"Hey! Do you like fire? 'Cause you're gonna' get buuuuuurned!"

Q's heartbeat quickens as the big man inches closer and closer to him with the burning-hot brand.

"Look at this," the man says, holding the brand inches from Q's face, making Q breathe rapidly.

"It's gorgeous," Q mutters, continuing his sarcasm, even in the face of danger.

"No!" The man says. "REALLY at it!"

Q rolls his eyes and says, "Well, you might have to pull it back a bit."

The man narrows his eyes and pulls it back.

"That's better," Q says indignantly. "Let me see."

The brand has a flower on it, a lily. From the inside of the lily, a fire is beginning to grow.

"Like I said," Q says, "gorgeous."

"Oh, so does that means that you'd be fine with having it on your forearm?" the man smiles a horribly evil grin.

"Um, not exactly," Q swallows the lump of fear in his throat.

"Toooo baaaaad," the man says.

In one swift move, the man places the incredibly hot brand on Q's forearm.

An insanely hot pain pierces Q's skin. It shoots right down to his nerves and he experiences the most terrible pain he's ever experienced.

"AHHHHH!" Q wails in pain. "S-STOP! P-P-Please!"

The man cackles evilly. "How 'bout no?"

The man after a few more seconds of this finally removes the brand.

Q sits in that chair, breathing shakily and feeling an intense rage against this man.

"What did you do THAT for?" Q shouts at the terrible man.

"For a present!" the man says creepily. "Whenever you see that BEAUTIFUL lil' flower, you'll think of this wonderful experience!"

"That's not exactly how I'd describe this..." Q mutters under his breath.

"What's that, Little Genius?" the man asks, and Q's ears perk up (figuratively, of course) at this. The man notices and grins. "What? Oh, I know you're MI6's resident genius now, but it wasn't always like that!"

"Shut up," Q mutters, losing his nerve.

"What? Mr. Wit doesn't have a sarcastic comment?" the man sneers. "Or should I say Mr. Dyslexia?"

"Shut up," Q says even quieter than before.

"What? Is that a sore spot for you? I think so," the man grins wickedly.

"How'd you guess?" Q mumbles.

"Oh, I didn't guess... I saw."

"Um, come again?"

"I got your file, Quartermaster," the man says. "I know you inside and out."

Q feels uncomfortable and a bit queasy at that analogy, but says, "You do? Care to share with the class, then? I don't believe you."

"Well," the man begins, "you were born March 11th, 1990 in London, England to two loving parents... or were they? Your father left you and your mother when you were seven; at SUCH a tender age!"

"Shut up," Q says once more, knowing this will do nothing.

"Nope!" the man grins sadistically. "Your mother was working three jobs after dear old dad left. I bet that was hard, wasn't it?"

Q hangs his head in defeat. That part of his life still affected him and hurt him to think about. It pierced his heart to think about his hard and painful past.

His mother had been such a hard worker. She did work three jobs just to give Q a warm bed and a full belly. She was such a loving mother and Q hated his father for deserting his mother and him. All he remembered of his father was that he was stern, cold, and commanding. He hated him without end and if he ever saw that son of a bitch again, well, he didn't know what he'd do, but it wouldn't be pretty.

With the dyslexia, his father walking out on his mother and him, and his poor mother, Q had had a short childhood, had been forced to grow up fast, and had in general had a hard life. When he got a job at MI6, he thought he had put all of those memories behind him. But no. This dick had other plans.

"Yeah, I bet it was," the man answers. "Actually, I know it was. And you know what?"

"What?" Q asks tiredly, clearly drained.

"I think I know why your dad left."

Q lifts his head up and his eyes are filled with hatred and malice.

"It was because he didn't want to have a pathetic excuse of a son like you."

"Shut. Up," Q growls through clenched teeth.

"Nope," the man smiles sadistically. "Who would want you as a son? A skinny, gawky, awkward, wimpy, nerd of a boy. That's what you are, you know that?"

"At least I'm not a complete psychopathic maniac," Q replies, regaining his composure. "I bet Daddy's proud."

The man narrows his eyes. "My father's dead."

"Well, right now being dead sounds nice," Q mutters.

"That can be arranged," the man grins again.

And before Q can say or do anything, the man punches Q right in the face, knocking him out cold. As Q slips from consciousness, he is thinking about his breaking and aching heart and his hard past.