"Speak to Me" (Short Affair Challenge 3/7)
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section7mfuShort Affair 3/7
Prompt: Rust
Color: Crimson
Title: Speak to Me
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 1000
Napoleon wasn’t sure where he was, at first, when he awakened. He tried to lift his arms, but couldn’t, finding himself restrained by his wrists with old metal bands that were covered in rust. Similar restraints held his ankles in place, as did one more band across his neck. And there appeared to be a few things stuck to his forehead and temples—the adhesive was making his skin uncomfortable and itchy. An attempt to turn his head resulted in him cutting his chin on the rusted band across his neck; he let out a quiet hiss of pain as a drop of blood left a crimson trail down from the wound.
“Ah, you’re finally conscious, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon froze, recognizing the voice.
“Agnes Dabree?” he asked.
“Correct, Mr. Solo. You didn’t really think I would let you get away with what you did, ruining my plans the last time?”
Napoleon exhaled in a mock-exasperated fashion.
“If you’re going to want revenge, take a number and get in line with the rest of your THRUSH colleagues.”
“Smug to the bitter end, aren’t you, Solo?” she asked. “But this is not the end. It’s only the beginning—the beginning of your long and fruitful career with THRUSH.”
“I have absolutely no intentions of serving THRUSH, so you might as well save the both of us a lot of trouble and just get rid of me now.”
“Ah, but you forget, Mr. Solo—the human brain is my specialty. I have studied it long enough to be able to bend it to my will.”
Napoleon sobered as he realized that the things attached to his forehead and temples were electrodes—and that he was wired to some sort of machine that would undoubtedly probe his mind and attempt to place it under Dabree’s control. She was both mad and brilliant enough to have succeeded in her quest to create such a device.
He also quickly realized that he had only a few shreds of hope left to hold onto. But Dabree saw the spike in brain activity from the electrode feed and quickly deduced what he was thinking.
“Do you take me for a careless fool, Mr. Solo? I made sure that all of your trackers and homing devices were deactivated before I brought you to this place—a facility that has been abandoned for decades. U.N.C.L.E. will never find you here.”
Napoleon recalculated his odds. He had only two hopes left: first, that he could somehow resist the mind probe and control, and second, the fact that there was still one man in U.N.C.L.E. who would be able to find him without the need for trackers and homing devices. After working together for as long as they had, both he and Illya had a knack for knowing when the other was in trouble—and where. It was certainly a useful sixth sense they had developed, and one that had saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion.
Work another miracle, Tovarisch, Napoleon thought, desperately, as Dabree walked over to her machine to switch it on. I need you…
His thoughts trailed off as a jolt of pain swept through his entire being. Thoughts jumbled around in his head, with only Dabree’s voice cutting through the cacophony that now muddled his mind.
Obey THRUSH. You are with THRUSH. You serve THRUSH. You are a nameless servant of THRUSH. You live for THRUSH. You will die for THRUSH.
THRUSH, THRUSH—his mind could only focus on that word. Perhaps, if he accepted it, this pain would stop and the cacophony would be silenced—up with the will of THRUSH, down with U.N.C.L.E., THRUSH was in the right, U.N.C.L.E. was to be left behind, the anarchy of THRUSH was the only way…!
The treatment continued. Napoleon wasn’t sure for how long, but all he knew was that, after a while, Dabree suddenly let out a scream. Somewhere, a gun fired, and a new voice suddenly cut through the muddle.
Napoleon! NAPOLEON!
The pain stopped as someone turned off the machine, though the cacophony of voices continued. A gentle pair of hands now eased the rusted metal band away from his neck, and blue eyes, filled to the brim with worry, filled Napoleon’s line of vision.
“Napoleon?”
Though she had been silenced—temporarily, as Illya had used a sleeping dart—Dabree’s voice still screeched in Napoleon’s head.
THRUSH… THRUSH… THRUSH…!
“Napoleon… Napoleon, govorit so mnoy!”
Napoleon recognized the language—Russian. He now tried to focus on translating it. Speak to me!
His Russian partner was no fool; knowing that Dabree would have tried some form of mind control, Illya was forcing Napoleon to use his brain to translate the words so that he would focus more on that, rather than Dabree’s treatment.
“Napoleon, ty znayesh kto ya?” Do you know who I am?
“Il… Illya…?”
There was a quiet sigh, with a hint of relief evident in it.
“Da. Ya zdes chtoby pomoch vam.” Yes. I am here to help you.
“…As always…” Napoleon smiled.
Illya’s face temporarily disappeared from Napoleon’s line of sight, but his partner continued to speak to him in Russian, forcing him to think to respond. Napoleon felt the restraints come off of his ankles and wrists, and then Illya returned to his line of sight. Napoleon was still a bit too weary to move.
It was a few hours later, after much conversation between the two of them that Napoleon finally realized that Dabree’s voice in his head had been silenced. Napoleon was certain that even though Dabree’s treatment getting interrupted partially contributed to its failure, it had been Illya’s clever intervention that had ensured it would fail.
There was nothing left to say about it other than a grateful thanks to his partner as they headed back to U.N.C.L.E. with Dabree in tow; this experience was just one of many others that caused Napoleon to reflect upon how fortunate he was to have Illya Kuryakin as a partner.
