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kleenexwomanI wrote this for an anonymous Secret Santa. Stuff like that seems to be the only thing that will get me to actually finish whole stories in this fandom. Anyway, the prompt that I used was "bureaucracy," and I couldn't figure out what to do with it, then the day I graduated I took some acid that I'd had sitting in the freezer for six months, and in the middle of the (rather disappointing) trip, I figured out what the story was going to be about. It worked that time, but I suspect this method may be a one-trick pony.
A Message from Your Secret Agent Santa:
I was dreaming when I wrote this; forgive me if it goes astray.
***
UNCLE's reception area is stark and grey and thoroughly utilitarian, undecorated, no windows and no light except for the harsh fluorescent lamps that buzz on the ceiling. The first time Napoleon walked through, it gave him an jumpy, tingling sensation, like there were bugs crawling under his skin. Eventually, he found he appreciated the bland smoothness of the walls and the soft buzzing after the noise and color of the New York streets outside; it was like entering a gunmetal haven of regularity, an institutional womb.
THRUSH's reception area is plush and colorful, softly lit and with marbled walls, paintings and green plants and soft velvet benches scattered all over like the lobby of a chic hotel. It's clearly designed to put people at ease, to make them feel pampered and comfortable, ignorant of (or perhaps amenable to) the evil that lurks in the hallways and elevators and behind closed doors. Still, sitting on one of the velvet benches with a tray of complimentary cookies and a nearly-empty cup of very good coffee, Napoleon feels that same twitchiness he felt on his first day at UNCLE. No matter how he shifts and readjusts his crossed legs, no matter how he angles the lampshade next to him, he can't get rid of it.
He doesn't hear the receptionist call his name at first, mostly because it isn't his name. "Mr. Dah-pio?"
"Do'ppio," he corrects her, remembering to put on his approximation of an Italian accent just in time. Illya claims it's beyond him how Napoleon's accents ever fool anyone. Illya isn't here now to comment on it. Napoleon thinks he can fool one little blonde girl who appears to be from Long Island.
She waves his mock-up THRUSH card at him. "Scanner doesn't like it." The scanner looks unnervingly like a gun, sitting smooth and beige in its little holster. They're doing amazing work with lasers, Illya had said, months ago. Transmitting information through light. "I'll get them to run it through the computer, OK?"
Napoleon nods, and watches as a slot opens seamlessly in the wall behind her. She feeds the card in, and the slot disappears without a trace. He memorizes it for later, noting its position on the marble block until the girl turns around to face him again. He straightens up, as though being caught watching would mean anything.
"We'll have a confirmation in a few minutes," she says, and nods at the recently vacated velvet bench with the rapidly cooling cup of coffee (espresso blend. Real china. Real cream, not powdery creamer) beside it. When Napoleon doesn't move, she flicks her fingers in its direction. "You can sit down, sir. If you like," she adds hastily.
Napoleon smiles a broad, toothy smile that never fails to make the receptionist on duty at UNCLE prepare her excuses for getting out of a date. "Shelley," he says, reading her name off her polished brass nametag, and isn't that convenient-- "is there any chance I could see the, ah, the test subject now?"
He catches the faintest hint of a smirk on her candy-red lips. "Not until your identity's verified and you got the correct forms," she says, "sorry." She rolls her chair back and stretches out her legs, concentrating on her nails. Napoleon concentrates on her stockings. They're red, and there's a pattern woven into them, which he tries to make out. Smiley faces? Spider webs?
"Sit," she says. "Sieda, okay? Is that right? Sieda?"
"Absolutely," he says, "sì," although he does not know. His Italian extends as far as bon giorno and sì and knowing when somebody is making a rude gesture, and knowing that vermicelli means "little worms" and that he shouldn't order that dish in a THRUSH-owned cafe unless he wants to get a plate full of poisonous worms with fresh-grated Parmesan in an exquisite tomato-vodka sauce.
