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Ingrid Olsen held a small glass vial up to the light and inspected the blue tinged liquid within.
“What did you say you’d called it, Dr Pullman?
“VENOM,” the scientist told her. He was rather proud of the acronym he’d created. “It stands for Variable Effect Non Organic Molecules. Each of the three prescribed dosages will cause a different physical or emotional outcome.”
“You’re sure it will work?”
“I believe so,” he replied. It had taken a great deal of time and money to develop the serum. “Although, I must warn you, we have only tested each of the three properties on chimps. We do not know how it will work on a human.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Ingrid answered, with a smile. “I will soon discover that for you.”
“You have a test subject?”
“I acquired him for you this very morning.”
*****
Illya Kuryakin was annoyed, yet entirely unsurprised, to be a guest of THRUSH once again. He only knew this because the guards he had seen had the ugly bird insignia on their uniforms. No-one had actually told him who they were. Not much had been said directly to him at all. As a top level U.N.C.L.E. agent he was, naturally, a constant target. His main worry, other than the thickly padded cell he’d been placed in, was whether his distress signal could be traced. He’d activated it the moment he’d been snatched from the street, but the place he had been brought to seemed to be deep underground. Hopefully, HQ would have a vague idea of his location.
When he’d first been locked in the cell, Illya had immediately begun to look for a way out. Unfortunately, the door had nothing on the inside that could be breached. The only window, which was for observation, was above him, and was far too high to reach. Not that he could do much anyway, as his hands were placed in thick leather mittens, which took away the use of his fingers. As well as that, his wrists were cuffed to a locked belt around his waist. He had also been stripped of all his clothing and equipment. Even his underwear had been taken but, thankfully, he had been furnished with another pair. Illya had no issue with being naked, but he preferred not to be.
All he could do was await rescue, or torture; whichever came first. Illya was in no doubt that he was in for an uncomfortable time. It wasn’t the first time and, if he survived, it wouldn’t be the last. Unfortunately, it would also mean another trip to the hated psychiatrist afterwards. Illya was by no means a masochist, but he was more than willing to his body, and his life, on the line for the security of the world. The U.N.C.L.E psychiatrist didn’t seem to understand that the Russian had long since accepted the trade-off.
Before he could ponder his fate any further, the door to the cell opened. He got to his feet and backed up to the wall. Two heavily armed guards stepped in first, to ensure the captive didn’t make a break for it. Illya didn’t make any attempt to. Having no equipment, no idea where he was, or how many personnel occupied the building, he would have to wait and make any reconnaissance he could before an escape attempt could be made. Besides, he wouldn’t stand a chance of making it to the door.
Following the guards there came a small, grey-haired man in a lab coat, and a beautiful dark-haired woman. The man, with his dishevelled hair and clothing, had the classic look of a scientist whose work was far more important to him than his appearance. The woman, however, was entirely overdressed for the occasion; as Thrush females often were. While the green dress she was wearing wasn’t fully formal, she wouldn’t have looked out of place at a high-class cocktail party. Illya was almost impressed at how she was keeping her balance on the padded floor while wearing heels.
“Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr Kuryakin,” Miss Olsen said breezily.
“I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Illya replied.
“So it would appear,” she agreed. “But there is no need for you to know who I am. You won’t be around long enough for it to matter.”
Illya shrugged dismissively. He couldn’t disagree with her.
“Shall we get down to business then?” Miss Olsen continued. “If you would just allow my colleague to administer a small injection we can get on with things. I trust you won’t try anything silly.”
Dr Pullman swiftly plunged a syringe into Illya’s arm.
“I do hope you enjoy yourself,” Miss Olsen said. “We’re certainly going to. You should starting feeling something very soon.”
They left Illya alone and made their way up to the observation deck. By the time they arrived, their captive was already in distress. The sensation of itchy skin had begun almost immediately around the injection site. At first Illya thought it was just a standard reaction, as it had happened to him in the past. It wasn’t until it began to spread rapidly that he realised that this was the purpose of whatever it was he’d been given. He was also acutely aware of the reason he had been shackled as he was. It prevented him from scratching the itching. When he thought about it, this was probably a blessing because, as the sensation intensified across his body, he felt as though he could happily scratch his skin clean off. All Illya could do was roll around the padded surfaces in an attempt to find soothing cool spots.
Up in the observation room, Ingrid Olsen was practically giggling at the sight below her. The man was breathing heavily, and moaning, as he tried to escape his own skin. He was also yelling a lot of words in Russian. Ingrid didn’t understand what he was saying, but she was in no doubt there were many curses being aimed in her direction.
“How long will it go on for?” she asked Pullman.
