The Lost Chord - Short Affair 12/1

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

trio,  black

…………………..

The trio of singers ended their performance with a high pitched squeal that sent the audience into a pain filled tremor as each note in the dis-harmonic chord etched a path inside their brains.  The brilliance of using sound like this would have fascinated UNCLE agent Illya Kuryakin, had he not been one of the victims of this new THRUSH endeavor.

His partner, Napoleon Solo, heard the cacophony of human voices and the ensuing wail of those he now reckoned had been rendered senseless, perhaps even dead.

"Illya…Illya can you hear me?"  The Russian agent had been the obvious choice to sit in on this performance; his knowledge of both music and science made him uniquely qualified to ferret out any possible danger within what had been identified as a THRUSH entity.  The trio, aptly named for those who had designed this villainy, had come to UNCLE's notice with an almost challenging advertisement in the New York Post.

European sensation performing live in New York City for the first time.  Come and hear harmonies that will change your appreciation of music forever.  Presenting The Darkling Thrush!

The allusion to Thomas Hardy's poem of a bleak and forlorn world was impossible to miss. THRUSH was unyielding in its quest to suppress mankind, a dark image that could only brighten the horizon of the ones wielding the power.

"Mr. Solo, have you contacted Mr. Kuryakin yet?"  Alexander Waverly's voice was stern and steady, but an underlying note of concern did not escape the notice of his CEA.

"No sir, not yet.  The room has gone completely quiet…' Napoleon's voice trailed off as he watched the door of the music venue open.  The three singers emerged, still dressed in their stage clothes of black leather; they had someone in their grip.

"Sir, the singers have just come out of the building and … they have Mr. Kuryakin with them.  He appears to be unconscious."  A sigh on the other end could not be fully interpreted.

"Follow them, and please do make certain to bring back Mr. Kuryakin. Waverly out."

Napoleon nudged the driver of the car and  pointed to the leather clad figures as they climbed into a waiting sedan.

"Follow them Mark, and don't lose that car."  Mark Slate turned the ignition and eased into traffic, his eyes steady as he kept pace with the THRUSH vehicle.  In the back seat April Dancer held her breath as she thought about the possible dangers to the Russian agent.  As the car followed stealthily behind the enemy, each member of the UNCLE team silently hoped for the safety of their friend and fellow agent.

Illya Kuryakin gained consciousness with a keen sense of discomfort.  His head was aching, the sound of that screeching noise a backdrop now to the pain.  He instinctively kept his eyes closed, hopeful that his captors would not know he was awake, giving him some time to assess his surroundings and the possibilities for escape.  He was in a car, not a van.  That was unusual for THRUSH, they seemed to enjoy tossing unconscious UNCLE agents into the back of their uncomfortable, lumbering vehicles.  This was a luxury car, soft leather beneath him as he deftly felt the surface upon which he lay.

"Tell Central we have Kuryakin.  He went down like the rest of the audience, ours for the taking.  No doubt Solo and his team are right behind us, so let's just lead them to our next venue of conquest, shall we."  The voice was deep, the baritone in the trio.  That conjecture was validated by the next voice, one so deep it nearly shocked Illya into an involuntary shudder.  Whatever measures he took to remain still, something had alerted the Bass to the Russian.

"Hello Kuryakin.  Sorry about the headache…' He wasn't sorry, and he proved it by hauling Illya into an upright position using his hair as leverage to do so.

"Oh, sorry again."  The humorless smile made Illya shudder once more.  These men had an agenda he couldn't possibly guess at.  They were anticipating Napoleon's arrival, which meant they intended to do harm to all of them.  Well, not on his watch.

"What exactly was the point of that little demonstration?  You don't actually consider it proper music, do you?"  The question amused the three singers.

"What does music have to do with anything?  We merely wanted to get some of you UNCLE brats out of the way before we start filling up major venues and capturing the masses.  THRUSH is getting stronger every day, and you and your kind…"  At that moment Illya plunged forward into the driver and over the front seat.  The action was so quick, his body able to maneuver with such agility so as to completely surprise and overwhelm the THRUSH men in the midst of their gloating.

The car swung wildly to the left side of the street, crashing into a light pole after barely missing two oncoming cars.  The pole fell haplessly atop the sedan just as Mark Slate pulled up behind it.  Napoleon and April were out in a split second, but no resistance was made by the men inside.  The Bass opened his door and tried to crawl from within the crumpled vehicle, his face bloody and a gash evident on his arm.  He collapsed onto the pavement as Napoleon rushed to the passenger side; he hoped against hope that his friend and partner had survived the crash.

Opening the door created the first gasp of surprise as the THRUSH, the Tenor in the group, fell out onto the street.  Checking for a pulse Napoleon found none.  He looked past the man and there, crumpled in something like a ball in his black attire, was Illya.  He had somehow managed to roll into the floorboard of the car and escape serious injury, although for the moment he was unconscious.  People liked to talk about Solo's Luck, but looking  at the limp blond made Napoleon think his friend's luck was equally defiant when it came to death.

In the early morning hours reports were filed, both verbally and written.  Mr. Waverly thanked his agents for their work and for retrieving the Russian.  There was always that small measure of additional pressure to keep the man alive; the Soviets were primed to take exception should their man fall into the hands of a common enemy  while his partner remained safe and unharmed.

For his part, Illya regained consciousness beneath a crisp white sheet and the careful attention of his partner.  He saw Napoleon sitting in the corner of the room, but decided to ignore him for now.  They both needed sleep and since Solo was emitting a soft buzzing sound that served as a type of snoring, the weary blond closed his eyes and returned to a dream that entertained him on nights such as this.

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Ewwwww, very nice! The premise was unique and the action excellent!

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Thanks :D These guys are definitly not Celtic musicians.