A First Year Trilogy for Writer's Choice

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

I've decided to put together this trio of stories that represent a first year for the men from UNCLE.   This way you have more to enjoy, I hope.
:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:

The Brave New UNCLE

"Personally, I think the old man made a mistake bringing in the Soviet. I mean, we may be international, but that doesn't mean letting in avowed enemies. Does it?"

The setting was familiar; the grey walls suspended from ceilings of the same color, the floors fading underfoot as though one surface merely reflected an illusion of substance.

UNCLE headquarters was a melting pot of nationalities and cultures, but no one had garnered the attention of so many people as the new man in Section II, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin: the Soviet.

His history was a maze of disinformation, purposefully crafted by Alexander Waverly himself. He knew that some things were better left unsaid, and his new recruit was a man whose experiences might be still more fodder for the gristmill, so to speak.

"Hrrmph, enemies indeed."

Oh, he knew what was said, and by whom. UNCLE was his house, and he kept it clean by methods not known in full by anyone save himself. He let his people wonder how he knew what he did, better to keep them on their toes. What he didn't like was the current flow of conversation, and the possibility that Kuryakin was viewed by too many as a threat.

"Miss McNabb, please have Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin come to my office…immediately."

"Yes sir."

There was only one response to Mr. Waverly, and Heather McNabb was calling the two men in question immediately upon saying those two words.

Napoleon Solo had met the Russian, and found him to be affable, if not completely charming. He was reserved, possibly due to the cool reception he'd gotten when arriving here at the New York headquarters of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

UNCLE was nothing if not apprehensive, regardless of whatever policies everyone swore to uphold. In a world that had been shaken by Soviet aggressions after the war, their support of North Korea and various double agents who had made headlines, it was not an easy assignment to come in and try to make himself at home among the doubters.

Of course, not everyone disliked Illya Kuryakin. But those who did had big mouths (wasn't that always the case?), and he seemed to have never spoken a word in defense of himself. Napoleon admired the ability of the man to simply walk away from the several rude remarks that he had heard spoken to his face, or sometimes as he passed by in the canteen or in the hallway.

As for Kuryakin, he dismissed all of it in a resigned way; he was resigned to prejudice in most Western countries. His reception in London had been only slightly better. But then the Profumo scandal hit, rocking British politics to their core. He had barely escaped UNCLE's London office with his scalp, arriving in New York to only slightly less hostility.

The two agents arrived at Waverly's office simultaneously, each of them aggressively responsive when answering the call of their punctilious superior. Kuryakin did it because he had never been without one. Napoleon Solo was not opposed to accommodating his boss, and usually considered it in his best interest to do so.

"Gentlemen, please take a seat."

The daylight visible from the only windows in the entire building shed little light on why they were both present. Solo, as his name announced, worked alone. He had resisted partnering with anyone, primarily due to his belief that no one worked as well with his style as he would require. It was a conceited point of view, but not without some merit. The missions on which he had been paired with another agent had not gone as smoothly as the old man would have liked, and Solo himself usually found the presence of another man an encumbrance to his rather unorthodox methods.

Illya Kuryakin had been so profoundly mistrusted on several occasions as to hinder the procurement of whatever had been the object of those missions. Alexander Waverly was entirely done with that nonsense.

Kuryakin's resume made him a poster boy for competence, his Survival School scores rivaled only by the other man sitting in this office. Together, these two men were the most accomplished and talented in the agency, of that Waverly had no doubts. The only thing left to him was to partner them, thus creating what might possibly be the winning edge in UNCLE's never ending battle with criminal elements like Thrush.

Law and Order, by whatever means necessary.

Before each man was a file folder, as yet unopened. Nothing happened before Waverly mandated it, not even perusing an assignment. Now he nodded his head, indicating they should read the contents of the folders. Each man responded, and in the next several minutes only the sound of measured breathing could be heard alongside the old man's softly tamping of his pipe bowl, the aroma of Isle of Dogs #22 wafting across the round table at which they were all seated.

