Illya faces the consequences of being dropped into a middle of a minefield.
Tag to escape scene from East Berlin - Illya's POV
It had taken them eight hours to get him out of the minefield. Eight hours of standing still, while the exact location of each mine was determined so that he could walk back to the inner wall in safety. Illya had been thankful that he was still in one piece. He'd been lucky not to have landed on a mine when the American spy had disconnected the zip-wire. He could have spent hours writhing in agony with mortal wounds, slowly dying, as German soldiers inched their cautious why across the minefield. His broken, bleeding body a terrifying reminder of what could happen to them if they didn't meticulously find and mark every mine.
As the hours had passed his anger at the American had grown. Illya knew that the burn of defeat was his alone. The American had bested him and Illya knew he would pay dearly for failing in his mission.
Illya ungratefully shrugged off the helping hands of the soldiers as he slid down the ladder to finally be back on the concrete streets of East Berlin and out of the lethal no-man's land of minefields. He saw his handler, Oleg Kuznetsov, standing under a street lamp opposite the wall. Illya was tired, hungry and thirsty, and that last thing he wanted to do was face his handler. He had no choice though.
The first stinging slap was not unexpected, but Illya felt his hands start to tremble and curled them into fists as a second, harder slap snapped his head to the side. He clenched his jaw as he flushed in humiliation.
"Because of your failure, Kuryakin, I have spent half the night negotiating with the Americans," Kuznetsov thankfully berated him in Russian, a language few of the gathered Germans would understand, although they had witnessed the physical reprimand. "I am still undecided whether, after your incompetence to send to you to the gulag, or allow you a chance to redeem yourself."
Kuznetsov continued to speak but Illya only heard the occasional word as he fought to control his growing rage. He wanted to strike out, to release the terrible pressure in his head, the tension in his body. If he struck his superior he would be in a Siberian gulag before sundown, that's if he could stop himself at just the one punch, otherwise it would be the firing squad.
They were options he had weighed up before. A quick death, or decades slowly rotting in the gulag, like his father had. As a KGB officer, his fate would be far worse. There would be no camaraderie with his fellow prisoners. He would be held in contempt by all. They would break him physically, until he was nothing but skin and bone, bruises and scars. His spirit would slowly wither and die as the years of hardship continued on without end. Until he begged for mercy. All the lifers begged for death. Illya knew he would be no exception.
But Illya lived with a spark of hope. A tiny spark that would not be quenched no matter what he had to do, or to endure. His KGB comrades considered his physical abilities as in-human, unnatural. He was held in fear, or considered a challenge to beat. He had never been offered their friendship, he had no experience with it. But that small piece of hope inside would whisper that one day he would find a partner who would trust him, and vice versa. That they would watch his back, who would not leave him to his fate if a mission went wrong. Or the hope that one day he would meet a woman who would not fear him, but would, in fact, come to love him. Regardless of his profession, his looming height, his rages. The spark of hope inside him was small, but it was still hope and it stopped him from doing foolish things that would extinguish it forever.
Illya flinched when he saw Kuznetsov's hand move towards his face, but the older man just patted his cheek gently.
"Get some rest, Kuryakin. You will have a chance to prove yourself. To take what we want from beneath the Americans arrogant noses." Kuznetsov smiled, his tone no longer filled with biting anger. "Meet me at the checkpoint at 0700 hours." After waiting for Illya's stiff nod of obedience, Kuznetsov turned and walked to his car parked a few feet away. Illya wasn't offered a lift.
Illya looked at his watch. There would be no hope of finding food and a bed to sleep in at such a late hour, not without forcing a German family to offer him hospitality. The thought filled him with revulsion, although he knew some of his comrades would not hesitate to awaken a family to do their bidding, Illya knew first-hand how fearful such late night visits were. He was, however, happy to intimidate the Volkspolizei into giving him shelter and food. He'd endured their smirks and laughter all the time he was stuck, he was tired of being called a giant. It would be good to teach them some humility. He wearily walked towards the nearest station building and fervently hoped tomorrow would be a better day.