Written for PicFic Tuesday Challenge 8-28-2012

As the Moon Looked Down

It took Napoleon longer than he liked just to be able to turn over. When he did, all there was to see above him was the moon, clouds slowly drifting past. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious at the bottom of this old cistern. As it looked down on him, the moon wasn't providing any answers. Not that he expected any from it. The orb above him looked cold and dead. As he would soon be himself, most likely.

Even though he already knew he wouldn't make it out under his own power, Napoleon's eyes still were taking in his predicament and accessing. No holds he could see on the rounded surface beyond fingertip holds. Which his broken arm would not allow him to utilize. Sixteen, maybe twenty feet to the top. Might as well be twenty miles.

Shaking his head caused nausea and confirmed to his own mind that yes, he had a concussion. But he was numb to that for the most part. There was a deeper wound that had his mind in turmoil. His partner was dead.

It made the air feel colder as he remembered what had happened. They'd been forced off the road and collided with a tree that was none too soft. He'd been semi-conscious at best when they'd drug him from the vehicle. The last sight he'd had of Illya was of blood running down his face. Dead men don't bleed, so that told him that Illya was alive. But not for much longer.

The THRUSH agents had put their wrecked vehicle into neutral, shoved it back from the tree and then sent it rolling down the hill toward the dark lake below. They twisted his arm until it broke to force him to watch as the car containing his unconscious partner hit the water, staying on the surface briefly before sinking.

Afterwards, the questioning session really did not go the way that the THRUSH agents had wanted it to. Napoleon was already fully aware that they intended to kill him. There was no incentive for him to tell them anything at all. Not that he would have anyway, of course. When they tired of him, they'd tossed him here with the opinion that he'd be more agreeable come morning. Which only went to show that they didn't know him very well.

He continued to watch the clouds as they occasionally blotted out the moon and had almost drifted back to unconsciousness when noise began to reach him. Gunshots. Yelling. An explosion. Screaming. A few more gunshots. Then? Silence. Well, there was the distant sound of something burning, but nothing more.

Something caught the corner of his eye and he turned his head to see a coil of rope hit bottom. Then his view of the moon was partially obstructed as a figure began using the rope to climb down into the cistern. The figure looked unearthly, covered in mud and other substances perhaps best not looked at too closely. It was not until the figure turned and their eyes met that he knew who it was.

"You're dead."

Illya paused and considered that before answering.

"There is that possibility. If so, we are dead together then since you are talking with me. Now, would you prefer to be dead by yourself here or come along with me and be dead elsewhere?"

"Elsewhere."

"Very good. This will take awhile. My condition is not a great deal better than your own."

"All that noise up there. That was you?"

"A good part of it. I managed to find a car whose owner will no longer have need of it."

"Dead and driving. Is that legal?"

"If it is not, how will they punish me?"

"Good point. So – are you going to be driving us to Heaven, Hell or Purgatory?"

"I am not certain. I suppose Mister Waverly will tell us which way to go."

Illya's face quirked into a small grin as Napoleon started to laugh. While his partner fashioned a rough harness to lift him put with, Napoleon looked back to the moon again. Odd. It no longer seemed as cold and dead as it looked down on them. Or maybe that was just him.

(For those that follow my drabble series 'Is There a Russian Word for Drabble?', this is a companion piece to Drabble #102, 'Left for Dead')