The Boo from U.N.C.L.E. - Chapter 1
Oct. 12th, 2016 12:01 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
ssclassof56.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
section7mfuThe Prompt: "Wickedness comes in all shapes and forms" by mrua7
“Haha,” said Napoleon huffily, attempting to pull his arm away.
Shaking his head, Illya grasped the arm more firmly and eased Napoleon down until he was seated on the top step. His smile faded as the lights flickered ominously. “I thought you were seeing to it that we were no longer at the mercy of the utility companies.”
Before Illya had finished his complaint, the power failed again. Inside the stairwell, the darkness was absolute. The subtle electric hum, that perpetual resonance of their state-of-the-art headquarters, vanished. An eerie silence filled the void.
Napoleon’s chuckle crackled like a shot. “Something you want to tell me, pal?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, from the death grip you’ve got on my arm, I’d say you were afraid of the dark.”
“Nonsense. I am not touch—” Illya was interrupted by his partner’s sharp gasp.
“Are you trying to break it?” Napoleon demanded. “Let go!”
“Napoleon, I am nowhere near you.”
The flashlight clicked on. From several steps below, Illya shone the beam up at his partner. Napoleon’s face was pale. He clutched his right arm protectively to his chest. With his left, he shaded his eyes. Then his chin jerked, indicating the lower level. “Did you see that?”
Illya aimed the flashlight into the center of the stairwell. “There is nothing there.”
“Are you sure?” He squinted and frowned as the light swung back. “I saw something move. A shadow.”
Illya’s face, ghostly in the haze of artificial light, expressed unrepentant skepticism. “Merely your eyes adjusting,” he suggested dismissively.
“And my arm?”
Illya shrugged. “Rheumatism?”
A voltaic thrum signaled the building’s return to life. The emergency bulbs reactivated, washing the stairwell with dull, ruddy light. Illya flicked off the flashlight. Napoleon sat hunched like a gargoyle and grimaced in mute displeasure.
Illya was unfazed. “Come. Let us go eat. This delay is not helping my headache.”
Napoleon rose, the hand of his sore arm thrust into his jacket in the manner of his namesake. His pursed lips challenged Illya to comment. The Russian merely rolled his eyes, and the two agents limped carefully down the stairs and out to the lower level.
The red backup lighting reflected dimly around the chrome and gunmetal corridor. Weird, unfamiliar shadows twisted the walls and warped the door frames. A few personnel, mouths sullen, eyes unfocused, glided silently through the halls like bloody apparitions.
“All Hallows Eve, the night when the veil between the world of the living and the dead is at its thinnest,” Napoleon intoned, earning a mystified glance from a passing translator.
“Here we go again.”
“You’re just going to have a to ride it out, I.K. This night does strange things to my mood.” He cast a sidelong look at Illya. “It must be the gypsy in me.”
This last comment drew a laugh from his partner. “The only thing gypsy about you is your signed photograph of the burlesque performer.”
“Touché.” Napoleon acknowledged the hit with a nod. “So this night doesn't affect your mood at all?”
“Of course, it does. I’m in the mood to see that retrospective on German Expressionist cinema. And before you ask, yes, I already have certain female companionship in mind.”
“Say on, Dr. Caligari. I'd hate to poach on your territory.”
Illya did not reply. His eyes widened in alarm, and he darted inelegantly around the corner, his stride hobbled by his twisted ankle, leaving Napoleon to stare after him in open-mouthed surprise.
Illya was prying at the elevator doors when Napoleon caught up with him. “Help me get these apart,” he grunted. The steel panels rang with hollow thuds.
The doors responded to their combined efforts. Julie Anne, wild-eyed and tousled, stumbled out of the darkness and collapsed into Napoleon's arms. He winced and stifled a groan.
“Hey now, what have you been up to?” he asked, releasing the petite brunette with uncharacteristic haste. “I’m pretty sure the handbook advises staying off the elevators when the power’s failing.” His normally suave tones were strained, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. Illya looked on in tight-lipped concern.
Julie Anne smoothed back her hair and frowned. “I didn't try to use the elevator. Someone pushed me in.”
