Milady  continued

by Titta (rated NC-17)

CHAPTER 26

When Nikita arrived back in Comm the place was even busier than before. Most of the computer terminals were manned and several conversations were taking place at the same time - a majority of them conducted by people who were intently staring at the computer screens in front of them and tapping on the keys while talking.

Nikita walked up to Birkoff and handed him the disc case.

Birkoff accepted the case without looking at Nikita and put it on the table next to him. His gaze never wavered from the screen he was facing; neither did his other hand cease its dance on the keyboard. Then, he turned his head slightly to his right. "Claire, use a Z filter on that!" Before the sentence was finished, his eyes were again scanning the multiple windows on his screen.

After a few more swift keystrokes, Birkoff took a deep breath and stretched his hands over his head. Relaxing slightly, he finally looked around, checking his troops. Only then did he seem to notice that Nikita was still standing next to him.

He flashed her a warm smile. "Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome." Nikita automatically responded in kind. Her expression evened as she looked around casually to check if anyone was interested in their conversation. "I saw Michael and Sara on level seven."

"Really?" Birkoff didn't sound too surprised. His eyes didn't react to the news. "How was Michael?"

Nikita shot Birkoff a sharp look before schooling her face back to neutral. "Back on his feet."

Birkoff's attention was back on the computer screen. "Andre, you've got a loop on seven. Kill it!"

Unfazed, Nikita leaned against Birkoff's table. "So, will you be working all night again?"

"No, I'm off as soon as this mission wraps. I should be done in a couple hours."

"Well, in that case - would you like to come over to my place for dinner?"

"How about I take you out for dinner?" Birkoff's reply was fast. "I still owe you for the last time."

Nikita was a little surprised by the suggestion. Birkoff, taking her out for dinner? For some reason the idea felt a little odd. Then, she pushed her feelings aside and started processing the implications of the unexpected offer. Suppressing the frown that threatened to spread to her face, she instead grinned delightedly at Birkoff. "I'd like that."

Birkoff seemed pleased, too. His eyes sparkled with something very close to excitement. "Good. How about I call you when I'm leaving and we can make plans to meet somewhere?"

A young man of Asian origin approached them with a small panel in his hand. "Birkoff?"

Nikita started backing away. There was nothing more she could accomplish here. "See you later."

Immersed in his work again, Birkoff only nodded absentmindedly in reply and acknowledged the presence of his latest visitor.

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

Nikita returned home for the first time in ten days. Approaching the door of her apartment, her steps automatically became soft. Glancing around quickly to make sure the corridor was empty she delicately slid her key in the lock. In one fluid motion, she turned the key, twisted the handle and pushed the door open all the way so that it banged lightly against the wall. No one was waiting for her behind the door.

She stepped inside, dropped her bag on the floor and kicked the door closed behind her. All senses still on high alert, her gaze swept the whole place. Only silence and a little cloud of dust dancing in a beam of sunlight greeted her. Despite the warm light pouring in through the windows, the apartment seemed slightly chilly. It had the forlorn feel of a home left unattended for too long.

Wonder if I'll ever get used to this?

A slight, vaguely unpleasant but familiar smell made Nikita instinctively wrinkle her nose. The air in the room was stale. She walked to the French doors and opened them. The breath of fresh summer air brushing her face felt heavenly. A quick look around the balcony revealed nothing more alarming than a few wilted flowers.

Next, Nikita headed for the bathroom. On her way through the bedroom, she stripped off her smart shirt and flung it on the bed. Her favorite comfortable shirt hung from the hook on the back of the bathroom door. She slipped into it and immediately felt the comforting smell of home soothe the worst of her wariness away. After washing her hands, Nikita continued her examination by checking the contents of the bathroom cabinets.

Ten minutes later, Nikita had completed her mental checklist without finding anything. Still, sauntering around the apartment lighting up candles, Nikita kept looking for signs of an anomaly. Everything from the furniture down to the hairs on her hairbrush seemed to be just as she had left them. There was an unbroken, thin layer of dust on all the surfaces. Absolutely no sign of anyone visiting while she had been away.

If only I could believe my own eyes...

The thought brought a rueful smile to her face. She had no such luxury. On the other hand, wallowing in paranoia wouldn't do her any good, either. Like so many times before, Nikita resolutely shut the lid on the can of suspicions permanently lodged in her mind and decided to get on with her life.

When all the candles scattered around the apartment were burning, Nikita found herself standing in the middle of the living room floor, trying to decide what to do next. She checked the time and estimated that it would probably be a couple of hours before Birkoff would call. A couple of hours - just enough time to clean the apartment.

Okay, this is turning into a pattern, but I don't care. Hey Madeline, don't ya know I'm a clean freak!

Nikita walked up to the kitchen cabinet where she stored all her cleaning equipment, took out a pair of pink rubber gloves, a kitchen sponge and a bottle of cleaning solution. As she pulled on the gloves, the look in her eyes was one of determination.

My life might be a mess, but at least my apartment will be clean.

At first, Nikita concentrated solely on her work - the rhythmic movement of her hand, the meticulous passage of the sponge over each and every inch of the kitchen counter. She was pressing the sponge against the tabletop a little harder than was absolutely necessary. The physical activity soothed her. Pretty soon, it turned into a routine and her mind - the bothersome little critter - started wandering again.

