An Illya Christmas Story

by Charlie Kirby

He woke with the top of his head threatening to blast free of his body. Cautiously, he cracked open one eye, relieved that darkness greeted him. In spite of the pain, he lay quietly, listening for any hints as to his location. The air was musty and something of a chemical smell, almost identifiable, but not quite.

Slowly, he moved a hand and then his foot. Unbound, that was a plus. Whichever THRUSH has captured him has just made a serious mistake. Leaving Illya Kuryakin untied, unshackled, or unchained was a bad thing... for them.

He sat up slowly and realized for the first time that his clothes were gone, replaced by some foreign, at least to him, material. It was soft and warm. It was, in fact, too warm and he could feel the heat of his own body being projected back onto itself. He also appeared to be wearing... mittens? He tried to pull them off for a full thirty seconds before realizing they had to be part of the sleeves themselves.

After two attempts, he managed to get to his feet and stretch out a hand. He felt shelving, or so he thought, under one hand. The other hand foound a wall, hard and resisting, stone probably. He tried glancing left and right, but something was obstructing his vision... a hood? This was getting more and strange as the moments went on.

Something tickled his face and he moved back instinctively until he realized it was a string. Saying a silent prayer to whichever god looked after wayward enforcement agents he pulled it and then shut his eyes against the resulting flash of light.

Then he opened them and wished he'd left them shut. This was too horrible for words. To be left, like this... he glanced around and recognized the contents of his cell and groaned... in a janitor's closet was really too much. This time Napoleon would pay and pay dearly...

He staggered from the closet and his fellow agents and coworkers could only stare, mouths agape, at the Section Two agent.

"Where is Napoleon? I will have him for this. I will not be denied the sight of blood outside his body..."

From his position in the beach chair, Napoleon felt a shiver run through him, despite of the warm tropical sun beating down upon his body. The woman stretch out beside him in the tiniest of bikinis glanced over.

"Something wrong, Napoleon?"

"It felt like someone walked over my grave."

"Oh, that's a cheerful thought for Christmas Day."

"Agreed and we'll no speak of it again." And yet, he couldn't help but wonder...just what time was it back in New York and just how much egg nog did Illya really consume... and just how long did he have to live?

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