T’was the UNCLE Round Robin- Chapter 8
Dec. 15th, 2016 10:56 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuSpecial thanks to Mrua7 for her beta. Thanks, M!
It was Scottish lore, he remembered. Highland Tigers have the power to bless or to curse. When one came upon such a cat, food must be offered. If the cat believed you were deserving of its favors, the food was accepted and a blessing was given. The green-eyed young man was pleased as he watched the animal carry the hare off into the brush.
It was at that moment he decided to confront his mother. She had given him strict instructions to stay away from this part of the castle; it was too dangerous for a child, she had told him. But he wasn’t a child; he was going on sixteen. It was time he stepped up and showed what he was made of. Robbie Stewart turned and began the trek to the center of operations at Kilchurn Castle.
There was a knock at the door, and Lady Olivia was momentarily distracted from admiring her Christmas tree angel.
Kuryakin began to stir and a moan escaped his lips. Solo cringed, knowing how badly the Russian must be suffering. He needed to get him out of here at the first possible chance.
“How dare you interrupt me in my private quarters,” the dark-haired Lady bellowed. For a self-proclaimed royal, she had quite the set of lungs.
“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but your son wishes to have a word and the ‘package’ has arrived.”
It was one of the THRUSH guards who had roused Napoleon from his cell earlier.
Calling Lady Olivia Your Majesty was an improper use of the title. Solo supposed she had ordered all of her personnel to address her in such a manner. Delusional as well as demented, Napoleon realized.
“You will excuse me for a moment, Mr. Solo? I have some pressing business to attend to. Please enjoy your brunch and when I return, we will have the whole afternoon to enjoy ourselves.”
“But of course, Your Majesty. It all looks so delicious. I shall count the minutes,“ he answered cordially but in truth, eating was the last thing on his mind and the very thought of enjoying her company made his skin crawl.
As soon as Lady Olivia left he listened at the door and heard her instruct the guard to not let her guests out of the suite. Napoleon raced over to his partner, grabbing a chair along the way.
“I’m coming, tovarisch!”
The Christmas tree was shoved out of the way and Napoleon managed to maneuver his partner’s manacled wrists off the ceiling hook. Illya sobbed as he was gingerly laid out on the plush carpet. His arms and shoulders burned as if they were on fire and his back had been sliced to ribbons by an overeager THRUSH thug wielding a cat-o-nine tails. It didn’t help that his body was trembling, a reaction to the pain and abuse he’d endured at the command of that madwoman.
“Listen,” Illya gasped, concentrating on the invaluable information he’d heard as his torturers boasted and bragged about their latest nefarious plans. Remember that construction? They’ve built a short-range missile silo in the center of the courtyard.”
“A silo? What’s the target?” Solo asked as he carefully removed the faux halo from the blond’s head and tossed it aside. Wired together, it was sharp, and had pierced his scalp in many places.
His hands shook as he grabbed a couple of white linen napkins from the dining table to stop the bleeding.
“Sandringham House. It’s Queen Elizabeth’s family estate near Norfolk.” Tears rolled down Illya’s cheeks as he spoke and Napoleon wiped them away along with the blood and sweat.
“Most of the royal family has gathered there for the holidays,” Illya continued. “The missile is due to be delivered soon. Napoleon, you don’t have time… ” He winced, trying hard not to moan out loud.
“We have time for this,” the CEO countered.
“You have to get out of here and stop them. Leave me.” He gasped as another wave of pain washed over him. Bile rose in his throat and he began to vomit. Solo rolled him onto his side and the movement forced him to cry out. Either the guard hadn’t heard or didn’t care; the door remained closed.
Finally, the nausea abated and Kuryakin caught his breath.
“I’m useless, Napoleon, and you know it. The mission comes first,” he whispered and then passed out.
It was Scottish lore, he remembered. Highland Tigers have the power to bless or to curse. When one came upon such a cat, food must be offered. If the cat believed you were deserving of its favors, the food was accepted and a blessing was given. The green-eyed young man was pleased as he watched the animal carry the hare off into the brush.
It was at that moment he decided to confront his mother. She had given him strict instructions to stay away from this part of the castle; it was too dangerous for a child, she had told him. But he wasn’t a child; he was going on sixteen. It was time he stepped up and showed what he was made of. Robbie Stewart turned and began the trek to the center of operations at Kilchurn Castle.
