MFU Fanfiction: Kintsugi (An Easter Egg for Elmey)
Not quite at the eleventh hour, but almost!
elmey's prompt was for an Egg that had to do with fixing things that are cracked: Kintsugi. The prompt included a link with information and photos for those who would like to learn more about the art of 'golden joinery'.
This wonderful prompt inspired me to write an Egg-size (ostrich egg-size?) continuation (crossover/fusion/mash-up - I'm not even sure how to label it) of a story I wrote years back which had a flowering plant as one of the characters. The earlier story is not essential to the plot of this year's Egg!
Title: Kintsugi
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Genre: Slash
Rating: between PG-13 and a mild R
Disclaimer: The usual, because MFU is not mine and no money is being made.
Kintsugi
“Napoleon!” Kittridge hailed the figure heading down the corridor towards him with a raised arm.
Lisa checked the security status lights on her desk.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you before I was off again,” Kittridge continued, leaning back against the door to Waverly’s office.
Lisa’s brows drew together at the volume usually reserved for when klaxons were blaring. Napoleon tipped an invisible hat at her as he passed. She smiled and went back to the report she’d been reading, left the visiting agent to him.
Napoleon turned his attention to Kittridge, collegial half-smile in place. “Although I usually succeed, my timing can’t always be perfect,” Napoleon said and took a step to the side.
Kittridge shook his head, grinning. “Mr Waverly asked me to tell you to wait.”
Napoleon’s expression hardened.
“He just took a call from Beldon and from the look on his face I think he might have been about to use words too strong for our youthful ears,” Kittridge joked.
Napoleon glanced at Lisa. She nodded.
“Well, they also serve who stand and wait,” Napoleon replied. “Where are you headed next?”
“Greenland,” Kittridge replied.
Napoleon’s smile reached his eyes. “Sounds bracing.”
“Tracking station’s picking up anomalous signals off shore. They don’t match any submarine signatures we know of.”
Napoleon tapped his chin. “THRUSH?”
“No other intelligence on it yet,” Kittridge answered. “A team’s being assembled to go down and look, we’re even bringing in an out-of-agency expert. You ever heard of a Dr Volker? Philip Volker?”
Napoleon’s eyes widened. “Arctic climate is going to be the least of your woes, Kitt. You haven’t been briefed on him?”
“Not until I get there. All the preliminary report had was his name and that he’s an expert in underwater exploration,” Kittridge said, setting the long box he had under one arm on the floor. “I thought that was kind of odd.”
“He likes to keep his non-academic activities very quiet,” Napoleon said, “which is good for us.”
“So you do know him? Anything you could share would be a help,” Kittridge said, leaning closer to Napoleon. “I’m going to be the second in charge of this mission. He’s apparently the first.” Kittridge let out a long breath. “I don’t get that at all. How can a civilian be in charge of a mission?”
Napoleon shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It must have been his condition.”
“This guy’s so good we let him set conditions?” Kittridge asked. His voice had dropped. “I really don’t get it.”
“You will when you meet him,” Napoleon said. “Ego as big as the ocean and brains to go with it.”
The intercom buzzed.
“Just keep in mind that he isn’t Illya,” Napoleon said.
Kittridge threw up his hands. “What?”
“Mr Kittridge, your transport has arrived,” Lisa said.
Kittridge bent down to retrieve the box by his feet. “I told Mayu I would deliver this to Illya in person.” Kittridge held out the box to Napoleon. “You’re the next best thing. Could you do the honours?”
“Sure,” Napoleon said, taking it. It was heavier than he expected. “Anything for the lovely Mayu. What is it?”
Kittridge shook his head. “She wouldn’t say. Something from her last mission she said Illya would appreciate.”
“Mission?” Napoleon queried.
“She’s in Section Three now,” Kittridge replied. “It’s what she wanted and with that recommendation from you and Illya after the Singapore mission, she got it.”
“Right,” Napoleon said.
“Mr Waverly will see you now, Napoleon,” Lisa said. The door began to slide open.
“Thanks, Napoleon. I think,” Kittridge said, pushing away from the wall.
Napoleon walked past Kittridge. “Give my regards to Greenland,” he said before the door closed behind him.
***
Illya pushed Napoleon back out the door when he tried to enter the lab. “This way,” Illya said and headed down the hallway.
Napoleon followed Illya into the adjacent laboratory. Bomb doors were closing between the two rooms. Several scientists were gathered around a bank of monitors. Napoleon peered over their shoulders. One of them glanced at Napoleon and moved aside. “It’s complete now?” Napoleon asked.
“The part Kittridge delivered appears to be what we were missing,” Illya said. “Either that or it’s a THRUSH plan to get us to blow ourselves up.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Napoleon remarked.
“No,” Illya agreed and nodded to the scientist on the left. He pushed a lever slowly upwards. All eyes were on the screens. In the next room, a robotic hand nudged a dial two notches clockwise. Nothing happened. They waited.
Napoleon’s eyes wandered over the array of inactive gauges. Illya raised an index finger. The lever was pushed higher. The dial turned. Napoleon considered the squat machine with a short nozzle on the table in the middle of the six screens, viewed from above, left, right, in front and behind as it pointed at a stack of cinder blocks. Napoleon spotted the lilies George Dennell had given Dr Alighieri for her birthday. She hadn’t taken them home on Friday.
Illya lifted his hand higher. The lever was pushed to the top. None of the gauges moved, but a petal from one of the lilies fell. Napoleon nudged Illya and pointed at the lower left hand screen which showed the corner of Dr Alighieri's desk. As they watched, one of the buds opened, another petal fell.
“Shut it down,” Illya commanded. He scanned the unmoving meters. In the other lab, the robotic hand turned the dial off notch by notch. In the vase on Dr Alighieri’s desk, a second bud unfurled. Three more petals and a leaf drifted to the floor.
One of the scientists took a step back and turned towards the door. “Not yet,” Illya ordered. “No one goes in there.”
“But nothing happened,” the man said, gesturing at the read-outs emerging from the slots beneath the gauges. “It didn’t work.”
Napoleon checked the badge, recalled the introduction in the canteen…transfer from the west coast office…two weeks ago…Anderson. He and Illya had been away most of the time since then.
“Don’t just depend on the gauges. Observe,” Illya said and pointed to the lower left hand screen. “Nothing happened to the target, but look at the flowers on Dr Alighieri’s desk.”
“What...” Anderson grew silent, watched with his colleagues as the rest of the bouquet bloomed and withered.
“Once initiated, it seems the process continues on its own,” Anderson said.
