fic: Jinx (LFN) (gen)
Title: Jinx
Rating: probably PG, some violence and strong language
Pairing: None at the forefront of the story, this is primarily Nikita-focused
Summary: Everyone who wears a certain bulletproof vest dies mysteriously. Is there a curse?
Jinx
When they throw Sondra into the van, she lands with a thump and smear of blood across the floor. Alan and Darius pull the doors closed and we drive off, zigzagging wildly because we're still under fire.
There are five of us in the back of the van, not counting Sondra, and I'm the only one to reach for the trauma kit. I nearly drop it with all the van's lurching, but I manage to kneel on the floor and staunch the neck wound as best I can. She bleeds through the bandages before I can even tape them. I have more luck with a cloth; pressing hard, I slow down the flow a little, but she's already ashen and her eyes have lost focus. My hands stain crimson and she grows limp, her body lolling side to side as the van sways and bounces. The other four sit and watch mutely.
I'm concentrating so hard, we're back at Section before I even realize it. A Medlab tech grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me out of the way. I step back and watch them work on Sondra, but they give up quickly. Out comes the bodybag, and they seal her up like leftovers from dinner.
I turn to the team members still lingering in van access. I see nothing but blank looks and shuffling of feet.
"Why didn't you help me? We might have saved her." It's not true and I know it, but their indifference disgusts me.
Shoko shrugs. "What's the point? She was dead meat as soon as she put on that vest anyway."
Shoko isn't exactly the brightest person I've ever met, but the statement is odd, even for her.
"What? What vest?"
They all exchange "where the hell has she been" looks.
"You know," says Alan. "The vest." When I stare at him in incomprehension, he continues, sounding a bit exasperated, "The bulletproof vest she was wearing. Inventory Number 44. It's jinxed." He frowns. "I thought everybody knew that."
With that, they walk away, leaving me dripping blood in the empty corridor.
***
"Now, isn't this a sight to brighten my day!" Walter grins and sets down the night-vision goggles he was fussing with.
"Hey, Walter." I stroll toward his worktable, playing with a strand of hair as I try to think of a way to broach what's going to be a very awkward subject in a way that doesn't make me sound like a total psycho.
Clearly, however, I'm not doing a great job with the whole "looking casual" thing, because he frowns sharply. "You don't look like you just dropped in to say hello. What's on your mind, Sugar?"
Psycho or not, I might as well just leap right into it. "Have you heard a rumor about a jinxed bulletproof vest?" I ask.
His expression darkens and he leans toward me. "Don't talk so loud, okay?" he whispers.
I'm a bit taken aback. I expected him to laugh and ask me where I heard such stupid bullshit. "Is it true?"
"That there's a rumor? Yeah." He crosses his arms defensively. "Section's full of rumors, you know."
I roll my eyes. "You know what I mean." I lower my voice. "Is it true that it's bad luck to wear it?"
"Oh, man," he says, and then he sighs. "Look, all I know is that the last eleven people who did came back corpses. Shot in the head, electrocuted...one poor sap even got decapitated with razor wire. It was a real bitch cleaning the blood off after that one, lemme tell you."
I recoil at the last image. "They keep reusing it?" I ask, revolted.
"Well, it's not like it's damaged. What, you think Operations is going to toss out perfectly good gear just because some people are superstitious?"
He's right. The idea is laughable. And yet I still feel a surge of outrage. The continued use of the vest is such a blatant reminder of the screwed-up priorities in this place - the supplies are what's valuable; the people, disposable.
But I've had enough morbidity for one day. I turn to leave; however, one last question nags at me.
"So, do you believe it's cursed, Walter?"
He looks at the floor. "I don't assign it to my friends. That's all I'm gonna say."
***
The next time the jinx claims a victim, I'm not on the mission. I hear about it from Shoko later that day. She seems almost gleeful at further proof of the theory, and I see her flitting through Systems to stage-whisper the news.
"It's really jinxed!" she keeps exclaiming. "It's like the mark of death!"
By the end of the week, I've heard a dozen different stories about how the jinx arose: fate paying back an operative who bragged he was ready to take a bullet; a voodoo spell cast during last year's mission in Haiti; a slain operative's dying curse on the vest that failed to protect him. Not that anyone's an actual eyewitness -- the source is always someone who knows someone who heard it from someone who knows someone else.
I decide to ignore it and wait for the rumor mill to move on to the next obsession. But then I see another team, loaded with gear, heading toward van access. Alan -- usually so cocky and full of himself -- walks as if his knees might buckle from fear at each step. I don't need to ask why.
Enough of this. Jinx or not, it's sick to torture people with terror like that when there's no good reason.
I know I shouldn't. I know it's pointless. Yet I find myself climbing the stairs to the Perch anyway.
"Excuse me, sir?"
Operations turns and gives me that cold-eyed look of his. The one where he regards me like I'm a spot of mold he'd love to take a bucket of bleach to.
"What is it, Nikita?"
I take a few steps inside. Once, I would have simply burst in and started yelling, and it takes all my willpower to remain appropriately deferential.
