"The Devil's Anvil"~ for the PicFic Tuesday Challenge 8/27

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

   

He had no idea how long he’d been walking. The unmerciful glare of the scorching sun and the rippling desert sands gave him no sense of direction.

Supposing as the sun moved across the sky, he’d eventually be able to at least tell east from west; though from the looks of it, that wouldn’t be for many hours. With no landmarks to guide him, he was hopelessly lost.

There was a single trail of boot prints in the sand behind him, and if anyone were to see how Illya Kuryakin was dressed at the moment, they would have fallen over, laughing hysterically, despite his situation.

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The Looking Glass Part 2- PicFic 8/26

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

The Looking Glass Part 1
~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~~

Part 2

The complexity of this trick was something best left to the boys in Section V, because Napoleon was not wasting time trying to decipher the mystery.  Illya was a little more inclined to unravel how they had managed to end up where they started in spite of having traveled out of the wooded area and onto a flat strip of land.  As the two men looked through the glassy partition back at where they’d come from, it was the same as where they stood.

“Talk about smoke and mirrors…” Napoleon was flabbergasted at the situation, but Illya was intrigued.  “No, not smoke and mirrors, but this reflecting surface made us think we were someplace that we were not.  The question is, why?  What possible purpose was there to this charade?”
Napoleon harrumphed his disapproval of the glass, the deception and especially the fact that they had lost Dr. Solomon.

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Footprints In The Sand for picfic Tuesday 8/27

[dixiebelle2013.livejournal.com]

The sun beat down upon Illya's exposed head, and he felt as if he was about to shrivel up and die as he wearily put one boot-clad boot ahead of the other in the burning desert sand. Sheer determination was the only thing keeping him going in the nightmarish scenario in which he now found himself.

I have to find her. The sheik had grabbed her roughly around the waist, then quickly mounted his camel and frisked her away before Illya could even move.

I never should have brought her here. In New York she'd been perfectly safe. But the fresh-faced, wholesome young woman had been enthralled by his stories of adventure and had been eager to accompany him on this assignment, investigating corruption in the oil fields of the Mideast, and Illya himself had thought that an Arabian adventure would be romantic.

After what seemed like an eternity, Illya finally reached a group of tents surrounding an oasis, a refreshing respite from the unforgiving heat. Several camels were tethered near the largest tent.

His heart pounding, Illya furtively glanced around and, seeing no one, stealthily approached the tent and peered in, gasping sharply at what he saw.

There she was, reclining on a zebra-skin rug, her face heavily made up, her body scantily clad.

He whispered her name.

"Illya?" Her voice sounded as if she'd been drugged. Illya's mind pushed his fury aside as he went into flight mode.

"We must hurry!" Quickly he threw a robe over his Western clothing and donned a turban. He helped her to dress similarly, and they dashed out of the tent to the camels. He helped her onto the back of one, then mounted another himself, and they rode away.

He heard a loud commotion behind them, shouting in Arabic, but he didn't dare turn to see who their pursuers were. Not until they'd reached safety did his heartbeat slow its frantic rhythm.

In the safety of the American embassy, he finally shed the Middle Eastern garb, then contacted Napoleon and hurriedly explained what had happened, requesting permission to return to the States.

"Of course you may return," Napoleon told him. "We've just about wrapped everything up here, and besides, it sounds like you've had quite enough adventure as it is. I think, especially considering the circumstances, you're entitled to a little R and R."

Illya made the flight arrangements, and they soon found themselves on a jet headed back to New York.

At last it occurred to him to wonder about what had happened to her in between the time the sheik had kidnapped her and his discovery of her in the tent. He turned apprehensive eyes toward her.

"Did he...?" His mouth wouldn't form the words.

"Oh, no." She smiled. "He was very kind and gentle, very concerned for my comfort."

It was then that he noticed the rings on her fingers and gasped in surprise.

"He gave them to me," she explained.

"We could pawn those and easily buy a very fashionable split-level dwelling," he said dryly. "Unless you would rather keep them."

"Perhaps as a memento of my first, and hopefully last, trip to the Mideast." Relieved, she laughed lightly, and he joined her.