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Illya Kuryakin sat outside in the drizzle, seeking shelter next to a closed storefront. Dressed in worn corduroys, a ragged hooded sweatshirt beneath a tattered leather jacket; he tried lighting a cigarette but the dampness made it a pointless effort. He flicked the butt to the wet sidewalk in disgust and pulled a piece of plastic over his shoulders trying to fend off the rain.
He scratched his chin, with four days growth of beard long enough to now be annoyingly itchy. Not having had a shower in days or a change of clothing left him with a pungent odor to fit his cover as homeless street bum.
The Russian ran his fingers impatiently through his dirty hair. It had been too long now without so much as an inkling of activity in the green three story building he was watching across the street.
It was a neighborhood full of boarded up buildings covered in colorful graffiti, with punks hanging out on street corners; though due to the weather Illya was the only idiot on the sidewalk except for the periodic passerby.
He had a soggy coffee cup sitting next to him on the sidewalk, looking as if he were begging some coins, but there were no donations today. Stakeouts were annoying, but why it always seemed to be his turn outdoors during nasty weather; he never understood this.