section7mfu | The Blazing Saddles Birthday Affair

The sun was relentless as two men stumbled along, each one trying to muster enough strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

The smaller of the two supported his friend as best he could, staying upright as the bigger man leaned on him, grimacing with each step. It was inevitable that the balance would eventually collapse between them; neither of them was in good enough shape to be considered better off than the other.

"Napoleon, wait…'gasping for breath caused the words to come out in stuttering phrases. "I am… cannot go on." And with that Illya Kuryakin dropped to the ground in a heap, his energy spent as blood spilled from the wound in his side. Napoleon Solo let himself go as well, falling near enough to reach out and touch the hand of his friend and partner while his leg, with its shattered ankle bone, pounded painfully and mercilessly in spite of his unconscious state.

As luck would have it (Solo's Luck would be what some called it), a homing device inside of a molar in the mouth of the Russian had continued to send its signal for the twenty-four hours they had been missing. The search had begun as soon as a team could be assembled in Almeria, Spain. The two UNCLE agents were somewhere out in the Desert of Tabernas, a vast and arid region that boasts the driest climate in all of Europe.

The mission had been completed and deemed successful: A satrapy that threatened the Andalusian community was identified and eliminated with seemingly very little trouble. Illya and Napoleon decided to stay on and explore some of the region, with Mr. Waverly's approval. Several movies had been made in this area, its appearance so similar to the American West that it sometimes doubled as that iconic location. The idea of visiting a movie studio in Spain that was built to resemble the Wild West seemed an interesting way to spend a day. On the way was a Moorish castle, abandoned and isolated, and dangerously so.

The trouble began the lone survivor from the smoldering remains of the destroyed satrapy took it on himself to avenge the loss. He followed the agents from their hotel room to the old castle, his car safely out of view on the lonely road. The intention was not to resurrect what had been lost, but a sense of vengeance did fuel the man's actions. He crept along behind the UNCLE agents, attacking Illya with a knife and knocking Napoleon down a dangerous flight of steps. The resulting injuries were what hampered them now as they tried to make their way from the scene. Illya had recovered sufficiently from the attack to kill the would be assassin, but the villain had managed to disable their car before his attack. The car driven by the avenging THRUSH was empty, an indication of how spontaneous his actions had been.

Illya was curled up into a ball, an unconscious effort to stem the bleeding. Napoleon was sprawled out with less efficiency, his left foot at an unnatural angle. The sun beat down on them until the shadow of a helicopter provided the only shade for miles.

When Illya woke up he was immediately aware of the aroma of something he had thought was a dream. Upon opening his eyes he was pleased to see April Dancer and Mark Slate, but…

"Napoleon?" Where was his partner?

April brushed the hair back from Illya's forehead, an unselfconscious gesture that caused Mark to raise an eyebrow. He still wasn't sure about those two.

"Napoleon is fine. His ankle looked worse than it was, nothing was broken. You though…' She cooed her concern and tried to not let the knot in her stomach lurch out of its hiding place.

"That knife almost did you in, darling. I'm… we're all so relieved that you… both of you… made it through this ordeal." April wasn't flustered, but she wasn't completely without a nerve or two.

Illya looked at them both, then at the cake on his bedside table.

"What's this? And where is Napoleon? You didn't answer my question." April laughed at that.

"You didn't ask a question darling. And Napoleon is fine, he's out in the hallway talking to, um… someone. Oh, this…' She gestured to a chocolate cake with one solitary candle.

"It's your birthday Illya. September 19. You nearly slept through it, but here it is and, well, here we are. I'm afraid that's all you'll have to show for it but…"

Illya smiled and shook his head. He found it impossible to avoid his birthday since encountering this group of people. Not even a desert could separate him from their well wishes.

"Thank you. I hadn't really thought to celebrate but, the cake does look good."

"Well that's more like it. Happy Birthday Illya." Napoleon joined Mark and April at his friend's bedside.

Nearly dead in the middle of a desert, and yet here was a birthday cake and true friends to tell him that he survived another year.

Illya could think of worse ways to celebrate, but not many that were better.