Title: Red
Author: Still Waters
Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (2015 movie)
Disclaimer: I do not own this movie. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
Summary: Most people lived in a world of black and white. Illya lived in black and red. (Illya character exploration up to Gaby's rescue)
Written: 12/20/15
Notes: I recently saw the 2015 movie and wanted to explore this new version of Illya, having enjoyed his character in the original TV series. This is my first journey into writing the movie characters - I hope I did them justice. Italicized quotes from the movie do not belong to me. Thank you for reading.
Illya Kuryakin was born on a tide of blood in a country destined to be known for the same color.
The Reds.
The Red Menace.
The Red Scare.
He was molded to serve the Soviet Union on the strength of that hue. The red haze that filled his vision, that set his fingers tapping and his face cold, that made him more machine than man. Whether running operations clothed in the black of nighttime deception or wearing the muted browns of a chameleon out in the open, it was red that dictated his life. The red of the Soviet flag, where he was simultaneously the brute force of the hammer and the Grim Reaper's sickle. The red fury that exploded within him and turned him into the KGB's most effective agent. The red that never truly left his vision, always lurking in the periphery - pacing, waiting.
Then came the American. A joint mission. Red, white, and blue. Cowboys and Indians.
Another splash of red. "It doesn't get any more Russian than the Red Peril here."
They had their first briefing under red café lettering. He developed radioactive-revealing photos in the red glow of a homemade hotel dark room. He and Solo argued over a shared history of working alone in the destructive red glow of Illya's CO2 laser.
Alarms, a chase, and then the red explosion of a boat filled his vision before the water hit and he saw nothing at all.
An arm too close to his throat. Pressure in his back. But the hand was under his chin, keeping him above water, rather than pushing him under. The pain in his back was a knee forcing water from his lungs rather than a blade puncturing them.
Three blows to resume breath rather than a single thrust to end it.
Unusual.
Even more unusual was that Illya found himself returning the favor. There was a trickle of red from Solo's nose, the crackle of electricity in the air.
Red crept into his vision, but his fingers didn't tap. And instead of icy stillness, there was something akin to fire in his chest, a burn he might almost call vengeful.
When Rudi burned, the red flames were a welcome sight.
Waverly took command; clothed him and Solo in black and sent them into the night. They raced through rain and mud as day broke; a flash of color in his peripheral vision as he landed the motorcycle alongside Gaby's mobile prison. The crack of his weapon as he shot out the tire.
The crack in Gaby's voice shouting his name as he was thrown down the hillside.
"Illya!"
It vaguely occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time someone else had called him by his given name.
The world came back in rain-blurred greens and browns, the copper taste of red in the back of his throat; cold mud at his back, cold metal across his torso. His head turned toward a blur of black pulling a blur of color from an overturned vehicle. He heard nothing - not the patter of rain on his muddied face, not the stutter of his heart in his constricted chest, not the rasp of his breath under the weight of mangled machinery.
But he sensed the danger, mouth moving sluggishly, silent through a concussed brain and starved lungs.
Gaby's "Solo!" punctured the haze.
It was rough, cracked, more worried than scared. The same emotion that had been in the shout of his own name as he was thrown from the road. Raspy, but strong – his strong woman.
Solo went down.
Gaby was a flash of color in his muddled vision. Her wordless shout was red with anguish and untrained fury as she launched herself on Vinciguerra. Red flashed on her abraded arm as she was thrown to the ground with a raw-throated yell. Metal sounded against bone as Solo fell again.
Illya saw red.
Perhaps it was the numbing effects of shock, but something was off. His fingers didn't tap, he didn't feel disconnected, like a weapon in unseen hands. The red was there, but different – anger mixed with something that might be called passion – a feeling he wasn't sure he'd ever really known. Anger at the fact that these two particular people were being hurt – an East German girl whose name mirrored her propensity to fill silences and a man whose last name literally meant 'alone' – something Illya had been ever since his father was dragged from his life.
It was that red that freed him from the motorcycle's death grip; that turned it into a weapon against the man pointing a gun at Solo. That shut itself behind cold eyes that never once wavered from Vinciguerra's as a final trickle of blood ran down the man's face before Illya's knife hit home and stopped his heart.
The red faded.
His vision was blurred (concussion), his chest on fire (broken ribs) – but the red faded. Maybe it was the rain, diluting it with mud and grass, washing it away. Maybe it was the nauseatingly distorted vision. Or maybe it was the lack of red, of distrust and malice, in his "Cowboy?" when he checked on Solo's status. The same lack of red in Solo's "I'll be okay, Peril."
"For a special agent, you're not having a very special day, are you?"
Illya knew what Waverly meant when he had called him special before that quip; the same thing everyone meant when they used that word: inhuman. Inhuman strength, inhuman volatility, inhuman productivity. While others lived in a world of black and white, Illya lived in one of black and red. The red of explosive anger and destructive force, the black of isolation, of programmed sleep, of unconsciousness. The red wasn't completely gone – there was a painful fire growing in his damaged chest, blood caked on his face and knife. Neither was the black absent – the dark fabric clung to his soaked body and stalked his peripheral vision if he moved his head too fast. No, the red and black were still there. But they were different; not all consuming. He saw more. Saw two people he had just killed for, out of a sense of duty that could have been filial rather than national. Two people he called by nicknames that had nothing to do with coded communications or bitter curses.
Maybe Waverly was wrong. Maybe there was something special about today.
Because today, there was a man in black behind him; a man Illya now trusted enough that he didn't have to watch his every move, a man who had saved his life with a knee to the back rather than ending it with a blade. There was a woman in bright orange in his arms, shaking with shock, eyes hopeful behind surprise and crashing adrenaline as a rare, gentle smile softened Illya's face and he told her everything was going to be okay.
And maybe, just maybe, he believed those words, too.