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redperil · 6 years ago

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BARNEY & ILLYA

It takes him a beat or two to realize that Solo is not a nickname nor a a code; it’s a name and it’s not meant for him. The way the other agent turns his head. Practiced and smooth; years of experience in suppressing a tell. It means this man is trained and trained well. And likely has equally as trained backup to support him.

A pang of something close to jealousy rises at that. A team at your back; a voice in your ear you didn’t hate. And he could tell in the way the other’s lips reacted. The tiniest of quirks. So subtle it’s easy to miss. Friend? Coworker? Something in between? He wasn’t sure and wasn’t willing to speculate just yet. There was a joy to do after all. Still, he couldn’t help but think…

What it would all be like if the other end didn’t inspire such vivid feelings of hate that you spent the days dreaming of any other life but this?

Distant screams catch his attention, breaking his rumination. He almost misses the Agent’s question, answering distractedly, “Yeah. ‘m fine.” Before realizing just what was asked.

It’s enough to give him a moment of pause. Care inherent in the question and puzzling given the fact that down here? Resources are rare. One doesn’t offer what one might need later. Even without ammunition in his gun he had his fists. And when that wasn’t enough the place was littered with improvisational options.

The vest causes him to jump, however. Surprise flitting across his face. Hand moving for his own safety before he catches himself. Vest draped over a shoulder in a mimic of a gift. For a long moment he stares. Half expecting some impossible request; some idiotic order he’s expected to follow.

It is the way since he’s been here and why should it change with other alphabet agencies?

Yet nothing comes and he frowns. Wanting to argue. Even though Illya is right; rare is it he’s sent in with full armor, or even half. A cost saving measure, he’s sure. A necessity considering his undercover status in most cases, if you asked anyone above him. (An insurance policy says an even darker version of himself.)

Still, the vest is warm and he slides it on without word. Odd flutter in his stomach that has his mouth pursing a bit. Watching Illya carefully. Eyes narrowed even has he racks his brain for clues as to the why. “Didn’t get sent in, I-”

A roar interrupts him, closer now. And he frowns, circumstances and standings with the other forgotten. Fingertips trace rounded key card edges. He knows Illya heard it too; can see the frown starting in the other’s face, the way knuckles tighten over a gun.

There’s another sound over it, however. A whir. Eyes look up and he sees it, the telltale red light, blinking. Security long since switched to the second back up generator by now, maybe the third. No amount of scramblers could totally deactive the security if there was still one left to program it. An idea formed.

“I never got access to level 5,” he confesses, quietly. Already turning. “But I know someone. C’mon. This way.”

They step over bodies, duck under wires, and round a corner or three. He doesn’t question why this mans trusts him. He can’t afford to; not when he’s wearing his vest and when an expert shot or two downs two guards they just happen to run into. A nod of thanks is given to the Russian, though any more acknowledgement will have to wait until later.

Backtracking enough until the second floor supply closet is before them. He stops Illya with a hand, tugging him quietly with a hissed explanation of, “Blind spot.” Motioning up to the camera at the end of the hall. For a long moment he thinks. “There’s gonna be two in there…shoot the dark haired one. DO NOT shoot to kill. Ok?” And he grabs Illya’s shirt, an emphasis. Eyes intent. “This won’t work if you kill him.”

With that, he slips across the hall, holsters his gun…and swipes his key card across the access pad. In a flash, he’s ducking in under a hail of bullet fire. (Bullet pinging off his vest in a near miss.) Door nearly bursting off its hinges with the force of the automatic in the dark haired man’s hands. The fire, however, is erratic. Shot by one with more experience watching others on screen shoot than shooting themselves. The uniform isn’t that of a soldier but a technician. And the gun in his hands is a last defense, not a first.

Even as the dark haired scientist falls, Barney finds his target. Hand tight around the wrist of an equally young man, light hair streaked with a color long faded out. His hands are up, shaking, hand gun long since dropped from the pressure of Barney grip. It will bruise, though the gun currently at his chest is far more of a safety concern.

The man’s Spanish is flawless, though high pitched from stress. < You killed him! >

< No, he’s alive. But he won’t be for long if you don’t listen to me right now. > Barney twists his grip, bones crunching. < I need access to level 5 and I need it NOW, Alexander. >

Alexander falters. < Y-You know I can’t… >

< I know you can. > And for a moment Barney watches Alexander flinch, expecting a blow. Instead, he loosens his grip. < Everyone here is going down. My friend over there? S.H.I.E.L.D. you know what that means. This whole operation? Done. Anyone left here now? You’re easily looking at twenty years…especially once they get to level 5. >

< But we didn’t do that! >

< You know how it’ll be made out. > And there’s a hint in Barney’s voice, a tired knowing. < No one really responsible is going to do time for this. Everyone else though? That’s who the public is going to see as the face of it. You…and him. > He glances behind him at the dark haired man, who groans. < You want a chance with him? >

The question is pointed and Alexander squirms, looking away. < I… >

Barney lets go then, stepping back. Gun lowered though careful to keep Illya behind him. Just in case. Praying he’d been right. (And he’s pretty sure he was. He’d know, after all, about keeping things deep down.) < Take him. Find help. The wound isn’t critical if he gets looked at soon. You’ll do some time. But it won’t be like what it will be if they find you both here when they sweep. He’ll live and I’ll tell them that you helped. >

Alexander scowls at him, and honestly, Barney thinks, that’s perhaps deserved. < Like your word will mean anything. >

Barney smiles, sadly. < It never does. But his? > And he jerks his head a bit back at Illya. < Means a fuck of a lot more. Now what is it going to be? >

When Alexander hesitates he shoots. Shot neatly misses the man’s boot. Alexander flinches and Barney’s eyes narrow. < I can leave ya here on the floor too. You want that chance with him here or not? >

A moment stretches. Then another. Barney knows they’ve won with Alexander’s shoulders droop and a key card is tugged from his own pocket. A hand punches in a few quick commands before the key is swiped over, beeping. Level 5 Access flashing across the screen.

