[somewhere in Darkest Suburbia]

A middle-aged, bespectacled gentleman whose cinnamon-and-salt hair (not salt-and-pepper, since it had been brown rather than black in prior years, and not salt-and-cinnamon, because the cinnamon was still winning narrowly) was rather in need of a trim set down the book he'd been reading. There hadn't been anything so loud as a siren, nor so easily seen in the sky as a Bat-Signal, but he'd felt an unmistakeable thrum in the back of his head. It wasn't so urgent as John Steed telling Mrs. Peel "We're needed", but there was still a certain summoning quality to the thrum that strongly encouraged its recipient to answer.

And so the gentleman padded from living room to kitchen to home office, gathering a glass and a box of crackers as he went, and sat down at his computer.

[further down and further in]

The bespectacled gentleman who walks into the Mudcat through one of its more mundane entrances (tucked into a neighborhood strip mall between a rent-a-mailbox place and a sub sandwich shop) bears a strong resemblance to the one from Darkest Suburbia -- if one subtracts a dozen years, most of the salt from the properly trimmed salt-and-cinnamon hair, and several inches from around the waist. He's also rather better dressed: black slacks, a vividly purple button-down shirt, a lightweight charcoal-colored sweater vest, and a dark tweed driving cap. A wide silver and onyx bracelet snugly encircles his right wrist, a silver ring with a round purple stone occupies his right ring finger, and he carries a slim black walking stick likewise capped in silver, though its inset gem is nearly walnut-sized, ice-blue in color, and cut in a sharp-edged diamond pattern.

On hearing the musicians (and in particular, the last verses of the Lehrer song) he smiles in genuine pleasure, though his eyes sweep the room with no small care. After a moment, he heads for a small table along one wall, neither too near nor too far from the performers, and catches the eye of a passing waitress. "Root beer for me," he says, "and a basket of onion rings, if I might."

"Of course. And a name, sir for the order?"

The gentleman takes a moment before answering. "Put me down as the Agent, capital-A," he says. "Like the Doctor, only not alien. It's rather a long story."

The waitress gives him an are-you-sure look, then shrugs and writes it down.