THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E. :
"The Wilding Affair" (2000)
by Kei
Rating: M
The Man from UNCLE characters belong to MGM -I'm just borrowing them, and no profit is being made. Please don't sue me -I'm poor.
Notes: This is a MFU story set in the "present" -nooo, they're not any older. (Hey, Superman has been 29 for over 60 years and James Bond has been mid-thirtyish for over thirty!)
0400 hours.
Four in the morning.
Whatever way that one put it, it was either too late or too early to be out of bed. A long, uncontrollable yawn broke the relative quietude of the surveillance van, a vehicle crowded with various pieces of instrumentation, listening devices, and one weary UNCLE agent.
Mark Slate stuffed a curled fist against his open mouth as another yawn, longer than the first, distorted his face. He pressed the right earphone of his headset closer to his temple, his brow puckered by a frown of weary frustration as once again, one of the electronic bugs secreted on the premises of THRUSH's new Toronto satrap transmitted the odd mutter ...the random sound. How did the saying go? Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse?
Even THRUSH seemed to be keeping more reasonable hours than Mark. Probably
no-one up and about besides cleaning staff.
Just then, there was a familiar ratta-tat-tat on the outside of the van and the door slid open to permit the entry of his partner, April Dancer. "Sorry I'm late, Mark," she said with a slight grin. "Thought you could use this."
Slate eagerly accepted the insulated Starbucks coffee mug, taking a grateful whiff of the aroma of a double espresso. "Ta, luv... I was just thinking that I could murder a cuppa just 'bout now. You must be a mind reader."
"Or maybe we've been partnered too long?" April said with a slightly teasing smile. "Anyhow, just remember -the next coffee run is yours. This place isn't cheap." The odor of a non-fat mocha joined that of espresso as she settled down beside her partner. "Anything interesting yet?"
"If you mean about what they're doing in that lab of theirs -not a bloody thing. Far as I can figure, there's some kind of scrambling field in the lab and anyone who comes out of it doesn't talk about what goes on inside. I just wish I knew what Waverly -eh up?"
April put aside her cup, immediately alert. "What is it?"
"Dunno... Some kind of fracas maybe. Let me see if I can..." A frown darkened Slate's face as he pulled the earphones from his head and turned on the van's internal speakers. At first, they could only hear the seemingly distant, muffled sounds of human voices -angry voices- but then, as the gain was increased- "No, I KNOW what you're all thinking! You're against me -ALL of you!"
Dancer mouthed silent bewilderment and Slate could only shrug his shoulders. The now shrill male voice continued its verbal tirade, other more soothing voices failing to placate its manic owner. "I'll stop you -I'll stop ALL of you!"
April and Mark recoiled in horror and disbelief as hidden bugs transmitted the sudden repeated explosions of what had to be an Uzi submachine gun being fired again and again, the awful sound of human screams...
...and then silence.
Just...silence.
6:35 A.M.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon, turning the still dark sky into an almost equally dingy early November grey. It was probably going to rain...or snow. Again. The fact was that he couldn't actually swear that he had seen the naked sun or a dry day since he had arrived in this country a week ago. For all he knew, Canadians didn't have any other kind of weather.
Napoleon Solo ran one gloved hand through short slightly wavy black hair, further neatening a hastily combed coif while dumping an empty Styrofoam cup into the nearest trash receptacle with the other as he made his way to the cordoned-off area around what was or had been THRUSH's Toronto satrap.
An UNCLE reconnaissance and clean-up mission was usually a lot quieter and more circumspect than this, he thought, giving the parked police cars and gathered uniformed officers a visual once-over, but someone besides Mark and April had heard something -and that someone had called the local police...who had gotten here first -probably the only reason that THRUSH hadn't descended upon the area. Remaining low profile was as important to them as to UNCLE and there were now too many witnesses.
Solo swung his long legs over the feeble barrier of yellow cautionary tape, flashed his UNCLE I.D. card to one of Toronto's finest and headed towards what was probably the first of many altercations of the day. The plainclothes detective, a member of the R.C.M.P. by his own I.D. badge, gave the UNCLE agent an ambivalent once-over. "So...you're the UNCLE agent who's supposed to be taking charge here?"
"That is my role here, detective." For a moment, Solo considered giving the detective one of his famously mollifying smiles, but quickly decided against it, suspecting that it would probably be a pointless effort. Nothing unusual about that when locking horns with local constabulary who almost invariably remained territorial despite the fact that when it came to certain international matters, especially those pertaining to THRUSH, UNCLE had jurisdiction. "What's the situation?"
"Humph... Someone heard shots at about 4:15 this morning, local police were called, they called us -we arrived about the same time that your men showed up." The R.C.M.P. officer glanced at the grey brick building. "No-one's been in there yet. The perpetrator might still be holed up inside."
"Thank you, detective."
"Mr. Solo..?"
Napoleon returned the unfriendly look guardedly. "Yes?"
"Just so you remember, Agent Solo," the detective said pointedly, "if this turns out to be a simple homicide, jurisdiction over this case returns to us -and UNCLE clears out. Do we have an understanding?"
Napoleon offered a frozen smile. "Quite." But it wouldn't be a "simple" homicide -nothing with THRUSH ever was. There was always a plot, a macabre twist, an "angle" to whatever that organization did. Some would say that he was becoming paranoid after one too many missions, but he preferred to call it a healthy respect for the enemy. Solo headed towards a group of men and women gathered in a huddle at the satrap's main entrance, searching the human mass of UNCLE technicians for one particular face. His search was quickly rewarded as he spied a familiar mop of blond hair. "Illya..."
"Napoleon..." his partner murmured in acknowledgment. He nudged his tinted reading glasses back towards the bridge of his nose as he bent over something that looked like a metal breadbox mounted on tread-like wheels. He made some sort of adjustment to one of several equally unrecognizable controls, his usually deliberately passive expression darkening with an open scowl of annoyance. "Chyort!"
