A/N: Doing a little research on this, I realized that this is a real phobia. And I probably have it. Writing is cathartic. (I also probably haven't been in the most happiest place lately, for reasons that don't need to be put here. Writing helps.) And I may have to start shooting the plot bunnies as I see them. Probably save you guys a lot of frustration! But this one is a lot shorter. A lot shorter.
(Also I had to post this using its original title "Underground." I changed that because I think this title fits better. But, there is another story I wrote, I think it's a Supernatural story, here that has the same name.)
Also, I found this a little hard to write. For reasons that this is actually a fear of mine. And other reasons. And, as always, I hope this doesn't suck too much. And sorry for any OOC.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Can't claim anything.
Mind Games
Illya was sure his eyes were open. At least, he thought his eyes were open, but he couldn't tell. There was absolutely no light anywhere around him. In fact, the only thing that told him he was awake was his head feeling like it had been split open. Which made him want to go back to sleep.
The last thing he remembered was being hit in the head by something. His memory was fuzzy from the hit. Something blindsided him. He didn't know how long ago that was or where he was.
The smell of freshly dug dirt was all around. While it wasn't a bad smell at all, it was overpowering.
He moved his leg stiffly and hit a slab of wood. He tapped it with his foot. It was solid. He couldn't bend his knee too much before it hit the side or the top.
He felt around, managing to feel around. A nail caught the side of his hand as he felt for the space between the top and the side.
His head thudded painfully at the wooden slab above and below him. He started to sweat as he figured out where he was.
I'm in a coffin. I'm alive, and I've been buried in a coffin! At least he thought he was alive. In the darkness, hearing only the sound of his pounding heart and sensing the smell of fresh dirt, it was hard to tell.
Does Napoleon know?
Illya pressed his knees and palms of his hands into splintery wooden slab over him, bracing himself with his elbows on the bottom, trying to get it to move. It refused to.
He lowered his legs and started trying to tear the splinters, cutting up his hands.
After a few minutes, he had to take a break. His hands were cut up from the nails at the sides of his coffin and the sharp splinters. Plus, he was breathing hard, and he knew that he had to keep calm, not panic, and conserve his oxygen. Every breath that he released meant less oxygen and more carbon dioxide in the stuffy, limited air.
He closed his eyes, although it was hard to tell, and tried to will his breathing and heartbeat to slow.
Come on, Napoleon. I'm alive. For now.
Things had been quiet for Napoleon. A little too quiet for his tastes. Even this assignment was a matter of surveillance. He was bored. He didn't like being bored. This was simply a stakeout, and he hated stakeouts. At least in a couple days, the Kansas City office would take over surveillance of the office building, letting Illya and him go on to the next affair.
Not that Napoleon didn't appreciate quiet times. Or, at least that's what he argued to himself. Still, he felt anxious, like something was going to explode.
Illya had gone out to plant some bugs in the building that a Thrush satrap was supposedly occupying. That had been some time ago, though. Napoleon reasoned that this was a big building with many bugs to plant.
But, for the last few hours, the only mics that were on seemed to be from the same offices. He reached for his communicator but hesitated to call Illya. If Illya was in trouble, the beep from his communicator would alert Thrush that the inept delivery man was a highly trained, deadly U.N.C.L.E. agent.
But, this was taking too long.
After debating with himself for a few minutes, he decided to go with his gut and tuned into Illya's frequency. It took several seconds, but by the time he was ready to call Channel D instead, Illya's voice came through faintly. "Napoleon?"
Illya's voice sounded odd, although it was hard to hear him. "Are you all right?
There was a brief moment of silence before Illya gave a low, sarcastic chuckle. "Not really."
Napoleon tried to figure out those odd sounds. There was an echo, as if Illya's voice kept bouncing off walls. Illya also sounded out of breath.
"Where are you?" Napoleon asked.
"I don't know exactly. But, I know I'm in a grave."
"What?"
"Thrush has done a lot to me. This has got to be the worst." Napoleon heard a loud thump, followed by Illya's sharp hiss of breath and a muttered curse in Russian.
