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jaybee65Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lisa opened her eyes. A white ceiling. White walls. No windows, just a fluorescent light that flickered in the silence. She lay in a bed, in a flimsy hospital nightgown -- but this wasn't Medlab.
This wasn't Medlab, and judging by the solid steel door, she was a prisoner.
She sat upright. She had no memory of how she arrived here, wherever here was. She'd been in the warehouse, commencing egress, and then --
And then --
Her mind flailed helplessly, until finally it grasped a memory. Someone behind her, clamping over her mouth and nose with a cloth. An acrid smell. Choking. Then blackness.
And now here. In the custody of Section's enemies.
Her heart lurched in panic. She threw off the sheets and jumped from the bed -- to do what, she wasn't sure. The floor felt chilly beneath her bare feet.
She circled the room. It was empty but for the bed. There was no way to escape, and no means to defend herself. She could rig up a noose with the sheets, but where to hang it? Maybe she could get to the light fixture. She dragged the bed into the center of the room, stood on the mattress and reached, swaying on her toes, but she wasn't quite tall enough.
"Fuck," she said, and she fell back onto the bed with a bounce.
Then it occurred to her. Whoever was holding her captive hadn't strapped her down with restraints. They hadn't even roughed her up much, from what she could tell by the absence of bruises. She'd been left alone -- locked up, true enough -- in relative comfort. Certainly in better circumstances than Section provided for its prisoners. None of those poor bastards got pillows, that's for sure. She punched hers. Damn, it was even fluffy.
Maybe these people weren't going to torture her to a hideous screaming death after all. Maybe they'd at least give her a chance to talk first. Talking didn't seem like such a bad option, now that she thought about it. In fact, she kind of felt in the mood to spill her guts to someone. For the catharsis, if nothing else. And really, did she have anyone to be loyal to anymore?
Back at Section, after all, God only knew what had awaited her. A trip to the White Room. Swift cancellation, if she were lucky. Even if her mistake went undetected by Adrian, there had been something in Madeline's expression when Lisa confessed: a look of disgust, of cold malevolence that Adrian -- cruel as she was -- had never matched in all the years Lisa had known her.
Who was it, exactly, that Lisa had been helping? Adrian's regime was tyrannical, that went without saying, but was the alternative any better? Exchanging an autocratic monarchy for fascism wasn't necessarily a form of progress.
There was, however, Madeline's promise to release Seymour. Then again, promises were cheap. Lisa had no way to hold her to it. And if Lisa had learned anything over the past few years, it was that no one could be trusted.
That settled it. There was no reason to be loyal to Section, whoever was in charge. With the enemy, perhaps she had a chance at life. She had information they could find useful. She could bargain with them. In exchange, they could help her. Whoever the hell they were.
She fell back against the pillow and began to laugh.
***
"You know, I'm really not comfortable with this," said Mireille. She picked up a stack of papers from her desk, shuffled them to no apparent end, then set them down again. "I'm not supposed to give access to anyone."
"I have supervisory-level duties relating to R&D," replied Madeline. "This project qualifies under that category. There's absolutely nothing improper about my being here." If she'd been sitting closer, she would have reached over and patted Mireille's arm; instead, she shifted into the most reassuring tone she could muster. "You don't need to worry."
"That's what you told me when I gave you Lisa Birkoff's name." Mireille stared at Madeline, stony-faced. "And look what happened to her."
"She died on a mission." When Mireille shook her head skeptically, Madeline added, "Lisa had a high-risk job. You know that."
"What I do know is that she talked to you, and now she's dead." Mireille's voice wavered, and tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. "If I take you to see Seymour, maybe something will happen to him, too. Or to me!" She waved a dismissive hand. "I want nothing to do with whatever it is you're involved in."
Madeline stood from her chair. The attempt at reassurance wasn't working. Fine. She'd be blunt.
"You're in no position to dictate terms. You seem to be forgetting that I possess concrete evidence of your malfeasance that I can deliver to Adrian anytime I wish."
