Author: Asrai (email@example.com)
Spoilers: Up to 'Nikita'
Summary: ((I have to make a living after all))
Disclaimers: The characters of La Femme Nikita don't belong to me and no copyright
infringement is intended.
up after your first kill.
After you let that gun fall to the ground and listen to its metallic clatter that rings in
your ears, you feel nothing. Not even after you're on your way back to Section, sitting
in the van with Michael's eyes resting on you the whole time.
No, you're almost in a trance during that first real debriefing of yours, describing with
a steady voice how Stan had been captured, how Michael had shown up for the
grand rescue, how you'd shot that man standing behind him.
You didn't even blink when you took aim, and you're thinking that you don't even
know his name. Funny how that seems so very important to you now.
And after that, you go home. You sit on a bus and watch people passing by. You
wonder briefly how they'd react if they knew what you'd just done... and your eyes
You take the stairs up to your apartment instead of the elevator, because walking will
take longer, and you don't really want to enter your supposed sanctuary yet. You
meet Carla standing in front of your door, just about to knock because she wants to
know how your job interview went. She's concerned because you left so suddenly,
without any real explanation. You dimly remember telling her about it ((I have to
make a living after all)) and you begin to feel sick.
You kill for a living now.
But Carla doesn't know that, so you hug her, muttering something about it not going
well, and more or less shut the door in her face. You take one look around your
apartment, seeing the big room without really noticing it, and when you feel your
stomach revolt at the sight of colourful wires strewn across the table and the string of
sunglasses hanging on the wall, you run to the bathroom and throw up.
You kneel on the cold bathroom floor and retch until your stomach and throat burn.
Your lips feel numb as you touch them hesitantly. You slowly flush the toilet, then
watch your hands as they fill a glass with cool water, wondering why there's no blood
on them, imagining if there was. No one can see that you took a life today.
But your hands are clean. It would somehow be easier if there was blood, something
to remind you of what you've done, something to wash off.
Later, you take a shower, letting the hot water run over your unnaturally cold body
until the skin is red and tender to the touch. You try to forget everything while wishing
yourself back to prison where life was hard but infinitely easier. You remember the
picture of your funeral that Michael gave you two years ago ((Row 8, Plot 30)) and
you ask yourself if that man you killed will have any grave at all.
You don't think so.
You feel that the Nikita you knew, the Nikita you were, was killed along with that
nameless man lying dead with his eyes wide open. And so you wait for Michael's
voice ((Josephine)) calling you to do your duty, while burning the last shred of
evidence of the former Nikita's existence, watching as the flames eat away at the