"I think it might be a good idea to get rid of that bulletproof vest everyone's afraid of," I venture. His eyes roll dramatically, so I rush to continue before he can interrupt, "I know it's just a superstition, but it would really help morale. No one's going to concentrate on their job if they're petrified."
He just stares at me for a moment. Then he laughs dryly. "I see. Well, when I set up the Morale Committee, I'll be sure to appoint you as chair."
Bastard. I make the effort to actually reason with him, and this is the reaction I get.
"Don't you have work to do?" He glares, and I retreat.
Five hours later, I hear that Alan tripped a detonator and blew himself up.
***
It doesn't take long before I get the inevitable summons to Madeline's office.
I descend the stairs and stand at attention in front of her desk. I know the entry ritual is meant to evoke the image of a naughty schoolchild sent to the headmistress's office, but being aware of the manipulation doesn't diminish the effect. I can't help but feel chastened even though I know I'm in the right; to counteract that feeling I set my jaw defiantly.
"Please, have a seat," she says.
So it's going to be the "nice" approach this time. Fine. Whatever. I sit.
She doesn't smile. In fact, she looks distinctly angry. OK, so maybe not the nice approach after all.
"We can't encourage ridiculous superstitions, Nikita," she says icily. "I would have thought you'd understand that."
Immediately, I bristle in defense. Although I know she hasn't done so directly, somehow it seems as if she's accused me of starting the rumor myself.
"I wasn't trying to encourage it," I say. "I'm just suggesting that you work around it. I mean, half the field ops wear lucky charms or do some religious ritual before they go out on missions. I've never noticed you cracking down on that. What's the difference?"
She takes a long breath, and I can sense her "lecture mode" switch on.
"It's natural for people to invent mechanisms to cope with their fears," she says, her tone now studiously patient. "Especially here, where the risk of death is substantial. We tolerate that. So long as it's private. However, we will not allow irrational beliefs to interfere with Section's operations."
"But it's so petty," I counter. "It's just a vest. How much could it possibly cost to replace?"
"Cost isn't the issue. If we stop using the vest because certain individuals have become fixated on it, what next? A jinxed gun they refuse to carry? A jinxed van they refuse to ride in?" When I don't answer, she says firmly, "We have to draw the line now."
I shake my head. "I think you're making a mistake."
"Really?" She's got that smug expression that makes it quite clear how little she cares what I think. "And what would you suggest?"
I shouldn't even bother, not with her patronizing attitude, but I answer anyway. "Find a way to get rid of it, without admitting the real reason why. Have Walter discover that it's "damaged" or something. You save face, but you eliminate something that's a real distraction for everyone."
She leans back in her chair and cocks her head to examine me.
"That's a good try," she says, and she actually sounds halfway sincere. "But it only postpones addressing the underlying problem. We need to stamp out the superstition altogether."
"That's not going to happen," I scoff. "Not until someone wears the thing and survives."
"Perhaps." She pauses for a moment, then asks, far too casually, "Tell me, Nikita, who told you about the vest?"
"Alan," I say. I almost add Shoko, but bite my tongue. Alan's dead already, so that doesn't matter, but I'm not going to tattle on someone still living. No matter how annoying she may be.
"Are you sure you didn't talk to Shoko about it?" she asks, and I squirm as if she'd reached inside my skull and rummaged through my brain.
"I might have," I admit awkwardly. "Everyone's gossiping about it. I can't remember specific conversations."
"Would you be afraid to wear it?" With this, she fixes me with a steady gaze, and I realize that this question was the whole point of our little chat in the first place.
"No," I answer, looking her dead in the eye. "I'm not afraid."
"Good." She smiles. "Thank you, Nikita."
***
When they tell me I'm the team leader on the Dubrovnik mission, my first instinct is to talk to Michael. I've led teams three times now, but the prospect still terrifies me -- all that responsibility for other people's lives on my shoulders makes me sick to contemplate. While I know his advice will be terse and cryptic and quite frankly probably not all that helpful, I gain confidence just from the way he looks at me -- as if he knows I can handle it without any help, and therefore refuses to offer any.
But there's no time for that. We leave almost immediately and Michael is nowhere to be found. Gdansk, Birkoff tells me. A flash mission, priority five. He left this morning. So I find myself filing into Munitions with the rest of my team, standing in line as Walter hands out our gear.
No one says anything, but we all furtively check the tags inside our vests. Despite my bravado with Madeline, I'm no exception. In fact, after our talk, I'm willing to bet every franc in my meager bank account that I'm going to be singled out for this particular honor.
I steel myself and look: #37. I nearly stagger from the strength of my relief.
"Oh, hell no!" exclaims Shoko.
She holds her vest at arm's length as if it's a venomous snake. I walk over and inspect the tag. It's #44. The relief I felt vanishes into a rising flood of horror and fury. They're punishing her for talking too much -- and punishing me for protesting by making me watch her die.
"Give her another one," I say.
"We're running short," Walter replies gruffly. "There are six missions going out today."
"Oh, yeah? Then you can give this to somebody on one of the other ones."
He avoids my gaze and mutters, "No can do, Sugar."