Mireille picked up the phone and held out the receiver. "Go ahead. Call her." She laughed. "Somehow, I think my "malfeasance," as you put it, has nothing on yours."
Madeline looked at the telephone, then back at Mireille. Of all the times for Mireille to choose to stand on principle, why did it have to be less than twenty-four hours before Paul launched his mutiny? Madeline didn't have time to woo this woman, didn't have time for more elaborate methods of persuasion, didn't have time for any sort of finesse. This was her last opportunity to solve this problem, and Mireille and her fears couldn't stand in the way.
Mireille had switched off the surveillance in her office at the beginning of their conversation. There didn't appear to be anyone else within hearing distance. That made things simple. Madeline pulled out a gun from her jacket pocket and fired straight into Mireille's forehead. A spray of crimson drenched the wall. The telephone receiver clattered to the desk.
Obstacle removed. Crude, but efficient.
Madeline rounded the desk, shoved Mireille's slumped body out of the chair, and sat down. She hung up the beeping telephone and rummaged through the desk drawers until she found what she was looking for: a directory of the test subjects and their room assignments. She scanned down the list of entries. Seymour Birkoff: Room 11.
Madeline exited the office and locked the door behind her. She would have to have a few trusted allies within Housekeeping clean the blood and stash the body somewhere -- temporarily, at least. In another day, it wouldn't matter anymore.
In another day, nothing would matter anymore. In a sense, it was terrifying. In a sense, it was a tremendous relief.
Room 11 was at the farthest end of the hallway. She knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she eased it open.
"Seymour?"
No one responded, so she looked inside. There was a skinny young boy sprawled on a bed, headphones on, digging his hand into a bag of cookies.
She walked across the room and pulled off the headphones. He jumped and gaped at her. Crumbs dangled from his lower lip.
"Seymour Birkoff?"
"Yeah." He looked a bit dazed.
"I'm Madeline. Nice to meet you." She sat down next to him. She spotted a bloodstain on her skirt and folded her hands in her lap to hide it. She watched him for a bit, smiling warmly.
He alternated between sneaking glances at her and looking away, seemingly embarrassed. Eventually, he held out the bag of cookies.
"Want one?"
"No, thanks."
He set the bag on the bedside table.
"You like computer games, don't you?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Sure."
"I hear you're pretty good at them."
He straightened his shoulders. "I'm the best."
"Really? How would you like to show me?"
At this, his face lit up. "Okay."
She handed him the disk that Lisa had returned to her.
"The game's loaded on here?" he asked.
"Not exactly. There are some data files on that disk. The object of the game is to download them onto a computer network without getting caught."
"That sounds easy."
"The last person who tried couldn't do it."
"I can." The determined look on his face startled her. Then it struck her how very much like his mother he looked, and she hesitated. He was a child. Entrusting him with such a dangerous task was beyond reckless. On the other hand, she'd run out of alternatives.
What was it Paul had said to her? Sometimes you just have to throw the dice.
"All right, then," she said, standing and offering him a hand, "let's give it a try."
***
Charles woke. The red glow of the clock on the nightstand said it was after three in the morning.
It was the third time he'd woken that night. Sadly, insomnia had become an all-too-familiar companion, ever since George's visit. Not that George had divulged anything, really. But the insinuations were maddening.
A man can be out of favor one day, and back in again the next. At first, Charles had assumed that George meant Paul could be back in favor with Adrian. But Charles saw no evidence of that. It was then that another one of George's remarks began to haunt him. For a fake, it's very convincing. By the way, how's your wife?
George couldn't have possibly intended to make that suggestion. The idea was absurd. Grossly offensive. And yet Charles hadn't been able to dismiss it from his mind. Paul had once, in fact, been very much in favor with Madeline. Was Charles so certain that it couldn't happen again? He didn't know. He didn't know, and the fact that he didn't know was what kept him up each night.
