The Appearances Can Be Deceiving Affair
By Selyndae
Prologue
It was getting dark. The biting cold from the wind cut like sharp knives into his exposed face as Napoleon Solo crouched near a rock. He blew on his mittened hands in turn, trying to stay warm, while watching the guards' movements. As he raised the binoculars up to his eyes to study the doorway he found himself squinting to make out the shapes of the various structures, as they were becoming increasingly hidden by the lengthening shadows. Illya had gone inside forty-two minutes ago to set the last of the explosives deep inside the Thrush laboratory. Double checking his watch, Napoleon again blew on his hands to warm them.
Eight minutes. He looked around the compound, his eyes checking for any sign that something was off. So far, so good... no extra activity... no alarms raised.
Damn, but it was cold. He checked the time again. Seven minutes. Illya should be coming out anytime now. Napoleon hunched down into his coat again. He hated the cold, and was momentarily annoyed because his partner seemed to thrive on it. Illya should be the one standing guard outside in this bitter stuff. But... much as he hated to admit it, Illya was the better man when it came to planting explosives. And this laboratory had to be completely destroyed. Again, since Illya was the scientist, he wouldn't have to guess about which bits could be left and which samples or notes must be taken or destroyed on sight.
Napoleon sighed. He hated jobs where they had to work separately. Oh, it made perfect sense to just have one agent go down to the lower levels of this particular Satrap; safer, but he still hated it. He hated any missions where he wasn't watching Illya's back or when Illya wasn't watching his. He had to concede that his part in this mission had been relatively easy. All he had to do was wire the perimeter to explode inwardly with a triggering device. Which was why he was already finished. And, why he was crouched, shivering, waiting for Illya to return.
Two minutes. Napoleon started to tense up. Illya was cutting things pretty fine. He gave a mental shrug. It wasn't the first time. But, still... something felt wrong. He shivered again. This time, though, it wasn't from the cold. It was—
And at that moment, the time was up and the Satrap exploded in a spectacular array of black smoke and flames flaring up well over sixty feet into the night sky. The concussion from the blast shook down some rocks behind Napoleon, causing him to lose his footing. Even from over 100 yards away he could feel the heat.
Jerking his binoculars back up to his face, he peered anxiously, searching through the thick, dark smoke for a familiar figure...
Nothing.
In that moment, the horror swept over him in a giant wave of overpowering helplessness and loss...
Illya didn't make it out.
Act I: What's a Nice Boy Like You Doing in a Place Like This?
At the site of the destroyed Satrap, agents from Sections 2, 3, and 4 secured the area as they searched for possible survivors, bagging any retrieved equipment and data for further study. As they dug deeper, there was less to be discovered in the massive destruction. It had been over three hours since they found anyone still alive other than the two Thrush guards; one who died shortly after his rescue, the other bruised and shaken was on his way to headquarters for questioning. One of their own men had slipped and fallen down one of the ripped-open floors. He was subsequently rescued and in stable condition, considered very lucky to only have a broken leg.
With every passing hour, the thought that Illya was dead—killed either by Thrush or from the blast—was pushing its way insistently into Solo's thoughts. Napoleon kept pushing them back. His emotions would have to wait; for now, he had a job to do.
April Dancer walked up to Napoleon, carrying a thermos and some cardboard cups. Silently, she poured a cup of hot coffee into one and handed the fragrant cup over. Napoleon waved it away, but April persisted. "Napoleon, you need this."
It was easier to take the proffered cup than to keep refusing. Nodding his thanks, he glanced up, meeting her eyes. That moment's connection was almost his undoing. Worry and compassion were clearly shining out of bright, tear-filled eyes. April fully understood what Napoleon was going through; the worry, the mission—everything.
"Mr. Solo!" Some of the men were calling from the site.
Napoleon crushed his now-empty cup and rushed over to look down at the devastation. "What is it?" he called down, quieting his dread of the anticipated bad news.
One of the men climbed part way up the ladder. "We found another section. It appears to be reinforced and, surprisingly, I mean, considering the size of the explosion, practically intact."
"Well...?" Napoleon waited for more.
