mask of politeness. "It was unwise of them to go ahead without you. Would you like me to replace your assistants?"

Good old Maddie, always running interference.

Sara turned her head to flash a sweet, steel-laced smile at Madeline. "No thank you, Madeline. It might have a negative effect on Michael. I'll have a little chat with Andy and Greg after this - I'm confident they will improve their performance."

"As long as you're satisfied..." Madeline's smile was just as sweet.

"What exactly happened?" Operations cut in. He had no patience for the female way of handling the situation.

Sara shrugged her shoulders lazily. "The usual."

"And how did you manage to subdue Michael?"

You couldn't figure it out from the tape, could you? And even if you did, you didn't believe your eyes.

"Mini-injector. They are very handy once you have a little practice in handling them. Easy to hide in your palm. Most times patients don't even notice they've been hit before they go under." Sara's tone of voice was back to her usual matter-of-fact fare, even though it still carried a slightly condescending hue.

"What compound do you use?" Madeline's voice was now also devoid of anything but professional interest.

"It's something the Chinese have developed. Not available in the west yet. Not in large quantities, anyway."

Mac's first rule of lying - stick with the truth.

"And how did you come by it?" For once, Operations' voice sounded genuinely curious.

"Sometimes it pays to have connections." Sara's smile was like a soft velvet cloth that was used to hide a needle but that didn't do anything to offset the actual prick.

A quick flash in Operations' eyes told Sara she had hit her target. She carefully swallowed the satisfied smile that threatened to tug at the corner of her mouth and prepared for his counter-attack.

Operations, however, controlled his emotions with practiced ease and continued in a cold voice. "I don't want to see anything like that again. We're losing enough personnel in the field; I don't need Michael adding to the tally. Also, we need to know what happened on the Purple October mission. We need Michael speaking as soon as possible!"

He has no idea of what we're dealing with here. And he doesn't care.

Sara gave Operations a long, pensive look before speaking. "This is only the beginning. Things will get worse before they get better - trust me." A rueful smile played at her lips and eyes for a fleeting moment. "As for getting Michael to talk - it's gonna take a while. Getting him to talk about THAT mission will take even longer."

Operations opened his mouth to voice his protest but Sara's raised hand stopped him from speaking.

"Right now his head is pretty screwed up. It's gonna take a while to unscrew it and put it back together again. I'm working as fast as I can, but we're talking about a very delicate organism here. One wrong move might result in a disaster." Sara gave Operations another one of her steel-hard looks. "I understand your situation but I know what I'm doing. I'd appreciate it if you would let me do my work in peace."

"And WE appreciate your work, Sara. You are the leading expert in the field, and I have every confidence that things will turn out well." Madeline stepped in once more, her voice like a blanket smoothing out flames of irritation. "However, you must see that last night's incident raised some concerns for us. Now that those concerns have been addressed, I suggest we move on."

Sara's eyes were blank, but her voice was light. "Fine by me."

You're such a spoilsport, Maddie!

Madeline turned to Operations. "Was there something else?"

"No." Operations' voice was dry.

"I'll be in my office if you need me, then." Madeline smiled her best 'Mona Lisa' smile and gestured with her hand for Sara to precede her out of the room.

The two women descended from the aerie in silence. At the foot of the stairs Sara politely paused, letting Madeline catch up with her. Then they walked down the hall side by side - an odd pairing of similarity and contrast.

Madeline's steps were punctuated by the click of her heels. Beside her, Sara walked silently in her trainers. Madeline's tailored skirt hugged her curves, just like Sara's stretch jeans hugged hers. Madeline's dark coloring accented Sara's red hair and the fairness of her skin and vice versa. Both women had the unmistakable air of quiet confidence and power about them.

Madeline broke the silence after a few steps. "Are you feeling well?" Her voice was a master study of polite concern.

Sara turned to look at the brunette and smiled. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

Maybe I get to have some fun, after all.

"You look a little pale." Madeline's eyes were nothing but sincere.

