The next day, true to his word, Michael was back in Section. Nikita was going to bring up the death of poor Frank, but the words died upon her lips when she saw him.

She never knew a man so full of contradictions. He was silent, but so many emotions were always racing in his green grey eyes. Today was a look of great turmoil. He looked just as tortured as she did. Half the time, she thought she almost spotted a goofy smile upon his face. Others, his eyes would cloud to look like he was in misery.

"What's wrong? Did your friend's surgery go bad?" Nikita asked, walking up to him.

He tilted his head in confusion. "What?"

"Your friend's surgery," she insisted.

"What are you talking about, Nikita? What surgery?"

She gulped, biting her lip. Had Madeline lied to her? How bad of a sign was that? Was her neck on the chopping block? Is that why they were keeping secrets from her? She pushed down the wave of tears that threatened to overflow.

"Nikita? Are you feeling alright today?"

No. She felt terrible. And so very confused. But she couldn't tell him what plagued her. What if he was in on her death? What if he was just humoring her? Playing along? Did he pity her that much?

She caught the sob that tried to escape just in time. "I'll be okay. I think I might be catching something."

"We aren't going to be doing anything strenuous today. You'll be able to take it easy."

Nothing strenuous? Everything here was strenuous! From drowning to nearly plowing in to trees, it was all enough to give her an ulcer - and she was still in her teen years! "What are we going to do?"

Michael looked at the list one last time, as if thinking over if there was anything easier to do. Knowing there wasn't, he put it back and looked at her. "You'll be learning how to do your own laundry. Easy enough."

She gave a half shrug. That didn't sound too bad. "Sure. What am I washing?"

He gave her a confused look. "Don't you have clothes to do?"

"Nope. They were cleaned out just this morning."

"Cleaned out?"

She nodded. "Housekeeping or whatever."

"The housekeeping we have here is not for laundry," he said with a tone that made sure she didn't want to know just yet what they were for.

"Well someone does my laundry every few days, so obviously..."

He waved it off. "It must be something new that they do since I was a recruit. I don't usually keep up with such updates. We have to find wash. You're sure you don't have anything?"

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth in thought. "Uh...well, besides a pair of underwear or two, unless you want me to strip down, there's no clothes to wash from me."

A small groan came from deep within his chest. "I have some I suppose would do."

She grinned. "Do you do your own here?"

"No. I do it...at my home. Usually. But lately it's been pretty hectic-"

"Why?"

He seemed to be very uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. "I've been busy training you. Speaking of which, I'll only be here for a few hours a day for the next two weeks, unless there's an emergency. So we'll have to speed things up while I'm here." She noted that he was steering on to another subject. "Stay here, I'll get clothes."

While he was gone, she tried to keep her curiosity from overflowing. Michael's personal life was being kept very private, especially from her. And though Walter wouldn't admit it, she had a feeling the old man had a good grasp on many of the secrets around here, including those of her mentor's.

Instead, she thought about doing laundry. Where were the machines? Did they really have laundry mats at a covert anti-terrorist organization? Should she suppress her giggles about such a thought? Of course, if you admit the tred mills, you can't keep out the washing machines for long.

The thought led right back to Michael. He said he did his wash at home. He had a house, away from Section. Do only recruits live here then? Would she get her own house one day?

She wasn't sure how she felt about that. She was only nineteen. A teenager. Could she handle a house, with rent and locks? Would she have to pay rent? Did this job pay money, even though it was indentured work? What would she do with her apartment keys? She had a tendency to lose things so easily. Maybe Section could invent her some top of the line keys that you can't lose? She'd have to see Walter about inventing something.

Michael came back with a duffle bag in hand. Oh yes, laundry. She was learning how to do that today, not getting keys to anything. Not even a car. Apparently, Michael was frightened enough from the other day to tackle that again just yet.

"This way," he directed, passing by her. Like a puppy following her owner, she walked behind him, like usual. If only she knew where she was going, she could run ahead.