"C'mon, Walter," I urge, growing angry at his apparent helplessness. "I'm team leader on this one. I don't need this complication."
"That's exactly why it's been assigned to your team," I hear a voice say behind me.
I whirl around. Operations stands in the entrance to Munitions, his expression grim.
"It's your job to follow orders," he says to Shoko, then, turning to me, adds, "and it's your job to make sure she follows orders." His eyes narrow threateningly. "If either one of you can't do your jobs, then we have no use for you."
As I stare into those watery eyes, I contemplate tying him down and forcing him to wear the damned thing himself. He stares back, unblinking and unyielding. I glance away.
"You have five minutes to assemble at van access," he says. "Get going."
***
The instant the van doors slam shut and we pull off, I turn to Shoko. Her eyes are shut tightly, but I can see moisture seeping out the corners.
"Take the vest off," I order.
She opens her eyes and regards me blankly.
"What?"
"You heard me. Take it off. I'll give you mine."
"But Operations said--"
"I don't care what Operations said. I'm the team leader, and when we're in the field, I have tactical command."
The other team members say nothing, but I see raised eyebrows and exchanged glances. I'll deal with them shortly, but for now I've got a terrified team member who has to be calmed down if we're going to pull off this mission and live to tell about it.
Shoko pulls off her jacket and sweater, and I do the same. She unfastens the vest and tosses it to the floor. I slip out of mine and help her put it on.
"So what are you going to do, Nikita?" asks Dmitri, finally breaking the team's silence. "You know there's going to be a firefight. It's suicide to go without a vest."
I know that. God knows I know that. I stare at the vest on the floor, take a deep breath to make myself sound unconcerned, and say, as nonchalantly as possible, "I'm wearing that one."
I grab the vest, slip my arms inside, and start fastening it up.
"Are you crazy?" asks Claudio. "That thing's cursed!"
"I don't believe in curses," I say resolutely, as much to convince myself as the others. "And I don't want to hear one more word about it, or else I'll make you wear it."
This shuts them up. I put my sweater and jacket back on and sit back in my seat. I glance over at Shoko. She still looks sick to her stomach.
"Are you OK?" I ask.
"What if it's too late?" she asks, her voice shaky. "I've already worn it. I'm probably doomed anyway. Now we'll just both die."
I seize her chin and wrench her head around until she's forced to look me in the eye.
"We're not going to die," I insist. "And we're not going to be afraid, either. It isn't the vest that's dangerous: it's believing in it that kills you. You get so scared that you stop paying attention to what's going on around you -- then all it takes is one little mistake and you're dead. Get it? The jinx is in your own mind."
She blinks the tears away and nods. I release her chin.
I look around at the rest of the team. "We're going to go out there, grab the target, and get back safely. No mistakes, and no messing around. Understood?"
"Understood," they reply, and then there's nothing but the roar of the van as we bounce down the road.
***
Kasevich is an arms merchant, drug dealer, and supplier of mercenaries to the highest bidder, and through his numerous connections he's managed to evade Section traps three times this year. This time we have him pinned down tightly, but it's still going to be a bloodbath. I put that out of my mind as best I can and signal the team into position.
Birkoff's voice erupts into my ear. "Target confirmed. He's in the third floor conference room. Additional hostiles outside the door, in the third floor lobby, and on the ground floor by the elevators."
I nod to Shoko and Dmitri, and we enter the building. We take the guards by the elevator out easily, but the gunfire will alert the ones upstairs. To distract them a little, I toss a tear gas canister into an elevator and hit the third floor button, and we scramble upstairs.
I've never liked wearing gas masks, but I never knew just how much until I had to sprint up three flights of stairs in one. I feel like I'm suffocating, and underneath the vest I begin to sweat and chafe. It rides on me heavily, a burden and a constriction and an all-too-literal dead weight.
Shoko kicks open the stairwell door and we burst into the third floor hallway. Two men in those dark "I'm hired muscle for a shady businessman" designer suits have emerged from the lobby. Coughing and covering their faces with handkerchiefs, they inspect the empty elevator. They spot us and spray the hallway with bullets, but in the tear gas they can't see well enough to aim properly. A few short bursts from our automatics and they're sprawled across the carpet.
We race down the hallway and leap over their bodies. The conference room is just around the corner, but this is where we get held up. Several hostiles are waiting, and when we poke our heads around to see if the path is clear, they answer with a barrage of bullets and force us to retreat. It feels like an eternity, although it's probably no more than ten seconds; gunfire explodes and pockmarks the walls in every direction.
As I fire and duck and fire again, I wonder fleetingly if this is finally it for me. But I exist in that strange, distant vacuum of combat where there's no time to dwell on anything long enough to be afraid until after everything's over. We trade rounds amidst the swirling gas until finally the other side stops and the silence rings in my ears.
I shove Dmitri forward. "Go, go, go!"
By the time we break through the conference room door, Kasevich is halfway out the window. It's a three-story drop and I'm tempted to push him and see if he bounces, but we're under orders to bring him in, so I snatch him by the collar and haul him to the floor.
