The Dark of the Night Affair

by Kei

When Thrush releases new drug onto the market, Illya must go undercover in the vampire goth underground, but his contact may be as dangerous as the mission.

"The Dark of Night Affair"

by

Kei

Prologue

Rated: M

Tick...tick...tick...

Napoleon Solo, Number One of Section Two of the U.N.C.L.E., stared up into the gloom of his darkened bedroom suite, looking at nothing in particular. He couldn't sleep. It was a restless state that had nothing to do with the ticking of the old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock sitting on his night table - a gift from his ever pragmatic partner who insisted that the gear-run device was far more practical than an electric one in these days of rolling power outages. No...an uneasiness had stolen over him as of late and he couldn't shift it. No matter how he reasoned with himself.

"Hmm..." The soft murmur of a sleepy voice at Napoleon's side intruded on his quiet contemplation, coaxing a soft smile onto his lips. In the night-darkness, Illya's ice-blue eyes caught the waning moonlight filtering through the gauze-like drapes, shining as they regarded the darker man thoughtfully. "Can you not sleep, Vanya?" he murmured, reaching up and gently drawing a pale hand along the warm, duskier skin of Napoleon's tension-tight shoulders.

"I'm a little wound-up, I guess." Napoleon reached down and kissed his partner's supple lips, the fingers of a free hand playing with the longer-than-usual locks of corn silk blond; longer than usual in preparation for the mission.

Undercover.

He was suddenly reminded of the reason for his unease. "'Lusha..."

Illya Kuryakin sighed softly, sensing the beginning of another attempt, via the famous Solo charm, to broach a familiar subject. He stroked the fine stubble covering Napoleon's clenched jaw. "What is it, 'Polya? Do you not feel that I am competent...or able to fulfill the demands of this mission?" There was no exasperation or accusation in the Russian's voice - just curiosity. He really wanted to know.

"It's not that, Illyusha - don't even think it." Napoleon drew the unprotesting man closer, rolling the both of them until the blond head rested on his chest, and the silk sheets had fallen aside, leaving them both exposed and nude. There was a pause, then a sigh. "I just...I guess... I'm turning into a mother hen. I can't help feeling that you shouldn't be going undercover without backup."

Illya chuckled. "But I have backup - you!"

"But I won't be at your side. I don't like it."

"I know you don't," came the dry reply, "but do you wish to know something, lyubov?" The dark head nodded tentatively. "I love you all the more because you love me enough to worry about me." Illya snuggled closer, noting the faint tint of purple and blue in the sky. "We have a few more hours yet before we must leave to prepare and play our parts - perhaps we should try to get some more sleep."

"Oh?" Even in the greyness, Illya could see the grin Napoleon wore. Napoleon stroked the slight dusting of dark blond hair on Illya's chest. From there, the wandering hand drifted lower…much lower. The American chuckled softly as he felt a definite burgeoning interest on his lover's part. "There are other things we could do too."

"Napoleon, you are incorrigible," Illya muttered without rancor.

Napoleon responded with a deepening kiss. "And irresistibly lovable."

"Ahh...yes…"

The Mission

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall-"

//You are the fairest of them all.//

"Flatterer." Pale, full lips twitched with a slight smile at the voice in the listener's ear, courtesy of the microphone hidden in the dagger-like bauble that dangled from the lobe - rather than because of some personality disorder. Illya Kuryakin studied his image in the slightly smudged reflective glass and scowled - if his mentors in the former KGB could see him now, they would be certain that he was suffering from mental illness. The reflection that quizzically stared back at him seemed to agree.

Illya sighed and continued to apply the camouflage that was part of this assignment - this undercover assignment. After a period of relative quiet, Thrush was active again...but with greater subtlety than in the past…the subtlety of a poisonous snake in the grass.

A new drug had hit the streets of North America - a particularly nasty one.

Street name: "Black Cross."

Five dollars a pop would buy one addiction and an instant ultimate high...or death. There was no in-between. One lived or one died. And if one lived, he craved the drug until he died. Fifty fatalities in the U.S. in the last three months - twenty in Canada. And yet the stuff was selling like proverbial hot cakes. For some reason, the drug seemed especially popular amongst the dwellers of the night in the grim, dark subculture of vampiric goths. Perhaps flirting with death fit the strange mystique of this peculiar lifestyle - no outsider was sure - but the fact that a powerful senator's teenage son had been one of Black Cross's victims had definitely helped to push for a quick solution to the problem.

