La Femme Nikita. Adam Samuelle. 076. Who?.
Title: Perchance to Dream
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Characters: Michael and one canon character; Adam, Elena and two canon characters mentioned
Prompt: 076. Who?.
Word count: 700
Rating: R for violence and content matter
Summary: Life’s lessons can be learned anywhere
Author's Notes: Spoilers through mid-Season 3
*To preserve continuity, this story should be read directly following: ”Goodnight, Adam”.*
Perchance to Dream
Michael bolted upright in bed.
“Who is it? Who’s there?” Silence.
Not total silence. Michael could hear his still rapidly pounding heart, and the gentle breathing of Elena sleeping peacefully beside him. Had he even spoken aloud?
Michael hadn’t meant to fall asleep deeply enough to dream. His dreams were nightmares of the cold-sweat variety; without exception. But he was physically exhausted and his body betrayed him. Payback for the Liberia mission. Operations ordered an abort, but Michael refused; disconnecting his comm unit and leading his equally weary and sleep-deprived team to the most narrow of victories. He’d sent them home while he debriefed to a furious Operations. Home to sleep.
Sleep was not Michael’s friend. Not tonight. He slipped out of bed and went to his son’s room. Adam was the very essence of what good was left in the world. What innocence; what purity. Things Michael hadn’t been acquainted with for longer than he could remember. Quietly, Michael pulled a chair closer to his son’s bed. To watch over him as he slept.
They came to him in his sleep. Bodies without faces; smelling of old sweat, bravado, and malice. Bodies whose intent was to dominate; inflicting pain and degradation. In spite of his nightmares, and the reasons behind them, Michael had to admit he’d been more fortunate than many.
After his arrest for the university bombing, a glitch in the French judicial system had kept Michael in La-Santé for almost a year before his trial. Most stayed only days or weeks; a month at the most. A virtual revolving door of new prisoners with grudges and attitude. In La-Santé, Michael learned to fight. After his arraignment, a clerical error put him in a juvenile detention center. Michael was twenty by then, but could look and act 17 for as long as he needed to. And he got away with the charade for over a year. In the detention center, Michael learned to live a lie.
He was then remanded to Fresnes, the second largest prison in Paris and the most frightening for young men with pretty faces. But Fresnes was bursting at the seams; there was no room for Michael. Instead, he was sent to les Baumettes in Marseilles; a captive in the city of his carefree youth. Some trustees left Michael in peace. Criminal or not, he was family. The other prisoners resented what they perceived as preferential treatment, and they made their feelings known. In les Baumettes, Michael learned to cry without sound; without tears.
Months shy of his 24th birthday, Michael was finally transferred to Fresnes. To live out his days with the others serving life sentences. Older, hardened, violent criminals who raped and sodomized for sport. They came to him in his sleep, and when Michael stopped sleeping, while he lay awake. Night after night. Michael’s deliberately loud cries of “Who is it? Who’s there?” deliberately ignored by guards paid off with cigarettes and drugs. In Fresnes, Michael learned to crawl deep within himself where he maintained a tenuous grip on his sanity while the violence raged around him.
Usually, guards cycled through different cell blocks every month. The idea was to keep them from becoming too familiar with the men; subject to bribes. The idea was bullshit. Prison guards at Fresnes didn’t learn their trade here. These men were seasoned vets; every bit as ruthless as the men on the other side of the bars. But one guard stayed. One month after the other. And he watched Michael. So had other guards, but this one didn’t visit him in the night. A muscular man with a shaved head and black goatee. He watched Michael, and Michael watched him.
One night in January, the mysterious guard finally came for Michael. He wasn’t alone. He was with a woman. A silent, tiny creature with horn-rimmed glasses and a small yellow valise. Michael didn’t dream, but when he awakened he wasn’t in Fresnes. He was in a white, circular room. A blond man about five years older than himself greeted Michael.
“Good morning.”
“Who are you?”
Jurgen smiled.
And Adam slept peacefully beneath the vigilant gaze of his father who knew what came in dreams.
