Black Ops Series: Submerged

by Ndfarmer80

Michael sinks deeper into the mission

Black Ops Series

SUBMERGING: Act Two

by NFarmer80

**It's Section, but not.**

It had been a private ceremony. Just the two of them nervously standing before one another in front of the very tree they shared their first kiss under. She was a vision in flaming ruby red and regal gold, wearing a traditional Hanfu dress. Her hair was pinned up and decorated in gold ribbon while her brown eyes sparkled under very little makeup. She never needed much, just some dark eyeliner and a satin rose lip. She was perfect that day, looking more like a queen than an assassin. He had taken her hand into his and kissed her fingers softly, lingering long on her ring finger before sliding a gold circle around it. He had worn the traditional Zhongshan suit for her after having gone through a nightmare of confusing tailors to find just the right one in black, of course. He would have worn a full Samurai suit of armor if she wished. Anything to make her happy on their one day that they managed to have together alone, without Section eyes recording their every move. They said their vows, speaking their truth to one another with heavy meaningful words. She dabbed her eyes delicately with her handkerchief. He remembered it being little more than a wisp of material, powder blue and pink, with a tiny embroidery of their initials entwined together on the corner of the cloth. She said it was so she would always remember the day they became one, especially during those times Section insisted they be separated. They kissed, and he remembered never wanting to end the kiss. He wanted to hold her there underneath the blooming Cherry Blossom tree as the falling soft petals danced in the gentle flowing breeze. That night, they made love, swimming within each other as though bathing in an endless pool and never wanting to leave its warm and loving waters. The night sky seemed to draw out forever, spreading out in front of them their future and dreams. They could have the world to play in, if only just for the night. Come morning, they would have to say goodbye once again. Michael let a tear drop on the now bloodstained memory. Even after a full year, it still felt like yesterday. Only yesterday had he found out that Simone was still alive. Only yesterday, he had gone on a murderous rampage to find the man that stole away his one piece of peace. Only yesterday did he see her shaking fearfully in the corner of a cell, her hands extended outward to block any further hurt. She was unrecognizable in her state of delirium. Her normally fit and toned body had been ravaged so many times that it now looked gaunt and weak. Her arms and legs were frail. Instead of standing up straight, she was hunched over, like an ogre. Her hair was wild, no longer a long black river, but short now, chopped by an uncaring butcher. Had it not been for her eyes, he might not have recognized her at all. She didn't look like herself. There was a large part of him that wanted to deny that it was her. Yet, when he drew close to her and saw her eyes, he knew, and he was torn apart. His beautiful, lovely, and powerful Simone. They had destroyed her completely, had flipped her inside out and turned her into a grotesque living-dead thing that no longer knew love. Even when he tried to tell her he loved her, when he showed her his heart, she could only stare back with vacant eyes that reflected nothing. The fingers that used to warmly caress him were cold and skeletal. The lips that used to be as soft as petals were cracked and shrunken. He begged her to come back to him, to be with him again. Maybe he could breathe life back into the husk that she had become. But she was dead and had been dead since the moment he told her that back up was not necessary. That she should make it to egress as best she could. She begged him to come rescue her, but he didn't move because Section told him not to. He had decided to follow direction as not to draw Section's eye towards him. He had ignored his bride's pleas for help. Now, all there was left of her was a piece of pale blue cloth stained red with her blood.
A small knock echoed through the room. Michael barely responded to it as he sat on his bed. The hours now seemed like minutes after learning about Simone's involvement with Black Skull. He had never known her to be anything other than a Section Level 4 operative and his wife. Like him, she had a whole other life that she kept secret from him, possibly to protect him. He had been so involved in his own missions that he did not pay much attention to the nights she didn't come home. He had always assumed she was doing small intel gathering for Section like he sometimes had to do. There was always something that kept them apart most nights. Whether it be weeks long missions out of the country, mandatory closed quarter standby requests while waiting on a mission to load, or just plain not having the same days off at the same time, they always seemed to miss each other. When they were together, at least for a few days, they were in complete bliss, until he had to answer a certain phone call and excuse himself from the dinner table. When he returned, she always had a look on her face that told him without words she disapproved of what he was doing. Even though she knew that it was a Section mission, that had it not been for that, he would never do what it was that he was ordered to do. Even though he always told her everything he had done with as much detail as she could handle, because she asked to know, and he promised to be truthful to her, he knew he was still hurting her. And then, one day it seemed she didn't care. She stopped paying attention to his conversations, stopped asking him about the mission, stopped even coming home at night when she knew he was there. He wondered now had Black Skull given her a reason to start making plans? Had they promised her something better than what Section had given them? She seemed willing to take whatever they offered, and even tried to offer it to him. But in the final moment, just before she could make it out of the plant they were in gathering intel, he had turned his back on her. All because Section told him to.
"Knock, knock," said Evelyn, taking a cautious step forward into the room. Michael looked up, eyes still red from earlier. He felt like an open sore with the bandage and skin ripped away. All the old pains had come back, a little dulled from time, but still very much there if not but memory alone. Evelyn ventured further, coming up next to him with her hands in the pockets of her fatigues. The rest of the group were in their beds, passed out from all the day's activities. Only Michael and Evelyn remained awake. "You okay?"

Michael nodded slowly. He continued to turn the cloth in his hands, letting his fingers do his thinking for him. He never liked crying in front of people. Yet somehow, Section always seemed to find a way to break him into submission and leave him in a sobbing mess. Even after so many years and so much training to get him to be emotionless, to be hardened, there was still a small piece of his heart that continued to feel.

"I'm sorry for earlier," said Evelyn. "I wasn't really going to kill you. Was just trying to scare you, really. I didn't think it wasn't going to work. You acted like I didn't have a gun in your face."

"I guess, after a while, you get used to guns being in your face," said Michael absently.

"I know, I sometimes don't think about terrorists shooting at me either."

"Not terrorists...Women..."

Evelyn was a little taken by this. She crossed her arms.

"How many women have you had point guns in your face?"

Michael thought a moment about this question. His mind ran quickly through his entire black book of relationships and the conclusion made him chuckle amid his tears.

"All of them."

Evelyn paused a moment before laughing herself. She sat down beside Michael, stretching her legs out in front of her and clasping her hands in her lap.

"What do you be doing to make these women want to shoot you?"

Michael shrugged, adopting an Evelyn answer. "It's just me, I guess. Something about me makes them want to kill me...eventually...Or die to get away from me."

"Simone didn't die to get away from you, Michael. She tried to live for as long as she could. She wanted to be with you. She loved you."

Michael only smirked. "She did love me...Loved me enough to kill herself."

Michael shoved the handkerchief angrily into his pocket and stood up. He walked over to his wardrobe locker and began searching for a pair of sweatpants to wear to bed. He knew he probably would not sleep, but he would at least go through the motions.

"Michael, she gave up the one thing that she always kept close to her heart that gave her hope so that you would know that she was still alive. You could have still saved her. It wasn't you that killed her. It was Section. Section was the one that denied our request for help even when we told them where she was. Blame Section, not yourself."

"What's the use of blaming Section? I've blamed them, all of them, for what they did to her, to me, to... Everyone I've ever cared about, they've found some way... done something to make sure that they don't survive. It's been a miracle that I've lasted this long. What you're asking me to do is no short of a suicide mission. I hope you know that."

"Every mission Section sends us on is a suicide mission. There's never any guarantee that any of us are calculated to survive. We're given odds of success. It's only by luck that any of us survive."

"I know, but the chances of us surviving what you're proposing we do is less than five percent. That's the same odds we give recruits their first year off the Farm."

"And the same odds they give abeyance operatives."

"Are you saying I'm in abeyance? Is that why I've been sent here?"

Evelyn narrowed her eyes and stared at Michael intently.

"You think we are working with Section on an abeyance mission for you? You think that what we're doing is all rigged to kill you?"

"Isn't it?"

Evelyn stood up. Her expression, which had been soft moments before, now hardened into a scowl. She walked up to him and pressed her finger into his forehead almost like a bullet into the brain and forced him backward.

"Now I know why everyone wants to shoot you all the time. You're so full of yourself! Did you ever think for *once* that this, *any of this*, isn't about *you*?"

Michael regained his composure, noting how quickly Evelyn seemed to become irritated. She reminded him of someone else that he knew with a hairpin trigger. He took a step back from her, giving himself some room.

"You just told me how much you needed me for your mission. Gave me my dead wife's handkerchief to manipulate me into joining with you. You're on a mission to strike at one of the most powerful cartels in Mexico. You know this is a mission that has less than five percent chance of survival so how is this *not* a mission designed to kill me and likely a few other targets? Why choose me?"

"Did it ever occur to you that Section sent you out for training because they just sent you out for training? That I was the one that manipulated them to get you here for my own reasons? I could probably still accomplish what I need to accomplish without you, but it's just easier when I can get some support. Simone believed that you could move mountains for her. I hoped that you would believe in her cause enough to want to see the end to her fight. To make sure her life was not given up in vain."

Michael clenched his jaw.

"We might not be able to stop the cartels, but we can at least stop the *one* that we know was working directly with Glass Curtain. Maybe that's not enough motivation for you to want to get back at the very people that killed your wife. Maybe if you did, you could atone for what happened to her."

Michael pulled out a pair of black sweat pants and shook them violently so that they snapped the air. He glared back at Evelyn.

"Simone is dead."

