The Elsewhere Affair, a man from uncle fanfic

He took a deep breath. There was a nice smell of freshly cut grass and an amazing calmness radiated from the whole place. Something magic this way comes..., he thought.

"What are we doing now, Napoleon?"

The man next to him looked around warily and sighed. They walked into the forest. Suddenly they had ended up there. "Exploring. That's what we're supposed to do." He pointed at the incongruous stone staircase. "Let's keep straight ahead." And he drew his gun. The only sound was footsteps. No birds, no breeze rustling through the branches. Something wicked this way comes..., he thought.

It was uncharacteristic of him to feel so uncertain. They had mounted the stairs to a small terrace, keeping silent and watching out for a possible danger. A deep forest stretched out to the horizon but in front of them a building rose above the trees, an old dilapidated concrete building, scarred with smoke, apparently deserted. Napoleon Solo clenched his teeth. At least it would turn out to be a familiar territory, a villains' den.

His partner knitted his brows and bent over a rocky ledge. "There is a path down below." He stepped nimbly over the rocks and disappeared.

The steep path led down to a high brick wall. Illa stood in front of an old wooden door. Worm-eaten planks were roughly nailed together. Obviously it had been patched up again and again, though, it didn't give way under the pressure. Next to a ruined keyhole, a rusted padlock challenged the intruders.

"Ready for some lock picking?"

The Russian looked up. He couldn't see anything but branches and leaves.

"Usually keys are under the doormat..."

"The doormat?" Napoleon rolled his eyes.

Illa rummaged dead leaves on the ground and held out a bunch a keys to his partner.

When his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Napoleon Solo knew for sure where they were: a gloomy room, bars... this was a Thrush cell and so to speak probably a very effective Uncle agents-trap. He stiffened in anticipation of the attack. The odds weren't in their favor.

"There's another door, here." Illa Merrymaking had taken some steps forward standing with the light behind him, which caused his golden hair to sparkle with silvery glints. Pleasant sight, Napoleon thought before frowning at the incautious behavior. His partner was already heading towards the said door.

'It's open!" And he disappeared.

The "Oh..." sounded amazingly delighted. Napoleon Solo raced towards his partner and stopped. The bright light was dazzling. Illa stood next to the threshold, looking up with a strange smile. Napoleon couldn't stifle a chuckle. They were at the bottom of an endless spiral staircase with a white coffered ceiling bathed in sunlight. It looked like to be brand new, nothing to do with the dilapidated concrete building.

"I don't like this... Illya! What the hell are you doing?"

The Russian waved his hand, obviously motioning his friend to follow him.

"Illya!"

"We have to go upstairs, Napoleon. Come on!"

"What..." Napoleon cursed. This landing was different. The pristine wall turned into a crumbling one, with dirty hand prints, holes and a hastily-sketched clock, kind of a jailbird's work. 3: 55... Without thinking, Napoleon peeped at his watch, instantaneously regretting doing that. 3: 55... he shook his head, dumbfounded. When he reached the top of the stairs, his partner had disappeared. Again. A wooden door was ajar, through which Illa had probably made his way. The Russian behaved strangely. The place made Napoleon feel uncomfortable but his partner was obviously living an exciting undertaking. The door gave way soundlessly.

Napoleon had found himself in many strange situations, none of which equaling what he faced there. The staircase had led them to a place born of some unbridled imagination. Someone had built a library, a gigantic devastated library, in the middle of a lost island, at the top of a concrete building. Just... a library. Nothing else.. Trees had irrationally grown through the ground among broken chairs and torn books. A gallery ran around high walls covered with bookshelves and old portraits. Light flooded in through a hole in the roof.

Illya picked up a book and smiled with delight...

"It's ridiculous! Where are we? This... this is Nemo's library!"

The Russian chuckled softly without looking up.

"As far as I remember, we aren't in a submarine. "

Napoleon Solo rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. This place is... impossible. It's an evil delusion. I think... We've been drugged, Illya." He grabbed the Russian's arm. "You... You're not yourself..."

The pursed lips and the comically aggravated face gave immediately the lie to this. The blond man pinched his friend's hand causing him to wince. Then he waved a pompous finger and declaimed: "Si hortum in bibliotheca habes, deerit nihil."

