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section7mfu2015-04-30 09:29 pm
jantojones.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2015-04-30 09:29 pm
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The Hunter - For 'What's My Line?'
This is a ‘What’s My Line?’ catch-up story.
Prompt - There’s no use in trying.’ ( originally due Mar 26th)
……………………………………….
“I’ve spent forty-five minutes catching and cooking this fish,” Illya said to his partner across the fire. “You could at least have the decency to be conscious.”
The Russian had rescued Napoleon from a particularly intense THRUSH interrogation a few hours previously, having spent several hours hunting for him. Solo had been badly beaten, and Kuryakin was pretty sure other methods of ‘persuasion’ would have been used. Their escape had been going well, until they were ambushed by a THRUSH patrol, who had then rendered their vehicle inoperative. Illya had easily taken out the two men, but was left with the problem of a now unconscious Napoleon. He had no real choice but to call for an extraction. After being informed that there would be at least four hours before anyone could get to them, Illya had dragged Solo a little way from the road. Night was beginning to fall, and although it probably wasn’t safe to do so, he set about making a fire. He needed to keep Napoleon warm and he was fairly sure no-one survived the explosion he’d set.
Having noticed a small river not too far from their location, Illya decided some food was in order. He hadn’t eaten for almost fourteen hours, and was reluctant to wait until they got back to HQ. Spearing fish, with a knife tied to a tree branch, wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, but was still possible. Illya soon found himself with a beautiful Rainbow Trout. It was the work of minutes to gut the fish and skewer it onto a stick.
At the sound of the Russian’s voice, Napoleon begun stir and return to consciousness. He tried to sit himself up but failed. Every part of him, inside and out, seemed to be in pain of one sort or another. Looking to his partner, he couldn’t help but smile.
“Trust you to find something to eat.”
“Would you like some,” Illya asked, carefully studying Napoleon for signs of injury. “It’ll be a few more hours before someone can pick us up.”
“No thanks, Tovarisch. I’m not sure my bruised stomach will manage it.”
It was then Napoleon noticed the colour of Illya’s shirt. It had once been white, but the front of it was massively stained red with blood.
“Illya!” Solo exclaimed, pointing the shirt.
“Do not worry,” Kuryakin reassured him. “It is not mine.”
This prompted the American to look down at his own torso.
“It is not yours either. I caught a major artery when I stabbed your captor.”
“Stabbed?” Napoleon asked, as his strength once again left him.
He knew Illya was exceptionally skilled with a knife, his early life had practically demanded it. Despite that, or maybe because of it, the Russian seemed to make a conscious effort not to resort to knife fighting.
“I just happened to have the knife in my hand, when I was cutting the ropes from you.”
The American slipped back into unconsciousness, leaving Illya to eat the fish on his own.
For a couple of hours, Kuryakin sat and waited. There wasn’t really much more that he could do, other than keep a close eye on Napoleon. The senior agent was breathing normally, but Illya was starting to worry that he hadn’t regained consciousness any more. He’d tried talking to him a couple of times, but had gotten no response. Besides, there was the smallest chance someone had survived his demolition of the facility, so he didn’t want to miss hearing them approach. At one point, a cold wind began to blow, threatening to take away their fire. With extreme reluctance, Illya moved around so that the wind was blocked by his back. He couldn’t allow Napoleon to get too cold in his weakened state.
Staring into the flames, Illya’s thoughts went back in time, to another occasion he’d sat freezing next to a campfire. It had been a happy time, when Nickolai Markovitch Kuryakin had taken Illya, his six year old son, camping in the words. The boy’s mother, Kira Illyinichna, had been wholly against it, but Nickolai had insisted. He’d told his wife that it was time for the boy to learn skills he would need when he was older. Finally, Kira relented, but only on the condition Illya didn’t handle any firearms. She knew Nickolai would have to take his gun as protection against predators, but she wanted to keep her son an innocent child for as long as possible.
Nickolai had taught Illya how to spear fish and snare rabbits. He had then shown him how to skin the rabbit and gut the fish. That evening, as they sat next the campfire, which Illya had been instructed how to make, the man asked the boy what he wanted to be.
“I want to be a hunter, like you Papa,” the younger Kuryakin replied without hesitation.
