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section7mfuTitle: The Deadly Admirer Affair, Act IV: Strike of the Serpent
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~2000
Author: Rose of Pollux
If you prefer reading there, cross-posted to ff.net and AO3.
Illya had continued to rest; he had even drifted off to sleep, dreaming about heading out into the field with his partner. It was some time later that he had awakened to the unpleasant sensation of something restraining his chest tightly—and to the sound of Baba Yaga hissing and spitting furiously.
He opened his eyes, frowning in discomfort at the tightness around his chest.
“What--?” he began, but a cloth was quickly tied around his mouth, gagging him. His eyes widened as he turned his head to see a figure dressed in black with a matching mask, and then Illya realized that the reason he couldn’t move was because he was tied down to his hospital bed.
The figure was trying to tie another rope around him—this time, around his abdomen—when Baba Yaga snapped. The cat attacked the attacker, clawing and biting at the attacker’s arm; the sleeve of the attacker’s arm slipped down, and Baba Yaga sunk her canines into the exposed flesh.
The attacker swore, shaking their arm with such a force that the cat went flying off, but she landed on her feet on the floor, hissing angrily again. The attacker grabbed one of the bowls from Illya’s food tray and hurled it at her, prompting the cat to dodge the bowl and flee out the door of the recovery room, screeching.
Through it all, Illya could only counter with muffled protests as he tried to loosen the rope around his chest, but the moment Baba Yaga had fled, the attacker resumed tying him down further with a second rope around his abdomen and a third around his thighs. Illya continued to struggle against the restraints, and his attacker watched him for some time in what seemed like quiet amusement.
“Not very fun, is it?” the attacker asked, in a harsh whisper that disguised their voice. “But you probably didn’t even bother to think that this is how Solo felt when you tied him up and tortured him.”
Illya froze as the full realization of his situation came crashing down upon him like a ton of bricks. It wasn’t THRUSH who attacked him—it was someone from here, one of his own coworkers in this very building who had heard the rumors and had decided to take matters into their own hands.
Illya now let out a muffled protest.
“Save it, you backstabbing little fiend,” the attacker snarled at him. “I’ve been seeing through your little game—you’ve had it in for Solo for years! Everyone knows that with him out of the way, you step up to CEA. And now, you finally had the opportunity to bump him off and make it look like part of the mission.” The attacker backhanded Illya across the face; the Russian flinched out of reflex. “And it’s not even the first time, either. I know about what happened at Club Thanatopsis last month, too. I bet you weren’t even really brainwashed; you were going to kill him and blame THRUSH, just like you were going to blame THRUSH and Gurnius now! That’s twice you’ve tried to kill Solo, and I’m not going to let the third time be the charm.”
Illya tried to protest again, earning him another backhand to the face; he let out a quiet, muffled gasp—that one had stung more than the first.
“You poisoned that bagel, didn’t you?” the attacker accused. “I’ve got a piece of it being analyzed in the lab—once the results come out, then everyone will see what you were going to do. And once Solo finds out, he won’t be upset to see you gone.”
Illya froze again as the attacker now drew a syringe with a dark green liquid in it; as if to taunt him, the attacker held it a few inches from Illya’s face.
“An eye for an eye—and poison for poison,” the attacker sneered.
Illya let out a muffled “No!”
But the attacker remained unmoved.
“And you know the best thing about this?” the attacker continued. “I’m actually glad you survived the bullet. This really will be far more satisfying. Because, this time, Solo will realize his so-called partner was a traitor all along. And he’ll stand here and watch you die without lifting a finger to help you, because it’s exactly what you deserve. You’ll die knowing that he found you out, and that he will never forgive you. And I will be his hero for unmasking you as the enemy.”
Illya struggled to move, but there was nothing he could do, and a moment later, he felt the needle plunge into his arm. He let out a weak moan as he felt a burning sensation start flowing down inside of his arm.
“I really hope Solo gets here soon,” the attacker mused, beginning to untie Illya as his struggles against the rope got weaker. “The sooner Solo sees you for what you, are, the better. And he’ll soon be free of you and your fiendish plots to kill him. He beat you, and I helped him do it.”
Before untying him fully, the attacker grasped at Illya’s pressure points on his neck and pressed them until Illya fell unconscious. The attacker then removed all of the ropes and the gag; soon, there was no way to tell that Illya had been restrained.
The attacker gathered all of the ropes and the gag, as well as any other signs that they had been there, cast one last glance of contempt at the unconscious Russian, and then left the room as silently as they had entered.
