Oh, Nikita you will never know, anything about my home.
I’ll never know how good it feels to hold you.
Nikita, I need you so.
Oh, Nikita is the other side of any given line in time.
Counting ten tin soldiers in a row, oh no.
Nikita, you’ll never know.

Wildwing sang along with the chorus, his voice raw and full of emotion.

When you look up through the wire, Nikita do you count the stars at night?
And if there ever comes a time, guns and gates no longer hold you in.
And if you’re free to make a choice, just look toward the west and find a friend.

He closed his eyes tight, remembering. Black hair, bright blue eyes, slim and small. His own Nikita.

It was four years ago that they’d met. He’d loved her as soon as he’d seen her, and for some reason she’d agreed to go out with him. The twins had only been thirteen, they’d never known about his treasured girlfriend. He’d been planning to introduce her to his family, when the Invasion came. He’d been with her only the day before. Nikita had been looking forward to meeting his family at last. They’d kept mostly to themselves, Canard had known about ‘them’, but he’d been the only duck that Wildwing had told.

Nikita, Nikita, Nikita.

The song had reduced him to tears the first time he’d heard it, it was like it had been written just to torture him. The words hit home, hard, and the music was just the kind the real Nikita had liked.

He missed her a lot, though he never let it show. He had no desire to divulge the news now, and moping publicly would have simply gained him the scrutiny of the other six ducks.

He missed her laugh, her smile, her friendly way that Wildwing had never had. She’d been outgoing, smart, pretty, kind, and she’d been his.

Counting ten tin soldiers in a row, oh no. Nikita you’ll never know.

She never would know, either. He’d seen her body in a drain on the way from one work camp to another. He hadn’t mentioned it to his younger siblings, just choked back a sob and saved his tears for later.

The only girl he’d ever been interested in, ever loved, and they took her away.

Her long black hair matted with dirt, clothes ripped, cuts and bruises on her face. She wouldn’t have stood for slavery. No one could make a slave out of Nikita. She’d stood up to them, perhaps preferring the consequences to the life offered otherwise.

"Oh Nikita, my fiery, spirited Nikita. Was that what happened? Or did they simply kill you for the pleasure of it?" Wildwing muttered brokenly.

The alarm that sounded all over the Pond screeched, and Wildwing grabbed the Mask. It was times like this that he was grateful for the Mask, it could hide the little bit of emotion he could not.

He rushed towards Drake One, casting his painful memories for another night, the next time they played that infernal song that haunted him on the radio.