Alexander stands then, holding it out to Barney. Eyes glancing behind him, worried, at the man on the floor. Carefully, Barney takes the key card, unflinching when the other accompanies it with a spit and a swear. < Fuck you, Barry. Hope those things gets you. >

He turns then, face stony, brushing past Illya and back into the hall to wipe his face on his sleeve. Pushing down his own well of irritation. If the tables had been turned? He’s not sure he wouldn’t have done the same. Anger makes the worst of them all. He would know.

“They really aren’t that bad,” he says, softly. Despite the tight feeling in his chest, despite the tiredness in his bones. “Just…desperate to make somethin’ of themselves. To make a living. Not sure they even know what’s goin’ on here.” And that’s just how it is, isn’t it? He hadn’t lied when he’d said no one at the top would do time. He’d seen this so many times now. His skin crawled from memory.

Wiping his face again, he turns to take a breath. Holding the key card out. Forcing the moment back into his mind; there will be time for ghosts later. Yet even as he bottles it up, it hits. His frown deepens. “Did he say things?”

Illya knows he is being watched by the other. It does not offend him, it should not. In their line of work you must watch, study, learn. A knife at your back will end the game as quick as a bullet wound. All it tells him to have eyes on him is that this man is at least somewhat efficient at his job yet his gun, being sent in alone? He must assume better.

Bernard was something interesting. A puzzle to piece later. Why would FBI send him in alone, unguarded, uninformed and yet send him all the same? You would only send such low provisions if you expected them to manage or not come back at all. With targets so high like today that was not a risk you took unless you were fairly sure it would not be the last. According to Solo, who is not often wrong loathe as he is to admit, Bernard is nothing more than human. Wonderfully so and Illya tilts his head a little, lifting his chin to watch the other back as Solo continues prattling.

Seems your new little pet is very competent. Oh my, oh my, private work? Three times sealed files? Tsk, and the Avengers! No wonder you like him, same sort of anger issues, all the looks to go with it of course. Though he seems a touch-

Illya takes great pleasure in flicking the ear piece to must for small moment. It would not endanger him for they had many ways to talk but the radio silence often offended his Cowboys delicate self enough to make him change topics. It seems unfair to judge on a file, though it was important to know of course. His file said plenty about him, Solo’s was three novels long.

It made them no less competent. He would decide for himself. Illya’s gut was not wrong.

When he turns back to see if Bernard is ready to continue the watching has gone strange, stranger still when Illya reaches out to adjust the vest, restrapping it at the front and soothing out the shoulders.

Eyes wide and expectant, fingers playing on the vest like it is some trick. It cannot be, he was wearing it moments ago and would not endanger himself in such a way but before Illya can open his mouth to ask if it does not fit or if it is uncomfortable they are interrupted, the roar sounding loud as day, shaking the roof above them.

They were running out of time.

“Wait - not sent in?”

It filters through when the wall stops shaking, mind still enough to focus. If he was not sent in then he was a spy, planted to mole through information yet there was no evacuation process, he had no real warning what was happening that was clear. The FBI left their intel in such a position and just... expected survival?

For a few seconds he is reminded very much of Solo’s time with the CIA. This must be an American thing, even in KGB agents are not to be left like this, too valuable to be discarded by anyone but themselves.

His trigger finger twitches at the lack of care. No vest, no removal, he was simply a bug planted to be destroyed if found like he was not even a person -

The confession draws him from anger, blinking when Bernard looks around like he has an idea. Illya would have taken the vents up, taken out a wall if need be but if they could get there quiet, with few casualties then it was worth it. It would also be better to see how the man worked, figure out what he had learnt.

It would make his case stronger getting him away from FBI if the man would be a good asset to them.

“Lead the way.”

Gesturing Illya turns back, pushing a heavy cabinet with his foot before the door behind them. It would not do much but precious little time was still seconds that could save them, it is never too late to lock the door as Gaby put it.

With it done he follows close, gaze tracking curious movements. He does not raise his gun, instead takes the opportunity to see if the last time was a lucky shot. It was not, Bernard is a skilled marksman, better than some U.N.C.L.E agents and the Vest twitches but takes any hits, doing it’s job well.

He is glad to have given it. Bullet wounds are uncomfortable but unless to his head he could make it, could rely on his team to get him out to medical. Bernard did not have that, barely even had weaponry.

Illya remains at the back door as the man paces, walks back and forth clearly looking for something and when he finds it he brings a hand to his chest, stopping the Russian very efficiently, eyebrows coming down at the contact.

A blind spot. How long has little mole been here? He knew the building, was clever enough to work through security but did not access upper levels. He had questions, they could wait, but they were there, building on his tongue.

The order is clear and Illya takes in his expression - sharp, serious. He does not want this man to die for their mission and he understands that more than he can say, nodding instead of speaking. Better not to have them question who he was, only stepping alongside Barney and firing, the round clearing the back of his thigh, watching the dark haired one fall but still breathe.

And now the interesting part, turning his gun in nimble fingers as Barney incapacitates the other. They are no fighters, their aim is terrible and the dark haired one is breathing heavily. As Barney talks (and he listens) Illya rips a shred of fabric from a white coat and straps it around the dark haired ones thigh. It would keep him alive, though he could not stop the pain.

The negotiation is well handles and Illya plays his usual part. Stoic agent, intimidation in both height and uniform. The talk of S.H.I.E.L.D catches his attention and he files it away, twisting only a small smile of sympathy that is very real when the man relents. It is not easy to be betrayed, even seemingly so, and this mess was fear unparalleled.

