This was a xover fanfic I wrote in response to the crossover challenge recently issued on lfnfic-l. I refused and continue to refuse to obey instructions and tell you which show this crosses over with, until the end, so as not to spoil what may be a surprise for those of you who don't speak French, and don't watch the show in question. No copyright infringement of La Femme Nikita, nor the other show, is intended, all rights reserved. More formal DISCLAIMERS can be found at the end of the story.

Ahem. "Overture! Curtains, lights! This is it, we'll hit the heights! And oh, what heights we'll hit! On with the show, this is it!"'

"What makes you think these individuals will make good operatives?"

Michael surveyed the photos ranged on the visiscreen. The three men and one woman seemed unprepossessing, but their mediocre miens belied black hearts, as Michael well knew from reading their trial transcript.

"They are ruthless, they are dedicated solely to their own survival, and they will follow blindly any rationale which serves them best. They are ideally suited for Section One," Michael answered Ops.

The older man considered the faces displayed before them, feeling his stomach churn slightly in disgust.

"All right," he said. "Bring them in."

Michael assembled his team, notified the appropriate authorities, and was on his way to the county jail of the small New England town before nightfall. One by one, the four evil confederates found themselves head-bagged and carried to a van, where they were transported to Section One, the most covert anti-terrorist organization in the world. Once inside headquarters, they were dragged to individual white rooms, where the programming began.

*******************

Room 1 - Michael and the Operative Codenamed NIP

"Where am I? Who are you? Why have you brought me here? You can't get away with this! I have friends in the publishing industry who will be very excited to bring this story to the entire world!"

The young woman struggled against her restraints, watching as Michael moved ever closer to her, serpentine fashion, zigging this way, slowly zagging that. His movements became hypnotic, and she fell silent. She noticed that he had a really nice head of hair.

"Who are you?" she demanded, somewhat less stridently this time. "Please, just talk to me!"

"My name is Michael," he answered. "You are now my materiel."

She smiled and unconsciously tossed her long, chestnut-brown hair. "Your ma-ter-i-el. Ooh, I like the way you say that. My name's Elaine, Michael. Are, uh, are you single?"

Michael frowned briefly, then realized this must be part of her psychosis, the means she used to gain the upper hand with those she wished to torment. He smiled briefly. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"I love your accent, Michael. It sounds French. Are you French?"

"Yes."

"I went to France once with my psychiatrist. I mean, my boyfriend. Well, I mean, he was my psychiatrist and my boyfriend."

"That must have been very troubling for you, Elaine."

She furrowed her brow. "No. Except when I'd meet someone better looking than him. He had this big problem with jealousy. I mean, just because he was taking me with him through Europe, paying my way, that doesn't mean that I can't meet other guys, does it?"

Michael was getting a headache.

*******************

Room 2 - Madeline and the Operative Codenamed BOSCO

Madeline strolled around the new operative as he lay helpless, strapped to the chair. She circled him like a shark, noting with interest the sweat that beaded on his flushed, plump skin.

"You aren't going to hurt me, are you?" he whimpered.

She smiled. She hadn't had to do a thing, and already he was broken. She liked that in a man.

"No, George. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to help you."

He tried to smile, but was mostly unsuccessful. He knew he ought to be afraid, and indeed, he was afraid -- but nevertheless, couldn't help but notice the lush curves on her slim, healthy body. Okay, maybe she was a little old, but she still looked fabulous. Those thighs. His eyes drifted lower. He bet she could squeeze him like a tomato between those thighs.

She noticed his regard, and couldn't help smiling at his transparent lust. She had seen many emotions here in this room, but never lust. Michael had been right, at least about this one. He was truly insane, and easily twisted to their designs.

"Tell me about yourself, George."

He shifted as much as he could in the dentist's chair, in an effort to hide the sucking in of his gut and to reduce the glare from the overheads on his pate. "I'm a . . . I'm a marine biologist," he said self-importantly.

Maddy raised an eyebrow. "That sounds interesting. I wouldn't have taken you for an . . . outdoor type."