"What was that?"
"I think I may have broken my hand on the lid of this coffin." The echo and the unnerving calmness in Illya's voice made for an eerie combination. The combination sent shivers down Napoleon's spine.
"I'm going to find you," Napoleon promised.
There were several seconds of silence punctuated by struggles for breath before Illya asked, "How?" Although Illya's voice and echo remained steady, Napoleon knew him well enough to detect the note of panic in it.
Napoleon took a deep breath, trying to get his own nerves and growing panic under control, knowing if he showed his anxiety about this, Illya would become more agitated than he had to be. "Tovarisch, I will find you. You will be all right. Just stop talking. Conserve your energy. But, leave your communicator on. I'm putting a direction finder on it. So, I'll find you."
There were a few seconds of silence punctuated by Illya trying to control his breathing before he gasped out "Hurry."
Napoleon's mind raced. He didn't know where to start looking for Illya. He briefly considered going to knock few heads around at the office building, but he figured that would be the fastest way for him to be buried next to Illya.
However, maybe that office might have some clues as to Illya's whereabouts.
He opened the door of his hotel room. A manila envelope fell into the room. After checking that the envelope didn't contain some nasty Thrush surprises in it, he cautiously opened it.
Inside the envelope were photographs. There was a handwritten note on top that made Napoleon's blood boil. It read "SORRY YOU MISSED THE FUNERAL."
Taking a breath, he quickly flipped through the photographs. The first picture showed an unconscious Illya being put into a wooden casket by two men in suits. Other men in suits were standing behind the casket. The second picture showed the lid being nailed on. Napoleon recognized the man holding the hammer as the office manager of the office they were investigating. The guy was young, ambitious, and, apparently, incredibly stupid. The third picture showed the casket being lowered into a hole. The man grinned proudly at the camera.
"He should be wearing a nametag that says 'Ask me about Thrush," Napoleon muttered. Leave it to Thrush to figure out barbaric ways of torture.
The last picture showed a truck full of dirt being emptied into the hole. This picture was further away, showing the area. Napoleon tried to ignore the dirt, the dump truck, and the men around the grave and took a moment to study the area. There was a giant dead tree behind the hole. To the right were the remains of an abandoned church. The graves around were old.
He had seen this area before. He quickly wracked his memory to figure out where he'd seen it…
He thought he had it…
Once, he had invited Lisa Rogers out for supper. She had just became Waverly's assistant, and Napoleon thought she'd be interesting and a new challenge. And she was both, although the supper didn't go as well as he had planned. But, one of the conversation topics involved college and college parties. Lisa told him that she had attended the University of Kansas, had dated a fraternity member, and would attend frat parties. They liked to have Halloween parties in a legendary cemetery outside of Lawrence in a near-ghost town called Stull. She told him about some of these parties while looking at pictures in her yearbook. If he remembered correctly, the tree was the same, as well as the chapel.
Napoleon also remembered that the office manager, Brandon Walker, attended KU.
Napoleon grabbed a map and located Lawrence. It was roughly 2 ½ hours away. He could make it in two.
He picked up his communicator and could hear Illya's struggling breaths. "Tovarisch, I know where you are. I'm on my way. I'm also bringing in the cavalry. I'm going to call the Kansas City branch to get help, so I'm going to lose you for a few minutes. But I'll be right back, all right?"
"All right." Illya's accent was growing thicker, which made Napoleon nervous.
Illya put his communicator in his nearly immobile, throbbing hand that was lying on his chest, making sure he could hear it when it went off again.
He tried the seam of the casket under the lid with his relatively uninjured hand. Splinters and nails dug into his hand, cutting it deeper.
His lungs and chest hurt. He could hear and feel his heart thumping painfully.
He dropped his cut hand. He was exhausted. He wasn't sure if he had ever been so tired.
"Illya?" Napoleon's voice echoed in the unrelenting darkness. He hadn't heard the communicator's tones.
"Napoleon?"
"Illya?" Napoleon's voice continued echoing around the casket, dying out, then coming back stronger and louder each time.
