fic, nikita, cuts both ways 2/3
Title: Cuts Both Ways 2/3
Fandom: Nikita
Characters: Michael, Nikita, Alex, Amanda, Percy, Birkhoff, Owen.
Rating: PG-13 for this part. May increase in future chapters.
Summary: "He leaves Division in the dead of night. He says no goodbyes, he lets no one know that anything might be amiss." -- Michael discovers the truth about his family's death first and goes rogue well before Nikita meets Daniel.
Revenge is a kiss and this time I won’t miss
He spends months tracking her down and finally finds her on the streets. She’s strung out on heroin and barely conscious when he roughly grabs her, knocks her out and shoves her into the back of his car. She is dangerously underweight, he feels it when he picks her up and carries her into his safe house, but by the time she’s come down from the high and woken up, you’d be hard pressed to believe that she’s only barely this side of 90 pounds, what with the way she’s pounding on the doors of his sauna.
“Let me out, you sicko!” She cries, hammering her fists on the doors so hard he’s genuinely concerned she’ll break a bone in her hand.
“Calm down.” He says sharply. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“You’re BOILING ME ALIVE!” She yells, and he can hear her hyperventilating through the glass and the door. He presses a hand to the door, willing her to be calm, and to bring her breathing back to normal.
“I’m not.” He shakes his head so that she can see. “This is a detox. We need to get the drugs out of your system.”
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” She screams at him, and spittle flecks hit the window.
“My name is Michael. And you need to stay calm or you’ll hurt yourself. This will be over soon, I promise.” And he walks away, back to his work station. The girl is young, and she’s been through a lot, only some of which he’s been able to discover.
Little Alexandra Udinov has fallen so low, but she’s still alive, and that is more than she should be. She should have died in a mansion in Russia three years ago. She had died in a mansion in Russia three years ago, and yet here she is, in his sauna, out of her mind on drugs, but alive.
At the time he’d suspected something wasn’t right, Nikita had been cagey after the mission, and at the time he’d written it off as post-mission nerves, and there were certain discrepancies at the scene afterwards that he’d brushed off as coincidence, but now here he has his answer. Nikita had saved this girl, who’d somehow survived the next few years, and had made it to America.
He can’t help but see it as a small sign of hope, that someone else had their doubts about Division. Nikita had always been an exemplary agent, following orders to the letter. Or at least that’s how it seemed to him, from his position as her handler. Sure, sometimes her methods were a little unpredictable, but it was always to her (and the mission’s) favour. So for her to have done this? It’s important.
So he is happy enough persisting with the rehabilitation of this poor, lost girl. He checks back up on her a few hours later and finds her sleeping (more likely passed out) in the corner. She smells atrocious, sickly sweet and covered in sticky sweat, but he lifts her out of the box with ease and cradles her small, frail body to himself. He lays her gently down on the bed he set up for her in the corner and covers her with a sheet. He checks the bowl is still next to the bed, and a fresh glass of water is ready on the beside table for when she wakes.
… … …
Amanda calls it tunnel vision. Birkhoff calls it her obsession. Percy doesn’t call it anything, as long as she remains an exemplary agent, he’s happy for her to access any resource Division has to get Michael.
And she does. The manhunt is bigger and more focused this time, and its leader more zealous than ever to achieve her goal. She leaves no stone unturned in her quest for revenge, but no matter how many phones she taps, or satellites she retasks, she’s ultimately no more successful the second time around. The best she can surmise is that he’s back in deep cover again, probably out in the wilderness, detached from all society and technology, and arms deep in another plot to enact his revenge.
Why did you do it? she wails to him when he appears in her dreams. She’s a recruit again, curled up in her simple cot, with no embellishments or presents decorating her cell. And it is that-- a cell. He stands in front of the door, dark and handsome, arms crossed loosely across his chest, and he does nothing but watch her closely, an unreadable expression on his face.
I loved him! She cries again, and buries her head in her pillow. This is the only place she allows herself to break down, because despite everything, despite all that’s happened, Michael was always the one she confided in. He was always the one who understood her. He was the one who listened without judgement. He was the one who was her friend, who she cared for and was cared for by in return.
Each time the dream comes, she tries a different tact. Sometimes she cries, sometimes she rages. In other dreams, she calmly asks him all she wants to know. He never reacts, and continues to watch her like she’s a unique, interesting animal on display in a zoo. Once, she just stares back at him, neither of them speaking a word until her alarm jerks her into wakefulness.
“Percy wants you to collect the new recruit.” Birkhoff tells her one morning when she walks into the communications centre, steaming cup of coffee in hand.
“That’s not my job.” She says, shrugging him off.
Birkhoff gives her a look that she can only classify as his ‘Are you really giving me this shit right now?’ look, (he has some quite specific looks) and he hands her a dossier and begins to explain.
“Our op for Triton Pharmaceuticals went south last night. Just as our strike team was readying to take down the target, two meth-heads robbed the place and shot him in the process. We managed to capture one of them before they escaped, she’s in custody now. Alexandra Mason, she says her name is, but that name hasn’t popped in any records. Amanda suspects she’s an illegal, probably a sex-slave brought over from Russia or the Balkans. Either way, she’s got potential, and we’re looking for another girl to fill our quota. We had two cancellations last month.”
“This isn’t my job.” She repeats, pointedly not opening the folder.
“Look, Nikki--” Birkhoff starts, but Nikita interrupts angrily.
“Where is Percy?” She says.
“I’m right here.” The man says, breezing into the room with the same impeccable timing that had always intimidated her. It made him feel omnipresent and omniscient to her, and she was no longer naive enough to believe he wasn’t.
“Sir,” She nods curtly, aware of her insolence. It’s one thing to speak that way to Birkhoff-- He expects it, but also knows that her anger is usually not directed at him, just a byproduct of her frustrations. Percy, however, doesn’t know her temper as well to know when she is serious and when she is just letting off steam.
“Nikita, I’ve given you a task, and while I appreciate your priorities, we are understaffed and I feel that you have a unique background that will help you empathise a little better with this particular recruit.” Percy says plainly.
“Yes, sir.” She says, feeling scolded and embarrassed. This is the man doing everything he can to help her get her revenge, and here she is acting like a spoilt child. She owes him so much, she is in his debt, and she’s not sure she can ever repay him. One day she will confront Michael for all the pain he’s caused her, and Percy will be the one who gets her there.
She opens Birkhoff’s dossier on ‘Alexandra Mason’ and begins to read.
… … …
He doesn’t anticipate Alex’s motivations. How could he? Until about four months ago he had thought she was dead, and the little broken girl he’d nursed back to health had been his priority, not the strong, independent woman that had grown in her place.
“I want to help you take them down.” She says bluntly.
“No.” He says straight away. “Impossible.”
“I can help you, Michael. You said yourself these people were the ones who killed my family. They killed yours too. We both have that. Please, just let me do something. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I want you to get out of here and go make a life for yourself.” Michael gestures vaguely to the door. “That’s why I helped you, not to drag you into all this.”
“But that’s just it.” She says. “I’m already in this, and if I was on the inside, I could help you.”
Michael stares at her, astounded at what she’s just said, unsure if she is offering what he thinks she’s offering. “You want to become a recruit?” He asks, skeptically.
“Yes.”
“No, it’s too dangerous.”
“I’d rather be in danger and doing something good, than living a safe life knowing that those evil people are out there destroying families and I had the chance to stop them.”
Michael finds it hard to argue with that, even though he wants to. So he reluctantly begins to teach her what she needs to know. He teaches her self defence, and how to hide that she can protect herself. He teaches her how to read body language, and how to use it to her advantage. He teaches her to pick locks (though she turns out to already be pretty good at that) and he makes her learn the code for a simple computer program that she can install on the server as soon as she’s on the inside. Something tiny and unobtrusive enough that they’ll be able to talk without Birkhoff or any of the other numerous techie nerds noticing. That’s the most important part of this whole endeavour-- it hinges on her ability to recall that code in her sleep, so after she’s memorised it, he tests her night and day to make sure that he’s truly driven the point home.
“I get it!” She cries, one day in frustration. “I know the code. I know it off by heart. I can recite it backwards. In Russian!”
Michael stares at her a moment or two, then sets aside his blueprints. “Alex. This is important.”
“I know that, Michael. I know.” Alex says, and sighs deeply. “I’m sorry... I’m just tired.”
He considers her a moment, noting the bags under her eyes, and the digital clock behind her that is flashing 2:14am. He can’t remember the last time they took a break. “Maybe we should call it a night. You need to rest.”
“No. No I’m fine. Let’s just focus on something else for a while. Tell me about the people again. Start with Amanda.”
