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Fic: Succession, Chapter 21/31 (La Femme Nikita)
Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Twenty-One
Shivering, Lisa tugged her jacket closer around her. The sun had finally risen, but the air was still chilly; as she blew on her hands to warm them, her breath rose in faint white puffs. Everything was suffused in the light of early morning -- bright yet somehow washed out, casting long, sharp shadows along the pavement.
The alley where she waited smelled like spoiled vinegar. Blending with the smell of fresh bread from the bakery a few doors down, the odor made her empty stomach congeal into a heavy mass of nausea. But it wasn't just the smells, or the hunger, or even the lack of sleep that made her feel lightheaded. Nor was it the aftereffects of Walter's liquor from the night before. Rather, it was anger, anxiety, desperation, despair -- all of them convulsing through her like epileptic spasms. They wouldn't stop, wouldn't subside, wouldn't leave her alone.
Eventually, they had driven her here. Where she watched and paced until dawn, struggling to keep her impatience from erupting out of control.
Finally, her wait was rewarded. When she saw the blonde woman pass by along the sidewalk, she sprang out of the alley like a ravenous animal.
"Jesus," gasped Mireille. "What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk." Lisa pointed toward the alley, her hand trembling with intensity.
A look of fear flashed across Mireille's face, as if she were contemplating running away. After a few moments' hesitation, she walked into the alley. Lisa followed a step behind, heart thudding.
Mireille grimaced. "For God's sake, did you stake me out all night?"
Lisa ignored the question. She took a step forward. "I want to know what this whole thing is about," she demanded.
"What 'thing'?"
"This experiment you're in charge of. I want to know everything. How it started, what the goal is, where it's going. Everything."
Mireille rolled her eyes and sighed. "Look, I don't know as much as you think"
"Don't play stupid!" Lisa smacked her fist against the wall next to Mireille's head. Mireille flinched. "You have access to records. You see those kids every day. Are they all twins? Who are their parents? What are they being trained to do? Why? And what happens if they fail their training?"
"You're better off not knowing. Trust me."
"You know, I'm really sick of people deciding what they think is good for me," Lisa snarled. Mireille, Walter -- what gave them the right? She grasped Mireille's shoulder and dug her fingers in hard. "You're going to tell me everything you know -- and then whatever you don't know, you're going to help me find out."
"That's crazy," Mireille said. "If I start prying into things that are none of my business, I could get cancelled." She looked at Lisa coldly. "And so could you. Because you'd better believe I'm not protecting you if I get caught."
Lisa released her grip on Mireille's shoulder and laughed. It hurt to laugh -- it felt like her lungs were exploding -- but she couldn't seem to stop herself.
"You don't get it, do you?" she said when the laughter subsided. "I'm not afraid anymore." She pointed to a stain on her jacket. "See that? That's from where my best friend's brains were blown out yesterday."
Mireille's blue eyes widened.
"It could have been me, just as easily," said Lisa. "And it will be me, sooner or later. That's just the way it is for field ops. It made me realize I've got absolutely nothing to lose."
Realization dawned on Mireille's face. She shook her head. "I can't do this," she whispered.
Lisa pulled out her gun and held it to Mireille's temple. This time, her hand didn't tremble.
"You will do this. Because you're still afraid to die, and I'm willing to kill you."
Mireille started to cry. Once, Lisa would have felt sorry for her. Now, she didn't care.
"Do we understand each other?"
Mireille nodded, tears rolling down her face.
Lisa holstered her gun. "Good. Then we've got some research to get started."
***
Paul took a long drag from his cigarette, followed by a slurp of coffee. The bitter taste filled his mouth; he savored it and allowed the nicotine-caffeine boost to suffuse his body. He set his cup on the saucer, flicked some ash into the ashtray, and settled back contentedly in his chair.
