Disclaimer: I don't own anything Man From UNCLE related.

A/N: Having had a wonderful response to what I've posted so far, and several comments saying how much people are enjoying the banter I write between the two, that part of my brain that I will never understand immediately decided that for my first multichapter story I should write something where they're separated for most of it. Let's just not ask. And thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, followed or indeed read.

A/N2: I anticipate this being around five chapters. But I'm often wrong.

The rain was bouncing off the street in front of him as he ran and he tried to watch each step, gripping the vial close to his chest. Slipping right now would be an odd and embarrassing way to die.

He'd told Louie to take Elsa and get out of here while he took the sample. At least that way THRUSH were less likely to get both the neurotoxin and the scientist who knew the production process. And as he'd been dodging THRUSH he'd heard them say that the two had made it onto the plane. They were safely away...and still Napoleon found himself scanning the doorways in the street ahead, hoping he might just be leading THRUSH into an ambush, hoping that Louie might have disobeyed orders and come back for him.

Small hope. Over the past week Louie Framer had shown himself to be an excellent agent, competent and dedicated. He'd put the mission first, just like he should.

He took a wrong turn in the dark and the rain and found himself facing a solid brick wall. THRUSH was right behind him.

"Mr Solo," the Baron called genially from behind him. "Mr Solo, I am afraid this game has come to its inevitable conclusion."

"Not quite," he said turning round, the vial held aloft. "If I drop this now we'll all be dead within thirty seconds. THRUSH won't get the formula – you'll fail and you'll be dead."

There was eight of them besides the Baron. They were spread out across the alley, watching his hand apprehensively and he couldn't hope to force his way past them.

"Mr Solo, that is not going to work," the Baron said, shaking his head sadly. "Yes, if you drop the vial we will die and you will achieve a kind of pyrrhic victory, however I've seen the same experimental data that you have. There is enough of the new neurotoxin in that vial to kill everyone in the buildings surrounding us as well. This is a residential neighbourhood. Slum housing. I believe the people here sleep twelve to a room – how quaint. Are you really prepared to die with the lives of three hundred people on your conscience?"

He kept his gaze even. "If THRUSH put this stuff into production there'll be a lot more dead."

"Oh, really, Mr Solo," the Baron chided. "That is not at all the way you think. You are an inveterate optimist. Even now, trapped like an animal, you are trying to delay me in the hope that rescue will come as it so often has for you before. If I take the vial from you now, you will still believe that UNCLE will be able to stop us before the toxin goes into mass production. It is simply an inevitable function of your personality." He signalled and one of his goons stepped forwards, hand outstretched.

Napoleon looked at him for a long moment and then sighed and dropped the vial into his hand. Three hundred people. The Baron was right; he really didn't have it in him.

"You are quite wrong, of course, Mr Solo," the Baron went on cheerfully as a second goon started to pat him down, quickly removing his gun and communicator. "THRUSH cannot be stopped." He passed the vial to another of his men. "Take that directly to our facility in Dublin, please," he directed. "Give them my compliments and tell them I shall be taking care of Mr Solo's...debriefing...personally."

"Yessir," the lackey nodded and stepped away smartly.

There was a gap now. He glanced down at the guy still patting him down and carefully crooked his leg, drawing it back slightly as though he was trying to conceal something. The man grinned up at him and leaned in closer, and that was when Napoleon drew his knee up smartly, knocking him hard in the face, and took off running.

He didn't expect he was going to be able to escape entirely. There were too many of them and they were too well trained. But he was an optimist, and so he had to try at least. Besides, the neurotoxin was being sent to Dublin and he had to find a way to tell UNCLE that. He winced as a bullet hit the wall ahead of him and took a couple of sharp turns, doubling back, running up a fire escape and jumping onto the flat roof opposite before dropping down the other side. That gave him some distance, he hoped. Now if only he could find a phone, or... He spied an abandoned spray can of paint sitting in front of a well-graffitied wall.

Well, that would have to do. Beggars can't be choosers, and all that. He snatched it up quickly and found the largest clear bit of wall he could. Now, it couldn't be anything too direct or else the Baron would see it and have it destroyed. Ah. 'Ulysses' he scrawled as large as he could. He'd been reading it the last time they'd been in Dublin, and the local head of section 2, Eoin Callaghan, had noticed and started talking about how it was a poor and inaccurate representation of the city, and their THRUSH captor-turned-captive had spoken up on Joyce's behalf, and somehow Napoleon had become embroiled in the argument, both men trying to prove their point using streetmaps, and then Illya had weighed in on THRUSH's behalf out, Napoleon was convinced, of sheer contrariness. That should do – at any rate, it was something Illya was sure to remember. And just to make sure it was obvious, he scrawled HC immediately after.

He barely had enough time to drop the paint and step back when the Baron's men came thundering round the corner.

"You see, Mr Solo," the Baron smiled as he strolled more leisurely after them. "There is no hope for you. You are all alone, I'm afraid. Let's be honest, you never had a chance."

