Milady  continued

by Titta (rated NC-17)

CHAPTER 21

Sara ran through the deserted corridors of level seven at a quick but steady pace. She was dressed in tight black leggings and a faded green, oversized T-shirt stained with dark spots in the back and under her arms. Her normally matte-finished face was shiny and slick with sweat that had also caused her black mascara to smudge around her eyes. Even her usually carefully combed hair hung down in messy clumps. In contrast, her breathing was surprisingly easy - it was only slightly heavier than usual.

Approaching an intersection in the corridor, Sara slowed down to a brisk walk. More out of habit than anything else, she checked the time and her pulse rate in the display of the small device strapped around her wrist. Then, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her T-shirt, she sprinted into a run again. As her running shoes pounded a steady beat against the hard floor, Sara gave up the fight for control and let her thoughts roam free.

I wonder what Maddie will make of this.

45 minutes into her strenuous exercise, Sara was no nearer to shaking off the feelings that had caused her to take it up in the first place than she had been when she started. There was a hard knot of worry in her stomach that stubbornly refused to dissolve. She was reluctant to admit it even to herself, but she was also fighting flashes of impatience.

By now, she had spent over a month in Section One. She had lived thirty-something days without seeing the sky or the sun, or feeling the wind in her face. She had spent almost five weeks breathing dry, processed air and fighting the depressingly endless grayness of the place. A month in Section One was an eternity without a single tree in sight. Her surroundings were slowly but surely starting to get to her and that made her angry with herself.

In this line of work, weaknesses kill you.

Then there was Michael. He had been 'awake' for over two weeks now, and so far he was going nowhere fast. All of Sara's previous patients had progressed beyond the non-responsive stage in two weeks' time. Some of them had by then begun the long and slow journey towards recovery. Others had come apart in a brilliantly violent display of human fireworks. Either way, there had been at least some development.

Not so with Michael. Granted, he had become more responsive - both physically and verbally - to outside stimuli, and his physical condition on the whole had indeed improved. Unfortunately, that didn't do much to cheer Sara. She was too acutely aware of the looming darkness inside Michael to be truly pleased by something like the fact that he now actually answered some of the questions put to him.

She knew only too well what the destructive force dwelling in Michael's mind could do to a person - especially when it was as strong as the one she had temporarily tamed after Michael's attack on Dr Westlake. So far that lone incident had been the only manifestation of its presence, a fact that also bothered Sara. If Michael had been fighting against the darkness, the effects would have shown in his behavior. Instead, Michael didn't seem to care about anything or anyone - there was no fight in him.

Sara considered the unattractive possibility that Michael might be the exception that made the rule. Looking at things objectively, it was conceivable that he would just quietly, peacefully sink into the oblivion inside himself. If that were the case, she would have to make some drastic changes to her treatment strategy in order to draw him out. Then again, if that truly were the case, she might just as well walk out and let someone put a bullet in his head, for all the good Michael would do her.

That's a little cold, don't you think?

Get real! You're here for a purpose that's hardly warm and fuzzy either!

On the other hand, it was also possible that Michael was just taking his time getting to the critical point of 'do-or-die'. In that case, any changes to his treatment might cause the whole thing to blow up in her face and render Michael equally useless to her.

If I could only slay the dragon for you...

Still mulling over her unpleasant thoughts, Sara continued running through the bleak corridors. With her mind totally focused inwards, her body moved on auto-pilot - turning corners and stepping over occasional thresholds with grace and precision. It had taken countless hours of practice to hone the movement to a totally unconscious, yet effective process. Meter after grey meter, her shoes kept pounding a steady beat against the floor as her mind sorted through a number of possible futures.

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

Leaning slightly on Greg for balance, Michael stepped out of the bathtub. He stood still on the bathmat, dripping water into its softness, while Greg grabbed a bath towel from the rack. Then he helped Greg wrap the towel around his waist before taking three - still somewhat unsteady - steps that led him to the chair placed between the bathtub and the toilet. Without waiting for instructions, Michael sat down on the chair and bent his head slightly forward.

Meanwhile, Greg had gotten another bath towel from the rack. Standing in front of Michael, he started to dry Michael's hair with it. All the while, he kept up a steady monologue.

"Your hair is getting kind of long, Michael. Do you think we should cut it? If it was shorter it would be easier to wash, too. No need to worry about the tangles then, right? I guess you don't really care about what it looks like, right now."

Michael let Greg's words wash right through him. This being a routine for both of them by now, he knew that Greg didn't really expect him to respond. Instead, Michael let his mind drift back to where it seemed to naturally migrate these days - pondering his situation.

His thoughts had become a little more solid in the last few days, which was a relief to him. However, along with the improved grasp of the things going on in his head had also come a clarity of view that offered no solace. No matter how he turned the pieces of knowledge around in his head, he couldn't get past the ugly picture they formed.

The truth was simple. He could seek for the hidden pieces of the puzzle of how he had arrived in this place. He could sweat to get his body back under his command. He could try to restore control over his life and pray to whatever force in the universe would be willing to listen to him that it wasn't too late. He could even wish for the moon and the stars. Yet, all the answers in the world - anything he could do - could never change the fact that somewhere along the line he had failed - utterly and inexcusably.

The taste of failure was bitter in his mouth.

"Michael!"

Michael came back to reality with a start. Doing a fast recap of the situation - another very useful ability that seemed to have improved in the past few days - he realized that his upper torso was now dry. Michael raised his gaze to Greg's face, trying to gauge his mood. He had noticed that his inattentiveness tended to irritate Andy somewhat when the blond was the designated care-giver.

Greg was standing in front of Michael, nail scissors in his hand. "I'm going to trim your nails and I need you to hold your hand steady for me, okay?" There was no sign of irritation in his voice.

Michael simply nodded in response and waited for more instructions.

"Let's start with your left hand." Greg held out his own left hand, palm up.

Michael raised his hand dutifully.

