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jaybee65Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Twenty-Three
Behind Paul, a throat cleared, light but insistent. He turned and saw Adrian at the threshold to his office, resting a hand against the door frame. She watched him steadily but without expression.
"Good morning, Paul."
They hadn't faced each other since their confrontation. Seeing her, he felt a surge of adrenaline -- a rush composed of equal parts excitement and pleasure. He found himself staring quite openly, thrilled and fascinated, as if he had never met her before.
Perhaps, in a sense, he hadn't. From his new vantage point, she'd been transformed. No longer was she a person to be feared; no longer was she a person to be impressed or even admired. Now, she was simply an adversary. He could study her the way one would an opponent across a chessboard, searching her eyes for that one fatal weakness.
He knew it was there. He knew he would find it. He relished that knowledge, rolling its taste in his mouth like the flavor of victory.
She entered the office and took a seat at the table, then she gestured for him to do the same. He sat. And then he waited.
The air hung with awkwardness, as tangible as jungle humidity. To cut through it, he clasped his hands together on the table in a gesture of earnestness and worked up his best "reluctant but contrite" expression.
"What I did was inexcusable," he said. "You're the commander. I had no right to speak to you like that."
"No, you didn't." She seemed strangely devoid of anger -- devoid of any emotion, in fact. "But you did have the right to be upset."
He didn't know what to make of her comment or her demeanor. Her mood was muted, soft, very unlike herself.
"In your shoes," she said, "I would have been outraged. We squandered an opportunity to eliminate a key member of a vicious terrorist organization." Suddenly, her expression changed, sparking into reproachful life. "However, had I been you, I also would have borne in mind that decisions are made for reasons, even if I may not be privy to them."
She stared at him pointedly.
"I apologize." He dropped his gaze in mock repentance. "My team members were dying all around me. I allowed myself to get carried away by the emotion of the moment."
"Paul Wolfe, overwrought at the death of his subordinates?" She quirked an eyebrow. "I believe that's a first."
A tone of amused skepticism had crept into her voice, and he wanted to kick himself for overdoing it.
"While I can appreciate and perhaps even sympathize with your feelings," she continued, mercifully letting the matter pass, "the fact remains that you crossed the line into insubordination. I cannot simply let it go, you understand."
He braced himself. "I understand."
"Good." She eyed him for a moment, hawklike. "Effective immediately, you're demoted to Level One. You'll be reassessed after six months."
He nodded, concentrating on suppressing a sigh of relief. A six-month demotion? He'd expected far worse.
Then again, he wasn't exactly home free, either. He'd be at the mercy of team leaders who hated him -- subject to their orders and their petty harassment. No doubt they'd take full advantage of the chance to make his life miserable. Let them try. He was smarter than they were. Better than they were. They'd either wind up letting him run their missions for them, if they were smart, or suffering the consequences of trying to mess with him, if they were stupid. He didn't really care which they turned out to be.
He expected Adrian to get up and depart, but she didn't. Instead she drummed her fingers on the table distractedly. In the fluorescent light, the veins stood out on her hand, large and blue.
Finally, she stood. She turned toward him, but she seemed to be looking through him.
"Sometimes," she said, her voice thin and tired, "the only option is to start from the beginning again."
***
The elevator hummed as it rose through Section. Adrian watched the floor numbers light her progress; the steady blink was mentally soothing, as was the soft vibration through the soles of her shoes.
What a relief to have put the discussion with Paul behind her. After her disappointment with the Council, she hadn't had the energy for a confrontation. Fortunately, he hadn't sought one. In fact, he'd been surprisingly self-restrained, even after she announced his demotion. Had she been inclined to care, she even might have been proud of him. But it was too late for that: Paul, at this point, was irrelevant. She only wished she hadn't wasted so much effort on him over so many years.
How could she have placed so much hope on a single person?
How, for that matter, could she have placed so much hope on a group of arrogant old men?
So foolish. Her only hope was in herself. When she was young, she'd understood that. At what point had she forgotten?
