Rated: PG

I wake to a bright light. Blinding. Hurting. Someone near. Turn, reach, and.....

"Good morning!".A cheerful voice chimes from the foot of my bed. "Let me get that shade." Napoleon's nurse walks over to the window. "Is that better. Sorry. We are on the south-east side, and the morning sun can be vicious in summer. I didn't mean to wake you."

"When?" I ask. It does not feel like I have slept at all. I notice Napoleon is also looking weary, and he is normally an early riser.

Time? Five-thirty. Far too early, I agree. Just go back to sleep, and ring when you are ready for breakfast."

I roll over and grab the pillow when my stomach grumbles. Loudly. Enough so the nurse can hear.

Sir." She looks distressed.Why don't I get you some juice? Just to start." She looks at me, then at Napoleon.

He sits up.  The mention of food has captured his interest.

Orange?" she offers.Or would you prefer pineapple? Or tomato?"

Napasha smiles.You sound very....generous."

Oh, Mr. Solo." She blushes. A dangerous habit for blondes. It is hard to conceal.Behave!" She tries for exasperated. She succeeds at thrilled. You have both lost weight, and I am under doctor's orders to see that you eat well."

Napasha catches the blush and moves in for the kill.If you could help me out of bed?"

Certainly." She eases one shoulder under his arm, only to gasp when she discovers where his hands wind up.Watch the hands!" She blushes again, deeper this time.We have all been warned about you."

Only fair. I wondered when *that* talent would find its way into his surveillance file.

Behave, or I will call an orderly. Can you stand?" She turns to me.I will help him first, Mr. Kuryakin. Unless you would prefer to return to your own room?"

No." If Napasha is here, then this is my room.

"Then just rest a moment."

"I'll wait for you here." I agree, enjoying the show. We could both walk. Napasha is just enjoying his game. And he is *so* good at it. I hit the button to raise up the back of the bed so I can watch the show in comfort. Napoleon is milking the situation for all it is worth, leaning against her breasts and pretending to 'stumble' so his hands can 'slip'.

His game serves its purpose. She waits outside the bathroom, giving him a few moments alone. Not  likely  of much use now, but the knowledge that we *will* be left alone is itself of value. Even so, she is waiting the moment the door reopens.

"I will help you back into bed." He grins at that before she adds,  "alone." Her voice swings between amusement and exasperation. "Really, Mr. Solo. Keep this up and I will report you for harassment." There is no heat in her tone. I smile to myself. I know just she feels.

"Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I can walk unassisted."

"Very well." I think she would like to argue, but she does not. " Just take my arm for balance. I'd hate to see you fall - you could end up in the hospital."

"Very funny." I allow her to help me out of bed, but not afterwards."I will call if I require aid." Apparently Ragsac has sent the word around, because she does not press the point.

I am still moving rather slowly, so by the time I am finished the nurse has been wherever and has returned with a basket of small boxes and cans. "I'll just leave this here, and you can help yourself." She points to a large card. "And here's the breakfast menu." She swats down Napasha's hand one more time and is gone.

"Illya." He is holding one box marked 'Minute Maid'. "Check the dates on these cans." He hands me another marked 'V8'. The top closure is a silver film marked 'sell/by 10/10/02 . Someone is going to quite a lot of work to be convincing.

"Even if the date is correct." I pause, considering all I have seen. " Even if we are somehow in the future." Which I do *not* believe, but I will use it as a hypothesis. "That is no reason to assume we are *not* prisoners of T.H.R.U.S.H."

"Or someone else" Napoleon adds.

I look over the cans carefully. Then check the one marked 'guava'. The dates match. "Do you think they are poisoned?" I ask.

"Probably not." He smiles. " Why bother?"

I consider the question. He is right. "Well, then.... I'll have the pineapple." It is excellent, and I am now aware of just how hungry I am. After I finish the peach nectar, I turn to Napoleon. "Did she say breakfast menu?"

"Yes. I think so." He picks up the white card.

I hold out my hand. "Let me see that." I scan the choices. Eggs, porridge, ham, sausage, German pancakes, Belgian waffles.. Belgian waffles? With bananas and raspberries?

"Napoleon?"