Instead, she eyed that duffle bag. What was in it? What kind of clothes? Here, she didn't allow her thoughts to wander free. She might get in trouble if Michael would happen to turn and see the silly smile her thoughts slapped on her face.

The recruit rooms were on Level Six, but the washing machines were much farther down. It was just a little room, with rows of machines for both washing and drying. Nothing special or out of the ordinary here, besides the idea of this room even existing in Section. If she ever were captured by a terrorist, would it be okay if she let it slip about this little secret? Maybe let them in on it so they could go around looking cleaner? Her impression of these baddies were that they must not shower or bath or wear clean clothes. After all, they're hard at work in planning the destruction of the world. Or was that just her impression after slipping in to just one too many movie theaters that were featuring super heroes?

She looked at Michael again. She never saw him in action, but with his efficiency for everything else, she bet he was really good. Maybe someone should tell the movie people about this guy right here.

Michael the super hero. No wonder she often felt so safe around him. Did super heroes do their own laundry?

The duffle bag was unzipped, it's contents being shaken out on to a table. Nikita noted that there was nothing particularly special about the collection of clothing. Michael had wisely taken out everything in his duffle besides work out tops, a sweater or two and a few wrinkled pants. Black, white and dark blue were the only main colors that decorated the items.

"First, you separate darks from lights." To emphesize, he took a white work out shirt and placed it apart from the rest, then put a pair of black pants in the opposite direction. "Only put in one, dark or light, at a time." Scooping up the darks, he let the pile drop in to a washing machine. Taking the lid of detergent off the top of the bottle, he measured the right amount, showing Nikita how to do it, then added that too. "Shut the lid, then put the dial on the right setting."

She peered over, her shoulder accidently brushing against his arm. Her cheeks flushed red instantly. The two were always careful not to make contact with each other unless sparring. Outside of the gym, it seemed forbidden. Wrong.

Michael side stepped a foot or two without a word, then pointed to the dial again. "Delicates, regular, heavy duty. With the type of clothing you wear when off duty, you'll probably use delicate a lot. But for mission clothes or for a gi suit, put it on regular. Pull out the dial, double check everything is in and working right, then you're done."

Nikita opened the lid an inch and peered in at the swishing motions occurring inside. The one she had at home was broken for years, so she always had her nice next door neighbor do it for her. "How long does this take?"

"About an hour. In the meantime, have you done all your homework?"

Her frown deepened. "I hate that stuff. What does it even mean now? I live in the same place I go to school. It's all the same."

Michael allowed a corner of his mouth to turn up in dry humor. "Do you need help, Nikita?"

She grinned brightly. "Would you help? Math is really dragging me down," she replied gratefully, then took off for her room to go get her supplies while Michael tagged along at a slower pace.

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The light colored clothing was left for the next day, homework taking longer than originally planned. But Michael was late that next day and Nikita happened to be bored. Taking a few pieces of her own clothing and the duffle bag, she headed down to the place she had before. The washer and the dryer made peaceful, rhythmic sounds while on, so she put a load in as Michael had taught her, then sat on one of the tables. She was on her specially good behavior - she was attempting to read a Shakespeare book that needed to be finished in a few days for Literature.

In here, by herself with peaceful noise, she felt calm. If she was really truthful with herself, she knew she wasn't just waiting out time until another class. She was here because she was hiding. Hiding from her fears, embodied in the three recruit friends that she had left.

She didn't want to die. She certainly didn't want to be this person that Section was trying to mold her in to being, but that didn't mean she had a death wish.

She was scared. Enough that she had managed to work out for two hours in the middle of the night and still couldn't find her way to sleep.

"I don't want to die," she whispered, taking a deep breath so the tears that blurred her vison of the book wouldn't overflow. The peace was starting to betray her. She didn't mind this life just yet. True, she hadn't started the job yet. She knew she wouldn't like what she'd become after she did start. But at least right now, she wanted to live. If not just a little longer. She wasn't old enough to die.

She sniffled and wished she had a tissue nearby. The thoughts that plagued her nightmares last night were recycled and coming back again. Her sleepless state had made her eyes rimmed with dark and the insides pink instead of white. She was tired, her emotions grinding away at her sanity.

