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section7mfu2016-06-27 10:42 pm
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"The King Midas Affair" (Short Affair Challenge 6/27)
Short Affair 6/27
Prompt: Blemish
Color: Gold
Title: The King Midas Affair
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 1000
Napoleon stormed through the halls of the mansion—halls that were painted gold. Sunlight sparkled and danced off of gold objects and paint as he sought his quarry—a man in a gold-tinted suit, sitting on a gold throne (whether replica or stolen, Napoleon wasn’t sure—and, at the moment, didn’t care), drinking from a golden goblet as though he were some all-powerful emperor.
“Mr. Solo, your intrusion upon my property is most intolerable,” he said, not intimidated by the look on Napoleon’s face.
“Where is my partner, Schuler?”
“You will address me as Midas, Mr. Solo,” the man countered, calmly. “I cast away that name long ago.”
“Where is Illya Kuryakin?” Napoleon asked again, his voice dangerously low and quiet. “I know you have him.”
“Have him?” Midas asked, not concerned at all. “Mr. Solo, you make it sound as though I am keeping him a prisoner. I assure you, he is not in some cold, dank dungeon cell to rot away. It would be such a waste for such a golden-haired beauty with nary a blemish to suffer such a fate!”
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Napoleon said, aiming his Special at Midas. “Where is my partner!?”
“Your ‘partner’ belongs to the world, Mr. Solo—such perfection is to be shared with everyone! You were being a greedy fool, keeping him to yourself all this time. Now, he is part of my collection—for all to enjoy!”
“You will release him this instant,” Napoleon ordered.
“I’m afraid that is not possible, Mr. Solo,” Midas said. “He is a prized addition to my palace of gold. You, however, are unwanted here.”
Napoleon froze as he felt the muzzle of another gun in his back.
“Drop your weapon,” Midas ordered. “After you do so, you will be escorted from the premises.”
Napoleon dropped the Special, but as he was being led away by the guard, he elbowed the man in the ribs and fled down the golden corridor. He fled up a golden staircase at the end of the hallway, taking cover in an upper-level gallery of gold art and statues; he hid behind a gold sculpture of Atlas holding up the Earth to catch his breath. And once he had successfully caught his breath, he cursed himself.
He should have seen it from the start—seen how deluded and mad Midas was, and how he had wanted to obtain all things gold. And then Napoleon had seen how he had looked at Illya—at his blond hair.
I should have known he’d have taken him… Napoleon silently fumed. I should never have told Illya to split up…
His thoughts were interrupted by a moan—a loud, desperate, but muffled moan that sounded like his name being called. And the sound seemed to be coming from directly above him.
…Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no…
Napoleon had tried to prepare himself for what he was about to see, but even he had found it incredibly disturbing—Illya was suspended by his wrists and ankles from the ceiling, with a gag tied around his mouth; his limbs were spread out to make it look as though he was flying. Adding to the illusion was a pair of wings on his back that ran into an ancient Greek-style tunic.
But that wasn’t the most disturbing thing. Napoleon could only stare at Illya, whose skin, along with everything he was wearing—tunic, wings, laurel crown, bracelets, anklets, sandals, and even the gag around his mouth—had been spray-painted with gold paint. Only his hair had been left alone, for Illya was now wearing gold contact lenses as he stared down, wide-eyed at his partner.
Napoleon didn’t stop to think—he only took a look around to make sure that there were none of Midas’s guards nearby as he climbed up the sculpture of Atlas and used a lockpick to free the manacles holding Illya’s ankles and wrists up, carefully letting him down before untying the gag.
“Thank… thank you…” Illya gasped.
“Are you alright!?” Napoleon asked, not taking his hands off of Illya’s bare, painted shoulders.
“I have had better days,” Illya admitted, and Napoleon knew that to be the Russian’s way of saying that he was not in the best of states, but now was not the time to dwell on it—not when there was work to be done. “Napoleon, there are other living displays in this gallery; we must free them, as well.”
“Blonds?”
“Da; this man’s delusions know no bounds.”
“I’m beginning to realize that myself,” Napoleon said. “Illya… I’m getting you out of here.”
But Illya shook his head.
“You need me, Napoleon,” he insisted. “They took me all around the gallery before they decided that I should be a dangling display; I know where the others are.”
“You could just tell me.”
“I dare not leave you to face him alone, Napoleon,” Illya said, flatly. “You are nothing to him, but I am valuable enough to him to provide you with a shield should he try to attack you in some way.”
Napoleon scowled.
“I’ve never considered using anyone as a human shield—and certainly never you,” he hissed.
“Napoleon… Swallow your pride for once,” Illya said. “We are not dealing with a rational mind here.”
“Illya…”
“I am physically unharmed,” the Russian assured him. “Just weary from my pose and in need of a long, hot bath to get rid of all this paint. But that is all.”
Napoleon exhaled, and, to Illya’s surprise, the American suddenly drew the Russian into a hug.
“Napoleon…?”
“When he said you were now a part of his ‘collection,’ I feared the worst for you,” he confessed.
“It was plenty terrifying from where I was,” Illya confessed. “Thank you for aiding me before it got any worse.”
Napoleon responded by giving Illya’s shoulder a squeeze.
“You know you can always count on me.”
“Da. I know.”
And more than ever, Illya was grateful for it.
