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Entry tags:
Fic: Zero Point; La Femme Nikita; Madeline/Nikita; PG
Title: Zero Point
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: R, probably
Pairing: Madeline/Nikita
Warnings: Somewhat dark, f/f slash, spoilers for the entire series
Synopsis: Something hung between the two of them, like a scent that lingers for years in the air of a closed room. Most of the time, Nikita ignored it; sometimes, she was able to forget it. But then there would be a look, or a certain tone of voice, and she would wonder all over again.
Prologue: "Four Light Years Farther"
Nikita grit her teeth, willing herself into stillness.
The urge to fidget was almost overwhelming. Even a small movement -- a jogging of the knee, a rhythmic twisting of fingers -- would have released the nervous energy that made her stomach churn. But with Jones sitting at her elbow, she had a role to play. The cool professional. The ruthless undercover agent, indifferent to the havoc she was about to wreak. So she forced a motionless calm, or at least her best pretense at one.
She was good at pretenses by now.
Feigning casualness, she slouched in her chair and stared at the glowing laptop screen. It displayed nothing useful, but she didn't dare look away. If she let Jones catch her eye, he might attempt to engage in conversation -- and that would destroy all her efforts to concentrate. To focus. To clamp down on the weird, dizzying sense of joy and terror that threatened to make her vomit.
Joy that it was all over. Terror at what would happen next. With each minute that crawled by, both feelings grew in strength. They gained substance and form -- took shape, personified, with the visage of the woman she was about to face.
It was Nikita, not Jones, who had chosen to perform Madeline's review first. She had thought it would be the easiest. The prospect of it didn't make her heartsick, like Michael's, or guilty, like Walter's. It didn't even fill her with pity, like the thought of the blow she would soon deliver to Operations. Yet somehow, with the moment almost upon her, she found that it disturbed her the most.
The reaction surprised her. During her years undercover, she had actually looked forward to this confrontation. The anticipation of it -- and the spark of hope it instilled -- enabled her to keep going on days when she wanted to scream in frustration and despair. It was a prize. Vindication. After being dismissed and trivialized as too softhearted, too naïve to understand anything, she would finally force this woman to listen, to face the ugliness of what she had done, and -- however unwillingly -- to acknowledge Nikita as someone whose opinions mattered.
More than once, Nikita had rehearsed the scene in her mind, fantasizing about how things might end. Sometimes Madeline cowered in disgrace. Sometimes she cursed and raved until burly SpecOps guards dragged her away. Sometimes it was Nikita who did the yelling, pulling out a Glock to send a bullet exploding through Madeline's brain. But most often, Madeline broke down and begged for forgiveness. Which Nikita granted. And would grant now, in an instant, if only Madeline would ask for it.
That's all she wanted. Not revenge. Not retribution. Acknowledgement. An apology. So little, really. And yet so much.
She knew reality wouldn't be so easy.
Without warning, the door on the other side of the glass partition slid open. Beyond it, Madeline stood, waiting. She made no move to enter the room; she merely stared ahead, face devoid of expression.
"Please, sit down," said Nikita, then quickly looked away.
As she studied her reflection on the glass tabletop, she heard the door slide closed again, followed by the sound of Madeline settling into a chair.
"I'll just be a moment. Sorry." Nikita kept her tone brisk. She played with the laptop, idly tapping keys while she worked up the nerve to begin -- not unaware of the irony of keeping Madeline waiting.
Finally, she looked up.
Madeline sat stiffly, legs crossed, hands folded in lap: a subtly defensive posture, despite the neutral look on her face.
Time to begin. Best to start with something small and work her way up.
"On January tenth of last year, Operations abdicated control of the Section for twenty-six minutes, based on a recommendation by you." Nikita kept her voice calm, speaking slowly, almost in a drawl. It was a struggle to do so; the effort rendered her hoarse.
Madeline regarded her impassively. "I'm not familiar with the date, but if you say so." Her voice, filtered through the intercom on the other side of the glass window, sounded odd, artificial, disembodied. Like a simm instead of a real person.
"It was an unfortunate decision," Nikita continued. "If you recall, we ended up sustaining loss of life because of his absence."
"I remember now. It was two operatives. Both level one." Madeline, too, spoke unusually slowly, enunciating the words as if stripping them one by one of any trace of emotion. "Frankly, I don't know if the two incidents were related." The final word gave away the pretense of detachment -- upon uttering it, she raised her voice with a note of impatience and disdain.
Nikita sighed in disgust. Even now, even defeated, the woman was insufferably arrogant. "Maybe not," she said, openly scornful.
Madeline's gaze sharpened into an imperious glare. "How dare you two have the presumption to judge my contribution to this organization on one single event?"
Because that's how you judged all of us, Nikita wanted to retort. But she bit back her response: it was time to drop the preliminaries and get to the point.
"It's not the event," she announced. "It's the relationship between you and Paul that concerns us." She struggled to maintain her outward composure, but could sense the bitterness seeping out. "You two do not complement each other."
Pausing, she took a breath and prepared for the moment of reckoning. She had rehearsed her speech to the point of perfection, and like it or not, Madeline would have to suffer through every word.
But before Nikita could begin, Madeline stood.
"I really don't need to hear what some ad hoc internal affairs bimbo thinks of my work," she said acidly, emphasizing the insult with a lift of her eyebrows. She shifted her gaze, turning to Jones as if Nikita were a yapping dog and Jones its neglectful master. "Get to the punchline."
Nikita blinked. Somehow, Madeline had succeeded in making her feel small, even in victory.
Madeline didn't respect Nikita enough, even as an enemy, to listen to what she had to say. She didn't care what Nikita thought, didn't care what she felt -- didn't care about her at all.
She probably never had.
It shouldn't have mattered. It shouldn't have hurt.
But it did.
*******************************
Chapter One: "Nikita"
"They seem to think you have potential."
Startled by the unexpected voice, Nikita froze. She had failed to notice anyone else present as she wandered through the room -- and for that she internally cursed herself. On the street, her survival instincts would have told her she was being watched. Here, the unfamiliarity of everything overwhelmed her senses.
However, she would rather have died than let her observer know that. So she waited. Then, adopting an air of equal parts cockiness and boredom, she glanced toward the source of the voice.
A woman stood at the balcony of a loft, watching Nikita in silence. Shadows obscured her face, leaving just a slim figure in a dark skirt and a silk blouse that shone slightly in the subdued light. Her hands pale against the railing, she seemed incorporeal, like an apparition that might fade into nothingness if one stared too long.
Nikita snapped shut the small box she had been inspecting and set it on the table beside her.
"Who's they?" she asked. She tried to make her tone nonchalant, as if the answer didn't really matter, but put a little too much energy into it.
There was no reply. Instead, a steady sound of footsteps descended the wooden stairs from the loft, the echo sharp against the stone walls. When it stopped a few feet behind her, Nikita's skin began to itch: the woman's unseen proximity made her want to bolt and run -- except that there was nowhere to go.
Swallowing her anxiety, she looked over her shoulder. The woman had paused at the foot of the stairs; a hand rested on the bottom post of the banister. With her tailored clothing, flawless complexion, and perfectly-styled crown of reddish-brown hair, she looked elegant, refined -- and rich. Like the sort of woman who might have thoughtlessly tossed Nikita a dollar or two on the sidewalk -- or swept past with her nose in the air on the way to a waiting limousine. The sort of woman to whom Nikita was invisible.
This woman, however, was regarding her intently.
Disconcerted, Nikita looked away.
"Who are you?" she asked, forcing a belligerence into her voice that she hoped would sound like courage.
"I'm Madeline," the woman answered, as if that explained everything. She approached, drawing so near that Nikita could smell the fragrance of her perfume: a subtle invasion of space, surrounding and pinning her in. "'They' are Section One. They own you now."
Nikita bristled. No one owned her. She'd fought off parasites and predators all her life, and these people couldn't be any different. She'd fight them off, too.
Defiant, she turned to glare at the woman. A pair of dark eyes gazed back. They swept over her knowingly, arrogantly, and yet somehow also kindly, as if her thoughts of resistance were all too transparent -- and a source of endearment rather than concern.
Nikita wrenched her gaze away. "Didn't know I was for sale," she muttered.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nikita thought she saw a faint smile lift the corners of Madeline's mouth. It might have been sad, or pitying, but it disappeared too quickly to tell.
Abruptly, Madeline turned and walked away.
Nikita watched with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension as Madeline crossed the room and then took a stance by a vanity table with a large mirror. Nikita stared at it warily. Such a piece of furniture would have seemed incongruous, except that the entire room was incongruous -- a rustic chateau tucked inside an ultra-modern bunker; a fantasy within a nightmare.
Whose fantasy, Nikita wasn't sure. But the nightmare was definitely hers.
Madeline looked at Nikita expectantly. "Please, sit down." Again, a brief smile -- this time polite.
Nikita hesitated.
"If you want to live," Madeline said, her voice lowering in warning, "it has to be on their terms. So please, do sit down."
Despite the gracious manner with which it was delivered, the threat was clear. Nikita made her way toward the vanity table, scuffing her boots reluctantly along the floor as she walked. She slumped into the waiting chair and flung one leg across the other.
When she felt a hand touch her shoulder, she nearly flinched. It moved to her cheek, and her muscles tensed in reaction, halfway anticipating a blow. Instead, fingers pressed against her skin gently, turning her head until she faced the mirror. There, in the warm glow of the recessed lights, she saw her own reflection and that of Madeline leaning over her.
"Look at yourself," invited Madeline. Her voice was soft and rich, her expression solemn. "Admire yourself. See your beauty."
Nikita searched, but saw nothing to admire. Blue eyes stared back from a face pale with uncertainty.
Madeline stroked her hair. The gesture startled Nikita, yet it was strangely soothing, evoking memories so distant she had forgotten even to miss them. Of comfort. Affection. Tenderness. Belonging. When had she last felt those things?
