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section7mfuShort Affair challenge 6 November (Glossy. Green)
A shard of glass
The wall was just too high. He took a run and leapt for the coping stone, but only succeeded in barking his knuckles. He fell and staggered slightly.
“I need your back, Napoleon,” he whispered.
It was tempting to make a comment but there were dangers associated with irritating his partner. Napoleon merely bent for Illya to scramble onto his back and make a slightly ungraceful, but this time successful landing.
“I thought you could climb anything,” he muttered now.
“I can,” came a savage whisper from above, “but I need at least one projection to get started, and you are quite a …”
“Don’t say it!”
“Large fat one,” came the Parthian shot, as Illya dropped down the other side.
“Scrag-end! Short-ass!” he stage-whispered back.
The other men glanced at each other through the gloom, exchanging a single, silently expressed thought: two senior agents – snarling like a couple of alleycats. They’d been bickering all the way.
The wall was too high for most of them as it happened, so, as one had to stay behind on guard, they chose the shortest (who was in fact taller than both Illya and Napoleon) and he gave the last one the benefit of his back.
Napoleon caught up with Illya, and the others followed. Lights showed round the edges of the internal shutters of the ground-floor windows. The men fanned out to surround the building, weapons at the ready, well-camouflaged, their faces as black as their clothing. A strand of fair hair gleamed faintly from under Illya’s hat, but he was adept at disappearing into darkness, silently, invisibly, and with deadly intent. Napoleon touched his shoulder as a signal, and he moved away.
In the darkness of a wall-buttress, Illya shrugged himself out of his rucksack, removed the four explosive charges, and set the timers to go off in five minutes. He moved with cat-like care and placed them at strategic intervals under the windows. Then he ran for it, to get out of range. He heard a crackle as one of the charges detonated prematurely and, before he could think of saving himself, he was flung bodily some distance, to land in a flowerbed where, unseen by his colleagues, he lay stunned.
Napoleon’s men rushed the room, captured the people inside and then secured the building. Back-up in the form of trucks and medical staff arrived, ready to deal with injuries and take the conspirators away. While they were thus occupied, Napoleon was able to take stock and count his men.
It was obvious who was missing. Under the black face paint, Napoleon was suddenly pale. The explosives had been intended to detonate together, and they had all heard one go off early.
“Where is he? Quick! Everyone search the area – find him!”
Even though they could now use torches, it wasn’t easy to find a figure all in black in the darkness.
A shout brought everyone running. They watched as Napoleon in his anxiety flung himself down beside his partner, and felt for a pulse in his neck; then ran his hands carefully over Illya’s body to feel for injuries or blood, feeling splinters of wood and glass all over him.
“He’s alive,” he said, “but he’s bleeding. Concussed too, I guess, but the medics had better move him in case there’s internal injury. Call them over, someone.”
Illya’s hat had protected his head from some of the lethal projectiles, and the rucksack was full of them, but his arms and legs had no protection and bled from a number of gashes. Landing on soft soil seemed to have prevented too much other damage, and after being carefully examined he was carried away by the medics.
******************
“Why did it go off early?”
“I don’t know. I set them exactly the same. Must have been a faulty timer.”
“You were lucky not to be closer, then.”
“I don’t feel very lucky. It’s not very comfortable lying on my face.”
Napoleon stifled a chuckle – not quite well enough. A baleful blue eye peered up at him.
“What?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, a splinter of glass in your skinny backside is quite an entertaining thought,” he said, moving to the door before his irate partner risked stitches and bandages by leaping out of bed.
“It wasn’t a splinter, it was a shard. And I fail to see the humour in it.”
“You’d have seen the funny side if it had been me.”
There was a non-committal grunt.
“I’ll bring you some magazines to keep you happy,” he said as he left.
Illya sighed. He knew what they’d be, and he was in no position to enjoy them in any way.
**********************“Hi, how you doing, partner?” Napoleon’s breeziness merely raised the hackles on his prone friend’s neck.
“How does it look like I’m doing? Everything hurts or itches,” he snapped.
“Poor baby. Look, I’ve brought you some lovely ladies to look at.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m only interested in the unclothed female form when I have the lady herself in my arms. No point otherwise.”
Napoleon raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I thought everyone liked looking at the unclothed female form – here, see – very artistic.” He held one under Illya’s nose.
“I can’t see. Give me my glasses… thanks. Oh, really, Napoleon! Take it away.”
“How about this nice glossy one … Ah, I seem to have picked up a fashion magazine. Still, at least they’re clothed if that’s what you prefer. Pretty girl on the cover.”
Illya glanced at the image, a model in a green dress. His glance turned into an intent gaze that softened his features out of their irritation-sharpened state. Napoleon watched this metamorphosis with interest.
“I’ll leave that one with you, shall I?”
“How do you get to meet a fashion model?”
“No idea,” he said, seemingly oblivious of Illya’s reverie.
“I thought you could find any woman.”
“I need more projections before I start.”
“You mean you have no discrimination.”
