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section7mfu2016-04-22 11:59 am
"Even the bravest weep" for the Song Story Challenge 4/22
It was a horrific experience that brought an abrupt end to his assignment; yet Napoleon Solo held back his emotions for now.
He’d been tasked with guarding the daughter of a foreign diplomat who was here in New York to attend the funeral of a college friend. The days prior to it were anything but calm as he had to deal with her constant partying; she was behaving nothing like a grieving friend.
Coming from a wealthy family himself, he coud enjoyed a good time with the best of them, but this crowd were a bunch of spoiled inconsiderate rich kids, with plenty of drinking and drug use going on.
He spent the night being pawed at by some very attractive girls but he couldn’t, no wouldn't touch them, not for one second. No robbing the cradle for him.
It was all he could manage keeping little Missy from getting into trouble. First it was stopping her from smoking marijuana, then having one too many cocktails and trying to skip off to a bedroom with some smarmy guy.
“Oh no you don’t buddy,” Napoleon grabbed the fellow who was all over the girl.
“Mind your own business old man!”
“Old man?” Napoleon repeated as he was swung at with a right cross. Solo dodged it easily; karate chopping the fool into a nice nap and watched him crumple to the floor. He picked him up, shoving him up against the wall, so he looked liked he was simply passed out.
Someone walked around the corner, stared at Napoleon and then the body.
“Can’t hold his liquor,” the agent quipped, not missing a beat.
“You are not my father and not the boss of me!” Cassandra hissed at him as Napoleon took hold of her arm. She showed absolutely no concern at what had just happened and was only concerned about herself.
“For your information, I am for the moment. Once we part company after the funeral, you’re back to being your father’s problem.”
“I’ll have daddy make you pay for this! You won’t have a job after he’s done! You’re being mean to me...a girl just wants to have some fun! What's wrong with that?”
She spun on her heels, pulling away from him; her long brown hair whipping around in the air; her sequined mini-dress not covering up her practically naked derriere very well.
“And another thing. This,” he pointed at her skirt,” has got to change. A young lady doesn’t show off what should be left to the imagination. It detracts from the mystery and basically gives it away for free.”
“I take that back Mr. Solo, you sound exactly like my father,” Cassandra huffed.
In truth, he didn’t mind a woman showing off her attributes but this girl was just too young. He suspected back home she was kept under lock and key and her youthful enthusiasm squelched; it was just screaming to be let out.
He could understand that but still, he couldn’t let her get into trouble, and it was his job to see she didn’t. His protests were futile as nothing seemed to get through to her.
The day of the service finally arrived, much to Solo’s relief. Once it was over she’d be escorted to her embassy and that was the end of his assignment, and he couldn’t wait for it to be over.
As the casket of her friend who’d died of a drug overdose was carried out to the hearse Cassandra disappeared in the crowd.
At first he was in a near panic for a few seconds; rubber necking as he looked for her. Thankfully as a precaution Napoleon had attached a tracking device to her suit jacket; at least it was an appropriate outfit for a funeral. She wouldn’t change from it as she was expected to meet her father at the embassy immediately after the service and had to be properly dressed.
Finally he located her in a seedy part of town, a ruined brownstone, but it wasn’t a happy reunion. She and at least a half-dozen others were dead; all the victims of a drug overdose. Cassandra was laying there half-naked with a needle stuck in her arm.
The coroner arrived and one by one the bodies were taken away...they were just kids, innocents really; caught up in the alluring world of illicit drugs.
Cassandra’s remains were given special consideration, and her name would be changed, so her death wouldn’t be sensationalized in the press. UNCLE saw to that.
Eventually news of her passing would show up on a page in some magazine; the cause most likely whitewashed in a covered up.
Of course Solo received a severe reprimand and a brief suspension from Alexander Waverly who had at least smoothed things over with the girl’s family. They seemed to be surprisingly understanding, knowing Cassandra was a wild child. Still that didn’t excuse Solo for losing her.
For some reason they didn’t hold it against the American agent, saying though it was an atrocity as so many young lives were wasted, yet it was one they felt was the eventual doom of their daughter.
Once Napoleon left Waverly’s conference room he practically skulked through headquarters, avoiding the gazes of his fellow employees.
He left without a word and retreated to his apartment, feeling the need to be alone. Pouring himself a scotch from his bar; he downed it, followed by another and another until he finally let his emotions free of their confinement.
Napoleon buried his face in his hands; his feelings of guilt finally driving him to tears, though he stopped himself. He wanted, no...needed to be strong.
The loss of an innocent always stuck with him, though he never showed any outward evidence of that fact. Illya on the other hand took their loss hard, very hard and would sink into a deep state of melancholia. Of course he’d get the Russian to snap out of it; that’s what partners were for but Napoleon wasn’t sure he wanted to be snapped out of what he was feeling at the moment. The girl’s death was his fault, and that was a guilt he’d carry the rest of his life.
At that moment he heard Kuryakin’s coded knock. Part of him wanted to tell Illya to leave, yet he wanted someone to talk to, someone who’d understand what he was feeling.
“Napoleon, I heard what happened.” Kuryakin walked in, immediately sitting beside him on the sofa while placing a large paper sack on the coffee table.
“I smell Chinese food,” the American mumbled.” Illya I’m not really hungry.”
Not saying a word, Illya took the glass of scotch from his partner’s hand. “Enough of that. You will not need a hangover tomorrow on top how you already feel. Now eat.”
The Russian didn’t bother with dishes and merely opened the containers and handed Napoleon a plastic fork, while he preferred using chopsticks.
“EAT!” Illya ordered in no uncertain times.
“All right already, when you put it that way,” Napoleon sniffed the container. “Egg Foo Yung? You remembered my favorite. Thank you.”
Kuryakin chuckled as he dug into his Lo mein. “After we eat you can talk, or not at all. Whatever you feel is best,”Illya said.”Regardless, I am here for you, my friend.”
Napoleon acknowledged that with a slow nod. He quickly put down the container with a muffled sob; his pent up emotions had finally driven him to tears.
Illya grabbed him, pulling his friend to his side. “Let it out. Even the bravest can weep at the loss of an innocent. Remember, you were not responsible for her death.”
“How can you say that I wasn’t responsible?”
“There was nothing you could have done really. The girl was determined to do what she did. If not on your watch, then she would have eventually done the same thing under someone else's care, with the same result.”
“You’re right I suppose,” Napoleon gently extricated himself from his partner’s grasp. “Thanks for coming over tovarisch.”
“That is what friends and partners are for, are we not? We are here for each other, no matter what. If we were not, then we would end up in a psychiatric ward wearing straight jackets.”
“Here’s to no matter what,” Napoleon gave a weak smile, and picked up his container of food instead of his drink.
He grabbed the extra pair of chopsticks.” Okay, show me how these things work again. I’m tired of not getting it right...partner.”
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Illya, as always, is a good friend and partner. Now, if he succeeds in teaching Napoleon how to use chopsticks...
Great addition to the Challenge!
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The chopsticks...that's a running joke I have in a number of my stories with Napoleon always having trouble using them.
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