Sara's smile grew impish. "Might have something to do with the fact that I've been here for several weeks now. In case you haven't noticed, the sun doesn’t shine down this hellhole much."

"You've always had such a refreshing way with words, Sara." Madeline's eyes glimmered with merriment. It was impossible to say if it was real or not. "We do have tanning facilities here in Section. You're welcome to use them, if you want."

Sara shook her head lightly. "No thanks, Madeline. My skin would only get red. I don't care for cancer, either."

Madeline nodded. "You're probably right. If there's anything else I can do for you, just let me know."

Yeah, right! What exactly did you have in mind? Lessons in effective interrogation techniques?

"Certainly."

They had reached an intersection in the corridor. Madeline's office was along the corridor leading left, while the elevator that would take Sara back to level eight was straight ahead.

Without stopping, they nodded a silent goodbye to each other and continued their separate ways - both intent on a mission of manipulating other people for a cause.

CHAPTER 18

Since the room didn't have a clock, Michael had no way of telling time accurately. From the schedule of his keepers, he had, however, gotten an inkling about the passage of time. Even though Section One operated 24 hours a day, most people in Section still tried to keep to the common daily routine of sleeping at night and waking up in the morning if they could. It generally made adapting to life in the world outside much easier.

Michael had awakened some time ago from a long, relatively deep sleep. Now he lay in his bed, motionless and seemingly relaxed, waiting for either Andy or Greg to show up with breakfast, signaling the start of another day.

His thoughts were still mostly a hopeless jumble of unconnected fragments floating around. In an effort to regain some sort of focus, he had decided to try and figure out which one of the men was due to be on call this morning. He was still struggling to sort through all relevant data he could think of when he heard the sound of the door opening.

Michael was slightly startled to see Milady walk into the room with a breakfast tray. He had not seen her at all since her quick visit the previous morning. For some reason, he had assumed she would leave him to the care of her assistants until he was ready to begin training.

Why did I think that?

The sight of her carrying a tray of food seemed weird somehow. It looked... almost cozy. Milady and coziness did not go together in his mind. Michael knew for certain that he had met the red-haired woman before. Although he couldn't remember much about their encounter - or was it encounters? - he certainly didn't associate her with homemaking skills. Or waiting breakfast trays. Instinctively, he tensed.

If Sara noticed Michael's reaction to her presence, she didn't show it. She put the tray down on a tabletop and approached the bed. Meeting Michael's scrutinizing gaze with guileless, smiling eyes, she greeted him. "Good morning, Michael. Let's get you to a more upright position." Sara continued past Michael to the control panel mounted on the wall behind his bed.

There was a familiar whirring sound and the head of the bed started to rise. When the movement ceased, Michael was in a half-sitting position, fighting nausea. He was only partly aware of the woman next to him until he felt her fingers brushing softly against his cheek. The contact was instantaneous - before he could react in any way she was already fluffing his pillow and rearranging his sheets. Nevertheless, Milady's touch managed to both unsettle him AND considerably calm the restless flow of his errant thoughts.

Sara took a few steps towards the foot of the bed before turning to regard him again with a half-smile. "Your first 24 hours are up, Michael. Time to take one off as I promised. I think we'll start with the lower extremities. Which one would you prefer?"

Because he was still fighting the slightly uneasy feeling in his stomach and the odd feelings her touch had awakened in him, Michael had not quite managed to follow Milady's train of thought. He gave her a blank stare for an answer.

"Right or left foot?"

Michael made no move to open his mouth. The silence stretched on unbroken. Finally, it became apparent to him that Milady was prepared to wait for his reaction for some time. After a few more seconds, Michael shrugged his shoulders slightly. What difference does it make, anyway?

"Pick one, right or left." The words were patient but persistent.

This is becoming ridiculous. Milady was standing on the left side of his bed. "Left."

Michael had to struggle to force the sound out of his mouth. His voice, which sounded incredibly hoarse to his ears, broke at the end of the short word. He tried to moisten his lips with his tongue, and realized that his throat was screaming for liquid.

