?

Log in

Title: The Sciophobia Affair
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (tv series)
Genre: Horror | Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin and Mr. Waverly.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Sam Rolfe.
Challenge: Written for The spook_me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2016.
Prompt: Ghost
Picture Prompts: #1 and #2
Author's Notes: 'Man's Action' magazines did exist in the 1960's.
Total Word Count:
Status:

Summary: When an agent fails to acquire a microchip hidden inside the contents of a room set deep within the bowels of an abandoned insane asylum, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin are sent in to retrieve it. It really is a shame the agent was too scared to mention the dead shadows wandering the hallways of the asylum.


The Sciophobia Affair


Act I
"Mind the Stairs"


Pushed from behind, Napoleon Solo fell forward, his balance lost, unable to find its way back. A lack of solid ground beneath his feet, arms flailing as he struggled to find something within easy reach to stop his fall; a stair railing, a wall fixture . . . Kuryakin’s capable hands. He found nothing, the darkness a belittling hindrance to his sudden need to survive.

The stairs too deep, the angle too steep . . . tension filled his body, his muscles, a painful landing expected. First part of his journey short, a sudden interruption, Solo bounced off the edges of worn trodden steps, the stairs creaking with annoyance, a threat given to collapse beneath his weight. Interlude over, he tumbled forward, body twisting and rolling, feeling every bruise created as his body made a collective impact down the stairway and into a room set deep within the bowels of an abandoned insane asylum.

Reaching his final destination, his head and back slammed onto a wooden floor, the landing as hard and painful as expected. Air pulled from his lungs, the intrusion violent and excruciating, it left him struggling to take another breath through the pain rippling across his back and shoulders . . . his head. Body beaten by an inanimate object, everything hurt; muscle and bone.

Commiserating dust rising into the air around him, Solo lay still, limbs limp, unwilling to move . . . unwilling to determine if any of his injuries were as debilitating as they felt, certain something was broken, his skull fractured. There was no hurry, no reason to rush . . . only a multitude of life threatening information at risk of falling into the ungainly hands of Thrush.

U.N.C.L.E.’s first attempt to salvage the micro chip a spectacular failure, the agent responsible returning to headquarters a bumbling mess of fear and contradictions. They could gain nothing from him that made sense, only that he had been unable to complete the mission. The agent didn’t explain why, refusing to look Alexander Waverly in the eye, obvious the man was hiding something.

A decision made, Waverly sending his best agents to find the microchip, the information vital to U.N.C.L.E.’s intelligence. How the microchip came to be hidden in its present location, Solo didn’t know, Waverly citing need-to-know and the old man didn’t think it necessary to inform Solo, his top agent, the how and the why of U.N.C.L.E.’s current predicament.

Footsteps, slow and careful . . . intentional, reached Solo, gaining his attention, pulling his thoughts away from the pain and their mission. A scraping of fingers across the wall, the sound grating against Solo’s nerves. Normally so calm; flat on his back in the basement of an insane asylum, his body littered with pain, Solo wasn’t in the mood to be calm . . . not in the mood for Kuryakin’s sense of humour, expecting his friend to release a low, ghostly moan at any moment.

Lungs taking a breath, Solo opened his eyes, narrowed gaze searching the darkness for Kuryakin. A flicker of light, the beam from Kuryakin’s flashlight illuminating the stairs. Something moved, a dark shadow, a human form moving away from the light, its shape falling away as it disappeared into the darkness.

The bright light caught Solo’s features, a stab of pain striking through his skull, an unintentional assault. A soft groan of pain released through a clenched jaw, Solo closed his eyes and turned his head away. His neck wasn’t broken. Solo flexed his fingers, his toes. Grateful his back was intact, his spine undamaged. Damn obvious, even to him, the pain stumbling through his body enough to let him know he hadn’t suffered a serious spinal injury. Also aware a fall down a steep staircase was capable of inflicting so much more, able to take a person’s life; an embarrassing end to a departing soul.

