Author's Note: This is set at the very end of I Remember Paris, when Section is in the process of moving into its replacement facility. *** Section One died with a convulsion of flame and twisting debris, a self-induced blast of infernal intensity. Its rebirth came more gradually -- echoed rumblings, spreading slowly through a darkened subterranean womb, then bursting into life with light and noise. Alive again, it vibrated with activity: sharp clanks, steady hammering, chattering voices, hurried footsteps. Clattering carts rolled through the corridors, piled high with pallets of supplies, as the distant buzz of welding sounded from the lower levels. In the midst of it all, Section's leader walked swiftly down a hallway -- his expression determined, but his eyes shadowed and tired. Beside him, his second-in-command matched his rapid stride -- her face pale, her manner efficient. Their dark suits projected an aura of assured authority, belied only by a subtle stiffness in their posture that hinted of suppressed fatigue. "Have all our requisitions been approved?" he asked, glancing at his companion. "Most of them. The others are routine; I don't anticipate a problem." "Good," he grunted. He paused, allowing a trace of awkwardness to enter his voice. "There's one in particular that I want expedited." She threw him a curious look. "What is it?" "The interrogation equipment," he answered gruffly. Frowning, he slowed his pace. "The chair, to be specific. I sent in detailed specifications to make sure that�that sort of incident doesn't happen again." She looked at the floor, her face growing paler. "Of course." He came to a halt and took hold of her arm, swinging her around to face him. "It wasn't your fault." She raised her eyes toward his and fixed him with a steady look. "Yes, it was. I should never have turned my back on him." He shook his head. "You couldn't have expected that. No one else had ever escaped the restraints." "Well, he did," she said grimly. "And I was completely unprepared." "It was equipment failure," he insisted, tightening his grip around her arm. "One of the bolts must have come loose." She looked at him skeptically. "I don't think so." They stared at each other in uneasy silence until finally he let her go. "In any event," he said, resuming his walk, "it won't happen again. The chair I ordered is made of anodized titanium -- the bolts and screws are designed to last decades without loosening or wearing down." "Really," she replied as she proceeded alongside him, sounding more amused than impressed. "And better yet, the restraints have five different settings. It's completely adjustable -- it can go so tight even a child couldn't pull his hand free." "You sound like a teenager describing the stereo equipment you just got for Christmas," she remarked archly, her tone poised halfway between fondness and disdain. A brief grin lit his face, then faded. "I'm not going to allow you to walk into that room ever again unless I'm absolutely sure no one can touch you." She glanced away, pointedly avoiding his gaze. "Then you'll be happy to know that it's arrived already. They installed it several hours ago." "Good," he said cheerfully. "Let's take a look at it." "Right now?" "Why not?" She shrugged. "If you like." *** Paul listened to the door close behind them -- its slam sounded grim and foreboding, the way he imagined a coffin lid might thud as it sealed in its contents for eternity. Before him, bathed in the stark white nothingness of its surroundings, stood the room's centerpiece: the chair, spotless and gleaming in pristine virginity. Its metal frame almost sparkled, like a jewel-encrusted throne -- it beckoned the eye, demanding attention, captivating and horrifying its observer at once. It took him several moments to realize that the room held other contents -- a neat stack of unopened boxes hugging a portion of the wall. "What are these?" he asked, strolling over to them and peering at their markings. "That should be the restock of chemicals." Madeline approached the boxes and bent down to examine them. "Yes, that's what they are. That, some syringes, a few other supplies." "So we're ready to go here," he said approvingly. "I believe so." He watched her as she continued looking over the boxes -- her manner as calm as ever, but her face slightly clouded. Recognizing her expression, he felt a twinge of sadness catch in his chest. They were both struggling to recover from their near-calamity, to return to their prior level of concentration. But more than that, more than anything, they were fighting to regain their faith in themselves. They had failed, all of them: Madeline for not paying attention during the interrogation, Birkoff for not encrypting their location, and he -- perhaps most of all -- for allowing a security system that could be circumvented so easily in the first place. Those failures would be fixed. Now. Starting with the simplest. He turned back to look at the chair. The first point of failure, it would now be the first line of defense -- a symbol of their survival and recovery, of weaknesses eradicated, of his refusal to let any detail pass unnoticed. Entranced by its simple perfection, he walked over to it and began to inspect it, crouching down to look at the