Work Text:
“—looks like the snow will hold off until this evening, cats and kittens, but bundle up because it’s going to be another cold one. Latest temperatures are 17 at O’Hare, 19 at Navy Pier, and officially 13 at Midway. High today is expected to be just 20 degrees, with more snow overnight for a total 3-5 inches of accumulation. Mother Nature needs to wake up! We already had the first day of spring! But perhaps she just needs to hear our new number 1 tune on this week’s WLS Silver Dollar Survey. It’s the Beatles, of course, with their latest smash, ‘Eight Days A Week.’”
Illya turned off the clock radio as the song intro faded in. He pushed the covers off and stood, padding to the bathroom to take care of his morning business. The bathroom—with a faulty radiator that hissed plenty but didn’t radiate much heat—felt particularly frigid this particular morning. He moved the curtain, noted that Jack Frost had visited the window again, and sighed. He had spent over a fortnight in a picturesque college town just north of Chicago trying to crack a particularly insidious Thrush infiltration at the Northwestern University Technological Institute. Each day seemed colder than the last, snowier than the last. And it wasn’t just his imagination: the weather reports confirmed it. He sighed again. Silly him for thinking that Siberia was cold and snowy. It had nothing on Chicago.
He finished getting ready for “work,” donning another set of what he called “Professorial camouflage”—dark trousers, white shirt, bow tie, tweed jacket, brown loafers before making himself some toast and a thermos full of strong Russian Caravan tea. Once he had finished eating, he tucked the thermos into his briefcase, then began the arduous process of getting ready to go outside.
He preferred starting from the ground up, slipping a pair of galoshes on over his loafers. The wool coat came next, followed by a muffler, a fedora, and a pair of gloves. Grabbing the briefcase and locking up once he exited the apartment, he trudged down the three flights of stairs to the building entrance.
The northeast wind—directly off of frozen Lake Michigan—slapped him in the face the moment he stepped outside. Although he had braced for it, it still brought his already-melancholy mood down further. He wondered what he might do to get the assignment to move along as he trudged through others’ footsteps (and the occasional shoveled patch of sidewalk) the three blocks to the corner where he could catch public transport. Normally, he preferred to wait things out, because he had more patience than cat lying in wait for a particularly tasty-looking mouse. His patience, however, had been sorely taxed by the ever-decreasing weather quality. In New York, the most ambitious of bulbs would already be pushing their way out of the ground. In London, Paris, and even Washington, leaves would be budding forth off many a soon-to-be-flowering bush. In Toyko, the sakura already bloomed. In places closer to the equator, the sun shown, the wind blew warm, and a linen shirt might be too warm.
In Chicago-- some three days after Spring Equinox and a day after 7.5 additional inches of snow re-buried the city and its suburbs--Thrush seemed stuck in an iceberg and Illya had had enough.
The Russian stepped into the corner newsstand, as much as to get out of the blustery wind for a moment as to actually buy a paper. He grabbed a copy of the Tribune, scanning the headlines as he waited in line to pay. Medicare approved, people still marching in Alabama, the first Gemini mission successfully completed…. And more snow in Chicago. Naturally.
He dug a dime out of his coat pocket and slapped it on the counter. The agent nodded, then turned his attention to the man behind him. Illya slipped the newspaper quickly in his briefcase before stepping back outside.
As always, he had three real options to get to “work.” He could walk, take the bus, or take the el. He glanced down at his feet. A pile of greyish slush threatened to breech the galoshes defense and soak his socks. Nearly two miles of slush, snow, and winds would definitely require fresh socks and a better attitude. So—the el was faster and more pleasant, but would still require him to walk several blocks to get to Tech. The bus, however, would drop him right in front of the building.
He crossed the street, joining several other people at the bus stop. The wind now blew at his back; the nearness of others experiencing the same level of discomfort made him feel somewhat better. Time advanced; Thrush would be taken down; he could return to the more civilized weather of New York. A ghost of a smile played about his lips.
Then the plow came by.
This plow had a mission: to move the snow and slush as fast as possible out of the street. If pedestrians who waited to cross or to catch a bus happened to be in the way, so be it. Traffic must move! It barreled through the intersection, throwing up slush on everyone waiting for the bus. No piece of fabric that hung below the knee survived unsoaked. One victim muttered a curse, hastily apologizing afterward to the one woman in the group. Another victim tried to brush his trousers dry, succeeding in wetting his gloves and not much else.
Illya shook his head. So much for optimism.
The bus came; the passengers boarded, paid their fares, and found seats. Illya chose a spot near the back door and worked hard not to notice how soggy his trousers felt against his shins. The bus crawled up Chicago Avenue for a mile or so, then merged onto Sheridan Road. As it neared Noyes Street, Illya rang the bell. The bus stopped; he pushed his way out of the back, his foot landing in an unexpected mound of snow and slush. “Merde,” he muttered as he shook the remnants off his leg. At least he had a space heater under his desk. He would smell like wet dog most of the day while he dried off, but his trousers (and now sock and shoe) would actually dry.
The grounds department had done an outstanding job removing the snow from the Tech Institute courtyard, so his walk up to the grand entrance seemed relatively pleasant. Entering the formidable building, with that first whoosh of warm air mixed with the ever-present background tinge of science floating over and around him, he felt restored. Even the grungy condition of the tile floor didn’t bother him, because he was inside and closer to wrapping up the assignment, even if closer was measured in mere seconds and not in actual movement. He took the nearest flight of stairs up to the third floor, then weaved his way through the maze of small corridors and poorly-marked doors that lead to his office/lab.
Chemical marvels lived next door, along with a lab assistant who had ties to Thrush. The professor in charge had no clue, of course. Illya had spent the past two weeks becoming friendly and borrowing lab notes whenever the assistant wasn’t around. The Russian unwrapped himself, hung up his outerwear, removed the galoshes, and brought his briefcase over to his desk. He retrieved paper and tea. Sitting, he reached under his desk to turn on the space heater. He poured himself some tea, dug out his earphone from the main desk drawer, pulled out the listening device (disguised as a transistor radio) from his jacket, and plugged into the soundscape of the adjoining room.
So far, so good. He could hear someone puttering about, but because it lacked a pattern, he assumed it was Professor Kettlewall and not his feathered friend. He sipped his tea and began to read the paper.
He had gotten to the editorial page when the door next door slammed open—so loudly that he didn’t need his listening device to hear it. He calmly stood, finishing his tea in one gulp. He shook a leg experimentally—yes, definitely smelled like wet dog, but already much drier than when he arrived. The lab assistant had reported, and was apparently revealing his true self to his supposed-boss. A perfect cue to make a well-planned entrance, Illya decided. Grabbing his thermos, he hurried next door.
Strolling in casually, he exclaimed, “Ah, Kettlewall, there you are, I’m all out of sugar for my tea.”
The Thrush agent spun, startled. Illya sloshed the tea in his face, then knocked him out while he tried to shake hot liquid out of his eyes.
Kettlewall—a squat, balding man in a stained lab coat and rumpled clothing—gaped at the Russian.
“I’ll explain everything in a moment, Professor.” He pulled out his communicator. “Open Channel F….” he signaled, feeling relieved. Somehow that punch made up for the more than fortnight worth of poor weather—especially if it meant he could return to New York soon.