The man hesitated. "We managed to get a camera down inside the area to have a look. It's dark, but we can see three people inside. They could be alive, but we're not sure."
"And...?" Napoleon wondered what the problem was.
"The surrounding structure is really shaky. I'm not sure we can even get inside, let alone pull anyone out." The man stopped, allowing Napoleon to absorb this new information.
Abruptly, Napoleon took hold of the ladder and prepared to descend.
The agents worked quickly to pull out the survivors. It was a near thing. Even as they were getting them out, debris was raining down. The first, probably a Thrush guard, was badly hurt with severe burns over all the visible parts of his body and at least one broken arm and some ribs. Speed being the top priority, he was strapped down and rushed out. The next was a very tall man (probably a Thrush lab technician by his garb). The serious burns on his face and arms were the only visible damage but his blood pressure and breathing indicated serious internal injuries. Even as they started the rescue, he stopped breathing. A quick check showed there wasn't anything more they could do, so they moved on to the last victim. This was a small blonde who'd saved herself by donning a protection suit and wrapping herself up in a mattress. They strapped her down, still inside the suit, to get her out quickly.
They never found Illya.
"We're sorry, Mr. Solo." Tired as the rescuers were, they felt the pain of not being able to save one of their own. Many of them were familiar with the small, exacting Russian, and held him in deep respect. But, the site was rapidly becoming far too unstable. Already, two more searchers had to be sent to medical due to injuries caused by the falling debris. Solo closed his eyes briefly in heart-wrenching regret before making the difficult decision. They had to pull out. It was too dangerous to stay and continue what must now be a retrieval mission—downgraded from rescue.
With that, the bulldozers were on their way to cover the site... and bury the dead they left behind.
"Mr. Solo, I'm very sorry about Mr. Kuryakin." Mr. Waverly spoke quietly. As often as enforcement agents were told they were expendable, it was always hoped that this ultimate sacrifice wouldn't be necessary. Even through his pain, Napoleon could see that his boss was completely sincere and mourned the loss as well. Unfortunately, Napoleon was all too familiar with the sorrow he felt whenever a fellow agent was killed—even more so when it was someone from his own office. But, this time it was different. It was Illya—his partner, his best friend. Sure, he knew all the platitudes about these close friendships, that it was risky to say the least. But, realistically, when you had a partner you needed to depend upon, you couldn't help but get close. And if you were lucky enough to have a partner that... 'clicked', someone who completed you, making your two-man unit function as a single entity, well, something that special rarely, if ever came along.
Napoleon knew that he would always feel this loss. He also knew that only time would dull the cold, hollow emptiness he felt... eventually.
Napoleon Solo stared at the woman who was unconscious inside the infirmary. He'd just gotten word that the technician died of complications during the surgery. The burns had been too extensive—the injuries too severe. This woman was the last survivor, and based on her proximity to the blast, probably knew a great deal about the research. She was a small woman, short, slim, her blonde hair cut in a shaggy, but practical style that just brushed her shoulders.
Her unconsciousness was puzzling. There was no evidence of head trauma and her other injuries were not too severe: a dislocated right shoulder and hairline fracture to the right wrist. Apparently, she'd broken other bones in the past according to her x-rays and, judging by her scars, it was obvious she'd been whipped and tortured at some point. It looked like she was either forced to work for Thrush… or else, she was a very active field agent.
Solo shook his head at that unlikely possibility. As Chief Enforcement Agent, he not only had extensive personal field experience, he also had the benefit of reading through the reports of the other agents in Section 2, New York. In addition, he was privy to information through his boss, Mr. Waverly, from the other offices. No... he'd have heard about an experienced Thrush agent this lovely. His eyes were drawn to her hands, a trifle larger than expected of someone so small. Long, graceful fingers, devoid of nail polish had the telling calluses that spoke of extensive experience with a gun. He sighed. Hopefully he'd get some answers when she woke up. Meanwhile, he'd already started sorting through what he did know.
There was something strangely compelling about her, something he found somehow more attractive than the dangerous Angelique and she wasn't even awake! A kind of subliminal connection... something.