George shifted again. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I -- "

"Oh, I suppose that only tall, handsome, well-built men -- men with lots of hair -- can be marine biologists, huh? Well, excuse me. Excuse me for thinking I have the right to go on living in this perfect world. You think it's easy being me, darling? ‘Cause, I'll tell you, it's not. No-ho-ho. Even when I was a child, I always fell short. Morning, noon and night, I heard it from my mother: ‘Why can't you be more like Lloyd Braun!'" he squeaked in a shrill falsetto.

Maddy held up her hands. "George, all I was trying to say was -- "

"What are you doing there?" he interrupted.

"What -- "

"I was in the middle of telling you a story. You asked me a question, and I was trying to answer it, and you interrupted me. Are you too busy to listen to me? Is that your problem? Because if it is, all you have to do is walk out that door, baby!"

Madeline was getting a headache.

*******************

Room 3 - Nikita and the Operative Codenamed SUPERMAN

Nikita chewed nervously on her bottom lip. This was the first time she'd ever been given an assignment like this, and she wasn't sure she was up to it. She examined her sleeping subject from a distance. He looked nice. He had neatly trimmed brown hair, wore a dark blue, button- down cotton shirt, tucked neatly into his pressed jeans, and had on the most gleamingly white pair of tennis shoes she had ever seen. Even his fingernails were well-groomed.

She coughed softly and he stirred.

"Wha -- where am I?"

Nikita kept her distance. "You're in Section One."

"Is that a new room of the prison?" He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Too late, she realized she was supposed to have manacled him to the dentist chair. That was one strike against her.

"No. You've been recruited to join the most covert anti-terrorist organization in the world."

He sat up a little straighter in the chair. "You mean, sort of like the Hall of Justice?"

"Uh . . . yeah, something like that."

"Well," he smiled, silently congratulating himself. "It's about time. When do I begin?"

"Well, first I have to train you."

He looked her up and down appreciatively, although as discreetly as he could. "Train me?" He smiled charmingly and placed his hands behind his head. "Consider me all yours. Do with me as you will."

She couldn't help smiling back at him. "Well, I . . . to be honest, this is my first time doing this sort of thing, so I'm not really sure how to go about it. Right now, I think I'm just supposed to let you know that you're here, you're a part of Section One, and you can't ever leave."

"How can I fight terrorists if I don't ever leave the room?"

"No, I mean, you can't leave Section One." She started laughing when she realized he was teasing her. "You're funny, Jerry. I forgot you were a comedian."

He leaned over, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. "You know, that's not really fair. You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"It's Nikita," she said with a smile.

"Nikita. That's a very pretty name. I won't have any trouble remembering that. So, what do you do for fun around here?"

"Oh, you know. There's not much here at the base, but once you've been trained, you are allowed to go outside. I go to clubs, I go out to dinner once in a while," she said rather wistfully.

"Are you . . . seeing anyone?"

She had to think about it. "Well, I -- I was, but I'm not really anymore."

"Would you like to go out with me? I mean, once I'm allowed to leave the building?"

She smiled shyly, fiddling with the cool shades in her jacket pocket. "Sure."

"You know, I have to admit, you're an incredibly beautiful woman."

She grinned, and looked down in embarrassment. She pulled out her sunglasses and put them on, to hide the pleasure in her eyes at his compliment. They were frosty blue, cat's eye glasses, with rose-colored lenses, the newest addition to her collection.

Jerry's face froze in a half-smile. "Those are some, er, interesting sunglasses you have there."

She smiled again. "Thanks. I collect them."

"Are they, um, are they all like that?"

"Oh, no. I have lots of different colors and styles. Usually, I like to coordinate them with my hats. I wore this one today," she announced, pulling off a nearby chair a huge, floppy, pimp hat, one she hadn't worn since Jurgen had died.

"Oh. Yeah. That's interesting." Jerry cleared his throat. "You know, I don't think this is gonna work out."

She frowned. "But I told you. Once you're in Section, you can't leave."

"No. I mean us." He held up his hands hurriedly. "It's not you, it's me."

Nikita couldn't believe her luck. Why, why, why couldn't she have a relationship? What was wrong with her? She pressed her fingers to her temples.

She was getting a headache.