The moment he sits down, he remembers that he needs to call Mr. Waverly, check in, let him know that he's this close to finding Illya.
"Ah," he says, and she finally looks up. "Bathroom?"
She points the file to the right. "First door on the left."
The first door on the left is down the longest hall Napoleon's ever seen. He trails his fingers along the marble, searching for seams or bumps in the wall. Hidden doors. Maybe Illya will be behind one of them. He thinks about bursting into a room, any room, finding Illya bruised and handcuffed. Effecting a daring rescue, wherein Illya clings to him fetchingly and is appropriately thankful until he recovers enough to shoot. Going out to dinner someplace nice, for once. Italian. Candlelight. In the fantasy, the candlelight grows bright, yellow and harsh. Napoleon swallows a plate of worms.
He doesn't make it to the bathroom in time to retch; the bathroom comes later, in time for him to wipe his mouth off and splash his face. His reflection in the mirror is incontrovertibly him, a Napoleon somehow untouched by hair cream or charm. His eyes are red. He marvels at the idea that he can fool even a girl named Shelley into thinking he's anyone other than he is. He wonders if Shelley is her real name.
For some reason, it takes him three tries to figure out that his communicator is not working, will not work. "It must be the battery," he explains to his reflection. "We'll get Illya to fix it when we find him." His reflection nods solemnly and caps the dead communicator, and he follows suit.
When he finds his way back to the lobby, his communicator goes off. He swivels around and ducks behind the wall, Shelley just out of sight. "Solo here," he whispers. There is silence.
"ThrushCo," Shelley says from the lobby, "how may I direct your call?"
He whacks the communicator against his hand, against the wall, opens and closes it. Silence. He tucks it back into his coat and goes into the lobby. Shelley has finished with her phone call. "The card," he says, "it worked?"
Shelley shakes her head. "I guess they're kinda tied up," she says. "Just take a seat. I'll get the papers for you."
He wends his way back to the velvet seat, drinks the rest of the coffee, nibbles at the cookies. They taste burnt. The communicator sounds again, echoey and distant, before it fades out altogether.
"Thrush Industries," Shelley says from the front desk, "how may I direct your call?" She nods at him, a sheaf of papers in her hand, the telephone tucked in between her face and her shoulder. "Honey," she says, "I just need you to sign these. Initial here, here, here..." She's pointing at the lines with his communicator, tapping each one with the end.
He slips his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling the cold metal of the the gadget, silent and useless. "I have a pen just like that."
"Great." Shelley holds up a finger, telling him to wait. Her nails are long and sharp, painted alternating red and green. Red for blood, green for poison, Napoleon thinks. He takes the papers back to the velvet bench.
Line A: Initials. He prints a capital "N" on the line. Is that it? He adds an extra line, turning it into an "M," just in case. Then another line. Shelley can make whatever letter she wants with all those lines. He adds a period, then another, then another, then another and another and another, a slope of dots protecting the mutant "N" from interrogation. He admires his effort. There is no need for a "D" or an "S" or any other letter; the "N" will speak for itself.
Line B: Full name. He can cleverly hide his own name in his false name; his cursive is certainly bad enough. He draws loops, interlocking and overlapping. "Napoleon." "Nopoleoon." "Ooopooeoooo." Shelley can find whatever she thinks his name is in his loops. They rearrange themselves as he watches his hand inscribe them on the paper.
Line C: Division, satrap, rank. "Italia," he writes, "Parmesan, no worms please." He draws a picture of a worm to illustrate, then crosses it out. The worm needs a face. He adds eyes, an angry mouth dripping with poison, then gives it arms and Shelley's fingernails. Maybe she'll be flattered that he noticed. Maybe she wouldn't mind joining him and Illya at the restaurant tonight. "I drew you a worm," he tells her from across the room.
"Oh," Shelley says, "that's real nice of you." His communicator goes off again, and he curses the UNCLE communication system. Now Shelley will know, and he'll never get to go out to dinner with her. He mourns the loss.
