section7mfu | Snapshots~ "Luck and Mojo"

Two familiar voices spoke in the shadows...

“Omnia causa fiunt...”

“Hey don’t throw Latin at me now. I know everything happens for a reason but we need to get out of here.”

“Yes Napoleon, and as the British say, ‘do not get your knickers in a twist.’ I will get it.”

The Russian was patiently fiddling with a piece of wire, trying to pick the lock to their current prison cell door.

It was a small room, reeking of must, mold and dampness on the walls dripping with moisture. There was a single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Illya’s fingers were cold, and he kept having to breath on them to warm them up, given the fact they were bruised and swollen, didn’t help matters.

Napoleon was of no use as his right hand was broken, and the pain from it was obviously making him testy, not to mention the conditions in their cell.

“Come on Illya where’s that Russian mojo of yours?”

Kuryakin turned and looked him squarely in the eye. “I think it is on vacation with your famous luck, which seems to be nowhere in sight. Now leave me be and let my try in peace.”

“Hey don’t get cranky with me. I can’t comment on the situation?”

“No you may not, and you are not commenting, you are complaining. That is my job, so look who is calling the pan black.”

“That’s kettle, calling the kettle black,” Solo hissed. “Can’t you get these things right? You make remarks in other languages and manage to use them correctly.”

His partner’s complained made him smile. “Who cares what it is, pan...pot. Now will you please stop hovering over my shoulder, you are getting in my light,” Illya protested.

There was a sudden click, and the door unlocked.

“About time,” Napoleon grumbled. “At least the Solo luck is back.”

“I would counter that it was my mojo, but I did not open the door.”

“What?”

Illya’s eyes were wide with surprise. “I am telling you did not do it, someone else did.” He stood quickly, backing away with Napoleon right beside him; both resigning themselves to another round of beatings, no doubt.

The heavy steel door slowly opened with a long, rusted creak and in stepped an unexpected surprise... Mark Slate.

“There you blokes are,” Mark grinned at the pair of disheveled agents. “been looking for you forever.”

“You’re late,” the partners blurted out in unison.

“Right blame it on me, “the Brit grumbled as they headed towards him.

“That’s gratitude for you. Lucky for you my mojo was working for me.”

“Your mojo, no my mojo,” Illya looked at him strangely.

“No my Solo luck, “Napoleon chimed in…

“You know, you two can disagree over this later, now let’s get going before all our luck and mojo runs out,” Slate whispered, waving them through the open door.

Kuryakin glanced at Solo. “For once I think we can agree on that.”

“For the moment,” Napoleon replied.