He let his better hand drop to the floor. It hit a gun. He didn't have to see it in the darkness to know it was a 9 mm automatic Luger.
Guilt gripped him. He remembered what would happen next. "I will effect his destruction. I will come back to you immediately." His own voice echoed in the darkness, although he hadn't said anything.
He grabbed the pistol. He knew what to do.
He turned his head to the side. Pain exploded behind his eyes, making a white hot light erupt and the darkness faded.
The light revealed Napoleon's body lying beside him, with a bullet hole in his head.
Napoleon sped down the highway, telling himself that every mile passed was one mile closer.
Forget being bored. This feeling of helplessness was the worst feeling.
Illya was starting to hallucinate. Napoleon gripped his communicator so hard his knuckles were turning white. He kept trying to bring Illya out of it, but he wasn't hearing anything except whatever the hallucinations were telling him. And the slurring Russian cries were incomprehensible.
And there was nothing Napoleon could do for him.
An eerie silence suddenly came over the communicator. After a few minutes of Napoleon counting the mile markers, Illya's voice came through weakly, "Sorry…"
"That's all right, Tovarisch. I understand."
"Sorry…"
"I'm on my way. I'm almost there. Just… hang on."
"'Poleon?... alive?" His voice was getting weaker as his accent was getting stronger.
"We're both still alive, Tovarisch."
"Sorry… you're…"
The eerie silence began again followed by a sharp crack, as if the communicator hit something hard.
The car started to shake as Napoleon tried to go faster.
Napoleon pulled up to the bait shop across the highway from the cemetery. Allen Leighey, the chief of the Kansas City branch, met him at his car.
"Mr. Solo," he said, extending his hand.
Napoleon shook it while running across the street.
"We're just waiting for a backhoe," Leighey continued. "And an ambulance. Both are nearly here."
Napoleon stepped through the gate into the creepy cemetery. The sun was setting, making long shadows from the tombstones reach everywhere like fingers. Agents had started digging up the dirt. Sirens started being heard in the distance.
Leighey continued as they hurried up the hill. "We got here about 15 minutes before you did. Took the backroads."
"I need a shovel."
Leighey called "Cooper! Give Agent Solo your shovel."
Cooper turned away from the grave and started handing Napoleon the shovel when his eyes drifted to the bait shop across the highway. "Gun!" He yelled.
The unmistakable sound of a Thrush rifle firing from the bait shop filled the humid evening air. A bullet broke the lights of the ambulance. The other agents dropped to the ground and started crawling toward the direction the bullets were coming from, drawing out their Specials. Napoleon grabbed the shovel and ran to the grave. The now-approaching backhoe and the ambulance would provide him plenty of cover. He started to dig.
He was barely aware of the bullets from the Specials being fired, as well as Leighey joining him the hole. He was aware of the heavy dirt. He was aware when his shovel struck wood.
He could hear Leighey shouting orders as he continued to shovel around the wooden casket. Leighey handed him a crowbar while tried started to pry out the nails on one side of the lid. Napoleon did the same. In a few moments, the lid could be lifted off.
Illya was soaked with sweat and was unconscious. At least Napoleon hoped he was just unconscious. Both hands were pretty mangled. He was pale, but his lips tinged blue from the lack of oxygen.
As they pulled Illya's body out of casket, Napoleon could hear laughing. He climbed out of the hole as paramedics started examining Illya and could see Brandon Walker, the shooter, cackling at the scene in front of him. He was bleeding from a couple of flesh wounds and being shoved against a car by two agents. Napoleon started toward him, but Leighey stepped in front of him.
"We'll take care of him, son. Go with your partner."
Napoleon bit back words he wanted to yell at Walker as Leighey walked away. Instead, he turned and walked to the paramedics, who were loading Illya on a gurney and were pumping oxygen into him.
"You his partner?" One of the paramedics asked as they loaded the gurney into the ambulance.
Napoleon nodded. "Is he all right?"
"Well, he's alive. You can ride with us, if you want to."
"Thanks."