“Pushed you?” Illya asked sharply.
She nodded, rubbing her upper arm. “I was on my way to the commissary. The lights came on, and the elevator doors opened.” Her voice shook. “It went dark again just as I passed by. I felt someone grab my arm and shove me inside. Then the doors shut behind me.”
“You're hurt,” Napoleon said. He gently lifted her hand from her arm and pulled up the sleeve of her blouse. Dark, angry marks marred her skin.
The agents’ eyes met across the top of her head. Illya stepped inside the elevator with the flashlight. Napoleon activated his communicator, frowning more than usual at the process, and ordered Security to review the footage from several cameras.
“Spooky stories are all fine and good,” Julie Anne muttered to no one in particular, “until you find yourself in one.” Napoleon gave a guilty start and wrapped a protective arm around her waist.
“There you are, Julie.” Wanda left the commissary and approached them. “I was afraid the Headless Horseman had gotten you.” Her amused glance took in Napoleon’s embrace. “I was close,” she said.
Julie Anne opened her mouth to reply but shut it again at Napoleon’s squeeze. “Get Julie Anne some coffee,” he said, “and put a drop of this in it.”
He drew a flask from inside his jacket and tossed it to Wanda. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed, her pert nose wrinkling.
“Purely medicinal,” Napoleon assured her, holding up the Scout sign.
“Of course,” Wanda said archly. “In that case, I’ll see that all the girls take a dose. You can never be too careful about your health.”
Napoleon gave Julie Anne a delicate push in Wanda’s direction, then watched with cocked head and appreciative smile as the ladies strolled away.
“Napoleon.”
Illya’s call drew his attention back to less pleasant speculations. The Russian’s face was grim as he joined him in the elevator. When Napoleon raised questioning brows, Illya pointed the flashlight at the rear wall. Tall, jagged letters were scratched into the metal. Boo! You're dead!
“Something wicked this way comes.”
“Let us see your arm,” Illya demanded. Napoleon hesitated for only a moment before shrugging out of his jacket. Illya received the garment and a cufflink with patient resignation, watching intently as Napoleon rolled up his sleeve. He inhaled with a hiss. Five contusions fanned out across his partner's forearm, ugly relics of fingers that had clutched with hideous strength.
“We were alone in the stairwell,” Illya insisted as Napoleon restored his appearance.
“Were we?” He made minute adjustments to his cuffs. “Let’s see if the cameras show any different.”
Napoleon ordered a forensics team to the elevator, while Illya headed to the Security offices. When Napoleon joined him, he was met with the disappointing report that they had seen nothing unusual on the camera footage. “At least nothing more strange than a secretary flinging herself into an elevator,” the agent-in-charge said.
Napoleon nodded curtly and crossed the room to where Illya sat bent over a console, reviewing a portion of the footage frame by frame. “He is right about the elevator. The cameras caught nothing of our mysterious vandal.”
“Then what are you looking at?”
“This is from the stairwell. I think the shadow you saw was more than a trick of the light,” Illya admitted.
The Russian continued his painstaking examination of each frame. Napoleon watched over his shoulder for a time, then made an idle tour of the room. A duty roster hung on the wall. “I wonder when Sarah comes in,” he said, running a finger down the page in curiosity. “She could work on our ankles.”
“Look here,” Illya crowed triumphantly.
Napoleon returned to peer at the grainy image. “It's a blob.”
“I shall apply a filter.” Illya manipulated a few switches and dials.
“It's a green blob.”
“Are you certain you do not need these?” Illya asked, pushing his glasses farther up his nose.
Napoleon screwed up his face in distaste. “Keep working the horizontal hold.”
With an exasperated sigh, Illya returned his attention to the console. “Now do you see it?”
Napoleon's arrested expression supplied the answer. On the screen, the nebulous streaks of flickering light had coalesced into a face. A familiar face. Napoleon shuddered.
The Security agent peeked between them. “Who's that?”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Illya replied, his tone expressionless. “Riley. Detection expert.”
Grabbing the clipboard, the junior agent flipped through several sheets. “There's no Riley on tonight's duty roster.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” Napoleon said, coming out of his trance. “He’s dead.”