He buried his nose in the book again leaving his partner helplessly dumbfounded. Napoleon struggled to collect his memories. First, long ago... in the dream time, Waverly had given them an assignment. It was about ... the world. "They'll cage the whole world, gentlemen." It was a metaphor. Was it? A disturbing image occurred to him. A birdcage hanging in a cell, and in the cage...

He tried to cling on to the image of Alexander Waverly for dear life. They had been captured, drugged and locked in some hell of a Thrush trap. There were no library, no staircase.

"Napoleon?"

Blue eyes were considering him. The inappropriate amusement was tinged with something else... Concern?

Suddenly it was total darkness. Napoleon choked with the nauseating and familiar smell, saltpeter and dampness, of a cell. Stretching his hand tentatively, he hit a dank wall.

"Illya?"

"I don't know where we are but anyway we should be able to relax there... for awhile."

Napoleon winced. Blue eyes were still considering him in the library.

"Illya, you're talking nonsense!" Napoleon Solo grabbed his partner's shoulders and shook him roughly. "We're in a cell. I know it for sure."

A dim light appeared above him.

A well. They were in a well. Something – the moon? A flashlight? - cast a light beam through a shaft. Water was streaming down.

"Illya..." Napoleon Solo froze. Wherever the enemy had taken him, he was alone. The library was an evil delusion. The incoherent Illya was part of it, which was eventually reassuring.

"Hey, you..." he yelled at the light above without success. The moon didn't answer.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. How long had he been there? His chin and his cheeks were amazingly smooth. No stubble...

"Cards? Dice? Chess? Which do you prefer?"

Though he heard dice rolling, Napoleon Solo refused to open his eyes. He wouldn't fall for it.

Something was dripping at his feet. He sneered. At least the hallucinatory effects were subsiding. His body knew where he was. He could feel ice-cold water running down the nape of his neck. He could smell the awful stink. He put his hands on the rocky wall, slimy with moss. His eyes and his ears wouldn't fool him any longer. He concentrated on his memories, ignoring the rolling dice chinking like old dusty medicine bottles... An assortment of old dusty medicine bottles.

Napoleon bit his lips in frustration. He couldn't remember anything of the mission and at the moment he was obsessed with the image of old dusty medicine bottles. Apis Mellifica... Baptisia... Illa delivering a lecture – and enjoying himself doing it...

"Baptisia tinctoria... How interesting, Napoleon! It's used as a treatment for many things... Mind ailments as mental confusion, illusion of divided personality..." And he had chuckled at him.

"They'll cage the whole world, gentlemen." What happened to him? Where was Illya? What about the medicine bottles?

Unexpectedly a warm and gentle breeze brushed his cheeks. Napoleon blinked, gasping in despair.

The dark and stinking well had disappeared, giving way to... Napoleon Solo bit his lips, fighting dizziness. This place was strangely familiar - at least quite normal. A green wooden footbridge spanning a calm and still pond, sunlight playing with mist through the leaves of the willows...

"You're all right, now, don't worry." Illya leaned on the guardrail, his hair flying in the breeze. " Our host forgot about water lilies..." He chuckled. "Do you intend to stay in the boat?"

Napoleon stood up, struggling to keep his balance as the boat swayed under him. His friend smirked, holding out his hand.

He hesitated but made up his mind in a split second. Fighting openly those visions was no use. Perhaps it would be his advantage to play ball with the puppeteer. Removing the mask. He grabbed the helping hand – the large, powerful and so familiar hand, Illya's hand, joining the other man on shore.

"It's a beautiful place, very Monet..." He stated casually, glancing at the Russian and expecting him to vanish into thin air. Against the odds, Illya was still there, his blue eyes riveted on him. His face betrayed mixed feelings: misgiving, uncertainty which gradually gave way to ... hope?

"There is a path down below!"

Napoleon Solo started but his partner just pointed at a gap in the shrubs.

"We can make it, Napoleon. Come on..." He went backwards slowly. He didn't take his eyes off him, holding out an inviting hand and whispered again "Come on..."

It was a matter of confidence. For years Napoleon had put his trust in this man. He followed him.

"What..." He stopped next to his friend, dumbfounded, in a circular area lined with columns. A statue stood in the ruined temple, among broken pillars.

"It's a Tholos... And this must be ... Hermes."

"Hermes... The messenger of the gods..."

His erudite friend looked like to be back to his old self, more or less. No, Napoleon chastised himself. No, he wasn't. A few minutes ago they were in a picture of Monet and Illya wasn't surprised. But the Russian was already scrambling through the broken pillars towards the statue.