"Illya has a concussion, a broken hand, his other hand is badly cut and needed stitches," Napoleon reported. "But, he's oxygen deprived, which caused carbon dioxide to build up in his blood and lungs. This caused an irregular heartbeat. The doctors got his pulse back to normal."
"Thank you, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly said over the communicator. "How is he now?"
Napoleon looked over at Illya, unsure how to answer that. He was alive. But, he was on a respirator for now, although the doctors tried to assure Napoleon that he would start being weaned off it in the morning. It was being used to re-inflate his collapsed lungs. Due to the respirator and his tendency to fight in unfamiliar circumstances, Illya was heavily sedated. The doctors didn't know who much damage Illya really sustained until they brought him out of it.
"We won't know how he is until he wakes up," Napoleon finally said.
"Well, keep us posted, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon stopped pacing and sat in the chair as a nurse came in and gave him a glare. He gave her an innocent look as she checked Illya's vitals.
"How's he doing now?"
"He's responding well." The nurse turned to him. "Wouldn't you like to get some coffee? A bite to eat? A breath of fresh air? Some sleep?"
"No."
The nurse glared at him again and left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts while watching Illya sleep.
Napoleon looked up as Leighey entered the room. "The nursing staff and some doctors have asked me to either get you out of the room and come back during regular visiting hours, or they are going to come after you with tranquilizers."
"What did you tell them?" Napoleon asked.
Leighey put a coffee cup in front of Napoleon. "I told them to leave you alone. Although, if I were you, I wouldn't accept a refill from any of the nurses right now."
"Do I have to worry about this cup of coffee?"
"Nope. It's from me. I'm going to offer to let you stay with my family, and I'll drive you back here in the morning. And I know you're going to decline."
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm fine."
"Of course you are," Leighey retorted. He dropped a folder in front of Napoleon and sat down. "Paperwork for you. Enjoy."
"How's Walker?" Napoleon asked sarcastically.
"Crazy. We also found the girl who took those pictures. She's pretty traumatized by all of this. She knows nothing about Thrush. She was just a temp for the office."
"She deliver the pictures as well?"
"On Walker's orders. He chose her to accompany them because she's an amateur photographer and because, as she said, 'The delivery guy was cute'. I figured you'd appreciate that."
Napoleon didn't answer that. He flipped open the folder.
"Forget that right now," Leighey continued. "But reconsider coming to my house to rest, son. You're not going to do him any favors by staying here and constantly staring at him. You'll be back in time when he wakes up."
Napoleon sighed. There was wisdom in the older man's words, and he was tired. Tired of all of this. Tired of the waiting. Too many times waiting for Illya to be all right. "I wonder why Thrush has it in for Illya," he muttered to himself.
Leighey heard him. "You know, I've had nearly 10 years to consider that question. My partner and I were called to destroy a Thrush satrap in Warsaw, and we got captured. My leg was badly broken, but both Mike and I had our communicators. You remember those cigarette pack communicators? Are those in a museum now? Anyway, while I was badly injured, it was Mike who was killed. Slowly and painfully, for hours, while I was listening in. I was unable to help him, unable to do anything to save him. Maybe I was able to comfort him because he didn't die alone, but I was still separated from him. I still have nightmares about that night. Mike was always the one Thrush seemed to like to capture and torture, but I realized that it wasn't about him. It was about me."
Napoleon sat up. "Are you saying that they torture Illya in order to torture me?"
"Well, kind of. You're the CEA of Section Two for the West. Thrush knows that."
"I've been captured and tortured by Thrush before. So, if they're after me, why not just kill me during those times? Or killing Illya outright."
"And be done with it? You know that's never been Thrush's style. Why would Walker not confiscate his communicator?"
Napoleon considered it. "They wanted me to find his body."
"Knowing that it would probably destroy you to find him dead. Not only to find him dead but listen to him die and not be able to do anything. I have a theory. Killing UNCLE agents is inadequate, and it's not just you, son, but all UNCLE agents. They want to see us suffer." Leighey sipped his own coffee. "Thrush knows how to play mind games on us. They know where our weakness is. And, sadly, our strength and our weakness is our partners. They have our backs when we need them, and we rely on that fact."