He smiled, not looking anywhere near his freshly-painted handiwork. "So it would seem," he agreed. As long as Louie had Elsa away safely, they would know where to begin searching for him and, by extension, the vial. And Illya would spot the clue he'd left behind. No matter what, UNCLE could still win here.

"I am going to take pleasure in breaking you," the Baron said with a thoughtful frown. "By the time I'm finished you'll be only too eager to give THRUSH every secret in your head." There was no overt menace in his tone. He might as well have been discussing the weather.

He kept the smile firmly in place. "Well, why don't we give THRUSH a head start?" he suggested. "I can tell you now – I was the one who stole the cookies from the cookie jar. And I framed my partner for it. That's the most dangerous secret I'm holding right now."

"Don't worry, Mr Solo," the Baron said, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. "We have plenty of time to discover more interesting secrets, you and I. Now. Shall we?"

A black car pulled up and he was bundled towards it, his hands being pulled behind his back and efficiently cuffed. He had to admit, things weren't going well.

(Illya would've come back for him.)

They kept him cuffed and blindfolded for the journey. All he was left with was the idea it had been about a five hour drive. Five hours out of London covered a lot of ground, especially since for all he knew, they'd just been driving round in circles. There'd been far too many turns for him to follow. At least he knew he was still in Britain.

The journey had eventually ended with a short walk across gravel and into a building with stone floors, large echoing rooms and a lot of people talking almost out of earshot. He'd been taken down stairs – sixty of them – and along a corridor, and then there was the sound of a door opening and -

" - here we are, Mr Solo," the Baron said, removing the blindfold with a flourish. "Home sweet home. Or rather; this will be your home for the foreseeable future."

Blinking furiously against the overly-bright light, he looked round slowly. Oh. This was not promising. They were standing in a large concrete room that looked as though it had been furnished directly out of the THRUSH torture manual. There were no windows and only the door they'd just walked through. The walls were lined with weapons and instruments of torture, and there was a metal cage set in the centre of the room.

"I see," he said brightly. "And what time's breakfast?"

The Baron laughed. "I do admire your strength of spirit, Mr Solo," he said. "I'm afraid though, you will have other things on your mind than breakfast." He signalled one of his men to unlock the handcuffs. "Now. Please be so kind as to remove your clothes."

He raised an eyebrow, absently rubbing at his wrists. "And here I thought we were going to be civilised about this."

"Really, Mr Solo, I don't know where you got that idea from." At another nod, the same man stepped forwards holding a paper-thin grey jumpsuit. "I believe this should be your size. If not, well, it hardly matters really, does it? Now, come come, Mr Solo. Remove your clothes. Quickly now."

With a slight grimace he undressed, conscious of their eyes on him. A deliberate move, he thought. Dehumanising him. He reached for the jumpsuit expectantly but the Baron shook his head.

"Not quite yet, Mr Solo. Dr Vargas, if you would be so kind."

A tall bespectacled man he assumed to be Dr Vargas stepped forwards, holding a tray full of electrodes and wires which the silently started attaching to Napoleon's skin – his chest, his throat, his back and arms.

"Would you mind telling me what this is about?" he asked as Vargas pressed the electrodes against his temples.

"These will monitor your vital signs for us," the Baron explained. "Please do not try to remove them. If you do you will be in for a nasty shock. Quite literally, I'm afraid. They can deliver an electric shock measured just right to cause immense pain and suffering and leave you quite incapacitated, but not allow you unconsciousness. It really is marvellous what science can do for us these days, isn't it?"

"Marvellous," he agreed wryly.

"Now, dress if you would be so kind," the Baron said.

He took the jumpsuit and pulled it on, taking his time to straighten out the collar as best he could.

"Very good," the Baron nodded appreciatively. "You wear the garb of a captive well. Now, into the cage with you, Mr Solo. We shall return for you in time."

"I don't supposed you'd care to tell me how much time?" he asked as he was ushered into the cage. With three guns pointed at him there weren't really any other options.

"That rather depends on you." With that cryptic remark, they turned and walked out the door, leaving him alone.

Alright. So escape was obviously his first priority. He paced around the cage slowly, exploring his options. It was about five foot square, though thankfully the bars stretched up to the ceiling so he had enough room to stand. The only furnishing was a wooden bucket in the corner, and he wrinkled his nose at the thought. Yeah. He really wanted to get out of here before that became a necessity. The bars of the cage were thick and set deep into the concrete. No chance he'd be able to get through them without something seriously incendiary, and anything he might have had on him had been taken away with his clothes. The bars were close together as well – with an effort he could stick his forearm through, but no more than that. Certainly not enough to be useful. The lock was electronic, so there'd be no picking it even if he had anything to try with and – yes – there were surveillance cameras on all four walls of the torture room, pointing straight at him. Nowhere to hide, in other words. He'd have to assume someone was watching him twenty four seven, which meant that any escape would have to be largely instantaneous.