"Yes, it's Hermes. Napoleon?" He had turned to his friend, motioning him to come.

"Hermes is a versatile god, my friend." The blue eyes stared at him. "He's also the god of ..."He hesitated, then he smiled almost shyly, "... friendship. And... of good luck."

Napoleon felt bewildered. It was one of Illya's very rare candid smiles. Candid and charming. And... incongruous. His friend was obviously unaware of ... Of what? His friend? ... Was he... Illya? Was he even ... real?

The stairs... The aberrant library... The damp well... This temple... All fictive - nightmarish - places, as fictive, as nightmarish as this blond man.

"Napoleon?"

A hand leaned casually on his shoulder, a very real, a very familiar one. "Look at the pedestal, there is something ..."

Numbers neatly engraved. A code?

"Like we had time to puzzle out a riddle..." Napoleon sighed.

"Pi."

"Huh?"

"3.14159... This is... pi."

"Que j'aime à faire apprendre un nombre utile aux Sages..." Illya whispered, pointing at the first row. "How I like to teach this number useful to the wise... It's a French poem used as a mnemonic technique to remember the first digits of pi." The Russian chuckled and turned to Napoleon. "I love the English one, too... How I need a drink, alcoholic of course after the heavy lectures involving quantum mechanics. It's..."

"Where are we, Illya?" Napoleon Solo crouched next to his partner. " The hell with Hermes and pi... Tell me, now. What's this game?"

"It isn't a game."

The smile faded. The lips tightened. Napoleon put his hand on his friend's arm. "Help me, Illya. Please, help me."

The Russian's fingers brushed almost imperceptibly his temple before resting on his shoulder. "It's what I've been doing for days..."

Napoleon wrenched himself free and stood up. For days? He banged his fist on the pedestal, immediately cursing at himself. How stupid...

He froze. Every knuckles hurt. He could feel scratches... he didn't see. No bruises, just pain.

"Napoleon...The caravan of digits that is pi Does not stop at the edge of the page But runs off the table..."

"The hell with pi, I told you, whoever you are!"

The blond man pounced on him, pinning him against the pedestal. "You don't have much time, Napoleon. Believe me. Trust me." He tightened his grip, without violence, however. He acted as if he were driven on by urgency, almost despair. ...But runs off the table..."

Suddenly, the grip was released. The Russian had taken some steps aside and cleared the ground. "Look!"

Napoleon hadn't budged an inch. The man – Illya? - was struggling with what looked like to be a trapdoor and eventually slipped in a dark hole.

Again?

"Trust me..."

Ten rusted rungs lower– he had counted them – he found himself in a sort of cellar, dimly lit.

"Illya?"

His eyes getting used to the shadowy light, Napoleon Solo gasped. It was a huge gray room, almost empty except for some strange boxes. Boxes? By the way, they looked like to be part of the room, merging with it. Above them, hanging from the ceiling, a small ball swung imperceptibly. Actually the whole place was vibrating.

"Illya?"

"The sphere is floating, Napoleon. It's floating into the air..."

The blond turned to him with a faint smile.

"Forms of things unknown..."

Forms of Things Unknown? What did this mean?

His partner had hauled himself up on one of the box. He was studying the sphere. Napoleon hesitated, considering his options but suddenly the vibrations increased.

The man he was used to rely upon, utterly, instinctively, held out his hand to him. Instinctively, he grabbed it, joining his friend on the box at the very moment the sphere was engulfing them.

A huge checkerboard. Concrete and grass squares, giant pieces... Above them, moored to the checkerboard, a rocky sphere floating in the air. And a tree.

"This isn't a checkerboard..." Illya whispered.

Of course it wasn't... The Russian didn't loosen his grip on his hand and Napoleon frowned. His friend looked exhausted, his hair matted with sweat despite of an insidious breeze which chilled them to the bones. "Which chilled me", he corrected, as he noticed Illya's open shirt.

No.

A swirl of memories occurred to him, as superimposed images of his partner climbing up the stairs, in the library, on the footbridge, in the temple... Beige jumpsuit, leather jacket, black turtleneck, black jacket...

"We can't stay there, Napoleon!" Illya insisted. "Napoleon!, please!"

"No. Now tell me, what is it about?"

"Look..."

"No." Napoleon wrenched himself free in order to grab the man's arm but Illya shook his head in sheer desperation and pointed at the horizon.

