Section One had sent Michael and Nikita, separately, to a costume ball, a masque of great celebrity and even greater opulence. They were to pursue their objectives separately, without knowing the identity of the other´s costumed character, and meet later to complete the mission profile. Not only was that unusual, but Michael had not been allowed to read all of the mission profile.

Few things caused Michael anxiety. Incomplete intel could get a person killed. Incomplete intel caused Michael anxiety. Not for himself, but for the other member of his team, whose identity was still unknown to him. He guessed that it could be Nikita, but it could just as easily be anyone else.

So not only was he searching for a madman, known as "101 Characters", who could be disguised as anyone at the masque…but he was forced to rely on an unknown comrade, who could be disguised as anyone at the masque. The unknowns made Michael uncharacteristically nervous.

Introspective by nature, Michael fell back on thinking about the various inconsistencies and incongruities of the mission. The madman in question had gotten hold of some very deadly viruses, which he planned on releasing at the scene. Death was always an option for operatives, but this mission involved grossly unacceptable amounts of collateral. Innocents. It always bothered him, the destruction of the innocent. It reminded him of Nikita.

His eyes flickered over the growing crowds of people. There were too many of them, and not enough operatives assigned to this mission. How could Section expect him and one other person to work their way through a horde of people this size, and actually come up with useful information?

He caught sight of himself in the lavishly decorated mirrored panel at the end of the hallway above the grand ballroom. It startled him, seeing himself this way. He was dressed completely in black. A long satiny black cape draped itself along his lean but firm body. He wore black leather boots and black leather gloves covered both hands. His leggings were made of spandex, the only modern concession, but the doublet that covered his upper body was black satin, like his cape. The only decorations he wore were a large silver cross around his neck and a chunky silver bracelet on his left hand above his glove. His face was covered with a black satin mask, and he checked to make sure it remained in place. It felt good against his skin, which was overheated, both from anxiety and the overcrowding. His eyes glowed a brilliant green through the eyeslits, and he knew he looked every inch the highwayman he was portraying. Le Seigneur du Minuit. The Prince of Midnight.

He hated to waste the effect on some wench at the party who would scarcely appreciate the irony. What a pity Nikita could not see him this way.

Nikita came into the grand ballroom and stood in awe of the luxuriant surroundings. She had been on many missions, but never somewhere like this. This was like a fantasy made real. Fairy lights decorated the edges of an opulent green bower. It was like taking a walk into the woods. Inside. She peered into the bower, hesitating on the edge.

Her mission was to find "101 Characters", but she didn´t know what he looked like or even anything about him. Beyond the fact that he threatened the lives of everyone present, including herself and the other operative, whose identity remained unknown to her. She was well-used to being left out of the loop, so she didn´t find the lack of concrete intel unusual. She assumed that the other operative, probably Michael, knew exactly what was going on and how to resolve the situation.

She wondered what character Michael had chosen to portray. She imagined him as a pirate…no, a swashbuckler or swordsman. Ah…she could definitely see him wielding a sword. Her heart sighed. She wished…well, never mind what she wished. She needed to focus more intensely on the mission. Thinking about Michael never led anywhere. Except occasionally to more pain and frustration.

She climbed the ornate stairway, surprised to find a huge mirrored panel at the top. She could not help but admire the reflection. She was dressed completely in silver. A long silken silver cape draped itself along her lean but athletic curves. She wore silver leather thongs on her feet that laced in a criss-cross fashion up to her knees. Her hands were bare except for two silver rings, one on each hand. The one on her left hand boasted a fake amethyst of astonishingly realistic quality; the one on her right was a thick silver band she had worn on another mission long, long ago, when she had first met Michael. She wore it as a talisman now. Her stockings were sheer but covered in silver appliqué, so that her legs gleamed the entire length. Her one shoulder was bare, and off the other flowed a silvery toga-like creation that came, barely, to her thighs. A silvery-white bow hung over one arm, and her hair poured loosely past her shoulders, its length sprayed with silver as well, turning her hair into spunsilk moonlight. She was Artemis incarnate, The Huntress. Moon Goddess of ancient mythology.

Her eyes glowed a brilliant blue, the rest of her face covered by a silvery satin mask. She bit her lip, wishing that Michael could see her this way. What a pity to waste this effect on some drunken madman who would die shortly afterwards.

Michael felt her before he saw her. It was that frisson of feeling that crept up his spine whenever Nikita was nearby. He knew she was here. He would find her soon. His eyes moved restlessly over the crowds from his perch overlooking the grand ballroom. The landing that connected the twin stairways that led down to the ballroom was the perfect observation spot. Everyone passed beneath him, making it easier for surveillance.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Funny, but his senses were playing tricks on him. He should have whirled around and backhanded whoever had touched him like that. He still felt edgy, but not in a bad way. Raising one eyebrow, he contemplated the owner of the hand on his shoulder.