My prompt table is here.
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Characters: Michael and one canon character; Adam, Elena and two canon characters mentioned
Prompt: 076. Who?.
Word count: 700
Rating: R for violence and content matter
Summary: Life’s lessons can be learned anywhere
Author's Notes: Spoilers through mid-Season 3
*To preserve continuity, this story should be read directly following: ”Goodnight, Adam”.*
Perchance to Dream
Michael bolted upright in bed.
“Who is it? Who’s there?” Silence.
Not total silence. Michael could hear his still rapidly pounding heart, and the gentle breathing of Elena sleeping peacefully beside him. Had he even spoken aloud?
Michael hadn’t meant to fall asleep deeply enough to dream. His dreams were nightmares of the cold-sweat variety; without exception. But he was physically exhausted and his body betrayed him. Payback for the Liberia mission. Operations ordered an abort, but Michael refused; disconnecting his comm unit and leading his equally weary and sleep-deprived team to the most narrow of victories. He’d sent them home while he debriefed to a furious Operations. Home to sleep.
Sleep was not Michael’s friend. Not tonight. He slipped out of bed and went to his son’s room. Adam was the very essence of what good was left in the world. What innocence; what purity. Things Michael hadn’t been acquainted with for longer than he could remember. Quietly, Michael pulled a chair closer to his son’s bed. To watch over him as he slept.
They came to him in his sleep. Bodies without faces; smelling of old sweat, bravado, and malice. Bodies whose intent was to dominate; inflicting pain and degradation. In spite of his nightmares, and the reasons behind them, Michael had to admit he’d been more fortunate than many.
After his arrest for the university bombing, a glitch in the French judicial system had kept Michael in La-Santé for almost a year before his trial. Most stayed only days or weeks; a month at the most. A virtual revolving door of new prisoners with grudges and attitude. In La-Santé, Michael learned to fight. After his arraignment, a clerical error put him in a juvenile detention center. Michael was twenty by then, but could look and act 17 for as long as he needed to. And he got away with the charade for over a year. In the detention center, Michael learned to live a lie.
He was then remanded to Fresnes, the second largest prison in Paris and the most frightening for young men with pretty faces. But Fresnes was bursting at the seams; there was no room for Michael. Instead, he was sent to les Baumettes in Marseilles; a captive in the city of his carefree youth. Some trustees left Michael in peace. Criminal or not, he was family. The other prisoners resented what they perceived as preferential treatment, and they made their feelings known. In les Baumettes, Michael learned to cry without sound; without tears.
Months shy of his 24th birthday, Michael was finally transferred to Fresnes. To live out his days with the others serving life sentences. Older, hardened, violent criminals who raped and sodomized for sport. They came to him in his sleep, and when Michael stopped sleeping, while he lay awake. Night after night. Michael’s deliberately loud cries of “Who is it? Who’s there?” deliberately ignored by guards paid off with cigarettes and drugs. In Fresnes, Michael learned to crawl deep within himself where he maintained a tenuous grip on his sanity while the violence raged around him.
Usually, guards cycled through different cell blocks every month. The idea was to keep them from becoming too familiar with the men; subject to bribes. The idea was bullshit. Prison guards at Fresnes didn’t learn their trade here. These men were seasoned vets; every bit as ruthless as the men on the other side of the bars. But one guard stayed. One month after the other. And he watched Michael. So had other guards, but this one didn’t visit him in the night. A muscular man with a shaved head and black goatee. He watched Michael, and Michael watched him.
One night in January, the mysterious guard finally came for Michael. He wasn’t alone. He was with a woman. A silent, tiny creature with horn-rimmed glasses and a small yellow valise. Michael didn’t dream, but when he awakened he wasn’t in Fresnes. He was in a white, circular room. A blond man about five years older than himself greeted Michael.
“Good morning.”
“Who are you?”
Jurgen smiled.
And Adam slept peacefully beneath the vigilant gaze of his father who knew what came in dreams.
My prompt table is here.