That's what he told Mr. Waverly earlier. Thinking back to that meeting, Napoleon sighed again. Normally, this kind of patient was heavily guarded with physical restraints. The only reason there was just the one guard outside in a token security measure was Napoleon's insistence about a 'feeling.' Mr. Waverly had waited quietly, allowing him to have his say. Napoleon ruefully remembered how difficult it had been pleading his case about this 'feeling.' Fortunately, on the 'evidence' side were the fingerprint results. On a hunch, Napoleon had personally taken the unconscious woman's fingerprints and had them processed as an 'unknown person', hinting to the lab that it was a test for the rookies. Despite the doubts Waverly obviously harbored, he'd had enough faith in his CEA to allow some latitude. Who else—
Although there was no actual movement, Napoleon suddenly sensed the woman was waking up. He stood up and moved just out of reach, waiting to see what would happen next knowing he could judge what sort of professional she was by how she reacted to this situation. He heard a moan before she relaxed.
Eyes still closed, the woman spoke in a parched whisper, "N-Napoleann?"
"Yes, I'm Napoleon Solo" Napoleon frowned, faintly surprised that she knew who he was, especially in her condition, attributing her odd pronunciation of his name to her accent. He asked his own question. "Now, who are you?"
The small figure immediately opened her eyes to stare at him in shock.
Waking up was painful. Very painful... he hurt in places he'd forgotten existed. Come to think of it, he was surprised to wake up at all. He was in a bed, that much was obvious, but where? Oh. The quiet sounds of monitoring equipment along with the antiseptic smells indicated some kind of infirmary...
The last thing he remembered was setting the final charge and starting to leave when he'd run into some guards. Taking a quick detour, he'd tried to slip past, but instead, ended up in some kind of x-ray or contaminant room. Once inside, Illya quickly closed the door and looked around the small area. He'd only just noticed the steel walls and lead lining when he realized he wasn't alone. Huddled in the far corner of the darkened room were two men who were looking into a small door on the opposite wall. From their expressions, Illya could see that they were terrified of something inside that area. As he moved to conceal himself behind the counter, one of the men turned and seeing him sucked in a noisy breath. As the other man turned to look, Illya fired instinctively and the men slumped over in a heap. The sound of his silenced Special alerted whoever was inside the enclosure. Remembering the look of terror on the men's faces, he swiftly crouched down to see the object of their fear.
Suddenly the room was flooded with light. Blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes, Illya held his breath as he listened from his crouched position.
"What is this?" The voice drew closer, "Oh. It's Mr. Kuryakin, right? I didn't expect you here. In fact—" The voice broke off for a moment. "My guess is that this place is scheduled to be destroyed shortly—I seem to recall you having a kind of affinity with explosives."
As he was speaking, Illya recognized the voice. Jefferson Conrad, megalomaniac in the extreme, was, nevertheless, a brilliant scientist. Until now, Illya hadn't realized the doctor was involved with this lab. Deciding to stall for time, he offered some repartee of his own.
"Ah, Doctor Conrad, I should have known it was your hand in this nefarious scheme." He allowed a regretful note to creep into his voice. "It is really too bad about the bricks." The apparent non sequitur referred to an earlier encounter between the doctor and himself and by Conrad's flinch, the barb hit home.
Conrad has having none of it, however, and as he moved closer, Illya could see the doctor's thumb begin to tighten on some kind of small box in his hand. He started to fire his gun at the doctor when—
Looking around the room, he saw the two men he'd darted upon entering. Seeing no one else, he started to see if he could still get out when his internal clock told him he had only four minutes until detonation. Looking around quickly he could see miscellaneous equipment: a gurney, a couple of protection 'space' suits, a small sink, cupboards. Grabbing one of the 'protection' suits he rapidly pulled it on. As soon as he was zipped up, he pulled the thin mattress from the gurney and tucked it around himself. Then, with mere seconds left, he hugged himself into a ball, closed his eyes and allowed himself to reflect. He'd trained himself long ago to not think about the 'might-have-beens.' Living the kind of life he did, he knew he could die at any time. No regrets.
