A Familiar Dread - Short Affair 22nd Feb

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Not completely happy with this one, I'm afraid. :(

Prompt Word - Malice
Prompt colour - Yellow
Word count - 700ish

A Familiar Dread

Napoleon carefully made his way down the steep embankment, urged on by the frantic waving of the uniformed police officer at the bottom. Already the dark feeling of dread was settling into his bones.

“You’re the UNCLE agent, right?” the officer asked anxiously, as soon as Napoleon was within easy earshot. He looked far too young. That was supposed to be a sign that you were getting old, right? When the police started looking like children.

“That’s right,” he said, flashing his ID quickly. “Napoleon Solo. And you must be Officer Matthews, right? You said you thought you’d found one of our agents?”

“Um, yes, sir,” Matthews agreed, swallowing hard. “Just along and under the bridge. It’s, uh, not a pretty sight.”

He nodded, bracing himself, his face carefully impassive, and he followed Matthews lead.

There was a pile of bodies lying under the bridge. Napoleon counted five men; all shabbily dressed and filthy.

“We got a tip this morning,” Matthews said from somewhere behind him. “I was sent to check it out. Bums dying isn’t exactly unusual, and there’s been even more than usual lately…..?”

Yes. They had suspected that a THRUSH scientist, Dr Solomon, was conducting their experiments on New York’s homeless. This little scene matched others he’d seen, and he expected he would find the same needlemarks on these victims as well, if he looked. But right now, that wasn’t what was catching his attention.

“When I got here though, I saw the ID card on the guy on top and…well, I recognised it at once,” Matthews went on. “So I called it in and asked them to call UNCLE. That was right, wasn’t it?”

Napoleon looked at the yellow ID card pinned to the dirty coat. And even though he’d clearly beaten so as to be practically unrecognisable, even though his skin was a pale grey beneath the filth and blood, Napoleon still knew his partner. He closed his eyes for a long second. Damn.

Illya had gone undercover on the streets while Napoleon had been pursuing other angles. He’d lost contact with him two days ago and no amount of searching had produced any clues. Not until now anyway.

He looked again at the badge. It was Illya’s alright, but Illya hadn’t taken his with him undercover, for obvious reasons, and this one was dated last year. An old one then, snatched sometime when they’d been captured – and that meant that the fact that it was here, on Illya’s…on Illya’s body was an act of pure malice. A knowing gesture, meant as a mocking warning. He could just picture the cold, clinical joy in Solomon’s eyes when he did it.

Fury cut through the grey numbness. Solomon would pay for this.

“He’s one of yours, right?” Matthews asked anxiously.

“Yes,” Napoleon said with grim finality. “He’s my partner.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry,” Matthews stammered, but Napoleon wasn’t listening.

He reached out a hand intending, perhaps, to take his partner’s body out of here….and that was when Illya grabbed his wrist.

His heart leapt in his chest – shock or elation, he couldn’t tell. Behind him, Matthews let out an unmanly scream.

“Napoleon,” Illya said, muzzily, his eyes open, struggling to focus.

“I’m here, tovarisch,” he soothed, adding “You’re going to be alright,” with rather more faith than evidence. “Call an ambulance,” he ordered, without looking round.

“Yes, of course,” Matthews said hastily. “I thought he was dead. I swear, I thought he was dead.”

“Well then, this is my favourite kind of miracle,” Napoleon snapped. “Go call the ambulance.”

Matthews went.

Illya’s eyes were closed again, but his grip stayed firm round Napoleon’s wrist.

*

Later found him sitting by a hospital bed as he had too many times before. It was evening before Illya regained consciousness again, turning his head with unerring accuracy to the chair where Napoleon was sitting.

“Solomon got away,” he said.

Napoleon nodded. “We’ll get him next time,” he promised.

“Da,” Illya said, his eyes fluttering shut again.

Napoleon sighed and watched him sleep and wondered how many more times they could come this close? How many more times before their luck ran out?

Comments

[jkkitty.livejournal.com]

Wow lump in the throat. Good questions, how many more times.

Excellent

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Well, I'd like to think infinite times. But that's probably optimistic. Thanks!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Wow that would have scared the heck out of me, someone you swore was dead suddenly talking.

Excellent vignette. Perhaps worth expanding into a longer story perhaps?

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Can't really blame Matthews for screaming. If it wouldn't have totally killed the mood I'd have had him yelling "Zombie!!!"

Eh, maybe. Still not quite happy with it tbh.

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Both you and mrua7 have had me thinking Illya was dead today. What an absolutely fantastic story.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Isn't that normally your job? :) Thanks.

[rose-of-pollux.livejournal.com]

Ooh, I have to say I do love this! I'm a sucker for the "I thought he was dead but it turns out he's alright after all" twist. Hopefully Illya will be on his feet soon!

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Well alright is probably overstating it a bit....! Thanks.

[lindafishes8.livejournal.com]

This gave me chills!

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thanks; glad you liked it.