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Garner, an asthmatic, is seen in the video gasping for breath and telling the arresting officer he can't breathe. The officer in question is seen employing a chokehold, which the NYPD banned years ago. Surely he knew that. Surely this was made clear to the grand jury. And why is the officer restraining Garner? Because her may have been selling cigarettes without a vendor's license. Garner collapses, and the EMTs stand idle,making no attempt to resuscitate him. I am ashamed of us. When I think of Garner's wife and six children, I can't breathe either.
Genre: Gen AU
Link takes you to AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2
The Utopia Lost Affair
Napoleon paced the confines of his hideout. His gut was in turmoil after the phone call he'd just received.
When the telephone rang, it had jarred Napoleon from yet another fitful night’s sleep. The call in itself was startling; it had been a month since the phone had even rung. The people he knew were all dead, and the women he’d dated had fled the city following THRUSH's takeover.
“Mr. Napoleon Solo? I’m Eric Kamau.”
To read the entire story, go to: http://archiveofourown.org/works/235517
(Written for Halloween Challenge 2014. The story is posted in two parts due to LJ constraints. This is Part 1.)
The ox cart rattled along the rutted, snow-crusted road, its wooden wheels throwing up pellets of ice and clots of mud as the beast plodded along. Napoleon huddled in the back of the cart, studying a Bulgarian language primer and doing his best to shield himself from the flying muck. Beside him, the cage of chickens they'd purchased at the market in Sofia clucked noisily. Napoleon's clothing was soaking wet, splattered with dirt and grime and feathers. He was as cold and miserable as he'd ever been. “How much further?”( Read more...Collapse )
(Written for MFU50 MiniBang. The story is posted in two parts due to LJ constraints. This is Part 2.)
Link to Part 1: http://avery11.livejournal.com/65163.h
Uncle Boris' Kitchen
“Does Headquarters know we're h-here?”
Illya had been dreading the question. “I have informed UNCLE's Montreal office of our situation,” he answered carefully, “and requested an emergency extraction. No doubt, they have been delayed by the storm, but reinforcements should be arriving at any – ”
“Partners shouldn't lie to one another,” Napoleon admonished quietly.
Illya sighed. “No.”( Read more...Collapse )
(Written for MFU50 MiniBang. The story is posted in two parts due to LJ constraints. This is Part 1.)
An explanation of names: It's pretty much agreed among the cousins that “Illya Nickovetch” is not a correctly spelled Russian name. It must have been spelled differently when he lived in the USSR, but was inadvertently changed prior to his arrival at UNCLE – perhaps during transliteration from the Cyrillic to English alphabet. Since parts of this story are set pre-UNCLE, Illya is referred to in those sections as “Ilya Nikolayevich.” In the UNCLE-era sections, he remains “Illya.” )
Uncle Boris' Kitchen
St Jude's Bay, Cape Breton Island, Canada, 1965
“Everything...s-so dark out there...” Napoleon rasped.
At the sound of his partner's voice, Illya turned away from the window, letting the venetian blinds fall. “It is after midnight. You managed to sleep for nearly two hours.”
“Oh, well that ex – ex-plains it.” He tried to sit up; he made it as far as his elbows. “Any s-sign of...our pursuers?”
“No, but with the storm ending, they will not be far behind.”
Napoleon nodded, but even that small movement was too much for him. He sank back onto the mattress. “We should make...a run for it.”
“Not until the drugs are out of your system.”
“...too late by then.”
“We will have to take that chance.”
“They'll find us...”
“We are not moving. That's final.”
“I...thought I was...senior agent...?”
“Should I be impressed by the title?”( Read more...Collapse )
written for Easter Egg Challenge 2014
Napoleon Solo hummed as he strolled down the concrete steps to DelFloria's Cleaners. The bell above the door tinkled merrily as he entered. “Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking, and when she passes...”
Giuseppe DelFloria – one of seven nearly identical “Giuseppes” currently employed by UNCLE to screen customers approaching the secret entrance to the New York Headquarters – looked up. “Buongiorno, Signor Solo. You look-a pretty chipper this morning. Gotta nice spring inna you step.”
The senior agent grinned back. “What's not to be happy about? The weatherman says it's going to be a gorgeous weekend.”( Read more...Collapse )
Genre: Gen AU
He stands at the cabin door, barefoot, blue eyes bleary with fatigue, his faded jeans and ancient Aran sweater scant protection against the chill morning air. The sweater has seen better days, and the yarn is beginning to unravel in places. Frayed threads dangle from the hem like unanswered questions.
written for MFUWSS Easter Egg Challenge 2014
The Blue Door
Illya pedaled down the narrow lane, jacket unbuttoned and flapping, leaving the coastal village of Grootje behind. The wheels of his borrowed bicycle raised up little clouds of dust in his wake. It felt good to be on the move again.
(written for Valentine Challenge 2014 on LJ Scrapbook)
A Weekend in the Country
“Where are you taking me?” Illya asked as the light blue Chrysler convertible sped down the Interstate. It was a fine Spring day, the start of a perfect weekend.
“Never you mind, my curious Russian,” Napoleon chuckled. He reached over to give Illya's hand a playful slap. “Hey, no peeking now. Keep that blindfold on.”
“No need to resort to violence.” Sighing, he dropped his hand to his lap. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look adorable. If you're worried, put your sunglasses on over the blindfold. No one will even know it's there.”
Illya started to argue, then thought better of it. He slipped on his sunglasses and leaned back against the headrest, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on his skin. “Where did you say we were going?”
“It's a surprise.”( Read more...Collapse )
For Eilidhsd, because I promised you a story.
“Number 8,” the elderly desk clerk wheezed, handing Napoleon the key. “Last cabin on the left. That'll be $6.49.”
Napoleon handed over the cash and waited patiently while the man, hands gnarled with age, counted out the change.
Behind him, Illya paced restlessly, fingering the brochures on the “Things To Do in Central Maine” rack with disinterest, and watching the snow fall outside the lobby's bay window. “Is there anyplace to eat around here?” he asked.
He waited, but it appeared no further information was forthcoming. “Where?”
“Well now –” The old man scratched his head. “– there's Connie's Diner. It's down the road a piece, next to the Bait and Tackle. Ay-yuh. Connie makes a nice fish chowdah on Tuesdays.”
“That sounds perfect. Could you please give us directions?”
“I could,” the man replied, “but 'twon't do ya no good.”
“Diner's closed foah the wintah. Ay-yuh.”
Illya sighed.( Read more...Collapse )