Content Warning ahead: brief mentions of emotional/physical abuse.


I bet he is, I thought bitterly. The driver of the black car placed a hand on my shoulder and led me out of the car with a lot more grace than the prison security guard, I noted gratefully. The man he had been speaking to was stood against the hood of the car, arms folded and one foot resting against the car wheel. He eyed me suspiciously.

"Remind me why I'm being pulled from duty to supervise her?" He drawled lazily.

Arrogant bastard. I squinted in the dark, and could just about make out his basic features. He had a muscular build, and stood with the posture of someone who meant business. He had piercing blue eyes, which I was unable to meet for more than the briefest second. There was something about them that unsettled me. While admittedly beautiful, they had a funny glazed over look which gave me the impression that he was never really looking at anything. From my experience, this meant one thing- long term, intense nihilism. These were the eyes of someone who had seen enough of life, and was patiently waiting for its end. I shivered.

"Agent Bond, I apologize if you would much rather be elsewhere, but I directly answer to M. Orders state that you are to accompany the girl to the Quartermaster's office, and then report to M." The driver replied professionally, with no tangible emotion in his voice.

The prospect of being left along with this Bond character unsettled me greatly. He was decent looking and probably harmless since I had to be handed over to MI6 and was therefore protected for the time being, but that didn't take away from the fact that he scared me. Really scared me. By no means was he the monster that parents told their children about at night, but there was something about the detached look in his eyes that messed with my head. This guy could slaughter a village and go home happy the same day.

That's where you're headed if you don't find something to care about, said a voice at the back of my head. I remembered an old saying of my father's ("How you feel about another person says more about you than it does them") and began to wonder just how much that saying applied to me now. Was I about to shoot up a grocery store? No. But I definitely had very little to live for- at least since Alice had left. Maybe Bond and I had some common ground. He turned his blond head towards me, and took my arm.

"Suppose you're with me then. We don't want to keep old Q waiting, so we'd best get moving." He said, with an air of mirth in his voice.

"Do I get the cyanide capsule now or later?" I asked, nonplussed. He chuckled.

"Well, at least you have a sense of humour- I find that helps infinitely when tolerating Q." While his voice was relatively warm, I could tell that chitchat was over. He began to walk me through a pair of iron handled doors, and then into a glum corridor. On the opposite end was a woman who appeared around 25 years in age, dressed in smart but casual clothing. A pinstriped blazer sat atop her plain white shirt, and she wore dark coloured jeans with knee length boots. If I wasn't about to be third degreed by the head of the MI6's tech department, I probably would've asked for her number.

"Moneypenny." Bond said, smiling devilishly at the woman who now had her hip cocked and one foot resting against the wall.

"Hello 007. Q's just inside" She responded, trying to keep the smile off her face. I should've known- of course she was smitten with Bond. Ah well, bygones. "Is this the... interviewee?" Moneypenny continued, eyeing me curiously. Bond nodded.

"That's a funny way of pronouncing 'torture victim.'" I bit back.

Moneypenny scoffed. "We must have some bad PR if you think you're here to be tortured."

I raised my eyebrows. This was interesting. If I wasn't there to be tortured, what the hell was I there for?

"Oh yeah?" I instead replied. "What did you bring me here for if not to get rid of me? Don't tell me you need me for another job. You washed your hands of me long ago." I could feel myself getting fired up. If there was one thing I couldn't stand, it was the belief that MI6 was an angelic organisation that totally didn't recruit petty criminals to do their dirty work. I had been 22 when they first contacted me. Three years later, I was a wanted figure and had burnt most bridges with the people around me- not that it mattered. People, in my experience at least, had a tendency to suck donkey dick.

Moneypenny's eyes furrowed. I could tell that she was mildly uncomfortable. She didn't have time to respond, as a male voice from inside the room we stood outside of called us in.

"Bring her in!" A heavily English-accented voice called. The voice, I could only assume, belonged to the Quartermaster himself. Bond grinned, and took my arm once again. He muttered something unintelligible as he pulled me towards the wooden door, past Moneypenny who was still standing lazily against the wall. I took one last look at her, before entering the room after Bond. Looking around, I could see no dastardly instruments of torture, just filing cabinet after filing cabinet. On a dilapidated window sill sat a spindly plant which appeared to be in dire need of sunlight. Everywhere I looked, the paint was peeling off the walls. I spent so long taking in the details of my surroundings that I almost didn't notice the man sitting at a table opposite.