"Target acquired," I announce to Birkoff, but then I hear a muffled cry through Shoko's mask.
"Watch out!"
I turn, but not quickly enough. One of the guards has managed to stagger back to his feet and fires another shot. There's a violent blow to my chest that sends me flying backwards. I hear Shoko return fire but lie in a daze.
I can't breathe, and the room spins in a blur of glowing colors until I feel someone tug off my mask and unfasten my jacket. It's Dmitri -- my head clears and I see the room now swarms with Section ops who have Kasevich cowering in a corner.
It takes me a moment to realize that the pain in my chest is a bruise and not a gaping wound.
Shoko rips off her mask and kneels next to me.
"My God, Nikita, that vest saved your life!"
***
When we get back to Section, the bruise on my chest is just a dull pain. We march Kasevich inside and shove him toward the operatives who will take him to Containment.
Operations and Madeline await us in the corridor.
"Congratulations," says Operations, whose mouth twists in wry amusement. "It appears you broke the jinx."
I say nothing. It's safer than speaking my mind.
His smirk turns into a broader smile. "Getting shot in the chest was a nice touch. We hadn't profiled that."
I resist the urge to take a swing at him, but the look in my eyes surely must give my thoughts away.
"No need to debrief," he says, then walks off. Without a word, Madeline follows.
I shake my head in disgust. I should go to Medlab, but I just want to go home and stand in a scalding shower until the heat melts away my frustration, so I dump my gear and change into my street clothes in the prep room and head toward the exit. On the main floor, however, I spot Michael. He circles in my direction and begins walking with me.
"How did it go?" he asks.
"They made us take that vest."
"Yes. Walter told me."
"I wore it myself. They knew I would," I say bitterly.
"And you didn't die," he points out.
"No," I admit. "But once again I was their guinea pig. I bet they were halfway hoping it really was jinxed."
"They knew you'd be fine," he says in that aggravatingly flat voice of his. "That's why they wanted you to wear it."
He sounds suspiciously certain of this fact. I stop walking and turn to face him. "Did you know they were planning this?"
He doesn't break my gaze. "No."
I believe him. Although I once thought him virtually omniscient, I've learned there's quite a lot that he doesn't know. Sadly, even about me.
I decide to change the subject.
"So, how was Gdansk?"
He blinks. "We achieved closure."
"Good," I say. There's something in his manner that makes me feel awkward: reluctance, or even discomfort, beyond his usual reticence. Is he worried that he can't protect me from things like this? Or is there something else? I don't really know, but this isn't the time or place to ask him.
"Look," I say, "I've got to talk to Walter. I was angry at him earlier, but I owe him an apology."
He nods, and we head in separate directions.
***
"Walter?" I call out when I enter Munitions.
I hear his voice drift out from the rear storage area, but it's too faint for me to make out what he says. Assuming it's an invitation to come inside, I head in to look for him.
"Hey, Walter," I say, finally finding him in a back corner, "I'm sorry I jumped on you earlier. That wasn't fair."
He looks up, a startled expression on his face, and turns hastily so that whatever he's holding is behind his back.
"Who told you to come back here?" he snaps.
"I'm sorry," I start to apologize, but then I notice something. He's standing by the door to an incinerator, and the object he's unsuccessfully trying to hide behind him is a bulletproof vest.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Nothing."
"Oh, come on, Walter. You're the world's worst liar. You're going to burn that vest," I say. "Why? I wore it and I was fine."
He shakes his head. "This isn't the vest you wore."
"What do you mean?"
He screws up his face as if he'd just swallowed an entire lemon. "This is top secret, comprende?"
I nod. "Sure, Walter. What is it?"
"Before your mission, they had me switch the tag on the vest with another one. The one you and Shoko exchanged wasn't the jinxed one. That was just a ruse."
My head is starting to hurt trying to follow this. "A ruse? Why?"
"I dunno. Covering their bases, I guess. If you wore it and survived, they'd say, see? No jinx! But if you died, then they'd announce the tags were switched and say the jinx was all in everybody's heads. Either way, they'd win."
I laugh. How typical. I shouldn't be surprised anymore, and yet somehow I am. I'm not sure whether I'm glad they decided to give me the fake instead of the real thing or whether I should be insulted.
"OK," I say. "I get it now. But it worked. So why destroy this one? Why not just keep using it with the other tag?"
"Well," he says, hesitating, "it didn't get used on your mission. But one of the guys with Michael wore it. Got run over by our own van. A total freak accident." He gives the vest a wary glance. "Operations told me to incinerate the damned thing."
He opens the door to the furnace and tosses the vest in. There's a bright flare of orange flames. He slams the door closed.
"There. Good riddance."
For an instant, the lights flicker, and I wonder if by rendering it into ashes we've merely released its malevolent energy throughout Section.
Then again, how would we be able to tell? Every day, another one of us will die or go mad or, maybe even worse, lose hope -- with or without the vest. The vest's presence only made our fates seem slightly less random; it didn't change the ultimate outcome. After all, how can you curse people who are already doomed?
In reality, the moment we entered Section, we were all jinxed. And that's something that no furnace can burn away.