… … …
Alexandra Mason is just as tiny, strung out, and achingly young as she was when she was first recruited. Sure, the circumstances are a little different-- Heroin versus Ketamine. Sex slave versus homeless child, but the results are the same. Here is a girl who has no one. Here is a girl the world has abandoned, left for dead, or to the vultures. And yet here she is. Alive.
They let her stay in prison for the first few weeks, partly to let her sweat out the drugs on her own-- whether she’s physically strong enough to handle going cold turkey is an extremely strong indicator of future physical stamina, tenacity of spirit, and a range of other things. She’s under surveillance the entire time, and Nikita reviews the footage with a critical eye before having her extracted from the prison and deposited in one of Division’s holding cells.
The girl is completely unconscious for several hours, and while they’re monitoring the room from central command, Nikita chooses to wait inside the cell until she wakes. She knows this is not at all standard practice amongst handlers, many others feeling that it can weaken the teacher-student relationship straight off the bat, but Nikita feels differently. When she woke up in this place, her handler was sitting with back straight and alert in this very seat. And while he was a stranger to her, at first, he had known just what to say to calm her down, with just the right amount of confidence, competence and compassion to ease her into complacency so that he could give her the hard sell.
God, she was soft back then, thinking Michael was her friend. Thinking that he could be...
No. Today is not about that.
Alexandra shifts a little in sleep, and Nikita is watchful for other signs of wakefulness. The shallowness of her breathing, the gentle fluttering of her eyelids and the ruffle of hair as she groans and buries her head in the pillow to hide from the violently bright light from above.
“Good morning, Alex.” Nikita says, doing her best to keep her voice calm and level, but it hardly matters. Alex jerks into wakefulness immediately. She sits up, paranoid eyes darting about the room for the exit, the one directly behind Nikita. Her movements are heavy, though, clearly the drugs they’d used to sedate her in transit have not completely worn off.
“It is Alex, right? Never Alexandra?” Nikita says, and stands from the hard metal chair, heels clicking lightly on the concrete floor.
“Who’re you?” Alex slurs, and then a few seconds later, she asks another question: “Where am I?
“You’re not in prison.” Nikita explains, and takes a step closer to the bed. “Nor are you in Michigan, but that’s not really important to you anymore.”
Alex seems confused, and Nikita remembers the feeling as though it were yesterday. She collects Alex’s dossier from the table at the side of the room, collecting her prison profile, death certificate and because Amanda believes in emotional power of visual aids, a photograph of the place Alexandra Mason’s ashes have been stored.
“You died on November 1st. Your death was ruled a suicide by the coroner, and being a ward of the state you were given a pauper’s funeral.” She places the dossier at the foot of the bed in front of Alex, and taps at the photograph of the cemetery memorial wall. “Your ashes are stored here.”
She pauses for a moment to let that news settle in and assess how well Alex is taking these new revelations. Nikita notes the dilated pupils and the laboured breathing-- the girl is well on her way to a panic attack, so Nikita tones it back.
“My name is Nikita, and I work for the government.” She says in her calmest tone, clasping her hands together in front of her belly, in a gesture reminiscent of a pregnant woman. If she can get this girl to see her as a motherly figure, or even as a big sister, she will be on the fast-track to trust and that is the most important characteristic of a successful handler-recruit relationship. “Alex, we’ve decided to give you a second chance.”
“Why? Why me?” The panic is still there, but is solidifying into anger. Nikita expected that.
“Because you’re a beautiful young girl, with no ties and no paper trail,” She says breezily, stepping away from the bed. “But what really caught our attention is how you killed a man we were about to take out.”
Alex bolts from the bed, adrenaline fuelling her flight response with great energy. But Nikita expected that too, and as the girl runs past she snaps her hand out and snatches Alex’s wrist, forcing her forward with a kick to the back of the knee. She holds the wrist tightly in such a way that if Alex struggles she’ll only hurt herself, “If you stand, I’ll break your wrist.” She says simply.
“I didn’t kill no one.”
“His name was Kyle, he was the head of a drug smuggling ring.”
“It was Ronnie that done it.”
“Ronnie was found dead of an overdose behind your apartment.” Nikita says, and pushes a little harder. Alex cries out in pain, but Nikita is certain she now has Alex’s full attention. “No one came to his funeral either.”
Nikita lets go of the girl’s wrist, and Alex quickly scrambles away from her, clearly upset and holds one hand cautiously with the other. Nikita suspects she’ll be sporting a bruise on her wrist for the next few days.
“Your life is over, Alex. I’m here to offer you a new one.” She says, and watches as a silent tear rolls down the girl’s cheek. “But you have to be willing to earn it.”
The silence lays heavy between them for a long moment, then Nikita hears the words they need from Alex: “What do I gotta do?”
And they have their newest recruit.
… … …
They agreed that the best thing for Michael to be doing while Alex was being recruited was for him to cause as much trouble as possible to keep eyes on him and away from her. Classic misdirection.
He visits his family’s graves for the first time since he defected, buried in a small family plot outside Boston, which kicks up enough dust into the wind that Birkhoff himself visits the site, making it all the easier for Michael to kidnap the techie and place the decoy bug. They exchange a few heated words (from Birkhoff’s disdain towards him, Michael can tell that Percy has crafted some slippery lie that gives him sinister motivations for leaving Division) before Birkhoff is knocked unconscious again and deposited back on the streets for Division’s retrieval.
To be honest, he hadn’t expected Birkhoff to be the responding agent in charge. He’d thought it would be Roan or Nikita, someone with tracking experience, but clearly times have changed. Maybe Birkhoff is a field agent now too, it has been more than four years. The bug on Birkhoff gives him enough warning to finagle himself an invitation to the Gala Percy will be attending the following night. It’s a perfect opportunity to stick his head above water and cause a scene.
He also gets confirmation that Alex has made it through the first stage of recruitment with Nikita as her handler. Michael is hopeful that she’ll have installed the shell program by tomorrow, and they’ll be able to talk directly once again. For all his planning and for all Alex’s confidence in their plan, he still worries about her and wants to make sure she is as safe as possible. So to hear she is adjusting to the mess hall diet (as atrocious as the macaroni can be) is a comfort.
The gala is a carbon copy of any of the other numerous galas he’d attended as Percy’s personal body man. The uniform is black tie and cocktail dresses, and as is the case with these things, the the champagne flows freely while the delicious gourmet food remains largely untouched. At a casual glance he spots at least five senators, three on important defence subcommittees, and several big name representatives for military contractors. Over there, the Ambassador to France is holding a conversation with someone Michael is convinced is an escort hired by the Representative from Delaware.
He breezes past them all, making a bee-line towards the bar where he knows Percy will be with whoever he brought along to protect him tonight. The man always needed a scotch in his hand for these kinds of things, and always drank them too quickly to move very far away from the bartender serving them.
And sure enough, he spots the head of Division standing only a few steps away from the bar, and when he steps to the side a little to greet a Cabinet minister, he sees the body man he brought with him.
Nikita.
She doesn’t spot him straight away, and he takes the opportunity to study her, to see if she’s changed at all in the years since he saw her last. Her hair is longer, and lighter, as though she’s been spending a lot of time outside and the sun has gently faded it to a warmer hue; the tan she’s sporting supports that theory as well. The dress that hugs her curves is no doubt one of Amanda’s flattering choices, all metal and geometric patterns, the gold and silver sparkles drawing attention to her best assets, but he can see the subtle outline of a knife hidden at her thigh and he knows that she has a gun tucked away in her purse.
All of that he expected, but what he didn’t anticipate is the sadness he sees on her face. She’s covering it well, beneath expertly applied makeup and the dazzling smile of an escort, but she had always had a spirit that could only be seen in the sparkle of her eyes, and the tiniest quirk of a dimple-- It’s just not there anymore.
She notices him before Percy does, but she wastes no time in putting herself between him and the target, just like he’d taught her so many years ago. The way she clutches at her purse confirms the hidden weapon there, and Michael slips his hands casually into his pockets.
“Good evening.” He says, “Have you tried the hors d'oeuvres? They’re delicious.”
“Michael.” Percy says, from his place behind Nikita.
“Percy.” Michael nods politely, eyeing a passing senator. He quickly darts a hand out to grab the man’s elbow, pulling him into the conversation, effectively obtaining his own human shield. “Senator Kelly. We were just discussing the new defence budget. You’re on the subcommittee, am I right?”
“Er, yes.” The senator stammers, clearly confused, yet perceptive enough to know that he’s been dragged into quite an awkward conversation. Percy and Nikita exchange a silent look, she passes him her clutch and he gives her a glass of champagne in exchange.
“Fantastic!” Michael says, clapping the man on the back. “I’d like you to meet my friends. This is Percy and his date... I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Nikita.” She says, but Michael can’t read her voice, she has forced it into being neutral. Something has happened here, something is wrong. But what, he doesn’t know.