"Okay." Sara flashed a smile at him and lifted the sheet off his left leg. Then her deft fingers started working on the restraint.

The feeling of slight pressure around his left ankle - that up until this moment he hadn't even noticed - lessened, then disappeared. All Michael could think of was the pain in his throat and the irritating, almost glue-like dryness of his mouth that made his tongue stick to his palate. Feeling Milady's eyes back on him, he resisted the urge to lick his lips again.

As if reading Michael's mind, Sara moved back to the tray and poured a generous amount of water from a pitcher to a plastic cup.

Michael could feel his hands quiver lightly in response to the sight and sound of the water. He cursed himself mentally, and tried to steel himself against the imminent temptation.

Sara walked straight to Michael and extended the cup towards him.

Michael closed his eyes.

"Let's see if we can do this without spilling too much on you, shall we?" Sara's voice was light, almost playful.

The cup pressed lightly against his lips, tantalizing him. Michael felt a soft whimper rise in his throat but, with effort, he managed to swallow the sound before it became audible. He willed his lips not to tremble.

"Michael!"

Michael opened his eyes and stared straight into the cup. The clear, cool water in it was less than an inch away from his parched lips. He couldn't remember ever seeing a more alluring sight. Feeling his resolve starting to crumble, he looked up hastily, only to find himself staring straight into Sara's eyes. Something in them is off...

"You need to drink. Do you understand me?" The tone of Sara's voice was strong, communicating her unbending resolve clearly, but the deliverance was calm. She could have been addressing a difficult child engaged in a silly attempt to test his will against that of his parent.

Startled, Michael parted his lips. Instantly, he felt the cup tilt towards him and press more firmly against his lower lip. Then the first wave of water hit his mouth. His lips were lax, so some of the precious liquid spilled over the corners of his mouth and ran down his face. Catching up, he swallowed the rest hurriedly.

The cup stayed on his lips until he had drained it to the last drop.

"That wasn't so hard, now was it?" Sara's voice was again playful, colored by the light smile on her lips. "Although we didn't do so well on the spilling part."

Reaching behind her, Sara grabbed a blue paper napkin from the breakfast tray and started to wipe Michael's stubble-roughened face with it. She placed the fingers of one hand under his chin to gently lift it. Still smiling, she dried his throat of the spilled water with efficient but gentle movements.

Water... The smile... She was the one with water... Why did I...

"Time for breakfast." Sara was again standing by Michael's bed, her smile intact. The cup he had drunk from was nowhere to be seen; instead, Sara had a bowl in one hand and a spoon in another. She scooped a medium helping of the greyish gruel that seemed to be the standard breakfast fare from the bowl and lifted the spoon to Michael's lips.

His mouth opened obediently. While his body performed the by now familiar 'open mouth - close mouth - swallow' routine on autopilot, Michael's mind worked frantically to make some sense of what had just happened to him.

Granted, Sara had once been a member of a competing organization, so in a sense they had worked against each other in the past, but she had certainly never been a hostile. She had never been a threat to anything but his chances of obtaining mission closure. This was Section; Sara was now working within Section - if not quite as a part of Section, then at least with Operations' consent. How had he come to see her as the enemy?

How was it possible that, within the space of few seconds, his brain had become totally scrambled? Michael tried to scroll back the events in his mind to find the exact moment when his thoughts had fallen off the track and landed on a completely wrong station. He came up with a big, frustrating nothing.

Michael's musings were interrupted by the feel of a paper napkin again sweeping his face.

"How does apple juice for dessert sound to you?"

"Fine." Michael was slightly irritated to have his thoughts interrupted for something so trivial. Startled, he belatedly realized that a part of his mind had already accepted the need to interact with Sara. He also found that the slightly sweet taste in his mouth and the feel of the thicker-than-water liquid running down his throat pleased him.

Pleased... The concept seemed foreign, but not disagreeable.

