IV . AND SO IT BEGINS

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want
He makes me to lie down in green pastures
He leads me beside the still waters.

Every time a Division operation results in civilian causalities, there's always an undercover agent present at the funeral. Not out of some desperate attempt at atonement, of course, but rather to ensure the sanctity of the organization. To ensure that there will be no problems, no further questions asked. Families are never told the real reasons behind why their loved one died. Only that they were in an accident. Or the victim of a drive-by. Or a bystander in the wrong place, wrong time. Never that they had been a pawn, a foot soldier.

An expendable.

At the funeral, there's a protocol each Division agent is required to follow. Strict guidelines on what to say, whose hand to shake, how much emotion to convey. That last one's the most important: never show more emotion than necessary. Always distance yourself from their grief. Because emotional attachments are dangerous. A liability. A weakness easily exploited.

Michael knows this protocol already. He's probably followed it a dozen times by now. But somehow, this time it's different. Perhaps because while he may not have been the one to actually pull the trigger, he knows he's just as much to blame as anyone for the death of Daniel Monroe.

There's a recitation from the Bible now, but even though the psalm is familiar to him it falls on deaf ears. An elderly woman is the first to lay the rose on the coffin. More quickly follow—Daniel Monroe was not a man lacking in love from family or friends. There are tears, to be sure, even a few sobs, but no one wails. No one is paralyzed by grief, because no one doubts that the gates of heaven have already opened to welcome its newest angel.

Last prayers are bestowed. One final call for respect. The service concludes and the guests begin their solemn trek away from the burial site. But Michael is searching. Searching, searching, searching. Because she is here. She has to be here.

And then a peculiar idea occurs to him. It's such a bizarre thought that he waves it aside at first. But then, he has to wonder. And now, he has to find out.

To some degree, it still surprises him when he finds her there, exactly where he somehow knew she would be. And to any other person, this discovery might prove puzzling. Any other person might wonder why Nikita should be crouched in front of these particular grave markers instead of presiding over the one for her fiancé. But Michael does not need to wonder, for he knows these markers well. He has traced the engravings with his fingers, laid fresh flowers at its base, bled his tears into the rocky soil.

It is the grave site for his wife and daughter.

She neither moves nor speaks to acknowledge his presence, but that very act is what assures him that she knows he is there. Michael half-opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, realizing he has not the faintest inclination of what to say. What does one say? There's no protocol for situations like this.

"I feel like my friends must have felt whenever they tried to say something," he murmured at last.

"It's all right."

"That's what I used to tell them."

For a moment, it seemed like all he could do was stare mournfully at the two gravestones side by side, one for Elizabeth and one for Haley. Being here again brought back painful memories—terrible memories—of his loss, the grief now only made stronger by Nikita's loss as well. "The only thing that I wanted…besides having them back…was to see them one last time. To hold them." His voice caught in his throat, and he made an involuntary movement to grip her shoulder. "Nikita, I am so sorry. I know how you must feel—"

No longer still as stone, Nikita shook him off. "You don't know how I feel," she returned severely, her hostility surprising him.

"Maybe not," he admitted after a brief reconsideration, "but I know the rage that drives you. That impossible anger strangling your grief until the memory of your loved one becomes poison in your veins. I know what it's like to catch yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed just so you'd be spared your pain."

He watched, somber, as she withdrew two red roses from her coat and placed them carefully at the base of each marker—one for his wife and one for his daughter. The gesture was powerful somehow, reverential, and Michael was deeply moved.

Nikita rose to her feet, continuing to regard the tombstones with a quiet intensity. "I want revenge."

But Michael shook his head sadly. "Revenge won't make the pain go away. Trust me. I know."

"I want revenge, Michael," she repeated, stronger this time. "You of all people should understand! Don't you remember what this feels like? To have the thing you love most in life taken away from you?"

Tearing his gaze away from the headstones, he turned to look her directly in the eye. "Yes. I do."

A peculiar expression twisted its way onto her face in response to whatever expression she read on his, but she turned away before he could decipher it.

