A New Story-Chapter 1
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section7mfuWord count- Approximately 9,300. Gen-language.
Work is complete and will be posted this week in Section VII.
Thank you to my friends who helped beta this story.
Many thanks to Open_channel_d for her kind assist with Russian translations.
Open Arms
Sometimes ghosts from agent’s missions come back to haunt them and Illya’s past is full of them.
Chapter One
“I know you’re experiencing a lot of pain from the lashing and are anxious to be finished with this, but...tell me Illya; how did you feel when Mother Fear was crushed to death on that water wheel?”(1)
Illya cringed inwardly at the use of his given name by the U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrist. It was his own fault, really. After all, he’d called the shrink by her first name in an effort to unsettle her and throw her off her game. These post-torture psychiatric sessions were unnecessary in his opinion; a waste of his time, his personal time, as he was officially on medical leave and had been instructed to go home and relax for the next few days.
He took a moment to study Dr. Yvette Rädsla. Blonde hair, about his height and weight, a decade older than himself. She was no real beauty with her hair done up in a bun and her high arched painted eyebrows giving her a severe, if not angry expression.
At least he didn’t have to lie on a couch for this session. His back chafed against the polyester blend of his black turtleneck and was still raw from the strapping to which he’d been subjected. He was in need of his prescription, but it was back in his office.
No information had been disclosed by him at École Figliano. That should have been the end of it. But no, now he was being forced to cooperate with this doctor if he wanted to “return to active duty sometime in the next decade” as Mr. Waverly had put it.
He spoke slowly and solemnly, “I was horrified, Dr. Rädsla,” Illya lied. At least was he told her next was partly the truth.
“I’m always saddened by loss of life, even a THRUSH’s life. If she had not been so far away from me I could have saved her.”
He was used to this line of questioning from the psych staff. It became an almost boring ritual after a while. Like a simple mathematical formula, A + B = C. They’d ask a question, he’d tell them what they wanted to hear and the nonsense ended.
In truth he was glad Fear was dead. No more children or UNCLE agents would suffer at her hands. With this last question, this session seemed to be drawing to a close and he certainly didn’t feel horrified about that.
“Just a few more questions, um…Illya Dear. When’s the last time you told your mother that you loved her? Well, sent her flowers? Thanked her for all the little things she’s done; told her how much you care?”
Kuryakin audibly gasped, then cursed himself for showing any type of emotion, but how in the hell did Rädsla know what Mother Fear had asked him word-for-word? He’d not been that precise in his end-of-mission report. Had the torture session been recorded? It must have been; how else would the doctor have known? No one, not even Napoleon was given a verbatim account of that conversation.
He stared at her, her face unreadable. Was she toying with him?
At his lack of response the woman looked up from her notes and peered at him over the frames of her horn-rimmed glasses, then rose and stepped behind her desk.
“I believe that’ll be all for today.” She sat down in her chair to check her appointment book and flipped through the pages.
“How about tomorrow at ten?” Without waiting for a response she penciled him in.
“You look a bit peaked, Mr. Kuryakin. Perhaps you should lie down and rest up a bit before leaving for the day? Here would be fine, or perhaps your own office?”
He dragged himself to his feet slowly and cautiously, suddenly feeling a bit weak at the knees.
“My office,” he mumbled, in obvious agreement that her idea was a prudent one.
Once inside his own private sanctuary within U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, he retrieved his suit jacket from the back of his desk chair and fished out the prescription bottle, popped the last two remaining tablets into his mouth and downed them with a swig of cold coffee leftover from lunch.
Normally Illya didn’t care for taking pain pills as he felt vulnerable under their influence. They dulled his mind and slowed his reflexes, making him fair game to the enemy. But his back was throbbing unmercifully now and as long as he remained safely ensconced at UNCLE headquarters, he was in no real danger.
As he sunk down into comforting cushions of his naugahyde couch, his mind drifted back to the beating he had endured at the Figliano School and the words the doctor had spoken to him a few minutes ago. How did she know?
Illya decided he’d discuss this with his partner, but later. Now it was time to rest. He gingerly stretched out prone, careful to avoid pulling at the broken skin of his back and was asleep moments later.
He woke after a few hours to see Napoleon Solo standing over him, smiling.