Curious, he cast his gaze at his surroundings. It amazed him how many people appeared to have so much leisure time in the middle of the afternoon: the café tables were full, the sidewalks bustling with pedestrians bearing shopping bags, the streets congested with honking cars. Didn't these people have to earn a living? Why, he couldn't even remember the last time he had simply sat around and done nothing all day. On some level, the idea actually offended him. Frittering time was for the soft, the lazy, and the spoiled: for students, the idle rich, pampered housewives or, God forbid, dilettante artists.
Like the two men at the table next to him, for example. Wiry-thin and wearing the requisite all-black, they sat arguing incessantly about movies -- throwing around phrases like "unifying tropes" and "the death of the auteur." They'd been at it for at least an hour -- bumming cigarettes from Paul in between unintelligible diatribes at each other -- and showed no signs of recognizing the utter triviality of their entire conversation. He'd been tempted, for a few moments, to interrupt and tell them they didn't know shit about the death of anything, that he'd seen people's heads blown off so that they could keep enjoying their intellectual masturbation sessions. But he bit his tongue and contented himself with occasional sneers in their direction when they raised a particularly ridiculous point.
And yet, while he should have felt bored and frustrated wasting a perfectly good workday eavesdropping on such useless people, he found that he was enjoying himself. The idea of genuine time off had become an almost alien concept; he had downtime scheduled after every mission, of course, but he always went back to Section anyway -- to use the gym, do some target practice, catch up on analysis, or a myriad of other tasks. This time, however, he had decided it was wisest to lay low -- to let Adrian cool down before he went back and groveled in apology.
Groveled. The thought made him smile. He wasn't sure if Adrian would buy the contrite act he planned to put on -- it couldn't be too abject, after all, or it would look suspicious. It would have to be subtle, and grudging enough to seem sincere. And then he'd have to play Nice Schoolboy for the foreseeable future. He knew he probably wouldn't win his way back into her favor -- it was far too late for that -- but he was optimistic he could at least avoid any serious wrath.
He'd been so stupid, challenging her with no goal or strategy -- challenging her simply for the sake of being right. He'd let his pride get in the way of his sense: there was nothing wrong with kissing ass now and then, so long as it was a means to an end, and not a way of life.
And now, thanks to his conversation with Madeline, he saw what that end could be.
The two of them had stayed up the entire night before -- first, talking in the stairwell of his apartment building, then, after one too many interruptions by other tenants, walking through the streets until they reached a park. They planned out their vision of the future sitting on a bench under the moonlit trees, sharing a jacket when the night turned cold.
Madeline had told him quite a few interesting things: her clandestine relationship with George the most interesting of all. It hadn't surprised him, once he thought about it, to learn that George was less than loyal to Adrian, or even that George had turned to Madeline for help. It had surprised him, at least a little, that Madeline hadn't told him about it before now. But what surprised him the most was that he wasn't bothered by her secrecy. In fact, he found himself strangely pleased. Having confidences from each other was inevitable, given the lives they led -- but finally, when it really mattered, she had told him everything. For him, that was the true definition of loyalty -- what one did when it counted -- and now he knew he had hers.
Then there was their vision. Their ideas meshed perfectly -- overlapping, filling in each other's gaps, building upon each other until they blended into a perfect whole. By the time the sun rose, hours later, they knew what Section could be: something far better than Adrian ever dreamed of, something remarkable and revolutionary. He could see it, like a shimmering land on the horizon, waiting for him to sail in and claim it as his kingdom.
But first, they needed to take control.
It wouldn't be enough that Adrian fail. It wouldn't be enough that George abandon her, or that Section rise in mutiny. All of those things would have to happen -- but also something more. Paul would have to demonstrate to whoever judged these things -- be it Center, or someone higher than that -- that he, and he alone, could deliver what Adrian couldn't.
That, in turn, meant he would have to develop outside connections. Do deals. Create a sphere of influence. Internal unrest could be left in Madeline's hands -- she would handle that with efficiency and flair -- but the outside connections he would have to forge himself.
The prospect was dangerous but exhilarating. Empowering. Invigorating. As he raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled another lungful of smoke, he felt like he was breathing in life itself.