"Yeah," Shelley says into the phone, "test subject D is doing all right." She glances at Napoleon. He nods and smiles, pleased that Illya is OK. "Exhibiting signs of apparent attention deficit," she adds, "otherwise appears to be normal, or attempting normal behavior." She lowers her voice. "He says he drew me a worm. I don't know what that means."
Line D: Title of test subject requested. Test subject D. If Illya is D, why does he need to write it again? He leaves it blank.
Line D2: Name of test subject requested. He knows it's a trick. He can't print Illya's real name, otherwise they'll know it, and they'll know that he knows Illya. "HA HA," he writes, satisfied with his own wit.
"I don't know," Shelley says again. "I think I'm going to have to wait until he turns in the papers. He looks pretty occupied with them right now."
Line E: Name of test. "Name of test," he repeats. "Name of test."
"Electric Espresso," Shelley says. He writes it down carefully, and looks up to see her watching him, carefully. "How do you feel?" she asks.
"Fine," Napoleon says, "honestly, I'm fine." He realizes he's dropped his accent, and wonders where he could have put it. "Uh...bueno."
Shelley giggles. "Good, good," she says.
Line F: THRUSH Identification Number. His card has gone into the wall. Shelley fed it to the wall. The wall has eaten it. "Shelley," he says. "Where's my card?"
She stares blankly at him. "They're still processing it," she says, "I guess."
He shrugs and writes. Will you go out with us?
It seems to take forever to reach the front desk. Shelley takes the papers with her long, bloody, poisonous fingernails and studies them.
She finally gets to the last line. "Me and Illya," he clarifies. "Tonight."
"Oh," Shelley says, and she sounds genuinely sorry. "Honey, no." The slot in the wall spits out a small piece of paper, and the card. The card drops onto the floor, and Napoleon tries to reach for it, but is stopped by the desk. Shelley picks it up. "Huh," she says, "I guess it was denied."
The wall opens, and several men in suits reach for Napoleon. He reaches for his gun, but his fingers squish into the metal and it drips out of his hand. "Just give me another form," he says, "I'll fill everything out this time," but the word has been writ and you don't get another chance.
A Message from Your Secret Agent Santa:
I was dreaming when I wrote this; forgive me if it goes astray.
***
UNCLE's reception area is stark and grey and thoroughly utilitarian, undecorated, no windows and no light except for the harsh fluorescent lamps that buzz on the ceiling. The first time Napoleon walked through, it gave him an jumpy, tingling sensation, like there were bugs crawling under his skin. Eventually, he found he appreciated the bland smoothness of the walls and the soft buzzing after the noise and color of the New York streets outside; it was like entering a gunmetal haven of regularity, an institutional womb.
THRUSH's reception area is plush and colorful, softly lit and with marbled walls, paintings and green plants and soft velvet benches scattered all over like the lobby of a chic hotel. It's clearly designed to put people at ease, to make them feel pampered and comfortable, ignorant of (or perhaps amenable to) the evil that lurks in the hallways and elevators and behind closed doors. Still, sitting on one of the velvet benches with a tray of complimentary cookies and a nearly-empty cup of very good coffee, Napoleon feels that same twitchiness he felt on his first day at UNCLE. No matter how he shifts and readjusts his crossed legs, no matter how he angles the lampshade next to him, he can't get rid of it.
He doesn't hear the receptionist call his name at first, mostly because it isn't his name. "Mr. Dah-pio?"
"Do'ppio," he corrects her, remembering to put on his approximation of an Italian accent just in time. Illya claims it's beyond him how Napoleon's accents ever fool anyone. Illya isn't here now to comment on it. Napoleon thinks he can fool one little blonde girl who appears to be from Long Island.
She waves his mock-up THRUSH card at him. "Scanner doesn't like it." The scanner looks unnervingly like a gun, sitting smooth and beige in its little holster. They're doing amazing work with lasers, Illya had said, months ago. Transmitting information through light. "I'll get them to run it through the computer, OK?"
Napoleon nods, and watches as a slot opens seamlessly in the wall behind her. She feeds the card in, and the slot disappears without a trace. He memorizes it for later, noting its position on the marble block until the girl turns around to face him again. He straightens up, as though being caught watching would mean anything.
"We'll have a confirmation in a few minutes," she says, and nods at the recently vacated velvet bench with the rapidly cooling cup of coffee (espresso blend. Real china. Real cream, not powdery creamer) beside it. When Napoleon doesn't move, she flicks her fingers in its direction. "You can sit down, sir. If you like," she adds hastily.
Napoleon smiles a broad, toothy smile that never fails to make the receptionist on duty at UNCLE prepare her excuses for getting out of a date. "Shelley," he says, reading her name off her polished brass nametag, and isn't that convenient-- "is there any chance I could see the, ah, the test subject now?"
He catches the faintest hint of a smirk on her candy-red lips. "Not until your identity's verified and you got the correct forms," she says, "sorry." She rolls her chair back and stretches out her legs, concentrating on her nails. Napoleon concentrates on her stockings. They're red, and there's a pattern woven into them, which he tries to make out. Smiley faces? Spider webs?
"Sit," she says. "Sieda, okay? Is that right? Sieda?"
"Absolutely," he says, "sì," although he does not know. His Italian extends as far as bon giorno and sì and knowing when somebody is making a rude gesture, and knowing that vermicelli means "little worms" and that he shouldn't order that dish in a THRUSH-owned cafe unless he wants to get a plate full of poisonous worms with fresh-grated Parmesan in an exquisite tomato-vodka sauce.
The moment he sits down, he remembers that he needs to call Mr. Waverly, check in, let him know that he's this close to finding Illya.
"Ah," he says, and she finally looks up. "Bathroom?"
She points the file to the right. "First door on the left."
The first door on the left is down the longest hall Napoleon's ever seen. He trails his fingers along the marble, searching for seams or bumps in the wall. Hidden doors. Maybe Illya will be behind one of them. He thinks about bursting into a room, any room, finding Illya bruised and handcuffed. Effecting a daring rescue, wherein Illya clings to him fetchingly and is appropriately thankful until he recovers enough to shoot. Going out to dinner someplace nice, for once. Italian. Candlelight. In the fantasy, the candlelight grows bright, yellow and harsh. Napoleon swallows a plate of worms.
He doesn't make it to the bathroom in time to retch; the bathroom comes later, in time for him to wipe his mouth off and splash his face. His reflection in the mirror is incontrovertibly him, a Napoleon somehow untouched by hair cream or charm. His eyes are red. He marvels at the idea that he can fool even a girl named Shelley into thinking he's anyone other than he is. He wonders if Shelley is her real name.
For some reason, it takes him three tries to figure out that his communicator is not working, will not work. "It must be the battery," he explains to his reflection. "We'll get Illya to fix it when we find him." His reflection nods solemnly and caps the dead communicator, and he follows suit.
When he finds his way back to the lobby, his communicator goes off. He swivels around and ducks behind the wall, Shelley just out of sight. "Solo here," he whispers. There is silence.
"ThrushCo," Shelley says from the lobby, "how may I direct your call?"
He whacks the communicator against his hand, against the wall, opens and closes it. Silence. He tucks it back into his coat and goes into the lobby. Shelley has finished with her phone call. "The card," he says, "it worked?"
Shelley shakes her head. "I guess they're kinda tied up," she says. "Just take a seat. I'll get the papers for you."
He wends his way back to the velvet seat, drinks the rest of the coffee, nibbles at the cookies. They taste burnt. The communicator sounds again, echoey and distant, before it fades out altogether.