Solo finished first, or so he thought. Figuring that the Russian probably needed more time to translate into English, he failed to notice the movement of his eyes; Kuryakin had read it once, then gone back to the top and started over again. He didn't want to look up just yet, not before being called upon.

"Mr. Solo, are you finished with that?"

Napoleon looked up, then at the blond next to him.

"Yes sir, I am. Umm…Am I to understand that we, that is Mr. Kuryakin and I, will be on this mission together?"

The grey eyes that viewed him from beneath the ominous looking eyebrows were like steel.

"Is that a problem, Mr. Solo?"

Illya didn't look at the two men, keeping his eyes downward, not daring to anticipate what Solo might say in response. He willed himself to not let out the sigh that was building.

"No sir, not at all. It's just that, well, I am used to working alone…"

That was probably the wrong thing to say, and he regretted it immediately.

"Yes, Mr. Solo, you usually do work alone, without back up; you too often exhibit the type of bravado that makes me concerned that you haven't a shred of common sense, something that Mr. Kuryakin has in spades."

Oh, so that's how it is…

The American agent straightened his head, indicating his censure was noted, although not appreciated. His lips pursed slightly, the top one an indulgent pout that did not go unnoticed by the old man watching him.

Sooner or later, Mr. Solo, we all come to terms…

The Russian's head with the halo of hair that was considered too long by most standards, (most notably those of Mr. Waverly), remained bowed down as though unable to take his eyes from the mission page in front of him. He didn't trust Solo's response, just as he mistrusted most of the people he met here. Only Waverly had made him feel secure in this overwrought city; his little apartment an island of respite from the turmoil that remained, as always, his life.

"Mr. Kuryakin, do you have anything to say about this? Our inability to partner you with an appropriate colleague is no less a concern to me. I am convinced that you and Mr. Solo are somehow fated for one another, given that neither of you can function satisfactorily with anyone else."

Illya braved a sidelong glance at his new partner, only to be met by a similar look from him. What was there about this that made him want to laugh out loud? Two errant schoolboys, set to rights in front of the headmaster…

Subduing a grin, the absurdity of the situation suddenly seemed an answer to his problems after all. Solo was well liked, most probably the next CEA of the Northwest Section… He could do worse.

"No sir, I am quite happy to be assigned as Mr. Solo's partner. I believe I shall learn quite a lot from him…sir."

Napoleon smirked a little, understanding the message.

Okay, I can do this too, comrade.

"Umm…yes, Mr. Waverly, I agree."

He caught a look from Illya, realizing how that sounded.

"Oh, not about learning from me…sorry. I mean that this seems like a good thing for us to…umm…try out, at least. Thank you, sir."

The old man looked at his agents, wary of their sudden acceptance of the situation, regardless of what mandates were taken for granted. No matter, he'd let them work that out themselves.

"Very well, then. Please familiarize yourselves with this mission agenda, and pick up your travel arrangements from Miss McNabb. That is all."

He put his head down, a whiff of smoke circling up from the pipe that he had managed to light during the briefing. The new partners departed the big office with the faint aroma of Mr. Waverly's tobacco as an escort.

Napoleon picked up the envelope with their plane tickets, and some additional details regarding their destination. Illya stood patiently by as he considered this new development. Napoleon's thoughts must have echoed those of the Russian as he turned to face him, extending his hand in what would become the first of many agreements.

"It seems we are now a team, Illya. Welcome to New York."

The blond gave him a glimpse of his smile, not yet willing to be completely deferential to this new comrade.

"Thank you, Napoleon. I believe Mr. Waverly has chosen well…for both of us."

Napoleon's own smile was slightly crooked, his affect one of having been caught slightly by surprise.