Greg took it in a firm but still gentle grip. Then, he moved to stand on Michael's side and braced Michael's arm against his side for better support, before starting his work.

Michael concentrated on keeping his arm steady, letting Greg move his hand and fingers as necessary. In order to keep himself focused, Michael tried to watch the procedure closely. The blades of the scissors gleamed as the overhead lights were reflected in their shiny steel. Michael was actually slightly shocked when he realized that the handles were of bright orange plastic. He couldn't remember ever seeing an object that looked more out of place in Section.

Greg took one more, appraising look at his handy-work before announcing, "That will have to do." Then he let go of Michael's hand and swiftly moved to the other side of him.

Michael raised his right hand and steadied it as best he could. He found that his right arm - being the uninjured one - was more responsive to his commands than his left, but its workings still left a lot to be desired.

Again, Michael watched the small, sharp blades cut effortlessly through his fingernails as the scissors clipped almost merrily in Greg's deft hands. Despite his efforts to concentrate on what was happening, Michael felt his thoughts starting to slip again. The weight of the burden he was wrestling with was too heavy for him to escape it for very long.

Finally, Greg was satisfied with his work on Michael's right hand and let go of it. "Okay, let's find something for you to wear." Smiling briefly at Michael, Greg moved to search through a stack of white clothes of standard med lab issue piled on top of a hamper.

Michael let his gaze wander around the bathroom, trying to disguise the fact that he was only partly aware of his surroundings. Sara seemed to already be concerned about his 'lack of focus' as she called it; there was no reason to give her any more to chew on in case she was monitoring the events in the bathroom now or would review the tapes later.

Michael's roaming eyes came to rest on the object lying on the counter next to the washbasin. The bright orange handles of the nail scissors called to him like a beacon in the darkness. Still, it took him a while to process the implications.

Granted, the scissors had small blades, but their tips were very sharp and narrow. His training told him that in the absence of anything better, they could be certified as a weapon. Used with enough force, they would cut through skin and blood vessels. That was basically all he needed, wasn't it?

The possibility presented to him in the form of the tiny scissors illuminated the darkness surrounding him like a dawning sun. In the light he could see a clear path in what had only seconds before seemed an endless, featureless desert. Relieved, Michael embraced his chance for a rescue unconditionally.

The suddenness of the transition from dark to light made breath catch in his throat. Swearing silently to himself, Michael forced his breathing back to normal, hoping he could also slow down the mad bounding of his heart at will. It seemed so loud in his ears he feared even Greg could hear it. Now was not the time to call attention to himself.

Michael spared a furtive glance at Greg. His back turned, Greg was still rummaging through the pile of clothes. As far as Michael could tell, he was blissfully unaware of anything at all happening behind his back.

If I'm silent and fast enough I can do it before he realizes what's going on.

With his gaze glued to the bright orange of the scissors, Michael got slowly and carefully up from his seat. Glancing at Greg from time to time from the corner of his eye to make sure he had not been detected, Michael made his way across the bathroom floor towards his target. He moved as silently and precisely as he ever had - there was no evidence of awkwardness and faltering in his movements. He was a man on a mission and - for a few moments of absolute concentration - back in total control of his faculties.

After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity to him, Michael reached the counter. He felt a bit light-headed, so he leaned on the counter with his left hand and extended the right one towards the scissors. Just before his fingers could touch the handles, his hand started to shake. Dismayed, Michael realized that his whole body was strained and that he was holding his breath. Darting a glance at Greg one more time, he took a couple of careful breaths to ease the tension and managed to will his hand to steady.

Gingerly, his fingers lifted the scissors from the counter. His hands were sweaty all of a sudden, and Michael had a hard time trying to get a firm grip on the small handles. Finally, he decided to open the scissors and use only one blade, thus getting a slightly better hold of his weapon. Next, he let go of the counter, took a small step back and turned his left hand palm up. He could hear his blood sing an excited song in his ears as he examined the inside of his own wrist for the best spot to hit first. With careful concentration, Michael aligned his right hand and the scissors above his left wrist.

Greg had finally found the elusive sock he had been looking for. He gathered Michael's clothes into his arms and turned around. The first thing that registered in his mind was that Michael was no longer sitting in the chair where Greg had left him. That in itself was a shock. His gaze moved to take in the rest of the bathroom. The second thing his brain processed froze the blood in his veins. Although he couldn't make out all the details, the picture before him was very clear.

Of its own accord, his mind conjured up a vivid and very scary image of Milady's cold eyes staring at him with deadly intent. The words "if he dies, you die" rang distinctly in his ears. That was enough to jolt Greg out of inaction.

"NO!"

The violent scream broke his concentration and swayed his hand slightly. Existing in an odd sort of slow motion, Michael watched in frustrated disbelief as the sharp blade he was guiding plunged into the flesh of his wrist a fraction of an inch away from the major arteries he had targeted.

Idiot! Idiot! Do it again!

Snapping out of his trance, Michael started to work frantically to pull out the blade. The movements of his hand seemed incredibly sluggish and his grip on the scissors kept slipping. Finally, Michael managed to free the blade but before he could try again, Greg's bigger body slammed against his with brutal force. The collision knocked Michael off his feet and sent the scissors flying out of his sweaty fingers. Michael fell to the floor and Greg landed heavily on top of him, forcing the wind from his lungs.

Still, Michael would not give up. He didn't have much room to maneuver, but desperation gave him extra strength and he fought by instinct - hitting, jabbing and kicking at anything he could reach. Greg's moans and groans told him he was indeed doing some damage. He was slightly surprised that Greg didn't really fight back; apart from shielding his face from a few blows aimed that way, he seemed content to just use his superior body weight to pin Michael to the floor.

The reason for Greg's odd behavior became bitterly apparent to Michael when he felt a sharp sting in his neck. He looked up at Greg, and saw that his throat was unprotected. His original idea of trying to find out what was happening forgotten, Michael moved his hand into position for a lethal strike. Just then his arm grew suddenly heavy and unresponsive. Michael watched helplessly as it fell limply to the floor.