He turns. "I have reconsidered. This is not a T.H.R.U.S.H. plot. And this is not the future. We are dead. I am in heaven."

*****

"Brinng* I try the call button. The tapping of heels follows immediately.

"Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo.  Ready for breakfast?"

"Yes." Napasha hands over the menu we have marked. "Would you know where my suit is?"

"Clothes?" She gives it a thought. "Not that I have seen, but I'm sure I can find something."

Napoleon offers her a smile for motivation. "Preferably something without the drafty back." He leans forward, flashing shoulder. "Even in summer, this place is not that warm."

She smiles back. "I'll see what I can do."

Damn, he is good.

******

This time we get to sit at a table with regular chairs. Two men in green set this up for us before removing the wheelchairs of last night.  Another orderly brings our breakfast. He also waits while we eat, and clears it away afterwards. We do not see the nurse again until she reappears with what looks like a bundle of rags.

"No luck finding your stuff." She smiles at Napoleon. "So I borrowed some t-shirts and sweats from the intern's lounge." She shakes the items out for our inspection. Gym clothes. And not Pasha's designer versions. "Not much for looks, but at least they should be warmer." She looks at Napoleon, uncertain. "If you need some help, I should call the orderlies, but..."

"I will aid him if required." I answer.

"Oh....well" She hesitates. "Thanks. Ring if you need me. Or nursing is 2-16." She pauses again, but despite her eyelashes Napoleon gives her no further opening, so at last she leaves.

"Nike?" he asks, holding up a white work-out shirt lettered in flowing green. "Isn't that some Greek goddess?"

I catch a glimpse of the back, and I laugh. It is lettered there as well.

He turns the shirt around, and snorts. "Just do it?"

I try to look stern. "You already do enough." I consider my choices. "Pass me the black one. What, do you suppose, is an Addidas? I decide on the baggy black pants. No underwear, but that is not a problem because the fabric is very soft.  And at least in black it is thick enough. Napoleon's pair is grey.

Finished, Napasha looks in the mirror. "Do you really think this is current fashion."

I shrug. "A lie would be more believable."

He tugs at the knit cuffs and gives himself another look. "Illya. I really am in a lot of trouble."

Chapter Eight - Electrical Banana (It's Sure to be a Sudden Craze)

Rated: R+ (sexual) - FINALLY!

Warning: Kids, Do Not Try This At Home! The side effects of Electronic Muscle Stimulation are *sometimes* as described. Sort of. Involuntary responses can be painful. Think muscle cramp, not sex. EMS is a serious rehabilitation tool. No reputable therapist would use it for entertainment. Consult your own health care professional.

Napoleon and I are dressed - in a fashion - and we have finished all the juice. Television is possible, but frankly makes my head ache. There is no chess set. I am looking for a deck of cards when this morning's orderly returns, along with Ragsac and two other bruisers. Oh well, at least I had breakfast.

They are polite enough, but *very* insistent. Napoleon signals 'go along'. We do not know where we are here. Perhaps a better chance to escape will appear as we are moved. That often happens. I concur.

Unfortunately, we travel only as far as the end of the hall. A fair sized room holding a large steel tank, two padded tables with straps, surfaces covered in plastic. This does not look good. Several more large men in green are there, along with a Asian woman. I hate when it's women. There always do the most damage.

They walk me to one uncomfortable looking table, and Napoleon to another. Even worse. I hate 'team sports'.

"If you could just undress?" The woman holds out a towel. "This will really be easier without the clothes."

"Do I have a choice?" I ask. Just in case.

She shows her teeth. "Not really."

Perhaps she wishes for psychological advantage. This entire scenario, I remind myself, is likely a psy-ops operation. I nod. It will make no difference. I have fought naked before. I wrap the towel  around my waist.

"Sit down please." Courteous, but the woman is clearly in charge. She positions herself just in front of where I have been seated, and says. "Hold out your arms like this."

Shocked, I do so. Out, up, forward, bend.The exercises are reassuringly familiar. Perhaps this is not T.H.R.U.S.H. after all.

"Not your first time for this?" She asks.

"I'm familiar with the concept."

"Excellent." She starts another series of moves. "It's always more effective when people know what to expect."

