Author's Note – This is the original, unchanged story set entirely in the 1960s Man From U.N.C.L.E. universe. For the longer NCIS crossover version, please see the Crossover section for either Man From U.N.C.L.E. or NCIS. For readers of The Mallard Chronicles, I apologise for the long wait for the next chapter, I will complete as soon as possible.

Approximately thirty years ago…

'Oi! Advertising! How much are we putting into NOT advertising?'

'You spent two days on graphs? What have you been doing? Making them out of platinum?'

'Hey! I found him painting banners for Section 8's party!'

'I need that report done NOW!'

All in all the usual sounds of Section 10: one of the lowest sections within the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement's New York Office. The other sections have nicknamed the place "Research, History and Useless Trivia" or RHUT for short. Of course they pronounce it without the 'H' so it sounds like rut.

There is really only one reason any work gets done around here in this level full of slackers and clowns and that's me. I'm the one no one really notices – their gaze just sort of slides a foot or so to the left whenever I'm around. I spend the majority of my time sitting in a corner with a pen in my mouth, notepad in hand and the quarterly reports sprawled around me. I cannot begin to tell you how many pen lids I've chewed in half over the years. No one remembers me in any great detail (and in a building full of spies this is quite an achievement) unless they have a report due at nine and they've only just remembered at half past ten the night before and even then they couldn't tell you my hair colour. I think I might dye it pink…

I don't mind though – not really, I mean, who would want to get shot at for a living? Don't answer that. Anyway in this profession inbuilt perception filters come in handy. Sometimes it even gives me a ticket up to Section One (okay so it was to drop off a financial report and it's not like I've ever been up to the Boss' office.)

Move over Invisible Man here comes The Ghost Woman. Geez that sounded corny even to me.

Anyway, there I was, in my corner surrounded by an entire section's worth of paperwork and in the midst of a grand old argument with my calculator when the comm. System kicked in. I'm so used to it not being me it doesn't register with my brain anymore so it was back to how much we spent on industrial strength staples for me.

I didn't think anymore of it until Jackson, our latest intern from "Section Non-existent" (we really don't know where these interns come from or where we go) waved me back to reality.

'Uh, Miss Marzen? It is Miss Marzen, isn't it?'

I nodded and went straight back to the cost of watch repairs. Thast's the tihing with constantly keeping high explosives inside them – sometimes they just don't work afterwards.

'Uh, Miss.' He continued. 'Mr. Waverly would like to see you in his office. That was the P.A. announcement.'

I nearly dropped my calculator at the mention of "Mr. Waverly", "you" and "office" in the same sentence.

'Uh, when was this?' I spluttered, removing my half chewed pen from my teeth.

'About ten minutes ago, Miss.'

'Shiza!' I swore, dropping everything as I rocketed to my feet. For possibly the first and last time practically the entire section stared right at me as I sprinted for the corridor, pushing people every-which-way in my haste.

I bypassed the lifts, bounding up the stairs, down the corridor, round the corner to…

SLAM!

I ended up flat on the floor having run into a…

Tall…

Blond…

Blue eyed…

Black leather shoulder holster wearing…

Section Two agent…

Shiza.

'I'm sorry sir.' I mumbled, waiting for the inevitable typhoon as I studied the floor just in front of his shiny shoes but the reprimand never came. Instead he stooped down and helped me to my feet.

'Miss Marzen, I presume?'

His icy blue eyes softened and his low voice sounded… British? No, that wasn't quite it. There was something else underneath.

'Yeah.' I stammered. 'Julie.' God his eyes were blue.

'Illya Kuryakin.'

Shiza – not British – Russian! I had just run full force into Waverly's golden boy. Literally. And that must mean…

'Hey Illya.' A dark head popped around the ajar door to Section One, Number One's office. 'Have you found, oh – I see you have.' He straightened himself and his tie before coming around to stand just off his partner's shoulder. He offered me his hand and turned his smile up a notch. I notice though, it we not as brilliant as the one he reserved for his partner.

'Napoleon Solo. And you are?'

Kuryakin answered before I had even opened my mouth. (Or closed it for that matter)

'Napoleon this is Miss Julie Marzen of section ten. Miss Marzen this is Napoleon Solo. Napoleon I suggest you keep your distance – I hear she has one hell of a right hook.'

I blushed scarlet. It seemed the tale of my flooring the most arrogant, egotistical intern UNCLE ever had had travelled further up the metaphorical grape vine than anticipated. The bastard had it coming anyway and it certainly explains why our current interns are little more than jittering flibitigibits.

'Coming Partner Mine? The Old Man's waiting.' Solo gestured back to the solid door, behind which resided the formidable head of UNCLE.

I mentally prepared myself using the calm before the storm that was bound to come while steering myself for an absolute ear bashing. Why else would I be flanked by two side arm wearing Section Two's?

Waverly has a kind of unnerving presence about him. He raised his steely gaze from the folder before him and I gulped involuntarily. It looked like mine. It was certainly thin enough to be. Then he did something quite unexpected – he smiled

'Ah, Miss Marzen. Please sit down. Would you care for a biscuit?'

'Tea or coffee?' Solo asked from a side board and Kuryakin appeared off my left elbow bearing a tray filled with a large assortment of snacks.

Well like I said, that was completely unexpected.