underside of the arms, then straightening again and running his hand over the restraint mechanism. "Interesting," he said, opening and closing the shackles several times. "You adjust the settings with this switch underneath the arms." Madeline joined him by the chair, her shoulder bumping his as she leaned in to study the area he was indicating. "It slides the mechanism back and forth like this," he continued, demonstrating. "The cuff itself is one size, but this bar pops up from underneath to elevate the wrist to fit the restraint." He switched settings again. "Ingenious, really." Satisfied with his examination, he turned his head to look at her. She glanced at him and smiled. For the first time since the security breach, she looked relaxed -- it was as if she, too, found focusing on the details of the mechanism reassuring, a source of renewed confidence. "Would you like to test it out?" she asked. "Test it out?" "See if it works with a real person sitting there." "All right," he said, nodding. "That's not a bad idea." "Have a seat." She gestured toward the chair. He sat down and placed his arms along the armrests, gripping the ends in his hands. The metal surface was rigid and surprisingly chilly, and he tensed faintly as he leaned back into its unyielding embrace. From his new vantage point, he felt suddenly small and vulnerable -- as if the chair itself might spring shut and crush his limbs, pinning him like a trapped animal. Madeline clasped the restraints around his wrists; they closed with a hollow-sounding clank. When she adjusted the setting, the mechanism switched with a sharp snapping sound, shoving his wrists up to press uncomfortably against the inside of the cuffs. Captured, he felt a surge of panic and disorientation, ballooning into almost paralyzing claustrophobia. He tried to shake it off, drawing a deep breath, and looked up at her for reassurance. She regarded him with a detached expression that provided him no comfort at all. "How is it?" Her tone was utterly impassive, as if she had inquired about the amount of sugar in his morning coffee. He forced a smile and twisted his wrists back and forth. "Nice and snug." "Good." She took two steps backwards and folded her arms, examining him clinically. "Try to escape," she commanded. He pulled his hands back, trying to squeeze them through the metal rings. They caught tightly, the sharp edges capturing the folds of his skin with a painful pinch. "No," he said, shaking his head. "There's no way." "You're not trying hard enough," she observed, her voice lowering with scorn. "Of course I am," he protested, annoyed by her reproach. "What more do you want me to do?" She narrowed her eyes and frowned, studying him for several moments. Then, without a word, she walked over to the wall and flipped open a concealed panel. She pressed several keys on a small keypad and snapped the panel shut. "What was that for?" he asked, watching with a mix of curiosity and concern as she strolled back to the center of the room. Ignoring him, she continued her unhurried pace, carefully placing one high-heeled shoe before the other. Her steps -- and his thudding heartbeat -- seemed to be the only sounds in the room. She stopped in front of him, paused, then turned to face him. "I disabled surveillance and locked the door," she informed him blandly. Without further explanation, she opened her jacket and shrugged it off her shoulders, casually dropping it to the floor. Her silver silk blouse shimmered as she raised her hands along its front. Her elegantly tapering fingers hovered just above the fabric, brushing each button like pale butterflies flitting through a row of flowers. Reaching the top, she undid one button, then the next, and then another. He burst out in shocked laughter. "What are you doing?" Her expression completely blank, she said nothing and continued releasing the buttons. Her fingers moved languorously, gently, as if she were caressing herself -- midway through, her eyes half-closed, eyelids fluttering in apparent pleasure. When she finished, she allowed the blouse to fall slightly open, revealing just a hint of skin between its folds. "I think you need more of an incentive to try and escape." She opened her eyes again, her dark gaze piercing and unreadable. "If you can get out of those restraints," she said, taking slow, swaying steps toward him, "you can have me, right now." His mouth twisted upwards. "You've got to be kidding." She stopped as she reached the chair, grasping him by the arms and leaning forward, her face only inches from his. The spiced fragrance of her perfume made him dizzy, as his gaze moved nervously up and down between her hypnotic eyes and the tantalizing opening in her blouse. "Oh, I'm quite serious," she assured him, her voice low and rich, her breath warm against his face. He jerked his hands back suddenly, with a force that made him wince as the edge of the metal cuffs wedged against his skin. He grunted, pulling harder, but got nowhere. "Shit," he muttered. "You can't do this to me." She lifted a hand to stroke his cheek. "I still don't think you're really trying," she said teasingly. She stood up straight again and circled the chair, trailing her fingers from his face to his neck, then to his shoulders. When she