JAMES BOND and related characters are the property of Ian Fleming Publications. Films produced and owned by EON Productions. This story is a work of unlicensed fanfiction.
Full Synopsis: Following the events of LICENCE TO KILL(1989), James Bond's rebellious streak has cost him his commission. With GOLDENEYE (1995) a part of a defunct future he will never see, the ex-Double-O works the world of private sanctions. While under contract, he duels with a femme fatale unwilling to let an alternate timeline stand in the way of their rendezvous. Featuring alternative (AU) ideas surrounding concepts from Goldeneye, envisioned as a grounded, down to earth short story (told in 3-4 parts).
Our very first Author's Note features a (highly recommended) word on canon. Oh, joy!
This story takes place canonically after the EON-produced film, LICENCE TO KILL (1989) and acts as though actor TIMOTHY DALTON never left the role. JAMES BOND is based primarily on and intends to represent that characterization. The last four films in the classic series-GOLDENEYE among them-will not occur in this timeline and instead, we find Bond drummed out of the Secret Service. Enjoy!
Chapter One
Kurhaus
Men of questionable dress draped themselves on the shoulders of Athena, forever poised with helmet and lance, but no shield to hide her from reprobates. Young men with no interest in history or decorum for that matter shadow danced in the exposed facade of the great hall among the long-forgotten rulers of the earth. Open alcohol containers swayed, and the cheap contents lapped against the glass. Dull muttering, like chittering insects, quieted as a predator moved among their drunken ranks.
James Bond strolled along the former thorofare, his black patent slip-ons clacking on stone, so terribly singular in their notes. Architect Friedrich Brinckmann's triumphant ode to indulgence loomed large around him, and he felt quite small and simultaneously very vulnerable. He stopped under the great dome and suddenly thought that he and the Kurhaus itself were both overdressed. He checked his watch. It was nearly one-thirty in the morning. The Corinthian columns were bathed in an orange radiance that commanded a respect that hadn't been regarded for a very long time.
There was a time when the grandiosity of this exceptional manor had been the center of commerce for an entire spa town. The resort had long closed, the palatial fountain down the drive had long dried out, along with the prospects. As Bond stepped over a sleeping vagrant and disappeared into the darkened crevasse that had once been guarded by a Phoenix chiseled in marble, he slowly exhaled and stifled a gag. In a few paces, the stench of human decay faded and was replaced with the moldy redolence of dying opulence, frozen like its defending statues in one final gasp.
Bond took a cursory glance back the way he had come. None had followed him. The desolation, he surmised, detracted the lesser creatures of the night. The moonlight no longer penetrated in abundance, but his eyes were keen. A door of dense heartwood presented. Where there was once polish, there was rotten lumber. Kurhaus made only a single sound, uttered when Bond pushed an opening just large enough for himself to slip through without ruffling his tightly fitted tuxedo.
Despite the thunderous silence, Bond instantly felt as though he had just interrupted a party. If he would be so kind and exit these premise, the festivities could resume in earnest. Herr does not quite meet the dress code, but if Herr would like to join the haunts, he need only strip to his bones. Bond smiled thinly but banished the thought promptly. He did not believe in ghosts.
He was now in what was once Lambrecht Kurhaus. The restaurant, where the clientele, who had just surrendered to East Germany's finest masseuses, would belly up to the bar and feast, and put back all the weight they had lost. After all, they wouldn't want the NVA uniform to fit too loosely.
Across from Bond, bathed in a single streak of rebellious moon's shine, was a horseshoe-shaped bar. Its form was still visible under the soiled cloth that protected it beneath, probably still clean enough enjoy a drink over, a drink that would never be ordered again. Its two ends were pressed up against the far wall. Two imprisoned cabinets no longer sported spirits. Keeping either cupboard from meeting in the middle was a large brass emblem. The state arms, it proclaimed, enclosed within a laurel wreath. The etched letters read:
Für den Schutz der Arbeiten und Bauern Macht.
For the protection of workers and peasants power.
There was probably a quip for that, but Bond did not have one at the ready. The business at hand had already tensed his resolve. He was already trying to stifle it. A prickling heat burned in his stomach. He could no longer ignore it. With one goliath of a step, he raised onto the top of the bar and then found himself on the other side. He turned back to look at the rows of tables and booths where he had been and half expected to see a silent congregation of uniformed men with glasses raised in anticipation of his toast. He had none to give.
Farewell to arms. It was a thought that sprang suddenly. Bond did not say it aloud, not comfortable inviting specters (that he did not believe in) to appear.
He was standing just under the coat of arms. Whatever strange wistfulness he'd been playing with was suddenly gone. He turned toward the cupboards, catching the form of a man move to strike him. One fraction more of confusion and the mirror would have had a .380 bullet embedded into Bond's reflection. Instead, he forcefully stifled his excitement, and after an almost imperceptible moment, he was cooly appraising his own gaze. Die, thoughts, die, down to my soul.
