Subject:  Re: My Paris Vacation |
Author:
Cathy R Myers
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Date Posted: 14:56:13 03/14/01 Wed
In reply to:
Cathy R.
's message, "My Paris Vacation" on 14:50:10 03/14/01 Wed
My Paris Vacation
I can’t believe that I am here. Me, a lowly fanfic writer. As the plane taxies down the runway, and I look out of the window to my left, and I get my first view of Paris.
My heart is beating rapidly, and my spirit is soaring. I want to shout aloud, "I’m here. I’m here," to all of my fellow passengers. Instead, I remove my seat belt, grab my purse and line up behind the passengers exiting the plane.
Getting through customs and leaving the airport in a dreamlike state, I am, finally, standing on a street corner in Paris, France. I look around, drinking it all in. Yes, its all here—sidewalk cafes, the Eiffel Tower, and French words, everywhere.
I pick up my bag, and clutching my purse firmly to my breast, I begin to look for my hotel. "How big is Paris anyway?" I wonder as I view the city stretched out before me.
Eager to try out my first year French, I stop the person coming toward me by gently touching them on the arm.
"Excuse moi," I say. "Parler vous Francais?" I ask in my best Peter Sellers’ Inspector accent. No, no, no, I think, realization hitting me in the face. Of course, she speaks French. I, quickly, try to cover my faux pas with another French phrase. I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
"Oui la bibliotheque?"
The nicely dressed French lady looks amused, but, patiently, begins to give me directions to the library. I try to look as if I understand. When I hear a definite inflection in her voice, I quickly interject,
"Merci, beaucoup," and I smile my thanks.
I walk for several more blocks. Still not recognizing the name of my hotel, I decide that I have to stop for a moment and rest. I move to the doorway of what looks like an empty shop and set down my bag. I lean back against the door and let my gaze wander.
Looking absently down the street I am surprised to see a familiar-looking man in a long, black, stylishly cut coat and dark glasses coming toward me. As he gets nearer I find myself starring at him openly. "It can’t be," I think to myself. My palms are getting moist and my heart is jumping in my chest. He’s only a few feet away when I can bear it no longer.
"Michael?" I ask, the excitement in my voice making it sound higher than usual.
At the sound of his name, Michael stops abruptly and gives me his full attention. I am spellbound. It’s all that I can do to just stare, memorizing his every feature.
He takes another couple of steps toward me and stops again, seemingly listening to something beyond my hearing. He turns and looks down the street, back toward the path of his approach, just as a man in a white suit turns the corner. Seeing the man, propels him into action.
In the blur of an instant, I find myself thrown roughly against the door behind me. Dropping my purse, I, instinctively, throw up my hands to defend myself. Michael grabs my wrists, pinning my arms to my sides and uses his body to trap me against the door. He lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me, hard. I stand rigid in shock, my mind refusing to believe what my senses are telling me.
Time stops. Feeling my lips being pressed painfully against my teeth, I open my mouth under his. Michael’s body shifts slightly, as if in surprise, and then, he enters my mouth. I begin to struggle. As he presses me more firmly against the door, his body melting into mine, he lifts his head, slightly, and whispers against my mouth,
"Be still," he says, and I know that he is not making a request. As Michael begins to kiss me again, I catch a brief movement just beyond my field of vision. I wonder if the man in white is still approaching. Under Michael’s relentless assault, however, the thought quickly passes, and I surrender completely to the sensations flooding my body. Sensing my total capitulation, Michael releases my wrists and moves his hands around my body to gently cup my buttocks. I shift my weight to more completely accommodate his embrace, and his knee moves subtly, opening my thighs, and pressing his manhood against me. I am mindless, now. My awareness is drowning in the sea of feelings which Michael has so proficiently aroused.
Then, as quickly as it began, it is over. Keeping me within the circle of his arms, Michael pulls back. He puts his hands on the door behind me and lowers his head and rests. His breathing is ragged. I am gasping for air.
When he raises his head, his eyes are on a steady level with mine. I want to turn away to hide the glazed look of passion which I know will reveal to him the total depth of my arousal.
His eyes hold mine captive, just as his body had, only moments before. I flinch at his cold expression. I can hardly believe that this is the same man in whose arms I had just experienced such warmth and desire.
I try, playfully, to end the awkward silence between us.
"You, French people, really know how to make a girl feel welcome," I manage to whisper in a raspy voice. "Can I expect to be greeted like this often?"
Ignoring my attempt at levity, Michael counters with a question of his own.
"Who are you? Who do you work for?"
Taken back, I answer without hesitation,
"My name is Cathy. I don’t work for anyone. I write fanfics for Writer’s Alternative on the Web."
His eyes continue to bore into mine. "Is that an International Organization?"
"Well, yes. I guess so."
His eyes leave mine and focus momentarily on something in the distance. When he looks back, his eyes are hard, his face even more closed.
"How do you know my name?" he asks.
I am non-plused, but I answer as truthfully as I can.
"We all do. Everybody knows your name."
Michael grabs my upper arms in a painful grip and shoves me forcefully against the door, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Who is everybody? Members of your organization?"
I begin to feel afraid. After all, this is Michael I’m dealing with. I try, once again, to explain.
"Yes, members of my organization and, well, everyone."
