Chapter Three

"Michael," said Nikita petulantly, "I think that waitress forgot our order."

"It's possible," he agreed, still twirling a lock of her golden hair so that it shone mesmerisingly in the cheerful fluorescent light of the restaurant.

"Well?" she asked. "Aren't you going to do something? We can't wait here forever."

He considered her statement. For him, entranced with her gleaming locks, captured by the azure blue of her oh-so-innocent eyes, a prisoner of the shocking exquisiteness of her ivory skin and ruby lips, there was no such thing as the passage of time. He could wait forever, if forever held such bliss. What was time, after all, in the face of the eternity of their love?

But then his phone beeped. Actually, it had been beeping repeatedly, but he had ignored it, content to let the world go by as he gazed at the face of Beauty. This time, reluctantly, he flipped it open.

"Oui," he answered softly.

"Michael, thank God!" Birkoff cried. "I've been trying to call you for hours. I thought you'd never answer!"

He half listened to the telephone and half admired Ni-ki-ta as she played with the sugar packets at their table, building a little sugar-packet pyramid. A pyramid, fit for the temptress of the Nile that she was. Not that she was from the Nile, or had ever even been there, but my she was a temptress --

"Helloooooooo, Michael, are you still there?" Birkoff demanded.

"Yes," he said softly.

"Look, Walter and I have created an opportunity for you, if you know what I mean. For the next few hours, certain, um, people here at Section are going to be too distracted with other things to be bothering you, if you know what I mean. Do you know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean," said Michael, and hung up.

He stood, held his hand out to Nikita, and helped her out of the booth. "No time for coffee. Let's go."

************

Greg Hillinger smiled to himself as he listened, secretly, to Seymour's conversation with Michael. Oh, Seymour, Seymour, Seymour -- what a moron he was. Not like him -- Greg -- the genius to beat all geniuses. While Seymour and that old geezer Walter were busy playing Cupid for Michael and Nikita, he, Greg, had taken advantage of Seymour's handy decoding of the password to the Cubic Zirconium file. Not to read the boring stuff like how Madeline and Operations were going to drive Michael and Nikita apart, then slowly force them back together, then drive them apart again, then force them back together really fast, then drive them back apart, et cetera. No. Who cared about that kind of stupid crap? No, Greg had been reading the good stuff. Finding the skeletons in the closet, the dirt swept under the carpet, the cobwebs hidden behind the curtains -- yeah, the stuff that mattered. The stuff that George was going to reward him for finding -- big time.

He salivated a bit as he pictured himself driving his cool new Jag, babes aplenty in the passenger seat next to him. Yep, George was going to have to pony up for this intel, that's for sure. Greg had hit the jackpot. Because you see, Greg had discovered Section One's deepest, darkest secret. The secret that Operations and Madeline had been hiding desperately from George.

No, no, not that Adrian had been turned into a human popsicle up in the freezer on Level whatever-it-was. No -- the real secret. The secret to end all secrets. The secretest secret of all the secret secrets that had to be kept secret.

Section One didn't fight terrorists.

Not even occasionally.

There was no such organization as Red Cell. Or Bright Star. Or Glass Curtain, the Freedom League, or any of the other absurdly named organizations that Section One claimed to be fighting. They were all frauds. Invented for the sole purpose of justifying Section One's continued existence. The 'missions' that Section One's operatives went on were, in actuality, elaborate hoaxes, with the same 'terrorists' showing up, again and again, pretending to be killed while Section One's operatives fired blanks at them. Not that the operatives realized this -- no, most of them were so stupid that they didn't realize that the scruffy-looking bad guys that they killed, week after week, were always the same people each time.

But now, Greg knew. He knew that it was all a huge set-up. Operations and Madeline pulled the wool over George's eyes so that they could continue receiving a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars to spend on whatever they wanted.

At first, Greg had considered blackmailing them -- to get just a tiny little share of that illicit funding for himself. But then he had continued reading the Cubic Zirconium file, and came to the entry marked: 'Jurgen, Explosion Of.' Hmmmmm. Blackmail didn't seem to be such a good idea after all. So instead, he was going to rat them out to Georgie Porgie, and collect his ample reward.