Solo winced slightly, knowing enough of Illya Kuryakin's native Russian to recognize profanity when he heard it. "So...what're you up to, tovarisch?"
"Waverly wants us to send in the remote unit first as a precaution," the blond agent muttered sourly and then paused, resting one hand on the inert mobile robot camera, the other suddenly moving in a flustered search for-- Solo immediately pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and handed it to his red-faced partner just as he experienced a particularly explosive sneeze.
Amazing, Napoleon thought fondly -the man had degrees the length of his arm, could speak God-knows-how-many languages, could probably recite Pi to thirty digits without even thinking hard, and yet, he could never seem to remember to take proper care of himself when he caught the flu. Kuryakin offered a slight, sheepish smile. "Spaceeba." And then: "We will be sending it in if we get the stupid thing operational."
"Oh?" Solo reached toward the unit. "How about this button-"
"Napoleon, don't! You do not know-"
Suddenly, the remote camera unit came to life with a familiar electronic hum. Solo grinned smugly. "Power switch ON," he whispered into the openly mortified Russian agent's ear. It wasn't fair, he knew -after all, Illya wasn't presently at his best, but any win in the battle of wits that they'd been playing lately was a triumph indeed...another chink in the Russian's icy armor which he had discovered he had every intention of piercing one way or another.
Kuryakin merely sighed in exasperation and returned to the task at hand. In response to programmed commands, the little box-shaped robot unit moved forward on rubber treads towards the lone open door and entered the still, former THRUSH stronghold.
As his partner guided the unit via the remote control unit in his hand, Solo suddenly found himself forced to wonder -what precaution? To send in an artificial reconnaissance unit was unusual. What did their superior expect to be in there? Survivors? The shootist? Or something else -the informant who had let UNCLE know of the existence of this satrap had indicated the presence of a lab...and that could mean the production of anything from nuclear bombs to bio-weapons.
The senior agent felt a cold shudder travel down the length of his spine, possessed by a sudden longing for the days when THRUSH seemed to be nothing more than an irritating, predictable, and often clumsy fringe terrorist group -high technology and its relatively easy access was pushing UNCLE and the somehow more efficient THRUSH of present times into an ever escalating modern-day cold war with its attendant arms race. Solo walked aside a ways, slapping his arms against an increasing chill. In the background, Kuryakin continued to note the robot's progress.
"We...seem to be leaving the main, first floor corridor..." Illya's softly accented voice droned, hands manipulating the remote control, eyes trained on the transmitted images that appeared on the digital screen before him. "...entering now what seems to be the foyer...and...Bozhe moi!"
Solo snapped from his momentary reverie, woken by the horrified wonder that he could hear in his partner's almost whispered voice. If it was at all possible, the fair-skinned Russian had blanched two or three shades paler, his ice-blue eyes wide in...disbelief? Solo pushed past gathering UNCLE technicians, his own eyes suddenly riveted on the transmitted image on the screen.
"My...God.."
Blood.
It was everywhere.
The UNCLE recon team that had finally passed beyond the barrier of the protective shield surrounding the lone open door to the former THRUSH satrap had known what to expect. They had heard the report given by Mark and April, had seen the shadowy images transmitted by the robot camera unit that had swept the area before them, but to actually be here and see...
One of the junior UNCLE agents had barreled out of the place...heaving.
And not only the junior members felt the effects.
A dizzying surge of nausea that had nothing to do with the flu twisted within Illya Kuryakin's stomach. Despite the emotional fortress that he had constructed for himself during his years of service with the KGB and UNCLE, he found himself not immune to the sights before him -hard, he may have been, but he was no robot. Even Napoleon, usually ever ready with some amusedly detached comment, had fallen grimly silent, for once too overcome with revulsion to continue his present flirtatious campaign...and that was saying something.
Given the all-clear, a team of UNCLE operatives had entered the site, clothed in protective gear that made them look like refugees from that movie "Outbreak" that Napoleon had recently badgered him into watching, the tacit suspicion that the as yet unseen THRUSH lab had been working with biohazardous materials now more or less a certainty.
But this...
The walls were covered in gouts of semi-coagulated gore, the broken bodies of THRUSH operatives seemingly strewn about by a giant hand. So far, the body count had reached twenty-three and UNCLE had yet to cover the entire grounds. "Bozhe moi..."
Solo turned at the sound of his partner's voice. Amongst the many bullet-riddled bodies, Kuryakin had knelt before one dead form, the knees of his uniform stained in sanguinous red. "Gerhardt..." he said, gesturing with a hand that trembled slightly despite himself. "He is... He was one of ours -Berlin branch." The blond agent pried the Uzi submachine gun from stiffened fingers. "Clip completely empty. One of ours did all this -why?"
"No idea, tovarisch. Deep undercover operatives have cracked before, but..." The older agent sighed aloud, a frown creasing the dark brow as he reached forward and turned the dead man's head. "But he didn't eat his own gun." Agent Gerhardt's head lolled grotesquely to one side, revealing the gaping slash wound along his throat. "Looks like someone jumped him from behind...straight-edged razor perhaps."
"Sirs?"
The two partners jumped up at the sound of the voice of one of the junior operatives. The young black man, a member of UNCLE's Toronto branch, had blanched a sickly yellow. "We've found the lab... Mr. Slate said that you should come right away."
There was no hesitation as Solo and Kuryakin followed the younger man's lead down one corridor and then another in what seemed to be nothing less than a maze in a house of horrors. What they had seen in the outer rooms of the satrap was repeated along their circuitous route. Bodies littered the halls...and yet...not all of them had been shot. One, in fact, had hung himself with his own belt. Some lay twisted as if caught in the final throes of some supreme agony -the effects of some kind of poison? Not murder? Mass suicide? And yet, there had been no sign...no sound of this picked up by the many hidden UNCLE listening devices that Gerhardt had secreted here -could these victims have been that willing?
