Prologue
Beckett's curiosity finally got the better of him. He hadn't intended to give Ed the satisfaction, but what the hell, he just had to ask: "Ed, why are you fitting the toaster with a speaker?"
Ed gave Beckett a look that implied that he had just asked a really silly question. "So it can talk of course."
"Of course," Beckett wondered why he hadn't thought of that himself. He sat back down and watched Ed tinker around with the metallic toaster some more. In his opinion Ed was using far more chips and strange bits of twisted metal than necessary in order to make the toaster talk. A thought occurred to Beckett. He struggled to keep another question to himself, but it was no use. "Ed, why do you want the toaster to talk?"
"In the hope it'll provide better conversation than you," Ed muttered under his breath, tightening a screw. "So it'll tell you when the toast is ready."
"Funny, my toaster pops when the toast is ready. Clever thing I guess." Beckett was not impressed.
"Ha, ha, ha," Ed did not laugh. "I'm hoping it'll also be able to give advice on bread, you know, suggest it might be a good day to have a muffin instead of bread, or maybe a crumpet." Ed held up a micro-chip. "That's what this chip is supposed to do." He started to fit the chip in the toaster.
"Ros'll kill you," Beckett remarked.
"She'll love it," Ed said confidently.
"Not when she finds out you've been using her precious high-tech equipment stuff to turn her toaster into a bread advisor."
Ed smiled, with a little less confidence. "Nah, she'll think it's great."
"She'll think what's great?" Ros asked from the top of the spiral stairs. She looked down where Ed had been working. "What have you been using my sonic screwdriver for?"
"Um," Ed was reluctant to confess.
"Beckett?" Ros turned to the dark haired man.
"Hey," Beckett held his hands up. "Don't look at me."
"Thanks mate," Ed hissed.
"What else have you been using?" Ros started to come slowly down the stairs.
Ed surreptitiously dropped a cushion over the open box of chips.
Beckett, deciding that honesty (and self preservation) was the better course of action removed the cushion and held the box out to Ros.
Ros looked in the box. "And what have you been wasting my store of micro chips on?"
Beckett pushed Ed aside so Ros had a clear view of the toaster. "Cleaning out the crumbs?" She asked.
"Not exactly," Ed admitted.
"Does it still toast?"
"Sure," Ed quickly screwed the base back on. "Chuck us a slice of bread, Beckett."
"May I?" Beckett asked, holding a slice of bread over the toaster.
"Go ahead."
Beckett dropped the bread in, and Ed pushed down the switch.
"It didn't say anything," Beckett observed with great disappointment.
"Was it supposed to?" Ros asked.
"It'll say when the toast is ready," Ed explained, scratching his head.
"Funny," Ros said, her voice laden with sarcasm, "it normally just pops."
"It didn't give you any bread advice," Beckett pointed out.
"Funny," Ros said. "Really funny guys."
"Well, you didn't ask it for any advice," Ed told Beckett.
"Ed," Ros suddenly shrieked. "You've got the setting on too high! You'll cremate it." Sure enough, a wisp of smoke was wafting up from the toaster.
"It's alright," Ed said quickly, "It's set to pop in twenty seconds."
A thin, metallic voice could be heard. "Help, fire, I'm burning."
"Quick!" Beckett made a lunge for the toaster. He got himself tangled up with Ros who had made the same move. Ed's fingers slipped across the timer mechanism as Ros and Beckett knocked into him.
"Rats!"
Three hands reached for the burning toaster.
Three hands touched the metallic casing.
Three hands vanished in a puff of smoke.
Fortunately the bodies attached to the hands vanished as well.
Act I......Cluck cluck!
Through the mesh on the cage, the chicken watched the scene being played out before her with interest. The man with blond hair had now fully backed into the corner of the room. The man wearing a white coat was reaching nearer and nearer to him, the syringe filled with the yellow liquid only an arms length away.
"Will you do something?" Blondie called out. He was quite cute, the chicken thought to herself.
The dark haired man in a suit levelled a gun at White Coat. The chicken clucked a warning.
White Coat turned briefly, as he turned back a woman interjected herself between him and Blondie. Two men appeared either side of Darky. It appeared they appeared too close.
The gun went off.
A red stain began to show on the back of the white coat. The man fell forwards.
The woman gave a cry of pain as the needle of the syringe was pushed into her arm. White Coat's dead weight forced the plunger down before he fell to the floor. Unalive.
A tear fell from the left eye of the chicken. She had been fond of White Coat.
"Um, allow me," Blondie stepped forward and gently removed the syringe from the woman's arm.
"What was in it?" She asked.
"We'll go into that in a moment," he smiled reassuringly at her. "My name is Illya Kuryakin, by the way."