“Possibly,” Illya replied. “Or whatever effect the machine had on the atmosphere lingers.” He glanced at the wall clock and pulled out his communicator. “Lisa, is Mr Waverly still in meetings?” Illya nodded as he listened. “Pass him an ‘eyes only’ message. We have a quarantine situation in Lab Nine. Mr Waverly should not come down to Section VIII. When he’s free, Napoleon can come up to brief him.” Napoleon leaned closer, heard the question about contagiousness. “I have no evidence one way or the other yet,” Illya answered. “Kuryakin out.”
Everyone in the room was looking at Illya. He put the communicator away and pointed. “Dr Wu, Dr Orubu is running an experiment on fruit flies. See if she can spare some, eggs, too.” Dr Wu was at the door before Illya had finished speaking. “Dr Anderson, fruit and vegetables from the canteen, some of their signature green bananas would be ideal.”
Anderson paused at the door. “There’s that potted palm underneath the grow-light in there, too,” he said.
Dr Leonovich said, “I can help with that.” Illya nodded.
“Dr Nader, ask Dr Sawada for some seedlings.” Dr Nader was gone in an instant.
Napoleon looked around the empty lab. “What about our flowery friend?” Napoleon asked.
“No,” Illya replied. “Sawada mentioned that we ought to take it home soon. It’ll be warm enough for the balcony in a week or so. He says the plant is developing a seed pod.”
“Wouldn’t that be perfect for this?” Napoleon said, setting the box he had been carrying down on a table and extending his arm towards Lab Nine.
“No,” Illya repeated. Napoleon knew to leave Illya alone when he gave one syllable answers and no one was shooting at them. “What’s in the box? More THRUSH acquisitions?”
Napoleon patted the cardboard. “Something from Mayu’s latest mission. She gave it to Kittridge for you. Didn’t tell him what it was though.” Illya turned towards the screens. “You didn’t tell me what an excellent recommendation we wrote in support of her transferring to Section Three.”
“You ought to read our reports more carefully before you sign them,” Illya said, taking a step away.
“Aren’t you curious what it is?” Napoleon persisted. Illya didn't respond. “I can drop it off in our office.”
“It’s fine here. I’m not likely to be going anywhere until we can figure out how to measure what THRUSH’s latest toy does and whether we’ve all been exposed to it.”
“There are other scientists here, Illya,” Napoleon said.
“Yes, but we brought back the main part of that device; I have the notes and the most information about the setting in which we found it,” Illya answered, moving closer to the screens. Napoleon followed. Only stalks were left in the vase and those were drooped over the side. The leaves on the desk and floor were curled and brown. Napoleon rested his chin on Illya’s shoulder and watched as a dark liquid began to ooze from one of the stems. He ran his hand down Illya’s arm to his hand and back.
“They’ll be back any minute,” Illya said.
“I’ll hear them when they’re at the door,” Napoleon said. His other arm curved around Illya’s waist. One of the dried leaves on the desk crumbled into dust.
“Quite an effective defoliant,” Illya said. “If it works on animal life as well as plants, it would be a powerful anti-personnel weapon.” Napoleon’s arm tightened around Illya. “We were shielded against blast force, heat, nuclear radiation, sonic waves, toxic gases, all of which could have been measured on our meters here, but nothing registered.” Napoleon moved his hips from side to side. “Whatever that device emitted, there’s a very good chance we weren’t protected from it.”
“I’m glad I was down here,” Napoleon said, turning his head to press a long kiss against Illya’s ear.
“We could be living our last hours right now, Napoleon. Is this all you can think about?”
Napoleon nodded. Illya turned his head to stare at him and Napoleon looked back. Illya’s lips twitched. “You may have a point,” he said.
Their communicators buzzed. As they answered them, Anderson came in the door with a tray piled high with food, a dripping bouquet of roses perched on top.
“We’re beginning tests to determine the scope of the effect as we speak, sir.” Illya said into his communicator. He paused. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m on my way,” Napoleon said into his. He passed a walking potted palm on his way to the elevators. It had never looked very healthy under the wan grow-light anyway.
***
“A relief in one sense, of course, but still a potent weapon in another,” Mr Waverly said, looking up from Illya’s report to the chart next to which Illya was standing.
“Indeed, sir, it’s fortunate the emissions didn’t affect living organisms, but THRUSH could have wiped out a target area’s entire stored food supply: silos of grain turned to dust in minutes, warehouses of fruits and vegetables reduced to organic ooze. Economies wrecked, governments destabilised, general panic with THRUSH poised to take advantage of the chaos,” Illya said, flipping to the next page of his chart.
Napoleon tracked the movement, the pull of white cotton from beneath the black leather of Illya’s holster, the slight untucking of the shirt at the waist as Illya guided the large sheet of paper over the top of the easel. Illya hadn’t been home in three days and never without a research scientist or two hovering nearby at headquarters when Napoleon checked on him, checked if he might catch Illya alone for a moment, checked if he looked older. Napoleon tapped his pencil against his lips. Illya had only looked tired and intense.
During the first day of tests, Napoleon had written up two of his own reports, reviewed and signed off on those of eight other agents. Contagion having been ruled out, he had conducted surveillance at three diplomatic functions, accompanied a visiting dignitary to the airport and couriered a batch of documents that needed signing to Washington and back. None of it had required his full concentration. Most of that had remained on Illya.
“What do you think, Mr Solo?”
“Devastating,” Napoleon murmured as his eyes followed the knife-sharp crease Del Floria had put in Illya’s black trousers. Illya scowled at him.
One part of Napoleon’s brain shifted into professional mode. “It would have had a devastating effect, especially on single crop economies, which is probably where they were planning to test it first judging by the location of their research facility.” Another part of his brain was holding firmly to the memory of how the muscles of Illya’s thighs felt pressed against the sides of his ribs.
The corners of Illya’s eyes crinkled as he pointed to the map of the island on the new page of the flip chart. “Also, well-situated for shipping worldwide once they had perfected the devices,” Illya added, tracing lines along the main shipping lanes.
Napoleon focussed on Illya’s voice, took the words apart into their constituent sounds, remembered what they felt like uttered close to his ear.
“How likely is it that we have the only prototype?” Mr Waverly asked.
Illya moved to a projector set up between the easel and Napoleon’s chair, flashed a photo onto the screen behind Mr Waverly. Mr Waverly flicked a switch on his desk. The lights dimmed, he swivelled to look at the image.
“This was taken from one of the helicopters which came in for evacuation and clean-up after the facility was destroyed,” Illya narrated. He walked towards the screen, dragged his hand along Napoleon’s jacket just above the back of the chair as he spoke without any shift in cadence. Years of training contributed to Napoleon not moving a muscle.
Illya tapped the screen with a pen. “The level of destruction is easier to see from the air. The perimeter walls were reinforced concrete. They withstood the blasts and contained the fire that followed them. As we can see from this perspective, the roof caved in and the inside of the structure was totally gutted.” Illya tapped a maze of shrubs in the extensive gardens. “Napoleon took the body of the device that we found in the main laboratory, hid it here and commenced clearing the south side of the garden of remaining THRUSH personnel. I stayed behind to finish photographing the extensive lab notes we located before incinerating them. As I exited the facility, I triggered the explosive charges Napoleon and I had positioned on the way in. Most of the staff succeeded in evacuating the premises, but none made it off the island before capture.”