At first there were just fleeting thoughts about everyday matters. Well, everyday Section matters. The momentary glitch in her gun during the mission in Paraguay. The slightly odd comment Hawkins had made on the way back from Budapest. Her own performance during the martial arts training session earlier that day. From there, it got more personal. Way more personal - all the way to the point where she could no longer deny the truth from herself: the encounter on level seven had triggered an ache inside her.

The thought made her stop abruptly. Then, momentarily angry with herself, Nikita started rubbing the counter even more vigorously than before.

For a while, she tried to avoid the sore point, to think of anything but... Then, recognizing an old, destructive habit, Nikita let out a sigh, did a quick mental one-eighty and confronted the enemy head on. Pushing past the wall of pain, her mind started processing the images of the encounter. She had every second of it stored deep inside her in vivid detail, like a high-class surveillance tape ready to be examined.

Images of Michael surfaced first - his slightly pinched face pale under a few days' growth of beard, forehead shiny with sweat. He had put on some weight since the last time she had seen him, but he was still leaner than before. It showed clearly in the muscles of his arms, among other things. Every little detail of Michael's appearance - then and now - was permanently etched into her mind. Rolling the image of Michael around her mind, Nikita could sense an echo of something, something significant, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Feeling slightly uneasy, Nikita moved on to images of Milady. She couldn't help wondering how the redhead still managed to appear distant and cool dressed in workout clothes and with a slight sheen on her face. Once again, Milady had been civil towards her, but her behavior had hardly invited any further interaction. Going over the scene one more time, Nikita got the funny feeling that maybe Milady had not really been present during the whole scene, at all. Instead, she had been detached - like a fly on the wall, observing the things going on around her. Observing Nikita - and Michael.

That brought her back to Michael. Michael - uncharacteristically - slightly out of breath. Michael, his beautiful jade eyes blank. Still, he had acknowledged her presence. It was a promising sign, wasn't it? Even if the way he had done it had left her feeling disappointed. Nikita admitted to herself that she had - foolishly! Don't you ever learn? - hoped for something more. On the other hand, Michael hadn't displayed any hostility towards her either, which was a relief.

No, it was a huge relief. Only now did Nikita dare admit to herself that one of her constant nightmares since the last time she had seen Michael had been another scene with him expressing his anger to her. The indifference was, all in all, easier to take than point-blank hostility.

The thought brought her back to the look in Michael's eyes. It was the one thing about him that seemed totally familiar. How many times over the years had she stared into his jade green eyes, trying to see into his mind, and been denied by that damned blank stare...

Nikita's hand slipped off the end of the counter and she banged her elbow against the tabletop. "Shit!" she muttered thickly. Cradling the hurt elbow with her other hand, she did an almost comical little 'hurt dance' around the kitchen.

It didn't really help lessen the pain, but, hopefully, it would help mask her reaction. No amount of training could ever make one immune against an accidental hit on a nerve - just as no amount of training could make one immune against a sudden insight, a revelation that makes the blood flow faster and the heart skip a beat.

CHAPTER 27

Two hours later, Nikita walked into a small, charming restaurant. The maitre d', a well-groomed, middle-aged man a few inches shorter than Nikita, greeted her politely and, at the mention of Birkoff's name, began to lead the way towards the back of the restaurant. Following him, Nikita took in the place.

The heels of her boots clicked an almost melodious sound against the polished wooden floor. Beautifully framed prints of paintings by famous impressionists hung on the pale yellow walls. A small vase of real flowers decorated each table she passed, and the cotton tablecloths were pristine white. The discreet lightning created an intimate, yet relaxing atmosphere. The setting was almost...

Romantic. The thought made her smile. Seymour, you've learnt a few things. We'll make a spy of you, yet.

As far as Nikita could see, there were only about twenty tables in the entire restaurant. About half of them were occupied, mostly by what seemed to be couples in their late twenties or thirties.

We should blend in here easily.

Birkoff was already waiting for her at a table tucked somewhat discreetly into the back corner of the room. When Nikita reached the table, he rose to greet her and they exchanged the two kisses on the cheek the local custom deemed appropriate between good friends. It all happened so naturally that anyone watching them would no doubt have assumed this was the way they always greeted each other.

The maitre d' helped Nikita into her seat and handed them the menus. Without bothering to look at the wine list, they both ordered a glass of the house Chardonnay, then settled more comfortably in their seats as the maitre d' left them alone.

Nikita looked around, taking in the entire restaurant from this new viewpoint. Automatically, she drew a mental map of the place including doors and windows, as well as the placement of all the tables. At the same time, she also made a mental list of every single person she had seen in the restaurant thus far. No red flags, yet.

Smiling, Nikita turned to Birkoff. "The place looks nice."

"Yes. I heard the food is good, too." Birkoff smiled back.

"Great." Nikita's smile faded as she shifted from social to business in a matter of a heartbeat. "Is my place under surveillance again?"

"Not as far as I know..." Birkoff looked at Nikita apologetically. "But I'm not a hundred per cent sure. Operative surveillance isn't exactly within my jurisdiction."

"And this place?"

"I've never been here before. I read a good review somewhere and thought it would be nice to check if the reviewer was right. Besides, it is my turn to treat you." It was a deliberate attempt to keep things light for a little while longer.