"What will you do?" he asked finally.

She smiled grimly, the warmth somehow not reaching her eyes. "Somebody has to stop Percy. Somebody has to put an end to this."

A stab of pity—or was it guilt?—hit him in the gut. Even after everything she'd been through, she was still willing to fight back. Still unwilling to admit defeat. "You can't stop him, Nikita," he said quietly. "Or Division. No one can."

"I don't have a choice anymore. I escaped. I was the first recruit to get out, but I'm going to make damn sure I'm not the last." Suddenly, she fixed her eyes on him. "What about you, Michael? Do you still have a choice?"

At first, he just stared at her, dumbfounded, not understanding the meaning behind her words. Then, he realized what she was saying and he blanched. She was asking him to join her in the war against Division.

Despite her grief and despair—despite their unspoken agreement that he was indirectly behind every terrible thing that happened to her over the last four years—Nikita was saying she was willing to put those grievances aside and invite him to be her ally. Even though she couldn't so much as look at him without seeing his role in Daniel's murder, she was silently pleading for his help.

And Michael was paralyzed, stricken, at a loss for words. Leaving Division meant one thing, but leaving Division to join Nikita meant another thing entirely. He would be branded a criminal, a fugitive, an enemy of the United States. There wouldn't be a place in the world he could hide where Division wouldn't find him. Could he be willing to risk that? Would he be willing to risk that for her?

Whatever expression Nikita read on his face now must have told her all she needed to know because she turned away without another word.

"Nikki, let me explain—"

Without thinking, he made another involuntary movement to touch her arm, but this time she deliberately moved out of reach. It was a simple maneuver—the tiniest of reflexes, really—but that partial rejection pained him far more than he cared to admit. A slap in the face would have been easier to bear. With nothing else to do, he dropped his hands awkwardly by his sides, trying to ignore the strange constriction surrounding his chest.

"Don't go," he whispered to the ground, anguished.

"Why not? There's no place for me now."

"Yes, there is! Nikita—"

She sidestepped him completely, making the rejection whole. And it carved the breath from his lungs. Like a steel knife through his windpipe. Ironically enough, Michael had no doubt her coldness was unintentional. She had no idea of the power she wielded over him. She had no idea of the effect she could have simply by her smile, her easy laughter, her clever humor, her lips—

"Nikita!" This time, he didn't care whether she rejected him or not. A terrible desperation seized him and he half ran, half scrambled after her, catching her by the elbow and whirling her around to face him. "Nikita, listen," he babbled, his hands running desperately along her shoulders and up her neck. "I know you think you don't have anything to live for, but you do! Right here. You have me. You have someone to live for. So stay. Stay with me. Stay with me, please."

And without waiting for her to respond, he crushed his lips against hers one last time.

He didn't care that they were in plain sight. He didn't care that this wouldn't change anything. All Michael cared about was the way that their mouths fused together in warm, familiar ways. All he cared about was the way that his lips slanted over hers because if she could feel that—if she could feel even a fragment of the desperation behind his embrace—she would know the depths of his remorse, the strength of his love.

But while she did not resist, nor did she kiss him back.

First, a pair of fingers between them silenced their kiss. Then, Nikita slowly pried his fingers one-by-one from her face until the only thing connecting their two souls was the reflection of brown into green, dark into light, pain slamming into pain. But her pain was doomed to be his own because the moment his eyes met hers, he already knew what she was going to say even before the words left her mouth.

"Goodbye, Michael."

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil.

When his tentative rap on the door was met with no response, Birkhoff almost debated turning back altogether. But then his stubborn resolve kicked in and he gritted his teeth. No, he'd already come this far.

Inching the heavy door open with his foot, Birkhoff poked his head boldly around the other side. "You asked to see me, sir?"

Instead of formally acknowledging his presence, Percy merely waved him in. "Take a seat, son," he ordered distractedly, never once looking up.

"That's all right. I'm good standing—"

"Take a seat."

"Yes, sir."

