This one all takes place after Kaz starts at MI6. The last part of it is Bond's POV, the only part of this story that's not from Kaz's POV.

Chapter 5

2010

MI6 HQ, London, UK

"...and Dr. Ishida, please have the report in my inbox by 15:00 today."

Kaz, slumped far down in his seat, saluted him lazily with the pen he was using to doodle on the margin of a notepad. A flock of origami cranes was lined up in front of him. "Aye, right, midget."

R shook his head at him and brought the meeting to a close with an annoyed huff.

Kaz unfolded himself from his chair limb by long limb and stretched. Bloody boring meetings. Waste of time, most of them. This one was with the heads of all the departments in Q-Branch, but Q hadn't been able to make it due to some other meeting or something. That meant that R got to preside instead of it being canceled or postponed. This place really loved their meetings, and they didn't even have the grace to provide them with comfortable chairs to make up for them. Probably didn't want people sleeping through them or something, even though Kaz was very talented and could sleep anywhere. The only reason he was awake for this one was out of deference to his friend.

One of the other men (Michaels, Michaelson, or something…head of computers or IT, wasn't it?) stopped him as he was about to leave the conference room.

"Why are you so disrespectful to R?" he asked with a disapproving frown. "He's young, but he is our superior."

The other heads – R had already left – hung back to listen, nodding their agreement with Michaels or Michaelson or whatever his name was.

Kaz looked around at them, and decided, why not? It wasn't like they didn't know that the kid was a genius. That was hardly a state secret, was it?

"I'm an equal opportunity asshole, actually. I'm disrespectful to everyone, but specifically, I went to school with him," he shrugged, "He was even one of my students in his first year of uni. We were mates before we came here. He knows any disrespect I show him is because I like him. Besides, I stayed awake for this one, didn't I?"

A woman – she'd mentioned something about ducks at the meeting, so she must be, what, head of biotech? – leaned in curiously. "You were his teacher? What was that like?"

Kaz snorted. "Have you ever met anyone who has no remorse about making you feel like a special kind of idiot in a lecture room full of people you're meant to be teaching?" he asked, deadpan.

There were winces and cringes all around. While they had not experienced it for themselves for the most part, they knew exactly what their Assistant Quartermaster could be like when he got going.

"Yeah," Kaz said, "Exactly. And that was before he installed a filter on his brain. Glad to find out he's grown out of doing it to his friends. Now I get to make it up to him by calling him names in front of the people he works with. Terms of endearment, of course. But some of them are pretty embarrassing."

"You're not scared he'll retaliate?" Michaelson (right, that was his name!) asked, a little tentatively. "He's not really the type to back down or take slights without paying them back."

"He knew exactly what he was getting himself into when he hired me," Kaz pointed out. "It's not like I've become less of an asshole over the years. Besides, any resentment he's got, he can take it out on me in the gym."

With that, he walked out, leaving his colleagues wondering if he knew exactly what he had gotten himself into. After all, they had witnessed R putting more than one double-oh on his ass when they underestimated him, and he in no way limited himself to physical means of revenge.

"Should we tell him?"

. . . . .

2011

It was one year into his employment at MI6 when Kaz was interrupted in his very important, but rather repetitive work.

"Dr. Ishida."

Kaz glanced up at his visitor from the screen where he was observing the action of his Smart Blood nanobot prototype version 3.3. "Hey, Dr. Whatever-you're-calling-yourself-today."

Freddie huffed and crossed his arms. "Still R, Kaz."

"What's up?"

"It's occurred to me lately that you seem a little…bored." R sounded a little guilty, probably because he was the one who'd brought Kaz to MI6. Which was ridiculous.

Kaz shrugged and returned to his work. "It's alright. Get to the point, pipsqueak." He waved a hand at him. "Busy man."

"I've got a proposition for you."

"I'm listening," Kaz said while making some corrections to the coding. "Might not look it, but I can multitask."

"How would you like to be Indiana Jones?" R said in that voice he used when he was smirking and looking smug and excited all at once.

Alright. That had Kaz's attention, one hundred percent. He fixed his gaze on his friend and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "See, you're better at this than that idiot Smith."

"Oh, you got Smith, too?" Another tech, Whatsherface – the annoying one…Padma – broke in because scientists on the whole tended to be nosy and curious and liked to eavesdrop, which would make them pretty good spies if not for the dearth of common sense. "She was terrible."

