"I told you Mick couldn't be trusted to keep his word," Davenport said to Michael's back.

"It's not Mick," Michael replied tersely.

"How do you--Dammit, Michael, if you know who's behind this, why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't."

"You don't," Davenport repeated dumbly.

"I just know it's not Mick. Mick cares too much about Nikita. He--" Michael swore under his breath, and Davenport winced. That was not a good sign. Whatever particular insight Michael had just gained, Davenport was certain he wasn't going to like it.

"Mick's dead," Michael stated flatly.

"What?"

"It's the only explanation for Section's suddenly renewed interest in us. We've been safely under the radar for years. Why now? Because--"

"Mick's gone," Davenport echoed.

"Yeah."

"Shit."

Michael nodded. "Something like that."

Derry struggled to keep up with her brother. She was easily able to match him stride for stride under normal circumstances, but these weren't normal circumstances.

When she finally drew abreast of Declan, she made another attempt to speak to him, suddenly uncertain. "Why do you think this is happening?"

Declan spun around and gave her the full effect of his most intimidating silver glare before resuming his breakneck pace away from the Davenport house.

"I know why."

That caught his attention. Barely. He stopped mid-stride to face her.

"Really?"

"We got complacent."

"You mean *me*."

"I mean *all* of us. Look, Dec, the idea of having a normal life after what we've been through is irresistible. That we've actually *had* it for so long is incredible."

"So we should just give thanks for what God deigned to give us and run away like a skittering bunch of cockroaches?"

"No, of course not."

"Then what?"

"I dunno. I don't have any bright, glittering revelation for you, Declan. At the moment, I'm worried I might never see my husband again," she shouted.

"And you blame me," Declan said in that too-soft voice that belied the violent feelings churning deep inside of him.

"No!" Derry said agitatedly. "*You* blame you. You always do. It's what you do, Dec. But you're not bloody responsible for everything evil in the world."

"No..." Declan choked out. "Just losing my son."

Derry placed a hand tentatively on her brother's arm, stunned to find that his outward calm was just that. On the inside, he was shaking apart. "He's not lost."

"Do you know where he is?" Declan demanded.

"No--"

"Then he's bloody well lost," Declan tore his arm away from his sister and resumed a pace that threatened to tear down everything in his path.

"Michael."

Michael sighed and slowed down. Davenport was a little out of mission trim, not that he would ever mention it to the other man.

"Who do you think replaced Mick?"

Michael shrugged. "No idea. We haven't had any real intel out of Section for a long time."

"Then we're walking in blind."

Michael almost smiled. "Yeah."

"Son of a bitch. You like this."

"Not in the way you mean, but--"

"I thought you loved being a professor--"

"I do, but--"

"You missed being chased by psychotic uber-thugs?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Am I? You're getting off on this in some way, Michael, and I just want you to know..." Davenport paused, evidently flustered by the unspoken challenge he had just issued one of the top field operatives in Section.

"Yes?" Michael's sibilant whisper sent chills down Davenport's spine. Now there was a sensation he couldn't say he missed.

"I'm getting too old for this shit," Davenport wailed.

"It'll come back to you," Michael said almost sadly. "It always does."

The staff were unaccustomed to raucous rock music being played at all hours of the night. It wasn't what they were used to.

*He* wasn't what they were used to.

Not that he was a new figure to them. He had lived amongst them for years. But not in his current position.

"Oh, yeah," he said huskily, his voice all but worn to nothing. "It's good to be king."

That he was ambitious came as no surprise to any of them. That he almost gleefully stepped over the barely cold body of his predecessor, however, betrayed the artful elegance of Center.

Had he killed him? Or not?

There was no such thing as rumor within these hallowed halls. A single mistell could lead to consequences most dire. Especially with a madman at the helm.

He unbuttoned his suit jacket, the same one he had worn to the funeral, and climbed up on what was now surely *his* desk. He had waited a long time for this. He had paid in blood and suffering to stand there. Nobody was going to deprive him of a long and fulfilling reign.

Not the staff. Meek, subservient clods that they were.

Not Oversight. Bureaucrats. All of them.

And certainly not the Sections.

Especially Section One.

His dark brown eyes gleamed at the very thought of Section One. Where it all started for him. Where it all ended for him.

They thought they had gotten rid of him, but they only succeeded in driving him further underground. They thought they were in charge, but he was merely biding his time. Waiting to strike.

"I wonder...what I should do first," he asked out loud, chuckling to himself. Pain was such a pleasure. And anticipation heightened both.

The man drew back from the other side of the door as if struck. If there had been anyone to confide in, he would have. If there had been anyone at Oversight he could trust, if there had been anyone left who didn't think bartering with the devil was a perfectly acceptable way to live...

