I do not own James Bond or anything in this story. Sony Pictures and the Ian Fleming Foundation do. I thank Ian Fleming for creating 007.
Chapter One: Back to the Basics
Two months before the Casino Royale assignment, M had approached Bond about his 00-status.
"James, since we had rescinded your 00-status before we sent you to investigate Graves, you are going to have to re-establish it," M explained to him.
"Alright M, what do you need done?" Bond asked.
"James you know as well as I do what you have to do to become a double-oh," M retorted.
A few days later, in Venice, Bond was waiting for a double agent in a bathroom. As an elderly gentleman left the room, the double agent quietly entered. Bond had made contact a few days before requesting a meeting on the subject of defecting from Her Majesty's Secret Service. Granted, he had tried twice before, but only succeeded once. But that was something not everyone knew nor needed to know about. As Fisher, the double agent, walked up to the sink, Bond walked out of a stall.
"Commander Bond, sir," Fisher offered his hand. Bond took it and kicked Fisher through a stall door.
"M wouldn't mind you working with the enemy so much, only if it didn't kill our colleagues," Bond said as he walked towards Fisher and slammed his fist into Fisher's nose with a satisfying crack.
Fisher grabbed Bond and slammed him into the stall's back wall. Bond twisted him around and together they went through the wall and into the adjoining stall.
Fisher grabbed Bond's wrist and flung him towards the stall door and they both flew out onto the floor. Bond jumped up and kicked a piece of wood from Fisher's hand. Bond reached down and grabbed Fisher by the shoulders and threw him against the wall, breaking a few sinks.
As Fisher fell, Bond grabbed him around the neck and pulled him into a headlock. Bond dragged him towards a sink as Fisher reached down and picked up his gun and fired a shot, shattering a mirror.
"That's seven years bad luck you know," Bond managed to get out as he was still struggling with Fisher. Bond then shoved Fisher's head into a sink full of water.
Fisher kicked and scratched at Bond's hands as Bond kept Fisher's head underwater. Fisher stopped struggling. Bond let him go as Fisher's lifeless body slipped to the floor. Bond backed off panting. Bond walked over and stooped to pick up his gun.
Just then, Fisher sprang into action, grabbing his gun and aiming at Bond's chest. He fired. Bond rolled to the floor, as the bullet missed him by inches. He kneeled and fired a shot at Fisher's knee. Fisher reeled in pain.
"Didn't your parents teach you not to play with guns, Fisher?" Bond spat as he fired a shot into Fisher's chest.
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About a week later, in Prague, Dryden stepped out of his car and breathed the cold night air. He had hoped nobody had seen him with Mr. White and the head of the Organization. He pulled out his pass key and swiped it, unlocking the door. The night watchman was gone, and he was alone. He walked across the cold, dark marble lobby, listening for any little sound that would mean someone was tailing him. All he heard was the clacking of his New & Lingwood loafers.
He stepped into the elevator and pressed the sixth floor button. He crossed the small bridge and went into his office. He locked the door behind him as he entered. He crossed the floor, heading towards his liquor cabinet as he sat down his hat and turned on the light. He glanced at his safe and noticed it was open. He felt he was being watched.
"M really doesn't mind you earning a little money on the side, Dryden. She'd just prefer it if it wasn't selling our secrets," Bond said as Dryden spun around.
Dryden glared at Bond and walked towards his chair. Dryden opened a drawer as he sat down, revealing a Beretta Cheetah.
He pulled off his leather gloves, "If the theatrics are supposed to scare me, you have the wrong man, Bond. If M was so sure that I was bent, she'd have sent a double-O. Benefits of being section chief. I'd know if anyone had been promoted to double-O status, wouldn't I? Your file shows no kills since your status was rescinded, and it takes—"
"—Two," Bond finished. Dryden whipped out his gun and pointed it at Bond. Bond stared back at the cold, dark barrel.
"Shame, we barely got to know each other," Dryden smirked. He pulled the trigger. The gun made an empty click. He stared at it in disbelief.
Bond held up Beretta's magazine, full of rounds, "I know where you keep your gun. I suppose that's something."
Dryden lowered the weapon, "True. How did he die?"
"Your contact?" Bond asked. Dryden nodded.
"Not well," Bond responded.
"Made you feel it, did he?" Dryden questioned.
"Well, you needn't worry," Dryden shook his head, "The second is—"
Bond pulled his silenced Walther PPK and fired a shot into Dryden's forehead; Dryden's chair flipped over backwards.
"Yes, considerably," Bond remarked. Bond stuffed the Walther into his shoulder holster and walked out of the office.
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