If It's Wednesday It's Time For Drabbles

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Slither In - A Little Drabble Do Ya

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

A Double Drabble...
..............................

"What is this?"
Illya was holding a vegetable, or a fruit… he wasn't sure.  Napoleon took it from him and turned it in his hand, unsure how to answer the Russian.
"Well…"
Illya blew out a snort of derision.
"As I suspected, you have no idea."
A young woman walked up beside Napoleon and took the scaly red item from his hand.
"This is Snake Fruit, or Salak.  It tastes a little like pineapple."

Napoleon smiled appreciatively at the pretty fruit expert.
"I don't actually like snakes, but I'd be willing to try this.  Perhaps we could order some with dinner, say… tonight."
Illya rolled his eyes at the speed of light response from his partner.  Only Napoleon could turn a conversation about something called Snake Fruit into a pick -up line.  The woman smiled back at the dark haired agent; a smile that triggered a memory for Illya.
She was different somehow, her hair was lighter, but it was the same woman who had led him into a back room in Spain; she had led him to Zark.
"Napoleon, in the interest of science we must consider the relationship between birds and reptiles."
Solo caught that, and the girl.

"Never look back"~ for A Little Drabble do Ya!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Kuryakin stopped dead in his tracks.

In front of him, blocking his path was a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall.

Illya had to get out with the microchip he’d stolen. He charged, thinking the bigger they are, the harder they fall; yet after delivering a series of ineffective punches and karate chops, the Russian went reeling.

Time to fight dirty. He leapt into the air, driving downwards, foot against the man’s knee.

“The bigger they are the harder they fall,” Illya repeated as the giant went down yowling in pain; his kneecap shattered.

Kuryakin didn’t look back...

A Matter of Timing - A Little Drabble Do Ya! - July 20th

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Two men leaned against the bar. Neither of them had spoken, save to order their drinks. Both were caked in mud and dust, and the shorter, blond one had blood running down his face from a small wound in his temple.

The drinks were delivered; a vodka for the blond, and a scotch for the brunet. They raised their glasses in a silent toast before knocking the spirits back in one swift motion.

“This is just a suggestion, Tovarisch, but do you think you could make the bomb timer slightly longer next time?”

“We’re alive, therefore the explosion was successful.”

.