Let out a sigh of relief.

Rushed footsteps . . .

A sudden presence by his side. A gentle caress across his forehead, fingers drifting through his hair . . . a cool breath on the side of his face sending a chill across his skin . . .

Hazel eyes snapping open, Solo saw something, a quick glimpse . . . someone stepping away, he wasn’t sure, the figure swept away into the shadows filling the basement. Knew one thing, certain of it . . . it hadn’t been Kuryakin.

“Falling down a set of stairs, Napoleon,” said Kuryakin, coming down the stairs, his balance confident, body agile. Flashlight and gaze already searching the interior of the basement, he placed himself in a position beside the prone Solo. “Must you be such a cliché?”

Typical.

No respect for a senior agent.

“You need to read the manual, Illya. Cliché is part of the job.”

A touch of impatience in Kuryakin’s tone. “Are you going to get up?”

“This is all part of my plan . . .” A disturbing thought crossed Solo’s consciousness, a remembrance; a touch against his back. Solo frowned, mind replaying past events, a few minutes of memory. He hadn’t fallen. “I didn’t fall. Someone pushed me. Can you see anyone else down here . . . I thought I saw someone before you came stampeding toward my rescue.”

“Well, it is Halloween. You’re bound to see someone . . . or something.”

Narrowed his gaze and stared up at the man. “Do . . . you . . . see . . . anyone?”

“No, Napoleon, I don’t see anyone. Perhaps it was a ghost,” said Kuryakin, looking down at Solo, the flashlight lighting up Solo’s features. “It’s rumoured this building is haunted. Fascinating really. Did you know thirteen of the asylum’s patients were murdered in this very basement?”

“Have you been taking the elevator again?”

Kuryakin smirked, corner of his mouth lifting, the smile then disappearing behind a serious expression. “I read the file.”

“There’s a file?”

“With pictures. Very gruesome.”

“Are you sure there’s no one else here?” said Solo, still feeling the caress across his skin, the cold touch, his flesh still crawling with goose bumps.

“Do you think Boris Karloff is lurking somewhere in the shadows?”

Someone was lurking.

“Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in every horror film ever made?” said Solo, shifting his body, more pain than he wanted, less pain than he expected; muscles stiff and sore. Took a slow, deep breath; a twinge of pain through his back and shoulders, the lack of severe pain an indication his ribs had survived the short, unexpected journey. Let the breath out, an even slower release. Surviving a fall with only bruises and a headache . . . lucky was an understatement.

A sudden understanding of what had happened the night before, Solo shivered, his spine growing cold, a twinge of anxiety curling in his gut. The previous agent had fled the asylum, fear chasing his heels, snapping at his insanity. Solo felt a hungry need to communicate with headquarters, risk Waverly’s wrath in an attempt to question the man who had failed his mission. Before he moved further into the basement of the asylum, an explanation needed . . . confirmation there actually was a socially, inapt ghost inhabiting the building.

Haunting its basement.

Pushing respectable secret agents down the staircase leading into the bowels of the asylum, an aggressive invitation. No RSVP required.

“Ghosts do not exist,” said Kuryakin, “and please, do take your time getting up.”

Accompanied by subtle curl of his lip, Solo glared at Kuryakin. “Something pushed me, Illya.”

“Or you tripped over your own clumsy feet and are too embarrassed to admit it,” said Kuryakin, removing his weapon from its holster and sent the beam of the flashlight through the room a second time, a more thorough search. Like a rollercoaster movement, quick and uneven, high and low, the light highlighted the areas of the basement, revealing an assortment of abused furniture. Frowned when the light failed to expose the kitchen sink. “There’s no kitchen sink.”

“Every basement has a kitchen sink.”

“Not this one. You could help me look . . . if you got up off the floor.”

Kuryakin was right. They had to find the kitchen sink, the microchip hidden in its empty depths. Its hiding place was too obvious, able to fool the most innocent of people, even a curious ghost but not an intelligent secret agent; a miracle Thrush were yet to make their own attempt to secure the information.