When the cup was empty, Sara placed it back on the tray and moved to stand near the foot of the bed again.

"Could you lift your leg a little so I could get the restraint away from under your ankle? I'm sure it won't feel comfortable in the long run."

Michael complied - or rather, tried to. His leg didn't even twitch from its resting-place. Puzzled, he moved his eyes from Sara - who was looking back at him expectantly - down to his leg. His eyes confirmed what his tactile sense had already told him - there was nothing holding his leg down.

Michael's newly-found positive mood was gone in a heartbeat. Determined and slightly alarmed, he bit his teeth together and concentrated. He could feel his muscles trembling with effort but his leg still didn't move. A dozen possible explanations crashed through his mind, none of them pleasant. Frantic by now, Michael gathered himself for one more attempt.

His eyes zeroed in on his leg as if looking at it could force it to move. Michael took a deep breath and pulled together all the strength he could muster, then gave his body the order again. He strained his muscles until they were aching. His lungs were burning, and tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Finally, when he was almost convinced he'd have to give up, Michael felt his heel rise up from the bed a fraction of an inch.

Instantly, Sara gripped Michael's heel and lifted his leg a little higher. She pulled the restraint swiftly from underneath him before lowering his trembling leg back on to the bed.

Michael took in the undisturbed look on Sara's face. She knew!

A piece of the puzzle suddenly fell into place. "How long?"

"According to the intel I have you went missing during a mission seven weeks ago. You were retrieved six weeks ago. It's a long time for muscles to be unused." Sara looked at Michael dispassionately.

Michael nodded. He tried to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth.

"Now that the restraints are being removed we can start physical therapy right away. It's going to take some hard work but before you know it, you'll be back to your old shape - or even better." Sara's smile was warm and encouraging.

Her support was lost on Michael. Spellbound, he kept staring at his unrestrained, uncooperative leg as his mind slowly took in the bleakness of his situation.

"Why don't you take a little rest before Greg comes to shave you." Without waiting for an answer, Sara pulled the sheet up to cover Michael's leg again. Then she lifted the breakfast tray with its now empty dishes from the table and walked gracefully out of the room.

Sara's departure hardly registered in Michael's tormented mind. It was filled with pitch-black desperation that threatened to swallow him whole. Now that he had discovered the true scope of the devastation visited on him, he could see no light around him.

He had lost at least seven weeks of his life - weeks that were nothing but a hazy white spot on a map of his mind. Everyone else in Section, even the lowliest surveillance technician on the late night shift, probably knew more about his fate during that time than he did. The thought made him feel more helpless than being tied down by restraints ever could.

Michael also felt profoundly violated. The fact that he didn't know what had happened to him only made things worse. Someone had obviously found a way to break him, to invade his deepest defenses, to be able to twist his mind into the jumble that it was now. Somewhere along the way they - the faceless, nameless enemy - had probably broken his body, as well.

His mind was filled with a dozen blazing questions to which he had no answers. Why, how, who, when, what... The words that danced around his head were like acid burning holes in him.

He tried to raise fury within himself, to create flames that could battle the poison running free inside him. Then the realization hit him. What's the point?

His body had been a finely tuned instrument of death for close to two decades. His mind - quick, strong and sharp - had been an even more formidable weapon, the real basis of his survival. Now he had lost control of both his body and his mind. Without control, there was nothing left. Nothing but worthless ruins.

Yet somewhere deep inside him, the voice that had always prevented him from giving up before was even now talking. This time it was just a faint whisper, but stubbornly it refused to shut up.

Michael stared at his sheet-covered leg with unseeing eyes.

I will crawl through my past
Over stones blood and glass
In the ruins
Reaching under the fence
As I try to make sense
In the ruins

[See notes here]

CHAPTER 19

Nikita found it hard to enjoy the downtime she'd been given. Under any other circumstances she would have embraced the chance to spend time at home and recover from the grueling schedule of back-to-back missions she'd lately had, but now she was too restless. In the back of her mind, a little voice kept saying that while getting new intel on Michael was unlikely even inside Section, the chances were still a lot better there than they were outside.

