Milady  continued

by Titta (rated NC-17)

CHAPTER 31

Nine days later, Sara breezed into her office to find Michael standing in front of the bookcase, apparently checking out her collection of books.

"Hi Michael, I'm sorry I'm late. I ran into Madeline - she sends her love."

Michael acknowledged Sara's presence by turning around to face her. His face was set in what Sara had begun to call 'the relaxed blank mask', and his arms hung loosely at his sides.

"Found anything interesting there?" Sara asked as she passed Michael on her way to the desk. "I'll be happy to borrow any one of those books to you if you'd like to read something."

"I've never read Spengler's 'The Decline of The West'." Michael's polite words were not quite a request.

"Well then, just grab the first volume from the shelf after we're done." The words were tossed over her shoulder as she circled the desk. Standing behind it, Sara drew her notebook out from the desk drawer and opened it in her hands.

After a while, she looked up at Michael, who had remained standing near the bookcase. "Before I forget - your next appointment with Dr. Chalmers is tomorrow after lunch. If you don't feel too poorly I'd still like to see you here afterwards."

Michael simply gave her a little nod in reply.

Silence filled the room again as Sara took her time leafing through the notebook in her hands. Then, she closed the book and smiled at Michael. "You're not going to use the chaise today, are you?"

"No."

"Do you mind if I do?" She was still smiling.

"Not at all."

Sara walked to the chaise, grabbing one of the throw pillows piled at the end of it in passing. She slipped the pillow behind her lower back as she sat down, slouching a little. Having found a comfortable position, she then crossed her right knee over the left one and put the closed notebook on her lap with her hands splayed on top of it.

"So, how's the physical training going?"

"Fine." Michael was finally moving. He walked to the chair closest to the chaise, turned it to face Sara and sat down graciously.

"Are you working on hand-to-hand now?"

"A little. Andy and Greg aren't really trained in that - they only know the basic moves."

"I bet they're much more adept in wrestling down agitated patients than protecting themselves against a real assault." Sara's smile was full of quirky amusement before her face evened out again. "Maybe we could work together. I'm hardly on edge anymore, but I think I still know more about fighting than the boys. Would that be okay with you?"

"Of course." The words were accompanied by a slight nod of his head.

"Good." There was a short silence. "Tomorrow's probably not a good time to start, but maybe we could meet in the workout room the day after tomorrow at nine a.m.?"

"I'll be there." Michael's smooth voice carried no trace of emotion of any kind.

The room was once again bathed in downy soft silence. Sara still looked in Michael's direction, but her eyes were now unfocused. After a while, she visibly returned to the present and again directed her sharp gaze on him. "Do you remember the first time we ever met?"

"In Tallinn."

She smiled at Michael ruefully. "A right royal mess, that was. Politics..." The way she pronounced the word made it clear she found it dirty. There was a short pause before she continued. "At one point there, in the warehouse, you were thinking of trying to take me out."

Michael's tone was non-committal. "Yes."

"We had you guys covered pretty good. What made you even consider it?" Sara sounded genuinely curious.

"The way you held your gun."

"Ah, yes." Sara smiled. "A gun has never fit into my hand the way a knife does. Unfortunately, a blade doesn't have nearly the same intimidating effect that a gun has in a wild, open situation like that."

"It takes much more skill to inflict a lot of damage with a knife than with a gun." Michael's tone was matter-of-fact.

"And, optimists that we are, we hope the opposition is not skilled enough." Sara's voice was full of dry humor.

"You - an optimist?" Michael smiled slightly in return.

"I've staked my life - and the lives of everyone on my team - on 'they're not good enough' a few times."

"You're still alive - maybe you're just good at assessing the opposition."

"Maybe I just had great back-up." The words were suddenly heavy with emotion.

There was a moment of sober silence.

"What about you? Care to confess to the sin of optimism?" Sara's voice was again light and ironic.

"I'm a realist."

"I see." Sara was starting to sound like a therapist. "So, the realist in you decided not to attack me after all."

"Sonderberg made me stand down. He outranked me. I was only level two at the time." Michael shrugged his shoulders. "And he was probably right."

"Of course he was." Sara smiled widely. "Now, I'd like to hear about your memories from that night. Anything that comes to mind - sounds, smells, your thoughts..."