Michael tried to turn his head to get a better look at Greg and realized he couldn't really move his head either. In fact, his whole body was suddenly paralyzed. Michael wanted to scream out his frustration, but his vocal cords were just as uncooperative as the rest of him. Hot tears of impotent rage blurred his vision. The fact that he did manage to clear his eyes by blinking was no consolation to him.

As soon as Michael stopped fighting, Greg pushed himself off his patient and the floor. Grimacing at his own, wild-eyed reflection in the mirror, he made his way to the intercom on the wall. Greg raised his left hand and only then realized that his fingers were still squeezing the mini-injector he had used in a vice like grip. The finger he extracted to push the call button trembled.

"Andy, I need help in the bathroom. Bring the med kit with you."

Greg turned to look down at Michael, who lay unmoving on the tiled floor, staring back at him in silent fury.

CHAPTER 22

Soul lost in anger and frustration
Darkness enters me
Ruins, decay and desolation
Are left from my world to be seen
Out in the snow with my ghosts
Howling in the woods with beasts
Black-hearted grief swells in me
Gone too far for anyone to reach

[See notes here]

Sara walked down the hallway at her usual, deceptively unhurried-looking pace. She had showered and changed, and looked like a woman in control once more. She wore carefully applied make-up, a neat hairdo and her trademark clothing of black pants and a shirt. The only exception to the familiar look was her bare feet.

Andy, who was trying hard not to fidget, was waiting for her in front of a heavy-looking door with a single big bolt on it.

Still digesting the information she had gotten from Greg and the doctor who had stitched the cut on Michael's wrist, Sara just glanced at the small monitor on the wall beside the door before focusing her cool eyes on Andy. "How is he?"

Andy shrugged. "Hard to tell. He hasn't moved an inch since we got him inside. Could be he's still under that muscle relaxant Greg gave him."

Sara shook her head decidedly. "No - that stuff wears off in about 30 minutes. With him, probably sooner." She turned to look at the monitor. "I guess he hasn't spoken either?"

"Nah." Andy shrugged again.

Sara quenched the desire to kick Andy. Section One might be a military organization, but obviously not all of its 'employees' behaved in a manner that reflected the fact - at least not up to the standard to which she was accustomed.

Get a hold of yourself! As if you didn't have more important things to worry about! Sheesh!

"I'm going in to have a little talk with him. Stay here."

To Sara's relief, Andy simply nodded his compliance and moved to open the door for her.

Sara stepped into the padded room. As the door closed behind her with a faint clunk, her eyes zeroed in on Michael. Walking further into the room, she took in the scene before her without breaking her stride.

Michael was lying on his back almost in the middle of the room. His body was spread on the floor in a seemingly relaxed fashion. The only things that broke the illusion were his hands. They rested on his stomach a little awkwardly because his arms were manacled to the wide leather belt encircling his waist. His eyes seemed to stare at nothingness. He didn't react to the sound of the door closing.

Sara walked directly to Michael. Her feet made no sound on the padded floor, but the slight rustle of her clothing sounded loud to her own ears in the absolute silence. Sara knelt down by Michael's side and let her gaze sweep by the thick bandage on his left wrist before focusing her eyes on his vacant face. Then, she reached out her hand and gently turned his head towards her.

Michael offered no resistance.

Stroking his cheek softly with her fingers, Sara once again probed Michael's mind. What she felt was pretty much what she had expected - except that it was, if possible, even stronger and darker than for what she had been prepared. Not as strong as the force she had conquered before, but still a formidable enemy. There was no shield, no barrier on his part to keep her away from the howling maelstrom of darkness that beckoned to her.

Hello, my old friends. The party's over.

Sara's mouth thinned into a line as she carefully grounded herself in the light inside her own essence. She could feel the strong, almost hypnotic pull of the abyss tucking at her, but she resisted it with stubborn determination. Instead of succumbing to the call of the destructive force, she took one last deep breath to fortify herself and gently pushed against it.

Michael's eyelids fluttered briefly before his eyes opened fully again and focused on her. For a fleeting moment, Sara could read excruciating pain in them, then they became hooded. At the same time, Sara felt the shield coming up in his mind. She withdrew her hand from his cheek but held the eye contact.

"I know you're in pain. I could help you if you'd let me, Michael." Her voice was soft and persuasive.

Sara's words got no apparent reaction from Michael. He gave her the infamous blank look as if to spite her.

She decided to save her breath and go to phase two of the game plan straight away.

Now that you have his attention, it might even work.

Sara got up and started to walk in a circle around Michael. She looked around the featureless room casually as she spoke. "I heard Purple October killed the other guy that got taken with you." She looked down at Michael again. "What was his name again - Luong?"

Michael flinched at the mention of the dead operative's name and turned his head away from Sara.

Milady one - darkness zero.

Sara continued her circle. "Why did he die? Why are you still alive? Hmm - Michael?" She gave him an intense, scrutinizing look.

Michael seemed to have recovered his emotional balance, but he still refused to meet her eyes. He stared at the ceiling with the blank look carefully plastered onto his face again.

"Did they kill him to get to you?" Sara stopped, as if to better ponder the question. "Personally, I think he cracked and told them everything he knew, and as a reward they let him out of his misery. So, why didn't they kill you?" She tilted her head in question. "Because you didn't crack? Or because they thought you were still withholding information?"

While she talked, Sara watched Michael like a hawk. She noticed his eyes blinking a few times at her last words.

I wonder if he remembers. Well, never mind that now.

"You endured a week of agony and humiliation - for what?" Her voice turned into acid.

"So you could kill yourself?" She made sure her voice clearly conveyed the message of how pathetic she found him. "You're a bloody fool. All that excruciating pain and sweat and desperately hanging on to your last reserves - for nothing!" She was quite pleased at how her voice rose in the end of the sentence.

"Purple October is mostly destroyed. They are of no interest to Section anymore. You should have told them everything they wanted to know, and then begged them to kill you, too." Sara resumed walking.

