By Absinthe Disclaimers: See Chapter 1 Chapter 3: I Would Be the Last to Know It could only end in misery. That was the way it went with Section. Cassandra rubbed her sore arms, wincing when she sat down on her sore bum. She ached all over. This hand to hand stuff wasn't her forte. She was a thief, adept at getting in and out without a confrontation, not at actually having a confrontation. Grumbling wearily to herself, she tossed her PAD aside and lay down gingerly on the cot she'd finally been given. She was sick to death of this. Training was exhausting and tedious, and she hated it. She felt like she'd been run over by a Mack truck. With snow chains on its tires. Repeatedly. She also felt like she wasn't exactly excelling in her sessions. She wasn't entirely correct. Michael was, at that very moment, having a conference with Madeline on the subject of her skills in combat. "Her reflexes are extremely fast, and she has good instincts. I think we can safely accelerate her training," he said. "Good, I'll leave that to your judgement, Michael," Madeline said, her perfectly lined eyes blinked once as if to emphasize her statement. Michael returned her masked look, the dearth of emotion evident in the exchange making it all the more eerie and remarkable. But it was all in a day's work for both of them. Michael had learned his icy detachment from Madeline in the first place. "I wanted to talk to you about the Sonoma Profile," Michael moved efficiently on to more important matters. She woke to the sound of someone knocking on her door. Cassandra moaned and sat up slowly, though it took her a moment to realize what was happening. It had been months since anyone had shown anything resembling courtesy to her. "Come in," she said, sleepily. The door opened, and a white-blonde head poked in. "Good morning," the woman said in a deep, rich voice. Cassandra stared openly at her guest's nordic coloring and intensely beautiful eyes, "My name is Nikita, how are you doing, Cassandra?" "How am I supposed to be doing?" Cassandra replied, feeling a sudden wave of deja vu and nausea. "Would you like some breakfast before we begin?" Nikita asked, ignoring Cassandra's pointed rudeness. "If you say so," Cassandra snorted. "How has Michael been treating you?" The blonde bomb shell jokingly asked. Cassandra bit her tongue. "He can be tough, but everything he does is in your own interests. It will help you survive here," Nikita spoke as they entered the little, bustling, cafe-like room that served meals at all hours of the day to the operatives and administrators that worked long shifts, or lived in the complex. "So I'm supposed to be grateful? Did I ask to come here?" Cassandra replied in exasperation. "None of us ASKED to come here," Nikita retorted, her growing irritation showing clearly in her expressive voice, "but there are only two options now. Either learn and live, or give up and die." "Don't you think I know that?" Cassandra replied, her voice as cold as Michael's. She couldn't help but feel that she was being condescended to. "Look. We have to work together here. I know you're angry, and I know you're miserable, but you'd better get over it because I'm here to help you, not to argue with you." They sat down facing each other, and for a moment, for an inexplicable and wondrous moment, the mask fell from Nikita's heartbreakingly beautiful face. "So what's your hunger?" Cassandra asked, forgoing the sarcasm. "What?" "What's your scar? The thing that keeps you going in here," she elaborated. Nikita was taken aback. This recruit spoke like a veteran, not a greenling. "I don't know what you're talking about," was the correct response to such a question, but instead, Nikita sat stirring her oatmeal nervously with a spoon. "Is it Michael? He trained you, didn't he." Nikita remained silent. "He seems like such a cold fish. You could do so much better," Cassandra bitingly added, breaking the spell and bringing the flush of anger back to Nikita's cheeks. The agent stood up suddenly and walked to the door. She held it open and stood back, glaring at her charge. "Breakfast is over." "You're sure she's never had training in hand to hand?" Nikita asked, seated in the small chair opposite Michael's Spartan desk. "According to her records. She insists she hasn't," Michael said, watching her discreetly. "Ah. Well she taught me a few things today. It's as if her body knows things that she doesn't. Whenever I ask her to do something again, she can't." "I know. She's the same way during our sessions." "What about emotional manipulation?" "I haven't seen any evidence of that . . ." "She knows about us, Michael. I feel like she can see right through me. She's worse than Madeline." Michael made no response other than to glance away from Nikita and search the room with his gaze. "I don't think I can work with her again," Nikita at last came to the point. "You'll work with her until she's ready," Michael replied. He was rarely one to mix work with his pleasure, even