She was a vision. She was easily the most beautiful woman at the masque. Her hair glowed silver-white in the dim light cast by the chandeliers. Her eyes sparkled like pieces of the sky fallen to earth. His eyelashes slowly dipped, allowing him to stare at her, like the abject subject of a fantastical princess. His mouth opened involuntarily, his lips parted, and his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. He studied her costume, green gaze gliding along the length of her. When his eyes began to travel upwards again, stopping at her thighs, he forgot to breathe. Oh, God. She was real.

Nikita wasn´t entirely sure, but this man in black echoed her own man in black. She would know when he spoke.

"Bon nuit, mademoiselle." That voice, smoky with desire, smouldering with intensity. It was Michael. Her hand jumped off his shoulder as if burned.

"I didn´t mean to…" She began to apologize for breaking position during a mission, but she never completed the sentence. Michael gave her a crooked half-smile, and she was lost. What mission?

"Tu es…que veut dire? Clair de lune…?" He said huskily, making her skin come alive with the most curious sensation, as if he had touched her physically.

"Moonlight," she translated. "Merci, m´sieur." She inclined her head, as if she really were as regal as the goddess she portrayed. She controlled the urge to grant him leave to kiss her. She couldn´t get breath enough to speak.

"Tres jolie…les cheveux d´argent."

Michael reached out and played with her hair, discovering it smelled and felt as clean as the silk it resembled. "Like silver."

She closed her eyes, but she could feel him looking at her. His eyes were so warm, the green so vivid against the black mask that framed his face. When she opened her eyes again, he had moved closer. She stood, as silently as the moon she represented, while he touched her bare skin. Her one shoulder, exposed, was the target of his leather-clad hand.

"Ton peau…si belle, si douce." He ached to put his mouth on her, where his hand had been. Your skin, so beautiful, so soft…

She felt languid, as if she were drifting in a buoyant sea. Her legs felt heavy, but her arms felt light. She swayed gently back and forth, unconsciously inviting him to dance. Their eyes met, and Michael caught her, just as she tumbled gently forward into his arms. She blinked. He kissed her.

That was when they heard the music, coming from the ballroom floor. The lights had dimmed in the moments since they had found one another. The setting on the landing was intimate, darkly lit and smoky, not unlike Michael´s highwayman persona. The music was low and bluesy, the song an old-fashioned torch song, sung by a husky-voiced woman who bent and shaped each note into an arrow that pierced Nikita straight through. It spoke to her in ways she could not express. She had never imagined being allowed to feel this way with Michael.

There´s not a morning that I open up my eyes

and find I didn´t dream of you

Without a warning though it´s never a surprise

Soon as I awake

Thoughts of you arise

With ev´ry breath I take

At any time

O=r place

I close my eyes and see your face

And I´m

Em]bracing you

If only I believed that dreams come true

Darling,

You were the one who said forever

from the start

And I´ve been drifting since you´ve gone

Out on a lonely sea that only you can chart

I´ve been going on

Knwing that my heart will break

With ev´ry breath I take

*Lyrics courtesy of With Every Breath I Take from City of Angels

soundtrack

Nikita felt Michael´s lips on her neck. Tears filled her eyes, the longing was so intense inside her. He kissed each tear as it fell, his tongue lightly touching her face, and she sighed.

"Michael…" she whispered, her voice mere breath. Her lips found his, and they intertwined breathlessly, restlessly, almost agitatedly, for several moments. He stopped, panting, and wound his fingers through her hair, reluctant to let her go.

"Nikita…" He licked her mouth lightly, turning it into a warm, wet, open-mouthed kiss that left both of them hungry.

He pressed her up against the railing of the landing, opening his arms to wrap his satiny black cape around the two of them. He leaned into her, his mouth working and re-working hers until her lips were swollen from his love. He buried his face in the space between her neck and shoulder, his lips finally resting there as he caught his breath. She held his head to her, stroking his hair over and over with her fingers. A tiny groan escaped him, and she drew back to look at him.

"What´s wrong?" she whispered, reluctant to end this perfect moment out of time, but knowing she had to ask.

"We can´t do this," he answered, straightening his posture. "Not here. Not now."

She nodded. "Then when? Where?"

"Be patient," he said, his own frustration evident despite the near-inaudible whisper.

"I´ve been patient, Michael," she said, a trifle louder. "I´m getting tired of waiting…" she said, the implication being that all waiting came to an end. Eventually.

Michael pulled her into his arms again, whispering against her ear, "Thank you, Nikita." He kissed her cheek, and she felt a muscle in his face tense against hers, as if he were fighting to control some hidden emotion.

"Je voudrais t´aimer tous les jours, non, tous les ans de ma vie. Tu es ma vie. Tu vivrais dans mon coeur toujours, vraiment toujours." Michael looked sad, his eyes darkened with pain, instead of passion.