He wished he could call himself an altruist. But he wasn't. He was merely someone who wanted to survive. At any cost.

There would be no sleeping inside Center tonight.

The devil had learned to sing.

The crackle of a comlink caught his attention. "Who's there?"

He didn't dare answer. If he were found outside the door, he would be cancelled. But the new master was as paranoid as he was vigilant...

"I know there's someone out there," he called.

But did he?

He frowned. Sometimes it was a struggle to keep his thoughts straight. All in a line. That was just fine. "St-stop it," he whispered. "No rhyming. Not now."

"I'm the king," he tested, listening for any aberrant echoes. When there were none, he relaxed again.

There was only one voice now. And it was his.

"Bring her around," the voice commanded.

With a wave of someone's hand, Nikita was brought back to life. She shook her head as if to clear it, just as the pale man before her smiled encouragingly.

She tried to return the smile, but her mouth felt disconnected from the rest of her body. If she didn't know better, she would think she'd been drugged. But that didn't make any sense.

"You're needed in Van Access," he reminded her.

"Oh, right," she acknowledged, as if there were no gaps in her memory at all. "The mission."

He nodded and attempted to smile again.

Nikita got to her feet slowly and tried to avoid looking at him. For the life of her, she couldn't remember his name. But he was someone who never smiled. She would bet on it.

As Nikita walked away, her would-be tormentor gazed after her, almost fondly. His companion looked quizzically at him. "You like her."

"I always did."

The center of Section One was filled with operatives of every type, crisscrossing each other without ever coming close to intercepting one another. So any kind of contact was strictly...intentional.

"You're in my way." That voice, which never rose above a whisper, grated on his nerves just the same.

"Then move," the man they now called Operations said, turning away with the economy of movement of a field operative.

"You first."

"Insubordination will get you a quick trip to the White Room."

"But I'm *not* your subordinate," Margaret said, an oddly sweet smile tracing her lips. "The fact that *you've* got the job intended for *me* is a mere...technicality."

"Not to mention *temporary*," Operations reminded her sarcastically.

"Once I succeed in retrieving Michael Samuelle--"

"*If* you succeed--"

"One can't help but wonder why you're so disinterested in bringing him back," Margaret said almost coyly.

"Where my interests lie is none of your business, Margaret," Operations replied, narrowing his light blue eyes. It was a look that had intimidated many an operative, but it had little effect, if any, on the woman who claimed to be his right hand.

"Did I mention that Housekeeping could really use a thorough...cleaning?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Margaret's pleasant demeanor vanished, and along with it, all pretense that the two of them were colleagues. "I would like to know what you did with Gabriel."

Operations raised an eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Carlos shot him and fled, believing him dead. I know you intervened."

A smile spread slowly across Operations' face. "Whatever for?"

"You knew I wanted him," she hissed. She was a truly beautiful woman. Except when she didn't get her way. Violence distorted her features till they were barely recognizable.

"And *that* was reason enough for me, Maggie."

"Where is he?" she demanded.

Operations chuckled. It was a vaguely unpleasant sound to her ear. Especially since she knew that he wasn't going to tell her. "Go back to your plants, Maggie."

"Stop calling me that," she cried out in frustration.

He drew close enough for her to feel his breath on her face. It discomfited her, and he knew it. There had never been anything sexual between the two of them, but that didn't stop him from pushing her buttons. "Admit I'm your superior," he breathed against her mouth.

"No," she whispered.

He threw back his head and laughed, loudly enough that it caught the attention of several operatives passing by. "I could force you so easily, Maggie."

This time it was her turn to smile. "But you won't."

"No, I won't," he agreed, enjoying the vaguely shocked expression on her face. "And you know why."

She managed to hold her feelings in check until he started to walk away. "She'll never love you, you know," she blurted out.

He grinned. "That was surprisingly clumsy of you, Margaret. You can do better. I know you can."

"No one was ever able to come between Michael and Nikita."

"Michael's not here...and Nikita's not...herself," Operations said flatly, but Margaret, ever the trained observer, could see the barely perceptible shift in his eyes.

"When I bring Michael back..." she said softly, the vocal caress no less stinging for its lack of volume. "I hope he kicks your ass."

I don't know where to start. The beginning would be a great place. Only I don't know what that is. The ending? I can't see that far ahead yet.

So this must be the middle.

They told me to write in this journal. *Anything*. And isn't that suddenly a *dangerous* word? They must think I lost my common sense along with my memory.

I've been on five missions since...since what? I'm not sure. There's a sharp, almost physical pain deep inside of me. They told me I'm fine. But that's a lie. Like most everything else here. I'd forgotten...

Oh.

I almost remembered something that time. Best not to write that down.

They're happy with the way I'm functioning.

I'm not.