Rating: probably PG, some violence and strong language
Pairing: None at the forefront of the story, this is primarily Nikita-focused
Summary: Everyone who wears a certain bulletproof vest dies mysteriously. Is there a curse?
Jinx
When they throw Sondra into the van, she lands with a thump and smear of blood across the floor. Alan and Darius pull the doors closed and we drive off, zigzagging wildly because we're still under fire.
There are five of us in the back of the van, not counting Sondra, and I'm the only one to reach for the trauma kit. I nearly drop it with all the van's lurching, but I manage to kneel on the floor and staunch the neck wound as best I can. She bleeds through the bandages before I can even tape them. I have more luck with a cloth; pressing hard, I slow down the flow a little, but she's already ashen and her eyes have lost focus. My hands stain crimson and she grows limp, her body lolling side to side as the van sways and bounces. The other four sit and watch mutely.
I'm concentrating so hard, we're back at Section before I even realize it. A Medlab tech grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me out of the way. I step back and watch them work on Sondra, but they give up quickly. Out comes the bodybag, and they seal her up like leftovers from dinner.
I turn to the team members still lingering in van access. I see nothing but blank looks and shuffling of feet.
"Why didn't you help me? We might have saved her." It's not true and I know it, but their indifference disgusts me.
Shoko shrugs. "What's the point? She was dead meat as soon as she put on that vest anyway."
Shoko isn't exactly the brightest person I've ever met, but the statement is odd, even for her.
"What? What vest?"
They all exchange "where the hell has she been" looks.
"You know," says Alan. "The vest." When I stare at him in incomprehension, he continues, sounding a bit exasperated, "The bulletproof vest she was wearing. Inventory Number 44. It's jinxed." He frowns. "I thought everybody knew that."
With that, they walk away, leaving me dripping blood in the empty corridor.
***
"Now, isn't this a sight to brighten my day!" Walter grins and sets down the night-vision goggles he was fussing with.
"Hey, Walter." I stroll toward his worktable, playing with a strand of hair as I try to think of a way to broach what's going to be a very awkward subject in a way that doesn't make me sound like a total psycho.
Clearly, however, I'm not doing a great job with the whole "looking casual" thing, because he frowns sharply. "You don't look like you just dropped in to say hello. What's on your mind, Sugar?"
Psycho or not, I might as well just leap right into it. "Have you heard a rumor about a jinxed bulletproof vest?" I ask.
His expression darkens and he leans toward me. "Don't talk so loud, okay?" he whispers.
I'm a bit taken aback. I expected him to laugh and ask me where I heard such stupid bullshit. "Is it true?"
"That there's a rumor? Yeah." He crosses his arms defensively. "Section's full of rumors, you know."
I roll my eyes. "You know what I mean." I lower my voice. "Is it true that it's bad luck to wear it?"
"Oh, man," he says, and then he sighs. "Look, all I know is that the last eleven people who did came back corpses. Shot in the head, electrocuted...one poor sap even got decapitated with razor wire. It was a real bitch cleaning the blood off after that one, lemme tell you."
I recoil at the last image. "They keep reusing it?" I ask, revolted.
"Well, it's not like it's damaged. What, you think Operations is going to toss out perfectly good gear just because some people are superstitious?"
He's right. The idea is laughable. And yet I still feel a surge of outrage. The continued use of the vest is such a blatant reminder of the screwed-up priorities in this place - the supplies are what's valuable; the people, disposable.
But I've had enough morbidity for one day. I turn to leave; however, one last question nags at me.
"So, do you believe it's cursed, Walter?"
He looks at the floor. "I don't assign it to my friends. That's all I'm gonna say."
***
The next time the jinx claims a victim, I'm not on the mission. I hear about it from Shoko later that day. She seems almost gleeful at further proof of the theory, and I see her flitting through Systems to stage-whisper the news.
"It's really jinxed!" she keeps exclaiming. "It's like the mark of death!"
By the end of the week, I've heard a dozen different stories about how the jinx arose: fate paying back an operative who bragged he was ready to take a bullet; a voodoo spell cast during last year's mission in Haiti; a slain operative's dying curse on the vest that failed to protect him. Not that anyone's an actual eyewitness -- the source is always someone who knows someone who heard it from someone who knows someone else.
I decide to ignore it and wait for the rumor mill to move on to the next obsession. But then I see another team, loaded with gear, heading toward van access. Alan -- usually so cocky and full of himself -- walks as if his knees might buckle from fear at each step. I don't need to ask why.
Enough of this. Jinx or not, it's sick to torture people with terror like that when there's no good reason.
I know I shouldn't. I know it's pointless. Yet I find myself climbing the stairs to the Perch anyway.
"Excuse me, sir?"
Operations turns and gives me that cold-eyed look of his. The one where he regards me like I'm a spot of mold he'd love to take a bucket of bleach to.
"What is it, Nikita?"
I take a few steps inside. Once, I would have simply burst in and started yelling, and it takes all my willpower to remain appropriately deferential.
