If Illya Kuryakin had scoffed at his alarm clock that morning, rolled over, and gone back to sleep, the universe probably would have continued peaceably on its way, seeing no reason to interfere with his life. But when the Big Ben on his bedside table went off, Illya dutifully got up, silenced it, and went about his routine, preparing to leave for headquarters much earlier than he normally did. He had work to do this morning—paperwork for the last mission was coming due, and he hadn't done it yesterday because Napoleon had insisted that they offer to take a couple of the new secretaries out for dinner and dancing. The girls had been more than willing, and it had been fun, he had to admit. But there was no more time to put off doing the papers. So he set off for headquarters, ready to have a productive morning.

It was not to be.

The secretary who pinned on his badge at the desk had forgotten to treat her hands with the activation chemical, and he didn't get very far before a flush of security guards surrounded him, weapons raised. For some inexplicable reason, it took an obnoxiously long time to sort the confusion out—it even got to the point where he briefly ended up in handcuffs. It could have wrecked a person's morning on the best of days.

But the secretary was stricken, and apologized to him profusely. Although they were not well acquainted, Illya knew her to be a very agreeable person, if a tad forgetful sometimes, and he didn't like to feel angry towards her, so he left her with a reassuring pat on her (newly treated) hand and went to his office, figuring that it was just one of those things.

Getting into his office, it turned out, was another one of those things. When Illya had decided to come in early that morning, it had totally slipped his mind that Napoleon had borrowed his office key to get a copy made, as his own had somehow been melted (though he had not mentioned exactly how, he'd said enough to indicate that there was a jealous girl involved) and was now serving as a fishing sinker. Knowing very well that it would be a good two hours until Napoleon came, and that trying to track down someone who had a master key would take all morning, he bummed a hairpin off one of the secretaries and got to work.

Picking the lock was, to put it mildly, grueling—say what you would about U.N.C.L.E., but even the smallest details of their security were excellent. His hands ached horribly by the time the door clicked open.

Pulling the typewriter out from under his desk, he sat down and opened a folder where all the requisite forms were arranged. For a time, things went fine, and he shocked himself with his efficiency. He was already onto the sixth form when he heard a strange creaking noise and turned, just in time for a light bulb and three ceiling tiles to crash to the floor before his eyes. Shocked, he glanced up to see where the damage was—good security had its basis in sound construction, and though many crises had occurred during his time at U.N.C.L.E. New York, the ceiling falling in was never one of them. A moment later, there was a snapping sound, and a fourth tile plummeted down, hitting him square in the face before smashing into his typewriter.

As he coughed in the gathering dust, he decided that he'd better bring in the professionals on this one. He put a quick call through to Maintenance and cleared out.

While he waited, he decided to stop by the lab—a bad decision, as it turned out, because he was met by a barrage of curses as soon as he stepped foot inside. One of the technicians approached to bluntly inform him that he was a troublemaker—they were trying to round up several lab rats that had gotten loose, and he'd let one escape just now by opening the door. Not one to overstay his welcome—particularly where there was none—Illya slipped out on the tail of two burly men who were going to give chase to the runaway rodent. He took off down a different hallway.

A slight, bearded man in a white lab coat happened to be sauntering down that particular hallway as well. He smiled at Illya as they passed, then gave him the once—over and stopped him, his face melting into a look of concern.

"My friend, is there something you want to talk about?"

"Not particularly." he replied tersely, doing his level best to push past without breaking into an all-out run. The bearded man took hold of his arm with a strong, commanding grip that was disproportionate to his frame. Illya's feverish attempts at escape were futile.

"Now, my friend, I understand. The life of an agent can be difficult, and sometimes you just need to unwind, to release your mounted tension and stress. But this isn't the way, and I think that the fact that you're not covering it up very well is a tip-off that you want to seek help, but are afraid to." He put his finger to Illya's face and looked dolefully at the white substance that came off onto it—dust from the fallen ceiling tiles. "You are more than this, my friend. My colleagues and I can help you to realize that. Come with me." Illya didn't have much choice in the matter; the man did not loosen his grip in the slightest as he changed directions and took him down a nearby staircase at a fast clip.

"Who are you, exactly?" the Russian inquired, tripping over his feet as he struggled to keep up.

"Dr. Michael Rodriguez, U.N.C.L.E. drug counselor."

By the time Illya had convinced a panel of Rodriguez and three other doctors that he was not, in fact, even an occasional partaker of hard drugs, he had developed a terrible headache that seemed bound and determined to claw right through his brow. Though he was sure the debris in his office had been taken care of, the thought of returning there to finish filling out the endless stream of forms made his head swim. He meandered down to the commissary, where he lingered over a doughnut and a cup of coffee. When he realized his conscience would not allow him to stall any longer, he got another of each, which he carried back to the office. He still felt as though a reamer was at work inside his head, and try as he might, he got precious little done—his earlier efficiency seemed to have resoundingly abandoned him.

At nine o'clock sharp, Napoleon Solo walked into the office, looking immaculately groomed and intensely delighted. More importantly—at least to Illya's throbbing head—he was whistling.

"Would be so kind as to spare me your infernal racket?" he snapped. It came out a bit harsher than he'd intended, but Napoleon was totally unfazed.

"Good morning to you too, Illya. And I'll have you know I have every reason to whistle. You know Sabrina Duval, the one I've been trying to convince to go out with me? Well, on my way in this morning, I saw her being chased by a big white rat and a couple of mean—looking guys—I think they were from the lab. I gallantly went to the rescue, and she was so grateful she agreed to have dinner with me tonight." With that, he began whistling again.

"My friend, believe me when I say that if you do not cease and desist, it will be my immense pleasure to hijack the commissary, make a soufflé, and force-feed it to you this very afternoon."

Napoleon laughed. "Not this afternoon, I hope, Tovarisch. After all, we're supposed to be fasting for those medical tests, and you know we'll both get the heat if..." Then his eyes flitted to the half-eaten doughnut on Illya's desk. "You didn't...forget, did you?"

Illya rose. "Of course not. Perish the thought. Now if you will be good enough to excuse me…"

"Where are you going?"

"To fetch a cyanide pill. I hear this month's flavor is orange. Just the thing I need to complete my nice, balanced breakfast. Don't you think?"