Oooooops fic just keeps leaking out
@___@ I swear to god I opened up a WIP to work on today and this just happened It wasn't my fault, okay. But the fact that I want to keep writing is totally my fault. I cop to that. XD
The body starts shaking as soon as they plug him in (plug it in, Napoleon has to remind himself. The body laid out isn’t a man, not really, even though it looks like one with its blond hair and perfectly imitated human features). Rough hands and callous touches push him onto his stomach to better expose the panel at the nape of his neck that pops open to reveal blinking lights and wires. They hold its face into the thin mattress of the gurney as they work, stabilizing the power point and ramming the cord into whatever version of a spine he has, and Napoleon wants to tell them not to suffocate him, damn it, but he’s not sure there’s any point. He’s not sure it breathes.
“Is that normal?” The power connects and the shaking takes over. The white-coated bastards step back and it happen. Napoleon wants to reach out to him (reach out to it) but he’s afraid of being electrocuted. The Soviets haven’t exactly been forthcoming with their information about this new project of theirs, and the CIA, the FBI, and half of UNCLE are convinced they’ve been handed the world’s most expensive Trojan horse. But Mr. Waverly signed the papers, and that’s good enough for Napoleon.
“Don’t concern yourself with its comfort, Mr. Solo, only its skill. You will be taking this unit into the field with you, yes?”
He swallows. “Yes.” That was Mr. Waverly’s grand plan, apparently. Napoleon still felt half a sacrificial goat.
The man in the white lab coat smiles, and his teeth are just as white. “Then it must be calibrated.”
**
Its name is I-LYA, some designation that means something to the scientists, but is incomprehensible and worthless to Napoleon. It introduces itself that way: “Unit I, Series LYA. I’ve been sent from Command. Where would you like me to sit?”
Napoleon stutters a bit, and finally motions to the extra chair in the corner of his office.
I-LYA sinks down onto it with precision that shouldn’t surprise Napoleon. And once he’s there, he sits perfectly still. Not even breathing. Because he doesn’t need to. Because he isn’t alive, not really.
“Look, can I call you something else? Unit I, Series LYA doesn’t exactly, ah, roll off the tongue.”
Blue eyes stare at him dispassionately. It’s horrifying how human he looks. Probably because he was, once. Those blue eyes belonged to some poor brain dead potato farmer, probably, or a mortally wounded KGB officer, before he became... this... instead. Whatever this is. He’s seen what’s between those eyes now. It’s metal and flesh and wires and fluid that looks like engine oil but smells like blood, and Napoleon doesn’t want to see it again.
“A common Soviet name is Illya. If it makes you more comfortable, and will increase our success in the field, you may call me that.” He still doesn’t move.
“Thank you. Illya.”
The far more disturbing idea, Napoleon decides while he does paperwork and carefully doesn’t look at the not-man sitting silently in the corner of his office, is that whoever I-LYA was before he became this thing wasn’t a brain dead potato farmer or a mortally wounded KGB officer. That maybe he volunteered.
I brought it on myself, talking about plot bunnies the other day. Now I have a fresh AU I want to pet. Damn it all! I'm meant to be writing so many other things!
The body starts shaking as soon as they plug him in (plug it in, Napoleon has to remind himself. The body laid out isn’t a man, not really, even though it looks like one with its blond hair and perfectly imitated human features). Rough hands and callous touches push him onto his stomach to better expose the panel at the nape of his neck that pops open to reveal blinking lights and wires. They hold its face into the thin mattress of the gurney as they work, stabilizing the power point and ramming the cord into whatever version of a spine he has, and Napoleon wants to tell them not to suffocate him, damn it, but he’s not sure there’s any point. He’s not sure it breathes.
“Is that normal?” The power connects and the shaking takes over. The white-coated bastards step back and it happen. Napoleon wants to reach out to him (reach out to it) but he’s afraid of being electrocuted. The Soviets haven’t exactly been forthcoming with their information about this new project of theirs, and the CIA, the FBI, and half of UNCLE are convinced they’ve been handed the world’s most expensive Trojan horse. But Mr. Waverly signed the papers, and that’s good enough for Napoleon.
“Don’t concern yourself with its comfort, Mr. Solo, only its skill. You will be taking this unit into the field with you, yes?”
He swallows. “Yes.” That was Mr. Waverly’s grand plan, apparently. Napoleon still felt half a sacrificial goat.
The man in the white lab coat smiles, and his teeth are just as white. “Then it must be calibrated.”
**
Its name is I-LYA, some designation that means something to the scientists, but is incomprehensible and worthless to Napoleon. It introduces itself that way: “Unit I, Series LYA. I’ve been sent from Command. Where would you like me to sit?”
Napoleon stutters a bit, and finally motions to the extra chair in the corner of his office.
I-LYA sinks down onto it with precision that shouldn’t surprise Napoleon. And once he’s there, he sits perfectly still. Not even breathing. Because he doesn’t need to. Because he isn’t alive, not really.
“Look, can I call you something else? Unit I, Series LYA doesn’t exactly, ah, roll off the tongue.”
Blue eyes stare at him dispassionately. It’s horrifying how human he looks. Probably because he was, once. Those blue eyes belonged to some poor brain dead potato farmer, probably, or a mortally wounded KGB officer, before he became... this... instead. Whatever this is. He’s seen what’s between those eyes now. It’s metal and flesh and wires and fluid that looks like engine oil but smells like blood, and Napoleon doesn’t want to see it again.
“A common Soviet name is Illya. If it makes you more comfortable, and will increase our success in the field, you may call me that.” He still doesn’t move.
“Thank you. Illya.”
The far more disturbing idea, Napoleon decides while he does paperwork and carefully doesn’t look at the not-man sitting silently in the corner of his office, is that whoever I-LYA was before he became this thing wasn’t a brain dead potato farmer or a mortally wounded KGB officer. That maybe he volunteered.
I brought it on myself, talking about plot bunnies the other day. Now I have a fresh AU I want to pet. Damn it all! I'm meant to be writing so many other things!