A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter One - Good Morning Starshine (The Earth Says Hello)
Rated: G
With Thanks to Nickovetch, divine beta, without whom this would have far more errors.
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The world is grey. No, red. Dark red.
"Mr. Kuryakin."
The world is red, and it hurts, and I have to...
"Mr. Kuryakin? Don't struggle." The red becomes sound, and the sound becomes words, and the words mean... "You've been drugged. That's why you feel sick." Drugged? There were no drugs. No drugs, only the machines that....was that what...at the edge of hearing? The machines? "But you'll be fine." Fine? Suddenly the world lurches into the present. I am - once again - in a hospital.
Which one? That was always the question. Good sheets. Perhaps the station clinic? I risk a shallow breath, only to feel my lungs catch and spasm. The scent of blood and disinfectant. Those are to be expected. Smoke or diesel fumes, but too faint for the city. Not U.N.C.L.E. At least not New York.
Hands on my chest, rubbing. Firm but not painful. Not T.H.R.U.S.H. then. More words. "Try to breath deeply." Reasonable. It is good to breath. Another shallow breath, then deeper. Not as painful this time. Only a little spasm, followed by a dry cough. My throat stings. From the drugs? But there were no drugs. Unless...Not important for now.
The hands return, to my chest and to my back, rubbing and soothing. Rather pleasant hands, even if they are somehow too small. The too-high voice sounds pleased. "Very good." A warm dampness touching my face. Water? Too fluid for blood. And the voice is becoming louder, more present somehow. " Again please." It seems best to obey. Focusing, I press out my chest, pulling is as much as as possible against the strange constrictions somehow more within then without. I breath in, the rush of alcohol scented air bitter within my lungs. Then out, aided by the pressing hands. If feels good, even as the hard coughs come in series. Coughs hard enough to lift me further from my warm...wherever."Excellent." The voice near my ear seems quite unduly satisfied.
The warm dampness moves again against my face, brushing over my lashes and clearing away the sticky sand. When damp goes away there is light in my eyes. Red. No, white. White and... I blink, smearing the vague colors,and with painful abruptness the room snaps into focus. A young woman in an ugly green blouse looks down at me with distracted concern. A nurse, obviously.
"Mr. Kuryakin." I consider the accent. Lower Ukraine. I suddenly realize she has been speaking Russian all along, but until this moment I had not considered that. At least not as a matter of significance. Some of the nurses at U.N.C.L.E. often will, out of courtesy. But, if I am not at U.N.C.L.E. - and I most evidently am *not* - then, where am I? More to the point, where is.....
"Do you think you could sit up a bit?" The nurse pauses, but not in the manner of someone requiring a reply. " I'm going to raise the bed." A grinding noise, and a pressure under my shoulders as the world begins to tilt. "Very slowly." A moment's vertigo, then the room is stable again. "Good. Careful of the IV in your left hand." IV? I glance down. The world spins again at the act. No matter. My vision soon returns enough for me to see the clear tube in my left hand. Now that I see it I can identify the sensation, but in a universe of pains it does not stand out in particular. Part of my mind takes a moment to speculate what drug T.H.R.U.S.H. has given me now. Poison? Truth serum? A deep sigh at that thought. I have always *hated* the truth serums. Sometimes more then the pain of more 'conventional' questioning. But I do not remember...? Speculation is useless. At least it appears there is an antidote. Good.
A new friction on my chest returns my attention to the nurse. "Another deep breath." The request is getting redundant, but I comply. This time the cough is minor, barely annoying. "Wonderful. Would you like a sip of water?" the nurse asks as she brushes a curved straw against my lips. The question awakens a thirst. She holds the straw while I take a deep sip. The cool liquid feels very soothing in my mouth. I draw harder. " Not too much." She pulls back the straw. "Your swallow reflex may be weak. We've just taken you off the ventilator." Ventilator? That would explain my sore throat. But - I give my aches a quick consideration - there are no pains sharp enough for a bullet wound. Why had I needed one? "You should have a sore throat for a while, but otherwise there is no serious damage."
Interesting. I had suspected as much. My pains are mild, but not blurred as they would be were serious traumas being dulled by morphine. What I feel, I feel. Which leaves a far more serious question. Ignoring the pangs from abused neck muscles, I turn my head to the right. Not there. Perhaps the left?
"Would you like your glasses?" The nurse is back. "Here they are."