Nikita acknowledged his effort with a quick smile, then opened her menu and began to read.

A few minutes of silence ensued as they both appeared to concentrate on studying their menus. In fact, Nikita was still keeping a sharp eye on everything around them from under her bangs and Birkoff, for his part, kept a wary eye on Nikita.

After a lengthy debate with herself, Nikita decided on entrecôte for main course. She glanced at Birkoff to see if he was ready. Seeing that he was apparently done reading his menu as well, she opened her mouth to speak.

Just then a waitress in a black skirt and a white shirt almost bright enough to blind approached them with two glasses of wine in her hands. Smiling pleasantly, she placed the glasses on the table and waited for them to taste the wine. "Are you ready to order?"

When the waitress left with their order, a somewhat uneasy silence again settled over them. Nikita broke it first. "So, did you ever use that file I got for you?"

Birkoff shrugged. "No - I figured out a way around the problem a couple of minutes before you got back."

"I see."

Another silence.

Nikita's feelings wavered between annoyance and concern. Looking around casually again, she took her time choosing the next words. "How long have they been walking around there?" The tone of her voice was almost flat.

"Every day for two weeks now." Instinctively, Birkoff flicked a quick look around as he spoke.

"And how did you know about it?"

"Since I have no access to the surveillance of Milady's quarters - " A look from Nikita made him falter. "No official access and constantly poking around might attract too much attention... Anyway, I've been keeping an eye on the surveillance of the nearby sectors."

"And you sent me there today because..."

Birkoff shrugged. "I thought it would be a good idea for you to take a look at Michael."

"That was your idea?" Nikita knew she sounded a little edgy, but she didn't care.

"Yes! Who do you..." Birkoff never finished the sentence. "I haven't talked with Madeline - or anyone else except Walter for that matter - about anything that has to do with Michael for weeks. It wasn't Walter's idea, either."

"Okay, okay." Nikita held her hands up defensively. With a sigh, she placed them back on the table and started playing with her napkin. "I'm sorry if I'm a little paranoid."

"Well, who of us isn't?" Birkoff's smile wasn't quite as light and humorous as his words. "So, what happened?"

"I met them in the corridor. I said 'hello,' Milady said 'hello,' and Michael said 'hello.' That's about it." It was Nikita's turn to shrug.

Her attitude didn't faze Birkoff's interest one bit. "How did he react to you?"

"He didn't. Just gave me the blank stare." With effort, Nikita kept her voice flat.

Birkoff physically sagged a little, the wind suddenly gone from his sails. "Oh."

Checking her surroundings again, Nikita leaned slightly towards Birkoff. "Birkoff, listen to me." She spoke slowly, stressing each word. "Michael gave me the 'there's-no-way-you're-going-to-get-into-my-head' blank stare."

Understanding dawned. "The infamous Iceman Stare?"

Nikita simply nodded.

"Wow!" He couldn't help the smile breaking onto his face.

Letting go of herself, Nikita leaned back in her chair and smiled at Birkoff.

"That is good news, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think it is." Nikita stopped to reconsider the points she had debated with herself. "At least it shows he's back in control of himself. It's a familiar pattern of behavior... Listen to me! I'm starting to sound like Madeline!" She didn't even try to keep the happiness out of her voice.

Birkoff smiled. It felt good to see Nikita in a humorous mood again. He almost decided to keep the next question to himself, but curiosity won in the end. "Do you think he recognized you?"

"Yes." The smile on Nikita's face evened out from amused to just content. "Don't ask me how I know, but yes, he knew who I was."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. What can I do?" Nikita couldn't quite keep the frustration out of her voice. It was another issue she had debated with herself ever since the realization of the importance of Michael's blank stare had hit her. "I can't keep bumping into them by accident in the same place, can I? And besides, with that woman there, what good would it do?"

"Maybe Madeline will arrange more opportunities for you to get close to Michael."

"Madeline?" The word contained a mountain of incredulity.

Birkoff took a deep breath, as if contemplating something. Then, he obviously made up his mind. "How much do you know about the deal Operations made with Milady when she came to Section?"

Nikita had no idea where Birkoff was going with this. "I know she's in charge of Michael for now. Is there more to know?"

Birkoff automatically leaned closer to Nikita and lowered his voice. "Operations officially signed Michael over to Milady. With the understanding that once she's done retraining him - whatever that means - Michael gets to decide if he wants to rejoin Section or not."

"I don't believe it!"

"I've seen the paperwork. Oversight has approved it. Believe me, it's for real."

"Real for Section..."

"With Oversight being involved, I don't think Operations would dare to play too dirty. I doubt that will stop him from trying to influence Michael's decision, though." Birkoff gave Nikita an intense look over the rim of his glasses. "I think you'll get a chance to spend time with Michael, maybe sooner than you know."

"That's great! Wonder if they'll grant me an incentive for completing the mission if I ask them nicely." Nikita's voice shook slightly with rage. "Can I get three months of downtime if I can persuade him to stay?" Her voice, deliberately in a girly falsetto, had risen in volume as well.

In the near-by tables, a few heads turned to see what was going on.

Birkoff put his hand on top of Nikita's on the table. "The Michael we know makes his own decisions, Nikita."

Nikita, staring at the table with unseeing eyes, took in a slightly shaky breath.

