They drove in silence. Nikita threw furtive glances at Michael trying to guess what he was thinking. His usual stone-cold face had cracked during this mission but she was the only one who had seen it. Now he was almost his usual self again with only a slight quiver to his mouth and dark shadows around the eyes. How much of his past was he going to reveal to her today? Not much, probably. But it was still better than nothing.

Michael parked the car and helped Nikita to her feet. Warm shivers crept down her spine as he squeezed her fingers. She was still not used to his good manners which seemed to roll off him almost on autopilot. The men she had grown around had always been different.

A small coffee shop engulfed them in an aroma of roasted beans and cinnamon. Rough wooden walls, a massive granite counter and bare brickwork behind it struck Nikita as uninviting at first but as Michael led her to an alcove overlooking the garden she could not help but smile.

'What will you have?' he asked quietly sliding a chair before her.

'A cappuccino would be fine'.

He nodded and left for the counter leaving her staring out the window as if transfixed. An old maple tree was slowly shedding its red-yellow mane to an autumn breeze.

Nikita wasn't surprised when Michael returned with a large cup of black coffee for himself and an equally large white-foamed cappuccino for her. What she didn't expect was a steaming slice of apple pie.

'Just in case you get hungry', he whispered and put the plate before her.

She smiled and took a small sip of her coffee. Several minutes passed in silence. The table was so small their knees almost touched.

'So', Nikita ventured. 'Why this place?'

'Simone liked it here', his voice stumbled over the name.

Nikita nodded and watched his fingers trace the rim of the cup.

'What was she like?'

'She…' Michael swallowed hard and turned his gaze out the window. 'She taught me to survive'.

7 years ago

Jurgen stepped into Madeline's office and clasped his hands below the abdomen. The chief strategist looked him over as if assessing for weaknesses and then pulled her lips into a smile.

'I hear Michael's doing well', she said.

The operative nodded and cleared his throat.

'Top numbers in everything', his voice croaked. 'He is a machine'.

Madeline waited for more but Jurgen did not elaborate.

'Do you still think he's hiding something?' she asked finally.

'Yes'.

'Have you succeeded in finding out what it is?' her brows angled.

'Not yet'.

Madeline's lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze bored into Jurgen.

'I'm thinking of trying his talents elsewhere', she said.

'Where?'

'Valentine Ops'.

Jurgen could not help but guffaw at the idea.

'He can barely string two words together. How do you expect him to seduce women?'

'There's more to seducing women than just words', Madeline smiled condescendingly. 'You must have noticed the looks half the females here are giving Michael'.

Jurgen shrugged. He never paid much attention to these things. In terms of heart-breaking, he was as straightforward as can be: find the woman you like, ask her out and live happily ever after. If she doesn't like you back, move along and find another one. Simple as that.

'Well, there's nothing I can do to stop you from trying', he concluded.

'No, there isn't', Madeline smiled. 'You can go now'.

Jurgen turned on his heel and exited the office. He hated playing these games but, much like everyone else in Section, he did not have a choice.

Michael left his unit — a square four by four room with a single bed and nothing but — and went to the training area. It was 6 a.m. and he didn't have his first lesson up until 9 but he did not believe in wasting time. Time was not his ally, not here in Section. He was already six months too late.

So early in the morning the place looked deserted. Apart from Birkoff hastily typing on his computer and a few other operatives checking something in the archives, the main floor was empty. Rubber mats in the training area smelled lightly of disinfectant. Michael put on boxing gloves and started to warm up with the punching bag. In a few minutes he got into a trance: his arms threw jabs after crosses, his torso swung left and right to decline but his mind wandered far, far away.

Marion. The name pulsed in his head like lightning. His little sister.

The first thing he realized when they brought him into Section was that they'd made a mistake. They didn't dig deep. They believed the ruse he and Rene had created. They thought Marion was dead. But she was very much alive on the day of his last student strike. And she was only thirteen years old. Whatever happened to him now, he had to make sure she was safe. And he had to keep it secret.

Michael made a series of quick cross punches to the bag imagining his own face as the target and then stopped. Sweat poured down his neck and his breath escaped in hot ragged gasps.

'Sorry', a soft female voice sounded over his left shoulder. 'Hi'.

Michael looked up from his stance and lowered his hands. A girl of about his age with long dark hair and thick eyelashes was looking at him and smiling. She was dressed in the standard recruit uniform: black sweatpants and a grey shirt. She was also extending her hand to greet him.

He did not shake it but simply looked at the girl.

'Silly me', she giggled. 'You're wearing gloves! Anyway… I was just meaning to ask if you could show me how to throw these cross punches. You see, my trainer, he…'

She rolled her eyes.

