section7mfu | Not Bot - PicFic 11/17

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It had certainly looked human enough. Napoleon Solo wondered how it was that THRUSH could keep manufacturing these robots… first the Fembots and now Menbots, if he were to transfer the gender identification used for the female versions.

Illya Kuryakin was examining the specimen the agents had taken down, with not a little bit of effort. The strength of these robots was impressive, as was their likeness to an actual human being.

"Stranger than fiction, my friend. These are incredibly lifelike, at least until you get up as close to them as I am now." Illya had his face nearly nose to nose with the blond robot, giving Napoleon a momentary image of two Russians instead of one.

'Say, do you suppose this model was supposed to look like you?" Illya jerked back abruptly.

"What? Why would you say that? He doesn't… does he?"

Illya stepped back as Napoleon came closer, each of them now certain that the blond UNCLE agent had been the model. It hadn't been obvious to them as they shot at and then tackled the machine; the hair wasn't quite right and the nose too straight, an oversight if one wasn't aware of it having been broken at some point in the past.

Now the wheels were turning over the same idea in their heads, finally reaching the same conclusion as they smiled knowingly at each other.

"Can you do it?"

"Yes, I believe I can."

Illya was wearing the robot's clothing, his hair combed to match the image of his mechanical dopleganger. There was nothing to be done about the nose, they could only hope it wasn't noticed immediately. A facsimile of the port used to connect the robot to a power source was applied atop Illya's left bicep, an obviously non-functioning apparatus that he hoped would not be examined closely. The THRUSH robot had spoken only briefly but with a distinctly British accent. It was obvious that the scientists who developed this specimen were unable to accurately duplicate Kuryakin's eclectic speech pattern, but it had a similar resonance.

Alexander Waverly was impressed that one of his men should be the model for this predictably bizarre THRUSH product; impressed and distressed that he had been in their hands often enough to do such a convincing job of it. Kuryakin needed to guard himself against such easy acquisition by the enemy.

Napoleon watched from a safe distance as his partner posed in the same spot where they had picked up the robot. He assumed the same mannerism, canting his head unnaturally, as had his double. That is what had piqued their curiosity in the first place.

"Okay Illya, I see two of them approaching you. We need to get in to whatever facility they've been making these new models and shut them down. I'll be right behind you." It would be up to Illya now to convince these goons that he really was their robot, something that might not be as challenging as one would think. Most of the grunts employed by THRUSH came from a similar gene pool where intellect was concerned. It was one of the methods of maintaining control that the admittedly genius manipulators of the Central Committee had used successfully. Science was the cornerstone of the Hierarchy's schemes, the base of power from which they sought to conquer the world. Personnel were meant for the battlefield, acceptable losses any number that might occur.

As Illya saw the approach of the two black suited men, he rehearsed in his mind the response he should have to them. He could only hope it would be correct. A heavy hand grabbed his right arm, triggering Illya's response; he turned his head slightly, looked directly into the eyes of the other man. The stare was so intense that it spooked the THRUSH, eliciting a curse directed at the robot.

"Geeze I hate these things, they give me the creeps. Stop looking at me!"

Illya turned his head towards the other fellow, a slightly mechanical affect that he had practiced for hours, trying to duplicate the less than natural gait of the robot's movements.

"Harry you're a wimp. Come on Ruskie, we need to get you back to the lab."

So he had been modeled after Illya. The idea of going back to a THRUSH lab was slightly unsettling, but Illya trusted that his partner would be close by.

Napoleon fell in behind the three men, staying a safe distance back but never losing sight. It was a two block journey that led to a garage situated between two other businesses. The agent suspected that those were also THRUSH properties, a front to camouflage the lab within. He watched as the two men from THRUSH escorted Illya inside, making note of the keypad as he viewed the code being entered through a special UNCLE scope… 5-8-2-6 … Easy enough, probably a necessity considering the types of people using it.

Illya walked through the door and started making mental notes of the interior. He knew Napoleon was across the street and would have taken note of the combination, but the unknown was always a bit unsettling. He supposed he was going to be dealing with scientists, the worst kind of men and women who were willing to use their intellect and gifts for the likes of THRUSH. There was no regard for human life or the usual ethics of the scientific community. He was, himself, among them; that made what went on in these THRUSH labs even more reprehensible to him.

Standing in the doorway to one of the labs was a white-coated man with a grey goatee and a shock of hair that resembled snow drifts in Siberia. It hung in waves, down to his shoulders, and as he began to speak a series of commands a woman entered the room. Recognition made the faux robot's blood run cold, and he knew this little ruse was doomed to failure.

Napoleon crossed the street, watching for any sign of a THRUSH that might ruin his opportunity to get inside the garage. He leaned against the wall as a car passed, nodding appreciatively when a pretty girl walked by, her backward glance a hopeful cue that he was welcome to walk with her.

When it seemed no one was watching he punched in the numbers on the keypad, heard a whirring noise before the door opened automatically. Easing through the doorway, Napoleon had his gun in his hand as he crept stealthily along the corridor. A conversation could be heard farther down and he thought he heard a woman's voice. It registered somewhere, a memory from the past… Damn.

"Ooooo, Mr. Kuryakin." She delivered that short line in her sing-song manner, approaching the blond with her hands outstretched as though welcoming a long, lost relative. Illya feigned the impassive nature of the robot but it was no use. Edith Partridge was pleased to once again have the attractive Russian agent in her grasp; her memories of him chained to the dungeon wall were pleasant, titillating even.