The elevator slowed to a halt and the doors rumbled open. She straightened her jacket with a brisk tug and stepped out.
Level Twelve was more brightly-lit than most areas of Section. It was also considerably noisier -- and odiferous, in that unpleasant manner of hospitals and morgues. She hated the smells; they seeped into her hair and clothing and accompanied her the rest of the day, an invisible but omnipresent taint of death.
The hallway was busy -- busier than she remembered it ordinarily being. The workers' demeanors seemed more purposeful, as well, in a way she couldn't quite explain. As she made her way down the corridor, some of them clearly recognized her and did a bad job of pretending not to, but others seemed genuinely oblivious to her identity.
When had she last visited here? She searched her memory but couldn't remember.
She turned a corner and entered a small office. Inside, Madeline looked up from the papers spread across her desk. She started to stand, but Adrian waved her back down.
"You have results on the L-18 project?"
"Yes," Madeline answered. "I sent you the full report this morning."
Lovely. Another report, to be added to the stack of others Charles had left. The very thought was fatiguing.
Adrian pulled over an empty chair and sat. "Just give me the highlights, please," she said.
"Phase Three has been completed on schedule. So far, the results exceed expectations."
"Do they? Remarkable." It was all so easy -- one of the few things that actually appeared to be running smoothly. As an afterthought, she asked, "How is Doctor Ulanova doing?"
"She's reasonably integrated into Section, despite some minor socialization issues. I'm working with the laboratory staff to resolve those."
"Have the other technical recruits been productive? The ones she requested?"
"Their numbers are among the highest in Section."
Madeline began to elaborate with names and figures, but Adrian found her thoughts straying. In truth, she hadn't the slightest interest in the performance of entry-level lab researchers. What difference did any of them make, if Adrian couldn't control the organization they worked for? But what could she do? Declare independence? Impossible. Submit? Unthinkable.
With a start, she realized that Madeline had finished and was waiting for a response.
"Very good then," Adrian said hastily. "It sounds like things are proceeding at an acceptable pace."
"We're ready to commence Phase Four, with your authorization."
"You have it, then." She rose to leave. "Keep me fully apprised."
She started for the door, but then an odd whim seized her. She stopped and looked back at Madeline, who sat with her hands primly folded atop her desk, regarding Adrian in that feline manner of hers.
So many people had been failures or disappointments. Madeline had been one of the few she'd never had any significant expectations of. And yet there she was: indispensable. An unaccustomed sense of gratitude arose, mixed with a twinge of guilt.
"Thank you, Madeline," she said. It wasn't enough, she knew, but perhaps it was a start.
A look of surprise momentarily creased Madeline's brow. When she said nothing, Adrian turned away.
***
All the anxiety, all the dread that had built and built toward a crescendo of fear that Adrian would see through the fraud -- it had all been for nothing.
Madeline marveled. She'd put so much effort into it, working with Ulanova to rewrite the research data until the falsehoods were undetectable, and yet she'd still been terrified that Adrian would see the lie in her face. It had happened before, disastrously, and the memory of it made her heart race.
This time, Adrian did nothing. She'd even seemed pleased with Madeline's work, offering thanks instead of her customary dry barbs. Immediately afterwards, Madeline fought a compulsion to flee the premises, certain that at any moment Adrian would reappear with more questions and trip her up. But she hadn't. Madeline finished her workday unmolested and headed home, so giddy with success that she kept smiling to herself involuntarily, attracting odd looks from passersby.
She'd lied -- boldly and shamelessly -- and Adrian hadn't noticed. Adrian wasn't omniscient after all; she couldn't always read Madeline's mind and push her buttons; she was human and weak and therefore vulnerable.
She's finished. Somehow, Madeline knew it with an unshakable certainty.
Arriving at her apartment, she turned the key in the lock and began to open the door. Then she froze. Inside, the light was on, and she knew she hadn't left it that way.
It was against Section regulations to carry a weapon when not on a mission; nevertheless, she habitually did. Glad for her foresight, she slipped the Beretta out of her coat pocket and entered the apartment in a burst of aggression.