"You can learn to shoot. You can learn to fight. But there's no weapon as powerful as your femininity."
Nikita heard the words, but they didn't quite make sense. Femininity wasn't a weapon. It was a vulnerability. Something that attracted unwanted attention, that only women like Nikita's mother flaunted in their frantic desperation. But the mellifluous resonance of Madeline's voice said otherwise.
A caress brushed across Nikita's cheek. This time, she didn't tense. She leaned into it, savored it, and closed her eyes.
"We're family now, Nikita."
*******************************
Chapter Two
As Madeline straightened Nikita's posture for the umpteenth time, Nikita found herself torn between embarrassment and exasperation. No matter how many times Nikita tried to move with the requisite grace, Madeline always found some fault to correct -- yet did so with a smiling patience, relentless in its refusal to waver, no matter how often Nikita slumped or stumbled.
Nikita pulled back her shoulders until Madeline seemed satisfied. Wriggling her toes in the tight shoes, she repressed a sigh. This aspect of her training seemed so pointless. What difference did it make if she could open a champagne bottle without it foaming over, when she knew how to crack open a safe without triggering the alarm? And as long as she could wield a semi-automatic, who cared how well she wielded a mascara wand?
Well, Madeline cared, obviously, but she was wasting both their time. Couldn't she see that Nikita was a lost cause? Unlike Madeline -- to whom all these things appeared to come naturally -- Nikita wasn't poised or elegant. Fluid and agile when wearing a gi or flak jacket, in an evening gown she felt like an awkward elephant galumphing along.
Speaking of galumphing, she could see from the disapproving expression on Madeline's face that she was walking incorrectly. Again. It was hopeless: her feet just weren't made for mincing about on tiny matchstick heels, no matter how hard she tried. Giving up, she shifted into an exaggerated Frankenstein gait, arms outstretched, then snorted with laughter.
Smirking, she turned toward Madeline. Over the course of their training sessions, the other woman had revealed a wry -- if restrained -- sense of humor, so Nikita expected her to smile at least.
She didn't.
"That's enough for today." She regarded Nikita with a distant coolness. "You may go."
Nikita frowned. Madeline must have taken her goofing off a bit too seriously. Better act contrite.
"Look, I'm sorry. I was just joking around." She smiled apologetically. "Let's start over."
"I don't think so."
Madeline walked away, dismissing Nikita with a swift turn of her back.
"But I've got two hours until judo," Nikita called out, bewildered. "What should I do in the meantime?"
Madeline stopped and looked back at Nikita, her expression blank.
"Whatever you like."
Without a further word, she took a seat at her desk, as indifferent to Nikita's presence as if a curtain had fallen between them.
***
The main floor of Section bustled, full of hurried people wearing grim expressions. Nikita alone seemed to have nowhere to go. As everyone else strode by, their boots pounding a purposeful rhythm, she paced aimlessly -- weaving from one end to the other, and then back again.
Two hours of unregimented time -- the first she'd had since she came to Section -- and nothing to do but wonder what exactly she had done wrong. If Madeline had appeared annoyed, disappointed, or even offended when Nikita made light of their lessons, Nikita could have understood it. And could have tried to make up for it. But the woman's expression was utterly empty, as if Nikita had ceased to exist. How could she possibly respond to that?
There wasn't any answer. Not today, anyway. She would have to stop thinking about it and find something else to occupy herself with. Casting her gaze about, she spotted the man they called Operations. He stood at his window like a pale-eyed specter, aiming a baleful stare directly at her. She flashed a smile, but his expression only seemed to harden. Her smile faded.
And good afternoon to you, too, she thought sourly.
She wanted to flee from his presence, but knew that would somehow be a defeat. So she straightened her shoulders and sauntered toward Systems. He was still watching. She could feel it, but told herself she didn't care.
"Hi, Birkoff."
Birkoff looked up from his laptop. Seeing her, he blushed, the pink rushing from his neck to the tips of his ears.
"You're not scheduled for database class until tomorrow," he said brusquely.
"I know." She smiled and began to twist a strand of her hair.
His forehead wrinkled. "Do you want something?"
"I've got a few hours to kill. What do people do for entertainment around here?"
He blinked slowly behind the colored lenses of his glasses. "Uh, don't you have training to do?"
"Madeline dismissed me early." She moved toward an empty seat and sprawled into it. "I don't think she was very happy with me." She shrugged. "I can't help it if I'm not ladylike. She'll just have to get used to it. Besides," she added with a forced note of brightness, "I'm good at all the important things."
Two nearby techs exchanged wide-eyed looks. She decided to ignore them.
"So, is there a break room or something?"
Birkoff stared at her as though she were speaking an alien tongue. "No."
Feeling increasingly awkward, she stood. "Well. Guess I'll go to the gym then."
"Good idea," he muttered. Then a strange expression filled his face. "You know," he said, looking acutely uncomfortable, "everything Madeline asks you to do is important. Especially the things that don't seem that way."
She nodded sagely, because it seemed the thing to do, but didn't understand what she was agreeing with, or why.
"Thanks, Birkoff. I'll try to remember that."
*******************************
Chapter Three
Nikita shifted in her seat, whacking a knee into the side of the cubicle. The structure shook for a moment; she winced and settled into her new position, stretching her legs out gingerly.
Clicking the mouse, she waited for the picture to appear on the screen.
Two apples. They sat on a rough-hewn wooden table, bathed in sunlight.
"Dva," she said, speaking slowly into the headset microphone.
The program gave a cheerful beep, indicating she had answered correctly. A new image appeared, this time of six apples. Piled in a wicker basket, they were bright red and polished looking; the thought of their tart crunchiness set her mouth watering.
It figured the language drill would use pictures of food on a morning when she had overslept and missed breakfast. Just perfect. She'd get to spend the next hour thinking about how starving she was, and then head to the pool to swim laps on an empty stomach.
Then again, it was her own fault for rolling over and going back to sleep when the morning bell sounded. If it had sounded, that is -- for the first time since her arrival in Section, she didn't remember hearing its hideous gonging. Normally, it wrenched her awake just as she seemed to be reaching her deepest sleep -- this time, she hadn't even noticed.
Was she becoming used to her surroundings? No. That wasn't possible. She would never get used to this place.
A series of trilling dings through the headphones told her she was taking too long to answer. "Shem," she said hastily.
An abrasive buzz sounded, and the picture remained onscreen.
Bloody hell. What was the right word again? She had so many new languages rattling around in her head, it was a wonder she could manage English anymore.
She tried again. "Shest."
The program chirped in reward.
As a picture of twelve oranges replaced the apples, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning, she discovered Michael looking down at her. She hadn't heard him approach -- but then she never did.
She pulled off the headset. It caught in her hair as she did so; she disentangled it, then gave him a questioning look.
"Shut down the terminal." His tone was soft, but firm.
"But I just started. And I've got to get this vocabulary unit finished."
"No, you don't."
Nikita frowned. "Why?"
"Your training is suspended."
She stared at him, trying to gauge whether this was good news or bad. It was impossible to tell; his bland expression gave nothing away.
"Have I done something wrong?"
He paused, green eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Report to Madeline's office. She’s expecting you."
How she hated it when he wouldn't answer a simple question. She had a right to know what was going on, and Mr. Enigma had better explain it.
"I thought you were in charge of my training, Michael," she said bitingly, hoping to goad him into more of an answer. "Not the etiquette teacher."
Instead of getting angry, as she expected, he just looked at her wordlessly. For far too long.
"She's not just the etiquette teacher, is she?" she asked, the feeling in the pit of her stomach telling her she already knew the answer.
He blinked, but otherwise remained expressionless.
"Madeline has other duties." After a moment, he added, "You shouldn't keep her waiting."
***
The doors swung open as if by magic, beckoning Nikita inside before she could request admission. It unnerved her. She knew the corridors were lined with sensors and cameras -- knew, in the abstract, that someone probably monitored them -- but preferred to imagine a faceless security guard in some far off room. Someone scarfing down boxes of powdered donuts in an effort to stave off boredom, whose only entertainment was catching some thoughtless operative pick his nose. In other words, someone she would never meet, and didn't have to care about. Not someone she interacted with every day.
Shaking off her discomfort, she approached the threshold. Her pace slowed momentarily, like that of an animal sniffing around a trap. Then, taking a deep breath, she entered.
"Good morning, Nikita."
Madeline greeted her from one of the armchairs in the center of the room. She faced the door, but that was the only sign she was expecting anyone. She leaned back casually, one leg crossed over the other, and balanced a cup and saucer in her hands as if Nikita had interrupted her during a mid-morning break. In front of her, the coffee table was covered with gleaming trays of food: a neatly stacked pyramid of pastries, a platter of cut fruit, a glass container of orange juice.
When Nikita smelled the aroma of coffee, her stomach rumbled loudly.
"Please, sit down."
Nikita started for the sofa, but then remembered she was most likely there to be reprimanded. The sofa seemed too comfortable, and at the same time too vulnerable. She took the chair opposite Madeline and did her best to strike a respectful pose.
"Help yourself." Madeline nodded toward the table.
Nikita sat forward, eyeing a croissant hungrily, but hesitated.
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked.
Madeline raised an eyebrow. "Eat. If you're hungry."
"But isn't there some special way I'm supposed to hold my plate, or something?"
"This isn't training." Madeline's voice was kind. "Just breakfast."
Relieved, Nikita poured herself some coffee and retrieved the croissant. She took a bite; it was buttery and flaky, so rich she found herself devouring half of it before she realized what she was doing. She stopped short: she had eaten like that when she lived on the streets -- desperately, hurriedly, like someone afraid she would never eat again. Ashamed to let this woman see her revert to that, she set the remainder down on a small plate and brushed the crumbs off her lap.
She looked up. Madeline watched her without comment.
