Short Affair 3rd March - Clean
Mar. 2nd, 2020 09:43 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuPrompt word: mission
Prompt colour: brown
Word count: 489
Read on AO3 or below the cut.
Blood had soaked through the uniform, still warm, still sticky. He put it on anyway; he had already stripped it from a dead man, there was little use in becoming squeamish now. Beret pulled down low to conceal his face, he shouldered the rifle and stepped out to resume the guard's patrol route around the outer wall of the camp.
There wasn't any hope of finishing the mission now, Valentina was long gone with her new friends and with the formula, leaving him with nothing but a tearful apology, a dead guard and the hope that THRUSH might have decided to leave Napoleon alive for the moment. Although if Napoleon was alive that meant he was going to have to admit to his part in this whole debacle and he really wasn't looking forward to his partner's reaction.
It wasn't as though he could really blame her. She might have sold them out, but he had been asking her to leave her siblings in danger with nothing more than his promise that UNCLE would try to help free them. She was hardly the only person to ever put her own loved ones well being above the ever-nebulous 'greater good' and there was a part of him that felt guilty for ever trying to convince her otherwise. But then, he had been doing this job a long time and there was little use in becoming squeamish now.
The blood was drying now leaving a dark brown stain down the side of the grey shirt. A rather obvious clue that he was not what he was pretending to be and, with the guard post just around the corner he stooped quickly and grabbed a handful of mud, smearing it across the stain and lightly spattering his face and arm. There. That would have to do.
“What happened to you?” the guard asked as he approached.
He gave an angry grunt to the man's evident amusement. “Tripped over a tree root. Swear I'm going to get a transfer back to the city one of these days.”
“Yeah, well, good luck,” the guard snorted dismissively, and he was past and walking into the camp itself.
For the first time in what felt like months luck was with him and he found Napoleon in the second cabin he tried, sprawled on the floor, bruised, gagged and tied hand and foot. A man was standing over him, greasy-haired, cudgel in hand, and he turned when Illya entered, setting himself up perfectly for a fist to the jaw. Staggering backwards he stumbled, falling, and with all the pain and fire running through his head Illya kicked him in the jaw, sending him to the floor.
Crouching down he gently pulled the gag aside.
Napoleon blinked up on him, eyes fixed on the stained shirt. “Laundry date, tovarich?”
He smiled grimly. “You know how it is, my friend. Some days you just can't get clean.”
Prompt colour: brown
Word count: 489
Read on AO3 or below the cut.
Blood had soaked through the uniform, still warm, still sticky. He put it on anyway; he had already stripped it from a dead man, there was little use in becoming squeamish now. Beret pulled down low to conceal his face, he shouldered the rifle and stepped out to resume the guard's patrol route around the outer wall of the camp.
There wasn't any hope of finishing the mission now, Valentina was long gone with her new friends and with the formula, leaving him with nothing but a tearful apology, a dead guard and the hope that THRUSH might have decided to leave Napoleon alive for the moment. Although if Napoleon was alive that meant he was going to have to admit to his part in this whole debacle and he really wasn't looking forward to his partner's reaction.
It wasn't as though he could really blame her. She might have sold them out, but he had been asking her to leave her siblings in danger with nothing more than his promise that UNCLE would try to help free them. She was hardly the only person to ever put her own loved ones well being above the ever-nebulous 'greater good' and there was a part of him that felt guilty for ever trying to convince her otherwise. But then, he had been doing this job a long time and there was little use in becoming squeamish now.
The blood was drying now leaving a dark brown stain down the side of the grey shirt. A rather obvious clue that he was not what he was pretending to be and, with the guard post just around the corner he stooped quickly and grabbed a handful of mud, smearing it across the stain and lightly spattering his face and arm. There. That would have to do.
“What happened to you?” the guard asked as he approached.
He gave an angry grunt to the man's evident amusement. “Tripped over a tree root. Swear I'm going to get a transfer back to the city one of these days.”
“Yeah, well, good luck,” the guard snorted dismissively, and he was past and walking into the camp itself.
For the first time in what felt like months luck was with him and he found Napoleon in the second cabin he tried, sprawled on the floor, bruised, gagged and tied hand and foot. A man was standing over him, greasy-haired, cudgel in hand, and he turned when Illya entered, setting himself up perfectly for a fist to the jaw. Staggering backwards he stumbled, falling, and with all the pain and fire running through his head Illya kicked him in the jaw, sending him to the floor.
Crouching down he gently pulled the gag aside.
Napoleon blinked up on him, eyes fixed on the stained shirt. “Laundry date, tovarich?”
He smiled grimly. “You know how it is, my friend. Some days you just can't get clean.”
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Date: 2020-03-02 11:53 pm (UTC)