Coasting through missions without a single real feeling? And I'm not talking about fear. I'm talking about the sheer adrenaline rush that comes from outrunning a bullet.

I'm the perfect op. Doing what I'm told. No questions. No complications.

Only I don't think this is me.

I mean, of course, I'm *me*. Only..better. It's like someone else is playing the part of me...but there *is* nobody else.

Except...I think there is.

And that pain inside of me just got a whole lot worse.

It was the first time in years that they had truly been apart. It was the first time in memory that he could not say where she was. Or *how* she was.

Suddenly it was all he could do not to utter the choked breath of sound that threatened to break free of the strictures painfully constraining his heart.

He couldn't worry about her. *Wrong.* He couldn't *afford* to worry about her. Not with so many lives hanging in the balance. Not when so many of those lives belonged to the people he cared about most.

Where were the children? Was this God's way of taking back what He had given? Was their life together a mistake, a wrong that needed to be righted, so desperately, that God chose *this* way?

He was going to lose *everything*. Not that it mattered. Because he had already lost *her*.

He dared to trespass, he crossed that line again and again, because it was love, because it was the first time, because it was the *only* time that he allowed someone to breach his defenses.

And it had felt good, obscenely good, for someone to know him so intimately.

He dashed a hand across his face, his vision blurring in anticipation of the pain to come. It was his fault that she wasn't here.

It was his fault that his children were scattered to the four corners of the earth.

It was his fault.

It was *always* his fault.

It wasn't fair.

In fact, it was unrelentingly *unfair*. But knowing that did nothing to assuage his heart.

Life was inherently unfair. He knew that. He'd always known that. That was why he had initially distrusted his feelings for Declan. But that was also why he had thrown himself headlong into loving him.

Declan took everything to heart. No matter who was ultimately responsible. So when Sasha went missing, of course, Declan blamed himself. Then he did the unforgivable and pushed Sey away. At a moment when they could be drawing from both their strengths and admittedly limited emotional resources, Declan cut Sey dead and strode away with his twin sister in tow.

"Stay home, Sey. Stay here, Sey. Get out of my fucking way, Sey," he muttered bitterly. There was little point in staying where he was. First of all, it was *dangerous*. Didn't Declan know that? Or was he so stressed out that he would put Sey's safety at risk?

Second of all, there was no way that Sasha would return to the house. He was a bright kid and he'd been raised by trained clandestine operatives. He wouldn't jeopardize any of them by coming back.

And third, and fucking last, Sey heard the underlying anger in Declan's tense, clipped tone. It wasn't directed at *him*, but it might as well have been. Because it hurt to be shut out. And Declan knew that.

So Sey was left with nothing useful to contribute to the ongoing crisis and it made him feel powerless. From there, it was but a short trip to full-blown panic. Well, he'd be damned if he would succumb.

He *could* do something.

He *would* do something.

And wouldn't they all be fucking surprised when it wasn't remotely what they expected?

"That was cold, y'know," Derry told her brother. She was starting to get used to addressing his back. Every time she came within actual range of seeing Declan's face, he bolted ahead as though he couldn't elude whatever personal demons pursued him.

"What?" Declan answered distractedly.

"What you said to Birkoff back there."

"You still call him *Birkoff*," Declan snorted. "And him practically your brother-in-law."

"He *is* my brother-in-law," Derry corrected in that overly polite voice that Davenport would have recognized immediately. "And *your* bloody husband."

At that, Declan flinched.

"But you dismissed him like...like he fucking *works* for you," she hissed. She was genuinely confused by her brother's sudden transformation into a Class 5 Section operative. This was something she had fought against for years. This was something in Declan that she thought he had successfully eradicated a long time ago.

Still...like Michael, Declan had another aspect to his personality, one that lay deeply submerged yet strangely accessible under extraordinary circumstances.

Suddenly Declan swung around, his long red hair escaping its tightly wound braid, his light eyes glittering like shards of ice. "You tell me," he rasped, his brogue even more pronounced than usual, "who would you rather have watching your back? The cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch you claim I am? Or the poor heartsick bastard you'd like me to be? How much help would I be to you then? Eh?"

He didn't seem to realize he was shaking her. "Is that who you want? Is it?" he shouted, abruptly aware that Derry had gone quiet under his hands.

She stared up at him for a few moments, perhaps no longer than a heartbeat or two, really, before reaching out to stroke the side of his face. "I want my brother," she whispered.

It was the gentleness that nearly undid him. And that's when he knew how much he had changed inside. This darkness, for lack of a better word, was always going to be a part of him. But it wasn't *all* of him. And it no longer *controlled* him.

"I can't be that man. Not now," he whispered to her.

"I know," she whispered back.

Pause.

"Do you think he'll be all right?" he asked anxiously.

Derry smiled. "Aye. He's got you."

"Always."

"And forever."