Yet, it was impossible to go back until summoned. Madeline herself had granted Nikita downtime after the fiasco on level eight. Her unscheduled appearance in Section would not go unnoticed - especially not by Madeline - and Nikita certainly didn't want to give Section's second-in-command any clues to suggest that she had not given up on Michael.

For she hadn't given up. Walter, and a closer examination of her own, initially silenced misgivings about Michael's behavior, had managed to convince Nikita that Michael had not been himself the other day. Something had happened - no, something had been done to him - which had messed up his head. Nikita was certain that, given time, Michael - the real Michael - would re-emerge. She planned to be around at that point.

Although the conversation with Walter had given Nikita new hope, life was still far from peachy. First of all, she had trouble getting the rest she badly needed. Besieged by unpleasant, sometimes downright haunting dreams, Nikita woke up several times every night. Seeing the horizon colored by the first faint rays of light that signaled the dawning of a new day was actually a relief for her.

Nikita had a natural urge to act, to do something to help the situation, to help Michael. Although her conscious mind had accepted the fact that nothing she could do would be of any help at this time, the inactivity made her feel incredibly antsy. Sitting at home doing nothing was simply impossible, so Nikita busied herself the best she could.

First, she changed the soil on all her plants. She loved the sensation of sinking her hands deep into the dark brown moistness. It was as if by touching the fresh, nurturing earth she could actually get a grip on life itself. Next, Nikita rearranged her kitchen cupboards. She worked like an unleashed force of nature. Nothing, not even the smallest pouch of exotic spice, escaped her thorough examination.

Nikita ended up throwing out a surprising amount of foodstuff well beyond its 'use by' date. Instead of feeling bad about not being at home to do much cooking or guilty about the waste of food, Nikita felt good. The thought of getting rid of old, useless things in her life was quite liberating. It seemed like a perfect allegory for the process going on in her mind.

Having gotten into the swing of things, Nikita continued making space for new things in her bedroom. She went through her entire wardrobe methodically, ripping clothes and accessories she hadn't used for a long time off hangers and shelves - they would be donated to charity. By the time she was finished, her bed could hardly be seen underneath the piles of hats, bags, footwear and clothes of all kinds. Some of the items made her wonder how she could have ever worn anything like that; others still looked good, but brought up memories of a person she no longer was. It was high time to get rid of them all.

During the second day after Walter's visit, after she had completely rearranged the bathroom, thrown half of her make-up collection into the garbage and finished cleaning her gun for the second time in 24 hours, Nikita finally conceded to the need to go out and find something to occupy her time.

She had been apprehensive of going out for fear of what her actions outdoors might tell Madeline. Nikita was fairly certain that the inside of her apartment was still 'clean' from surveillance - a blessed consequence of the Marshall mission a few months earlier. She was equally certain that Madeline would have someone or perhaps even several 'someones' following her every move as soon as she stepped out the door.

Finally, she decided that the best plan of action was to go shopping.

After all, isn't that what every woman does when feeling down? And I'm feeling down. Not anxious, not worried - just down. Slightly broken hearted, even. Yeah, a woman in my state of mind definitely needs retail therapy.

Nikita dressed in a slinky blue knit dress and black ankle length boots, brushed her hair and applied make-up to complete the 'groomed, well-to-do woman about to spend some serious cash' look. Then she hopped into her black Porsche and drove to the city center.

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

Five hours later, a rather content Nikita returned home with her bags. The time spent strolling through the crowded streets and browsing through the stores, at times actually talking to other human beings, had definitely done her good. Even driving around in the barely contained chaos known as inner city traffic at rush hour had been a positive experience. It had taken lightning reflexes and some good luck, but nobody had managed to inflict even a tiny dent on her car this time.