was completely outside his field of vision, he felt her slip both hands along his collar, loosening the knot of his tie. It pulled free, excruciatingly slowly, then dangled in front of him for a few seconds, the end tickling his face before it dropped into his lap. The hands then returned. Nails scraped through his starched dress shirt as they raked up and down his chest languidly, possessively. "Try again," he heard her whisper. He tensed and pulled his hands backwards once more, perspiration beading on his forehead as he increased his effort. He grimaced, trying to ignore the pain from the shackles rubbing his increasingly raw skin -- then gave up with a frustrated gasp. It was hopeless. "Damn you, Madeline. You're enjoying this, aren't you?" He heard a low chuckle and felt her hands pull away. The sound of her heels echoed back toward him until she reappeared to his right. She looked down at him with an expression of amused satisfaction, the corners of her mouth turning almost imperceptibly upwards. Then, her smile growing, she sank to her knees beside him. "You're not," he said, shaking his head in stunned disbelief. "You're not actually going to do this." "Do what?" she asked innocently, as she ran a slender finger along his thigh, up to his hip, and then back down to his knee. He shifted in the chair, the force of his desire having grown almost unbearable. His breathing became rasping and shallow as he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw. Using both hands, she traced her fingertips along his legs -- down, up, circling, then meeting at his belt buckle. She unhooked the clasp, but just as it seemed she would proceed further, pulled her fingers down to his thighs again. He opened his eyes and blew out short, sharp breaths as a line of sweat rolled down his temple. "I'm disappointed at your lack of effort," she chided. "For God's sake, I'm trying," he pleaded, his voice gruff with arousal. He yanked again at the cuffs, the pain now searing. "Hmmmmm, I wonder," she mused, running her fingers back up to his belt, pulling it open and lowering his zipper. She slid one hand inside to stroke him. Her practiced touch sent a jolt of flame coursing through his body. "Christ," he gasped, and he wrenched his arms back with all the force he could muster. He twisted and pulled, tears of pain forming in his eyes, until he felt the metal slice open his flesh. He grit his teeth and groaned in agony, then slumped down, defeated. Abruptly, she withdrew her hand and stood. "You're right," she announced briskly. "These new restraints work quite well." She unlocked the shackles to release him and began to rebutton her blouse. Pulling his arms free, he gaped in alarm at the sight of his hands. The damage he had unwittingly done was appalling -- multiple slashes, skin torn and bleeding. Incredibly, he hadn't even felt it -- or no, he had, but then he hadn't cared. "You should go to Medical for some bandages once you finish straightening up," she advised, her tone dry and businesslike. "And your tie fell on the floor, in case you're looking for it," she added, as he stared back at her, dumbfounded. For a moment, he looked at her blankly, incredulous at her instantaneous shift in demeanor. Shaking himself back into rationality, he zipped his pants hastily and fastened his belt, then rose from the chair and bent over to retrieve his tie. When he looked back up, she had her jacket back on and her hands clasped in front of her, regarding him placidly. "Are you ready for me to switch the surveillance back on?" she asked, using the same tone of voice she employed when discussing budget allocations. In her conservative grey pantsuit, she looked so proper, so refined, he could hardly believe what had happened moments before. If it hadn't been for the blood still streaming in thin layers across the back of his hands, he would have thought he had imagined it. Leave it to Madeline to disorient him completely. He started to laugh, not sure whether it was in exasperation or admiration, but stopped himself as a thought occurred to him. For the first time in days, he hadn't been thinking about the disaster they had just experienced. The relief was liberating: he felt invigorated, cleansed, as if the outburst of frustration and violence had broken the tension that had built up within him. As if he were starting fresh, like Section itself: blown to pieces and then rebuilt, better than before. There was only one thing missing. A proper ending to the little game she had started. One where he retook control, reasserted his leadership, restored the careful balance of power that served them so well. Well, he could take care of that. "Wait a minute," he said slowly, savoring his words. "We're not quite finished here." She raised her eyebrows. "Oh?" "We only tried one setting." He flashed her a devious smile. "How about someone with smaller hands?" Her look darkened. "I think this test was sufficient." His smile spread into a broad grin. "No, I don't think so." He swept his hand toward the chair, like a maitre d' seating a favored customer. "Your turn." She stared at him in silence, her expression reluctant. After several moments, she inclined her head in a sign of acquiescence. She stepped to the chair, sat down, and stretched her arms out. Blinking, she looked up. "I'm ready." *** As Paul snapped the shackles shut, Madeline stared straight ahead, focusing her eyes on a wall at the far side of the room. The lights cast a harsh glare on the smooth finish of the newly-dried paint -- the fumes of which still hung, sharp and caustic, in the air. The flat back of the chair forced her into a rigid posture -- matching the steadiness of her gaze, the set of her jaw, the tension with which she gripped the metal beneath her palms. He pressed the switch to readjust the settings -- with a clacking sound, the bars underneath her wrists sprang up, pinning her so tightly against the interior of the cuffs that she was certain she would lose circulation in her hands. Feeling something slippery, she wrinkled her brow in confusion until she realized what it was -- smears of blood along the edges, remnants of Paul's earlier efforts to free himself. "Do they fit comfortably?" he asked, his voice mockingly solicitous. Wordlessly, she looked up at him. A cold smile crept across his face. "I take it that's a yes." He cocked his head to study her for a moment, his pale eyes gleaming with a light she had seen many times before. Normally, she was fond of that look: it meant that he anticipated certain victory against their enemies, that he was so sure of the outcome that he indulged in the luxury of prolonging the contest. Aimed at her, however, it was vaguely insulting -- as if he found her all too predictable. "Now," he said, "I think your incentive has to be a bit different." Before she could suppress it, the faintest smile flitted across her face. It was a mistake -- spotting it, he narrowed his eyes. He reached for her face, first stroking her cheek gently, then running his fingers through her hair. "You think you're going to maintain control over yourself better than I did, don't you?" he asked, his voice both taunting and affectionate. He was right, of course. But there was no sense in letting him know that. She glanced away so he wouldn't see her smirk. "Hmmm," he said, playing with her curls, "we'll just see." She turned back toward him, her expression once again under control. He leaned in more closely, cupping her face with his broad hand, his nearness bathing her in the heady scent of aftershave and tobacco. "Your incentive is going to be the opposite of mine," he explained, that gleam of triumph in his eyes growing stronger and more confident. "If you can get loose, I'll stop." He moved his thumb along her jaw, then down her throat, stopping just at her collarbone. "But if you can't, I get to do whatever I want." She blinked, disconcerted. She had provoked him deliberately, of course. Her actions were designed to assure him that no one -- no matter how strongly motivated -- would ever escape from those restraints again. He seemed to need convincing, for his own peace of mind, and so she had given him the most graphic demonstration she could provide. It had been harmless -- a few minutes' toying with him, posing no danger of leading to anything more than a few undone buttons and lowered zippers. When he invited her into the chair, she had expected him to reciprocate in the same spirit. But this, this was taking things too far. Crossing the line into recklessness. "This is ridiculous." She gave him the coldest glare she could summon, which only made him laugh. "You know, I love it when you look at me like that." The sight of him watching her with amusement lit a spark of fury within her. Without thinking, she jerked her arms back angrily; when her hands rammed painfully into the cuffs, she took a sharp, hissing breath. "There you go!" he said, flashing his teeth in a grin of delight. "It's all about finding the right motivation, isn't it?" Concentrating, she twisted her hands in one direction, then the other. It was impossible. There was no way to pull free, and -- unlike him -- she wasn't about to injure herself to prove it. "You've made your point," she said, her voice tight with irritation. "Now, let me go." "Ah, ah, ah," he scolded, "not just yet." He reached down, spread apart the folds of her jacket, and started pulling open the buttons of her blouse. He took his time with each, fingering them a bit, stroking the skin underneath as they released, one by one. Ignoring him, she returned her gaze across the room, accepting her helplessness with glum resignation. "Funny," he remarked with a short laugh, "you didn't seem to mind being half-dressed a moment ago. What could have changed, do you think?" She repressed a retort, forcing herself to focus on the clean white sweep of the wall, on the glowing light set within it, on the solid grey mass of the steel door, on the growing numbness in the tips of her fingers -- on anything but what Paul was doing. If she refused to be baited, he would eventually grow bored -- but if she allowed him to see the extent of her annoyance, he would prolong things indefinitely. Finished with the buttons, he reached inside the fabric of her blouse and ran his hands along her chest, tugging at the material of her bra. She turned her head away, hoping he wouldn't notice her flush. The reaction, unfortunately, gave her away. He chuckled and slipped his hands around her torso to her back, unfastened the clasp, then reached around the front to slide his hands under the loosened garment. When his thumbs reached the tips of her breasts and began to trace light circles, she breathed in a little too sharply. "You don't seem to be doing very well, do you?" he asked, his voice smugly satisfied. She closed her eyes, saying nothing in reply, unwilling to acknowledge that anything he did had an effect on her -- yet knowing it was obvious to both of them. She felt him bend down and begin to kiss her neck, his thumbs continuing their soft brushing. His mouth grazed her skin, leaving hot trails of moisture as he moved toward her ear. The combination of sensations was too much for her: without intending to, but unable to stop, she began to move under his hands, her breathing heavy and audible. "You know," he whispered in between nibbles and licks at her ear, "it's almost like you're not trying to escape at all. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were enjoying this." Damn him. Enraged, she opened her eyes and pulled her hands against the cuffs so hard that the pain made her dizzy. Instead of easing off, she gulped, grimaced, and tried twisting one hand at a new angle. Slowly, to her astonishment, it began to ease under the surface of the ring. Adrenaline surging, she pulled harder, so close to victory she almost laughed. She was inches away from escape, her hand sliding in agonizing slow-motion toward freedom -- when the lower joint of her thumb caught in place and buckled, dislocating with a snap that made her gasp in shock. "Okay, that's enough," he said, pulling his hands off her. He unclasped the restraints and stepped away from the chair. Seething, she jumped to her feet and spun around to face him. "Well, the chair definitely works," he said, looking pleased with himself. "So I see," she said icily. She glared at him, and yet her disgust was aimed more at herself -- he had managed to defeat her at her own game, when she should have known better. She blinked repeatedly, trying to recover her composure as she began to refasten her clothing. Before she could do so, he stepped toward her and snatched her hands. His fingers clasped around her injured thumb so tightly that she winced. "The deal was, if you escaped, I'd stop." He looked at her sternly. "Not if I set you loose." Dazed, she stared at him. He released her hands and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. "Besides," he added, his expression suddenly tender, "you didn't really want me to stop, did you?" No. In truth, she hadn't. That was exactly the problem -- the very reason she had lost her temper in the first place. She hadn't wanted him to stop, hadn't been able to control herself -- and despised him for forcing her to acknowledge it. In answer to his question, she seized him by the back of his head and twisted his hair in her fingers as she pulled him into a violent kiss. Somehow, she found herself shoved forcefully against the wall, his body pinning her in place, his lips planted on hers so hard it left her breathless. The room seemed to tilt as she felt her legs giving way -- lightheaded, she slid down the wall onto the floor, Paul tumbling along with her. The floor was cold and uncomfortably hard, covered with the grit tramped in by dozens of shoes. As they discarded items of clothing, it scraped against her whenever she rolled across it. But that didn't matter -- not with the softness of his skin under her fingers, the warmth of his body as it melded into her, the moistness of his tongue sliding along hers, the pressure of his movement as he entered and filled her. All that mattered was the hunger that needed to be sated -- considerations of comfort, convenience, and propriety fell away before its demands. It was release, it was catharsis -- all of the anxiety, guilt, and fear of the past few days vanished utterly in a raging inferno, leaving her destroyed, purified, and renewed. Afterwards, eventually, they came to their senses. They lay still for a few moments, then pulled back from their embrace just far enough to be able to look into each other's faces. They were both silent -- nothing could possibly be said that would convey more than the look passing between them. Pulling apart, they rose awkwardly to their feet, gathering their clothes from where they had flung them. As they dressed, Madeline frowned in dismay when she saw the front of her blouse. "Did I do that?" Paul asked apologetically, staring at the bloodstains that had dried to a rusty brown color across the delicate fabric. "It'll come out. But I'd better change," she said, buttoning her jacket to conceal the marks. As she pulled on her shoes, he finished knotting his tie, straightened the pin on his lapel, then brushed the dust and wrinkles out of his suit. "Are you ready?" he asked, turning toward the door. "Just a moment," she said. She returned to the wall and opened the panel to reinstate the surveillance. Before she could punch in the code, he came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "You know, that damned chair defeated both of us," he said, chuckling. She smiled softly to herself before she answered. "Everyone who sits in that chair has a breaking point." She turned to face him, and they held a long look. "Even us."