At last, Percy leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, seemingly considering him. "Well, Mr. Burke, it appears—"

"Birkhoff," he corrected quickly, swiping self-consciously at the moisture in his nose.

"Say again?"

"My name's Birkhoff, sir. Seymour Birkhoff."

The older man remained shrewd, calculated. "I see. Birkhoff, then. It seems you deserve some credit, as well as my gratitude. Your intel on Nikita has proved most invaluable. Thanks to you, you'll be pleased to learn that she is no longer a problem."

On the contrary, Birkhoff was far from pleased. In fact, he felt sick to his stomach. "So she's—is she—I mean, uh—"

"Dead?"

He flinched. "Yes, that."

"No, I'm afraid Nikita is still very much alive. But she no longer remains an imminent threat to this organization. We have delivered her a warning that I am told she has received. As long as she maintains a low profile, I see no reason why we should not spare her life. As for you," Percy continued, "you've done this country a great service, young man. You should be very proud of yourself. Now I believe all there is left to discuss is your status within this agency."

Birkhoff couldn't help sitting up a little straighter. "Yes, sir. I'd like to be an agent, sir."

"That seems like a reasonable enough request," said Percy offhandedly. "You helped us track down a dangerous criminal. I'm generous enough to agree that deserves a little something in return. What do you think, Michael?" he added lazily, looking pointedly over his shoulder. "Do you see any reason why Mr. Burke here doesn't deserve a shot at becoming an agent?"

Rather than correct Percy again on his name, Birkhoff twisted sharply in his chair, unsure of how long Michael had been standing there against the far wall silently observing their exchange. Birkhoff raised his eyebrows questioningly, but his former trainer didn't even look at him. "No," said Michael flatly. "I do not."

"Then it's settled," boomed the older man with firm finality. "Congratulations, son: you've just passed the recruit exam."

Even Birkhoff couldn't suppress his grin. "Thanks," he breathed eagerly. "Wow," he added with a stunned sort of laugh, "so I'm really an agent now, huh?"

"Not quite."

This brought him up short in a most unexpected way. "What?"

"Mr. Burke, you are young and you are eager. But one thing you are not—and this is something only time can provide, really—is a killer."

How does one even respond to something like that? "Uh…thank you?" Birkhoff tried, perplexed and not without an edge of resentment.

"You don't have enough fight in you, son. You lack what I call the killer instinct required of our field agents. Now," Percy continued before he could open his mouth to protest, "this doesn't mean I have no use for you. On the contrary, I think you would excel admirably in our information technology department."

Try as he might to quell it, Birkhoff could feel the surly indignation rising in the back of his throat. "I.T?" he repeated, disgusted. "You're sending me to talk to a bunch of computers?"

"You'll be part of an elite task force, working on a highly classified project headed by Michael himself."

Talking to computers and working for Michael? What bizarre sort of punishment was this? "What kind of project are we talking about?"

He nearly jumped when Michael's gravelly voice rumbled unexpectedly from behind him: "Locating Nikita."

Slowly, Birkhoff looked from Percy to Michael, then back to Percy. "I thought she was no longer a problem," he said sharply. "You said that—"

"I said that as long as Nikita keeps a low profile, she isn't a threat," interjected Percy with a cold drawl. "But let's be honest: Nikita's not exactly the type to keep a low profile, is she?"

Just as he was about to object, he suddenly remembered what Percy had said about him lacking a killer instinct. So instead, he clenched his teeth. "True enough," he managed stiffly in a low voice, clutching the armrests on either side of him with white fingers. "Nikita must be stopped."

Judging by the pointed way he glanced at the clock, Percy's interest in the conversation had finally began to wane. "I'm glad we're on the same page," he said dismissively, sounding anything but enthusiastic. "Michael will see you out and get you started in your new department. Until she is brought back into this office, finding Nikita is your main objective and in a few years, we'll see whether or not you have enough fight in you to become a field agent."

Based off the older man's stern finality, Birkhoff gathered that was his cue to leave. Mind reeling, he shuffled disgruntledly to his feet and followed Michael wordlessly from the room, tugging the door closed behind him with slightly more force than necessary.