The entrance is given and they are leaving when the spittle follows, Illya stopping in the doorway so close to his goal. It is cold, those words. Said in anger misplaced and rude. Any other would have killed him and his friend, shown no care for even a chance and Barney had given more than that, he had given a cover.

< Agencies do not tolerate loose ends. Be thankful Barry made sure you were not one >

It is not a threat, a civilian in fear is not someone to threaten but it is a reminder. He would not have a wagging tongue see Bernard in more trouble at the end of this. Theirs was a thankless job with little praise but it did not mean they need take ill commentary where it was not founded.

Their path is clear but it is stark that the man is bothered. Illya reaching out a hand to squeeze the other agents shoulder light, a touch awkward. He knew how it felt to be spat at even when helping, too many times had he been through the same. Now he had Solo in his ear to soothe it, for today he might well be Barney’s.

“People do terrible things for founded reasons. Do not worry, I will do my best to make sure they are not harmed, we may be able to relocate them, have them doing things that are right instead.”

He does not belittle Bernard by asking if he is alright, only withdraws his hand and nods his head. Curt with the acceptance of just how little the other had been given by their handlers. Whoever they were, he would enjoy watching them shake attempting to explain. U.N.C.L.E would look into FBI after this. He would make sure of it.

“Da. Two, actually though they are not things. People, enhanced, mutated whatever word you favour. One escaped S.H.I.E.L.D holding, the other has come out of hiding to find them and... well, look around you. It is the product of their terror, of what they would endure to reach each other. We are here to get them away, I would rather they make it alive to see each other again, yes? After all this, it would be cruel for them not to have that much.”

Now it is his turn to lead, taking the stairs in quick succession, pausing only to slip another gun from his back. High sedative bullets, stabilised in unique casing. Until all of them were gone he would not use anything designed to kill and he would rather Barney did not either. He would have to be filled in, codex be damned.

“Brothers. Cveka, Darren and Bobby. Level seven enhanced, one has beastial traits with control of his vocals that can be harmful and the other as you saw favours moving the ground. Aim for non vitals, try and get as many rounds into each of them as you can and do not stay in one place for too long. Understand? You will need to keep moving, and stuff your ears if you can, would not like to go deaf from this.”

There is weight on his shoulders as he nears the new floor, breathing in slowly, adrenaline on high now as they begin to advance to their targets. They needed first to take out the younger one, then his brother would come, it is Illya’s hope he can be reasoned with.

“We shall try talking to them first. I am sure it has been a long time since they have been anything but those things.”

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redperil · 6 years ago

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You have a new code name. A code name? Yes, rather a good one - UNCLE. The Man From Uncle (2015) Dir. Guy Ritchie

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redperil · 6 years ago

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@lcrcenist ASKED: “You should play the hero more often. It suits you.”

>> MEMES ; OPEN

It passes in a blur of read and buzzing in his head he does not like to repeat. Nineteen hours. They had Solo for nineteen hours and counting, lackies still loyal to a dead woman, an old grudge that should not matter but it does. It does because they had taken victory from their hands and now these men wanted only to take back.

And Napoleon was being hurt being hurt because he had taken credit for a kill Illya had done. He had been the one to throw the knife between Alexanders ribs, he had been the one to stop their little Bonnie and Clyde ring by killing her husband but it was Solo who had stood on a boat deck and saved all asses by claiming it.

Opening his eyes to blood on his hands is no new thing. In the KGB it was a training exercise, one he passed because it happens so often but his bruised knuckles mean very little when the one he’s using them on gives no answers and he does not have time to play games. Last time - last time they had fried him like a fish, nightmares plaguing tired eyes for weeks though Solo wore it well. He was a soldier before, though not a good one, Illya would not dismiss he knew how to take hits.

What would they be doing now? Their butcher dead, their mistress blown to itty bitty pieces. They would be creative, angry and anger brings the worst of things fed only by vengeance.

The man’s eyes pop quick and ugly in his hands and Illya takes his gun and moves on, stalking dark corridors for the room. Waverly was useless for all his connections, for all they built - nothing. Not one damn lead aside from a corpse! It had been Gaby who had found their chop shop, wound as tight as he was to get their stupid cowboy back, it had been he had enjoyed breaking it open.

They were so close to bringing him home. Illya taking each step on heavy footing but snapping every body in his way. No point in witnesses and no mercy for it, he needed them silent to get to Napoleon alive and he did not want them to enjoy another moment.

Finding the room is a relief that’s explosive. Later he would look to the smears left of what was once people and wince, try and scrub it away but now there is nothing in his chest but a bubbling worry. Solo is silent in the chair, head lolled to the side, a trickle of red on his temple.

Please be alive, please be alive-

Dropping down Illya snaps the bonds with little finesse half expecting a witty comment on his lack of lock picking skills but still nothing and his fingers are twitching, flexing and curling as he works, only stopping trembling when he scoops up a smaller body against him.

Getting in was easy, getting out? Probably not so much. Thankfully the haze begins to melt away, focus centred on keeping Solo out of line of gunfire and Gaby’s voice filters into his ear, a string of german curses that any other time would scandalise coming from such a tiny person.

He is half way to the escape point when his balance is almost thrown by movement, dropping to his knees behind a crate as bullets hail, tucking Solo’s head to his throat with a little hiss that he hopes is comforting.

“Shh, Uspokoysya, dorogoy it is me. Keep still, do not throw me we are almost out.”

“You should play the hero more often. It suits you.”

It’s rough, throat used from shouting most likely but the snark in it. Base, lacking all wit and charmingly ill timed has him sagging a little, giving a course laugh that he hopes Solo will not remember tomorrow. Along with the way his hold tightens and Illya gives himself half minute to keep him close and breathe.

“Starting to think you do this just to be a damsel. How American Hollywood.”

