Summary: 2008. Caleb Turner, agent 009, underestimates Q (before he is Q), and ends up flat on his back. Basically, 009 gets what he deserves for being a jerk and makes a new friend who isn't afraid of standing up to him. Bright Star 'verse, but may be read alone.

The Power of Underestimation

2008

Caleb Turner was bored.

Now, usually, when someone is bored, it doesn't mean that anyone else ought to take much notice.

However, when the individual in question is a double-oh agent (in this case, the newly-appointed 009), the people around him or her ought to be wary of...incidents.

For example, on this occasion, 009 was wandering around Q-Branch. He was between missions and was utterly bored. Despite popular opinion, he was finding that being a double-oh agent was not all adventures and adrenaline. In reality, there was quite a large amount of down time involved.

Unfortunately, this meant boredom.

Caleb had his hobbies, of course, but one couldn't very well exercise, sleep, sleep with people, and drink booze all the time.

So that meant that he was prowling around Q-Branch terrorizing all of the technicians.

Why? one might ask.

Because it was fun making the boffins jump and set their eyebrows on fire. Yes, he was an asshole and proud of it.

Caleb snuck up behind one tech who was examining a cigarette, of all things, with a magnifying glass. He had an x-ray image of it on the laptop screen, which showed some kind of mechanism inside it. There was a full pack of them on the worktable.

"Interesting," Caleb purred, right into the man's ear, and his victim squeaked and jumped a foot off of the ground in surprise.

Caleb chuckled. "What does it do?"

"It- It- It," the man stammered, "It sh-sh-shoots a p-p-projectile out of th-the end."

"Sounds fun," Caleb said, and pocketed the whole carton.

"S-S-Sir," the tech pleaded, "You c-c-can't- I mean, It isn't- It isn't approved to leave Q-Branch. It's a historical p-piece. W-We're examining it t-to see-"

"It's alright," Caleb said, clapping a firm hand on the tech's shaking shoulder and squeezing it a little. "Isn't it?"

He was a big man with white teeth that gleamed like pearls against his dark skin, while the scrawny boffin was stereotypically nerdy with his thick glasses, lab coat, and an honest-to-god pocket protector.

The man moaned uneasily and shuddered under his hand.

Caleb sensed someone approaching him from behind and turned, still keeping his hand on the boffin in front of him.

"Excuse me," a very young tech said. By 'very young,' Caleb meant extremely. The boy had to be under twenty. Perhaps he was an intern. Either way, he was definitely not MI6 material, since he spoke to Caleb as though he weren't the most dangerous thing in a room full of weapons and explosives.

"Excuse me, but is everything alright here, Priyansh?" the boy asked the man Caleb had been 'talking to.'

Evidently, the tech - Priyansh - had stronger protective instincts over this boy than he did for himself because he drew himself up and stammered, "Oh, yes, just fine. Everything is definitely alright, Robert. I think Q's calling you, actually."

The boy, Robert, apparently lacked self-preservation instincts completely, since he frowned and said mildly, "I think you might be hearing things, Priyansh. Q's not in the building." He blinked at the pair of them, Caleb and Priyansh, rather innocently from behind his thick spectacles.

"Actually, Priyansh," he continued, his face gaining a disapproving expression, "it looks to me as though this agent is bothering you. Sir, I believe the explosive cigarettes in your pocket are not supposed to leave the premises without the express permission of the quartermaster, who, as I said, is not at hand to give his approval."

Priyansh groaned and put his face in his hands, as though fully aware that nothing he could say or do at this point could save his young, foolish colleague from his fate at the hands of a murderous double-oh agent. Around them, the Q-Branch techs watched the scene unfold with terrified expressions. At least three of them looked to be frantically texting someone - Q, probably - about the situation.

Caleb, on the other hand, couldn't believe that MI6 had hired someone so oblivious to social cues as to not realize that he had stumbled onto a situation best left alone.

He smiled. It was a dangerous smile, he knew, having practiced it to perfection in front of the mirror. "What are you going to do about it?" he drawled. He made a scene of flicking his gaze up and down the skinny becardiganned frame, as though assessing him (he had already done so in his first glance at the boy).

The boy, Robert, tilted his chin up, as though he thought that Caleb would cooperate nicely. "I believe I'll ask you politely to return them to Priyansh, who, by the way, does not deserve to be bullied by you," he said.

Caleb's eyebrows rose in tandem. "Bully?" he asked. He got close to the boy, close enough for him to feel Caleb's breath tickle his skin. "There's no bullying here, boy."

All around them, Caleb could sense the boffins holding their breaths and shifting from foot to foot, as though they didn't want their colleague to get smashed to a pulp. A few of them even made some aborted steps forward, showing a bit more courage than Caleb had expected.

The boy smiled. His smile was a rather dangerous one, too, Caleb realized suddenly. It was innocent enough, sure, but there was a sharp edge running under it, like glass, or maybe steel.

"Good," he said mildly, and held his hand out, "The cigarettes, please, 009."

Caleb hid his surprise. So the boy had known that he was a double-oh, and still decided to step in. This was starting to get interesting. There might be more to this young boffin than met the eye.

"I don't know what you're talking about, little boy," Caleb said, smirking a little as he uttered the blatant lie. He had the feeling he was finally about to have some fun.

It was the boy's turn to raise his eyebrows. "It's in your right coat pocket-" he returned Caleb's smirk as he jabbed back at him, "old man. In case your memory has failed you."

Oh-ho-hoo. No way was Caleb Turner taking that sort of insolence lying down.

"Now listen here, you little punk," he said angrily, and grabbed the boy's shoulder.

The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back, completely winded, and gazing up at the ceiling wondering what the hell had happened as he wheezed from catching a skinny knee in his chest. He scrambled up to face his assailant, who had stepped back out of his reach with the carton of explosive cigarettes in one hand and was smoothing down his cardigan with his other.

Bloody hell.

The kid had picked his pocket while throwing him to the ground.

"Thank you, 009," the boy said politely, putting the cigarettes back on the worktable where they belonged. "Have a nice day, and please don't come back unless you're invited or ordered to do so."

Then he pivoted and walked primly back to his station, leaving everyone staring after him with their jaws on the ground.

Caleb burst out into laughter, holding a hand to his tender stomach as he did so. "I don't know who the hell you are, kid, but I like you. You've got guts."

The kid turned in his seat and smiled at him. It was definitely a dangerous smile.

"Robert Frobisher," he said, and added, "And please don't call me 'kid.'"

. . . . .

Note:

And that is the story of how not-yet-Q added another double-oh to his collection.

For those who haven't read my series: Robert Frobisher is yet another one of his many aliases. His real name's Daniel Drake, and his father is an ex-007.