"I think it might be a good idea to get rid of that bulletproof vest everyone's afraid of," I venture. His eyes roll dramatically, so I rush to continue before he can interrupt, "I know it's just a superstition, but it would really help morale. No one's going to concentrate on their job if they're petrified."
He just stares at me for a moment. Then he laughs dryly. "I see. Well, when I set up the Morale Committee, I'll be sure to appoint you as chair."
Bastard. I make the effort to actually reason with him, and this is the reaction I get.
"Don't you have work to do?" He glares, and I retreat.
Five hours later, I hear that Alan tripped a detonator and blew himself up.
***
It doesn't take long before I get the inevitable summons to Madeline's office.
I descend the stairs and stand at attention in front of her desk. I know the entry ritual is meant to evoke the image of a naughty schoolchild sent to the headmistress's office, but being aware of the manipulation doesn't diminish the effect. I can't help but feel chastened even though I know I'm in the right; to counteract that feeling I set my jaw defiantly.
"Please, have a seat," she says.
So it's going to be the "nice" approach this time. Fine. Whatever. I sit.
She doesn't smile. In fact, she looks distinctly angry. OK, so maybe not the nice approach after all.
"We can't encourage ridiculous superstitions, Nikita," she says icily. "I would have thought you'd understand that."
Immediately, I bristle in defense. Although I know she hasn't done so directly, somehow it seems as if she's accused me of starting the rumor myself.
"I wasn't trying to encourage it," I say. "I'm just suggesting that you work around it. I mean, half the field ops wear lucky charms or do some religious ritual before they go out on missions. I've never noticed you cracking down on that. What's the difference?"
She takes a long breath, and I can sense her "lecture mode" switch on.
"It's natural for people to invent mechanisms to cope with their fears," she says, her tone now studiously patient. "Especially here, where the risk of death is substantial. We tolerate that. So long as it's private. However, we will not allow irrational beliefs to interfere with Section's operations."
"But it's so petty," I counter. "It's just a vest. How much could it possibly cost to replace?"
"Cost isn't the issue. If we stop using the vest because certain individuals have become fixated on it, what next? A jinxed gun they refuse to carry? A jinxed van they refuse to ride in?" When I don't answer, she says firmly, "We have to draw the line now."
I shake my head. "I think you're making a mistake."
"Really?" She's got that smug expression that makes it quite clear how little she cares what I think. "And what would you suggest?"
I shouldn't even bother, not with her patronizing attitude, but I answer anyway. "Find a way to get rid of it, without admitting the real reason why. Have Walter discover that it's "damaged" or something. You save face, but you eliminate something that's a real distraction for everyone."
She leans back in her chair and cocks her head to examine me.
"That's a good try," she says, and she actually sounds halfway sincere. "But it only postpones addressing the underlying problem. We need to stamp out the superstition altogether."
"That's not going to happen," I scoff. "Not until someone wears the thing and survives."
"Perhaps." She pauses for a moment, then asks, far too casually, "Tell me, Nikita, who told you about the vest?"
"Alan," I say. I almost add Shoko, but bite my tongue. Alan's dead already, so that doesn't matter, but I'm not going to tattle on someone still living. No matter how annoying she may be.
"Are you sure you didn't talk to Shoko about it?" she asks, and I squirm as if she'd reached inside my skull and rummaged through my brain.
"I might have," I admit awkwardly. "Everyone's gossiping about it. I can't remember specific conversations."
"Would you be afraid to wear it?" With this, she fixes me with a steady gaze, and I realize that this question was the whole point of our little chat in the first place.
"No," I answer, looking her dead in the eye. "I'm not afraid."
"Good." She smiles. "Thank you, Nikita."
***
When they tell me I'm the team leader on the Dubrovnik mission, my first instinct is to talk to Michael. I've led teams three times now, but the prospect still terrifies me -- all that responsibility for other people's lives on my shoulders makes me sick to contemplate. While I know his advice will be terse and cryptic and quite frankly probably not all that helpful, I gain confidence just from the way he looks at me -- as if he knows I can handle it without any help, and therefore refuses to offer any.
But there's no time for that. We leave almost immediately and Michael is nowhere to be found. Gdansk, Birkoff tells me. A flash mission, priority five. He left this morning. So I find myself filing into Munitions with the rest of my team, standing in line as Walter hands out our gear.
No one says anything, but we all furtively check the tags inside our vests. Despite my bravado with Madeline, I'm no exception. In fact, after our talk, I'm willing to bet every franc in my meager bank account that I'm going to be singled out for this particular honor.
I steel myself and look: #37. I nearly stagger from the strength of my relief.
"Oh, hell no!" exclaims Shoko.
She holds her vest at arm's length as if it's a venomous snake. I walk over and inspect the tag. It's #44. The relief I felt vanishes into a rising flood of horror and fury. They're punishing her for talking too much -- and punishing me for protesting by making me watch her die.
"Give her another one," I say.
"We're running short," Walter replies gruffly. "There are six missions going out today."
"Oh, yeah? Then you can give this to somebody on one of the other ones."
He avoids my gaze and mutters, "No can do, Sugar."