Prompt: Blemish
Color: Gold
Title: The King Midas Affair
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: 1000
Napoleon stormed through the halls of the mansion—halls that were painted gold. Sunlight sparkled and danced off of gold objects and paint as he sought his quarry—a man in a gold-tinted suit, sitting on a gold throne (whether replica or stolen, Napoleon wasn’t sure—and, at the moment, didn’t care), drinking from a golden goblet as though he were some all-powerful emperor.
“Mr. Solo, your intrusion upon my property is most intolerable,” he said, not intimidated by the look on Napoleon’s face.
“Where is my partner, Schuler?”
“You will address me as Midas, Mr. Solo,” the man countered, calmly. “I cast away that name long ago.”
“Where is Illya Kuryakin?” Napoleon asked again, his voice dangerously low and quiet. “I know you have him.”
“Have him?” Midas asked, not concerned at all. “Mr. Solo, you make it sound as though I am keeping him a prisoner. I assure you, he is not in some cold, dank dungeon cell to rot away. It would be such a waste for such a golden-haired beauty with nary a blemish to suffer such a fate!”
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Napoleon said, aiming his Special at Midas. “Where is my partner!?”
“Your ‘partner’ belongs to the world, Mr. Solo—such perfection is to be shared with everyone! You were being a greedy fool, keeping him to yourself all this time. Now, he is part of my collection—for all to enjoy!”
“You will release him this instant,” Napoleon ordered.
“I’m afraid that is not possible, Mr. Solo,” Midas said. “He is a prized addition to my palace of gold. You, however, are unwanted here.”
Napoleon froze as he felt the muzzle of another gun in his back.
“Drop your weapon,” Midas ordered. “After you do so, you will be escorted from the premises.”
Napoleon dropped the Special, but as he was being led away by the guard, he elbowed the man in the ribs and fled down the golden corridor. He fled up a golden staircase at the end of the hallway, taking cover in an upper-level gallery of gold art and statues; he hid behind a gold sculpture of Atlas holding up the Earth to catch his breath. And once he had successfully caught his breath, he cursed himself.
He should have seen it from the start—seen how deluded and mad Midas was, and how he had wanted to obtain all things gold. And then Napoleon had seen how he had looked at Illya—at his blond hair.
I should have known he’d have taken him… Napoleon silently fumed. I should never have told Illya to split up…
His thoughts were interrupted by a moan—a loud, desperate, but muffled moan that sounded like his name being called. And the sound seemed to be coming from directly above him.
…Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no…
Napoleon had tried to prepare himself for what he was about to see, but even he had found it incredibly disturbing—Illya was suspended by his wrists and ankles from the ceiling, with a gag tied around his mouth; his limbs were spread out to make it look as though he was flying. Adding to the illusion was a pair of wings on his back that ran into an ancient Greek-style tunic.
But that wasn’t the most disturbing thing. Napoleon could only stare at Illya, whose skin, along with everything he was wearing—tunic, wings, laurel crown, bracelets, anklets, sandals, and even the gag around his mouth—had been spray-painted with gold paint. Only his hair had been left alone, for Illya was now wearing gold contact lenses as he stared down, wide-eyed at his partner.
Napoleon didn’t stop to think—he only took a look around to make sure that there were none of Midas’s guards nearby as he climbed up the sculpture of Atlas and used a lockpick to free the manacles holding Illya’s ankles and wrists up, carefully letting him down before untying the gag.
“Thank… thank you…” Illya gasped.
“Are you alright!?” Napoleon asked, not taking his hands off of Illya’s bare, painted shoulders.
“I have had better days,” Illya admitted, and Napoleon knew that to be the Russian’s way of saying that he was not in the best of states, but now was not the time to dwell on it—not when there was work to be done. “Napoleon, there are other living displays in this gallery; we must free them, as well.”
“Blonds?”
“Da; this man’s delusions know no bounds.”
“I’m beginning to realize that myself,” Napoleon said. “Illya… I’m getting you out of here.”
But Illya shook his head.
“You need me, Napoleon,” he insisted. “They took me all around the gallery before they decided that I should be a dangling display; I know where the others are.”
“You could just tell me.”
“I dare not leave you to face him alone, Napoleon,” Illya said, flatly. “You are nothing to him, but I am valuable enough to him to provide you with a shield should he try to attack you in some way.”
Napoleon scowled.
“I’ve never considered using anyone as a human shield—and certainly never you,” he hissed.
“Napoleon… Swallow your pride for once,” Illya said. “We are not dealing with a rational mind here.”
“Illya…”
“I am physically unharmed,” the Russian assured him. “Just weary from my pose and in need of a long, hot bath to get rid of all this paint. But that is all.”
Napoleon exhaled, and, to Illya’s surprise, the American suddenly drew the Russian into a hug.
“Napoleon…?”
“When he said you were now a part of his ‘collection,’ I feared the worst for you,” he confessed.
“It was plenty terrifying from where I was,” Illya confessed. “Thank you for aiding me before it got any worse.”
Napoleon responded by giving Illya’s shoulder a squeeze.
“You know you can always count on me.”
“Da. I know.”
And more than ever, Illya was grateful for it.
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I do hope to expand on this in the future!
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The inspiration for Illya's costume was actually that of Pit from Kid Icarus; I'd recently played Kid Icarus: Uprising and still have it on the brain--
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Glad you liked it!
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And indeed, poor Illya--but he's got Napoleon to help!
...In hindsight, I think I might have drawn some inspiration from your YGO fic with that guy who was obsessed with Bakura's hair...
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Indeed!
Cool. That was definitely a creepy story too.
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