"Yes…I think you may be right, tovarisch. Say, are you hungry? I know a place…"

To each of them the thought occurred that having a partner might turn out to be a very good thing.

~~~~~~

This Time

June 14, 1962

11:00 AM

The bell on Del Floria's door rang out with a jangling noise, unlike the typically soft jingle. The kindly man behind the counter was stunned at the sight of Napoleon Solo as he crashed through the door; in the American's arms was the sagging form of his partner, the Russian. Del Floria didn't know him well, had only seen him occasionally since his transfer to New York as he passed through the little tailor's shop, demurely nodding his blond head in a timid but respectful manner.

Now, as Solo hurried past him, the young man hung limply in the other's arms, his face slack and the blue eyes hidden behind lids that seemed, to the tailor, perhaps never to open again. Brusquely, Solo grunted out a request for help, prompting Del Floria to push the press and activate the secret panel, then rush into the booth himself to turn the hook.

Solo's hands were full.

When Solo entered the reception area the girl behind the desk looked up and gasped, the sight of the two men startling in this pristine space. Napoleon's face was bruised, one jacket sleeve torn from its shoulder seams and all of him, it seemed to her, covered in blood. Whose was it?

"Medical!"

That was all he said, and the voice was not like the smooth caress so familiar to her. He croaked out the order, and she was complying immediately as he stared into the almost serene face of his partner. Kuryakin hadn't moved, his right arm hung lifelessly down, free from the crushing embrace with which Solo was carrying him. He wore black, so it was difficult to see if he had blood on him…

The sweater he wore was sticky looking, wet…blood. That was the indication of what had happened. The black turtleneck was soaked with blood, as was the front and sleeves of Napoleon's shirt and jacket. Kuryakin didn't look as though… She couldn't tell if he was breathing or not.

Less than a minute later and the elevator doors opened to release a team of medical personnel with a gurney. Napoleon had gone as far as he was able, hating that he didn't have the strength left to walk up to medical himself. He let them come to him, take Illya from his arms and then collapsed into a heap as the attending medic called for yet another gurney.

June 14

8:00 AM

"Gentlemen, you have the information in front of you. It is a simple task: meet the courier, collect the microdot and return to headquarters. You have both been exceedingly busy for the past two months, and this little rendezvous should give you a break from an otherwise hectic schedule. It is, one time only, my concession to your exemplary success."

Alexander Waverly didn't hand out favors to his agents, and this was an assignment, regardless of the ease with which it could, he hoped, be accomplished. The suspicion that there was a mole among his personnel was so precariously perched within Waverly's mind that he thought it best to not reveal it to these agents. The two young men he addressed were his latest triumph, the pairing of East and West, symbolically and practically speaking. They were UNCLE's future.

The Russian had been in the New York office only a few months, and pairing him with Napoleon Solo had been on the old man's agenda for two years. He had endured Harry Beldon's possessiveness regarding the young man, finally enticing Kuryakin to put in the transfer request that had brought him to Northwest. Waverly had his team, had the Russian. Beldon would do well to recruit his own poster boy for détente. This one belonged to Waverly, and had always been his for the taking.

Napoleon Solo looked up from the file, wondering why his boss would send them out on something like this. It was a courier run, something that a Section III could easily handle.

"Sir, is there something about this assignment that we should know? I mean, with all due respect sir, this hardly seems to warrant a Section II intervention."

A harrumph of displeasure or indigestion (it was hard to distinguish), and the venerable chief of UNCLE Northwest and beyond reached for an elusive pipe before answering his up and coming agent. Napoleon Solo was slated for success, of that the old man was certain. Kuryakin would help him attain that success, would enjoy the rewards of it himself, he supposed. UNCLE would remain intact in spite of the odds against survival in this business, and Solo would help keep it relevant in future decades. He was counting on that inevitability.

"Mr. Solo, the man you will meet has a microdot outlining a plan of such egregious harm to mankind, something so sinister as to make heads of state afraid for their very lives. Thrush has been emboldened to plan a strike against every major political system on the planet, and we must have the agenda for that before they are able to make their first move. This may appear to be beneath your talents, but I assure you the world's security will be at stake once again should we not gain this information."

Kuryakin watched the two men, wagering silently with himself on the outcome. Mr. Waverly never lost ground to his agents, and not even Napoleon Solo could stand for long in the glare of the old man's scrutiny. If the world was in danger, then who better to go to its aid?

"I see, sir… Thank you for that… explanation. I didn't intend to…"