Solo suppressed a shudder of physical revulsion -what the HELL had happened here?
Mark Slate met them part way, his visage pasty and pale. "I don't know what these blokes were up to...but I think we could be in trouble."
There was no need to question the cryptic comment.
It was a room within a room, different than all the rest...sterile and white. Or it would have been. It was a lab -true- but no longer sterile...or white. The door which should have sealed off the lab from the rest of the compound was open, its lock twisted and scorched by what appeared to have been an explosion, and beyond the multi-layered glass ...standing out somehow, in the middle of an area that appeared to have been hit by a tornado...was a single, broken, test tube marked "Batch 3".
And on the furthermost wall, was a message, written in human blood: "Now is opened Pandora's Box."
Waiting -it was the most irritating and least glamorous part of an UNCLE agent's job ...and the hardest. Especially when there was no choice. THRUSH Toronto no longer existed -evidence had been gathered, samples collected, bodies removed for further examination, and the clean-up crew in and out with the quick efficiency for which they were known -what a pity that a most inconvenient electrical fire had suddenly razed the old building to the ground, leaving nothing for the local police to examine.
And now, all that was left was to wait...for answers.
The commissary of UNCLE Toronto, the new UNCLE base situated somewhere below the downtown subway system, was curiously quiet this day. Napoleon Solo noted the
marked lack of chatter with half an ear, balancing a tray on which sat one cup of coffee, a sweet roll, and a cup of tea -hot and strong with lemon- as he made his way over to the table where April Dancer and Mark Slate sat, their expressions as grim as his own. "Napoleon..." April said by way of greeting, noting the older agent's lack of his usual second shadow. "Isn't Illya coming?"
"Shortly, my dear -the boys and girls in the sciences section are using him in as an extra hand."
"Ahh...that minor in bio-chemistry of his... Was he conscripted then?" Mark inquired, his morbid curiosity piqued. "To...examine the stiffs?"
Solo's expression twisted into a grimace, the sweet roll suddenly no longer so inviting. "No -he volunteered."
"Oh." The one-worded response was accompanied by a synchronized bob of the younger agents' heads as if Solo's response was no more than either of them could have expected ...but after that, conversation fell into silence, a lack of bantering equaled by the general sense of uneasy quietude that had blanketed an area known for the omnipresent hum of voices; sometimes discussions on lesser cases, mostly general talk. But for now, there was almost none, as if an invisible pall had settled upon the people there. Mark toyed with his muffin, gradually reducing it to crumbs, before he looked up and-- "Napoleon...you've ...heard the rumors, haven't you?"
Solo sipped his coffee with a frown of dismay -too bitter. "Such as..?"
April shared a glance with her partner. "It's all over the building - that... something -maybe some bug- made the staff at that THRUSH satrap go..."
"...loopy," Mark finished. "They were working on biological weapons. I don't know why, but that lab door of theirs was opened - you'd have to already be balmy to do that while working with contagions, right? Maybe something like our Mad Cow' disease got out -by accident maybe- and most of them went on some sort of wilding'...no nerve gas residue was detected that could have caused it."
"Well..." Napoleon answered, suddenly uncertain that he liked the direction this conversation was taking. Bio-weapons were the latest and ugliest weapons in the news these days and the thought that THRUSH was in the process of adding them to their arsenal was less than comforting. "I don't know...a mad human' disease sounds a little too much like something you'd find on the X-Files' or Star Trek.'"
"Perhaps not, Napoleon." Illya Kuryakin's quiet, slightly accented voice interrupted the hushed discussion. The slight Russian agent sat down beside his partner, his usually pale complexion now just a little darker than the white lab coat that he still wore. Napoleon pushed the tea towards him -he accepted it with an almost non-existent, weary grin. "Spaceeba."
"So partner o' mine..." Solo prompted a little impatiently. "Why the cryptic utterance?"
Illya stared at his cup for moment longer, curiously uncomfortable about admitting how troubled he was by the theories floating around in his head...theories that were more than a little frightening. "There may be the possibility of a biological cause to the mass suicide and murders." He sighed aloud. "Autopsies failed to detect the presence of toxic gases...however, despite the fact that we have yet to find the cause of this incident, in each body there was evidence of radical changes in cerebral chemistry make-up to some degree or another, possibly causing anything from hysteria to depression to mania to euphoria ...perhaps even to paranoia."
"Like our man," April said, flinching at the memory of Gerhardt's distorted ranting.
"Perhaps," Illya concurred.
"And...?" Napoleon prompted, suspecting that there was more as yet unsaid.
Illya met his eyes hesitantly. "There is the unfortunate fact that if there is a disease at work here, we cannot find evidence of it and however unlikely its escape from the THRUSH base, if we cannot find it, we cannot cure it or truly protect ourselves against it."
"Oh God..!" Everyone at the table reacted with alarm at April Dancer's sudden cry of ...horror? One by one, the male agents followed her apparently mortified stare and realized that they were not alone in their astonishment. Just about everyone in the commissary was staring in the same disbelief as one of the Toronto base's field agents stood up on a table...and calmly relieved himself. The incredulity lasted only a moment, though, as frantically concerned co- workers grabbed the agent and hauled him off to the base's medical section, the man all the while loudly demanding to know what he had done wrong.
Napoleon flashed Illya a sharp, questioning look. "What was that you said about the unlikelihood of escape?"
"Yes... I see what you mean. I think I should get back to the lab." With that, Kuryakin stood up sharply...and felt the floor disappear from beneath him, strong hands suddenly catching him as he began to fall. Bleary, pale blue eyes met eyes of dark brown. "Napoleon, I...I am sorry. This accursed flu -I was dizzy for a moment. Napoleon?"