He pushed past her and went into the wet room. Evelyn stood a moment more before turning and leaving the room.

The next morning, Michael awoke to music blasting through the corridors. He had only slept a few hours in between waking up in fits of sweats from his nightly intense nightmares. He rubbed his hands back through his wet hair, remembering where he was and all that happened the previous day. He was thankful that his stomach no longer felt cramped, but now he was maddeningly hungry. At this point, he would eat anything, even if it meant he would spend another hour throwing it all back up in the toilet. He checked his watch and saw that it was eight thirty in the morning. It was the latest he had ever slept in. Even on his days off, he always woke a little after six o'clock ready to start his day with the first cup of fresh coffee.

Michael padded out with his bare feet towards where he remembered the lounge to be. If one could call it a lounge. It was really just a small area set away from everything else that housed a short wall of cabinets, a microwave, a toaster, a small refrigerator and one long folding table with metal chairs. He thought he might have seen a coffee pot tucked off in the corner, but he wasn't sure. In the hall set up as the sleeping quarters, music reverberated off the concrete walls. The sound of laughter and gentle chiding could be heard. There was a part of him that wanted to feel free enough to join in and laugh with them, but he knew this wouldn't be possible. He knew there was nothing that they spoke about that would be relatable to him, and would likely only strike him as amusing rather than hilarious. The camaraderie of the men, however, reminded him of his own earlier days before Section. He was in college, highly influenced by anti-government rhetoric, and looking for meaning to his own existence. There was a resurgence of political anarchy in the air as blue collar workers began to feel the pressures of additional laws enacted to impress more taxes on their already meager wages. Michael had not come from much means himself, and knew the pains life could bring when money was scarce. He had to work several jobs to try and keep a roof over both he and his sister's head, and it seemed the more he did, the less he seemed to gain. It was Rene' who gave him his first insight into the true fight.

He saw him each day speaking to students out on the lawn, passing out literature, and enlightening those who stayed to listen. At first, he did not, considering him to be like all the other blowhards shouting for change in the system. After several days of listening to Rene' speak, he began to slow down, and then finally one day stopped. From that moment on, he was under Rene's wing soaking in everything he said, everything he wrote, and became his most dedicated promoter. He had felt energized whenever he was around Rene', like he was finally doing something important, that meant something. There had been plenty of moments where their demonstrations nearly landed them in jail. The exhilaration he felt evading the police confirmed that he was truly alive and in the evening, when they were all huddled together in an abandoned building, he knew then that these men were his true brothers. Rene' was his closest brother of all, and it was he that told him that he was meant to do something great in this life.

He walked into the lounge and saw that it was a small coffee pot that he spotted in the corner. Better yet, someone had taken the time to make a fresh pot still heated on the burner. He found a mug, rinsed it in the sink, and poured himself a full cup of the black brew. He took a sip and instantly spat it back in the cup. The bitter taste of the dark grinds shocked his taste buds. He looked down into the cup wondering why the coffee tasted so bad.

"You gotta add cream and sugar to drink that shit," said Evelyn, coming into the lounge.

She looked like she had just come from working out. A white towel hung around her neck. She wore a basketball jersey over a white sports bra. Her muscular legs peeked out from the extra long jersey which hid a pair of black running shorts. Her cheeks glistened from sweat as she went into the fridge to grab a bottled water. She handed Michael the mostly drank half gallon of milk.

"Thanks," Michael said quietly, taking the milk and adding a quick dollop to the black coffee.

"Sugar's in the pantry up top."

Michael followed Evelyn's direction and found the sugar, a crushed bag of Dixie Crystals, in the cabinet. He searched around for something to scoop out the sugar with. Evelyn watched him for a moment before pulling out a drawer full of silverware of undetermined origins and uses. There was absolutely no order in the entire drawer making Michael have to sift through knives and forks to find something to scoop with.

"You ain't ever been in a black person's house have you," said Evelyn, finding his confusion amusing. "Use a spoon."

Michael continued to look, not finding what he was searching for. "Where?"

"There's one right there. The plastic one."

Michael plucked out a white plastic spoon he had missed while sifting through the jumble of utensils.

"Why is all the silverware in one drawer like that? You can't find anything in there."

"That's how my momma always had it. We never had a tray. We just threw everything in one drawer and kept it moving. Any time we needed something, we always knew where to go. If she had it, it was somewhere in there."

Michael scooped in a few teaspoons of sugar and stirred his cup. He took a sip, and although the flavors had only slightly improved, it was at least drinkable. He longed for a cup of Turkish coffee with its thick, smooth coffee bean flavors that left one revived and charged from its potency. The watered down confusion he was drinking on made him a little jittery, but still left him somewhat groggy. He would have to drink four more of the less satisfying brew to get the same alertness he could get from one cup of Turk.

"This is ridiculous. This whole place is ridiculous," Michael grumbled.

"What's so ridiculous about it?" asked Evelyn, finishing her water.

Michael clenched his jaw and averted his eyes. He was in no mood to argue.

"Naw, uh uh, don't do that. You don't get to. You said this was ridiculous. What's ridiculous, Michael? You got so much to say. What are you saying?"

Michael sighed heavily. "I don't want to fight."

"We are not fighting. We're just talking," Evelyn pressed.

"Then I don't feel like talking," Michael said within another exhausted sigh.

"Well, since you don't feel like talking, maybe you'll feel like working." Evelyn threw her empty water bottle into the trash. It banged around angrily before settling at the bottom. "We got a conference call in a half hour. Be in my office before then. Dress...you know...the best you can."

Evelyn walked out of the lounge area headed for her room. Michael watched her walk away, seething inside and hating every minute he had to stay where he was. He took another sip of the coffee and gave up on it. The brackish taste was just too much and was not satisfying in the least. He threw the coffee into the sink, not caring that some of it splashed up over the sink and onto the counter. He went back to his room and began getting dressed.

It was not until he began tying his shoes that he realized that all that he was doing was done in a rage. He washed his body in anger, brushed his teeth in ire, combed his hair so forcefully, he pulled out strands. Now he was tying his shoes so tight, he nearly broke the strings. Outside his room, he could still hear music, hear people laughing, enjoying life. Even though they were slaves to Section, just like he was, they had somehow found life amid their oppression. They could be sent out to slaughter by one order from Section, or be given faulty intel from another agency only to find themselves ambushed while doing work for Black Skull. None of this seemed to matter as they laughed. In the moment, they were free to be who they were. Free to laugh, to sing, to dance, to look at women, and eat food that would probably kill them, and love. He didn't have any of that at Section. The only laughter he ever heard came from Walter, Section's sole free spirited Munitions expert.

Walter was the oldest operative in Section. He had seen more people come and die than he dared dream, and yet he continued to smile and joke like it was his first day there. Nikita used to smile and joke too, but after a while, after all the pain both he and Section inflicted on her, that wonderful bright smile seemed to fade a little more each day. He had seen it peek it's little head out a few times when she was around Walter. He would say something that would tickle her and snatch her back from the claws of Section's abyss. When he was there, he was all but eaten alive except the times when he was alone with Nikita and he could relax a little. Before Jurgen, before she went missing, they had spent a lot of time together, mostly working through Simone's second death.

Nikita had become almost obsessed with making him crack the tiniest of smiles even going as far as being down right goofy in her approach. He had found her antics amusing, if not charming, and rewarded her efforts with giving her a little grin every now and then. She had cared so much for him, offering her shoulder when he needed somewhere to lay his head. Giving him food when he had gone the entire day without eating. Making sure he stayed occupied with something so that his mind did not have a moment to linger on dark thoughts. She had used her light to bring him out of darkness, and like anything happy, Section purposed itself to kill her off.

Section.

Always Section, Michael thought as he rose from his bed. He grabbed his dress jacket and pulled it on over his shoulders. He looked at himself in the mirror and took a quick assessment. Staring back at him was the man he had always known. The man in black. Angel to some, demon to all. He had a face that could easily lie to anyone, reflecting only what they wanted to see. If they wanted to see a caring, charismatic lover, then that's what he was. If they wanted to see a benevolent, charming friend, that's what he was. If they wanted to see a ruthless, cold blooded murderer, that's what he was, too. He could be all things to all people, but what he could not be was himself. That was probably the reason why so many of his relationships wound up with a gun pointed squarely in his face. They all saw him for what he truly was when he took away the mask. Like the Phantom of the Opera, he fooled them all with his talent and his illusion of beauty, drew them all in so that they ached to discover the truth. Then, when they were close enough to really touch him, he took away his mask and let them see the real face behind it, and it horrified all of them. He did not blame them for wanting to kill him. There were days even he desired nothing more than to simply end his own misery and stop the nightmare.

Michael walked into Evelyn's office to see her busily working at her computer. He recognized the intense concentrated look on her face being the same as he had whenever he was hard at work creating mission profiles. He took a seat in a chair and waited, crossing his legs. Evelyn cut a quick glance at him, noting where he was in the room, before returning to her work. After a few moments more, she waved him over without breaking her focus on the screen. Michael got up and moved to a position just behind her where he could still be seen by the computer's camera. He leaned against the wall, crossing his ankles, and putting his hands in his pocket. Evelyn typed in her credentials, then motioned for Michael to do the same. He quickly put in his code and leaned back against the wall. A moment later, Operations appeared on screen.

"Michael and Evelyn, good morning! Michael, you look much better now. How was your first night there in Texas?"

"Interesting," said Michael.