Illya walked back towards the projector, trailed the top of his pen down Napoleon’s sleeve en route and clicked to a view of a small harbour. “We had installed this camera on our way onto the island.” He clicked through several photos. “As you can see there were no vessels docked there and we had secreted ours. The rest of the island is surrounded by very treacherous reefs, so this would be the only landing point from the sea. The helopad had been destroyed with the building.” Illya forwarded to another slide. “This is the ship which was intercepted on the way to the island, carrying supplies and new personnel. The information Mr Kittridge gathered recently, was that an additional THRUSH agent should have been on that ship with the portable power source, but had been delayed due to a landslide.” Illya clicked to a clip of a newspaper headline about the lives lost in the landslide nearly a year earlier. “Communications we have decoded indicate that THRUSH considered Operation Persephone abandoned after both the inventor of the device and his notes were lost when the research facility was destroyed. They hoped to adapt the portable power source for a new laser they have in development.”
Illya paced around the other side of the table and switched on the overhead lights. “In conclusion, sir, I think there is strong evidence that we have the only prototype.” Mr Waverly swivelled in his chair to look up at Illya. “And we now know how to detect the waves it emits and how to neutralise them.”
“Recommendations?” Mr Waverly asked.
“Conduct routine monitoring for evidence of those waves and also for the energy signature of the portable power source as that probably has been duplicated and may be used in multiple THRUSH devices,” Illya said.
“Thank you, Mr Kuryakin. Authorisation for immediate implementation granted.” Mr Waverly turned to Napoleon.
“Mr Solo, while Mr Kuryakin is thus engaged, I have an assignment in Rome that is particularly suited to your talents.” Napoleon tilted his head and raised his eyebrows attentively. He didn’t look at Illya.
***
Illya didn’t look up when the door to the next lab opened. He was trying to concentrate on the tray of shards before him. He’d separated out the different types, put one large pot together already. Mayu had sent him a mixed selection from the debris of the ceramic factory THRUSH had been using as a cover for smuggling priceless antiques out of mainland China. As evidenced by the gold bullion that had been seized at the site, it had been a lucrative venture for them. They would feel its closure in their balance sheets. Unfortunately, some beautiful pottery had been among the casualties of the mission.
“Illya, why are you still here? I heard the Persephone Monitoring System began functioning this morning,” Dr Sawada asked, walking closer. “You need some sleep,” he observed. Illya didn’t answer. Sawada stopped next to the open-mouthed urn in the middle of the lab table, ducked from side to side to take a closer look at the gold seams which held at least a dozen shards of blue-green ceramic together. “So this is what you wanted the cedar resin for,” he said, rising onto his toes to peer into the bowl of the pot. He took note of the triangular piece missing at the bottom, its edges sealed with gold.
“Napoleon’s a day late checking in,” Illya said.
“Ah.” Dr Sawada glanced at the grey shards inside the cardboard box further down the table and back at the brown fragments on the tray in front of Illya, the small chunk of gold to one side of a crucible of a viscous golden substance warming over a low flame. Sawada picked up the deformed block of metal. “It was quite close to the source of the explosion,” he observed and set it back down.
“I thought you were a botanist,” Illya replied, using a pair of long tweezers to pick up a shard and set it down on the right side of the tray.
“Oh, one picks up bits of knowledge outside of one’s specialty down here,” Sawada replied. “And whether a bomb blast flattens a stand of trees or a terrace of houses, the principle is much the same. Where did you learn the art of kintsugi?”
“Right here,” Illya answered. Out from under the tray, he pulled a flyer from a ceramic exhibition at the Tokyo National Museum and handed it to Dr Sawada.
Dr Sawada leafed through it, glanced at the finished urn and back at Illya. “And from this,” he said, waving the leaflet, “you did that.”
This time Illya turned to look at his colleague. “Well, I experimented with the proportions of gold dust to resin a bit,” he replied, “and the big one was a lot easier than these.” He pointed to the small fragments of what appeared to be two tea pots on his tray.
Sawada sat on the stool next to Illya, moved one piece to the other side of the tray. “And what mission are these from?”
“A recent one in Hong Kong,” Illya replied, standing and stretching. “Not one of mine or Napoleon’s.” Illya walked around the table, shaking one leg a little. “Kittridge delivered it when he brought the power source for Persephone. A thank you of sorts from a new agent in our Tokyo headquarters who is happy, so far anyway, with her transfer from Section IV to Section III.” Illya ambled back from the water cooler in the corner with two paper cups. He set one down next to Dr Sawada, observed him shift several more shards from one side of the tray to another. “You have a good eye for colour,” Illya said.
“Sorting all those leaves and seeds,” Sawada replied and moved another piece. “So what did you have to do with her transfer?”
Illya walked back to the water cooler and refilled his cup. “Nothing probably. Mayu worked with Kittridge, Napoleon and I on a mission in Singapore over a year ago as a translator. We ended up under fire, were nearly compromised and she never so much as stuttered.”
“You were impressed,” Sawada commented, holding a piece up to the light.
“She was impressive,” Illya replied. “We gave her a commendation in our report.”
Dr Sawada took a sip of water and smiled. “Seems the rumour that you write most of the reports has made it all the way to Tokyo.” Illya shrugged. “Although,” Dr Sawada began, “there is a possibility that she is flirting with you.”
Illya frowned.
“These pieces,” Dr Sawada continued, pointing to six fragments he had lined up at the top of the tray, “form a line from a well-known love poem.”
Illya leaned over the tray and shook his head. “I was looking at them, but I couldn’t decipher the characters.”
“The breaks are in inconvenient places, but knowing the poem helps. Roughly, it is: many a flower I pass by, second looks I bother not to try,” Sawada recited. Illya continued to scowl. Dr Sawada cleared his throat. “I notice the large pot has a piece missing.”
Illya reached over to tap the edge of the urn. “Yes, just the one.”
“It would be perfect for your plant. We’re past the risk of frost now. It will do it good to be in the sunlight again,” Sawada explained. “If you think the seams have set long enough I could re-pot the plant for you.”
Illya moved to the side and ran his hands over the joins. “I did this one last night while I was waiting for some diagnostics to finish running on the monitoring system. It should be set.” He lifted the pot and handed it to Dr Sawada. “How’s the experiment going?”
Sawada took the pot in both hands. “I could identify the days you were at headquarters from its growth charts.”
“Even when I didn’t come down to your lab?” Illya asked.
“Even so,” Dr Sawada answered.