As the door swung shut, he heard Percy call out idly, "Congratulations again on your promotion, Mr. Burke."

And with that last snide comment, Birkhoff's flimsy hold on his self-control tore away with a snap. Ignoring Michael's warning look, he turned and kicked the door open again with all his might. "My name is Birkhoff!" he snarled as the door smacked against the wall with a terrible bang.

For the first time, Percy allowed himself an oddly satisfied, oily sort of smile. "Now that's more like it," he said softly.

I will fear no evil; for You are with me
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

"Can I get you anything else, love?"

Nikita, who'd been absentmindedly fingering the white-gold band of her engagement ring, looked up to see the bartender staring directly at her. She held up her empty glass tumbler. "How about another refill?" But even though the subsequent two inches of liquor went down even faster than the previous ones, it still wasn't enough.

Without asking, the bartender slid her yet another glass before leaning his elbows on the counter, surveying her with knowing eyes. "You look like a good person aiming to do a bad thing," the man said sadly, as if he knew the type well.

She paused, filtering the man's Irish accent through her brain. "I guess you could say that."

The man waited patiently. "You want to chat about it?"

"What's there to say?" she snorted, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. "There's something I have to do, and it's not going to be easy."

"Are you at it alone?"

As innocent as it was, the question hit a little too close to home. Nikita fought back a wince. "Not by choice, but yes."

"Ah," sighed the bartender, attempting to encourage her with a gentle half-smile, "I don't know about that one, love. Everybody has a choice. You can either choose to be alone or you can choose to let people in. Simple as that, you know."

If only her situation really was as simple as that. "Except I could never ask someone to take that risk with me. I'm bad news. Wherever I go, people get hurt. Lives get destroyed. But I will stop the people responsible," she added suddenly, stronger now. "I'm going to take them apart piece by piece. I'm going to protect the innocents they target, and I am going to make them pay."

After a long seconds' pause, Nikita glanced up at the bartender to see if she'd finally scared him off. On the contrary, he continued to survey her with a sad and knowing look. "You know what they say about people who go looking for blood?" he asked.

"What?"

"They find it."

Nikita couldn't think of anything to say to that, so she settled for draining the last of her drink. She set it down on the counter again, but this time the bartender did not move to refill it.

"This…thing…that you're aiming to do," began the man abruptly. "Is it really as dangerous as you wager?"

She nodded.

"Then you want my advice, love? Don't go at it alone. Don't let whatever happened to you in the past keep you from moving forward, no matter how dangerous it is. Find someone you can trust. Find someone who believes in what you believe and wants what you want. It's a saying in America, innit? Two heads are better than one."

For what seemed like the first time in months, Nikita felt a rare smile creep onto her face. She rose to her feet. "What do I owe you?" she asked, gathering her coat.

The bartender dismissed her with a wave. "It's on me, love."

Nikita hesitated, wanting to repay the man but not knowing how. Then, as if in slow motion, she began to remove the ring from her left hand.

"What are you doing?" the man asked immediately.

Taking his hand in hers, she pressed the ring into the center of his palm before curling his fingers closed around it. "Keep it," she said firmly. "Sell it. Give it to someone you care about."

The man's eyes widened considerably as he took in the 18k ring. "Is this your wedding ring?"

"Engagement."

"I can't take this from you."

"It doesn't matter anymore."

One look at her face and Nikita knew that the bartender understood. "When did it happen?" he asked sadly.

"One year ago today," she answered softly, remembering.

Remembering the jubilation she felt when Daniel asked her to marry him and remembering his elation when she said yes. Remembering the screams that ripped their way past her throat when she found him facedown in that lake. Remembering her vow that she would never let anything like that happen again. But despite those memories, deep down she knew that it was time to let go.

And in that moment, she knew what she had to do.

The man's kindly voice jolted her from her reverie, and she reverted her attention back to him. "You're sure that you don't want it anymore?"

Taking a deep breath, Nikita nodded her final assent. "I'm sure that I don't need it anymore."

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.