Unbidden, the memory of prior conversations returned to her. Birkoff. Michael. Stray remarks that might not have been so random after all.
Everything Madeline asks you to do is important. Especially the things that don't seem that way.
Madeline has other duties.
With a feeling of queasy apprehension, she realized she might be in serious trouble.
"Say, Madeline," she said, the words tumbling out rapidly, "I'm sorry I acted silly yesterday. I didn't mean anything by it, honestly."
"I know." Madeline took a sip from her cup. Her gaze was steady and unblinking.
"But isn't that why my training is suspended?"
"Not entirely."
Puzzled, Nikita searched for a response, but Madeline spoke before she could find one.
"How long have you been with us, Nikita?"
Nikita tried to think back, but failed. Time within Section was a blur of meals, sleep and training, unmarked by anything resembling days or nights, or even light or dark. She could have been there a week -- or she could have been there forever.
"I'm not sure," she admitted.
"Nine weeks, as of tomorrow."
"Seems like nine years," she said wistfully.
Madeline smiled; it filled her face with a faint look of satisfaction.
"That is why your training is suspended." She paused, as if expecting Nikita to react, but then continued, "Michael has you on an expedited schedule. Because of that, you've been exposed to a great deal of information in a very short period of time. I believe you need some time off to assimilate it."
"Time off?" A feeling of hope surged like water from a bursting dam. To keep it from sweeping her away, Nikita quipped, "So is there a Section beach resort, or maybe a cruise ship? Club Section?"
Madeline's smile grew warmer. "We do have some luxuries, but that isn't one of them."
"Oh, well. Never hurts to ask." Nikita returned the smile, grateful that this time Madeline was sharing the joke. "What, then? I haven't noticed many recreational activities offered in the recruits' quarters."
Madeline set down her cup and saucer.
"You'll be spending time with me."
*******************************
Chapter Four
Nikita leaned forward and studied the wooden game board. She examined the tiles with their painted Japanese characters, trying to envision a pattern of movement across the squares. It didn't materialize. The pieces she wanted to capture merely pointed back at her, their tips like bristling spears in an impregnable row.
She glanced up. Across the table, Madeline waited for Nikita to make her move, arms folded. When she caught Nikita's eye, she smiled encouragingly, but said nothing.
Nikita stretched and looked around the room, taking in the surroundings. What luxury this "down time," as Madeline called it, was. No five am wakeup bells. No bleary-eyed morning runs. No overcooked eggs in the recruits' cafeteria. Instead, she slept in as long as she wanted, worked out only when she was in the mood, and ate food better than she'd ever had in her life.
It wasn't freedom. She wasn't even allowed to leave Section. But it was something -- a drink of cool water in the desert; a respite from Michael's ceaseless demands; a chance to catch her breath, and find herself again.
Most of her time was free for her to use as she saw fit. Not that there was much to do: read, exercise, sleep, think. All of them such solitary activities. The highlight of each day, then, was the time she spent in Madeline's office. She had begun to crave the company, to cling to it for as long as Madeline allowed. They did nothing particularly exciting -- drank tea, listened to music, and simply sat and talked -- but the sheer ordinariness of their interactions felt like an oasis of normality. Like a return to real life. Almost.
The day before, Madeline had begun to teach Nikita the rudiments of shogi. Nikita tried gamely, but found herself too impatient for it: she never managed to win, and suspected that Madeline deliberately drew out the matches, just to give themselves something to do while they talked.
She didn't mind. She was grateful for any reason to prolong their time together. She had even come to find the office oddly cozy, despite its grand spaciousness. It was full of surprises and contradictions: hidden corners and cabinets, concealing objects both practical and ornamental. Sometimes, the ornamental turned out to be practical as well -- like the elaborately decorated wooden box she learned contained a set of glasses for pastis, or the vases that opened up to reveal stereo speakers.
In a sense, the room was much like its owner: much of its essence hidden, revealed only when one wasn't expecting it. Madeline continually surprised Nikita with her topics of conversation -- she seemed to know at least a little about everything, from Greek history to modern art. And yet there was always a sense of something out of reach. No matter how intimate-seeming her demeanor, she never allowed the subject to turn to herself. She ducked all personal questions -- even trivial ones -- so gracefully that Nikita never noticed until long afterwards, when it was too awkward to bring up the topic again.
More and more, Madeline reminded Nikita of Michael. They shared the same polite evasiveness, except that Madeline employed charm and Michael reticence.
The thought left Nikita unsettled in a way that she couldn't quite explain. She pushed the idea aside.
Curling up a leg in the chair, she returned her attention to the board. It was time she just decided on a course of action instead of agonizing over it. Biting her lip, she moved a tile.
One of Madeline's eyebrows flit upwards for a split second.
"Ni fu," she said, chuckling.
"I'm sorry?"
"You made an illegal move. The match is over."
"Just like that? I don't get to correct it?"
"Sometimes rules are harsh." Madeline smiled. "That's why it's good to remember them."
Nikita laughed and shook her head in exasperation. "I'll never get this."
"Why do you say that?" Madeline cocked her head.
"I don't know. Games just aren't my thing, I guess."
"You're a beginner. It takes time to grow accustomed to something unfamiliar. In fact," she added, a rich note of teasing entering her voice, "you've already developed a distinctive style of play."
"Really?"
"You like to make bold moves. To do things just for the sake of trying. Sometimes it turns out well. Sometimes it doesn't." She regarded Nikita fondly. "If you can preserve that tendency while learning to anticipate the consequences a bit better, you could become quite good someday."
The statement made Nikita flush. Feeling a little too under the microscope, she decided to turn the lens back the other direction.
"So what's your playing style, Madeline?"
"You haven't figured that out yet?" A corner of her mouth curled up. "You need to be more observant, then."
Deflected again. Nikita wasn't sure whether to be frustrated, admiring, or both.
Like an invasion from another world, a beep sounded suddenly, followed by a woman's voice on an intercom.
"Madeline?"
Madeline's smile vanished, replaced by a look of sharp alertness. "Yes, Elizabeth?"
"You're needed in the White Room. DeAngelis is ready."
"Michael is handling DeAngelis."
"Operations feels your presence is required," the voice replied, its pitch a matter-of-fact monotone.
Madeline sat quietly for a moment. "I'll be right there."
She stood and looked down at Nikita. The smile returned, like a sunbeam breaking through clouds.
"I'm sorry. This is unexpected. We'll play another match tomorrow."
"Right. Of course." Nikita rose, preparing to go. Then her curiosity got the better of her. "By the way, what's the White Room? It sounds like the name of a dance club."
Madeline's expression tightened momentarily. Then relaxed, gracious again.
"It's a reception area for visitors. Goodbye, Nikita"
******************************
Chapter Five
Nikita bit down, and her mouth filled with flavor. Chunks of lamb fell apart between her teeth -- tender, succulent, their juices suffused with fruit and spices.
Tajine, Madeline had called the dish. It was North African, or Turkish, or something -- Nikita couldn't remember which, and was too embarrassed to ask again. But whatever it was, it was heavenly: the aroma of it evoked silk-laden caravans, traversing across the desert to the accompaniment of flutes and cymbals.
Someday, she might get to taste it in its native setting. The idea was exhilarating and still a little bit overwhelming. What would such a faraway place be like? For all her tough life on the streets, how little she knew about the world. Just a few meals had brought home how limited her experience really was.
At least now, thanks to Madeline, it wasn't quite so limited.
As if she had heard Nikita think her name, Madeline looked up. She set down her knife and fork, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and placed it on the table.
"They tell me your tactical training is going well," she said.
"That's good to hear," Nikita replied, wondering where the conversation might be headed. This was the first time Madeline had brought up her training since the suspension began, and she wasn't about to blow it by giving the wrong kind of answer.
Nikita must have said the right thing, because Madeline smiled companionably. "You're at the top of your training group in marksmanship and close quarters combat."
Nikita had suspected as much -- still, the recognition made her sit up slightly straighter.
"I try," she said, feeling herself blush.
"You do try," agreed Madeline. "Most of the time," she amended. Then she leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes as if observing Nikita across a vast and frozen distance. "There are a few exceptions." Her voice was cold.
Stung by the shift in mood, Nikita opened her mouth to speak. Madeline held up a hand.
"You're uncomfortable engaging in stereotypical displays of feminine behavior." The statement was blunt -- spoken without apparent malice, but also without sympathy.
"It doesn't come easily to me," Nikita explained, defensive. "It's not who I am."
"You're not a turn of the century samurai, either. And yet you're capable of bowing like one in the dojo." Sarcasm snapped through the air like a cracking whip.
"That's different," Nikita protested.
"How? You put on a costume and behave appropriately. That's precisely what I ask of you here."
Nikita squirmed internally, but couldn't evade the question. Madeline was right: there weren't really any differences -- but she couldn't explain why one setting made her so uncomfortable while the other didn't.
Couldn't -- or didn't want to.
After a few moments, Madeline's expression softened.
"What is it really, Nikita?"
That dark gaze reached out, warm and enveloping, like an arm slipping reassuringly around Nikita's shoulders, telling her it was all right to admit the truth.
It was all right.
Nikita took a deep breath.
"With the martial arts, I'm learning to protect myself," she began. "But this...."
She faltered, afraid to voice the thought that swam near the surface of her mind. But it broke through anyway, and a wave of rage slammed into her. She clenched her fists.
"I promised myself I would never become my mother." The words erupted, a scalding geyser of resentment held back far too long. "Pandering to the most despicable men in the hope that they would take care of her. Putting up with their abuse because she didn't know how to fend for herself. And tossing me aside because I got in the way of that."
Her throat constricted until she thought she would choke; she tried to hold back the tears, but felt them blur her eyes.
There was a long silence. Then the sound of Madeline's voice -- low and strangely vehement.
"Your mother's rejection of you doesn't have to define the rest of your life."