Napoleon was hurt, and said so.
And so the bickering continued.
===========================================
A shard of glass
The wall was just too high. He took a run and leapt for the coping stone, but only succeeded in barking his knuckles. He fell and staggered slightly.
“I need your back, Napoleon,” he whispered.
It was tempting to make a comment but there were dangers associated with irritating his partner. Napoleon merely bent for Illya to scramble onto his back and make a slightly ungraceful, but this time successful landing.
“I thought you could climb anything,” he muttered now.
“I can,” came a savage whisper from above, “but I need at least one projection to get started, and you are quite a …”
“Don’t say it!”
“Large fat one,” came the Parthian shot, as Illya dropped down the other side.
“Scrag-end! Short-ass!” he stage-whispered back.
The other men glanced at each other through the gloom, exchanging a single, silently expressed thought: two senior agents – snarling like a couple of alleycats. They’d been bickering all the way.
The wall was too high for most of them as it happened, so, as one had to stay behind on guard, they chose the shortest (who was in fact taller than both Illya and Napoleon) and he gave the last one the benefit of his back.
Napoleon caught up with Illya, and the others followed. Lights showed round the edges of the internal shutters of the ground-floor windows. The men fanned out to surround the building, weapons at the ready, well-camouflaged, their faces as black as their clothing. A strand of fair hair gleamed faintly from under Illya’s hat, but he was adept at disappearing into darkness, silently, invisibly, and with deadly intent. Napoleon touched his shoulder as a signal, and he moved away.
In the darkness of a wall-buttress, Illya shrugged himself out of his rucksack, removed the four explosive charges, and set the timers to go off in five minutes. He moved with cat-like care and placed them at strategic intervals under the windows. Then he ran for it, to get out of range. He heard a crackle as one of the charges detonated prematurely and, before he could think of saving himself, he was flung bodily some distance, to land in a flowerbed where, unseen by his colleagues, he lay stunned.
Napoleon’s men rushed the room, captured the people inside and then secured the building. Back-up in the form of trucks and medical staff arrived, ready to deal with injuries and take the conspirators away. While they were thus occupied, Napoleon was able to take stock and count his men.
It was obvious who was missing. Under the black face paint, Napoleon was suddenly pale. The explosives had been intended to detonate together, and they had all heard one go off early.
“Where is he? Quick! Everyone search the area – find him!”
Even though they could now use torches, it wasn’t easy to find a figure all in black in the darkness.
A shout brought everyone running. They watched as Napoleon in his anxiety flung himself down beside his partner, and felt for a pulse in his neck; then ran his hands carefully over Illya’s body to feel for injuries or blood, feeling splinters of wood and glass all over him.
“He’s alive,” he said, “but he’s bleeding. Concussed too, I guess, but the medics had better move him in case there’s internal injury. Call them over, someone.”
Illya’s hat had protected his head from some of the lethal projectiles, and the rucksack was full of them, but his arms and legs had no protection and bled from a number of gashes. Landing on soft soil seemed to have prevented too much other damage, and after being carefully examined he was carried away by the medics.
******************
“Why did it go off early?”
“I don’t know. I set them exactly the same. Must have been a faulty timer.”
“You were lucky not to be closer, then.”
“I don’t feel very lucky. It’s not very comfortable lying on my face.”
Napoleon stifled a chuckle – not quite well enough. A baleful blue eye peered up at him.
“What?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, a splinter of glass in your skinny backside is quite an entertaining thought,” he said, moving to the door before his irate partner risked stitches and bandages by leaping out of bed.
“It wasn’t a splinter, it was a shard. And I fail to see the humour in it.”
“You’d have seen the funny side if it had been me.”
There was a non-committal grunt.
“I’ll bring you some magazines to keep you happy,” he said as he left.
Illya sighed. He knew what they’d be, and he was in no position to enjoy them in any way.
**********************
“How does it look like I’m doing? Everything hurts or itches,” he snapped.
“Poor baby. Look, I’ve brought you some lovely ladies to look at.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m only interested in the unclothed female form when I have the lady herself in my arms. No point otherwise.”
Napoleon raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I thought everyone liked looking at the unclothed female form – here, see – very artistic.” He held one under Illya’s nose.
“I can’t see. Give me my glasses… thanks. Oh, really, Napoleon! Take it away.”
“How about this nice glossy one … Ah, I seem to have picked up a fashion magazine. Still, at least they’re clothed if that’s what you prefer. Pretty girl on the cover.”
Illya glanced at the image, a model in a green dress. His glance turned into an intent gaze that softened his features out of their irritation-sharpened state. Napoleon watched this metamorphosis with interest.
“I’ll leave that one with you, shall I?”
“How do you get to meet a fashion model?”
“No idea,” he said, seemingly oblivious of Illya’s reverie.
“I thought you could find any woman.”
“I need more projections before I start.”
“You mean you have no discrimination.”
Napoleon was hurt, and said so.
And so the bickering continued.
===========================================
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