The fact that she had picked not one but two people following her around also made Nikita feel good about herself. She looked at it as proof that her professional skills had not been dulled by the heavy emotional stress of the weeks gone by. She didn't feel the slightest bit upset about the fact that Madeline had indeed put her under surveillance - on the contrary, Nikita was rather pleased with herself for anticipating the other woman's move. Must be Michael's influence rubbing off on me...

The thought dampened Nikita's good mood immediately. In an effort to hang onto her newly-found more tranquil state of mind, she decided to concentrate on her latest acquisitions: two new pairs of sunglasses, a pair of wicked-looking, 'redder-than-hell' high-heeled boots, a couple of glossy magazines and several new outfits. She had also bought a pile of make-up containers weighting in at about half a kilo, plus two shopping bags full of groceries. She needed something to replace all the stuff she had thrown out, after all.

Although she knew that the 30,000 or so francs that she had spent was barely a drop in the ocean that was Section One's annual budget, and therefore not enough to really annoy Madeline, the idea of the brunette going over her credit card charges made Nikita feel pretty good, anyway. Nikita knew that Madeline would make certain assessments of her mental state based on the information.

Go ahead; think that blowing money on designer clothes will make me more complacent and help me accept the situation. I might not know what exactly your game is, but I'll throw a wrench into your and Milady's plans as soon as I get an opportunity - and this time there's nothing you can do to distract me!

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

Over the next few days after Sara's first breakfast visit, life on level eight turned into a routine - at least from Michael's point of view.

Each morning started with Sara walking into his room, either carrying the breakfast tray herself or following Andy or Greg. Every morning she went through the same motions: raising the head of his bed, straightening his sheets and brushing her fingers lightly against his cheek. Every morning, before breakfast was served - or rather, was fed to him - Sara also took off one of the remaining restraints.

The restraint around his right ankle was the first one to go. The next morning his left wrist was freed, and finally on the fourth day, his right wrist. Michael was no longer tied to his bed, a fact that seemed to please Sara while it made both Andy and Greg slightly nervous. Michael couldn't quite decide how he felt about his 'freedom'.

Although a part of him was glad to be rid of his bonds, another part of him didn't like the consequences that followed. Increased freedom of movement meant more physical therapy. More interruptions to his already faltering thought process. More opportunities for him to observe the decay of his body. More time during which he was forced to stare his humiliation in the face. All of which did nothing to improve his view of life in general.

It seemed to Michael that his keepers did their best to deliberately aggravate him by constantly trying to draw him into a conversation. The openings were mostly questions. Some of the more inane ones - like "How are you feeling today?" - he ignored completely. Others got a shrug or a disinterested look out of him. Sara, the most patiently insistent of the three, was the one who managed to make him speak more often than the others.

Although the few words that he actually spoke formed only haltingly in his mind and seemed slightly foreign to him, Michael did notice that his voice became gradually stronger as days went by. His throat didn't hurt anymore, either. However, compared with all the things that were not well, that was of little comfort to him.

He was fed five light meals a day. Michael didn't have much of an appetite, but he discovered that his body, working like an automaton, had no problem taking in the food offered. He was given lots of liquids, too. In fact as soon as his left wrist had been freed, a mug with a drink had been placed on a table next to his bed where it was always within his reach.

Michael usually only drank when one of his keepers prompted him to do so. If his body still had needs like thirst, the signals seldom reached his mind. Besides, the tremor in his muscles as his arm reached out for the mug, and the effort it took to try to hold the mug steady against his lips as he drank, only served to irritate him further.

Sara tried also to encourage Michael to pick up the spoon and eat. After the first effort, which he had to abort after only a couple of spoonfuls because he couldn't maintain a proper hold of the spoon anymore, she didn't press the issue again. Since Michael didn't really care whether he ate or not, he certainly didn't volunteer for another attempt, either.

Lying passively while Andy and Greg shaved him, cleaned him, changed his clothes or fiddled around with the tubing still attached to his body was much more preferable to him. Yet, Michael complied with all the instructions he was given and did as he was told - or at least tried to. He was simply too preoccupied with his own thoughts to gather enough energy to resist.

