Q rubbed his temples and leaned back. It had been all of 48 hours since he had assumed his new post, and already he felt an acute headache, mild heartburn, and an agitated tic in his eye coming on. He extended an unsteady hand to grasp the mug of Earl Grey that he had demanded from the aid who lingered constantly, unnervingly at his elbow. It was his third that morning, and it did nothing at all to help his heartburn. But he continued stubbornly, mixing a lump of sugar into each cup and gulping it down scalding hot.
Thus far no emergencies had arisen; his duties for the moment comprised a complete overhaul of double-O security measures and firewalls. Yet even the most low-profile documents were filled to the brim with details that chilled his blood. The few agent reports that he had read, out of the same idiotic curiosity that had landed him in this God-forsaken job, told casually of plots and twists that seemed fit only for spy novels. His predecessor had taken all of a month to brief him before prancing off (on those absurd, stilt-like legs) to his tropical island retirement, leaving a computer system so outdated, an arsenal so laughably fanciful (whose idea were the exploding pens and eject buttons, anyway?), and a team so discordant that Q (that was his name now, they had told him) had only accepted the job of sheer bravado. Panicked though he was, the fascination that had gripped him when M called him on that rainy night had only grown stronger over the ensuing weeks. It was the same feeling that had propelled him to hack into corporate security systems when he was nine, and to-
The intercom buzzed and a small, green light illuminated. M. Reluctantly, Q leaned forward and pressed the dreaded button.
"Q speaking." He winced; his voice had come out cracked and vexed, and M was quite particular about one's tone of address.
"Be in my office in 5 minutes. Bring Sanders." M's voice rang imperiously from the speaker so that the whole office glanced around. Q blinked rapidly, perplexed.
"What's Sanders?" He asked the question before he had time to think. The well-groomed man at his elbow cleared his throat.
"At your service, sir, with tea and a Ph.D. in electrical engineering," he said soupily, turning an expertly expressionless glance on his much-younger superior.
"Ah. Yes. Sorry, Sanders." Q tried for a disarmingly apologetic smile, but it may have emerged as a grimace.
"Not at all, sir."
"If you don't mind, Q, do alienate your subordinates on your own time." Q cringed and removed his finger from the button. He ran a hand through his long-uncombed mop of dark hair, straightened his glasses, and stood up slightly shakily. M always struck certain amount of terror into his heart. He downed the remaining half-cup of tea and winced as it scorched his throat. Then, coughing, spluttering, and shaking, he signalled to Sanders to follow and made his exit, with all the dignity that he could muster.