Napoleon Solo knew that it was an illusion, but time had paused. They had sheltered behind piles ok boxes. He couldn't see the cat, but she was somewhere, next to the door. The enemy was behind the said door. They could hear them fussing, amazingly noisy, now. What were they doing? The door was unlocked. Could have they mistaken? Perhaps it was not Thrush. Of course, it was. Illya's instinct. His own instinct. And – he bit his lips – the cat's instinct. He tried to catch his partner's attention, but Illya was staring at the door. Fixedly. A golden, lithe silhouette appeared, climbing up an old table. Cleopatra. She was staring at the door, too. Fixedly. Suddenly, she leaped down, racing towards them, and she snuggled up to his partner.
The door exploded like the crack of doom, and everything flew through the attic. Wood, paper, wreckage. The two Uncle agents flattened themselves on the floor, Illya Kuryakin shielding the cat.
They went up to the attic. The manager had eventually told them that the blond guy had asked about a key. They stood in front of a wooden door, peeled off. They didn't hear anything, inside. Either the Uncle agents were already gone, or – and it was not encouraging - they were waiting for them. They had no choice: all that they could do was to break the door open, and to fight. And precisely, they wouldn't do that. They were not that eager to play sitting ducks for Solo and Kuryakin. The older man studied the place, as discreetly as he could, but the wooden floor didn't help. There was no other way. The younger knew that it was an illusion, but time had paused. They were outside. The Uncle agents were probably inside. Thrush versus Uncle, one more time. A door. A matter of patience. Patience meant time, and time, precisely, the Thrush men had not. Though the Uncle agents were apparently cornered in there, they had logically called for help. His eyes met his fellow's ones. Giving up? Staking their all? The older shook his head. He had heard his superior's tone, and pointed at the door with his chin.
Eventually, the downpour stopped, and Napoleon Solo craned forward, carefully. Through a sort of dusty mist, everything looked gray. No move. Where were the enemies? Where was Illya? A faint mewing caught his attention. Shhhh, he thought. Illya? They could hear her, too. But the attic was completely silent, now. Such a blast? There was no door, any more. No door, and the wall was dilapidated. There was no Illya. There were no Thrush birds, either. The cat mewed again, more insistently. Napoleon Solo cursed. Damned cat! Something moved, now. Of course. He blew the dust off his gun, on alert. A gray, dusty silhouette, walked silently towards him, looking at him up and down. A dusty Cleopatra. Dusty, and... bloody. Though, she didn't looked like to be... The dark haired man froze. She mewed again, loudly, desperately, and suddenly turned her back to him, trotting away, still mewing. Howling, crying. Napoleon Solo hesitated, but as he couldn't hear anything else than Cleopatra's yell, he crawled behind her. Something had happened. Illya?
Cleopatra sighed with relief. « Napoleon » was eventually following her. He would be able to help Il-ly-a. He had to!
Dominoes. Napoleon Solo cursed again. A heavy old closet had fallen down, and among the wreckage, he could see a gray hand. A head. Hair. Gray, all gray. Gray with a hint of black. Illya. The fingers were shivering. He was alive. Cleopatra mewed continuously, as he was extricating his friend. He had forgotten the Thrush men. Obviously, they were somewhere under all that mess. He gathered his strength and carefully heaved Illya's body away. Then, he sat down, and eased the limp body against him. Illya was breathing. A shallow but regular breath. His face was covered with blood. A pice of the closet had violently hit his head, near the temple. For all that his friend could see, there was no other wound.
Cleopatra was sitting in a Sphinx posture, staring at him. With his handkershief, he wiped the dust and the blood. It was impressive, but Illya was stirring, coming back to consciousness.
-Shhh, easy, my friend, easy.
The blue eyes blinked. Illya Kuryakin tried to sit straight, but stopped immediately.
-I told you, don't move. Everything will be okay.
Cleopatra smiled, stood up, but hesitated. Napoleon » was gently stroking her Il-ly-a's hair. He took notice of her.
-Illya? Look, just in front of you. Someone is worrying about you.
The Russian blinked again, his eyelids glued with blood and dust. A helpful hand cared about it, and he could see his cat friend.
-Cleopatra?
She looked at « Napoleon » inquiringly. He nodded, and she came up to the blond man, who eventually managed to sit straight. As he winced, Napoleon Solo, quite relieved, couldn't help to tease him, gently.
-Some headache, tovarish?
Cleopatra was snuggling to her friend. The Russian stroke her, looking around.
-Was that the End of the World?
Then, stiffening, he added.
-Where are they?
Napoleon Solo shrugged his shoulders. Wherever they were, they were obviously harmless. However, the reinforcements were about to come. The Russian chuckled softly. His partner looked very strange: his usually perfectly combed hair stood on end, entirely covered with gray white same dust was covering his face. A very, very old creature, with young eyes, young smile. The grayish face frowned. Napoleon Solo knew those twinkling eyes.
-Do you want me to tell you about The Night of the Living Dead, partner mine?
The Russian chuckled, wincing, anyway, and pointed his finger at the cat.
Cleopatra was relieved. Il-ly-a had saved her life - This closet would have crushed her – but he was fine. Now, she thought, first things first. She purred at her friends, took a step back, sat down, and went to work. Raising her right paw, she studied her fur. So much dust! But a well educated lady had to be clean and perfect. Il-ly-a leaned forward, and stroke her neck. The ribbon was still there, with the key. He took it away and handed the key to his partner.
-Listen, Cleopatra. Our friends are coming. They'll take us back to the Uncle HQ, and I'll help you with that. We'll fix it.
Voices. Footsteps. The Uncle agents rushed into the attic.
-Have you seen the Thrush men?
The agent's face turned ashen. Napoleon Solo frowned and insisted, as the others were looking after his partner.
-Are they dead? It was a terrible blast. A technician's mistake, probably. He?
The man stood with a faraway look. Then, he sighed.
-They are dead, Mr Solo. Undoubtedly. Concerning the bodies...
The man made an eloquent gesture. Illya Kuryakin commented, with a tense voice.
-This is not a Thrush explosive, Napoleon. It can't be a mistake. I think...
He swayed and put his hand on his friend's shoulder; Cleopatra sat down next to them.
-I think that we have been lucky that Cleopatra gave us the key of this attic.