But it seemed as if the elder agent was not listening, his hands grasping his partner still as though to keep him from falling, but his eyes...in his eyes was the almost ravenous single -minded look that the Russian had seen only when his partner was determined to add yet another paramour to his seemingly ever growing harem. "Napoleon -you can let me go now," he said quietly, his voice belying the pounding of his heart.
"What..?" Napoleon Solo blinked rapidly for a moment as if waking from a deep sleep. A shadow of red slowly crept across Solo's handsome countenance as he slowly, almost reluctantly it seemed, released his grasp. "I, ah, was...distracted for a moment. Sorry."
Solo noted the puzzled look that passed between April and Mark. "Shall I accompany you to the lab?"
"If you wish," came the guarded response.
There was something wrong.
Both agents could feel it as they rounded the bend in the corridor that led to the sciences department, a sensation of both deja-vu and dread working within them. There was a smell -a nauseating, somehow antiseptic odor permeating the corridor, that grew stronger the closer they came to the ante-room that led to the area where the physical evidence gleaned from the late THRUSH Toronto satrap had been secured.
Illya stopped in his tracks first. "Oh...no..."
Through the thick plexi-glass of the viewing area, Solo and Kuryakin could see that the doors to the inner lab were no longer secure -they had not been breached. They had simply been left open, the men and women within not apparently particularly concerned, the cloth pendants over the vents flapping rapidly as the air within the once secure laboratory flowed outwards...into the common ventilation system.
What madness was this..?
Madness.
As Napoleon whipped out his communicator to contact UNCLE headquarters in New
York, Illya felt himself compelled to stare through the thick transparent barrier. There, on an examination table, like the ever present bad penny, in its open carry case was that broken vial marked "Batch #3"
Illya cursed under his breath in as many languages as he knew. Mark and April had been right. The rumors had been right. Despite all the precautions, despite the fact that they couldn't even see it, something had gotten out.
They were in trouble.
"No. Absolutely not."
The pronouncement was met with a snort of disgust as the head of UNCLE Toronto turned on her heel, pacing a rut in the deep-pile carpet as she began to curse under her breath in Quebecois French before meeting Alexander Waverly's unswerving gaze. En route back to her command from a meeting in Geneva, she and her second had been detoured to New York -she was far from happy. "I knew -I knew it would be a mistake to allow a contingent of your agents to run roughshod over my base -and those two hotshots of yours! Pah! What was it you said, Alexander -a 'minor' surveillance mission? 'Your' team could use it as an exercise to teach my juniors a few tricks? Go ahead to Geneva, you said-"
Waverly sighed aloud, seeing the same pattern of argument being woven again -that woman was as stubborn as a mule. "This is a unique situation, Marie, as you yourself know...and until we can be certain of what we are facing -UNCLE Toronto is in complete lockdown mode until further notice." He glanced at the series of buttons on the command panel on his desk. "To be released by remote from here. No-one is to enter and no-one leaves and that is my final decision as head of UNCLE's North American operations."
The decision had been met with varying degrees of disbelief and outrage, but there it was -UNCLE Toronto was officially under quarantine...and physically shut off from the outside world. Upon report of the discovery of possible contamination, mechanized doors had slammed shut and locked at a signal from UNCLE's North American headquarters, communications reduced to the direct feed to which the medical department and the remaining bio-sciences staff -namely one Illya Kuryakin- had access.
What they were dealing with, they still did not know -but it was there. It was definitely there. Save for Kuryakin, the people that had been examining the evidence gathered from the former THRUSH satrap seemed to have lapsed into varying fugue-like states, some merely sitting and staring at nothing, others in blissful nonawareness -one preferred to curl up into a ball, sucking his thumb and sobbing quietly. Whatever was affecting them had gotten past the supposed protection of their anti-contamination gear.
Worse. This "phantom virus" -as it was coming to be known- was spreading. Two of the security staff had had to be locked up after being separated from a bloody all-out fight -no particular reason. They had just felt like it. Then the head of the encryption department had gone streaking -not the prettiest of sights- extolling the virtues of self expression at the top of his lungs. UNCLE North America had then ordered that weaponry be confiscated and stored, and the tension became all the greater.
Napoleon Solo kneaded the dull ache at his temples as he walked through the
corridor that led most directly to the commissary -damned tension headache. What he would have given for a dose of codeine right now, but one didn't go to the medical department lately unless one was literally dragged there -even the slightest physical or emotional distress could be looked upon with suspicion -could be a "symptom" of their invisible bug- and he had no desire to be locked away in a padded cell for any reason, but especially not for a stupid headache.
He was fine. Just freaking fine. Wouldn't know it by Illya though...the way his slight Russian partner had been looking at him lately as if he had grown another arm or something.
A slight smile turned the corners of Solo's lips -ah yes...Illya...hair of bright gold and eyes of crystalline blue. What was behind that porcelain mask of his? What- "Huh?"
"I said -are you all right, mate?" Mark Slate said, apparently repeating the question.
Taking a moment to collect himself -he hadn't even realized that Slate had fallen in step with him- Solo shrugged, the growing thump - thump in his head worsening slightly. "Sorry...I'm bucking a bit of a headache -it's kind of distracting."
Slate nodded sagely. "Maybe you're getting that flu Illya's got." At which, the younger agent produced a tissue and began dabbing his rapidly reddening nose. "Sure as heck gave it to me."
"Ummn...could be," Solo muttered grimly, massaging his thumping temples. Caffeine -a good strong shot of caffeine was what he needed to knock this would-be migraine for a loop. "A better condition than the alternative right now, my friend."
"True -and, uh, speaking of friends," Slate said almost in mid-sentence, "have you seen April about?"
