Laugh Until You Die (Part 4)
Nov. 21st, 2014 04:20 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
jantojones.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
section7mfuPart 1 - http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/822662.html
Part 2 - http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/824608.html
Part 3 - http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/825602.html
When Napoleon woke, it was to an all too familiar sore spot on the back of his head. An attempt to rub the area alerted him to the hand cuffs he’d been fitted with. They, in turn, were attached to ankle cuffs with a chain. It looked long enough to allow him to stand, but not much more. It took a bit of effort, but Napoleon eventually managed to get to his feet, and he took in his surroundings. He’d been locked in a cage in the corner of a small, darkish room. In another corner stood a large cabinet, but it was the steel table in the centre which drew his attention.
Strapped to the table, was the unconscious form of Illya Kuryakin. Dried blood matted the blond hair on the side of his head, indicating he had also received a blow from something heavy. Thick leather straps held his wrists, ankles and neck in place. When the Russian woke, he wouldn’t be going anywhere, and he wouldn’t be overly happy.
“Illya!” Solo called over to him. “Hey, Tovarisch!”
Kuryakin groaned as he came to, and tried to move. His eyes shot wide open when he realised he was pinioned.
“Kakogo cherta?!” (What the hell?!) He yelled, as he strained against the straps, before noticing Napoleon. “Mr Waverly is not going to be happy.”
“If we can’t get out of this, we won’t need to worry about the Old Man,” Solo replied, wryly. “Hey! At least you’re not naked this time.”
“Thank you for those comforting words, Napoleon,” Illya replied flatly. “I am, however, tied to a table.”
Solo did his best to indicate he wasn’t exactly in a great position himself, though he had to admit, it was a better than Illya’s. Unfortunately, this suggested that, whatever Kent had planned, Illya would be the recipient.
“I don’t suppose you have one of your odds defying escape strategies to hand,” Kuryakin enquired, in a tone which belied the fear he was beginning to experience.
“They all rather depend on getting out of these cuffs and this cage first.”
The door to the room opened, and Malcolm Kent entered. He was carrying a gas canister and mask.
“I do hope you gentlemen are comfortable,” he chatted congenially, as he placed the canister near to Illya’s head. “I always try to be a good host.”
The Russian couldn’t help but roll his eyes. What was it with THRUSHies and cheesy dialogue?
“Do all THRUSH personnel have to do special training to sound like bad spy movie villains?”
It took Napoleon every ounce of willpower not to sigh in frustration. He would have to have a serious word with his partner about goading captors. It never did him any good, and generally led him to being treated much worse than he otherwise would have done. It often amazed Solo as to just how Illya had survived his life in Russia, with his somewhat confrontational attitude.
“For your information,” Kent replied, in the same chatty tone. “I’m not currently with THRUSH. I hope to buy my way back in by presenting Solo to them. You, on the other hand, are going to pay for losing me my position in the first place.”
“What’s in the canister?” Illya asked, as a feeling of dread settled in his chest.
“You’re going to enjoy this, Russkie. This is the gaseous form of the drug I injected Helen with. I had to give her a massive overdose of it so that you would be able to see what it does. In this form, it is much more diluted. As a result it will take you hours to die, but you will laugh the whole time. It starts out as little giggles and gradually gets worse.”
Illya had faced torment and death more times than he cared to remember, but the thought of laughing his way to death terrified him. Dignity had never been something which concerned him, but this death would be too humiliating.
“I have to admit,” Kent continued, “That the laugh is entirely coincidental. The substance was designed to slowly shut down the lungs and give the victim a long slow suffocation. It was such a wonderful discovery when my test subjects laughed themselves into hyperventilation.”
“Ublyudok!” (Bastard!) Kuryakin snarled, before spitting into Kent’s face.
Despite Napoleon’s earlier warning, Illya was now determined to kill this man. If he was given even the tiniest opportunity, he would take it, and deal with the consequences later.
“Now, now. There’s no need for that,” Kent smiled, wiping the spit from his cheek. “I don’t know what you said, but I doubt it was complimentary. Hold still please while I fit you with this mask”
From his cage, Napoleon could only watch as his friend tried, and failed, to shake the mask from his face. Kent slowly released the valve on the canister. Solo could see Illya holding his breath, in a futile attempt to prevent the inevitable. He thought back to the warning he’d given Illya about wanting Kent alive. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
“I shall leave you for a while,” Kent told them. “I’m sure you both have some heartfelt reminiscing to do, while you’re able.”
On the table, the Russian began to chuckle.
To Be Continued.
Part 2 - http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/824608.html
Part 3 - http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/825602.html
When Napoleon woke, it was to an all too familiar sore spot on the back of his head. An attempt to rub the area alerted him to the hand cuffs he’d been fitted with. They, in turn, were attached to ankle cuffs with a chain. It looked long enough to allow him to stand, but not much more. It took a bit of effort, but Napoleon eventually managed to get to his feet, and he took in his surroundings. He’d been locked in a cage in the corner of a small, darkish room. In another corner stood a large cabinet, but it was the steel table in the centre which drew his attention.