Something in the delivery of the words startled Nikita; each one enunciated so sharply, they seemed chipped out of ice.
Nikita blinked several times, and her vision cleared.
Madeline stared at her intensely, eyes clear and cold as a midnight sky. No more charm. No more evasion. Instead, Nikita saw anger, coiled tightly like a snake: still, yet ready to strike.
Nikita didn't think the emotion was aimed at her; there was something too distant in it. Somehow, that unnerved her even more.
Madeline stood.
"Come upstairs."
She spoke with the flat sternness of someone accustomed to being obeyed. Nikita did.
They climbed the stairs to the loft. Madeline led Nikita to a gilt-framed mirror that hung on the rear wall, and reached into a nearby clothes rack. Hangers scraped the metal rod and clacked against each other; swiftly, Madeline withdrew a blue cocktail dress and held it out.
"Put this on." The tone was milder, but it was still a command.
Nikita slipped out of her shirt and pants and dropped them to the floor. She stepped into the dress and wriggled it upwards, struggling to fit within its skin-tight confines. When she finished, Madeline zipped up the back and straightened the shoulder straps.
Grasping her by the shoulders, Madeline turned Nikita toward the mirror. The fabric curved and clung to her, sequins shimmering as she moved.
"You're a beautiful woman, Nikita. That's not a matter of opinion. It's a fact." Madeline stroked Nikita's hair, hands gentle, threading through the tresses. "If you can learn to control people's response to that, you'll be able to protect yourself better than any martial art could. That's what your mother never understood."
Nikita stared at her reflection. The blue of the dress made her eyes gleam like sapphires; the light above the mirror set her hair aglow. It was dazzling. Mesmerizing. And not quite real.
This isn't me. This can't be me. It's someone else.
"Seize that power," Madeline whispered, breath warm in Nikita's ear. "Leave your mother's mistakes behind."
Nikita began to breathe more deeply; her skin flushed with a sensation both unfamiliar and dizzying. Was it power? She wasn't sure she knew what that felt like. Whatever it was, it was too much.
She turned away from the mirror, but the feeling didn't dissipate. Instead, it surged; she couldn't move, she couldn't speak, but her heart pounded, hard and fast.
Madeline's caresses moved to her face. The fingers hovered, barely making contact, so light Nikita might have imagined it. She closed her eyes and felt them trace her skin.
When their lips touched, she realized she'd expected it. She wasn't certain who kissed whom, or if it even mattered. All that was important was the lingering softness; she gave into it, let it overwhelm her, wanted it to last forever even as it stirred a violent hunger for something more.
Arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her in; hands clasped her back and stroked along her spine. Her own hands roamed and explored, slipping down the curve of hips and thighs.
The kisses grew moister. Mouths opened; tongues met; bodies pressed against each other, clasping and merging. Losing equilibrium, Nikita found herself falling backwards. She clutched at the clothes rack to balance herself; a tangle of fabric enveloped her as she toppled to the floor.
She landed on a pile of jumbled silk, cotton, satin, fur. Madeline fell beside her. Their breaths gasped and intermingled, warm and heavy with desire; their clothes joined the mound of others, tugged off hastily and thrown aside.
They grasped each other fiercely -- fingers kneaded; tongues tasted flesh. For a time, she lost awareness of who and where she was; she tensed in agonized anticipation until she shuddered and heard an otherworldly groan. Hers, or Madeline's, or both of theirs -- she couldn't tell, and didn't care.
This was power. And it was intoxicating.
Afterwards -- long afterwards, it seemed -- Madeline sat up. The light pooled on her skin and tinged her hair with a reddish radiance.
"You should go." She played with a strand of Nikita’s hair as she spoke; her voice strained with what sounded like regret.
Nikita nodded.
They dressed in silence. When she finished, Nikita reached to straighten the fallen clothes rack. Madeline placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I'll take care of that."
Nikita blinked. "Okay."
Madeline touched Nikita's arm. Lightly, almost hesitantly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
She smiled, as if in reassurance, but her eyes were those of a ghost.
************
Chapter Six
Nikita didn't sleep that night. She tried, lying motionless on her back, then shifting restlessly from side to side. Eventually, she gave up and stared into the darkness.
What exactly had happened between her and Madeline? More importantly, what did it mean for her future? She asked herself again and again, but found no answers: only uncertainty, worry, and doubt.
Finally, it was morning.
She showered, dressed, and made her way to Madeline's office. With each step she took, her stomach throbbed with what could have been either dread or excitement.
When Nikita entered the office, Madeline's back was to the door. She stood placing cut flowers into a vase, her movements relaxed and unhurried. She ignored Nikita's presence, adjusting and readjusting the blooms and branches with a studied fastidiousness. Even when she appeared to have finished, she said nothing, and inspected the arrangement for several moments longer.
Finally, she turned toward Nikita, her face nearly as pale as the white petals beside her.
"Effective immediately," she said, "you're to return to your standard training schedule." Her voice was formally precise, neither cold nor warm.
Nikita searched Madeline's eyes for a hint of the other woman's mood -- for signs of embarrassment, regret, guilt, even shame -- but saw nothing. It left her feeling helpless, like someone standing in a field of quicksand, with no way of knowing which path was safe and which was deadly.
"It was a mistake, wasn't it?" she asked hesitantly.
"Yesterday?"
Nikita nodded.
Madeline's expression softened, but only slightly. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about, but also nothing that will be repeated."
Nikita understood. In other words, yes, it was a mistake. One they would pretend hadn't happened.
"Right," she said, both relieved and saddened. She paused, then added compulsively, as if it might clear away the awkwardness, "I'm not sure what happened, but if it was my fault, I'm sorry."
Madeline shook her head. "Don't apologize. It was a natural reaction to the circumstances I placed you in."
Was Madeline blaming herself? She might be right to do so: she was the superior, Nikita the subordinate. But that didn't seem fair, either. Nikita hadn't resisted. She hadn't objected. In truth, she hadn't really minded.
"It's not your fault, Madeline," she insisted, wanting to convince both of them. "It's not anyone's fault. It just...happened."
Madeline's face filled with an odd expression: half amused, half apologetic.
"You had a stumbling block, Nikita. A serious one. I created an environment designed to help you push past it." Her smile was gentle. "You succeeded."
Understanding came slowly, blossoming into astonishment.
"You planned this? As part of my training?"
"Planning is a necessary component of everything," Madeline replied smoothly. Then she paused, and drew a breath. "Nevertheless, one must also be flexible enough to improvise, if the situation warrants."
Had she answered the question or not? That sense of standing on the edge of quicksand returned, and this time Nikita felt herself sinking.
She laughed, both in shock and in an effort to hide her discomfort. "So, Madeline, do you do this sort of training with all the recruits?"
"No." Madeline blinked, and for an instant Nikita thought she saw that look of sadness from the prior day -- it came and went like a shadow from a passing cloud.
They watched each other in silence. Nikita waited as long as she could stand, then threw out her challenge.
"It wasn't all just training, was it?"
For a moment, Nikita thought Madeline might actually answer. But then the moment passed.
"Michael's waiting for you," Madeline said evenly. "You'd better get going."
************
Epilogue: "Four Light Years Farther"
It wasn't all just training, was it?
As Nikita watched Madeline stare defiantly at Jones, it occurred to her that Madeline had never answered her question. Not then; not later; and certainly not now.
Nikita had only asked it once. Yet it hung between them afterwards, like a scent that lingers for years in the air of a closed room. Most of the time, Nikita ignored it; sometimes, she was able to forget it. But then there would be a look, or a certain tone of voice, and she would wonder all over again.
It could have explained everything. Or then again, maybe not.
The sound of Jones' voice broke into her thoughts.
"If you insist," he said, addressing Madeline.
"No," Nikita blurted out.
She meant to turn toward Jones, but found she couldn't. She could only look at Madeline, who refused to look back.
"We've discussed this, Nikita," said Jones, a touch impatiently.
"And you know where I stand. It's not the way."
"There's no place for her here."
No, there wasn't. That was one of the central conclusions of Nikita's own report. But this was also the person who convinced her she was beautiful, and that it was a source of strength. Whatever the motive, it was still a gift.
"Maybe not in Section, but she does have assets."
Out of the corner of her eye, Nikita saw Jones turn his head toward her. "Is this a personal plea?" He sounded surprised, but not necessarily disapproving.
"Yes." She stared at Madeline with burning eyes, as if she could communicate her thoughts by the sheer intensity of her gaze.
After everything that's happened, I'm offering you forgiveness. Please, take it.
A tiny frown formed on Madeline's face. For the first time during the review, she looked disconcerted. Maybe even unsure of herself.
Please, just take it.
Jones turned back to Madeline. "You understand, this decision is mine, and mine alone."
At Jones' words, Madeline's expression hardened, the hint of wavering vanishing so thoroughly it was as if it hadn't existed.
"No. You understand. I'll make my own decision regarding my fate."
Madeline reached behind her head, her expression strangely triumphant. When she brought her hand back, she held a capsule.
Nikita knew what it was. She also knew there was no time to react. So she watched, numb with a sense of inevitability.
Madeline sat. She glanced back and forth from Jones to Nikita. Slowly, with the deliberate flourish of someone who knows she can't be stopped and wants to flaunt that power, she placed the capsule in her mouth and bit down.
Her eyes glazed over immediately, but death waited. It let her stare at her chosen fate for several moments before it sent her body into convulsions. She trembled slightly, but remained seated upright, eyes still gazing into an invisible distance. For an instant, a look of agony crossed her face -- or maybe it was horror, as if she had seen something that might have changed her mind. Then the trembling ceased and she slumped over, still.
She wouldn't even accept Nikita's mercy.
"I shall miss her fortitude." Jones hit an intercom. "Housekeeping, please."
Nikita stared at the figure in the chair and felt the numbness lift.