“Any hypotheses?” Sawada shook his head. “You’ll keep an eye on it when Napoleon and I are away?”
Sawada nodded. “If you don’t have any use for the little grey pot, I wouldn’t mind trying my hand at making it more beautiful than it was before it was broken.”
“You wouldn’t rather try on one of the teapots?” Illya asked.
Sawada shook his head as he turned towards the adjoining door between the labs. “I think they’re intended for you and Napoleon.”
***
The door swished shut behind Napoleon. He switched on the overhead light. A groan rose from the couch.
“There you are,” Napoleon said. “I went down to the lab first.”
Illya kept his arm over his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Half past seven,” Napoleon replied.
“Morning or evening?” Illya asked.
“Evening,” Napoleon said.
“You’re two days late,” Illya said. “There is a protocol about checking in, you may recall.”
“I was in a cave for a while,” Napoleon said. “The communicator didn’t work.”
Illya grunted.
Napoleon set down a white paper bag and a cardboard tray with two small paper cups next to the brown and gold teapot on his desk. He eyed the similar one on Illya’s desk, took off his jacket, draped it over the back of his chair and rolled the chair towards the couch. “Are those what were in the box from Mayu?” he asked, stepping back to retrieve the food.
“Among other things,” Illya answered, sniffing the air.
“I hear Persephone has already scored a find in Montreal,” Napoleon said, settling into his chair.
“Where did you hear that and why didn’t I?” Illya grumbled.
Paper crinkled and the aroma of freshly-baked almond croissants mingled with that of espresso. Illya’s hand stretched out towards Napoleon.
“In the lab and because you were asleep,” Napoleon said, wrapping a napkin around a croissant and putting it in Illya’s hand. “You’re welcome.”
Illya ate.
“What else was in the box?”
“Broken pottery and gold,” Illya said after he swallowed. “Dr Sawada thinks she’s flirting with one of us.”
“Gold is fairly traditional, but the broken pots are new to me. I’m always willing to learn new techniques though,” Napoleon said.
Illya rested the pastry on his chest and reached out again. Napoleon put a cup in his hand. “There’s love poetry on one of the teapots,” Illya said, sitting up on one elbow and taking a sip. “The one on your desk.”
“Oh, that one would be for you,” Napoleon replied. “She wasn’t that keen on me.”
Illya opened an eye and squinted at Napoleon. “You look all right. Have you been to Medical? Any concussions?”
“No and no. I would like to go home as soon as you finish eating that,” Napoleon said.
“We’ve got the plant to take home,” Illya replied, drinking the rest of his coffee. “It’s behind my desk,” he added, fitting the last of the croissant into his mouth.
Napoleon stood and dropped his coffee cup into the wastebasket. “I don’t care what we bring home as long as it doesn’t interfere with our being in bed two minutes after we get in the door.”
“Two minutes?” Illya asked. "Bed?"
***
“Mr Solo! Mr Kuryakin!”
Illya placed the voice as belonging to one of the new technicians from Section VI, someone fresh out of MIT’s Project MAC, if Illya wasn’t mistaken. He peered around the foliage of the plant in his arms to check. It was Algernon Quinn.
“I already gave at the front door, Quinn,” Napoleon said.
“It will only take a moment,” Quinn cajoled, holding out his arm to guide Napoleon towards the portal that only partially blocked their access to the garage. Napoleon sighed and headed in that direction. “Mr Kuryakin, would you like to step this way and watch with me?”
Quinn let his arm drop and the first gun was fired. A web of fine lines spread from the impact point, but the transparent barrier held. Napoleon didn’t flinch.
Before the second shot sounded, Illya moved to stand in front of the plant he had set down on the cement next to him. More fracture lines appeared in the barrier. Illya pictured them filled with gold. Three more shots were fired. Napoleon’s figure was hard to see through the impact points and the resultant cracks. There would be little left of the original material if all the fractures were filled.
Quinn held up his hand. His assistants lowered their guns. “Thank you, Mr Solo.”
“You don’t have one set up at the end of the exit ramp, do you?” Napoleon asked, as he adjusted his cuffs.
“No, sir,” Quinn replied. “Not yet, sir,” he added.
Napoleon narrowed his eyes at the man and Quinn held up his hands. “No plans for that actually, sir,” he said. “We’re just testing new materials for the current portal locations, trying to preserve more visibility.”
Napoleon nodded and headed into the garage. “Good,” he called over his shoulder, “’cause we’re taking the car with the missiles.”
Quinn’s eyes went wide and Illya chuckled. “I’ll stop by your section in a few days,” Illya said, “to see what you’ve come up with.”
Quinn nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said softly.
Illya leaned down to retrieve the pot. The plant bent as he lifted it. The cloth of Illya’s trousers tightened against the back of his leg. He set the pot back down and detached several tendrils that were clinging to the wool. When Illya stood up, Quinn’s eyes were on him. “Young strangler plant,” Illya said, “not fully-trained yet.” He turned and walked after Napoleon.
Quinn watched him go. One of the assistants nudged Quinn’s shoulder. “Did you see that?” Quinn asked.
The young man nodded. “I thought it was a houseplant,” he said.
“Me, too,” Quinn replied.
***
The young plant wrapped a tendril partway around the nearest baluster, pulled itself higher and unfurled a new leaf. It's sap flowed faster in the sunlight with fresh air gently moving its leaves and flowers to and fro. The water had been delicious in the garden with the violet light, but the plant preferred the bright, unbroken blue of the sky above it and the company he could find beneath it. A root slipped over the edge of the tray under the plant’s new pot. It found another patch of moss in a crack in the stonework. Moss conversation wasn’t very varied, but the murmur of their little exchanges about humidity and temperature were so much better than the loneliness of the violet garden.
The little plant wriggled several of its roots in the loose soil. There was a flavour in the new dirt that the plant liked. The taste reminded it of the tap root. The plant brushed the tip of one root along the cool surface at the border of the soil. The taste was strongest there. In it, there were no clear images, merely a glow like afternoon sunlight and a taste like cold water and savoury bark. The plant rubbed its root more firmly along the smooth line.
A sound drifted from the opening in the stone next to the balcony. All the flowers near the top of the plant tilted towards it. The sweetness would follow soon. The plant knew. It had listened all through the night. The sweetness always followed sounds like that, the way rain always followed the sound of the wind turning the chestnut tree’s leaves upside down or the distant groans of thunder.
The plant reached out with another tendril and hoisted itself a little higher. It stretched its uppermost flower, but it couldn’t reach the opening in the stone. The sounds were louder though, closer together. The plant swayed with the breeze. It took a deep drink from its water tray. It would simply have to grow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And yet another continuation, Part 4.5 (!), may be found here.
Notes: Harry Beldon has the backstory from elmey's stories, Waiting Games and Spies.
