He hadn't even noticed when his hands started trembling, but he suspected that was because they had been shaking on and off for three days – for 74 hours, actually, without subtracting the sixteen of those hours that he had managed to sleep.
His first hint this time wasn't the hands, then, but the distortion of the voices around him. Napoleon's voice, dry as ever at his shoulder, and the man's voice in his handheld transmitter both grew deeper and slowly buzzing overtook them – and Illya had been so angry for so long that without this clue, he might not have realized he was about to have an episode.
He'd been this angry ever since Gaby was taken, after all.
"Peril? Peril, we have a dozen men to plow through, you need to stay with me."
They'd come to this building to get her back, and now they stood together in the darkness, ready in their black mission outfits. It was supposed to be a safe house, hard to find, harder to get into.
Illya wanted to raze it to the ground.
Solo's hand landed on his arm, and for a moment Illya thought about ripping it off. He grunted as the voice floated through the haze of anger. "Peril?" He sounded worried.
Illya was not worried.
"Point me at the enemy," he managed to growl before his mind fogged entirely.
"All ten of them?" Solo asked, but he managed to get Illya facing the right way as the Russian started forward.
The next time Illya was aware, there were no longer ten enemies.
"Let us get her back now," he said, stepping on a man's hand as he made his way to the first door. The owner of the hand was understandably silent.