Contrary to popular belief, time spent in armed services does not necessarily mean you are a trained killer or even have the capacity to take a human life.

James had known commanding officers who had never seen a day of live-fire combat in their careers. Men and women of admirable character and fortitude that were no less heroic for their role in a sustained defensive force than those actively firing the ammunition.

Nonetheless, the Royal Navy didn't so much afford him the opportunity to personally see the light leave a man's eyes. He was young and through no fault of his own had come into the command of a small vessel.

The military taught leadership. How to react in a crisis or when under duress. The military taught him how to compartmentalize his life in a manner that left little to the imagination; it gave him a goal and something to aspire to in a world where so little truly mattered in the day to day.

Which is why, perhaps, it is such a blessing to receive a letter from the Secret Intelligence Service a month after he receives notice he'll be part of a 'Reduction in Forces' come spring, and he's being released from his service contract prematurely.

It's a kind way of saying he's being fired.

He's heard the rumors, just like everyone else, of the mythic MI6 and the shadow world of espionage; and distantly he'd hoped that something would come along for him. The Secret Intelligence Service can hardly be considered private sector, but it's something.

Anything, at this point, would be preferable to returning to civilian life.


The put him in a conference room with a dozen other individuals, all trying not to look as confused as he feels. Every last one of them dressed to the nines and holding themselves in a manner belaying previous military experience.

The interview process is a blur, each question falling into the next without a moment to think, but he must do something right because he and a Royal Marine are pulled into a side room shortly after for another round of questions.

Somehow he ends up employed by the British Secret Intelligence Service, and truthfully, the orientation process is not as exciting as he'd imagined.


He does desk work until he's told otherwise. His skin itches with complacency.

At least the Navy had him at sea. All London can offer is dreary weather and decent looking coworkers.

Then someone tells him about the Double-0 status and the legendary 'license to kill'.

And suddenly he has a goal. He barely knows what the job entails, but he can assume more that enough to make it alluring. He knows the assignments are classified and something he can easily hold over others. It's as close to a rank system as he can find, and it's all the motivation he needs.


"This job is five percent fieldwork, seventy-five percent paperwork and whatever is left you condition yourself to forget."

Agent Rodriguez is frustrating in that way that only senior officers can be. He's too cocky, too suave, too bloody everything and it irritates Bond to his core. The man is Spanish, or possibly Portuguese - James can't tell anymore - and rubs him in all the wrong ways.

James is smart enough to realize that his agitation comes from a place of insecurity and jealousy, but this doesn't stop him from cursing the man's name anyway.

Despite everything, Rodriguez is as close to a superior as James interacts with those first few months, and given that the higher-ups have no reason to treat him differently than any of the other new recruits, Rodriguez becomes the man he needs to impress if he want's to get noticed.

So as Agent Rodriguez barks orders during a training exercise, James can only grit his teeth and push himself harder through the course in an attempt to prove to himself, really, that he is capable of a career in espionage.

He can be a secret agent, a spy, and that he can be good at it. The greatest, in fact.

So when Rodriguez gives him a cocky half smile at the end of a long day, and offers a low, "Nice work," It's almost enough to make him forget his burning lungs, screaming muscles and ruined clothes.

Almost.


James doesn't delude himself.

He's young, but not young enough; he's among men and women recruited at the same age he was being courted by preparatory academies; but there's something wrong with the early recruits; those men and women raised into a world of subversion and deceit.

James is in no position to judge - this is as much his life now as theirs - and he'd worked with men like this before. Special Forces types who, little by little, were relieved of their all-too crippling emotional empathy.

James may not be the most compassionate man to have ever walked the earth, but neither is he the most callous, and he can certainly appreciate what a job like this can do to a man.

It still unnerves him to see such training in action, however, and he hopes he never loses that part of himself.


James feels like he's leading the pack, at least until he's snubbed for a simple reconnaissance mission and relegated to a cubicle.

He finds out second hand that Rodriguez had recommended Powell for the assignment himself, and James is so angry he could spit fire.

He's avoided alcohol and pubs in general for months, all to aware of the stringent character profiles put together before anyone was even considered for a position in the Intelligence field.

But he's not being considered now, apparently, and he needs a drink badly.

Perhaps several.

Anything to wash the taste of failure out of his mouth.


The man before him orders a martini, shaken with ice as opposed to the standard stir. James has had enough beer already, so he orders the same; ready and willing to try something different when he hears a familiar voice drawl playfully:

"You do realize the ice bruises the liquor, yes? Changes the flavor. You could use the finest gin in all the world, and it will taste like swill in the hands of the average barman."

James swears under his breath and glances at the bartender, who himself looks mildly insulted.

"That's how I enjoy it," He lies, attempting to school the irritation from his face. "I refuse to justify my tastes to you."

Rodriguez smirks at him over the rim of his own glass.

Of all the bars in all of London, James had to chose the one within walking distance of his place of work.


He likes the martini a great deal.

Somehow that fact makes everything just a little bit worse.