CHAPTER 32

Nikita rested the back of her head against the cool wall behind her and closed her eyes. Despite its substantial size, Section's main egress elevator felt too small for five operatives and a frightened mark. The enclosed space was saturated with the pungent smells of urine and sweat. Also present were the almost equally tangible atmosphere of weariness and - emanating from the captive - fear.

The descent seemed to take forever.

They had only been to Amsterdam, but it was now late on the sixth day of the mission, and everyone in the team was operating on too little sleep. All Nikita wanted to do was to check in quickly so she could then hopefully go home and get a good ten hours of sleep. She couldn't help wondering again whether this mission to capture the puny diamond broker standing in the middle of the elevator with a hood over his head had really been worth all the time and effort they had put into it.

As if to answer her thoughts, the man started whimpering again. The sound cut off abruptly only seconds after it had started. Nikita didn't have to open her eyes to know that Wilkins had again none too gently elbowed the guy in the ribs.

Finally, the elevator stopped and the door leading inside Section opened. Bailey, the team leader, exited first. Mentz and Wilkins grabbed the mark by his upper arms and pulled him roughly out of the elevator with them. Nikita and Henriksen, the other female operative on the team, followed close behind.

In the corridor, they were met by one of Madeline's lackeys, a dark-haired man whose name Nikita could never remember because it seemed to contain three consonants for every vowel. Bailey stopped to talk to him, while Mentz and Wilkins - the mark securely sandwiched between them - turned towards the containment area without waiting for instructions. Nikita and Henriksen stopped a few feet behind Bailey to see what would happen next.

Bailey didn't let them wait for long. "Check in your gear and go home. Be back tomorrow by noon for debriefing."

Nikita flashed Bailey a tired smile of thanks before heading towards the munitions bay a few steps behind Henriksen.

Walter's station was deserted. The munitions bay grille was up, meaning that Walter was still on duty, but he was nowhere to be seen. Henriksen didn't let that bother her - she just started piling her gear on the counter. Nikita also laid her handgun on the counter but didn't stop there. Instead, she walked around it and poked her head into the bay proper.

"Walter?" The sound of Nikita's voice echoed faintly within the munitions bay but produced no reply. Frowning to herself, Nikita doubled back. Standing in front of the counter again, she turned her back on it and scanned the Systems area with her aching eyes.

It didn't take her long to spot Walter, who was standing with Birkoff at one side of the computer stations. Both men were staring intently towards the workout area near Systems. Curious about what held both men so riveted to the spot, Nikita headed over.

Crossing the open space under the aerie, she realized that the entire nightshift of Systems staff was obviously neglecting its duties. Instead of sitting by their computer terminals, two guys were sprawled on their chairs in the middle of the area, and even the permanently scared looking little brunette was sitting on her chair sideways, facing towards the workout area. She seemed to be oblivious to the fact that she was biting her nails. Whatever was going on, it held everyone in Systems totally captivated.

The reason for everyone's fascination became apparent as soon as Nikita got her first view of the workout area and spotted the couple fighting there. Although it was impossible to mistake the identities of the unarmed combatants, she still had to double check to make sure that what she was seeing really were Michael and Sara.

Still struggling to believe her eyes, Nikita joined her friends. "Hi!"

Both Walter and Birkoff gave her a quick look of greeting; then their eyes were drawn back to the fight.

Nikita watched Michael block Sara's blow with his forearm. "What are those two doing here?"

"I guess they don't have a big enough space for proper hand-to-hand training on level eight." Never taking his eyes off the fight, Birkoff nonetheless managed to produce a brief explanation. "This is the second time they've been here. They first showed up the day before last, also late at night. I checked with Madeline - they have clearance."

Giving up on conversation in favor of watching the action, Nikita automatically started analyzing the fight. She found the match slightly curious in nature. It seemed to move in cycles that started with Sara and Michael slowly circling around the mat and each other, followed by a fierce, but rather short engagement which led again to more circling as the opponents seemed to give each other time to recoup. Even during the circling, both fighters seemed totally oblivious to anything but each other, giving the impression of almost monomaniacal concentration. As far as Nikita could see, neither Michael nor Sara ever uttered a word, which was in itself quite odd for a practice session.