But, in these few seconds he still had, he allowed himself to think about Napoleon. Poor Napoleon. Illya sighed. He was the lucky one this time. There should only be a brief moment of pain at the end, while Napoleon would be the one left behind to grieve. He felt a pang of sorrow for leaving Napoleon like this, but it couldn't be helped. He wished he could offer some comfort, some final word... irrational, he knew. But...
The concussion from the blast was like nothing he'd ever felt before! The light generated was so bright he could see it through his tightly closed lids, even facing the wall.
So this is the end... he thought as he felt the searing inferno of heat envelop him just before the blast picked him up and slammed him into the wall.
Everything went black.
A jolt of pain seared through him, reminding him he really was alive. Everything hurt and he moaned quietly, unable to stop the sound. Instantly, he sensed the presence of someone moving over to his bedside. This was no threat—he knew that person hovering nearby was Napoleon. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was just fragile enough from his ordeal to feel grateful for Napoleon's presence and 'mother hen' attributes.
Eyes still closed, throat impossibly dry, he asked faintly, "N-Napoleon?"
There was silence for a moment before the answer, "Yes, I'm Napoleann Solo."
As the slight difference in the name's pronunciation and the actual 'wrongness' of the voice itself began to penetrate his consciousness, a question was asked, "Now, who are you?"
The voice was firm and full of well-earned authority.
And distinctly feminine.
One of the nurses came in and murmured something to the woman professing to be Napoleann Solo. After sending two additional female guards inside to take up their posts at the door, the woman gave Illya a keen glance and in a quiet voice (loud enough for Illya to 'overhear'), ordered the guards to use sleep darts at the smallest threat from the patient. Once she left, Illya Kuryakin carefully checked his surroundings. It was an excellent replica, even to the small flaws in the paint job on the walls. Perfect. Or, it would have been.
Illya didn't know anyone ever employed so many male nurses. And that eerie familiarity about it… why, if he didn't know any better, he'd have sworn the sweet-faced (and where did that come from) brunet with the dimples was Donna—well, except for the fact that this nurse was male and named… Don?
He must be in a coma. Or drugged. Maybe dead?
A presence interrupted his reverie.
"I think we should talk." Pleasant as her tones were, the words were more an order than a suggestion.
Keeping his eyes closed and body still, he answered, "My name is Kuryakin, Illya Nickovetch. Section 2, Number 2. Serial Number 378659-6."
"Okay, Illya, if that really is your name, this isn't an interrogation. I still think we should just ..."she paused, "talk."
Illya remained silent.
The woman sighed. Abruptly turning around, she walked over to the door and locked it before walking back beside the bed where she sat down in the nearby chair. She studied him for a moment before pulling out her communicator.
"Open Channel A." Then, "I'm, blacking out Ward C for the next 60 minutes. On my authority, designation NS-2-1, Code, Security-3." Closing her communicator and returning it to her inside jacket pocket, she looked back down at the patient. "Okay, let's talk."
Illya remained resolute. "My name is Kuryakin, Illya Nickovetch. Section 2, Num-."
A hand covered his mouth.
"You know, we took your fingerprints." This was said casually.
A flicker of interest.
"It's not usual protocol, but... call it a hunch, I felt it was necessary." She looked at Illya appraisingly. "It might interest you to know that your fingerprints really do belong to Illya Kuryakin, my partner..." she paused, "who happens to be my best friend and... fe-male"
Illya opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
She continued. "Again, on a hunch, I looked over your back and arms, and 'surprise,'you have identical scars in the same identical places as my partner." She moved closer. "In fact, blood type, general features, even the mannerisms I've observed are all like my partner." She crossed her legs and clasped her hands in front, on her lap. In a whisper, she continued. "I even, um, feel like you're Illya... kind of, I don't know... a resonance, I guess." Raising her voice back to normal conversational tones, she asked, "So, do you have an explanation for…?" She raised her hands, palms up, in question.
Silence for a full minute before Illya finally turned his head to look at her directly.
"I suppose I should counter with something clever. As it is, I should mention that you are the one who is wrong. You see, even though you have a slight resemblance to my partner—hair, eye color, dimple in chin, mole on left side—even the sartorial spender he affects—you are female and my partner is a man. There is no further need to discuss it."