"I take it you've gotten settled in and have now started your first day of training. Tell me, what have you begun reviewing so far?"

"We have reviewed the mission reports and are about to start surveillance on two site targets. Just waiting for intel to come back," said Evelyn.

"These mission targets. Are they the ones you will be using for training purposes?"

"Yes," said Evelyn.

"Excellent. I'm excited to hear of what you think of Evelyn's approach, Michael. I will expect a report back of your assessment."

"I'm interested to see how things turn out as well, sir."

"In the meantime, Michael, I will be sending you some other mission profiles to review. They will be in your email. Birkoff sent you some additional information as well. I'll need your report back to me tomorrow morning, after your morning clinicals."

"Sir," began Evelyn. "In the event that we do run into resistance, will there be support?"

"Why would there be resistance on a cold mission?" asked Operations.

"I'm just considering all possibilities, just in case."

"If you get into a rut, Michael will be there to help you. Between the two of you, I'm sure you can figure something out."

"Yes, sir."

"I will be checking in later. I'm sure you will have plenty to talk about then. That is all."

Once again, Operations cancelled the transmission before any of them had any more to say. Evelyn sighed audibly.

"Well, that was..." She was left without words to finish her thoughts. "Seemed pissed. Is he always like that?"

Michael nodded. In the seven years he had been there at Section One, he did not recall one moment seeing Operations crack even the smallest of smiles. At best, he remained blank faced, the same as Michael. He seemed to detest the idea of anyone having any type of enjoyment while in his presence, and almost seemed driven to rage each time someone dared laugh. The only time he ever saw him even remotely excited was when they caught a particularly elusive target that no other agency could capture. Even then, when the smile did appear, it was always somewhat menacing like a cat cornering a doomed mouse.

"I really don't know how you do it," Evelyn was saying as she got up from her seat at her desk. "I would freak out if I had to deal with that every day."

"You learn to adjust," said Michael quietly.

He thought about what would be happening at Section now. Probably the same usual routine surveillance they did each and every day. Walter would be arguing about who checked out what weapon, or joking about his latest hot date. Birkoff would be pouring over his files, monitoring incoming information and filtering it into its appropriate databases.

And then there was Nikita.

By now, she was probably calling missions, standing over Birkoff intently watching monitors and listening to in-field operatives as they completed maneuvers. Her deep alto voice gave directions as expertly as he did, and in some cases, a little better. He liked hearing her over his Comm unit, relaying information he needed to move from one point to the next. It satisfied a little part of him that enjoyed being dominated by a woman of power. She would never know this, and she probably didn't care that he secretly enjoyed it. In her current state, if she knew what it did to him, she would likely start barking orders at him just to both titillate and frustrate him. By now, she was more plausibly stewing over Section's decision to not only terminate Jurgen, but now send Michael away on a two week secret training to parts unknown in the world. He had wanted to tell her where he was going so that she might like to get in touch with him, but he simply denied this. Operations had explicitly told him not to tell anywhere where he was going, and so, he did not say a word, even when she asked him directly. He only told her that he could not say, but he would be back soon. She seemed somber in their goodbye, like she knew it would be the last she would see him. She even ventured to hug him, even though he felt awkward in returning the gesture. He really did not know how to read Nikita, even after three years of knowing her. She was a mystery to him just as he knew he must have been to her. Even after their one night together on the barge, he could not really know Nikita, not entirely. She was right in saying that he never had her. She always remained just out of reach. Even more so now because of Jurgen.

"Michael!"

Michael snapped his head up, realizing he had drifted off into thought and had not heard Evelyn speaking to him. She was standing looking both concerned and aggravated that he had not been paying attention to her.

"Yes," said Michael in his low caliber tone.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you. And they say I spend too much time in my head." Evelyn pulled out a large map from a collection of them in the corner of the office. She tucked it under her arm and started out the office. Before she reached the door, she turned to look back at Michael. "You coming, or no? Because I have work to do."

"Of course." Michael lifted off the wall and followed Evelyn down the corridor into the conference room.

For the next three hours, the two of them reviewed maps detailing terrain and strategic positions around several targeted drug manufacturing plants. Evelyn relayed her knowledge about the layouts of the terrain from what her contacts told her. She offered possible solutions to vantage points for maximum coverage during an assault. Michael studied the maps and building blueprints expertly, noting access areas and retreat points not considered. Evelyn raised an eyebrow at the places Michael suggested for positioning, some of which at first glance were insane but were very possible to achieve given the right equipment and training.

"If we get a man here, we cover that access point. Put a guy here for support," said Michael.

"We'll be too thin."

"Not if we space out. I figure each man could cover about a quarter mile radius, that will give us enough room to maneuver around the base without running into each other. They can close the distance if need be. We take a wide stance, then close in."

"Kinda like an optical lens," said Evelyn, seeing the plan.

Michael looked at Evelyn, enjoying her understanding.

"Yes."

The two looked at one another within a long pause. A smile wanted to play on Michael's lips, but he pushed it back in and swallowed it. Evelyn pulled in a large breath.

"What about hostages? How do we get them out?" she asked.

"We don't," said Michael, deadpan, eyes still locked to hers.

"So what then? We kill everyone?"

"If it comes to that."

"I just think we should consider an extraction plan if we need one." Evelyn searched Michael's eyes for compassion, but found nothing there, just his cold stare.

"We have eight men to perform a feat that normally requires at least two teams of ten or more to enact. The probability of our success is less that thirty-five percent given all goes perfectly to plan. If we add in a secondary objective, our success percentage reduces to three percent. And that's if you are willing to sacrifice more than half your team and nearly all hostages."

"Your percentages are all wrong. We stand a greater chance of surviving if we use any resource available to us."

"Rescuing hostages will only slow our retreat down. We will lose our advantage."

"Not if we arm them. Make them part of their own rescue. If we lose a few of them, then at least they went down fighting for their freedom instead of waiting for something else to come in and kill them. If history has not taught us anything else, it has taught that a man's freedom is his final stand. You can take away his home, take away everyone he loves, but if you threaten to take away his freedom to live, he will fight to his last breath."

Michael thought for a moment, then sighed. He should be used to this type of push back, he thought. It was something Nikita did all the time whenever he went over mission plans with her. She never seemed to understand why everyone could not be saved just like Evelyn. He could exhaust himself all day trying to explain the calculating factors that brought him to such determinations, but it would all be in vain. To both Nikita and Evelyn, it still meant innocent people were going to die.

"It's a drug lab. I hardly would think that they are holding anyone there. However...If there are hostages there...and they are able and willing to fight...then we will let them fight. But they will have to understand that if they fight, they also have to be willing to die."

Evelyn nodded her head. Once more coming back to terms with the objectives of their mission. She returned to the blueprints.

"We should set charges here and here as well. Just to be sure," she said.

"We should also bring masks. We don't want to inhale anything while we're in there."

Evelyn smiled, noting that what they were going to be blowing up was a cocaine production lab.

"If we don't, we'll all be coming out of there *high as fuck* ."

Michael envisioned the team, eyes dilated and disoriented, and could not stifle a kick of laughter. Evelyn glanced at Michael, seeing a rare smile playing on his lips. He quickly bit it back, trying to look like he had not laughed at all. She pulled in a huge breath of air and sat up straight in her chair. She stretched her hands up into the air as far as she could and let out another loud sigh. She shook her head, trying to re-awaken herself after spending so much time looking at maps and blueprints. When she finally returned her attention to the table, she noticed Michael staring at her, his light eyes moving over her slowly, studying.

He seemed to be thinking long and hard about something that had nothing to do with tactical maneuvers and everything to do with his deeper, more intimate thoughts. She felt a little violated the way his eyes cruised over her skin, examining her like an x-ray, looking deep inside her. His expression was placid, as if the rest of him were shut down with all his energies now focused on this one prolonged examination. It was as though he were simply paused in time, staring into dreams she could not see. When she moved, his eyes followed her. When she sat up in her seat, his eyes re-focused as if resetting himself.

"I think this is a good place to take a little break," said Evelyn. "If you need me, I'll be in my room."

"Evelyn," Michael said in that way that Evelyn knew he was about to ask something. "Does everyone live down here? At Section, we sometimes stay in close quarters due to the proximity of a mission uploading. Our deployment could be in a matter of minutes. Here, things don't seem to be like that. There is no reason to have everyone staying so close."

"Some of us stay down here because we have to. Some of us like Santino and Morales have to remain out of sight because they are wanted by the FEDs, so they don't go out much. Others, like Romeo and Tarek, stay in an apartment nearby. I keep them here from time to time to keep them in line as punishment. This is Arlene's house, so they stay upstairs with her. New recruits sometimes stay here as well."

"Are you here?"

"Sometimes. I have my own place not too far from here. I don't stay there much, though. I prefer to stay close to the action to make sure everything is going the way it's supposed to be going."

Michael nodded, rising slowly from the table. He pulled his jacket together and began buttoning it up.

"What you ask for? You wanna come over sometime? Do a movie and some pizza?" Evelyn joked.

"Just wondering." Michael started towards the door. "If you need me, I'll be in my room."

"Actually, I want you to pause on that," said Evelyn. "I'm going to need you to go out for a minute."

"Where will I be going?"

Evelyn stood to her feet and stood in front of Michael.

"Shopping."

"For what?"

"Clothes."

Michael looked confused. He looked down at himself, considering his usual black suit, then back to Evelyn who was now looking at him with obvious scrutiny.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"It's too stuffy. All that black. It's depressing."

