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For Illya, it was some horrible sort of déjà vu; he remembered being on the deck of Captain Shark’s ship, forced to watch as Shark prepared to whip Napoleon. Oh, he had tried to stop it—he had launched himself at the lackey with the whip, and gotten a punch in the stomach for his efforts.
He had caught up with Napoleon later—and had been horrified to see the fresh gashes on his back; the scarring had been permanent, which had disheartened Illya even further, for Napoleon was extremely self-conscious about his appearance—it was a small miracle that the scars were only on his back that time.
This time, however, it did not seem that Napoleon would be as lucky. THRUSH had gotten impatient with Napoleon and Illya’s refusal to provide them with any pertinent information, and so, they decided to use more painful means of persuasion.
And they chose to make an example out of Napoleon, rendering him shirtless as one of the THRUSHies brought out a whip.
And Illya, being held back by another lackey, was once again forced to watch this all play out.
“You’ve got an impressive collection of whiplash scars on your back, Solo,” their THRUSH jailer said, as he brandished the whip. “Perhaps some matching ones for your front end will get you to talk.”
Napoleon, strapped to a table, merely glared back at his captor.
“I doubt that very much,” Napoleon said. “The most you’ll get out of me is unintelligible screaming—assuming I allow myself to make a sound at all.”
Indeed, he hadn’t given Shark the pleasure; aside from one brave quip, he had taken the lashes in silence, and he was willing to do so here.
The inevitable scarring of his torso was going to be a very bitter pill to swallow, however.
The THRUSH jailer cracked the whip once more, trying to intimidate Napoleon into speaking one last time. But Napoleon still remained silent.
Realizing that there was no point in intimidation, the jailer now drew his arm back, preparing to strike Napoleon with the whip.
And Illya could be silent no longer.
He first did what he should have done back on Shark’s ship—elbow the lackey holding him and then knocking him out first before running to defend his partner.
He grabbed the whip as the THRUSH jailer moved to crack it at Napoleon; the jailer stared, stunned—Illya’s element of surprise had given him the moment he needed, and he seized it.
Illya pulled the whip out of the jailer’s hands and, as Napoleon watched in amazement, Illya cracked the whip back at the jailer, prompting him to retreat, screaming orders for backup to arrive and tranquilize Napoleon and Illya.
But no backup arrived, and the jailer reacted in shock as a very exasperated Victor Marton showed up and tranquilized the jailer. Illya, confused and annoyed, now brandished the whip at him, but Marton was unfazed.
“Kindly point that elsewhere, Monsieur Kuryakin,” he instructed. “I have ensured you and your partner a clear path of escape—take it, and leave me in peace.”
“Could I have my shirt back?” Napoleon queried, good-naturedly.
“What payment are you demanding for this?” Illya questioned Marton.
“Payment, Monsieur? This is the payment! Je ne fais que renvoyer l'ascenseur à ce cher Alexander.”
“…Mr. Waverly did something for you recently?”
“Ah, hello,” Napoleon called from the table. “Illya, there is something you can do for me right now!”
Illya hastily ran over to the table and unstrapped Napoleon, but as he looked back, Marton had gone.
“…I cannot stand him sometimes,” Illya grumbled.
“Which, for you, is most of the time,” Napoleon mused. He sobered. “Nevertheless, I’m grateful to the both of you for ensuring the preservation of my marvelously well-sculpted upper body—you most of all, since you didn’t have the luxury of knowing he’d show up.”
“At least I was able to do something this time,” Illya sighed.
Napoleon’s expression softened, knowing what Illya was referring to.
“Illya…”
“You do not need to say it, Napoleon,” the Russian assured him. He managed a wan smile. “And you are welcome. Now, I say we leave before Marton changes his mind.”
The two partners took off through the hallways of the satrap and to the freedom that lay outside.