Solo struggled with that question for a moment -damn, his head felt like it was full of cobwebs. Thump-thump. "Not for some time. Why?"
"Oh, it's nothing...really..." The young agent said with a nervous laugh. "Just...haven't been able to find her for a while. You know how it is...with the way things are right now... You never know."
Thump. THUMP. Napoleon winced painfully, gradually aware as they walked that the thumping pulse in his skull was being echoed by a very real pounding from without, a rhythmic noise that grated on his presently too-sensitive nerves. Not noise. Not exactly. Music of a sort. Loud and coming from the commissary that was his and Mark's present destination...and with the raucous pounding music were equally loud words: "TAKE IT OFF, GIVE IT TO ME!!!! TAKE IT OFF, LIKE YOU'D DO ME!!!!"
Mark was off like a shot, sudden grim inspiration and panic etched into his young face. Solo quickly followed, the thunderous row now pressing him towards nausea. "TAKE IT OFF, PRETTY BABY!!!! TAKE IT OFF, DRIVE ME CRAZY!!!!" Even as Solo caught up with the younger agent, Mark shrieked in horrified dismay. "APRIL!!!"
On a tabletop, surrounded by a leeringly appreciative audience, to the reverberating music exploding from someone's portable stereo, April Dancer was doing a very raunchy striptease -to say that she was only half-dressed would have been an exaggeration. As Solo stabbed the "off" switch, cutting off the row, to a chorus of disappointed boos, Mark pushed his way through the small crowd and hauled his half-naked partner off her stage, gathering her up in his arms. "Blimey, April, what did you think you were doing!"
April shrugged sheepishly, offering an almost drunken smile. "Seemed like a good idea at the time..."
"Come on, luv -let's get you to the med section," Slate said soothingly. "You can have a nice lie-down..."
"With you?" April asked hopefully, snuggling against her partner's shoulder.
"Oh, crikey...Napoleon?" Slate glanced around almost helplessly, hoping for a little advice from UNCLE's resident lothario.
Solo was nowhere to be seen.
It was as if a light had been switched on -it all made sense now.
A laugh erupted from Napoleon Solo's mouth. He had no real idea how he had gotten to this corridor leading to the labs -didn't really matter- but everything was suddenly so very clear -his head didn't even hurt anymore. All the teasing, the flirting, the mindgames, the little innuendoes he had used in the past on his various female conquests -they were useless here! That was why his little campaign with his partner had failed.
Yes-yes-yes -made perfect sense. Absolutely perfect sense. Illya was too sophisticated, too wordly, too damned smart for such empty romantic prattle.
That left only one other course of action.
The direct approach.
"Yes, sir -if your people could get back to me with their conclusions as soon as possible, I would be most grateful."
Illya Kuryakin stared at the now silent desk communicator, his eyes dulled with tiredness and the pressing ache of irritated sinuses. Damned flu. Damn them -sometimes he wondered what Waverly and the upper echlons of UNCLE really expected of him. The medical staff -those that hadn't gone to "la-la" land as he had heard April put it- had just been summoned to deal with the immediate after-effects of a sudden knock-down dragged-out brawl that had just erupted in the commissary and that pretty much left him -alone- to tackle the task of discovering the nature of whatever was causing the growing madness.
Bozhe moi! He wasn't a physician and he only had a minor in bio-chemistry. What did they expect -miracles! Ice-blue eyes scanned hastily scribbled notes -a clue. He thought that he had found something. Had anyone asked him only minutes before, he would have sworn it. Now, he just wasn't sure. If the science department at UNCLE Colorado concurred, they would be one tiny step closer to what -a means of detecting THRUSH's creation? Curing it? Or was he grasping at straws? So hard to think clearly -and quite frankly, his partner wasn't helping.
Napoleon -what the hell was that scene in the commissary? He and his sometimes arrogant, all too charming partner had played the same game for years -at least, Napoleon had played it. The man was good at guessing what a person's buttons were and just when to press them...and that was the way it had been for as long as he could remember.
Napoleon had figured out his preferences within weeks of their first meeting, but the flirting hadn't begun until much later...but even then, it was just a game of the mind, a tease from a man who knew better than anyone how to get a rise out of him. Nothing serious. But...that look ...and the way that Napoleon's hands had felt against his body...
Illya threw his reading glasses to the counter top in frustration and reacted with dull dismay as he realized that one of the lenses had cracked. Damn. Just then, Illya heard a low, familiar scraping sound as the door to this mini-lab inched open. "Oh..." He swallowed the surprise in his voice. "Napoleon."
"Illya..."
A slight frown creased the young Russian's brow as he took in his partner's appearance. Haggard -that was the only word he could think of to describe the usually immaculate Napoleon Solo's appearance right now -hair mussed, the shadow of a beard on his face. He looked...ill? "Napoleon...are you well?"
A vague smile turned Solo's lips. "Perfectly fine. Better than ever, lyubovnik."
What? Lyubovnik? Lover!? And that look again, but much more so. Illya felt with his left hand, reaching behind himself for the desk communicator as Napoleon allowed the door to shut behind him -and then, locked it.
"Napoleon..." Illya said almost nervously despite himself as he felt himself take a step backwards. "Perhaps you should speak with one of the doctors..."
"Oh, we will talk, Doctor Kuryakin." They were so close now that they were all but face to face, almost touching, as Napoleon's hand darted out and clasped Illya's wrist, firmly pulling his hand away from the communication device. "And neither of us is leaving this room until we've...talked."
"Napoleon..."
The name, half plea and half warning, came out as a ragged whisper as Illya Kuryakin found that even if his partner were of a mind to release his wrist, that he could back off no further as a cold wall suddenly met his back. This was not right. Napoleon...was not right. In the privacy of his thoughts, he had always seen Napoleon Solo as an intensely passionate, sensual man -in his less charitable moods, he would have described him as a rutting tomcat- but he had never considered his partner as one given to the sort of aggression he could now see beginning to burn behind those dark eyes.