Illya swallows for a moment when blue eyes go half lided again, in and out but he had to keep him focused, keep him awake now. Sleeping might make things worse if there is damage to his mind. So he fumbles to grab a pistol from the discarded bodies, flicking on safety just to be sure and pressing it into the others hands as he adjusts hold.

“Stay awake, Cowboy. Need my partner to cover my back. Can you do that?”

There is a screech from up ahead and he knows Gaby is there. Doing some trick to keep people off her tail but stay close enough to climb in the car. He just needed to weave through last of the containers and they could go home.

Then he would hunt the rest of them.

His shoulder aches, back too but Illya pushes up, hooks Napoleons legs about his waist, to leave one hand free that curls quick around his gun. Now he would have to be as quick as these two seemed to think he was.

“YA tebya ponyal.”

#&&. illya | do not question my methods! | in character #torture tw #violence tw #lcrcenist #| i hurt everywhere but my heart |

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redperil · 6 years ago

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armie hammer smiling in the man from u.n.c.l.e. dossiers

#&&. illya | shut up and watch me work! | visage #| he CAN smile we're all shook |

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redperil · 6 years ago

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@justicetempered ASKED: “Should I be flattered, or worried?”

This had not gone to plan.

Which seems to be the way with Avengers. Even when they follow thing to letter it always ends up with some overly egotistical bad guy running in, rampaging, playing the big man. He would be exhausted, tired of it, Illya could request a transfer, yes, but part of him likes it. It reminds him of the KGB, running, fighting, pushing his body beyond limits again.

It is freeing to do good his way. Not that he did not enjoy spy ways, of course, Solo and Gaby were wonderful partners but... fighting is what he is good at. It leaves him with an ache and a thrill and saving lives? That is what he fights for.

Even so it would be nice if just once there was a little competence. The big green one had called danger and the room had all but exploded, people rushing to action, bows, guns, fists and shields at the ready. One day he would get a stark lazer, but for now he braces against a hit and throws his own back.

Somewhere in all the chaos, a great deal of chaos, of course - Illya had ended up on herding duty. Trying to get workers out of the building, keep U.N.C.L.E.S invisibility. As much as he was good at fighting he was not a public hero, did not wish to be and it was much better to do right in the background then test it.

He was not the only one with the idea of helping civilians though because when a back crashes against his he barely holds back from shooting. Eyes meeting for a flash before Illya ducks a shield and raises his gun to down the enemy at Steve’s side.

Fighting together did not mean he liked rogers but the man was more tolerable on the field. Useful, even. Illya did not have to like him to admit he had good form and for once he does nothing to hide his own strength, using the door as his own shield when bullet hails begin.

They can not stay here. Whoever is on their tail is well armed and until the spray stops they are better to hunker down than react. If their precious Captain died on his watch he would have paperworks for weeks, it is that and only that (because he does not like the man in the least) that has him catching Steve by the scruff and dragging him back, stopping his recklessness in a cruel sort of hypocrisy.

Sometimes the window is the option, this is not one of them, sadly.

“Would you just stay down, idiot mal'chik! Do you know what bullets are!”

He is still fighting! Throwing his little shield like an aggressive snail and Illya has very little choice but to pin him, try and stop him dying before their job is done. Sometimes you stand down, Solo and Gaby taught him that, Rogers needs his own friends apparently.

It is only temporary, he tells himself, mind buzzing as he hooks his legs about Steve’s waist and rolls them, pressing him down into the floor and covering Steve’s body with his own, feeling that stupid half pint shield come up at their backs as if that would even cover half of him.

Steve is not small anymore either, really, they need a better suited thing.

He hears the words when the ringing stops, grunting as rubble falls from his shoulders and their breathing falls more normal. The fighting is not done he does not doubt but it is manageable, and Illya pushes up onto one arm to glare at polnyy debil pointedly.

He is glaring, he thinks, until Steve gives a goofy like grin and says something ridiculous.

“Why would you be flattered?”

Saving his life is no flattery. Like or not the man is a national icon and Americans are pathetically protective of their resident dinner plate holder. It is not until they shift that Illya can feel his gun at his hip, slipping from his belt slightly during all the fuss.

It clicks a little mortifyingly when Steve raises one of those judgemental eyebrows and he can only return his glare full force. Ignoring the colour flooding his cheeks. The audacity to think he... he cannot even stand the man!

Climbing up Illya pulls it it viciously, turning it over and unlocking safety just to make point, swooping down to collect what had fallen and then pulling his cap better on to hide pink ears he knows will give him away. Foolish, absolutely stupid, this is why nothing gets done on this team.

“Oh shut up! And be worried, I might shoot you instead.”

#&&. illya | do not question my methods! | in character #| illya vc: hEs nOt eVen AtTraCtiVe #&&. verse | marvel

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redperil · 6 years ago

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Barney & Illya

It was kind of his thing these days, he realizes. Run-ins with powers far beyond his capability to manage, and managing them all the same. A good part of him knew just why he was on these missions. Knew how it was easy to sweep his name under the rug, how ridiculously easy it was to pretend he didn’t exist.

That was most of his appeal, after all. That and the crooked nose that was testament to his ability to take a punch and keep standing. Including one from yet another failed attempt at the ideal.

(And oh the irony wasn’t lost on him, just how he wouldn’t ever be in that category. His blood testament to failures past and long since buried, left to wail and shriek within him and him alone.)

He’d yet to meet a super soldier he liked. A skewed opinion, perhaps, as he had yet to meet Steve Rogers and had a penchant for meeting individuals unfortunate enough to get drafted, tricked, bribed, or coerced into a situation that rapidly became far more clandestine than presented. Yet as he dodged a swipe that left drywall dust settling in his hair, well, he wasn’t about to change his mind anytime soon.