"Look at it this way - you get to spend time with Michael. Hopefully, you two will eventually have a chance to talk things through in private. He knows how things work in Section just as well as you do." Birkoff could only hope he was getting through to Nikita. Then, another thought hit him. "Besides, are you sure he'd be better off outside of Section? With Milady involved?"

Nikita raised her head and looked at Birkoff. "You do have a point there. I don't like her and I certainly don't trust her."

Birkoff felt like letting out a huge sigh. "All the more reason for you to get involved."

A slow smile spread onto Nikita's face, then turned into a wide grin. "When you're right, Birkoff, you're right. I think I'll enjoy messing with Milady's plans."

"Just one thing, Nikita. Please don't let anybody know I told you about the deal. It's classified intel - way beyond the level even I'm supposed to be able to access." The grin Birkoff gave Nikita was still boyishly mischievous but it had also traces of something more mature in it.

Nikita looked at Birkoff a long time, trying to adjust her perception of the man she more or less considered a younger brother. Then, she put her right hand on top of Birkoff's hand on the table, sandwiching his hand between both of hers. "I promise."

CHAPTER 28

Michael woke up. It was a familiar, instantaneous transformation from one realm to another - one second he was sound asleep, the next he was awake and processing data. As his conscious mind kicked in a second later, he immediately focused his attention on his surroundings. Straining his senses, he concentrated on picking up a telling whisper of a sound or a whiff of a smell. Even his skin seemed to tingle slightly with the effort of trying to sense another presence in the room.

Nothing registered. He didn't believe his senses right away, of course, but after about a minute of intense scrutiny, he finally gave up. Michael broke the steady breathing pattern he had automatically maintained by taking a couple of deep breaths. Then, he slowly opened his eyes.

Sweeping a look around the room just to make sure he really was alone, Michael stretched languidly. His eyes focused on the digital alarm clock on the table next to the bed. It read 9.02 a.m. The somnolent look on his face never faltered, but he couldn't help blinking a few times as he tried to come to terms with the fact that he had again slept so late.

After years of thriving on five or six, sometimes very restless, hours of sleep a night, sleeping nine or ten hours every night seemed odd to him - a little alarming, even. Sara appeared to find it only natural, a part of the healing process. However, Michael had been injured numerous times before, and this was not his body's usual response. An increased need for sleep was normal for a few nights, of course, but for weeks?

Then again, I haven't really gone through anything quite like this before...

He halted the train of thought abruptly. There was little point in wasting energy on wallowing in his fears and anxieties or the multitude of unanswered questions that still constantly hovered around his conscious mind. He had very few answers, and there wasn't much he could do to change the situation for now. Spending time thinking about it would serve no purpose, except to make him feel gloomy.

And to pique her interest.

Michael suppressed the urge to frown and pulled his knees towards his chest to stretch his back, instead. Even if his body wasn't functioning properly physically, he did have at least some of his old form back. Most of the time now, he had no trouble hiding his thoughts and feelings from others. Still, Sara seemed to sometimes have an ability to gauge his moods with unnerving accuracy, and her interest in his moods - especially the darker ones - disturbed him.

Sara's interest in his physical abilities didn't bother him any more. Having banished from his mind the unproductive and distracting feelings that his dismal physical state had first awakened in him, he concentrated now on working hard to restore his capabilities, and Sara seemed content to encourage him. She still insisted on their nightly walk, but apart from that, it seemed to Michael that she had taken a step back. When it came to physical training, he mainly worked with Andy and Greg.

As for the mental side of things... So far, there had been no sign of the psyche evaluation he knew would be coming. It was standard Section procedure with any injury involving a prolonged period of unconsciousness, after all. But Sara had not even hinted at anything like that, yet. There was only this strange feeling from time to time... like she could look right through his carefully constructed barriers and see deep into the hidden nooks and crannies inside him that even he didn't really want to touch. It perturbed him slightly; it almost made him feel vulnerable.

That was another unpleasant thought on which he didn't really want to dwell. In an effort to wrench his attention from that unpalatable course, Michael swung his legs off the bed and sat up. He stretched his hands above his head and yawned out loud. Then, he pushed himself off the bed and headed for the door.

Pressing down on the button by the door, Michael still half expected the door to stay closed. It slid softly open on its well-oiled tracks. He stepped into the corridor and looked both ways. There was nobody in sight, no discernible sound to be heard from either direction. Turning right, he crossed the corridor to the bathroom door.

Pulling the door softly close behind him, Michael quickly surveyed the room. The bath towel hung on the rack just as he had left it the night before, and the comb on the counter had apparently not been moved, either. Somebody had been in the room since the previous night, though - there was a new roll of toilet paper on the chair and his clean clothes for the day were neatly stacked on top of the hamper.

The important thing was that there was nobody else in the room now. It was monitored, of course, and he was sure his presence here had not gone unnoticed. In fact, it was quite possible somebody was watching him on a monitor this very moment. However, even the illusion of privacy and some personal freedom were luxuries he hadn't really gotten used to yet. Walking silently across the tiled floor on his bare feet, Michael allowed himself to enjoy the feeling for a moment.

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

Dressed in black sweatpants, a blue T-shirt and a gray fleece jacket, Michael stepped out of the bathroom five minutes later. Turning right, he walked past the door to his room and headed for the dining room.