"What would you rather me wear? A basketball outfit?" Michael folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head slightly.

"Look at you with the attitude. I can't have you out here looking like White Men Can't Jump. No, you need to look more...regular. Relaxed, and not like you're about to catch a bullet for the president."

"It's just a suit."

"You look like the damn Federali. Don't nobody around here look like you. You're already whiter than a saltine. I know I can't change the way you act, but at least I can change the packaging."

Michael considered her observation. He really had not thought about where he was going when he was packing his suitcase. Most of his clothing that he brought were suits with either v-neck or round neck t-shirts. He brought a few work out clothing, his field gear, two pairs of boots, a pair of black fingerless leather gloves, and something to sleep in whether it be hot or cold wherever he was. He had kept his wardrobe simple knowing that he would likely be rolling around in dirt for the better part of the week. It had not occurred to him that his very clothing could expose him to any other agency watching the house. He had been lucky to only be seen mainly in the house and in the bunker, and only a limited time outside in the backyard. It made sense for him to need to blend in more in the environment, and normally he did, when he was in Europe. In Texas, in a predominantly latino and afro-american urban setting, he stuck out like a silver sword in the middle of a lake.

Within the hour, Michael was in the cherry red lowrider with a very energetic Romeo heading towards the shops of downtown Laredo. MIchael realized where he was could be considered urban even though it was not exactly in the city. They were on the highway in what seemed like a few turns. The entire time, Romeo seemed more interested in dancing to the music blasting out of the surround sound speakers than he did in driving the car. Michael watched him as he popped up and down to the music, driving rather recklessly, and reciting the lyrics with as much enthusiasm as if he were performing it before millions. Although the music had an interesting beat, Michael found it a little difficult to follow along with the rapid fire lyrics that were being spoken in rhythm. Romeo, on the other hand, seemed completely comfortable reciting each word with ease.

Michael had heard hip hop music before. It was a favorite for some underground subcultures he often encountered whenever he had to do capture and retrieval missions in nightclubs. He never really paid much attention to the music for being so focused on the target and where his men were positioned. The music often faded into the background. Stuck in the car with Romeo with little choice to focus on anything else, he listened to what lyrics he could understand. Much of Romeo's playlist consisted of one particular artist named Tupac. The songs that Romeo favored had lyrics about the artist's experiences growing up rough in the streets, social unrest and injustice by the local police, about his sexual prowess with women, or bragging about his power and influence over other rappers. The songs about social injustice interested him more as the rapper talked about ideals that were similar to what Rene' used to speak whenever he gave commentary on the open lawns of the college. Like Rene', the rapper seemed to call for a violent push back against the regime even going as far as enticing listeners towards gun violence. Michael did not necessarily agree with the philosophy no more than he did with Rene'. However, he understood the basic principles.

By the time the third song began to play, Michael began to wonder if Romeo thought that he was Tupac on some level, because of the passion he exuded while reciting the lyrics. After the fifth song, Michael had enough. He reached over to the volume and turned the music down to half the level. Romeo, still rapping, shot a look of disapproval at Michael.

"What the fuck, man! Ain't nobody ever told you? You don't EVER touch a black man's radio! I don't know what you do over in Europe, but out here in these streets, you get yo' ass *killed* for touching the radio!"

"The music is too loud. I can't hear myself think," said Michael.

"What the hell you got to think about? You ridin' with Romy-Rome in the lowrider! You ain't gotta think. Ain't no thinkin going on in here. Just riding."

"That's probably what's wrong with your driving. You're not thinking. You're ten miles over the speed limit and cutting people off. I'm surprised the police haven't pulled us over by now."

"Man, you sound like a bitch! You really need to take that stick out ya ass and relax."

"Watch the road."

"Watch these nuts! What's your damage anyway? I thought you Valentine Ops were supposed to be, you know, cool. Loving. What happened to the love, man?"

"Just drive." Michael turned his attention to the passenger side window, wishing he was anywhere but in the car with Romeo.

"Just drive. He telling me to just drive like I'm Morgan Freeman or some shit," said Romeo to himself. "You know, you better be glad Miss E is looking out for you, because if she wasn't, I'd be done bust a cap in your ass right about now! You better check yo' self, partner."

Michael rolled his eyes. He hoped that once he was done with the outing, it would be the last he would have to deal with the young punk. He was grating hard on his nerves and it was taking all that was within him not to chop him across the throat.

"I've been meaning to ask you something." Romeo waited for Michael to respond, but realized quickly that he was not going to. "Okay, well. fuck it. How did you become a Valentine's Day agent anyway?"

"A Valentine Op," Michael corrected.

"Yeah, that. How did you become that? They have a sign-up sheet that you put your name on or something?" said Romeo within a laugh.

"You don't become one, they *make* you one."

"So they just decide who will be a Valentine and who won't get to? Is that it?"

"Yes."

"So who chose you?"

"A woman named Madeline." There was no hiding the somber tone to his voice as he spoke. Romeo seemed not to notice as he continued with his questions.

"For real! I gotta meet this chick then."

Michael closed his eyes, remembering the day he was called into Madeline's office to be given his first Valentine assignment. He was to dress up to go to a bar, meet a woman there, seduce her into bed with him, and return to Section to report his conquest. When he got to the bar, dressed in his best black suit, he waited. He was told the woman would know him and would give him a rose to identify her. When the rose was placed on the bar next to him, he looked up to see Madeline standing next to him, dressed in a low cut cocktail dress and a smile that haunted him even until this day. That night, he felt awful, trying to make it through the evening without either crying or wretching from the sick ball that had been growing in his stomach the moment that rose hit the bar table. "You don't ever want to meet her," said Michael. "She eats men alive."

Michael looked over at Romeo, his expression speaking volumes, but knowing that Romeo was not reading his meaning.

"I don't know, man! Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me. All your missions are just fucking bad international bitches all the time!"

"That's not what it all is. There is more to it than just screwing."

"What else is there, then?"

"Everything about you becomes a lie. The way you look, the way you speak, the things you say, even sometimes how you feel. It's all a lie that *they* create. Every mission you do, you have to lie to yourself just so that you can convince them otherwise. It gets to be that when you look at yourself in the mirror, you question whether the person looking back is really you."

Romeo bristled. "Yo, that's dark, man. You make it sound like you're a prostitute or something."

"It sort of feels like that sometimes," said Michael quietly, more to himself than to Romeo. "Is that why you prefer to do field work? You don't like it?" asked Romeo.

"It's not that I don't like it. Sometimes, I do like it. Sometimes, I hate it. Being in the field is just simpler. I don't have to feel anything or make someone else feel something that isn't there. I can just do the job and hopefully go home."

They turned off the highway and headed into the downtown district of the city. Tall buildings replaced the short squat ones that dotted the landscape. The heat was still present, but seemed to be less oppressive as buildings blocked the sun's direct rays and created large areas of looked over at Romeo and watched him turn the volume back up on the radio. Once again, Romeo began reciting the lyrics verbatim without once breaking cadence. He was popping up and down again, barely touching the steering wheel for throwing his hands up and gesturing. When they reached a traffic light, Romeo took the moment to completely release his inhibitions once the song came to a part that he liked in particular.

"Are you this animated all the time?" Michael asked.

"What do you mean? I'm all day baby!"

A car pulled up beside them with two latin women inside. One of them looked over and saw Romeo wildly gesturing in the air as his music overpowered their radio. Romeo looked over at the women.

"I'm all night, too ladies!"

The women considered Romeo's suggestion and laughed. No doubt they were laughing at him and not with him, Michael thought. One girl spotted him and smiled. Michael wiggled his fingers in a slight wave. The small gesture caught the woman's attention. She nudged her friend and pointed at Michael. The two ladies leaned towards the car, now eyeballing Michael with come hither stares. Romeo looked from Michael to the women, then back. He lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose.

"You gotta be kidding me!"

The women giggled as the light turned green. They sped off with Romeo still looking dumbfounded about what just happened.

"I don't know what you did, but you got them hunnies all pumped up about you. All you did was wave at them. How you do that?"

Michael leaned his head back against the headrest. The music had changed to a different artist, a female who pretty much rapped about the same thing as the other one, only she spoke more about her sexual prowess than anything else. Once again, Michael fought with himself about why he even bothered with saving humanity. It just seemed pointless.

"You must get that a lot as a Valentine Op, don't you. Women just fall all over themselves to get to you, don't they. You be getting all the drawls in Europe. And you got that frenchy accent. You're gonna be *dangerous* over here!"

Michael did not respond. It was after one o'clock and the sun was at its worst. Even in the air conditioned car, he was getting sunburned from the window. They finally came to a stop in a parking lot outside a small clothing store. Romeo lowered the car and hopped out with a kind of way-too-cool-for-this-ride manner. Michael rose out the car, looking about himself as he normally did, before concluding there was no one he could immediately see tailing them. Romeo started to the entrance of the store and waved for Michael to follow.

Once inside, Michael saw racks on racks of clothing, most of which consisted of extra long t-shirts of various designs, long shorts that might as well be pants, and a wall of denim jeans separated into sizes and cuts. Romeo opened his arms as if presenting the store.

"This is my home away from home," Romeo announced proudly. "They got everything you need to make you look just as fly as me...Well, kinda like me, because you know there's only one Romy-Rome! You feel me?"

