This is just a small story I started working on when I came up with the idea. I'll continue if people want me too, I enjoy writing it. Rated for some language. Reviews are love, people! Thanks for reading!

And, I own nothing from the books/movies.

XOX

teawithsilk

Chapter One

"Emma, do an old lady a favor, would you?" M stepped out of her office and called into the cubicles on the fourteenth floor of one of the many common office buildings in London.

With a noisy screech of a chair on the floor, Emma Linton rose and walked over towards M. "You don't look a day over 30! Who are you calling old?" She grinned at her boss and squeezed the woman's shoulder. After being motioned in by M, Emma stepped inside her superior's spacious corner office. She quite liked the new building.

Emma looked around the office. The walls were a generic, stark white. A mahogany desk sat in the center of the room with a typical office chair stationed behind it and a comfortable looking armed, brown leather seat on the other side of the desk. Emma waited for M to assume her place behind her desk before sitting in the leather chair herself. She eyed the wooden filing cabinet in the right corner of the room and wondered how long it would take the older woman to go electronic. Old habits died hard, apparently. Taking a calm happy breath, Emma stared out the two windows looking over London. She could see the Thames from this office. Wow, she loved the new building.

"This might come as a surprise for you, but I need a small favor." M smiled and prepared herself to lie to one of her favorite office mates. "I haven't told anyone this." She laughed. "Well, I never talk about my husband."

Emma smiled too. "No, you never talk about him." She chuckled to herself. "You don't get to blackmail him with the classic 'wait 'til I tell that one at lunch tomorrow' do you?"

M nodded. "Dear Jeffrey's birthday is coming up. And we were married on the same day."

The younger in the room smiled. "Aww."

"He is very fond of Lord Byron's works." M smiled and pulled out a book of poetry and other literature. "I have contacted dealers all across the globe, Emma. And finally, I came into contact with one who had a journal kept by Byron shortly before his death in Greece."

Emma smiled and shook her head. "However did you find this man?"

"It took a lot of work. But he is in Paris. And I am very busy here. I need someone to fly to Paris and pick up the journal for me." M smiled at Emma. "It is a private jet, private airfield, everything. There is no need to worry about security checks or what not to bring."

The woman stared at her boss. "You are giving me a trip to Paris? Honestly?"

"Yes, three days."

"I accept!" Miss Emma Linton rose from her seat and hugged M.

"Very good." M opened a drawer and pulled out a passport and a plane ticket. She pushed them across the desk towards Emma. "You will be briefed upon arrival at your destination."

Emma creased her brow and stared at M. "I'm picking up a birthday present right, not a bomb or a particle separator?"

Laughing, M leaned back in her chair. "No, no. Just a journal for Jeffrey."

"Okay. Just making sure. When do I leave?"

"Tonight."

"O-oh alright. I should start packing."

"Yes, you are dismissed." The older woman smiled, got up and held the door open for Emma. "Have a good time, my girl."

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

He sighed noisily and pressed the accelerator to the floor of the car. He had been chasing the bugger for three bloody hours. It was quickly becoming a matter of who ran out of fuel first. James turned the wheel sharply and his new Aston Martin screeched around a corner and into another side street in Prague.

The heathen had murdered 003. Mr. Bond couldn't let that go unpunished. For nearly ten years, he had looked up to the graying man. Any questions, doubts, or misconceptions he had were resolved by 003. Back in the days where he had secretly worshipped the double 0's, the older man was his favorite. And now he was dead. By the hands of some rookie rogue agent from the Republic of Whoknowswhere.

Growling menacingly, James pulled a gun out of jacket pocket and fired through his own wind shield. Third car this month. To hell with it all. His eyes flickered from the curving road and back towards the car in front of his. He fired a few more times, covering his face with his upper arm to shield himself from backward flying glass shards.

Smiling slightly with satisfaction, he blew out the rear glass of the rogue agent's Porsche Cayman, leaving his target exposed and easily terminable. One shot. That's all it takes. One shot. Bond set his eyes on the road once more. No curves or turns were visible. Good. He concentrated on the man's shoulder and fired. Short son of a bitch.

The Porsche swerved and nearly careened into a golden bricked building. James smirked. The car would soon come to a stop. Although much more quickly than he had expected.

The black coupe shrieked to a halt, the red brake lights glinting off the wall under the roofed, evidently private street. James quickly popped the door open but strolled over to the Porsche. It was only a semi-surprise when the driver's side door on the Porsche opened and a man stepped out, hands raised in surrender.

"There's no need for violence here. What do you want?" The tall, dark rogue agent spoke in unaccented, untraceable, perfect English.

James rose an eyebrow. No need for violence. He eyed the man's bleeding shoulder. A gushing wound was hiding beneath a bullet-sized hole in a designer suit. His icy eyes froze on the man's other shoulder. No need for violence his ass. Bond lifted his hand and gave 003's killer a matching shoulder wound.

The rogue agent grunted and looked at James with eyed full of unhidden contempt. "What do you want?"

"You killed my friend." James took a step towards the other man. He was taller than the raven haired enemy. "What's your name?"

He grimaced and rolled his shoulders back. "My name?" Still grimacing, he regained as much composure as he could. "My name is Viduus."