"Yes, yes…I know, Mr. Solo. It is your nature to demand an explanation; something, I assume, that also makes you find ways to defeat our enemies. There is no fault in demanding answers, only watch yourself in future, if you please."

Napoleon's mouth was open just enough to emit a small whoosh of breath as his lips curled up slightly, the smile noncommittal but teasing. He wondered sometimes how the old man put up with him.

"Yes sir. I will try and…curb… my curiosity where this office is concerned."

Kuryakin had that funny quirk of a smile on his face as the two stood back and relinquished their positions. He marveled at the audacity of a man to stand up and question his superiors; it was an act punishable by many types of horrific acts where he came from, and the thought of it now made him uncomfortable. Even though he had spent a number of years now, living in the West, some attitudes and actions were still so foreign to him that he doubted he would ever succumb to the temptation. Besides, Mr. Waverly had brought him here, believed in him to be a part of this organization.

"Illya, you ready? C'mon partner."

Napoleon had been standing and waiting for how long? He got up, closed the folder and nodded to his chief. They were dismised, the older man's lack of attention a sure sign that he was finished with them.

June 14

10:00 AM

The building on the wharf had been checked out; everything was secure and the meet considered safe. Illya never considered Thrush personnel trustworthy, however, and the idea of one of them willing to turn over information still felt wrong to him. Napoleon had agreed that some things really were too good to be true, and neither of them was letting down their guards just yet

Napoleon spotted the courier first. He seemed to be alone, and the open space in which he stood didn't allow for subterfuge on his part. Illya had moved in behind the man even as Napoleon was approaching him. A surveillance of the area had not uncovered any other Thrush, and it didn't appear that there was a danger beyond the obvious perils of being a spy.

Overhead a gull was screeching, probably homing in on an unfortunate fish that unwisely swam in the murky water. It was a typically warm New York day in June; nothing outstanding about it save for its conformity to what was expected.

The sounds of the gulls began to give way to something else, and as it neared their location, the whining and whizzing of it stirred a recognition of a familiar Thrush sound. Napoleon saw it, up and…

"Illya! Up, they're up there!"

Napoleon shouted across at his partner even as the low flying machine zoomed in above them. The courier was the first man hit, his surprised expression not lost on the diving American agent. Illya's position behind the now dead man made him a target of the machine gun action from the buzzing menace. His body was thrust backwards as shots ripped into him, the action of assasination taking mere seconds to perform as Napoleon took aim and began his own assault on the Thrush mini aircraft.

It was over so quickly that it seemed almost not to have happened. The Thrush attack on their own man was not surprising, but now as Napoleon made his way to the scene of the worst damage, he saw Illya's body as it lay limp and lifeless. His sweater was soaked with blood already and as the call was made to HQ for help, he was already picking up the blond and carrying him to the car. He couldn't wait; Illya wouldn't survive long like this.

He had given barely any attention to the fact that he had also sustained an injury, ignoring the bullet in his left arm as he focused all of his attention on Illya.

What had Waverly known and not told them? He wondered now as the frantic drive back to headquarters began. He ran lights and endangered other drivers as he sped uptown, hoping against hope that he hadn't made it worse by not waiting for help. It would have taken them as long as it would require for him to drive, he was certain of that. Anything longer and… he couldn't think that way. Illya had to make it. They were so new as a team, so full of promise. That's what they both knew, what Waverly counted on. Why had he been willing to sacrifice them like this?

The drive cost him twenty precious minutes, but not as long as it might have been just an hour later. As he pulled up in front of Del Floria's, he was aware of his own energy fading as the blood continued to pour from his own wound. It didn't matter, he had to get Illya inside. After that…

June 14

3:00 PM

The blood loss had been staggering. Illya was on life support and surviving, much to the amazement of the attending medical staff. The bullets had struck twice, one of them slicing through his appendix and the other puncturing a lung. It wasn't bad, considering the odds against not being dead in this scenario.

Napoleon's arm had been attended to, the bullet removed and his arm placed in a sling announcing his recent misfortune. He had not been permitted to accompany his partner into the surgical suite, but instead headed for Mr. Waverly's office. The secretary on duty watched him move resolutely toward the doors, not allowing for the possibility that entry would be denied.

Waverly was hunched over the controls to his communication console, his appearance somehow older than when they had seen him this morning. How long ago was that?

"Mr. Waverly, Illya was almost killed out there…"