Characters from a couple of my stories, Mayu from Fair Warning and Dr Volker from Treasures play 'off-screen' parts.
elmey's prompt was for an Egg that had to do with fixing things that are cracked: Kintsugi. The prompt included a link with information and photos for those who would like to learn more about the art of 'golden joinery'.
This wonderful prompt inspired me to write an Egg-size (ostrich egg-size?) continuation (crossover/fusion/mash-up - I'm not even sure how to label it) of a story I wrote years back which had a flowering plant as one of the characters. The earlier story is not essential to the plot of this year's Egg!
Title: Kintsugi
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Genre: Slash
Rating: between PG-13 and a mild R
Disclaimer: The usual, because MFU is not mine and no money is being made.
Kintsugi
“Napoleon!” Kittridge hailed the figure heading down the corridor towards him with a raised arm.
Lisa checked the security status lights on her desk.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you before I was off again,” Kittridge continued, leaning back against the door to Waverly’s office.
Lisa’s brows drew together at the volume usually reserved for when klaxons were blaring. Napoleon tipped an invisible hat at her as he passed. She smiled and went back to the report she’d been reading, left the visiting agent to him.
Napoleon turned his attention to Kittridge, collegial half-smile in place. “Although I usually succeed, my timing can’t always be perfect,” Napoleon said and took a step to the side.
Kittridge shook his head, grinning. “Mr Waverly asked me to tell you to wait.”
Napoleon’s expression hardened.
“He just took a call from Beldon and from the look on his face I think he might have been about to use words too strong for our youthful ears,” Kittridge joked.
Napoleon glanced at Lisa. She nodded.
“Well, they also serve who stand and wait,” Napoleon replied. “Where are you headed next?”
“Greenland,” Kittridge replied.
Napoleon’s smile reached his eyes. “Sounds bracing.”
“Tracking station’s picking up anomalous signals off shore. They don’t match any submarine signatures we know of.”
Napoleon tapped his chin. “THRUSH?”
“No other intelligence on it yet,” Kittridge answered. “A team’s being assembled to go down and look, we’re even bringing in an out-of-agency expert. You ever heard of a Dr Volker? Philip Volker?”
Napoleon’s eyes widened. “Arctic climate is going to be the least of your woes, Kitt. You haven’t been briefed on him?”
“Not until I get there. All the preliminary report had was his name and that he’s an expert in underwater exploration,” Kittridge said, setting the long box he had under one arm on the floor. “I thought that was kind of odd.”
“He likes to keep his non-academic activities very quiet,” Napoleon said, “which is good for us.”
“So you do know him? Anything you could share would be a help,” Kittridge said, leaning closer to Napoleon. “I’m going to be the second in charge of this mission. He’s apparently the first.” Kittridge let out a long breath. “I don’t get that at all. How can a civilian be in charge of a mission?”
Napoleon shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It must have been his condition.”
“This guy’s so good we let him set conditions?” Kittridge asked. His voice had dropped. “I really don’t get it.”
“You will when you meet him,” Napoleon said. “Ego as big as the ocean and brains to go with it.”
The intercom buzzed.
“Just keep in mind that he isn’t Illya,” Napoleon said.
Kittridge threw up his hands. “What?”
“Mr Kittridge, your transport has arrived,” Lisa said.
Kittridge bent down to retrieve the box by his feet. “I told Mayu I would deliver this to Illya in person.” Kittridge held out the box to Napoleon. “You’re the next best thing. Could you do the honours?”
“Sure,” Napoleon said, taking it. It was heavier than he expected. “Anything for the lovely Mayu. What is it?”
Kittridge shook his head. “She wouldn’t say. Something from her last mission she said Illya would appreciate.”
“Mission?” Napoleon queried.
“She’s in Section Three now,” Kittridge replied. “It’s what she wanted and with that recommendation from you and Illya after the Singapore mission, she got it.”
“Right,” Napoleon said.
“Mr Waverly will see you now, Napoleon,” Lisa said. The door began to slide open.
“Thanks, Napoleon. I think,” Kittridge said, pushing away from the wall.
Napoleon walked past Kittridge. “Give my regards to Greenland,” he said before the door closed behind him.
***
Illya pushed Napoleon back out the door when he tried to enter the lab. “This way,” Illya said and headed down the hallway.
Napoleon followed Illya into the adjacent laboratory. Bomb doors were closing between the two rooms. Several scientists were gathered around a bank of monitors. Napoleon peered over their shoulders. One of them glanced at Napoleon and moved aside. “It’s complete now?” Napoleon asked.
“The part Kittridge delivered appears to be what we were missing,” Illya said. “Either that or it’s a THRUSH plan to get us to blow ourselves up.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Napoleon remarked.
“No,” Illya agreed and nodded to the scientist on the left. He pushed a lever slowly upwards. All eyes were on the screens. In the next room, a robotic hand nudged a dial two notches clockwise. Nothing happened. They waited.
Napoleon’s eyes wandered over the array of inactive gauges. Illya raised an index finger. The lever was pushed higher. The dial turned. Napoleon considered the squat machine with a short nozzle on the table in the middle of the six screens, viewed from above, left, right, in front and behind as it pointed at a stack of cinder blocks. Napoleon spotted the lilies George Dennell had given Dr Alighieri for her birthday. She hadn’t taken them home on Friday.
Illya lifted his hand higher. The lever was pushed to the top. None of the gauges moved, but a petal from one of the lilies fell. Napoleon nudged Illya and pointed at the lower left hand screen which showed the corner of Dr Alighieri's desk. As they watched, one of the buds opened, another petal fell.
“Shut it down,” Illya commanded. He scanned the unmoving meters. In the other lab, the robotic hand turned the dial off notch by notch. In the vase on Dr Alighieri’s desk, a second bud unfurled. Three more petals and a leaf drifted to the floor.
One of the scientists took a step back and turned towards the door. “Not yet,” Illya ordered. “No one goes in there.”
“But nothing happened,” the man said, gesturing at the read-outs emerging from the slots beneath the gauges. “It didn’t work.”
Napoleon checked the badge, recalled the introduction in the canteen…transfer from the west coast office…two weeks ago…Anderson. He and Illya had been away most of the time since then.
“Don’t just depend on the gauges. Observe,” Illya said and pointed to the lower left hand screen. “Nothing happened to the target, but look at the flowers on Dr Alighieri’s desk.”
“What...” Anderson grew silent, watched with his colleagues as the rest of the bouquet bloomed and withered.
“Once initiated, it seems the process continues on its own,” Anderson said.
“Possibly,” Illya replied. “Or whatever effect the machine had on the atmosphere lingers.” He glanced at the wall clock and pulled out his communicator. “Lisa, is Mr Waverly still in meetings?” Illya nodded as he listened. “Pass him an ‘eyes only’ message. We have a quarantine situation in Lab Nine. Mr Waverly should not come down to Section VIII. When he’s free, Napoleon can come up to brief him.” Napoleon leaned closer, heard the question about contagiousness. “I have no evidence one way or the other yet,” Illya answered. “Kuryakin out.”
