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My name is Nikita. Seven years ago, I was taken off Death Row and trained to be an assassin by a covert unit of the U.S. government, called Division. They said they were giving me a new life, a second chance to serve the country I'd wronged, but they lied. When I finally got free, I started over for real, dedicating myself to bringing them down, one mission at a time. Alone. So they couldn't kill anyone else I loved. Then others came to my aid and we were a team. Now, I'm trapped on some tropical purgatory where even the shadows have shadows, and no one else seems to see them. They've already got Michael, and taken Wolf, now Annie and Finnick are gone too. Everyone says 'what is, is' and 'theres's no escape'. They said that about Division, too. And it only took one, me, to prove them wrong...
After what happened with Phedre, Nikita knows she should give up the wild hope that by searching Annie and Finnick's home, their belongings, she'll find some clue. Anything to follow up on, a lead, no matter how small. But if she gives up, then the knife strapped to her thigh is a lie. A child's fairy tale of a possible happy end. Hope may be the cruelest cut, but it's the pain that keeps her alive.
She doesn't feel very alive, crouched in a cabin empty of anything but memories. Her fingers touch the baseboards, drag along the wood, heedless of splinters. Even Cleaners miss spots sometimes, and if she finds blood...
If she finds blood, then what? She doesn't have a backpocket DNA analyst, DNA databases, samples to compare it to. They don't even have a fingerprint database, which is why it's safe to work ungloved, although Nikita's still careful to wipe down anything she touches, just in case part of 'they' has a lot more than she's been able to find. With that tunnel appearing to the Second Island, that seems more than possible.
But she's deluding herself, here; she knows it. There's nothing to find but leftover baby dreams, maybe some sewing needles, and--
Nikita stiffens at the light scrape and rattle of something moving across the wood floor. There's a breeze through the cracked open door, but she doesn't risk it, pulls her knife as she turns slowly, still crouched, and finds the drawing on treated palm bark she made of Alex's butterfly tattoo for Annie.
She shoves the knife back into its sheath and reaches for the soft curl of palm parchment. The sea-blue silk ribbon she'd tied it with is threaded through a small hole at the top, tied in a small loop they must have used to hang it from. Nikita never knew they had, and it's this that finally breaks grief free from madness, breaks sorrow free from her skin.
Alex is gone, too. Even if she never knew she was Alex or understood why the edge-burned paper scrap that came with this read My name is Nikita, she's gone, and Nikita, crouched there, doesn't know how, but she knows she has to go on.
After what happened with Phedre, Nikita knows she should give up the wild hope that by searching Annie and Finnick's home, their belongings, she'll find some clue. Anything to follow up on, a lead, no matter how small. But if she gives up, then the knife strapped to her thigh is a lie. A child's fairy tale of a possible happy end. Hope may be the cruelest cut, but it's the pain that keeps her alive.
She doesn't feel very alive, crouched in a cabin empty of anything but memories. Her fingers touch the baseboards, drag along the wood, heedless of splinters. Even Cleaners miss spots sometimes, and if she finds blood...
If she finds blood, then what? She doesn't have a backpocket DNA analyst, DNA databases, samples to compare it to. They don't even have a fingerprint database, which is why it's safe to work ungloved, although Nikita's still careful to wipe down anything she touches, just in case part of 'they' has a lot more than she's been able to find. With that tunnel appearing to the Second Island, that seems more than possible.
But she's deluding herself, here; she knows it. There's nothing to find but leftover baby dreams, maybe some sewing needles, and--
Nikita stiffens at the light scrape and rattle of something moving across the wood floor. There's a breeze through the cracked open door, but she doesn't risk it, pulls her knife as she turns slowly, still crouched, and finds the drawing on treated palm bark she made of Alex's butterfly tattoo for Annie.
She shoves the knife back into its sheath and reaches for the soft curl of palm parchment. The sea-blue silk ribbon she'd tied it with is threaded through a small hole at the top, tied in a small loop they must have used to hang it from. Nikita never knew they had, and it's this that finally breaks grief free from madness, breaks sorrow free from her skin.
Alex is gone, too. Even if she never knew she was Alex or understood why the edge-burned paper scrap that came with this read My name is Nikita, she's gone, and Nikita, crouched there, doesn't know how, but she knows she has to go on.
