THE TIME BEFORE NOW AFFAIR

Act 1

"This just keeps getting better…"

Located in London, England, just south of Stafford Place, dangerously close to Buckingham Palace, itself, was a freshly fabricated super-secret location ostensibly civilian in actual above-ground surroundings, yet, in actuality, the categorical heart of THRUSH activities on this side of the vast Atlantic.

Some six-hundred meters beneath said street, within walking distance of the accepted seat of British royalty, THRUSH had reestablished a subterranean, the second largest in the whole world, headquarters from which such as the fully half-scarred countenance of Darien Driscoll acted as supreme master of all THRUSH's secret sites and super-terrorist activities.

No longer willing to be looked upon with even the most subconscious reaction of repugnance, Darien Driscoll now hid his half-melted, for lack of a more ameliorate appellation to essentially describe the extensive scarring defining one-half of the THRUSH chieftain's once-handsome facial features, as well as one black-gloved appendage, underneath an expensive, purplish silken hood with a single perfectly aligned eyehole, positioned precisely against that singularly remaining good eye.

Strangely, such simply solidified the overall look of a supremely perceived leader of an underground counter-everything organization as secretively held hidden from the rest of the world as readily as any of the four or five U.N.C.L.E. headquarters officially fronted by quite legitimized businesses.

Such as…

In New York City, a couple of city streets south of the United Nations headquarters, where once it had been successfully fronted by Del Floria's, a tiny tailor's retail store, and, now, the supposedly official site of a smallish Starbucks coffee emporium, a dead giveaway as to its nonofficial status, should someone care to consider such…

…through a secretive entrance behind semi-fake racks of Starbucks supplies, accessible only via specially preprogrammed agent-only plastic keycards…

…down stainless steel halls built to last and to withstand explosive forces up to and including an exterior-placed small suitcase Nuke…

…past numerous rooms wherein U.N.C.L.E. employees, each appropriately dressed and brandishing clip-on upside-down triangle, and color-coded, badges with section-specific one-to-two digit integers…

…lastly, entering the anteroom just this side of the always closed-and-magnetically locked blast-proof door behind which the current director of the New York U.N.C.L.E., United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, HQ could almost always be found, after an U.N.C.L.E. executive secretary/receptionist, sometimes a male and sometimes a female, acknowledged active agents' arrival via attaching of proper upside-down triangle badges…

…before fingertip-tapping a pressure-sensitive flashing control square in order to unlock and open said blast-proof inner office door…

…so that summoned U.N.C.L.E. operatives could attend a top secret pre-mission affair briefing with this U.N.C.L.E. Number 1, Section 1 personage…

"Be seated, gentlemen," said an already seated Allison Hall, beautiful-but-all business as well as exceptionally proud of the fact she currently wore the official upside-down triangular/color-coded U.N.C.L.E. badge proclaiming that such as she was the Number "1" over this decades-old headquarters of the world-wide super-secret organization.

Sitting across said circular, smooth metal escritoire, currently in a couple of ultra-modern armchairs, each wearing attached-to-coat pocket upside-down triangle tags specifically color-coded for Section 2 with operative-pertinent numbers "2" and "11", respectively, via two over-the-hill individuals called Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo.

Both previously retired from active U.N.C.L.E. service and, since then, by a short series of mere months, reactivated and given two important mission affairs that, quite literally, kept the Free World from falling into the heartless clutches of the recently resurrected, truly evil, entity known as THRUSH, Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity.

"Have you heard anything pertaining to this impending mission affair, Mr. Kuryakin…Mr. Solo?" asked, almost rhetorically, the lovely Allison Hall, prevailing leader of the New York U.N.C.L.E. HQ, whom secretly carried quite the torch for the still handsome, after all these decades, Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agent, but would never openly acknowledge such, especially to Illya.

"Not much, Ms. Hall," sarcastically said a smugly smirking Napoleon Solo, purposely promoting a certain amount of constant tension between a "boss" who, quite accurately, could be considered a daughter of the salt-and-pepper, handsomely dapper, hazel-eyed man from U.N.C.L.E. "Something to do with a London-based THRUSH?"