Napoleon shadows my moves at the next table. His trainer is one of the bruisers. Perhaps  the nurse was being truthful when she said the staff had been warned about his charm.

The movements are not easy, and I am beginning to reconsider the prospects that this might indeed be torture - all be it in a strange form - when the third  'therapist'  calls out. "Time."

She points to the man standing in front of Napoleon. "Hot tub."

The other man helps open the freestanding steel tank surrounded by pipes. The water is bubbling , and I catch the sheen of oil on the surface.  I tense as they guide Napoleon over. Boiling oil is a very nasty thing. Napasha touches the surface, sighs, and slides in. Obviously, it is not unendurable.

The dark-haired woman turns back with that smile that I do not trust. "And for you, Mr. Kuryakin, we have something really special."

I follow her through a door into a much smaller room. One 'couch', flexible interrogation lamp, and a large device topped with cables. One pillow and a small blanket folded neatly on the only chair.

"Given your background, you should appreciate this."

I consider an escape, but...there are no visible restraints. And Napoleon is not in a good position. And we still do not know where we are. So  - I glance at the wires. Very thin. They would break easily. And the door has no lock. Decided. If I see no restraints I will cooperate. For now.

"Lay down," she directs.

I do, sliding the pillow under my neck.

She opens the drawer and removes a small tube of thick gel. She smears it on the contact pads. I was right. Electricity. The size of the pads match the reddened spots I had observed in the shower. But why would you torture someone in a coma? Sense memory? If torture was even what they had in mind, which for some reason I was beginning to doubt. Just a little.

"Huum..." She ran a finger around the marks on one shoulder. "Damage. I'll have to try some new sites." The thought apparently displeased her.  She continues to hem and hum as she fixed the pads to my shoulder, arms and legs. Finally she removed the towel covering my groin. "Bad," she muttered. "Not enough..." I felt a bit insulted. Perhaps I was not in top form, but I had seldom before recieved *that* criticism. I was relieved when the finger poked again. Apparently she was referring to the red patches at the top of each hip. Better. I took no particular pride in my hips. After a few more thumps, she finally places the new pads slightly in.

"Stay still now. I wouldn't want the pads to slip." She turns to the machine. A red light flashes, then a green. I hear the hum, and feel a slight tingle at the contacts where the current passes. I observe  a few twitches of involuntary muscle response. Nothing severe. "Tell me if this hurts."

Tell her what? I would tell her nothing!

"Here is the call button." She turns one  more dial, covers me with a towel, and leaves.

I ignore it. I would not give her the satisfaction.

More green lights come on as the current gets stronger. There is a gauge on the side indicating voltage. Rather large numbers. Very large. The amperage must be low.

Very interesting. I watch my toes twitch with each swing of the needle. Standard neurological response. But why? To cause later sensitivity? The program seems unnecessarily complex. Treatment? I can think of no positive reason to wish one's limbs to jerk like a pithed frog's. Still, it is *not* unpleasant. I lean back. Not unpleasant at all. In fact? Another pulse, then a tingle, and I become aware of a movement below the terry cloth. I pull the fabric away.

The current has somehow shifted course. Interesting. I watch the needle swing and feel my cock contract in response. A very peculiar sensation, but not - I decide after some thought - in any way painful. Just...different. The sensation is centered at the root, almost in my balls. Not in the head as customary.

Strange, I decide, but not bad. Not bad at all.

The current has a rhythm of sorts, Two light jolts, one heavy. Then a pause. It is...erotic.

I lean back, pressing my thighs together a bit to ease the tickle in my balls. It helps - somewhat. But the pressure seems to intensify the contact.

Each pulse of current brings a certain numbness, so it is a while before I notice my cock beginning to fill. I watch with a certain detachment as it curls up, shading red, then towards purple as the blood swells the head. A drop of pre-cum beads on the tip.

The needle swings, and I feel a sharp charge slice up the underside of my cock. My foreskin pulls back in sympathetic response. Obviously semen is an excellent conductor.

With each pulse a new surge of blood presses against the sensitive head, reminding me of how long it has been since Napasha and I were safe in New York.

I would reach down, but the tangle of wires limits my movement.  I do *not* wish to risk a sudden shock. Not at these levels. Not there. Not now.

