section7mfu | SNAPSHOTS~"When things look their worst..."

Warning: Gen-Mature

It was dark as hell. Napoleon and Illya found themselves running at top speed trying to escape their pursuors, but had no idea they were heading straight towards a precipice.

They came upon it almost at the same time, though the American reached it a split second before his Russian partner. He stopped at the edge, his arms windmilling as he tired to propel himself backwards.

Illya halted in time, and reached out to grab Napoleon, taking hold of his hand just as the American went over the edge.

Kuryakin yelped as the sudden jerk and weight pulled at his arm, stressing his shoulder.

“Hang on Napoleon!” Illya could feel himself slipping forward, taking him closer to the edge.

“It’s no good!” Solo called back, “Let me go!”

“Nooo! I will not do that!”

The THRUSH goons arrived, kicking the Russian in the side, and making him lose his grip.

“Nyeeeet!” Illya screamed out, trying to reach out with his other hand, but it was too late.

He buried his face in the grass, knowing his partner and friend was dead. No one could have survived such a fall, not even the Solo luck would work this time.

“Come on Kuryakin get up!”

He ignored them, focusing only on his grief.

Another kick to the side got the agent’s attention, but not his cooperation.

“Come on you little bastard, move it! Your partner is dead...get over it.” The goons grabbed him by the shirt collar at first, trying to drag him, then took hold of his arms; pulling him like a lifeless carcass. When Kuryakin simply let his body relax and become dead weight, they grabbed him by his hair, brutally yanking it, yet still the pain they were inflicting upon him didn’t work.

They finally picked him up, carrying the unwilling Russian between them, back to their masters lair.

Once back inside their hideout, Illya was shoved into a chair, tied down with a piece of duct tape covering his mouth, and he was left alone.

He dropped his head back slightly, trying to contol his breathing though his nostrils. Being over heated, with his heart racing, it was all he could do to calm himself while the name Napoleon repeated over and over in his head.

“Napoleon was dead...he was dead.” That was what logic screamed to him.” No,” Illya told himself. “Solo had come back from the dead before, why not now?”

The door to the darkened room finally opened with a slow creak and a light switch was hit; the glare from which temporarily blinded the Russian.

“Where is it Kuryakin? I will only ask you once, and if you do not cooperate the exquisite pain you will experience will be the most intense you have ever felt; that I will guarantee.” He ripped the tape away from the agent’s mouth.

“Do your worst. I will not tell you,”Illya snarled. He would be defiant no matter what they did and he steeled himself for what was to come.

“Very well then, what you suffer you bring upon yourself.”

He grabbed Illya’s hand, tied down by the wrist to the arm of the chair, and one by one he drove pices of bamboo beneath the agent’s fingernails.

Kuryakin let out a blood curdling scream as the first one sent the pain shooting throughout his entire body, but as each subsequent sliver of bamboo found it’s mark, he became numb.

His head lolled forward, with his mouth hanging open as he drooled in his stupor.

His interrogator looked at the Russian’s bloody fingers, taking a pair of pliers and withdrawing the bamboo one at a time. This time there was no reaction and he cursed, slamming his fist into the U.N.C.L.E. agents stomach again and again until the man began to gag and sputter.

He slapped Illya’s face as he began to lose consciousness and with that not working, he snapped a capsule of smelling salts beneath the U.N.C.L.E. agents nose, forcing him awake with a gasp.

“Tell me Kuryakin, tell me what I want to know!”

“Noooooooooo,” Illya was barely able to speak.

A large stick was retrieved and after a windup it was brought crashing down against the agent’s left shin. The crack of the impact and the bone breaking was horrifying, as was Illya’s scream. He passed out again…

“Take him away,” a guard was ordered.

“The son of a bitch isn’t going to talk. Damn, I wish I had some truth serum, that would have solved everything. I’m really tired of T.H.R.U.S.H. not supplying what we need. So what if we’re a little backwater satrap,” the interrogator barked one last time before he hit the floor.

Standing in the door to the cell was a man holding a smoking gun. He got off a second shot, killing the guard as well.

“Good Lord,” Mark Slate gasped, as his partner stepped from behind him. April was to Illya’s side in a second, cutting loose his bonds and cradling his head to her.

“Mark call for a retrieval, we need to get him some medical help now. Illya, Illya darling,” she gently stroked his bruised cheek, watching his baby blues slowly open.”

“You’re safe now. Mark and I are here…”

“Mmmm, horosho,” he barely mumbled in Russian.

“Illya, where's Napoleon?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a barely perceptable whimper, but April was unsure if that was from his injuries or if it was his answer.

“Is he...is he gone?”

“Daaaaa.”

“Oh God,” she gasped, covering her eyes as she shed her tears, perhaps for both of them as she knew Illya’s stoicsm would not let him grieve so openly.

The satrap having been cleaned out, allowed the chopper to arrive and medivac Illya out to a hosptial. Though his injuries weren’t life threatening, they were extremely painful. April knelt beside him on helicopter, saying her goodbyes.

“I’m here for you Illya when and if you want to talk, you know that? We all loved him, but no one more than you. You two were like brothers.”

He turned his head away from her, not saying anything.

“It’s all right darling, I understand.”

Dawn arrived leaving Dancer and Slate to help finish supervising the cleanup and together they walked the perimter of the satrap, coming to the edge of a cliff, looking out over a grey seascape.

“Oh Mark I can’t believe Napoleon is dead,” she leaned into her partner’s arms seeking comfort but there were no words the Brit could offer in consolation. The best he could do was hold her.

They were surrounded by the sounds of the ocean and the cries of gulls and terns seeking shelter inland as a storm was brewing.

April’s head popped up with a start. “Mark did you hear that?”

“What luv, nothing but some sea birds flying by.”

“No, I swear I heard a voice...from down there.” She freed herself from Slate’s arms, peering over the cliff, while carefully maintaining her balance.

“Oh my God, Mark we need a rope now!” It’s Napoleon and he’s alive!” Her voice was filled with joy.

The rope was retrieved and with the help of several other agents Solo was hoisted up from the precaious ledge he’d fallen onto, though he’d been knocked unconscious.

“Napoleon!” April cried out, wrapping her arms around his neck and covering his face with kisses.

“Well the rumors of my demise were highly exaggerated,” he tried laughing, but grabbed his side with his hand, suspecting he had some broken ribs. “Illya, please tell me he’s all right?”

“Yes mate,” Mark smiled, offering his hand. “He’s fairly well beat up, and been medivaced out, though he’s in a bad way thinking you were dead. The satrap is secure and now that you’ve been found alive, all’s well that ends well I suppose.”

“Mark, that is very well put,” Napoleon grinned, “so let’s catch up with that partner of mine and give him one happy surprise, shall we?”

The three agents locked arms, heading towards their helicopter and a reunion with one not so happy Russian...