section7mfu | Not Exactly Right (Reply)

Prompt: Stereotypes are what most ignorant people live by...

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This might have to lead to more... maybe.

“He’s too good looking, a dumb blond. Plus, he ‘aas a weird accent, I ‘erd ‘im chattin’ up that ginger ‘aired bird.”

“Can you possibly come up with any more stereotypical put downs? Dude, we’re in this for love and peace, just chill out and ask the guy if he’ll spare us a joint.”

“Oy, you yanks are a lucky lot, all full of yerselves.’ The complaining fellow withered under the stern eye of his companion. He was beginning to wonder why he’d fallen in with this bossy American.

“Fine, but ah still fink he’s a git.”

Reluctantly and with a smirk on his face, Roddy attempted to saunter casually, projecting instead his insecurity at approaching the man in the black turtleneck and jeans. Illya Kuryakin was waiting for a dead drop from a THRUSH courier; it was a gamble impersonating the man he had recently knocked unconscious and thrown into a large trash bin. April Dancer was sitting next to him, a newspaper hiding her face from any onlookers.

Illya recognized a young man who had passed by earlier, a rough looking chap dressed in something reminiscent of the Teddy Boys of the late 50’s. This one was a strange convergence of that and the current Mod trend of London’s swinging crowd of musicians and models. His hair was long, influenced by the Beatles, no doubt. He had on a slightly tattered brocade waistcoat over blue jeans, and a white turtleneck that showed signs of several days wear.

He was a mess, but he might also be the THRUSH courier.

Illya watched his approach from behind dark glasses as he flicked the cigarette he was smoking onto the grass, a gesture that seemed to stop the lad in his tracks.

Roddy was having second thoughts about the blond. He didn’t look stupid, he looked dangerous. No bloody way was he getting any closer. No one tossed a joint, and now he wondered why he’d ever thought that was what this bloke was smoking.

Out of his peripheral vision Illya saw someone else approaching, and by all appearances he was carrying something very much like what he anticipated the courier would have. He tapped the bottom of April’s newspaper, a signal to get up and leave. The courier reached into his jacket, his eyes on the faux Teddy Boy. THRUSH wasn’t known for subtlety, and if anyone seemed like a threat it was very likely that danger was close at hand. In a decision that would most likely ruin this assignment, Illya jumped up and shouted at the youth to run.

It didn’t take a second warning to set Roddy on his way back towards his mate and what he hoped was safety. He was mentally apologizing for everything he’d said about the blond man, hoping he would survive being stupid himself.

Roddy tripped and fell down hard as a bullet whizzed past him. What the bloody hell was going on?

Illya reached for his Special and fired a sleep dart into the courier’s neck as the man was taking aim at someone beyond Roddy. April fired her gun at the same time, taking him down with a double dose of UNCLE tranquilizer. She tried to locate the youth who had run away, wondering why the courier had fired at him.

“April, look, up there!” Illya could see the direction Roddy had been running, and beyond him another young man who appeared to be slumped over as he leaned against a tree. The pair of agents ran towards him, past Roddy. He was still laid out flat in the grass, his nerves now a complete network of frayed edges.

“Illya, I recognize him. He’s a CIA operative, I met him once in a confab in D.C., an inter-agency thing.’ Illya was checking for a pulse, wondering why he was here and how this all figured into the courier drop that had been completely blown.

“Is he … ?” Illya shook his head. The man was dead, and Roddy was approaching with a renewed respect for strangers he had formerly mistaken for dumb and… He didn’t even know what he thought anymore.

“Who are you, and how do you know this man?” Illya wasn’t in the mood for being sensitive. A THRUSH courier was unconscious, a CIA agent was dead. An innocent had nearly been killed, and between them, he and April were probably in for a stern admonishment from the Old Man.

Roddy was shaken, grateful to be alive but terrified at how close he’d come to being in the same condition as his mate, Anthony.

“Roddy, m’name’s Roddy, and I just met ‘im yesterday. We was just lookin’ to score some weed off ya. Anthony said you was smokin’ a joint. But, when you tossed it, well… I knew it weren’t a joint.”

Illya indicated to April that she should call it in while he continued his interrogation of Roddy. The young man had started the day with a swagger, but now he was reduced nearly to tears. Someone had tried to kill him…

“Roddy, I don’t think the shooter was aiming for you. This man, ahh, well… ‘ He couldn’t tell anything more to Roddy.

“I see someone has called in the police, they’re going to want to ask you some questions about Anthony. I don’t think you’ll be in any trouble, but, a word of advice.” Roddy looked at the blond man whose accent and appearance had led him to make a silly assumption about who he might be. Oddly enough, he’d made no such assumptions about Anthony, and yet he was now dead and had gotten his own self nearly killed.

What had Anthony said about sterotypes?

“Tell the truth, Roddy. Whatever Anthony was into, he must have had trouble with the law, and with that other man who was doing the shooting. Just, be more careful whom you befriend.” Illya felt for the boy, hoped he might find a way to better himself and get an education. Post war Britain had suffered the pangs of recovery, and the youth had forged a culture that was still evolving. Some of them had been left behind, boys like Roddy. A sudden, unwelcome pang of empathy made Illya give him his card, the one with the phony business name. It would, however, be a way for Roddy to contact him.

“If you’re ever ready for something better, give me a call. I think I can help you out. Something legal, got it?” Roddy looked up with a sheepish expression on his face. To think he’d had a bad opinion of this fellow…

“Ta, I’ll ‘old onto this.”

“That’s a good lad. Now, let’s see what the coppers want, yeah?”

Roddy had an option now, a connection to a future he hadn’t dreamed of yet.

Blimey!