"Thrush Industries," Shelley says from the front desk, "how may I direct your call?" She nods at him, a sheaf of papers in her hand, the telephone tucked in between her face and her shoulder. "Honey," she says, "I just need you to sign these. Initial here, here, here..." She's pointing at the lines with his communicator, tapping each one with the end.
He slips his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling the cold metal of the the gadget, silent and useless. "I have a pen just like that."
"Great." Shelley holds up a finger, telling him to wait. Her nails are long and sharp, painted alternating red and green. Red for blood, green for poison, Napoleon thinks. He takes the papers back to the velvet bench.
Line A: Initials. He prints a capital "N" on the line. Is that it? He adds an extra line, turning it into an "M," just in case. Then another line. Shelley can make whatever letter she wants with all those lines. He adds a period, then another, then another, then another and another and another, a slope of dots protecting the mutant "N" from interrogation. He admires his effort. There is no need for a "D" or an "S" or any other letter; the "N" will speak for itself.
Line B: Full name. He can cleverly hide his own name in his false name; his cursive is certainly bad enough. He draws loops, interlocking and overlapping. "Napoleon." "Nopoleoon." "Ooopooeoooo." Shelley can find whatever she thinks his name is in his loops. They rearrange themselves as he watches his hand inscribe them on the paper.
Line C: Division, satrap, rank. "Italia," he writes, "Parmesan, no worms please." He draws a picture of a worm to illustrate, then crosses it out. The worm needs a face. He adds eyes, an angry mouth dripping with poison, then gives it arms and Shelley's fingernails. Maybe she'll be flattered that he noticed. Maybe she wouldn't mind joining him and Illya at the restaurant tonight. "I drew you a worm," he tells her from across the room.
"Oh," Shelley says, "that's real nice of you." His communicator goes off again, and he curses the UNCLE communication system. Now Shelley will know, and he'll never get to go out to dinner with her. He mourns the loss.
"Yeah," Shelley says into the phone, "test subject D is doing all right." She glances at Napoleon. He nods and smiles, pleased that Illya is OK. "Exhibiting signs of apparent attention deficit," she adds, "otherwise appears to be normal, or attempting normal behavior." She lowers her voice. "He says he drew me a worm. I don't know what that means."
Line D: Title of test subject requested. Test subject D. If Illya is D, why does he need to write it again? He leaves it blank.
Line D2: Name of test subject requested. He knows it's a trick. He can't print Illya's real name, otherwise they'll know it, and they'll know that he knows Illya. "HA HA," he writes, satisfied with his own wit.
"I don't know," Shelley says again. "I think I'm going to have to wait until he turns in the papers. He looks pretty occupied with them right now."
Line E: Name of test. "Name of test," he repeats. "Name of test."
"Electric Espresso," Shelley says. He writes it down carefully, and looks up to see her watching him, carefully. "How do you feel?" she asks.
"Fine," Napoleon says, "honestly, I'm fine." He realizes he's dropped his accent, and wonders where he could have put it. "Uh...bueno."
Shelley giggles. "Good, good," she says.
Line F: THRUSH Identification Number. His card has gone into the wall. Shelley fed it to the wall. The wall has eaten it. "Shelley," he says. "Where's my card?"
She stares blankly at him. "They're still processing it," she says, "I guess."
He shrugs and writes. Will you go out with us?
It seems to take forever to reach the front desk. Shelley takes the papers with her long, bloody, poisonous fingernails and studies them.
She finally gets to the last line. "Me and Illya," he clarifies. "Tonight."
"Oh," Shelley says, and she sounds genuinely sorry. "Honey, no." The slot in the wall spits out a small piece of paper, and the card. The card drops onto the floor, and Napoleon tries to reach for it, but is stopped by the desk. Shelley picks it up. "Huh," she says, "I guess it was denied."
The wall opens, and several men in suits reach for Napoleon. He reaches for his gun, but his fingers squish into the metal and it drips out of his hand. "Just give me another form," he says, "I'll fill everything out this time," but the word has been writ and you don't get another chance.