rotten, grey
"You are rotten, Napoleon, just rotten. You know that right? You are rotten, just rot…"
"Yeah, okay I get it. Rotten. To the core, I take it."
Melissa was hot, as a pistol with straight aim and a grudge to settle. She and Napoleon Solo had something between them that required a referee of some sort, because it was unlikely that the two of them were going to be able to agree.
"Look Melissa, I understand you're disappointment, I do. But what else could I do but what my boss told me to do? You have a job, you understand how it works. When duty calls…" He stroked her left cheek with a deft hand, kissing her as he did so and settling the grudge a little closer to his side of the argument. She responded just as he had hoped and more importantly, without any interruptions from the blasted communicator in his suit pocket.
Later that evening Napoleon stole away from the beautiful Melissa, her countenance now serene and happy instead of the earlier ire. Lovemaking wasn't the easy part, it was lying to someone like her about his life. Questions about bruises and even scars weren't easily brushed aside, but eventually his skills and genuine affection for a woman caused everything except the romance to float away into an unmarked pocket, never to be mentioned again.
UNCLE Headquarters was buzzing in the first shift of the day. At eight o'clock exactly the day crew took their places in the grey halls of the Command, ensuring that the world would be watched over with care and bravery. One such member of the staff was Illya Kuryakin, the recent Soviet acquisition. In truth he had been with UNCLE for several years, but only recently transferred to New York, a smooth maneuver by Alexander Waverly that had infuriated his European counterpart, Harold Beldon.
Kuryakin was currently unattached in terms of a partnership, and in spite of extensive field experience he found himself relegated to Section VIII and the various technology projects that were being developed there. He had managed to earn for himself a doctorate in Quantum Physics; a seemingly irrelevant field of study considering his new appointment to Section II. However, working here in the labs of New York's progressive laboratory, the old attraction to all things mechanical and scientific helped him to pass the time.
One of his fellow lab mates, Quincy Turbridge, was quite impressed with the young man from the Soviet Union.
"Say Illya, what exactly led you to study Quantum theories? I mean, isn't that the field of multi-verses and time travel? I don't suppose UNCLE is planning on exploring that as a means to fight crime." Quincy was an interesting fellow, and Illya considered him friendly; he seemed to not mind working with a Soviet, not something he could say about everyone in the building.
"Actually, there are applications that we might be able to integrate into our field tools. Not today or even this year, but as the science progresses there will be findings that might truly be of use to UNCLE, or other groups like it."
Illya and Quincy carried on with the prototype communicator that had been suggested by another member of the team. If it worked as was hoped, the slightly cumbersome cigarette case model would soon be replaced by a trim, easy to carry palm sized calculator. Another suggestion was a pen model, but the lab boys all favored the calculator, probably because it was a functioning instrument. Illya was undecided.
It was a lunchtime ritual for Illya to walk the entire length of the cafeteria style serving bar, examining each offering until he spotted the item he would choose for his meal. In truth, he had never seen so much food in one place, and the sheer abundance and variety made it difficult for him to choose just one entree. At a height of just under five feet eight inches, and weighing less than one hundred and forty pounds, Kuryakin was thin by most standards. For a Section II he was close to not meeting the minimum qualifications, and rumor had it that someone had actually falsified his pertinent statistics in order to get him into that rarified order of modern knights. To watch him eat, however, a person had to wonder where he put all of that food; he ate like a man facing deprivation in the near future.
Napoleon Solo watched this noon time ritual with interest, if not some amusement. He had met the Russian a few times, although their paths had not yet crossed professionally. He wasn't sure he wanted to work with Kuryakin. He didn't have the physical appearance of someone who could successfully turn back an assault from an enemy. Heck, he didn't look like he could survive a bout in the gym. Of course that wasn't a sure thing, Solo himself wasn't bulky or overly muscular. His suits wouldn't look as good if he overdid the gym.
The American thought about joining the Russian, getting to know him. It was probably inevitable that they would be partnered on an assignment, so might as well…
"Hello Napoleon. May I join you?"
Oh, Marilyn Somers… dessert in a tight blue skirt.
"Marilyn, yes by all means, have a seat."
So it seemed that today would not be the day when Solo and Kuryakin sat down together. Another day, perhaps. One man would relish the meal in front of him, the other would entice a lovely young woman to feast on something entirely different.
Another day.