now. Nikita would get little special consideration for him so long as her life was not in danger. Stifling the words that threatened to overflow, Nikita stood up and stalked out, her chunk heeled, knee high boots clacking harshly on the cement floor. So their sessions continued. Cassandra grew more antagonistic as she got more and more fed up with the training regime she was forced to maintain. Out of sheer perversity, the more burned out and cranky she felt, the better she became at what she was doing. Eventually though, Nikita's considerable store of self-restraint wore out with her pupil. They'd been at each other's throats for nearly two months when it happened. They were working on lethal force, and perhaps the implications of killing someone bare handed was what set Cassandra off. She couldn't help but think that having to kill at all, but particularly in such a barbaric manner, was simply a result of poor planning. She thought that Section One's methods were sloppy, and she'd said so many times. Of course, she had no idea how to do it better, in most cases, but she did know that surely it wasn't they way it had been done. "So do you use this stuff often in your personal life?" Nikita made no response but to continue her demonstration. "I can't believe I never asked you this, but what the Hell did YOU do to wind up here? You just seem too clean cut. Murder? Espionage? Or were you a terrorist? Wouldn't that be a nice twist? Now Michael. I see him as a woman killer. A serial rapist and murderer, interested only in the weak and defenseless. Maybe that's why he's sniffing after you . . ." Cassandra rambled on, her eyes locked to the colder gaze of her opponent. It was at that moment that Nikita attacked at her full strength and fury. The first blow landed with bone cracking solidity. Cassandra crumpled forward, only to remember herself at the last second and roll with it, curling around her throbbing ribs. Back on her feet, Cassandra barely had time to straighten before Nikita was on her again. Snarling, she fought back with all the tricks that her mentors there at Section one had taught her. Nikita had learned from the same teachers. Cassandra felt her reflexes slip a little after a hard slam to the floor. She was up again, but reeling. Shaking her head roughly, she focused on her defense. Just when it seemed that Nikita was going to land a killing blow to her throat, something inside Cassandra sprang to life. She felt a warm buzzing at the base of her spine and suddenly ducked, while reaching out and grasping Nikita's wrists in her hands. With a strength she was not aware that she had ever possessed, Cassandra pushed the woman's hands to her sides and they locked gazes. Nikita saw, for a brief second, something foreign and out of place; empathy. She stopped fighting her captor. Coming back to her senses, Cassandra sneered. The thrill of this strange victory eclipsed the sharp pains of the bruises that she'd received. The animal returned to her expression, and Nikita's hardened in answer. They were not done yet. As soon as Cassandra stepped back, Nikita was on the offensive again. She didn't know what was going on, but she was determined to find out. Cassandra saw it coming and, almost casually, blocked the kick. Cassandra used the momentum of her block to spin and watched as her opponent collapsed. As she pulled herself together, Nikita's anger ebbed. Cassandra settled her hands on her hips until Nikita looked up at her. Without knowing why she did it, Cassandra helped her opponent and teacher to her feet. "Thanks," Nikita intoned brushing off her pants and trying to look like she had it all together. Inside she seethed with questions. There was more to her pupil than a hateful, world-weary bitch. Gesturing that Cassandra should follow, Nikita made her way out of the monitored room and into a more private chamber. Whirling with a suddenness that might have startled anyone else, Nikita whipped around to face the darker, larger woman. "You want to tell me who the Hell you are, and what you think you're doing?" Cassandra's eyes widened imperceptibly, but by some twist of logic that she wasn't even really cognizant of, she came out with the perfect reply. "What?" "You've been baiting me for months, Cassandra. What's going on? None of this can possibly do you any good. What the Hell do you think you're doing?" Nikita knew that it was likely that every thing that Cassandra had said was calculated, otherwise, she never would have made it through Madeline's rigorous psychological profiling. Cassandra suddenly dropped her gaze. A flush rose to her cheeks, and her short hair fell in a fringe across her face. "Well?" Cassandra looked up and suddenly her face was blank and hard again. "If you don't give me an answer so help me I'll take this issue to Madeline." "Fine. You want an answer? Working with you," Cassandra's strong, crystalline voice faltered for just a moment, "It's changed something. I . . . don't ever remember