Author's Note: It was a dark and stormy night-no, really, it was! Raining cats and dogs, no place to go, nothing to do, and I just couldn't find any more excuses for not writing a short story of my own. So here goes my first attempt at fan fiction. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed reading all of your stories.
For the record, I don't own any part of MfU, and the only profit I get from it is the pleasure of offering this story to you. Happy Thanksgiving!
Love and Light,
Avery
The Kindness Of Strangers
She kept to the shadows, her thin frame pressed against the filthy brick wall of the building as she edged her way down the alley. Dead leaves and odd bits of trash skittered about her feet, buffeted by the icy November wind as it blew in off the bay. It had snowed earlier in the day, and more was predicted for the evening rush hour. Shivering, the girl clutched the grimy edges of her cotton jacket closer for warmth, wishing for the thousandth time that she'd thought to bring a heavier coat. And hat. Gloves. Money.
She'd left home the weekend before Labor Day, just two days shy of her sixteenth birthday. The weather had been pleasantly warm, the breezes balmy with summer's ending. Running away to the big city had seemed the answer to all her problems, a great adventure. As she boarded the bus out of Erie Falls, her ticket bought with the last of her summer job money, she felt sophisticated and grown-up, her future filled with exciting possibilities. School was a drag, and anyway, she was going to be an actress. A star. You didn't need a high school diploma to act. Her parents-well, they were good people, but they just didn't understand.
In New York, she would get a job on Broadway, have an apartment of her own, live the life she'd always dreamed of having. She'd be popular, with lots of cool girlfriends to hang out with, and boys lining up all the time to date her. One day, she'd go back to Erie Falls, successful, wealthy, maybe even famous, and show them how wrong they'd been to doubt her. Turns out they were right after all, she thought grimly.
She peered into the growing darkness, listening, alert for signs of danger, any indication of trouble. Stealth, caution, invisibility-these were her friends now, traits ingrained by circumstance into her very nature. Blend in. Talk to no one. Strangers are not to be trusted. She had learned a lot about life in a very short time.
Her stomach rumbled conspicuously, and she took another step forward, drawn by the intoxicating aromas emanating from the vent that connected the alleyway to the pizza parlor around the corner on Flatbush Avenue. Her mouth watered at the thought of food. It had been two days since her last meal, and she was beginning to feel lightheaded, faint from hunger. She approached the rusted metal dumpster at the far end of the alley, caution warring with desperation, willing herself to do whatever it took to find something edible amid the disgusting piles of trash. Her heart leapt when she saw the leftover slice of pepperoni pizza, and nearly half of a ham and cheese grinder, still in its greasy wax paper wrapper, lying right there near the top of the heap. Looks pretty fresh, she thought, utterly overcome by hunger. The need to eat something, anything, outweighed any other consideration. She reached in, snatching the bounty from the horrid pile, and retreated to a corner of the alley to eat.
She had finished the pizza, and was trying to decide whether to eat the grinder now or save it for later, when her senses abruptly went on high alert. Something-a sound-had disturbed the silence. She heard it again. Footsteps, she realized. Someone is coming. Someone else is in the alley. Without conscious thought, she slid her body behind a pile of battered shipping crates, and went still.
The intruder was a young man dressed in the typical clothes of a dock worker: jeans, work boots, turtleneck, and navy pea coat. A dark knit cap completed the picture, concealing all but a few strands of baby-fine, flaxen hair. His face was hidden in shadow, but he looked, to all intents and purposes, like all the other dock workers and longshoremen who called the district home. An average Joe. Nevertheless, something was off about the guy, she was sure of it. Nothing she could put her finger on, but he seemed different from the others. Not average. Not at all.
He stumbled over a trash can, but caught himself before he fell. She heard him swear. On the fire escape above, a cat yowled at the interruption. "Shhh," he said. "Nice kitty." He leaned against the wall, rubbing his eyes with the back of one bruised hand, and muttered something in a language she didn't understand.