Michael simply stared at Romeo, waiting for him to finish his speech. Romeo smiled broadly and led Michael over to a rack of shirts, all button down and in various colors. Michael automatically gravitated towards the darker, nearly black shirts and selected one that was midnight blue.

"No man! The hunnies aren't going to want to be with a guy that looks like Johnny Cash!" said Romeo. "You gotta hit em with that vibrant thang."

Romeo sifted through the racks and pulled out a multi-colored silk shirt with gold thread. He held it up with a wide grin and nodded his head.

"Yeah! There it is. You will pull a whole *bunch* of bootie with this joint right here!"

Michael took off his sunglasses, looked at the gaudy garment, then put his glasses back on, returning to his own search.

"What! You don't like this? It's bomb!"
"It's loud."

"Yeah! Loud and Proud, like Liberace. This shirt will stop traffic!"

"Probably by causing multiple wrecks from blinding people."

Romeo laughed. "Oh you got jokes. I see you. Well, what about this one?"

Romeo pulled out another equally ridiculous looking shirt, except this one had a dragon emblem on the back. Michael shook his head no.

"You can't enter the dragon?"

"Not in that shirt."

Romeo laughed again and put the shirt back. Michael found two shirts that looked promising. One was a cream cotton button down with extra wide cuffs. There was a little detail along the front of the shirt making the shirt appear simple, yet elegant in its simplicity. The other shirt he found was a crew neck multi-fiber blend in a hue that fell somewhere between grey and a soft blue. He liked this shirt, even though it was the most plain item on the rack. It reminded him of Nikita's eyes. It would have been something she would pick for him, if he ever allowed her to pick anything for him. Madeline often dressed him in deep, darker shades, heavy colors that did not drift too far from his normal black. Nikita often preferred him in brighter shades, much like her apartment. She could not stand the somber look of Section and always desired to be around places and things that exuded happiness and color. She probably would not have agreed with any of Romeo's choices, but she would at the very least insist he try them on even if it was just for her humor.

After more shuffling through rows and rows of clothing, Michael finally came to a decision on five shirts and three pairs of pants. He never liked dressing rooms, finding them too easily exposed and putting him at a disadvantage if ever he had to leave quickly for any reason. He took the clothing up to the counter and waited while the young store clerk, a wiry looking teenage boy with a spike through his nose, rang up the items. Beside him, Romeo reclined against the counter, obviously flirting with someone behind them.

"Hey. Check out the ladies over there," said Romeo, nudging Michael's arm.

Michael produced his credit card to the clerk, then slyly threw a glance back towards the direction Romeo was looking. Two young women, one being remarkably more attractive than her almost pretty friend, winked and waved their direction. Romeo kissed at them with his lips. Michael returned to his purchases.

"Yo, man. I think she likes me?" said Romeo, excitement brewing in his tone.

"Which one?" Michael did not bother to look.

"The cute one on the left. *Man* she fine. I could fall in love with her all day." He leaned into Michael and grinned slyly. "And I'll let her fall in love with me all night, know what I'm saying."

Michael cut a glance at Romeo and took his purchases from the counter. He thanked the clerk who had already dismissed him even before he handed him the receipt. Michael started towards the door, eager to leave the store.

"Wait man! Let me see if I can work this out. I'm gonna need a date tomorrow night."

Michael stopped. "We really don't have time for this."

"This won't take long. She already is in love with me." Romeo kissed the air again.

Michael turned fully towards Romeo. He looked over towards the girls who were still shopping but glancing repeatedly back at them and giggling among themselves.

"First of all, slow down. You're moving faster than a bullet train. Second, the girl you want will never give you the time of day if you go over there acting like you're going to bed her right there on the store floor. You have to be more discreet than that."

Romeo nodded, his eyes still on the two women. "Word. You mean act like I don't want it, even though I really, really, *really* do want it? Like...Right now?"

"Calm," Michael coached. "Control your breathing. Put anything and everything that has anything to do with her out of your mind. She's not even there. It's not her you want. It's her friend."

"Her friend?" Romeo's expression twisted with confusion.

"Yes. Her friend."

"But it's not her friend I'm looking at."

"But in order to get to her, you gotta move the obstacle out the way, and right now, it's her friend."

"So you want me to go talk to the friend?"

"Yes."

"And not the cutie?"

"Definitely not the cutie. Not yet. You have to remove the obstacle first."

"How do I do that?"

"Act like you're into her, like you want to know only about her, that's she's the only one you ever had your eyes on to begin with. You get in close. Ask her to talk about her. She will give you all the information you'll need to move her out the way. She'll give you what you really want."

"What is it that I really want?"

"Her friend."

Romeo nodded his head, attempting to understand how any of this would work. He looked at Michael again, still very confused.

"She'll tell you about her friend once you get her talking. She'll tell you everything about her, probably starting off with her least attractive attributes, then move on to the reasons why they are friends. Finally, she'll start talking about what makes her so much better and why you should be with her."

"How do I end up with the friend if I'm getting to know her?"

"The friend will come to you. The other girl is just your mouth piece. She is there to promote you. You treat that girl like a princess and she will lead you to the queen. Checkmate."

Romeo nodded, his eyes already set to his new goal and ready to begin pursuit. Michael pulled him back before he could take another step.

"Calm. Remember. Calm. Approach slowly, like you aren't really looking for their attention."

"But I've been making eyes with the pretty one since we've been in here. How am I supposed to look like I'm not interested now?"

"I know, you kinda already screwed up, but you can still salvage it by playing aloof."

"Aloof...so you want me to pretend like I'm an idiot?"

Michael thought about this. "Yes."

"And then what? Only talk to the friend?"

"Yes."

"Ignore the cutie?"

"Yes."

"And this works?"

Michael shrugged. "Always worked for me." He patted Romeo on the back. "You'll be fine. Just remember, go slow, approach the friend. Don't even look at the other girl. Even if she tries to get your attention, play her to the left. You're whole reason to breathe is her friend. You're here on earth just to ask that girl for her phone number. There is no other woman in the world, but her. Now go get her."

Michael gently shoved Romeo so that his feet moved in the women's general direction. He watched as Romeo twisted awkwardly through the tightly crowded clothing racks until he made it over to the women's section of the store. Romeo looked back at him one last time for assurance. Michael gave him a subtle nod and watched as Romeo approached the cute girl's friend. He saw the natural charm rolling off as Romeo focused his attention squarely on the other girl and not on the girl he really wanted to talk to. The girl he was ignoring at first looked surprised that she was being ignored, then a little angered. Finally, as her friend was gaining all the attention, she turned her back and began shopping, her attitude changed as she pawed through a stack of skinny jeans. She tried to get her friend's attention several times as Romeo spoke, flashing his charming grin. Her friend, however, was completely taken by Romeo and within minutes, was handing him her phone number on a piece of paper.

Michael left the store and got into the car. He could remember his first time out on a true Valentine Mission. It was with the daughter of a Funds Manager that kept the accounts for a known weapons developer believed to be trading illegal arsenal to war torn countries in South Africa. The daughter knew of her father's dealings, but did not know exactly how deep his involvement went. She had one of the keys to her father's office where he kept his information. His objective was to make her trust him enough to get the key, or somehow find his way into having it, so that he could pull the files from the computer and send them to Section to be seized. The mission was a near fail as he slipped a few times, calling her the wrong name, hesitating when it came to kissing, and unable to perform when it came time to have sex with her. He could not hide the fact that he was simply not attracted to her.

She was a waiflike girl with auburn hair twisted in a fury of curls and large wide brown eyes, but there was something about her that turned him off. It could have been the way she always dangled on the end of his arm, or always seemed to want to know what he was thinking, even when he clearly told her that he had nothing on his mind. She always asked and it irritated him. He told her he loved her, but said it as though it were a question whether than a statement. She began to suspect that he truly did not mean what he told her. He had to spend a considerable amount of money just to convince her otherwise. Madeline was upset about how long it was taking him to gain the information they needed, and wondered if he was the right choice for the assignment. Looking back, he probably could have said no, but at the time, Madeline scared him so much, he just automatically said yes to whatever she asked him to do. By the time it came for him to try and have sex with the daughter again, it took him three porn magazines, a glass of bourbon, and some heavy visualizing to keep him interested in her long enough to finish the night. She fell asleep and he was able to grab the key and sneak into the office. After the mission was complete, he was happy to sneak out the window in just his pajama pants and run away. Word got around Section about his half naked escape and for a short while, he was nicknamed the Naked Running Man.