Nikita extends her hand to the Senator and Percy bumps into her from behind, upsetting the glass spilling champagne all down the senator’s front.
“Oh I’m so clumsy!” Nikita cries, and Percy says: “Quick, you should get some seltzer on that.”
“Here, I’ll help.” She says, and with a glance towards Michael that is as cold as ice, she guides the Senator away from the confrontation, leaving Percy with her weapon.
“Do you really think threatening Senator Kelly is going to scare me?” Percy asks.
“Please.” Michael scoffs. “Don’t mock me, Percy.”
“Then why are you here? You know you can’t kill me.” As if to emphasise his point, he knocks back the last of his scotch and slams it down on the bar beside him with a loud clunk. “You know I have insurance.”
“If I can get to you here, I can get to you anywhere. I can get to your funding and I can get to that insurance. I’ll rip it apart until eventually you’ll be the last thing left, and then I’ll kill you.” Michael promises. “You made a mistake, making an enemy of me.”
“You have it all planned out, don’t you. A mission plan to knock Division and I over one step at a time, like bowling pins.”
“And you think you can predict my every move.” Michael points out. “How’s that worked out for you?”
“You won’t make it out of here alive.” Percy promises, and Michael sees that Nikita has left the Senator to clean his own shirt and is stalking her way back over to the two of them. There is a fire in her eyes again, but it is not one that Michael is comfortable with. She seems determined, focused; it’s the look she has before she takes down a target, and she’s zeroing in on him.
“We’ll see.” Michael mutters, and draws a small cigarette lighter from his pocket. He flicks the lid and lights it, and the car bomb he set up outside the hotel explodes with a rocketing BOOM, shaking the building, and all the occupants of the bar, destabilising Percy and Nikita in her overly tall heels, giving Michael enough of an opportunity to bolt for his exit.
Michael vaults a toppled table and slips through the service entrance, sprinting as fast as he can down corridors and through the kitchen. He hears the tell-tale clack of a woman running in heels behind him, and he knows that Nikita is in hot pursuit, but doesn’t stop to check, pushing a kitchen hand out of his way and into a tray of plates which crash to the floor causing enough of a distraction for him to push out the back door and into the alleyway. He gets about five steps before the door slams open again and he hears her cry: “STOP, OR I’LL SHOOT.”
He stops running.
“Hands where I can see them.” She demands, and he hears the click of the safety on her gun being switched off. “Take your gun and toss it to the left. Safety on.”
He keeps his left arm raised, but slips his right hand into his jacket, pulling his own gun from the holster and throws it against the wall to the side as instructed.
“Turn around.”
He does so slowly, being careful not to make any sudden movements. “Nikita.” He says quietly, and though they are ten yards away from each other, and there are sirens and all sorts of loud noises coming from the other end of the alleyway, he knows that she can hear him perfectly.
“No.” She says bluntly, pointedly aiming her gun at his heart. “You don’t get to do that.”
His confusion rises. Something has happened to her, that’s clear enough, and that look in her eye (he recognises it now) means she blames him for something. But what?
“Do what, Nikki?” He asks, as calmly as he can.
“You don’t get to placate me.” She spits. “You don’t get to calm me down.”
She is almost vibrating in her anger, and he can see the effort she is taking to hold her gun steady. He wants nothing more than to make it right, whatever it is, but honestly has no idea.
“All right,” He says, and lowers his hands a little. “What do you want me to do?” He asks.
She hesitates a moment, and the gun drifts to the side, and that’s all he needs. He slips his hand to the holster at the small of his back and pulls out his backup and fires. He hits her in the shoulder, and her whole body whips back, overbalancing and toppling to the ground.
He is by her side immediately, stripping her of her weapon, but he gently lifts her up from the bitumen to check the shot hasn’t done too much damage. Dark blood is dripping down her chest, staining her designer dress. “It’s a clean wound.” He says, as she gasps in pain. “Through and through. You’ll be fine.”
“Screw you.” She says weakly, overwhelmed by the pain.
He frowns, still so confused. “Nikita. Whatever they said I did. I promise I didn’t.” He says honestly, because he cannot think of a single thing he could’ve done to hurt her this badly.
She glares, and he hears a commotion coming from the kitchen. He doesn’t have any more time to explain and hash it out with her. All he can hope for is another opportunity for clarity, and now that Alex is on the inside, maybe it’ll be sooner rather than later.
He stands up, careful to lower her gently back to the ground, and then he runs.
… … …
Her arm is still stiff, but the pain is mostly gone and she’s finally rid of the annoying sling. The physical therapist puts her through a few exercises, gripping balls, lifting weights, and though he insists that she not exert herself too much, that this is just for diagnosis, she can’t help but lift through the pain and push herself. It has always been her way.
Sweat trickles down her brow, and she grunts a little and almost drops the weight on her foot, but Liam is there and taking it from her immediately, “Nikita.” He chastises, and she eases herself back down onto the mat. “You’ll do more damage with that attitude towards your recovery.”
“I know.” She says, resigned, and tentatively flexes her hand.
“If you push yourself too hard you won’t do yourself any favours.”
“I know.” She glares up at him, and puts a hand to her shoulder, which feels like it’s glowing red hot. “I’m done for today.”
“All right.” Liam says, and holds out a hand to help her up from the mat which she refuses, pushing herself back to her feet using her good hand.
Liam hands her her towel. “Remember to do your exercises.”
“Yes.”
She wipes her face with the towel and leaves as quickly as she can, deciding that what her shoulder could really do with is a few Tylenol, an ice-pack and an early night. Instead of heading directly back to the locker room she detours via the medical bay, knowing that it’s the quickest place to get the painkillers she needs without having to wait, and at this time of day there won’t be any doctors or nurses hanging around to ask questions.
Nikita is searching through pill bottles in the medicine cabinet within minutes, casting aside the aspirin and the Valium to find the little ibuprofen bottle at the back. She twists the cap with her better hand, but a sharp pain shoots through her shoulder when she tries, and she can’t help the grimace that crosses her face.
“Want some help with that?” A slurred voice asks from behind, startling her.
She turns around. “...Birkhoff.” She says.
The side of his face is still puffy from his earlier dental surgery, and the bags under his eyes rival the ones under her own, but he has the smallest of smiles on his face. He steps forward and takes the little pill bottle from her and twists the cap off with ease. He taps four pills out into his palm and hands two over to her.
“Here,” He says, then returns the cap to the bottle and replaces it in the cabinet. “The Novocain is wearing off, and I don’t deal well with pain.”
“I’d noticed.” She says wryly, and turns around to fill two glasses from the filtered water dispenser just to the side of the medicine cabinet, and hands the spare to the nerd.
“Cheers.” He says, and knocks the edge of his glass to hers.
The pills goes down easily, but she closes her eyes as she swallows, disliking the feel of it as they slide down her throat.
“You all right, Nikki?” Birkhoff asks, and she knows he’s genuinely concerned. His voice is quiet, and he hasn’t used her nickname in a while. Mostly because she’s been avoiding him. Him and pretty much every one else of importance in Division. It’s just been her, and physical therapists and recruits for weeks.
“I’m fine.” She says, and it sounds stiff, even to her.
Birkhoff doesn’t let it slide. “Don’t do that.” He says bluntly. “You can lie to Amanda about how you’re coping all you like, and you can tell Percy you’re fine. Whatever. But don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not, Birkhoff.” She says, and sighs. “I’m just tired. And sore... I’m just going to go home.”
“No, you’re gonna stay here and we’re going to have this conversation.”
He shoots a glance behind him to the open medical bay door, and moves more quickly than usual to shut it and give them some privacy. If it comes to it, she knows that she can get past him if she needs to, whether by force or not, even with her injury. But the confrontation wouldn’t be worth it in the long run.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” He asks. The small smile is gone.
She places her glass on the counter behind her and uses the time to gather her thoughts, assess the situation and figure out what to do next.
She decides to go with the truth. Or at least what she knows of it. “I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.” She says, and it’s so quiet that she’s a little uncertain Birkhoff will be able to hear her.
He seems to hear her fine though. “What do you mean, you can’t trust me?”
His gaze burns just as warm as the healing wound in her shoulder, and it is just as uncomfortable to endure. She looks away.
“It’s just something Michael said.” She confesses finally. “Or rather what he didn’t say. In the alleyway. Just after he shot me.”
“And you’re trusting him over me?” Birkoff asks, and she can tell he’s offended. “After what he did to you?”
She ignores the accusation and continues on. “He didn’t seem to know what he’d done. He knew I was... angry with him. And he knew that I blamed him for something. But he genuinely didn’t know what was wrong.”
“So he’s lying to you. You saw the footage.”
“But what does that actually show?” Nikita asks, and the emotional stability she’s been aiming for throughout this conversation falters. “Nothing, not really. It’s just a video, we doctor videos all the time. You doctor videos all the time.”
