SNAPSHOTS ~ "His own kind of luck"

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

                                                     

It was raining...it seemed to be doing that all the time. Not a driving downpour mind you, more of a soft misting rain. One would think that would be cooling in such a tropical place, but it only added to the oppresive humidity.

Illya Kuryakin was alone.  He’d lost all his U.N.C.L.E. devices and weapons, the most precious of these being his communicator.

He had no way of calling for help and hadn’t eaten in three days. His last meal had been…he couldn’t remember. What was it? Oh yes, roasted snake that he’d managed to beat to death with a stick.

He didn’t have a single peso in his pocket, not that there were many place to buy food here. It was no use begging or stealing as the area...he didn’t even know where it was, was so desperately poor that people lived in ramshakle huts, made of pieced together bits of wood and corrugated metal.

Periodically trucks would pass through, and this time one carrying food staples hit a great hole in the dirt road, sending a bag of rice flying to the ground unnoticed.  It burst apart and there was a scramble by a few people to gather it, Illya was among them.

He grabbed at the grains, dropping a few handfuls into his shirt tail...and then it was all gone; the rest gathered by other hungry mouths who quickly left with their bounty.  He remained behind...picking through the dirt to find a few more grains.

His shelter was at the edge of a clearing just outside the settlement, with immense leaves from a tree he did not recognize that served as his roof.  Illya had gathered brush and more leaves for his bedding...though there was always the danger of spiders and poisonous snakes and other deadly creatures.

He used a flat stone, digging a small hole, and after wrapping the rice in a large green leaf, he made a fire and managed to steam cook it.

There was enough to last him for a few days if he was frugal...and sadly  his search for food would begin again.

If he had been in perfect health, making a wooden spear and doing a little hunting would have been possible, but his leg and back had been injured when he lost his battle against a T.H.R.U.S.H. goon and his left arm wasn’t exactly functioning to its full capacity.

This was bad, really bad and he knew it. If he could walk well enough he could try to get out...if his back wasn’t hunched over in pain, if both his arms worked...if he knew where the hell he was.

No one would talk to him, and though the Russian was a whiz at languages and sub-dialects, he didn’t recognize what these people were speaking. They were most likely an indigenous Indian tribe corrupted by the outside world, or forced off their lands for who knew what reason. The so-called civilization of the white man had a way of doing that.

Illya remained huddled under his meager shelter for the next two days and to his amazement the rain finally ceased. The rice was gone; somehow he needed to roust himself and search for food.

He looked up, hearing the roar of an engine and hoped it was another truck that might have conveniently lost some rice again.  The Russian got himself to his feet, hobbling towards the sound.

It was not what he expected and instead it was a white Red Cross truck that had stopped and people from it were handing out food and medical supplies.

People with whom he could hopefully communicate.

He approached a woman, hoping his filthy ragged clothes would not put her off, and out of respect he removed his straw hat...he couldn’t remember how he’d come into possesion of it.  Though it was falling apart and had most likely been discarded.

She looked at his blond hair and blue eyes, making him stand out among a sea of native faces.

“Who are you?” She asked in Spanish.

“Mi nombre es Illya, Illya Kuryakin,” he held his hat in his two hands, and though unintentional, he looked quite forlorn and pathetic.

“That’s a Russian name. How is it you’re here and in such a terrible conditon?”  She handed him a blanket, and bowl of rice and beans.

Illya scooped the food into his mouth with his fingers before answering; quickly formulating a cover story that he knew needed to be reasonable, with some bits of truth in it.

“I was waylaid by...for lack of a better word, bandits. They took everything and tried to kill me by tossing me over an embankment.  It was miraculous that I survived but my injuries have prevented me from leaving this place to find help.  I do not know the language they speak here, so I could not ask them for help, or where I am for that matter.”

“Come with me,” the woman said.

Illya recognized a Slovak accent when he heard one.

“D’akujem,” he thanked her in her language, making her smile.

“I have not heard that spoken in a long time. You can ride with us into town, it’s a shame you did not know but you are only a few miles away from civilization. There is a small hospital there where we can get you looked after.  You can use the telephone to call whomever you need to come get you...you are a fortunate man Illya Kuryakin.”

“I am sorry, but I do not even know your name. You are my Florence Nightingale and I will be ever grateful to you.”

“My name is Ancika Ciernik...but who is this Florence Nightingale?” She asked, helping Illya into the truck, and handing him back his food bowl.

She saw him look longingly at the rice and beans. “Eat first, answer when you are done.”

Illya finished off the food in a few minutes, and Ancika filled his bowl for him again, offering him a bottle of Coca-cola to wash it down. Though not one for soda pop, Illya gratefully drank it, knowing the sugar would give him a temporary boost in his energy level.

“Florence Nightingale was famed for as a nurse during the Crimean War, where she tended to wounded soldiers.  She was known as "The Lady with the Lamp" after her habit of making rounds at night. Not only did she help the sick and infirmed but she was a social reformer who advocated  social reforms that included  improving healthcare for all sections of British society. She helped to abolish laws regulating prostitution that were overly harsh to women, and expanded the acceptable forms of female participation in the workforce.” Illya laid his head back against the wall of the truck. He hadn’t spoken this much in weeks, and found it somewhat exhausting.

“Sounds like I have this Nightingale woman to thank for my independence to help others...Illya are you all right?”

“Very tired, that is all.” He wouldn't admit to his pain.

“Close your eyes, rest. You will be safe very soon.”

He was already asleep and hadn’t heard her last words.

.

The next time Illya Kuryakin opened his eyes, he was laying in hospital bed...the sheets heavily starched and the room smelled of bleach.

“Tovarisch,” a familiar voice whispered to him.

“Napoleon, how…?”

“We’ve been searching for you for weeks. Someone in headquarters thought of checking in with the Red Cross and voila.  You’re lucky to be alive partner mine,” Napoleon smiled, as he tucked the sheet around his friend.

“Luck? I hardly think that. You are the one with the luck Napoleon.”

“True, the Solo luck is pretty amazing but you have your own kind of luck too, though you don’t seem to come out of things unscathed, you still manage to thwart death time and again.”

“That is not luck, it is...skill,” the Russian bragged just a little.

“Yeah right, and if you believe that then I have a bridge in Brooklyn you might be interested in buying…”

“Why would I want to buy a bridge, much less one in Brooklyn,” Illya asked, perplexed.

“Never mind...just glad to have to back.”

“Glad to be back.”

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Hee hee, I think you have to get to the back of a long line. "D thanks for the comment.