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Round
Robin: Hobson's Choice Affair |
Illya scanned the deserted hallway, looking for the best means
of egress. Where there had only been smoke, there was now fire; tongues of
red-orange flame beginning to lick their way up the scorched walls. They had
to get out of here fast. The elevator was the fastest way, but in any disaster,
the least reliable. The emergency stairwell then. "Quickly," he hissed and
then stopped in mid-sentence as the weight of the dark-haired playboy at his
side suddenly grew heavier. Perhaps it was the smoke, or perhaps the delayed
effect of a concussion, but Napoleon's eyes had closed, the man slumping against
the slight blonde Russian agent. Illya cursed softly in his native tongue;
frustrated at yet another delay, though the thought of leaving an innocent
behind had never entered his head.
Gritting his teeth at the shooting pain from his abused ribs, Kuryakin hauled
the unconscious, larger man over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and headed
for the emergency stairwell.
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So dark... Napoleon Solo felt as if he was wrapped in a cocoon of darkness
that covered his entire body; a blanket so thick that it was hard to draw
a single breath. Just as the suffocating blackness became too great, he felt
soft lips cover his own, puffs of warm air entering his mouth and then his
starved lungs. Umn...that was nice... As the firm kisses continued, he felt
life returning to his weakened limbs, among other places, but eventually the
gentle ministrations stopped and he found himself seeking the source of those
tender caresses. "Hmmmn...don' stop now," he slurred, still only half awake.
"Party's jus' starting..."
"I would suggest you put a reign on those lips, Tovarisch," came a vaguely
amused and familiar voice. "We hardly have the time."
"Wha--" Napoleon shook his head vigorously, cursing the resulting vertigo
as reality filtered into his brain. He was not where he last remembered being
-he was flat on his back on a bed of rain-damp grass, the smell of pines and
firs mingling with the reek of char that clung to his clothes. He opened his
eyes fully. Park land. He -his eyes finally met those of the Russian who peered
at him what might have been curiosity or concern- no, *they* were ensconced
amongst some bushes in a park. It was night...place looked familiar...name
escaped him at the moment. "You got me out."
Kuryakin raised a wheaten eyebrow. "Obviously."
Napoleon forced his stinging eyes to focus. Unlike before, the Russian was
dressed in a pair of jeans and jean jacket that looked a size too large; the
sneakers appeared equally ill-fitting. Napoleon gestured vaguely. "How?"
Illya automatically looked down at his grimy attire, a slightly embarrassed
grin turning his lips. "Ah yes... A would-be mugger kindly offered to donate
this ensemble once he understood my situation."
"Uh...huh. Will he live?"
Kuryakin didn't look particularly concerned one way or the other. "Perhaps."
"God..." Napoleon pushed himself up by the heels of his hands, groaning aloud.
Hazy memory became crystal clear once more. Helen...dead. She had been friend
to his parents, confidante to his bereaved Maman after the death of his career-Navy
father....as well as his mother's loving companion and physician in the days
that cancer had eaten away at the life of a woman whose adamant desire was
not to die in a cold, impersonal hospital. Helen... She had been his friend
too. "Who..." Napoleon choked when he felt he could speak again. "Who *are*
these people after you! *What* do they want!"
"They are called THRUSH." The Russian sighed aloud; he shouldn't be revealing
even this much, but there was something in the distraught dark eyes that touched
even his wintry soul. "My contact -Grosvenor- worked for them. He wanted out,
offered UNCLE information as a guarantee of his intentions. They obviously
believed he got something to me *before* they got to him. Unfortunately, they
are quite right. This was our second contact."
"A terrorist group?"
"Of a sort -more like movement and a system of belief. They believe they have
the one and only plan for world order...and any means of achieving this order
is acceptable to them."
"Even murder," came the cold response.
"*Especially* murder."
Napoleon struggled to his feet, helped by the firm hand of his present companion.
He found himself loathed to let go even when he was able. "Are you going to
tell me *what* this THRUSH wants to make sure you don't get to UNCLE?" Ice-blue
eyes met dark brown unflinchingly. "I didn't think so."
"At least, not here. There's no safety here." Illya brushed a hand against
his rumpled clothing. "Either from THRUSH *or* your common criminal. Come.
We must get to the safe house."
Napoleon noticed the tell-tale bulge of a gun in the jacket pocket. "Yours?"
The Russian offered a weary half-grin. "Another kindly donation."
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