Waverly's head shot up, the unsolicited comment a shock in this orderly and autocratic office. He understood, however, the need for the young agent to express his outrage, regardless of whether or not it was approved.

"Yes, Mr. Solo, I have read the report and spoken with Dr. Barnes. I regret, of course, that our information did not reflect the possibility of… of sabatoge."

Napoleon was dumbfounded at that, his complaint subsiding into a series of questions that now formed in his tired mind. His partner was fighting for his life, the Thrush courier was dead…

"Sir, did our team recover the microdot?"

The grey head nodded, his eyes not reflecting what should have been a victory over their constant enemy. Napoleon thought he saw something like… was it regret? That would be unlikely, even now.

"Yes, Mr. Solo, and the information is legitimate as far as we can tell. What we didn't know or expect was the presence of someone within our own organization who alerted Thrush to our efforts to obtain this intelligence. You were betrayed…we…were betrayed, Mr. Solo."

There was more to this than simple treachery, Napoleon could sense it and see it in the old man's face. This was personal, and he dreaded hearing the name of the traitor even as Alexander Waverly was forming it on his lips.

"Nehemiah Brousseau, Paris Bureau Chief, has been taken into custody. I brought him into the Command…ten years ago, by my estimates. I will be on a flight to Paris…'

He looked at his watch, sighing almost imperceptibly as he did so.

"I leave in forty minutes. The UNCLE jet is being fueled as we speak, the helicopter is waiting for me…"

Napoleon felt stripped bare. His emotions were struggling to find the most volatile form of expression against…what or whom? Waverly was going to face a man he had trusted enough to endorse as a bureau chief, Illya was lying in medical, nearly murdered for the sake of an act of treachery against not only the U.N.C.L.E., but its formidable head as well.

"Mr. Waverly, sir… I am so sorry. I have met Mr. Brousseau only once, but he was certainly not someone I would have ever suspected of… not of treason. Not of this."

He looked around him, at his own blood stained shirt and then at the man in front of him. Alexander Waverly had been through wars and intrigues that had shaped him and this organization. To be violated like this, betrayed by a trusted member of the Command, was almost too much to bear. But, then again, this was Alexander Waverly.

"I will be back upon completion of this unpleasantness. Mr. Solo, please extend my well wishes to Mr. Kuryakin. He seems to have stabilized, and the doctor sees no reason why he will not recover. I consider it a personal failure on my part to have not seen through the veneer of this deception. You and your partner, both of you, have my sincerest apologies for this incident. However, our lives are never without danger, the threat of our enemy never far off. It is only for the fact of having been betrayed that I offer any explanation at all. Do you understand?"

Napoleon reckoned he would live to answer that question for many years yet to come.

"Yes sir. And, thank you."

June 15, 1962

9:00 AM

Napoleon woke up in the bed next to Illya's. The medical staff was always willing to accommodate the partner who wasn't dying, or close to it. His arm ached a little, but he looked better than the Russian. He had been able to shower and change clothes at least. Illya was still sleeping, his condition having passed from critical to 'guess he'll live'. The doctors here had their own weird sense of humor, and considering what they had to deal with, Napoleon didn't blame them one bit.

As he rolled over and stretched, he realized that Illya was looking at him. It was almost eerie, the blue eyes pale against the grey walls and white sheets, his blond hair just a little more colorful than the background upon which he lay.

"Hey there, tovarisch. You're alive, so at least we have that good news to work with."

The smile reached his ears he knew. The partnership they shared hadn't been a long one, but had quickly become friendship as well. Waverly had planned this one very successfully.

"How long…? Are you all right?"

Two questions, words he would learn to appreciate over time.

"I'm fine, just a little hole in my arm. You're the one who ended up without an appendix."

Napoleon slipped out of the bed and walked to his partner's bedside. The gauntness was disturbing, but it would pass. Get the guy a good meal or two…

"How's your breathing?"

The reaction was a forlorn look that indicated weariness and pain. Napoleon knew how it felt to be nearly dead. Heroics were overrated.

"Um, there's something else about all of this situation, someone…'

Illya's eyes were closed again, his breathing already indicating that he was asleep.

"So close, my friend…so close."

Napoleon decided the details about the traitorous acts that had led to this scene could wait. The days ahead would have plenty of time for debasing the memory of a traitor. For now, healing was necessary for the physically wounded.

He thought of Mr. Waverly, of the wounds inflicted on the old man by all of this. There were more ways than he could think of right now to tear a man apart, and propel his world into chaos.

"I guess all of us are expendable, in one way or another."

He looked at his own partner then, wondering if they really were expendable. He decided they weren't, no matter what he might say or do or think in the future…

"We're going to live, Illya. I promise you that. This is just the beginning."