"Ros Henderson. Is he dead?" She indicated the man on the floor.
Illya bent down to him. "Yes. Will you excuse me, I have to rebuke someone." Illya looked at Darky. "Napoleon, we were supposed to bring him in alive. Mr. Waverly is not going to be pleased."
"It wasn't my fault," Napoleon protested. "These two bumped into me." He pointed at the two men flanking him.
Beckett and Ed exchanged a look. "Uh, sorry," Ed apologised.
"I'm not all together sure," Beckett admitted. "Perhaps you could tell us where we are now?"
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Ed said slowly.
"Right," Ros agreed.
"Could we leave the explanations for a while, until we are in a more secure position?"
"Yes, good point Illya." Napoleon looked around. "I'll get what we need from this room, can you scout outside?"
Illya nodded, and started to move to the door. "Um, can I come?" Ed asked.
Illya looked at Ed appraisingly. The man was wearing a black turtleneck much the same as his own. It was a good sign. "Yes. This way."
Ten minutes later all five were running towards the hanger like garage where Ed and Illya had a car waiting. "There is a small problem," Illya said as they ran along. "The doors need to be manually held open. So Napoleon, you'll have to drive." Illya stopped beside a jeep. "Ed and I will catch you up."
Napoleon sighed as he made his way to the driver's door. "Let me," Ros offered.
"Uh oh," Beckett muttered under his breath.
"My pleasure," Napoleon held the door open.
"Go!" Ed yelled as he and Illya pulled back on the doors. The jeep sped through. Ed and Illya released the doors and ran after the jeep. Napoleon and Beckett leaned out of the back to pull the two runners in.
"When you yelled 'go', did you have any plans as to where to go?" Ros asked from the drivers seat.
Ed looked towards Illya for advice.
"Let me through," Illya ordered as he began to push his way to the front passenger seat. "Are you alright driving, or do you want me to take over?" He asked Ros.
"No, I'm fine. Honestly, I enjoy it."
"Good. Left...here!"
Ros swung the jeep into the narrow turning.
"Watch for a right just after a tall stone...there!"
The boys in the back hung on as the jeep careered to the right. "She's as bad as Illya," Napoleon muttered.
In the front Illya smiled with approval at Ros's driving. A few more directions and they were out of the woods. Well, actually they were in the woods, but that was what Illya wanted. "Drive into that bush," Illya said, pointing. Ros didn't hesitate.
"It's that lack of hesitation that makes me distrust her driving," Beckett remarked to Napoleon. Napoleon had often thought the same of Illya.
Ros stopped the jeep in the centre of the bush. "Everyone out," Illya ordered.
"What now?" Ed asked.
"This is now a more secure position, so would anyone care to offer an explanation," Illya invited.
Everyone looked at someone else.
"Shall I start?" Illya enquired politely.
"Uh oh," Napoleon recognised that tone of voice.
"Mr. Solo and myself were minding our own business, trying to capture an evil scientist, gain a sample of his serum and generally save the world from menace. From nowhere appear three people, two English, one Australian. Your turn." Illya turned to Beckett.
"Um, it started with a toaster..."
"A talking toaster." Ed wanted to clarify the toaster point.
"It caught fire..."
Twenty minutes later, and not much clearer, Napoleon and Illya thanked the trio for their explanation, which, if one was honest, wasn't much of an explanation.
"Meanwhile," Napoleon began. "I think we have a more pressing problem."
"Yes," agreed Illya, giving Ros a penetrating stare.
"What?" Asked Beckett.
"Eh?" Asked Ed.
"Cluck?" Asked Ros.
"Exactly," Illya and Napoleon said in unison.
"Explain please," Beckett asked nicely.
"Explain now," Ed demanded, not so nicely.
"Cluck CLUCK!" Ros...er, well clucked, definitely not nicely.
"Back in the car?" Napoleon asked Illya.
"I think not." Illya moved towards another bush. "I parked the helicopter in here."
"Where are you going Ed?" Beckett called, seeing Ed move towards the shrubbery on the other side of the path.
"I was just seeing if there was a jet fighter in this one," Ed said, peering through the foliage.
Illya cleared the bush from the helicopter. "Everyone in!" Illya shouted.
"We'll explain about the clucking thing on the way," Napoleon promised.
"On our way where?" Beckett inquired.
"Headquarters of course."
"Ok," Beckett shouted over the whirl of the helicopter blades. "We've had Illya's explanation and I don't understand a word of it. Now you try." He pointed at Napoleon.
"Sure. First of all you've got THRUSH, they're the bad guys, into worldwide domination, that sort of thing. Then you've got Dr. Bantam, mad, evil scientist type who wants to turn everyone into chickens." Napoleon checked to see if everyone was following him. Ed gave him the thumbs up.