Now, if he could just decide how he was going to spend it. Would he look better driving a Jag or a Porsche?

************

"My-kol, where are we goin, what are ya doin, why are we runnin. Jeez, me arm's bein ripped outta its bloody socket!" Nikita whined as Michael raced her back to her apartment. The quickness of their steps had caused Nikita to revert back to her native accent, the one that Section One had tried so hard to exterminate. But deep down, deep, deep, Deep down she had never really lost it. And in times of stress, or too much physical exertion, she reverted back to the nasal twangs of her Aussie drawl. Michael wished that he could say that the twangs were music to his ears, but that would be a lie, a lie that he would no longer be able to perpetrate. He had decided that no longer would he lie to his precious love. His beauty. His all-encompassing-one-true-light-of-his-life. His soul mate. His eternal flame. The one who made his days seem brighter, his nights seem lighter. The one who put a smile on his face. The one who was the other half of him. The one who....

"My-kol! Whaddayathinkyadoin? I'm gonna break me flamin' neck any goddamn minute, if ya don't bloody-well slow down!" Nikita stopped abruptly where she was, crossing her arms across her body as she looked at him. Really looked at him. God he was so beautiful! The sun shining from behind him made it seem as though he had a halo -- a halo of golden shining light. Like a picture of Michelangelo, the perfect man. His green eyes twinkled in the sunlight and seemed to look right into her very soul. His beautifully chiselled jaw, his pouting sensuous lips, and his body. Oh lordy, lordy, lordy -- that body! It was just absolute perfection! A gorgeous torso, made up of sinewy muscles that were all, well, sinewy. Glorious pectoral muscles and strong manly shoulders, leading to well-muscled arms that led to really sensuous hands, with long, long, long fingers.

And what he could do with those fingers! Oh, he could create such ecstasy in her body, playing her like his cello. She looked up and down him again, and stared at his hips and crotch. Oh, such firm hips that led to a nice tight little butt, with nice tight little buns of steel. Well, not that she could see his butt from the angle she was looking at him from, but she knew where it was. Nikita continued to stare at his crotch, knowing exactly what the zipper of his jeans concealed and a little smile crossed her lips at that thought. Her reverie was interrupted as Michael finally answered her.

"Ni-ki-taaa, I have just received valuable Intel that will save the world as we know it, but it seems that we will have to go dark for a few hours, and the only place that we can go dark is your apartment," Michael answered, gazing at her intently and holding out his hand for her to take.

"Oh, well, in that case, lead on!" And taking his hand once again and entwining her own fingers in his long, long, long fingers, she walked beside him on their way back to her apartment to go dark, which, it seems, they could only do in her apartment. Go figure.

************

Back at Section One, the operatives milled about worriedly, forming little clustered groups here and there, murmuring anxiously to each other, and then breaking up and reforming in different little clustered groups to repeat the same process. The rumours coming out of Medlab were disturbing, worrisome, frightening -- Madeline in a coma, kept alive only with a respirator; Operations in a straightjacket, cackling maniacally and snapping at invisible flies with his mouth; and, worst of all, Michael nowhere to be found, no longer even answering his phone. Which left...whom in charge?

"Well, I've got seniority," Walter pointed out.

"But I know our systems better than anyone," countered Birkoff.

"According to Protocol 87(e)(iii)(P), we're in charge," announced a reedy voice behind them.

They turned to see Frick and Frack standing shoulder to shoulder, their usual blank expressions replaced with a subtle -- but bloodthirsty -- glee. The female torture twin stiffly held out Section's rulebook for Birkoff to inspect. Hands trembling, Birkoff read.

"Oh, my God -- they're right! They're next in the chain of command right after Michael!"

Frick and Frack whirled about in perfect unison and began to march in synchronous perfection across the floor, barking out shrill orders. Before them, like a parting wave, the clusters of operatives broke apart and scattered in every direction, shrieks of terror echoing off the hard walls.

