THE BACK TO THE BEGINNING AFFAIR

Chapter 2

"…just another day at the office"

"Uhhhhnnnn…"

Illya Kuryakin was semi-conscious. Every inch of his over-the-hill physicality was filled with pulsating pain. The distinct taste of blood coated his tongue.

The last thing this man from U.N.C.L.E. could clearly recall, and, just as strangely, in a slow-motion manner, was…

"Don't…open…that!"

A split-second, in real time, such seemed incredibly elongated within the half-conscious mind and memory of Illya, after Napoleon Solo shouted such a last-minute admonition to their U.N.C.L.E. leader, Allison Hall…

…as near instantaneous triggers were tripped after Ms. Hall lifted off the curious box's bulk, Illya valiantly dove over the oval metal desk separating her from these two older U.N.C.L.E operatives...

…spinning her around while also sending both of them down hard to the equally metallic floor as…

BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!

…the resulting explosion savagely tore through her petite torso to destroy not just skin, muscle, and bone, but vital organs, as well and…

…ending up with Illya lying next to a bleeding-out, rapidly dying chief of U.N.C.L.E., as Napoleon lay on the opposite side of the oval metal escritoire.

"Napoleon?" Illya called out with palpable pain still shooting through his extremities, even though, thankfully, no bones were broken.

"I'm…alive, Illya," coughed an equally agonized, but not permanently damaged, Napoleon Solo from the far side of the blast-proof office.

"Ms. Hall?" asked a still-shaken Illya Kuryakin, finally looking at the lovely lady lying close by. "Are you…?"

His question was swallowed whole by what he saw and swiftly substantiated.

Ms. Allison Hall, Number 1, Section 1, was not only bleeding profusely from multiple lacerations all about her head and body, but was quite clearly suffering from extensive internal bleeding, as was evidenced by large amounts of dark red blood slowly pouring from her trembling mouth.

Illya suddenly became completely revitalized and totally neglected his own injuries, while kneeling next to that explosion-shattered, bleeding-out body.

"Ms. Hall? Allison? Just…lie still. We'll get you to Medical and…"

Slightly shaking her head that, due to the damage done to her entire external and internal Self, caused caustic suffering to assault Allison Hall, as those tremulous lips spoke barely loud enough for a leaning nearer Illya to hear at all.

"Illya…I…I l-love…y-you. A-avenge…m—"

With that, her bedroom eyes became milky remnants lifelessly staring out. Her heaving chest, so full and firm, became completely still. Her arms and legs limp and unmoving.

"Allison," barely breathed Illya Kuryakin in agonized realization of not only the love she felt for him, but the sudden ascent of such love he finally felt for her. Tears threatening to expose such to all around, even as a slightly shaking hand slowly closed those once enticing eyes. "I'm…sorry."

What, exactly, Illya was "sorry" about would invariably remain his deep-seated secret. Even from Napoleon Solo, now standing and striding around the orbed desk, whom reacted in a far more common manner.

"Damn."

And what of that traitorously smirking member of U.N.C.L.E., Agent 19, who'd walked hurriedly into the office with a big box supposedly sent from agents-in-the-field holding out the reputed promise of somehow stopping THRUSH for good?

"Well, Napoleon!" Illya said somewhat emotionally, something most definitely not characteristic of the Russian-born secret agent.

"Dead," Napoleon said with a sigh of frustration after pressing the fingertips of one hand against the heavily bloodied neck, directly under the jaw, in order to detect even a faint trace of a pulse. "Looks like THRUSH found a way to 'convince' an actual agent of U.N.C.L.E. into this…suicide bombing. One guess as to who's responsible…"

"Darien Driscoll," snarled Illya so viciously that it actually caused Napoleon to look up with a seldom-seen scowl of disbelief in respect to his Russian friend of 43 years.

"G'day, mates," greeted the broad-shouldered, square-jawed Aussie, Eric Alexander, desperately trying to lighten an extremely tense situation as two over-the-hill agents, having already received treatment for minor injuries in Medical before obtaining freshly tailored suits to replace what the bomb blast had basically ruined. "Uh…sorry 'bout what happened to…"

"What have you got for us, Mr. Alexander?" curtly asked a still-distressed and inwardly irate Illya Kuryakin of the much younger man currently in charge of Section 8, also colloquially called "the Lab", who actually held out hero-worship for this Russian-born older operative.

"Well," Eric readily replied, "we've got no more Walther P38's or pen communicators, lads. As ya already know, such had been completely replaced o'er the years since you two were fresh young faces workin' for U.N.C.L.E., so…"

The big Aussie brought forth specially retooled pistols that instantly snagged the attention of two out-of-retirement secret agents, even as Eric excitedly explained.

"These are Ruger P90s. Both .45 Autos. Hard-coated aircraft-quality aluminum frames. Rugged steel slides. Nearly indestructible polycarbonate grips, willfully formed with finger indents to give an agent better control. Standard clip holds eight rounds. Longer ammo clips available for carbine conversion. Speaking of which…I have improved upon those attachments, mates."

