written for section 7MFU picfic challenge
Napoleon Solo cursed, fighting against the vain need for rubbing his eyes. His vision was blurred and it wasn't dust, sand, smoke... It was this damned drug. Rely on evil birds, he thought. Somewhere, in front of him though so far from him, there were those colored rings. At least, he knew there were colored rings, black, blue, red, yellow... All he could make out at the moment were swaying ellipses...
“Do you hear about antimatter, Mr. Solo? Of course, you do...” The man chuckled, pointing at what looked like to be a huge concrete tube, with an incongruous target on its front side “ This is a Penning trap. As you probably know, the reaction of one kg of antimatter with one kg of matter would produce the equivalent of 43 megatons of TNT... In this cube...” The voice was ingratiating. “we have one ton of matter... and one ton of antimatter.” He paused and looked at the fault. “You ruined our plan, Mr. Solo, but you won't save California... Except...” He paused again, grabbing the UNCLE agent's collar, and smirked maliciously. “You can defuse it. All you have to do is is to shoot an arrow, right in the middle of the inner ring. Right in the middle, Mr Solo... If not... you'll be the privileged witness of apocalypse, of your own failure... For less than one second, unfortunately.”
Napoleon felt a twinge in his neck and the THRUSH villain waved an empty syringe.
“Be seeing you... Or... finally... not, Mr Solo...”
They had dropped him on this breathtakingly high cliff with a bow and some arrows.
There were very few arrows left.
There was very few time left, probably.
At the moment, he barely make out, so far from him, kind of a multicolored mist.
He wasn't Robin Hood.
He wasn't William Tell.
He wouldn't save the world.
“Havo dad, Napoleon...” (Sit down)
The voice gave him as start but a strong though gentle hand helped him to sit down.
“Who are you?” He screwed up his eyes, trying to identify the comer. A strange fellow, young, clad in a weird green and brown attire, slender, with long, very long blond hair, keen blue eyes and sharp... very sharp and long ears. A strange fellow, indeed...
“You look like an Elf...” He bit his lips at his own incoherence. He was delirious...
But the strange creature smiled, a charming smile, patted him on the shoulder and grabbed the bow.
“What are you doing?”
The Elf-delusion chose an arrow, checked the bow-string and drew it lithely, effortlessly
The arrow flew across the emptiness and hit the right center of the inner ring.
Napoleon chuckled. He couldn't see it but he knew for sure... Of course, Elves were talented archers. “And you're stark-raving mad, Napoleon Solo!”, he thought.
The elfin looking creature stood next to him, still smiling, obviously self-satisfied. Napoleon shook his head. No. It was the drug or... or perhaps he was... perhaps he was dead, gone with the San Andreas Fault, gone with million and million people, gone with...
The Elf-delusion crouched down, watching him with concern. No. Napoleon Solo pursed his lips.
“Who are you?”
“Renich lù i erui govannem?” (Do you remember the first time when we first met?”
What... Words... unknown language... But suddenly Napoleon heard another voice, his own voice delivering meaningless syllables, “Gwenwin in enninath...” (Long years have passed)
“Napoleon? Wake up, now!”
He half-opened his eyes and met familiar ones. Yes. He knew this man. This man was... a friend.
“How are you doing?”
Napoleon Solo took a deep breath. So he was alive. So... it was a dream... a nightmare induced by the drug... No Elf... no evil device... no bow...
“I am fine...”
The man helped him to get up and gave him a thumbs-up. “Well done, Napoleon...” He pointed at... - Napoleon Solo froze – a huge concrete cube with a target on its front side... and an arrow right in the center of the inner ring. “You got it right, man! If not... The Section 4 guys tell that it's a Pent... Pem.. “
“A Penning trap...”
The other shrugged his shoulders sheepishly, “Yes, that. The arrow defused the device and...”
A few days later...
Alexander Waverly was staring at his top agent. “You did well, Mr. Solo.” Then, he pushed Napoleon's report aside – a very incomplete report, the agent thought. The Old Man was filling his pipe methodically. He didn't dismiss him, which meant that there was something... Napoleon frowned slightly. The blue eyes gazed at him through the bushy eyebrows.
“You did well...”
Napoleon was smelling a rat.
“But... it was a close call. A very close call, young man.”
Waverly lit the pipe and puffed at it, in his considered way.
“I decided to give you... a partner.”
“A partner, sir?”
“Yes. We got a very talented section 2 agent. He comes from the UK, but... he's Russian... our only Russian... Soviet UNCLE agent. His name is Illya Kuryakin.” The Old Man pressed a button and the door opened up.
A slender young man, slightly too long blond hair, keen blue eyes... appeared.