There could only be one explanation.
"Napoleon, listen to me. You...are unwell. The virus-" The small Russian broke off in mid-sentence, a slight gasp escaping his mouth as warm silken lips were drawn down the side of his exposed neck, equally warm hands caressing him in a way that made it hard to speak at all. Dammit, Kuryakin, he cursed himself. Concentrate! "Napoleon, the...the virus -whatever it is- we have found...oh!..we have found that it alters...brain chemistry...makes you do things you would not...would not normally do. This...is not you! You do not want-"
A soft throaty laugh was the only response as Napoleon put a single finger to his partner's lips, his eyes somehow much too bright. "Ahhh...but that's where you're wrong, lyubov ...my mind has never been clearer. I know what I want...all this time we've worked together, I've known...and you've known it too, my little flirt. I can see right through you, Illya Kuryakin...right past the ice and steel with which you fool everyone else...but this time, no mindgames, no teasing. We've been through Hell together. We know each other." Napoleon's voice lowered to a near-growl. "If anyone has the right to have you, it's me."
"Napoleon..." Illya heard his voice falter even as he silently chastised his treasonous body which he was coming to find was all too eager to respond to his partner's sensuous touch despite the fact that he knew ...he knew that Napoleon would never...would never...not ...not like this...if he were in his right mind. To take advantage of a drunken date would have been inexcusable. To allow his just as mentally intoxicated partner to- "Napoleon!" the Russian snapped sharply, willing his voice to remain steady, the chill to return to his
tone. "Stop this -now!" Dark eyes snapped up to meet eyes of cold blue, suddenly uncertain. "...please..."
It wasn't as if a switch had been turned off. The passion in Solo's eyes didn't suddenly disappear. But there was a change as though confusion and desire had joined in battle within him...and then... "Oh, God, Illya..." he stammered, releasing his partner, almost falling over himself as he staggered backwards, bumping and falling into a chair. Napoleon's brow, damp with sweat, creased as though with some supreme internal effort. "I didn't mean to...I would never hurt you..." He shuddered visibly, the pounding in his head beginning to return. "I want...I need you...love you...but I won't -I will not force you..."
"ILLYA!" A loud, unexpected voice beyond the locked door interrupted the confession, accompanied by a frantic hammering at the barrier. "Come on -OPEN UP!" Illya cast a deeply concerned look at his partner, who still sat hunched in his chair gazing distractedly at thoughts only he could see, and unlocked the door. "Mark..."
Slate glanced sharply at Solo, who had begun to grin dreamily to himself, and then at Kuryakin, noting the Russian's slightly disheveled appearance. "Are you all right?" he asked uncertainly.
"I am fine," Illya responded evenly, allowing the mask of ice and steel to descend over his features once more. "What is it?"
"UNCLE Colorado has been trying to get through to you and when you didn't answer-" Mark bit back the reproachful reply, refusing to ask just what his superiors had been doing that was so distracting that neither man had apparently heard the keening tone of the desk communicator -he suspected that he already knew. "UNCLE Colorado has been conferring with the C.D.C. in Atlanta -they...they've confirmed your findings. The THRUSH virus is there, it's real, but it's too damned small to see with conventional microscopes. That's why you couldn't actually see it."
"And small enough to pass through the barrier of our equally conventional anti -contamination gear!" Illya snapped a little more sharply than he had intended, and then started as he felt large warm hands encircle his waist from behind. So...even when the spirit was willing, the flesh- "Napoleon -please!" he whispered urgently out of the side of his mouth, feeling the fire begin to burn in his cheeks as the insistent hands began to roam a bit more -in front of Mark too! "Not now!"
"When then?" came the equally soft, slightly dazed reply.
Forcing himself to ignore his blissfully confused partner, Kuryakin returned the younger agent's questioning stare. "But do they have any idea of a cure!"
"They think they might," Slate said grimly.
"Think..?"
"You're not going to like it."
It was language that would have made a sailor blush.
And, for a change, all of it in English.
"Mr. Kuryakin, you are dangerously close to insubordination!" For the first time since the two-way transmission had begun, Mr. Waverly's low sonorous voice raised a notch, a distinctly dangerous glimmer coming to the old man's eyes. Not even a command from Napoleon Solo could easily rein back an enraged Illya Kuryakin's temper once it was finally released -a word from Alexander Waverly had done just that as the young Russian took a deep breath, swallowing another explosive verbal expression of outrage...but...only for now...and perhaps, not for long.
Mark Slate had said that he wouldn't like it -"it" not being the revelation of a cure for the madness that was gradually but certainly sweeping this UNCLE base.
The incidents were no longer easily dealt with, no longer merely strange, no longer ...funny. That the virus was revealing an increasing tendency to press its victims towards violence was bad enough...that a young technician had just been found to have hung himself was somehow infinitely worse. No...the "it" that Mark had said that he would not like was that he now knew that the creators of the mutant virus were not THRUSH.
It was UNCLE.
"Forgive me...sir," the Russian said with no little insincerity, "but perhaps I would understand better if you would explain to me how UNCLE could possibly have played a part in this...debacle!"
For once, it was Number One Section One's turn to wear an expression of shame at the knowledge of things kept hidden save from a very few...things that should not have happened in the first place. "The use of bio-weapons is not a new concept, Mr. Kuryakin -a sample of a virtually indestructible airborne 'Mad Cow-like' contagion 'created' by the scientists of an eco-terrorist organization was turned over to UNCLE's science division some time ago in the hopes that we could find a cure where others had failed -surely you can see the danger of such a biological disease? A weapon that could create mass cerebral collapse?"
"And you failed..?"