"C'mon, Walter," I urge, growing angry at his apparent helplessness. "I'm team leader on this one. I don't need this complication."
"That's exactly why it's been assigned to your team," I hear a voice say behind me.
I whirl around. Operations stands in the entrance to Munitions, his expression grim.
"It's your job to follow orders," he says to Shoko, then, turning to me, adds, "and it's your job to make sure she follows orders." His eyes narrow threateningly. "If either one of you can't do your jobs, then we have no use for you."
As I stare into those watery eyes, I contemplate tying him down and forcing him to wear the damned thing himself. He stares back, unblinking and unyielding. I glance away.
"You have five minutes to assemble at van access," he says. "Get going."
***
The instant the van doors slam shut and we pull off, I turn to Shoko. Her eyes are shut tightly, but I can see moisture seeping out the corners.
"Take the vest off," I order.
She opens her eyes and regards me blankly.
"What?"
"You heard me. Take it off. I'll give you mine."
"But Operations said--"
"I don't care what Operations said. I'm the team leader, and when we're in the field, I have tactical command."
The other team members say nothing, but I see raised eyebrows and exchanged glances. I'll deal with them shortly, but for now I've got a terrified team member who has to be calmed down if we're going to pull off this mission and live to tell about it.
Shoko pulls off her jacket and sweater, and I do the same. She unfastens the vest and tosses it to the floor. I slip out of mine and help her put it on.
"So what are you going to do, Nikita?" asks Dmitri, finally breaking the team's silence. "You know there's going to be a firefight. It's suicide to go without a vest."
I know that. God knows I know that. I stare at the vest on the floor, take a deep breath to make myself sound unconcerned, and say, as nonchalantly as possible, "I'm wearing that one."
I grab the vest, slip my arms inside, and start fastening it up.
"Are you crazy?" asks Claudio. "That thing's cursed!"
"I don't believe in curses," I say resolutely, as much to convince myself as the others. "And I don't want to hear one more word about it, or else I'll make you wear it."
This shuts them up. I put my sweater and jacket back on and sit back in my seat. I glance over at Shoko. She still looks sick to her stomach.
"Are you OK?" I ask.
"What if it's too late?" she asks, her voice shaky. "I've already worn it. I'm probably doomed anyway. Now we'll just both die."
I seize her chin and wrench her head around until she's forced to look me in the eye.
"We're not going to die," I insist. "And we're not going to be afraid, either. It isn't the vest that's dangerous: it's believing in it that kills you. You get so scared that you stop paying attention to what's going on around you -- then all it takes is one little mistake and you're dead. Get it? The jinx is in your own mind."
She blinks the tears away and nods. I release her chin.
I look around at the rest of the team. "We're going to go out there, grab the target, and get back safely. No mistakes, and no messing around. Understood?"
"Understood," they reply, and then there's nothing but the roar of the van as we bounce down the road.
***
Kasevich is an arms merchant, drug dealer, and supplier of mercenaries to the highest bidder, and through his numerous connections he's managed to evade Section traps three times this year. This time we have him pinned down tightly, but it's still going to be a bloodbath. I put that out of my mind as best I can and signal the team into position.
Birkoff's voice erupts into my ear. "Target confirmed. He's in the third floor conference room. Additional hostiles outside the door, in the third floor lobby, and on the ground floor by the elevators."
I nod to Shoko and Dmitri, and we enter the building. We take the guards by the elevator out easily, but the gunfire will alert the ones upstairs. To distract them a little, I toss a tear gas canister into an elevator and hit the third floor button, and we scramble upstairs.
I've never liked wearing gas masks, but I never knew just how much until I had to sprint up three flights of stairs in one. I feel like I'm suffocating, and underneath the vest I begin to sweat and chafe. It rides on me heavily, a burden and a constriction and an all-too-literal dead weight.
Shoko kicks open the stairwell door and we burst into the third floor hallway. Two men in those dark "I'm hired muscle for a shady businessman" designer suits have emerged from the lobby. Coughing and covering their faces with handkerchiefs, they inspect the empty elevator. They spot us and spray the hallway with bullets, but in the tear gas they can't see well enough to aim properly. A few short bursts from our automatics and they're sprawled across the carpet.
We race down the hallway and leap over their bodies. The conference room is just around the corner, but this is where we get held up. Several hostiles are waiting, and when we poke our heads around to see if the path is clear, they answer with a barrage of bullets and force us to retreat. It feels like an eternity, although it's probably no more than ten seconds; gunfire explodes and pockmarks the walls in every direction.
As I fire and duck and fire again, I wonder fleetingly if this is finally it for me. But I exist in that strange, distant vacuum of combat where there's no time to dwell on anything long enough to be afraid until after everything's over. We trade rounds amidst the swirling gas until finally the other side stops and the silence rings in my ears.
I shove Dmitri forward. "Go, go, go!"
By the time we break through the conference room door, Kasevich is halfway out the window. It's a three-story drop and I'm tempted to push him and see if he bounces, but we're under orders to bring him in, so I snatch him by the collar and haul him to the floor.
