Forestalling the kill was part of the training. Only when unavoidable was another life to be taken, maim first or tranquillise. Although this was the theory Mark Slate had been forced to kill before yet never had he felt as he did now. His heart thumped against his ribs and beat so fast he had to breath deeply to try slowing it down. Legs had become like jelly and his hands refused to stop trembling. This was his first personal kill and he suddenly felt like a murderer. Waverly�s words still echoed in the earpiece, �mission accomplished�, was that all this was? A mission to kill a man who over the years he had come to respect and like. In one brief moment he had done what many high ranking Thrush agents had strived to do, eliminate U.N.C.L.E.�s number two agent.
    Regardless of the danger Slate knew he had to do one more thing before leaving and that was salute the young man who�s life had been lived only for U.N.C.L.E.. The Thrush Yob was only feet away from him and laughing with the other masochists. The air was suddenly filled with a party atmosphere and Slate was overcome with the desire to massacre all within that room. His face blushed red with fury and he stood tall as he turned towards the Russian, his hand already rising for a salute. He never managed to raise the arm, which remained frozen. Illya�s eyes seemed to be watching him. It wasn�t the usual indifferent stare that was so typical of the Russian, this was full of hate and anger. Slate�s mouth dropped open and a small gasp left his lips as he noticed that those eyes followed him, never blinking yet fixed whichever way Slate moved, the shallow rise and fall of the chest said everything, Illya was alive.
    As if they were twelve year old playground bullies the Thrushmen formed a huddle in the corner of the room and proceeded to laugh and point. Then the Yob moved behind Illya and almost tenderly removed two wires from the back of his head.
    "You can take him now, Slate."
    Trying to conceal the fact that his name was known he played ignorant. "Where would you like me to take him, Sir?"
    "Why back to Uncle of course."
    "Dump him on the doorstep like the last one?" asked Slate.
    "Slate, oh my dear, Slate. This has been so entertaining. The drug you gave him wasn�t cyanide but a substitution. The effect of that drug mixed with others and a touch of mind erasure has permanently damaged poor Kuryakin�s brain. Nothing remains of him. Now take him before I change my mind and kill you both."

One of the hardest things to do is write a story and keep to a pre-formed format. There are very few who can do this. On this site we award those that can do that or in some cases the award is given for attempting this challenge. If you think your site or story deserves this or our fantasy award then please contact me. Remember, if your story is regarded by us as good you could be published here and have your story illustrated. Sepia