"Good evening," said George, smiling at the pistol aimed at his chest.
He sat on the sofa, reclining comfortably against the cushions, a copy of the latest issue of Le Canard enchaîné spread open in his hands. He'd made himself quite at home: he'd even poured himself a drink, apparently having rummaged through the cabinets to find her liquor, several bottles of which sat on the coffee table.
She lowered the gun and drew a deep breath.
In all the years she'd known George, he had never visited her home before. While he'd done many things to remind her of his authority, he had always been scrupulous to preserve the illusion of personal privacy. She'd known it was an illusion, of course, but the pretense was a mark of courtesy, and she appreciated the gesture.
Now, she wasn't sure whether to be angry or fearful.
She placed the gun on a shelf. She said nothing, unwilling to acknowledge to him that she considered his visit unusual or unexpected. She closed the door, tossed her keys into a dish by the door, and took off her coat and draped it over a chair.
"You don't have any gin," he said accusingly.
"I don't care for it."
"Pity."
He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. He reached for an empty glass, dropped a few ice cubes into it, and poured another drink.
"Here," he said, offering her the glass.
He hadn't asked her what she wanted, or even if she wanted anything at all. The presumption made her resentful. Still, she took the drink and took a seat in one of the chairs.
She took a sip. It was far too strong. She found herself idly wondering whether he might have drugged it, but she drank it anyway.
"See that corner?" He nodded toward the far end of the room.
She followed his gaze.
"That's where the camera is." He paused, as if waiting for her reaction. "But don't worry. I'm familiar with your surveillance rotation, and it's dormant at the moment."
She studied her drink, refusing to look him in the eye. She could feel his stare: a cold burn on her skin, like dry ice.
"Over the past few years," he said, "you've done very well in our little joint venture."
She looked up. Again, he was smiling -- an expression that looked so stiff and unnatural she imagined he must have wrenched his facial muscles in the effort to look pleasant.
"I greatly appreciate the information and insight you've provided," he continued.
"That's very gratifying," she said, deciding to return platitudes with platitudes.
He seemed amused -- perhaps in approval of her cautious response, or perhaps at her expense. "I'm so glad you feel that way." The amusement faded from his expression. "You've known all along I'd eventually ask more of you."
She said nothing. But he waited, patiently, until she finally felt forced to speak. It was a capitulation on her part, but then that was the point, wasn't it?
"What would you like me to do?" she asked in surrender.
"Why, start a rebellion, of course."
A look of triumph lit his face, and she gripped her glass more tightly in apprehension. Did George know about her plans with Paul? They'd been careful to avoid any possible surveillance, but the coincidence in timing was more than disturbing. Perhaps, though, it was something simpler: Adrian was weakening and they all sensed it, like animals drawn by the scent of blood.
"Not today, mind you," he added. "But I'd like you to shift your energies from passive information-gathering to something more proactive. Begin to lay the seeds of disloyalty among those who will be the most receptive, and water them liberally."
"Where should I start?" she asked, hoping he might reveal more of his intentions, or, even better, how much he already knew of hers.
"I recommend that you cultivate a coup leader or two." At her questioning look, he explained, "It won't do for you to take the lead. People will be easier to manipulate if they think you're neutral. Besides, if something happens, you're more protected."
She dreaded asking the next question, but did anyway. "Do you have anyone in mind?"
"Paul strikes me as the rebellious type."
She felt herself flush. "Yes, I suppose he is."
"I'd also recommend Charles."
"Charles?" She forgot her worries in genuine surprise. "I can't imagine him crossing against a light, much less leading a mutiny."
"You underestimate him, then."
His look was sharp. She felt a wave of shame, as if she had been rebuked for an especially foolish error.
He glanced at his watch. "The camera comes on in ten minutes," he said. "I must go."
They rose, and she accompanied him to the door. As he shrugged on his overcoat, she could smell the heavy scent of his cologne.
"We stand on the brink of something remarkable," he said. "Be patient, and you'll be rewarded."
With a parting kiss on her cheeks, he left.