All the same, he felt for the guy. Knew how easy rage was when you were confused and lost and scared and left to fucking die; a cast off of a thing ill-conceived and physical evidence of a crime. Too many had come before; too many would come after if he wasn’t quick on his feet and with his gun.

Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t enjoy killing.

But the surprise run in had forced his hand in some regards. Wide eyes looking back at…well, he assumed it was surprise. Impassive and stony; there were only a few things the other could be.

Poison like this was a cruel, cruel thing. And a part of him knew that, in the end, cruel as the world could be, there were times where a bit of a heavy hand helped bring a sort of peace to another. Let the blood stain his. It’d never show for what was there already.

That left him with this other, this agent. The title making him frown, deeply. “Didn’t realize another alphabet was here.” Russian didn’t necessarily mean KGB anymore; he wasn’t stupid enough to believe so anymore. And if he was honest? The KGB would be less worrisome.

He takes the hand and lets himself be helped up. “Bernard. Agent. Doesn’t really matter…” The bellow of another infected shakes the hallway lights. “Would love to know what ya signed up for, but gonna have to take that share on the road before this becomes a show ‘n tell.”

He pauses, however, squinting at the other’s coat for a long moment. “…though some of us may of dressed for that.” It doesn’t matter. He shakes his head, thumbing a key card from his lab uniform belt. “C’mon. If you’re here for what I am, gotta get to level 5. Assumin’ you are here cause of them?”

It is tense for long moment after the shot rings out and Illya is aware of being sized up. It would be foolish not to be, after all, he is doing much the same. The Agent is skilled, trained yet lacks any real, suitable armor to stop an attack from an enhanced. Expendable, yet not low level a curiosity in itself. It was very strange for Agencies not to give protection to their better ones, especially at high level, which meant the man was a deficit from his Agency of choice or an unwilling participant they needed to use but did not wish to keep.

Neither were enjoyable positions, as Illya would know.

Still he can say little until he knows more, assumptions are all he has but should the man attack he would be identified by his remains and the Agency would be dealt with, even if he sorely hoped he would not. There was no desire to kill him, not when the other had helped already, and it would take valuable time from capturing the super.

Much to his relief the hand offered is taken. Illya is alone with his allies in waiting. Solo is in his ear and Gabrielle is handling the outer rim it would be good to have another at his back, even if unneeded. Less blood spilled is more allies made.

“You would not. We do not announce ourselves until needed.”

The only one aware of their arrival was S.H.I.E.L.D and only because U.N.C.L.E had taken presidency from them after last debacle with a super. They remade a Hulk, they did not need another set of powers to mix like mad scientists in a world already chaotic enough.

“Solo, he speaks honestly?”

Illya pulls the man up easily, noting the bulk of him. Not over muscular, not a tank fighter. Likely a rogue agent, better in and out though he clearly could heavy hit if needed. From the grip on his fingers he would assume the other is not enhanced -- though that is never really off the table. Not with how many strands lay out there now.

Honestly enough I’d say. We’ve got two recognised Bernards in our current area. One is FBI, the other is MI6. Considering the MI6 one is over fifty and leading a battalion from behind a screen... I’d place a good hazard on you dealing with Barton. If he’s telling the truth and I should hope so because if you’re going to lie you don’t use Bernard, poor bastard-

“Thank you, Cowboy. Enough.”

For now Illya will accept it. No need to poke open wounds in demanding more until after their trouble is dealt with and so he nods his head, raises his gun to do a mental check of bullet numbers and gestures to the man with a sure hand.

Level 5. That is very helpful and Illya gives a small turn up smile in thanks, the FBI would not be taking their new friend today but information freely given is a good sign of co-operation. He might not be able to hand over their asset but Bernard would be given good recommendations for his aid.

Besides, an agent alone in an all out warfare like this? It would not be fair to leave him.

“We are. And it is vital we detain, not harm unless given no choice. The super is destructive in fear, unless he gives no option we will not kill him. You will come with me, Agent Bernard because if you stay alone you will become a hostage to another agency or dead. You have enough ammunition?”

It would save his life to have more yet ammunition is only half of it. Not for first time he wonders why the agencies bother to pretend to care. The padding at his chest is so little it might as well be bare, they knew what he was sent in for, they must know how dangerous it was?

It is always work to return to so quickly but Illya does shrug off his vest much to the annoyed what are you doing at his ear. They were not identical sizes but it would do, cover enough to help anyway. Illya would heal from wounds much quicker than a non-enhanced agent. He had survived worse, another was not dying on his watch.

“Your agency gives you no real help, sending you in like that against supers? Radi boga, you will be snapped like toothpick. Put this on, vibranium lined, you will take hits and live. Though it will not stop bruising.”

I’ve informed Gaby of your new friend, Waverly orders you to get him out if you can. If it comes between saving him or the super, the super dies. Man’s caused too much casualty already, it’ll be a field day rehabilitating him without served time. FBI contacts will be pleased to have a man back, apparently.

He hates this part. Talk of soldiers like their lives do not matter but Illya notes the apology in Solo’s tone. He does not like it either.

“Alright, lead way. You take point, if we make it up to level 5 alive we may even get a drink.”

#&&. illya | do not question my methods! | in character #&&. verse | marvel #trickshxt #&&. personal verse | trickshxt

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redperil · 6 years ago

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“The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his fourth and fifth ribs.”

— War, probably

#&&. illya | it is not so simple to forget | musing

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redperil · 6 years ago

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@belongonstage ASKED : “I hate it when he does this.”

>> MEMES | ACCEPTING

The Mission of being close to Captain America was surprisingly boring. Man was arrogant, prone to violence, clearly had no idea half of what he preached, pretty sure he bleached his hair. Truthfully Illya could be home, he missed Russia, the colours of Moscow and the sound of the ballet.

