Napoleon made his way to the freight yards and hopped on a slow-moving train headed west. Over the next few months he grew a beard and streaked both it and his hair to make himself appear older, and faded into the closed-mouthed society of hobos.

They were an oddly contradictory lot: willing enough to give you a cup of whatever meal they'd scrounged or a seat by their fire, but ask too many questions and you ended up under the wheels of a passing train. He'd seen it happen. Trust only went so far with these people; they wouldn't even ask you your name, only what you wanted to be called. After giving the matter some thought he settled on the name "Hudson", thinking it wouldn't be too obvious.

While questions weren't welcome news was, and evenings around the fire were interesting discussions of what everyone had heard recently. It wasn't nearly as quick or reliable as the official press, but it often had stories one simply wouldn't hear through THRUSH-controlled media. It was through this "grapevine" of rumors he heard of his father's "resurrection" and subsequent
"accident" while cleaning a gun. The official version of events fooled no one.

"Wonder what he did to piss off the brass?" a hobo called Charlie asked.

"Probably the usual screw-up -- in bed with the wrong woman," another replied to a round of laughter.

"Couldn't be that; the guy was past 60, from what I heard."

"I heard a rumor he interfered with a high-level operation and it went south," drawled a man with a Texas accent. "Word was his son was sent in to 'convince' a high-ranking member of the resistance to turn and give away the whole organization, but the old man wanted all the glory so he horned in and gave the game away."

"What I heard," a voice in the shadows added, "was the son got turned by the woman he was supposed to seduce and the father paid the price for not killing him."

"Wonder where the son is now?" someone asked.

"She probably got what she wanted and slit his throat," came the reply. "Who'd trust a man who'd let his own father die?"
Thoughtful nods followed this declaration, and someone brought up another piece of "news". Hudson/Solo sat a little ways off and contemplated that last question. He missed Illya terribly but had no way of contacting him; there had been no time to set up anything. Had that been deliberate on the Russian's part? Had the whole thing been a set-up to remove both himself and his father from the ranks of THRUSH?

He ran one finger across the scar on the palm of his other hand -- the mark of his bond of brotherhood to his love. Tears stung his eyes as he recalled what Illya had said their single night together: "No matter what plots or deceptions our brains may conceive against each other, the blood will not let our hearts lie." He was no longer certain of the truth of that statement.
Another finger came out of the darkness to trace the scar. The hand it was attached to turned over, revealing a near-identical mark. Napoleon's gaze ran up the man's arm to his face, finding a pair of familiar blue eyes surrounded by a bristly red beard and a tumble of equally red curls. His lips started to form a name, but the man's fingers came up to prevent him from speaking.

"I'm called Moses because my beard is like the burning bush."

"Hudson, for no particular reason," the other man offered.

"Do you know," Moses said for no apparent reason, "if you move far enough away from the fire you can see nearly every star in the sky?" He turned and started walking into the darkness, and Hudson followed.

They walked for some little while until they were certain they hadn't been followed, then 'Moses' took 'Hudson's' hand and guided him through a maze of large rocks until they came to a small stream. There was just enough moonlight to see clearly, and the burbling of the stream would cover their voices. They settled into a small grassy area near the stream bordered by a few saplings, and then Illya's lips were covering Napoleon's in a searing kiss.

"I've missed you so much," the Russian whispered into his love's ear as he unbuttoned Napoleon's shirt and reached within to fondle a nipple. He was surprised to find the other man's hands pulling his away and closing the shirt he'd just opened. "Why?"
"You heard what they said," Napoleon told him. "I can't be trusted even to protect my own family."

"Napasha-love, he was trying to kill you, or worse. What do think he would have done -- to you -- to get me to betray the resistance?"

"Whatever he felt would work," Napoleon admitted. "I've gotten quite an education over the past months. I've seen first hand the horrors -- the injustice and oppression, the deprivation and despair -- THRUSH has allowed to continue while the elite eat well and sleep warm." He lowered his head and sighed. "I'm ashamed to think I've helped to perpetuate such things, and I'd like a chance to help change things for the better." He raised his eyes to Illya's. "That is, if anyone wants to trust a traitor."

"How very touching," Don Julian said, appearing suddenly from behind a nearby boulder. Others came from the shadows and they were quickly surrounded, handcuffed, and shackled. "I'd be disappointed, but you still have some small use, my son."