It quickly became apparent that of the two, Sara was the more active one - she initiated the attacks, while Michael seemed content to defend and counterattack. However, it was clear to Nikita that the reason Sara was dominating the fight was mainly because Michael let her.

Michael did favor his left arm slightly, but otherwise he seemed to be in good fighting condition. He still looked pale under the fluorescent lights, and she could see that his body was still a bit leaner than it had been before the fateful mission against Purple October, but although Michael's skin had a slight sheen of perspiration to it, his breathing appeared to be easy. He was not as fast as Nikita remembered him being, but he moved in a familiarly fluid and effortless fashion that was undeniably beautiful to behold.

Sara was evidently in good condition, too. The match must have lasted for some time, but she showed no signs of fatigue or being short of breath. However, even she appeared slightly flushed, and in places, her usually well groomed short red hair was standing up in little sweat-matted spikes. Overall, Sara's moves weren't as controlled as Michael's, but even Nikita had to admit that considering the standard against which she was being compared, that didn't necessarily qualify as an actual weakness.

Part of what made the match seem so bizarre was that Michael and Sara's fighting techniques were quite different. While Michael used his entire body for both defense and attack in the balanced way he had once also taught to Nikita, Sara repeatedly seemed to blatantly disregard her defense in favor of getting in a position to strike out at Michael. Instead of trying to aim solid blows or kicks at Michael's limbs, head or stomach, Sara used the tips of her fingers, her knuckles and elbows, even her bare toes to target the various nerve areas in his body.

Although Sara was the one actively attacking, Nikita thought that Michael's tactic was overall more efficient. Sara aimed for specific, rather small targets that were hard to hit and even harder to hit exactly right. She did manage to avoid some of Michael's counterattacks, but more often than not, his solid strikes and kicks found their target. It was impossible to keep an accurate count of hits and misses, but Nikita was convinced that Michael was doing more damage to Sara than she was doing to him.

However, the fight went on without either opponent gaining an apparent upper hand. Quite often, the angle of the combatants' bodies was such that it was hard to keep track of the flying hands and feet. Nikita began to pay close attention to the fighters' faces, instead. No matter what was happening, Michael's face revealed nothing but concentration, but the occasional slight smiles flickering on and off Sara's face soon started to give Nikita the creeps.

Just as Nikita started to wonder how long the fight could continue without either sparring partner taking a serious hit, there was a shift in the balance of power between the fighters. When the opponents disengaged once again, Nikita saw Michael press his upper right arm against his body and noticed that his lower arm and hand hung limply by his side. Sara had found the perfect spot to strike, after all.

Both fighters stood still for a few moments, regaining their breathing. Then, Sara started circling again; half a step later, Michael was on the move again, too. Nikita saw him rubbing at his injured arm, and she expected Sara to take advantage of Michael’s diminished capacity by launching a quick follow-up attack. However, Sara seemed in no hurry to make her move. Nikita’s gaze was drawn back to her face. The right side of Sara’s lips quirked upward in what could almost have been a smile, but Nikita could discern no other trace of emotion on her features, and she was forced to admit that she had no idea what was going through Sara’s mind.

I wonder if Michael knows what’s going on inside her head…

CHAPTER 33

He stands a few feet away from me, his posture relaxed. As relaxed as it can be when you have your arms up in a defensive position and your feet slightly apart, ready to move in a split second. His eyes are a cool moss green. It's impossible to read anything but alertness in them. Nevertheless, I know his brain is calculating angles, moves, plans of attack and defense.

He stands still, waiting for me to make the next move. His chest moves softly in and out in time with his breathing. He's using this little reprieve to restore his strength, no doubt. He's still not quite as strong as he used to be. It shows in his tactic, letting me take the lead for now.

I'm in no hurry. I like taking my time.

I enjoy the game.

I freely admit that I get a thrill out of the tug-of-war for dominance. Physical dominance, that is. Mental dominance over him - and through him, over everyone else here - is mine to keep. Anything happening here will only strengthen my hold. I'm staking my life on that.

I enjoy the hurting.

My body aches in several places - all the places that have felt the touch of his gift on them today. I know that certain moves will make me want to wince with pain as my body rebels against me. I don't care.