The glasses perch awkwardly on a swollen nose, but they do help. Now, where is..?
"You have a visitor." Ah. I rest back. That is right. I close my eyes as the nurse goes to the door.
"Not very long, please. And try not to stress him." My visitor. I feel my smile stressing chapped lips. Everything will be fine.
But the voice which answers is female, and quite unknown. "I believe Mr. Kuryakin is able to deal with stress." Russian again.
Low heels snapping against a hard floor. "Mr. Kuryakin?" A sharp voice. Moscow accent and very insistent. I consider simply closing my eyes and seeing if she will go away. Not likely. I try anyway. She simply waits , until it is evident that I will have to open my eyes again.
As I thought. No one from U.N.C.L.E. Blonde, perhaps thirty, wearing some oversized white jacket over a uniform shirt. Military? Likely. But which one? Hard to make out the the details unless... my eyes focus and I catch a glimpse of the collar tabs. Damn. Mine.
Well, that was better then T.H.R.U.S.H., I suppose. Probably. "Where.....?" I falter, startled by the roughness of my own voice.
"You are in the Gugarin Military Hospital. How much do you remember of your last mission?" She manages to sound interested, but not insistent.
I ignore her question in favor of my own, "Where.. Solo?"
"Mr. Napoleon Solo?" Her voice takes on a smile. Most women's do when it comes to Napasha. "Your partner? He's here as well."
"Got to..." I try to rise, but the nurse presses back on his shoulder.
"No, Mr. Kuryakin." The nurse speaks to me, but looks at the officer. A bad sign. "You need to rest. But I assure you Mr. Solo is here. You can visit him as soon as you're able to sit up."
"In a moment." The military woman speaks to the nurse but watches me. "Please." She moves her face into my field of vision. "Do you remember me?"
I gaze at her indifferent pretty face for a long moment before realizing that ...I do. Somehow. "You were there when...." Memory blurs. When what? That is the question. "What happened?"
"Quite a lot, but you're safe now. Everything will be all right." Her reassuring smile is perfect, and almost reaches her eyes. "Just relax."
"Who?" Her face drifts out of focus as my concentration fails.
"I am Major Yelena Hovsepian. I'm with the KGB. I've been assigned as liaison during your recovery. Do you remember who you are?"
"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Section two, Number Two - U.N.C.L.E." Which she should already know.
"And your mission? What do you remember of that?"
Stupid question. Who does she think I am."I do not feel inclined to discuss that matter at this time."
"Right answer. Straight from the book." This time the laugh does reach her eyes. "Fortunately I *do* feel inclined." She pauses a moment, then begins to speak in the clipped voice universally associated with reports. "You and Mr. Solo were taking out a 'satrap' - I believe that's what they were called - in western Mongolia. Lead by a Professor Grimlove? You believed they were working on a device to steal or disable the Volga power grid. You infiltrated with the intent of destroying his machine. You had successfully planted the explosives, but were discovered before you could complete your escape. In the gunfight that followed, you followed the Professor into his laboratory, and into what has been described as a 'short whirling tunnel'."
"I do not.."
"Feel inclined to discuss the matter? At least not with me." The smile grows even broader. "Very well. I could show you my ID, but such things are easily faked. Just rest." She reaches over to pat my undamaged hand. "Your friends are nearby. I'm sure your doctor has informed them that you are conscious, and they should be here soon."
Her glance at the nurse brings a nod in return. Whatever that means.
After a breath she continues. "The important thing is this. When you come out of the 'tunnel' we were there. Do you remember? You are with friends now, and you are going to be fine."
A smile and a final pat and the Major is gone. Strange. Very strange. I am calculating my chances of getting out of the bed when the phone rings. My nurse answers, listened a moment, then rests the speaker by my ear.
"Illya?" A flat American accent. Very familiar.
"What." My voice catches, and I swallow.
"This is April Dancer. Number Four, Section Two. Do you remember me?"
Strange question. We had lunch together just last week. "Yes." I answer.
"Good." She seemed unnecessarily gratified. "Your Doctor just called me, and I'm on my way in. You've had one hell of a shock, but you're back now, and everything's going to be fine. Just rest while I get there." I want to say I would rest better if I knew what was going on, but that might be indiscreet on an unsecured line. She pauses a bit, then adds. "And Illya? Don't let Napoleon seduce the nurses."
I ease back into the pillows and close my eyes. If that was the problem, everything *would* be all right.
END CHAPTER ONE