I scan the neighborhood as the limousine sways through the deserted streets. Just as London, this place is in total shambles, the charm and elegance of the former world capital a long faded memory. Ninety percent of the city has been destroyed by the firebombs which ended the last war, leaving most of the once impressive structures in a pile of stones and dust.

My eyes linger on the White House that has been restored to its former glory and still houses the first family of the Nation of the Americas, the president maybe being now the second most powerful man in the world after the Global Security Advisor.

I end up right next door, on the previous grounds of the old Smithsonian Museum. I saw pictures in several history books – it had been one of the biggest museums in the world. In its place is now a tall black structure, its windows gleaming in the light of the setting sun which gives the whole place the appearance of a polished gemstone. It is rather picturesque considering that behind those wall, the brightest minds of global intelligence contrive their next mischief.

The driver doesn't mutter a single word but just cuts the engine, my cue to get out. With slight hesitation, my hand reaches for the buzzer in the wall, but the door swings open before I get the chance. The little red light on the camera is flashing, they have likely monitored my every move since I arrived at the airport an hour ago. The Americans are worse when it comes to surveillance than Europe – it is rumoured that even the public bathroom stalls don't offer privacy.

With a sigh, I push open the heavy door far enough to squeeze myself inside. In front of me unfolds the usual set-up – disinfectant showers on the right with a laundry shoot for my suit. A new, longer sigh, runs off my lips as I begin to strip down. There is nothing to hide – my body is great with firm muscles and an impeccable six pack – but the mere fact that I have to give a peepshow to a bunch of strangers every time I enter a public building has always bothered me.

The water in the shower is freezing and I hold my breath during the mandatory three minute cleansing process. Any moister is sucked right out of my pores by the harsh disinfectant; I will probably toss and turn all night from the itch. When the jets automatically turn off, I proceed to the drying section, grabbing one of the guest track suits off the shelf. The blood test will be next which I dread. Secretly, I am deadly afraid of needles which, of course, I can never admit – that would totally ruin my reputation with the ladies.

With gritted teeth, I prick my index finger, allowing a few drops of my blood to drip onto the glass surface of the testing machine. My eyes wander to the monitor above me while I stop the bleeding with a small gaze I find in a sanitary basket next to the machine.

A robotic voice confirms a few seconds later that I am germ free and ready to proceed. "James Herbert Bond – date of birth January 9, 2096 – citizen of the Nations of Europe. Virus Status green. Please step through the gates in front of you."

I wave at the folks in the control center who glare at me like I am some kind of exotic animal which causes me to get the hell out of the intake section. The welcoming committee I anticipate on the other side of the door is hardly existent, only a young woman about my age who looks rather bored is slouched in one of the chairs, observing me through hooded eyes.

"Are you Bond?" she asks.

"Yep." I give her my signature Cheshire Cat grin. "And who might you be, gorgeous?" I fully expect her to be some kind of assistant to the head of the facility, but unfortunately, it turns out I am mistaken.

"Special Operations Director Rykar Deveraux." Her eyes are lethal. "You can call me SO Director or ma'am."

Ouch – what a way to make a first impression. She will be my boss on this mission and does not seem to appreciate my certain charm. Spy chicks these days have no sense of humor.

I toddle behind her through the corridors, soaking up my surroundings with curiosity. MI6 in England is state of the art but years behind compared to this place. I catch a few glimpses of modern offices with high tech computers, huge monitors on the wall displaying pretty much every corner on earth which is still inhabited. Given, there are not many, but still – I certainly underestimated their power.

We find our way to the basement and she sweeps her card when we get to the door of the restricted section that is the entrance to the time correction area. Ever since I joined MI6, I wanted to time travel – look at the world before mankind pretty much destroyed everything with weapons and environmental pollution. Taste alcohol and smoke a cigar, all things that have been outlawed long before I was born.

She ushers me along until we get to a private office at the end of the hallway which has her name on the door. To my surprise, a boy with big brown curls who could not possibly be an adult yet is leaned back in the chair behind the desk with his feet propped up and his eyes closed, the screeching sound from an electric guitar audible through the headphones covering his ears.

"Yo, Walker." Rykar hits her hand repeatedly on the desk but the boy doesn't even flinch.

"Forget it, he's asleep." Another guy walks in, tossing a file on the desk. "He has been braindead like this for hours."

Rykar frowns. "How the hell can he sleep with that hoot? It sounds like some cat screaming after you just stepped on its tail."

"Yeah, well." With one swift kick, the chair is removed from under Walker's behind, resulting in a rather rude awakening.

He blinks at us without a sense of focus, probably trying to figure out who disturbed his slumber, before tearing the headphones off his ears. "What the..." He swallows down the curse when he sees Rykar's face.

"Our guest arrived." Her tone is slightly condescending. "And what type of horrible music was that?"

Walker slowly gets up on his feet, rubbing his behind with a sour face. "That was a classic. Blink-182 'Just About Done'. I love it."

"Well, you always had terrible taste in music." Rykar picks up the chair and plops inside. "Now, where was I?" Her eyes land on me and she smirks. "Oh, yeah, Patrick said I need to work on my social skills, so I guess I should make introductions. Mr. Bond, this is Walker Cassidy, my lead analyst" – she points at the brown curled boy before moving to the other guy – "and this is Colin Monroe, head instructor of the time travel program." She twirls her tongue like she is imitating a drum roll. "Guys, this is the famous James Bond of his Majesty Secret Service."

Colin squints at me. "You're the one related to 007, right?"

I roll my eyes – it is one of my family's dire habits to name any oldest son after our renowned ancestor. I have three cousins with the same name. "Yep, he was my great, great something. Truthfully, not a hundred percent sure."

My father had once went into the specifics of our family tree but being five at the time, I was more concerned with the Space Renegades than some old fart who died during some pointless mission for his country. Back then, I wanted to be a space explorer. Unfortunately, that task moved to the Nation of Asia after the war and they like to stick to themselves, leaving British Intelligence my only option if I didn't want to be a teacher or work as a janitor. I hated kids and anything relating to dirt, so it was a no brainer.

"We met 007 once." Rykar's forehead wrinkles. "When was that, Colin? 1967?"

Colin nods. "Yeah, around that time. I was spaced out from the weed, but you and him got on great. We pretended to be CIA back then, working for Felix Leiter." He slapped me on my back and I wince from the impact. "He looked just like you, JB. You and he could be twins."

I give him a small smile – I hated when people compared me to members of my family. It is an insinuation like I am not my own person.

"Well, Colin," Rykar says. "Why don't you show Mr. Bond to his quarters and let him rest. He must be tired from his trip."

I am wide awake and will not let them lock me away. "That's fine, ma'am. I'm eager to get started."

Colin flings his arm around my shoulders. "JB, that was code that they want to be left alone, so they can talk about you behind your back."

I keep my cool, pretending that this doesn't bother me at all. "On second thought, I could use a shower."

"Wonderful." Rykar claps her hands. "Let's all meet up in the mess hall in two hours. That will give Mr. Bond some time to freshen up and read the mission manual. We'll leave the day after tomorrow."

My mouth is dry all of a sudden. In two days, I would finally time travel to the past and I have not the slightest idea what to expect. Yet, I would rather have my head cut off than admit that – after all, I am James Bond, descendant of the greatest spy who ever roamed the earth.