Scratch that - I do care. I enjoy it.

My body is a slave to my mind and a slave it will stay. Sometimes it needs to be reminded of the fact, though. Today is one of those times. I revel in the pain because it means that I'm alive. My lungs are drawing oxygen out of the air that fills them with every inhale. My cells are doing the work they were created for, providing a home for my mind and my soul, if I still have one. My neurons are snapping, sending and taking commands like good little soldiers.

It's been a long time since I have been a good little soldier. Not since the night I didn't drown although I was supposed to. Actually, I guess I was supposed to die of lead poisoning - the flying, piercing-your-body, ripping-your-guts-out kind, of course.

Without realizing it, I take a step to the side. He mirrors my move, keeping us face to face. Front to front, actually, since this is combat stance we're talking about. Seeing his body move brings me back. I give myself a mental headshake, trying to get my brain to focus on the here and now. The fight in the physical dimension. The fight against the man in front of me.

With, not against. I want to fight with him. Work with him. To make him work with me. I'm keeping my eye on the ball, you see. I've got my eye on the big picture. One step at a time, we're headed where I want to go and I will get what I want. Or die trying. But not today.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, the hurting. I enjoy it. So does he. So I'll give it to him. In little scraps.

No big blows today. Just the touch of my fingertips, knuckles, even my nails. The points of my toes digging into a soft spot, looking for a nerve to kiss. Creating a sharp flower of hurt spreading its bittersweet nectar in concentrated doses or maybe a fluffy numbness engulfing an entire limb in a soft caress. I'm taking care, taking care of him. Giving him what he needs.

I enjoy watching him hurt. In a far corner of the mind, the thought makes me frown at myself because that pleasure serves no purpose. No purpose but my own enjoyment. Indulging myself could be very dangerous. Can't afford to lose my focus.

Pain. Delicious, sickly-sweet, ringed in red and black pain. The one I carry inside me every fucking millisecond of my god-damned life. The one I can't quite live with but can't shake loose, either.

And if I give him of my pain, won't it lessen mine? Isn't that how it's supposed to work?

I wish.

Too bad that pain is like happiness. Sharing it, giving it to those around you only makes it grow. Actually, that makes sense, doesn't it? It's the same principle at work, I'm sure. Take a little seed and create more. It's just one of the many aspects of the magic of life.

No, I don't wish.

I need the pain - it's what keeps me going. Pain is what makes me tick. Without pain, there's no life and there's got to be a reason for me still being alive. There's got to. Otherwise... No, not going there. Definitely not going there.

Shit!

That hurt. That hurt more than anything yet, today. I think I'm going to limp if I move again.

Okay, I'll have to move again because it's not possible to fight a guy who knows a hundred and one ways of killing you with his body alone and NOT move, and I'm not ready to call it quits yet. Not now, when I can tell he's really working with me, giving me the hurt, feeding me. I'm not sated yet.

Besides, the idea is to get my ass kicked. So to speak. We're not quite there. The cool, dispassionate eyes watching the tape later will not be convinced until after at least a few more moves, a few more strikes back and forth. More bruises on my body.

I'm going to give them a damn good show of losing control. I'll give them anything just as long as it's another step in the right direction. The fact that I'm killing two - or maybe it's actually several - birds with one stone is just proof that I'm pretty good at what I do. Good for me!

I enjoy the winning, too.

I think the thing I enjoy most of all is winning when it looks like I'm losing. I'm a little twisted that way, I guess. Insert dry laughter here if you can manage it without sounding totally deranged. Wouldn't want anybody thinking I'm not quite sane, now would I?

Fuck!

I didn't mean for him to hit me in the face. I hate the smell, taste and feel of blood - even if it's my own. Besides, drinking orange juice with a split lip is a bitch. Maybe I should give him some of our favorite medicine back. I mean, I'll give him more of our favorite medicine before I decide it's enough.