“You think...?” Birkhoff asks. “Me? No. Nikki, I’d never do that to you.”
“But you do it to so many people every day. And then we found that bug on you!” Nikita cries and runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “Can you see why I might not believe you? Can you see why that might bring up some trust issues, Birkhoff? This is messing with my head.”
Silence stretches between them, but now Birkhoff is glaring at her, but it’s not his worst glare, it’s more his ‘you’re an idiot’ glare. “Well. I didn’t.” He says with certainty. “I promise. And there are ways of verifying his claim, ways without involving Amanda and Percy. But guess what, Nikki? Those ways involve trusting me.”
“What ways?”
He scoffs. “Please. There’s always something. No matter how tiny, if it’s been faked we’ll be able to find it. If we can’t find anything, you’ll have just confirmed everything we already knew.”
“And you’d help me with that?”
“Nikki.” He says, and his lips touch into a smile again. “You just need to ask.”
… … …
Alex was right. Her being on the inside makes sabotaging Division’s ops that much easier. He worries, a little, now that Birkhoff’s implant has been discovered, that she’s more exposed, but clearly he didn’t give her enough credit. She takes initiative, and seems to know the best ways to get the most useful information out to him without arousing suspicion. Using the information she provides, they prevent assassinations, foil crimes, and generally throw a rather large spanner into Division’s works. Michael knows he has Percy’s attention now.
So when Alex sends him a brief message that Percy is bugging out to Montreal, alone, he knows he has to follow. Percy never went anywhere alone when Michael was his right hand man. At least not that he knew of. There were always protection details and bodyguards. Half the time Michael was on them, or leading them, so Michael packs his things and heads north straight away to Canada.
Alex wasn’t able to give him a reason for Percy’s quick escape, so Michael has to figure that much out for himself. He figures he can use a few contacts, do a little digging to find out the man’s mission, but is genuinely surprised when a simple Google News search gives him the most likely answer.
It’s a news report covering the attempted robbery of a bank in central Montreal earlier in the morning that went awry when one of the hostages fought back, killing all three of the robbers before escaping on foot. It’s remarkable enough on its own, but the security footage showing a close-up shot of the hostage, who police have been unable to identify is what convinces him.
It’s Owen, the man he fought in Daniel Monroe’s apartment. His hair is a little longer, and he looks a little chubbier in the face; it’s the same look most Division agents get when embedded in long-term undercover ops, and it’s just the break Michael needs.
He isn’t sure how far behind Percy he is when he’s rifling through Owen’s mail trying to get an idea of what kind of op the man is running, but he meets the nice, albeit cagey neighbour and gets a lead on tracking him down. Michael isn’t completely sure what Owen is here to do, he can’t find any of the usual signs of reconnaissance, or espionage. It just seems like he’s here working part time at some landscaping business, and is clearly in a new relationship with the neighbour.
He does get Owen’s cell phone number from a phone bill and uses one of his contacts to get a trace on the cell’s GPS, which takes him to an old abandoned middle school about twenty minutes away.
The classroom he finds Owen in is clearly an old biology lab, and the agent sustained some wounds in the crossfire this morning. Michael sees sterile strips, bandages, rubbing alcohol and a needle and twine. Owen’s preoccupation at administering his makeshift field-dressing gives Michael the opportunity he needs to get the one-up this time.
“Owen Elliot. Long time no see.” He says, gun pointed at the man.
“Michael.” Owen says, and turns around slowly, in such a way that Michael knows the man’s wounds are probably more serious than needing just field dressings.
Owen’s eyes flicker down for a split second, down at the counter, Michael follows his gaze and that’s when he sees it. He’s seen one before, in Percy’s office on his desk. It’s one of his Black Boxes. The insurance. And then everything falls into place.
“So you’re his body man for this Black Box, then?” Michael says, connecting the dots as he speaks. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of those.”
Owen looks at the box again, and then leans over and picks it up. “Yeah? See for yourself.” He says, then throws it in Michael’s face, and he catches it an inch before it hits him square on the nose, but Owen’s distraction works. The blond man tackles him to the floor, knocking the gun and black box out of his hands. Michael kicks out and rolls away from under him. He manages to pull himself up into a crouch as Owen rights himself, but the man is on him again, throwing punches so hard and so fast Michael can barely keep up. The man is strong, and he’s fast, much stronger and faster than the last time they met, and Michael realises that he has badly misjudged this situation. He’d thought the extra puff to Owen’s face had been baby-fat, gained from a life of sedentary repetitiveness that extended cover brings, but now he sees the bulk to Owen’s muscles, and the way that his skin is straining across muscle and bone, and he knows for sure he’s on steroids.
He blocks another hard blow to the face but takes a quick jab to the ribs which knocks the air from his lungs. He brings his hands up instinctively to block his face, but no blow comes, instead, the other man seems to have stalled, and shoves a hand roughly inside Michael’s now slightly torn jacket and pulls out the letters he’d taken earlier.
“You went by my house.” He says, accusingly.
Michael coughs, and steps away. “Yeah, I met your neighbour. Lovely girl. Nice little butterfly things.” And he points to the butterfly drawings on the wall.
It’s the wrong thing to say. Owen charges him again, this time bouncing himself off one of the counters to kick Michael in the face. He reels from the blow and manages to block a few hits before he finds himself over-powered and over-played, twisted into a strangling head lock.
“What did you do to her?” Owen demands, shouting into his ear. Michael struggles against the hold, pushing at the stronger man’s arms, but they don’t budge. He can’t suck any air in, and he feels his wind-pipe being crushed.
“She wasn’t involved!” Owen yells again.
Michael finally manages to croak out “Nothing. She’s fine.” But his voice is weak and raspy, and he feels dangerously light-headed.
Owen’s grip slackens just the slightest bit giving Michael enough room to jab his elbow hard into the other man’s groin. Owen doubles over in pain, and Michael runs, leaving his gun and the black box behind.
He spends the next few hours nursing his wounds and decides another confrontation isn’t a possibility, Owen is too strong, too fast, and too much for him to take. Either he's slipping, in his time away from Division, or Owen is taking something, and Michael knows he can't afford another close-contact encounter with that man.
He continues to track the man's phone, and watches from afar when the man finally makes a move from the school, presumably to take the black box to Percy. But the man heads back to the apartment instead. As far as Michael knows it's still surrounded by cops, and if Alex hadn't insisted that Percy was here alone Michael would assume there are Division agents sitting on it as well.
When he gets back home though, something feels wrong. The police are gone from outside, and even though it's dusk there are no lights on in the building. It's like no one is home. He watches Owen slip in the side of the building through the fire escape into the nice neighbour's apartment.
And that's when he sees the strike team surround the building. He instinctively sinks down deep into the car seat, just in case anyone looks his way. From what he can tell it's a standard 6 man team, two on guard, two on point, two taking up the rear. No one is guarding the window Owen entered though, and Michael assumes there is a sniper positioned somewhere near by with a clear shot.
He knows he just has to make a go of it if he wants to get those two out of the way. He slips out of the car and sprints across the road, taking the same route Owen does and launches himself off the same dumpster to reach the fire escape. He catches the rung of the ladder and climbs up onto the platform, pulls his gun from the holster and slips through the open window.
Owen's gun is on him straight away, pushing Emily the neighbour protectively behind him. But Michael ignores that and instead shoots the first division operative that bursts through the door, landing a shot straight between the eyes.
He shoots at the other, but they duck back behind the doorway and out of sight. Owen spins around, keeping the girl protectively behind him at all times, and trains his gun in the same direction as Michael, managing to pick off another of the operatives, who slumps lifelessly to the ground, partially blocking the doorway.
There is a sharp whizzing noise, and Emily falls awkwardly to the side. Michael notices before Owen does, but the blonde man doesn’t miss it for long when she falls into him. He turns around and sees her there, with the sniper shot right between the eyes, and Michael knows from the look on the man’s face he’ll need to get him out of here as quickly as possible. He knows that look, that apoplectic rage.
He grabs Owen by the shoulder and forces him to look at him. “Owen.” Michael says forcefully. “We need to go. Now.”
“No!” The man cries, brandishing his gun at the door, and he fires a few more shots. “I’ll kill them all.”
“Percy will kill us both if we don’t go now.” Michael insists, pulling the man back towards the fire escape. “Now.”
Owen shrugs off Michael’s hand and takes a step forward, and the torrent of gunfire returns. Michael ducks instinctively behind a desk, but Owen isn’t quick enough and gets winged in the thigh. Michael fires a few more shots at the door for cover and leaps forward and grabs the other man again. The bullet seems to have knocked sense into him-- he’s pliable this time and lets himself be pulled back down the fire escape.