Ah, but he did his job well. Enough to remain in a foreign country as defective Russian Soldier, enough to even reach out to others. At the very least whilst he did not have any love for Steve Rogers he had found good people. James was a good man, Peggy Carter was strong woman, he would like to see her give some of his people back home a good talk too.

And Angie, of course. Angie was kind. She did not judge him, she did not see need to be cruel despite where he was born. She would bring him good pastries and ask only for help about the shop in return and Illya had fast become fond of the tiny American girl.

He likes to think they are friends, even if it will only last until order take him away again.

Illya had been helping at little cafe when Peggy Carter came in, watching amused as Angie flitted about so fast to impress. He suspected, yes, that she had romantic feelings for the woman and despite what many may think of his country his mother had always told him to be blessed in finding love where it was.

He was thankful she was out of the iron curtain, Illya loved his homeland but he would not wish to see her die for something out of her control. The true question was if Miss Carter returned such affections. At times Illya is almost angry with her, the woman plays games. Plays coy. He knows she see’s Angie’s smiles and touches, too clever not to, but she is hesitant to return and when she panics she looks to Steve.

Who is prancing around her like a dull peacock.

“Hm. He likes her.”

The tips of his fingers push his cap up a little where Illya had tugged it down to block light and enjoy some sleep, bringing his heel up against the table and offering half smile when Angie bats at him to put his legs down. Fussing over an empty diner. He does, of course, he is not rude but no longer feigning sleep means he too must watch a disaster display.

“Why not just kick him out? She came to see you, he came along. That was not agreed, tell him to leave.”

Angie is too polite. She does not dislike Steve that he knows but it must be so frustrating to be blocked at every chance to see a friend and lover simply because someone else wishes their attention.

His hands are gentle as he stops her fussing with dish cloth. Tutting his tongue in disapproval. She need not worry so much, though Peggy is a coy one who knows her worth Illya does believe with all his heart she see’s that Angie is a good one, one who will love her well. If she does not he will shoot them both on principle for playing with his little American baker.

When he looks back he is met with full force of his tiny friends puppy eyes. His own sharper as he shakes his head. Oh no, he strongly dislikes the role of distraction. He is not good at it and last time it left in a confusing flurry where Steve mistook his talk for liking. Let that not happen again.

Not again.

No.

“Gah. Veshchi, kotoryye ya delayu dlya tebya.”

Illya curses as he throws his cap to the table and gives a half hearted glare at her winning smile. The things he does for these fool hearty romances that would not win. She had best repay him well, at least three cupcakes.

“Go get your girl, moya dorogaya I will keep him busy.”

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redperil · 6 years ago

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PLOTTED STARTER FOR >> @facemypast

It was their fifth and U.N.C.L.E was growing more efficient with each raid. HYDRA had years behind them of hiding, control, manipulating the world to forget their being but U.N.C.L.E was not theirs to command and when S.H.I.E.L.D failed so... publicly they had been called.

Illya would not pretend no surprise when he was asked to run program. He was not a therapist and not the best with people but Waverly had wanted someone who knew that life. Someone who spoke their tongue and english who could bring both sides around. He worked with professionals, trusted, vetted but as a whole he would handle a lot of rehabilitation for HYDRA agents and forced operatives.

Today they looked for a winter. To currently knowledge HYDRA had three super programs. The Winter Soldier, Red Room and Red Star programs. Each with different order but until today they had no success in locating Winter or in infiltrating. For whatever reason, HYDRA would protect that asset first. Even handing over red room as a distraction.

Working through the facility is slow. Their defences are many, U.N.C.L.E.S unit is smaller but they are tight knit. Clever and Illya and Napoleon take point with the American handling any security in their way as Gabrielle gave directions in his ear.

Reaching the main chamber is -- he must take breath. Not forget where he is. It reminds him of the darker KGB cells. The chairs for reminding you not to step out of line. The training regimes that border on cruel. Every piece of equipment designed to enhance and control, to make a man stronger to the point of being part machine.

And Illya could only begin to imagine how worse it was for a non-legal organisations pet.

The guards are shot on sight. Bloody and brutal yes but they had learnt quickly no information would be taken from the enforcers and they were usually there by choice or controlled in some way. It is the workers that squeal, typically willing to beg, typically there by blackmail or unsuspecting of what they create. They are given half a chance and Illya leaves Gabrielle with one of them, following the sound of whispers behind hissing.

The room is tucked behind piping, hidden away and he notes first how cold it is. Radiating from a tube in the back, like ice. It is worse than the deepest snow storms in Moscow and he barely controls a shudder as he walks in, gun trained before him, listening to the panic in the voice sounding.

Nine. Homecoming.

Illya blinks at the seeming randomness of it all but as he rounds the corner to place the barrel to the scientists head he is forced to come face to face with the reality. Trigger words are so common, even in the KGB, even in the CIA but it is not that that brings him to a violent halt.

The soldier before him is vacant. A mimic of all the commands he had seen men given in the field that broke their soul. Waiting, ready to be controlled yet he knows blue eyes. He knows them behind the mask.

“Kuryakin? Do you have something interesting back there?”

“Do not come in. Clear room, kill the workers. Get all information you can on Winter program first.”

Illya sucks in a breath when his voice breaks, tightening his finger on the trigger and giving no thought when blood coats hand his jaw. He can not look away, frown drawing deeper as memories poke and prod past years he had tried to forget. A war that brought people to places they did not wish to see, a mission that did not go as planned and when he had known the Soldier they had been a civilian. They had been forbidden fruit.

“Chto oni s toboy sdelali?“

With no one to see the weakness Illya drops his gun and brings up a hand instead, reaching back to remove the muzzle. Like he is a dog, a pet, something to keep on a leash to stop from biting. Tossing it aside his fingers trace a familiar jaw now sharper, rougher. Breathing in roughly before looking about.