Another surge. Shoulders twitch, thighs twitch, and half a pulse behind my cock twitches. I watch it jerk forward, each movement coordinated with the swing of the needle on the electrical machine. And with each twitch a new drop of fluid leaks out to catch more of the current.

I grip the side of the table, watching the needle and counting the surges that now seem to race solely to my groin.  I breath deeply. I will *not* moan. This is *not* unendurable!

My balls jerk up, twisting in response to the electric waves. I close my eyes as a final surge of current sends a shower of seed splashing onto my chest. Clear and white. It looks healthy.

I taste a bit. Same as always. At least it doesn't *seem* burned. I decide that there has been no damage. And my release seems to have altered the circuit again. I watch my twitching toes with a sense of calm.

With the towel, I clean up as best I can. I still feel sticky. Perhaps I should ask to try Napoleon's tub. But how would I phrase the request?

A tap at the door. I roll the towel and toss it under the bed.

I have just steadied my breathing when the Asian woman enters. She looks at my now-bare body, and hands me a robe.

"Sorry," she says. "Were you hot in here?

Chapter Nine - Nowhere Man

Rated: G

Major Hovsepian is there when we reach our room.

"Mr. Kuryakin." She nods. "Mr. Solo." She holds out her hand. "Good to see you looking so spry."

He takes it gently. Napoleon has made an art form of shaking hands with women. From her expression, that art loses nothing when translated into Russian.  I do not know whether to be pleased or annoyed. I supposed that will depend on the Major's actual affiliation.

"Our clothes?" Napasha smiles, radiating charm.

The Major smiles back. "I'm afraid yours did not come through in the best order. We took them to the lab, and while I'm sure you can have then back...."

"You won't want them." A familiar voice finishes.

"April????" Napoleon spins.

The woman called April Dancer is standing in the doorway. "It's me, Napoleon. In the no-longer-twenty flesh."

"I don't believe..." He gestures, referring either to her presence or her appearance. Perhaps both.

"Of course not." She drops into a chair and checks through the juice cans, abandoning the quest when she finds them all empty. "I wouldn't believe it either. And there's no reason you should."

The nurse observes April's search, leaves for a moment, and comes back with a fresh basket and clean glasses. Good. My previous ... exercise has left me rather drained.

"Please, Ms. Dancer." The short man in the white jacket from yesterday's briefing has come in behind her. He sounds pained.

"No reason at all," she counters. "Whatever Dr. Goldak may say to the contrary."

"You're here for our de-briefing?" Napoleon asks, helping himself to a fresh can of mango nectar and tossing the pineapple to me.

"Don't be silly." She waves at chairs, inviting us to be seated. "There is no way either of you are going to say anything. Not under these suspicious circumstances. Which I respect." She takes a deep swallow before putting down the glass. "I won't put you to the work of making up convincing lies."

Napoleon takes the chair beside her. "When will we be returning to New York?" he asks.

"New York?" She discovers a sudden interest her glass. "Any time you want."

"But not U.N.C.L.E. ?" It is not a question.

April Dancer hesitates, then; "That might be a bit more complicated. Not something we need to deal with today." She pulls two large envelopes out of her purse. " While you do not yet believe it, it is in fact the year 2001. Which gives us a few complications, as I don't believe either of you could convincingly pass for 60. So..."

She hands the envelopes to Napoleon, who passed the one marked INK to me.

"Updated birth certificates, passports,  drivers licenses, checkbook, bank and credit cards. Pocket cash. All quite valid. We thought you would like to keep your names."

I count the cash. 10,000 in American dollars, 16,000 in Swiss francs, more then 200,000 in rather strange looking notes bearing the emblem for rubles. If these were equal amounts? I left the math for later. Then I wondered when T.H.R.U.S.H. had added counterfeiting to their schemes. If in fact they had. This was getting stranger by the minute.

"Officially, you gentleman have both been on active status , so your checks have been deposited to your accounts. Just as before. That should provide you with at least some resources."

Dancer looks at the Major, who hands me another envelope. This one was thinner. Slightly.

"Mr. Kuryakin, with you we may have one slight problem."