"I got a he Smith," Kaz told her.

R rolled his eyes and heaved an impatient sigh. "They're all called Smith. Anyway—"

"Who'd you get, pipsqueak?" What? Kaz wanted to know, and he wasn't the only one, judging by the number of heads that popped up from their work like a gang of eager meerkats.

R sighed again, knowing he'd get nowhere unless he answered the question. (He knew Kaz so well.) "006, M, Q, and Tanner."

"Ooh, Mr. Big Shot," Padma teased.

Kaz snorted. "I'm surprised they didn't get the queen down to do it, or the PM at least. This lad had Hawking, Nash, and all the rest drooling to get him to study with them, and turned them all down."

"Still on that, Kaz?" R said over the rush of excited whispers that this new revelation brought from the minions.

"Always. Stephen Bloody Hawking, lad. Anyway, what's this about Indiana Jones?"

"Oh, you're finally interested in hearing about it, are you?" R sniffed, feigning pique like the little shit he was.

"Alright, alright. I'm listening. My complete attention is on you. No commentary to distract from your monumental purpose." Kaz sat and folded his hands in front of him like a good little schoolboy.

"Thank you. As you know," R began in full lecture mode, "on the whole, the biggest financial and labor drain on our division is from the loss of equipment in the field. Financial loss obviously comes from the technology being lost and often even repurposed by enemies of the state. Additionally, the labor that goes into the equipment is wasted for the same reasons. Waste of labor leads to waste of finances in the form of wages, which comes from taxpayer money. Loss of technology also leads to waste of materials, some of which are incredibly rare—Kaz, you're zoning out."

Kaz looked at his friend, who had his hands on his hips, just like Kaz's mum did when she was scolding him and his sister (but more him than the goody-two-shoes).

"Are you practicing for a presentation to beg for more money?"

R let out a slow breath through his nose like he was battling a headache and telling himself to be patient. "Maybe. In any case, this concerns you, so please pay attention, Blaze."

"Me? And how?"

"I want you to head the proposed Equipment Retrieval Unit."

"Come again?"

Padma, never slow on the uptake, clapped her hands. "Oh, that sounds amazing! A team to get our stuff back!"

"Why me? I'm a scientist, not a golden retriever!"

"A scientist with an adrenaline addiction who's been bored since…what, the first time I met you? Save for the times when you're doing something that risks your life or mimics it."

Okay, Kaz had to give him that. His last vacation had included skydiving, which was something he was definitely trying again.

R gave him a satisfied nod, knowing exactly what Kaz was thinking. "In fact," he continued, "I've a suspicion that you'd be a brilliant field agent with a bit of training, save for the fact that you're absolute shit with people."

Really? That was both flattering and insulting at the same time.

"You say that like you're not the same."

"Yes or no, Kaz?"

Kaz shrugged. "Fine. Sounds fun. Who else is on the team?"

R rewarded him with a pleased look that made him feel slightly squishy inside, damn the kid. "I want a mix of scientists who score high on field tests and agents with a strong scientific background. They're the most likely to come back with both themselves and the equipment in as intact a state as possible. I've chosen a selection of candidates. You can have your pick of them."

He set a tablet on the table in front of Kaz. Padma tried to peer over his shoulder, but he shooed her away, the nosy bint. She made a face at him that told him he'd be in for a pestering once R was gone.

R glanced between the two of them, looking amused for some mysterious reason. "Rotating team of six, not including you. Scientists joined MI6 to do cutting-edge research, and I assume field agents don't want to spend all of their time treasure hunting. They'll work in the unit on a part-time basis, except for you, who'll manage them. I'm thinking a dozen total."

Kaz leaned back in his seat, turning it all over in his mind, for once serious. (He could be serious when he needed to.) "Have you got funding for it yet?"

"Not yet, but we will."

"That confident?"

R finally got rid of that cool, collected exterior and let his excitement show. "I've got Q's support already," he said, nearly bouncing on his toes. "All I have to do is to convince M. You know how Tanner calls her the Queen of Numbers. If I show her how much we'd save, she'll get on board, and with her backing, it'll pass."

