Somewhere in New Orleans

Music blared from the speakers, occasional bursts of static cutting in on the song as the partiers—some partially drunk and others barely able to stand—swayed in time. The bartender, a jovial rounded fellow bedecked in a silk jack and crown on head waded through the sea of costumed people. "Another round on the house! On Mardi Gras it's free till the stores run dry!"

The crowd roared in approval. A number of them broke away to the bar where a single barkeep—a scrawny adolescent— looked ready to bolt.

The bartender singled out one of the quieter patrons who wore a mask of cynicism and was still lazily nursing his mug. "Still on your first? Another! You won't go back home and say you weren't treated well in my tavern!" he snatched the mug.

"No really I'm fine" the patron protested.

"Nonsense. If you leave here steady on your feet, I haven't done my job. Mardi Gras after all!" he clapped the young man roughly on the shoulder and ambled back towards the bar.

The young man waited until the bartender had disappeared into the crowd before pulling out a pocket radio. "Open Channel D"

"How's the party?" came the casual voice of Napoleon Solo. "Haven't gotten yourself drunk yet, I hope. I've heard how those backstreet parties end."

"And never well in your case" retorted Illya. "Is that why Mr. Waverly wanted you to stay behind the scenes?"

Napoleon cleared his throat indignantly. "Has your informant made contact yet?"

"No" Illya scanned the crowd. "Unless he's less than sober, I don't see anyone to fit the bill yet. You sure he'll be in here?"

"Positive"

"Well he'd better be quick about it. I can't keep p this fa?ade much longer when everyone else around me is walking drunk." He eyed a particularly boisterous couple at the table nearest him who were slopping wine on table rather than in glass while they poured it. The woman caught him looking and giggled, topping her glass in his direction, batting her eyes at him. Illya coughed loudly and adopted more of a slouch to his position.

"At the very least, you must be enjoying you UNCLE-made costume" said Napoleon in taunt.

"Shut up" Illya muttered. He'd hated this gaudy shirt the minute he'd been told to wear it. Neon green and orange polka-dotted enough to make him nauseous. Add a fuchsia jacket and yellow bowtie and he really felt like an idiot. Napoleon had cracked up almost to tears when he'd first put on the full ensemble. "Should've been you in it."

"But I can't pull off the look as well as you."

Illya huffed in aggravation, breaking off the connection with promise of retribution for himself later. Oh yes Napoleon will pay. Let him play the UNCLE lab rat next time. He adjusted his collar, fingers brushing the hidden speaker; Napoleon may still be able to hear him and laugh at his discomfort but at least Illya didn't have to hear it.

His eyes panned over the crowd again, on the lookout for someone sober or feigning drunkenness before finally coming to rest on a flamingo who was in the arms of a buccaneer.

She was laughing, her face close to his, speaking in hushed tones as her free hand was submerged in his suit pocket.

Illya straightened, focusing on the small capsule that peeked through the woman's finger's as she drew her hand out. And there's the contact. "There's a situation. The contact just got hit by a female agent. THRUSH probably." He didn't have to open contact to know what Napoleon or even Mr. Waverly would say: "Well go and get it from her!" "I'm going in." He rose just as the flamingo and buccaneer parted ways; and the THRUSH agent slipped the capsule into her bodice. Oh hell. He'd never get it now. Illya put on a brave face while making his way towards the THRUSH agent.

She caught his eye; face hardening ever so slightly as she watched his advance.

"This dance, Madame?" he said, putting on charm he prayed was half as good as Napoleon's.

She smiled seductively. "I was waiting for you to ask. Have you been waiting in the corner this whole time?"

"For lack of a dance partner." He pasted a genteel smile on his face as they swayed to the music.

"You've had several too few drinks." Her voice took on a veiled warning.

Illya smiled amiably. "I have a high metabolism. After a while, I don't show any of the effects." He knew her game. And I'll play it right back. "Seems as though you haven't found enough time to enjoy yourself either. Surely there are plenty of fine partners who would get your drinks. Your pirate friend perhaps?"

"He couldn't stay," she said with a pout closing the distance between them. "But you will?"

Illya strained away from her. "I-eh might stay a bit longer."

"Oh, good" her hand drifted up from his shoulder to play with his collar . "You're much better company."

He cast a covert glance at the others milling around them and wondered how many more of them were THRUSH agents.

"But three's a crowd" she purred, having found the concealed communicator.

"Hand over the capsule," he hissed. "Do you really think THRUSH can get away with this? Napoleon…Napoleon, backup now!"

She plucked the bug from his collar and dropped it to the floor to smash with her heel. "Ethan, we've got a competitor on our tails," she said into her own concealed communicator. "Liability"

Illya tore away from her, one hand going for his gun. "The capsule NOW"

"I'm afraid we'll be taking that…and you" someone came up behind Illya to grab his neck in a firm hold. "Shame you didn't enjoy the party more," said a male voice in the UNCLE agent's ear.

"Give…me…that…capsule"

"Jane, make him sleep."

"With pleasure"

A sharp prick to his neck and Illya knew no more.