To his shame, he'd even resorted to tracking her whereabouts, searching through Section's records to see if he could lay his paranoia to rest. Instead, he had been vastly dismayed to discover that there was an inordinate amount of dark time. Time when she'd told Charles that she was working late, at a meeting, finishing a project -- and when she most certainly was doing none of those things.
She'd lied to him. She'd lied to him repeatedly, almost habitually -- and he hadn't the faintest idea what he was going to do about it.
With a sigh, he rolled over. The space next to him was empty. She'd been there earlier. Puzzled, he got up and walked out into the hallway.
A light shone from the living room. Following it, he found her sitting in a chair, her eyes closed. A teapot and cup sat on the table next to her, and a piano sonata played on the stereo. He could tell she was awake because her posture was too rigid for sleep; she seemed to be concentrating on every note as if following them was the most important thing in the world.
On the one hand, he never found her more beautiful than when she was laser-focused on something. On the other hand, it was like watching her from a distant mountaintop, a hundred miles between them.
He cleared his throat. She opened her eyes and smiled, and he changed his mind: no, he never found her more beautiful than when she smiled at him like that.
"I didn't wake you, did I?" she asked. "I tried to keep the volume low."
"No, not at all. I just wondered where you were."
Her smile faded. "I couldn't sleep."
"Something on your mind?" At that, she gave him a curious look, and he regretted saying it. Whatever his suspicions, he hadn't intended to blurt anything out. Not yet. Not like that. Not without thinking through the consequences.
The problem was that he couldn't face the consequences long enough to think them through.
She cocked her head to one side and frowned. "I suppose I have a lot on my mind. Sometimes it's hard to switch it off."
"I know the feeling." This time, it was his turn to give her a smile. He hoped she didn't notice it was a rueful one.
She sat quietly for a long time. He stood and watched her. On the stereo, the piano trilled brightly. Several minutes must have passed before she eventually spoke again.
"Do you trust me, Charles?"
The question took him aback. It was as if she'd read his mind. Or maybe as if she had a guilty conscience. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.
"If I told you that there were things about me that you didn't know, things that I couldn't share with you, would you trust me enough to accept that? Or would you feel betrayed?
He did feel betrayed. The feeling seized at his chest and burned the back of his throat. All he said, however, was, "Is this a rhetorical question?"
She didn't answer.
"Yes, I trust you," he said, and in a way he did, yet he also didn't, but he wanted to so badly that perhaps he could fool them both into believing it was true. "But," he added pointedly, compulsively, "I also trust that you won't hide things unnecessarily."
"I don't." There was something odd in her voice, a kind of fierce vehemence that made him inclined to believe her despite all his doubts.
She stood and went to the stereo, and she turned its volume up. Then she came over to where he was standing.
"Something's going to happen tomorrow," she said. "I want you to stay away from Section." She spoke in a low voice. Low enough, it occurred to him, that an eavesdropper wouldn't be able to make out what she was saying over the music.
She had been hiding something. But it appeared that it was considerably more complicated -- and worrisome -- than what he'd been thinking.
"Are you involved in something dangerous?" He kept his voice equally low.
"Yes."
"Then I can't stay away."
"You have to. Promise me that you'll stay away."
He couldn't. He just couldn't.
"Promise me," she repeated, more loudly this time, and there was a look on her face that he'd never seen before. Desperation? Pleading? He almost felt compelled to look away, as if witnessing the unfiltered emotion -- as if glimpsing his own wife's real self -- was somehow an invasion of privacy.
"I promise," he said.
It was a lie. He couldn't stay away. George was right. Paul was involved in whatever was going on, Charles could feel it, and there was only one chance to stop him. He wondered whether Madeline would trust that he had good reasons, or if she was the one who would wind up feeling betrayed.
"Thank you," she said.
She caressed his face and leaned in to kiss him. To his surprise, the bitterness of his lie only made her lips taste sweeter.
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-Nine, click here.