Easy to order.

Hard to accomplish.

There was another problem.

Knowing the drug was available was one thing, finding how it was made and how Thrush was distributing it was another. U.N.C.L.E. and other sundry government scientists had been slaving night and day over the chemical puzzle without coming any closer to solving it.

And as for information, squealers were not exactly crawling out of the woodworks…

…thus this assignment…

…thus this subterfuge.

Senator Weston massaged his temples, wincing at the ache that had planted itself there - another tension headache, his physician had told him. Too much work. Too much job-related stress.

Good doctor, wrong diagnosis.

He was suffering from stress all right, but not from the job. No, he was numb to the constant ranting and grousing from fellow statesmen. The source of the stress, this time, was one stubborn, opinionated child bordering on adulthood - his son, Ricky.

Such a sweet, lively child once, Ricky had entered the 'terrible teens' with a vengeance. He barely recognized the sullen, spiky-haired, leather-wearing, would-be undead creature that had taken the place of the bright, cheerful lad he had once known. 'A phase' his wife had called it - just another phase. She was a sweet woman, his beloved wife, but that naïve nature wouldn't let her accept that something was very wrong with their Ricky - something more than weird clothes and crazy, loud music, something that couldn't be made to go away with extra hugs and kisses.

It was time that he and Ricky talked - and if that didn't work - Senator Weston sighed aloud - if talking didn't work, then he would use his exceptional resources to find something that would.

Weston paused before the door to his son's bedroom, hand upraised to knock. It was early in the day and already the door to Ricky's 'private space' was literally vibrating from the deafening row that blared from his stereo's oversized speakers. He knocked - no response. He knocked again, harder - still nothing.

"Richard James Weston! I want to speak to you - this instant, young man!" Jim Weston felt a cold lump of unease settle in his stomach - even in Ricky's worst moods, when he used that tone, his son would respond. Weston tentatively reached for the door's handle - to his surprise, the door was unlocked and inched open. "Ricky?"

It was then that Senator Jim Weston saw the still, pale form sprawled on the rubbish-strewn floor; a thin stream of blood trailing from the open mouth to pool on the carpet, chest unmoving, a ripped pouch stamped with a black Celtic cross clenched in frozen fingers.

"RICKY!"

Illya shuddered as he recalled the details of Senator Weston's report of how he had found his dead son, a victim of Black Cross. As an U.N.C.L.E. field agent, he had seen many victims of Thrush's machinations, but this was new.

Thrush was new, different, harder. Gone was the organization whose members fell over each other's feet as they squabbled and grasped for a clump of territory or a bit of power. This new Thrush was an invisible army of terrorists -equally subtle, ordered, organized, and vicious …not to mention, cold to the core.

The Thrush he had once known had been conniving to a fault, grabbing for almost any means to achieve their goal of a grim New World order, but they had never been drug-dealers.

It was a new game - one that, in truth, scared him as much as it did his Napoleon. This new Thrush didn't play around.

Illya exhaled heavily and brought a fine-tipped make-up brush to his face. Carefully applied liquid kohl brought out the natural brilliance of ice-blue eyes as he continued to layer on the "look." To confuse their enemy, assignment teams had been shuffled all along the continent - United States to Canada, east coast to west, and so on. He and Napoleon were still a team and for a change, they had "lucked out," as Napoleon had put it. Instead of a grim grey nook of either country, their assignment was in sunny California. Well...not quite sunny as most of the activity took place at night and there was certainly no time for beaches.

//Illya...//

"'Polya, please do not start again."

But the 'voice' in Illya's ear was not so easily silenced. //Illyushka,// Napoleon sighed//I've been in this business long enough to know to trust my instincts. Something about this meeting feels wrong.//

Illya mapped his now ebony-stained lips against a folded handkerchief and uttered a throaty chuckle. "And what am I, lyubov? A helpless babe in the woods? This our first true breakthrough - a contact - and we must take advantage of the situation, nyet?"

On the other end of the connection, Napoleon muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'Merde... So, so!' (Damn... I know, I know!)

"And you kiss your mother with that mouth, 'Polya?" Illya inquired with feigned astonishment.

