An AU about a shady not-in MI6 Q? >//_//<;
Things turned bad when Bond lost contact in his earpiece. The blabbering idiot of a tech support turned to static and any further attempt to establish contact was met with silence. His mark was no where in sight like he was suppose to be in accordance to the intel provided in this posh lounge filled with business men. Without further instruct or intel, he was completely lost at how to proceed.
Bond froze momentarily before resuming his pretentious self-absorbed businessman routine. His eyes searched for a surface to survey the potential threat and the distortive partially reflective pillars were useful. Someone with mass of brown curls was seated directly behind him from the look of the reflective pillar but there wasn’t any angle for a face. Bond couldn’t tell if it was on purpose or a coincidence. After all, it’s hard to coincidentally seat behind him too.
“Do not be alarm. I am not your enemy.” It said, and Bond softly grunt derisively at the assurance.
"Nor an ally." The agent replied tersely, body hunched away and tensed. The unknown voice was boyish sounding, the tone a little bit too arrogant to Bond’s liking. Not to mention the ridiculous posh accent. It grated on his nerves. A non-committal hum was the other reply followed by silence and the sound sipping. Earl grey, Bond guessed as he caught a brief scent of bergamot. When it quietened once more, the other continued in a leisurely tone.
“Nevertheless, Mr Bond, you will find my insight to be quite valuable. Heed it or don’t.” There was a biting tone when he said the last bit. “I suspect you’ll live either way. Just slightly worse to wear with the way you seems to do things your way.”
It was said in such a accusing manner that one would feel shamed and chastised at their own behaviour. But Bond being Bond, the words mostly rolled off him, making him only slightly miffed by the childish reprimanding voice. It oddly reminded him of a certain silver haired bitch back at HQ, her voice constantly chiding him.
A waiter arrived just then with a martini, shaken not stirred along with a crisp white envelope with his cover name written beautifully in black with cursive handwriting.
” Compliments of Mr.Q.” the waiter said softly, near whisper. It was how they all speak here. All of the businessmen here seek privacy and the air is barely buzz with talking. James nodded in acceptance and waited for the waiter to move away before hastily grabbing the envelope. Inside was a plain white card, that looks like an invitations, with the nice fonts and a map inside. But upon closer inspection, it was instructions and directions. Which exits not to use, areas populated with staffs or securities. Timing of security patrol and the likes. And lastly, a bit of a snarky little sentence indicating that the mark had knew of his agenda, thus setting up an ambush and changing locations. Bond cursed under his breath. How the mysterious person could even have time to print a fucking invitation card was unnerving. Bond is grudgingly mildly impressed.
"Time is ticking, Mr Bond." the man, Q, drawled before pausing. He heard soft sips once more, no doubt the man drinking his fucking tea. "I suggest you not to miss the opportunity window in the west wing in five minutes. I suspect that is the most efficient route."
As casually as he can, he stood up and proceed to exit the room, glancing subtly to a reflective surface on the way out. A pair of odd green eyes met him back evenly. Bond had to swallow his surprise at the image of a child -it had to be with that bloody boyish face and ridiculous floppy hair- with a smug look and a perfectly arched eyebrow raised staring back at him.
If he was in sour mood when he returned to MI6 uninjured with the job well done, he’d let them think its because of the technical cock-up. (Not because of the green-eyed smug looking child).