Nickolai smiled. He knew that most boys of that age wanted to be like their fathers, but he also knew his son. Illya Nickovitch, despite his tender years, was stubborn, and knew his own mind.
“If you say you’re going to be a hunter, Illyusha, then I have no doubt of it.”
Back in the present, Illya smiled at the memory of his papa’s words. It might not be exactly what he had meant, but he had definitely become a hunter. His quarry was whoever threatened to world.
A sudden noise to his left dragged him from his musings. Cursing himself for getting complacent, Illya went for his gun.
“There’s no use in trying,” came a voice from the darkness. “I have a rifle trained on you.”
“Who are you?” Kuryakin asked.
A figure, dressed in the blue guard uniform of THRUSH, stepped into the light. The man had clearly been caught in the explosion, if the burn marks on his face were anything to go by. Injured though he was, the thrushie was managing to hold his gun straight, so Illya moved his hand away from his own weapon.
“What are you planning on doing next?” he asked, with infuriating calmness.
“I’m going to take you to the nearest THRUSH facility,” the man replied, his chest swelling with pride. “This should mean a promotion for me.”
Illya opened his mouth to contradict him, but closed it again at the sound of a helicopter. The thrushie, without thinking, looked to the sky. Illya didn’t hesitate. His gun was instantly in his hand, and the unfortunate guard was dead before he could realise he’d been shot.
While he waited for their rescuers to land, Illya put out the fire, and once again tried to rouse his friend.
“Hey, we’re going home,”
He was rewarded with a grunt of satisfaction.
……………………………………………………………………
When Napoleon finally woke, in the medical wing of U.N.C.L.E., he found Illya sleeping awkwardly, and snoring, in the chair. He was still wearing the blood stained shirt.
“Tovarisch,” he croaked, with his dry throat. “Come on you stinky Russian.”
Illya opened his eyes.
“May I remind you that I am in this state because I had to hunt for, and rescue you, again,” he retorted, with a relieved smile.
“I believe the tally of needing rescue leans heavily in your direction, partner mine.”
Kuryakin grinned. “You could be right,” he conceded. “I’ll go and get the doctor. It’s good to see you back with the living.”
“It’s good to be back. Now, get your smelly self out of here and get some proper sleep.”
The End.
Prompt - There’s no use in trying.’ ( originally due Mar 26th)
……………………………………….
“I’ve spent forty-five minutes catching and cooking this fish,” Illya said to his partner across the fire. “You could at least have the decency to be conscious.”
The Russian had rescued Napoleon from a particularly intense THRUSH interrogation a few hours previously, having spent several hours hunting for him. Solo had been badly beaten, and Kuryakin was pretty sure other methods of ‘persuasion’ would have been used. Their escape had been going well, until they were ambushed by a THRUSH patrol, who had then rendered their vehicle inoperative. Illya had easily taken out the two men, but was left with the problem of a now unconscious Napoleon. He had no real choice but to call for an extraction. After being informed that there would be at least four hours before anyone could get to them, Illya had dragged Solo a little way from the road. Night was beginning to fall, and although it probably wasn’t safe to do so, he set about making a fire. He needed to keep Napoleon warm and he was fairly sure no-one survived the explosion he’d set.
Having noticed a small river not too far from their location, Illya decided some food was in order. He hadn’t eaten for almost fourteen hours, and was reluctant to wait until they got back to HQ. Spearing fish, with a knife tied to a tree branch, wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, but was still possible. Illya soon found himself with a beautiful Rainbow Trout. It was the work of minutes to gut the fish and skewer it onto a stick.
At the sound of the Russian’s voice, Napoleon begun stir and return to consciousness. He tried to sit himself up but failed. Every part of him, inside and out, seemed to be in pain of one sort or another. Looking to his partner, he couldn’t help but smile.
“Trust you to find something to eat.”
“Would you like some,” Illya asked, carefully studying Napoleon for signs of injury. “It’ll be a few more hours before someone can pick us up.”
“No thanks, Tovarisch. I’m not sure my bruised stomach will manage it.”
It was then Napoleon noticed the colour of Illya’s shirt. It had once been white, but the front of it was massively stained red with blood.
“Illya!” Solo exclaimed, pointing the shirt.
“Do not worry,” Kuryakin reassured him. “It is not mine.”
This prompted the American to look down at his own torso.
“It is not yours either. I caught a major artery when I stabbed your captor.”