They leave Emily where she is, dead on the floor.
Fandom: Nikita
Characters: Michael, Nikita, Alex, Amanda, Percy, Birkhoff, Owen.
Rating: PG-13 for this part. May increase in future chapters.
Summary: "He leaves Division in the dead of night. He says no goodbyes, he lets no one know that anything might be amiss." -- Michael discovers the truth about his family's death first and goes rogue well before Nikita meets Daniel.
Revenge is a kiss and this time I won’t miss
He spends months tracking her down and finally finds her on the streets. She’s strung out on heroin and barely conscious when he roughly grabs her, knocks her out and shoves her into the back of his car. She is dangerously underweight, he feels it when he picks her up and carries her into his safe house, but by the time she’s come down from the high and woken up, you’d be hard pressed to believe that she’s only barely this side of 90 pounds, what with the way she’s pounding on the doors of his sauna.
“Let me out, you sicko!” She cries, hammering her fists on the doors so hard he’s genuinely concerned she’ll break a bone in her hand.
“Calm down.” He says sharply. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“You’re BOILING ME ALIVE!” She yells, and he can hear her hyperventilating through the glass and the door. He presses a hand to the door, willing her to be calm, and to bring her breathing back to normal.
“I’m not.” He shakes his head so that she can see. “This is a detox. We need to get the drugs out of your system.”
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” She screams at him, and spittle flecks hit the window.
“My name is Michael. And you need to stay calm or you’ll hurt yourself. This will be over soon, I promise.” And he walks away, back to his work station. The girl is young, and she’s been through a lot, only some of which he’s been able to discover.
Little Alexandra Udinov has fallen so low, but she’s still alive, and that is more than she should be. She should have died in a mansion in Russia three years ago. She had died in a mansion in Russia three years ago, and yet here she is, in his sauna, out of her mind on drugs, but alive.
At the time he’d suspected something wasn’t right, Nikita had been cagey after the mission, and at the time he’d written it off as post-mission nerves, and there were certain discrepancies at the scene afterwards that he’d brushed off as coincidence, but now here he has his answer. Nikita had saved this girl, who’d somehow survived the next few years, and had made it to America.
He can’t help but see it as a small sign of hope, that someone else had their doubts about Division. Nikita had always been an exemplary agent, following orders to the letter. Or at least that’s how it seemed to him, from his position as her handler. Sure, sometimes her methods were a little unpredictable, but it was always to her (and the mission’s) favour. So for her to have done this? It’s important.
So he is happy enough persisting with the rehabilitation of this poor, lost girl. He checks back up on her a few hours later and finds her sleeping (more likely passed out) in the corner. She smells atrocious, sickly sweet and covered in sticky sweat, but he lifts her out of the box with ease and cradles her small, frail body to himself. He lays her gently down on the bed he set up for her in the corner and covers her with a sheet. He checks the bowl is still next to the bed, and a fresh glass of water is ready on the beside table for when she wakes.
… … …
Amanda calls it tunnel vision. Birkhoff calls it her obsession. Percy doesn’t call it anything, as long as she remains an exemplary agent, he’s happy for her to access any resource Division has to get Michael.
And she does. The manhunt is bigger and more focused this time, and its leader more zealous than ever to achieve her goal. She leaves no stone unturned in her quest for revenge, but no matter how many phones she taps, or satellites she retasks, she’s ultimately no more successful the second time around. The best she can surmise is that he’s back in deep cover again, probably out in the wilderness, detached from all society and technology, and arms deep in another plot to enact his revenge.
Why did you do it? she wails to him when he appears in her dreams. She’s a recruit again, curled up in her simple cot, with no embellishments or presents decorating her cell. And it is that-- a cell. He stands in front of the door, dark and handsome, arms crossed loosely across his chest, and he does nothing but watch her closely, an unreadable expression on his face.
I loved him! She cries again, and buries her head in her pillow. This is the only place she allows herself to break down, because despite everything, despite all that’s happened, Michael was always the one she confided in. He was always the one who understood her. He was the one who listened without judgement. He was the one who was her friend, who she cared for and was cared for by in return.
Each time the dream comes, she tries a different tact. Sometimes she cries, sometimes she rages. In other dreams, she calmly asks him all she wants to know. He never reacts, and continues to watch her like she’s a unique, interesting animal on display in a zoo. Once, she just stares back at him, neither of them speaking a word until her alarm jerks her into wakefulness.
“Percy wants you to collect the new recruit.” Birkhoff tells her one morning when she walks into the communications centre, steaming cup of coffee in hand.
“That’s not my job.” She says, shrugging him off.
Birkhoff gives her a look that she can only classify as his ‘Are you really giving me this shit right now?’ look, (he has some quite specific looks) and he hands her a dossier and begins to explain.
“Our op for Triton Pharmaceuticals went south last night. Just as our strike team was readying to take down the target, two meth-heads robbed the place and shot him in the process. We managed to capture one of them before they escaped, she’s in custody now. Alexandra Mason, she says her name is, but that name hasn’t popped in any records. Amanda suspects she’s an illegal, probably a sex-slave brought over from Russia or the Balkans. Either way, she’s got potential, and we’re looking for another girl to fill our quota. We had two cancellations last month.”
“This isn’t my job.” She repeats, pointedly not opening the folder.
“Look, Nikki--” Birkhoff starts, but Nikita interrupts angrily.
“Where is Percy?” She says.
“I’m right here.” The man says, breezing into the room with the same impeccable timing that had always intimidated her. It made him feel omnipresent and omniscient to her, and she was no longer naive enough to believe he wasn’t.
“Sir,” She nods curtly, aware of her insolence. It’s one thing to speak that way to Birkhoff-- He expects it, but also knows that her anger is usually not directed at him, just a byproduct of her frustrations. Percy, however, doesn’t know her temper as well to know when she is serious and when she is just letting off steam.
“Nikita, I’ve given you a task, and while I appreciate your priorities, we are understaffed and I feel that you have a unique background that will help you empathise a little better with this particular recruit.” Percy says plainly.
“Yes, sir.” She says, feeling scolded and embarrassed. This is the man doing everything he can to help her get her revenge, and here she is acting like a spoilt child. She owes him so much, she is in his debt, and she’s not sure she can ever repay him. One day she will confront Michael for all the pain he’s caused her, and Percy will be the one who gets her there.
She opens Birkhoff’s dossier on ‘Alexandra Mason’ and begins to read.
… … …
He doesn’t anticipate Alex’s motivations. How could he? Until about four months ago he had thought she was dead, and the little broken girl he’d nursed back to health had been his priority, not the strong, independent woman that had grown in her place.
“I want to help you take them down.” She says bluntly.
“No.” He says straight away. “Impossible.”
“I can help you, Michael. You said yourself these people were the ones who killed my family. They killed yours too. We both have that. Please, just let me do something. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I want you to get out of here and go make a life for yourself.” Michael gestures vaguely to the door. “That’s why I helped you, not to drag you into all this.”
“But that’s just it.” She says. “I’m already in this, and if I was on the inside, I could help you.”
Michael stares at her, astounded at what she’s just said, unsure if she is offering what he thinks she’s offering. “You want to become a recruit?” He asks, skeptically.
“Yes.”
“No, it’s too dangerous.”
“I’d rather be in danger and doing something good, than living a safe life knowing that those evil people are out there destroying families and I had the chance to stop them.”
Michael finds it hard to argue with that, even though he wants to. So he reluctantly begins to teach her what she needs to know. He teaches her self defence, and how to hide that she can protect herself. He teaches her how to read body language, and how to use it to her advantage. He teaches her to pick locks (though she turns out to already be pretty good at that) and he makes her learn the code for a simple computer program that she can install on the server as soon as she’s on the inside. Something tiny and unobtrusive enough that they’ll be able to talk without Birkhoff or any of the other numerous techie nerds noticing. That’s the most important part of this whole endeavour-- it hinges on her ability to recall that code in her sleep, so after she’s memorised it, he tests her night and day to make sure that he’s truly driven the point home.
“I get it!” She cries, one day in frustration. “I know the code. I know it off by heart. I can recite it backwards. In Russian!”
Michael stares at her a moment or two, then sets aside his blueprints. “Alex. This is important.”
“I know that, Michael. I know.” Alex says, and sighs deeply. “I’m sorry... I’m just tired.”
He considers her a moment, noting the bags under her eyes, and the digital clock behind her that is flashing 2:14am. He can’t remember the last time they took a break. “Maybe we should call it a night. You need to rest.”
“No. No I’m fine. Let’s just focus on something else for a while. Tell me about the people again. Start with Amanda.”
