He had no idea how long he'd been walking. The unmerciful glare of the scorching sun and the rippling desert sands gave him no sense of direction.
Supposing as the sun moved across the sky, he'd eventually be able to at least tell east from west; though from the looks of it, that wouldn't be for many hours. With no landmarks to guide him, he was hopelessly lost.
There was a single trail of boot prints in the sand behind him, and if anyone were to see how Illya Kuryakin was dressed at the moment, they would have fallen over, laughing hysterically, despite his situation.
He had no time to grab any clothing when he escaped the lab where he was soon to become a human experiment.
Being strapped to a stainless steel table wearing only a hospital gown; he'd worked one hand free and was able to grab a syringe from the table next to him.
After calling the guard with a croaking voice, sounding as though he were in distress; Illya injected the man.
Luckily whatever was in the vial worked and the guard passed out, falling forward on top of the Russian, allowing him to grab the keys and free himself.
Illya was in the midst of taking off the unconscious man's boots, allowing him to next remove the khaki colored uniform, when he heard voices heading his way.
He scrambled, boots in hand, heading out a rear door, down a corridor and to an exit, but not before he grabbed a canteen of water sitting on a table by the door...he was surprised there was no guard stationed there. Or perhaps he'd just walked away, leaving his canteen behind?
Then again they were in the middle of nowhere and anyone approaching could be easily seen. Assuming he was the only prisoner, whom they thought was chained to a table in the lab… well, regardless, their security standards were quite lax, and thankfully so to the escaping agent.
Illya quickly exited the building, heading off, only stopping for a minute as he crossed over a dune to put on the military style boots.
Despite the brutal heat of the sun, he ran into the desert, as it was his only choice. After walking for some time, he was surprised no one was in pursuit. His footprints in the sand were quite obvious, and given there was only a slight wind at the moment, they would probably stay visible for a long time.
Illya stopped in his tracks, staring down at an object that was so completely unexpected. It was oddly enough, a woman's ruffled parasol laying folded up, and just discarded on the ground.
Why it was here in this wasteland of sand, he had no idea. He picked it up, examining the sand-colored cloth and finding it undamaged, Illya decided it would help to cover his pale Slavic skin from the sun.
He was already beginning to turn pink where his skin was exposed...face, arms legs and his zhopa, as the back of surgical gown kept flapping in the hot breeze, exposing his very white posterior.
Illya Kuryakin was a sight to behold, walking along in the hospital gown with his over-sized army boots and carrying a ladies parasol in his hand.
He had no idea why the people holding him prisoner had not come after him. Perhaps they didn't want it to be known he'd gotten away...maybe they would just report him dead to their superiors, or let the desert take care of him and let die, nonexistant.
That was most likely would happen to him out in this desert if he didn't find shelter soon. His water would only last so long.
"Where are you Napoleon when I need you?" He moaned, knowing full well his partner had last been seen romancing some strumpet associated with the lab...but that was miles and miles away. Illya asked himself if he was even walking in the right direction or not.
Hours past, and the Russian's muscular calves and hamstrings ached and tightened from climbing up and down the dunes. There was a shooting pain going up the back of his right leg into his buttock. He was in good shape, but trudging through this sand...walking a mile was taking more effort than it would on a hard surface. That along with the heat was sapping his energy.
He tried humming to keep his mind off his precarious position, but the only song that came to him, and became stuck in his head was the theme to "Lawrence of Arabia. "An interesting film," he mumbled to himself. He was suddenly reminded he was walking in the actual 'Devil's Anvil,' the very same desert T.E. Lawrence had crossed to get to Aqaba. That city was where Napoleon was...
Sand infiltrated in his boots as well as every crevice of his near naked body. The water was running low...it wouldn't be long, yet still, this UNCLE agent was not a quitter. That he kept repeating to himself as his mantra, willing himself to continue onwards, wearily putting one foot in front of the other.
Then he heard it, the whirling of helicopter blades cutting the air. Ah, they were coming for him after all, just not the way he first imagined, on foot but instead in the air.
Should he let them retake him, or was it better to die here...a painful death in the desert? He had no idea what experiments they were planning to perform on him, they could be more painful than this.
Illya made his decision and laid down in the sand, covering his body with it as best he could, and holding the parasol over the rest of him, he thought the color of it might just blend in enough to keep them from getting a clear view…
"Right, you durachit'," he mumbled, calling himself and imbecile. "What a ridiculous idea?" The heat had most likely addled his brain.
His surroundings were churned up as the helicopter touched down nearby and Illya felt the stinging of the sand as it was blown by the blades.
They'd seen him...his attempt to hide himself was fruitless, and he lowered the parasol and pulled himself up from the sand.
"Illya?" It was the voice of his partner. "Am I glad to see you...well yeah, really see you." Napoleon began to laugh at the Russian's attire.
"Back to wearing dresses, and hmmm, you've added a parasol to the ensemble, and the boots make a stunning statement."
Illya threw down the umbrella, and holding the back of his surgical gown closed, he attempted to storm off towards the helicopter.
"What? Did I say something wrong?" Napoleon continued to laugh.
"Oh just shut up and get in the chopper," Illya growled.
"No thanks for rescuing you, partner mine?" Solo continued to jab.
Illya sat in the passenger seat, his chin jutting out, and his arms crossed in front of him, not saying another word.
"Wish I had a camera right, that parasol was something else to see," Napoleon remarked as the helicopter rose into the heat
"You take a picture of me and you will suffer the consequences, I swear."
"Okay, okay….chill out."
"That is exactly what I would like to do, both literally and figuratively, if you do not mind," Illya growled, but quickly steered to another subject. "Did you manage to take care of the lab, or were you too busy with wooing that woman."
"Moi? There was no wooing, only the extraction of useful information in a creative manner, I might add, which by the way, led me here to save your lily-white, no, sunburned ass. By the way, a backup team is tending to the lab."
"Napoleon please, enough. I am in a fair amount of pain."
"Not to worry chum, I'm taking you to a hospital to get your burns treated and get you rehydrated. Speaking of which," he handed a canteen filled with water to the Russian.
"Spacibo, moy drug...I appreciate the rescue,"Illya finally softened his tone, and took a long slow drink. Some of the water trickled out of the sides of his mouth, running down his neck and onto his chest.
"Hey, we're partners, remember. I have your back, even though it's a bit sunburned. Never forget that."
There was no response from the Russian as he had nodded off to sleep….still clutching the canteen.
Napoleon carefully slipped it from Illyas reddened hand, giving a sigh of relief, but feeling pleased he'd found his friend in time...