Over time, he learned how to control his environment, manipulate emotions so that things happened faster, and take his mind to a fantasy that could help him perform no matter who, what, or where he happened to be. He turned his body into a sexual machine, able to turn it on and off at will. He didn't have to be particularly interested in the person, and most times he was not even remotely attracted to them. However, if the duty called for it, he could make himself act in a way that was at least believable to the person he was attempting to fool without ever being a participant himself. His body would work as it was naturally compelled to do, but his mind was sent elsewhere, set aside in a waiting room until his body was finished with whatever activity it was asked to perform. When his mind returned, he could come back to himself, reconnect, and begin any repairs necessary that may have occurred during the ordeal. This process worked for a while, even when dealing with Charlie and her sado-masochistic demands.
She had been his first real experience with sex connecting the mind and the body in a truly orgasmic union. She taught him how to levitate himself above himself and free his mind and body to sensations he never thought possible. She taught him what it felt like to explode inside while never once noticing how she was ripping out his soul from within. She taught him about sex, the primal, visceral part of it, but she ruined him for love. By the time he met Simone, he could not tell if what he felt for her was actually love, or had he somehow tricked his mind into thinking he had these feelings. She knew what he was and seemed not to care. She helped him finish separating himself from himself whenever the assignments came. Before long, he knew that he loved her. She proved herself to him when she made him focus on one particularly difficult mission with a woman who knew information, but refused to divulge it no matter her ecstasy. Simone had told him to do whatever it took to get her to fall in love with him, even suggested some positions lifted from the Kama Sutra to try. In the end, he finished the mission and, instead of going home, he went straight to Simone's door. When she opened it, he didn't have to say a word. She read his misery in his eyes and held out her arms to him for him to fall into. He wept in her embrace for much of the evening. She cared for him, stroking his hair and singing a song her mother sang to her when she was young and troubled. When he made love to her, he told her he loved her and meant it. He knew that he meant it because he was connected to himself. He had not thrown his mind away some place far. She made him explode inside, but it was not like the bomb Charlie always seemed to set off, but more like fireworks that lasted far longer. He could curl up with her and feel safe and untouchable. His body might have belonged to Section to use as it saw fit, but what was him, the being that made up the consciousness of him, belonged to Simone. From that moment on, they were entwined with one another like an infinity ring. The only thing that could ever separate them was death, but even in that, she still managed somehow to reconnect to him beyond the grave.

Romeo appeared out of the store grinning and walking with a swagger that instantly promoted his success. He got into the car and started the engine. Michael waited for him to speak, but instead, Romeo remained quiet. Michael gave a half smile. He could see Romeo's subdued pleasure in having accomplished his mission. There was no need to speak more on the matter. His satisfied grin said it all. The music playing in the car followed a more steady beat like that of a heart, sometimes slowing down to an agonizing tempo making Michael envision bodies pressed together in undulating movement.

His thoughts took him back to the night on the barge with Nikita hiding in the dark corner pointing her gun at him shakily. He had overpowered her quickly, driven by a maddening urge lying dormant for too long. He had put her in a cross arm hold and saw how furious her blue flame eyes lit at the realization. He was unsure of what he would do at that moment. He was of two minds, one desiring to kill her for making him believe she was dead all that while, and the other aching to devour her totally. He wanted to destroy her for making him feel chaotic for so long. She had crawled into his brain somehow and took hold of him in a grip far stronger than he could fight against. She was all that he ever thought, interfering with mission profiles and strategic planning. He could not see mission instructions or concentrate fully on his work. Every blonde haired woman walking into Section was her. Every lilted laugh was her voice. Every whisper in the hall, or scent of white orchid became her ghost haunting him and driving him mad. Seeing her across the flaming car felt like a dream that he was sure he would wake screaming from. Her cold eyes stared back at him, her pistol still raised after doing as she had always done for him. Protecting him. Even when he could not protect her.

When he saw her on the boat, he felt wild and uncontrolled. It was the reason why he threw her mercilessly onto the pile of covered crates. Why he pushed her down forcefully and hung over her like a tiger over its prey. Why he crushed her mouth with his kiss. He couldn't really call what they did love making. Anyone viewing them from the outside might have thought they were fighting each other. The sex was so frenzied and wild he could hardly catch his breath. He wasn't even sure how he managed to pull out some of her hair. The long, ragged scratches on his back suggested that was the reason for the hair pulling. He remembered aching all over when they were done, some of the pain attributed to their furious love making, the rest to the awkward positioning of the crates they were lying on. He did not mean for it to be rough. He had always thought that when they did finally come together, that it would be gentle and beautiful, not the way that it was. His screams and grunts were mixed with her sounds. The blood from his scratches mingled with the blood from hers. They had laughed about their war wounds, comparing them. He found himself curled up with her, not wanting to end the night, but as always, the sun began to peek over the horizon bringing with it the worry of Section discovering them. He fought his anxiety all morning until the time came for him to leave.

Nikita would not come back with him, would not tell him where she was going so that he might find her again, and refused any help from him. She was willing to give up on everything just to get away from Section, or maybe just him. He had risked life and limb to find her, to be reunited with her, but none of that mattered anymore. Section had dug its claws inside her and tore at the bit of soul she had left. She was willing to do anything, even die, to keep Section from having that part of her too.

In a lot of ways, he admired Nikita for her strength, her ability to hang on to the very thing that made her so vibrant and alive. He wished he was able to do the same, but like Simone, it was too late for him. He was too far deep to be rescued even by Nikita's light. He was a fallen angel with severed wings. He could never fly up to where she was, so he had to wait for her to come down to him. Each time she did, he held her too tightly, crushing her against him, hoping to break her wings so that she would have to stay with him. He could never hold on to her for long. She would always find a way to break free and fly back up and far from his reach leaving him with only his darkness and all the dead things he collected over the years. She had told him she was never his to lose, and she was right. She wasn't. She never belonged to him. How could he hold on to something so delicate and free, when he couldn't even hold on to himself? He had allowed Section to dismantle him like an old machine, then rebuild each part of him to their specific requirements. They pulled off all that made him human, scraped off the skin that felt things and re-wrapped him in a more durable kind of leather that did not hold the memory of any sensation other than the one they wanted him to feel. They removed his brain and replaced it with a computer, one that they could input all the necessary data he could use to complete each mission. He was the most perfect cyborg Section could have ever invented. He followed rules, never questioned them, he was even and calm during highly stressful events, he was calculating, decisive, and most of all, successful. There was just the one problem that both Madeline and Operations felt the need to correct.

His desire for Nikita.

"Hey man, thanks for everything," said Romeo.

They pulled into the driveway of the house and got out. Michael grabbed his bags of clothing and started into the house. As before, the two young boys sat in front of the television. Instead of it being two black guys, an Asian looking kid wearing a green Che military cap pulled down over his eyes, and a hispanic kid wearing a ponytail and a knit poncho sat on the couch watching television. They continued to ignore him just as the other two recruits did when he first arrived. Arlene was in the kitchen, thankfully not cooking her noxious collards, but, instead was baking a cake. The aroma of the baked good filled the house with a pleasant sugar scent. Michael's mouth began to water instantly. He walked into the kitchen and started down the hall towards the basement.

"You not gone say hi?" said Arlene. Her large arms moved about as she mixed a bowl of cake batter.

"Sorry, Arlene. Hello, how are you?"

"My bunion on my left foot is hurting, and my arthritis is acting up, but other than that, I'm doing well. Yourself?"

"I'm okay," said Michael with a frown. He really could have done well not knowing anything about Arlene's bunion or arthritis.

"I fixed ya some food. Got it on the counter. I figured you'd be plenty hungry by now."

Michael looked at the tin foil covered plate and groaned internally. Arlene handed him the plate along with a packet of utensils to eat with.

"What is it?" Michael couldn't help but ask.

"It's lunch."

Michael looked at Arlene again. She looked back at him before returning to her mixing bowl.

"I didn't fix you no soul food. After last night, I learned my lesson with you. I just made you something simple that I know you can stomach down. Can't have you getting any skinnier than you already are."

Michael uncovered the plate and discovered it was a simple mound of spaghetti heavily covered in tomato sauce. He sank down into a seat at the table and began eating voraciously. He had ignored the hunger pains all morning. Now, with food that he both recognized and was enjoying, he shoveled as much as his mouth could hold, forgetting all table etiquette. Arlene set down a tall glass of red drink, sweating from the ice, and Michael guzzled it. It tasted sweet like punch. He looked at it curiously.

"It's Kool-Aid," Arlene answered. "But I made it the way everyone likes it, so you're probably gonna be hyper for a few hours after you drink it."

Michael didn't care. He finished the drink in another gulp and asked for a refill. Arlene placed the pitcher on the table. Michael filled his glass to the rim and continued to eat until the plate was empty. He drank all the Kool-Aid in his glass and refilled it again, enjoying too much the sweet red drink. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth with the meager piece of napkin in the utensil pack. There was still a ring of red around his lips from the spaghetti and the drink. He tried to stifle a belch, but it erupted loudly out of him. He could feel his ear turn red from embarrassment. Arlene collected his plate and glass.

"In some countries, a burp like that would be the greatest compliment. We ain't in any of them countries though, but since you damn near threw up your feet last night, I'll take the compliment. I'd ask if you want a piece of cake, but I'm not sure you left much room for some."

Michael nearly forgot about the cake. He flashed his most peaceful little boy smile at Arlene. "I'd love a piece, thank you."

Arlene smirked. "You don't have to puppy eye me. I was gonna give it to you anyway," she laughed.

She pulled the pound cake from the oven and set it at the open window to cool. Michael stretched himself a little at the table, crossing his ankles and enjoying the cool breeze sifting through the screen covered window. The evening air that day was not as hot as it had been earlier. Outside, Michael could hear birds singing, behind him in the living room, the television droned, commentating on a basketball game.

He closed his eyes.