CHAPTER 34

Looking for trouble, now you've found it
You're a drum and we're gonna pound it

Last one standing wins the fight
Hear us scream and shout all night
Down on the floor and eat the grit
This is gonna hurt a little bit

Heads I win, tails you lose
Out of my way, I'm coming through
Roll the dice don't think twice
And we crush, crush 'em

[See notes here]

Flopping onto her stomach on the bed, Nikita rested her head on her hands and closed her eyes. A few seconds later, she rolled onto her back. A few more seconds passed before Nikita gave up and opened her bleary eyes again. She stared at the ceiling, fighting the urge to scream out loud.

Even though she was in desperate need of sleep, Nikita knew that the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach would make sleeping impossible. She thought about making a cup of soothing herbal tea, but couldn't muster enough energy to actually get out of bed. Just lifting her arm up to cover her eyes seemed like a huge exertion.

As soon as her eyes flitted closed in the tranquil darkness under her arm, vivid images of the fight she had witnessed a couple of hours earlier started to fleet around her mind. Nikita willed them away, but they wouldn't leave her alone. Sighing, she lifted her arm away and opened her eyes again. Staring at the ceiling once more, she silently mouthed a few choice four-letter words.

It's not fair! He shouldn't have such an eff-

The thought was never completed because it was overrun by another, more urgent one.

Roll with it. If you can't stop it, you'll have to learn to roll with it.

The sound of Walter's voice rang clearly in her mind, although the words of wisdom had been spoken several years earlier. It was almost funny to realize that although she had a clear, detailed picture of the situation in her mind, she couldn't really remember what they had been talking about. Not that it really mattered. She would take his advice anyway.

Feeling almost elated, Nikita closed her eyes again and let her mind wander. In an instant, she was back in Section watching the fight again. At first, the images in her mind were mere flashes, which were coupled with an array of chokingly powerful, but fleeting emotions. Then, the flashes solidified and became a chronologically advancing film, and the emotions subsided to create a more manageable backdrop to the action.

It didn't surprise Nikita much to realize that the moment she was reliving was the one when Michael had just lost the use of his right arm. Looking back now, it was easy to see that that had been the point after which the tone of the match had began to change.

At first, the difference was subtle.

The arm hanging uselessly by his side didn't seem to bother Michael much. In fact, the loss seemed to spur him on, to give him the drive that he'd been lacking before. Michael's movements became slightly faster, and, although nobody could have accused him of clumsiness before, now his body practically flowed from one point to another. At the same time, his strikes and kicks became sharper, a little more aggressive than before. Soon, Michael seemed to also put more strength behind them.

Obviously also noticing the change, Sara followed Michael's example - or at least tried to. Her movements weren't any more flowing than they'd been before, but they did become more cutting and solid. She also seemed to sharpen her focus - her attacks appeared more carefully directed, and she started to pay more attention to her defense, blocking Michael's moves more often than before.

All these rather small changes had an overall effect on the fight that was perfectly obvious to a trained observer like Nikita. The pace of the match increased, the contacts between the fighters became harder, and the periods of rest shorter.

Then, the difference suddenly became violently apparent.

The combatants broke away from each other once again and stepped back, creating the usual empty space of no-man's-land between them. After just a few moments of rest, Michael suddenly took a step into the buffer zone and then launched a quick attack on Sara with a series of low, but powerful kicks. Clearly taken by surprise, she scrambled back a few steps before recovering and moving to block Michael's advance. Nikita saw Michael's foot thump against Sara's calf, and, judging by the pained look on Sara's face, the kick must have been as powerful as it seemed.

After that, the only breaks in the match were the seconds the fighters needed to get back on their feet after a fall. The combatants advanced and retreated, twisted and turned in a fierce and macabre dance punctuated by flying, punching, blocking arms and legs. The silence was now and then broken by a grunt or a moan, as a strike or a kick found an unprotected target. Nikita could detect no change in Michael's expression but she did notice that there was no sign of a smile on Sara's face anymore - Sara looked just as focused and committed as Michael.

The situation continued to escalate. Soon, the contacts between Michael and Sara became so fast and furious that it was impossible to get a clear idea of what exactly was going on or to predict who might come up on top. In fact, the tone of the fight was rapidly becoming so aggressive that it seemed more and more questionable whether both combatants would walk out of the workout area alive.

Nikita, feeling more and more uneasy by the minute, couldn't keep quiet any longer. "What are they doing?"

"They're sparring." Walter's voice was still easy. He sounded totally unconcerned.