**************************

Room 4 - Operations and the Operative Codenamed DOOFUS

Ops lit his cigar and surveyed the gangly, wild-haired man sprawled in the chair. Somehow, he had managed to work his way out of the wrist and ankle cuffs, and in his sleep yet. He was positioned improbably, half on and half off the chair. Ops couldn't understand what weird quirk of gravity prevented the man from falling to the floor. He walked around him quietly, almost slipping when he accidentally stepped in the puddle of drool that had formed three feet below where the man's head hung over the neck rest of the chair.

"Damn," Ops exclaimed, dabbing at his new suede loafers with his handkerchief.

"Nice shoes," the man said, causing Ops to jump back in astonishment. "Are those Bruno Magli loafers?"

Ops blinked in wonder. When had the recruit awakened? Had he been awake all along? "No," he answered.

"They look like Bruno Maglis. Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Here, take ‘em off, let me look at the soles."

Ops stepped away from the man's outstretched hand. "No. They're my shoes, I know what they are."

"Well, I'm not so sure about that," Kramer replied with a smirk. Then he noticed the cigar. "Say, that smells good. Is that a Cuban."

Ops took the cigar from his mouth and eyed it appreciatively. "Yes. Yes, it is."

Kramer crossed his legs. "That's illegal, you know. Of course, I have Cubans, too. You just have to know the right people, am I right?"

Ops nodded.

Kramer leaned forward. "You and I, we're men of the world. We understand these things. For instance, you may have noticed that I haven't asked you what this place is, or why I've been brought here."

"That had crossed my mind," Ops said, just a little fascinated.

"That's because I know. It's Section One, the most covert anti-terrorist organization in the world. You've recruited me -- and my compadres -- to be new agents. Isn't that correct?"

To say Operations was dumbstruck would be a vast understatement. It was if the floor beneath him had turned to vanilla pudding, and he was sinking rapidly. "How -- how did you know that?"

"Oh, I know many things, my friend. For instance, you only think those shoes you're wearing are Kenneth Coles. In actuality, I'm right. They are Bruno Maglis. And you think that you are running this organization, but in fact, you are merely a puppet, powerless in the grip of your dark master."

The room seemed to be spinning around Ops. Everything this man said was insane, schizophrenic, yet how could he know so much about Section One? He pressed the butt of his palm against his forehead.

He had an awful headache.

****************************

Michael, Madeline, Nikita and Ops each collapsed simultaneously, their brains shorting out from the torment inflicted by their captives. The four new operatives walked out of their respective interrogation rooms, meeting in the main hall of Section One.

"Kramer!"

"George!"

"Elaine!"

"Jerry!"

"George!"

"Kramer!"

"Elaine!"

"What are you doing here?" three of the new operatives asked each other in unison.

Kramer took his cigar out of his mouth, smiled at them, then gestured to the glass-walled room high above them. The jaws of Jerry, Elaine and George dropped in shock, horror and disgust as one of the glass windows slid open, revealing the new Section Chief.

"Newman!!!"

"Hello, all," he smirked. He placed one hand in the pocket of his velvet smoking jacket, the other on its quilted satin lapel, and announced dramatically, "I suppose you're all wondering why I've brought you here. It's very simple, really. I, and I alone, am the true leader of Section One. For many months, I have been extremely displeased with the way this organization has been run. Far too . . . compassionate for my tastes. It was time for a change, and the only man who could effect that change was me. It was I who arranged for your recruitment -- with the help of Kramer, of course."

Kramer grinned and took another puff of the cigar.

"Jerry, George -- Kramer will give you your assignments. Elaine . . . "

She felt her skin crawl in revulsion.

"Elaine, you will work under me personally. Haha. Hahaha. Bwahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!"

The End

For those who have no clue what I've been writing about, this has been a La Femme Nikita/Seinfeld crossover. La Femme Nikita is the property of Joel Surnow and USA Networks. Seinfeld is the property of Jerry Seinfeld, Larry David and Castle Rock Entertainment. No copyright infringement intended, all rights reserved. Personally, I think this is a hell of a lot better way to end Seinfeld than what they came up with.

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