WARNINGS: Graphic descriptions of sexual and non-sexual torture; consensual and non-consensual sex; SLASH

Pairing: Qui-Gon Jinn/Ilya Kuryakin

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimers: Star Wars characters are copyright LucasFilm LTD. The Man from U.N.C.L.E. characters are copyright
MGM. No infringement of copywritten characters is intended, and no profit is being made.

Part 2

John Quinn, known elsewhere as Qui-Gon Jinn, was reviewing the papers he’d received from his accountants. He
hadn’t wanted to come to the city, but there’d been problems with some of his holdings that required his presence
to clear up. He was aware his driver was going too fast for the area, and was about to request he slow down
when his Force-sense warned him.

"Stop!" he howled at the driver, fearing the word was already too late. He saw a flash of blond hair and pale skin
at the same moment he heard the squeal of the car’s brakes. He was out the door and around to the front of the
car with Jedi speed, checking the crumpled, bloodied form for signs of life.

"’Ere now, I didn’t do all that!" the driver said in his lower-class British accent. "I barely touched the guy!" He didn’t
want to lose his job; Quinn was a generous and forgiving employer.

"No," Quinn agreed, having a closer look and seeing the nature of the young man’s injuries, "you certainly didn’t do
any of this." He pulled off his overcoat and started to wrap the young man in it.

The battered youth was having nothing of it. Weakly pushing the coat away, he murmured, "Please, if you have
any humanity in you, finish me. I can’t go on anymore."

"That ain’t some stray cat you’ve got there," the driver advised. "’Is pimp’ll be looking for ‘im. For all we know,
that’s the one what did this. They’re a nasty lot, and they don’t like people muckin’ about in their business."

"You can’t be certain –" Quinn began, but the driver cut him off with a snort.

"A bloke like that, in this area? Dressed like that?" He wrinkled his nose. "Smellin’ like that? I know what ‘e is and
so do you. You want some o’ that, I know places where you’d find cleaner and ‘ealthier ones." He bent down to
grab the man under the shoulders. "Jus’ lemme get this out o’ th’ way and I’ll take you to a place I’ve ‘eard about;
nice boys, pretty, clean, and with no strings attached."

"I don’t want a boy!" Quinn snapped.

"Yes, go," the man breathed, crying out and curling up in a ball as pain hit.

Quinn ignored them both, wrapping the youth in his coat and carrying him to the back of the car. He directed the
driver to a private clinic north of the city while he spoke to the admissions desk over his car phone, arranging for a
private room and speaking to the physician on duty.

"No need o’ that," the driver told him, "there’s a ‘ospital jus’ down the street. We can drop ‘im off and be on our
way."

"And I’m sure they’ll be falling all over each other to treat a beaten-up prostitute going through heroin withdrawal
who doesn’t have two half-pennies to rub together," came the reply from the rear. "You drive, I’ll plan; it’s why I’m
the boss and you’re the driver."

By this time the young man had given up speaking in the local language and reverted to European Russian; Quinn
thought it must have been his native tongue. How did you get so far from home? he thought to himself. He started
to gag and Quinn grabbed the ice bucket that had conveniently been provided with the car and held it under the
man while he brought up what little was in his stomach. Most of it was a pink milky color, but the older man was
horrified to note chunks of what looked like raw liver and were almost certainly blood clots. He ordered the driver
to go as fast as he could, and damn the consequences.

They were met at the clinic door by an orderly with a gurney, and the patient was quickly bustled into an
examination room and stripped. Fortunately the on-call doctor was an OB/GYN specialist with surgical
experience, and an old friend of Quinn’s – he’d arranged for the money to send her to medical school – but even
she shook her head at the damage she’d be required to repair.

"I don’t suppose you could have gotten him here any sooner?" she said while palpating his belly. "He’s going to
need surgery, ASAP." She turned to the orderly. "Prep him."

"I only ran into him this evening; literally, with the car," Quinn replied. "Are you going to need any help with the
surgery? I can stand in as a scrub nurse, if you need."

The doctor shook her head. "We have a full surgical team on standby at all times for just such emergencies. Go to
the lounge and wait: it’s all you can do now."

So Quinn found car and driver, got his briefcase, told the driver to go home and wait for him to call. No use both
of them being uncomfortable. Settling in with a pot of tea scrounged from the staff lounge and the paperwork he
was reviewing earlier, he waited for the doctor to come tell him if his newest project would survive.