Earth Drabble: Golem

The inside of the Prague compound smells of dead earth and old paper, musty and choking. They smash the carefully sculpted arms and legs and torsos they find in the laboratory, showering the floor with clay. Illya rifles through sheets of crabbed Hebrew he knows are not innocuous as code.

They find Professor Bergl’s severed head in a corner in the laboratory, mouth open in shock, three Hebrew characters--aleph mem tav--carved into the temple. There’s a trail of dry red splashes leading to the smashed door, but it’s impossible to tell by now if they’re clay or blood.

Fire Drabble: Modern Art

They watch the fiery cloud rise above the city. Illya can almost feel heat on his face, cutting through the salt breeze. Beside him, Napoleon makes a strangled moaning sound.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Marinetti asks. The rogue THRUSH anarchist’s face is rapt, sincere. Illya imagines New York, now--monuments of steel and glass twisting into charred lacy tangles, pedestrians vaporized in an instant, their shadows etched into the concrete.

He can hear Napoleon retching over the side of the boat. How odd, Illya thinks distantly. Napoleon never gets seasick.

Marinetti glances at him and shrugs. “Not everyone appreciates modern art.”

Fic: "Wolfsblood," Man from UNCLE

"Wolf's Blood," the Misfits
( It's pumping like it's fucking in my veins/and I feel my vertebrae shaking )