"Just a bit fatalistic" ~ for PicFic Tuesday, September 1st

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He was running hard and as fast as his injuries would allow him. Panting; his breath was easily visible in the cold night air as he stopped to listen.

His head canted to one side; he could make out the footfalls of the man pursuing him, his steps splashing in the rainwater as it pooled on the ground.

The bastard had shot him once already, though it was a through and through ...just catching him in the side, but it was still a bullet wound none the less. He was shaky and tried fighting off that week-kneed feeling.

Nothing vital was damaged, thank goodness, but all he could do was maintain pressure, covering the bloody mess with his handkerchief.  At least with the rain there was no spattering, no trail of blood on the ground should he be able to lose…

Another shot rang out, this time too close for comfort as it ricocheted against the brick wall beside him. Where was this place? He’d gotten all turned around and had lost his sense of direction, in spite of keeping his wits about himself. Everything always looked different at night.

Illya tried turning to see where the shot had come from, how close the shooter was, but his light headedness only succeeded in making him trip himself and fall backwards to the ground.

His head slammed against the sidewalk, making everything spin. Every ounce of his strength seemed to drain from his body.

This was it; he was going to die, he was convinced of it this time. Though he was often like the boy who cried wolf, always thinking it and announcing that fact to his partner, only to be saved... yet this time he was sure of it; he was going to be killed.

The Russian began to settle his accounts in his head, preparing himself for the inevitable. He had little to no regrets; he supposed not having a family, no one to carry on the Kuryakin name was a sadness with which he would die.  Heaven? Would there be a place for him there or would he burn in the fires of hell?  Though he claimed he did not believe in a God, deep down inside he did.

His early Russian Orthodox upbringing and the religious strength of his babushka saw to that. He only denied the existence of a deity because he was angry with God for having taken away his entire family during the war. That reason, and because it was the politically correct thing to do; he proclaimed his atheism.

“Baba,”he whispered his name for his grandmother.”I will find you at last.” She’d gone looking for food for he and his baby sister Katiya, and never returned; Illya never knew what happened to her. *

His heart was suddenly filled with a joy he’d not felt in a long time; thinking they would all be reunited at last. He would see his grandmother again, mama, papa, his brothers and Katiya would all be waiting for him.  Uncle Vanya and his cousin Anastasiya would be there too and maybe the priest Father Demya would be sitting with them at the table, eating and telling stories as he had so long ago.*

“Napoleon,” Illya finally said. “I will miss you my friend, but do not come to meet me too soon? Live a long and happy life moy brat.” The American had been the closest thing to family since he’d been a child.

Illya looked up; the rain clouding his eyes. Towering over him was a bald man dressed entirely in black. In his hand was a menacingly large silenced weapon and it was aimed directly at the Russian’s head.

“Skazhite vashi molitvy tovarisch, yesli vy verite v boga. (Say your prayers Comrade, if you believe in god) The assassin laughed, taunting Kuryakin.

“It would stand to reason that a puny nothing like you would. You have lived in the West too long I think, and became soft. You make my job too easy, or perhaps it is just your breeding, being the weakling spawn of a worthless aristocrat.” *

Kuryakin felt his anger rise in his throat, giving him a bitter taste in his mouth. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to die after all?

Calling upon a last reserve of energy; Illya reached to the back of his collar with one swift movement, grabbing his throwing knife and hurling it at the agent. His aim however, was a bit off as he hit him in the shoulder.  The big man staggered, laughing again as he pulled the knife from himself.

“You are pathetic,” he snarled. He again pointed the gun at his fellow countryman. “Time to die, traitor.”

Illya lowered his head back to the ground. Perhaps it was his time to die after all, and with that thought he finally surrendered himself to his end.  He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the gun as it was fired at him.

A shot rang out, followed by a moan.

Illya opened his eyes. The KGB operative was teetering in place before he fell, landing directly on top of the helpless UNCLE agent. Kuryakin let out a grunt as the weight of the man pushed the air from his lungs.

He couldn’t breathe; this was it…

There were more footsteps echoing in the distance, someone was approaching, but he no longer cared. It was over.

“Illya!” Napoleon called out; seeing the assassin lying atop his partner.

He ran to the Russian’s side, shoving the body out of the way.

”Talk to me tovarisch?” Solo felt for a pulse, slapping Kuryakin’s pale face, and stopped when the man groaned.

“Thank God, I thought you were done for,” Solo helped him to sit up, brushing the man’s rain soaked hair away from his eyes..

“As did I. I know I tend to be a bit fatalistic about dying but I thought this was definitely my time.” Illya’s voice was weak, barely above a whisper.

“A bit?” Napoleon grinned.

“I stand corrected,” he let out a yelp as he was helped to his feet.

“Sorry tovarish. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Napoleon I am very glad I am alive and able to hear that from you.”

“Me too. Now let’s get you to a hospital.”

“No arguments from me my friend…” Illya slumped into unconsciousness.


* ref "Beginnings"

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