As Michael walked into the room, Andy lifted his gaze from the motor racing magazine lying on the table in front of him and gave Michael an easy smile.

"Good morning, Michael."

"Good morning."

Without stopping, Michael walked towards the little kitchenette behind the dining room, surveying the table and everything on it on his way.

"The coffee in the pot is still pretty fresh," Andy told his back.

"Thank you."

In the kitchenette, Michael opened the door of the upper right-most cabinet and took out a mug and a glass. He sniffed at the coffee in the pot, then poured his mug full of the ink-black liquid. Next, he opened the refrigerator, took out a plastic bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice and filled his glass. With the coffee mug in his left hand and the glass of juice in his right, he returned to the dining room and took a seat diagonally across the table from Andy.

Andy took a swig of his coffee and gave Michael a friendly, slightly absent-minded look before returning his attention to the magazine.

Michael grabbed the plate closest to him and placed it neatly in front of him. Picking up the teaspoon lying on the plate, he used it to scoop two generous spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee; then he stirred. Once he was certain the sugar had dissolved, he brought the mug up to his lips and drank. The feel of the warm liquid flowing down his throat was... satisfying?

Putting the mug down on the table again, Michael reached for the breadbasket with his free hand. There were two rolls left in it - one wheat and one multigrain. His hand almost touched the multigrain roll when he suddenly pulled it back, resting his elbow on the table.

Michael looked at Andy. "Are you eating more bread?"

Slightly startled, Andy looked up at him. "No, I'm done. Go ahead, eat whatever's left." A beat later, he sat up. " I can get more for you if you'd like. I'm pretty sure we have some of that nice country bread in the kitchen."

"No, thank you. This is enough."

"Okay." Relaxing, Andy again returned to his reading.

Michael reached again for the multigrain roll. He picked up a clean butter knife from the middle of the table and used it to first cut the roll in half, then spread a thin layer of butter over both halves. Next, he picked up the last slice of ham from a serving plate and put it on the bottom half of the roll, aligning it neatly with the outlines of the bread. He covered the ham with a slice of Gruyère cheese and topped it all with four slices of cucumber. Then, he put the top half of the roll back in place.

Looking at his neat sandwich, Michael again experienced a momentary feeling of satisfaction, but still something, a feeling or a thought he couldn't quite reach, kept nagging at him. As he lifted his mug up for another sip, Michael was suddenly struck with the thought of how absurdly normal everything seemed.

Here he was, having a leisurely breakfast of his own choice that he had served for himself. He was sharing a table with another person who seemed more interested in drinking his coffee and reading his magazine than keeping an eye on him. They had exchanged words as civilized equals - with no probing questions, no commands, not even a real suggestion. Even Andy's offer of getting more bread for him had sounded like a genuine friendly proposal that had nothing to do with the fact that the bread knife - like all the other sharp knives in the little kitchenette - was locked away in a drawer Michael had no key for.

In short, they were both going through the motions of pretending that they were normal, civilized people living normal, civilized lives - that everything was exactly as it was supposed to be.

Maybe everything is as it's supposed to be, for him.

Shaking himself mentally, Michael downed a big gulp of coffee. Neither move helped to dislodge the sudden gloom that had settled over him. Michael reached for his sandwich and bit down on it almost savagely.

CHAPTER 29

By the time he finished his breakfast, Michael had managed to work his way back to his normal equilibrium - a mental state where both the positive and the negative feelings were carefully held in check by his rational mind. He knew better than to let his emotions get in the way of survival.

Drinking the last of his orange juice, Michael put the empty glass softly down on his plate. Then he used the butter knife to push all the bigger breadcrumbs into one heap near the glass, clearing a space for the coffee mug and the utensils he had used. When he had everything neatly stacked in front of him, he stopped briefly to glance at Andy - still engrossed in his magazine - before getting up and carrying the load into the kitchenette.

On his return, Michael stopped in the middle of the floor, hesitating for a moment. Annoyed with himself, he took a deep breath and opened his mouth. "Andy?"

"Yeah?" Andy looked up.

"I'm going to my room to do stretches. Can we work out after that?"

"Well, Greg's busy hauling some stuff for Sara right now. Anyway, I think it's best if you go see Sara - she wanted to have a word with you after breakfast. She's probably in her office."

"Her office?"

"Down the corridor, second to last door on the left. Why don't you check back here or in the common room after you've talked with her."

"I will. Thank you."

Michael walked out of the room and turned right. Calmly, he strode down the corridor, then stopped by the bathroom. Taking a look at both directions of the empty corridor, he opened the door and stepped in, closing the door softly but firmly behind him. Michael walked to the counter, picked up his toothbrush and turned the faucet on.

Face passive, teeth lightly bitten together, Michael brushed his teeth meticulously while his thoughts raced.

Now it really begins... You knew it was coming. The sooner you begin, the sooner it's over.

He opened his mouth wider as his hand turned the brush around to reach the back of his teeth.

You can deal with Madeline, you can deal with her... Nothing to it.

He could feel the first signs of indigestion in his stomach.

Putting down the toothbrush, Michael bent down to rinse his mouth one more time. Lifting his head, he took a long look at the green eyes staring back at him from the mirror. The eyes betrayed no emotion. Satisfied, Michael turned and reached for the towel to dry his hands.