Michael looked at Sara again - the blank expression had given way to a flicker of rage in his eyes that had turned very grey.

"But you know what? It's too late now." Giving Michael's unrestrained feet a wide berth, Sara continued her circle towards his head again. She smiled sweetly at him, the kind of smile that could make shivers run down even a seasoned player's back. Her voice got hard and relentless as she continued her attack. "You're not going to die. I know - Operations would have eventually cancelled you - but you're mine now, and I AM NOT going to let you die."

She returned to a more subdued tone of voice without losing any of the hard edge. It was imperative that she make him believe her - otherwise this whole exercise would be just a great waste of her time and energy. "I know a lot about killing people - and I know just as much about keeping people alive."

Sara pressed on, determined not to give her captive audience any time to recover.

She started to paint the picture for him - to describe the bleakness of his future with her words. "It's going to be weeks and months and years of nightmares that haunt you endlessly. No escape."

She stopped her wandering to stand near his head and looked down at him once more. "How long do you think you can last? How long before your mind gives in and hides in total insanity? How long before you're just a drooling, rattling shell of a human being?" Her tone of voice was sarcastic but cool. She could have been discussing an academic issue.

Michael had closed his eyes during Sara's last words. He couldn't stop her from talking, but he could try to deny her the insight into his thoughts. He didn't realize that his body betrayed him just the same. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, and he was biting his teeth together so hard they were scraping.

Sara continued with 'snide' cranked up all the way to ten. "Don't fool yourself into thinking you can outsmart me. It ain't gonna happen, baby. Sooner or later, you'll have to face the fact that there's only one way out of this - and it isn't death."

She squatted down next to Michael. Her tone returned to one of persuasiveness. "As I said, I can help you. I can get you back on your feet - or better yet, I can get you back on your feet as a free man. The choice is yours, Michael." She paused before the finale. "So do yourself a favor and take your head out of your ass long enough to figure out what you'd like your future to be like. There's going to be one - want it or not."

Michael's eyes were still closed. He was breathing heavily now, his chest noticeably rising and falling with each breath he drew in through gritted teeth.

Sara observed Michael for a few more seconds. The silence of the room was broken only by the sound of his breathing. Then, she got up and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

Andy, who had swiftly opened the door for Sara, closed it again behind her. With the bolt secured, he turned to face her. Curiosity was written all over his face. "You think that will help?"

Sara gave him a freezing look. The guy was really testing her nerves today.

Maybe it's your nerves, not him!

"We'll see." Sara swallowed the rest of her comment and got back to command mode. "Get Greg and take Michael back to his room. Same restraints as before. Put him on a drip." She moved to leave but halted after just half a step and skewered Andy again with her gaze. "Add some painkiller to the drip mix. I imagine he's starting to feel the wrist by now. I'll check on him later."

Her instructions finally complete, Sara strolled towards her own quarters.

Behind her, Andy stared at her receding back, shaking his head. He decided to offer an extra prayer or two of gratitude that night for not being in Michael's place.

CHAPTER 23

Back in his room and strapped to the bed in an all too familiar fashion, Michael shifted his body restlessly. He had already tested the restraints and knew that he had no hope of getting out of them, but still he couldn't help himself. The powerful feelings and thoughts churning inside him demanded an outlet.

After the fiasco in the bathroom, as he had lain helplessly on the cold tiled floor, he had somehow managed to wrap a comforting blanket of blackness around himself that had made him blessedly numb. Milady had effectively shattered that protective shell with her words, and now he was again at the mercy of the war raging inside his head.

The focus and certainty he had experienced for a few sweet moments in the bathroom were gone. Instead, his mind was once again a playground for unconnected fragments of disturbing images and thoughts that evoked dark, tormenting emotions he wasn't ready to handle. The strange void in the center of his being seemed even bigger and more compelling than before. However, poking around it gave him an undefined sense of unease that made him want to squirm in his bed.

His body certainly didn't make things any better for him. There was a constant, dull, throbbing pain in his left wrist. It was hardly anywhere near an intolerable level, but it kept distracting him, nonetheless. He couldn't help feeling even his body taunted him for his failure.

Having his arm strapped into place palm up - which put a slight strain on his not-totally-healed upper arm muscles - did nothing to improve the situation. Nor did the fact that his hand and his arm up to the elbow had been wrapped so snuggly in some kind of flexible styrofoam that he couldn't even move his fingers much. Which, of course, is the point. The styrofoam was used to make sure he couldn't take advantage of his wound, which had forced his keepers to fasten the restraint up on his arm, not around his wrist as usual.

As if all this wasn't enough, there was also an annoying pricking sensation on the back of his right hand where the IV line had been taped in place. Had there been a call button to press for assistance, he might have been tempted to ask somebody to adjust the tube. Never mind that it would have been a clear signal of just how much the situation bothered him. And it does...

Trying to get his mind off the sources of his physical discomfort and the dark thoughts they evoked in him, Michael looked around him. The small nightlight - designed to provide some illumination while still making sleeping easy - left most the room in gray shadows, but that didn't really matter. There wasn’t that much to see, anyway, just white, featureless walls topped by a white, featureless ceiling. The few items of strictly functional furniture in the room were also familiar enough to him by now.

Familiar, but in no way comforting. Their strictly utilitarian white surfaces and gleaming metal parts were just another reminder of the impersonality of his existence. Nothing in this room was his. Granted, nothing in Section had ever really been his either, but at least he had had some say... some control over the small details of his life. Here, in the cold room that was essentially his tomb, he had no control, not even a comforting illusion of it.

All of the sudden, the walls were closing in on him. Of course, in his rational mind he knew that it was just a trick of his imagination, but still... Despite his extensive training and experience in controlling the workings of his own mind, this time it was unbelievably difficult to fight the vivid mental image of the walls around him sliding slowly and unavoidably towards his bed. In his mind's eye, he could see them moving in on him a fraction of an inch at a time like huge embodiments of the hands of fate.