Possible they already had, the result the same, their agent fleeing the asylum in confusion and unadulterated terror . . . possible they would soon send in a replacement just as U.N.C.L.E. had done. A liability if Thrush were already in the building making their way through the confusing network of corridors and stairwells toward the bowels of the asylum.

No. There was no more time to wallow about his current status. No time to embrace and comfort the aches and pains . . . his mind’s imagination. No more time to allow the absurd consideration of the possible existence of a ghost . . .

Not so absurd.

Pushed from behind, his ghostly assailant disguised by the darkness.

A glimpse of something on the stairs.

A soft caress.

There was something here.

A clumsy attempt to sit up. Not physically ready, his body protested, his world taking on a sickening angle, head spinning, vertigo causing his balance to become forgetful. Unsure of which way to fall, his body hovered, taking its time before coming to a conclusion while his hands, his fingers searched for a credible support structure, Kuryakin’s trousers the closest thing; they would have to do, nothing else available.

Kuryakin reacted, his hands occupied, his left leg free to stop Solo’s fall . . .

A touch between his shoulder blades kept him from falling back. A jolt of fear, his anxiety creating an imaginative image . . . the ghost in attendance, supplying a helping hand. Realized with a hint of foolishness the touch was solid. Thankful for the physical support, Solo took a moment to regain his equilibrium, waited for the dizziness to release its hold.

Remembered the touch that had sent him bouncing and tumbling down a set of stairs had also been solid. A slow glance over his left shoulder, unsure of what he would see. Grimaced with disgust when he realized his fellow agent, his friend, was using his foot to keep Solo upright, the solid touch the sole of Kuryakin’s shoe.

No respect.

For a senior agent or his tailored suit.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to achieve a vertical position, a simple thing becoming such a difficult venture. His head ached, brain floating on an outgoing tide of vertigo. His back itched with a pain that would soon become an annoyance. It was going to hurt like hell when his back muscles were in use, certain of it. Damn, it felt like someone had thrown him down a flight of stairs . . .

Something had thrown him down the stairs.

Pushed. Eager to get its victim into its lair. To drain him of his life force. Seduce him into a zombie-like existence . . .

He had to stop reading those ‘Man’s Action’ magazines they kept in the all too familiar hospital ward; convinced the reading material was an inside joke, the punch line only known to the female nurses.

Kuryakin lowered his leg, allowing it to hang in the air for a few seconds. Waited. A look of satisfaction on his face, he let it fall the rest of the way, shoe slapping against the floor. Smirked when Solo flinched at the sound. “If you don’t hurry up, we’ll still be here during the witching hour.”

Flinching at the sound, Solo said, “And that would be?”

“Between three and four am.”

“You didn’t read a file,” said Solo, scowling at the darkness. “You read a book.”

A long sigh, a breath of frustration, Kuryakin stepped away, moving further into the basement, away from Solo. Holstering his gun, he began a physical search, shifting through the old furniture. Nothing hidden in obscurity, everything clearly evident . . . too small or too compact to hide a Butcher sink. No canvas coverings, nothing hidden beneath camouflaged material. It wasn’t here.

“Do you think Thrush has already found the microchip?” said Kuryakin, lifting his gaze, his flashlight, searching the walls for the outline of a hidden door, a hidden compartment. A map that indicated the current location of the kitchen sink. “They could have taken the sink with them.”

Left in darkness, Solo contemplated the question, head aching with the effort, an added burden to the already existing pain. “Are there any footsteps in the dust, any markings to indicate someone has already been here? Apart from our agent with the fragile personality.”

His current search interrupted, Kuryakin moved the beam of light across the floor. Accumulated dust showed only the footsteps created by his own feet, the small prints an indication of his height. “No, only my own.”