The man had a book in hand. Hasty written, coded but Illya scratches at the pages, looking for those first few, looking for more. It takes three times, he does not know the right order for them to work and at first he gives those two in the incorrect place but he knows when it works because empty eyes flicker to recognition.

It is like watching a toy turn on and it makes his throat close, his chest ache.

Ready to Comply.

He was going to kill every last HYDRA agent he could find but first he needed to take James to safety, he needed more knowledge to help. If he could bring him back-

It is a half ditch attempt and the order may not even work but he could try.

“Zakroy glaza i idi spat'. Vspomni Dzheymsa Barnsa. Solo? Clear path for me, ready a vehicle. I am going to house six and no one but you, Gaby and Waverly are allowed.”

“You’re what? I do hate to be the bearer of bad news but I feel that will piss off an awful lot of people.”

“I do not care.”

“Naturally.”

Carefully Illya scoops an arm under the body before him, lifting Bucky carefully and shouldering his way from the room. Giving Solo a withering look that has his partner stepping aside. He trusted them, even if they did not fully know yet and he knew they would let him. They would cover him until he could say properly.

He would take James home, let him wake in a warm bed and somewhere safe and in that time Illya would gather all that he could, he would do all he could to make sure that it was Bucky who woke up there. Even if only for moment.

His fingers are shaking when he drags them through dark hair that is now longer, messier but with the mask gone he is so much surer. He would never doubt he stood before him, it is with sudden clarity that Illya is glad to have helped other agents, perhaps he could give Bucky a new chance as well. He can not say who will walk out of this, no one comes out of HYDRA the same as they were but he would be glad to see James come out at all. Even a little.

Sinking into the chair next to the bed by the safe house, Illya opens the moleskin cover and looks to the mess of codes and covers. It would take months to fully understand it all but he did not know when the man at his side would be coherent if he ever was. So he settles, he turns over a page and he waits.

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redperil · 6 years ago

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#&&. illya | shut up and watch me work! | visage #blood tw #injuries tw #smoking tw

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redperil · 6 years ago

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File Found >> Accessed >> Headcanon ↪ The Kuryakin Family

[ WARNINGS FOR ; major death, abuse, sex work, hate crimes, war, prejudice ect ]

Living Subjective Interest ; Illya Kuryakin

>> Biological Son ; N. Kuryakin & V. Kuryakin

Biological Father ; Nikolai Dominak Kuryakin

>> Russian ; 6′1 ; Blond ; Brown Eyes ; Upper Class ; Soviet Party Member ; High Cabinet

Biological Mother ; Valeriya Emilla Kuryakin ( nee ; Atekha )

>> Ukranian ; Russian ; 5′9 ; Blonde Hair ; Blue Eyes ; Upper-Middle Class ; Svoda Party Member ; High Cabinet

History

1929 and Russia had conquered Ukraine not nine years past. The two states had been forced to settle into co-existance as the Soviet Union oversaw both boundaries. With ties and treaties came peace talks, trades and agreements. At a meeting like so many others Soviet Member Nikolai Kuryakin met Ukranian Svoda Party Member Valeriya Atekha - Only Daughter of Davjid Atekha, high ranking member of the union.

>> Two weeks after the political affair the pair are noted to be at a private dinner together. Confirmation shows permission of guardians and a formal agreement for courtship with multiple private contacts between them. The two seem close, prospect for inter party relations are high.

1930 and the pair have been in exclusivity for a year with talks of Marriage. Nikolai rises steadily within his party with consistent support, becoming an executive accountant for party funds within that time.

>> The two are said to have been inseparable, Davjid giving multiple statements of pleasure at his daughters happiness and an agreeable union. Public showings of the pair are loving, a picture of health.

>> Despite actions their union is genuine. This knowledge will later be used to grant V. Kuryakin her life.

1931 and the now married couple announce a child is born. A boy named Illya. The two travel abroad to celebrate, visiting family and and respective party members.

>> It is now believed that these frequent family travels were used to discuss alternate agendas. Evidence provided shows them as a cover for embezzlement and meetings with enemy of state. It is unkown when the pair became traitors of their respective parties but it is the belief of many that they had been since joining, with the intention to do internal harm upon approval of withheld information.

1939 and the Second World War is declared. Despite the countries stance political chaos begins within the ranks. For two years from this date N. Kuryakin sends his wife and child to remain with her father in Ukraine. Reasons unkown.

>> It is now believed the intention was to remove familial ties from soviet grasp to the best of his ability, attempting to bypass Russian Jurisdiction with immunity from her family name. This action failed.

1941 the formal investigation into Soviet Party Embezzlement begins. N. Kuryakin alongside two other accountants [ redacted ] , [ redacted ] are formally under investigation with potential to be charged. Valeriya and Illya are returned to Russia for the remainder of this as potential suspects themselves.

1943 and Nikolai Kuryakin is charged with Embezzling Party Funds in order to aid Enemies of State and War Criminals, including those of Jewish Origin, Known Homosexual’s, Alt-party allies, Out of Country tax and intention to escape justice.

Valeriya is charged with protecting a criminal and stripped of her possessions and title her life is spared on loyalty of marriage. On house arrest for a minimum of five years with community rehabilitation. Illya is removed from her custody for one year for mandatory reintroduction of Soviet society.

>> The Atekha Family formally cut ties with Valeriya at time of charge. She is refused assets and accounts. Left with only the family home due to having a child. She is stripped of her party rank, Illya is removed from the party registry. They are publicly shamed.

1944 and Nikolai Kuryakin arrives at Gulag, the last communications between him and his family are received. He is given a life sentence.

>> This is the first medically stated instance of potential psychosis in the child. An attack on two older boys that ended with formal charges later stripped by [ redacted ] and dismissed.