As Eric turned to retrieve said attachments, Illya, still secretly saddened and angered over the loss of Allison Hall, whom he had come to comprehend had a hidden Love for him, and Napoleon looked at one another in an unspoken expression of severe skepticism.

Until this green-eyed young agent in charge of The Lab returned with two new attachment packs, which were also designed to attach to the soft shoulder holster, instead of behind the back, for easier, swifter access.

"Now," said Eric in his Australian accent, "normally you blokes would have to screw on all o' this…the barrel extension, shoulder stock, telescopic sight. But no more! Just for you, my team and I've come up with a powerful magnetic attachment system that'll save precious seconds whene'er ya need to go from pistol to full-auto carbine quickly. Here, mates…try it out."

Handing each the newer, softer shoulder holsters holding easy-access attachment packs and, of course, the black Ruger P90s.

With the practiced skill of decades-old field agents of U.N.C.L.E., both Napoleon and Illya easily slipped out the specially tooled articles that, as so excitedly extolled by the Aussie in custodial care and leadership of The Lab, swiftly and simply slipped into place over barrel, top of pistol, and back of grip. Followed swiftly by the replacing of the normal ammo clip for the extra-long one.

Almost instantly turning pistol into precision carbine. Full-auto capable.

As Illya and Napoleon gave one another nods of mutual admiration, the Aussie said, "And you can turn 'em back into pistols just as quickly. Go ahead, mates."

With the ease, swift and sure, of a child pulling apart Lego blocks, these two older men from U.N.C.L.E. turned carbines back into pistols, as well as more readily replacing these extra-special magnetic attachments into the shoulder-holster positioned packs.

"Not bad, Eric," Napoleon said with an approving expression and commendatory nod.

"Yes," added Illya stonily, as he next asked, "What about our pen communicators?"

An even broader grin graced Eric Alexander's square-jawed countenance as he wriggle-wagged a forefinger in a teasing fashion…

"I think meself and me team have come up with somethin' you lads'll love."

While walking away in order to retrieve their newest devices for clandestinely contacting the New York U.N.C.L.E. from anywhere in the world, Eric continued. "Even though we have plenty o' PDA cells and regular cells that you buggers could carry so's no one would suspect as being anything all that different to what the majority o' people carry nowadays, I knew that you two would want somethin' special. Somethin' ya could use easily and carry comfortably, so…"

Eric smilingly extended two quasi-expensive 150th Anniversary Limited Edition Cross ballpoint pens: black top, sleek silvery shaft, sturdy metal pocket clip, a total of six black lines encircling said pen under its pocket clip as well as three barely an inch or so above the retractable writing tip. Easily selling for $500 in most retail stores.

"Very beautiful," Napoleon said appreciatively, while also admiring the pen's perfect equilibrium via easily balanced it upon the tip of his forefinger.

"How does it work?" was Illya's always logical and straight-to-the-point question of the still-smiling Aussie.

"Ah," quickly replied Eric as he took Illya's from his hand and pressed upward firmly with his own thumb's tip upon the small silvery ball at the very end of the metal pocket clip until an audible, yet still slight, click! was heard. "Here ya go, mates. Easy as pie…as you American's like to say."

In far less time than it would've taken to manually reconfigure a pen into a cylindrical communicator before, this one automatically and quickly converted itself. First, by permitting the top to pop up and reveal an extremely small-yet-powerful speaker-microphone combo. While, at exactly the self-same instant, the expensive pen's ballpoint bottom popped out about an inch to provide a powerful transmitting/receiving antenna.

"And," said Eric barely an instant after, while placing his thumb's tip atop the pocket clip's smooth surface in order to press ever-so-slightly downward, "it returns to ink pen mode just as quickly. Y'see? And as an extra for you lads, unlike those older pen communicators ya carried, these can actually write."

It was visibly clear that these old-fashioned U.N.C.L.E. agents did, indeed, approve and accept their replacement pieces, seeing as how their original Walther P38s, old screw-on carbine attachments, and old pen communicators were destroyed during their last mission affair far beneath London, England.

"I hate to admit it, Eric," Napoleon shrugged, abandoning his adamant notion that we like the old ways best!, "these truly are acceptable alternatives to our previous pistols and pens. Well done, kid."

"Thank ya, mate," a broadly grinning Eric Alexander said as he next turned green eyes toward the blonde-haired, blue-eyed archetypal hero.

Slowly, Illya lifted his head and, even more slowly, smiled and nodded, "Most acceptable, Eric. Good work."

"Now," Napoleon lamented in a purposely-satirical tone and facial affectation, "all we have to do is put these newest tools to good use…against THRUSH."

"Sounds like just another day at the office, old friend," Illya said somewhat facetiously.

END OF CHAPTER 2