***
Madeline strolled along the dusty museum aisle, peering into glass-enclosed cases. The room was nearly silent, but for her footfalls; few visitors found their way to this obscure collection, and fewer still lingered once they saw its contents. Rows of shelves and cases housed the remains of 19th-century criminals and psychotics: preserved heads gaped, misshapen, from the interior of jars; wrinkled brains soaked in formalin baths; plaster deathmasks slept in stiffened serenity.
At the far end of the aisle, Ulanova stood transfixed as she examined old photos of surgical procedures. Madeline had thought the museum would be an excursion Ulanova might enjoy, and her instinct turned out to be correct. More importantly, however, it was a place where they could speak in private.
Madeline approached Ulanova. Ulanova cocked her head as she inspected a wax model, her eyes bright and intent like a sparrow's. She hadn't spoken since they entered the room. Finally, however, she pronounced her verdict.
"This is merely a collection of the lurid," she said scornfully. "There is nothing of scientific value here." But the longing look she gave the specimens belied her words.
"It was an attempt at cataloguing variations from the norm. Given the primitive state of knowledge at the time, it was a reasonable place to start."
Ulanova grunted. "Primitive is an understatement."
"That may be. But the medical establishment then did have at least one advantage over their modern counterparts."
"What was that?" Ulanova sounded skeptical.
"Freedom from public scrutiny. They could pursue research that would be frowned upon today -- using a steady supply of subjects from prisons and asylums."
Ulanova shrugged. "It was wasted on them. They lacked the technology to take advantage of it."
"True." Madeline paused. "Section could offer the best of both worlds."
Ulanova narrowed her eyes. "It could. But it doesn't."
"Someday that might change. You could be part of it." Madeline held Ulanova's gaze, then reached out and touched her arm. When Ulanova's face grew pink, Madeline gave her a warm smile and removed her hand again. "By the way," she said, changing the subject and yet not really changing the subject at all, "I read the L-18 report last night."
Ulanova raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"
"It lacks balance."
"It is accurate," Ulanova said defensively.
"Only within a narrow range of parameters."
Ulanova didn't respond for several moments. Then she asked bluntly, "You want me to falsify the results, don't you?"
With great effort, Madeline resisted the urge to look away. Even now -- free of any possible surveillance, her courage buoyed by her newly-wrought plans with Paul -- the thought of lying to Adrian sent a sharp stab of fear through her. By hinting at it obliquely, she could pretend it was less than it was; when it was put in flat, stark terms, she couldn't evade it.
She kept her outer demeanor calm. "Adrian has set specific targets. If we fail to achieve them, the entire program will be terminated. Perhaps even personnel." She watched as Ulanova paled. "Adrian isn't willing to consider other directions. I, however, have an open mind. I see the program's larger potential. Your larger potential. I want to preserve those options for the future."
"But if I change the test results," Ulanova said, frowning, "Adrian will learn the truth when the device fails in the field."
Madeline shook her head. "It's an unlikely scenario. Given the state of Red Cell's work, they're not going to deploy the device anytime in the next decade. If ever. Even if they do, we'll come up with an explanation. There are an almost infinite number of variables we can attribute it to."
"So we pretend to make progress? For how long?"
Until Adrian's gone, Madeline thought to herself. To Ulanova, she replied, "Until we have concrete results. She'll change her mind about the project when she sees something she can use."
"I see." Ulanova turned toward one of the cases and ran a finger along the glass. Then she glanced back at Madeline. "Why are you doing this? Surely this is a risk."
"Because I believe in the Section," Madeline replied. "And I won't let anyone stand in the way of what's best for it."
"Not even its creator?"
"No."
Uttering the word, she felt a surge of emotion; the intensity of it both shocked and pleased her. For a moment, she struggled to identify what it was. Then she knew. It was clarity of purpose -- pure, concentrated, and sweet. She let it sweep through her like a narcotic.
She noticed Ulanova staring at her, brow wrinkled in a nervous expression. On some level, she suddenly realized, Ulanova was afraid of her. The recognition intensified the sweetness. She smiled.
"I'll review the report again," said Ulanova hastily. "I think I can make it more balanced."
