The Seven Deadly Sins Affair - GLUTTONY

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Gluttony: derived from the Latin gluttire meaning "to gulp down or swallow", means over-indulgence and over-comsumption of food, drink, or wealth items, particularly as status symbols.



Kuryakin woke, feeling quite groggy. It took him a few seconds to realize he was strapped into a chair, not a standard chair but perhaps more like one would find in a dentist’s office.

He was within the halo of a spotlight and that was preventing from seeing anything else around him except for the inky blackness.

“Hello,” an eerie voice spoke to him from the dark. “I suppose you’re wondering what happened to you.”

“It had crossed my mind.”

The voice was neither male nor female as it was being disguised electronically. That told Illya it had to be someone he might know.

“Why are you afraid of revealing yourself, will I recognize real your voice?”

“I’m not afraid at all. It’s rather fun disguising one’s self, it is after all nearing Halloween. I know you like doing that don’t you Kuryakin, pretending to be someone else?”

“Like? Not really, disguises are just part of the job. I make use of them when they are necessitated. Why do you not reveal yourself, or are you a coward?”

A bowed figure stepped into the light, clothed in a flowing black robe, the face was obscured by a cowl. When it straightened up, a skeletal mask was revealed.

“That is original,” Illya said with just a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I think it’s time to begin.”

“Oh goody. I was beginning to become impatient. What are you going to do, try to scare me, beat me, torture me? I have experienced it all and nothing you can do to me will…”

“I think you’ll find this a rather fulfilling experience.” The voice laughed, it was a sinister sound that gave Kuryakin the chills.

A set of clamps swung round on either side of Illya’s face, and after struggling to avoid them, they finally took hold of both sides of his mouth. A third clamp appeared and drew down his lower jaw, forcing his mouth to open painfully wide.

He was unable to speak, but made what sounds he could in protest.

“Now it’s time to feed the little piggy!” The voice cackled. “Open wide.”

A hose was shoved into Illya’s mouth, and something began to ooze from it.

It tasted like chicken soup.

He swallowed and swallowed as it was forced down his throat.

Then it changed, now it tasted like lasagna. This time the substance wasn’t as liquid and Illya began to choke. He moved his head forward and vomited down his chest.

“Naughty naughty Mister Pig, we mustn’t waste food. Think of all the starving children out there who would give anything to eat just a few morsels.”

After gasping and catching his breath the feeding began again. He gagged, feeling like he was choking as more food was shoved down his throat.

Little by little he could see his stomach becoming distended, bloated like a big fat Santa Claus belly.

As the food continued to be forced down his gullet, he thought he would explode.

Mercifully, he passed out...

Illya Kuryakin’s ability to pack away food was legendary; it was not lost on quite a few people who had seen him eat in the Commissary.

There were some who thought him guilty of gluttony, despite the fact that the Russian remained pencil thin.

Anyone who saw him working out in the gymnasium knew that he was a lithe, muscular man with not an ounce of fat on his body.

Despite that, he would still hear some whispers behind his back about him eating like a pig. Illya had become accustomed to such insults and he ignored them for the most part, right along with the Pinko-Commie put downs. At least he maintained the appearance of ignoring them, but sometimes the words hurt.

He would never let anyone know that.

Like many other field operatives, the Russian was troubled by bad dreams; who wouldn’t be when your life was constantly in danger while you were dealing out death yourself with a gun?

He had those dreams, but it was ones from his youth that gave him his true nightmares.

Guilt was an emotion he forced himself to ignore, but it was the dreams from so long ago that often preyed upon him when he slept.

He was haunted by the ghastly images of starving people who suffered and died in the concentration camp just outside of Kyiv.

There was no guilt on his part for their deaths; there was nothing he could do to help those people, not even his friend Irina who was raped and impregnated by a Nazi; she was sent off to one of the death vans.

He was just a malnourished boy of ten when he escaped the camp along with thirteen others.

Nearly dying of starvation, he was saved thanks to the Red Army who rescued him and liberated what was left of Kyiv.*

Tonight though, he had a different dream and it had nothing to do with those ghastly eyeless faces that stared at him from the past, clawing and pulling him into their eternal agony.

He woke with a gasp...

“There you are,” Napoleon spoke.

Illya raised his head in confusion. He was in the Medical Suite at headquarters in Rome.

“What...what happened?”