"I see your point." The woman wasn't surprised by Illya's remarks. "And I just happen to have an idea." She sat up and leaned closer to Illya to whisper, "If you truly are Illya, the real bonafide article, then we know things about each other... things that never made it into reports."
Illya blinked at that. "That would work both ways. If you really are Napoleon, that is."
They stared at each other, both feeling a connection that seemed at odds with the situation.
Napoleann spoke first, very quietly. "A couple of years ago, we were on a mission in Rumania." She paused. "The case with Carla Endros, you remember."
"Go on." Illya was skeptical.
"It was out in the woods. You were leaning against a tree and had just removed the clip from your automatic." She paused. "I asked what you were doing. You countered with the statement that I knew you to not be a superstitious woman and that you fully agreed with me that there was a rational, logical explanation for everything that had been going on." Looking Illya directly in the eyes, she continued, "And then you told me that you had rationally and logically decided to carve a cross into each one of your bullets."
(The Vampire Affair by David McDaniel)
Illya closed his eyes briefly at the memory. When he spoke, there was the slightest tremor in his voice as he whispered "Only Napoleon knew that. No one else." He took a breath. "So, despite, um, appearances, it seems you really are Napoleon, er, Napoleann."
A long moment passed before Illya spoke again. "Napoleann?" he swallowed hard, suddenly feeling lost.
The cool tones of the CEA pulled him back. "I think that you need to prove yourself to me, first."
A long moment passed before Illya spoke again. "Napoleon?" she swallowed hard, suddenly feeling lost.
The cool tones of the CEA pulled her back. "I think that you need to prove yourself to me, first."
Illya thought a moment. "All right... it was the second time we were directly involved with the Baldwins—the altercation at that University in Vermont." She lowered her voice. Even as her face reddened slightly, her recitation was matter-of-fact. "I found one of those balloon 'bombs' still intact, and when two Thrushes ran past me toward one of the police cars, I threw it, intending to stop them, but misjudged the weight and hit the car instead. You were justifiably shocked, as was I. We got away by running up the fire escape. Naturally, you teased me—especially in pointing out that Baldwin could have observed the entire exchange via binoculars. I simply reminded you that I, too, knew things about you… which caused you to agree to omit any mention of the incident…" Her voice trailed off.
(The Hollow Crown Affair by David McDaniel )
"Well," said the CEA slowly, now at a loss for words, himself.
Illya sighed. "Agreed."
Napoleon frowned. "I believe you're really who you say you are. But then, where's my Illya? Did the explosion change you or is he out there somewhere…" His voice trailed off.
Illya's expression turned thoughtful. Finally, speaking slowly, she said, "If the explosion changed me, I would at least have some memories of being a man. Since I do not, and—this feels 'right' to me—I will have to say no to that particular idea. But, I think that there very well could be another Illya who is as you say. That would explain the parallels here." She thought a moment. "We'll have to investigate further and I think, for now anyway, we will have to believe that this 'other Illya' and I have simply switched places."
Napoleon gave a short, decisive nod before he glanced at his watch. "Time's up, Tovarishch." He stood up, opened his communicator and started for the door. Looking back at Illya, he stated abruptly, "We'll have to inform Mr. Waverly." Twisting his communicator…
Looking back at Illya, she stated abruptly, "We'll have to inform Ms. Waverly." Twisting her communicator, she asked for Channel A and cancelled 'lock-down.' Then she unlocked the door and left.
Napoleann poked her head through the door to Illya's room in Medical and asked, "Are you ready?" At Illya's questioning look, she reached back out into the hallway and pulled in a wheelchair. "Before you work yourself into a temper, you should know that we're expected in Waverly's office at 12:30 sharp."
Illya started to get out of bed. "I can walk." He looked at Napoleann. "I'll need some clothes."
"Sorry, Illya, but you haven't been released from Medical yet and," she glanced at her watch, "we're going to have to hurry as it is." She gestured grandly at the wheelchair. "Your chariot awaits. As to clothes…" she pulled out a bundle from behind the wheelchair with a flourish. "I brought these for you."
