"Napoleon!"

Somewhere far off someone was calling his name. He wished they’d stop; he had an excruciating headache.

"Napoleon, wake up!"

That sounded like Illya. Why was Illya yelling at him? He moved his head and immediately regretted it. A groan escaped his lips. Opening his eyes revealed nothing but pitch blackness. Fear welled in his stomach as he faced what appeared to be total blindness. Where was he? He tried to move and couldn’t. He was bound tight in a sitting position in a—bathtub? Water was running—lots of it from the sound—and he seemed to be sitting hip deep. He shivered suddenly, sending new bolts of pain shooting through the back of his head. Another groan slipped out.

"Napoleon! Wake up!"

"Illya? Where are you? I can’t see." His partner’s voice had come from somewhere behind him.

"We are in the basement of Claire’s house tied to the bottom of the staircase. You can’t see because it’s the middle of the night and there are no lights on."

"I feel like I’m sitting in water," said Napoleon. "Did someone forget to turn off the faucet?"

"The water main into the basement has been severed for our benefit. The walls and floor are solid concrete and there doesn’t seem to be a drain."

"I see," said Napoleon. "So, in essence, we are fastened to the bottom of a rapidly filling swimming pool."

"I’m glad to see that the blow to your head has not deprived you of your keen ability to perceive the gravity of our situation."

"Where on earth did you learn to talk like that?"

The Russian ignored the question and said, "I think instead you should be asking how we are going to get out of here. Drowning has never been high on my list of favorite ways to go."

"You have a list?" asked Napoleon as he struggled with his bonds, testing their strength. The water had risen another inch. He was now able to discern the barest of shadows aided by a trace of streetlight filtering through two small, grimy windows set high in the wall.

The straight wooden staircase descended from the floor above into the middle of the concrete basement. Against the wall facing him were laundry facilities and pantry shelves. To his left stood a sturdy table or workbench. Various boxes were stacked in the corners along with an old bicycle and other nameless discards. Sitting flat on the floor, his legs were extended in front of him; his arms were pulled tightly behind his back and tied somehow to the diagonal joist of the steps.

He couldn’t move enough to see his partner but he guessed that Illya was tied in the same fashion on the other side of the stairs. Just to be sure he asked, "Are you sitting on the floor?" It wasn’t necessary to point out that Illya, being a couple of inches shorter, would be in dire straits that much sooner as the water rose.

"Yes, I’m right behind you. I don’t suppose your ropes are loose, are they?"

"No such luck." He strained to see into the dimly lit recesses of their prison attempting to determine the size of the room and calculate how long it would take before the water rose over their heads. He could hear water splashing behind him as Illya struggled with his bonds. "How long do you think we have?" asked Solo.

"I don’t know for sure," said Illya. "But one thing is certain—by morning it will all be over."