Riley appears in The Mad Mad Tea Party Affair.
“Haha,” said Napoleon huffily, attempting to pull his arm away.
Shaking his head, Illya grasped the arm more firmly and eased Napoleon down until he was seated on the top step. His smile faded as the lights flickered ominously. “I thought you were seeing to it that we were no longer at the mercy of the utility companies.”
Before Illya had finished his complaint, the power failed again. Inside the stairwell, the darkness was absolute. The subtle electric hum, that perpetual resonance of their state-of-the-art headquarters, vanished. An eerie silence filled the void.
Napoleon’s chuckle crackled like a shot. “Something you want to tell me, pal?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, from the death grip you’ve got on my arm, I’d say you were afraid of the dark.”
“Nonsense. I am not touch—” Illya was interrupted by his partner’s sharp gasp.
“Are you trying to break it?” Napoleon demanded. “Let go!”
“Napoleon, I am nowhere near you.”
The flashlight clicked on. From several steps below, Illya shone the beam up at his partner. Napoleon’s face was pale. He clutched his right arm protectively to his chest. With his left, he shaded his eyes. Then his chin jerked, indicating the lower level. “Did you see that?”
Illya aimed the flashlight into the center of the stairwell. “There is nothing there.”
“Are you sure?” He squinted and frowned as the light swung back. “I saw something move. A shadow.”
Illya’s face, ghostly in the haze of artificial light, expressed unrepentant skepticism. “Merely your eyes adjusting,” he suggested dismissively.
“And my arm?”
Illya shrugged. “Rheumatism?”
A voltaic thrum signaled the building’s return to life. The emergency bulbs reactivated, washing the stairwell with dull, ruddy light. Illya flicked off the flashlight. Napoleon sat hunched like a gargoyle and grimaced in mute displeasure.
Illya was unfazed. “Come. Let us go eat. This delay is not helping my headache.”
Napoleon rose, the hand of his sore arm thrust into his jacket in the manner of his namesake. His pursed lips challenged Illya to comment. The Russian merely rolled his eyes, and the two agents limped carefully down the stairs and out to the lower level.
The red backup lighting reflected dimly around the chrome and gunmetal corridor. Weird, unfamiliar shadows twisted the walls and warped the door frames. A few personnel, mouths sullen, eyes unfocused, glided silently through the halls like bloody apparitions.
“All Hallows Eve, the night when the veil between the world of the living and the dead is at its thinnest,” Napoleon intoned, earning a mystified glance from a passing translator.
“Here we go again.”
“You’re just going to have a to ride it out, I.K. This night does strange things to my mood.” He cast a sidelong look at Illya. “It must be the gypsy in me.”
This last comment drew a laugh from his partner. “The only thing gypsy about you is your signed photograph of the burlesque performer.”
“Touché.” Napoleon acknowledged the hit with a nod. “So this night doesn't affect your mood at all?”
“Of course, it does. I’m in the mood to see that retrospective on German Expressionist cinema. And before you ask, yes, I already have certain female companionship in mind.”
“Say on, Dr. Caligari. I'd hate to poach on your territory.”
Illya did not reply. His eyes widened in alarm, and he darted inelegantly around the corner, his stride hobbled by his twisted ankle, leaving Napoleon to stare after him in open-mouthed surprise.
Illya was prying at the elevator doors when Napoleon caught up with him. “Help me get these apart,” he grunted. The steel panels rang with hollow thuds.
The doors responded to their combined efforts. Julie Anne, wild-eyed and tousled, stumbled out of the darkness and collapsed into Napoleon's arms. He winced and stifled a groan.
“Hey now, what have you been up to?” he asked, releasing the petite brunette with uncharacteristic haste. “I’m pretty sure the handbook advises staying off the elevators when the power’s failing.” His normally suave tones were strained, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. Illya looked on in tight-lipped concern.
Julie Anne smoothed back her hair and frowned. “I didn't try to use the elevator. Someone pushed me in.”
“Pushed you?” Illya asked sharply.