being attracted to a woman before, Nikita. But you . . ." she trailed off. The truth behind her words hit Cassandra like a fist. For as long as she could remember she'd been completely secure in her sexuality. Since just before she'd lost Neil, though, she remembered a change in the way her body reacted to people. She'd actually started to lose interest in watching men in public and begun to track the beguiling sway of women's hips as they walked past her or in front of her. It was a strange juxtaposition; one that she hadn't seen coming. It was also something that she could not ignore. With the same suddenness that Nikita had used in turning on her pupil only a few seconds before, Cassandra reversed the situation and backed away. When she stood in the doorway, she bobbed her head in an abbreviated bow and disappeared down the corridor. Nikita found her an hour later, drenched in sweat, pounding the hell out of a suspended punching bag. "This place can cause a lot of changes in you," Nikita said, over the rasping of Cassandra's breath, "Some of them are good, some of them are not. Some of them we have to fight. We have to hang onto ourselves, but survival is the most important thing." "That's it? Just survival? We're just supposed to roll over and submit? We're supposed to hand over our souls?" Cassandra dropped her hands to her sides and stood panting. She was too tired to wonder where the comment about souls had come from. "Don't think that way," Nikita warned. She took the towel from her own shoulders and passed it to Cassandra. They stood in uncomfortable silence while Cassandra dried her face. "Nikita," she said, "Look, I'm sorry. I can be cruel even on the best of days." The operative nodded and squeezed one of Cassandra's hard, muscled shoulders. That day was a turning point in Cassandra's life. The explosive session had been monitored and noted by Michael, and the information had been passed on along the chain of command. Her training was accelerated, and in less than a year she was out in the field. Nikita's advice about survival haunted her as she fought to make it through each mission. She always did, and at the end of every day, she was thankful but mystified. For a while it was enough, but she came to feel she was missing something. There was a drive that she didn't have, a passion that she couldn't seem to recapture, and a memory of fire that tickled her senses and made her wonder what she might be missing. Sometimes she had flashes of it, and sometimes . . . sometimes there was just an empty longing. She spent her down time alone, working out obsessively and flicking aimlessly through tv channels. It wasn't long before she learned that these were the primary occupations of many of Section One's agents during their so called vacations. She began to peruse art galleries. The painted canvasses and bizarre sculptures fascinated her. Even the so called "expressionist" art, the stuff that made no sense, held a certain intrigue. As she discovered the art world her social life outside section took on new interest for her. Cassandra's mind was begging to be unraveled, and she threw herself with great passion into the search for the person that would do just that to her. She sought reality through sex, but it was Hell that finally opened the gates in her mind. The van rolled hard to the left, and her body slid across the cold metal floor. Cassandra's chin scraped against the ridged metal, but it wasn't until she hit the other wall that she came fully around. Swallowing a mouthful of bile, she let her head fall forward and pressed her forehead against the floor. The scratchy hood that covered her head and blocked her vision made breathing a chore. Groaning, she stopped trying to wriggle out of her bonds and silently cursed the foolishness that had landed her in this mess. She didn't see any way that she was going to survive this. If Red Cell didn't kill her, Section 1 would. All this because she'd tried to save Chris, one of her colleagues. She had not only failed, but worsened the situation. She reviewed the mission over and over in her head, discovering a dozen previously unseen doors that would have, if used, saved both her and Chris's lives. As it was, Chris was already dead, and Cassandra sensed that her time was approaching. At last the van rocked to a halt, and the doors opened, letting in a blast of brisk air. Hands grasped her by the arms and feet and dragged her roughly outside. She was carried an indeterminate distance into a building and taken down a flight of stairs that sounded metallic. A door clanged shut and all outside noise ceased. She was probably in a soundproof room. Letting her head loll and her body remain limp, Cassandra feigned insensibility as her clothes were cut off of her body and she felt the kiss of the cool air on her anxious flesh. Working with the speed of professionals, her captors soon had her stretched out, her wrists secured spread out over her head, and her legs pulled