Even though he knew he was in a Section substation, he strangely did not feel like he was at Section at all. The smell of the kitchen, the cake cooling in the window, birds singing, and the sound of sports on the television made him feel he was at home. It was peaceful and warm without a sliver of worry or anxious anticipation of terror. Everything around him was slowed to a crawl as opposed to all the rushing about that was Section's normal pulse. Here, like the R'n'B music he listened to in the car, the feeling was like a heart beating, steady and slow. Comfortable. Relaxed…

Michael felt a thump at the back of his head. He jumped up, awake and realizing he was still in the kitchen. It was a little later in the day. The cake was gone out the window. The kitchen was empty save Evelyn standing over him with one hand on her hip and the other propping her up on the table. She was in jean shorts cut off high on her thighs with the ragged fringe sweeping over her skin. She wore a plaid button down, opened to reveal a red cut off tank underneath. Her flat stomach glistened a little with sweat. The plaid shirt hung down long over her shorts so that from the back, it looked like she wasn't wearing any. Michael sat up slowly. His arms ached a little from where he lay his head down on his forearms. His neck also ached. He rubbed his own shoulders trying to loosen the tightened muscles there.

"What time is it?" he asked sleepily.

"Nearly five o'clock. Operations will want you to report soon."

Michael felt a sinking feeling inside. He was supposed to have a report back from the files sent to him in his email. He had not even opened the emails, let alone bothered to log on to his computer. Any other time, he would have already had his assessments done, built several mission profiles, and performed a cancellation all before noon. Here, he was barely able to keep his eyes open for ten minutes, and now he had to tell Operations that he had not done any work since he had been there. The most he had done was review tactical maneuvers for a mission he was not even supposed to be doing. There were no orders to remove the labs, just to surveillance them and report back what they found. There were no orders to progress towards eliminating Guillermo or any members of his cartel. By all resources, he wasn't even supposed to know about the coup planned against the Columbian President. He was only supposed to be there to observe and train, not carry out unassigned missions all for the sake of his dead wife, whom he had only just learned was part of a secret guerilla faction operating under Section's nose.

"I can't call into Section yet," Said Michael, knowing the consequences and not very willing to endure them.

"He will have questions," said Evelyn.

She reached and pushed a lock of hair out his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. Michael considered this gesture and wondered why she had done it. Her touch had sent a slight shiver through him that alarmed him. She had a tender look in her eyes that was disarming. When she wasn't snarling, or hiding behind large dark shades, she was very pretty. If she were at Section, she would have been one of Madeline's favorite Valentine Operatives.

Michael looked a little troubled, trying to think through his next steps. He pinched the space at the ridge of his nose where a headache was beginning to form. Evelyn sat down in the seat across from him. All about them, the house continued to hum with activity, but no one dared to enter the kitchen.

"I could tell him that you are still hard at work with it, but we had to do some maneuvers outside. He'll probably believe it because of the recruits I have already. You'll need to use the rest of your time wisely though. I can have dinner brought to you if necessary."

"Not necessary," said Michael resolutely. "I only need a few hours."

"Good. Meanwhile, I will have more intel in a few hours about the lab. I sent out a sentinel to check when the next delivery is scheduled at the border. Maybe we could intercept that and Trojan it in under cover of night. That'll get us into the facility undetected."

"How many are you thinking of using?" Michael asked.

"Just eight. We shouldn't need any more than that."

Michael nodded. "How experienced are they?"

"Just Tarek and Romeo are green. The rest of us have been around a while."

Michael shook his head. "I don't want to use green recruits. It's too risky. This has to be done with precision with zero margin for error."

"Tarek and Romeo may be new, but they are well trained and ready. They will be fine."

Michael looked at Evelyn, gauging her words against what he already knew. An eight man unit was fine as a first team, but not as the only team. They would be going in unsupported and alone, something he would only send a team of abeyance operatives to do. The odds of the mission being successful were low by his own calculations. If they made it out at all, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

"We will be fine," Evelyn assured. "We just have to remain focused and get the job done."

Michael had heard these words before, but he usually was the one saying them.

"It's funny," Evelyn began. "You're nothing at all what I thought you'd be."

"What were you expecting?"

Evelyn shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe somebody like superman or something. She was always so serious and determined. I've never met a more tenacious fighter in all my life. I expected you to be like her. Almost superhuman. At least that's the way Simone used to describe you."

"She described me as super human?" Michael was a bit skeptical of this. He sat back in his seat.

"She never said it directly, but the way she would describe you, she said you were strong, brave, talented, smart, tough...beautiful."

"And I'm none of that?"

"No, you are," said Evelyn rather dismissively. "She also said you were elegant and dapper. Took me a while to get what she meant by that, but now I do. Just watching you around everyone else, you're definitely *dapper*. I guess I should have known that seeing as how you are European. From my experience, Euro men are a bit more reserved than American men. 'Course, even in that, you're different. You're not like anyone I've ever met. You are truly unique."

"I'm really just like any other guy. I watch tv, I read, I listen to music, I like poetry..."

"You see, the guys I know don't do any of that shit. Television, yes. They watch a whole lot of that, but reading and poetry? I'd need a tranq dart just to get them to sit down long enough to do that, or promise them they'll get some if they just read a stanza," Evelyn joked.

"Surely, not everyone you've met is like that."

"Everyone, but you. I'm not sure if you looked around at the cookout, but half the guys there were either pushing up on some chick with lame lines or tossing dice at the walls. The other half were cat daddies and pimps. I'm pretty sure not one of them has ever read a poem that didn't start off with Roses are red."

"That's a shame."

Evelyn's laugh tingled in Michael's ears sounding as lovely as the birds outside. It made him want to smile.

"Simone used to love it when I would read poems to her. Sometimes haikus. Her favorite poet was Paul Eluard. I would read to her *La Courbe de Tes Yeux*. The Curve of Your Eyes. It was very special to me. To us."

"You must have loved her very deeply."

Michael looked down at the table, seeing it while not seeing it. In the formica he could almost see her reflection standing just behind him.

"She was my heart's only desire."

The image of her faded.

Evelyn reached across the table and touched his arm, pulling his arm down so that she could capture his hand in hers. Michael felt a little less anxious as Evelyn massaged his fingers with her thumb. Her physical touch was beginning to relax him. He looked at Evelyn, noticing that she had drifted into thought, her eyes focusing on nothing in particular. The sun behind her threw its last rays into the amber parts of her hair which now was beginning to curl. She looked beautiful in this natural setting, something he had always noticed, but only now really took time to see. If she had been an assignment, he would have gladly taken it and would likely feel sad to have to end it once the assignment was complete. There were a precious few that he honestly did have some trouble letting go once the mission was done.

He hated the look on their faces once they finally came to the realization that what he had done was nothing short of using them to get to someone or something else. His heart always burned whenever he saw them for the last time, to see the eyes that once held him in so much love and adoration, now look on him with disgust and hatred for what he had done. He used to want to explain why, but after a while, he realized it was useless. There was no explaining betrayal no matter the reason.

It was only a moment later when Michael realized they were both sitting and holding each other's hands while their minds were elsewhere. He sighed and pulled his hands back from hers, breaking their physical connection. Evelyn cleared her throat and stood up from the table. She started out of the kitchen then stopped just as she was about to pass Michael. She reached down to him, embracing his neck from behind.

"If I forget to say it later, I'm glad you're here," she said in his ear. She lightly kissed his earlobe and disappeared down the hall.

Michael tensed when she touched him. He could not help feeling a shock of panic when she hugged him. When she released him, he felt robbed. He was not used to being touched in that way apart from a Valentine Mission wherein he had to allow his target to feel close to him by touching him. Not even Nikita dared to hold him in such an outwardly expressive manner. The hug sent shockwaves through his system, disrupting the neuro transmissions and synoptic connections that told him to defend himself. Instead, the gentle warmth of her arms around him, no matter how brief it had been, jumbled him a little. He was frozen in his seat, unable to move until she was gone. He looked after where she went, thoroughly mystified about the little woman who could both make him feel like a kid again, and make him feel...What was it that he was feeling? He couldn't pinpoint it exactly. Like his sleep pattern, he was not able to control his emotions as much. Being in the house seemed to take control over him and everyone in it.

The house existed in a parallel universe somehow, independent of all that he knew, stopping time itself so that there was no concept of it. It was Section, but a different kind of Section. It was one where people laughed, danced, ate heartily, and were less concerned about being killed the next day than they were about the style of shirt they wore. It was a Section where cakes could cool in the window, where a breeze and a bird could entice dreamless sleep, and a quick hug could turn a man's attention towards a different idea of what life could be.

Michael folded his arms and bit his thumbnail. If this was what Simone was trying to tell him about, trying to bring him to, he had done her an even greater sin. She may have tried to get him to come with her to a life that would promise a semblance of normality, one that Section may not have approved of, but at least did support. They might have been considered defectors, but they could exist more openly while not being under Section's ever watchful eye. He was not sure how Simone would have worked out the details of their transfer to such a unit, but he was sure, had he aided her when she requested it, he might have had a completely different life than the one that he was currently enduring.

Another thought came like a cold wind to blow out his flicker of hope. By the time Simone had proposed her plan, he was already heavily invested in yet another mission for Section, one that had no definite end and was growing complicated by the days. Because of his new mission, he found it hard to commit to Simone's demands to go along with her plans. He now had something else to consider before completely leaving Section. Simone, blessedly, never knew how far deep Section had buried him. When she tried to pull him with her, he did not budge. When she asked him to help her, he told her it wasn't necessary. Had he known what sort of beautiful life she was trying to give him, he might have considered things a bit more instead of simply telling her no.

Michael got up solemnly from his chair. The light outside was waning, splashing pastel pinks and purples across the sky. A single slice of pound cake sat on the stove covered over in clear cellophane wrap. Michael grabbed it and headed down to the basement to begin work.

