"The great pretender, Mr. Lebowski"~for the Song-Story challenge 5/23

[mlaw]

                                          

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin paused, looking down at the casket that contained the body of their friend and fellow Section II agent,  Andy Lebowski.

 

He’d been touted as the ‘other’ Kuryakin though he was with UNCLE before the Russian arrived. Like Illya, he was a master of disguise, always pretending to be who he was not and fluent in many languages enough to rival the number two agent.. He approached every assignment with focus and zeal in his heart.

Andy was ‘handy’, the other agents used to joke, as the man could deftly manage his explosives with deadly accuracy,  even better than Kuryakin, who sometimes miscalculated his timers, but rarely;  and only when he was under extreme duress, like someone coming down a hallway with a gun pointed straight at him with the trigger already cocked...that sort of stress.

Illya didn’t mind the comparisons and superlatives offered when others spoke of he and Andy. He liked the man,  respecting his competence, and did not look on it as any sort of competition between the two of them.  That sort of fun Illya reserved strictly for he and his partner, as he liked yanking Napoleon’s chain now and again.

Lebowski had  been with the command a year or two before Napoleon had joined, and at one point was offered the position of CEA, which he promptly declined. Yet he was low-key, and shied away from the accolades showered on his fellow agents for a job well done, and avoided the limelight.  Andy just moved along at a steady pace, working assignment after assignment with his partner, Salvatore Savino; together they had a consistent and high success rate.

As good as handy Andy was, there seemed to be something else going on in his head recently, a wistful stare beyond the distant green hills somewhere, a growing desire perhaps?  Andy was quick witted, smart and upbeat, even when a mission hadn’t gone as well as it had been hoped, but as of late, something was distracting him.

It came as a surprise when he’d once remarked to Napoleon about getting into the spy business having been a mistake, as he found himself longing for a real home, a girl and what he called the ‘nine to five’ thing, that meant getting a paycheck that didn’t require him to dance with death in order to earn it.

He talked of getting up each day when the morning light came streaming in and doing the same thing until quitting time came around, and the next day, getting up and doing it again, like normal people. Traipsing from country to country and living in strange hotel rooms were getting to him.

When he was a little down, as that happens at time to the best of agent, he’d often said he felt like he was no more than a charlatan, sometimes losing himself in his roles, so much so that it took him a while to find himself again.  There the comparisons between him and the Russian diverged dramatically, as Illya was always in control of himself and knew who he was at all times.

It became obvious the great Andy Lebowski was looking to leave UNCLE before the ships bearing his dreams sailed out of sight and were lost forever.

Napoleon inhaled a deep breath filled with regret and released it slowly.  “He waited too long to make his move, didn’t he tovarisch?”

“Yes, I am afraid his heart was no longer in the game, and that made the risk even greater for him. He will be missed.”

“We all start out so young and eager I suppose, lured into it by the intrigue and a sense of adventure...” Napoleon mused..

“Speak for yourself, the direction my life took was because that was where I was ordered to go and I had no choice in becoming part of this profession. I am under a sword of Damocles because of the contract between UNCLE and GRU,” Illya reminded him.

“Okay chum, would you give it up if you could?”

Illya blushed, “No I suppose not. Saving the world, though a dangerous job, is still a noble task.”

“Then don’t complain, even though you technically don’t have an option out,  I think it holds true for a good many of us. We have a choice to leave when we want, or not,” Napoleon nodded. “Shame Andy waited to follow his heart.  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a happy idiot, just earning a living, getting those things that money can buy, and maybe being a contender at finding true love.”

“Please do not tell me such thoughts are distracting you as they did Andy?” Illya stared intently at him.  “I do not wish to be looking down at you in a coffin because your mind was elsewhere and you zigged when you should have zagged.”

Napoleon laughed softly. “No worries my friend, you’re stuck with me...those were just passing thoughts and not real desires. I can wait to start thinking about such things when I retire, and I will retire, when the time comes, you can count on that.”

Illya said nothing, being ever the fatalist, he did not hold such an optimistic outlook as did his partner, but at the same time he hoped they’d both live to see those words come to fruition.

The eulogy was said, and the coffin closed; Napoleon, Illya as well as four other field agents, including Salvatore, followed it outside to the waiting hearse, where they bore the remains of their fallen comrade on their shoulders as his pallbearers.

A deep, mournful church bell tolled somewhere in the distance as it began to lightly rain, reminding many in attendance of their mortality, as some uttered a silent prayer for the soul of their kindred spirit.

Lebowski had started out young and dedicated, but surrendered his caution in the end, leading to his death; ironically distracted just for a moment  by a newspaper advertisement for a little house that had gone up for sale in Yonkers. He was hit by a car while crossing the street.

Napoleon and Illya were well aware their lives were a built on top of fakery, as they too were pretenders meandering through complex world of smoke and mirrors.

They wondered if their hopes and dreams would begin and end the same way as their friend’s had,  though they kept  those thoughts to themselves for the moment, mourning the loss of Andy Lebowski who had been, perhaps, the greatest pretender of all.

