Paranoia - Mood-Y: Challenge 5 (Prompt - Spooked)

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Name: Paranoia
Genre: Gen
Length: approx 1360 words

I'm not entirely sure I hit the mood right.


Illya Kuryakin couldn’t sleep. This was the third night that sleep had eluded him and he was exhausted. It was starting to get the point that he was actually thinking of asking medical for something to help him. Luckily, he and Napoleon were doing the annual personnel assessments for Section 2 that week, which meant they had no time to go out on assignment. With his level of fatigue, Illya would have been a liability. Solo had been concerned about his partner, but the Russian had assured him he was fine. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

After several hours of staring at the bedroom ceiling, Illya gave up and climbed out of bed. He shuffled to the kitchen and put a pan of milk on the stove, doubting from the outset that the warm milk would help matters. A noise from behind him caused the agent to spin round and reach for the weapon he wasn’t wearing. Stretching behind him, he grabbed a knife and crept back into the living room.

There was no-one there, and no evidence of anything having fallen. He checked the bedroom and bathroom, but there was no-one there other than him. Feeling a little silly at his over-reaction to a phantom noise, he returned to the kitchen to continue preparing his warm milk. Once it was done Illya went and sat down on the sofa. Holding the mug carefully, he laid his head back and closed his eyes. They shot open again at the very definite sound of something moving behind him.

Illya was instantly on his feet, dropping the mug without regard to where it fell. There was no doubt in his mind that there was someone else in the apartment with him, but as he turned to face them he found himself alone.

“Sleep-deprived paranoia,” he muttered to himself.

Still, he was taking no chances, so retrieved his gun from the holster hanging on the back of the door. The sound of a glass breaking in the kitchen had him holding the weapon out immediately. Edging along the wall, Illya peered into to kitchen, only to find it empty.

“Whoever is here, show yourself,” he called out, feeling ridiculous as he did so.

Predatel'

The voice had come from directly in front of him, yet there was clearly no person attached to the voice.

Predatel'. It said again. Traitor.

Illya scurried backwards, with his gun pointing to the space he’d heard the voice, until his back came into contact with the wall.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you doing this?”

A rustling sound from his bedroom caught the agent’s attention. Knowing he would find nothing, he still investigated and indeed found the room to be devoid of anyone. Declaring to himself that he was hallucinating from lack of sleep, Illya decided to get back into bed; vowing he would go straight to medical as soon as he got to work in the morning.

We’re coming.

That did it. There must be someone there with him. Dashing from the bedroom, Illya snatched up the phone and dialled Napoleon’s number. After what felt like for ever, the call was answered.

“Hello?”

“Napoleon, you have to come to my apartment. There is someone here, but I can’t find them. They called me a traitor and seem to be dropping invisible objects everywhere. . . “

“Illya, breathe,” Solo commanded. The phone ringing at 3:30 in the morning was already enough to make him cranky, without having to deal with an excitable Russian.

“Just come please, Napoleon,” Kuryakin begged. “I need your help.”

That statement was enough for the American. He had no idea what was going on, but his partner seem to be in trouble.

“I’ll be there as quickly as I can, Tovarisch.”

He can’t help you.

You’re on your own.

We’re coming.

Illya swung his weapon around wildly at the voices which seemed to be coming from all around him.


. . . . . . . . . . .


Napoleon Solo had a knot of fear in the pit of his stomach. Illya had sounded terrified on the phone, which was an alarm bell on its own. He knew his partner hadn’t been sleeping lately, so hoped against hope that the whole thing was down to that. The words Illya had babbled to him seemed to suggest the likelihood of impaired reasoning. Arriving at the Russian’s apartment in record time, Napoleon decided against knocking. If there was someone in there with Illya, he didn’t really want to alert them. That decision turned out to be a huge mistake. Solo, with his gun at the ready, entered the apartment. He had just enough time to notice his partner’s gun before the pain of a bullet burst through his thigh.

Napoleon fell to the floor, clutching at the bleeding injury.

“Dammit, Illya,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Kuryakin came to his senses and, realising what he’d done, threw his gun aside in horror.

“Bozhe Moy, I thought you were. . .”

“I don’t care what you thought,” Solo gasped. “Just get me an ambulance.”


. . . . . . . . . . . . .


Waking several hours later from his surgery, Napoleon found Mr Waverly was sitting where Illya should have been. Then he remembered.

“He shot me.”

“Indeed he did,” Waverly confirmed. “However, he was not in his right mind.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I understand your anger Mr Solo, but allow me to explain things to you.”

Upon arrival back at HQ, Napoleon was whisked straight into surgery. Illya was requested to go to Mr Waverly’s office. He fully expected to be fired or committed to a psychiatric unit. Possibly even both. His boss asked him for an explanation of his actions and Illya decided to tell him everything from his lack of sleep to the pulling of the trigger.

Hearing the tale, the Old Man fully sympathised with the young agent. Sleep deprivation could do strange things to the mind, but there was something about the story which worried him. Waverly knew from the many psychological tests his agents were subject to, that Kuryakin could go longer than three nights without sleep. He sent Illya to medical to get some drug-aided sleep. When he’d gone Waverly ordered a security team to the man’s apartment.

“The team found hidden transmitting equipment,” he explained to Solo. “From what can be determined, they were transmitting a subsonic wave designed to interfere with sleep. There was also a camera and microphone in each room. We are assuming they were monitoring his movements so they knew when it would be best to speak and transmit strange noises to Mr Kuryakin. When you got there, he was in an extremely heightened state of paranoia.”

. . . . . . . . . . . .


Illya was kept in a medically induced state of sleep for two days. Napoleon was waiting for him when he finally awoke. His anger with his partner had dissipated as soon as Mr Waverly had told him what had been going on. He had no idea if Illya would even remember. Napoleon smiled reassuringly, as blue eyes focused on him,

“Feeling refreshed after your nice long sleep?”

Illya stared him in confusion, then he noticed the crutches leaning against the chair, and his memories resurfaced.

“You will, of course, have my resignation,” he stated.

“Don’t be a blockhead, Tovarisch.”

Napoleon filled his partner in on what had happened to him and what had been found.

“If they had access to my apartment, why didn’t they just kill me outright?” Illya asked. “Why do they always go in for ridiculously convoluted schemes?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, chum. Come on, the doc said you could leave as soon as you’re ready.”

“And go where?” the Russian queried. “My apartment is seemingly not secure.”

“Not a problem,” Solo answered. “A new one is being arranged. Until then, you can bunk with me.”

“You just want someone around to wait on you hand and foot.”

“Well, Partner Mine, you did shoot me. I deserve some sort of compensation.”


The End.