Major Hovsepian steps forward, very formal. A bad sign. "In view of your.. affiliations, we decided on a Russian passport. But you were born in Kiev. If you would prefer to be a Ukrainian citizen?" She pauses. I say nothing. "We....believe you have that right. And we will work something out. Somehow."

April nods. "Ambassador Dabaghin can be a bit ... difficult..... but we do have higher resources."

Was this some strange test of my loyalty? "Russian ...is fine."

The April woman looks relieved. "Just think about it. There's no rush. The British one is also valid, so you should not have any problems." She motions for the Major to continue.

Major Hovsepian clears her throat. "The other question is.... I'm sorry, but while you were gone we retired you from the Navy."

"Retired me?"

"You had an uneventful career as a submarine Commander. What can I say?" She shrugs, suddenly very human. "They needed to make some force reductions, and people who don't exist are easy to reassign. Also it saved money.  It is possible that you could challenge this..

"No." I reply. "Retired is....fine."

"Good." Now Major Hovsepian looks relieved. "I truly do not need a fight with Admiral Voronkhin." From the looks they exchange, April Dancer agrees. " If you could read over the letter in your packet, and sign it sometime before you leave ? It's your formal request for separation." Her tone takes the smug sound of one from a superior service. "The Navy is in love with its paperwork."

I open the packet. She is apparently telling the truth. The first stack starts with a retirement form dated 1984.  Apparently I am now a thirty year man. Another envelope is folded beneath it. I pull it out and unfold the layered papers.

"The other is your resignation from the KGB. April of 1993 as a General Officer. That one is optional." She hesitates, then adds. "I assure you, the services would be very happy to have you back. I'm sure we could find a place for a man with your talents. It's just that.."

"More budget cuts?"

"Exactly. Also - you reached mandatory retirement age."

I read the letter. It says I wish to 'pursue other career options'. "You want me to sign this?" I ask.

She smiles."If you would."

"I do not know...."

"Then do not." Dr. Goldak speaks up. "There is no need for hasty decisions."

The Major's smile falters a bit, then turns persuasive. "You can always rejoin later - if you want to."

"I will think about it." That is true enough. This game is getting very complex, and I suspect the wrong move could be lethal  indeed.

Napoleon has finished counting his cash, and has stowed the papers and wallet in his various pockets. "Is that it?" he asks.

"Hardly." The April woman replies. "But that's it for now."

******

They are leaving when Napoleon stops her. "April?"

She turns back.

He hesitates, then asks. "My... family?"

"All fine." she answers, a touch too quickly for my tastes. " Except....I'm sorry, Napoleon. Your Aunt Rebecca passed away in 1986." She came over and patted his shoulder. "Your sister is a bit frail. She had a stroke last winter. But she's still at home. Both of your nieces are married, and doing well, and your brother-in-law just ran for the Vermont State Assembly." She laughs at that. "Lost by a landslide, but still.."

"It's an honor to be asked." Napasha finishes. "Can I see them?"

"I can't stop you."

His face shows nothing beyond his usual mild interest, but I have grown adept at reading where others can not. That was not the answer he had hoped for.

"Napoleon." April sits down again. " We don't exactly have a lot of experience in this. We're making it up as be go along. So - use your best judgment. You know them better then we can, and your professional assessment has always been...flawless. If you think they can stay quiet..?" She takes a deep breath. "Just... be discrete. It's much better for all of us that way. If you make the tabloids, I will have to disavow you. I really don't want to do that. Not when we have you back again."

"Mark?" he asks.

"My old partner?" She smiles again, clearly glad to be on safer ground. "Mark retired back in 1980. Just after Waverly..." A cloud passes over her eyes. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. We lost Mr. Waverly back in 1978. But Mark is doing fine. Nowadays he teaches international policy at Berkeley. Lectures on the evils of espionage. Occasionally pickets the CIA building. He's very happy - and I know he'd love to see you."

She takes a breath, searching for something more to say. Then she *really* smiles. "I just remembered. U.N.C.L.E. policy always required at least two weeks down - time after a long mission. I think this one qualifies. Why don't you take some time and go see him?" She pulls out a card and scribbles something on the back. "Call"me"in New York after you've had time to settle in and think things over."

She closes her purse and stands up again. "Illya?" she says to me. "Take care of him."

"I always do." I answer.

END CHAPTER NINE

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