'Well, let's just say that we do not get along. When he tells me to turn left, my body turns right for some reason, and I just don't understand what to do! You look like you know your way around a punching bag. So could you maybe show me a thing or two here?'

Her voice twittered fast and high. Michael stopped listening in the middle of the first sentence and had a strong desire to simply walk away. This whole thing smelled fishy. Recruits did not talk to one another, everybody kept to themselves, and this girl behaved like a cheerleader trying to hit on a quarterback.

'So whaddya think?' she asked again batting her eyelashes.

Michael's good manners finally got the better of him. He took off his gloves and extended them to the girl.

'I'm Amelia', she beamed at him. 'What's your name?'

'Michael'.

Putting on a new name was easy. It seemed only fitting to leave his old self, the angry and naive Michel, behind.

'Take position', he told her in a quiet, but commanding manner.

She obeyed and he immediately saw what was wrong.

'Your feet should be wider apart', he said. 'And bend your knees a little'.

She did just that and threw a tentative punch. The bag barely moved.

'Do not rotate your wrist', Michael kept instructing. 'Hit with your arm, not your fist'.

They continued like this for an hour. Michael almost lost himself in the process feeling more sympathy for Amelia as she stopped talking and started making progress. She was quite an apt student too and did not ogle him too much compared to other females in Section.

'Thanks,' she said unstrapping the gloves and wiping sweat off her high brow. 'You're my savior. Ferreira will drop dead from shock when he sees me do all these things!'

'Don't mention it'.

Michael turned and went to the showers.

Jurgen pressed a few buttons on his panel and began the sequence for the third time. In front of him Michael was running on a treadmill inside a sphere with a laser gun in his hands. Virtual images popped around the recruit as he shot left and right. The exercise was simple enough: find the villain and kill him. But Jurgen tweaked it a little bit adding various photos from Michael's past as a 25th frame, almost indiscernible to human eye.

This young Frenchman turned out to be his hardest case yet. From day one he was a closed book. He didn't cry for his mama, didn't rage over the unfairness of his situation, didn't complain and didn't fear anything. He simply followed orders, learned everything faster than any other recruit and kept quiet. The only emotion Jurgen had detected in him for the last six months was relentlessness towards himself, sometimes even hatred. It was necessary to get to the bottom of it before approving Michael for field work.

Jurgen looked at the results on his screen which showed heartbeat rates for every image in the sequence. There were slight spikes at the pictures of Michael's parents and sister who were all dead now. But nothing more.

He sighed and turned off the simulation. Michael jumped to the floor and took several long gulps from his water bottle.

'Do you want to become an operative?' Jurgen circled around the recruit and bored him with his eyes.

The younger man kept silent and watched his mentor carefully. Finally he said:

'It doesn't matter what I want'.

Jurgen laughed in spite of himself.

'It is true', he continued. 'But whether it matters or not, human hearts are always left wanting. So tell me, Michael, what do you want? Why strive so hard to be better than everyone else? Why torture yourself?'

It did not elude Jurgen how Michael's lips twitched at the last phrase. He pressed on:

'What do you want?'

Michael stared into space without blinking. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, his fists clenched and unclenched subconsciously.

'I want to survive', he answered simply.

It was true. He knew he could only deceive Jurgen by giving him the truth. Another truth. Not the one that mattered. He did not know who he was any more. The bombing they had arranged with Rene blasted his life in two. He thought it was bad enough when he lost his parents a year before. But watching people scream in agony and die because of something he did was somehow worse.

Jurgen studied the clear grey eyes of his recruit. He could tell that Michael was not lying now. But he could also sense something else lingering behind this truth.

He pressed his lips together and sent Michael to his next lesson.

It was past curfew and the recruits weren't allowed out of their units. Michael lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. His muscled ached after another day of hard work but he could not fall asleep. His mind shuffled the memories like a deck of cards and threw at him the stupidest little things: the blue cotton dress Marion wore the last time he saw her, the fight they had over a red lipstick she bought with her lunch money, how she refused to kiss him goodbye before he went out the door and how he planned to cook bouillabaisse for dinner. Was it really him living that life or someone else who just looked like him? How was it possible to turn from that life to being a killer in a matter of seconds?

Someone rapped at the door three times, hurriedly but with force. Michael sat up in bed and furrowed his brow. Recruits weren't allowed to visit each other, especially after hours. And anything his superiors had to say to him could be said openly.

He went to the door and pulled it just a crack. Amelia's face appeared on the other side, streaked with tears.

'Thank God,' she whispered. 'Michael, please let me in!'

Before he could really decide on it, she squeezed herself through the crack and started walking around and wringing her hands. Her eyes were wide and her lips trembled visibly.

