"I am Illya Nickovich Kuryakin"~ for the PicFic Tuesday Challenge 11/12

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

       

His eyes were glazed over as he shuffled along the corridor, periodically holding onto the railings that lined the walls.  He was dressed in a pair of grey pajamas and a robe, hanging loosely around him with no belt. There was a single slipper on one of his feet, the other one was missing.

“Come on Mista Detsky, you know you shouldn’t be wandering the halls now, don’t cha?”

A rather burly male attendant said to him, taking hold of the slight blonds shoulders and turning him in the opposite direction.

“Will you stop calling me that! My name is not Detsky, it is Illya Nickovich Kuryakin and I am enforcement agent for…”

“Yeah yeah yeah, and for the hundredth time I’m telling ya your name is Nicholas Detsky and you ain’t no spy. You work for an import company here in New York and you have since you graduated Xavarian High School in Brooklyn.  You weren’t born in Russian, you’re from Long Island.”

“No, I am Illya Kuryakin and I was born in Kyiv in Ukraine. My father was Nicholai Alexaevich Kuryakin. My mother was Ukrainian...her name was Tanya Romanov. My paternal grandmother named Marina Ursari was of the Rom….and was was married to Count Alexander Sergeivich Kuryakin. I attended University of Georgia before being recruited to GRU. I am operative for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”

“Okay Mista, then if you’re a Russkie, talk to me in your lingo,” the attendant taunted him.

The blond scratched his head, trying to find the words, but was unable to do so.

“Look you don’t speak Russian, French or any other foreign language….you’re just a regular Joe who had a nervous breakdown, okay?”

The man who insisted his name was Illya slowly nodded his head. He stared at the attendant, trying to remember something he knew was important.

A nurse walked him back to his room; ignoring the countless people sitting half naked on the floor, rocking back and forth in filth, being virtually ignored by the staff...

Two men stood in front of a television monitor, observing the entire scene while others around them continued working in their secret lab.

“Good, his language skills were the first traits to be affected. Once Kuryakin starts to accept his new reality, he will be like putty in our hands and that I predict will happen in only a matter of days. Soon we’ll be able to brainwash every leading U.N.C.L.E. agent into blissful oblivion and not having had to fire a shot. Their organization will be decimated, as they won’t be able to train agents fast enough as replacements.”

The men dressed in smocks and facemasks practically wrung their hands with delight at that statement.

                               

“Yes,” another man smiled,” Once they are at their most vulnerable we can strike and destroy them forever.  T.H.R.U.S.H. will reign supreme and our enemies will be nothing but mere flies to be swatted away.”  The scientists broke out into raucous laughter.

Illya was led back to his room and left to sit on his bed, staring out into space.  He looked docile enough, but in his head, thoughts were racing wildly.  His mind was resisting the conditioning.

“No, I am Illya Nickovich Kuryakin, not Nicholas Detsky.” He searched for the words in Russian, frustrated until he remembered just one...’Nyet.’

He focused on bits of memory, telling himself they were real. “Detsky, Detsky.” He repeated the name over and over. “Moskva...Detsky Mir. Yes, that was the name of the children’s store at...at Lubyanka Square. That was it, yes. Across from KGB headquarters, that looming yellow-bricked building. The image burned bright in his memory.

Pappa, Mamma, Babushka...his brothers and sister. Yes, Uncle Vanya and his cousin Anastasiya, they were all real, though they were dead.  He would not let himself lose his memories and he would carry on with the charade, telling his captors what they wanted to hear until he could escape…. his mind drifted then to one more name.

“Napoleon…”

A nurse entered his room, looking all smiley and chipper.

“Hello handsome, time for your shot,” she held up a syringe. “So you know the drill Nicholas.”

Illya stood up, unable to not comply, and turned around, leaning on the bed while she lowered his pajama bottom just enough to expose his backside in order to give him the injection.  She wiped the site with a cotton ball doused in alcohol, jabbed him with the needle, again swabbing his pale skin dotted with bruises from his daily injections and finally pulled up his p.j. bottoms.