“How goes it, partner. You hungry?”
In the blink of an eye, Illya found himself seated at a dining table across from Solo.
A visibly startled Kuryakin nearly choked as he scanned the nearly deserted and candle-lit Italian restaurant. “What’s going on? What happened? When did we arrive here?” He was almost shouting.
Napoleon gave him a sideways glance as if Illya had lost his mind.
“Twenty minutes ago. Don’t you remember? And keep your voice down.”
“No, I don’t,” Illya was quite alarmed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We were in my office; I was on my sofa, and now we’re here at Tony's,” he hissed.
“Listen sleepyhead,” Solo rolled his eyes at him, “this is where you wanted to have dinner. You were zonked out in the car the entire ride here. You’re exhausted. It’s been a rather trying few days…” Napoleon then added, “Perhaps you were sleepwalking.”
“I have never walked in my sleep,” Kuryakin haughtily denied it. Funny, he’d forgotten the car ride entirely until just now.
“Ah, but you have, and on more than one occasion. Anyway, you’re not conscious when you sleepwalk so how would you have any memory of it?”
This made sense but was disconcerting at the same time. Why hadn’t Napoleon told him of prior episodes until now? His head started to throb; he was suddenly weary despite his recent nap.
A waiter appeared at their table with an armload of plates filled with veal picatta, pan-seared steak pizzaiola, pasta, and cheesy garlic bread. It smelled wonderful and both agents were famished.
“Please be careful, gentlemen. Plates are very hot.” The dishes were placed in front of them.
Per Napoleon’s request, the nearly empty antipasto dish was removed from the table.
Illya didn’t remember ordering or even eating any of the appetizer, but he must have; the taste of garlic and olive oil was fresh on his tongue. The steak dish calling to him was a favorite of his. Solo preferred his steak sans sauce of any kind except worcestershire and the veal dish in front of Napoleon was his favorite.
Napoleon took a swallow of his Chianti while Illya was relieved to find his own wine glass filled with chilled water; he didn’t need his mind more muddled than it already was. He took a sip, then quickly drained the entire glass.
Solo eyed him. “Thirsty there partner?”
“Not anymore,” Illya grinned and dug into his meal with a passion, like always.
They chatted lightly during the meal. When questioned about specific times and dates of his sleepwalking events, Napoleon was unable to pin them down.
Kuryakin wanted to broach the subject of his earlier session with the shrink but decided against it for now. It would keep until tomorrow and in truth, his memories were a little fuzzy right now and he was very tired. Maybe it hadn’t really happened at all.
Illya had his water glass filled three more times before his thirst was finally quenched.
When the table was cleared and dessert arrived, they agreed the meal was the best they’d ever shared at Tony's. Illya finished the sweet custard, and his spoon and dessert bowl dissolved into thin air…
“...and what did she do then?”
His psychiatrist was asking him a question.
Illya whole body twitched as if he where falling in a dream and suddenly jerked awake. He blinked in shocking disbelief. He was back in her softly lit office, seated on the couch this time.
Napoleon, their table and the restaurant were gone! He stared in confusion, bordering on all out panic; his entire body trembling as adrenaline surged through his system.
“What were we talking about?” He asked, sotto voce. Keep it together Kuryakin!
The doctor glanced up from her notes. “Are you feeling tired, Illya? We can stop at any time if this too much for you.”
“No, I ah… I guess my mind wandered for a moment.”
He went over it again as if by doing so would help him to make sense of these strange and unsettling events. He’d been having dinner with Napoleon at Tony's. I had just eaten my last bite of Panna Cotta topped with raspberries. It was hard to think straight; his head was throbbing.
“Refresh my memory, will you doctor?” He was struggling to hide how distraught he was.
Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, something that almost never occurred when he was under pressure.
It’s only an autonomic response my body has to anxious circumstances; perhaps, Illya thought, that might result in extra sessions on the shrink’s sofa.
“We were discussing the incident with the strap; you were telling me what information Mother Fear was trying to beat out of you.”
Illya had a keen mind with a razor sharp intellect, able to concentrate under the most difficult and stressful of situations. Why was this happening to him? What was the cause?