There was a knock at the door, and Lady Olivia was momentarily distracted from admiring her Christmas tree angel.
Kuryakin began to stir and a moan escaped his lips. Solo cringed, knowing how badly the Russian must be suffering. He needed to get him out of here at the first possible chance.
“How dare you interrupt me in my private quarters,” the dark-haired Lady bellowed. For a self-proclaimed royal, she had quite the set of lungs.
“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but your son wishes to have a word and the ‘package’ has arrived.”
It was one of the THRUSH guards who had roused Napoleon from his cell earlier.
Calling Lady Olivia Your Majesty was an improper use of the title. Solo supposed she had ordered all of her personnel to address her in such a manner. Delusional as well as demented, Napoleon realized.
“You will excuse me for a moment, Mr. Solo? I have some pressing business to attend to. Please enjoy your brunch and when I return, we will have the whole afternoon to enjoy ourselves.”
“But of course, Your Majesty. It all looks so delicious. I shall count the minutes,“ he answered cordially but in truth, eating was the last thing on his mind and the very thought of enjoying her company made his skin crawl.
As soon as Lady Olivia left he listened at the door and heard her instruct the guard to not let her guests out of the suite. Napoleon raced over to his partner, grabbing a chair along the way.
“I’m coming, tovarisch!”
The Christmas tree was shoved out of the way and Napoleon managed to maneuver his partner’s manacled wrists off the ceiling hook. Illya sobbed as he was gingerly laid out on the plush carpet. His arms and shoulders burned as if they were on fire and his back had been sliced to ribbons by an overeager THRUSH thug wielding a cat-o-nine tails. It didn’t help that his body was trembling, a reaction to the pain and abuse he’d endured at the command of that madwoman.
“Listen,” Illya gasped, concentrating on the invaluable information he’d heard as his torturers boasted and bragged about their latest nefarious plans. Remember that construction? They’ve built a short-range missile silo in the center of the courtyard.”
“A silo? What’s the target?” Solo asked as he carefully removed the faux halo from the blond’s head and tossed it aside. Wired together, it was sharp, and had pierced his scalp in many places.
His hands shook as he grabbed a couple of white linen napkins from the dining table to stop the bleeding.
“Sandringham House. It’s Queen Elizabeth’s family estate near Norfolk.” Tears rolled down Illya’s cheeks as he spoke and Napoleon wiped them away along with the blood and sweat.
“Most of the royal family has gathered there for the holidays,” Illya continued. “The missile is due to be delivered soon. Napoleon, you don’t have time… ” He winced, trying hard not to moan out loud.
“We have time for this,” the CEO countered.
“You have to get out of here and stop them. Leave me.” He gasped as another wave of pain washed over him. Bile rose in his throat and he began to vomit. Solo rolled him onto his side and the movement forced him to cry out. Either the guard hadn’t heard or didn’t care; the door remained closed.
Finally, the nausea abated and Kuryakin caught his breath.
“I’m useless, Napoleon, and you know it. The mission comes first,” he whispered and then passed out.
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Date: 2016-12-15 06:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-15 09:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-15 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-15 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-15 08:58 pm (UTC)Great use of the ocs. Good twists about Robbie, and I have to quote: For a self-proclaimed royal, she had quite the set of lungs.
no subject
Date: 2016-12-15 09:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-15 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-15 10:10 pm (UTC)Did a bit of digging into the Queen's history and found she would do an annual Christmas address to her people from Sandringham and that seemed a likely time when her family would gather around her. All the Royals in one place would be a prime time to take them all out at once. Your comment about Illya considering the project was a missile silo started me going. Sandringham is only 400 miles from the castle. Hence, a short-range missile could do the job with little time for the military to bring it down once launched. OK. I'm unhinged and proud. ;D Don't report me, cuz. You're an accessory.
no subject
Date: 2016-12-15 10:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-15 10:59 pm (UTC)If it means anything, I never listen to the President's "State of the Union" address either. I'll be avoiding ALL presidential speeches starting in January. Heaven help us.
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Date: 2016-12-15 11:22 pm (UTC)Nice hurt/comfort in this chapter. Gah, poor, poor Illya. And what a treacherous scheme to stop!
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Date: 2016-12-16 02:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-16 05:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-16 04:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-16 06:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-16 08:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-16 03:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-16 04:42 pm (UTC)