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section7mfuIllya stood inside the cell with his arms folded, staring up at the security camera. The little red light was on so he knew they were being observed. No-one could do a long icy stare like the Russian and, in the control room, the guard began to wonder if it was the picture which had frozen. Illya’s gaze shifted from the camera to his partner as he heard the American stir. When it became evident that Napoleon wasn’t waking up yet, the Russian returned his glare to the camera.
The pair had been captured due to sheer bad luck. Their mission had been to investigate reports of a new satrapy out in the desert. The suggested location was inaccessible by motor vehicle, so they’d hired themselves a couple of horses. Not far from their target, Napoleon’s horse had been spooked by a snake and it had thrown him. He’d landed hard, hitting his head as he fell and knocking himself out completely. As he had been checking on his stricken partner, Illya had felt the unmistakable coldness of a gun barrel pressing into the back of his head.
That had been an hour ago. They’d been divested of their guns and communicators, but their captors had entirely failed to search for hidden items. This alone told Illya that he was dealing with an amateur branch of THRUSH. The agent requested medical assistance for Napoleon but his request was denied.
“If he dies, he dies.”
Obviously, these idiots had no idea who they had captured, and Illya wasn’t about to enlighten them. He was informed by one of the guards that the ‘boss man’ was out of town so they would have to sit tight for a couple of days. This was all Illya needed to know to begin formulating a plan.
His first task was to put the camera out of action. He could do that very easily, but they would see him doing it and it wouldn’t give him the time to then get out. So, he settled for using one of his greatest assets, the famously intimidating and frosty Kuryakin glare.
In the control room, the guard was beginning to feel unsettled. Despite knowing it couldn’t be the case, he felt certain the clear blue eyes were penetrating directly into his soul. He tried to turn away from the image but could still feel it boring into the back of his skull. Finally he snapped and switched the camera off, figuring the prisoners weren’t going anywhere anyway.
As soon as the red light on the camera blinked out, Illya sprang into action. From the tip of his belt, he pulled out a small knife and cut the wires on the camera; hoping that they would think there was just a malfunction if they turned it back on. He then opened the heel of his left shoe and extracted a little bit of plastic explosive, which he used to blow the lock of the cell.
Squatting down beside Napoleon, he checked his breathing and his pulse. The length of his unconsciousness was becoming a real concern for Illya.
“I’ll be right back,” the Russian told the insensible Solo. “I need to take care of any guards before I have to carry you anywhere. Hopefully, it shouldn’t take too long.”
With that, and armed with his knife, Illya went exploring. He had taken notice of the layout of the small building when they’d been brought in, so had a fair idea of where to go. However, he’d decided on a secondary plan to destroy the satrapy; deciding that since he was there he may as well. There was bound to be explosives store somewhere in which Illya could plant a timed detonator. First off, he had the guards to deal with. As much as he preferred not to kill anyone if he could help it, he didn’t have the time or resources to knock them all out then carry them from the building.
Illya found the explosives cache fairly easily and set a detonator with a thirty minute timer. He couldn’t believe how easy it was for him to move around the satrapy. He came across their equipment lying on a table, unattended, in what seemed to be some sort of guard room. It seemed to him as though the place was still in the process of being set up and Illya wondered where the information about it had come from. All in all, he only came across three Thrushies, who were quickly dealt with.
Napoleon was still unconscious when Illya returned the cell. He had a go at trying to wake him, but failed utterly. Checking the time, the Russian saw that he had ten minutes left to get out. With some effort and a lot of grunting, Illya managed to get Solo over his shoulder and he carried him, as quickly as he could, away from the imminent explosion. He managed to get a fair distance from the satrapy and found a large rocky outcrop for them both to shelter behind. The explosion, when it came was quite sizeable and it shook the ground enough to bring Napoleon from his slumber. Brown eyes looked quizzically at blue ones.
“What did I miss?”
Illya glanced at his watch. “In the last ninety five minutes, we have been captured by THRUSH, held in a cell, escaped and I destroyed a fledgling satrapy.”
“We didn’t do too badly then.”
Illya raised an eyebrow and huffed. “We? All you did was sleep and I got the joyful task of carrying you out of there.”
