At a round table in a dark wardroom, MI6 and its allies meet. M is the British attendee of this Coalition.

"Agent 7 has gone rogue," Vienna Intel vents. "He has killed the bodyguard of a public official!"

"And in one of the most inhuman ways unimaginable," Tyrol Intel adds, "if I might add."

"Unimaginable?!" Burgenlander Intel scoffs. "Have you forgotten all of those stories of what Nazi Germany once did to our kin, and our churches, because some of us chose to reject Nazism?!"

"Agent 7 has gone and done that himself," Upper Austrian Intel insists. "He might not be a Nazi, but he's deteriorating into worse than Quantum, as we speak!"

"It is not good discipline of an assassin," Salzburger Intel recites, "to go around killing his targets in cruel and unusual ways, that make his enemies look benevolent."

"It is not good discipline of an assassin," Lower Austrian Intel reminds them, "to kill people who're not their targets!"

"It is not good discipline of a human," Styrian Intel adds, "to kill anyone...as much as I understand why benevolence needs assassins."

"Assassins need to kill hopeless basket cases," Carinthian Intel insists. "The man who Agent 7 killed had no criminal record."

"He should've had a criminal record," Bavarian Intel points out, "regarding how many murders he committed under SO15's command... Even so, he was under orders, and hence, he deserved less judgment than Agent 7 does now!"

"Agent 7 was FAR from under orders," Slovak Intel urges, "when he killed that bodyguard!"

"So far away," Slovene Intel insists, "he was outside his own nation's jurisdiction!"

"They usually are," Croat Intel reminds them.

"He must be stopped," Portuguese Intel urges. "We must do something!"

"We must corner him," Andalusian Intel urges. "There is no telling what else a rogue assassin can reek, with his skill and recklessness."

"All of our countries' officials are in danger," Galician Intel insists.

"All of our nations' resources are in danger," Canarian Intel adds.

"Our governments will shut us down," Campanian Intel adds, "if they think we kill whoever we want however brutally or violently we'd want."

"Assassins need accountability," Tuscan Intel insists, "no matter how reliable they prove themselves to be, or how good at their jobs they become!"

"Nobody's Jehovah," Trentino Intel recalls. "Assassins need to be reminded of that the most!

"Service to Jehovah," Venetian Intel recalls, "is NOT tantamount to becoming Jehovah!"

"NO one becomes Jehovah," Friulian Intel adds, "merely by serving him...least of all, by killing for him, and breaking the Sixth Commandment on his behalf!"

"We must find the rogues in our ranks," French capitalist intel insists, "and bind them in chains, at all costs!"

A mass argument ensues. At the edge of the table, M only sighs, and holds her headache in her hands, shaking her head.

Here, Vorarlberger Intel stands. "As formidable as Agent 7 may be off-leash, we've bigger Forelle to fry. Greene Planet is investing in lands and seas that nobody else wants. He might be planning to steal oil."

"If that's the case," M admits, "then we really are up a creek without a paddle. Oil's a dying industry. If Greene demands too much, he'll destroy us all. It'll be even worse for us if Quantum demands it too."

Here, Ms. Fields crashes their party. Her bright red hair, and how she dazzles in a little black dress, bewitch the men and provoke the women. Her pumps resonate throughout the wardroom, as she approaches M. The noise stops as she does, as she stands next to M.

To themselves, M and Ms. Fields mutter back and forth. All around, some of the intel chiefs try to listen in. They know they shouldn't...but some of them are male, and wondering what Ms. Fields's ambitions are, outside of MI6. The Austrian chiefs have a lot of redheads in their agencies, and the Latino ones sure seem to think they could use some more...especially if they flaunt British accents...

M and Ms. Fields appear to resolve what business they have, as Ms. Fields leaves them. The male chiefs watch her (derriere), as she leaves the wardroom. The door slams, and resonates. In her absence, the meeting resumes...but takes a while to re-accelerate to its usual rate of production...

Onward, the allies of this wardroom argue. Their composition, as a coalition, is strangely reminiscent of the Second Coalition, in the Napoleonic War of the same name. With luck, this fanfic will start to salute, in its own subtle way, the opera Tosca...