Michael's thoughts continued to be little snippets of unrelated words or scenes, dancing around his head to an errant beat. At times, when a particularly powerful memory broke into the foreground of his mind, Michael relived that moment so vividly that he had trouble separating the memory from the present. The episodes were usually very brief, but they made him doubt himself and his own perception. Self-doubt, coupled with the strong, often negative feelings the memories awakened in him, strengthened his sense of defeat.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Michael was dimly aware that the dark void inside him grew a little every day.

CHAPTER 20

Sara stood near the door, resting her hands lightly on the handlebars of a wheelchair. She was dressed in her usual uniform of sneakers, stretch jeans and a shirt. Her immaculately made-up face was expressionless to the point of hinting at boredom. Her eyes, carefully void of any emotion, nonetheless watched the three men before her with relentless intensity.

Michael, dressed in the standard med lab sweatpants and a T-shirt, slouched on the edge of his bed. It had been lowered down, so that his naked feet - instead of dangling several inches in the air as before - now touched the cool floor. With the last of the tubing removed a few minutes ago, he was now truly able to move about without any impediment.

Michael didn't seem too excited about this new development; in fact, a casual observer might have had trouble deciding whether or not he was at all aware of what was going on, because he kept staring at the floor with a rather vacant look on his pale face.

Sara was not a casual observer, nor had she any trouble understanding what was going on with Michael. Although it didn't show, she did have some difficulty maintaining her carefully constructed, unperturbed facade. Taking in a measured, calming breath, she ruthlessly stomped on her desire to reach out, plant her hands firmly on Michael's shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled.

Now's not the time for self-indulgence. Keep your eye on the end game! You'll get plenty of opportunities to kick his ass later.

Andy and Greg stood on either side of their patient. Glancing at each other for confirmation from time to time, they went to work silently, moving in synch like two members of a well-trained drill-team. Crouching down to be on the level with Michael, each wrapped a strong arm around Michael's back. Then they each lifted one of his arms across their shoulder blades for extra support. Having gotten a good hold of Michael, they started to slowly raise him off the bed.

A few moments later, Michael - swaying a little but securely sandwiched between the two bigger men - stood on his own feet for the first time in about two months.

Michael wished he could just go back to bed and lie down. He was uncomfortably hot, his head felt disturbingly light, and the sense of vertigo that had hit him as soon as his body had lost contact with the bed also made him nauseous. His legs, inadequately trained - despite the exercises he had dutifully performed - to be able to fully support his weight, trembled beneath the unfamiliar bulk of his body and made him sway even more.

At the urging of Greg, Michael tried to take a step forward. He was momentarily pleased to see that his leg obeyed his command and did indeed move forward. Unfortunately, the resulting shift in balance was more than his strained system could take. Only the strength of the men flanking him stopped him from crashing to the floor. Instead, he was gingerly but promptly lowered to sit in the wheelchair Sara had whisked next to them.

Once Andy and Greg had gotten Michael into the wheelchair, and had satisfied themselves that he would be able to sit in it without support, things proceeding swiftly. Andy grabbed the handlebars and got the wheelchair rolling towards the door, announcing playfully, "Bath time coming up!" Greg glanced at Sara to see if she had any last minute orders. When none were forthcoming, he fell into step with the wheelchair.

Sara watched the trio exit the room. Andy seemed almost pleased to be pushing the wheelchair. No doubt this was an activity he felt safe - morally, emotionally and physically - doing. Greg walked beside the wheelchair, keeping a sharp eye on Michael. He was obviously ready to spring into action at any time.

Looks like our little talk really made an impression on Greg.

Michael sat listlessly in the wheelchair. He didn't show the slightest sign of interest in finding out what lay outside his room. In fact, he didn't even seem to notice that they were moving. He was again staring at the floor, apparently oblivious to the world outside his head.

