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My name is Nikita. Seven years ago I was taken off of Death Row and trained to be an assassin by a covert unit of the government called Division. Five years ago, my boss, Percy, sent me to infiltrate an organization suspected of selling plutonium to terrorists by seducing the leader. We never found the plutonium, but I did take down Nicholas Brandt and paid him back for the domestic terrors I had to watch him inflict on defenseless women. Four years ago, I escaped Division and I've been on the run, hunted, fighting back where I can ever since. Less than a week ago, Percy set Brandt free to flush me out. He found me, Michael came for me, and we were both going to die, but somehow, I ended up here...
Nikita slips in and out of consciousness as the boy carries her away from where she fell. As dangerous as he'd been moments before, he's gentle now, talking to her in a low voice and promising she'll be okay. When she's conscious, she pretends to be out, ignoring him with eyes sealed shut against the tears that burn behind her lids and try to drown the pounding ache in her brain.
With her eyes closed, her body limp, she can't mark their trail. She can't see, but she's too weak to fight now and if he wanted her dead, he'd have killed her already. 'Good agent' that she is, she uses her ears - when she's conscious - and her nose, the taste of the air on her tongue in her hung-open mouth. When she's conscious, but Nikita has no idea how often that is or how long they walk.
She is aware, dimly, of stopping. Of something beneath her that is not warm muscle and beating heart. It isn't metal, there are no shocks, no one goads her forward or ties her down. Whether this is real or an ibogaine dream, Nikita can't say. Though she tries, and tries, and tries, consciousness keeps slipping away.
Nikita slips in and out of consciousness as the boy carries her away from where she fell. As dangerous as he'd been moments before, he's gentle now, talking to her in a low voice and promising she'll be okay. When she's conscious, she pretends to be out, ignoring him with eyes sealed shut against the tears that burn behind her lids and try to drown the pounding ache in her brain.
With her eyes closed, her body limp, she can't mark their trail. She can't see, but she's too weak to fight now and if he wanted her dead, he'd have killed her already. 'Good agent' that she is, she uses her ears - when she's conscious - and her nose, the taste of the air on her tongue in her hung-open mouth. When she's conscious, but Nikita has no idea how often that is or how long they walk.
She is aware, dimly, of stopping. Of something beneath her that is not warm muscle and beating heart. It isn't metal, there are no shocks, no one goads her forward or ties her down. Whether this is real or an ibogaine dream, Nikita can't say. Though she tries, and tries, and tries, consciousness keeps slipping away.
