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The Master

Chapter Text

Illya woke to the sun shining in his face. The light was filtered through the branches of trees overhead. He sat up and looked around. He appeared to be in the middle of nowhere and the monastery was not in the immediate vicinity, neither was Napoleon. He searched his pockets taking stock of himself. His identification, his money, his communicator were gone.

He tried to push himself up and didn't make it. Falling back to the ground, he landed on something hard. He pulled it out from underneath himself, amazed to find the reel with Waverly and Marton's name on it. That and that alone was the proof he needed that what had happened wasn't a bad dream. He ran one hand through his hair and looked up to the sky. From the position of the sun, it appeared to be noon. Now he needed to know what happened to Napoleon.

First course of business was to figure out where he was and find civilization, just then his stomach growled, and he decided to move getting something to eat toward the top of his list. He searched the immediate area and was unable to find any trace of the monastery. He did, however find a road, actually it was nothing more than a dirt path.

He closed his eyes, centering himself and let his internal compass rule. Opening his eyes he set out, finding along the way enough fruits and nuts to assuage his appetite and assure him that he was still in Brazil.

It was confirmed as he ambled along, meeting a few natives along the way. His knowledge of the language held him in good stead and he ended up accepting local cuisine and a straw hat to keep out the sun. He managed to catch a ride on a cart and was also treated to the story of the huge explosion that had occurred the previous day deep in the jungle.

In a remarkably short time he made it to the out-skirts of the cargo port of Itaqui. He thanked the driver and tried to brush the dust and grime off his clothing. He meandered through the streets, mingling with the natives. Cats were all over the place and the sound of music floated in the air. He followed the beat and came upon a group of shabbily dressed young people playing an assortment of instruments. Flutes, horns, whistles, and rattles made happy music.

Illya stayed on the edge of the crowd watching as people moved by, some tossing money into a hat. Several were dancing and laughing when a shrill whistle sounded. "Policia" was shouted and suddenly everyone scattered. A guitar missing a few strings was thrust into his hands by one of the players trying to escape.

Hidden behind a convenient column, Illya managed to evade arrest, as did most of the band. Once things settled down, he checked the guitar. It had a string missing and was still playable. He waited around to see if the person who left it would come back. After twenty minutes he set out.

Soon he found a spot where people appeared to be more affluent. He strummed the guitar and sang Hava Nagila. People passed by, some laughed, but several dropped coins into the straw hat. When he finished with a flourish, a dock worker asked, "Nice playing. Man, you do know that the song you just sang is Jewish?"

Illya merely smiled and picked up his straw hat. The last time he's sung it in South America he's ended up arrested. Illya hoped that wouldn't happen this time, in the meantime, he'd managed to garner a few Brazilian coins, which he planned to use to contact headquarters. He found a phone booth and dialed the number for the local office only to get a dial tone for his troubles. Then using more coins he dialed the emergency number and asked for Channel D only to get the same response. Without his communicator, he would appear to be out of luck.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, startling him.

"Mr. Kuryakin, it is you. Hey, Scotty, it is Mr. Kuryakin!"

"Hank?" The young black man was surprisingly familiar, as was the little scrubby man with him. "What are you doing here?"

"We could ask you the same thing." White teeth gleamed in the dark face. The young man had bulked up since Illya had last seen him, but his companion had changed not at all.

"Probably stowing away on the first ship out," Chief Engineer Scott commented. The last time Illya had seen both men was when he'd ended up working in the engine room to pay for his passage.

"He does look a might worse for wear," Hank agreed.

"Maybe's we best see about fattening him up," offered Scotty. They each took an arm and escorted Illya to the nearest cantina. They ordered a round of drinks and the best of local cuisine. Scotty was in a much happier mood than when Illya had last seen him. The circumstances surrounding their last meeting had changed their lives dramatically. As it turned out, once Captain Morton was exonerated and Mr. Waverly saw to it that his ship was refitted, he had made sure that several of his crew were also pardoned. "Ya gotta come onboard and see the spiffy engine room. It not be fall'n apart like the other."

The drinks tasted of fruit juice and he was so thirsty that Illya guzzled them down. Normally Illya would not do anything like that, unless Napoleon was close at hand to watch out for him, but what with the events of the last week and not being able to contact headquarters he felt it wouldn't be a problem. After a few drinks, Illya was flying a little high. The three men were joking and laughing up a storm. Before long the place was closing and Illya found himself being carried between the two men, which was an unusual sight because Scotty was so much smaller than he was.

The three men weaved and zig zaged their way to the ship. Illya knew he was being irresponsible, but he just didn't have the good sense to care. Scotty was singing something in what sounded like Welsh to Illya and Hank was humming along. They went through bulkheads until Scotty came to the end of his song and proudly spread his arms, showing off his engine room.

"Mr. Scott, I thought you were off duty," one of the engineers commented politely.

"Aye, that I am. I brought me good friend down to show him our engine room." He then proceeded to point out all the shiny new gears that graced his domain - a far cry from the engine room that Illya remembered.

"Mr. Scott, what is this I hear about a stranger on board." Captain Morton stood at the bottom of the stairs. He got a good look at Scotts' guest. "Ah, Kuryakin. Planning to stow away again?"

"That's Mr. Kuryakin," Illya corrected automatically.

"Where is the dark haired chap you were with last time?"

Illya winched, he had no idea where his partner was. "I'm afraid that Mr. Solo has fallen on hard times."

"Cap'n, his buddy is missin' and he hasn't got a way back to New York. I was thinking we that tha least we could do is give him a lift," Scotty said.

"We are not a passenger ship. You will work for your passage." Morton studied Illya before stating firmly.
Without another word he turned and left.

Hank and Scotty exchanged grins and high fived each other.