A tall order, he admitted to himself, as he sat against the bars, staring straight at the door. Realistically, the only way he was getting out of here was if someone opened the door. Which meant his best bet would be to try and overpower the guards when they came to interrogate him, or bring him food...always assuming, of course, that they did intend to feed him.

"There is no such thing as an optimist in a foxhole." He smiled slightly to himself, imagining Illya's dry tones.

"That's 'atheist'," he remembered saying. "There's no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole."

Illya had affected an air of puzzlement. "That doesn't make sense, Napoleon. I don't suddenly start believing in a God just because I'm in trouble."

'Well, I don't suddenly become a fatalist just because I'm in trouble." That was what he'd wanted to say, but their conversation had been interrupted by the need to jump out the airplane.

It still held true though. There would be a chance to get out of here. He made his own luck.

He wished Illya had been with him on this affair. An extra agent would have made all the difference. Doubly so if it was Illya. He wondered if he would have played things differently if he'd had Illya with him instead of Louie? Possibly. There might have been things he would've asked Illya to do that he wouldn't ask another agent. He had to admit they might just be too used to each other. Too familiar with the way the other thought and planned to work so well with others. Though, truthfully, before Illya he'd always preferred to work alone anyway.

At any rate, Illya had drawn the dignitary protection duty at the summit in New York, being the agent least likely to upset the GRU bodyguards, and most likely to spot if they were up to something. The summit had figured last night with no trouble he'd heard and that at least meant Illya would be free for Mr Waveley to send after him and the neurotoxin.

And really, Napoleon would prefer to get out of here before Illya found him. Illya was already two rescues up since the last time they'd agreed to wipe the slate clean, and Napoleon had no wish to inflate his ego anymore.

With a frown, he looked at the electrodes on his arms, wondering if he should risk trying to remove them. They would undoubtedly be able to trace him through these when he ran, but he had no reason to doubt that they were telling the truth about the electric shocks. There had to be some way to deactivate them, and somehow he'd have to do that after he'd escaped.

He couldn't imagine he'd be waiting long for the Baron to come back. He'd never personally clashed with the man but he'd read the files and he was familiar with the man's work. Jonathan Halcutt-Harris, the self-styled 'Baron of London'. A rising star in THRUSH, Europe, known for his veneer of civilisation and for his quietly effective interrogations, surprisingly eschewing the drugs that THRUSH seemed to prefer. He preferred trading in intelligence and blackmail over direct action – this whole affair with the neurotoxin had been outside his usual operations, and with hindsight Napoleon wasn't surprised he'd apparently been under orders to deliver the vial elsewhere. No, the Baron probably regarded Napoleon himself as a far better prize, and that wasn't the most comforting conclusion he'd ever drawn.

With a sigh he leaned his head back against the bars and closed his eyes. He might as well try and get some rest before they came back. He rather thought he was going to need to be at his best.

The pain was sudden and sharp and immense. It felt like his whole body was on fire, convulsing from the inside out. He would have screamed but his jaw clenched tight and he couldn't...couldn't...

When his vision cleared he was lying on the floor, toppled onto his side, and he wasn't alone. The Baron was back with two of his largest goons. "Ah, Mr Solo," he smiled. "I did tell you that the pain was extraordinary."

But he hadn't tried to take the electrodes off. He struggled to sit up, shaking his head slowly.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you?" the Baron went on. "It is extremely rude to fall asleep when you are a guest in someone's house."

"My apologies," he said, his voice a little hoarser than he would have liked. "I was just resting my eyes a moment."

"Oh, we know you were quite asleep," the Baron said sweetly. "We will always know."

With sudden understanding he glanced down at the electrodes on his wrist. So that was the game. "Well, that's certainly very voyeuristic of you," he said admiringly, surreptitiously flexing the muscles in his legs to see if there was any chance of him being able to spring into action when they opened the door. The echo of the pain seared through him. Doubtful. Very doubtful.

"And now my men will entertain you for a while," the Baron said, his smile somehow giving the impression of pointed teeth.

The cage door opened and the guard came towards him, arms outstretched, chuckling to himself. With an effort, Napoleon managed to sweep his leg around, tripping the guy and sending him tumbling to the floor. Huh. He hadn't actually expected that to work. Not wasting time, he quickly scrambled on top of the guy, searching for his gun, but when he finally found it he felt a large, meaty hand closing around his wrist and he was effortlessly – painfully – hauled up until the gun dropped from his nerveless fingers.

He looked from the second guard to where the Baron was standing, apparently amused. "Ah, best out of three?" he suggested.

"No, I don't think so," the Baron said, shaking his head regretfully. "Karl? If you'd be so kind?"

The guard Napoleon had tripped lumbered to his feet with a scowl and drew back his fist.

Napoleon sighed and braced himself as best he could. This wasn't going to be fun.

He just had to hang on until he reached the point where he could escape.

A/N: Thanks for reading, please review if you have a minute.