With a start, Michael noticed he was taking very deep breaths, trying to draw as much oxygen into his lungs as possible before the walls closing in on him would push it all out. Deeply embarrassed by his unprofessional reaction, he swiftly altered his breathing pattern back to normal and then tried to steer his thoughts into less distressing avenues. All he managed to do was to awaken the harrowing images that the cold, precise words Milady had spoken in the padded room had created in his mind.

Yes, he could see his future clearly. The continuous humiliation of being at the total mercy of others. The feeling of being buried alive in the sterile bowels of Section One, hundreds of feet below the surface, without any real means of even keeping track of the passage of time. While those who had been his friends... No, that's probably not the right word... went on with their lives, gradually forgetting his existence, he would lay strapped to this bed day after day, slowly rotting away.

She would do it; there was no doubt in his mind about that. As much as he wanted to think Milady was only bluffing, he couldn't. That would be pure self-deception. A foolish hope. You know what happens to people who hang onto foolish hope... She had clearly told him what her intentions were. All the things he knew - or think I know - about the woman controlling his fate indicated that there was no reason to expect her to change her mind. No, she would go ahead with her plan. Not out of any real maliciousness, but simply because she could.

With a sudden clarity, Michael realized it was all a game to Milady. A game for which she wrote the rules. A game in which his role was that of the helpless pawn. His face remained passive, but inside his mind a voice started screaming.

I can't do this, I can't...

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

In the total blackness of her room, Sara lay sprawled on her back in the middle of her queen-sized bed. An observer might have thought she was asleep: her eyes were closed, her breathing was regular and she hadn't moved a muscle in the last half an hour. In reality, her body was relaxed, but her mind was racing.

He seemed so perfect... I don't want to start over... I don't want to wait... He will work out... He must work out!

She wrestled with a wave of desperation that wanted to drown her. Silently, she scolded herself mercilessly with words that would have made a seasoned sailor blush, berating herself for too much hope and for placing that hope on something that she could not really fully control. The rapid stream of crude words barely kept at bay the acid pool of disappointment and loss gathering in the pit of her stomach.

Fearing that she was about to dangerously lose control of herself, Sara opted for an escape she knew she could trust. Concentrating all her thoughts on her breathing for a while, she began the familiar first stages of the meditation exercise that had seen her through many a difficult moment in the past.

Pushing all the distressing feelings aside like brushing off a pile of dirt, Sara let herself soar into the air towards the soft white clouds in the sky. Once nestled in their protective folds, she was bathed in warm, nurturing sunlight that filled her with happiness. She was no longer alone; she could feel the soothing presence of her old friends everywhere around her. Then there was Damon, wrapping himself around her and filling her soul with love.

She basked in the good feelings, letting them permeate her whole being. For a while, the sunlight eradicated the shadows that had made their home in her - the shadows that now were her. She turned back time for a few precious moments and returned to a place where she could still experience the feeling of sheer joy. In this hideaway, there was still a bit of pureness in her - and there was promise.

Suddenly, she was jolted out of her place in the sun. The beautiful blue sky was gone - in its place was a swirl of murky greyness. A faint howling sound rang in her ears and she could smell the storm. Disoriented, she fought to understand what had happened, while a part of her screamed in disappointment and anger for being pushed out of the safety of her haven.

Promise. You had to go with promise!

Her anger grabbed onto the realization of what had caused the unpleasant shift and started to put up a fight. She quenched the attempt mercilessly, then stilled to concentrate on listening with all her senses. There was no mistaking it - a storm brewing. Its feel was familiar, but also totally chilling. She could tell it was a monstrous beast full of destruction. As her eyes snapped open, Sara crashed back into reality with a gnawing sense of urgency wringing her guts.

Silently, without even turning the bedside light on, Sara slipped out of the bed. Her bare feet made no sound as she walked across the room to an armchair by the wall. Feeling her way around by touch only, Sara put on her sweat suit. Next, she made her way to the door, combing her unruly hair with her fingers while walking.

Stopping in front of the door that led out of the room, Sara paused. Then she turned around and headed for the bathroom instead. Still in the dark, she went to her vanity case. Her fingers soon found the small metal box she was looking for. Without taking the box out of the case, she opened it carefully. From among a selection of earrings she sorted out two miniscule disc-shaped objects that she slipped into the pocket of her pants. Next, she gingerly opened the secret compartment hidden within the box and extracted a tiny glass vial. That ended up in her other pant pocket.

After having once again stashed the box in its place on the bottom of the vanity case, Sara brought her hand to her mouth and swallowed the little pill she had also gotten from her secretive medicine cabinet. Then she drank some water straight from the tap before making her way back to the outer door of her room. She opened the door, stepped into the corridor, then closed the door behind her softly.

Squinting her eyes against the harsh light, Sara made her way softly down the corridor. She nearly paused in front of Michael's door, but thought better of it at the last moment and continued towards the common room. Walking into the room, she found Andy lying on the couch, idly leafing through a motor racing magazine. Every now and then he would raise his eyes to the monitor showing a view of Michael's room.

The sudden and silent appearance of a human figure in his peripheral vision gave Andy a start. He was half way up from the couch by the time he realized who the person was. "Oh!" The syllable communicated a great deal more than he would have liked. Andy sank back into the couch, trying to find a way to salvage his ego somehow. "You move like a ghost!" was all he could manage.

"Sorry." Sara's voice was soft, almost conciliatory. "I didn't mean to sne... surprise you." She changed the wording at the last minute, trying for something neutral. "I'm awake, so I thought I could relive you from the watch for a while."

"Okay..." Andy couldn't figure out what was going on. The idea of someone willingly taking the watch for even a 'while' around midnight was incomprehensible to him. Sara's almost friendly behavior seemed also at odds with the coldness with which she had treated him earlier that day. He tried to decide whether to risk his neck by asking some questions or to just thank his lucky stars and head straight to bed.