End of Part Three
To go on to Part Four, 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).
Behind Paul, a throat cleared, light but insistent. He turned and saw Adrian at the threshold to his office, resting a hand against the door frame. She watched him steadily but without expression.
"Good morning, Paul."
They hadn't faced each other since their confrontation. Seeing her, he felt a surge of adrenaline -- a rush composed of equal parts excitement and pleasure. He found himself staring quite openly, thrilled and fascinated, as if he had never met her before.
Perhaps, in a sense, he hadn't. From his new vantage point, she'd been transformed. No longer was she a person to be feared; no longer was she a person to be impressed or even admired. Now, she was simply an adversary. He could study her the way one would an opponent across a chessboard, searching her eyes for that one fatal weakness.
He knew it was there. He knew he would find it. He relished that knowledge, rolling its taste in his mouth like the flavor of victory.
She entered the office and took a seat at the table, then she gestured for him to do the same. He sat. And then he waited.
The air hung with awkwardness, as tangible as jungle humidity. To cut through it, he clasped his hands together on the table in a gesture of earnestness and worked up his best "reluctant but contrite" expression.
"What I did was inexcusable," he said. "You're the commander. I had no right to speak to you like that."
"No, you didn't." She seemed strangely devoid of anger -- devoid of any emotion, in fact. "But you did have the right to be upset."
He didn't know what to make of her comment or her demeanor. Her mood was muted, soft, very unlike herself.
"In your shoes," she said, "I would have been outraged. We squandered an opportunity to eliminate a key member of a vicious terrorist organization." Suddenly, her expression changed, sparking into reproachful life. "However, had I been you, I also would have borne in mind that decisions are made for reasons, even if I may not be privy to them."
She stared at him pointedly.
"I apologize." He dropped his gaze in mock repentance. "My team members were dying all around me. I allowed myself to get carried away by the emotion of the moment."
"Paul Wolfe, overwrought at the death of his subordinates?" She quirked an eyebrow. "I believe that's a first."
A tone of amused skepticism had crept into her voice, and he wanted to kick himself for overdoing it.
"While I can appreciate and perhaps even sympathize with your feelings," she continued, mercifully letting the matter pass, "the fact remains that you crossed the line into insubordination. I cannot simply let it go, you understand."
He braced himself. "I understand."
"Good." She eyed him for a moment, hawklike. "Effective immediately, you're demoted to Level One. You'll be reassessed after six months."
He nodded, concentrating on suppressing a sigh of relief. A six-month demotion? He'd expected far worse.
Then again, he wasn't exactly home free, either. He'd be at the mercy of team leaders who hated him -- subject to their orders and their petty harassment. No doubt they'd take full advantage of the chance to make his life miserable. Let them try. He was smarter than they were. Better than they were. They'd either wind up letting him run their missions for them, if they were smart, or suffering the consequences of trying to mess with him, if they were stupid. He didn't really care which they turned out to be.
He expected Adrian to get up and depart, but she didn't. Instead she drummed her fingers on the table distractedly. In the fluorescent light, the veins stood out on her hand, large and blue.
Finally, she stood. She turned toward him, but she seemed to be looking through him.
"Sometimes," she said, her voice thin and tired, "the only option is to start from the beginning again."
***
The elevator hummed as it rose through Section. Adrian watched the floor numbers light her progress; the steady blink was mentally soothing, as was the soft vibration through the soles of her shoes.
What a relief to have put the discussion with Paul behind her. After her disappointment with the Council, she hadn't had the energy for a confrontation. Fortunately, he hadn't sought one. In fact, he'd been surprisingly self-restrained, even after she announced his demotion. Had she been inclined to care, she even might have been proud of him. But it was too late for that: Paul, at this point, was irrelevant. She only wished she hadn't wasted so much effort on him over so many years.
How could she have placed so much hope on a single person?
How, for that matter, could she have placed so much hope on a group of arrogant old men?
So foolish. Her only hope was in herself. When she was young, she'd understood that. At what point had she forgotten?
The elevator slowed to a halt and the doors rumbled open. She straightened her jacket with a brisk tug and stepped out.