Exhausted, she thought. Poor guy can barely stand. She noted the gash over one eye, the bruise darkening the underside of his pale jaw. He's been in a fight.
He searched his pockets, and retrieved something slim and shiny-a pen?
Why does he need a pen in the middle of a dark alley?
He twisted something on the object, and did something else to it, and then raised the pen(?) to his lips. It crackled oddly, like static on the radio.
"Open Channel D. Kuryakin here."
"Mr. Kuryakin? Is that you? Well, I should think it's about time. You do realize that you've been off the grid for nearly sixteen hours."
He winced. "Yes sir, and I am sorry for the delay. I had a bit of trouble with some of our feathered friends on the way out, but it has been taken care of."
"Oh?"
A slight smile curled the corner of his mouth. "They will cause us no more trouble."
"I see." A soft puffing sound. "Very well then, Mr. Kuryakin, your report?"
"All copies of Herr Dr. Kreuger's formula for the nerve gas have been destroyed, sir. His notes as well."
"And Thrush's stockpiles of the gas?"
"Destroyed." He allowed himself another small smile. "Loudly."
"I expected no less, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo reported in some hours ago, and I'm pleased to say that we have Dr. Kreuger and his research team in our custody. All in all, a very satisfactory affair." More puffing. "Go home and get some rest, Mr. Kuryakin. Report to me in the morning for your next assignment."
"Yes sir. Kuryakin out." He twisted the silver thing once, twice, and replaced it in the pocket of his jeans.
Illya heaved his tired body away from the wall, stretching to relieve the tension lodged in his shoulders. I could go to sleep right here, he thought.
The recent mission had been unusually difficult and stressful. To begin with, he and Napoleon had been apart for much of the time, working separate angles of the same affair, incommunicado and half a world away from one another. Neither one of them appreciated the separation-it felt awkward and inefficient to work alone, although at one time, each would have relished the solitude. Now it only increased their mutual anxiety, their profound concern for one another's well being.
Then there was the explosion on the cargo vessel. The device he'd planted had been poorly timed-a rare error on his part-and he'd escaped having his atoms scattered all over the universe by only the narrowest of margins. And as if that were not enough trouble for one mission, he had been lured into a protracted battle with several Thrush assassins. Although he had survived the encounter, and they had not, he was reasonably sure he had a cracked rib to show for his efforts. Another little souvenir for my extensive collection. He rubbed his aching side, wondering if, perhaps, he was a bit off his game.
The truth was, there had been far too many missions of late, far too many deaths. Thrush was on the move, and the Section Two agents were scrambling to keep up. Illya couldn't recall the last time he'd slept a full eight hours. He was exhausted beyond words, in body and in spirit.
Time to go home. He turned up his collar against the light snow that threatened to fall, and stumbled, inestimably weary, toward the avenue at the far end of the alley.
Relief flooded through the girl. He was leaving. She was safe. She shifted position amid the tumble of crates and boxes, urging the circulation back into her cramped legs. A tin can rattled somewhere nearby.
In an instant, the man turned, crouching, his weapon drawn. "Who is there?"
She froze.
He took several steps toward her, no longer staggering with fatigue, but moving with efficiency and silent purpose, panther-like, dangerous. The gun was absolutely steady in his hand. "Come out," he said. "Slowly."
She closed her eyes, waiting for the sound of the gunshot that would end her short and dismal life.
"Do not test my patience." His tone was cold as ice, sharp as shards of glass. "Come out now, and you will not be harmed."
She rose, trembling, to her feet.
His pale eyes widened at the sight of her. A young girl, perhaps sixteen years old. Not THRUSH. Innocent. And he had nearly shot her! Hands shaking, he lowered the weapon. "I am sorry. I thought you were-someone else."
"Please let me go, mister. I didn't see anything."
Illya tucked the UNCLE Special into the waistband of his jeans. He massaged his brow, where a nasty headache had begun to throb. A perfect end to a perfectly stellar day.
"Please, mister, I just want to go home. I won't tell anyone you were here, honest."