The washing machine soon made a tedious beeping noise that, according to Michael, did not mean it was going to blow up, but that it had finished it's cycle. She pushed off the table and walked over, opening the lid.

What she saw made those tears she had held back minutes ago to flood down her face. Allowing a sob to break free, she took the sopping clothing in to her arms and laid them on to the table, under a bright light.

But she hadn't been wrong, for once. And now she felt like she wanted to melt in to the cracks in the floor. She tried to gulp down the rising emotion, but it stuck there, a thick knot of dread and horror in her throat.

She hadn't looked carefully enough while doing the wash. She had been tired and upset and didn't check well. And now Michael's white work out shirts were no longer white, but a bright pinkish.

She had used her favorite pair of pants yesterday to work out and she had really wanted them for today, so she stuck them in with Michael's light load. They were, after all, only a light grey and certainly, it qualified. What she hadn't noticed was her wisp of scarlet underwear hiding in the leg still. And now that pretty, feminine color had bled on to Michael's manly muscle shirts.

She was really going to get it this time. She was dead. Michael may not have cared about the tattoo - that was her body. But he'd care about this. His shirts, his possessions, ruined.

Holding up a vibrant pink shirt, she let out a whimper.

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"Do you know where Nikita is?" Michael asked, stepping in to Munitions. When he had found her room empty and the gyms deserted, he'd gone to see Madeline, only to be informed that the lesson was long over. Her classes were early in the morning and later in the afternoon - she certainly wasn't in any of those when she didn't have to be. But he'd spotted Nikita hanging around here more than a few times, chumming it up with the munitions keeper. It was a long shot, but he was starting to get desperate to find his material.

"Hey Michael," Walter greeted in his surprise. The two hadn't talked other than a few grunts now and then for a long time. "Yeah, I think she said she was heading down to the washing machines. Said something about light laundry?"

Michael's sigh of relief was audible. "Thanks," He replied before turning his back and going in the direction of the little laundry mat quite a few floors below his feet.

But when he reached there, he was in for a shock. Tucked in a ball in the corner was a shaking form, full of sobs and sniffles, clearly very worked up and very clearly Nikita. Her hair acted as a shield around her, her face buried in her knees behind it. In her lap were damp clothing.

Pink clothing.

...His clothing.

It took a few seconds more than it should have for this level five operative to fully grasp the concept, but he got it quick enough.

"Nikita?" He said, making sure to keep his voice soft. She didn't look up. Instead, her breath hitched and a cry, louder than the others, sounded at hearing his voice.

He crouched down in front of her, but she pulled away from his closeness. She was really, truly upset. In a way like he had never seen her. Not even when she was first recruited. Or when she found out she was dead to everyone.

Not even when she saw that her mother had been missing from her own daughter's funeral.

Something had went terribly wrong while he was away and now she was scared out of her mind. His heart went out to her.

"Nikita, calm down. Tell me what happened."

She tried to drag in a breath, but instead wheezed heavily. She looked up at him through puffy, red eyes. With one very shaky hand, she held up one of his stained work out shirts for him to see. "I'm so sorry," she exclaimed through her mess of self. "Please don't cancel me! Please!"

She let the weight of her aching head to drag it down to her knees again, her face now buried in the pink material.

He understood what had happened. What he didn't was why she was acting so upset. Any other time, she would have laughed at this. Or she might have even tried to make his shirts this color. Her normal troublemaker self would have been more than delighted. What went wrong?

"Stop crying. The shirts are fine. I have plenty more," he assured. "Would you stop crying now?"

She shook her head. "How can I stop? If no one else is going to mourn my death, I might as well do it for them!"

Who had she talked to while he was gone? The idea of cancellation seemed to be firmly implanted in her mind, and that it would happen to her. By him? She wasn't showing any signs of calming down. Abandoning the idea, he gently started to take out all the clothing that was soaking her own. She let him, without a care. After placing them all in a heap on the table, he grasped her arm and helped her to stand. Her hands seemed to be glued to her reddened, wet face.