"It's been a long day. Why don't you go get some sleep. I'll wake you up if I start getting sleepy myself." Sara's tone was mild, but it didn't really encourage conversation.

Andy decided to play it safe. "Sure - I'll be in my room. Good night."

"Good night." Sara hoped her impatience didn't come through too strongly in her voice.

As Andy walked out of the room, Sara placed herself in front of the monitor. Making sure she looked like she was keeping a close watch at it, she silently counted seconds. Five minutes and thirteen seconds after Andy's departure, Sara herself turned and walked out.

CHAPTER 24

[See notes here]

Walking through the doorway of Michael's room, Sara let her gaze sweep over the entire room, taking in every little detail of the stage for her next performance. Everything she needed seemed to be in place. The room - lit by only a nightlight - was full of grey shadows that seemed soothing after the too-bright lights in the corridor.

Without stopping to turn on more lights, Sara moved further into the room. A few paces later, she realized that the atmosphere in the room was far from soothing. The air seemed unusually stale, heavy to breathe, and an oppressing feel of menace seemed to envelop everything like an invisible cloud of poison.

Sara felt her mouth go suddenly dry.

Careful to look nonchalant, Sara walked around Michael's bed. She flashed a quick, tight smile towards Michael before turning to check the IV bag. While fiddling with it, Sara managed to slip one of the tiny discs out of her pocket and attach it to the back of the IV stand. The dull-metal-grey object blended well with its surroundings and would not be easily spotted.

So far, so good. Not so what!

Sara managed to stifle the crooked smile that threatened to break onto her face. With effort, she also got a firm grip on the wave of hysteria rising from within. She turned to face Michael and gave him her best version of the 'good Samaritan' smile.

Michael appeared to be staring at the ceiling, but his eyes had that faraway look that suggested he was actually looking inward, not outward. His right hand was clenching the sheet covering him in a grip hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The fingers of his left hand - what little of them could be seen outside the styrofoam wrap - were clawing at the mattress beneath him. He gave no indication of being aware of Sara's presence.

Leaning slightly towards Michael, Sara could feel the power of the raging storm even without touching him. Her temples ached in remembrance of the last beast she had tamed. She hoped she wouldn't have to go through it all again, this time.

"Michael?" Quenching the sense of urgency that now tried to take hold of her, Sara breathed slowly in and out. Her gaze never wavered from Michael's face. "Michael?"

Michael blinked. Then, his eyes visibly changed colour from very dark, almost black green to a lighter, greyish shade of jade.

At the same time, Sara felt the strength of the storm diminish. It was as if the storm - which up until that point had been directly overhead - had started to move.

"Michael?" Her voice was gentle, almost caressing.

Michael turned his head slightly to look at Sara. For several heartbeats, his beautiful eyes were a vivid display of changing emotions; then they became hooded. He continued to stare at her with a blank expression.

The storm seemed to move further away from her.

That's it! Fight!

"Would you like something to drink, Michael?"

There was no answer. Michael's unreadable eyes kept boring into her.

Since she had made sure that her body covered Michael's face from the view of the surveillance camera, Sara didn't let the lack of his co-operation disturb her. Smiling down at him, she simply nodded before moving to the other side of the bed to reach the small table with a water pitcher on it. As she separated one paper cup from the stack next to the pitcher and poured water into it, Sara also attached the other small metal disc to the table behind the pitcher and pressed down on it. She began to count in her head.

Still counting, Sara approached Michael's bed again. She had the cup in her left hand, so she used the right one to reach behind Michael's bed for the control panel. For a fleeting moment, her hand seemed to waver, as if not sure which button to press. Then she punched the correct button decisively. The head of the bed began to rise to the tune of the familiar whirring sound.

When the bed had risen enough for Michael to drink easily, Sara played for time by adjusting his pillow and covers with her free hand. Then, she finally reached fifty in her count.

Sara wasted no time. She dug her right hand into her pant pocket and pulled out the glass vial. Squeezing the top of it with the two fingers of her left hand that could be spared from holding the paper cup, she used her right hand to twist the vial and break off the top. Then, taking the open vial gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, she lowered it to Michael's lips.

"Michael, you need to drink this!" Sara's voice was little more than a hiss. She grimaced at the unmistakable anxiety in her voice.

Five precious seconds ticked by. Nothing happened.

Cursing silently, Sara used the unoccupied fingers of her right hand to try and pry Michael's mouth open. At first his lips were stiff, resisting her assault. Just as Sara started considering harsher methods, she suddenly felt Michael's lips go slack as his mouth opened underneath her fingers. She wasted no time in pouring the few drops of yellowish liquid into his mouth and stashing the remains of the vial back in her pocket. Then, she lightly massaged Michael's Adam's apple with the tips of her fingers until she felt his throat work as he swallowed.

The liquid tasted horrible. Over the years, he had swallowed some pretty awful tasting concoctions both in med lab and during missions, but nothing he had ever tasted compared to this. Worse still, the stuff seemed to burn its way down his throat. Michael began to cough so violently there were soon tears in his eyes.

Sara brought the paper cup quickly to Michael's lips and gave him a sip of water. She figured time was almost up and decided to play it safe. "I'm sorry, I was careless. I shouldn't have given you so much at a time."

Surprisingly enough, the small amount of water he had drunk seemed to effectively relieve the burning sensation in his throat. Michael coughed a few more times, then settled back against his pillow. He knew he should have tried to puzzle out the meaning in Sara's cryptic words, but he just couldn't bring himself to concentrate on anything outside his own mind.

Leaning over the railing of the bed, Sara used her fingers to wipe away the traces of tears from around Michael's eyes. One of her fingers brushed against Michael's forehead and the resulting sensation seemed to startle her. Next, she gently pressed her entire hand against his forehead.

"You're burning up!"

Without waiting for Michael's reaction to her words, Sara did a quick one-eighty and walked to the intercom. She paged Andy's room. "Andy, come to Michael's room. I need your help."

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

Twenty minutes later all three of them were in the bathroom.