Illya's expression softened. "It is you who should not be here. A dark alley is not a safe place to linger."
The girl blinked, as if his words made no sense to her.
"Go home. You are not safe here."
Illya stepped back to grant her passage through the narrow alley, but the girl made no attempt to leave. Instead, moving in a half-daze, she knelt down and began to to retrieve the remains of the grinder she had dropped, meat and bread and shredded lettuce flung like confetti across the pavement. A small animal of some kind scurried away into the darkness.
"Leave it," Illya warned. "The rats have been at it."
"It's mine," the girl said, and continued to collect limp slices of tomato, slivers of pickle and unappetizing morsels of greying ham, placing them with care onto a torn square of wax paper.
"You will make yourself sick if you eat that."
The girl's eyes locked defiantly with his. "It's mine," she repeated, daring him to contradict her.
"You can get another sandwich."
Her cheeks grew red; for a moment, he thought she might cry. But she merely stuffed the greasy lump of food into her pocket, and turned to leave.
That grinder is all she has to eat, Illya realized with a jolt of sadness. He saw it now—the bony frame, the cracked lips, the haunted eyes. Undoubtedly a runaway. To think that someone so young could be made to suffer such an indignity. He shook his head. The girl was far too thin; in her current state, and with winter coming, she had little chance of survival. The senselessness of it angered him, gnawed at his spirit. How long had she been living like this? Had no one noticed? Where was her family? Where was society? Did no one care?
In his mind's eye, he saw a face. It was the face of a stranger and yet, somehow, it was familiar:
The woman was incredibly old, even for a Romany peasant. Her eyes were milky-white and rheumy, hands twisted into arthritic tree trunks from a lifetime of labor. And in those ancient, gnarled hands, a thick crust of black bread and three shriveled potatoes had appeared. The entire countryside was starving, and yet she offered him this gift! She gazed down at him, at the wild, scrawny child with the bright blue eyes, and smiled her toothless smile. Eat, she said in the peculiar dialect of her tribe. Every child must eat.
Thank you, babushka. I will not forget you. Bruised and aching, exhausted beyond words, Illya longed for a hot shower and a warm bed. Nevertheless, he knew that those luxuries would have to wait. He had a mission to complete.
"Your grinder must be cold," he observed casually. "It is doubtless inedible. You must let me make it up to you for ruining your supper."
The girl turned away, her eyes shuttered and unreadable. I'm not listening.
"I happen to know that the Greek diner across the street serves large, delicious hamburgers. And french fries. And chocolate milkshakes. Shall we avail ourselves of the local cuisine, you and I? We have both missed our supper, and I, for one, am very hungry."
I'm not hungry I'm not I'm not.
"It is much too cold to be stuck out here in an alley. Please, let us go someplace warm, and I shall try to make amends."
The girl hesitated. Everything she had learned over the past months screamed for her to refuse, to make a break for the safety of the main street, and to run, run until she couldn't run any more, until she found someplace safe to hide. Never, ever trust a stranger. But she was cold, so cold, and so terribly hungry. The thought of a hamburger was more than she could bear. She looked up into stunning blue eyes. "Can I have cheese? On my hamburger?"
"I am sure you can." Illya took off his pea coat and held it out to the girl. "Here. Put this on first. The night is cold."
After a moment's hesitation, she accepted it from him, but her fingers were shaking, and the coat fell from her hands. He picked it up and, with exquisite gentleness, eased the girl's arms through the sleeves, securing the buttons when her half-frozen fingers failed her. The girl burrowed into the folds of Illya's coat, still warm with his body heat.
"Better?"
She nodded. Her eyes glazed over with contentment.
He removed his knit cap and placed it upon her head, tugging the edges well down over her ears. "We will have a fine supper now," he said. "Every child must eat."
The girl slipped her hand quietly into his. "I'm Trish."
"Illya."
Wordlessly, gratefully, they left the alley behind. Under a night sky crisp with stars, they crossed the snow-dusted street to the diner. The neon sign above the door declared them welcome.