//No...// He could hear the leer in Napoleon's voice. //But I kiss you.//

"So you do, lyubovenka. So you do," Illya replied with a gentle warmth completely at odds with the image in the mirror, his transformation almost complete.

Hair that was by nature the gold of the sun had been dyed the color of night - jet black and gel-spiked with stringy bangs that all but covered ice-blue eyes that peered from a drawn, pallid face...a generally emaciated appearance that had come from shedding twenty-five pounds that he could ill-afford to lose. But it was the semi-starved look favored by many of the denizens of this dark subculture. This was why the Russian had been chosen to actually seek out their mysterious contact - he could look the part. Despite his own skills at subterfuge, Napoleon could not. As he had told the senior agent: "Face it, 'Polya - you look like a narc."

Illya pulled a long, black duster from a nearby wardrobe. The coal-black leather was butter-soft and slid over his skin as easily as satin as he slipped one bare lean muscular arm through one sleeve and then shrugged his left through the other, the long flowing folds of the coat covering the temporary tattoos mottling his pale flesh, completing his ensemble of jet-dyed boots, skin-tight jeans, and torn t-shirt. Illya stepped back and viewed the stranger in the mirror with a critical eye: something was missing.

Ah! Illya opened a tiny, hinged plastic box on the scuffed dresser, removing two essential items, and applied them. When he had finished, his smile sported small, realistic, fang-like canines. His own mother would not have recognized him now. Napoleon certainly wouldn't. The transformation was finally complete. Illya checked his watch and headed out.

Show time.

Dark eyes narrowed in annoyance.

Napoleon cursed softly as Illya's black hearse pulled ahead slightly - it was the only thing by which he could clearly recognize his undercover partner. The vehicle was a modified issue from the U.N.C.L.E. motor pool - he'd even helped to pick it for the mission - but he had not seen Illya face to face for four months. Four months of the Russian insinuating himself into this dark subculture. Four months of living with the uncertainty that went with one's partner being undercover. Napoleon sighed softly.

Four months of sleeping alone.

It was just over three weeks ago that their mysterious informant had entered the scene and it was the sixth attempt to actually talk to him face to face - whoever he was, he was skittish...very skittish. Or he was playing with their heads. Napoleon wasn't sure which - and that only added to the unease that had started to burn deep within his belly the moment that Waverly had decided Illya would go deep undercover.

Their would-be informant had contacted others, but nothing had come from those tentative attempts. Only Illya seemed to have struck his interest enough to arrange meeting after meeting when something sent him scurrying back into the shadows of vampire Goth underworld. The notes he'd leave would ask for the Russian…

…and only the Russian.

Napoleon didn't like it one bit.

But the deaths had to be stopped.

The production of Black Cross could not be allowed to continue.

And so… Napoleon Solo clenched his teeth, did as Waverly had told him and hung back, lurking in shadows, listening in on the transceiver that was his lone link to his lover and partner, and trailed the sleek black hearse wherever it went - in this case, to the Club Polidori. Napoleon froze the image in his mind as a slight dark figure that he usually knew as blond was quickly given ingress by a bouncer whose gaze lingered on the club's newest guest a little too long.

In response, Napoleon cursed as he pulled into a parking spot across from the loud, bustling club, killed the engine...

...and waited.

It was a large crowd tonight.

During the five previously scheduled attempts at a meeting with their mystery man, the numbers at the club had been relatively low. Tonight was different. Perhaps it was because of the band - not playing his beloved jazz or the classics with which he had been raised, to be sure - but of a better caliber than the others...as far as he knew. Illya winced as the high-pitched scream of electric guitar feedback exploded out of the amplifiers. Note to self, he thought, after the mission, have hearing checked. The Russian sighed and headed towards the bar, well aware of more than one appreciative glance in his direction. Good, but not good enough. No contact yet.

Illya took his seat. "One Dracula's Blood - straight and ice-cold."

"Now, why would you want a prissy drink like that, luv?"

Despite himself, Illya was only just able to resist reactions ingrained by years of training. He kept his hand away from the U.N.C.L.E. Special hidden within the folds of his floor-length duster, but only barely. "And you," he retorted, trying to pierce the murky half-light, "would know a better one?"