Previous Chapters
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Lisa opened her eyes. A white ceiling. White walls. No windows, just a fluorescent light that flickered in the silence. She lay in a bed, in a flimsy hospital nightgown -- but this wasn't Medlab.
This wasn't Medlab, and judging by the solid steel door, she was a prisoner.
She sat upright. She had no memory of how she arrived here, wherever here was. She'd been in the warehouse, commencing egress, and then --
And then --
Her mind flailed helplessly, until finally it grasped a memory. Someone behind her, clamping over her mouth and nose with a cloth. An acrid smell. Choking. Then blackness.
And now here. In the custody of Section's enemies.
Her heart lurched in panic. She threw off the sheets and jumped from the bed -- to do what, she wasn't sure. The floor felt chilly beneath her bare feet.
She circled the room. It was empty but for the bed. There was no way to escape, and no means to defend herself. She could rig up a noose with the sheets, but where to hang it? Maybe she could get to the light fixture. She dragged the bed into the center of the room, stood on the mattress and reached, swaying on her toes, but she wasn't quite tall enough.
"Fuck," she said, and she fell back onto the bed with a bounce.
Then it occurred to her. Whoever was holding her captive hadn't strapped her down with restraints. They hadn't even roughed her up much, from what she could tell by the absence of bruises. She'd been left alone -- locked up, true enough -- in relative comfort. Certainly in better circumstances than Section provided for its prisoners. None of those poor bastards got pillows, that's for sure. She punched hers. Damn, it was even fluffy.
Maybe these people weren't going to torture her to a hideous screaming death after all. Maybe they'd at least give her a chance to talk first. Talking didn't seem like such a bad option, now that she thought about it. In fact, she kind of felt in the mood to spill her guts to someone. For the catharsis, if nothing else. And really, did she have anyone to be loyal to anymore?
Back at Section, after all, God only knew what had awaited her. A trip to the White Room. Swift cancellation, if she were lucky. Even if her mistake went undetected by Adrian, there had been something in Madeline's expression when Lisa confessed: a look of disgust, of cold malevolence that Adrian -- cruel as she was -- had never matched in all the years Lisa had known her.
Who was it, exactly, that Lisa had been helping? Adrian's regime was tyrannical, that went without saying, but was the alternative any better? Exchanging an autocratic monarchy for fascism wasn't necessarily a form of progress.
There was, however, Madeline's promise to release Seymour. Then again, promises were cheap. Lisa had no way to hold her to it. And if Lisa had learned anything over the past few years, it was that no one could be trusted.
That settled it. There was no reason to be loyal to Section, whoever was in charge. With the enemy, perhaps she had a chance at life. She had information they could find useful. She could bargain with them. In exchange, they could help her. Whoever the hell they were.
She fell back against the pillow and began to laugh.
***
"You know, I'm really not comfortable with this," said Mireille. She picked up a stack of papers from her desk, shuffled them to no apparent end, then set them down again. "I'm not supposed to give access to anyone."
"I have supervisory-level duties relating to R&D," replied Madeline. "This project qualifies under that category. There's absolutely nothing improper about my being here." If she'd been sitting closer, she would have reached over and patted Mireille's arm; instead, she shifted into the most reassuring tone she could muster. "You don't need to worry."
"That's what you told me when I gave you Lisa Birkoff's name." Mireille stared at Madeline, stony-faced. "And look what happened to her."
"She died on a mission." When Mireille shook her head skeptically, Madeline added, "Lisa had a high-risk job. You know that."
"What I do know is that she talked to you, and now she's dead." Mireille's voice wavered, and tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. "If I take you to see Seymour, maybe something will happen to him, too. Or to me!" She waved a dismissive hand. "I want nothing to do with whatever it is you're involved in."
Madeline stood from her chair. The attempt at reassurance wasn't working. Fine. She'd be blunt.
"You're in no position to dictate terms. You seem to be forgetting that I possess concrete evidence of your malfeasance that I can deliver to Adrian anytime I wish."