Now, all the attacker had to do was wait; the poison would do the rest. And then they were sure that Napoleon Solo would reward them beyond their wildest dreams for what they had done for him.
******************************************
Napoleon Solo, in the meantime had driven all the way to Newark and had found Marton’s front fairly quickly. After making sure that there were no THRUSH minions around, Napoleon went inside, right for the main office.
Marton was busy at his desk, going over what seemed to be a THRUSH duty roster, and he only looked slightly inconvenienced as Napoleon strode over to him with his Special in his hand.
“Ah, Monsieur Solo,” Marton said. “An unexpected pleasure indeed. What brings you to seek my aid?”
“I don’t seek your aid, Marton; I seek answers,” Napoleon replied, coldly.
“Really, Monsieur Solo? If one of us was to ask answers of the others, it should be me, not you?”
“How do you figure that?” Napoleon asked.
“Because I heard from one of my men about what happened in San Rico,” Marton said. “And how one of our agents, Monsieur Brown, was killed by Gurnius’s men—at the suggestion of ‘Colonel Nexor,’ who was really your Monsieur Kuryakin, who also seemed to have convinced Gurnius to try to take over THRUSH before he was killed.”
Napoleon stared at the calm look on Marton’s face.
“You’re taking this well,” he observed.
“I’m not sorry to see Monsieur Brown go,” Marton said, waving his hand in dismissal. “I may be with THRUSH now, but I have never approved of Gurnius and his ilk; I was with the Free French during the War, and I have not forgotten what we went through on account of them. If anything, I actually appreciate what your Monsieur Kuryakin has done to remove those thorns from everyone’s sides.”
“Well, one of your agents didn’t appreciate it, and they took out their frustrations on my Monsieur Kuryakin, and I demand to know who!” Napoleon retorted.
Marton blinked, surprised, as though this was news to him.
“Pardon?”
“I mean that someone shot Illya last night when he was out getting a midnight snack for the two of us, and whoever it was left him to bleed out in an alley!”
Marton stared at Napoleon for a moment.
“I did not order such an attack; in fact, had I known that any of my agents would have considered such an attack, I would have dissuaded them immediately,” Marton insisted.
“Oh, really? And why’s that?”
“Because of the other details that we received from San Rico—apparently, we have it on reliable authority that Monsieur Kuryakin, in the process of maintaining his cover, had to torture you.”
Napoleon gave Marton an incredulous look.
“And THRUSH agents in the Tri-State area suddenly have a newfound appreciation for Illya?” he asked. “And somehow want to shoot him because of that?”
“Not at all,” Marton said. “THRUSH agents seldom realize the deep bonds of loyalty that you men have on the opposite side, but I know that Monsieur Kuryakin’s anger at being forced to hurt you would have made him a force to be reckoned with. I would have doubted that he would have shown any mercy had any of my agents tried to attack him, and I would have told my agents that.”
“…And how would you know?” Napoleon asked.
“Monsieur Solo, have you forgotten that Alexander and I were once partners like you and Monsieur Kuryakin?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why do you assume that the two of us had not gone through something similar to what you and Monsieur Kuryakin had in San Rico?”
“…Do you mean to tell me that you once had to torture Mr. Waverly to maintain your cover!?” Napoleon asked, stunned.
“Oh, no, Monsieur Solo—it was the other way around!”
“Oh, well, if that’s the case…” Napoleon trailed off, the words taking a moment to sink in. “What!?”
“I can guarantee you, Monsieur Solo, you will never want to see Alexander as furious as he was that day,” Marton said. “He eliminated an entire cell of enemy agents because they dared to approach us while I was still recovering—even though they retreated after he killed the first three.” He bit back a smile at the gobsmacked look on Napoleon’s face. “You see now, Monsieur Solo, why I would have stopped any attempt at any of my agents going after Monsieur Kuryakin?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Napoleon admitted. “But who in the Tri-State area would just refuse to listen to you and go to Manhattan anyway? Were any THRUSH agents in Lower Manhattan around midnight last night?”
“My word is not the law at THRUSH, though I certainly wish it was,” Marton mused. “And, to my knowledge, there were no THRUSH agents in Lower Manhattan—Manhattan has been difficult for us to maneuver around in ever since you and Monsieur Kuryakin rendered our haberdashery front useless last year.”
“…If I find out that you’re lying to me…”
“Would I be so foolish as to risk the wrath of a man with a wounded partner? I told you, I know what the fierce loyalties are like on your side—I was once there. And, in any case, how would we have known that Monsieur Kuryakin would have been going to get a midnight snack, of all things? As far as I can tell you, it wasn’t us--this time.”