He looked up. The emblem was adorned with raised pieces. Most pronounced was the variation of the hammer and sickle. The club stood up straight and erect. The sickle lay through the hammer's middle with its spikes pointed upward, as though a cradle. And atop it all, two razor sharp arrows that looked like clock hands were mounted through the top of the hammer's neck. They seemed to stand at about nine and three o'clock. Bond raised a single finger and pushed the hand at nine to where seven would be, and then he mirrored the other, three to five.
The bolt was almost soundless. If anyone were in earshot, it wouldn't have resounded as anything but an old manor house settling (dying.) Bond's satisfied image beneath the so-called protection of the workers' and peasants' power slid aside, forming a hole just big enough for Bond to enter if he ducked his head. The ingress closed behind him.
Down into the earth stone steps lead him. This time, Bond's shoes made no sound at all.
He smelled The Old House before he saw the first inklings of it. The lingering dusty smell livened into a softer rendition The shadows of the things that were had slowly returned and drew together now into a puff of thickly laden smoke. The warmth was growing, but as Bond stepped level at the bottom of the passage, the ugly now made one final assault on his senses.
The stone hallway was short, stubbed, and the metal workings at its far end seemed to spring from the rock like an invading flesh disease, awkwardly asymmetrical and yet immaculately new. Dark, paint washed gunmetal formed a cyclone cage. Behind it, a man sat, as though a ticket vendor in a booth outside a movie theater. Except for the features of the face obscured by the fencing, Bond could see him clearly, and the man could see Bond. To complete this haphazard package, two tripoded flood lamps with big square vizors had been set up to the side of the walkway up against the wall. One pointed at the cage, and the other looked back at whoever came off of the step-way. Big orange cords lazily rollercoastered along velcro matting.
The other man moved first. With a groan from his lips and from his folding chair, the heavier set fellow stood up without uncrossing his arms. He had the look of an underpaid, overworked bouncer better suited to look after a gentlemen's establishment. He was shaven, but not cleanly, his hair was long and slicked back. His curls were fighting it and trying to go back home. He was head to toe in black. A simple shirt, shoes, and slacks reinforced with a leather jacket and a gold chain he'd probably spent far too much on if one considered the quality carefully.
Bond approached, slowly letting a cheeky smile sneak onto his face, a grin that did not reach his eyes.
"Turn around." The man seemed to jump at his approach.
Bond's eyes flared slightly. "I beg your pardon?" He tried to sound light and friendly, but the long disuse of his voice gave away hoarseness that came very close to hostility.
"Turn around." The annoyance in the tone scolded Bond as though he should know better. From outside the light's reach, a taller man stepped forward, who looked as heavy, but the form was much firmer. He was bald, completely hairless, in point of fact, and the small spark in his eyes formed tiny pinpoints.
Sauage sized fingers looped onto the cyclone and pulled its edges away from the wall and the behemoth stepped onto Bond's side. He was at least two heads taller than James.
The smaller man palmed a small handgun."Turn around." He would not ask again.
Bond's shrug and sigh were fit for pantomime. He turned back toward the stairway and saw another man with a much more impressive weapon-an Italian M12 submachine gun compliments of Signore Beretta-pointed right at him. The thin blond, sartorially a triplet to his leather-clad brethren, emerged from a small stone-made alcove beneath the high ascending steps. His expression was serious but vacant. Shooting Bond down would neither thrill or mortify. It was just a job.
Bond slowly but casually outstretched his hands to his sides. Hands bucking for paws clapped his suit like a rug being beaten in a spring cleaning. It started low at his feet and worked up his body. Bond's leer never broke eye contact with the pale gray orbitals looming over the machine gun. When the stampede reached his chest, a paw dived like a striking cobra into his jacket and jerked him around to face the bald security 'officer.' His breath stank of calcium decay despite his shiny white teeth. His smile was broad and did reach his eyes. His paw appeared in Bond's vision, holding a small, silver and black handgun with a dark hazel grip.
"Rule Number One," his husky voice elucidated, "No Weapons."
Bond nodded.
Baldy pocketed the firearm and continued. His voice was slow, emphatic, but not threatening, merely matter-of-fact.
"Rule Number Two. No Fighting."
"Sensible enough," Bond smiled.
"You Win What You Win. You Lose What You Lose. No Exceptions. You Asked To Leave, You Leave. Got It, English Man."
It wasn't really a question, but Bond responded warmly. "Oh, you know me." They had never met before. "I know when I've worn out my welcome." He rapped his fist against a massive shoulder carved out of granite. The other man appreciated the humor and gave a small stifled chortle. Not as much to prove as these other chaps, Bond guessed. At that size, who would?
Baldy walked back to the disheveled fencing, which had recoiled back into place. He looped his fingers into the cyclone again and pulled. He stood to one side, holding the straining barrier tightly. As Bond passed through, he nodded. The nod was returned.
"Welcome to Spielbank Kurhaus, Mister Bond."
"A pleasure," Bond replied, and then he went on, his pleasant smile fading away with each clack of his shoes.