Author's Chapter Notes:

Not only do I not own Twilight, I also do not own La Femme Nikita. The prologue contains dialogue from the first episode of La Femme Nikita, but I won't need to use as much borrowed dialogue in the future. I didn't want to mess up with the perfection of the set up.

La Femme Bella

Prologue

First there was nothing. No sight, no sound, no feel… not even a sense of existing. I was trapped in a black void, yet unaware of my entrapment. Later, of course, I would understand that I was as trapped as any living being could ever be, and without any hope of escape.

Well, maybe one day I would find escape in death, but I had discovered that the "survival instinct" of man was stronger than his conscience, or his wish for happiness or even a bearable existence.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First, there was nothing; but when the nothingness ended, it ended with a bang.

----

I could feel a slight sting in my arm and I thought that it was what had awoken me. I tried to rub the pain away with my other hand, but my hand wouldn't comply.

My head felt fuzzy, as if suffused in cotton balls. I slowly forced my eyes open and looked around.

I was laying in a small white room and strapped to a hospital bed. The walls were lined with tiles and the floor was bare, with only a drain breaking the monotony near in the middle of the linoleum. It was far from heaven, despite the white hue. In fact, something about the room yelled "slaughterhouse" to me. It would be very easy to keep clean no matter what one did in the room… to women strapped in a bunk.

I shook my head, trying desperately to clear it and to get rid of the dark, twisted scenarios that were pulsing through my mind.

Next to me, with an empty syringe still in his hand, was a young man, not yet thirty in my admittedly hazy estimation. He was dressed in a black, semi-formal suit. Even his shirt was black. His hair, I noticed, was coppery and sticking out unlike anything else in his very proper attire. He had beautiful green eyes, but they were cold and scary in their lack of emotion.

"Good morning," he said in a gentle voice while simultaneously opening my restraints.

I closed my eyes again, swallowing the bile that was rising to my throat. "What is this place? " I croaked.

"To the outside world you are dead. Suicide. This is your grave. Row eight, plot thirty."

I reopened my eyes and took the picture that he was holding out for me. It showed a small tombstone surrounded by a modest display of flowers. The tombstone was engraved with dates and my name, Isabella Marie Swan.

"We've decided to give you a chance," he continued, "This is where you'll train. This is where you'll learn. If after two years everything goes well, you will work for us."

"Why me?"

"A woman with your looks who can kill in cold blood?" he questioned slyly, arching his eyebrow.

"But I didn't! I didn't kill anyone!" I screamed. He was already at the door and I was enraged enough to attack him, although I knew it was quite useless.

It wasn't just useless to attack this man, it was inane. Deadly. In three seconds flat he had me pinned to the floor, laying on top of me and restraining my arms. My stomach hurt from the punch that he had effortlessly landed.

"Next time you attack someone from behind, go for the kidneys. Consider that your first lesson." He got off me as gracefully as the predator that he was.

"I don't want any lessons from you!"

"We start tomorrow morning. 5 A.M.. And if you feel less than cooperative, row eight, plot thirty."

He left the room without looking back to the corner where I had retreated, shaking and trying to contain my sobs.