Suddenly, just as he was expecting to feel metal tearing through his flesh, ravaging his innards, a large black object obscured his vision and a familiar voice cried out in agony. Not his own though.
Q was stunned. So was his supposed murderer. Q snapped out of his daze seconds faster though, and without hesitation dispatched him with a shot to the forehead.
Q had never killed before, only incapacitated. Unlike Bond and the other double 0s, he had qualms about terminating another human being's life.
The thought of such an act deeply disgusted him, though he knew, in the interests of national security, it was a necessary evil. The job was better left to men like 007 though, glorified killing machines and blunt instruments.
He'd like to think his talents were better used elsewhere, but in truth, what prevented him from killing was really the fear of his conscience's reaction.
How Bond managed to sleep at night remained a mystery to Q. Was that why 007 always seemed to have an endless supply of alcohol and women at his disposal?
To act simply as distractions from his sullied hands? To his mild surprise, he didn't feel a shred of remorse after executing this person. His conscience was not hurling expletives at him.
His hand was not trembling uncontrollably. A part of him felt this kill was justified. This man had been unworthy of life.
Long before the corpse hit the floor, Q was already kneeling on the cement, which glistened crimson.
Bond lay sprawled on the ground, writhing in sheer agony. A rapidly growing spot of red blemished his once pristine white shirt. Q eyed the damage with bated breath.
"Dammit" he muttered as his frown deepened.
"Bond, I'm calling a medical evac team, hang on."
The agent nodded wordlessly while clutching his chest. His knuckles were bone-white.
"They'll be here soon to patch you up. You'll be just fine. You'll be just fine."
Those words were not meant for Bond's ears alone. Bond had been grievously injured. Q was attempting to reassure himself as well and quail a rising tide of panic.
Every MI6 staff member receives intensive courses on how to keep calm under pressure. Good, sound and detached actions in a crisis situation were required to ensure an optimal outcome.
This lesson was drilled forcefully into everyone's minds. All were expected to regard any situation with the detachment of a machine and the cool of a mortician inspecting a corpse.
The recollection of that final phrase served only to unnerve Q. He banished the thought of Bond's icy, prone body on a cold metal slab. His heart was pushing against his ribcage frantically like a caged bird longing for freedom.
Sweat pored from his creased brow as he desperately applied pressure to Bond's gaping wound. His attempt to staunch the flow of the blood was in vain.
Such was evidenced by the current of warm sticky liquid gushing from under his trembling palms. The futility of his efforts was not lost on Q. This was akin to trying to dam a raging river with a teaspoon- a fool's errand.
Bond's face was deathly pale. His shirt was soaked in a warm liquid and he knew he was losing a copious amount of blood. More than anyone could afford to lose.
A grimace was etched in his face and his gritted teeth failed to hold back a strangled sound. A searing pain had engulfed his chest cavity and his lungs were on fire. He could feel blood forcing its way up his throat.
Q was hunching over him with an extremely foreign expression on his face. The man/boy was perpetually unperturbed-nothing ruffled his feathers.
This visage had departed, Bond observed, as his vision grew nebulous.
A big thank you to those who have viewed and followed this story.
Cima1305 (check out his/her story "Black Eye", its fantastic, not kidding), and Magaret(Guest Reviwer) Thanks for your reviews!