"Viduus? Is that correct?" James eyed the weakening man before him. When would he make an attempt to defend himself? "What is your real name?"

He lifted his head. "Viduus. That is my name."

Bond sighed. "Alright." No sound was made in the alley. James was smart enough to have fitted his gun with a silencer. But one man lay dead in the back streets of Prague.

Driving away, Bond was scowling in thought. "Viduus…..The Roman god who separates the body from the soul at death…….."

Who the hell were these people?

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Paris was gorgeous at night. The lights gave the city a soft glow and a harsh shine at the same time. He leaned against the column of the small bistro and stared out at the Eiffel Tower. As much as he wanted to go to a tourist trap, public places with security cameras didn't suit him much.

His lips, noticeable fuller in the center than at the sides, curled into a content smile. A fading pink scar ran from the bottom of the man's right cheek, down to the top of his upper lip. His eyes were a dark, stormy blue. Women had compared his eyes in the past to a tempestuous Baltic Sea. Interesting creatures they were.

He was Russian, from St. Petersburg. He was a proud man. Though still in his late twenties, and labeled mostly as a young man. "Here is the eau de vie you asked for, sir."

A small waiter poked his head from out of the bistro door. He walked over to his patron, back straight; shoulders pushed back, holding a tray in front of him with an arm tucked behind his back. His uniform was nothing more than an all black ensemble with a towel tucked into his belt.

The patron gingerly lifted the round, fat glass. He eyed the clear liquid cautiously before nodding his head at it and looking down at the waiter. "Merci."

Smiling, the waiter took one long last look at the man. Very tall. He looked down at the folded bills crumpled in his hand. Odd. He had been paid extra for bringing the man's drink outside. Usually, it was a few more euro in his tip, not a wad of cash. Stepping back into his brother's restaurant, he wondered if there were any laws or codes about drinking in public.

Seeing the waiter was gone, he eyed the drink once more. Clear liquids made him nervous. There were so many things one could put in a clear beverage and he wouldn't know until it was too late. Powder wouldn't alter its color. Liquid wouldn't visibly throw off its consistency. It's brandy for God's sake. Who makes clear brandy? Answer: the French. He loved the culture, the cities, the atmosphere. But honestly, they defiled effin' brandy. Taking a sip, the man smiled and calmed himself. It still tasted excellent.

Starting to enjoy himself, he glanced down both ends of the street. Only a few people walked and strolled along the Rue de Orchidée Matin. No one special caught his eye. It was only some businessmen, various young adults running from club to club, and a stray single man or woman every several minutes.

He began to wonder if someone from M16 would show up. Sighing, he pulled the small, long box from his inside jacket pocket. Underneath the jacket, he was sporting a common white undershirt. He had pulled on a pair of jeans back at the place Cunina had set up his lodging: Hôtel Mérovée.

He rubbed the dirt encrusted, black painted wood with his thumb. Around the edging, a circular golden pattern rested. The crest in the middle of the box was unrecognizable and indecipherable. It appeared old. Very old. Probably sometime between the late eighteenth and mid nineteenth centuries. Chuckling lightly, he doubted the box's integrity. Forgers and their techniques had only improved in the last hundred years. Anyone could make up a story about what lied inside it. Looking down at the object in his hand, he failed to see the woman approaching him.

She was shorter than most. If she was lucky, she hit 5'4". A good portion of her body was hidden under a blue trench with a light green and red plaid. Peeking out from the open collar, was a white silk button down top. Light brown woolen pants covered her legs and simple albeit elegant black pumps clicked as she walked over the pavement.

Her blackish-brown hair glimmered under the lights, refusing to be labeled as either. Before going out, she had smeared a dark wine-colored lipstick over her lips. Also, she had put on some "eye color defining" mascara (which was actually a grayish purple) to compliment her brown eyes that were sprinkled with flecks of green. The woman had also dug some grey eye shadow out of her oversized yellow leather bag and painted it on. She always tried to look her best. Even when she had a four hour notice of going to another country.

Heels clicking to announce her appearance, she stumbled upon a rather tall and startlingly handsome fellow. They had agreed to meet in front of the bistro. That was exactly where the man was. Drinking. How lovely. "Are you the biographer my boss spoke of?" Emma smiled at the man, gaining his attention. "I'm terribly sorry, but I have forgotten your name….Janus, is it?"

Lacking words, the man just stared at her. Who the hell was this? He had stolen records and information about Quantum from their headquarters. He had risked his head for the safety of the entire bloody world and this was who they sent. Biographer? This girl didn't know what she was getting into, did she? "Um, yes. I have worked hard to get this. Bring it back to your boss quickly."

Emma let her head fall to the side as she thought this over. It was a particle separator wasn't it……"Quickly?"

"Yes, quickly." His eyes made her blood run cold. They were very dark. Very, very wonderfully dark. "I would go now if I were you. I'm guessing you have a private plane?"

Emma nodded. Shit. What was she getting into?

"I suggest leaving now." He opened his jacket and pulled out a box. Not a journal. "Take this and go."

She dumbly held out her hand and he placed the box in it. Undoing the clasp on her purse with a snap, Emma nestled it in.

That's when she heard the men shouting behind her and the footsteps echoing off the ground at a swift pace.