"Changing Direction" for the Short Affair 1/23/17

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Challenge: The Short Affair

-Prompt Word #1 - Compliance

-Prompt Colour – Yellow

Title: Changing Direction

Author: mrua7

Word count: approx. 1000

A group of men dressed in striped pajamas and barefoot were shackled together at the ankle, They shuffled along, dragging their feet as their chains rattled, creating an odd rhythm.

Shuffle, clink, shuffle, clink, shuffle,clink...

Periodically a guard, overseeing their work beneath the heat of the merciless yellow midday sun, cracked a whip. Thus ensuring their compliance at completing their assigned work. That consisted of moving fair sized rocks from one side of the road to the other.

A pointless, sisyphean task that when completed, would begin again but in reverse, and the rocks would be returned to the same place from whence they came. It wasn’t work at all, but a form of torture to wear these poor souls down and make them feel nothing but helpless and forsaken.

A shaggy haired blond hissed his displeasure as the whip caught his back. Calling out in Russian, he cursed the guard.

“Not so close you bolvan!”

Peering out from beneath his visored cap, Napoleon Solo let his wire rimmed sunglasses slip down from the bridge of his nose as he gazed out.

Kuryakin continued muttering in Russian. “Next time I play the guard and you will be the convict!”

Solo understood, and replied in a bit of a drawl as a toothpick protruded from between his lips.

“Whatever you’re sayin’ you furriner, knock it off.  If ah find out you been cussin’ me, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Illya answered back in Russian. “Hit me one more time and there will be hell to pay Napoleon, but you will be on the receiving end.”

“That’s it boy, you’re heading to the cooler!” He instructed another guard to remove prisoner 117 from the chain gang.



“Follow me,” Solo barked, “and you better not try nuthin’, or else.”

“Perish the thought,” Illya muttered in English.

The cooler was small, a partially buried cinder block structure with a corrugated tin roof..The only ventilation was a gap at the bottom of the wooden door. Napoleon led his partner there and opening up, he quickly shoved Illya inside.

The Russian sighed with relief to be out of the sun. The cooler was just that, a place for an upstart prisoner to cool off.  Inside the temperature was derprisingly lower, most likely because it was set down into the ground.

The opening beneath the door gave Illya just enough light to find what was buried beneath the dirt. Once uncovered, he had a canteen of water, beef jerky and most importantly a communicator.

The agreement was that Kuryakin would file their reports as it was too risky for Napoleon to break cover. If he were caught with an UNCLE communicator, he would be a dead man.

Illya on the other hand was now safely hidden in the cooler and could whisper low enough not to be heard. Being there was also a respite from working on the chain gang.

“Channel D. Kuryakin. We are unable to locate Doctor Woodson. He is apparently being sequestered. Unless Mr. Solo is able to ingratiate himself to the Warden, then I fear we will be unable to locate and free the doctor. We are however still going on the premise that he is alive. Please advise...in whispers.”

“One more day,” Waverly responded in hushed tones. “If you do not locate Woodson then you are to execute escape plan Alpha. Out.”

Direct as always.

Illya closed his communicator and placing it back in its protective bag; he prepared to rebury it, but not before he finished his water, as well as the jerky. They were a needed refreshment as the food here was far from filling. Escape plan Alpha? He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but no doubt Napoleon would.

Kuryakin would be glad to be done with this assignment. He was determined however, to make sure the other prisoners were somehow saved. Though may were hardened criminals, they were still human beings and did not deserve such maltreatment.

Ideally the Warden would be brought up on charges but that was not high on the list of importance as far as Illya was concerned.  He was a believer in what Solo called ‘what goes around, comes around,’ or in Russian…’chto poseyesh', to i pozhnosh', meaning ‘actions have consequences.’ Still he didn’t mind nudging things in the right direction now and then.

The next morning, the door to the cooler opened, and Napoleon stood waiting.

“Bad news, Woodson is dead.

“Alpha,” Illya mumbled.”

“Then we’re out of here post haste.”

“What happened?”

“A guard lost his patience, and hit Woodson in the head with the butt of his rifle. Smashed his...well, he died.”

As usual there was no reaction from the Russian.

Illya was adorned in a new set of shackles, this time a chain about his waist to which his wrists were padlocked, preventing him from lifting his arms.  Napoleon prodded him with his rifle barrel towards a waiting jeep and there he was secured.

Napoleon climbed into the driver’s seat and drove to the gate on the far side of the compound. There the guards signalled him to stop.

”Where you takin’ this prisoner?”

Napoleon produced a forged document from the warden.

”Transfer. He’s being turned over to the Feds. Apparently the little runt is a Russky spy.”

“This guy? Don’t that beat all. They should just let us shoot him.”

“Ain’t that the truth, but they want him for questioning, ta’ find out what he knows,” Napoleon drawled.

The guards saluted, opening the gate. Solo hit the gas and they were off.

“What about the other prisoners Napoleon, they are unduly suffering,” Illya called out.

“F.B.I. is arriving shortly and there’ll be major house cleaning before the day is out, Mr. Waverly assured me of that.”

“So this is escape plan Alpha? Rather simplistic, though I am glad it worked. I cannot wait to shower and have a good meal or two.”

Napoleon hesitated. “No not exactly plan Alpha, this was more of an improvisation.”

“So what pray tell was the original plan?”

“I was supposed to sleep dart you, and the others would of course, think you were dead. You were to be buried, and I was supposed to dig you up in the middle of the night and we’d disappear.”

“I am grateful you chose not to go forward that plan, but what made you change your mind?”

“I didn’t want to get my hands that dirty; I just had a manicure before we left for this assignment.”

“Really?” Illya was wide eyed with dismay.

“No,” Napoleon chuckled.” I just couldn’t bear the thought of you buried alive...and what if I weren’t able to get to you in time?”

“Thank you, that sounds much better.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it,” Napoleon grinned. Flooring the gas pedal, they sped along the road towards town.

“Now about calling me a little runt?”

“It was for effect, tovarisch, just for effect.” Napoleon waited for a response but there was none, not even a rolling of those blue eyes. It was nice for a change.

Comments

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Thanks for a good fic. I join Illya in being thankful sometimes Napoleon knows when to close the rulebook and go with the flow.

I bet Illya would prefer there isn't a next time.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Those are very insightful comments. Glad you enjoyed the story.

[rose-of-pollux.livejournal.com]

There's something to be said for Napoleon deciding he can't stand the thought of Illya buried alive. A softy, maybe, but a loyal one.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

I don't like I'd like to have done that to my friend either, so a good call on Napoleon's part. Thanks for reading and commenting!

[lindafishes8.livejournal.com]

I didn't care for the Alpha escape plan either. Well done!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I think we're unanimous on escape plan Alpha. Eeeek!

[pfrye.livejournal.com]

Very good - Alpha sounds horrible - but would certainly make this quite angsty if you did "execute plan Alpha" - still glad they both got out unharmed.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Just the thought of Illya being buried alive...and actually not knowing what plan Alpha was is angsty enough. Glad you liked the story and thanks for the comment!

[yumyumpm.livejournal.com]

Another great tale from the pen of a master.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Oh my goodness, thank you! I am humbled.