Wars were matter of alliance and strategy, either politic or economic... or mostly both. Battles... Battles implied might, courage and... chance. Never disregard chance... Victory, he often experienced it, resulted of a delicate mix of expertise, will and... luck.
He unlocked the door, opened it partway and craned cautiously. The place was dark, silent and apparently deserted.
Apparently.
Never underrate your opponent.
He crawled sneakily and crouched down next to the wall, still on alert but the apartment was absolutely silent. He slid his hand under the couch, smirking. The weapons, carefully chosen and tested, were ready...
Suddenly he heard voices in the hallway.
Innocent neighbors?
He hesitated. Eventually, he craned over the armrest.
The projectile hit him in the head but he managed to pull out his own weapon... and all hell broke loose. Feathers were whirling around, causing him to cough and choke desperately.
"Uncle, Napoleon?"
Napoleon sputtered a pitiful "Uncle" and Illya Kuryakin switched on the light.
White feathers powdered the room and Napoleon Solo like Spring snow.
"You... You..." He spit out, in both the proper and the figurative sense, "you cheated! You cut out my pillow!"
The Russian brushed away a feather from his friend's lapel.
"Who crept into my apartment, hid his pillow under my couch in order to take a quite debatable advantage?" He looked around and chuckled. "First, let's clean up this mess. Then... dinner. Your treat, of course... You're a good sport, aren't you?"
A good sport? Yes, he was. He smiled and picked up a broom.
Revenge was a dish best served cold.