“Then they don’t have it,” said Solo, ignoring the fact their agent hadn’t made it to the basement, kept at bay by something that had turned the man into a petrified confusion of chaos. “Keep looking.”

Kuryakin’s gaze followed the beam of light as it continued its journey across the walls, the light pausing . . . waiting . . . something had caught his attention. He stepped closer to the wall, fingers reaching out, his touch following the outline of a hidden door. “There’s another door.”

Solo turned his upper body, twisting at the waist. The vertigo still unpleasant, no longer debilitating. More confident he would be able to do his job. Tapered his gaze, the hidden door now visible, the flashlight giving away its secret, betraying its confidence. “And you didn’t see that before?”

“It wasn’t obvious.”

Now obligated to move, no intention of allowing Kuryakin to go further on his own, not when there was something down here with them. He felt capable, no longer dizzy, his balance restored. His head still ached, a heavy dull pain, thick, an inevitable encumbrance. If the weight of pain didn’t send him back to the floor, if his back didn’t punish him, muscles still twitching with pain, he should be all right, able to continue . . . able to protect his partner if Kuryakin continued with his unusual aptitude for getting into trouble.

A chilled touch painted his lips, a calm pressure . . .

Solo moved, snapping his body away from the touch. Eyes wide with confusion, he created distance as he stared into an empty space filled only with darkness. There was nothing there, no physical form to explain the soft kiss. His movements continued; so much space needed to separate his mind, his emotions . . . separate his fear from what had just happened, stopping only when his back hit a solid object. Back muscles protesting, a grimace creasing his features, a grunt of pain escaped.

He was an enforcement agent for the U.N.C.L.E. organization for all the right reasons and all the wrong reasons, able to separate the two when needed. He enjoyed living on the edge, the threat of death always so close. He didn’t feel alive unless he was physically or emotionally at risk. The fear . . . the adrenaline, it was a drug, an addiction he encouraged, enjoyed. His courage a natural emotion; an emotion others often referred to as fanatical. His indifference to danger always a threat to his physical health. Knew he would suffer a terminal case of boredom if his life were different . . . if he didn’t live so close to death.

This was a segregated fear, altered. Something he’d never felt before. The fear pumped through Solo’s limbs, his heart pounding, the anxiety cinching tight around his chest, churning through his gut. His breathing irrational, he couldn’t see the threat and he knew with a feeling of dread . . . he couldn’t stop what he couldn’t see. Couldn’t fight against a supernatural occurrence. Felt a kinship with the U.N.C.L.E. agent who had fled the building, empathized with the man’s fear.

“Napoleon?”

Lifted his fingertips to his lips, the flesh cold, the touch lingering . . . a souvenir. “Something touched me.”

“How hard did you hit your head?”

“Hard enough to make it hurt,” said Solo, a hint of annoyance in his tone, Kuryakin’s accusation chasing his fear into a corner, his anger and frustration taking centre stage. His truth not believed, Kuryakin was taking the same direction he had when Solo had almost died at the hands of a living creature that was a mixture of human, animal and artificial parts; the robot that wasn’t a robot. No one had believed him then, not until evidence in the form of the female robot-not-robot lay on a dissection table, an autopsy revealing the truth of Solo’s words.

His assortment of emotions growing, Solo was ready to find the microchip and leave, solitude needed, a cold martini wanted. Used the wall behind him as a crutch, pushing his body up into a vertical position. Waited. A few elongated minutes. The dizziness still in retreat, no longer a threat, Solo felt ready to take on the World . . . as long as the World didn’t fight back. As long as the ghost didn’t make any more advances toward him, no longer touching him with a physical force, a cold touch. Turned away from the wall to find Kuryakin watching him, an expression of patience on his features.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Solo. “Before I run screaming from the building.”


Act II
"A Sink with too Many Freckles"


The basement’s hidden room was much larger than the first. A contradiction in comparison, it ran almost the full length of the asylum, its depths of darkness long and threatening. From the open doorway, the beam of Kuryakin’s flashlight made a valiant attempt to make a visible pathway; a miserable failure, the dark too thick to penetrate, visibility diminished.




