No Rescue Needed
was created by Joss Whedon. Nikita
was created by Craig Silverstein.
Author's Note: This fic picks up immediately after the ending of Nikita
's third season. It's set in the same broad universe as my Law and Order crossover Slayerz and my Eureka crossover Scarlet Witch, though it's not necessary to have read either of those fics. Suffice it to say that the Unbroken Academy is in Warren, Maryland, the approximate site of a Hellmouth, and that this is where the main training facility for Slayers is in North America. Giles, Faith, Xander, Robin Wood, and Andrew are stationed there, along with numerous young Slayers and Watchers, and Willow, Dawn, Buffy and Kennedy drop by regularly.
X X X X X
Nikita blinked away the tears as she drove away from the safe house. She wanted to believe what Alex had said, so very much; but she couldn't afford to.
She was dangerous to them. She was dangerous to everyone, now.
One thing was left: Vengeance. Amanda had made this happen. Amanda had gotten the President killed, and framed Nikita for doing it.
She wouldn't be able to do it alone, though. Alex had been right about that.
But there were other people she could use to help her. People she trusted -- but didn't love the way she did Michael, and Alex, and Birkhoff, and Ryan, and even Sonya. People she didn't want dead -- she wanted as few deaths as possible -- but not the people she loved.
Not that, when they agreed to help her, she wouldn't move heaven and earth making sure nothing happened to them, either. Every meaningless death hurt.
But they wouldn't hurt as much.
Nikita hated quantifying lives this way. She did it, she realized that she did it, but that didn't make it a whole hell of a lot easier.
These people owed her one – a big one. Back between the time she'd escaped Division and the time she managed to get Alex into it, she'd stumbled across a group in Maryland that at first seemed suspiciously like Division until she found out otherwise . . .
X X X X X
Nikita watched as the girls left, mostly in pairs, sometimes alone. They never carried guns, but she could see other weapons; knives, crossbows, even stakes. Whether perky or grim, they carried themselves like professionals. They seemed way too young – some of them couldn't be more than fourteen.
Her first thought was that this Unbroken Academy was some kind of pre-training ground for Division; that these were the girls they got even younger than she'd been when she was recruited.
The hand-to-hand was off the charts already; some of these girls were up to her level, already – and deadly with the crossbow, which was a weapon Nikita had never mastered. Division hadn't spent a long time training its agents in the use of medieval weaponry, though they'd learned knives, staves, and improvising. (The idea being that you weren't always going to have access to actual weapons, so sometimes you had to make do with whatever was available.)
Nikita had only seen them at a distance; they moved quickly enough that she could barely keep them in sight, and the binoculars she'd been able to get on her own were not top of the line equipment. She saw them in combat from a distance, with humans, and things that only looked human.
Division didn't handle the supernatural, but they knew about it. Agents were taught what to do when their backs were against the wall if they ran across a vampire, or a hostile demon of some sort; but mostly they were taught to recognize, and avoid, and, if necessary, run. That was not their job. Even Percy had never strayed far into that aspect of the world, and Percy had been willing to do damn near anything if he'd felt it necessary.
And that put the kibosh on this being a Division training academy. Still didn't explain why nearly everyone involved seemed to be under 18 and female. That rankled with Nikita. Even if they were volunteers, they could have hardly known what they were volunteering for.
She had business with Division, but she couldn't turn her back when these women might be in danger.
Picking a couple to follow, almost at random, she went all out and made sure she kept up with them until they got to the outskirts of a golf course. They scaled the outside fence faster than she would have thought possible. At the count of five, she got ready to follow them --
And stopped.There was someone else there.
A couple of armed men – heavily armed by the look of things – got out of a nearby vehicle, the driver speaking into a phone in Russian while the other one excitedly pointed at the exact spot the girls had gone over the fence.
Straining to hear what the driver was saying, she picked up maybe one word in three, but the words for “ambush” and “bitches” and the phrase “stop interfering in our [something] trade” stood out clear as day.