Prompt: Rust
Color: Crimson
Title: Speak to Me
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 1000
Napoleon wasn’t sure where he was, at first, when he awakened. He tried to lift his arms, but couldn’t, finding himself restrained by his wrists with old metal bands that were covered in rust. Similar restraints held his ankles in place, as did one more band across his neck. And there appeared to be a few things stuck to his forehead and temples—the adhesive was making his skin uncomfortable and itchy. An attempt to turn his head resulted in him cutting his chin on the rusted band across his neck; he let out a quiet hiss of pain as a drop of blood left a crimson trail down from the wound.
“Ah, you’re finally conscious, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon froze, recognizing the voice.
“Agnes Dabree?” he asked.
“Correct, Mr. Solo. You didn’t really think I would let you get away with what you did, ruining my plans the last time?”
Napoleon exhaled in a mock-exasperated fashion.
“If you’re going to want revenge, take a number and get in line with the rest of your THRUSH colleagues.”
“Smug to the bitter end, aren’t you, Solo?” she asked. “But this is not the end. It’s only the beginning—the beginning of your long and fruitful career with THRUSH.”
“I have absolutely no intentions of serving THRUSH, so you might as well save the both of us a lot of trouble and just get rid of me now.”
“Ah, but you forget, Mr. Solo—the human brain is my specialty. I have studied it long enough to be able to bend it to my will.”
Napoleon sobered as he realized that the things attached to his forehead and temples were electrodes—and that he was wired to some sort of machine that would undoubtedly probe his mind and attempt to place it under Dabree’s control. She was both mad and brilliant enough to have succeeded in her quest to create such a device.
He also quickly realized that he had only a few shreds of hope left to hold onto. But Dabree saw the spike in brain activity from the electrode feed and quickly deduced what he was thinking.
“Do you take me for a careless fool, Mr. Solo? I made sure that all of your trackers and homing devices were deactivated before I brought you to this place—a facility that has been abandoned for decades. U.N.C.L.E. will never find you here.”
Napoleon recalculated his odds. He had only two hopes left: first, that he could somehow resist the mind probe and control, and second, the fact that there was still one man in U.N.C.L.E. who would be able to find him without the need for trackers and homing devices. After working together for as long as they had, both he and Illya had a knack for knowing when the other was in trouble—and where. It was certainly a useful sixth sense they had developed, and one that had saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion.
Work another miracle, Tovarisch, Napoleon thought, desperately, as Dabree walked over to her machine to switch it on. I need you…
His thoughts trailed off as a jolt of pain swept through his entire being. Thoughts jumbled around in his head, with only Dabree’s voice cutting through the cacophony that now muddled his mind.
Obey THRUSH. You are with THRUSH. You serve THRUSH. You are a nameless servant of THRUSH. You live for THRUSH. You will die for THRUSH.
THRUSH, THRUSH—his mind could only focus on that word. Perhaps, if he accepted it, this pain would stop and the cacophony would be silenced—up with the will of THRUSH, down with U.N.C.L.E., THRUSH was in the right, U.N.C.L.E. was to be left behind, the anarchy of THRUSH was the only way…!
The treatment continued. Napoleon wasn’t sure for how long, but all he knew was that, after a while, Dabree suddenly let out a scream. Somewhere, a gun fired, and a new voice suddenly cut through the muddle.
Napoleon! NAPOLEON!
The pain stopped as someone turned off the machine, though the cacophony of voices continued. A gentle pair of hands now eased the rusted metal band away from his neck, and blue eyes, filled to the brim with worry, filled Napoleon’s line of vision.
“Napoleon?”
Though she had been silenced—temporarily, as Illya had used a sleeping dart—Dabree’s voice still screeched in Napoleon’s head.
THRUSH… THRUSH… THRUSH…!
“Napoleon… Napoleon, govorit so mnoy!”
Napoleon recognized the language—Russian. He now tried to focus on translating it. Speak to me!
His Russian partner was no fool; knowing that Dabree would have tried some form of mind control, Illya was forcing Napoleon to use his brain to translate the words so that he would focus more on that, rather than Dabree’s treatment.
“Napoleon, ty znayesh kto ya?” Do you know who I am?
“Il… Illya…?”
There was a quiet sigh, with a hint of relief evident in it.
“Da. Ya zdes chtoby pomoch vam.” Yes. I am here to help you.
“…As always…” Napoleon smiled.
Illya’s face temporarily disappeared from Napoleon’s line of sight, but his partner continued to speak to him in Russian, forcing him to think to respond. Napoleon felt the restraints come off of his ankles and wrists, and then Illya returned to his line of sight. Napoleon was still a bit too weary to move.
It was a few hours later, after much conversation between the two of them that Napoleon finally realized that Dabree’s voice in his head had been silenced. Napoleon was certain that even though Dabree’s treatment getting interrupted partially contributed to its failure, it had been Illya’s clever intervention that had ensured it would fail.
There was nothing left to say about it other than a grateful thanks to his partner as they headed back to U.N.C.L.E. with Dabree in tow; this experience was just one of many others that caused Napoleon to reflect upon how fortunate he was to have Illya Kuryakin as a partner.
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Date: 2016-03-07 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-03-07 07:23 pm (UTC)