THE RETURN OF R.A.G.E. AFFAIR

Chapter 1

"…it's real"

1964

Del Floria's, a few short steps down from the busy sidewalk, in a significantly cleaner New York City, is the site of the singular secretive entrance to a relatively new top-secret organization: United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

A chauffeur-driven sedan, not quite a limousine yet not some modest mode of transportation, stopped in front of Del Floria's, so that the distinctly distinguished gentleman riding in its rear could climb out with his heavy briefcase of finest leather, which the man with the bushy eyebrows carried so cavalierly.

His name: Alexander Waverly. His top secret identification: Number 1, Section 1, newly elevated leader of U.N.C.L.E. His soon-to-be-altered future: Death.

"Excuse me, sir," said a grimy hobo, much more common some forty years hence than in 1964, "could you possibly spare a little change so I can buy a cup of coffee?"

Though the tramp in dirty, torn clothing, with befouled fedora and long, greasy hair purposely hiding one-half of his unseen face, seemed harmless enough in this far less dangerous sidewalk scene, such an assumption would prove to be deadly, as Mr. Waverly stopped to scoop out a handful of coins from his tailored suit's pocket.

"Certainly, my good man," said Mr. Waverly via his prim and proper British accent. "Always happy to help someone who might be down on his luck. Perhaps this is sufficient to purchase a bit of breakfast as well."

"You're too kind," said the transient with one hand extended for the change, while the other suddenly pulled a handgun not yet a part of this time-period: a police-issue Glock 9mm with silencer extension, as a half-scarred countenance was revealed to be none-other-than Darien Driscoll, future chieftain of THRUSH. "Time to die, Mr. Waverly."

"What…?" started the shocked bushy-browed bureaucratic head of U.N.C.L.E. even as two whispered shots hit Mr. Waverly square in the chest. "Uhnnn!"

Creating a serious twisting of the past in order to significantly alter all that was still to come from 1964 all the way forward into the first few years of the next century.

Even as Alexander Waverly fell face-first onto the sidewalk, directly in front of Del Floria's, Darien hurriedly removing the dirty Fedora, the ragged clothing, and the greasy wig.

Then, as per his pre-planned getaway, Darien leapt into a parked two-seater Thunderbird, in order to return to where he would return to his starting point forty years into the future, where he knew his past-time assassination of the newly-assigned U.N.C.L.E. head would ensure a much more powerful entity called Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity, as well as his own improved existence as a chieftain whose face was not scarred. And where such as he still ruled THRUSH with a proverbial iron fist that no longer had to have its scars hidden within a black leather glove.

Darien Driscoll would also find that the impact of his actions four decades earlier would have an equally life-altering action regarding two young U.N.C.L.E. agents essentially just starting out as, originally, two very successful operatives. Not to mention constant irritants to THRUSH, in general, and Darien, in particular.

And all because Darien Driscoll had the forethought to have two THRUSH HQs develop underground super-subatomic accelerators codenamed: R.A.G.E….Retro-temporal Anti-Gamma Emitting unit.

Which the THRUSH chief had used to make an excruciatingly painful trip across four preceding decades…

"Hey, mister," said a citizen after happening upon the unmoving man lying facedown before Del Floria's, "you all right?"

Upon closer inspection, this Good Samaritan of a much more civilized New York City saw two bleeding-out wounds in the downed man's chest, causing him to shout out, "Hey! Somebody get help! This man's been shot!"

2007

Moments before Alexander Waverly's premature death at the hands of a present-day THRUSH chieftain…

Napoleon Solo, over-the-hill, but still suave and handsome, had just rolled away from the twenty-something woman with whom he'd had a late-night tryst in his elegantly decorated, exclusive New York City condominium's master bedroom.

"Well", he heaved with a smile, "looks like the exercise regimen I've been following really did increase my stamina."

Suddenly, just as his bedmate smiled in equal satisfaction and rolled toward the older, though still sexy, super-secret U.N.C.L.E. agent in order to lay her blonde-haired head on his gray-haired chest…

…Darien Driscoll killed Alexander Waverly, sending ripples through time which now saw…

…Napoleon Solo, a failed ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent, responsible for successfully killing Andrew Vulcan with a 9mm bullet through the forehead way back in 1964, but not until that THRUSH chieftain had managed to kill a lot more innocent individuals, including a beautiful lady, whose name escapes his alcohol-befuddled mind, that had been killed in his stead.

Napoleon never recovered from that first failure. Not fully. And it wasn't long before other failures as an U.N.C.L.E. operative became so numerous that his fellow agent and potential new friend, Illya Kuryakin, was killed on their very first mission affair as a team.

And now, long after the ex-agent's dismal dismissal from U.N.C.L.E.…

…an overweight, alcoholic, balding Napoleon Solo awoke, in a cold sweat, in his rundown and dirty brownstone apartment located in one of New York's seedier areas.

Awoke to seriously consider ending his useless life, again, with the Walther P38 he'd carried during his all-too-brief career as a field agent for U.N.C.L.E.

With badly shaking hands, Napoleon pressed the muzzle flush against his deeply lined forehead, with his thumb loitering deathly close to the trigger which, with very little pressure, would send a single 9mm Parabellum bullet through his brain in order to instantly end a lifetime filled with a too-soon-aborted vocation as a secret agent.

As had been the case countless times before, something deep down stopped the ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent from committing a suicidal act of penance.

"Still don't have the guts, do you, Solo?" Napoleon finally said to himself as, yet again, the fully loaded Walther P38 was set aside so that this alcoholic loser could cling to his laughable life a little longer. "One of these days, I will pull that trigger. Then…"

Even as the slightly obese and definitely balding ex-agent took another in an endless amount of mind-numbing gulps from the ever-present bedside bottle of cheap Jack Daniel's whiskey, his mind was suddenly filled with fleeting images of a pseudo-memory from a far different life.

One not destroyed by a guilt-ridden man from U.N.C.L.E. who'd had no wise old owl-like mentor named Alexander Waverly. One not devoid of the pride in one's self needed to rise to and remain a suave, always-handsome Napoleon Solo that, in truth, such as he had apparently been in some other time-period than the one he had lived.

"What the…?"

In the span of a few seconds, an entire alternate lifetime flashed before those once clear hazel eyes that held out a hope for a life as one of two extra-special agents of U.N.C.L.E.

That other being none-other-than…

"Illya!" said a teary-eyed Napoleon even as, immediately after, a frighteningly familiar half-scarred face danced across his mind's eye. "Darien…Driscoll…? I…I remember…R-A-G-E…THRUSH and…time-travel…it's real!"

END OF CHAPTER 1