“Aah!” the henchman cries out as his fist made contact with Curt’s stomach, probably hurting him more than it did the intended target.

“You’re even stronger than your reputation suggests, Mr. Mega,” the man says. This one definitely has the authority in the duo, his strong Russian accent commanding the other man.

“Perhaps a more serious method of extraction is in order,” he says as Curt struggles underneath his bonds.

“Do your worst,” Curt says. He wonders whether his voice is a giveaway for how scared he really is. Owen would know what to do in this situation. Maybe saying something cool would work.

“I’m like a Russian nesting doll. You may break me down, but there are four more of me waiting inside. Pretty soon you’ll be left with just a tiny version of me,” maybe that sound a little less cool than he thought. His interrogator’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“I… Do not understand what that means. But I do understand the sound of a man in pain. Do you fancy nursery rhymes, Mr. Mega?” Curt doesn’t respond.

“Oleg!” that must be the other guy’s name, because the smaller man comes bustling over, knife in hand. Oleg took Curt’s hand in his, examining it closely.

“Which little piggy is it going to be, huh? This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home…” Oleg went on reciting the popular nursery rhyme, counting Curt’s fingers, the knife a little too close for comfort to them. After a while, Curt had finally had enough of Oleg counting pointlessly. In one simple movement, he had flipped his hand over and bent back Oleg’s fingers, most likely breaking a few of them.

“That little piggy will have to nurse multiple fractures for three to five weeks. Oink, oink,” Curt says casually, adding the last part as some comedic value. Some might argue that saving his country is a little more important than sarcastic comments, but he’ll agree-to-disagree. His interrogator doesn’t seem to find this funny, however.

“Now, that is a version I’ve never heard before,” he pauses, seemingly contemplating what to say next. “You know, it would be really, really… Nice, if you just showed us the blueprints,” he said, his accent slipping a little. Curt knew instantly what this mans true identity was. It would probably be best to play along for the time being. His opponent continues speaking.

“How about I use American sports metaphor? Are you ready to, how you say, play ball?” Curt spits on the ground in front of him.

“Oleg. Crush his testicles,” shit. As Oleg lines up his shot with a baseball batt, Curt thinks. Maybe if he keeps making conversation, he could postpone the inevitable pain.

“Swing, batter-batter-batter, swing! Come on!” Curt says, in an effort to tick off his assailants. Oleg is just about to hit him when Curt decides it’s too early for this crap and kicks him in the shin instead. Oleg shys away from him in pain. The taller man is obviously frustrated now.

“God, no! Enough of this circus! How can you be so cool and collected while staring death right in the face? Where do you get off?” as it turns out, apparently Curt can hide his panic relatively well. This is going swimmingly. He answers him coolly “Bedroom, shower, maybe in the backseat of a limousine. But I don’t think we’re there just yet. Maybe on or next date I’ll let you get to second base,” this man is very annoyed by now, and Curt can barely contain his smugness.

“So that’s how you want to play this game, huh? Oleg, stand back,” Oleg does so, most likely not wanting to get hit with what ever the man

quite literally

has up his sleeve. He reaches into the sleeve of his coat and pulls out… A feather. Oh no.

“Shit,” Curt says. This is one of the worst possible outcomes. The man walks closer to him, and starts ticking him with the feather behind his ears. This guy’s methods of torture are strange, but they sure are working. Curt starts laughing uncontrollably, begging him to stop, “Stop, please! Oh God, okay! I’m working for the American Secret Service! We need pictures of the new weapons you’ve been developing so we don’t- please stop!” he wouldn’t be giving up this information if he didn’t know exactly who this man was. In fact, Curt would rather be tickled to death than give it up. But this is different. After all, he’s 99% sure of this man’s true identity now.

“How could you possibly know I’m deathly ticklish behind my neck and ears?” Curt asks, knowing full well the answer.

“Hmm, well, personal history does have it’s benefits, Mega. Oleg we’re finished here,” he takes out a gun and shoots Oleg’s legs, knocking him onto the floor. Poor guy. He’s had a full day of abuse here. “Sorry to cut you down old boy. Thanks for a lovely afternoon of letting off some steam,” when the man speaks again, it’s in his normal voice, the Queen’s-English British accent

contrasting to Curt's North-American one

that Curt knows and loves. It’s Owen.

“Owen Carvour, you limey bastard,” Curt says as Owen unties him. He gives up after thirty seconds and just cuts the ropes with a knife. Curt stand up, brushing pieces of rope off him.

“I knew it was you all along. That accent could sure use some work, though,” Owen replies as they walk over to where Oleg is lying, “Sod off, it fooled twenty Russian security offices and our dear friend, Oleg, over here,” Oleg looks up at them in confusion and pain.

“You sure let him go to town on me, didn’t you?” Curt said.

"Yeah, I thought it might be good to knock you around a bit. Good for the ego," Curt nods resignedly. "Also, I figured his day was about to get a whole lot worse," Owen adds.

"Good point. Well, I hope you at least had some fun. We sure did." Olegs eyes dart around rapidly in his paralysed state. "What is happening?" he chokes out.

"Well, you've just been used for sport by two of the world's greatest spies," Owen says, crouching down to Oleg's level. Curt continues, "And I'm about to escape this compound with the blueprints I've stolen,"

"Undoubtedly killing countless men along the way,"

"And although we may have obliterated your knees,"

"You'll probably be one of the few who survives," Owen finishes.

"So?" Oleg says.

"So, you're welcome," Curt replies sarcastically as Owen knocks out Oleg with the handle of his gun. They both then start running their well-traced route, Owen slightly faster than Curt.

"Try to keep up, old pal!" Owen shouts behind him.

"Alright…" Curt begins to speak but is distracted by his high-tech watch beeping. 'Incoming call: Cynthia >:

' He sighs before pressing 'Accept'.

"Mega! Where the hell are you?!" Cynthia's irritated voice fills the. hallways as they stop running, "Quit your tomfuckery and get me those nuclear weapon blueprints immediately," Owen grabs Curt's wrist and pus the speaker on the watch closer to him.

"Consider it done, Cynthia, you can expect those blueprints on the double," he says almost calmly. When Cynthia speaks next, she sounds less angry, more satisfied. "Is that Owen? Thank God, someone who actually knows what the hell they're doing," Curt makes a mocking face at Owen as Cynthia continues, "MI6 didn't tell me you were on this mission,"

"Well, there's a reason they call it the Secret Service- CURT BEHIND YOU!" Curt turns around just in time to see Owen shoot two guards that were running up behind Curt. Cynthia laughs, "Funny and focussed. Listen, if you ever wanna leave those stuff-shirted redcoats you work for…"

"I believe they call that treason, my dear," Owen responds, half amused. Cynthia is quiet for a second before speaking "Our door is always open."

"Gotta go!" Curt quickly hangs up the call and buses himself by checking his gun. Owen laughs. "What, are you jealous? You know I'd never work for the Americans" he says with a hint of disdain in his voice.

"Oh, I do know… That you couldn't handle it," Curt mutters the first part as he realises how immature it sounded, taking out a flask of bourbon. Owen takes it from him before he gets any chance to drink any, however.

"Curt, not until we're out of here,"

"Yes, 'Not until the job' s done'" Curt mimics Owen's British accent and they continue running.