Walter scratched his chin in thought. "I think we might have miscalculated a bit here, amigo."

"We've got to get a hold of Michael!" Birkoff's voice was high-pitched in panic.

"Uh," said Walter, shaking his head, "I don't think Michael's going to be reachable for a while. And by that time, I don't think there�s going to be anyone here with all of their body parts left."

"Well, then, what do we do?" Birkoff's glasses steamed up in fear, as he began hyperventilating.

"We're gonna have to bring back Operations and Madeline."

"How?" Birkoff seized Walter by the arms. "How?"

"Well, whipping up an antidote for the LSD-laced cigarettes shouldn't be too hard, but as for the overdose of chocolate, I dunno. But I'd better think of something quick. Otherwise," he gulped, looking over at Frick and Frack as they snagged a slow-moving operative by the collar and started to drag him, kicking and clawing, down toward the White Room, "we're all gonna be in trouble."

************

George's face turned white, then red, and then purple with fury. "You're telling me what?!?!?!?!" he exploded.

"Section One's been pulling your leg, old man," said Greg, smiling triumphantly. "Running a big-ass scam."

George stared at him for nearly a full minute, his eyes bugging and his eyebrow twitching. Just when Greg thought he was about to keel over in a stroke, George stood up and started waving his arms angrily.

"You idiot! Of course these groups exist! I'm a member -- I mean, I monitor them myself!"

Greg frowned. "Well, not according to this little file, they don't." He whipped out a CD and held it up to the light.

"Give me that!" snapped George, snatching the disk and inserting it into his computer. Sitting down again, he scanned the file for a few moments and then sighed. He turned back to Greg, glowering ominously. "Did you notice the name of this file, by any chance?"

"Yeah. Cubic Zirconium. What about it?"

"Do you know what Cubic Zirconium is?"

"It's that stuff you see on those home shopping channels. You know, the fake jewellery."

"It's a fake gemstone, to be exact," George hissed.

"Huh?"

"You moron! This is a plant! A fake file, meant to lead us off the track of the real thing! The real secrets are in the Gemstone file -- which I recall asking you to get for me, by the way. Everything in here is made up!"

"You mean, the President of the United States isn't really a vampire?"

"No!"

"Elvis isn't leading a secret expedition to Mars?"

"No!!"

"Operations doesn't really have 666 tattooed on his ass?"

"Not that I know of. Although I haven't looked," George admitted with a shudder. But then focusing his attention back on Greg, he leaned forward menacingly. "I thought you were the wave of the future. But you disappoint me, Gregory."

"No, please, Uncle George, just listen to me. I can find the file I know I can. I am better than Birkoff; I know I am I just know it! I am the mostest brilliant computer hacker/programmer in the whole wide world. Please, just listen!" Greg pleaded pitifully. He thought about adding some real tears as well, but hung off until he saw how his pleading was going.

George pulled himself up to his full height, which compared to the rest of the Section's operatives was quite miniscule actually. George was only 5 foot 4 inches, which would explain why he was such a grumpy old bugger -- he was obviously suffering from that age-old phobia Small Man Syndrome. So he pulled himself up to his full height which looked even bigger cause he was standing on a wooden Oversight-issued crate, glaring down at Greg ominously, his face turning red, then scarlet, then purple and then really ugly blotchy like with rage as he managed to spew out venomously "JUST WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?"

"Uncle George," Greg answered nervously. Swallowing against the lump in his throat he continued, "That's what it said in The Cubic Zirconium file. That you were my uncle, George."

"You stupid moron!" George bellowed. "I have just got through telling you that the file is a complete fake -- and let me just explain it to you one more time. If the whole file is a fake, then that means that everything in it is a lie. And I am not related to you in any way. You're still disappointing me Gregory -- and I don't like to be disappointed."

"So I guess that the whole section in that file that explains how you and Adrian are Nikita's real parents was a plant too," Greg continued whiningly.

