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Classification: T for Teen (or used to be PG-13 or so)

Author's Notes: Only a handful of agents went through Survival School with
better marks. Why does everyone seem to think she's a THRUSH mole when
no one questioned the others?

Pairing: Unknown

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The trio met in Mr. Waverly's office for debriefing. It was generally
conceded that whatever the THRUSH Satrap leader had been up to, those
members of her crew who escaped were probably not responsible for her
actions. As to half-seen denizens of the officially deserted fishing village
and possible interpretations of whether THRUSH was responsible for perceived
deformities, there was no evidence left to make a determination.

The goo on Napoleon's clothing was inconclusive, the main ingredient being a
relative of the mucus found on a variety of ocean denizens from mollusks to
cephalopods. None of the agents had a theory to offer as to why there was a
vat of this substance in the installation, or exactly what THRUSH, or the
Satrap head, thought they were going to do with it.

Neither of the two agents coming into close contact with the substance
seemed to be suffering any ill effects. Medical gave Cheri a clean bill of
health with no left over effects they could detect from her brush with death
by drowning in the stuff. Her mentors might have had reservations about
Medical's evaluation, but they refrained from voicing them.

All in all, they learned very little, disposed of a THRUSH leader and were
not instrumental in destroying a ghost town. As to the apparently localized
tsunami that washed most of the remains of the town out to sea, no one had
an explanation. UNCLE's top geologists were evaluating the data from the
agents and exploring possibilities along the Northeastern coast without much
success.

The agents retired to Napoleon and Illya's shared office to run through
post-assignment paperwork. The discussion of the assignment was desultory,
Cheri making notes on a legal pad while Napoleon mused. Illya was
conspicuously silent as he filled in forms and signed off.

Cheri broke into his silence. “So, what do you think? Oh, dour Russian
accented one?” For just a moment as his very icy gaze met hers she wished
she'd kept her mouth shut. Nothing to do but brazen it out now. “Oh, come
on. There is no way I could have had anything to do with that.”

“I wasn't accusing ….”

“No, you're just using the ice prince glare to cut me down,” she shot back,
cutting off whatever he was going to say. “Look, I'm tired of the glare. I'm
tired of the distrust. You have something to say, let's get it out in the
open. All of it, not just the “Lovecraft didn't write fiction” stupidity.”

Napoleon opened his mouth and closed it again. Much as he didn't want a
fight between these two, he was curious about Illya's animosity, so he kept
out of it for now. He could always intervene if it came to blows.
“Cheri Christiana Yuconovich, born 1902 in Rouen, France. Died 1913.”

To both men's amazement, she burst out laughing. “Oh, that's good. Let's
see, 1902 to 1913 … She was 11. If she was still alive she'd be … what? 65?
Do I look 65?” Before either could answer, she ploughed on; “No, I don't.
Or, if I do, it's because of that goo I fell into. For heaven's sake, didn't
the obvious occur to you?”

Blank looks rewarded her.

“I'm 27. I was born in 1940. My father was Russian, with a distinct reason,
whatever it was, for not using his family name when he arrived in this
country.” She looked at the two men expecting them to figure it out. “He was
an illegal immigrant. I've always figured he was some sort of political
dissident who just up and left the country. Maman's passport was real, his
was forged. I always figured he just picked a name. I mean, come on, Piotr
Christian Yuconovich??? Come home, gentlemen … We lived in the same area.
Maybe my parents liked the name? I dunno. But my birth is duly registered.”

“December 21, 1940. You're namesake has the same birthdate.”

“You're kidding …” Her eyes reflected a feeling of startlement. “You're not
kidding? Wow. I didn't know that.” She gave a shiver. “That is creepy. Mind
you, it would be just like Maman to do something that off …”

“It would?” Napoleon asked curiously.

With a sigh, she nodded. “Yeah. Maman was never exactly what I'd call right
in the head. She adored Papa. I think she had kids because he wanted
them.When he died, she walked out leaving my older sister with a 13 year old
and a 2 year old to deal with.”

“How'd he die?”

“Accident.” She blinked to clear her eyes of the tears that still came.
“Sorry. I was very close to my Dad. Maman cleared the bank account and left.
Su was 18.”

“That's rough,” he agreed softly looking back at Illya. There was no
softening of the look.

“Good story.”

She gave him a look that spoke volumes in several languages, then shook her
head and threw up her hands. “Whatever,” she delivered in her best Valley
Girl imitation and turned her attention fully to Napoleon. “Are we through
with the post-action analysis?”

He checked his notes and nodded. “Yes.”

“May I be excused? I'd like lunch.”

“Of course.” He watched her walk out, then turned to his partner who was
scowling. “You got a reasonable explanation.”

“But not the truth.”

“You still think she's a THRUSH mole?”

“No.”

Napoleon felt his jaw drop. “Then what?”

Illya slumped in his chair. “I don't know. She just … rubs me the wrong
way?” He considered his reactions for a moment, shaking his head. “There is
something wrong. She's still too good to be true.”

“Then we'll be there when it falls apart.”

End Round 10.

End of Assignment.