No More to Win
The pain in his head was bad, but it was hardly the worst of it. No, the worst was when he reached his hand up to his eyes, actually hoping to feel bandages. But there weren't any.
He felt for IV and found none attached - even better, no catheter. He eased himself out of the bed and felt along until he found the window and then cursed. By the warmth of the glass, the sun was shining. And he couldn't see a thing.
There was a slight noise behind him and he heard the sound of a door opening. He almost turned around, but then gave a rueful laugh to himself. Why bother?
"Mister Slate. You really shouldn't be out of bed yet, sir."
He didn't recognize her voice, but responded to her.
"Why not? Do I have anything injured beyond my eyes? Where am I?"
By her voice, the woman was coming closer.
"No, no further injuries, but it's going to take you awhile to adjust to your new circumstances and your new home."
"My new home? Here?"
"Yes, Mister Slate. This is an U.N.C.L.E. run asylum. This is where agents come that can no longer be in the field. Of course, you know far too much to simply be left out in society."
The statement was so cold and so matter of fact that it took him off-guard.
"If I'm being put out to pasture, I'd rather go back to my own home."
The woman's voice became firmer.
"I'm afraid your preferences are beside the point. You won't be leaving here, Mister Slate. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you'll adjust."
"What about April?"
"Miss Dancer? She was assigned a new partner as soon as they determined your loss of sight was permanent. Don't count on her visiting. It's highly discouraged. She needs to be spending her time learning to work with her partner, not wasting it dwelling in the past. Now - are you going to get back into bed?"
"No. I may be blind, but I'm not an invalid."
He couldn't see her glare, but he could feel it.
"Fine. All of you always want to do things the hard way? You're on your own for the day. Let's see if that makes you more reasonable tomorrow."
After she stormed back out, Mark muttered to himself.
"Charming bird - for a vulture."
Feeling around until he found a chair, he sat and for a moment was overwhelmed by the dismal future laid out before him. No sunrises, no moon gazing, nothing of his own around him, no visitors. Would his family be told he was dead? How else would they explain that he was never coming home?
He wasn't sure how much time passed before the door opened again. Whoever came in didn't say a word. - just dropped off a tray and left without a word. Eating, drinking - everything was a challenge, but damned if he was going to ask for help. Someone came in periodically and administered a shot, but they never interacted with him either.
"THRUSH's method of just shooting blokes is kinder than this rot."
After a week, he began to wonder if a man really could die of loneliness. When he'd been captured and stuck in a cell in the past, there had always at least been hope. Here, there was none. His appetite failed and he began losing weight dramatically - not that anyone cared. He ignored them - they ignored him.
He lived only for his dreams now. Day by day, they became more solid and real to him than the never-changing asylum room. He began to hear a voice suggesting that he kill himself. The voice was the woman's. He wasn't sure at first if it was real or not when she gave him his gun back. The feel of the metal in his hand was a comfort - it gave him something that he'd been lacking. An option.
More time passed and then one day, he heard new noises - it sounded as if the building was under attack. Mark held his gun tighter. This place was bad enough that the thought of being taken somewhere else had appeal. Surely even THRUSH couldn't treat him any worse than his own people had. No - no, he wouldn't go with them willingly. They wouldn't know he was blind - he could make them kill him.
Mark braced himself and brought the gun in line to where he knew the door was, then waited. He didn't have to wait long. The door burst open, but then he heard a voice he thought he'd never hear again.
"Mark! Oh my poor darling - what have they done to you?"
Trembling, his hands dropped until the barrel was pointed toward the floor, his voice barely over a whisper.
"April?"
Then he heard other voices he knew. Jennings, Franks, Jackson followed by two voices he knew as well as April's - Napoleon and Illya. Napoleon's voice had an undertone that said he was relieved, but worried.
"You really picked a satrip off the beaten trail to get stuck in, Mark."
"Satrip? This place is run by THRUSH?"
"Who else?"
Mark's silence drew Napoleon's attention briefly before Illya drew it back by coming in with a folder in his hand.
"He has been led to believe this place is where U.N.C.L.E. sends their agents who are of no use to them any longer. This folder has a list of the drugs that have been used on Mark. We need to get him to Medical immediately to see if they can reverse what has been done to his eyes. It appears they had to give him additional drugs daily - that sounds as if he will improve once they are out of his system."
April saw Mark's hand reaching out to her and met him halfway. She'd never seen him so thin before, but the second they touched, his expression was radiant.
"You're real."
"I am. And I've come to take you home."