… … …
Alexandra Mason is just as tiny, strung out, and achingly young as she was when she was first recruited. Sure, the circumstances are a little different-- Heroin versus Ketamine. Sex slave versus homeless child, but the results are the same. Here is a girl who has no one. Here is a girl the world has abandoned, left for dead, or to the vultures. And yet here she is. Alive.
They let her stay in prison for the first few weeks, partly to let her sweat out the drugs on her own-- whether she’s physically strong enough to handle going cold turkey is an extremely strong indicator of future physical stamina, tenacity of spirit, and a range of other things. She’s under surveillance the entire time, and Nikita reviews the footage with a critical eye before having her extracted from the prison and deposited in one of Division’s holding cells.
The girl is completely unconscious for several hours, and while they’re monitoring the room from central command, Nikita chooses to wait inside the cell until she wakes. She knows this is not at all standard practice amongst handlers, many others feeling that it can weaken the teacher-student relationship straight off the bat, but Nikita feels differently. When she woke up in this place, her handler was sitting with back straight and alert in this very seat. And while he was a stranger to her, at first, he had known just what to say to calm her down, with just the right amount of confidence, competence and compassion to ease her into complacency so that he could give her the hard sell.
God, she was soft back then, thinking Michael was her friend. Thinking that he could be...
No. Today is not about that.
Alexandra shifts a little in sleep, and Nikita is watchful for other signs of wakefulness. The shallowness of her breathing, the gentle fluttering of her eyelids and the ruffle of hair as she groans and buries her head in the pillow to hide from the violently bright light from above.
“Good morning, Alex.” Nikita says, doing her best to keep her voice calm and level, but it hardly matters. Alex jerks into wakefulness immediately. She sits up, paranoid eyes darting about the room for the exit, the one directly behind Nikita. Her movements are heavy, though, clearly the drugs they’d used to sedate her in transit have not completely worn off.
“It is Alex, right? Never Alexandra?” Nikita says, and stands from the hard metal chair, heels clicking lightly on the concrete floor.
“Who’re you?” Alex slurs, and then a few seconds later, she asks another question: “Where am I?
“You’re not in prison.” Nikita explains, and takes a step closer to the bed. “Nor are you in Michigan, but that’s not really important to you anymore.”
Alex seems confused, and Nikita remembers the feeling as though it were yesterday. She collects Alex’s dossier from the table at the side of the room, collecting her prison profile, death certificate and because Amanda believes in emotional power of visual aids, a photograph of the place Alexandra Mason’s ashes have been stored.
“You died on November 1st. Your death was ruled a suicide by the coroner, and being a ward of the state you were given a pauper’s funeral.” She places the dossier at the foot of the bed in front of Alex, and taps at the photograph of the cemetery memorial wall. “Your ashes are stored here.”
She pauses for a moment to let that news settle in and assess how well Alex is taking these new revelations. Nikita notes the dilated pupils and the laboured breathing-- the girl is well on her way to a panic attack, so Nikita tones it back.
“My name is Nikita, and I work for the government.” She says in her calmest tone, clasping her hands together in front of her belly, in a gesture reminiscent of a pregnant woman. If she can get this girl to see her as a motherly figure, or even as a big sister, she will be on the fast-track to trust and that is the most important characteristic of a successful handler-recruit relationship. “Alex, we’ve decided to give you a second chance.”
“Why? Why me?” The panic is still there, but is solidifying into anger. Nikita expected that.
“Because you’re a beautiful young girl, with no ties and no paper trail,” She says breezily, stepping away from the bed. “But what really caught our attention is how you killed a man we were about to take out.”
Alex bolts from the bed, adrenaline fuelling her flight response with great energy. But Nikita expected that too, and as the girl runs past she snaps her hand out and snatches Alex’s wrist, forcing her forward with a kick to the back of the knee. She holds the wrist tightly in such a way that if Alex struggles she’ll only hurt herself, “If you stand, I’ll break your wrist.” She says simply.
“I didn’t kill no one.”
“His name was Kyle, he was the head of a drug smuggling ring.”
“It was Ronnie that done it.”
“Ronnie was found dead of an overdose behind your apartment.” Nikita says, and pushes a little harder. Alex cries out in pain, but Nikita is certain she now has Alex’s full attention. “No one came to his funeral either.”
Nikita lets go of the girl’s wrist, and Alex quickly scrambles away from her, clearly upset and holds one hand cautiously with the other. Nikita suspects she’ll be sporting a bruise on her wrist for the next few days.
“Your life is over, Alex. I’m here to offer you a new one.” She says, and watches as a silent tear rolls down the girl’s cheek. “But you have to be willing to earn it.”
The silence lays heavy between them for a long moment, then Nikita hears the words they need from Alex: “What do I gotta do?”
And they have their newest recruit.
… … …
They agreed that the best thing for Michael to be doing while Alex was being recruited was for him to cause as much trouble as possible to keep eyes on him and away from her. Classic misdirection.
He visits his family’s graves for the first time since he defected, buried in a small family plot outside Boston, which kicks up enough dust into the wind that Birkhoff himself visits the site, making it all the easier for Michael to kidnap the techie and place the decoy bug. They exchange a few heated words (from Birkhoff’s disdain towards him, Michael can tell that Percy has crafted some slippery lie that gives him sinister motivations for leaving Division) before Birkhoff is knocked unconscious again and deposited back on the streets for Division’s retrieval.
To be honest, he hadn’t expected Birkhoff to be the responding agent in charge. He’d thought it would be Roan or Nikita, someone with tracking experience, but clearly times have changed. Maybe Birkhoff is a field agent now too, it has been more than four years. The bug on Birkhoff gives him enough warning to finagle himself an invitation to the Gala Percy will be attending the following night. It’s a perfect opportunity to stick his head above water and cause a scene.
He also gets confirmation that Alex has made it through the first stage of recruitment with Nikita as her handler. Michael is hopeful that she’ll have installed the shell program by tomorrow, and they’ll be able to talk directly once again. For all his planning and for all Alex’s confidence in their plan, he still worries about her and wants to make sure she is as safe as possible. So to hear she is adjusting to the mess hall diet (as atrocious as the macaroni can be) is a comfort.
The gala is a carbon copy of any of the other numerous galas he’d attended as Percy’s personal body man. The uniform is black tie and cocktail dresses, and as is the case with these things, the the champagne flows freely while the delicious gourmet food remains largely untouched. At a casual glance he spots at least five senators, three on important defence subcommittees, and several big name representatives for military contractors. Over there, the Ambassador to France is holding a conversation with someone Michael is convinced is an escort hired by the Representative from Delaware.
He breezes past them all, making a bee-line towards the bar where he knows Percy will be with whoever he brought along to protect him tonight. The man always needed a scotch in his hand for these kinds of things, and always drank them too quickly to move very far away from the bartender serving them.
And sure enough, he spots the head of Division standing only a few steps away from the bar, and when he steps to the side a little to greet a Cabinet minister, he sees the body man he brought with him.
Nikita.
She doesn’t spot him straight away, and he takes the opportunity to study her, to see if she’s changed at all in the years since he saw her last. Her hair is longer, and lighter, as though she’s been spending a lot of time outside and the sun has gently faded it to a warmer hue; the tan she’s sporting supports that theory as well. The dress that hugs her curves is no doubt one of Amanda’s flattering choices, all metal and geometric patterns, the gold and silver sparkles drawing attention to her best assets, but he can see the subtle outline of a knife hidden at her thigh and he knows that she has a gun tucked away in her purse.
All of that he expected, but what he didn’t anticipate is the sadness he sees on her face. She’s covering it well, beneath expertly applied makeup and the dazzling smile of an escort, but she had always had a spirit that could only be seen in the sparkle of her eyes, and the tiniest quirk of a dimple-- It’s just not there anymore.
She notices him before Percy does, but she wastes no time in putting herself between him and the target, just like he’d taught her so many years ago. The way she clutches at her purse confirms the hidden weapon there, and Michael slips his hands casually into his pockets.
“Good evening.” He says, “Have you tried the hors d'oeuvres? They’re delicious.”
“Michael.” Percy says, from his place behind Nikita.
“Percy.” Michael nods politely, eyeing a passing senator. He quickly darts a hand out to grab the man’s elbow, pulling him into the conversation, effectively obtaining his own human shield. “Senator Kelly. We were just discussing the new defence budget. You’re on the subcommittee, am I right?”
“Er, yes.” The senator stammers, clearly confused, yet perceptive enough to know that he’s been dragged into quite an awkward conversation. Percy and Nikita exchange a silent look, she passes him her clutch and he gives her a glass of champagne in exchange.
“Fantastic!” Michael says, clapping the man on the back. “I’d like you to meet my friends. This is Percy and his date... I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Nikita.” She says, but Michael can’t read her voice, she has forced it into being neutral. Something has happened here, something is wrong. But what, he doesn’t know.