Incredulous, Nikita turned to stare at Walter. "You call that sparring!?"

"Well, that's what they came here for." Birkoff pointed out.

Nikita couldn't believe her ears. "They are clearly out of control. We've got to do something!"

Seeing both Walter and Birkoff flinch, Nikita turned her gaze back to the fight in time to see Sara back away from Michael, pressing the knuckles of her left hand against her lip. As Sara then lowered her hand back to a defensive position, Nikita could see traces of blood around her mouth and on her hand.

Walter turned to Nikita. "Nikita, are you seriously telling me you want to stop Michael from kicking Milady's ass?"

Nikita's gaze was once again glued to the fight. She watched Sara attack for a change and saw Michael block her fierce blow easily then move out of her range with one smooth step to the left.

Still feeling conflicted, Nikita turned to Walter. "Well, if you put it like that..."

"They're both trained operatives. They can take care of themselves. Besides, one of them has got to fold soon." Birkoff's matter-of-fact commentary didn't distract him from keeping a keen eye on the fight.

Walter and Nikita shared a quick, half-amused, half-disbelieving look behind Birkoff's back. They returned their attention to the fight in time to see Michael once more attack Sara. He was still mostly fighting without the use of his right arm, but seemed completely unimpeded by his obvious handicap, and the fight went on undisturbed. The contacts were still fierce, but both combatants were finally starting to exhibit subtle signs of fatigue - a strike ever so slightly off target, a kick with a little less force behind it than before. Now it was a question of which one would first find a good enough opening and manage to turn it into his or her advantage.

Michael attacked again. When Sara moved to block his strike, Michael changed tactic in mid-maneuver and used a kick to sweep her off her feet. Sara went tumbling down, and, a second later, both fighters were rolling on the floor. Then, they came to a stop, and the spectators could see that Sara had ended up on her stomach with Michael lying half on top of her, his forearm pressed against her throat in a tight chokehold.

For a few moments, Nikita watched in disbelief as Sara continued to struggle although her situation was clearly hopeless. One of her arms was pinned under her own body, and she wasn't able to reach Michael well enough to do any serious damage with the other one. Michael used his superior body weight to immobilize her enough to stop her from turning into a better position. All the time, he continued to apply a steady pressure on Sara's throat.

Finally, Sara stopped her efforts. For a moment long enough for Nikita to wonder what would happen next, she just lay there, resting her forehead against the floor. Then, Sara tapped her free hand against the floor twice, signaling defeat. Michael immediately released his hold, rolled back off of Sara and rose nimbly onto his feet.

Moving much more slowly, Sara first rolled onto her back. For a while, she just stared at the ceiling, her chest heaving as she pulled long breaths of air into her lungs. Then, she rolled onto her side and pushed herself into a sitting position. Michael extended his hand to Sara and pulled her to her feet.

Standing face to face, still holding each other by the hand, Sara and Michael shared a look Nikita couldn't decipher. Then, Michael moved to the side of the workout area and picked up two towels. Draping one over his shoulder, he walked back to where Sara was still standing and handed her the other one. Nikita didn't need to hear Sara's voice to know that the word she had spoken was 'thanks.'

Without saying another word, Sara started toward the elevator, still wiping her flushed and sweaty face with the towel. Immediately, Michael turned to follow. Walking gracefully a few steps behind a slightly limping Sara, Michael leisurely turned his head toward the aerie. He let his cool gaze sweep over everything within view, including the trio still standing near the computer stations. When he turned his head forward again, his eyes met Nikita's.

They looked each other straight in the eye, and suddenly Nikita's entire world was in Michael's eyes - everything else around her simply faded away. The contact lasted for just a fleeting instant - Michael moved on without acknowledging her in any way, apparently totally unaffected by their contact. A few seconds later, he had walked right past her.

Nikita felt flushed, out of breath, then irritated. She also felt miserable, because she had to admit to herself that she had been able to detect no sign of any emotion in Michael's eyes.

That thought brought Nikita back to the present. Sighing, she rolled onto her side and adjusted her pillow.

I guess that's what really bugs me. It's nice to know that he's back in control, but... I wish he wasn't quite so much in control... I wish...

CHAPTER 35

To be continued...