Chapter 2
By Kei.

His name was Illya Kuryakin -at least, that was what he called himself. He was Russian -that much he knew- born in Russia, in one of those THRUSH concentration camps that didn't exist as far as the public was told, with a serial number as his only real given identification...until the day he had escaped by taking the life of one of the camp's most vicious guards; the man
whose name he presently wore.

That event had marked a turning point in his life. It had also earned the slight, deceptively youthfully-appearing man-child a nickname: the Ice Prince. He was the one who could get things done dispassionately, perhaps even coldly -even, if necessary, killing. Most likely the reason that this local cell of resistance to the regime of THRUSH had sought him out those years ago when escape had provided only limited freedom, but no sense of direction. The ultimate destruction of THRUSH had become that focus.

THRUSH...

The weather was grim this day; dark, cold, and shrouded in wet fog, the vague sting of nascent rain against his skin indicating again that THRUSH had yet to make any effort to deal with the growing problem of the increasing acid content in the rain as they had promised -if they had ever intended to do anything about it. The sort of day that tempted the Russian into a mood as
dark as the clouds above -word had been sent that the leader of the local cell of resistance wanted to talk to him in  person...and that rarely boded anything but ill.

Illya paused before the doors of a cathedral that had seen better days and stepped inside.

"Bless me, Father, for I have...have..."

"'Sinned'," the dark figure on the other side of the confessional booth prompted.

Illya sighed aloud. "Surely, Father Waverly, you do not expect me to maintain this charade once identity confirmation is made?"

"One can always hope, Mr. Kuryakin," came the low, English-accented voice from behind the obscuring grid, dim light catching the white of a priest's collar. "However...I am told that your last assignment went well."

"Yes, sir...Father... The chemical weapons directed at the resistance cells in Canada are no longer operative."

"And the personnel at the base?"

"Likewise," came the slightly puzzled reply. If anyone already knew the details of a mission, it would be Father Alexander Waverly. "Father...why have I been called in?"

"It is possible that you have been doing too well, Mr. Kuryakin. Our operatives at THRUSH indicate that Central has taken a particular interest in you. Other cell leaders have indicated that it may be prudent for you to go to ground."

"I see." A feathery blonde eyebrow arched in grim comprehension. "I take it that that is an order."

"No, Mr. Kuryakin, it is not, but as communication was cut off  with our operative before its completion, we lack details on THRUSH's designs on you. Therefore, I will suggest that you take care...at least, for a while."

"Of course."

"Illya..?"

"Yes, Father?"

"I could take your confession now, if you wish."

"No, thank you, Father."

The fine drizzle had turned into a downpour by the time that Illya Kuryakin  left the religious edifice, pondering despite himself the old man's words. Tempting idea that -to run to ground, to hide...but he had learned to hate THRUSH almost from the womb, and there was always too much left to-  "WATCH OUT!!!"

Before he could react to bellowed warning, Illya felt himself tackled and then thrown to the filthy, damp pavement as he heard the shriek of tires against the slick ground as a car barreled towards him only to take off again in a plume of foul, black exhaust. "You had better watch yourself, kid," came a warm, vaguely amused voice. "Some motorists don't give a damn about
daydreaming pedestrians."

Untangling himself from his would-be savior's embrace, Illya managed to sputter an embarrassed and indignant: "For your information, I am not a kid and I was not-"  Illya's voice faltered as he fully met the handsome face with dark brown eyes and a smile that was almost blinding. "I-"

The stranger's dazzling smile brightened a notch further. "Forgive my manners -and please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Solo... Napoleon Solo."
 

To part 3