~~~~~~

Things Change

The scene was bucolic, with not a ripple in the water surrounding the quaint towers above the little town. Napoleon Solo had a vantage point that allowed him to see clearly the short bridge that connected the two towers; he was waiting for a particular individual to emerge from the one on the left.

Inside the building at the end of the bridge were two men deep in conversation. The taller of the two wore a dark wool coat over his modest suit, his weathered face that of someone burdened by worry.

The second man was smaller in stature, blond and very serious. Illya Kuryakin intended to convince Willem Norene to accompany him across the bridge and into a new life; a free life. Norene had been serving THRUSH for decades and, in a sudden change of heart, had contacted the U.N.C.L.E. with the offer of information that could mean the end of a particularly disturbing plot by the supranational organization.

Napoleon was listening in on the conversation, hoping that his partner would be successful in bringing this one in. Normally it would be Solo sent in to cajole and charm, but this time the skills of the Russian were needed. The two young men had only been paired up for about ten months, a seeming stroke of genius on the part of their boss, Alexander Waverly. Although each man had brought a lion's share of attitude and skill to the partnership, it had seemed to mesh into something very successful if their record was any indication. Today a linguist of Illya's caliber was needed, and Napoleon's job would be to arrive in a timely manner, in his boat, and take on the two men as they prepared to travel up-river to a drop off point where they would deposit the defector into the hands of another UNCLE team.

Inside the bridge's western tower, Illya was speaking Norene's native language, Swedish, attempting to persuade the other man of the need for him to make his decision and accompany the agent out of their meeting place and into his future … away from THRUSH. Although Norene didn't look the part, he was a brilliant scientist who had participated in developing a deadly virus, and now held the entire formula in his prodigious memory. No other member of the team could claim that, and without a written account of the research, it was imperative to lay claim to this man's mental account.

"Mr. Norene, I cannot stress the importance of moving swiftly. You have made your decision, have you not?"

Norene shuffled his feet, feeling the stress of his own fear, the irrational mistrust of the man speaking to him.