Everyone in the room was looking at Illya. He put the communicator away and pointed. “Dr Wu, Dr Orubu is running an experiment on fruit flies. See if she can spare some, eggs, too.” Dr Wu was at the door before Illya had finished speaking. “Dr Anderson, fruit and vegetables from the canteen, some of their signature green bananas would be ideal.”
Anderson paused at the door. “There’s that potted palm underneath the grow-light in there, too,” he said.
Dr Leonovich said, “I can help with that.” Illya nodded.
“Dr Nader, ask Dr Sawada for some seedlings.” Dr Nader was gone in an instant.
Napoleon looked around the empty lab. “What about our flowery friend?” Napoleon asked.
“No,” Illya replied. “Sawada mentioned that we ought to take it home soon. It’ll be warm enough for the balcony in a week or so. He says the plant is developing a seed pod.”
“Wouldn’t that be perfect for this?” Napoleon said, setting the box he had been carrying down on a table and extending his arm towards Lab Nine.
“No,” Illya repeated. Napoleon knew to leave Illya alone when he gave one syllable answers and no one was shooting at them. “What’s in the box? More THRUSH acquisitions?”
Napoleon patted the cardboard. “Something from Mayu’s latest mission. She gave it to Kittridge for you. Didn’t tell him what it was though.” Illya turned towards the screens. “You didn’t tell me what an excellent recommendation we wrote in support of her transferring to Section Three.”
“You ought to read our reports more carefully before you sign them,” Illya said, taking a step away.
“Aren’t you curious what it is?” Napoleon persisted. Illya didn't respond. “I can drop it off in our office.”
“It’s fine here. I’m not likely to be going anywhere until we can figure out how to measure what THRUSH’s latest toy does and whether we’ve all been exposed to it.”
“There are other scientists here, Illya,” Napoleon said.
“Yes, but we brought back the main part of that device; I have the notes and the most information about the setting in which we found it,” Illya answered, moving closer to the screens. Napoleon followed. Only stalks were left in the vase and those were drooped over the side. The leaves on the desk and floor were curled and brown. Napoleon rested his chin on Illya’s shoulder and watched as a dark liquid began to ooze from one of the stems. He ran his hand down Illya’s arm to his hand and back.
“They’ll be back any minute,” Illya said.
“I’ll hear them when they’re at the door,” Napoleon said. His other arm curved around Illya’s waist. One of the dried leaves on the desk crumbled into dust.
“Quite an effective defoliant,” Illya said. “If it works on animal life as well as plants, it would be a powerful anti-personnel weapon.” Napoleon’s arm tightened around Illya. “We were shielded against blast force, heat, nuclear radiation, sonic waves, toxic gases, all of which could have been measured on our meters here, but nothing registered.” Napoleon moved his hips from side to side. “Whatever that device emitted, there’s a very good chance we weren’t protected from it.”
“I’m glad I was down here,” Napoleon said, turning his head to press a long kiss against Illya’s ear.
“We could be living our last hours right now, Napoleon. Is this all you can think about?”
Napoleon nodded. Illya turned his head to stare at him and Napoleon looked back. Illya’s lips twitched. “You may have a point,” he said.
Their communicators buzzed. As they answered them, Anderson came in the door with a tray piled high with food, a dripping bouquet of roses perched on top.
“We’re beginning tests to determine the scope of the effect as we speak, sir.” Illya said into his communicator. He paused. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m on my way,” Napoleon said into his. He passed a walking potted palm on his way to the elevators. It had never looked very healthy under the wan grow-light anyway.
***
“A relief in one sense, of course, but still a potent weapon in another,” Mr Waverly said, looking up from Illya’s report to the chart next to which Illya was standing.
“Indeed, sir, it’s fortunate the emissions didn’t affect living organisms, but THRUSH could have wiped out a target area’s entire stored food supply: silos of grain turned to dust in minutes, warehouses of fruits and vegetables reduced to organic ooze. Economies wrecked, governments destabilised, general panic with THRUSH poised to take advantage of the chaos,” Illya said, flipping to the next page of his chart.
Napoleon tracked the movement, the pull of white cotton from beneath the black leather of Illya’s holster, the slight untucking of the shirt at the waist as Illya guided the large sheet of paper over the top of the easel. Illya hadn’t been home in three days and never without a research scientist or two hovering nearby at headquarters when Napoleon checked on him, checked if he might catch Illya alone for a moment, checked if he looked older. Napoleon tapped his pencil against his lips. Illya had only looked tired and intense.
During the first day of tests, Napoleon had written up two of his own reports, reviewed and signed off on those of eight other agents. Contagion having been ruled out, he had conducted surveillance at three diplomatic functions, accompanied a visiting dignitary to the airport and couriered a batch of documents that needed signing to Washington and back. None of it had required his full concentration. Most of that had remained on Illya.
“What do you think, Mr Solo?”
“Devastating,” Napoleon murmured as his eyes followed the knife-sharp crease Del Floria had put in Illya’s black trousers. Illya scowled at him.
One part of Napoleon’s brain shifted into professional mode. “It would have had a devastating effect, especially on single crop economies, which is probably where they were planning to test it first judging by the location of their research facility.” Another part of his brain was holding firmly to the memory of how the muscles of Illya’s thighs felt pressed against the sides of his ribs.
The corners of Illya’s eyes crinkled as he pointed to the map of the island on the new page of the flip chart. “Also, well-situated for shipping worldwide once they had perfected the devices,” Illya added, tracing lines along the main shipping lanes.
Napoleon focussed on Illya’s voice, took the words apart into their constituent sounds, remembered what they felt like uttered close to his ear.
“How likely is it that we have the only prototype?” Mr Waverly asked.
Illya moved to a projector set up between the easel and Napoleon’s chair, flashed a photo onto the screen behind Mr Waverly. Mr Waverly flicked a switch on his desk. The lights dimmed, he swivelled to look at the image.
“This was taken from one of the helicopters which came in for evacuation and clean-up after the facility was destroyed,” Illya narrated. He walked towards the screen, dragged his hand along Napoleon’s jacket just above the back of the chair as he spoke without any shift in cadence. Years of training contributed to Napoleon not moving a muscle.
Illya tapped the screen with a pen. “The level of destruction is easier to see from the air. The perimeter walls were reinforced concrete. They withstood the blasts and contained the fire that followed them. As we can see from this perspective, the roof caved in and the inside of the structure was totally gutted.” Illya tapped a maze of shrubs in the extensive gardens. “Napoleon took the body of the device that we found in the main laboratory, hid it here and commenced clearing the south side of the garden of remaining THRUSH personnel. I stayed behind to finish photographing the extensive lab notes we located before incinerating them. As I exited the facility, I triggered the explosive charges Napoleon and I had positioned on the way in. Most of the staff succeeded in evacuating the premises, but none made it off the island before capture.”