“We estimate that the effects of each of the three dosages will last for around ten to twenty minutes,” he replied. “Anymore, and it could prove too much of a strain for his blood pressure. The test subject looks to be fit and healthy, but I don’t think you’d want him to expire too soon.”
Miss Olsen was a little disappointed that the show wouldn’t last as long as she had hoped, but there was still more entertainment to come. Dr Pullman explained they would have to wait at least another half an hour before the next dosage could be tested.
After what felt like an eternity to Illya, the itching sensation finally abated, and he was left lying on the floor, panting as though he’d run a marathon. For the next thirty minute he was left on his own to recover, during which time Illya tried not to think of what else might be waiting in store for him. Whatever it was, he was helpless to prevent it, so he saw little point in worrying; not that he was succeeding.
All too soon for Illya’s liking, the doctor returned with the guards. The woman was looking down from above and Illya could see the amused expression on her face. This time, he wasn’t as stoic as he had been before, and he backed away as far as he could. The two guards grabbed him in a vice-like grip, putting an immediate stop to any thoughts of struggling.
“What are you doing to me?” he demanded, as the syringe was stuck into his shoulder.
Pullman ignored the question. He simply did his job before he and the guards once again left. Illya braced himself for the itching to return but soon realised that something very different was happening. It felt as though every nerve ending was being individually electrocuted, despite there being no electricity involved. As the pain increased, Illya dropped to the floor, gasping. He thrashed and rolled in a desperate attempt to get away from the torment. If it hadn’t been for the padding, Illya would have seriously hurt himself with his writhing.
Watching from above, Miss Olsen admired how long it took for the U.N.C.L.E. agent to start screaming. It had to have been a good three minutes. She had heard many stories about the man’s supposedly legendary resilience, but had dismissed them as hyperbole. For almost fifteen minutes, Ingrid enjoyed the sight of her captive’s suffering. Her fun only ended when Illya’s system was too overwhelmed and he passed out. She quickly dispatched the doctor to ensure that he hadn’t left them for good and, once assured that he was still living, went to attend to other things while waiting for him to awaken.
Illya returned to consciousness just over an hour later. What surprised and confused him was that there was no pain. Other than a raw throat from screaming, he felt normal. He also didn’t understand why he wasn’t being questioned. He could only assume they were trying to weaken him first, and couldn’t help thinking that they were doing a fairly reasonable job of it.
Once again, the doctor and the guards entered the cell. This time Illya did attempt an escape. The idea of more of what he had already endured was enough to spur him on. He shoulder barged into one guard, knocking him down, but he was easily tackled by the other. The goon threw him to the floor and held him there, allowing Dr Pullman to administer another shot.
From her observation spot, Miss Olsen was almost giddy with glee. It was always fun to have an U.N.C.L.E agent to play with, and breaking this one was particularly joyful.
“What does this dose do?” she asked Pullman as he joined her.
“It induces a deep despair,” he told her. “The chimps it was tested on ended up rocking, and hugging themselves in the corners of their cages. Since human emotions are much more complex, it will be interesting to see where this goes.”
The sound of a polite cough behind them, made them both turn around. They found themselves face to face with a man Miss Olsen knew to be Napoleon Solo.
As Illya had supposed, HQ had picked up his distress signal, but had lost track of it when it had gone underground. Luckily, one of the agents who made up the search and rescue party had caught a glimpse of Thrush uniform.
“Your facility is now under U.N.C.L.E. control,” Solo told them, as he glanced down into the cell. He could see Illya curled up against the corner and, from the movement of his shoulders, could tell he was sobbing.
“What have you done to him?”
“It’s only temporary,” Pullman blurted, earning him a glare from his boss. “It’ll wear off within twenty minutes.”
Napoleon handed the Thrushies over to other agents and went to rescue his stricken partner. As he entered the cell, Illya was crying for his mother. Solo was one of the few people who had ever seen Illya crying in despair, and it was difficult every time. Even though he knew that it was chemically induced this time, it didn’t lessen the impact.
Napoleon knelt down beside Illya and gently began to release his hands. The blond turned to face him, and he could see such a deep sadness shining in the blue eyes.
“Napoleon?”
“It’s okay, Tovarisch,” he told him. “We’re going to get you out of here soon. Just as soon as you’re feeling a little better.”
Solo put his arm around his partner’s shoulder and pulled him into hug. For ten minutes, not a word was said while Illya sobbed and cried out in anguish. By the end of the time, the Russian was feeling much like his usual self. It felt to him as though nothing had happened, and yet, he could remember the feelings vividly. He had told himself earlier that he didn’t the U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrist, but was thinking that, this time, maybe a quick visit wouldn’t hurt.