Napoleon studied the older man for a few minutes. "Maybe you're right, but I guess I'm used to having Illya's back and knowing he's got mine. And I wouldn't change that."
Leighey smiled. "If you have his back, maybe you should get some rest."
Napoleon lifted his coffee cup in a salute. "I realize that it would be the best, but I don't want to leave just yet."
"I'll wait with you, son, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind."
The white was bright and cool. Different than what he had gotten used to.
It's amazing what you could get used to.
He was aware he was breathing, and that momentarily confused him. Not supposed to be aware of breathing. But, his head felt disconnected from the rest of him, so the confusion didn't last long.
The white swirled into solid objects. Tiles on a ceiling?
He figured he was in a hospital room. All those ceilings looked the same. He didn't remember what happened, and right now his eyelids felt too heavy for him to really try to remember.
"Are you awake, Tovarisch?" Napoleon's voice echoed softly.
Illya wanted to tell him he was, but couldn't form the words. He twitched his hand, hoping that Napoleon would understand.
Things quickly went dark again.
It had been almost two days before Napoleon saw a flash of blue as Illya's eyes opened as the sedatives started wearing off. He was breathing normally again, although he was still on oxygen. The doctors still weren't sure of the amount of damage being oxygen deprived had done.
"Are you awake, Tovarisch?" he asked.
Illya raised the fingers of his cut hand in a little greeting then drifted back to sleep.
At least he was getting more responsive. And his sleep wasn't usually as deep as it had been while on the sedatives.
He was looking better. His color was coming back all the time.
Napoleon sat back and continued flipping through the paperwork, trying to figure out exactly how to fill it out.
"You know, you look pretty rough," Illya said weakly.
Napoleon smiled. It had been about a day since Illya had woken up enough to talk. Everyone had been pleased. "Pot calling the kettle black?"
"I never understood what that meant."
"Have you looked at yourself lately?"
Illya didn't answer. He studied his bandaged hands. "What happened?
"You don't remember?"
"I remember going to the office building, and I was about ready to bug Walker's office. Then I woke up with a strange appreciation for white and light."
"If you don't remember, consider it a blessing. Besides, if you don't remember, you won't be able to help me with paperwork, will you?"
"So I get to watch you do paperwork? That sounds even boring than just watching the ceiling. What happened?"
Napoleon considered his partner, remembering Leighey's theory, then said, "Thrush just played a mind game on us. They're not going to win that game. That's all you really need to remember."
End
A/N: First, "The Thrush Roulette Affair" is my favorite episode. I'm not sure why it's my favorite. But, obviously, I like dark, which is probably why. (For the record, "Alexander the Greater Affair" both parts are my second favorite. Not exactly dark.) Actually, I love season 4. I have a hard time choosing which season I prefer: season 1 or season 4.
Second, I apologize for any typos and grammar. It's a little hard to write around professional and semi-professional authors (I'm neither) with no beta or editor. I apologize for the ending—I always hate my endings. Mostly, I just apologize for my writing. I hope this didn't suck too much. (I got tripped up in the middle, probably put too much in it. And I always hate my endings.)
Oh, yeah, Stull, Kansas is an unincorporated town near Lawrence, Kansas. It's not a ghost town, since there are some people still living there. However, pretty much that's there now are some fields, a bait shop, a church, and this cemetery. The cemetery is legendary, which is why my brain kept going to this. (Seriously, look up some of these stories! I don't believe in them, but they're fascinating!) I was going to set this story in a generic town, then I started playing around with ghost towns in my head. I figured I should write an area I know. I'm taking some liberties, obviously.
It's also been a while since I've been to Lawrence, and even longer since I've been to Stull. Apologies for any liberties taken with time and distance.
(Also, interestingly—while I was finishing up this story, I was watching an episode of the 1975's The Invisible Man, starring David McCallum. In this particular episode, David's character is trapped in a vault that was having air pressure lowered, and he couldn't breathe. You can't see him, because he's invisible, but it was pretty intense. It does make sense in context.)