There was a low, growling chuckle from the shadowy figure that sat across from the agent. "Could name one or two," he said with nonchalance. "Rather fond of a bit of the real stuff with a side of bitters - now there's drink for ya. A vampire's drink."

Illya blinked. 'Vampire's drink' - the words he had been told to expect in response to an order for Dracula's Blood. "So, we finally meet. What should I call you?"

Eyes, a darker and colder blue than his own, crinkled in amusement. "Not important, luv. Not at the moment."

Napoleon pressed the hearing-aid-shaped transceiver closer to his ear. Finally - contact made. Male - British accent obviously, but it seemed to shift between a guttersnipe Cockney and the polished upper crust accent of nobility. Fake perhaps. Not unusual in his line of work. Fake identities, fake accents - it was all the same. But why did this faceless voice send a cold shiver up his spine?

Another curse escaped the senior agent's tightly clenched teeth at his continuing unease. Illya was fine. Illya was a professional. Illya would handle this. No need to treat the man as less capable just because they had occasionally shared tears as well as tender touches in the privacy of their bed.

No need to fret just because he loved him.

Napoleon forced himself to sit and listen.

The dark hues of the club's lights had brightened enough for Illya to get a good look at his contact - not tall, about his own height really, slicked-back hair too bright a platinum to be natural, decked out in black and leather. His pancake whiteness was more extensive than his own - it didn't just cover the face. What skin that could be seen had the same alabaster pallor - almost the hue of albinism, but not quite. The lips, though also pale, had a faint rosy tint… Illya mentally shook himself. It was as if he had drifted off just for a moment. Those liquid blue eyes...not chocolate brown. Cold...not warm...

Enough. Though the Russian was certain that he had given no sign of his lapse, the twinkle of amusement in those piercing eyes indicated otherwise. "We have business to attend," he stated, schooling his expression to one of dispassion.

"Cor!" His informant laughed aloud. "Lor' love that accent, mate. Makes you fit the image better n' these Nosferatu wanna-be's." He sighed. "But yer right - we've business t' attend, yeah?"

"You have information..." Illya's brow puckered with a frown as he realized that in the time it had taken for him to speak, he had lost his informant's attention. The man was staring at the low stage, slender fingers beginning to drum in time with the song the band had begun to play. "Ahem - business?"

"Oh yeah, much better than the usual rot - hmm? Business? Oh...right." The man glanced at the undercover U.N.C.L.E. agent and then at the band, a wicked smile curling his lips. He suddenly reached over, a cool hand grasping Illya by the wrist. "C'mon!"

Illya couldn't help the yelp that escaped him as he was suddenly yanked to his feet and led - he refused to even countenance the idea that he was being 'dragged.' "Excuse me!" he spluttered indignantly. "I was under the impression that we were here to conduct business!"

"Tch, mate, time enough for that. You'll get what you came for, right?" came the still nameless informant's unconcerned reply. His cool hands spanned Illya's presently too-narrow waist. "But for now, a little fun, yeah? Not too much to ask for what I'm going t' give you."

Just a dance and nothing more - to appease an eccentric informant and complete the mission. Illya sighed inwardly and began to follow the man's lead. He hoped that the music was too loud for Napoleon to hear any of this.

"What!"

Of course, Illya might as well have been hoping for a million dollars to fall from the sky - it was just as unlikely.

Napoleon had been listening to the conversation and had heard every word despite the thundering clamor that passed as music in the Club Polidori - he had always had good ears. Too good perhaps. He recognized those leering come-on lines - hell, he'd used them often enough in the past to have them all memorized. His simmering unease had heated to a boil - to dread - and not because of something as immature as jealousy. Well, not entirely. There was something else...some instinct whispered in his ear and told him that his fully-trained, entirely capable partner was in real danger.

He had learned long ago to trust his instincts.

Napoleon switched his U.N.C.L.E. ID for something a little less conspicuous and marched toward the Club Polidori.

Love bites you

Invites you

To feast in the night -

To Illya's embarrassment, he was beginning to enjoy himself. The music - while hardly his cup of tea - had a hypnotic quality, and his dance partner knew how to move. He was a sensuous dancer: touch to touch, skin to skin. Napoleon was a sensual dancer too, but the resemblance stopped there. There was something predatory about the strange blond - something that made him feel as if he was in danger; as if he was being...stalked…hunted…

…vulnerable prey drowning in the eyes of a cobra…

Excites you

Delights you

It drains you white

Love bites -

Ummn…predatory…sensuous… Illya felt his treasonous body respond as a chilled slender hand clasped his black-denim encased buttock, strong fingers kneading the firm globe.

