A/N: I have the next chapter already written, but like Michael, I'm a tease. :D
Part III
The room was bare; there was nothing that could be conceivably used as a weapon. A clear bulletproof glass covered the length of room. Nikita was curled up in a corner, her hair a black veil in front of her eyes. A foam tray of food sat next to a locked door, cold and untouched.
Amanda walked into the room on the other side of the glass, heels clicking with precision, and stood before the barrier, watching and waiting.
Finally, Nikita looked up, her jaw flexing as she recognized the woman in front her. It was almost reflex, the way she immediately sat up and straightened. Amanda allowed herself a small smile and tapped the intercom.
"Michael?" Nikita asked first, her eyes wide.
Amanda glanced at the dismissed food tray before meeting her questioning gaze. "You should eat."
Nikita glowered at the older woman, but Amanda's face was inscrutable, like she had all the time in the world. Capitulating, Nikita got up and started to eat the food on the tray, quickly at first, but she stalled as the tray began to empty. Maybe she didn't want to hear what Amanda had to say. She exhaled unsteadily as she finished the last bite. But when she made eye contact with Amanda again, it was all defiance and steel, "Well?"
In another circumstance, Amanda might have found Nikita's bravado amusing, but Michael's prognosis did not bode well. Although they weren't exactly close, she didn't relish the idea of losing someone who's been with Division for so long. His absence would leave a rather large hole in the Division's chain of command, not to mention training someone to replace him would be rather difficult given his long tenure. And despite what many have said about Amanda the Inquisitor, she was still human, a creature of habit who can be unsettled by disruptions to familiar surroundings and people. Nikita, on the other hand, was perhaps a case of 'familiarity breeds contempt'. Her displeasure with Division was evident, except when it came to a certain someone.
"I'm afraid I don't have any good news. He's still in critical condition," Amanda replied, softer than she herself had expected.
Her stomach rolled. Nikita swallowed hard to keep the food down. Michael was alive, but for how long? There was nothing to do now but wait, and replay the image of him bleeding out from under her, over and over. She dug her nails into her tightly clenched fists and willed herself not to make a sound, because if she did, she wouldn't be able to stop the lump of anguish in her throat from crying out.
Amanda observed silently as her favorite protégé's face turned a ghastly pallor. A long forgotten feeling of pity welled up in her, only to be suppressed by the responsibility she had for the job at hand. Nevertheless, her words seemed to embody both concern and threat when she said, "Perhaps you should be more worried about yourself."
The remark crackled in the air, and for the first time since arriving back at Division, Nikita wanted to laugh. So very Division, to kick you in the face and then scold you for not taking care of yourself.
"Thank you for your concern," she rejoined, bending slightly at the waist in a mocking bow.
Something akin to anticipation flickered in Amanda's eyes.
"Then let's get started, shall we?" She nodded to the henchman standing beyond the doorway. He threw a switch that made a loud bang, like a shot gun.
The corners of the jail room began to hiss with a smoky mist. The diaphanous clouds snaked through her arms and legs until she could no longer see in front of her.
Who ever thought that hell would be snow white?
"It's good...to be…home…again," Nikita said, smiling ruefully as she went down.