She, too, would miss something. She just wasn't sure what.
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: R, probably
Pairing: Madeline/Nikita
Warnings: Somewhat dark, f/f slash, spoilers for the entire series
Synopsis: Something hung between the two of them, like a scent that lingers for years in the air of a closed room. Most of the time, Nikita ignored it; sometimes, she was able to forget it. But then there would be a look, or a certain tone of voice, and she would wonder all over again.
Prologue: "Four Light Years Farther"
Nikita grit her teeth, willing herself into stillness.
The urge to fidget was almost overwhelming. Even a small movement -- a jogging of the knee, a rhythmic twisting of fingers -- would have released the nervous energy that made her stomach churn. But with Jones sitting at her elbow, she had a role to play. The cool professional. The ruthless undercover agent, indifferent to the havoc she was about to wreak. So she forced a motionless calm, or at least her best pretense at one.
She was good at pretenses by now.
Feigning casualness, she slouched in her chair and stared at the glowing laptop screen. It displayed nothing useful, but she didn't dare look away. If she let Jones catch her eye, he might attempt to engage in conversation -- and that would destroy all her efforts to concentrate. To focus. To clamp down on the weird, dizzying sense of joy and terror that threatened to make her vomit.
Joy that it was all over. Terror at what would happen next. With each minute that crawled by, both feelings grew in strength. They gained substance and form -- took shape, personified, with the visage of the woman she was about to face.
It was Nikita, not Jones, who had chosen to perform Madeline's review first. She had thought it would be the easiest. The prospect of it didn't make her heartsick, like Michael's, or guilty, like Walter's. It didn't even fill her with pity, like the thought of the blow she would soon deliver to Operations. Yet somehow, with the moment almost upon her, she found that it disturbed her the most.
The reaction surprised her. During her years undercover, she had actually looked forward to this confrontation. The anticipation of it -- and the spark of hope it instilled -- enabled her to keep going on days when she wanted to scream in frustration and despair. It was a prize. Vindication. After being dismissed and trivialized as too softhearted, too naïve to understand anything, she would finally force this woman to listen, to face the ugliness of what she had done, and -- however unwillingly -- to acknowledge Nikita as someone whose opinions mattered.
More than once, Nikita had rehearsed the scene in her mind, fantasizing about how things might end. Sometimes Madeline cowered in disgrace. Sometimes she cursed and raved until burly SpecOps guards dragged her away. Sometimes it was Nikita who did the yelling, pulling out a Glock to send a bullet exploding through Madeline's brain. But most often, Madeline broke down and begged for forgiveness. Which Nikita granted. And would grant now, in an instant, if only Madeline would ask for it.
That's all she wanted. Not revenge. Not retribution. Acknowledgement. An apology. So little, really. And yet so much.
She knew reality wouldn't be so easy.
Without warning, the door on the other side of the glass partition slid open. Beyond it, Madeline stood, waiting. She made no move to enter the room; she merely stared ahead, face devoid of expression.
"Please, sit down," said Nikita, then quickly looked away.
As she studied her reflection on the glass tabletop, she heard the door slide closed again, followed by the sound of Madeline settling into a chair.
"I'll just be a moment. Sorry." Nikita kept her tone brisk. She played with the laptop, idly tapping keys while she worked up the nerve to begin -- not unaware of the irony of keeping Madeline waiting.
Finally, she looked up.
Madeline sat stiffly, legs crossed, hands folded in lap: a subtly defensive posture, despite the neutral look on her face.
Time to begin. Best to start with something small and work her way up.
"On January tenth of last year, Operations abdicated control of the Section for twenty-six minutes, based on a recommendation by you." Nikita kept her voice calm, speaking slowly, almost in a drawl. It was a struggle to do so; the effort rendered her hoarse.
Madeline regarded her impassively. "I'm not familiar with the date, but if you say so." Her voice, filtered through the intercom on the other side of the glass window, sounded odd, artificial, disembodied. Like a simm instead of a real person.
"It was an unfortunate decision," Nikita continued. "If you recall, we ended up sustaining loss of life because of his absence."
"I remember now. It was two operatives. Both level one." Madeline, too, spoke unusually slowly, enunciating the words as if stripping them one by one of any trace of emotion. "Frankly, I don't know if the two incidents were related." The final word gave away the pretense of detachment -- upon uttering it, she raised her voice with a note of impatience and disdain.
Nikita sighed in disgust. Even now, even defeated, the woman was insufferably arrogant. "Maybe not," she said, openly scornful.
Madeline's gaze sharpened into an imperious glare. "How dare you two have the presumption to judge my contribution to this organization on one single event?"
Because that's how you judged all of us, Nikita wanted to retort. But she bit back her response: it was time to drop the preliminaries and get to the point.
"It's not the event," she announced. "It's the relationship between you and Paul that concerns us." She struggled to maintain her outward composure, but could sense the bitterness seeping out. "You two do not complement each other."
Pausing, she took a breath and prepared for the moment of reckoning. She had rehearsed her speech to the point of perfection, and like it or not, Madeline would have to suffer through every word.
But before Nikita could begin, Madeline stood.
"I really don't need to hear what some ad hoc internal affairs bimbo thinks of my work," she said acidly, emphasizing the insult with a lift of her eyebrows. She shifted her gaze, turning to Jones as if Nikita were a yapping dog and Jones its neglectful master. "Get to the punchline."
Nikita blinked. Somehow, Madeline had succeeded in making her feel small, even in victory.
Madeline didn't respect Nikita enough, even as an enemy, to listen to what she had to say. She didn't care what Nikita thought, didn't care what she felt -- didn't care about her at all.
She probably never had.
It shouldn't have mattered. It shouldn't have hurt.
But it did.
*******************************
Chapter One: "Nikita"
"They seem to think you have potential."
Startled by the unexpected voice, Nikita froze. She had failed to notice anyone else present as she wandered through the room -- and for that she internally cursed herself. On the street, her survival instincts would have told her she was being watched. Here, the unfamiliarity of everything overwhelmed her senses.
However, she would rather have died than let her observer know that. So she waited. Then, adopting an air of equal parts cockiness and boredom, she glanced toward the source of the voice.
A woman stood at the balcony of a loft, watching Nikita in silence. Shadows obscured her face, leaving just a slim figure in a dark skirt and a silk blouse that shone slightly in the subdued light. Her hands pale against the railing, she seemed incorporeal, like an apparition that might fade into nothingness if one stared too long.
Nikita snapped shut the small box she had been inspecting and set it on the table beside her.
"Who's they?" she asked. She tried to make her tone nonchalant, as if the answer didn't really matter, but put a little too much energy into it.
There was no reply. Instead, a steady sound of footsteps descended the wooden stairs from the loft, the echo sharp against the stone walls. When it stopped a few feet behind her, Nikita's skin began to itch: the woman's unseen proximity made her want to bolt and run -- except that there was nowhere to go.
Swallowing her anxiety, she looked over her shoulder. The woman had paused at the foot of the stairs; a hand rested on the bottom post of the banister. With her tailored clothing, flawless complexion, and perfectly-styled crown of reddish-brown hair, she looked elegant, refined -- and rich. Like the sort of woman who might have thoughtlessly tossed Nikita a dollar or two on the sidewalk -- or swept past with her nose in the air on the way to a waiting limousine. The sort of woman to whom Nikita was invisible.
This woman, however, was regarding her intently.
Disconcerted, Nikita looked away.
"Who are you?" she asked, forcing a belligerence into her voice that she hoped would sound like courage.
"I'm Madeline," the woman answered, as if that explained everything. She approached, drawing so near that Nikita could smell the fragrance of her perfume: a subtle invasion of space, surrounding and pinning her in. "'They' are Section One. They own you now."
Nikita bristled. No one owned her. She'd fought off parasites and predators all her life, and these people couldn't be any different. She'd fight them off, too.
Defiant, she turned to glare at the woman. A pair of dark eyes gazed back. They swept over her knowingly, arrogantly, and yet somehow also kindly, as if her thoughts of resistance were all too transparent -- and a source of endearment rather than concern.
Nikita wrenched her gaze away. "Didn't know I was for sale," she muttered.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nikita thought she saw a faint smile lift the corners of Madeline's mouth. It might have been sad, or pitying, but it disappeared too quickly to tell.
Abruptly, Madeline turned and walked away.
Nikita watched with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension as Madeline crossed the room and then took a stance by a vanity table with a large mirror. Nikita stared at it warily. Such a piece of furniture would have seemed incongruous, except that the entire room was incongruous -- a rustic chateau tucked inside an ultra-modern bunker; a fantasy within a nightmare.
Whose fantasy, Nikita wasn't sure. But the nightmare was definitely hers.
Madeline looked at Nikita expectantly. "Please, sit down." Again, a brief smile -- this time polite.
Nikita hesitated.
"If you want to live," Madeline said, her voice lowering in warning, "it has to be on their terms. So please, do sit down."
Despite the gracious manner with which it was delivered, the threat was clear. Nikita made her way toward the vanity table, scuffing her boots reluctantly along the floor as she walked. She slumped into the waiting chair and flung one leg across the other.
When she felt a hand touch her shoulder, she nearly flinched. It moved to her cheek, and her muscles tensed in reaction, halfway anticipating a blow. Instead, fingers pressed against her skin gently, turning her head until she faced the mirror. There, in the warm glow of the recessed lights, she saw her own reflection and that of Madeline leaning over her.
"Look at yourself," invited Madeline. Her voice was soft and rich, her expression solemn. "Admire yourself. See your beauty."
Nikita searched, but saw nothing to admire. Blue eyes stared back from a face pale with uncertainty.
Madeline stroked her hair. The gesture startled Nikita, yet it was strangely soothing, evoking memories so distant she had forgotten even to miss them. Of comfort. Affection. Tenderness. Belonging. When had she last felt those things?