Concrete squares were vanishing silently, leaving strips of grass instantaneously covered with sand. A grayish desert spread inexorably.

"Don't let it take you away..." The voice was unusually pleading. "We can still make it..." The blue eyes were almost flashing. "Get on the sphere, now." He paused, adding softly, "Trust me..."

Despite of the stiff-breeze, dragged, pulled and pushed by his partner's strong hands, Napoleon found himself nestled at the foot of the tree.

Nestled? Not really. Not at the foot of a tree.

Lying alone somewhere, in utter darkness.

Forsaken?

"They caged him."

"He'll make it."

"You'd better prepare yourself. They blurred his mind, his memories, his sense perception... Probably definitely. You managed to bring him back, but..."

"But?"

Voices were swirling around. He could virtually feel words flying. He could virtually see the last "But?". Jaws tightly clenched, knitted eyebrows, almost bleached blue eyes transfixing their prey.

Footsteps moved away quickly. The prey was beating a hasty retreat...

Something silky brushed his cheek. "We've each other...", the familiar voice whispered at him.

Rain clouds.

A paved street covered with puddles. Old building, crumbling walls...

He could have been strolling in Roma, Florence...

No.

Those walls were facades, just a scenery. A Roman amphitheater stood beyond the archway. A Thrush satrapy set up in a film studio? Surely they would be nominated for the Worst Villains Award... To crown it all, his communicator didn't work and he couldn't make contact with his partner.

Napoleon Solo felt overwhelmed with various feelings. Relief, excitement, exhilaration... Because... this wasn't a delusion. This was a memory. A piece of the jigsaw, something he could cling to.

"Napoleon?"

Blue eyes were considering him. For one second Napoleon tensed up as he experienced deja vu. But there wasn't any amusement in those eyes. Just relief, an expectant relief tinged with inquiring uncertainty. Then he noticed the drawn features, the rings under his friend's eyes.

"Napoleon?"

The voice was unusually faltering but undeniably Illya's. Napoleon cracked a smile.

"You look terrible..." His own voice sounded strange to him as if he hadn't heard it for long. Illya smiled back.

"Who's to blame? Welcome among the living, tovarish." He squeezed his hand. "None too soon..."

Napoleon stared bleakly at the IV.

It was the most real, the most reassuring thing he had seen for... For...?

"How long...?"

"Too long...", his partner hissed flatly.

Napoleon knew this expression, cold rage with the typically hint of Illya's guilt feeling.

"I was checking around but when I reached the film studio, you weren't there. Besides..." The Russian bit his lips. "The place was deserted, Napoleon, disused. It wasn't a satrapy, it was..."

"An UNCLE agent-trap... They... they caged me..." He closed his eyes. " I pushed a carriage door. There was a freight elevator with two buttons. Start... and stop."

"You started their game..."

A guinea pig. They have used him as a guinea pig. They had tried out their evil device, drowning him in endless illusions, realistic though incoherent, until his mind crumbled away.

"The film studio was an extraordinary opportunity. Actually they had... interesting scenery available there..." His friend's voice was unusually expressionless. "I looked for you, everywhere," he added in a whisper. "You had to be there. I guessed you had got yourself into trouble..." The tense features belied the forced jesting. "They couldn't have taken you away. So I pretended to leave, eventually. I went into hiding and... I waited."

"He ignored the rules and failed to ask for reinforcements!", a very familiar voice harrumphed. "Then he managed to blast a Thrush nest and brought you back eventually. Nice to see you, Mr. Solo."

Despite of the frown, Waverly's eyes were twinkling with both satisfaction and pride.

"They probably enjoyed themselves adding an Uncle agent to the other guinea pigs." He considered the two men. "The device is designed to throw people into a fictitious but realistic universe. They move, speak, have feelings... It drives you mad or turns you into an obedient puppet.

Thrush could have caged the world..."

"You stood all against the wall, a rank of blank faces. There were wires, like a spider web, connected to a computer and ..." Illya hesitated. "I had to get you out of this and I didn't have a clue what I could do... I unplugged the computer. I..."

"You were with me, all the time." Napoleon sat up, grabbing his friend's hand. "Wherever I came, you showed me the way. You deciphered the codes, you forced me to go on and, of course, you scolded me."

"Napoleon..."

"They failed because... we're more than partners, Illya. We're part of each other"