Strapped to the table, was the unconscious form of Illya Kuryakin. Dried blood matted the blond hair on the side of his head, indicating he had also received a blow from something heavy. Thick leather straps held his wrists, ankles and neck in place. When the Russian woke, he wouldn’t be going anywhere, and he wouldn’t be overly happy.
“Illya!” Solo called over to him. “Hey, Tovarisch!”
Kuryakin groaned as he came to, and tried to move. His eyes shot wide open when he realised he was pinioned.
“Kakogo cherta?!” (What the hell?!) He yelled, as he strained against the straps, before noticing Napoleon. “Mr Waverly is not going to be happy.”
“If we can’t get out of this, we won’t need to worry about the Old Man,” Solo replied, wryly. “Hey! At least you’re not naked this time.”
“Thank you for those comforting words, Napoleon,” Illya replied flatly. “I am, however, tied to a table.”
Solo did his best to indicate he wasn’t exactly in a great position himself, though he had to admit, it was a better than Illya’s. Unfortunately, this suggested that, whatever Kent had planned, Illya would be the recipient.
“I don’t suppose you have one of your odds defying escape strategies to hand,” Kuryakin enquired, in a tone which belied the fear he was beginning to experience.
“They all rather depend on getting out of these cuffs and this cage first.”
The door to the room opened, and Malcolm Kent entered. He was carrying a gas canister and mask.
“I do hope you gentlemen are comfortable,” he chatted congenially, as he placed the canister near to Illya’s head. “I always try to be a good host.”
The Russian couldn’t help but roll his eyes. What was it with THRUSHies and cheesy dialogue?
“Do all THRUSH personnel have to do special training to sound like bad spy movie villains?”
It took Napoleon every ounce of willpower not to sigh in frustration. He would have to have a serious word with his partner about goading captors. It never did him any good, and generally led him to being treated much worse than he otherwise would have done. It often amazed Solo as to just how Illya had survived his life in Russia, with his somewhat confrontational attitude.
“For your information,” Kent replied, in the same chatty tone. “I’m not currently with THRUSH. I hope to buy my way back in by presenting Solo to them. You, on the other hand, are going to pay for losing me my position in the first place.”
“What’s in the canister?” Illya asked, as a feeling of dread settled in his chest.
“You’re going to enjoy this, Russkie. This is the gaseous form of the drug I injected Helen with. I had to give her a massive overdose of it so that you would be able to see what it does. In this form, it is much more diluted. As a result it will take you hours to die, but you will laugh the whole time. It starts out as little giggles and gradually gets worse.”
Illya had faced torment and death more times than he cared to remember, but the thought of laughing his way to death terrified him. Dignity had never been something which concerned him, but this death would be too humiliating.
“I have to admit,” Kent continued, “That the laugh is entirely coincidental. The substance was designed to slowly shut down the lungs and give the victim a long slow suffocation. It was such a wonderful discovery when my test subjects laughed themselves into hyperventilation.”
“Ublyudok!” (Bastard!) Kuryakin snarled, before spitting into Kent’s face.
Despite Napoleon’s earlier warning, Illya was now determined to kill this man. If he was given even the tiniest opportunity, he would take it, and deal with the consequences later.
“Now, now. There’s no need for that,” Kent smiled, wiping the spit from his cheek. “I don’t know what you said, but I doubt it was complimentary. Hold still please while I fit you with this mask”
From his cage, Napoleon could only watch as his friend tried, and failed, to shake the mask from his face. Kent slowly released the valve on the canister. Solo could see Illya holding his breath, in a futile attempt to prevent the inevitable. He thought back to the warning he’d given Illya about wanting Kent alive. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
“I shall leave you for a while,” Kent told them. “I’m sure you both have some heartfelt reminiscing to do, while you’re able.”
On the table, the Russian began to chuckle.
To Be Continued.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 04:48 pm (UTC)Loved these lines: The Russian couldn’t help but roll his eyes. What was it with THRUSHies and cheesy dialogue? “Do all THRUSH personnel have to do special training to sound like bad spy movie villains?”
Looking forward to the dramatic escape and Illya's cure.
no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 06:27 pm (UTC)I liked those lines too :-)
I think I've finally managed to get a handle on it. My boyfriend doesn't understand me when I tell him the plot won't go where I'm trying to steer it. He just says, 'you're the writer, so it's all down to you isn't it?'
I now know what is going to happen, but I'm not sure if it will be one more part or two. I was going to make this part longer, but that last line was begging to be the cliff-hanger.
ps. What makes you think there'll be a rescue or cure? ;-)
no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 07:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 07:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 07:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 05:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 06:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 08:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 08:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 09:02 pm (UTC)You shall have to wait and see what happens to Kent :-D