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-Two, click here.
Previous Chapters
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Shivering, Lisa tugged her jacket closer around her. The sun had finally risen, but the air was still chilly; as she blew on her hands to warm them, her breath rose in faint white puffs. Everything was suffused in the light of early morning -- bright yet somehow washed out, casting long, sharp shadows along the pavement.
The alley where she waited smelled like spoiled vinegar. Blending with the smell of fresh bread from the bakery a few doors down, the odor made her empty stomach congeal into a heavy mass of nausea. But it wasn't just the smells, or the hunger, or even the lack of sleep that made her feel lightheaded. Nor was it the aftereffects of Walter's liquor from the night before. Rather, it was anger, anxiety, desperation, despair -- all of them convulsing through her like epileptic spasms. They wouldn't stop, wouldn't subside, wouldn't leave her alone.
Eventually, they had driven her here. Where she watched and paced until dawn, struggling to keep her impatience from erupting out of control.
Finally, her wait was rewarded. When she saw the blonde woman pass by along the sidewalk, she sprang out of the alley like a ravenous animal.
"Jesus," gasped Mireille. "What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk." Lisa pointed toward the alley, her hand trembling with intensity.
A look of fear flashed across Mireille's face, as if she were contemplating running away. After a few moments' hesitation, she walked into the alley. Lisa followed a step behind, heart thudding.
Mireille grimaced. "For God's sake, did you stake me out all night?"
Lisa ignored the question. She took a step forward. "I want to know what this whole thing is about," she demanded.
"What 'thing'?"
"This experiment you're in charge of. I want to know everything. How it started, what the goal is, where it's going. Everything."
Mireille rolled her eyes and sighed. "Look, I don't know as much as you think"
"Don't play stupid!" Lisa smacked her fist against the wall next to Mireille's head. Mireille flinched. "You have access to records. You see those kids every day. Are they all twins? Who are their parents? What are they being trained to do? Why? And what happens if they fail their training?"
"You're better off not knowing. Trust me."
"You know, I'm really sick of people deciding what they think is good for me," Lisa snarled. Mireille, Walter -- what gave them the right? She grasped Mireille's shoulder and dug her fingers in hard. "You're going to tell me everything you know -- and then whatever you don't know, you're going to help me find out."
"That's crazy," Mireille said. "If I start prying into things that are none of my business, I could get cancelled." She looked at Lisa coldly. "And so could you. Because you'd better believe I'm not protecting you if I get caught."
Lisa released her grip on Mireille's shoulder and laughed. It hurt to laugh -- it felt like her lungs were exploding -- but she couldn't seem to stop herself.
"You don't get it, do you?" she said when the laughter subsided. "I'm not afraid anymore." She pointed to a stain on her jacket. "See that? That's from where my best friend's brains were blown out yesterday."
Mireille's blue eyes widened.
"It could have been me, just as easily," said Lisa. "And it will be me, sooner or later. That's just the way it is for field ops. It made me realize I've got absolutely nothing to lose."
Realization dawned on Mireille's face. She shook her head. "I can't do this," she whispered.
Lisa pulled out her gun and held it to Mireille's temple. This time, her hand didn't tremble.
"You will do this. Because you're still afraid to die, and I'm willing to kill you."
Mireille started to cry. Once, Lisa would have felt sorry for her. Now, she didn't care.
"Do we understand each other?"
Mireille nodded, tears rolling down her face.
Lisa holstered her gun. "Good. Then we've got some research to get started."
***
Paul took a long drag from his cigarette, followed by a slurp of coffee. The bitter taste filled his mouth; he savored it and allowed the nicotine-caffeine boost to suffuse his body. He set his cup on the saucer, flicked some ash into the ashtray, and settled back contentedly in his chair.
Curious, he cast his gaze at his surroundings. It amazed him how many people appeared to have so much leisure time in the middle of the afternoon: the café tables were full, the sidewalks bustling with pedestrians bearing shopping bags, the streets congested with honking cars. Didn't these people have to earn a living? Why, he couldn't even remember the last time he had simply sat around and done nothing all day. On some level, the idea actually offended him. Frittering time was for the soft, the lazy, and the spoiled: for students, the idle rich, pampered housewives or, God forbid, dilettante artists.