Nikita extends her hand to the Senator and Percy bumps into her from behind, upsetting the glass spilling champagne all down the senator’s front.
“Oh I’m so clumsy!” Nikita cries, and Percy says: “Quick, you should get some seltzer on that.”
“Here, I’ll help.” She says, and with a glance towards Michael that is as cold as ice, she guides the Senator away from the confrontation, leaving Percy with her weapon.
“Do you really think threatening Senator Kelly is going to scare me?” Percy asks.
“Please.” Michael scoffs. “Don’t mock me, Percy.”
“Then why are you here? You know you can’t kill me.” As if to emphasise his point, he knocks back the last of his scotch and slams it down on the bar beside him with a loud clunk. “You know I have insurance.”
“If I can get to you here, I can get to you anywhere. I can get to your funding and I can get to that insurance. I’ll rip it apart until eventually you’ll be the last thing left, and then I’ll kill you.” Michael promises. “You made a mistake, making an enemy of me.”
“You have it all planned out, don’t you. A mission plan to knock Division and I over one step at a time, like bowling pins.”
“And you think you can predict my every move.” Michael points out. “How’s that worked out for you?”
“You won’t make it out of here alive.” Percy promises, and Michael sees that Nikita has left the Senator to clean his own shirt and is stalking her way back over to the two of them. There is a fire in her eyes again, but it is not one that Michael is comfortable with. She seems determined, focused; it’s the look she has before she takes down a target, and she’s zeroing in on him.
“We’ll see.” Michael mutters, and draws a small cigarette lighter from his pocket. He flicks the lid and lights it, and the car bomb he set up outside the hotel explodes with a rocketing BOOM, shaking the building, and all the occupants of the bar, destabilising Percy and Nikita in her overly tall heels, giving Michael enough of an opportunity to bolt for his exit.
Michael vaults a toppled table and slips through the service entrance, sprinting as fast as he can down corridors and through the kitchen. He hears the tell-tale clack of a woman running in heels behind him, and he knows that Nikita is in hot pursuit, but doesn’t stop to check, pushing a kitchen hand out of his way and into a tray of plates which crash to the floor causing enough of a distraction for him to push out the back door and into the alleyway. He gets about five steps before the door slams open again and he hears her cry: “STOP, OR I’LL SHOOT.”
He stops running.
“Hands where I can see them.” She demands, and he hears the click of the safety on her gun being switched off. “Take your gun and toss it to the left. Safety on.”
He keeps his left arm raised, but slips his right hand into his jacket, pulling his own gun from the holster and throws it against the wall to the side as instructed.
“Turn around.”
He does so slowly, being careful not to make any sudden movements. “Nikita.” He says quietly, and though they are ten yards away from each other, and there are sirens and all sorts of loud noises coming from the other end of the alleyway, he knows that she can hear him perfectly.
“No.” She says bluntly, pointedly aiming her gun at his heart. “You don’t get to do that.”
His confusion rises. Something has happened to her, that’s clear enough, and that look in her eye (he recognises it now) means she blames him for something. But what?
“Do what, Nikki?” He asks, as calmly as he can.
“You don’t get to placate me.” She spits. “You don’t get to calm me down.”
She is almost vibrating in her anger, and he can see the effort she is taking to hold her gun steady. He wants nothing more than to make it right, whatever it is, but honestly has no idea.
“All right,” He says, and lowers his hands a little. “What do you want me to do?” He asks.
She hesitates a moment, and the gun drifts to the side, and that’s all he needs. He slips his hand to the holster at the small of his back and pulls out his backup and fires. He hits her in the shoulder, and her whole body whips back, overbalancing and toppling to the ground.
He is by her side immediately, stripping her of her weapon, but he gently lifts her up from the bitumen to check the shot hasn’t done too much damage. Dark blood is dripping down her chest, staining her designer dress. “It’s a clean wound.” He says, as she gasps in pain. “Through and through. You’ll be fine.”
“Screw you.” She says weakly, overwhelmed by the pain.
He frowns, still so confused. “Nikita. Whatever they said I did. I promise I didn’t.” He says honestly, because he cannot think of a single thing he could’ve done to hurt her this badly.
She glares, and he hears a commotion coming from the kitchen. He doesn’t have any more time to explain and hash it out with her. All he can hope for is another opportunity for clarity, and now that Alex is on the inside, maybe it’ll be sooner rather than later.
He stands up, careful to lower her gently back to the ground, and then he runs.
… … …
Her arm is still stiff, but the pain is mostly gone and she’s finally rid of the annoying sling. The physical therapist puts her through a few exercises, gripping balls, lifting weights, and though he insists that she not exert herself too much, that this is just for diagnosis, she can’t help but lift through the pain and push herself. It has always been her way.
Sweat trickles down her brow, and she grunts a little and almost drops the weight on her foot, but Liam is there and taking it from her immediately, “Nikita.” He chastises, and she eases herself back down onto the mat. “You’ll do more damage with that attitude towards your recovery.”
“I know.” She says, resigned, and tentatively flexes her hand.
“If you push yourself too hard you won’t do yourself any favours.”
“I know.” She glares up at him, and puts a hand to her shoulder, which feels like it’s glowing red hot. “I’m done for today.”
“All right.” Liam says, and holds out a hand to help her up from the mat which she refuses, pushing herself back to her feet using her good hand.
Liam hands her her towel. “Remember to do your exercises.”
“Yes.”
She wipes her face with the towel and leaves as quickly as she can, deciding that what her shoulder could really do with is a few Tylenol, an ice-pack and an early night. Instead of heading directly back to the locker room she detours via the medical bay, knowing that it’s the quickest place to get the painkillers she needs without having to wait, and at this time of day there won’t be any doctors or nurses hanging around to ask questions.
Nikita is searching through pill bottles in the medicine cabinet within minutes, casting aside the aspirin and the Valium to find the little ibuprofen bottle at the back. She twists the cap with her better hand, but a sharp pain shoots through her shoulder when she tries, and she can’t help the grimace that crosses her face.
“Want some help with that?” A slurred voice asks from behind, startling her.
She turns around. “...Birkhoff.” She says.
The side of his face is still puffy from his earlier dental surgery, and the bags under his eyes rival the ones under her own, but he has the smallest of smiles on his face. He steps forward and takes the little pill bottle from her and twists the cap off with ease. He taps four pills out into his palm and hands two over to her.
“Here,” He says, then returns the cap to the bottle and replaces it in the cabinet. “The Novocain is wearing off, and I don’t deal well with pain.”
“I’d noticed.” She says wryly, and turns around to fill two glasses from the filtered water dispenser just to the side of the medicine cabinet, and hands the spare to the nerd.
“Cheers.” He says, and knocks the edge of his glass to hers.
The pills goes down easily, but she closes her eyes as she swallows, disliking the feel of it as they slide down her throat.
“You all right, Nikki?” Birkhoff asks, and she knows he’s genuinely concerned. His voice is quiet, and he hasn’t used her nickname in a while. Mostly because she’s been avoiding him. Him and pretty much every one else of importance in Division. It’s just been her, and physical therapists and recruits for weeks.
“I’m fine.” She says, and it sounds stiff, even to her.
Birkhoff doesn’t let it slide. “Don’t do that.” He says bluntly. “You can lie to Amanda about how you’re coping all you like, and you can tell Percy you’re fine. Whatever. But don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not, Birkhoff.” She says, and sighs. “I’m just tired. And sore... I’m just going to go home.”
“No, you’re gonna stay here and we’re going to have this conversation.”
He shoots a glance behind him to the open medical bay door, and moves more quickly than usual to shut it and give them some privacy. If it comes to it, she knows that she can get past him if she needs to, whether by force or not, even with her injury. But the confrontation wouldn’t be worth it in the long run.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” He asks. The small smile is gone.
She places her glass on the counter behind her and uses the time to gather her thoughts, assess the situation and figure out what to do next.
She decides to go with the truth. Or at least what she knows of it. “I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.” She says, and it’s so quiet that she’s a little uncertain Birkhoff will be able to hear her.
He seems to hear her fine though. “What do you mean, you can’t trust me?”
His gaze burns just as warm as the healing wound in her shoulder, and it is just as uncomfortable to endure. She looks away.
“It’s just something Michael said.” She confesses finally. “Or rather what he didn’t say. In the alleyway. Just after he shot me.”
“And you’re trusting him over me?” Birkoff asks, and she can tell he’s offended. “After what he did to you?”
She ignores the accusation and continues on. “He didn’t seem to know what he’d done. He knew I was... angry with him. And he knew that I blamed him for something. But he genuinely didn’t know what was wrong.”
“So he’s lying to you. You saw the footage.”
“But what does that actually show?” Nikita asks, and the emotional stability she’s been aiming for throughout this conversation falters. “Nothing, not really. It’s just a video, we doctor videos all the time. You doctor videos all the time.”