“Stabbed?” Napoleon asked, as his strength once again left him.
He knew Illya was exceptionally skilled with a knife, his early life had practically demanded it. Despite that, or maybe because of it, the Russian seemed to make a conscious effort not to resort to knife fighting.
“I just happened to have the knife in my hand, when I was cutting the ropes from you.”
The American slipped back into unconsciousness, leaving Illya to eat the fish on his own.
For a couple of hours, Kuryakin sat and waited. There wasn’t really much more that he could do, other than keep a close eye on Napoleon. The senior agent was breathing normally, but Illya was starting to worry that he hadn’t regained consciousness any more. He’d tried talking to him a couple of times, but had gotten no response. Besides, there was the smallest chance someone had survived his demolition of the facility, so he didn’t want to miss hearing them approach. At one point, a cold wind began to blow, threatening to take away their fire. With extreme reluctance, Illya moved around so that the wind was blocked by his back. He couldn’t allow Napoleon to get too cold in his weakened state.
Staring into the flames, Illya’s thoughts went back in time, to another occasion he’d sat freezing next to a campfire. It had been a happy time, when Nickolai Markovitch Kuryakin had taken Illya, his six year old son, camping in the words. The boy’s mother, Kira Illyinichna, had been wholly against it, but Nickolai had insisted. He’d told his wife that it was time for the boy to learn skills he would need when he was older. Finally, Kira relented, but only on the condition Illya didn’t handle any firearms. She knew Nickolai would have to take his gun as protection against predators, but she wanted to keep her son an innocent child for as long as possible.
Nickolai had taught Illya how to spear fish and snare rabbits. He had then shown him how to skin the rabbit and gut the fish. That evening, as they sat next the campfire, which Illya had been instructed how to make, the man asked the boy what he wanted to be.
“I want to be a hunter, like you Papa,” the younger Kuryakin replied without hesitation.
Nickolai smiled. He knew that most boys of that age wanted to be like their fathers, but he also knew his son. Illya Nickovitch, despite his tender years, was stubborn, and knew his own mind.
“If you say you’re going to be a hunter, Illyusha, then I have no doubt of it.”
Back in the present, Illya smiled at the memory of his papa’s words. It might not be exactly what he had meant, but he had definitely become a hunter. His quarry was whoever threatened to world.
A sudden noise to his left dragged him from his musings. Cursing himself for getting complacent, Illya went for his gun.
“There’s no use in trying,” came a voice from the darkness. “I have a rifle trained on you.”
“Who are you?” Kuryakin asked.
A figure, dressed in the blue guard uniform of THRUSH, stepped into the light. The man had clearly been caught in the explosion, if the burn marks on his face were anything to go by. Injured though he was, the thrushie was managing to hold his gun straight, so Illya moved his hand away from his own weapon.
“What are you planning on doing next?” he asked, with infuriating calmness.
“I’m going to take you to the nearest THRUSH facility,” the man replied, his chest swelling with pride. “This should mean a promotion for me.”
Illya opened his mouth to contradict him, but closed it again at the sound of a helicopter. The thrushie, without thinking, looked to the sky. Illya didn’t hesitate. His gun was instantly in his hand, and the unfortunate guard was dead before he could realise he’d been shot.
While he waited for their rescuers to land, Illya put out the fire, and once again tried to rouse his friend.
“Hey, we’re going home,”
He was rewarded with a grunt of satisfaction.
……………………………………………………………………
When Napoleon finally woke, in the medical wing of U.N.C.L.E., he found Illya sleeping awkwardly, and snoring, in the chair. He was still wearing the blood stained shirt.
“Tovarisch,” he croaked, with his dry throat. “Come on you stinky Russian.”
Illya opened his eyes.
“May I remind you that I am in this state because I had to hunt for, and rescue you, again,” he retorted, with a relieved smile.
“I believe the tally of needing rescue leans heavily in your direction, partner mine.”
Kuryakin grinned. “You could be right,” he conceded. “I’ll go and get the doctor. It’s good to see you back with the living.”
“It’s good to be back. Now, get your smelly self out of here and get some proper sleep.”
The End.
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As much as I usually like to hurt our favourite blond, he needed to be the rescuer for the story to work.
I've never caught or prepared a fish, but I remember what my uncle used to smell like when he did :-)