Andy, silently cursing his bad luck, was busy mopping the floor clean. He kept a keen eye on his work, trying to wipe out every last trace of the pool of vomit that had colored the floor tiles a sickly yellow. Meanwhile, he debated with himself whether or not to ask Sara for permission to use an air freshener. For some reason, even though he was able to look at the stuff without problems after years of exposure to similar situations, the smell still made him feel sick.

Michael sat slumped at one end of the bathtub. His head rested on the towel-cushioned edge of the tub, one scalding hot cheek pressed against the cool tiles of the wall. His eyes were closed and he breathed a little raggedly through a partly opened mouth.

He could still taste bile in the back of his throat. The violent throbbing and pounding in his head made him feel sick, but, at the same time, warned against the folly of moving his body. He wondered briefly if this was what a migraine felt like. His whole body - except for his left wrist that was covered in plastic to protect the bandage from moisture - was drenched, but still it seemed to burn. Michael decided to concentrate on just breathing in and out until the worst of his misery passed.

Sara sat on the chair placed next to the bathtub. Leaning back, hands hanging loosely at her sides, she looked relaxed. The look on her face was neutral, almost bored. However, a closer examination would show that her eyes, which were fixed on Michael, were very alert.

She watched water run down Michael's naked body, assessing his condition with clinical interest. Despite the cool water pelting down from the showerhead above, Michael's cheeks burned a feverish red. His face - drawn and almost grey in its paleness everywhere else but his cheeks - was a clear indicator of his discomfort.

Not much longer now. Hang on - it will be all right.

Sara watched Michael's chest rise and fall slightly in time with his breathing. There were some faint bruises on his chest and arms, no doubt a result of his earlier struggle with Greg in this same room. Sara's gaze moved to Michael's hands. Her eyes caressed his long, graceful fingers, which always fascinated her, even when limp and lifeless like now. Watching them filled her with a heady anticipation.

Michael's fingers twitched. Then, he slowly turned his head until it was no longer underneath the jet of the water. He blinked his eyes a few times to clear off the drops of water clinging to his lashes. Opening his eyes completely, he looked straight at Sara. His jade eyes held a lot of pain, but also something else.

For once, the smile on Sara's face was totally natural.

Welcome back, my beautiful killer.

CHAPTER 25

Nikita stepped out of the women's locker room, brushing still slightly damp hair back from her face with one hand.

Now that the scheduled martial arts training session with the second year recruits was over, she was officially on downtime and could have headed straight home. However, the idea didn't appeal to her - she still had trouble spending time at home without drowning in her anxieties. Before she could make a conscious decision about what to do next, her feet automatically carried her towards the Comm.

Walking into the open space underneath Operations' aerie, Nikita felt rather than saw the relentless activity going on at the heart of Section One. She stopped a few feet in front of a young man totally immersed in his work. "Hi, Birkoff."

Section One's resident computer god glanced up from the screen he had been studying. The look in his eyes warmed when he saw the beautiful blonde. More than half of his brain capacity was still processing the tasks at hand, though, so his greeting was just a quick smile that faded as soon as he returned his attention back to the computer screen.

Nikita didn't let Birkoff's behavior faze her. "What's going on?"

"About a dozen things. Nothing that concerns you, really. You're down, aren't you?" Birkoff's tone of voice did a pretty good job of softening the effect of his not-so-carefully chosen words.

"Yeah." Nikita bit her lip. "I just thought I'd hang around a while... before I go home."

"Right." Birkoff's eyes kept a steady vigil on the fluctuating numbers on his screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he checked the time display in the top right corner of the screen. All of a sudden, his head snapped up and he looked up at Nikita again. "Could you do me a favor?"

Nikita couldn't help the smile that hovered around her lips. Maybe he's out of Oreos... "What kind of a favor?"

"Could you go retrieve me a file?"

"Retrieve you a file?" Nikita's eyebrows lifted with her voice.

"Yes - a delta file stored on level seven."

"Why can't you send one of your people?"

"They're all busy." Birkoff's voice held a tinge of annoyance.

"And this is urgent becau--"

Birkoff cut her off in mid-sentence. "We have a team en route, but we can't go live before I can verify some data. That file might help." He gave her an intense look. "You know your way around there better than most people and it looks like you don't have anything better to do at the moment."

For a fleeting moment, Nikita wondered if this was Birkoff's idea of flattery. Then she gave in with a faint shrug of her shoulders. "Where on seven?"

"Grid J-5 2-B."

"And exactly how urgently do you need it?"

"15 minutes is okay. 20 minutes... Whatever it takes." Birkoff's concentration was firmly back on the screen and his voice was little more than muttering. The next moment, he suddenly wheeled his chair around 180 degrees to reach another computer terminal and started tapping on the keys furiously.

"Okay, boss." Smiling to herself, Nikita turned to go.

She didn't mind the dismissal - she knew the way he worked by now. She was also well aware of the impact he could have on the outcome of a mission. If getting this file for Birkoff would help the POS of the mission running - and therefore would also give her fellow operatives a better chance at surviving another mission - then she wouldn't really mind being a delivery person. Birkoff's last comment did puzzle her, though.

20 minutes to retrieve a file from level seven? Maybe he's under too much pressure lately. I've been moping about my problems so much I haven't really paid any attention to how he's doing. Maybe I should invite him over for a dinner or something so we could talk...

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

The door to Madeline's office slid open almost soundlessly. A tall, gangly man in his late forties walked carefully down the steps. He was dressed in slightly ill fitting grey pants and a creased, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up in a haphazard fashion. His sand-colored, cropped hair framed a long face that was pale from lack of sunlight. He was in the habit of constantly squinting his eyes.

The man stopped in front of Madeline's desk and made a half-hearted attempt to stand at attention. "You wanted to see me?"

Madeline let the silence stretch for a few moments while she looked the man straight in the eye. "Mr. Jenkins, I've been expecting your report on the anomaly that occurred two weeks ago. Situation C1, if you recall." Her words, while civil, were still a clear reprimand.