He didn't have a lot of time to deal with this. He was tired and weary from his home life to add to his impatience. But he forced the thoughts away. His material was obviously very upset - wasn't it part of his duty to cure it?

Actually, the more he thought about it, he wasn't sure if Section did enforce the rule of caring for a material's emotional needs. But he dismissed that, too. He did many other things differently than other mentors, he'd chalk this one up to that excuse.

Wrapping an arm lightly around her shoulders, he led her to her room. Thankfully, there was a mission that was being prepared for egress, making idle operatives scarce. Without seeing much of anyone along the way, they reached the room, where Nikita flopped herself on the bed. Did she not notice her shirt and pants were soaked? Or was she beyond that?

Michael shut the door and deactivated the cameras and bugs in the room in a quick, fluent motion. "Nikita, I want to hear exactly why you're so afraid of being cancelled all of a sudden. I've been telling you about it for weeks and you kept rebelling. This is a simple mistake."

After watching a few failed attempts at speaking on her part, Michael grabbed the cup she kept on her night stand and filled it with water in the bathroom, then brought it back to her. She gulped it down noisily, little dribble streams racing down her chin and neck.

"Frank," was all she was able to get out before she needed more water. "Frank was cancelled. He's dead," She cried out. "He was killed - just like that!"

Oh yes, Michael had heard rumors of a recruit that had been cancelled because of a mysterious tattoo that he hadn't had when he came in. He presumed this was the Frank that she spoke of. "That's how it works around here," he replied. She may be upset, but he wasn't much for sugar coating the truth. Maybe this would settle her wild spirit. At least temporarily.

"Frank got A's in class. He did everything right. The only thing he ever did wrong was that one tattoo! And here I am...I do...I do everything wrong! I'm the worst operative there's ever been, I'm sure! And now I dyed your shirts pink - you don't wear pink!" Yet another sob ripped from her chest as she grabbed her pillow and placed it between her face and raised knees.

Well, she was right on at least one point there. He didn't wear pink. And she wasn't the most cooperative recruit. "I haven't told Operations about any of those things you've done. It's between you and me."

"I know, but now you hate me. I hurt you and I make you upset and I'm difficult and I ruin your clothing - there's no reason why you should keep me alive and I know that now!"

He raised his eyes towards the ceiling. She was actually giving him a list of reasons why he should cancel her now? She wasn't the easiest to please, was she?

"I don't hate you. I'm not going to cancel you. We already took care of the tattoo. No one has to know you were apart of that. It's been between you and me. It'll stay that way."

She looked at him, wiping under her nose with the back of her hand. Clearly, nothing Madeline was teaching her was going in to that thick head of hers. "I don't understand, Michael," she sniffled, tilting her head slightly, looking perplexed. "Why are you doing all this? You're Section's favorite operative. You don't have to deal with the likes of me. But you are, instead of just finishing me the easy way. Why? I've given you no reasons why you should."

In all truth, Michael didn't know the answer to that either. Why was he keeping her on? She sure was enough trouble. He supposed that perhaps, the recent events at home were making his heart a little softer. More patient. Or perhaps he saw her as a refreshing new spin on this strict society he lived in. Maybe it was for purely selfish reasons. He hadn't been on any missions since taking her on. He's been getting more downtime. It's been easier for him lately. Was that why? Or maybe the truth could be found in a completely different direction?

"Take a rest, Nikita. You haven't been sleeping well lately." Calling the kettle black - his own eyes had dark rings beneath them.

She nodded, putting her pillow back and laying down. Where was her blanket? She looked around, but didn't see it.

Walking to the closet, Michael found it placed on the top shelf, all folded up. So maybe Section had installed a new type of housekeeping here? It made sense, he supposed. After all, when did busy recruits have time to do their laundry? And obviously, if today proved anything, they shouldn't be allowed near washing machines, even if they did have the time.

Unraveling it, he motioned for Nikita to lay back down, then quickly placed the blanket on top of her. Feeling awkward at such an action, he took his debugging devices off the wall and left without another word.

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