“You think...?” Birkhoff asks. “Me? No. Nikki, I’d never do that to you.”
“But you do it to so many people every day. And then we found that bug on you!” Nikita cries and runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “Can you see why I might not believe you? Can you see why that might bring up some trust issues, Birkhoff? This is messing with my head.”
Silence stretches between them, but now Birkhoff is glaring at her, but it’s not his worst glare, it’s more his ‘you’re an idiot’ glare. “Well. I didn’t.” He says with certainty. “I promise. And there are ways of verifying his claim, ways without involving Amanda and Percy. But guess what, Nikki? Those ways involve trusting me.”
“What ways?”
He scoffs. “Please. There’s always something. No matter how tiny, if it’s been faked we’ll be able to find it. If we can’t find anything, you’ll have just confirmed everything we already knew.”
“And you’d help me with that?”
“Nikki.” He says, and his lips touch into a smile again. “You just need to ask.”
… … …
Alex was right. Her being on the inside makes sabotaging Division’s ops that much easier. He worries, a little, now that Birkhoff’s implant has been discovered, that she’s more exposed, but clearly he didn’t give her enough credit. She takes initiative, and seems to know the best ways to get the most useful information out to him without arousing suspicion. Using the information she provides, they prevent assassinations, foil crimes, and generally throw a rather large spanner into Division’s works. Michael knows he has Percy’s attention now.
So when Alex sends him a brief message that Percy is bugging out to Montreal, alone, he knows he has to follow. Percy never went anywhere alone when Michael was his right hand man. At least not that he knew of. There were always protection details and bodyguards. Half the time Michael was on them, or leading them, so Michael packs his things and heads north straight away to Canada.
Alex wasn’t able to give him a reason for Percy’s quick escape, so Michael has to figure that much out for himself. He figures he can use a few contacts, do a little digging to find out the man’s mission, but is genuinely surprised when a simple Google News search gives him the most likely answer.
It’s a news report covering the attempted robbery of a bank in central Montreal earlier in the morning that went awry when one of the hostages fought back, killing all three of the robbers before escaping on foot. It’s remarkable enough on its own, but the security footage showing a close-up shot of the hostage, who police have been unable to identify is what convinces him.
It’s Owen, the man he fought in Daniel Monroe’s apartment. His hair is a little longer, and he looks a little chubbier in the face; it’s the same look most Division agents get when embedded in long-term undercover ops, and it’s just the break Michael needs.
He isn’t sure how far behind Percy he is when he’s rifling through Owen’s mail trying to get an idea of what kind of op the man is running, but he meets the nice, albeit cagey neighbour and gets a lead on tracking him down. Michael isn’t completely sure what Owen is here to do, he can’t find any of the usual signs of reconnaissance, or espionage. It just seems like he’s here working part time at some landscaping business, and is clearly in a new relationship with the neighbour.
He does get Owen’s cell phone number from a phone bill and uses one of his contacts to get a trace on the cell’s GPS, which takes him to an old abandoned middle school about twenty minutes away.
The classroom he finds Owen in is clearly an old biology lab, and the agent sustained some wounds in the crossfire this morning. Michael sees sterile strips, bandages, rubbing alcohol and a needle and twine. Owen’s preoccupation at administering his makeshift field-dressing gives Michael the opportunity he needs to get the one-up this time.
“Owen Elliot. Long time no see.” He says, gun pointed at the man.
“Michael.” Owen says, and turns around slowly, in such a way that Michael knows the man’s wounds are probably more serious than needing just field dressings.
Owen’s eyes flicker down for a split second, down at the counter, Michael follows his gaze and that’s when he sees it. He’s seen one before, in Percy’s office on his desk. It’s one of his Black Boxes. The insurance. And then everything falls into place.
“So you’re his body man for this Black Box, then?” Michael says, connecting the dots as he speaks. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of those.”
Owen looks at the box again, and then leans over and picks it up. “Yeah? See for yourself.” He says, then throws it in Michael’s face, and he catches it an inch before it hits him square on the nose, but Owen’s distraction works. The blond man tackles him to the floor, knocking the gun and black box out of his hands. Michael kicks out and rolls away from under him. He manages to pull himself up into a crouch as Owen rights himself, but the man is on him again, throwing punches so hard and so fast Michael can barely keep up. The man is strong, and he’s fast, much stronger and faster than the last time they met, and Michael realises that he has badly misjudged this situation. He’d thought the extra puff to Owen’s face had been baby-fat, gained from a life of sedentary repetitiveness that extended cover brings, but now he sees the bulk to Owen’s muscles, and the way that his skin is straining across muscle and bone, and he knows for sure he’s on steroids.
He blocks another hard blow to the face but takes a quick jab to the ribs which knocks the air from his lungs. He brings his hands up instinctively to block his face, but no blow comes, instead, the other man seems to have stalled, and shoves a hand roughly inside Michael’s now slightly torn jacket and pulls out the letters he’d taken earlier.
“You went by my house.” He says, accusingly.
Michael coughs, and steps away. “Yeah, I met your neighbour. Lovely girl. Nice little butterfly things.” And he points to the butterfly drawings on the wall.
It’s the wrong thing to say. Owen charges him again, this time bouncing himself off one of the counters to kick Michael in the face. He reels from the blow and manages to block a few hits before he finds himself over-powered and over-played, twisted into a strangling head lock.
“What did you do to her?” Owen demands, shouting into his ear. Michael struggles against the hold, pushing at the stronger man’s arms, but they don’t budge. He can’t suck any air in, and he feels his wind-pipe being crushed.
“She wasn’t involved!” Owen yells again.
Michael finally manages to croak out “Nothing. She’s fine.” But his voice is weak and raspy, and he feels dangerously light-headed.
Owen’s grip slackens just the slightest bit giving Michael enough room to jab his elbow hard into the other man’s groin. Owen doubles over in pain, and Michael runs, leaving his gun and the black box behind.
He spends the next few hours nursing his wounds and decides another confrontation isn’t a possibility, Owen is too strong, too fast, and too much for him to take. Either he's slipping, in his time away from Division, or Owen is taking something, and Michael knows he can't afford another close-contact encounter with that man.
He continues to track the man's phone, and watches from afar when the man finally makes a move from the school, presumably to take the black box to Percy. But the man heads back to the apartment instead. As far as Michael knows it's still surrounded by cops, and if Alex hadn't insisted that Percy was here alone Michael would assume there are Division agents sitting on it as well.
When he gets back home though, something feels wrong. The police are gone from outside, and even though it's dusk there are no lights on in the building. It's like no one is home. He watches Owen slip in the side of the building through the fire escape into the nice neighbour's apartment.
And that's when he sees the strike team surround the building. He instinctively sinks down deep into the car seat, just in case anyone looks his way. From what he can tell it's a standard 6 man team, two on guard, two on point, two taking up the rear. No one is guarding the window Owen entered though, and Michael assumes there is a sniper positioned somewhere near by with a clear shot.
He knows he just has to make a go of it if he wants to get those two out of the way. He slips out of the car and sprints across the road, taking the same route Owen does and launches himself off the same dumpster to reach the fire escape. He catches the rung of the ladder and climbs up onto the platform, pulls his gun from the holster and slips through the open window.
Owen's gun is on him straight away, pushing Emily the neighbour protectively behind him. But Michael ignores that and instead shoots the first division operative that bursts through the door, landing a shot straight between the eyes.
He shoots at the other, but they duck back behind the doorway and out of sight. Owen spins around, keeping the girl protectively behind him at all times, and trains his gun in the same direction as Michael, managing to pick off another of the operatives, who slumps lifelessly to the ground, partially blocking the doorway.
There is a sharp whizzing noise, and Emily falls awkwardly to the side. Michael notices before Owen does, but the blonde man doesn’t miss it for long when she falls into him. He turns around and sees her there, with the sniper shot right between the eyes, and Michael knows from the look on the man’s face he’ll need to get him out of here as quickly as possible. He knows that look, that apoplectic rage.
He grabs Owen by the shoulder and forces him to look at him. “Owen.” Michael says forcefully. “We need to go. Now.”
“No!” The man cries, brandishing his gun at the door, and he fires a few more shots. “I’ll kill them all.”
“Percy will kill us both if we don’t go now.” Michael insists, pulling the man back towards the fire escape. “Now.”
Owen shrugs off Michael’s hand and takes a step forward, and the torrent of gunfire returns. Michael ducks instinctively behind a desk, but Owen isn’t quick enough and gets winged in the thigh. Michael fires a few more shots at the door for cover and leaps forward and grabs the other man again. The bullet seems to have knocked sense into him-- he’s pliable this time and lets himself be pulled back down the fire escape.
They leave Emily where she is, dead on the floor.