“There that wasn’t so bad was it Nicholas?”

“No,” he smiled shyly at her. “Will I be able to go home soon? I miss the smell of the ocean and the beach.”

“And where do you live Nicholas?”

“Why Far Rockaway in Long Island, of course,” he answered calmly.

“Very good. You keep it up and you’ll be home in no time at all.”

He had to play the game, let them think he was this fellow Detsky. He could not say his own name, not again...nor anything about U.N.C.L.E. and risk not being able to escape. If they had any idea he was remembering, they might increase the dosage of the drugs they were giving him.

The Russian would go through the motions, even though he knew he was being manipulated, but to what purpose, he did not know. What ever the injections they were giving him was having an effect on his resistance.

Illya knew he needed to fight it, and every night as he lay in his bed, listening to the rats scuttle about in the dark, he would recite the litany of names...his long dead family, as well as his new family at U.N.C.L.E.

He struggled, whispering more words in Russian to himself, repeating his name over and over.

“Ya Illya Nickovich Kuryakin, menya zovut Illya Kuryakin.”

.

As each day passed, Illya wondered where his partner was, as he half-expected the American to show up any day and rescue him from this insane asylum. With no sign of Napoleon, his expectations decreased, little by little.

It was obvious Solo wasn’t coming…and slowly he found it difficult to remember his partner’s face, but he remembered his name and he held onto that like a life line.

.

It had been a month since Illya Kuryakin had disappeared, taken right there from the sidewalk in front of Del Floria’s.

A  blue van had pulled up; Security watching helplessly as their number two field agent was darted and pulled into the vehicle. It took off with screeching tires as the Section V agents bounded up the stairs of the tailor shop to the sidewalk, too late to rescue the Russian.

.

Napoleon sat with Alexander Waverly, trying to pay attention to the briefing, but he was too distracted, as the disappearance of his partner was weighing heavily on his mind. No calls for ransom, no veiled threats were made, or demands for prisoner exchanges….nothing.

“Mr. Solo...Mr. Solo?  Napoleon?” Waverly finally raised his voice.

“Yes sir. Sorry, I was distracted.”

“That’s obvious. Young man, I know you are concerned about Mr. Kuryakin, and if you had been paying attention you would have heard that we have received some intelligence in that regard.”

Napoleon sat bolt upright. “I’m all ears sir.”

“Yes, hmm, quite. Now if I may continue. There has been chatter on T.H.R.U.S.H. channels that we’ve been able to decode;  talk of one of our agents being held at a facility in Staten Island…an  atrocious place. It’s an institution for children with mental disabilities, terribly overcrowded. Conditions, questionable medical practices and experiments are rumored to take place there...a perfect nest for our feathered friends to effect their evil schemes. It’s located on Staten Island.

“And we think it’s Illya...Mr. Kuryakin?”

“That is the best guess at this point in time. I want you to go there Mr. Solo. You will, accompanied by Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate, pose as a state inspector.  We’ll have all the proper credentials and permits for you to gain entrance. Let us hope Mr. Kuryakin is there, and no damage has been done.

.

Napoleon dressed in a white lab coat, carrying a clipboard holding his credentials, climbed out of their car. April, was wearing  a nurses uniform, her hair pulled back in a severe bun and she wore a pair of thick black glasses, giving her an efficient look.  Mark too was wearing a lab coat, carrying another clipboard tucked under his arm.

         

“This place is charming,” April muttered as she surveyed the rundown buildings and property.”And they have children here? Something is very wrong with this picture.”

Napoleon hit the buzzer by the main door, giving his name and the reason for his visit and within minutes it opened and they were met by a member of security.

“Hi Doc,” the man greeted them. “Weren’t expecting another inspection this soon...personally I wish they’d close down this hell hole...poor kids. Yer heart goes out to them. If I had a kid here, I’d be screaming bloody murder to Albany and the governor.”

“Well, we’ll see what I can do ummm...Mr. Bellucci,” Napoleon leaned in, reading the man’s name badge.  “But today we’re here to visit any adults being treated here.”