"WHAT!!!" And with that exclamation, George fainted dead away.

************

Meanwhile, back at Nikita's apartment, our stunningly beautiful heroic couple were oblivious to all the drama and tension unfolding at Section One. And if they did know the truth, they wouldn't have cared at the moment, cause they were both lost in each other's eyes. Green eyes stared soulfully at the blue eyes. And the blue eyes stared soulfully back into the green eyes as they stood in Nikita's living room. It seemed that while they were away, the door had repaired itself miraculously, as things were wont to do in the continuing universe of LFN. Continuity be damned!

But there they both stood, gazing soulfully into the other's eyes. Green eyes gazed soulfully at blue eyes. And blue eyes gazed soulfully at green eyes. Then suddenly Michael moved, slowly, slowly, slowly raising his hand to softly, gently, worshipfully, caress Nikita's check as he brought his other hand into play, continuing that hand-dance thingy that he had started before. The soft strands of the Hokey Pokey could be heard softly in the background, emanating from Michael's nose again. Another of Michael's hidden talents was that he was also able to throw his voice, or his nose music.

You put your right hand in
You put your right hand out
In, out, in, out
And shake it all about�

"Come, Nikita, let us take a long, sensuous, luxurious bath together," invited Michael.

"Ooooh, Michael, that sounds delicious," she agreed.

He took her hand and led her, slowly and sensuously, to the bathroom, which had miraculously expanded to the size of a small theatre. In the centre of the room stood an enormous Jacuzzi, full of steaming, swirling water. Odd. She didn�t remember having a Jacuzzi. Oh, well -- Section had been redecorating again, obviously. At least a Jacuzzi was better than the scary artwork they kept hanging on her walls.

"Last one in's a rotten egg!" she cried. Running toward the Jacuzzi, she began stripping off her clothes until she saw movement in the water -- not the normal swirls, but strange, bursting bubbles. She stopped dead in her tracks as a woman suddenly emerged from beneath the bubbles, wet and glistening.

"Are you ready for a rematch?" asked Aurora in a sultry voice.

Nikita screamed in horror and fury. "How did you get into my bathroom?!" she demanded.

"Well," admitted Michael, "I invited her. I thought it might be interesting, my sweet."

"You depraved pervert! How dare you!"

"I am not depraved, Nikita," said Michael. "I am French. There is a difference."

At that, Nikita slapped him across the face and ran from the room sobbing.

"Wait!" Michael cried, following her. "I will send her away! Don't leave!"

************

"If someone doesn't let me out of the %$#*%& straightjacket this instant, the entire #@$%#*&%% Section is getting cancelled!" bellowed Operations from the small room where he had been restrained.

"I think the LSD antidote has kicked in," said Walter as he waved smelling salts in front of Madeline to no avail. "You'd better go let him loose."

"Why me?" asked Birkoff. "Why can�t you go?"

"Because I'm busy," answered Walter, setting aside the smelling salts and picking up a stun gun.

Birkoff, reluctantly, slunk off, leaving Walter to his work.

Bzzzzzzt! went the stun gun. No reaction.

Bzzzzzt! again. Nothing!

Damn! The stun gun didn�t wake her up either -- she seemed impervious to everything! What next?

Maybe some really loud, really annoying music, he thought, reaching to switch on a CD player on a nearby table.

'At the Copa/Copacabana/The hottest spot North of Havana....'

Just as Walter covered his ears so he wouldn't have to listen to any more of that tune, the music switched abruptly off.

"Let me take care of this," said Operations grimly. He marched over to Madeline's bedside, grasped her hand, and caressed her cheek tenderly. "Madeline," he whispered, "listen to me. The POS numbers have slipped .00000000000000003 percent."

She didn't wake, but stirred slightly.

"Attrition levels in Housekeeping have jumped a full point," he added.

She moaned softly, frowning.

Concentrating and clasping her hand harder, Operations continued. "And we have personnel redundancies in twelve departments. We're becoming bogged down with deadwood."

Her eyes snapped open. "Deadwood? Where?"