Heart taking on an unhealthy rhythm, a pulse beating against his ribs, Solo stepped into the room; Kuryakin allowed the senior agent to take the lead.

Picspam - 'Inspector Sullivan'


Tv Series: Father Brown
Episode: 3x15 'The Owl Of Minerva'
Character: Inspector Sullivan
Images: 105



 photo 45_zpstujxojl1.png

Warning: Image Heavy



If There Is Any Doing To Be Done . . .Collapse )



Title: Dance on Through
Fandom: War of the Worlds (TV Series)
Genre: Hurt/comfort, Horror, Science Fiction.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Lt. Col. Paul Ironhorse, Debi McCullough, Dr. Suzanne McCullough, Dr. Harrison Blackwood and Norton Drake.
Disclaimers: Based on the characters created by Greg Strangis.
Challenge: Written for The spook_me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2015.
Prompt: Boogeyman
Picture Prompts: #1 and #2
Author's Notes: Story title snagged from the song 'Dance on Through' by The Human Beinz.
Chapter Word Count: 5,313
Total Word Count: 30,738
Status: Complete

Summary: Responding to alien transmissions, the Blackwood Project find themselves embroiled in the legend of the Boogeyman. Children are disappearing, abducted during their thirteenth year. The local inhabitants are certain a boogeyman is behind their disappearance but Blackwood believes the aliens are involved. When Debi, in her thirteenth year, is threatened, Ironhorse risks his life to keep her safe.


Dance on Through - Chapter FiveCollapse )


Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five


Master Fan Fiction List

Title: Dance on Through
Fandom: War of the Worlds (TV Series)
Genre: Hurt/comfort, Horror, Science Fiction.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Lt. Col. Paul Ironhorse, Debi McCullough, Dr. Suzanne McCullough, Dr. Harrison Blackwood and Norton Drake.
Disclaimers: Based on the characters created by Greg Strangis.
Challenge: Written for The spook_me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2015.
Prompt: Boogeyman
Picture Prompts: #1 and #2
Author's Notes: Story title snagged from the song 'Dance on Through' by The Human Beinz.
Chapter Word Count: 6,801
Total Word Count: 30,738
Status: Complete

Summary: Responding to alien transmissions, the Blackwood Project find themselves embroiled in the legend of the Boogeyman. Children are disappearing, abducted during their thirteenth year. The local inhabitants are certain a boogeyman is behind their disappearance but Blackwood believes the aliens are involved. When Debi, in her thirteenth year, is threatened, Ironhorse risks his life to keep her safe.


Dance on Through - Chapter FourCollapse )


Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five


Master Fan Fiction List

Title: Dance on Through
Fandom: War of the Worlds (TV Series)
Genre: Hurt/comfort, Horror, Science Fiction.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Lt. Col. Paul Ironhorse, Debi McCullough, Dr. Suzanne McCullough, Dr. Harrison Blackwood and Norton Drake.
Disclaimers: Based on the characters created by Greg Strangis.
Challenge: Written for The spook_me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2015.
Prompt: Boogeyman
Picture Prompts: #1 and #2
Author's Notes: Story title snagged from the song 'Dance on Through' by The Human Beinz.
Chapter Word Count: 5,123
Total Word Count: 30,738
Status: Complete

Summary: Responding to alien transmissions, the Blackwood Project find themselves embroiled in the legend of the Boogeyman. Children are disappearing, abducted during their thirteenth year. The local inhabitants are certain a boogeyman is behind their disappearance but Blackwood believes the aliens are involved. When Debi, in her thirteenth year, is threatened, Ironhorse risks his life to keep her safe.