Michael’s face remains impassive, but his grip tightens painfully on my arm.
"I am going to have to bring you in. You will give me names. If you don’t, it will not be pleasant for you."
Panic wells up inside of me, and the thought of the "white room" makes me nauseous. I start to struggle in earnest.
He leans in close, his voice a whisper against my ear. "You will go quietly or . . ." At his momentary pause, I finish his sentence.
"I know . . .I know. Or you’ll shoot me in the leg and carry me."
Michael’s surprised look is quickly replaced by one of uncompromising determination.
"We will discover your contact," he says. "You will tell us his name, and he will be canceled." Letting go of one of my arms, he turns and picks up my bag.
"Let’s go," he says.
Michael walks me into Section One. I know that once I am inside, I will never be allowed to leave. The enormity of my situation weighs down on me. I will be taken to the white room, and will be tortured to reveal the names of my fellow fanfic enthusiasts. Then, I will be killed by the evil duo with their briefcase and their glasses and their sadistic smiles. I begin to tremble uncontrollably. Michael looks at me, but says nothing.
The white room is just like I suspect. All of Section is an exact replica of the TV show. (or vice versa) Michael straps me into the chair and leaves the room. I look around, feeling miserable. My wonderful trip to Paris has turned into a nightmare.
I don’t have long to wait before Madeline enters the room. I don’t wait for her to ask me if there is anything she can get me. I take a deep breath and plunge right in.
"Madeline," I say, watching her eyes widen in surprise. "You’ve got to believe me. I am not a spy. I just write fanfics."
Madeline begins a slow pace in her high heels and her fitted, black dress. She smiles her secret Madonna smile.
"And what are fanfics?" she asks quietly.
"They are stories about ‘Le Femme Nikita’, I answer.
My answer stops her, and she gives me a hard look.
"You know about Nikita?" she asks, her voice filled with disbelief.
"Yes." I answer. "Everybody does."
"Who is everyone?" She persists.
I sigh. I feel like I’m caught in a time loop, forced forever to answer the same questions again and again..
"Everyone is everyone," I answer tiredly. "Everyone knows all about Section One."
I, now, have Madeline’s full attention. She turns to face me. I notice that Michael has slipped, quietly, back into the room.
"We know that Section One is the most covert anti-terrorist group on the planet. Your ends are just, but your means are ruthless. If we don’t play by your rules, we die."
Although she is trying hard to hide it, I can sense Madeline’s total astonishment.
"What else do you know?" she asks.
"We know about Birkoff and Walter and Operations."
Madeline looks at me without flinching. "I suppose you, also, know that you’re in very serious trouble," she said.
I nod sadly, realizing that my fate is sealed.
"We need names."
My mind races frantically over some the names by which I know my friends—Sanlin, Jaron, Caro, Britt, Chgp, Susanrh, Dakini, ‘chelle, Esme, Catsma, Cynaera—(and of course, a few real names also, like mine) and many others of fanfic fame. I can hear myself explaining "Oh, these are not their real names. These are just their code names. Right! Bring on the evil twins.
At my continuing silence, Madeline walks over to Michael. She seems to give him an order. As he turns toward me, I hear his reply.
"Let me talk to her, first," he says.
Michael walks over to me and leans down, placing his hands on the arms of my chair. He looks at me with limpid, green eyes which plead with me to cooperate, while his face remains expressionless.
"You must tell us the truth," he says.
I turn away, my own eyes brimming with tears of frustration.
"I am." I tell him. "Check out my story. There was this show on USA network called "Le Femme Nikita." It was all about Section One. The re-runs are still playing. Please, check it out."
He shakes his head sadly and starts to walk away.
"Michael," I call to him. He turns, once again giving me his full attention.
"I know that I have no right to ask, but if I am to die, I would like to die on a mission, with you. I’d like to die on an abeyance mission . . . not with the evil twins. Please, Michael. In my fanfics you were always the hero. Be my hero, now."
Michael seems to consider my request. "I’ll see what I can do, he says."
Time passes slowly, in the white room. After what seems like hours, the door opens once again and in walks Operations, Madeline, Michael, Nikita, Birkoff, and Walter. When they are all inside, Operations begins to speak.
We’ve checked out your story. It seems that you were right," he says solemnly. "Everyone knows us. Our missions, our pictures, even our sex lives are common knowledge."
I nod in understanding, realizing what a great shock this must be.
Pacing, with his hand cupped under his chin, he continues, "We’ll have to change everything, including our names and our location. Plastic surgeons are standing by. Even as we speak, doctors are preparing to perform sex changes and hair transplants."
"What about me," I ask. "What are you going to do with me?"
Operations looks at Michael. Michael steps forward and unlatches the bands securing me to the chair. All of the others leave the room.
Putting his hands on my shoulders, he lifts me from the chair, and looks deeply into my eyes. "I’ll never forget you," he says.
"Will I ever see you again," I ask, holding back my tears.
"Yes, I will watch over you, always," he assures me.
"But, Michael," I protest, "With everything changed, how will I know it is really you?"
Michael looks at me, unblinking, his eyes telling me what his words cannot.
"You’ll know me by my kiss," he says.
I smile, because, in my heart, I know that he is right.
The End
Cathy R. Myers
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