He was resolved to get to the bottom of this phenomenon of lost time, but not now and especially not here.
She’ll have me locked up, he thought, and with good reason.
Illya drew his attention back to Dr. R’s question, finally answering it.
“She wanted the location of the U.N.C.L.E. conference.”
“Yes. You just shared that with me a moment ago.” The doctor removed her glasses, studying him carefully.
“Are you all right? How do you feel?”
“I’m fine, well, I do have a bit of a headache.” Bit of a headache? My head’s about to split in two! He thought to himself.
“You seem to be upset about something; perhaps a secret you’re not sharing with me?” There was a long pause as Dr. Rädsla made further notes.
“I’m here to help you, Illya. It may not always feel like it but I am not the enemy. It seems as though you’re fighting some private demon or-”
Illya was sitting on the edge of the couch in his office when a sudden bright flash of light sent sharp daggers of pain directly into his brain.
“Chyort, tol'ko ne eto opyat'!” (Damn, not this again!)
Illya’s hands flew up to cover his already tightly shut eye but fell forwards, his head missing a direct impact with the hard tile floor by meer inches. In the nick of time he was helped back onto the sofa.
He was trembling, his heart pounding from the shock of yet another episode.
Trying to open his eyes, the glare from the overhead fluorescent lighting fixtures still brought pain, so he quickly squeezed them shut again.
Mercifully the lights dimmed.
“Are you all right now, partner?”
Kuryakin sighed in relief. His breathing and heart rate returned to normal as he settled down and tried opening his eyes once more. The pain was slowly receding to a sharp, stabbing sensation over his brow.
“Oh God, Napoleon, I...I keep changing, no, the rooms, the people, keep changing around me.”
“What?” Solo sounded perplexed as he sat himself on one corner of the desk.
“I’m losing it,” Illya said tightly, shaking his head slowly. He gingerly settled himself back into the sofa. Turning to face the CEA with a white-knuckled grip on the cushions; Illya hung onto them as if doing so would stop the phenomenon.
“Something strange has been happening to me, Napoleon. Repeatedly. One minute I’m here, the next I’m at the restaurant with you, then in a therapy session with the doctor, now I’m here again. Maybe I’m having little blackouts or perhaps it is somnambulance as you suggested. Doesn’t one have to actually be asleep before a sleepwalking episode?” He eased up his hold on the cushions.
Napoleon’s expression was one of concern; his forehead furrowed and mouth drawn to a fine line.
“I don’t believe you walked or took a taxi to come to headquarters this morning in your sleep, Illya.”
“It’s morning?”
Napoleon stared at him, puzzled. ”The workday’s over, it’s after 5.”
Kuryakin paled. “I’ve lost almost an entire day.”
“Well,” Illya sighed again, sinking into the sofa a little more, trying desperately to make some sense of it all.
“Maybe it’s all the drugs THRUSH has injected into me over the years. Perhaps they’ve had a cumulative effect. I mean, the brain can only be assaulted so many times before it protests, right? The bad headaches I’ve had from truth serums were a warning, I think. Or,” he hesitated, studying the backs of his hands, “there is the remote possibility...I’m having a nervous breakdown.” He turned towards his partner, searching his eyes as if saying it aloud would make it a fact.
Illya became quiet and introspective. This was the worst of any fear he’d ever known, and he’d known many in his thirty-three years. Was he losing his mind?
He had always been pragmatic about everything that touched his life. There had to be a logical explanation for almost everything. That’s the way he needed his life to be, explainable, logical...orderly.
This progression of events, the lost time, holes in his recent memory were unacceptable; more than that, they were intolerable.
He was glad his closest friend was with him now. He found it comforting to have someone he could rely upon, someone with whom he could trust with his very life and was at his side through all of this.
“Napoleon?”
“Yes?”
“Moya zhizn' vsegda v bezopasnosti v tvoikh rukakh.” (My life is always safe in your hands.)
Kuryakin watched with narrowed eyes as Solo shifted uncomfortably and finally stood up.
“Napoleon?” Illya asked, after waiting for the expected response.
Solo gave no reply other than “I’m still here,” as he scanned the room nervously.
Disappointed; Illya rubbed his eyes and sighed, feeling even more dejected, if that were possible.