Mireille picked up the phone and held out the receiver. "Go ahead. Call her." She laughed. "Somehow, I think my "malfeasance," as you put it, has nothing on yours."
Madeline looked at the telephone, then back at Mireille. Of all the times for Mireille to choose to stand on principle, why did it have to be less than twenty-four hours before Paul launched his mutiny? Madeline didn't have time to woo this woman, didn't have time for more elaborate methods of persuasion, didn't have time for any sort of finesse. This was her last opportunity to solve this problem, and Mireille and her fears couldn't stand in the way.
Mireille had switched off the surveillance in her office at the beginning of their conversation. There didn't appear to be anyone else within hearing distance. That made things simple. Madeline pulled out a gun from her jacket pocket and fired straight into Mireille's forehead. A spray of crimson drenched the wall. The telephone receiver clattered to the desk.
Obstacle removed. Crude, but efficient.
Madeline rounded the desk, shoved Mireille's slumped body out of the chair, and sat down. She hung up the beeping telephone and rummaged through the desk drawers until she found what she was looking for: a directory of the test subjects and their room assignments. She scanned down the list of entries. Seymour Birkoff: Room 11.
Madeline exited the office and locked the door behind her. She would have to have a few trusted allies within Housekeeping clean the blood and stash the body somewhere -- temporarily, at least. In another day, it wouldn't matter anymore.
In another day, nothing would matter anymore. In a sense, it was terrifying. In a sense, it was a tremendous relief.
Room 11 was at the farthest end of the hallway. She knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she eased it open.
"Seymour?"
No one responded, so she looked inside. There was a skinny young boy sprawled on a bed, headphones on, digging his hand into a bag of cookies.
She walked across the room and pulled off the headphones. He jumped and gaped at her. Crumbs dangled from his lower lip.
"Seymour Birkoff?"
"Yeah." He looked a bit dazed.
"I'm Madeline. Nice to meet you." She sat down next to him. She spotted a bloodstain on her skirt and folded her hands in her lap to hide it. She watched him for a bit, smiling warmly.
He alternated between sneaking glances at her and looking away, seemingly embarrassed. Eventually, he held out the bag of cookies.
"Want one?"
"No, thanks."
He set the bag on the bedside table.
"You like computer games, don't you?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Sure."
"I hear you're pretty good at them."
He straightened his shoulders. "I'm the best."
"Really? How would you like to show me?"
At this, his face lit up. "Okay."
She handed him the disk that Lisa had returned to her.
"The game's loaded on here?" he asked.
"Not exactly. There are some data files on that disk. The object of the game is to download them onto a computer network without getting caught."
"That sounds easy."
"The last person who tried couldn't do it."
"I can." The determined look on his face startled her. Then it struck her how very much like his mother he looked, and she hesitated. He was a child. Entrusting him with such a dangerous task was beyond reckless. On the other hand, she'd run out of alternatives.
What was it Paul had said to her? Sometimes you just have to throw the dice.
"All right, then," she said, standing and offering him a hand, "let's give it a try."
***
Charles woke. The red glow of the clock on the nightstand said it was after three in the morning.
It was the third time he'd woken that night. Sadly, insomnia had become an all-too-familiar companion, ever since George's visit. Not that George had divulged anything, really. But the insinuations were maddening.
A man can be out of favor one day, and back in again the next. At first, Charles had assumed that George meant Paul could be back in favor with Adrian. But Charles saw no evidence of that. It was then that another one of George's remarks began to haunt him. For a fake, it's very convincing. By the way, how's your wife?
George couldn't have possibly intended to make that suggestion. The idea was absurd. Grossly offensive. And yet Charles hadn't been able to dismiss it from his mind. Paul had once, in fact, been very much in favor with Madeline. Was Charles so certain that it couldn't happen again? He didn't know. He didn't know, and the fact that he didn't know was what kept him up each night.