Illya walked back towards the projector, trailed the top of his pen down Napoleon’s sleeve en route and clicked to a view of a small harbour. “We had installed this camera on our way onto the island.” He clicked through several photos. “As you can see there were no vessels docked there and we had secreted ours. The rest of the island is surrounded by very treacherous reefs, so this would be the only landing point from the sea. The helopad had been destroyed with the building.” Illya forwarded to another slide. “This is the ship which was intercepted on the way to the island, carrying supplies and new personnel. The information Mr Kittridge gathered recently, was that an additional THRUSH agent should have been on that ship with the portable power source, but had been delayed due to a landslide.” Illya clicked to a clip of a newspaper headline about the lives lost in the landslide nearly a year earlier. “Communications we have decoded indicate that THRUSH considered Operation Persephone abandoned after both the inventor of the device and his notes were lost when the research facility was destroyed. They hoped to adapt the portable power source for a new laser they have in development.”
Illya paced around the other side of the table and switched on the overhead lights. “In conclusion, sir, I think there is strong evidence that we have the only prototype.” Mr Waverly swivelled in his chair to look up at Illya. “And we now know how to detect the waves it emits and how to neutralise them.”
“Recommendations?” Mr Waverly asked.
“Conduct routine monitoring for evidence of those waves and also for the energy signature of the portable power source as that probably has been duplicated and may be used in multiple THRUSH devices,” Illya said.
“Thank you, Mr Kuryakin. Authorisation for immediate implementation granted.” Mr Waverly turned to Napoleon.
“Mr Solo, while Mr Kuryakin is thus engaged, I have an assignment in Rome that is particularly suited to your talents.” Napoleon tilted his head and raised his eyebrows attentively. He didn’t look at Illya.
***
Illya didn’t look up when the door to the next lab opened. He was trying to concentrate on the tray of shards before him. He’d separated out the different types, put one large pot together already. Mayu had sent him a mixed selection from the debris of the ceramic factory THRUSH had been using as a cover for smuggling priceless antiques out of mainland China. As evidenced by the gold bullion that had been seized at the site, it had been a lucrative venture for them. They would feel its closure in their balance sheets. Unfortunately, some beautiful pottery had been among the casualties of the mission.
“Illya, why are you still here? I heard the Persephone Monitoring System began functioning this morning,” Dr Sawada asked, walking closer. “You need some sleep,” he observed. Illya didn’t answer. Sawada stopped next to the open-mouthed urn in the middle of the lab table, ducked from side to side to take a closer look at the gold seams which held at least a dozen shards of blue-green ceramic together. “So this is what you wanted the cedar resin for,” he said, rising onto his toes to peer into the bowl of the pot. He took note of the triangular piece missing at the bottom, its edges sealed with gold.
“Napoleon’s a day late checking in,” Illya said.
“Ah.” Dr Sawada glanced at the grey shards inside the cardboard box further down the table and back at the brown fragments on the tray in front of Illya, the small chunk of gold to one side of a crucible of a viscous golden substance warming over a low flame. Sawada picked up the deformed block of metal. “It was quite close to the source of the explosion,” he observed and set it back down.
“I thought you were a botanist,” Illya replied, using a pair of long tweezers to pick up a shard and set it down on the right side of the tray.
“Oh, one picks up bits of knowledge outside of one’s specialty down here,” Sawada replied. “And whether a bomb blast flattens a stand of trees or a terrace of houses, the principle is much the same. Where did you learn the art of kintsugi?”
“Right here,” Illya answered. Out from under the tray, he pulled a flyer from a ceramic exhibition at the Tokyo National Museum and handed it to Dr Sawada.
Dr Sawada leafed through it, glanced at the finished urn and back at Illya. “And from this,” he said, waving the leaflet, “you did that.”
This time Illya turned to look at his colleague. “Well, I experimented with the proportions of gold dust to resin a bit,” he replied, “and the big one was a lot easier than these.” He pointed to the small fragments of what appeared to be two tea pots on his tray.
Sawada sat on the stool next to Illya, moved one piece to the other side of the tray. “And what mission are these from?”
“A recent one in Hong Kong,” Illya replied, standing and stretching. “Not one of mine or Napoleon’s.” Illya walked around the table, shaking one leg a little. “Kittridge delivered it when he brought the power source for Persephone. A thank you of sorts from a new agent in our Tokyo headquarters who is happy, so far anyway, with her transfer from Section IV to Section III.” Illya ambled back from the water cooler in the corner with two paper cups. He set one down next to Dr Sawada, observed him shift several more shards from one side of the tray to another. “You have a good eye for colour,” Illya said.
“Sorting all those leaves and seeds,” Sawada replied and moved another piece. “So what did you have to do with her transfer?”
Illya walked back to the water cooler and refilled his cup. “Nothing probably. Mayu worked with Kittridge, Napoleon and I on a mission in Singapore over a year ago as a translator. We ended up under fire, were nearly compromised and she never so much as stuttered.”
“You were impressed,” Sawada commented, holding a piece up to the light.
“She was impressive,” Illya replied. “We gave her a commendation in our report.”
Dr Sawada took a sip of water and smiled. “Seems the rumour that you write most of the reports has made it all the way to Tokyo.” Illya shrugged. “Although,” Dr Sawada began, “there is a possibility that she is flirting with you.”
Illya frowned.
“These pieces,” Dr Sawada continued, pointing to six fragments he had lined up at the top of the tray, “form a line from a well-known love poem.”
Illya leaned over the tray and shook his head. “I was looking at them, but I couldn’t decipher the characters.”
“The breaks are in inconvenient places, but knowing the poem helps. Roughly, it is: many a flower I pass by, second looks I bother not to try,” Sawada recited. Illya continued to scowl. Dr Sawada cleared his throat. “I notice the large pot has a piece missing.”
Illya reached over to tap the edge of the urn. “Yes, just the one.”
“It would be perfect for your plant. We’re past the risk of frost now. It will do it good to be in the sunlight again,” Sawada explained. “If you think the seams have set long enough I could re-pot the plant for you.”
Illya moved to the side and ran his hands over the joins. “I did this one last night while I was waiting for some diagnostics to finish running on the monitoring system. It should be set.” He lifted the pot and handed it to Dr Sawada. “How’s the experiment going?”
Sawada took the pot in both hands. “I could identify the days you were at headquarters from its growth charts.”
“Even when I didn’t come down to your lab?” Illya asked.
“Even so,” Dr Sawada answered.
“Any hypotheses?” Sawada shook his head. “You’ll keep an eye on it when Napoleon and I are away?”
