Week four. Napoleon sat in his apartment waiting for inspiration to strike. What if the girl were part of Thrush? They had interrogated every Thrush agent regarding Illya with no luck. He himself had walked into Thrush offices all over the country guns blazing with no result. Napoleon settled with a bottle of whiskey and thought it over. The mad dogs? There had to be something about them. He looked at the bottle only just opened it would be a shame to let good spirits go to waste, he would check in the morning.
Illya could feel the rope burns on his wrists throbbing. He was sure they were infected, he couldn't smell gangrene but he was sure it was only a matter of time. His blindfold was cutting into his head he was sure of it. No. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. So many days of silence and beatings, cold water hosing and darkness were getting to him. His resolve growing weak, Illya began to sob quietly. It felt so good to let the hot tears flow he hadn't cried this way since he was a child though many times he had wanted to. He whimpered when the door opened. "Please. No more. Just let me die. I'm so tired. I can't take anymore." He whimpered again when he heard the footsteps approach. His face burned with shame. U.n.c.l.e. secret agent Illya Kuryakin bound and blindfolded, naked in a cage and crying, literally crying for mercy at the feet of his captors. If he'd had his gun he would have shot himself to avoid such disgrace. He was dragged from the cage whimpering and sobbing. He felt himself being turned over to his stomach, someone inspecting his wrists, his ankles turning them over roughly to the limits the ropes would allow. Blindfolded he lifted his face towards a flash of warm breath. "Mercy?" he whispered.
Illya was wrenched to his feet. His ankles were untied. He yelped as some skin tore away along the grain of the ropes. Feeling the blood run down his legs was not helpful to his fragile mental state. His legs stiff and shaky marched him onward, though where he was, he could not tell. He was still nude he knew that much and he was now outside. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, alternately the cool breeze on his face. The dried blood caked on his back. The stiff movements of his muscles around his bruises. The warm fresh blood around his ankles. He was half pushed half dragged into a house and left standing in a room seemingly alone. He heard their footsteps leave and the door close and lock. He stayed perfectly still. His legs had not moved properly in a month they were on fire, pins and needles up and down. Blood trickling. The open wounds stinging but he would not risk another beating. He would beg and plead and scream if it prevented more pain. He stood for one hour, then his legs gave up and he collapsed to his knees with a pitiful howl as the now delicate skin split on the marble floor. He cried again pressing his forehead to the floor and rocking. "Just kill me. Just kill me." He sobbed over and over.
Napoleon woke up with the mother of all hangovers. He radioed in channel d for all information on the mad dogs. She promised to report back in one hour. Napoleon hung up and then threw up.