So come in my arms

I strike any hour

I will return

To trap and devour

He could see and feel the pale man draw him closer...saw the smile widen...

In the dead of night

...saw the fangs...fangs that neared his throat...as he tilted his head back…

Love bites -

Napoleon...

Illya started violently, shaking off the remaining wisps of...what? A dream? Yes, he had begun to drift, slipping into distraction and dreams - unacceptable! "I am thinking," he stated coolly, "that we should conclude our business now."

The informant regarded the U.N.C.L.E. agent, pouting petulantly before he smiled, somehow all the more sensuous and dangerous. "You sure, pet? Lots more we-"

"I believe that you were given an answer - sir!"

Illya turned sharply, feeling his arm taken in a steely grip. So surprised was he that he almost blurted out his manhandler's name. "Nap- What is this!"

Napoleon allowed himself a wickedly triumphant smirk at the bemused expression on the face of Illya's not-entirely welcome dance partner as Illya was swung around and metal cuffs slapped on his wrists.

Illya's eyes blazed with outrage. What was Napoleon thinking? Was his partner allowing jealousy to endanger the mission? Was he even thinking of the mission at all? "You have no right-"

"Tell it to a judge," Napoleon mock-snarled, wincing at the look he was getting from his Russian - he would have much to explain later. "Kolya Petrovich," Napoleon said, using Illya's undercover pseudonym, "you are under arrest for-"

"Oh, give over, mate. You're not fooling anyone wi' that act." To both agents' disbelief, their informant had not taken off in the confusion. In fact, he was chuckling and shaking his head in mocking amusement at the both of them. "Oh really, you U.N.C.L.E. agents." The chuckles died down to a wheeze. "No sense of humor, you lot. Bet even Alex is the same sour git I knew back in the day - rubs off on the lot of you."

Napoleon's expression was much like that of a gaffed fish; mouth open, but nothing coming out. How dared he? And what was that weird crack about Waverly? He shook off his confusion to deal with the matter at hand - quickly, he hoped. Some of the patrons were becoming too interested in their tête-à-tête. "Look, mister, ah, mister-"

"Spike. Just call me Spike," came the reply with a roll of dark blue eyes. "An' before y' ask, mate - no, I dint bring yer partner over 'ere for just a bit of the old slap an' tickle." The blond reached under the flap of a duster that had seen better days and pulled out an encased micro-disk. "Here - like I promised. Schematics, plans, formula, process, routes, distribution - the lot. I keep my word."

Napoleon caught the lightly tossed item. Illya scowled. "So easy? Why the need for all the subterfuge?"

"Was looking fer ages fer a way to get rid of this rot. Had to know you blokes were the right ones to give this to. Dint exactly get this on the up an' up, did I?" At the two agents' puzzled looks, their informant - or 'Spike' as he said to call him - shrugged.

"Look, my 'friend' works wi' a rotten lot - the ones that gave your Thrush the formula for this swill - looking over 'is shoulder. If 'e tried t' give you the formula, they'd prolly dust 'im or worse. Can't 'ave that." He hunched his shoulders again, this time as if embarrassed. "Me, they 'ardly pay any attention to, but him... Dint want to get 'im int' trouble, yeah? Not that he'd see it that way, the bloody ungrateful poof."

"And who are these people you're protecting your friend from?" Napoleon demanded.

Though it shouldn't have been possible, the pallid blond blanched even further before he backed off slightly. "No way, mate. You do not want to get involved wi' them - not the Senior Partners. Even Thrush don't know what they've got 'emselves into. Best leave be an' do what you do best."

Napoleon scowled. "And I suppose you know what that is?"

"Bin around a bit, I have," the blond retorted, the now familiar smirk returning to his pallid face, eyes sparkling wickedly. "Anyway, when you turn this in to Alex - you'll prolly earn yerselves an 'oliday. You an' yer pet can shag t' yer hearts' content."