Accenting Life - Song Story 5/26

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

The prompt is The Pretender by Jackson Browne.
~~~~~:

The early morning air was a crisp reminder to Illya Kuryakin that he was not in New York today.  He and Napoleon Solo were in a remote location north of everywhere worthwhile, it seemed to the Russian.  Not since his days in the Soviet Union had he been this cold, nor had the landscape appeared so desolate.

“I hope this contact is not going to leave us sitting here in the cold; he should have been here by now.”

Napoleon noted a deeper inflection of his partner’s native Russian as he spoke.  It was interesting when the self-control lapsed slightly and Illya’s finely honed, upper crust alter ego lost a little of its trained restraint.  Sometimes Napoleon wondered what would happen if Illya weren’t so un-Russian sounding?  Of course that wasn’t a word, and he would never suggest it to the blond Bolshevik.

( more... )

"In Memoriam"

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

           

Napoleon had the rare occasion to be in Washington on Memorial Day, and wandering row upon row of white headstones in Arlington National Cemetery gave him pause.

“So many,” he shook his head watching a couple walk past him carrying flowers and a small American flag. “And too few remembering."

There were constant protests against American presence in Vietnam. He too wasn’t sure about the U.S. being there, but to mistreat those who were willing to sacrifice themselves for others, tormenting those left behind, was just wrong.

He found his friend Scotty Bob’s grave and knelt.*

“Hey buddy, I haven’t forgotten you...”

__________________________________

* ref “Seoul Survivors” http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7371168/1/Seoul_Survivors and “Brothers Old and New” http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7316278/1/Brothers_Old_and_New

Accenting Life - Song Story 5/26

[glenmered]

The early morning air was a crisp reminder to Illya Kuryakin that he was not in New York today.  He and Napoleon Solo were in a remote location north of everywhere worthwhile, it seemed to the Russian.  Not since his days in the Soviet Union had he been this cold, nor had the landscape appeared so desolate. 

“I hope this contact is not going to leave us sitting here in the cold; he should have been here by now.”

Napoleon noted a deeper inflection of his partner’s native Russian as he spoke.  It was interesting when the self-control lapsed slightly and Illya’s finely honed, upper crust alter ego lost a little of its trained restraint.  Sometimes Napoleon wondered what would happen if Illya weren’t so un-Russian sounding?  Of course that wasn’t a word, and he would never suggest it to the blond Bolshevik.

“You’re not getting cold are you?  I thought you could weather the frosty temperatures better than this, Illya.”

The only thing frosty was the look in the Russian’s eyes as he turned to look at Solo.  They were both wrapped up in down-lined parkas, with boots suitable for tramping across Siberia.  As it happened, they weren’t too far away from that forbidden zone.

“Cold is cold regardless of where one was born, Napoleon.  This assignment …”

Hmmm… What was this?  Napoleon heard something in his friend’s voice that sounded a little bit wistful.  No, not wistful…

“Something bothering you?  It seems that the farther north we travel the less of an English accent you have.  What gives?”

Illya smiled that crooked smile of his at the disclosure.  So, sometimes he sounded more Russian.  He would need to keep a watch on that, perhaps.

“Do I sound Russian to you?  I will admit that there was some attention given to my accent, to speaking English like an Englishman; well, in much the same way I was trained to speak French like a Frenchman.”

That little dig went without a response.  Napoleon was wise to that one.

“Yes, well… you do have rather a mastery of languages and accents, I’ll give you that.  But, do you feel as though you need to avoid sounding Russian now?  Is there still a fear of rejection, or …”

“Reprisal?’

Illya looked out across the frozen tundra that surrounded them.  Here there was no need for keeping up appearances.

“Yes, I suppose at times there is the thought that some people might react differently to me were my accent decidedly more Russian; if I were to request wodka instead of vodka.”

Napoleon noted the vague glimmer of something like sadness in his friend’s blue eyes. How much of who Illya Kuryakin seemed to be was really all just a pretense?  In that moment the American wondered how well he really knew his partner.

Illya sensed it, knew instinctively that Napoleon was looking at him and considering how expertly the Soviet Union trained its people.  It was common knowledge now that Soviet spies were placed early, and were virtually undetectable from the native populations they infiltrated. 

Still, even among the international diversity of UNCLE, Illya still stood out as the solitary Soviet agent.  Change was not coming fast enough, and living this life sometimes took its toll on the young man whose talent and intellect had recommended him to the Command.

“Do you doubt me, Napoleon?  Do you find yourself wondering who I am, really?  I would understand, of course; my country’s reputation always precedes me.”

That shocked Napoleon, as though the partnership was subject to such things.  How could Illya even ask him that?

“Illya… how many times have we risked our lives for each other?  We’re partners, friends … I trust you completely.’

That comment elicited a deep sigh from the blond.  Of course.  He knew what Napoleon said was true, for both of them.

“Da tovarisch.  You are indeed a true friend.  Spacibo.”

There was no need to pretend here, in this place and with this man.  Here was a friend, and he had proven himself repeatedly.

“How did you master that accent, anyway?”

Both of them were smiling now, and Illya’s British accent was back as he replied.

“It is a gift, my friend, for which I can take no credit.”

“And humble, too.  No wonder Waverly wanted you on our side.”

“No, not truly humble.  Like so many other performances, it is merely what I was trained to do.  You understand?”

Napoleon did understand.