"Hello." He said, way too quietly for a man of his ranking. I lifted my eyes, and did a double take.

That is not what I was expecting. The man sitting in front of me wasn't a white haired, lab coat wearing quartermaster from a spy movie. He was a twenty-something dweeb with unruly dark brown hair, and spectacles which were two sizes too big. In the dim light, I could see that he was wearing a mustard button-up sweater and a plain tie. I had to resist the urge to ask which thrift store he'd bought his cardigan from.

"Hi." I replied shortly. My brain was going at a mile a minute, way too fast for my mouth to reasonably keep pace with. This was not what I had expected at all- there was no way that this boffin who looked fresh out of Uni could be MI6's quartermaster. There was something about his genial dress-sense and soft-spokenness that reminded me of my grandparents at Christmas. That was a weird thought though, so I banished it from my mind almost as quickly as it had arrived.

He must have noticed my surprise, because his lips curled up in a small smile, and he invited me to take a seat. I slowly accepted.

"You must be wondering why you're here, Julia."

I was Julia, now? Not 'Gillespie' or 'jumped up little cunt?'

"Actually yes. I can't see any instruments of torture around, so my initial assumption about you bringing me in for interrogation seems to be wrong."

The young Quartermaster chuckled.

"You have such little faith in our organisation, Miss Gillespie."

That struck a nerve.

"Faith?" I spat. "Excuse my cynicism, but your organisation recruited me out of the blue, got me to do their dirty work for a year all while not being on the official payroll of course, and then dropped me back into my crummy studio apartment once they were done with me. You seriously can't be expecting me to bend over for you fuc-" I stopped myself. The Quartermaster raised his eyebrows. "Criminals." I continued carefully. As much as I wanted to cuss the everloving shit out the MI6 in front of him, I decided that it probably wouldn't be the best course of action considering my position in comparison to his. "Besides," I continued, "What does Q-Branch want with me anyway? I can barely programme a chemistry simulation, and I break all laptops within a year of buying them. I'd be a liability to your operations to say the least."

The quartermaster sighed and placed both hands on the table in front of him. He could see that he'd have his work cut out for him.

"Julia, I'm not going to pussyfoot around this." He began. "Ever since the explosion of our London headquarters, we've been in the dark. Our main strategic operator was killed in the blast and we haven't been able to replicate his work at all. We need someone to lead the strategy department, and your work there is the best on file."

My eyes widened. He didn't seriously mean... What the hell was going on?

"You don't seriously mean that I'm to lead a department, quartermaster." I asked, expecting him to burst into laughter and call in an armed guard to shoot me dead. It would have been a cruel trick, but no less than I probably deserved. But no mocking laughter came. Instead, a surprising smile was etched on his face.

"That's exactly what I mean. You're probably wondering why it is me interviewing you, but M is... indisposed as of the current time. When she is available, you will be transferred over to her. I was the one who came across your work from the Quantum days, and I was the one who recommended you as a replacement for the late head of strategy. You must forgive us for picking you up under such crude circumstances, but time is of the essence. We cannot wait another minute. If you accept, you shall be transported to your new lodgings and briefed. If not?" He smiled grimly, "there's a car outside ready to take you back to Detective Anders for questioning. And call me Q. Quartermaster is quite the mouthful."

Jesus Christ, I thought, flabbergasted. I had just embarked on a lengthy rant as to why I would never work for MI6 again, but the more Q spoke, the more tempting his offer became. This would mean official employment, not just dark dealings in shady buildings. I sighed to myself.

For the first time in a while, I thought about my life.

Alice, my ex-girlfriend had took off two years ago and left a mess behind. She burned like the sun. Everywhere she went, everyone she touched would burst into flames. When we met, I was 19 and midway through a chemistry degree. When she left? I was 21 and while I had my degree, I'd lost everything else. For the first few months of our relationship, she made it her personal mission to cut me off from my friends. Of course at the time, I chalked it up to her loving me so much. My dipshit of a younger self would never have even dreamed that the woman I'd just met would have a more nefarious plan for me. The screaming matches came later and eventually, so did the black eyes. By the time I became her puppet, I was too far in to leave. The rest was history.

She gave me a gateway into crime and a hell of an inferiority complex. What else had she given me?

"Miss Gillespie? What say you?" Q asked, noting my descent into introspection.

The words came out of my mouth quicker than I could process them.

"Yeah, I'll do it."