"You are Russian? How is that you have come to be with UNCLE? Are you stealing secrets from them as you now encourage me to steal from THRUSH?"

Illya was confused by that, concerned that he was losing this man. Why should he, of all people, be questioning Kuryakin's loyalty to the Command?

"I assure you that my loyalties are to UNCLE, and my intentions here are to get you safely into its care. We can give you a new life, a better life. I assure you that, as you might assume, I speak from experience."

Norene thought that over for a moment, wanting to trust the young blond agent, wishing that life weren't so complicated. After years in the bowels of THRUSH laboratories under the watchful eyes of unprincipled masters, the meek scientist wanted only to stop what he knew would be a worldwide pandemic, should this formula be used as it was intended.

"Mr. Kuryakin, I believe you are sincere and find myself being forced to trust you. I will go with you, but you must promise me that …"

His words were violently thrown into the air as a blast of gunfire erupted from the doorway. The intruders had approached from a spot not visible to Napoleon as he sat in the boat beyond and below the bridge. He heard the explosive sounds of it and yelled into his communicator, hoping to gain a response from his partner.

Illya turned to fire at the THRUSH squad who now rushed into the room. Norene was dead, the attackers foolishly destroying the very thing that they sought to retrieve. In a strange turn of events, the attackers gathered up the body of the scientist and carried him out, barely avoiding the arrival of Napoleon who had engaged the motor on his small craft and clamored up the ladder on the edge of the small dock.

Solo entered the building as the last of the THRUSH were jumping into a black vehicle; he didn't attempt to stop them, his only thoughts now were to get to his partner.

Entering the building, Napoleon was stopped in his tracks at the evidence of the violence that had concluded the meeting. He assumed that Norene was dead based on the way his body was thrown into the car. His eyes now sought out the blond hair of Illya Kuryakin. The American agent called the name of his partner, hoping for a response.

"Illya? Illya, can you hear me?"

No sounds of movement or reply. It was dark in the building, and no light switch was evident to shed light in the room. Napoleon moved cautiously, his eyes gradually adjusting to the low visibility. His foot hit a slick spot and immediately he stopped, lowering his eyes to the dreaded sight of his partner lying in a pool of blood.

"Oh no, Illya…"

Napoleon kneeled down beside the stricken agent, pulling out his communicator as he did so. Even as deft fingers were pulling back the blond's jacket he called his support team.

"Open Channel F, this is Solo. I have a man down."

"Everett here. Are you all right, Napoleon?"

"It's Illya, he's… I'm checking him now but he's unconscious. We lost Norene, I think he's dead."

"We're on our way, Napoleon. I hope … Well, better that Norene is dead than able to divulge the formula to THRUSH. Be there in ten."

Napoleon closed his communicator with one hand and began to examine his partner in earnest. The wound was in Illya's left shoulder, so not too serious. The impact had apparently thrown the man back into a stack of wooden crates, probably knocking him unconscious. That actually made Napoleon breathe a little easier.

"Leave it to you to get a knock on the head, tovarisch."

There was still no reply, leaving Napoleon to wonder how serious that knock might be.

When Everett and Sloane arrived they entered the building and assisted Napoleon in carrying the still prone figure of Illya Kuryakin out of the tower building and into the sedan they were driving. Solo would need to report this to New York, something he dreaded since they had lost the object of this mission. Moreover, he would have to report that, once again, his partner was down.

The nearest UNCLE facility was an hour away in Vienna. It seemed the safest course of action to make their way to that location in spite of Illya's medical needs. The bleeding had slowed, and hopefully within the hour drive the Russian would regain consciousness. It would be easier to ascertain his condition when that happened… if it happened.

Napoleon had an uneasy feeling about this, and looking at his partner of less than a year, the usually brash Solo was suddenly thinking on mortality and fate. He hoped his wasn't to be solo yet again.

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Hmmm fits into your idea of "UNCLE firsts" nice. Glad you posted this for Writer's choice!