"Dr. Bantam hooks up with THRUSH and between them they create a serum that turns people into chickens."
"Cluck, cluck!"
"Now don't get into a flap Ros," Ed sniggered, unable to resist.
"Please don't panic Miss Henderson," Napoleon interjected. "It only has the effect of making you cluck."
"Initially," added Illya from the joystick.
"Yes, thank you Mr. dour Russian that you are," Napoleon said. "You may later start imitating some of the actions of a chicken, but you will not actually turn into one. No feathers."
"Well I'm sure that Ros finds that comforting," Beckett said. "But do you have a cure, or a plan or something?"
"We did," Illya spoke up. "But Napoleon dropped it."
All eyes turned to the man with butter fingers.
"Oh look," Napoleon pointed. "UNCLE HQ, Bognor Regis."
Illya guided the helicopter down onto the landing pad and they all climbed out.
"This way," the man waiting to greet them gestured. "Did everything go alright?"
"Errr," Napoleon began, but the man interrupted.
"We were only expecting two of you, but never mind. We can always put a couple more spoonfuls of tea in the pot."
Three light grey corridors later our two favourite UNCLE agents were sitting in a windowless interview room with Ed and Beckett.
"What about Ros?" Ed asked.
"Doctor Morgan is checking her out. You can see her in a few minutes," Illya said reassuringly.
"And then what? Beckett asked.
Napoleon adjusted his tie. "We look at the material, examine the clues, identify the leads, discuss ideas and come up with a plan."
Beckett and Ed exchanged a glance. "Of course, what else!" They chorused.
...............
Several hours, a few frayed tempers and a tossed coin later they had a plan.
Act II......A slight sticky feeling
Solo and Beckett were back out on the Sussex roads, heading towards Brighton. "I'm glad we drew Brighton," Beckett commented. "I really didn't like the idea of the chicken farms."
Napoleon was in full agreement. "The smell for starters."
"And the noise," Beckett added.
"You know," Napoleon said thoughtfully. "I think I may be allergic to feathers."
They drove on in silence for a bit, contemplating the horrors of chicken farms. There was more traffic on the road now as people headed towards the coast, ready for a day stretching out on the Sussex sands or pushing ha-pennies into the pier amusements. It wasn't long before they were driving along the seafront at Brighton, and Beckett forced himself not to make comparisons with how it had looked last time he had been there. Instead of roller-bladers there were scooters flitting along, and many more parked in neat rows along the pavements.
"It's just so, so sixties," he commented.
Napoleon ignored him, and Becket remembered they had made a pact not to say anything to draw attention to the fact that Beckett should barely be toddling around in a romper-suit.
"How much further?" Napoleon asked.
Beckett wrestled with the street map; damn things were always impossible to unfold. "Brunswick Mews should be just here on the left...there!"
Napoleon pulled into a convenient parking space. That was another thing that had changed, Beckett mused. If he was back in the 90's he would have had to drive round the block six times and would probably still have ended up parking half a mile away.
The two men climbed out of the sleek silver sports car and stood at the door of the smart sea front house. It was painted a gay blue that reflected the sea. The sash window frames were a fresh white, and red geraniums hung from the window boxes.
Napoleon took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Both men tensed up, ready for action. In this line of business you never knew what might be waiting behind a closed door. After several tense minutes the door was opened by a tall, slim, blond woman. Her red mini dress matched the geranium flowers and showed off her legs to their full advantage.
The two men took an unconscious step forward and switched on their most winning smiles; all white teeth and twinkling eyes. They were rewarded with a smile from full, red lips that parted slightly to allow the woman's tongue to flick lightly along them.
"Ms Poultry?" Napoleon asked once he had got his breath back.
The woman shook her head regretfully. "Nah ducks, oim jest the 'ousekeeper."
Both men recoiled, stepping backwards as the coarseness of the woman's voice grated through them. "Err, is Ms Poultry in?" Beckett asked realising that it would be a good few moments before Napoleon would be up to thinking of a follow up question.
"She'll be ohn the Palace Pier," the woman informed them, her voice high and harsh "Playin' the games."
"Thank you," Beckett said. "We'll be on our way then."
"Ya cun cume in for a cup a tay if youse like," the woman offered with an inviting smile, moving her position so the dress rode further up her thigh.
The two men, as one, backed towards their car. "Another time, perhaps," Napoleon suggested.
Becketts reply was lost has Napoleon started the engine.
"How will we recognise her?" Beckett asked as Napoleon parked a short distance from the pier.
"You want to go back and ask?"
Beckett thought about it. "I'm sure we'll manage," he said confidently.