“You were found passed out on the sidewalk about two blocks from our hotel.”

“An old woman, there was an old woman with a cane and she struck me in the leg with it. Must have been some knockout drug on the tip of it.”

“There was a woman all right, she said you tripped on her cane and hit your head on the sidewalk. After finding help, the Carabinieri were called because your gun was spotted. Poor lady thought you were some sort of mobster.”

Illya lifted the sheet, looking at his legs but saw no sign of injury. His stomach was as flat as always.

Napoleon could see the confused look in his partner’s eyes.

“You do have a rather sizable lump on your head.”

Illya reached up and feeling it, he winced. “Ow.”

“Is there something wrong tovarisch? Something bothering you besides that lump? You all right?”

“Just a dream,” Illya realized that’s what it was.” I am fine."

It was strange, he thought, perhaps people’s comments about him over indulging in food had gotten to him after all. His subconscious had finally let it loose, but it was all a dream.

It wouldn’t do for that to be yet another continuing nightmare for him.

“Want to talk about it?” Solo never got a yes after many times of asking that same question.

“Napoleon, am I a glutton?”

He was taken aback by that question. “Umm, no, I don’t think so. Didn’t you once tell me you had a high metabolism and needed a lot of calories? Though in a way, you are a glutton for punishment when you goad our captors with your snarky backtalk.

“Yes, that is true.”

“That’s it? You’re not going to tell me what’s going on in your head?”

“No”

The man was as stubborn as ever and Solo knew from experience not to push the issue.

Illya was being kept in Medical overnight for observation, and Solo lowered the lights before leaving.

“Good night and pleasant dreams,” he whispered.

Upon returning to headquarters in New York, Illya as always, took care of their paperwork. By the time he was finished it was around noon and his stomach told him it needed sustenance.

Napoleon was off on a lunch date with one of the women from Translations, so Kuryakin headed to the Commissary by himself.

As he stood in line with his food tray he suddenly felt as if all eyes were on him, watching and whispering about how much food he’d pile on his plate today. He swore he could hear their voices as they called him names like pig, and glutton.

Instead of a bowl of vegetable soup, Illya asked for a cup. He filled his plate with a very small portion of beef stew and dumplings.  There was chocolate cake among other things for dessert, but he passed on them all.

The chef, nicknamed Cookie, couldn’t believe his eyes.

“That’s it Mister K? You feeling all right?”

“I am fine.” He passed a note to Cookie and upon reading it the man winked at the Russian.

No one stared at him now. There was no way they would think he was guilty of gluttony, and that made the Russian smile. Somewhere in the back of his head he could still hear their voices and the name calling.

After finishing his meager lunch Illya returned to his office and ten minutes later a tray was delivered.

It was a double portion of stew with extra dumplings, a Ceasar salad, and two slices of German chocolate cake. All that was accompanied by a carafe of hot water for tea and a jar of raspberry jam to sweeten it.

Settling in, after putting a napkin on his lap, Illya tucked in to his meal.

He was not a glutton, and satisfying his appetite in this manner would stop him from being misjudged. Granted he could just explain to people that he had a high metabolic rate and so forth, but that went against his mantra.

“The less people know about you, the longer you will live”

This he learned, among other things, from his handler, and eventual lover, Katiya Revchenkov, when he was stationed at the Sorbonne. He was but eighteen years of age, young and foolish and why she betrayed him, setting him up to look like he was incompetent, he could never understand. Still it came as no real surprise to him as betrayal was always a possibility in the spy game. *

That was a part of his past that was the least of his concerns.

Now if he could just figure out a way to end the other whispers besmirching his ethnicity and political beliefs…

* ref. “First Kill”

Comments

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

You were right about it heading in a slightly strange direction. So, was it real, or was it a dream? Who is tormenting our poor Russian? (Apart from me that is, LOL).

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

My muse is going crazy with this one for sure. Good questions cuz, sadly none of which I can answer right now.

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Visions of sugarplums dancing in his head? Poor boy... oh wait, that's a sandwich! Po Boy ;)

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Ha! Trés drole ma cherie!

[jkkitty.livejournal.com]

Excellent

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! I thought you were going to join in on the challenge? It's not too late to jump in.

[jkkitty.livejournal.com]

Sorry in Florida this week and very hard to do anything as I'm with friends.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Enjoy!