1946 the Kuryakin family are declared bankrupt. The first public knowledge of prostitution are noted. Illya is excelling within education, his potential is funded by outside sources [ redacted ]

1947 and Illya has begun earning titles in defensive championships and sports competitions. The money allows them to reclaim the family home but the family name is still destitute. His mother is forced to continue her sex work, formally she is unworking and not contributing to the union.

1948 Valeriya is hospitalised after an attack at her home. Multiple fractures and breaks as well as bleeding on the brain. Her visit is paid for by [ redacted ]. She will not recover.

1951 is the last recorded visit to Valeriya, the visitor is unkown though believed to be her son. Do not Resuscitate is formally stated on her files by a third party advocate.

1951 Valeriya dies in a fit due to pressure on the brain. Doctors note an unpresidented expand in life length thanks to suitable medical practice. Her body is collected and death certificate filed. No place of Burial is given.

>> Now know that Illya had his mother laid to rest in Ukrain. Alongside her is a stone for Nikolai despite his death being unconfirmed. Updated reports regard the attack as an inebriated KGB agent, it is believed past funding may have come as a formal agreement before inducting Illya into the agency. Letters detailing the incident were passed to Gulag, it is unconfirmed if Nikolai knew of his wifes passing.

Note ; Subject ; Waverly confirms that KGB still refuses to give confirmation on the status of Nikolai Kuryakin. U.N.C.L.E has now placed the marker of MIA onto his title. He is marked Deceased in 1970.

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redperil · 6 years ago

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WHAT SHAPE DOES YOUR PAIN TAKE?

The Sea: You're drowning. A sea of emotions, responsibilities, people, things, everything. You just can't handle it all, you need to escape, but you can't. Even talking to someone and being told it's okay, compliments, nice things people say, it all adds up to drown you further. Guilt, for feeling this way when everyone's being nice and you're not enough. Will you sink or swim?

tagged by: stole from my other blogs lmao tagging: @lcrcenist @chopshopagent @trickshxt @redroomcd @justicetempered

#&&. illya | it is not so simple to forget | musing #| it's all fun and games until the meme is right smh |

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redperil · 6 years ago

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I don’t drink whiskey but I make sure to always have a bottle on hand so when my rival gets injured in a knife fight and only has me to turn to for help at 2 AM I can pour it on them as disinfectant before I patch them up and we inevitably fall in love.

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redperil · 6 years ago

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@redroomcd ASKED: “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

>> MEMES | ACCEPTING

Despite insistences Illya did know when quitting ahead was worth it more than pushing. He was a spy and very good at his job, even people most of time. Had he thought Natalia really did not wish to teach him he would have stopped asking and she would have made it very, very clear.

As it was she instead looked to him with a small smile each time, asked why, told him it was not good enough and sauntered off knowing very well he would follow because Illya needed to know and she had such information.

He was beginning to suspect she enjoyed game of cat and mouse between them though he was not foolish enough to think he was the cat in this one. He waltzed into her traps just fine but he knew he was going and it was worth the risk.

Only select few had their level of training, whatever people may think even other organisation knew better than to say Russia did not raise them well. They could move among the best in the world and Red Room had been secret even beyond his knowledge. Illya had been the front line spies, an organisation that still had a name, Natalia was not.

“Malen'kaya roza, I will not beg you.”

Her eyes are cutting and Natalia looks close to laughter when Illya gives a harsh sound of frustration. She was going to say yes, she would not entertain him so thoroughly if not but she would well make him work for it first. She knew the worth of what she had and she would be sure he did as well.

“Just give up, Peril. You’ve been outplayed.”

“Oh don’t ruin the show Solo, I like seeing him act like this. Like a puppy for treats!”

Illya gives a snarl of shush to his partners. Napoleon may be brilliant but he knew nothing and Gabrielle should know better than to test his patience even if the blow of such a statement is softened by how she cooes and pats his arms. A Russian did not give so easily, they guarded in ice and glittering walls and they would be costly but worth every moment. He simply had to ask the right way, when she thought he had simpered enough she would cave. She must.

Determinedly Illya follows again when Natalia very deliberately tuts her tongue, curls her fingers about his tie tugs and walks away. She was good, one of the very best at her job and it why he wanted her aid. To train amongst a red room agent? His efficiency in the field would become unparalleled, it would be an honor.

“I will not beg.” Another insistence one met with aloof glee and gentle he adjusts, unfolds his arms and gives an open plea. Sweetness attracts better than honey - or such along those lines. “But I will ask a Lady nicely. Please teach me the manoeuvres.”

There is a moment of anticipation and Illya’s fingers curl and twitch at his side, A thrum of adrenaline in his system. She could kill a hundred men with ease and so could he - but not so gracefully. She was silent, quick, he was a bulldozer in a china shop and well aware, but he could learn. Train, practice, be better.

He knows he has won when in a rare show Natalia allows her expression less cold, giving him something close to fondness and Illya straightens his back, beams when she sighs so put upon but so willing.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Illya’s fingers uncurl from their tightness, flexing his hands before his shoulders release tension and he brings up the hand she offers. Pressing a kiss to her knuckles will ill constrained glee. He had not been so excited for training since first he succeeded in defeating a mentor at the academy. It would be wonderful, just what he needed to forget ache on missions. To keep up with this world of supers and... change.

Yes. It would be perfect, they could begin right away.

“You are a wonder, Agent Romanova.”

“Does he ever compliment you like that?

“I’m starting to feel neglected.”

Illya looks to the heavens for patience when the two voices chime in. Clearly their audience had thought to follow, unwilling to miss the climax of it all. If they thought he would start saying please to them they had another thing coming, he knew Napoleon too well to give that power and Gabrielle would take what she wished regardless of his please or not.

Promptly he shuts the door on their faces, uncaring for the telltale splinter of wood. Strength, at times, is forgotten in a heady mix of excitement.

“We learn the thigh twist first, yes?”

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