Down in the bunker, life continued with its normal cadence. Three operatives were working out in the training area, while Sanchez and Santino sat at a computer reviewing maps and looking like they were preparing to go somewhere. Inside the Quarters, he could hear Romeo telling jokes and relaying his last conversation with the young woman he had gotten the phone number from. Morales crossed in front of him, shooting him a menacing side eye before going to meet up with Sanchez and Santino. Priest was in the lounge, quietly eating a sandwich. Zeke stood with Arlene at the armory checking an assortment of weapons. Michael went into his room and closed the door. He could still hear some of the noise from outside, but it was enough muffled for him to concentrate on the tasks at hand. He logged on to his computer and pulled up the first file sent to him by Birkoff. He opened the plastic off the cake and began eating it with his fingers.

By the time he finished the last profile review and sent in his assessment report, it was well past ten o'clock. He knew he had flown through much of the work, and likely gave some rudimentary suggestions for each profile, but he surmised the mission would go through several more revisions before being finally approved. He could rebuild the mission profile again in the morning when he was more rested and could think clearly. He raised his hands and stretched long. Normally, at Section, he would change into some gym clothes and do a quick work out before going home. Tonight, however, he felt too tired to do much of anything other than reading a good book and falling asleep halfway through it. He had already changed into a pair of sweatpants and an A t-shirt. There really was no need to be dressed up, after all. His mouth felt dry from the cake. He got up and headed towards the lounge to find something to drink.

He passed by Evelyn's room and saw that her door was open slightly. Between the space of the door and the frame, he saw her, lying upside down across her bed, her bottom half braced against the wall, her feet bopping to a beat playing in the headphones she wore. Her eyes were closed as she enjoyed the music, something with a somewhat irregular beat as her head seemed to waggle to a unique tempo. He could tell by looking at her movements that she was not listening to the same music that was playing in the quarters, or what had been playing in Romeo's car. He found himself wondering what it was that she was listening to that had her so carefree and far away. Her movements were like Nikita's, falling somewhere between trance, psychedelic, blues, and house. His thoughts wandered towards Nikita and what she could be doing at that moment.

Was she still at Section, pulling an all nighter reviewing mission profiles? Was she working out in the gym, exhausting herself as she ran through her own thoughts? Was she in her apartment, dancing about as she sometimes did when she thought no one was looking? Was she talking with her friend Carla from next door, coaxing her down after yet another break-up? It seemed that woman could never keep a man for very long, and she always went to Nikita's door for assurance as if Nikita was any better at it. He understood, though. For all of Nikita's own personal trauma, she was a good shoulder to lean on. For all of her supposed fragileness, he had found her sturdy and reliable whenever he needed her. She was a good friend. A friend he now missed terribly.

Priest barely looked at Michael when he came into the lounge. It was only then that Michael realized Priest was actually listening to radio communication from the border units. Michael went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottled water. He locked eyes with Priest and the two exchanged an acknowledgement look before Michael left the lounge to head back to his room. He passed by Evelyn's room and found the door wide open now. She was sitting on the bed, stretched out with her head back between her shoulders. She had on socks and lace up combat boots, her favorite footwear he was beginning to see.

"Michael."

Michael stopped in the door frame.

"Can I ask you something?"

Michael turned and leaned inside the door, crossing his ankles informally. He drank a swig of his water. Evelyn took the hint.

"What do you guys do on your down time? I mean, I know what we do here, but I'm sure there, it's different. Am I right?"

"I'm not exactly sure what everybody does," said Michael honestly. "I don't concern myself with knowing."

"You guys don't ever hang out together?"

"No...not really. I don't guess. Maybe they do."

"I take it you don't go out with them?"

Michael shook his head. "No."

"So what do you do?"

Michael drew in a breath, then straightened himself. He crossed his arms.

"Why do you want to know?"

"It's just a question."

"Am I under orders to answer?"

"No. But I want to know anyway."

Michael considered his answer. He stepped further into the room and leaned against the wall. His fingers toyed with the cap on the bottle.

"Like I said upstairs, I don't do very much. I'm pretty simple. In my off time, I watch tv, I read...drink wine. Listen to music."

"What kind of music?"

"Classical mostly. Sometimes folk."

"Anything else?"

"If you're wondering if I listen to the same stuff Romeo listens to, then the answer would be a flat no."

"No. I already knew you wouldn't be the type to listen to rap like that. You don't strike me as the type that would be jamming out to Busta Rhymes or N.W.A. If you did, I'd be very surprised," Evelyn joked. "But I am curious. Simone once told me you had a flare for music. Liked to play the piano and cello. What type of music did you play?"

"Classical mostly."

"Do you ever play jazz?"

A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth, remembering the few times he attempted to play a jazz melody. He was goofing around with a few other gentlemen musicians on an off night. It had been a fun occasion with wine pouring freely and Simone lying lazily on the couch, enjoying the cigar filled ambience.

"I've played some once or twice before. I was never very good at it though," Michael admitted.

"Michael the jazz player," said Evelyn, musing.

"What about you? Do you play?"

Evelyn got up from the bed and walked over towards Michael. There was mischief playing in her eyes.

"Not with musical instruments," she said, her eyes full of suggestive undertones.

"What do you play with, then?" Michael could play coy as well.

"Oh I can play with *lots" of things. Just depends whether or not I'm interested."

"What would make you interested?"

"I don't know yet. But when I find out, I'll let you know. What about you?"

"Curious."

Evelyn smiled slowly, her eyes meeting his, then retreating down, as to avoid capture. She drew closer towards him, her body nearly touching his, but keeping just enough distance from him so that the hair on his arm rose in earnest to feel her.

"Hopefully, that curiosity doesn't hurt anything."

"I never hurt anything that didn't want to be," said Michael, his voice barely over a whisper.

"It's a good thing you've got nine lives then," said Evelyn. She gave him a meaningful grin before leaving the room.

Michael stood a moment, relishing the small flirtation between them. She had managed to make him sizzle a little inside. She would have certainly been a very alluring Valentine had she been called to such a duty at Section. She had awakened him and threw a fantasy into his thoughts, one that he quickly beat back into the folds of his darker thoughts. It was odd how topsy turvy things had become in his brain. One moment, he was thinking about Simone and how powerful and majestic she was, the next he was thinking about what Nikita was doing and whether or not she gave him one glance, and now he found himself wondering about Evelyn.

Yes she was pretty, but at first glance, he would not have ever looked her way, or begin to think of her in the way that he was. She was all the things he admired in a woman, exuding strength and fortitude while still managing to remain feminine. She looked tough as nails, but seeing her lying on her bed, feet up in the air and head back listening to music, he could not help but see a woman he was steadily growing more curious about. Her warmth and care was genuine, as was her passion for life. She would not have lasted very long at Section One, not under Madeline or Operations. They would have done everything in their power to crush her lively spirit. Maybe she would have been like Walter, aging far slower than his physical appearance suggested. Maybe she would have found ways to still keep a smile on her face even when Section continued their assault on her soul. Maybe she would be like Birkoff, becoming so emerged in her work, that she forgot what a joke really was and end up telling off color ones and finding joy in making others feel stupid. Or, maybe she would be like Nikita, still shining like a blazing dwarf star, even when all of Section, including himself, seemed to want to snuff her light out.

Or maybe she would be like Simone. Always serious, never cracking a smile at Section, until she came home where she opened up like a lotus flower. Her smile and her laugh tingled like wind chimes. He could never deny her anything when she smiled.

Michael raised himself from the wall and took another drink of his water. The bunker looked empty as much of the operatives were gone out on various patrol missions and intel gathering. The music that had been blaring from the quarters was now quiet. Michael went over to the Communications desk and looked at the screens that the other operatives were looking at. Even though the equipment was old, he could still decipher what it was that they had been studying before. It was a surveillance file of an individual, a mule that they were evidently tracking. There were more files detailing the man's profile, his habits, his family members, places he frequented regularly, and various other details that summarized him up. Michael wondered what sort of approach they would take to get to the guy.

"What are you doing?"

Michael looked up to see Evelyn, eating an apple and staring at him. She held up another apple to offer. Michael opened his hands to catch. Evelyn tossed it to him.

"Thanks."

"No problem," Evelyn said between chews. "What you doing?"

"I see you have already targeted a mule for Guillermo. I was wondering how you plan to take him in?"

Evelyn bit into her apple and chomped. A line of juice rolled down her chin. Michael refused the urge to wipe it (lick it) off her chin.

"Pretty simple grab 'n' nab. He frequents this club called The Den. A small team will roll out, pick him up, bring him back for a bit of one on one. Clean and simple."

"This picture doesn't look very good. Is it the most recent that you have of him?"

"No. That right there is probably about ten years old."

"He'll probably look a little different then. How will you know it's him?"

"Oh we'll know it's him. We got a way to draw him out. You'll see."

Michael looked at Evelyn with a questioning glance.

"Why do you think I sent you out to buy some new clothes? It's not only to blend in, but also to not get spotted right off when you go out with us. You're tagging along."

Michael nodded. "Just let me know what you want me to do."

"I will." Evelyn started to walk away, but then stopped. She turned. "I think I should warn you though, this club, it's not like any you've ever been in, I'm sure. It gets a little wild."

"I'm sure I can handle it."

Evelyn shook her head. "Naw, baby. This is a club full of Latinas and Negritas. You gone see a whole lotta ass, so just stay focused, okay."

Michael laughed. "Okay."