AN: How great is Nikita? I'm not really content with just rewatching the same episodes over and over again on my dvr, and since we have to wait a whole month before the new episode (booo), there is nothing to do but write/read some good ol' fanfiction. I've never written fanfiction for TV shows before, but I've had experience with books and movies, so hopefully this will turn out alright. (:
Updates might not happen very often, so bear with me. I write whenever inspiration hits—I can't just sit down and bust something out when I'm not feeling it. So please understand! Chances are I'll be able to write a bunch after every episode, though, so you can look forward to that.
This will be a Mikita fic, because Mikita is quite possibly the best ship ever.
Aaand, surprise surprise, I don't own Nikita. Shucks.
1
The one job that Michael hated the most was the same job that he could never delegate to anyone else.
Integrating new recruits was always a tedious process, and the first meeting was the hardest part. Training them to jumpstart cars, treat wounds, assemble artillery—all that would come later, but first he had to earn their trust.
And that was a task he could never entrust to any of the psychopaths at Division.
But, God, is it a stressful.
As Michael walks down the corridor, he plays a little game he's made up just for himself: guess the Stereotype of the Day! Will it the scared, broken recluse? The apathetic sociopath? The stubborn, spitfire street trash? Your answer is right behind door…number…one!
After one indulgent, long-suffering sigh, Michael turns walks into the cold, clinical room. The room didn't really give off the vibe he would've gone for—this was a new recruit's first taste of their new life, after all. Shouldn't it be a more…welcoming? cordial?—but he guessed it was best to disillusion them right away. Division was no day spa; they shouldn't expect it to be.
He takes a cursory glance at the girl sitting on the bed, staring up at him from underneath a curtain of dark, matted hair. He picks up the file on the table and flips through it—asshole foster dad, runaway druggie…Divison's usual MO.
"Nikita," he greets.
She looks at him, shakes some dirty hair out of her face, but says nothing.
"How are you feeling?"
Silence. Then, rough and dry: "like shit."
Like he hasn't heard that one before.
"Well, hopefully, you'll be feeling better in a few days."
She ignores his last statement. "Where the hell am I?"
He takes a deep breath, lets it out. Here we go.