“Adults? Well there’s a few Doc.  We just got a guy in about a month ago, thinks he’s some sort of Russian spy. You should see him, a skinny little runt who looks like he couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.”

Napoleon cocked his eyebrows, glancing at April and Mark.

“Sounds like an interesting case,” April said. “Let’s start with him.”

Bellucci was quite talkative as he guided the visitors thought the maze of corridors. It was all the agents could do to not gasp as they passed children, and young people who sat on floors, many naked...sitting in their own filth, seemingly abandoned.

“Nickolas his name is, Nicholas Detsky,” the guard said. “ I heard he’s finally making progress and might be let out soon. Lucky guy. He’s starting to remember who he really is and not this Russkie character he made up.”  Here he is.”

The guard indicated a door to their left, and he unlocked it. “Just give me a knock when you’re ready to go. He’s not violent, and I think they just sedated him, so he should be pretty docile.  If you have any problems with him, don’t hesitate to give me a yell.”

Bellucci opened the door, looking directly at the blond sitting on his bed, staring out into space.

“Hey Nick, you got some visitors, so behave yourself. Capiche?”

Illya slowly turned his head, looking glassy-eyed at them all, slowly nodding his head.

As soon as the door closed Napoleon was about to speak when he saw Illya put his finger up to his lips, indicating he should be quiet; he then pointed discreetly to a small camera mounted on the wall.

“Ah...yes Mr. Detsky is it? Well my name is Dr. Schofield and I’m with the State board of inspectors and we’d like to ask you some questions? Is that all right with you?

Illya barely nodded, keeping up his ruse, though it took him a minute to recognize his rescuers.

Mark walked out of camera view, snapping a photo of Illya’s back, while still sitting on the bed.  He peeled the quick developing mini photograph from the camera...putting his hand in front of the security camera and affixing the photo of Kuryakin on front of the lens.  

Whoever was at the viewing end, would see a motionless image of Illya on his bed and nothing more

April pulled a pair of pants, shoes, tee shirt and white lab coat from her large shoulder bag, helping Illya to dress himself.

He was wobbly on his feet, but managed with her help.

Solo waved for them to join him at the door, and knocked...summoning the guard.

When Bellucci opened up, he was met with a karate chop to his neck, delivered by Napoleon, while Mark caught the unconscious man.  He was tied up with a sheet, and laid on the bed.

The agents headed out into the hall, navigating their way back amidst the poor souls left there to suffer, and make their escape without any resistance.

.

Weeks later,  Illya Kuryakin sat in his office typing up reports that had piled up in his absence. The most important paperwork, sent immediately to the State to report the horrendous conditions at the facility in Staten Island required only his signature, as Alexander Waverly had already signed off on it.

He had his doubts as to the good it would do, seeing as how the State had allowed the institution to languish thus far.  It was a perfect den of suffering in which T.H.R.U.S.H. to have set up temporary shop.

Someday, someone would expose what was going on there and the Russian only hoped it would be sooner and not later.

Sadly, as soon as T.H.R.U.S.H.realized their U.N.C.L.E. prisoner had been liberated, they  disappeared into the night, surprisingly, leaving some of their research papers behind…

It served U.N.C.L.E’s purposes well enough in order to create an antidote...that was all well and good, but to Kuryakin...what he’d seen and experienced; there was no fix for that.  What he witnessed at Willowbrook would haunt him for a long time, as well as it wouild Solo, Dancer and Slate.



* author's note: Willowbrook was a real place, known for horrific abuses of the people living there...if you'd call it living. It was finally closed in 1987 and 200 acres of the facility were eventually incorporated into the College of Staten Island, though some of the buildings are still there, falling into ruin. This piece was composed with all due respect for the suffereing of those people and was my way of bringing to light, in a small way, what happened there. The facility called Willowbrook State School was in operation from the 1947 to 1987...and it was shameful that it was kept open all that time even after being exposed to the public in 1972 by a young reporter named Geraldo Rivera...