"You can learn to shoot. You can learn to fight. But there's no weapon as powerful as your femininity."
Nikita heard the words, but they didn't quite make sense. Femininity wasn't a weapon. It was a vulnerability. Something that attracted unwanted attention, that only women like Nikita's mother flaunted in their frantic desperation. But the mellifluous resonance of Madeline's voice said otherwise.
A caress brushed across Nikita's cheek. This time, she didn't tense. She leaned into it, savored it, and closed her eyes.
"We're family now, Nikita."
*******************************
Chapter Two
As Madeline straightened Nikita's posture for the umpteenth time, Nikita found herself torn between embarrassment and exasperation. No matter how many times Nikita tried to move with the requisite grace, Madeline always found some fault to correct -- yet did so with a smiling patience, relentless in its refusal to waver, no matter how often Nikita slumped or stumbled.
Nikita pulled back her shoulders until Madeline seemed satisfied. Wriggling her toes in the tight shoes, she repressed a sigh. This aspect of her training seemed so pointless. What difference did it make if she could open a champagne bottle without it foaming over, when she knew how to crack open a safe without triggering the alarm? And as long as she could wield a semi-automatic, who cared how well she wielded a mascara wand?
Well, Madeline cared, obviously, but she was wasting both their time. Couldn't she see that Nikita was a lost cause? Unlike Madeline -- to whom all these things appeared to come naturally -- Nikita wasn't poised or elegant. Fluid and agile when wearing a gi or flak jacket, in an evening gown she felt like an awkward elephant galumphing along.
Speaking of galumphing, she could see from the disapproving expression on Madeline's face that she was walking incorrectly. Again. It was hopeless: her feet just weren't made for mincing about on tiny matchstick heels, no matter how hard she tried. Giving up, she shifted into an exaggerated Frankenstein gait, arms outstretched, then snorted with laughter.
Smirking, she turned toward Madeline. Over the course of their training sessions, the other woman had revealed a wry -- if restrained -- sense of humor, so Nikita expected her to smile at least.
She didn't.
"That's enough for today." She regarded Nikita with a distant coolness. "You may go."
Nikita frowned. Madeline must have taken her goofing off a bit too seriously. Better act contrite.
"Look, I'm sorry. I was just joking around." She smiled apologetically. "Let's start over."
"I don't think so."
Madeline walked away, dismissing Nikita with a swift turn of her back.
"But I've got two hours until judo," Nikita called out, bewildered. "What should I do in the meantime?"
Madeline stopped and looked back at Nikita, her expression blank.
"Whatever you like."
Without a further word, she took a seat at her desk, as indifferent to Nikita's presence as if a curtain had fallen between them.
***
The main floor of Section bustled, full of hurried people wearing grim expressions. Nikita alone seemed to have nowhere to go. As everyone else strode by, their boots pounding a purposeful rhythm, she paced aimlessly -- weaving from one end to the other, and then back again.
Two hours of unregimented time -- the first she'd had since she came to Section -- and nothing to do but wonder what exactly she had done wrong. If Madeline had appeared annoyed, disappointed, or even offended when Nikita made light of their lessons, Nikita could have understood it. And could have tried to make up for it. But the woman's expression was utterly empty, as if Nikita had ceased to exist. How could she possibly respond to that?
There wasn't any answer. Not today, anyway. She would have to stop thinking about it and find something else to occupy herself with. Casting her gaze about, she spotted the man they called Operations. He stood at his window like a pale-eyed specter, aiming a baleful stare directly at her. She flashed a smile, but his expression only seemed to harden. Her smile faded.
And good afternoon to you, too, she thought sourly.
She wanted to flee from his presence, but knew that would somehow be a defeat. So she straightened her shoulders and sauntered toward Systems. He was still watching. She could feel it, but told herself she didn't care.
"Hi, Birkoff."
Birkoff looked up from his laptop. Seeing her, he blushed, the pink rushing from his neck to the tips of his ears.
"You're not scheduled for database class until tomorrow," he said brusquely.
"I know." She smiled and began to twist a strand of her hair.
His forehead wrinkled. "Do you want something?"
"I've got a few hours to kill. What do people do for entertainment around here?"
He blinked slowly behind the colored lenses of his glasses. "Uh, don't you have training to do?"
"Madeline dismissed me early." She moved toward an empty seat and sprawled into it. "I don't think she was very happy with me." She shrugged. "I can't help it if I'm not ladylike. She'll just have to get used to it. Besides," she added with a forced note of brightness, "I'm good at all the important things."
Two nearby techs exchanged wide-eyed looks. She decided to ignore them.
"So, is there a break room or something?"
Birkoff stared at her as though she were speaking an alien tongue. "No."
Feeling increasingly awkward, she stood. "Well. Guess I'll go to the gym then."
"Good idea," he muttered. Then a strange expression filled his face. "You know," he said, looking acutely uncomfortable, "everything Madeline asks you to do is important. Especially the things that don't seem that way."
She nodded sagely, because it seemed the thing to do, but didn't understand what she was agreeing with, or why.
"Thanks, Birkoff. I'll try to remember that."
*******************************
Chapter Three
Nikita shifted in her seat, whacking a knee into the side of the cubicle. The structure shook for a moment; she winced and settled into her new position, stretching her legs out gingerly.
Clicking the mouse, she waited for the picture to appear on the screen.
Two apples. They sat on a rough-hewn wooden table, bathed in sunlight.
"Dva," she said, speaking slowly into the headset microphone.
The program gave a cheerful beep, indicating she had answered correctly. A new image appeared, this time of six apples. Piled in a wicker basket, they were bright red and polished looking; the thought of their tart crunchiness set her mouth watering.
It figured the language drill would use pictures of food on a morning when she had overslept and missed breakfast. Just perfect. She'd get to spend the next hour thinking about how starving she was, and then head to the pool to swim laps on an empty stomach.
Then again, it was her own fault for rolling over and going back to sleep when the morning bell sounded. If it had sounded, that is -- for the first time since her arrival in Section, she didn't remember hearing its hideous gonging. Normally, it wrenched her awake just as she seemed to be reaching her deepest sleep -- this time, she hadn't even noticed.
Was she becoming used to her surroundings? No. That wasn't possible. She would never get used to this place.
A series of trilling dings through the headphones told her she was taking too long to answer. "Shem," she said hastily.
An abrasive buzz sounded, and the picture remained onscreen.
Bloody hell. What was the right word again? She had so many new languages rattling around in her head, it was a wonder she could manage English anymore.
She tried again. "Shest."
The program chirped in reward.
As a picture of twelve oranges replaced the apples, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning, she discovered Michael looking down at her. She hadn't heard him approach -- but then she never did.
She pulled off the headset. It caught in her hair as she did so; she disentangled it, then gave him a questioning look.
"Shut down the terminal." His tone was soft, but firm.
"But I just started. And I've got to get this vocabulary unit finished."
"No, you don't."
Nikita frowned. "Why?"
"Your training is suspended."
She stared at him, trying to gauge whether this was good news or bad. It was impossible to tell; his bland expression gave nothing away.
"Have I done something wrong?"
He paused, green eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Report to Madeline's office. She’s expecting you."
How she hated it when he wouldn't answer a simple question. She had a right to know what was going on, and Mr. Enigma had better explain it.
"I thought you were in charge of my training, Michael," she said bitingly, hoping to goad him into more of an answer. "Not the etiquette teacher."
Instead of getting angry, as she expected, he just looked at her wordlessly. For far too long.
"She's not just the etiquette teacher, is she?" she asked, the feeling in the pit of her stomach telling her she already knew the answer.
He blinked, but otherwise remained expressionless.
"Madeline has other duties." After a moment, he added, "You shouldn't keep her waiting."
***
The doors swung open as if by magic, beckoning Nikita inside before she could request admission. It unnerved her. She knew the corridors were lined with sensors and cameras -- knew, in the abstract, that someone probably monitored them -- but preferred to imagine a faceless security guard in some far off room. Someone scarfing down boxes of powdered donuts in an effort to stave off boredom, whose only entertainment was catching some thoughtless operative pick his nose. In other words, someone she would never meet, and didn't have to care about. Not someone she interacted with every day.
Shaking off her discomfort, she approached the threshold. Her pace slowed momentarily, like that of an animal sniffing around a trap. Then, taking a deep breath, she entered.
"Good morning, Nikita."
Madeline greeted her from one of the armchairs in the center of the room. She faced the door, but that was the only sign she was expecting anyone. She leaned back casually, one leg crossed over the other, and balanced a cup and saucer in her hands as if Nikita had interrupted her during a mid-morning break. In front of her, the coffee table was covered with gleaming trays of food: a neatly stacked pyramid of pastries, a platter of cut fruit, a glass container of orange juice.
When Nikita smelled the aroma of coffee, her stomach rumbled loudly.
"Please, sit down."
Nikita started for the sofa, but then remembered she was most likely there to be reprimanded. The sofa seemed too comfortable, and at the same time too vulnerable. She took the chair opposite Madeline and did her best to strike a respectful pose.
"Help yourself." Madeline nodded toward the table.
Nikita sat forward, eyeing a croissant hungrily, but hesitated.
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked.
Madeline raised an eyebrow. "Eat. If you're hungry."
"But isn't there some special way I'm supposed to hold my plate, or something?"
"This isn't training." Madeline's voice was kind. "Just breakfast."
Relieved, Nikita poured herself some coffee and retrieved the croissant. She took a bite; it was buttery and flaky, so rich she found herself devouring half of it before she realized what she was doing. She stopped short: she had eaten like that when she lived on the streets -- desperately, hurriedly, like someone afraid she would never eat again. Ashamed to let this woman see her revert to that, she set the remainder down on a small plate and brushed the crumbs off her lap.
She looked up. Madeline watched her without comment.
Unbidden, the memory of prior conversations returned to her. Birkoff. Michael. Stray remarks that might not have been so random after all.
Everything Madeline asks you to do is important. Especially the things that don't seem that way.
Madeline has other duties.
With a feeling of queasy apprehension, she realized she might be in serious trouble.
"Say, Madeline," she said, the words tumbling out rapidly, "I'm sorry I acted silly yesterday. I didn't mean anything by it, honestly."
"I know." Madeline took a sip from her cup. Her gaze was steady and unblinking.
"But isn't that why my training is suspended?"
"Not entirely."
Puzzled, Nikita searched for a response, but Madeline spoke before she could find one.
"How long have you been with us, Nikita?"
Nikita tried to think back, but failed. Time within Section was a blur of meals, sleep and training, unmarked by anything resembling days or nights, or even light or dark. She could have been there a week -- or she could have been there forever.
"I'm not sure," she admitted.
"Nine weeks, as of tomorrow."
"Seems like nine years," she said wistfully.
Madeline smiled; it filled her face with a faint look of satisfaction.
"That is why your training is suspended." She paused, as if expecting Nikita to react, but then continued, "Michael has you on an expedited schedule. Because of that, you've been exposed to a great deal of information in a very short period of time. I believe you need some time off to assimilate it."
"Time off?" A feeling of hope surged like water from a bursting dam. To keep it from sweeping her away, Nikita quipped, "So is there a Section beach resort, or maybe a cruise ship? Club Section?"
Madeline's smile grew warmer. "We do have some luxuries, but that isn't one of them."
"Oh, well. Never hurts to ask." Nikita returned the smile, grateful that this time Madeline was sharing the joke. "What, then? I haven't noticed many recreational activities offered in the recruits' quarters."
Madeline set down her cup and saucer.
"You'll be spending time with me."
*******************************
Chapter Four
Nikita leaned forward and studied the wooden game board. She examined the tiles with their painted Japanese characters, trying to envision a pattern of movement across the squares. It didn't materialize. The pieces she wanted to capture merely pointed back at her, their tips like bristling spears in an impregnable row.
She glanced up. Across the table, Madeline waited for Nikita to make her move, arms folded. When she caught Nikita's eye, she smiled encouragingly, but said nothing.
Nikita stretched and looked around the room, taking in the surroundings. What luxury this "down time," as Madeline called it, was. No five am wakeup bells. No bleary-eyed morning runs. No overcooked eggs in the recruits' cafeteria. Instead, she slept in as long as she wanted, worked out only when she was in the mood, and ate food better than she'd ever had in her life.
It wasn't freedom. She wasn't even allowed to leave Section. But it was something -- a drink of cool water in the desert; a respite from Michael's ceaseless demands; a chance to catch her breath, and find herself again.
Most of her time was free for her to use as she saw fit. Not that there was much to do: read, exercise, sleep, think. All of them such solitary activities. The highlight of each day, then, was the time she spent in Madeline's office. She had begun to crave the company, to cling to it for as long as Madeline allowed. They did nothing particularly exciting -- drank tea, listened to music, and simply sat and talked -- but the sheer ordinariness of their interactions felt like an oasis of normality. Like a return to real life. Almost.
The day before, Madeline had begun to teach Nikita the rudiments of shogi. Nikita tried gamely, but found herself too impatient for it: she never managed to win, and suspected that Madeline deliberately drew out the matches, just to give themselves something to do while they talked.
She didn't mind. She was grateful for any reason to prolong their time together. She had even come to find the office oddly cozy, despite its grand spaciousness. It was full of surprises and contradictions: hidden corners and cabinets, concealing objects both practical and ornamental. Sometimes, the ornamental turned out to be practical as well -- like the elaborately decorated wooden box she learned contained a set of glasses for pastis, or the vases that opened up to reveal stereo speakers.
In a sense, the room was much like its owner: much of its essence hidden, revealed only when one wasn't expecting it. Madeline continually surprised Nikita with her topics of conversation -- she seemed to know at least a little about everything, from Greek history to modern art. And yet there was always a sense of something out of reach. No matter how intimate-seeming her demeanor, she never allowed the subject to turn to herself. She ducked all personal questions -- even trivial ones -- so gracefully that Nikita never noticed until long afterwards, when it was too awkward to bring up the topic again.
More and more, Madeline reminded Nikita of Michael. They shared the same polite evasiveness, except that Madeline employed charm and Michael reticence.
The thought left Nikita unsettled in a way that she couldn't quite explain. She pushed the idea aside.
Curling up a leg in the chair, she returned her attention to the board. It was time she just decided on a course of action instead of agonizing over it. Biting her lip, she moved a tile.
One of Madeline's eyebrows flit upwards for a split second.
"Ni fu," she said, chuckling.
"I'm sorry?"
"You made an illegal move. The match is over."
"Just like that? I don't get to correct it?"
"Sometimes rules are harsh." Madeline smiled. "That's why it's good to remember them."
Nikita laughed and shook her head in exasperation. "I'll never get this."
"Why do you say that?" Madeline cocked her head.
"I don't know. Games just aren't my thing, I guess."
"You're a beginner. It takes time to grow accustomed to something unfamiliar. In fact," she added, a rich note of teasing entering her voice, "you've already developed a distinctive style of play."
"Really?"
"You like to make bold moves. To do things just for the sake of trying. Sometimes it turns out well. Sometimes it doesn't." She regarded Nikita fondly. "If you can preserve that tendency while learning to anticipate the consequences a bit better, you could become quite good someday."
The statement made Nikita flush. Feeling a little too under the microscope, she decided to turn the lens back the other direction.
"So what's your playing style, Madeline?"
"You haven't figured that out yet?" A corner of her mouth curled up. "You need to be more observant, then."
Deflected again. Nikita wasn't sure whether to be frustrated, admiring, or both.
Like an invasion from another world, a beep sounded suddenly, followed by a woman's voice on an intercom.
"Madeline?"
Madeline's smile vanished, replaced by a look of sharp alertness. "Yes, Elizabeth?"
"You're needed in the White Room. DeAngelis is ready."
"Michael is handling DeAngelis."
"Operations feels your presence is required," the voice replied, its pitch a matter-of-fact monotone.
Madeline sat quietly for a moment. "I'll be right there."
She stood and looked down at Nikita. The smile returned, like a sunbeam breaking through clouds.
"I'm sorry. This is unexpected. We'll play another match tomorrow."
"Right. Of course." Nikita rose, preparing to go. Then her curiosity got the better of her. "By the way, what's the White Room? It sounds like the name of a dance club."
Madeline's expression tightened momentarily. Then relaxed, gracious again.
"It's a reception area for visitors. Goodbye, Nikita"
******************************
Chapter Five
Nikita bit down, and her mouth filled with flavor. Chunks of lamb fell apart between her teeth -- tender, succulent, their juices suffused with fruit and spices.
Tajine, Madeline had called the dish. It was North African, or Turkish, or something -- Nikita couldn't remember which, and was too embarrassed to ask again. But whatever it was, it was heavenly: the aroma of it evoked silk-laden caravans, traversing across the desert to the accompaniment of flutes and cymbals.
Someday, she might get to taste it in its native setting. The idea was exhilarating and still a little bit overwhelming. What would such a faraway place be like? For all her tough life on the streets, how little she knew about the world. Just a few meals had brought home how limited her experience really was.
At least now, thanks to Madeline, it wasn't quite so limited.
As if she had heard Nikita think her name, Madeline looked up. She set down her knife and fork, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and placed it on the table.
"They tell me your tactical training is going well," she said.
"That's good to hear," Nikita replied, wondering where the conversation might be headed. This was the first time Madeline had brought up her training since the suspension began, and she wasn't about to blow it by giving the wrong kind of answer.
Nikita must have said the right thing, because Madeline smiled companionably. "You're at the top of your training group in marksmanship and close quarters combat."
Nikita had suspected as much -- still, the recognition made her sit up slightly straighter.
"I try," she said, feeling herself blush.
"You do try," agreed Madeline. "Most of the time," she amended. Then she leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes as if observing Nikita across a vast and frozen distance. "There are a few exceptions." Her voice was cold.
Stung by the shift in mood, Nikita opened her mouth to speak. Madeline held up a hand.
"You're uncomfortable engaging in stereotypical displays of feminine behavior." The statement was blunt -- spoken without apparent malice, but also without sympathy.
"It doesn't come easily to me," Nikita explained, defensive. "It's not who I am."
"You're not a turn of the century samurai, either. And yet you're capable of bowing like one in the dojo." Sarcasm snapped through the air like a cracking whip.
"That's different," Nikita protested.
"How? You put on a costume and behave appropriately. That's precisely what I ask of you here."
Nikita squirmed internally, but couldn't evade the question. Madeline was right: there weren't really any differences -- but she couldn't explain why one setting made her so uncomfortable while the other didn't.
Couldn't -- or didn't want to.
After a few moments, Madeline's expression softened.
"What is it really, Nikita?"
That dark gaze reached out, warm and enveloping, like an arm slipping reassuringly around Nikita's shoulders, telling her it was all right to admit the truth.
It was all right.
Nikita took a deep breath.
"With the martial arts, I'm learning to protect myself," she began. "But this...."
She faltered, afraid to voice the thought that swam near the surface of her mind. But it broke through anyway, and a wave of rage slammed into her. She clenched her fists.
"I promised myself I would never become my mother." The words erupted, a scalding geyser of resentment held back far too long. "Pandering to the most despicable men in the hope that they would take care of her. Putting up with their abuse because she didn't know how to fend for herself. And tossing me aside because I got in the way of that."
Her throat constricted until she thought she would choke; she tried to hold back the tears, but felt them blur her eyes.
There was a long silence. Then the sound of Madeline's voice -- low and strangely vehement.
"Your mother's rejection of you doesn't have to define the rest of your life."
Something in the delivery of the words startled Nikita; each one enunciated so sharply, they seemed chipped out of ice.
Nikita blinked several times, and her vision cleared.
Madeline stared at her intensely, eyes clear and cold as a midnight sky. No more charm. No more evasion. Instead, Nikita saw anger, coiled tightly like a snake: still, yet ready to strike.
Nikita didn't think the emotion was aimed at her; there was something too distant in it. Somehow, that unnerved her even more.
Madeline stood.
"Come upstairs."
She spoke with the flat sternness of someone accustomed to being obeyed. Nikita did.
They climbed the stairs to the loft. Madeline led Nikita to a gilt-framed mirror that hung on the rear wall, and reached into a nearby clothes rack. Hangers scraped the metal rod and clacked against each other; swiftly, Madeline withdrew a blue cocktail dress and held it out.
"Put this on." The tone was milder, but it was still a command.
Nikita slipped out of her shirt and pants and dropped them to the floor. She stepped into the dress and wriggled it upwards, struggling to fit within its skin-tight confines. When she finished, Madeline zipped up the back and straightened the shoulder straps.
Grasping her by the shoulders, Madeline turned Nikita toward the mirror. The fabric curved and clung to her, sequins shimmering as she moved.
"You're a beautiful woman, Nikita. That's not a matter of opinion. It's a fact." Madeline stroked Nikita's hair, hands gentle, threading through the tresses. "If you can learn to control people's response to that, you'll be able to protect yourself better than any martial art could. That's what your mother never understood."
Nikita stared at her reflection. The blue of the dress made her eyes gleam like sapphires; the light above the mirror set her hair aglow. It was dazzling. Mesmerizing. And not quite real.
This isn't me. This can't be me. It's someone else.
"Seize that power," Madeline whispered, breath warm in Nikita's ear. "Leave your mother's mistakes behind."
Nikita began to breathe more deeply; her skin flushed with a sensation both unfamiliar and dizzying. Was it power? She wasn't sure she knew what that felt like. Whatever it was, it was too much.
She turned away from the mirror, but the feeling didn't dissipate. Instead, it surged; she couldn't move, she couldn't speak, but her heart pounded, hard and fast.
Madeline's caresses moved to her face. The fingers hovered, barely making contact, so light Nikita might have imagined it. She closed her eyes and felt them trace her skin.
When their lips touched, she realized she'd expected it. She wasn't certain who kissed whom, or if it even mattered. All that was important was the lingering softness; she gave into it, let it overwhelm her, wanted it to last forever even as it stirred a violent hunger for something more.
Arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her in; hands clasped her back and stroked along her spine. Her own hands roamed and explored, slipping down the curve of hips and thighs.
The kisses grew moister. Mouths opened; tongues met; bodies pressed against each other, clasping and merging. Losing equilibrium, Nikita found herself falling backwards. She clutched at the clothes rack to balance herself; a tangle of fabric enveloped her as she toppled to the floor.
She landed on a pile of jumbled silk, cotton, satin, fur. Madeline fell beside her. Their breaths gasped and intermingled, warm and heavy with desire; their clothes joined the mound of others, tugged off hastily and thrown aside.
They grasped each other fiercely -- fingers kneaded; tongues tasted flesh. For a time, she lost awareness of who and where she was; she tensed in agonized anticipation until she shuddered and heard an otherworldly groan. Hers, or Madeline's, or both of theirs -- she couldn't tell, and didn't care.
This was power. And it was intoxicating.
Afterwards -- long afterwards, it seemed -- Madeline sat up. The light pooled on her skin and tinged her hair with a reddish radiance.
"You should go." She played with a strand of Nikita’s hair as she spoke; her voice strained with what sounded like regret.
Nikita nodded.
They dressed in silence. When she finished, Nikita reached to straighten the fallen clothes rack. Madeline placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I'll take care of that."
Nikita blinked. "Okay."
Madeline touched Nikita's arm. Lightly, almost hesitantly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
She smiled, as if in reassurance, but her eyes were those of a ghost.
************
Chapter Six
Nikita didn't sleep that night. She tried, lying motionless on her back, then shifting restlessly from side to side. Eventually, she gave up and stared into the darkness.
What exactly had happened between her and Madeline? More importantly, what did it mean for her future? She asked herself again and again, but found no answers: only uncertainty, worry, and doubt.
Finally, it was morning.
She showered, dressed, and made her way to Madeline's office. With each step she took, her stomach throbbed with what could have been either dread or excitement.
When Nikita entered the office, Madeline's back was to the door. She stood placing cut flowers into a vase, her movements relaxed and unhurried. She ignored Nikita's presence, adjusting and readjusting the blooms and branches with a studied fastidiousness. Even when she appeared to have finished, she said nothing, and inspected the arrangement for several moments longer.
Finally, she turned toward Nikita, her face nearly as pale as the white petals beside her.
"Effective immediately," she said, "you're to return to your standard training schedule." Her voice was formally precise, neither cold nor warm.
Nikita searched Madeline's eyes for a hint of the other woman's mood -- for signs of embarrassment, regret, guilt, even shame -- but saw nothing. It left her feeling helpless, like someone standing in a field of quicksand, with no way of knowing which path was safe and which was deadly.
"It was a mistake, wasn't it?" she asked hesitantly.
"Yesterday?"
Nikita nodded.
Madeline's expression softened, but only slightly. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about, but also nothing that will be repeated."
Nikita understood. In other words, yes, it was a mistake. One they would pretend hadn't happened.
"Right," she said, both relieved and saddened. She paused, then added compulsively, as if it might clear away the awkwardness, "I'm not sure what happened, but if it was my fault, I'm sorry."
Madeline shook her head. "Don't apologize. It was a natural reaction to the circumstances I placed you in."
Was Madeline blaming herself? She might be right to do so: she was the superior, Nikita the subordinate. But that didn't seem fair, either. Nikita hadn't resisted. She hadn't objected. In truth, she hadn't really minded.
"It's not your fault, Madeline," she insisted, wanting to convince both of them. "It's not anyone's fault. It just...happened."
Madeline's face filled with an odd expression: half amused, half apologetic.
"You had a stumbling block, Nikita. A serious one. I created an environment designed to help you push past it." Her smile was gentle. "You succeeded."
Understanding came slowly, blossoming into astonishment.
"You planned this? As part of my training?"
"Planning is a necessary component of everything," Madeline replied smoothly. Then she paused, and drew a breath. "Nevertheless, one must also be flexible enough to improvise, if the situation warrants."
Had she answered the question or not? That sense of standing on the edge of quicksand returned, and this time Nikita felt herself sinking.
She laughed, both in shock and in an effort to hide her discomfort. "So, Madeline, do you do this sort of training with all the recruits?"
"No." Madeline blinked, and for an instant Nikita thought she saw that look of sadness from the prior day -- it came and went like a shadow from a passing cloud.
They watched each other in silence. Nikita waited as long as she could stand, then threw out her challenge.
"It wasn't all just training, was it?"
For a moment, Nikita thought Madeline might actually answer. But then the moment passed.
"Michael's waiting for you," Madeline said evenly. "You'd better get going."
************
Epilogue: "Four Light Years Farther"
It wasn't all just training, was it?
As Nikita watched Madeline stare defiantly at Jones, it occurred to her that Madeline had never answered her question. Not then; not later; and certainly not now.
Nikita had only asked it once. Yet it hung between them afterwards, like a scent that lingers for years in the air of a closed room. Most of the time, Nikita ignored it; sometimes, she was able to forget it. But then there would be a look, or a certain tone of voice, and she would wonder all over again.
It could have explained everything. Or then again, maybe not.
The sound of Jones' voice broke into her thoughts.
"If you insist," he said, addressing Madeline.
"No," Nikita blurted out.
She meant to turn toward Jones, but found she couldn't. She could only look at Madeline, who refused to look back.
"We've discussed this, Nikita," said Jones, a touch impatiently.
"And you know where I stand. It's not the way."
"There's no place for her here."
No, there wasn't. That was one of the central conclusions of Nikita's own report. But this was also the person who convinced her she was beautiful, and that it was a source of strength. Whatever the motive, it was still a gift.
"Maybe not in Section, but she does have assets."
Out of the corner of her eye, Nikita saw Jones turn his head toward her. "Is this a personal plea?" He sounded surprised, but not necessarily disapproving.
"Yes." She stared at Madeline with burning eyes, as if she could communicate her thoughts by the sheer intensity of her gaze.
After everything that's happened, I'm offering you forgiveness. Please, take it.
A tiny frown formed on Madeline's face. For the first time during the review, she looked disconcerted. Maybe even unsure of herself.
Please, just take it.
Jones turned back to Madeline. "You understand, this decision is mine, and mine alone."
At Jones' words, Madeline's expression hardened, the hint of wavering vanishing so thoroughly it was as if it hadn't existed.
"No. You understand. I'll make my own decision regarding my fate."
Madeline reached behind her head, her expression strangely triumphant. When she brought her hand back, she held a capsule.
Nikita knew what it was. She also knew there was no time to react. So she watched, numb with a sense of inevitability.
Madeline sat. She glanced back and forth from Jones to Nikita. Slowly, with the deliberate flourish of someone who knows she can't be stopped and wants to flaunt that power, she placed the capsule in her mouth and bit down.
Her eyes glazed over immediately, but death waited. It let her stare at her chosen fate for several moments before it sent her body into convulsions. She trembled slightly, but remained seated upright, eyes still gazing into an invisible distance. For an instant, a look of agony crossed her face -- or maybe it was horror, as if she had seen something that might have changed her mind. Then the trembling ceased and she slumped over, still.
She wouldn't even accept Nikita's mercy.
"I shall miss her fortitude." Jones hit an intercom. "Housekeeping, please."
Nikita stared at the figure in the chair and felt the numbness lift.
She, too, would miss something. She just wasn't sure what.