[identity profile] mrua7.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] section7mfu



Light filtered in through the narrow windows, the shutters barely open on an innocent looking, but overcast  New York skyline as Illya Kuryakin was seconds away from dashing to Alexander Waverly’s side. He'd fallen unconscious without any warning.



The console in Waverly’s cubbie in the wall was lighting up like a Christmas tree as one by one staff members were reporting emergencies. Just like Waverly, people throughout headquarters were passing out.

Illya picked up the handheld microphone, speaking into in it with a sense of urgency.


“Get me Mr. Solo please, and quickly.”

“Right away,” the Communications specialist answered. “Illya what’s going on, people are dropping like flies.”

“I know, just get me Solo,” he barked. When under stress the Russian became impatient, often curt with people, snapping his fingers at them if they didn’t move fast enough to suit him. Some shrugged it off, others resented it, but right now Illya could care less if he was bruising someones feelings.

.

The warble of his communicator forced Napoleon to unhappily raise his head as he heard it and grabbed it from his jacket pocket. Looking sheepishly at the woman who was running her fingertips inside his open shirt, swirling her fingers across his chest; he extracted her hands, excusing himself  as she sat in a near state of undress beside him on his sofa.

He stepped into his bedroom, the place he thought would be his ultimate destination for the evening, but now suspected it would be otherwise.

“Solo here,” he spoke softly.

“Napoleon come to headquarters immediately.” Illya’s voice was calm but firm.

A pang of anxiety hit the senior agent’s stomach. “What’s happened.”

“Just pull yourself away from whoever the woman is you are doing and get here as quickly as you can.”

“And how would you know I’m with a woman?”

“Are you not always? Kuryakin out,” he answered tersely.

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Section VII Propaganda and Public Relations

April 2024

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