A/N: Short venture into the mind of Nadia.
She keeps the photograph in her wallet, a constant reminder of why she's called it quits.
People die.
Everyone that she's killed was a son or daughter, someone's lover, a brother or a sister. There's not right in that, no matter how patriotic the government claims it to be. Death is the greatest evil of all-you have taken away somebody's someone.
Her fingernail traces the contours of his smile. It may be cliché, or just foolish, but his smile could literally light up a room. That was his edge; that smile could get him behind the tightly locked doors of highly ranked female officers, and, on more than one occasion, into her bed. She never could resist when he'd smile slowly up at her, eyes twinkling and needy.
A year now, since the funeral when she sat through the entire service dry eyed until they lowered the gleaming casket into the cold, cold ground. She wept as his mother let out a shrill wail as his sisters helped her to car, and as their director placed a hand on her shoulder, an infrequent show of emotion.
She went home alone, filled the bathtub with steaming water and tried to wash the sadness from her skin. Half a bottle of wine later she thought she could bear it, until she woke up with a throbbing headache and a bitter taste in her mouth.
Work was never the same. The thrill was gone.
She knows what she's missing, knows that her family is within reach.
But she can't watch more people die.
El fin