"Oh now, don't you fret young man. How could you help yourself when you spied our robot? I expect Mr. Solo is close by as well." How had this happened? Illya was trying to find anything, a word or gesture that might dissuade this woman from whatever she had in mind. The gleam in her eye made him feel like a child's toy on Christmas.

"So, this was all a trap? But why, what do you want with me?" Edith smiled, a childlike expression that belied her ability to both strategize and accomplish whatever she deemed necessary.

"Oh my, silly of you to ask don't you think? You have deprived me of my dear Emory sweet boy, and now someone must pay the price for that. I think you know what comes next…" Her coy delivery left Illya puzzled, and then he saw the wall begin to slide to one side and reveal a similar stone surface to the one in that blasted dungeon.

"Really Edith, you have no need of this." She smiled once more, moving in a little closer as she removed Illya's jacket and handed it to one of her men. Motioning with her head the direction he should take, Edith watched as her man backed Illya up against the rock wall and put his wrists in iron manacles. That seemed to please her, and she approached her prisoner and untied the tie, leaving it to hang loose as she unbuttoned the white shirt, running her hands slowly over his chest and down the length of his midriff until she reached the belt.

"I do miss my Emory so…' Unbuckling the belt took an interminable length of time to Illya as he remembered how she had acted towards him in that dungeon. She seemed smitten with him, and as she unbuckled the belt and then his trousers, pulling the zipper down until the only thing left was to let them fall to the floor, Edith Partridge was grinning broadly as she yanked them fully from his body, leaving him clothed only in his undershorts and unbuttoned shirt.

"Oh, I knew you'd be like this, all lean and yummy. I believe I shall take my tea right here, and enjoy you like I would a cucumber sandwich. Just yummy."

Illya didn't relish the thought of being compared to a cucumber sandwich, nor the idea that Edith was going to ogle him while sipping her tea. Where the deuce was Napoleon?

Two of Edith's men had spotted Solo and tried to take him out. Being the better man once more paid off and he easily disposed of them both. Still listening to Edith Partridge's voice as it bubbled out through the open door, Napoleon figured there had to be someone else in there with her. At least two more men he surmissed… not unmanageable. He wondered about Illya though, what had happened to him. Reaching the doorway he peeked inside once, then again. Illya was chained to a wall while Edith appeared to be having tea. The cart beside her chair was full, which made Napoleon wonder if it was for her to enjoy or to torment the always hungry Russian.

There were indeed two men, one of them close enough to Illya that should he have opportunity, the wiry agent could probably land a kick. Solo decided to dart the other fellow first, and when he fell to the floor the one next to Illya moved in front of him. On cue the prisoner jackknifed his body, capturing the guard in one swift movement. Edith clapped her hands at the show before she realized Napoleon was standing next to her. He left Illya to handle the struggling guard until it was obvious that more was necessary in order to end it. One more dart and the man fell lifelessly to the floor.

"Oh my, Mr. Solo has saved the day. If only Emory were here to enjoy this." A wistful little sigh escaped Edith's lips before she took another sip of tea. Meanwhile Illya was still dangling from the wall, glaring at his partner's obvious lack of urgency.

"Edith my dear, you've been a bad girl haven't you." It was a statement, and she nodded her head while reaching for a fig jam cookie.

"I told them you would be here, johnny on the spot. Oh, and I hope you don't feel slighted Mr. Solo, for me having ordered up the blond robot first.' Her expression was flirtatious. "I assure you the plans included one to look like you."

Illya had endured enough.

"Napoleon!" The American turned to look at his erstwhile partner, cleared his throat as he did little hide a smile.

"Um, Edith… I believe you have something for me… ' She feigned ignorance. "A key, perhaps. I do think that Mr. Kuryakin might be getting a chill." Edith got up from her chair and walked over to where Illya hung from the wall, the key in her hand as she took one last lascivious look at the blond.

"Hmmmmm…" Another sigh as she let her hand slip indiscreetly across Illya's groin. He flinched imperceptibly at the intrusion, hoping that this was ending soon. Napoleon walked up beside Edith and took the key, gently pushing her away from his helpless partner. Both men fixed their eyes on the lock as Napoleon worked to get Illya free, neither of them aware as Edith Partridge slipped away behind a false wall.

"Where did she go?" Illya wanted her locked up, preferably far away from him. Napoleon started searching the room. There was no way…

Several hours later found the two friends having drinks as they overlooked the city. No sign of Edith Partridge had been discovered by them or the crew that came in to clean up the THRUSH laboratory. No other robots were found, making Napoleon wonder if Edith had only been placating his ego, not that he needed to be fashioned into a robot.

"Where do you think she got off to?" Illya tended to not be prudish about what happened on the job, but Edith Partridge had a way of making him feel slightly vulnerable. For an older woman she seemed quite intent on rather indiscreet signs of … what should he call it? Lust? Napoleon was relieved for once to not be on the receiving end of a woman's fantasies. He was fairly certain that Edith Partridge was old enough to be his, or Illya's mother. That just seemed wrong.

''Wherever she is I am inclined to hope that it is far, far away from us." He raised his glass to meet that of his friend.

On a Greek island sat a woman swathed in white linen, surrounded by young men who were anxiously tending to her every whim. Not one of them was a robot, something that agreed with her immensely. She much preferred the feel of real skin.