Dance on Through - Chapter ThreeCollapse )


Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four


Master Fan Fiction List

Title: Dance on Through
Fandom: War of the Worlds (TV Series)
Genre: Hurt/comfort, Horror, Science Fiction.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Lt. Col. Paul Ironhorse, Debi McCullough, Dr. Suzanne McCullough, Dr. Harrison Blackwood and Norton Drake.
Disclaimers: Based on the characters created by Greg Strangis.
Challenge: Written for The spook_me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2015.
Prompt: Boogeyman
Picture Prompts: #1 and #2
Author's Notes: Story title snagged from the song 'Dance on Through' by The Human Beinz.
Chapter Word Count: 6,502
Total Word Count: 30,738
Status: Complete

Summary: Responding to alien transmissions, the Blackwood Project find themselves embroiled in the legend of the Boogeyman. Children are disappearing, abducted during their thirteenth year. The local inhabitants are certain a boogeyman is behind their disappearance but Blackwood believes the aliens are involved. When Debi, in her thirteenth year, is threatened, Ironhorse risks his life to keep her safe.


Dance on Through - Chapter TwoCollapse )


Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three


Master Fan Fiction List

Title: Dance on Through
Fandom: War of the Worlds (TV Series)
Genre: Hurt/comfort, Horror, Science Fiction.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Lt. Col. Paul Ironhorse, Debi McCullough, Dr. Suzanne McCullough, Dr. Harrison Blackwood and Norton Drake.
Disclaimers: Based on the characters created by Greg Strangis.
Challenge: Written for The spook_me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2015.
Prompt: Boogeyman
Picture Prompts: #1 and #2
Author's Notes: Story title snagged from the song 'Dance on Through' by The Human Beinz.
Chapter Word Count: 6,999
Total Word Count: 30,738
Status: Complete

Summary: Responding to alien transmissions, the Blackwood Project find themselves embroiled in the legend of the Boogeyman. Children are disappearing, abducted during their thirteenth year. The local inhabitants are certain a boogeyman is behind their disappearance but Blackwood believes the aliens are involved. When Debi, in her thirteenth year, is threatened, Ironhorse risks his life to keep her safe.


Dance on Through - Chapter OneCollapse )


Part One | Chapter Two


Master Fan Fiction List

Title: A Toast of Midsomer
Fandom: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Crack!fic (I think), AU.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: DCI John Barnaby and DS Ben Jones and a couple of OMC's.
Disclaimers: A Bentley productions for ITV. Created and based on the books by Caroline Graham.
Spoilers: Set during season 14.
Author's Notes: I had a short dream. Unfortunately, the muse was awake at the time and decided he wanted to write it, so blame him not me.
Chapter Word Count: 5,111
Total Word Count: 17,936
Status: Complete

Summary: DCI John Barnaby and DS Ben Jones are drawn into a world where murder doesn't exist. At least not until Meredith Bernstein was found dead in her front garden with a knife in her chest. With the help of a psychic, a chef and a battery operated toaster, Barnaby and Jones try to solve a case that may be the first of many.


A Toast of Midsomer - Chapter ThreeCollapse )


Part One | Part Two | Part Three


Master Fan Fiction List

Title: A Toast of Midsomer
Fandom: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Crack!fic (I think), AU.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: DCI John Barnaby and DS Ben Jones and a couple of OMC's.
Disclaimers: A Bentley productions for ITV. Created and based on the books by Caroline Graham.
Spoilers: Set during season 14.
Author's Notes: I had a short dream. Unfortunately, the muse was awake at the time and decided he wanted to write it, so blame him not me.
Chapter Word Count: 6,235
Total Word Count: 17,936
Status: Complete

Summary: DCI John Barnaby and DS Ben Jones are drawn into a world where murder doesn't exist. At least not until Meredith Bernstein was found dead in her front garden with a knife in her chest. With the help of a psychic, a chef and a battery operated toaster, Barnaby and Jones try to solve a case that may be the first of many.


A Toast of Midsomer - Chapter TwoCollapse )


Part One | Part Two | Part Three


Master Fan Fiction List