"Target acquired," I announce to Birkoff, but then I hear a muffled cry through Shoko's mask.
"Watch out!"
I turn, but not quickly enough. One of the guards has managed to stagger back to his feet and fires another shot. There's a violent blow to my chest that sends me flying backwards. I hear Shoko return fire but lie in a daze.
I can't breathe, and the room spins in a blur of glowing colors until I feel someone tug off my mask and unfasten my jacket. It's Dmitri -- my head clears and I see the room now swarms with Section ops who have Kasevich cowering in a corner.
It takes me a moment to realize that the pain in my chest is a bruise and not a gaping wound.
Shoko rips off her mask and kneels next to me.
"My God, Nikita, that vest saved your life!"
***
When we get back to Section, the bruise on my chest is just a dull pain. We march Kasevich inside and shove him toward the operatives who will take him to Containment.
Operations and Madeline await us in the corridor.
"Congratulations," says Operations, whose mouth twists in wry amusement. "It appears you broke the jinx."
I say nothing. It's safer than speaking my mind.
His smirk turns into a broader smile. "Getting shot in the chest was a nice touch. We hadn't profiled that."
I resist the urge to take a swing at him, but the look in my eyes surely must give my thoughts away.
"No need to debrief," he says, then walks off. Without a word, Madeline follows.
I shake my head in disgust. I should go to Medlab, but I just want to go home and stand in a scalding shower until the heat melts away my frustration, so I dump my gear and change into my street clothes in the prep room and head toward the exit. On the main floor, however, I spot Michael. He circles in my direction and begins walking with me.
"How did it go?" he asks.
"They made us take that vest."
"Yes. Walter told me."
"I wore it myself. They knew I would," I say bitterly.
"And you didn't die," he points out.
"No," I admit. "But once again I was their guinea pig. I bet they were halfway hoping it really was jinxed."
"They knew you'd be fine," he says in that aggravatingly flat voice of his. "That's why they wanted you to wear it."
He sounds suspiciously certain of this fact. I stop walking and turn to face him. "Did you know they were planning this?"
He doesn't break my gaze. "No."
I believe him. Although I once thought him virtually omniscient, I've learned there's quite a lot that he doesn't know. Sadly, even about me.
I decide to change the subject.
"So, how was Gdansk?"
He blinks. "We achieved closure."
"Good," I say. There's something in his manner that makes me feel awkward: reluctance, or even discomfort, beyond his usual reticence. Is he worried that he can't protect me from things like this? Or is there something else? I don't really know, but this isn't the time or place to ask him.
"Look," I say, "I've got to talk to Walter. I was angry at him earlier, but I owe him an apology."
He nods, and we head in separate directions.
***
"Walter?" I call out when I enter Munitions.
I hear his voice drift out from the rear storage area, but it's too faint for me to make out what he says. Assuming it's an invitation to come inside, I head in to look for him.
"Hey, Walter," I say, finally finding him in a back corner, "I'm sorry I jumped on you earlier. That wasn't fair."
He looks up, a startled expression on his face, and turns hastily so that whatever he's holding is behind his back.
"Who told you to come back here?" he snaps.
"I'm sorry," I start to apologize, but then I notice something. He's standing by the door to an incinerator, and the object he's unsuccessfully trying to hide behind him is a bulletproof vest.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Nothing."
"Oh, come on, Walter. You're the world's worst liar. You're going to burn that vest," I say. "Why? I wore it and I was fine."
He shakes his head. "This isn't the vest you wore."
"What do you mean?"
He screws up his face as if he'd just swallowed an entire lemon. "This is top secret, comprende?"
I nod. "Sure, Walter. What is it?"
"Before your mission, they had me switch the tag on the vest with another one. The one you and Shoko exchanged wasn't the jinxed one. That was just a ruse."
My head is starting to hurt trying to follow this. "A ruse? Why?"
"I dunno. Covering their bases, I guess. If you wore it and survived, they'd say, see? No jinx! But if you died, then they'd announce the tags were switched and say the jinx was all in everybody's heads. Either way, they'd win."
I laugh. How typical. I shouldn't be surprised anymore, and yet somehow I am. I'm not sure whether I'm glad they decided to give me the fake instead of the real thing or whether I should be insulted.
"OK," I say. "I get it now. But it worked. So why destroy this one? Why not just keep using it with the other tag?"
"Well," he says, hesitating, "it didn't get used on your mission. But one of the guys with Michael wore it. Got run over by our own van. A total freak accident." He gives the vest a wary glance. "Operations told me to incinerate the damned thing."
He opens the door to the furnace and tosses the vest in. There's a bright flare of orange flames. He slams the door closed.
"There. Good riddance."
For an instant, the lights flicker, and I wonder if by rendering it into ashes we've merely released its malevolent energy throughout Section.
Then again, how would we be able to tell? Every day, another one of us will die or go mad or, maybe even worse, lose hope -- with or without the vest. The vest's presence only made our fates seem slightly less random; it didn't change the ultimate outcome. After all, how can you curse people who are already doomed?
In reality, the moment we entered Section, we were all jinxed. And that's something that no furnace can burn away.