Napoleon narrowed his gaze at Marton, but then silently conceded that the Frenchman had a point.
“I wish you luck on your little quest, Monsieur Solo,” Marton said. “And may God have mercy on the guilty party once you catch up with them. Give my regards to Alexander, won’t you? …I would advise against asking him about that old mission of ours.”
Napoleon let out a quiet scoff, and backed away, still not willing to turn his back on Marton. He only turned around after he was well out of range of the front, and then idly wondered why, if Waverly and Marton had been that close, that partnership couldn’t have lasted. Why had Marton gone to the enemy side?
Napoleon shook his head. Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t happen to him and Illya, he determined. This last mission had proven that the two of them could get through anything—even torture.
He pushed the thought aside and got into his car; he was just about to start the car when his communicator let out a whistle.
“Solo here,” he said.
“Napoleon?” George asked over the channel. His voice sounded strained—as though something wasn’t right.
“George? Is everything alright?” Napoleon had a horrible feeling that this wasn’t about the bagels at all.
“No…” George said, and he struggled to find the words. “It’s Illya. Something’s wrong—very wrong.”
Napoleon’s throat constricted, as though his heart had gotten stuck there.
“What happened?” he managed to say.
“We’re still trying to figure that out… I was in the lab, still waiting for the analysis machine to be free, and Baba Yaga came in, screeching like a banshee. I figured something had to have gone wrong, so I went back to the recovery ward to check on Illya. He’s taken a turn for the worse; his vitals have just plummeted… They’ve moved him to intensive care now; the Medical staff are trying to figure out what happened, but…” He trailed off. “It’s bad, Napoleon; it’s really bad. You need to get back here right away.”
“I’m on my way back right now,” Napoleon said, expending extra energy just to get his vocal cords to work properly. “Tell him, George. Tell him that I’ll be there—and that he’d better hold on.”
“I will. Please, hurry!”
Napoleon barely managed a goodbye before putting his communicator away and driving off, ignoring the horrible feeling that the ground had opened up beneath him and was swallowing him alive.
Hold on, Illya, he silently pleaded. Please… Hold on.
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~2000
Author: Rose of Pollux
If you prefer reading there, cross-posted to ff.net and AO3.
Illya had continued to rest; he had even drifted off to sleep, dreaming about heading out into the field with his partner. It was some time later that he had awakened to the unpleasant sensation of something restraining his chest tightly—and to the sound of Baba Yaga hissing and spitting furiously.
He opened his eyes, frowning in discomfort at the tightness around his chest.
“What--?” he began, but a cloth was quickly tied around his mouth, gagging him. His eyes widened as he turned his head to see a figure dressed in black with a matching mask, and then Illya realized that the reason he couldn’t move was because he was tied down to his hospital bed.
The figure was trying to tie another rope around him—this time, around his abdomen—when Baba Yaga snapped. The cat attacked the attacker, clawing and biting at the attacker’s arm; the sleeve of the attacker’s arm slipped down, and Baba Yaga sunk her canines into the exposed flesh.
The attacker swore, shaking their arm with such a force that the cat went flying off, but she landed on her feet on the floor, hissing angrily again. The attacker grabbed one of the bowls from Illya’s food tray and hurled it at her, prompting the cat to dodge the bowl and flee out the door of the recovery room, screeching.
Through it all, Illya could only counter with muffled protests as he tried to loosen the rope around his chest, but the moment Baba Yaga had fled, the attacker resumed tying him down further with a second rope around his abdomen and a third around his thighs. Illya continued to struggle against the restraints, and his attacker watched him for some time in what seemed like quiet amusement.
“Not very fun, is it?” the attacker asked, in a harsh whisper that disguised their voice. “But you probably didn’t even bother to think that this is how Solo felt when you tied him up and tortured him.”
Illya froze as the full realization of his situation came crashing down upon him like a ton of bricks. It wasn’t THRUSH who attacked him—it was someone from here, one of his own coworkers in this very building who had heard the rumors and had decided to take matters into their own hands.
Illya now let out a muffled protest.
“Save it, you backstabbing little fiend,” the attacker snarled at him. “I’ve been seeing through your little game—you’ve had it in for Solo for years! Everyone knows that with him out of the way, you step up to CEA. And now, you finally had the opportunity to bump him off and make it look like part of the mission.” The attacker backhanded Illya across the face; the Russian flinched out of reflex. “And it’s not even the first time, either. I know about what happened at Club Thanatopsis last month, too. I bet you weren’t even really brainwashed; you were going to kill him and blame THRUSH, just like you were going to blame THRUSH and Gurnius now! That’s twice you’ve tried to kill Solo, and I’m not going to let the third time be the charm.”