Opening the bathroom door to exit, Michael almost banged it against something. The sudden sound of agitated voices made him react with reflexes he had been unsure he still possessed, and he yanked the door closed again. Two stunned seconds later, he opened the door again, this time just enough to peek out. He saw the back of a big black man, his bald head glistening in the artificial light, walking towards the end of the corridor. He was wearing the customary black Section operative outfit, and appeared to be carrying something.

Carefully, Michael stepped out of the bathroom and looked around. The corridor to his right was empty. On his left, he could see the black man, Greg and glimpses of a third man - another Section operative, apparently walking backwards - carrying what seemed to be a piece of furniture. Just then, the men slowed down and appeared to hold a quick negotiation before starting to maneuver their burden through a doorway. As the men turned the piece of furniture, Michael realized that it was a sofa of some kind.

Belatedly, Michael realized he had been standing in the middle the corridor for several seconds. Trying to quench the rising feelings of annoyance and unease that threatened his concentration, he started walking purposefully towards the doorway through which the men had already disappeared.

Reaching the doorway, Michael stopped outside it to assess the situation. The men were out of his sight, though he could hear their voices. In the middle of his field of vision, facing the left wall, was Sara, dressed in her customary shirt and jeans. She was obviously keeping a close eye on the men in front of her.

As if sensing his presence, Sara turned her head and flashed a smile at Michael. "Michael, please come in!" As soon as the last syllable had cleared her lips, she turned again to instruct her moving crew.

Tentatively, ignoring a sudden reluctance to move, Michael took three steps forward. That brought him just over the threshold. He stood there awhile, using the activity in the room as an opportunity to study it unobserved.

There was an impressive looking computer station in the far right corner of the room. Beside that, lining almost the entire right-hand wall, was a freestanding system of shelves and drawers in chrome and black wood. It was empty, but scattered in front of it there were a number of cardboard boxes.

The left side of the room was domineered by a modern desk with a laptop, a remote control for what he assumed had to be the door and a few papers on top of it. Behind the desk was a comfortable-looking office chair. Next to the desk stood a tall, futuristic-looking chrome lamp. Halfway between Michael and the desk, two straight-backed visitors' chairs looked forlorn and out of place in the middle of an empty floor. By the left wall, the two Section operatives and Greg were still carrying a cream-colored chaise lounge, maneuvering it into position under Sara's watchful eye.

"That's perfect there."

With an audible breath of relief, the men put the chaise lounge down. Michael watched their muscles gradually relax as they straightened. Grimacing, the black man stretched his hands behind his back, obviously trying to work out a kink in some muscle. His partner, an equally well-built Caucasian man with brown hair, dark eyes and a slightly crooked nose, looked at Michael with transparent curiosity, before hastily turning his head away when he saw Michael looking directly back at him.

Michael tightened his grip on his feelings.

"That's all for today. Thank you gentlemen, and good day. Greg, will you see them out, please?" Sara sounded like a person of good upbringing, used to ordering staff around.

As Sara turned to look around the room, Greg began to lead the men out. Michael stepped to the side of the doorway and the men filed quietly past him. Greg gave him a friendly look and a glance, but both of the operatives carefully avoided his gaze.

Sara walked around the desk to sit on the chair behind it. She pulled the chair close to the desk, reached for the control box and pressed one of its buttons.

Michael nearly jumped as the door slid closed behind him with a soft sound. Silently, he cursed, momentarily furious with himself. Scrambling to get his feelings back under control again, he drew in a long breath through his nose as he slowly straightened himself into his full height. Only then did he look at Sara again.

She was watching him, smiling slightly. "Good morning, Michael. Did you have breakfast already?"

"Yes."

"Good." A pause while Sara looked him straight in the eye across the room. The smile on her face faded. "As you know, I'm in charge of your retraining. It's my responsibility to make sure that you meet all Section standards before I declare you fit enough to return to active status."

Michael acknowledged the words with a slight nod.

"In the last few weeks, you've made good progress in your physical recovery. I think it's time we now start working on the other aspects, too." Sara leaned back in the chair. "Due to the nature of your injuries and the fact that you were unconscious for an extended period of time, it's very probable that your memory has suffered. It's also possible your cognitive skills have been affected to some degree." Another slight pause. "We'll also have to consider the psychological effects, of course."

So far, everything was going as he had expected. Still, Michael wouldn't let himself relax.

"In order for me to assess the situation, I'd like you to take some tests. However, the only way for me to evaluate you properly is for us to talk. I'm a licensed therapist with extensive experience in working with people who've gone through similar situations. I believe I can help you."

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Sara broke the look by glancing down at the desk. After a few seconds, she returned her gaze to Michael.

"Starting tomorrow, you'll have a few hours of physical exercises in the morning. After lunch, I expect to see you here. Time allowing, you can do more physical exercises after that if you so wish. How does that sound to you?"

"Fine."

"Good." Sara flashed him tight smile. "Right now, I'd like to start by asking you some basic questions."

"Am I supposed to lie down?" He was looking at the chaise.

There was a smile in her voice. "Whatever makes you feel comfortable."

Michael stood still for a moment; then he walked to where the two straight-backed chairs had been left. He turned one of them to face the desk and moved it a little bit closer to it. Then, he sat down neatly, letting his hands rest on his thighs. Michael looked at Sara, his face blank.

Sara smiled warmly at him. Then, she pulled out a black notebook from a desk drawer. Leaning it against the edge of the desk, she opened it and leafed through its pages until she apparently found what she was looking for. Looking up, she started. "What's your last name?"

"Samuelle." Michael's voice was soft, the pronunciation very French.

"Where were you born?"

"Marseilles."

"What year?" Sara was looking down at her notebook, writing something in it with a pen she had also picked up from the drawer.

"Dix-neuf cent soixante-cinq." Noticing the lapse, Michael instantly corrected. "Nineteen sixty-five."

What was that?

Sara's head shot up at the sound of the French words. She tried to keep her voice even. "In what language do you think?"

"Whatever." Michael shrugged.

Did you do that on purpose?

For a brief moment, Sara felt tempted to press the issue. "What's your status level in Section?"

"I'm in retraining." Michael looked straight at Sara, not a hint of humor in his eyes or around his mouth.

Okay, I can play, too.

Sara looked equally solemnly back at Michael. "What was your status level before?"

"Class five operative."

She focused on her notes again. "When was your last psyche evaluation?"

"Last September. This is all in my files." This time there was a definite trace of annoyance in Michael's voice.

Looking up from her notes, Sara gave him a faint smile. "The files I'm interested in are inside your head, Michael."

Breaking the gaze after just a few seconds, Michael opted to stare at the empty space two inches from Sara's right ear. He could feel a slight twitch in his jaw, but he managed to keep his face carefully blank.

A few more seconds ticked by.

"Do you remember waking up here?"

Cocking his head a little, Michael stole a glimpse at Sara, and then let his graze roam quickly around the room before refocusing it on Sara. "Here?"

"Yes, here on level eight." She hoped she didn't sound too indulgent.

"Yes."

"Tell me about it."

Ignoring the frantic voice inside him, Michael took his time. "I was in the same room where I sleep now."

'The room where I sleep'... Not that I was thinking you'd regard it as home.

Sara made sure her thoughts were not reflected on her face or in her eyes. "Was there someone else in the room?"

"You."

"What else do you remember about it?"

"You gave me water." A slight hesitation. "From a red baby mug."

Sara smiled. "Can you describe the mug in more detail?"

"It was plastic, bright red... one of those no-spill valves, I think. It looked new." Michael's eyes were fixed on some spot on the floor in front of Sara's desk. "It had a picture of a big yellow flower on one side." He looked up at Sara.

"That was good." Sara straightened and leaned her arms on the desk. "I think this is enough for now. Next, I'd like you to take some basic language and math tests on the computer so that we can get some kind of an idea of where we are. Unless you had something you wanted to ask me, of course."

Acting on instinct, Michael opened his mouth. "Actually, I was wondering if I could get another bed? Something not so high."

What a nice euphemism for not-medlab-issue. Finally! Ten cookie points and a parrot sign.

"I'm sure that can be arranged. I'll make a few phone calls later and let you know." Sara had some trouble keeping her smile only mildly pleased.

CHAPTER 30

Walter was standing next to his counter, frowning at the PDA in front of him, when the sound of solid footsteps made him lift his head. He saw a big, broad-shouldered black man in the standard black operative's outfit approach his station.

"Hi Walter!" The man's voice was deep, but surprisingly mellow.

"Hi Donovan! How you doing?" Walter's voice was friendly in the easy, carefree way he used with most people in Section he didn't actively dislike.

Donovan reached the counter and casually rested his left hand on it. "Okay. What about you?"

"No complaints, man. This baby here is being a little stubborn, but otherwise - no complaints." Walter softly patted the PDA with his left hand.

Donovan answered Walter's smile with a brief one of his own. "We thought we'd put in some time sparring." Donovan nodded his head a little towards his partner, an equally big, slightly rough-looking Caucasian man who had stopped a step and a half behind him on his left side.

Walter looked at the other man and raked his memory. "Müller, right?"

"Yes." Müller's heavy accent and grave tone of voice gave the word so much weight it sounded almost comical.

Walter focused his attention back on Donovan. "What did you have in mind?"

"Knives. I promised to show Müller a couple of moves."

"Bowie or something smaller?"

"Something smaller. Actually, a stiletto could be useful, too."

"I've got just what you need. Hang on a minute."

Walter turned and walked into the munitions bay. Less than a minute later, he returned carrying a wooden box. He set it on the counter, opened the lid, took out the cylindrical cloth bundle on top and started to unwrap it. Walter took a quick look at the first knife fastened onto the heavy cloth, pursed his mouth and started to wrap up the cloth again. When he had refastened the bundle with the Velcro straps sown into the cloth, he put it aside on the counter and grabbed the next bundle from the box. "So, what's up otherwise?"

"We just came back from level eight."

"Oh yeah? What were you doing on level eight?" Walter threw the question out casually without looking up from his work.

"Moving some stuff for that red-head. You know - Milady. Man, she believes in quality. I bet that sofa we lugged into her office weighted a ton. My back's gonna give me trouble before the day's through!"

Müller decided to participate in the discussion. "We saw Michael, too."

Walter looked up, acknowledging Müller's contribution. "Really? How was he?" His tone was interested, but only conversationally so.

"How can you tell?" From the tone of his voice, it was impossible to tell whether that was Müller's idea of humor, or if he was genuinely baffled.

Ignoring his partner, Donovan shrugged. "He looked okay. A bit pale, perhaps. Other than that, quite normal."

Walter's attention was back on the knives. "What'd you expect?"

Donovan shrugged again. "Dunno. There's been all kinds of stories going around. You know, rumors about Michael."

"There's always all kinds of rumors going around this place. Michael has been featured heavily in them ever since he first got here." Walter pulled from its cloth pocket a long, shiny stiletto, which was made oddly pathetic-looking by its blunt tip, and handed it to Donovan, handle first. "And no doubt, there'll be even more rumors going around once you guys hit the locker room or the cafeteria." From the counter, Walter picked up the knife he had chosen earlier and handed that, too, to Donovan. "There you go. Don't forget to return them when you're done. Enjoy yourselves!"

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

Sara sat in the by-now-familiar visitors' chair, leaned back and stretched her legs lazily. Across the desk from her, Madeline keyed the last command on her keyboard to log off from her terminal before turning to face her visitor.

"Would you like something to drink?" Madeline's voice was smooth as silk.

How long are you planning for this discussion to last, anyway?

"No, thank you." Sara's polite smile hid her thoughts completely.

Madeline's answer was her standard enigmatic smile and the lacing of her fingers. "How is your office coming along?"

"Quite nicely, thank you. I still have a few boxes to unpack, but it's definitely starting to look like an office." Sara kept the friendly smile plastered to her face.

Much more of this and my face will cramp. I've been here too long.

"That's good." Madeline seemed genuinely pleased.

"The guys you sent over were a big help."

"I'm glad to hear it." Madeline seemed prepared to keep up the idle conversation for some time.

To hell with this!

Sara let the polite mask go and gave Madeline a hard, fed-up look. "Are we done with the chit-chat now?" The tone of Sara's voice was blunt and aggressive.

Madeline appeared totally unperturbed by the sudden change. In fact, there might have been a flash of genuine amusement in her smile. "By all means."

Sara straightened up in her chair. "I had a preliminary session with Michael today. We talked a while, after which he took some basic tests on the computer. He did well in both mathematics and languages, as was to be expected. Still, it is a positive sign. We'll be having sessions daily from now on." Her tone of voice was back to neutral, the delivery matter-of-fact.

"How long do you think it will take for you to get to his memories about the mission?" Madeline was also all business by now.

Madeline, impatient?

"It's impossible to say at this point. I'm aware of the time factor..." How the hell could I not be when you keep shoving it in my face? Sara kept her thoughts and feelings carefully out of her voice. "But rushing things might be dangerous."

Madeline simply nodded. "I would like Michael to see Dr. Chalmers soon. It's time the scars are taken care of."

"Certainly. In med lab or in our quarters?"

"Med lab would be more practical."

"Tomorrow evening? That's after lunch for us. Michael's exercising in the morning and I don't want to disrupt that."

"You're still living in EST?"

"I like EST." Sara shrugged slightly. "The European time zones and I have never gotten along."

Madeline smiled in reply. "Interesting."

"Really?" The word was ripe with sarcasm.

Again, Madeline ignored the blatant bait. "I'll make arrangements for tomorrow evening at 7 o'clock. What is Michael's physical status?"

"He's been working hard the past few weeks, and I'm quite pleased with his progress. So far, we've been concentrating on mobility, flexibility and muscle control. His left arm is not up to par with the right one yet, but it's improving. We'll start working on strength and speed soon. There's still a lot of work to be done before he's back to his old standard, but so far things are looking pretty good."

"Do you foresee any problems?"

"Not as long as he maintains the hard-working attitude. By the way, would you happen to know in which language Michael thinks?"

If the sudden change in subject confounded Madeline for even an instant, she didn't let it show. "He is fluent in several languages. I'm sure he thinks in the language he's speaking at a given moment."

"What about when he's not speaking? When he's speaking to himself inside his mind?"

Madeline considered the question for a while. "I've never asked. Why do you want to know?"

"I'm a firm believer in the theory that the language we use to think influences the way we think, the way we perceive ourselves and the world around us."

"Interesting." Despite the comment, Madeline's voice was non-committal. "Did you try asking Michael?"

"Yes." The tone of Sara's voice was very dry.

Madeline's smile was full of understanding. "That's Michael. He can be... quite a challenge."

"That's part of the reason I'm here, isn't it?" Sara flashed her brattiest smile at Madeline.

Madeline smiled back serenely.

Maddie dearest, couldn't you humor me once in a while and just take the bait?

"Oh, I almost forgot. I need a new bed for Michael."

Madeline's eyes widened a fraction in question. "A new bed?"

It was Sara's turn to play blind and deaf. "A standard Section bunk bed will do, I guess. He's still using the med lab bed, you know."

It took Madeline only a split-second to decide that in this instant obliging Sara to satisfy her own natural curiosity was in Section's best interests. "Why do you want it changed now?"

"Michael asked for a new bed."

Madeline's eyebrows lifted. "Michael asked? You?"

"Yes. Interesting, isn't it?" Sara let the wide smile that spread to her face reach her eyes as well.

This counts as at least half a point for me.