The three men cleared the door, turned to the right and disappeared from Sara's view. She looked down at the dull, grey floor and repressed the urge to sigh.

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

Madeline turned off her monitor, leaned back in her chair and let her eyes rest on her beautiful flowers. She had been watching the feed from Michael's room, this time live.

She didn't like what she had seen. Michael, pale and weak, unable to even stand up without help. Worse yet, he didn't seem to care. It wasn't totally unexpected, of course, but somehow even the discussions with Sara had not fully prepared her for the reality of the situation. Startled, Madeline realized that deep down she had still expected Michael to do better.

There must be a tiny shred of an optimist left in me, stringing me along. Who would have thought!

Immediately, her rational mind reasoned that, given Michael's previous accomplishments, it wasn't really that unreasonable to expect miracles from him.

Underestimate Michael at your peril. The familiar mantra she had repeated so often to herself - and to Operations - suddenly rang in her mind. Madeline repressed the urge to sigh. If only we would be so lucky this time.

She knew that Operations would not be pleased with the news. He wasn't a patient man in the best of times and these times were far from best; their number one field op out of play, Milady living inside Section and the Lindqvist mission possibly compromised - not to mention the fact that they still didn't know exactly how Purple October had managed to take out the team Michael had been leading. No, Operations was definitely not going to take the latest news of Michael's condition well.

Madeline was naturally more than used to handling the man in charge of Section by now. At times, she actually allowed herself to feel a little pride in her own abilities in that regard. However, that didn't mean she looked forward to the impending exchange. 'Being able to' and 'having to' had nothing to do with enjoyment.

Madeline recognized that her sour mood was at least partly due to the fact that this time she shared Operations' impatience. One could never be totally sure of anything in this business, but as far as the Lindqvist situation was concerned the way things were now, it felt like they were walking around in darkness with their eyes closed waiting for a bomb to go off any second. It had never been a nice feeling, and it wasn't one now.

Continuing her musings, Madeline considered once more the possibility that the capture and subsequent interrogation of two highlevel field operatives had nothing to do with the Lindqvist mission. Maybe Michael was just a coincidence.

It was an alluring thought, but unfortunately, experience had made her grow weary of coincidences years ago. Besides, too much was riding on this particular mission for them to just bury their heads in the sand and hope things would work out right. If the situation were to blow up in their faces, the resulting loss of resources would be unfortunate but not devastating. The political implications, however...

She never finished the thought. Shaking herself mentally, Madeline abandoned her essentially useless speculation, and concentrated once more on planning her strategy for the meeting with Operations. Despite her impatience, she would not allow Operations to do anything that would jeopardize Michael's recovery.

Nor did she wish to witness another confrontation between Operations and Sara. Operations had signed Michael over to Sara, so he didn't really have the official right to make any decisions concerning Michael. However, if he decided to ignore the fact, there would be little Sara could do to stop him. After all, even she could only fight a handful of operatives at a time. On the other hand, there was no doubt in Madeline's mind that Sara would raise a lot of hell later on, which would not be pleasant. Especially if Michael was damaged beyond prepare at that point.

Of course, Operations had succeeded once in bringing Michael back using his own, rather brash methods. This time, though, the situation was very different. Madeline knew that despite their considerable shared experience in working with less-than-stable people, both she and Operations were unqualified to deal with Michael in his present condition.

For the time being, it was best to just stay out of things and let Sara do her work. The wrong kind of pressure now would surely destroy everything that was left of Michael. There would be plenty of time later for them to re-establish their hold. Once back to his old form, Michael would again be an invaluable asset to Section One.

Besides, she really wanted to know exactly what had happened on that fateful mission.

Madeline didn't even consider the possibility that Michael might not reach his former level of competence again. She was convinced that between Sara, herself and Nikita - given time - they would be able to get Michael back to his old self.

Time - that was what she needed to gain. To that end, she needed to find a way to counter Operations' impatience.

If the situation in Brazil were to escalate, that might distract him for a while. And then Berlin... yes, that might work...