Sawada nodded. “If you don’t have any use for the little grey pot, I wouldn’t mind trying my hand at making it more beautiful than it was before it was broken.”
“You wouldn’t rather try on one of the teapots?” Illya asked.
Sawada shook his head as he turned towards the adjoining door between the labs. “I think they’re intended for you and Napoleon.”
***
The door swished shut behind Napoleon. He switched on the overhead light. A groan rose from the couch.
“There you are,” Napoleon said. “I went down to the lab first.”
Illya kept his arm over his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Half past seven,” Napoleon replied.
“Morning or evening?” Illya asked.
“Evening,” Napoleon said.
“You’re two days late,” Illya said. “There is a protocol about checking in, you may recall.”
“I was in a cave for a while,” Napoleon said. “The communicator didn’t work.”
Illya grunted.
Napoleon set down a white paper bag and a cardboard tray with two small paper cups next to the brown and gold teapot on his desk. He eyed the similar one on Illya’s desk, took off his jacket, draped it over the back of his chair and rolled the chair towards the couch. “Are those what were in the box from Mayu?” he asked, stepping back to retrieve the food.
“Among other things,” Illya answered, sniffing the air.
“I hear Persephone has already scored a find in Montreal,” Napoleon said, settling into his chair.
“Where did you hear that and why didn’t I?” Illya grumbled.
Paper crinkled and the aroma of freshly-baked almond croissants mingled with that of espresso. Illya’s hand stretched out towards Napoleon.
“In the lab and because you were asleep,” Napoleon said, wrapping a napkin around a croissant and putting it in Illya’s hand. “You’re welcome.”
Illya ate.
“What else was in the box?”
“Broken pottery and gold,” Illya said after he swallowed. “Dr Sawada thinks she’s flirting with one of us.”
“Gold is fairly traditional, but the broken pots are new to me. I’m always willing to learn new techniques though,” Napoleon said.
Illya rested the pastry on his chest and reached out again. Napoleon put a cup in his hand. “There’s love poetry on one of the teapots,” Illya said, sitting up on one elbow and taking a sip. “The one on your desk.”
“Oh, that one would be for you,” Napoleon replied. “She wasn’t that keen on me.”
Illya opened an eye and squinted at Napoleon. “You look all right. Have you been to Medical? Any concussions?”
“No and no. I would like to go home as soon as you finish eating that,” Napoleon said.
“We’ve got the plant to take home,” Illya replied, drinking the rest of his coffee. “It’s behind my desk,” he added, fitting the last of the croissant into his mouth.
Napoleon stood and dropped his coffee cup into the wastebasket. “I don’t care what we bring home as long as it doesn’t interfere with our being in bed two minutes after we get in the door.”
“Two minutes?” Illya asked. "Bed?"
***
“Mr Solo! Mr Kuryakin!”
Illya placed the voice as belonging to one of the new technicians from Section VI, someone fresh out of MIT’s Project MAC, if Illya wasn’t mistaken. He peered around the foliage of the plant in his arms to check. It was Algernon Quinn.
“I already gave at the front door, Quinn,” Napoleon said.
“It will only take a moment,” Quinn cajoled, holding out his arm to guide Napoleon towards the portal that only partially blocked their access to the garage. Napoleon sighed and headed in that direction. “Mr Kuryakin, would you like to step this way and watch with me?”
Quinn let his arm drop and the first gun was fired. A web of fine lines spread from the impact point, but the transparent barrier held. Napoleon didn’t flinch.
Before the second shot sounded, Illya moved to stand in front of the plant he had set down on the cement next to him. More fracture lines appeared in the barrier. Illya pictured them filled with gold. Three more shots were fired. Napoleon’s figure was hard to see through the impact points and the resultant cracks. There would be little left of the original material if all the fractures were filled.
Quinn held up his hand. His assistants lowered their guns. “Thank you, Mr Solo.”
“You don’t have one set up at the end of the exit ramp, do you?” Napoleon asked, as he adjusted his cuffs.
“No, sir,” Quinn replied. “Not yet, sir,” he added.
Napoleon narrowed his eyes at the man and Quinn held up his hands. “No plans for that actually, sir,” he said. “We’re just testing new materials for the current portal locations, trying to preserve more visibility.”
Napoleon nodded and headed into the garage. “Good,” he called over his shoulder, “’cause we’re taking the car with the missiles.”
Quinn’s eyes went wide and Illya chuckled. “I’ll stop by your section in a few days,” Illya said, “to see what you’ve come up with.”
Quinn nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said softly.
Illya leaned down to retrieve the pot. The plant bent as he lifted it. The cloth of Illya’s trousers tightened against the back of his leg. He set the pot back down and detached several tendrils that were clinging to the wool. When Illya stood up, Quinn’s eyes were on him. “Young strangler plant,” Illya said, “not fully-trained yet.” He turned and walked after Napoleon.
Quinn watched him go. One of the assistants nudged Quinn’s shoulder. “Did you see that?” Quinn asked.
The young man nodded. “I thought it was a houseplant,” he said.
“Me, too,” Quinn replied.
***
The young plant wrapped a tendril partway around the nearest baluster, pulled itself higher and unfurled a new leaf. It's sap flowed faster in the sunlight with fresh air gently moving its leaves and flowers to and fro. The water had been delicious in the garden with the violet light, but the plant preferred the bright, unbroken blue of the sky above it and the company he could find beneath it. A root slipped over the edge of the tray under the plant’s new pot. It found another patch of moss in a crack in the stonework. Moss conversation wasn’t very varied, but the murmur of their little exchanges about humidity and temperature were so much better than the loneliness of the violet garden.
The little plant wriggled several of its roots in the loose soil. There was a flavour in the new dirt that the plant liked. The taste reminded it of the tap root. The plant brushed the tip of one root along the cool surface at the border of the soil. The taste was strongest there. In it, there were no clear images, merely a glow like afternoon sunlight and a taste like cold water and savoury bark. The plant rubbed its root more firmly along the smooth line.
A sound drifted from the opening in the stone next to the balcony. All the flowers near the top of the plant tilted towards it. The sweetness would follow soon. The plant knew. It had listened all through the night. The sweetness always followed sounds like that, the way rain always followed the sound of the wind turning the chestnut tree’s leaves upside down or the distant groans of thunder.
The plant reached out with another tendril and hoisted itself a little higher. It stretched its uppermost flower, but it couldn’t reach the opening in the stone. The sounds were louder though, closer together. The plant swayed with the breeze. It took a deep drink from its water tray. It would simply have to grow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And yet another continuation, Part 4.5 (!), may be found here.
Notes: Harry Beldon has the backstory from elmey's stories, Waiting Games and Spies.
Characters from a couple of my stories, Mayu from Fair Warning and Dr Volker from Treasures play 'off-screen' parts.