She nodded, rubbing her upper arm. “I was on my way to the commissary. The lights came on, and the elevator doors opened.” Her voice shook. “It went dark again just as I passed by. I felt someone grab my arm and shove me inside. Then the doors shut behind me.”
“You're hurt,” Napoleon said. He gently lifted her hand from her arm and pulled up the sleeve of her blouse. Dark, angry marks marred her skin.
The agents’ eyes met across the top of her head. Illya stepped inside the elevator with the flashlight. Napoleon activated his communicator, frowning more than usual at the process, and ordered Security to review the footage from several cameras.
“Spooky stories are all fine and good,” Julie Anne muttered to no one in particular, “until you find yourself in one.” Napoleon gave a guilty start and wrapped a protective arm around her waist.
“There you are, Julie.” Wanda left the commissary and approached them. “I was afraid the Headless Horseman had gotten you.” Her amused glance took in Napoleon’s embrace. “I was close,” she said.
Julie Anne opened her mouth to reply but shut it again at Napoleon’s squeeze. “Get Julie Anne some coffee,” he said, “and put a drop of this in it.”
He drew a flask from inside his jacket and tossed it to Wanda. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed, her pert nose wrinkling.
“Purely medicinal,” Napoleon assured her, holding up the Scout sign.
“Of course,” Wanda said archly. “In that case, I’ll see that all the girls take a dose. You can never be too careful about your health.”
Napoleon gave Julie Anne a delicate push in Wanda’s direction, then watched with cocked head and appreciative smile as the ladies strolled away.
“Napoleon.”
Illya’s call drew his attention back to less pleasant speculations. The Russian’s face was grim as he joined him in the elevator. When Napoleon raised questioning brows, Illya pointed the flashlight at the rear wall. Tall, jagged letters were scratched into the metal. Boo! You're dead!
“Something wicked this way comes.”
“Let us see your arm,” Illya demanded. Napoleon hesitated for only a moment before shrugging out of his jacket. Illya received the garment and a cufflink with patient resignation, watching intently as Napoleon rolled up his sleeve. He inhaled with a hiss. Five contusions fanned out across his partner's forearm, ugly relics of fingers that had clutched with hideous strength.
“We were alone in the stairwell,” Illya insisted as Napoleon restored his appearance.
“Were we?” He made minute adjustments to his cuffs. “Let’s see if the cameras show any different.”
Napoleon ordered a forensics team to the elevator, while Illya headed to the Security offices. When Napoleon joined him, he was met with the disappointing report that they had seen nothing unusual on the camera footage. “At least nothing more strange than a secretary flinging herself into an elevator,” the agent-in-charge said.
Napoleon nodded curtly and crossed the room to where Illya sat bent over a console, reviewing a portion of the footage frame by frame. “He is right about the elevator. The cameras caught nothing of our mysterious vandal.”
“Then what are you looking at?”
“This is from the stairwell. I think the shadow you saw was more than a trick of the light,” Illya admitted.
The Russian continued his painstaking examination of each frame. Napoleon watched over his shoulder for a time, then made an idle tour of the room. A duty roster hung on the wall. “I wonder when Sarah comes in,” he said, running a finger down the page in curiosity. “She could work on our ankles.”
“Look here,” Illya crowed triumphantly.
Napoleon returned to peer at the grainy image. “It's a blob.”
“I shall apply a filter.” Illya manipulated a few switches and dials.
“It's a green blob.”
“Are you certain you do not need these?” Illya asked, pushing his glasses farther up his nose.
Napoleon screwed up his face in distaste. “Keep working the horizontal hold.”
With an exasperated sigh, Illya returned his attention to the console. “Now do you see it?”
Napoleon's arrested expression supplied the answer. On the screen, the nebulous streaks of flickering light had coalesced into a face. A familiar face. Napoleon shuddered.
The Security agent peeked between them. “Who's that?”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Illya replied, his tone expressionless. “Riley. Detection expert.”
Grabbing the clipboard, the junior agent flipped through several sheets. “There's no Riley on tonight's duty roster.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” Napoleon said, coming out of his trance. “He’s dead.”
Riley appears in The Mad Mad Tea Party Affair.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}