"Michael, Michael, lentement, slowly…you go too fast, I don´t understand." She searched his face, but she knew he wasn´t going to repeat what he said. He needed to say what he did, but he didn´t want her to know what was truly in his heart. She dropped her eyes first, unable to bear seeing her own pain reflected in those beautiful eyes. She reached out with her fingertips, to touch his mouth, and he shifted away from her at the last moment, unable to bear the intimacy implied by such a gesture.

He stepped back, allowing the concealing cloak to drop away, and Nikita abruptly felt vulnerable. She clenched a hand to her chest, almost convulsively, noting that Michael had turned away from her. "Sometimes it´s so hard to go on, Michael…"

He turned around, his eyes bright and intense. "What´s the alternative? Section gave us life, such as it is, and we must cling to that. Otherwise…what life do we have?"

"There must be something else, Michael. There has to be. Even if it´s only this stolen moment." She took a long, deep, slow breath.

He touched her cheek with his thumb. "Kita, you still believe in happily ever after…I don´t…I can´t." He kissed her, allowing himself to taste the sweetness of her mouth one last time before he returned to reality. "But you make me wish I could," he whispered against her neck, finally forcing himself to release her from his embrace.

Madeline listened to the audio on the current mission at the costume ball and frowned. Things were not going according to plan at all. This could not be allowed to continue. She placed a hand on Birkoff´s shoulder. "Seymour, I have a special job for you."

By the time Madeline had carefully briefed Birkoff, Birkoff was mildly annoyed at being used as Section´s errand boy. "Madeline, I don´t go out on missions anymore, you know that."

"Trust me, Seymour, this won´t be any more dangerous than taking a bath." She smiled warmly at the young man.

Birkoff glared at Madeline as he left Section. Yeah, I should have told her I almost drowned the last time I took a tub bath.

Birkoff showed up at the ballroom, armed with two things, Madeline´s new intel and a pair of cherubic wings pinned to his back. He was supposed to be Cupid. He rolled his eyes. Now come on…whose lame idea was this anyway?

Madeline said that he couldn´t get into the masque without a costume, and when he protested at her choice of costume, she said it was the best she could do on such short notice. He supposed she was right, but he felt downright silly.

He found the two operatives standing on the landing, just as Madeline said, and he approached with caution. Wherever those two went, trouble followed in one form or another. He didn´t want to get killed doing a favor during a routine mission.

"Uh, ahem…" Birkoff cleared his throat as he came closer, not wanting to startle anyone carrying a weapon.

Nikita turned, surreptitiously wiping a tear away. Birkoff didn´t notice, but Michael did. He dropped his head, wishing he didn´t always end up hurting her somehow. Each time it happened, he felt as though it took yet another piece of him away. It was like water chipping away at rock, under pressure, over the years, his humanity had eroded to the frail, frayed thing it now was. He was in grave danger of losing himself the next time, and he knew it.

Birkoff sensed the tension surrounding the scene, but he didn´t know what it related to. Michael breathed a sigh of relief that Birkoff was not in fact more intuitive about love than he was.

"What´s up, Birkoff?" Michael said softly.

Birkoff handed a handwritten message to Michael. "Your eyes only," Birkoff said to Michael, glancing at Nikita. Nikita smiled tightly, looking as if a harsh word would send her over the edge. "How like Section," she said bitterly.

She walked away, and Michael´s eyes followed her instead of reading the note Birkoff had given him. Birkoff asked, "Any reply, Michael?" Michael suddenly realized that he had no idea what Birkoff was talking about. Sometimes he wondered what his priorities really were.

"No," Michael said to Birkoff. "You can go, Birkoff."

The new intel gave Michael a probable location on the viruses as well as "101 Characters". He couldn´t do both, so he needed to find Nikita and brief her on one of them. He wasn´t sure what to do. He didn´t want her facing the madman all alone, without any back-up, and yet, he didn´t want her trying to single-handedly disarm a complicated trap containing a deadly virus either. This was indeed a dilemma for the team leader, and it was a decision he wished he didn´t have to make.

He walked softly down the ornate stairway, his bootheels clicking lightly on the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he saw Nikita. She was dancing with someone. Instantly aware that the man she was dancing with not an operative, Michael found himself unaccountably jealous. This was getting tiresome. He couldn´t work like this, constantly distracted by trivial details. Where was his focus? Nikita took it with her. He sighed, raking a hand through cinnamon brown hair.

He walked over to Nikita and tapped her on the shoulder, indicating he needed to cut in on her dance partner. He smiled pleasantly at the gentleman she was dancing with, but the man clearly saw something dangerous in Michael´s eyes, for he quickly made his excuses and left Nikita alone with Michael.

"Top floor, ten o´clock, penthouse 4," Michael said tersely. Nikita nodded.

He held out his hand to her, and she stared blankly at it. "Would you like to dance, Nikita?" he asked in a deceptively soft tone.

"Actually, no." She walked away, leaving Michael staring after her.