'What's going on?' Michael asked shutting the door.

'I'm sorry! I didn't mean to…' she covered her face with her hands and shook her head. 'I didn't know where else to go!..'

Fresh sobs rushed out of her mouth and she didn't seem to be able to stop them.

Michael went to bathroom and drew a glass of water. Then he led Amelia to the bed and sat beside her.

'Tell me what happened'.

The girl took a couple of gulps and tried to wipe her tears with the back of her hand. It was of no use, fresh streams were pouring out of her by the minute.

'He…' she wheezed. 'He came to my unit…'

'Who?'

Amelia shook her head violently.

'I can't… Michael, he'll kill me!..'

'Who will kill you?' he persisted.

'Ferreira!..' she wailed. 'After I showed him what I learned today, he got really nasty with me. He touched me… everywhere. And called me a slut. I thought it was all a joke! But he came to my room and then he…'

Amelia hid her face in her hands and started to cry again. Michael touched her shoulder just to calm her down a little.

'Where is he now?' he asked after a while.

'I don't know', Amelia hiccuped. 'I hit his head against the wall and he fell. I don't know how I managed… The shock of it, I guess…'

Michael put his arm around her without realizing it.

'You need to report this'.

'No!' the girl bit her lips. 'He'll kill me, Michael! They're not going to do anything to him. He is a level five operative and I'm just a sniveling recruit'.

'You are not devoid of basic human rights'.

'Look at this place, Michael!' Amelia gave a bitter laugh. 'We are prisoners here and prisoners have no rights'.

Michael pressed her to himself looking at the bare walls of his unit. She was right, of course. Yet all of it was wrong.

'Can I stay here tonight?' she asked wiping the tears off her face.

Michael nodded absentmindedly and looked at the floor. The girl beamed and threw herself around his neck.

'Thank you', she whispered in his ear. 'You're my savior. Again…'

He felt her wet lips brush against his earlobe. Her breath was hot and ragged, her soft breasts pressed lightly to his chest.

His body reacted of its own accord. He almost wished it didn't.

Amelia started kissing his neck creating a burning trail with her tongue. When she moved for his lips he finally found it in him to pull back.

'Michael, it's okay…' she whispered and looked at him with her big reindeer-in-the-headlights eyes. 'It's okay… Please…'

He didn't know what she was pleading for - to be taken from his grasp or to be taken further. His mind clouded with fog as his hands fumbled with their clothing. The urges he'd been denying for so long raged in his blood like wildfire. It happened fast and sweet sending him back to his teenage years when sex was new and every day was an endless summer.

After they were done, he fell asleep at once. When he woke up, she was gone.

The next morning, just as Michael was finishing cleaning up, his intercom buzzed.

'Yes', he answered.

'Madeline wants to see you in her office. Now.'

Jurgen's voice sounded edgy. He ended the call before hearing the answer.

Michael's heart jumped to his throat and jammed his breathing. What if his superiors found out about his little tryst? What if they decide to stall his progress as an operative because of that?

He balled his fist and hit it against the wall, once. It was enough to draw blood on the knuckles and fill him with renewed hatred towards himself. Then he gathered his face and went out the door.

Madeline motioned him to a seat and offered some tea. He declined watching her out the corner of his eyes. It was impossible to tell whether she was angry with him or pleased but she seemed to be waiting for something.

Finally, her door buzzed once more and Michael heard the sound of high heels slowly approaching from behind. He turned and his jaw dropped to the floor. With her hair arranged in a careful bun on top of her head, with her lips brushed devil-red and her slight figure encased in a stylish pant-suit, Amelia was almost unrecognizable.

Madeline gave her a wide smile and motioned to another chair. All three of them sat in a circle now. Michael felt like drowning and looked from one woman to another.

'Congratulations', said Madeline.

Michael furrowed his brow.

'What do you mean?'

'You have been approved for Valentine Ops,' explained the chief strategist. 'You do know what this is, don't you?'

Michael gulped and looked at Amelia.

'Last night was great, sweetheart', she said giving him a mischievous wink. 'I'm sorry to say it was only… a test drive'.

Something cold gripped Michael's bowels.

'We were quite pleased with the results', continued Madeline looking him up and down. 'But there's also a lot to learn. Your training will be adjusted starting from today. If everything goes well, we might use you in the next month or so.'

Michael nodded almost on auto-pilot. He looked once more at Amelia who was sipping her tea and smiling casually.

'One more thing', added Madeline. 'You no longer report to Jurgen. I will supervise your progress personally.'

He stared at his feet which he could not now feel. When the chief strategist dismissed him he was sure he would not be able to stand up but his body seemed to be working of its own accord. His body no longer belonged to him.