Illya growled, face reddening with outrage. "I do not know what you-"

"Oh come on. Anyone wi' their wits 'bout them can tell that you two are together. On the other 'and..." The blond leaned a little nearer and whispered into Illya's ear. "If y' ever get bored with tall, dark, an' no-fun 'ere-" He was answered by an angrier growl - from both men this time. "Hmph. Right. Time to go, yeah?"

"Wait." Napoleon reached out to grasp Spike's arm - he had more questions - but aborted the motion with a sharply drawn breath when the strange blond's eyes met his. It could have been the effect of the shifting club lights - had to have been - but he could have sworn that the man's dark blue eyes had flashed angry and amber, the ghost of a beast overshadowing the nearly angelic face. The senior agent blinked and the illusion was gone.

Solo wondered just what they were pumping into the air of this club.

"What are you really getting out of this?" he demanded, once again the consummate head of U.N.C.L.E.'s Section Two, despite the urge he had to shrink from the slighter man.

"Told you, dint I?" Spike said with a smirk. "Gotta take care of me own. Besides, can't have all that good young blood out there polluted wi' this new rot, can I?" He grinned wider, revealing pointed canines. "After all, blood is the life, mate. Ta-ra, then!" With a laugh and a sweep of his cape-like duster, the strange informant disappeared into the crowd.

Automatically, Napoleon started forward, but a plume of dry-ice fog momentarily obscured his vision. When his eyes cleared, their strange contact was gone. "Well…he's certainly big on theatrics," he muttered with no little relief. Solo turned the encased micro-disk over and then clicked his communicator. The signal would have U.N.C.L.E. couriers here in minutes to retrieve this little item and the knowledge it contained. "I just hope that this is worth it. Another minute, and I would have strangled that annoying little-"

"Ahem!"

"What? Oh." Napoleon grinned wickedly as Illya gestured with his still-manacled wrists -this situation had possibilities. "You have a problem...Kolya?" he asked sweetly.

"Napoleon..."

Napoleon grabbed the flustered Russian by the arm and started to march him out of the Club Polidori. "As your arresting officer, I can't exactly just let you go, y'know."

"Napoleon!!" Angry redness was beginning to show through the chalky pancake that covered the skin of Illya's face.

"Though we could 'discuss' it when we get home." Napoleon waggled his eyebrows suggestively at his Russian, whose scowl was gradually giving way to a tentative leer as read the intent in the American's eyes. Solo continued to take in Illya's dark disguise - he'd have to get that ebony dye out of the Russian's hair, fatten him up a little, before he looked like his Illya again- but in the mean time… "After all, I have to protect myself …vampires like your yourself being so very very dangerous. Well?"

The leer widened. So the masquerade would last a little longer - what was the harm? "I am open to new experiences, but...only if you wear the cuffs next time, my 'Polya."

Napoleon replied with one of his mega-watt smiles. "Oh, yeahhh…"

Epilogue

The tall brunet leaned against an alley wall, watching as the slight blond approached. "Since when did you learn thrall?"

Spike glared at the dark figure, not surprised in the least that he had been followed. "None o' yer bloody business."

"It is when you use it and you're not all that skilled at it yet." The dark man pushed himself away from the wall and began to follow the blond. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to break up a fight in there. Trying your games with U.N.C.L.E. agents…" He shook his head in disbelief. "…and mated ones at that. One day you will push too far, childe."

The observation was answered with a derisive snort. "I was just 'aving some fun an' playing wiv 'em. Don't be such a bloody ponce."

For several minutes, the two figures walked in silence before the taller and darker of the two said: "So, you gave them the disk."

"Yeah, what of it?"

"You did it for me...to protect me."

"Mebbe I did - so what?"

"Maybe you did it to get my attention as well as to do good?"

"Angel..."

"You did good, Spike."

"Yeah, right. Don't let it get t' yer head, Peaches."

"No, I mean it." Angel grasped an arm of the small blond and gently tilted his chin upwards. "You did better than good." He smiled slightly, dark eyes meeting blue. "And you got my attention. C'mon home. We can...talk."

"Talk...sure...ruddy poof," Spike muttered, but didn't try to move the large hand at the small of his back as they disappeared into the night.

His partner didn't have to see the smile he wore to know that it was there.

Dracula's Blood - a Romanian vodka infused with the juices of local red berries.)

Love Bites was written by Judas Priest

Angel and Spike belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and FOX.