Level Twelve was more brightly-lit than most areas of Section. It was also considerably noisier -- and odiferous, in that unpleasant manner of hospitals and morgues. She hated the smells; they seeped into her hair and clothing and accompanied her the rest of the day, an invisible but omnipresent taint of death.
The hallway was busy -- busier than she remembered it ordinarily being. The workers' demeanors seemed more purposeful, as well, in a way she couldn't quite explain. As she made her way down the corridor, some of them clearly recognized her and did a bad job of pretending not to, but others seemed genuinely oblivious to her identity.
When had she last visited here? She searched her memory but couldn't remember.
She turned a corner and entered a small office. Inside, Madeline looked up from the papers spread across her desk. She started to stand, but Adrian waved her back down.
"You have results on the L-18 project?"
"Yes," Madeline answered. "I sent you the full report this morning."
Lovely. Another report, to be added to the stack of others Charles had left. The very thought was fatiguing.
Adrian pulled over an empty chair and sat. "Just give me the highlights, please," she said.
"Phase Three has been completed on schedule. So far, the results exceed expectations."
"Do they? Remarkable." It was all so easy -- one of the few things that actually appeared to be running smoothly. As an afterthought, she asked, "How is Doctor Ulanova doing?"
"She's reasonably integrated into Section, despite some minor socialization issues. I'm working with the laboratory staff to resolve those."
"Have the other technical recruits been productive? The ones she requested?"
"Their numbers are among the highest in Section."
Madeline began to elaborate with names and figures, but Adrian found her thoughts straying. In truth, she hadn't the slightest interest in the performance of entry-level lab researchers. What difference did any of them make, if Adrian couldn't control the organization they worked for? But what could she do? Declare independence? Impossible. Submit? Unthinkable.
With a start, she realized that Madeline had finished and was waiting for a response.
"Very good then," Adrian said hastily. "It sounds like things are proceeding at an acceptable pace."
"We're ready to commence Phase Four, with your authorization."
"You have it, then." She rose to leave. "Keep me fully apprised."
She started for the door, but then an odd whim seized her. She stopped and looked back at Madeline, who sat with her hands primly folded atop her desk, regarding Adrian in that feline manner of hers.
So many people had been failures or disappointments. Madeline had been one of the few she'd never had any significant expectations of. And yet there she was: indispensable. An unaccustomed sense of gratitude arose, mixed with a twinge of guilt.
"Thank you, Madeline," she said. It wasn't enough, she knew, but perhaps it was a start.
A look of surprise momentarily creased Madeline's brow. When she said nothing, Adrian turned away.
***
All the anxiety, all the dread that had built and built toward a crescendo of fear that Adrian would see through the fraud -- it had all been for nothing.
Madeline marveled. She'd put so much effort into it, working with Ulanova to rewrite the research data until the falsehoods were undetectable, and yet she'd still been terrified that Adrian would see the lie in her face. It had happened before, disastrously, and the memory of it made her heart race.
This time, Adrian did nothing. She'd even seemed pleased with Madeline's work, offering thanks instead of her customary dry barbs. Immediately afterwards, Madeline fought a compulsion to flee the premises, certain that at any moment Adrian would reappear with more questions and trip her up. But she hadn't. Madeline finished her workday unmolested and headed home, so giddy with success that she kept smiling to herself involuntarily, attracting odd looks from passersby.
She'd lied -- boldly and shamelessly -- and Adrian hadn't noticed. Adrian wasn't omniscient after all; she couldn't always read Madeline's mind and push her buttons; she was human and weak and therefore vulnerable.
She's finished. Somehow, Madeline knew it with an unshakable certainty.
Arriving at her apartment, she turned the key in the lock and began to open the door. Then she froze. Inside, the light was on, and she knew she hadn't left it that way.
It was against Section regulations to carry a weapon when not on a mission; nevertheless, she habitually did. Glad for her foresight, she slipped the Beretta out of her coat pocket and entered the apartment in a burst of aggression.