"Yes," said Illya as logically cold as usual during such official pre-affair briefings, "which brings to mind a question, Ms. Hall: Why doesn't the UK-based U.N.C.L.E. tend to this? Why us?"

Shooting a hard glare that silently bespoke of his captious desire to carry out any mission affair for any reason, since first tasting such excitement once again after a dozen or so years of inactivity as a retired operative, Napoleon hoped his longtime friend and fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent had not, in essence, tossed a proverbial bucket of water onto a barely burning campfire.

All Agent 11, Section 2, cared about in regards to being sent across the Atlantic was the potential A-type gratification to be had. End of discussion.

"Primarily, Illya, because parliament and the British prime minister," said a seductively stoic chieftain with big, bedroom eyes so seemingly wasted on someone so hell-bent upon such professionalism, "have recently curtailed all support, monetarily as well as militarily, for such top-secret sections of British society. At least, until certain elections have taken place. Besides…I believed the two of you would be best-suited to face down this THRUSH chief."

Suddenly perking up, while leaning forward just a little in his ultra-modern armchair, Napoleon slowly said, "Darien Driscoll…is in London?"

Nodding deeply, Ms. Hall half-swiveled her ultra-modern chair in the general direction of the just-opening, via flashing pressure-sensitive desktop control, stainless steel wall behind which awaited a high-def plasma screen that, again at the urging of a finger-tapped pressure-sensitive flashing colored control square, commenced displaying a wide variety of information-laden images even as the beautiful leader of the New York U.N.C.L.E. coldly elaborated.

"Based solely upon just-received Intel from a litany of international groups," she said solemnly, occasionally glancing at these two aging agents, even though Illya Kuryakin's perpetually cute, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Russian-American appearance continued to intrigue her emotionally, "this is where THRUSH has established another subterranean center. One, apparently, on the verge of probable completion of a retro-temporal system quite capable of transporting at least two THRUSH agents to…"

"Uh," interrupted Illya a second or so after sharing a tense say-what? instant with Napoleon Solo, "excuse me, Ms. Hall, but did you say 'retro-temporal'?"

"Yes, that's right, Mr. Kuryakin."

"As in," Napoleon Solo added by way of fishing for a more precise explanation from the lovely lady in control of the New York U.N.C.L.E., "'going back in time'? As in…time travel?"

"Yes, Mr. Solo," she said tensely and tersely, although her carefully covered affectivity toward Illya Kuryakin slightly staggered her response. "Uhm, we, uh, have very reliable evidence that, uh, THRUSH scientists and technicians have developed a device that can, quite literally, transport two agents at a time several decades into the past. To 1964, specifically. Once there, they intend to travel to New York City and, uhm…"

"And," cut in Illya with a feeling of finality to tone and affectation, "look up two younger U.N.C.L.E. agents…to kill."

"'Two younger U.N.C.L.E. agents?'" momentarily murmured Napoleon, before troubling realization settled into his slightly less scientifically-inclined forethought. "Uh, by that do you mean…us?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Solo," said Ms. Hall with a shallow shake of her head, while nervously clearing her throat. "Although our scientists and technicians aren't absolutely certain your, uh, deaths in a past time period would irrevocably affect the future…our present…it, uh, is nevertheless believed…"

"Better safe than sorry," interjected an inwardly anguished Napoleon Solo. "So, what're we supposed to do…fly over there and attempt to infiltrate and destroy this 'time-travel' contraption before…?"

"It may come to something much, much harder, Mr. Solo," said Ms. Hall somewhat stonily, having already deactivated the plasma screen so that high-def imagery immediately halted even as the blast-proof metallic wall closed and silently secured itself. "It may require that both of you…return to the past as well. And, as I'm sure I don't have to explain to you, Mr. Kuryakin, should one or both of you physically encounter your past-time Selves…"

"Great," groaned a graying Napoleon Solo while slowly sinking into the soft solidity of his ultra-modern chair, even as Illya Kuryakin seemed to suddenly become intensely intrigued. "This just keeps getting better, doesn't it?"