The two men didn't bother scaling the fence; they simply walked to a nearby gate, unlocked it, and walked in.
Now Nikita went after them. They'd left the gate unlatched, so she opened it quietly but quickly and looked around. It took her a few seconds, but the men were sneaking towards a wooded area overlooking one of the golf course's water hazards.
It wasn't large – maybe a dozen trees – but it was large enough to conceal them. The girls, meanwhile, were standing by the far edge of the water, talking in smug tones to a pair of – well, humanoids was the word that came to mind. She couldn't quite make out the words.
And she didn't have time to try, because the Russians weren't wasting any time. They both unlimbered a pair of Bushmasters and aimed them towards the girls.
Nikita didn't hesitate, picking up a rock and throwing it at the driver while charging at the other one. It hit the driver, startling him enough that he pulled the trigger without fully aiming, sending a shell into the water not five feet away from where the girls were confronting the humanoids. They scattered, as did the humanoids.
Nikita, meanwhile, hit the other Russian with her shoulder and wrenched the rifle from his hands before he hit the water a few feet below. The driver cursed and swung his rifle around to face her.
Rifles weren't close up weapons, though, and Nikita knocked the barrel upwards before he could get off a shot and knocked it from his hands, backing up. His partner had surfaced, but wasn't going anywhere now that Nikita held the only rifle.
“You are not one of them.” he said in mildly accented English.
“No,” Nikita said.
“You don't know who you're messing with,” the one in the water said, in a thicker accent. Didn't know who she was messing with? Were the Russians picking out their hit men straight from Central Casting?
“My guess? Russian mob. And someone willing to kill teenaged girls. Neither one of which puts you high on my list.”
“I think she does know who she's messing with,” the driver said. “Which makes you either courageous or a fool.”
“I've been called both,” she said. Right then the man in the water pulled a pistol from somewhere under the water and started to level it at Nikita.
She turned and fired the Bushmaster, blowing off the top of his skull before he could shoot; the recoil was minimal, but enough to let the driver charge at her.
A crossbow bolt caught him in the shoulder before he could finish, and he tumbled into the water alongside his partner's corpse. Turning quickly, Nikita saw the two girls she'd been trailing. She nodded thanks, then turned and shot the driver twice in the chest. Then she wiped the rifles down, tossed them into the water hazard, and ran to join the girls, her hands up. “Thanks,” she said.
“Thank you,” the taller of the two said.
“You're welcome,” Nikita said. “But could we save anything else for until we've gotten out of here? Bushmasters aren't exactly quiet and someone has to have called the cops.”
“Right,” the shorter one said. “Try to keep up.”
And they turned and took off. Nikita, though pressed to her limits, kept up.
And that was how she met the Slayers and the other people from the Unbroken Academy.
X X X X X
Nikita shook her head. Enough reminiscing.
First things first. She turned her phone off -- Birkhoff being Birkhoff, it would have been blindly stupid to do otherwise. So she needed to pick up a burner and make a phone call.
She needed to ditch the car, too. Birkhoff probably didn't have any actual tracking devices on it, but it wouldn't take him and Sonya more than twenty minutes to figure out some way to use something on it as a GPS.
If the picture of her in the White House had been clearer, she'd have wanted to try to disguise herself, too; but at the moment, what the world had was a blurry security camera image and a description that fit thousands of women. So she'd pick up some stuff for a quick makeover, but she wouldn't bother using it until it became necessary.
There was a shopping center up ahead. Drugstore, phone store; good enough for what she needed.
Twenty minutes later she was walking down the road, the car abandoned in a corner of the shopping center parking lot, new phone in her pocket and a bag from the drugstore hanging from her left hand. A half mile walk got her to a Burger King, where she ordered a chicken sandwich meal, sat down facing the street, and used her new phone for the first time.
Three rings and “Unbroken Academy. This is Andrew. How can I help you?”