"No, Mr. Kuryakin -not exactly." The old man paced slowly. "We did find a cure of sorts..." Waverly snorted in self-disgust. "...a 'cure' which then mutated the original virus into one that did not destroy the brain and its neural network, but altered the chemistry of the brain."
"Inducing madness." Illya allowed himself a bone-weary sigh, chancing a glance at his supine partner, draped on a near-by couch, having been forcibly put into a chemically-induced slumber when blissful confusion had quickly deteriorated into an uncontrollable emotional swing between giddiness and crippling depression. "How did THRUSH acquire the contagion?"
"Even UNCLE is not immune to infiltration by THRUSH, Mr. Kuryakin -approximately
five years ago, one of the last samples of the mutant virus was 'liberated' from our labs in Colorado, probably for the purpose of taming it and eventually using it as a threat or a weapon. We...have been tracking it ever since."
"Then you knew what they had in THRUSH Toronto's lab." The Russian agent's question came out more like a statement -almost an accusation.
"We...suspected."
Illya massaged the bridge of his nose, the ache in his head becoming a steady, nauseating throb. It was the nature of the game to which he and Napoleon had willingly pledged themselves that truths -full truths- were dispensed rarely, if at all, even to those who assumed that they were in the know. Somehow, that reality had never hit quite so closely to home. He had seen madness and confusion these past few days and now, despite what he had suspected of Napoleon, he felt himself compelled to wonder if anything of what he had seen in his partner's eyes or heard from his lips was any more than deluded ramblings
...and surprised himself by realizing that if that were the case, he could not possibly be more disappointed. "So..." he said finally. "Mr. Slate said that you indicated the 'possibility' of a cure."
"Again...it could be a cure."
Kuryakin nodded, understanding immediately. "Or, again, worse than the disease, nyet?"
Waverly returned the gesture grimly. "Yes."
The touch of a button -that was all that this horrific affair boiled down to -a simple touch on a single button at the desk of Alexander Waverly at UNCLE HQ in New York.
There was a solution to deal with this runaway madness-spawning brainchild of misused science. Now that UNCLE HQ had admitted that they knew what the contagion was, the serum could be used -but was the solution a cure or a killer? That was the question. There was no real way of knowing how it would react on humans save to actually test it on humans...and no way of getting test subjects except through the touch of a button which would remotely activate a security device hooked up to the ventilation system at UNCLE Toronto which would release a narcotic gas throughout the base, leaving it relatively safe for a team of volunteers to enter the structure and begin the series of experimental inoculations.
Relatively safe -who knew how a body stricken with the virus would react to yet
another attack?
Volunteers -because those who would enter the base did not know if they would
ever be able to leave it. Alive. Or sane.
It was the last chance for the personnel and agents at UNCLE Toronto -failure guaranteed an order to "cleanse" the base with great alacrity...by whatever means necessary. This, Illya Kuryakin knew and accepted as he and Mark Slate watched the countdown from ten to zero, waiting for -dreading in some ways- the first familiar whiff of the sickly sweet odor of knock-out vapor, not really knowing what the end result would ultimately be.
4...3...2...1...
Nothing.
Kuryakin checked his watch. Nothing. No malodorous vapor. No cessation of the caterwauling row of human voices that had begun to permeate the walls of UNCLE Toronto. No change. Nothing. Just then, the keening wail that signaled an incoming transmission broke through the Russian's reverie. "Kuryakin here."
"Mr. Kuryakin," came the phlegmatic voice of Alexander Waverly. "We are experiencing a...slight technical difficulty."
The Russian UNCLE agent swallowed the almost hysterical giggle struggling to inch its way up his already irritated throat before answering. "Yes, sir -and that would be?"
"The remote unit that should release the narcotic vapor is not receiving the activation signal from our end-" Waverly paused, listening to the hurriedly whispered words of one of a dozen or more technicians that seemed to be on stand-by. "-most likely due to a design flaw or..."
Or. Or sabotage. The Russian agent did not need to hear the word to know that that was what his superior meant. Madness did not preclude intellect, and paranoia could give birth to brilliant insight -the noxious security device was a logical, eventual, step in regaining control of UNCLE Toronto. Dementia did not necessarily make one forget that...and insanity generally resisted control.
"Sir...what do you wish to be done?"
Why had he even bothered asking?
Illya Kuryakin shook his head slightly as he made his way through the ventilation duct that led most directly to his destination -to the remote unit that would activate the release of the crowd controlling gas. He was to repair the unit or operate it manually. Indeed -why had he bothered asking what Alexander Waverly wanted to be done or, for that matter, who was to do it? It seemed like this Russian was constantly crawling, slinking, climbing, or sneaking somewhere, often through nameless gunk, usually during some equally hellish situation -though the fact that he was trying to avoid the notice of fellow UNCLE agents was something new. Didn't know if anyone would try to stop him.
Didn't dare take the chance of finding out.
It was getting ugly out there. Maybe the THRUSH base's people had gone from blissful apathy to violence so quickly because of an innately paranoid attitude THRUSH had towards the world in general, but though it may have been at a slower rate, the people at this UNCLE base were gradually succumbing too. It was just a matter of time.
Something else that was new and curiously strange was a semi- coherent Napoleon Solo's reaction to this assignment. "Oh no, he's not!" he'd bellowed drunkenly. "Not MY Illya -TOO dangerous! Not without me, he's not!" Mark had had to literally sit on the confused agent to make him stay put while Illya had made his escape. Despite the situation, the usually stoic young agent felt a corner of his mouth twitch upwards at the memory. Napoleon's suddenly intensely proprietary attitude was oddly comforting. If only...
Ah there!
A slight smile brightened Kuryakin's expression as he came within sight of his goal -a small cube-like unit, looking for all the world like a common fuse box...except...the tentative smile faded into a frown as he cast a studious glare over the box's contents. Not a design flaw. "Kuryakin to Waverly..."