Kaz groaned and shook his head. "Yer head's floating in th' clouds, lad. This is the real world. I know I'm fairly new here, but money people are the same all over. They don't spend it on things people want, only stupid expensive useless things."

"Just you watch me, Ishida."

"Ten quid, laddie."

"That's ten pounds you could have spent on vindaloo."

. . . . .

Several weeks later…

"Dr. Ishida."

"Dr. Shrimpy."

Behind him, Dr. 'My Name is Not Padmé Amidala for the Hundredth Time You Asshole' let out a high-pitched snort. Kaz would never admit to anyone, ever, that he might have continued with his name-calling just for the amusement of his fellow minions. He'd found his home here, just like Freddie and the others, and he could be entirely himself and no one batted an eye…after the first few months of confusion.

This time, R was not to be deterred from his triumphant announcement. "You owe me ten quid."

"Aye, right!" Kaz said in disbelief while the other minions whooped and squealed in excitement around him. "You got funding?"

"I did, Team Leader."

"Bloody hell," Kaz said, a little dazed.

R suddenly looked uncertain. "Are you…alright with this, Kaz?" he asked quietly, "You don't have to do it if you—"

"Haud yer wheesht, laddie!" Kaz demanded. "I'm doing it! You can call me Dr. Jones from now on."

"Alright, Dr. Jones," R said, giving him a brilliant crinkle-eyed smile. He held out a tablet. "Sign here, please."

. . . . .

The next day…

Kaz clattered into the main room of Q-Branch, where the missions were run. He gave a quick look around to see that he wasn't interrupting some major action scene or whatever (he wasn't) before he sauntered over to where R was standing at his station.

R's face was unreadable as he took in Kaz's outrageous outfit.

"What are you wearing?"

"My disguise," Kaz said, adjusting his visor and removing his large sunglasses, replacing them with his usual black-framed glasses. "I'm a silly Asian tourist. Busloads of us everywhere, and we all look pretty much interchangeable."

He was very satisfied with his costume: the tucked-in t-shirt (decorated with nonsense English) paired with cargo shorts and white socks, and a backpack pulled snugly against his back. He'd had a bit of trouble that morning with security, but it was worth the look on Freddie's face. The selfie stick and large camera, Kaz thought, were an excellent final touch.

"Kaz," Freddie groaned, "you can't say stuff like that. You've done the HR trainings."

"Aye, right," Kaz waved aside his manager's concerns. "Click click, watch the stupid video, click, done. Besides, I'm a minority; I can be racist if I want. Anyway. What do you think, for the ERU thing? I'm half Chinese, half Japanese. Might as well use the stereotype. I'll blend right in and pretend not to understand when they catch me wandering somewhere I shouldn't be. 'You speak-a Chinese-a?'" he demonstrated with the accent he'd picked up from his mum.

R collapsed into the chair that a helpful – yet giggling – minion had pushed into place behind him. He gave a groan into his hands that was almost a frustrated sob. "Why me?" Kaz thought he heard him mutter.

R gave another shoulder-heaving sigh and straightened, fixing Kaz and his bizarre outfit with a resigned look. "Okay, maybe it's not a terrible idea. I'll run it by Q and Tanner."

"And," Kaz added, "I thought I could do 'harmless Japanese businessman,' too. What do you think?"

R's face twitched. The minions tittered around them. "Don't overdo it."

"Nah, I'll be fine," Kaz said, waving the selfie stick at him. "I went out like this and no one gave me a second glance. Asked a nice policeman for directions to Big Ben even though it was right there and I could see just how much he hated his life while he did it. And then I asked him to take a picture of me and I did the peace sign…backwards. Didn't suspect a thing. Look."

He leaned forward and showed a drooping R the picture on his camera. Minions around them craned to get a glimpse of the tiny screen. "And here's the picture he took with me. A real Ingrish po-rees-man, how exciting."

The pained look on the poor policeman's face was in stark contrast to the overly-excited expression on Kaz's.

R closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm adding disguise and deception to your very long list of training," he finally said.

"What training?"

"How to tell the wrong end of a gun from the right end, for example. And now, how not to overdo a disguise."

"Wicked!"

"I've got a headache," R muttered, rubbing his temples.

"You should take Xiao Yao Wan," Kaz informed him in his Asian Tourist persona, "Xiao Yao Wan cure ebbrysing. Bery good for headache. All natulal."