Like the two men at the table next to him, for example. Wiry-thin and wearing the requisite all-black, they sat arguing incessantly about movies -- throwing around phrases like "unifying tropes" and "the death of the auteur." They'd been at it for at least an hour -- bumming cigarettes from Paul in between unintelligible diatribes at each other -- and showed no signs of recognizing the utter triviality of their entire conversation. He'd been tempted, for a few moments, to interrupt and tell them they didn't know shit about the death of anything, that he'd seen people's heads blown off so that they could keep enjoying their intellectual masturbation sessions. But he bit his tongue and contented himself with occasional sneers in their direction when they raised a particularly ridiculous point.
And yet, while he should have felt bored and frustrated wasting a perfectly good workday eavesdropping on such useless people, he found that he was enjoying himself. The idea of genuine time off had become an almost alien concept; he had downtime scheduled after every mission, of course, but he always went back to Section anyway -- to use the gym, do some target practice, catch up on analysis, or a myriad of other tasks. This time, however, he had decided it was wisest to lay low -- to let Adrian cool down before he went back and groveled in apology.
Groveled. The thought made him smile. He wasn't sure if Adrian would buy the contrite act he planned to put on -- it couldn't be too abject, after all, or it would look suspicious. It would have to be subtle, and grudging enough to seem sincere. And then he'd have to play Nice Schoolboy for the foreseeable future. He knew he probably wouldn't win his way back into her favor -- it was far too late for that -- but he was optimistic he could at least avoid any serious wrath.
He'd been so stupid, challenging her with no goal or strategy -- challenging her simply for the sake of being right. He'd let his pride get in the way of his sense: there was nothing wrong with kissing ass now and then, so long as it was a means to an end, and not a way of life.
And now, thanks to his conversation with Madeline, he saw what that end could be.
The two of them had stayed up the entire night before -- first, talking in the stairwell of his apartment building, then, after one too many interruptions by other tenants, walking through the streets until they reached a park. They planned out their vision of the future sitting on a bench under the moonlit trees, sharing a jacket when the night turned cold.
Madeline had told him quite a few interesting things: her clandestine relationship with George the most interesting of all. It hadn't surprised him, once he thought about it, to learn that George was less than loyal to Adrian, or even that George had turned to Madeline for help. It had surprised him, at least a little, that Madeline hadn't told him about it before now. But what surprised him the most was that he wasn't bothered by her secrecy. In fact, he found himself strangely pleased. Having confidences from each other was inevitable, given the lives they led -- but finally, when it really mattered, she had told him everything. For him, that was the true definition of loyalty -- what one did when it counted -- and now he knew he had hers.
Then there was their vision. Their ideas meshed perfectly -- overlapping, filling in each other's gaps, building upon each other until they blended into a perfect whole. By the time the sun rose, hours later, they knew what Section could be: something far better than Adrian ever dreamed of, something remarkable and revolutionary. He could see it, like a shimmering land on the horizon, waiting for him to sail in and claim it as his kingdom.
But first, they needed to take control.
It wouldn't be enough that Adrian fail. It wouldn't be enough that George abandon her, or that Section rise in mutiny. All of those things would have to happen -- but also something more. Paul would have to demonstrate to whoever judged these things -- be it Center, or someone higher than that -- that he, and he alone, could deliver what Adrian couldn't.
That, in turn, meant he would have to develop outside connections. Do deals. Create a sphere of influence. Internal unrest could be left in Madeline's hands -- she would handle that with efficiency and flair -- but the outside connections he would have to forge himself.
The prospect was dangerous but exhilarating. Empowering. Invigorating. As he raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled another lungful of smoke, he felt like he was breathing in life itself.