“Please take me home.”
(1) The Children's Day Affair
Work is complete and will be posted this week in Section VII.
Thank you to my friends who helped beta this story.
Many thanks to Open_channel_d for her kind assist with Russian translations.
Open Arms
Sometimes ghosts from agent’s missions come back to haunt them and Illya’s past is full of them.
Chapter One
“I know you’re experiencing a lot of pain from the lashing and are anxious to be finished with this, but...tell me Illya; how did you feel when Mother Fear was crushed to death on that water wheel?”(1)
Illya cringed inwardly at the use of his given name by the U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrist. It was his own fault, really. After all, he’d called the shrink by her first name in an effort to unsettle her and throw her off her game. These post-torture psychiatric sessions were unnecessary in his opinion; a waste of his time, his personal time, as he was officially on medical leave and had been instructed to go home and relax for the next few days.
He took a moment to study Dr. Yvette Rädsla. Blonde hair, about his height and weight, a decade older than himself. She was no real beauty with her hair done up in a bun and her high arched painted eyebrows giving her a severe, if not angry expression.
At least he didn’t have to lie on a couch for this session. His back chafed against the polyester blend of his black turtleneck and was still raw from the strapping to which he’d been subjected. He was in need of his prescription, but it was back in his office.
No information had been disclosed by him at École Figliano. That should have been the end of it. But no, now he was being forced to cooperate with this doctor if he wanted to “return to active duty sometime in the next decade” as Mr. Waverly had put it.
He spoke slowly and solemnly, “I was horrified, Dr. Rädsla,” Illya lied. At least was he told her next was partly the truth.
“I’m always saddened by loss of life, even a THRUSH’s life. If she had not been so far away from me I could have saved her.”
He was used to this line of questioning from the psych staff. It became an almost boring ritual after a while. Like a simple mathematical formula, A + B = C. They’d ask a question, he’d tell them what they wanted to hear and the nonsense ended.
In truth he was glad Fear was dead. No more children or UNCLE agents would suffer at her hands. With this last question, this session seemed to be drawing to a close and he certainly didn’t feel horrified about that.
“Just a few more questions, um…Illya Dear. When’s the last time you told your mother that you loved her? Well, sent her flowers? Thanked her for all the little things she’s done; told her how much you care?”
Kuryakin audibly gasped, then cursed himself for showing any type of emotion, but how in the hell did Rädsla know what Mother Fear had asked him word-for-word? He’d not been that precise in his end-of-mission report. Had the torture session been recorded? It must have been; how else would the doctor have known? No one, not even Napoleon was given a verbatim account of that conversation.
He stared at her, her face unreadable. Was she toying with him?
At his lack of response the woman looked up from her notes and peered at him over the frames of her horn-rimmed glasses, then rose and stepped behind her desk.
“I believe that’ll be all for today.” She sat down in her chair to check her appointment book and flipped through the pages.
“How about tomorrow at ten?” Without waiting for a response she penciled him in.
“You look a bit peaked, Mr. Kuryakin. Perhaps you should lie down and rest up a bit before leaving for the day? Here would be fine, or perhaps your own office?”
He dragged himself to his feet slowly and cautiously, suddenly feeling a bit weak at the knees.
“My office,” he mumbled, in obvious agreement that her idea was a prudent one.
Once inside his own private sanctuary within U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, he retrieved his suit jacket from the back of his desk chair and fished out the prescription bottle, popped the last two remaining tablets into his mouth and downed them with a swig of cold coffee leftover from lunch.
Normally Illya didn’t care for taking pain pills as he felt vulnerable under their influence. They dulled his mind and slowed his reflexes, making him fair game to the enemy. But his back was throbbing unmercifully now and as long as he remained safely ensconced at UNCLE headquarters, he was in no real danger.
As he sunk down into comforting cushions of his naugahyde couch, his mind drifted back to the beating he had endured at the Figliano School and the words the doctor had spoken to him a few minutes ago. How did she know?
Illya decided he’d discuss this with his partner, but later. Now it was time to rest. He gingerly stretched out prone, careful to avoid pulling at the broken skin of his back and was asleep moments later.
He woke after a few hours to see Napoleon Solo standing over him, smiling.