Illya tried to protest again, earning him another backhand to the face; he let out a quiet, muffled gasp—that one had stung more than the first.
“You poisoned that bagel, didn’t you?” the attacker accused. “I’ve got a piece of it being analyzed in the lab—once the results come out, then everyone will see what you were going to do. And once Solo finds out, he won’t be upset to see you gone.”
Illya froze again as the attacker now drew a syringe with a dark green liquid in it; as if to taunt him, the attacker held it a few inches from Illya’s face.
“An eye for an eye—and poison for poison,” the attacker sneered.
Illya let out a muffled “No!”
But the attacker remained unmoved.
“And you know the best thing about this?” the attacker continued. “I’m actually glad you survived the bullet. This really will be far more satisfying. Because, this time, Solo will realize his so-called partner was a traitor all along. And he’ll stand here and watch you die without lifting a finger to help you, because it’s exactly what you deserve. You’ll die knowing that he found you out, and that he will never forgive you. And I will be his hero for unmasking you as the enemy.”
Illya struggled to move, but there was nothing he could do, and a moment later, he felt the needle plunge into his arm. He let out a weak moan as he felt a burning sensation start flowing down inside of his arm.
“I really hope Solo gets here soon,” the attacker mused, beginning to untie Illya as his struggles against the rope got weaker. “The sooner Solo sees you for what you, are, the better. And he’ll soon be free of you and your fiendish plots to kill him. He beat you, and I helped him do it.”
Before untying him fully, the attacker grasped at Illya’s pressure points on his neck and pressed them until Illya fell unconscious. The attacker then removed all of the ropes and the gag; soon, there was no way to tell that Illya had been restrained.
The attacker gathered all of the ropes and the gag, as well as any other signs that they had been there, cast one last glance of contempt at the unconscious Russian, and then left the room as silently as they had entered.
Now, all the attacker had to do was wait; the poison would do the rest. And then they were sure that Napoleon Solo would reward them beyond their wildest dreams for what they had done for him.
Napoleon Solo, in the meantime had driven all the way to Newark and had found Marton’s front fairly quickly. After making sure that there were no THRUSH minions around, Napoleon went inside, right for the main office.
Marton was busy at his desk, going over what seemed to be a THRUSH duty roster, and he only looked slightly inconvenienced as Napoleon strode over to him with his Special in his hand.
“Ah, Monsieur Solo,” Marton said. “An unexpected pleasure indeed. What brings you to seek my aid?”
“I don’t seek your aid, Marton; I seek answers,” Napoleon replied, coldly.
“Really, Monsieur Solo? If one of us was to ask answers of the others, it should be me, not you?”
“How do you figure that?” Napoleon asked.
“Because I heard from one of my men about what happened in San Rico,” Marton said. “And how one of our agents, Monsieur Brown, was killed by Gurnius’s men—at the suggestion of ‘Colonel Nexor,’ who was really your Monsieur Kuryakin, who also seemed to have convinced Gurnius to try to take over THRUSH before he was killed.”
Napoleon stared at the calm look on Marton’s face.
“You’re taking this well,” he observed.
“I’m not sorry to see Monsieur Brown go,” Marton said, waving his hand in dismissal. “I may be with THRUSH now, but I have never approved of Gurnius and his ilk; I was with the Free French during the War, and I have not forgotten what we went through on account of them. If anything, I actually appreciate what your Monsieur Kuryakin has done to remove those thorns from everyone’s sides.”
“Well, one of your agents didn’t appreciate it, and they took out their frustrations on my Monsieur Kuryakin, and I demand to know who!” Napoleon retorted.
Marton blinked, surprised, as though this was news to him.
“Pardon?”
“I mean that someone shot Illya last night when he was out getting a midnight snack for the two of us, and whoever it was left him to bleed out in an alley!”
Marton stared at Napoleon for a moment.
“I did not order such an attack; in fact, had I known that any of my agents would have considered such an attack, I would have dissuaded them immediately,” Marton insisted.
“Oh, really? And why’s that?”
“Because of the other details that we received from San Rico—apparently, we have it on reliable authority that Monsieur Kuryakin, in the process of maintaining his cover, had to torture you.”
Napoleon gave Marton an incredulous look.
“And THRUSH agents in the Tri-State area suddenly have a newfound appreciation for Illya?” he asked. “And somehow want to shoot him because of that?”