It wasn't until he noticed Birkhoff waving and flailing his arms in his peripheral vision that Michael realized the former recruit had been trying to garner his attention for some time now. He was tempted to ignore him—better yet, pretend that the bullseye targets and paper human silhouettes were him—but he ultimately decided against it. There was only one reason why Birkhoff would dare interrupt his session at the firing range…

Irritated, Michael lowered his weapon and peeled the protective headphones off one ear. Sure enough, Birkhoff confirmed what he already suspected: "Amanda's looking for you. She wants to see you in her office straight away."

"I'll be right there," he replied curtly. But the seconds passed in silence and Birkhoff had not moved an iota. "Let me guess: she asked you to hold my hand all the way to the principal's office?"

"Doctor's orders."

He ripped off his protective goggles and flung his earphones to the side. Part of him knew it was these same exact outbursts of anger that landed him with these degrading weekly psych evaluations in the first place, but the other part of him knew that this rage was somehow justified.

He was taking long, deliberate strides now, and Birkhoff had to scamper to keep up. "So, how're you doing, man?" he panted as they barreled through an endless maze of paper-white hallways.

"Swell," returned Michael sarcastically, quickening his pace.

"Yeah? I heard you're not sleeping much these days, and we can all see you're definitely not showering. Not doing much of anything, really, except slave away after hours."

"It's called work, Birkhoff," he snapped. "If you took your head out of your ass and tried it once in a while, you might have a better shot at making field agent."

It was the proverbial low blow on his part, but Birkhoff didn't seem to mind. "Aw, come on," he snorted, "all that stuff is yesterday's Twitter feed, dude! I'm actually starting to like where I work now—"

"'Dude'? Really?"

"—even if it does mean working for a crackpot dingleberry like you every day. What's with the lumberjack look, man? You ever hear of a razor? Or a bar of soap, for that matter?"

"I've been busy," he snarled.

"I know, I know, working around the clock to find Nikita."

Michael's very insides seized at the name. He had to physically restrain himself from covering his ears with his hands.

"I gotta say, you have a weird and creepy emotional attachment to things from the past, or to things that have passed on. It's like an obsession with you, bro! I mean, it's been a year already! Despite our top secret this-message-will-self-destruct-in-five-seconds assignment from Percy, even you gotta know it's time to move on."

What little vestiges of self-control he had left was fast ebbing away—

"It's okay to miss her," Birkhoff continued to ramble carelessly, unaware of his imminent danger. "I miss her, too. Nikki was one in a million, a freakin' force of nature. Like a one-woman Michael Bane movie, only with good acting—"

The next sound in the empty hallway was the liquid gurgling of Birkhoff gasping for breath as Michael shoved him against the wall, a fist clenched tightly at his throat.

"What the hell, man?" the former recruit yelped, his next words cut off as Michael shoved him even harder.

"Not another word," he rasped. "You hear me? Not another word."

The laughter faded instantly from Birkhoff's face, replaced by a wholly unexpected panged expression that Michael was stunned to find mirrored his own. "I loved her too, all right?" he said quietly, uncharacteristically serious. "I miss her just as much as you—"

"Seymour, if you ever mention Nikita to me again I will snap your larynx like a twig."

"I was just—"

"I'm serious."

For a fleeting moment, Birkhoff seemed on the verge of saying something else, but he apparently thought better of it. He nodded once. "Sure, man. Whatever you say."

Michael shoved him one last time before releasing him and walking away.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days of my life.

When the late-model luxury vehicle screeched to the curb, Alexandra Udinov didn't hesitate. Smoothing the wrinkles from her faux leather skirt with its matching bodice, she sauntered over to the driver side window and rapped a knuckle sharply on the spotless, one-way glass.

"Nice wheels," she purred, pasting an irresistibly alluring smile on her face as the window slowly lowered. But then she recoiled, taken aback. "Sorry, lady, but ladies aren't really my type—"

Before Alex could turn away, a woman's hand snaked out from the dim interior of the vehicle and latched onto her wrist, the grip surprisingly strong. "Why don't you come take a ride with me and we'll talk?" came the clear female voice, more statement than question.

This time, Alex did hesitate, chancing a sideways glance first at the other girls hustled provocatively at the street corner, then at her dealer greedily enjoying the entertainment as he stepped into a neighboring gentlemen's club. Deciding nothing could be worse than further enduring either of those scenarios, she crossed over the front of the car and snaked defiantly into the passenger's seat.

Nervous, she snuck a tentative peek sideways at her female companion. The woman was older than her—albeit not by too many years—with sleek, raven hair hugging a slender waist. Her face was strong, fierce, angular, lined with the sort of creases that read of things far more severe than age.

Alex swallowed hard. Well. This would be a first.

"So," she spoke up boldly once she'd racked up the courage to do so, "why are you cruising for company?"

"I'm not 'cruising' for company, actually. I was looking for you."

She scoffed at the line. "Yeah, okay. Why do you care? You don't even know me."

"I'm just somebody trying to help you fix your life, Alexandra."

Alex jerked, unintentionally shrinking against the side of the door. "How do you know that name?" she demanded suspiciously.

Ignoring this, the woman continued, "The good news is you're young and you're smart and you're strong. The bad news is you're clumsy and obvious. How long has it been since your last hit?"

"Lady, why are you talking with me?" laughed Alex derisively, deliberately rolling her eyes, but the quiver in her voice gave her away.

"Because you need my help and I need yours. Because somebody once told me to never let whatever happened to you in the past keep you from moving forward, no matter how difficult it is."

A cold chill began to creep up her spine. "You don't know what you're talking about," she maintained fiercely.

"I know what I'm talking about, Alex," returned the woman in a quiet voice, never once taking her eyes off the road, "because I used to do it for the same reasons that you do. It never mattered who was lying next to me because at the end of the night, the real battle was with myself. With the drugs. The booze. The self-deprecation. Trust me, I know what it feels like to be trapped in a place you think there's no escape from."

"So, what, you drop me off at a rehabilitation center now? Let the cops deal with me?"

"I don't want to tell you what to do. I just want to see you do something with your life that you can actually be proud of. I can train you, teach you everything I know. Teach you how to fight, how to overcome your fears, your addictions, all that hate in your heart. I can teach you how to get your life back together. I can get you off the streets."

For a few minutes, Alex just stared out the window, not really seeing. Instead, she caught glimpses of her haggard appearance in the blurry reflection: the dark circles beneath her eyes, the downward crease of her mouth, the state of her unkempt hair. "How do I know I can trust you?" she blurted out abruptly, breaking the silence with her nervous hostility. "I don't even know your name!"

"My name is Nikita."

"Nikita," she repeated defiantly, running the unfamiliar name over her tongue. "Why would you go through all this trouble for someone like me?"

"Because long ago, somebody I loved once did the same for me."

Love is patient, love is kind
It always protects…always hopes, always perseveres.

"Let's talk about you, now. How're you feeling?"

Michael shifted restlessly in the chair, his dark eyes darting everywhere around the room except at Amanda. "Swell," he repeated stiffly, but unlike with Birkhoff he was careful to eliminate the sarcasm from his tone.

The only sound in the room came from the soft scratching of lead against paper as Amanda made an audible check somewhere on her clipboard. "And you're sleeping at night?" she continued, peering at him over the rim of her formidable glasses. "Practicing…better hygiene?"

It didn't pass his notice the way her eyes flickered disapprovingly to his long locks of hair parted greasily down the middle, nor to the five days' growth of stubby facial hair. "Yes," he lied finally.

Another soft check! on the clipboard. "Tell me about your mood swings."

Michael immediately thought of his heated encounter with Birkhoff just minutes before, but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind lest Amanda read it with her unnerving intuition. "They're getting better."

He waited for her to make the small check on her clipboard again, but the pencil in her thin hand remained immobile. "Michael, the drugs we gave you a few months ago to speed your recovery were top-of-the-line medication sanctioned only to Division for very rare occasions. They've been known to advance the physical and mental healing process by a considerable degree, but they may also cause irrational cognitive behavior, impaired judgment and, in some cases, violent tendencies."