***
Madeline strolled along the dusty museum aisle, peering into glass-enclosed cases. The room was nearly silent, but for her footfalls; few visitors found their way to this obscure collection, and fewer still lingered once they saw its contents. Rows of shelves and cases housed the remains of 19th-century criminals and psychotics: preserved heads gaped, misshapen, from the interior of jars; wrinkled brains soaked in formalin baths; plaster deathmasks slept in stiffened serenity.
At the far end of the aisle, Ulanova stood transfixed as she examined old photos of surgical procedures. Madeline had thought the museum would be an excursion Ulanova might enjoy, and her instinct turned out to be correct. More importantly, however, it was a place where they could speak in private.
Madeline approached Ulanova. Ulanova cocked her head as she inspected a wax model, her eyes bright and intent like a sparrow's. She hadn't spoken since they entered the room. Finally, however, she pronounced her verdict.
"This is merely a collection of the lurid," she said scornfully. "There is nothing of scientific value here." But the longing look she gave the specimens belied her words.
"It was an attempt at cataloguing variations from the norm. Given the primitive state of knowledge at the time, it was a reasonable place to start."
Ulanova grunted. "Primitive is an understatement."
"That may be. But the medical establishment then did have at least one advantage over their modern counterparts."
"What was that?" Ulanova sounded skeptical.
"Freedom from public scrutiny. They could pursue research that would be frowned upon today -- using a steady supply of subjects from prisons and asylums."
Ulanova shrugged. "It was wasted on them. They lacked the technology to take advantage of it."
"True." Madeline paused. "Section could offer the best of both worlds."
Ulanova narrowed her eyes. "It could. But it doesn't."
"Someday that might change. You could be part of it." Madeline held Ulanova's gaze, then reached out and touched her arm. When Ulanova's face grew pink, Madeline gave her a warm smile and removed her hand again. "By the way," she said, changing the subject and yet not really changing the subject at all, "I read the L-18 report last night."
Ulanova raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"
"It lacks balance."
"It is accurate," Ulanova said defensively.
"Only within a narrow range of parameters."
Ulanova didn't respond for several moments. Then she asked bluntly, "You want me to falsify the results, don't you?"
With great effort, Madeline resisted the urge to look away. Even now -- free of any possible surveillance, her courage buoyed by her newly-wrought plans with Paul -- the thought of lying to Adrian sent a sharp stab of fear through her. By hinting at it obliquely, she could pretend it was less than it was; when it was put in flat, stark terms, she couldn't evade it.
She kept her outer demeanor calm. "Adrian has set specific targets. If we fail to achieve them, the entire program will be terminated. Perhaps even personnel." She watched as Ulanova paled. "Adrian isn't willing to consider other directions. I, however, have an open mind. I see the program's larger potential. Your larger potential. I want to preserve those options for the future."
"But if I change the test results," Ulanova said, frowning, "Adrian will learn the truth when the device fails in the field."
Madeline shook her head. "It's an unlikely scenario. Given the state of Red Cell's work, they're not going to deploy the device anytime in the next decade. If ever. Even if they do, we'll come up with an explanation. There are an almost infinite number of variables we can attribute it to."
"So we pretend to make progress? For how long?"
Until Adrian's gone, Madeline thought to herself. To Ulanova, she replied, "Until we have concrete results. She'll change her mind about the project when she sees something she can use."
"I see." Ulanova turned toward one of the cases and ran a finger along the glass. Then she glanced back at Madeline. "Why are you doing this? Surely this is a risk."
"Because I believe in the Section," Madeline replied. "And I won't let anyone stand in the way of what's best for it."
"Not even its creator?"
"No."
Uttering the word, she felt a surge of emotion; the intensity of it both shocked and pleased her. For a moment, she struggled to identify what it was. Then she knew. It was clarity of purpose -- pure, concentrated, and sweet. She let it sweep through her like a narcotic.
She noticed Ulanova staring at her, brow wrinkled in a nervous expression. On some level, she suddenly realized, Ulanova was afraid of her. The recognition intensified the sweetness. She smiled.
"I'll review the report again," said Ulanova hastily. "I think I can make it more balanced."
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-Two, click here.