Jenkins' Adam's apple popped up and down a few times. "Well, yes... You see..."

"Yes?" Madeline tilted her head slightly. Her dark eyes pierced through the man.

Jenkins' hands were fluttering a little at his sides. "Well, er... I mean... We haven't reached any definite conclusions yet."

"Meaning?" Madeline's voice was definitely tinged with frost now.

"Meaning we don't know yet what caused the anomaly." There were clear beads of sweat on Jenkins' forehead.

"There was a severe disturbance in surveillance that affected a part of one room inside Section One on a high-security level. The disturbance lasted for ninety-eight seconds, and you don't know what happened?"

Jenkins only nodded in confirmation. He was staring at his own shoes, the look of a doomed man on his face.

"I suggest you find out." Madeline's voice was almost gentle.

Jenkins glanced at Madeline, scarcely believing he was still alive. "Yes, ma'am." He took a hasty step back, then halted jerkily, realizing he hadn’t been excused yet.

"I'm waiting for your report." Madeline gave the man one last look before turning to face her computer terminal.

Glad to escape the eyes that always made him feel like Jell-O, Jenkins nodded mutely at Madeline's profile. Then he turned and hurried out of the room, trying very hard to be as silent as possible.

As the door closed behind the surveillance technician, Madeline stared at the screen in front of her in distaste. There was no doubt in her mind about who was responsible for the anomaly, but what she really wanted to know was how it had been done. The team of operatives, including Walter, who had searched Milady and all of her belongings when she had moved to Section One, had found no signal-jamming devices.

The idea of having Milady inside Section was bad enough. The possibility that she could disrupt their surveillance at will left a very foul taste in Madeline's mouth, especially since she knew that she might eventually have to report it to Operations.

Madeline allowed herself the luxury of a sigh. Then, she brought her attention back to the screen and started going through the list of abeyance recommendations.

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

Eight minutes after she had left Comm, Nikita walked - or rather wove her way - down an empty corridor on level seven. Holding a non-descriptive disc case in her hand, she was on her way back to the elevator she had used to get there.

Finding the file had been easy, just as she had expected, and she knew she would make it back to Comm long before Birkoff's fifteen minutes were up. Since she wasn't really in a hurry - and because anything that would delay the moment when she would have to leave Section and pretend to be a normal person was a blessing - Nikita had decided to indulge herself.

She was playing a game of stepping on the lines on the floor in a pre-ordered pattern. This was something she had often done as a child on the streets - the concentration required had always helped her escape thoughts that were a little too hard to deal with. Besides, it would give the surveillance people something to think about, should anyone be watching her now or review the tapes later.

Rounding a corner, Nikita instinctively looked up, and the game was forgotten. The sight of the pair approaching from the other direction made breath snag in her lungs and her step falter. For a fleeting moment she actually considered turning around and running to avoid a meeting. Then, she realized it was too late to get away unobserved. Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, she continued forward instead.

Nikita's steps became precise, almost rigid as she straightened her back and drew herself to her full height. She quickly schooled her face to hide all signs of the turmoil inside. Thankfully, she had gotten better and better at hiding her feelings over the years, to the point where she was fairly confident that even her eyes would not betray her – at least not under casual scrutiny.

Too bad that her feelings and reactions had not gotten any less intense with time. Walking closer to the other two - who still hadn't noticed her - all she could hear was her heart drumming a crazy double beat inside her chest. Her system was so strained by trying to cope with the warring feelings inside her, that the world outside her body seemed to be on the other end of a long tunnel. Yet, her eyes took in and recorded every painful detail of the couple walking towards her.

They were both dressed for exercise - Sara in leggings and an oversized T-shirt, Michael in loose drawstring pants and a more form-fitting T-shirt. They walked close together, side by side, exuding an air of togetherness. Sara's arm was wrapped possessively around Michael's waist while his arm rested on her shoulders. Sara's face was turned towards Michael; her eyes never wavered from his down-turned face.

Coming closer still, Nikita noticed that Sara was talking constantly. Her voice was so low that Nikita couldn't make out any of the words. Whatever it was, though, it had to be captivating, because Michael appeared to be listening to her closely. In fact, the two of them were so wrapped up in each other they still hadn't noticed that they were not alone anymore.

When they were only three or four meters apart, Sara finally looked ahead. Spying Nikita, she halted. Michael followed her example so fluidly they seemed to move in perfect unison.

Nikita suppressed the scream of rage echoing inside her head. She checked her mask and consciously relaxed her hands.

"Nikita." There was a small, polite smile on Sara's face.

Nikita dipped her slightly in greeting, making sure her voice matched Sara's. "Sara."

She came to stand about a meter away from the couple more or less blocking the corridor. Her gaze automatically moved from Sara to Michael, hungrily drinking in everything about him. "Hello, Michael." Waiting for his reaction, Nikita felt her heart start beating even faster.

Michael, who had until now been staring down, finally raised his gaze to meet hers. "Hello." His voice was soft, a little hard to hear. It communicated as little as his hooded, unreadable eyes. After a brief moment, he looked down again.

The familiar pang of hurt and frustration cursed through her like a lightning bolt. It was so strong she didn't succeed in completely controlling her reaction to it. As Nikita turned sideways, the smile she flashed at Sara was slightly pained.

Sara met Nikita's eyes briefly. Then she looked at Michael and - without saying a word - started moving again.

As Michael walked past her, his right arm and hand were only inches from her body. Nikita suppressed the urge to grab his hand and lace her fingers with his. Mesmerized, she stared at his hand, hoping against hope for a sign, a little brush of fingers, anything... Michael's hand hung limply by his side.

Michael and Sara walked past her and continued down the corridor. Neither gave any indication of being aware of her presence anymore.

For a few seconds, Nikita stood rooted to her place, staring after them. Then, she took a deep breath, turned and started walking briskly towards the elevator. She kept her gaze firmly on the wall ahead.