“How goes it, partner. You hungry?”
In the blink of an eye, Illya found himself seated at a dining table across from Solo.
A visibly startled Kuryakin nearly choked as he scanned the nearly deserted and candle-lit Italian restaurant. “What’s going on? What happened? When did we arrive here?” He was almost shouting.
Napoleon gave him a sideways glance as if Illya had lost his mind.
“Twenty minutes ago. Don’t you remember? And keep your voice down.”
“No, I don’t,” Illya was quite alarmed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We were in my office; I was on my sofa, and now we’re here at Tony's,” he hissed.
“Listen sleepyhead,” Solo rolled his eyes at him, “this is where you wanted to have dinner. You were zonked out in the car the entire ride here. You’re exhausted. It’s been a rather trying few days…” Napoleon then added, “Perhaps you were sleepwalking.”
“I have never walked in my sleep,” Kuryakin haughtily denied it. Funny, he’d forgotten the car ride entirely until just now.
“Ah, but you have, and on more than one occasion. Anyway, you’re not conscious when you sleepwalk so how would you have any memory of it?”
This made sense but was disconcerting at the same time. Why hadn’t Napoleon told him of prior episodes until now? His head started to throb; he was suddenly weary despite his recent nap.
A waiter appeared at their table with an armload of plates filled with veal picatta, pan-seared steak pizzaiola, pasta, and cheesy garlic bread. It smelled wonderful and both agents were famished.
“Please be careful, gentlemen. Plates are very hot.” The dishes were placed in front of them.
Per Napoleon’s request, the nearly empty antipasto dish was removed from the table.
Illya didn’t remember ordering or even eating any of the appetizer, but he must have; the taste of garlic and olive oil was fresh on his tongue. The steak dish calling to him was a favorite of his. Solo preferred his steak sans sauce of any kind except worcestershire and the veal dish in front of Napoleon was his favorite.
Napoleon took a swallow of his Chianti while Illya was relieved to find his own wine glass filled with chilled water; he didn’t need his mind more muddled than it already was. He took a sip, then quickly drained the entire glass.
Solo eyed him. “Thirsty there partner?”
“Not anymore,” Illya grinned and dug into his meal with a passion, like always.
They chatted lightly during the meal. When questioned about specific times and dates of his sleepwalking events, Napoleon was unable to pin them down.
Kuryakin wanted to broach the subject of his earlier session with the shrink but decided against it for now. It would keep until tomorrow and in truth, his memories were a little fuzzy right now and he was very tired. Maybe it hadn’t really happened at all.
Illya had his water glass filled three more times before his thirst was finally quenched.
When the table was cleared and dessert arrived, they agreed the meal was the best they’d ever shared at Tony's. Illya finished the sweet custard, and his spoon and dessert bowl dissolved into thin air…
“...and what did she do then?”
His psychiatrist was asking him a question.
Illya whole body twitched as if he where falling in a dream and suddenly jerked awake. He blinked in shocking disbelief. He was back in her softly lit office, seated on the couch this time.
Napoleon, their table and the restaurant were gone! He stared in confusion, bordering on all out panic; his entire body trembling as adrenaline surged through his system.
“What were we talking about?” He asked, sotto voce. Keep it together Kuryakin!
The doctor glanced up from her notes. “Are you feeling tired, Illya? We can stop at any time if this too much for you.”
“No, I ah… I guess my mind wandered for a moment.”
He went over it again as if by doing so would help him to make sense of these strange and unsettling events. He’d been having dinner with Napoleon at Tony's. I had just eaten my last bite of Panna Cotta topped with raspberries. It was hard to think straight; his head was throbbing.
“Refresh my memory, will you doctor?” He was struggling to hide how distraught he was.
Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, something that almost never occurred when he was under pressure.
It’s only an autonomic response my body has to anxious circumstances; perhaps, Illya thought, that might result in extra sessions on the shrink’s sofa.
“We were discussing the incident with the strap; you were telling me what information Mother Fear was trying to beat out of you.”
Illya had a keen mind with a razor sharp intellect, able to concentrate under the most difficult and stressful of situations. Why was this happening to him? What was the cause?
He was resolved to get to the bottom of this phenomenon of lost time, but not now and especially not here.