. . . . .

2013

Bond entered Q-Branch, glancing around the place and taking in any threats without dropping his seemingly nonchalant attitude.

No threats, at least beyond the usual Q-Branch activity, which often included impromptu – but controlled – explosions.

Put somewhat at ease (but never, ever completely), he continued to his intended destination.

There was another man — one of the techs, judging by the lab coat — loitering around Q's desk, which didn't pose a problem in the least. Most people scarpered as soon as they noticed a double-oh heading their way.

This one, however, didn't budge from where he was leaning against the desk, chatting companionably with his young quartermaster.

Q – this Q – had taken some getting used to for Bond, who was accustomed to somewhat older people in positions of authority. The extreme youth of the new quartermaster, whom Bond had met immediately after his return from the dead, had initially thrown him for a loop, but the young man had proven his worth soon enough.

More than.

He was good, very good.

Q, seeing him heading his way, gave him a quick assessing glance that, Bond knew from experience, took in not only his external appearance, but also whatever injuries he thought he might be able to hide from the sharp green eyes.

It had become a game of sorts to see if he could hide his injuries from his quartermaster, a game he never failed to lose.

Satisfied with what he saw, Q nodded at him. "007," he said primly, "I hope you've brought your equipment back in as good a condition as you've brought yourself."

Bond unholstered his gun and laid it on the table. He noticed the other man, who remained unknown to him, give it a glare like it had done him a serious offense. Then the man turned his flaming ire on him.

On James Bond.

Double-oh-bloody-seven, as so many of his colleagues liked to call him.

"Ye'r th' numpty wha fed th' gun tae th' komodo dragon?" the man exploded.

Bond merely raised an eyebrow at him, perplexed. That had been…a while ago. His first mission back from the dead.

Did this man know who he was?

"Don't kill him," Q sighed. He laid a hand on the closest weapon within reach of all three of them, the gun Bond had just returned, and pointedly slid it toward himself.

Bond thought that the quartermaster was talking to him until he said more firmly, "Blaze. Did you hear me?"

The man – Blaze – snarled and threw his hands up in a belligerent gesture that matched his name. "Ah wasn't aff tae. He's nae worth th' trauble."

It had been a while since Bond had heard a Scottish accent as strong as that. He filed that away along with the point that Q thought that this string bean of a man could kill Bond.

"Blaze." Q had his 'commanding quartermaster' voice on (never mind that it was the same one he used on his cats). "Go cool down in the gym. You know your accent gets thick when you're upset and you sound so Scottish right now you've practically sprouted a kilt and a bagpipe. Go on."

After another growl at Bond, Blaze stomped off with a strangled yell.

Bond watched him leave, bemused. "Who was that?"

Q picked up the gun and checked it over with efficient movements. "Head of the ERUdite team." The parts in his uick hands clicked and the gun was whole again like it hadn't been in pieces a moment before.

"The what?"

The clever hands paused in their work as Q looked at him with surprise. "Equipment Retrieval Unit? You seriously haven't heard of it? It's been up and running for over a year and you've never heard of the people who clean up your messes and literally pick up the pieces after you're gone? Did you not read the memo?"

Huh. Bond thought about it for a moment. "No, I can't say I have. He's janitorial staff then?"

"You really are the 'ass' in 'assassin,' aren't you, Bond?"

James Bond smiled. He lived for the times when he could put that tired, pinched, resigned, frustrated look on his quartermaster's face.

And that Blaze…seemed rather interesting, for a boffin.

. . . . .

Notes:

Queen of Numbers - Tanner from the Pierce Brosnan Bond days (Goldeneye, I believe) calls M that. In my 'verse, that Tanner isn't our Tanner, but his predecessor. I'll give him another name if I ever use him. Anyway, our Tanner probably picked up the Queen of Numbers nickname from his predecessor.

Padmé Amidala - Star Wars reference. I kept changing Padma's name, and then I settled on this because it was perfect. I recently read Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie, which has a character named Padma "lovingly" referred to by the narrator as "dung goddess." Obviously I'm pairing her with Kaz and this is the same loving insult vibe I want between them. The scenes with Padma in the book were my favorite parts.

Disclaimer: Racism is bad, no matter who does it, racial stereotypes included. Don't do what Kaz does.