To his shame, he'd even resorted to tracking her whereabouts, searching through Section's records to see if he could lay his paranoia to rest. Instead, he had been vastly dismayed to discover that there was an inordinate amount of dark time. Time when she'd told Charles that she was working late, at a meeting, finishing a project -- and when she most certainly was doing none of those things.
She'd lied to him. She'd lied to him repeatedly, almost habitually -- and he hadn't the faintest idea what he was going to do about it.
With a sigh, he rolled over. The space next to him was empty. She'd been there earlier. Puzzled, he got up and walked out into the hallway.
A light shone from the living room. Following it, he found her sitting in a chair, her eyes closed. A teapot and cup sat on the table next to her, and a piano sonata played on the stereo. He could tell she was awake because her posture was too rigid for sleep; she seemed to be concentrating on every note as if following them was the most important thing in the world.
On the one hand, he never found her more beautiful than when she was laser-focused on something. On the other hand, it was like watching her from a distant mountaintop, a hundred miles between them.
He cleared his throat. She opened her eyes and smiled, and he changed his mind: no, he never found her more beautiful than when she smiled at him like that.
"I didn't wake you, did I?" she asked. "I tried to keep the volume low."
"No, not at all. I just wondered where you were."
Her smile faded. "I couldn't sleep."
"Something on your mind?" At that, she gave him a curious look, and he regretted saying it. Whatever his suspicions, he hadn't intended to blurt anything out. Not yet. Not like that. Not without thinking through the consequences.
The problem was that he couldn't face the consequences long enough to think them through.
She cocked her head to one side and frowned. "I suppose I have a lot on my mind. Sometimes it's hard to switch it off."
"I know the feeling." This time, it was his turn to give her a smile. He hoped she didn't notice it was a rueful one.
She sat quietly for a long time. He stood and watched her. On the stereo, the piano trilled brightly. Several minutes must have passed before she eventually spoke again.
"Do you trust me, Charles?"
The question took him aback. It was as if she'd read his mind. Or maybe as if she had a guilty conscience. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.
"If I told you that there were things about me that you didn't know, things that I couldn't share with you, would you trust me enough to accept that? Or would you feel betrayed?
He did feel betrayed. The feeling seized at his chest and burned the back of his throat. All he said, however, was, "Is this a rhetorical question?"
She didn't answer.
"Yes, I trust you," he said, and in a way he did, yet he also didn't, but he wanted to so badly that perhaps he could fool them both into believing it was true. "But," he added pointedly, compulsively, "I also trust that you won't hide things unnecessarily."
"I don't." There was something odd in her voice, a kind of fierce vehemence that made him inclined to believe her despite all his doubts.
She stood and went to the stereo, and she turned its volume up. Then she came over to where he was standing.
"Something's going to happen tomorrow," she said. "I want you to stay away from Section." She spoke in a low voice. Low enough, it occurred to him, that an eavesdropper wouldn't be able to make out what she was saying over the music.
She had been hiding something. But it appeared that it was considerably more complicated -- and worrisome -- than what he'd been thinking.
"Are you involved in something dangerous?" He kept his voice equally low.
"Yes."
"Then I can't stay away."
"You have to. Promise me that you'll stay away."
He couldn't. He just couldn't.
"Promise me," she repeated, more loudly this time, and there was a look on her face that he'd never seen before. Desperation? Pleading? He almost felt compelled to look away, as if witnessing the unfiltered emotion -- as if glimpsing his own wife's real self -- was somehow an invasion of privacy.
"I promise," he said.
It was a lie. He couldn't stay away. George was right. Paul was involved in whatever was going on, Charles could feel it, and there was only one chance to stop him. He wondered whether Madeline would trust that he had good reasons, or if she was the one who would wind up feeling betrayed.
"Thank you," she said.
She caressed his face and leaned in to kiss him. To his surprise, the bitterness of his lie only made her lips taste sweeter.
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-Nine, click here.