Illya removed his robe, laid it across the hospital bed and began to unbutton his pajama top. Napoleann, determined to treat 'this' Illya the same as 'her' Illya, ignored the handsome body being revealed as her partner was getting undressed. (Despite accusations to the contrary, she really could control her libido.) She asked, "How are you feeling anyway—and don't tell me 'fine'. The truth, please?"
Illya gave her a 'look' just before pulling on the black sweater. Voice somewhat muffled, he said, "Truly, other than a slight headache, I really am fine."
Napoleann shrugged. Looking at the cast on his arm she asked, "Do you need any help with that?" He had slipped on his trousers and was working on the zipper.
"I've had enough practice with this—unfortunately." He grimaced, the task finally done. Slipping the loafers over bare feet he started for the door, only to be blocked by Napoleann holding the wheelchair in his path. Illya glared and folded his arms stubbornly.
"Ah, ah, ah." Napoleann grinned. "Are you going to tell Ms. Waverly you aren't coming?" Suddenly serious, she added, "The debriefing, remember?"
Illya's shoulders slumped in defeat. Although he still felt somewhat shaky, he did not want to appear weak in front of the boss. Expression still grim, but now distress clearly showed in his eyes when he said, "It's not that far. I can make it. I-I don't want to go through headquarters in a wheelchair."
Napoleann sighed. "Okay, look, I'll get you to the elevator and from there, you can walk. Deal?"
Illya nodded.
The walk from the elevator wasn't too bad, although Illya was more than ready to sit down once inside the office. Ms. Waverly studied him for a moment. After flashing a quick, appraising glance at her CEA, she sat back comfortably and reached for her pipe.
"Your report, Ms. Solo. We'll give Mr. Kuryakin a moment to catch his breath before he gives his report."
Apparently nothing did get by the old woman, and it didn't matter which universe.
"No, ma'am, we only saw the ones we brought out. One of the women died before she could be rescued, though. We had to leave her…" Napoleann finished her report.
Waverly nodded and pointed her pipe at Kuryakin. "Can you add anything else?"
Illya thought a moment. "No, Ma'am. After the explosion I was unconscious until I woke up here. The explosion itself seemed bigger than I'd have thought… but, this is the first time I experienced one from the inside." Illya was perfectly serious about that, ignoring Napoleann's suppressed snort of amusement, which was immediately changed into a cough.
"Wait." Illya looked at Napoleann. "You said there were just two others in the room with me?" At Napoleann's nod he continued. "But I distinctly remember the doctor was inside the room as well. In fact, I was trying to stop him—" He broke off as he became aware of two sets of astonished eyes staring at him.
Waverly spoke first. "You never mentioned anything about a doctor."
Illya, eyes narrowed, frowned as he concentrated on relating the exact details. "It was Dr. Jefferson Conrad. He was already in the room when I got there, putting on one of the protection suits. There was a box, some kind of device, in his hand. I was about to shoot the doctor when his thumb started to tighten on the box." Illya furrowed his brow in concentration, "Some kind of button... "He widened his eyes, recalling the next part. "Then… I remember seeing the tab technician and someone else… a guard or helper, I'm not sure which. They were looking at the doctor and were terrified…" He shook himself at the memory. "Anyway, I darted them and bolted the door shut. Then I put on one of the remaining protection suits and, well, Ma'am, you know the rest." Illya rubbed his temples tiredly. "I don't know why I didn't remember about Dr. Conrad before." He glanced at Napoleann who was smiling grimly, obviously remembering the doctor's machinations from an earlier affair. Looking back at Ms. Waverly, he said quietly, "I can't remember anything else… I'm sorry."
Ms. Waverly harrumphed, "What you did remember is significant, Mr. Kuryakin. Ms. Solo, if you could see that Mr. Kuryakin gets back to Medical safely. I think he could do with some lunch."
Dismissed, the agents left Waverly's office. Once outside the door, Napoleann slipped her arm under Illya's to assist him. Anticipating his reaction, she whispered sotto voce, "Don't bother making a fuss. Ms. Waverly knows you're not up to par yet, and if we're careful, no one else will."
Illya sighed, keeping his face unreadable, but didn't pull away.
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