“Remind me again,” mumbled Solo, “Who is it that usually gets carried out of places and who is it that usually does the carrying?”
“That’s different,” Kuryakin countered. “You’re a lot heavier than I am.”
The End.
The pair had been captured due to sheer bad luck. Their mission had been to investigate reports of a new satrapy out in the desert. The suggested location was inaccessible by motor vehicle, so they’d hired themselves a couple of horses. Not far from their target, Napoleon’s horse had been spooked by a snake and it had thrown him. He’d landed hard, hitting his head as he fell and knocking himself out completely. As he had been checking on his stricken partner, Illya had felt the unmistakable coldness of a gun barrel pressing into the back of his head.
That had been an hour ago. They’d been divested of their guns and communicators, but their captors had entirely failed to search for hidden items. This alone told Illya that he was dealing with an amateur branch of THRUSH. The agent requested medical assistance for Napoleon but his request was denied.
“If he dies, he dies.”
Obviously, these idiots had no idea who they had captured, and Illya wasn’t about to enlighten them. He was informed by one of the guards that the ‘boss man’ was out of town so they would have to sit tight for a couple of days. This was all Illya needed to know to begin formulating a plan.
His first task was to put the camera out of action. He could do that very easily, but they would see him doing it and it wouldn’t give him the time to then get out. So, he settled for using one of his greatest assets, the famously intimidating and frosty Kuryakin glare.
In the control room, the guard was beginning to feel unsettled. Despite knowing it couldn’t be the case, he felt certain the clear blue eyes were penetrating directly into his soul. He tried to turn away from the image but could still feel it boring into the back of his skull. Finally he snapped and switched the camera off, figuring the prisoners weren’t going anywhere anyway.
As soon as the red light on the camera blinked out, Illya sprang into action. From the tip of his belt, he pulled out a small knife and cut the wires on the camera; hoping that they would think there was just a malfunction if they turned it back on. He then opened the heel of his left shoe and extracted a little bit of plastic explosive, which he used to blow the lock of the cell.
Squatting down beside Napoleon, he checked his breathing and his pulse. The length of his unconsciousness was becoming a real concern for Illya.
“I’ll be right back,” the Russian told the insensible Solo. “I need to take care of any guards before I have to carry you anywhere. Hopefully, it shouldn’t take too long.”
With that, and armed with his knife, Illya went exploring. He had taken notice of the layout of the small building when they’d been brought in, so had a fair idea of where to go. However, he’d decided on a secondary plan to destroy the satrapy; deciding that since he was there he may as well. There was bound to be explosives store somewhere in which Illya could plant a timed detonator. First off, he had the guards to deal with. As much as he preferred not to kill anyone if he could help it, he didn’t have the time or resources to knock them all out then carry them from the building.
Illya found the explosives cache fairly easily and set a detonator with a thirty minute timer. He couldn’t believe how easy it was for him to move around the satrapy. He came across their equipment lying on a table, unattended, in what seemed to be some sort of guard room. It seemed to him as though the place was still in the process of being set up and Illya wondered where the information about it had come from. All in all, he only came across three Thrushies, who were quickly dealt with.
Napoleon was still unconscious when Illya returned the cell. He had a go at trying to wake him, but failed utterly. Checking the time, the Russian saw that he had ten minutes left to get out. With some effort and a lot of grunting, Illya managed to get Solo over his shoulder and he carried him, as quickly as he could, away from the imminent explosion. He managed to get a fair distance from the satrapy and found a large rocky outcrop for them both to shelter behind. The explosion, when it came was quite sizeable and it shook the ground enough to bring Napoleon from his slumber. Brown eyes looked quizzically at blue ones.
“What did I miss?”
Illya glanced at his watch. “In the last ninety five minutes, we have been captured by THRUSH, held in a cell, escaped and I destroyed a fledgling satrapy.”
“We didn’t do too badly then.”
Illya raised an eyebrow and huffed. “We? All you did was sleep and I got the joyful task of carrying you out of there.”
“Remind me again,” mumbled Solo, “Who is it that usually gets carried out of places and who is it that usually does the carrying?”
“That’s different,” Kuryakin countered. “You’re a lot heavier than I am.”
The End.
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