section7mfu | G Is For Gone

Gone. Everything was gone and no one or nothing could bring it back.

Illya Kuryakin stood in the middle of what had been a house, a home. He knew the people who lived there and were now… gone.

"Hey Illya, I think I found something." Napoleon was there, searching through the rubble of a fire ravaged structure that had once been a family home. He knew Illya was acquainted with them, immigrants from Russia whose family had once known Kuryakin's, before the war.

"I don't see that it matters. At least it seems that no one was here when the fire started, but why did it start…' His voice trailed off before his question was complete. Illya stooped down and looked more closely at something beneath a pile of charred books.

"Napoleon, over here. I think there's something of importance." Napoleon stopped what he was doing, still holding the medallion he had found.

"Look at this." Illya was pointing with a blackened piece of cutlery, poking at something. Napoleon knelt down to get a better look.

"Well, what do you know." With gloves on and his shirt sleeves already rolled up, Napoleon pushed aside some burnt fabric and pulled up on the object Illya had found.

"What is this?" Napoleon could see what looked like cyrillic writing on the front of some type of notebook. He looked at Illya, whose face had turned ashen. Something was definitely not right.

Illya took the notebook, his heart sinking as his memories of service in the Soviet Navy brought back images of similar bound texts and assignment ledgers. Only this one wasn't GRU, it was KGB.

"They were spies." Napoleon looked confused at hearing those words.

"Spies? You mean, they were Soviet spies? I thought you knew these people."

"So did I." Illya's response was icy, his mind racing with scenarios and memories that now skewed with a new revelation. He wondered if one or the other of this couple had been responsible for his father's imprisonment. They had known his family before the war, before his musician father was taken as part of the great purge of the Russian creative communities. His mother had died because of betrayal, and now he had to wonder if these people had been part of that misery.

"Meeting them here was purely chance Napoleon. They must have reported it and been instructed to … disappear. We will never find them, they're gone."

Napoleon knew there would be repercussions to this, both from Mr. Waverly and from the Soviets. Of course the KGB couldn't admit that they had spies or that those spies weren't really victims of this fire. But they would be watching Kuryakin to monitor his actions now.

"You're not going to go looking for them are you? I mean, what would be the point?" Napoleon could only hope his partner, his friend, would just let it go. No matter what the past was in regard to these people, it wasn't worth risking the Russian's future.

"I'm fine Napoleon. I am not intending some rash action. I know what is at stake, so rest assured I will not rock this boat. At least not now, not while everyone is watching me."

It would do for now. This family of spies was gone, but Illya's past would always color his present.