She’ll have me locked up, he thought, and with good reason.
Illya drew his attention back to Dr. R’s question, finally answering it.
“She wanted the location of the U.N.C.L.E. conference.”
“Yes. You just shared that with me a moment ago.” The doctor removed her glasses, studying him carefully.
“Are you all right? How do you feel?”
“I’m fine, well, I do have a bit of a headache.” Bit of a headache? My head’s about to split in two! He thought to himself.
“You seem to be upset about something; perhaps a secret you’re not sharing with me?” There was a long pause as Dr. Rädsla made further notes.
“I’m here to help you, Illya. It may not always feel like it but I am not the enemy. It seems as though you’re fighting some private demon or-”
Illya was sitting on the edge of the couch in his office when a sudden bright flash of light sent sharp daggers of pain directly into his brain.
“Chyort, tol'ko ne eto opyat'!” (Damn, not this again!)
Illya’s hands flew up to cover his already tightly shut eye but fell forwards, his head missing a direct impact with the hard tile floor by meer inches. In the nick of time he was helped back onto the sofa.
He was trembling, his heart pounding from the shock of yet another episode.
Trying to open his eyes, the glare from the overhead fluorescent lighting fixtures still brought pain, so he quickly squeezed them shut again.
Mercifully the lights dimmed.
“Are you all right now, partner?”
Kuryakin sighed in relief. His breathing and heart rate returned to normal as he settled down and tried opening his eyes once more. The pain was slowly receding to a sharp, stabbing sensation over his brow.
“Oh God, Napoleon, I...I keep changing, no, the rooms, the people, keep changing around me.”
“What?” Solo sounded perplexed as he sat himself on one corner of the desk.
“I’m losing it,” Illya said tightly, shaking his head slowly. He gingerly settled himself back into the sofa. Turning to face the CEA with a white-knuckled grip on the cushions; Illya hung onto them as if doing so would stop the phenomenon.
“Something strange has been happening to me, Napoleon. Repeatedly. One minute I’m here, the next I’m at the restaurant with you, then in a therapy session with the doctor, now I’m here again. Maybe I’m having little blackouts or perhaps it is somnambulance as you suggested. Doesn’t one have to actually be asleep before a sleepwalking episode?” He eased up his hold on the cushions.
Napoleon’s expression was one of concern; his forehead furrowed and mouth drawn to a fine line.
“I don’t believe you walked or took a taxi to come to headquarters this morning in your sleep, Illya.”
“It’s morning?”
Napoleon stared at him, puzzled. ”The workday’s over, it’s after 5.”
Kuryakin paled. “I’ve lost almost an entire day.”
“Well,” Illya sighed again, sinking into the sofa a little more, trying desperately to make some sense of it all.
“Maybe it’s all the drugs THRUSH has injected into me over the years. Perhaps they’ve had a cumulative effect. I mean, the brain can only be assaulted so many times before it protests, right? The bad headaches I’ve had from truth serums were a warning, I think. Or,” he hesitated, studying the backs of his hands, “there is the remote possibility...I’m having a nervous breakdown.” He turned towards his partner, searching his eyes as if saying it aloud would make it a fact.
Illya became quiet and introspective. This was the worst of any fear he’d ever known, and he’d known many in his thirty-three years. Was he losing his mind?
He had always been pragmatic about everything that touched his life. There had to be a logical explanation for almost everything. That’s the way he needed his life to be, explainable, logical...orderly.
This progression of events, the lost time, holes in his recent memory were unacceptable; more than that, they were intolerable.
He was glad his closest friend was with him now. He found it comforting to have someone he could rely upon, someone with whom he could trust with his very life and was at his side through all of this.
“Napoleon?”
“Yes?”
“Moya zhizn' vsegda v bezopasnosti v tvoikh rukakh.” (My life is always safe in your hands.)
Kuryakin watched with narrowed eyes as Solo shifted uncomfortably and finally stood up.
“Napoleon?” Illya asked, after waiting for the expected response.
Solo gave no reply other than “I’m still here,” as he scanned the room nervously.
Disappointed; Illya rubbed his eyes and sighed, feeling even more dejected, if that were possible.
“Please take me home.”
(1) The Children's Day Affair
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