A man walked into a bar.

He didn't see a hamster playing the piano, he didn't try to make a horse laugh, and he certainly didn't say "Ow! Shit!" and duck the bar next time. His was a mission outside the realm of stupid locker room jokes and in the realm of-

'Actually, that's exactly where it is,' he thought to himself. 'Not every day a fire hydrant sprays a dog instead of the other way around.'

For the past day or two, he had briefly wondered whether MI6 had been pulling his leg; why this was so, he couldn't be sure, as April Fools' Day had long since come and gone. He briefly entertained the idea of a connection to the recent rash of meteor showers, before deciding that that was a stupid and groundless notion.

Regardless, the footage was there - he had seen it with his own eyes. Nine days ago, at precisely 3:22 on October 19th, a dalmatian - small for its size - had chosen to mark its territory on a seemingly ordinary hydrant on London's Edgware Road, and no sooner than it had begun had the usually docile fixture fired back, knocking the very distressed and confused dog into oncoming traffic (fortunately, it was unharmed.) So did Edgware Road become permanently etched in the consciousness of Londoners as "where the hydrants fought back."

Or it would have.

The only video MI6 had was a 25-second clip from the Nokia belonging to an officer who had been on the scene, and driven back to headquarters in a hurry. Despite the evidence on his phone, he remembered nothing of the incident - nor, in fact, had any of the witnesses in the video that had been tracked down and questioned.

Mass hysteria, 009 had said. No, countered 005, for then the video would have recorded an ordinary fire hydrant, and cameras do not lie! Both wrong, 008 had insisted, for cannot mirages be photographed?

The man known as 007 reflected on this briefly as he stepped up to the bar and ordered a vodka martini ("Shaken or stirred?" "Surprise me.") He wondered why any of his coworkers had not been assigned to this relatively small-time job, and chalked it up to it being his boss's way of welcoming him back from his extended vacation. 'Odd,' he mused. 'M's not usually one for humor.'

007 sipped his drink, and glanced around the bar in his usual detached manner. It was crowded in the Factory Room (so named for its owner, who had worked in a spam cannery.) There were the usual suspects - university students out with friends, a businessman here and there, the old men in the corner busy at chess. No sign of his contact.

"Don't be surprised if he's a few minutes late, Bond." M had informed him. "It's not unusual among his kind."

Another thing that struck him as odd. "His kind." Snippy M could be, but he had never pegged her for a racist.

For now he filed this thought away. Look for red hair, he had been told - blue eyes, receding hairline, wire-rimmed glasses, and somewhat shabby clothing. "You'll know him when you see him," he had been told.

As he considered the plausibility of that statement, a somewhat loud yet friendly voice from the entrance caught his attention.

"Sorry I'm late! I tried to make it earlier, but you know the traffic and all- ow! Excuse me, sir! Terribly sorry..."

He did indeed know him when he saw him. The newcomer had the air of one who was keeping up an appearance. 'A rather run-down appearance,' Bond thought dryly. This man's clothes were patched in several places, and his glasses were slightly cracked. His thinning red hair was rumpled somewhat, but there was no denying the light in his eyes - this was a man who knew how he must look, and yet didn't care as much as one usually would. A content man. Bond envied him.

His contact took the stool next to him, ordering something called a butterbeer, and then switching to "Whatever he's having, then, sorry" (gesturing toward Bond) when he caught the bemused look on the barkeep's face.

"So! You'll have gotten the briefing already, I suppose?" the mystery man began when he received his drink. "An aggressive fire hydrant - remarkable little things, by the way - that's a new one! Usually we get reports about public toilets, or those what-d'you-call-'ems, the black standy things-"

"Light poles?" Bond interrupted, feeling slightly like he was missing something.

The man stopped short, seemed to remember where he was, and then said "Yes! Light poles! Troublesome creatures, those. Now this fire hydrant of yours was nothing of the sort. Our team got in there and fixed it right up-"

"'Your team'?" Bond interjected. Now he was confused. "When were any other officers there? Our man was the only one of us who had seen anyth-"

"Ah, but where are my manners? We haven't even been introduced!" the man responded. He then adopted a more serious demeanor, dropping his voice. "My name is Weasley, sir. Arthur Weasley. And this goes a bit beyond 'your man.'"