"Good evening," said George, smiling at the pistol aimed at his chest.
He sat on the sofa, reclining comfortably against the cushions, a copy of the latest issue of Le Canard enchaîné spread open in his hands. He'd made himself quite at home: he'd even poured himself a drink, apparently having rummaged through the cabinets to find her liquor, several bottles of which sat on the coffee table.
She lowered the gun and drew a deep breath.
In all the years she'd known George, he had never visited her home before. While he'd done many things to remind her of his authority, he had always been scrupulous to preserve the illusion of personal privacy. She'd known it was an illusion, of course, but the pretense was a mark of courtesy, and she appreciated the gesture.
Now, she wasn't sure whether to be angry or fearful.
She placed the gun on a shelf. She said nothing, unwilling to acknowledge to him that she considered his visit unusual or unexpected. She closed the door, tossed her keys into a dish by the door, and took off her coat and draped it over a chair.
"You don't have any gin," he said accusingly.
"I don't care for it."
"Pity."
He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. He reached for an empty glass, dropped a few ice cubes into it, and poured another drink.
"Here," he said, offering her the glass.
He hadn't asked her what she wanted, or even if she wanted anything at all. The presumption made her resentful. Still, she took the drink and took a seat in one of the chairs.
She took a sip. It was far too strong. She found herself idly wondering whether he might have drugged it, but she drank it anyway.
"See that corner?" He nodded toward the far end of the room.
She followed his gaze.
"That's where the camera is." He paused, as if waiting for her reaction. "But don't worry. I'm familiar with your surveillance rotation, and it's dormant at the moment."
She studied her drink, refusing to look him in the eye. She could feel his stare: a cold burn on her skin, like dry ice.
"Over the past few years," he said, "you've done very well in our little joint venture."
She looked up. Again, he was smiling -- an expression that looked so stiff and unnatural she imagined he must have wrenched his facial muscles in the effort to look pleasant.
"I greatly appreciate the information and insight you've provided," he continued.
"That's very gratifying," she said, deciding to return platitudes with platitudes.
He seemed amused -- perhaps in approval of her cautious response, or perhaps at her expense. "I'm so glad you feel that way." The amusement faded from his expression. "You've known all along I'd eventually ask more of you."
She said nothing. But he waited, patiently, until she finally felt forced to speak. It was a capitulation on her part, but then that was the point, wasn't it?
"What would you like me to do?" she asked in surrender.
"Why, start a rebellion, of course."
A look of triumph lit his face, and she gripped her glass more tightly in apprehension. Did George know about her plans with Paul? They'd been careful to avoid any possible surveillance, but the coincidence in timing was more than disturbing. Perhaps, though, it was something simpler: Adrian was weakening and they all sensed it, like animals drawn by the scent of blood.
"Not today, mind you," he added. "But I'd like you to shift your energies from passive information-gathering to something more proactive. Begin to lay the seeds of disloyalty among those who will be the most receptive, and water them liberally."
"Where should I start?" she asked, hoping he might reveal more of his intentions, or, even better, how much he already knew of hers.
"I recommend that you cultivate a coup leader or two." At her questioning look, he explained, "It won't do for you to take the lead. People will be easier to manipulate if they think you're neutral. Besides, if something happens, you're more protected."
She dreaded asking the next question, but did anyway. "Do you have anyone in mind?"
"Paul strikes me as the rebellious type."
She felt herself flush. "Yes, I suppose he is."
"I'd also recommend Charles."
"Charles?" She forgot her worries in genuine surprise. "I can't imagine him crossing against a light, much less leading a mutiny."
"You underestimate him, then."
His look was sharp. She felt a wave of shame, as if she had been rebuked for an especially foolish error.
He glanced at his watch. "The camera comes on in ten minutes," he said. "I must go."
They rose, and she accompanied him to the door. As he shrugged on his overcoat, she could smell the heavy scent of his cologne.
"We stand on the brink of something remarkable," he said. "Be patient, and you'll be rewarded."
With a parting kiss on her cheeks, he left.
To go on to Part Four, click here.