He couldn't help but clench his fists a little tighter. "Nope. I feel fine."

"Because if you're still experiencing any of these symptoms, we should run more tests."

He scowled. "I'm not a lab rat. I feel fine."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"No lapses in judgment? No sudden outbursts of anger?"

"No, but I am starting to feel one coming on right about now."

"Michael, despite what you may think, this is not a power play between you and me," said Amanda severely, her keen observation not missing a thing. "It's simply not worth risking possible psychosis just so you can parachute out of a Learjet or log extra hours at the office."

"This isn't about returning sooner to work," countered Michael firmly. "I feel fine. I don't need to be on probation anymore."

"So your motivation for this has nothing to do with Nikita?"

There it was again, that gut-wrenching seizure clawing at his insides at the mention of her name. He inhaled sharply. "No."

Amanda cocked her head to the side. "No? I remember she was a fairly powerful motivating factor for you in the past."

"Nikita means nothing to me now."

"If you're feeling sorry for her or if you still have feelings for her—"

"I don't."

"I need to know you believe that before I can reinstate you to active field duty."

The senior-level Division operative was scrutinizing his every move, so Michael raised his head and looked Amanda directly in the eye. "I know now why Nikita has to die. I know why she must be located. It hasn't weakened my belief as to why I'm here, or my commitment to this organization. It's made it stronger."

"And when you find Nikita? What then?"

"Then I will kill her myself."

And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love
But the greatest of these is love.

The earth is large. Large enough that you think you can hide from anything. From fate. From God. If only you found a place far enough away. So you run. To the edge of the earth. Where all is safe again, quiet and warm. The solace of salt air. The peace of danger left behind. The luxury of grief. And maybe for a moment…you believe you have escaped.

But there is no escape. Not truly.

Six years ago, she was taken from prison and forced to become an assassin for a secret unit of the government, a black ops unit now gone rogue. They destroyed her identity, and then they destroyed the man she loved. Three years ago she escaped, and now the man that trained her—her mentor, her best friend, the former love of her life—is hunting her.

Division's power and influence continues to grow. No one is outside their reach, and they will not hesitate to annihilate any person or government who stands in their way. But she will stop them. She will make them pay, because what Division doesn't know is that she will soon have a partner on the inside: Alex. Together, they will take Division apart piece by piece.

"You're coming with me?"

Nikita turned, seeing the crestfallen disappointment on Alex's face. "Yes," she returned quietly.

The younger woman kicked blandly at the ground. "After all this time—after all this training—you still don't believe I'm ready?"

"You're not ready to be a killer, no."

"I can fight," Alex began boldly, but Nikita gently shook her head.

"I'm not talking about self-defense. I'm talking about premeditated murder and it is not the same, trust me. It takes away a piece of you that you can never get back." Nikita crossed the room and gripped the young girl's shoulders. "But you are ready."

Alex smiled hopefully. "I am?"

"I've taught you everything you need to know. You're smart. Clever. Talented. You'll be a far better teacher than me some day. Together, we're going to take Division apart one mission at a time."

And this time, Alex's smile mirrored her own.

A storm was coming. An impossible battle, a war that perhaps they could not win. But for the first time in years, hope began to seep through her veins. Fueling her courage. Making her strong. Because for the first time in years, she decided to stop running. For the first time in years, she finally had a fighting chance.

Nikita selected a pair of cartoon masks and held them up teasingly for Alex to see. "All right. Who do you want to be: the piggy or the bunny?"

THE END

Bible verses: Psalm 23, 1 Corinthians 13
Various credits: Alias, The Interpreter, Batman Begins, Daredevil, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, Smallville, Heroes, Nikita

Author's note: This story was such an unspeakable joy to write. My foremost hope is that you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved sharing it. I have yet to even start the second season of "Nikita" but if I do, we shall see if I contribute more to this category some day. Thank you again for your time, patience, & reviews, and God bless.