wide and fastened down. The hood was whipped from her face, and Cassandra took her first breath of fresh air in what felt like hours. A pail of frigid water was dashed against her face and chest to rouse her. Cassandra groaned and jerked as though startled. She opened her eyes and blinked against the light. As her eyes slowly focused, she wished that the hood had never been removed. She was in a small concrete room with ominously stained floors. A small table held a variety of painful looking instruments ranging from a night-stick to a cattle prod. A tall, broad shouldered man set aside an empty bucket, and smiled toothily at the fear in her wide eyed expression. A second man, seated cross legged, appeared to be meditating in the corner. Recovering herself, Cassandra blanked her expression and met the gaze of her captor. Unfortunately he was no longer watching her face but was obviously and shamelessly examining her body; the straining muscles of her legs, the dark thatch of rough hair at the apex of her thighs, the heaving of her chest and the suddenly erect nipples that crowned her pendulous breasts. "Welcome to Red Cell my friend," the terrorist eventually said, "who are you?" "Don't play that game. You know perfectly well who I am." "All right then. You're an operative with Section One. What is your name?" Cassandra fell silent. "Ah. You're going to make me work today, aren't you? Well, no worry, in a few hours, you'll beg me to answer my questions." He snapped his fingers and his partner opened his eyes. Cassandra couldn't help a sharp intake of breath at the sight. His left eye was almost black, and the other was devoid of any pigment at all. Rising, the strange man snaked out a hand and picked up a coiled whip from the table. He shook it out with cruel assurance. "A little primitive, isn't it?" Cassandra asked, mockingly. "My associate is an artist," the first man backed away and folded his arms across his chest to watch the proceedings. The "artist" stepped around his canvas and moved to stand about four feet behind her. Cassandra wrapped her fingers around the coarse rope that held her upright in the hopes of saving her wrists a little, then braced herself. Her skin thrummed in anticipation of the first blow, but nothing could have prepared her for the sudden spreading fire that sliced across her back just a millionth of a second before she heard the crack of the leather. She strained forward, her head and chest jutting out like the figurehead of a sailing ship, with her arms pressed back against the hull. The second lash landed just an inch below the first and ran perfectly parallel to it. Each successive kiss of the whip left a red slash that wept crimson down Cassandra's browned and beautiful back. As the beating continued, the blood ran in curling streams down her legs to pool at her feet. He stopped after ten lashes. "What is your name?" Cassandra looked up through sweat-matted bangs and her lips curled into a sneer of disdain. Her refusal resulted in an eleventh lash. Cassandra's body was suddenly seized with the memory of an electrical shock. "Cassandra," she gasped, her form still shuddering at the recollection. "Ah. Well, Cassandra, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now all I need from you is the location of sub base 12," he said calmly, taking Cassandra's chin in his hands and forcing her to look into his brown eyes. Her gaze was distant and unfocused. Snarling, he dropped is hand. He turned as if to leave her, but then he backhanded her. Cassandra's head snapped hard to the left and she sagged for a moment as her knees gave out. As she spat blood onto the already wet floor, she recovered herself enough to stand again and take the strain off of her abused and bloody shoulders. "The location," he repeated calmly. Cassandra glared back at him, focusing for a moment on the world outside of her mind. Every question he asked made that a more difficult task. The terrorist cast a meaningful look over Cassandra's shoulder. She was unprepared when she felt a brush of hot leather on her thigh. The one with the mismatched eyes had circled around to face her and leered. She got an up close and personal look at his few remaining teeth. He licked a rivulet of blood from her lips and she recoiled weakly. "Of sub base 12," the ‘good cop' continued. "Sub base 12?" she dazedly replied. "Yes?" She didn't answer him again. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She was getting flashes of another such beating. She was facing a dirty, moldy brick wall, and the man that held the flail was enumerating her sins; naming the people she had killed and the lives she had shattered, but not all of them. This was a mere fraction of what she had done. The sudden and un preluded thrusting of something hard and dry deep into her cunt jerked her back to the present. Recovering herself as much as she could under the circumstances, she sneered. "You think you can hurt me like this?" she demanded, "You think it hasn't happened before?" And it hadn't. Not to Cassandra; no, Cassandra Lyle had never been beaten or raped. That was not her memory. That came from another source, and in the moment that she realized this, Cassandra was inundated with lost recollections. She would never be the same. Cortese had seen to that. He had taken her maidenhead at the age of fourteen, and left her with a sense of fury at her own helplessness. Even her tomboy girlhood had not protected her or her village. She had not been the only one to suffer at the army's hands. Amphipolis would starve this winter for want of food, and some of its young women would be bearing undesired children. Xena had been lucky enough to escape that, and as soon as her broken leg was healed, she was up and working like a madwoman to protect her family and friends from Cortese's promised return in the summer. There began the journey of a lifetime into the darkness of evil and death, and back out the other side. Drowning in a sea of blood, Cassandra surfaced sobbing. "Tell me where sub base 12 is and it can all stop," a cooing voice intruded. "I'll die before I let the Horde get through to Athens. We'll kill them all!" she shouted breathlessly. Her confused words met with another sharp slap. Cassandra shook her head and fought for focus. "Stop," the tall man ordered. His associate jerked the whip free and swaggered towards the table of supplies, swinging the blood and secretion soaked handle like a baton. "Focus. Where," he said slowly, "is," he jerked snarled his fingers in her hair and gave it a jerk to punctuate his words, "sub base 12?" "Where?" "Yes. "I don't know where the scrolls are." He released her hair and muttered an order to his cohort. As the asymmetrical one of the two terrorists picked up a set of jumper cables, Cassandra's head flopped forwards against her chest and she was pulled again deep into the recesses of her walled and locked mind. "It's time girl. Time to go topside for you. You have to remember. I can show you the way but only you can take it," the warrior said. Her blue eyes flashed in the sun like two sapphires. Cassandra stared, slack jawed. A little of her awareness was with her dazed and battered body, and she was only slightly conscious of the stickiness of the blood, and the raw state of her wrists. "I don't understand," she protested. "You will. Maia, It's time to get to work now." The shock was what brought her back to reality. The electricity coursing through her body held every muscle rigid, and she felt the skin on her wrists and ankles tearing under the stress, but the sting was nothing compared to the burning. She could smell her own skin as it was searing. The contractions of her muscles also served to wrench her tortured back. Had it not been for the flood of returned consciousness she surely would have passed out. At last everything stopped and she hung from her restraints, spent and panting. "Cassandra?" She glared at him from bloodshot eyes. "Cassandra. Answer me," his tone was threatening. "What?" she gasped. "Where is it?" "Where is what?" "The sub base." Maia was slowly remembering everything, but now was not the time to sort through the maelstrom of images, now was the time to save what was left of her own skin. "Sub base 12?" "Yes, child." "I don't know where it is." "Don't lie to me," he waved a finger and his associate reapplied the charge. Maia stifled a scream. She let them push her a little further before relenting and giving them a false location. It was all she could do to postpone the inevitable. They left her strung up for a few hours in the dark and the silence. During that time, to distract herself from the shattered bits of her mind that swirled threateningly just beyond the edge of rationality, she worked relentlessly at the ropes binding her wrists. They were too much like handcuffs and hospital bed restraints. Panic gave her the additional strength it took to strip the widest part of her right hand of skin and finally wrench it free. She sagged forward a little with the lost support, but just as quickly as she stumbled she reached up to her other hand and worked the knot loose. The loops around her ankles were taken care of with consideration given to her lacerated back. Picking up what were left of her pants, she gingerly slid into them. Her shirt was a total loss. I lose more clothes... She didn't remember her captors taking the tools of their trade with them, but the table was gone. No matter. She would make it on her own, if only she could stop for a little while. All she needed was a little rest. The door was locked. She tested it tentatively, but the hinges were on the outside, and it opened outward with no handle or knob or mechanism on the inside. This was a well constructed cage. There would be no sneaking out; she would have to fight for her life. "Time to get to work," she mumbled. Continued in Chapter 4 Back to Under the Pink To My Fic Page
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