"Waverly here," came the also whispered voice of his superior. "Have you located the trouble?"
"Yes, sir," the Russian agent said through clenched teeth, struggling not to give into the need to cough up the liquid heaviness in his chest. "Your suspicions have proven correct -there has been some tampering with the remote unit-" A curse escaped his lips as the sweat on his fingers caused him to struggle to maintain his grip on a micro -welding torch. "Clumsy. Not a professional job."
"Can you repair it, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Yes, sir," came the ragged reply. "In fact..." Another curse. "There. Got it. You should now be able to-"
The sentence was never completed. The reply -if there was one- was not heard as a dark figure barreled through the dark passageway on hands and knees with an inarticulated roar, piling into the startled Russian -and the thin sheath of metal and insulation opened up beneath them.
Contact with the floor below came with an explosion of pain.
Illya recognized his assailant, the face twisted by mindless rage, as one of the forensic technicians with which he had worked not so long ago -how he had escaped from confinement, he did not know. Didn't really have time to care either. "You!" his attacker grated. "You started all this! You're THRUSH -admit it!" Ordinarily, the slight Russian would have been more than a match for the larger man -he had high level black belts in several of the martial arts and had earned them all- but the adrenaline that had helped to press his weakened body beyond his normal limits was now in scarce supply. Several of the powerful blows had hit their mark -one had made him see stars.
It was then, through the metallic stench of the blood spilling from his nose, that Illya smelled a familiar sickly sweet odor.
He'd done it.
The gas.
An undulating ethereal white carpet, the noxious vapor began to filter into the room from hidden vents -he was already beginning to feel blissfully light-headed. He no longer felt any desire to try to avoid the next angry blow heading his way...didn't even question when through blurred eyes, he saw another vague figure rush into the room, pull his attacker off him and throw the man against a wall where he landed with a sickening thud, knocking him out cold.
Through the increasing haze in his mind and body, Illya felt his rescuer come towards him, kneeling, and then cradling him in strong, capable arms, his words fuzzy... "Easy, lyubov. It's all right now," he heard from a distance. "We'll both just sleep a while."
Yes...
Sleep...
"Illya..?"
"Come on, tovarisch -open those baby blues for me."
Illya Kuryakin groaned softly, half-tempted to ignore the familiar, insistent voice. He had never known opening his eyes to be such hard work and his head hurt, but..."Napoleon..." His voice came out as a rough squeak. "Could you do me the mercy of letting me die in peace..?" Just then, a thought...
Napoleon..!?
Illya blinked rapidly, struggling to exorcise the remaining oppressive lethargy. Blurred images struggled into focus. Where was..? He was in a bed ...in the infirmary and his partner- "How are you- What are you-" The English which usually came to him so easily seemed to elude him for the moment. "Are you...are you..?"
"Take it easy, my friend. We -I- almost lost you -the flu, the gas...you stopped breathing for a time." Napoleon brushed aside a limp strand of golden hair. "I...was worried there for a moment."
Illya found himself studying the face of his partner, looking for any sign of the former madness. "But you-"
A more familiar smile animated the darkly handsome visage "Ah, that. I'm better than ever -in body and mind. The, ah, serum apparently works rather well after all...though regulations state that we all have to remain under observation for another three weeks unfortunately."
"The serum. What did they-"
"A derivative of the influenza virus."
"Flu!? Was that why I-"
"Never caught the virus? Almost certainly yes."
"And everyone else-"
"Sniffling, but coming to their senses."
"Have I ever told you how much I hate it when you-"
"Finish your sentences? Yes. I'm sorry." For once, perhaps, Napoleon Solo did seem sorry as he looked away for a long moment, seeming to struggle with himself before he returned his partner's still bleary gaze. "Illya...I need to apologize. There were some things... While I was under the influence of the virus, I remember saying and doing some things-"
"Napoleon, it was not your fault," the younger agent said softly, understanding immediately. "It wasn't you. The virus -you did not mean any of it, I know."
"No!" The sudden outburst shocked both agents into momentary silence. "No," Napoleon said again, a little more softly. "Damn... How am I going to..." he muttered, and then brightening and suddenly resolute. "It was and it wasn't me. I was out of control then, but some of what I said still stands." A warm flush darkened the olive skin. "No more stupid innuendoes, no more headgames. All right." Solo took a deep, steeling breath. "I'm...in love with you -and I have been for some time." There. It had been said. Silence. "Illya..?"
"It's about bloody time."
Huh? Of all the possible responses, this one Napoleon had not expected. "I don't-"
"It was about time you said it."
Solo's eyes narrowed with vague suspicion. "Then...you knew-"
"I suspected."
"Then why have you never-"
A devilish smile animated the Russian's lips. "I do not respond well to 'headgames.'"
Tentative hope. "Then, do you-"
"Of course I do...lyubov."
"So..." Solo said, an unashamedly triumphant smile brightening his face as he leaned forward. "Where do we go from here?"
Kuryakin leaned into the kiss, allowing it...welcoming it. "We have about three weeks to ourselves to begin to find out."
EPILOGUE:
"So..."
"So?"
"The tests went well."
"I don't agree. The results were far too inconclusive."
"But it's a start."
"True."
"..."
"Something bothering you?"
"I'm not questioning -I'm just puzzled. How could our own leaders at Central
have ordered the release of the contagion on our own base?"
"Interesting question, but better you should ask how UNCLE could do that to theirs."
"True."
The End?
C.D.C. -The Center For Disease Control (Atlanta)
Outbreak courtesy of Time-Warner
Star Trek courtesy of Paramount Productions
Starbucks, an American trademark
Take It Off by Stanley and Ezrin, performed by KISS
X-Files courtesy of Twentieth Century Fox