The explosion shook UNCLE's reconnaissance team and sent bits of ice and snow raining down from the Spartan structure, but did no more and no less damage than had been intended -the scorched, mangled lock fell off and the door slid open with a groan. Napoleon wondered if the others were thinking the same thing as he -that even a minor blast like that would usually have sent someone running -to escape or attack. THRUSH begging for UNCLE's help aside, they were not a group to quietly accept destruction of their property quietly...assuming that anyone was there...alive... Solo suppressed a shudder -too many questions and even more ugly possibilities- and he cared less and less for the direction his thoughts were taking. Irrational as the notion was, he was sure that he would know if his partner hadn't made it -he had to believe that or he might crack.

"All right, people," Solo said as the last of the fallout littered the snow-covered ground, "quiet reception, but exercise extreme caution. We have a very limited window of operations. Move in."

DECEMBER 26, 5:27 P.M.

"Crikey..." The word escaped Mark Slate as a feeble whisper, his gloved hand clasping UNCLE Special all the more tightly. Despite April's earlier observations about Antarctic fauna, he hadn't expected to see or hear anything out there in that frozen wasteland, but he *had* expected there to be *someone* -whether THRUSH or UNCLE- to be here....alive or dead. But there was no-one here. *No-one*. And yet, there *had* to have been. The evidence was all around him -an overturned coffee cup here, a THRUSH uniform laid out on a bed, the picture of someone's family on an unkempt desk (he had even found an
UNCLE communication pen lost -or was it discarded- among the refuse that crackled beneath his feet), but no *one*.

"Mark -anything?"

Slate frowned at the sound of Solo's voice coming from his pen communicator -the polar magnetic fields were playinng hob with the reception. It sounded like they had a bad phone connection. "I haven't clapped eyes on anyone or anything. It's like they all just did a scarper after turning the place into a rubble heap."

"Logan?"

"No, sir, but there *must* have been a fight or something in this section. Looks like blood on the walls -could be human."

"April?"

"I'm with Brewer and Cruise, Napoleon -we've found the labs, but..."

"'But'," Solo prompted.

"There's no sign of experimentation of *any* kind -it's as if the area has been scoured clean. No tubes, samples -nothing. Someone sure made certain that we wouldn't find anything."

Or *anyone*, Solo felt himself add. Labs like this usually had powerful furnaces where biohazardous material could be
destroyed...even bodies...but if that was the case, why call for help at all? Why..? April Dancer's voice seemed to fade into the back of his perceptions. Something... Dark eyes narrowed. He had seen... He *thought* he had seen...something. Could have been his senses playing tricks on him and yet... Wait! There! This time, instead of a half-seen image out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon Solo saw something -this time, he was sure of it. A shadow, no, a solid figure, darted from one dark recess to another, almost faster than the senior UNCLE agent could follow.

But not quite.

Almost immediately, the littered corridor resounded with the pounding of the UNCLE agent's shod footfalls as he raced after the darkly-clothed form that even now attempted to use the shadows as cover as it ran silently as if on bare feet, a shock of wildly tousled blonde hair sticking out from under a woolen cap that did not hide the now familiar face. Solo pulled himself to a halt and almost desperately, in his most authoritative voice, boomed out: "Agent Illya Kuryakin! You will stop this instant!"

Napoleon gasped aloud at the sight of the dark figure stopped in his tracks, slowly turned, and met his gaze.

Pale, haunted eyes stared from a blood and dirt-smeared face. No -not just "haunted". That didn't even come close to what Solo saw. The expression in Illya Kuryakin's eyes was closer to one of terror or confusion. Madness? What the hell had truly happened here? "Illya...lyubov..." Napoleon said gently, *carefully*, hoping to get through to the one he trusted...*loved*...more than anyone. "Illyusha...it's *me*, milok -your `Napasha'. You *know* me don't you?" Then,  softer: "Don't you?" Just then, the pale troubled eyes hardened to points of blue steel and the Russian UNCLE agent whipped out a hidden Walther PK-  "NO!"  -and fired...

...and as Napoleon threw himself to the floor, the fired bullet hit exactly where it had been aimed -and the blood-smeared knife that was about to have been imbedded in Napoleon's back, flew from it's owner's hand. Solo looked up to find that his lover had sank to the floor and was brokenly crooning some Russian lullaby as he mindlessly rocked himself back and forth. Ignoring the gruesome sight of the now faceless, blood-splattered body, Napoleon crawled to Illya's side and
held him tightly. "It's all right, milok...I've got you, love. I've got you."

"And *we* have *you*, Mr. Solo."