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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. Almost four years ago, I escaped and I've been hunted ever since. I fought back, taking apart Division's rogue missions one by one until they were the ones on the run. Thirteen days ago, I gave myself up to a psycho to save my people, and then Michael gave himself up to save me. He's dead, and it's my fault. It's all my fault...
Thirteen days into this and Nikita's resolve not to think about Michael and Birkhoff, to focus on 'Annie' and Julie, Wolf and Jason, finding her way out of here like she did when she escaped Division, is crumbling. Her nights are filled with Alex's eyes, soft and afraid, a baby she probably never meant to have, and Michael in that damned chair telling her over and over that he sacrificed himself because he had to see her one last time. Michael's eyes, Michael's voice, the kiss she craves with her whole life.
How is she supposed to stop thinking about him, when he's her heart? When he's her everything?
It's night again now, and she moves through the dark unseen, learning the rhythms of the island, what is guarded, when and where, where she can go and when she will be challenged. So far, she hasn't found anywhere she can't go, but the peace of mind she hunts, like the way off this island, eludes her.
Light falls on a patch of grass and reflects off something metallic. Nikita's night-vision is superb and because of it, her heart catches in her throat. It's a knife. It looks like Michael's knife.
She presses her hand to her mouth to stop the sob that wants to escape and reminds herself, it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't. But it might be a trap. A good one, because if that knife is in anyone else's hands, it's a challenge she can't ignore.
Thirteen days into this and Nikita's resolve not to think about Michael and Birkhoff, to focus on 'Annie' and Julie, Wolf and Jason, finding her way out of here like she did when she escaped Division, is crumbling. Her nights are filled with Alex's eyes, soft and afraid, a baby she probably never meant to have, and Michael in that damned chair telling her over and over that he sacrificed himself because he had to see her one last time. Michael's eyes, Michael's voice, the kiss she craves with her whole life.
How is she supposed to stop thinking about him, when he's her heart? When he's her everything?
It's night again now, and she moves through the dark unseen, learning the rhythms of the island, what is guarded, when and where, where she can go and when she will be challenged. So far, she hasn't found anywhere she can't go, but the peace of mind she hunts, like the way off this island, eludes her.
Light falls on a patch of grass and reflects off something metallic. Nikita's night-vision is superb and because of it, her heart catches in her throat. It's a knife. It looks like Michael's knife.
She presses her hand to her mouth to stop the sob that wants to escape and reminds herself, it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't. But it might be a trap. A good one, because if that knife is in anyone else's hands, it's a challenge she can't ignore.