“Not at all,” Marton said. “THRUSH agents seldom realize the deep bonds of loyalty that you men have on the opposite side, but I know that Monsieur Kuryakin’s anger at being forced to hurt you would have made him a force to be reckoned with. I would have doubted that he would have shown any mercy had any of my agents tried to attack him, and I would have told my agents that.”
“…And how would you know?” Napoleon asked.
“Monsieur Solo, have you forgotten that Alexander and I were once partners like you and Monsieur Kuryakin?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why do you assume that the two of us had not gone through something similar to what you and Monsieur Kuryakin had in San Rico?”
“…Do you mean to tell me that you once had to torture Mr. Waverly to maintain your cover!?” Napoleon asked, stunned.
“Oh, no, Monsieur Solo—it was the other way around!”
“Oh, well, if that’s the case…” Napoleon trailed off, the words taking a moment to sink in. “What!?”
“I can guarantee you, Monsieur Solo, you will never want to see Alexander as furious as he was that day,” Marton said. “He eliminated an entire cell of enemy agents because they dared to approach us while I was still recovering—even though they retreated after he killed the first three.” He bit back a smile at the gobsmacked look on Napoleon’s face. “You see now, Monsieur Solo, why I would have stopped any attempt at any of my agents going after Monsieur Kuryakin?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Napoleon admitted. “But who in the Tri-State area would just refuse to listen to you and go to Manhattan anyway? Were any THRUSH agents in Lower Manhattan around midnight last night?”
“My word is not the law at THRUSH, though I certainly wish it was,” Marton mused. “And, to my knowledge, there were no THRUSH agents in Lower Manhattan—Manhattan has been difficult for us to maneuver around in ever since you and Monsieur Kuryakin rendered our haberdashery front useless last year.”
“…If I find out that you’re lying to me…”
“Would I be so foolish as to risk the wrath of a man with a wounded partner? I told you, I know what the fierce loyalties are like on your side—I was once there. And, in any case, how would we have known that Monsieur Kuryakin would have been going to get a midnight snack, of all things? As far as I can tell you, it wasn’t us--this time.”
Napoleon narrowed his gaze at Marton, but then silently conceded that the Frenchman had a point.
“I wish you luck on your little quest, Monsieur Solo,” Marton said. “And may God have mercy on the guilty party once you catch up with them. Give my regards to Alexander, won’t you? …I would advise against asking him about that old mission of ours.”
Napoleon let out a quiet scoff, and backed away, still not willing to turn his back on Marton. He only turned around after he was well out of range of the front, and then idly wondered why, if Waverly and Marton had been that close, that partnership couldn’t have lasted. Why had Marton gone to the enemy side?
Napoleon shook his head. Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t happen to him and Illya, he determined. This last mission had proven that the two of them could get through anything—even torture.
He pushed the thought aside and got into his car; he was just about to start the car when his communicator let out a whistle.
“Solo here,” he said.
“Napoleon?” George asked over the channel. His voice sounded strained—as though something wasn’t right.
“George? Is everything alright?” Napoleon had a horrible feeling that this wasn’t about the bagels at all.
“No…” George said, and he struggled to find the words. “It’s Illya. Something’s wrong—very wrong.”
Napoleon’s throat constricted, as though his heart had gotten stuck there.
“What happened?” he managed to say.
“We’re still trying to figure that out… I was in the lab, still waiting for the analysis machine to be free, and Baba Yaga came in, screeching like a banshee. I figured something had to have gone wrong, so I went back to the recovery ward to check on Illya. He’s taken a turn for the worse; his vitals have just plummeted… They’ve moved him to intensive care now; the Medical staff are trying to figure out what happened, but…” He trailed off. “It’s bad, Napoleon; it’s really bad. You need to get back here right away.”
“I’m on my way back right now,” Napoleon said, expending extra energy just to get his vocal cords to work properly. “Tell him, George. Tell him that I’ll be there—and that he’d better hold on.”
“I will. Please, hurry!”
Napoleon barely managed a goodbye before putting his communicator away and driving off, ignoring the horrible feeling that the ground had opened up beneath him and was swallowing him alive.
Hold on, Illya, he silently pleaded. Please… Hold on.
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no subject
Date: 2017-02-16 09:20 pm (UTC)Great action, and excellent Marton. Love that reminiscence of partnership. Also kudos for the mention of 'they', and for Baba Yaga's help.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2017-02-16 09:28 pm (UTC)Really good work with this!
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2017-02-16 11:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From: