The Spy Who Kinda Liked Me

By Fool's Gold

Chap. 1: On The Duke's Secret Service

Disclaimer: I do not own FMP, James Bond, or anything that might be parodied in the course of this fic. (Which, hopefully, will be a lot.)

The young man who walked into the ballroom was not particularly handsome: his hair was a veritable bird's nest in its disorder, and the old scar that marked his rough face made him seem more notorious than dashing. It didn't help that his grim face and stiff bearing would have made him the absolute death of the party.

No, he was not good-looking in the least. Now, attractive, on the other hand… Oh, hell yeah, thought the security guard. The newcomer simply exuded an air of irresistible magnetism, effortlessly turning heads even as he stepped towards the great doors, and the guard's was no exception as fantasies of frisking him drifted through his mind unbidden.

Then again, it was part of his job description…

So he sauntered up to him, drawling in as casual a voice as he could muster, "Hey, is that a gun in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?" It was clichéd, but true: the guest was sporting a noticeable bulge at the front of his shorts, just barely covered by the tuxedo jacket he wore. And he wanted to see it so badly…

It was a surprise to him, then, when he heard him growl, in the sexiest voice he'd ever heard, "The former."

YEEESSSSS!

…wait. "The former?"

He didn't have any time to reflect on his mistake; the man drew the pistol from his waistband and shot him squarely through the forehead, sending a sharp report ringing out through the crowded hall.

In that same moment, all conversation died as the dignitaries looked towards the entrance, their minds not fully registering the short bark of the gun as a known threat. It didn't make a difference, though, because the next action was perfectly clear: the uninvited guest casually scooped up the fallen guard's submachine gun and gestured at the throng with it, shouting out a few choice words: "I have come for the Captain! If you do not wish to die, get out at once!"

Somewhere in the back of the hall, several guests wet their pants, and one woman had the good sense to swoon into a dead faint. The others, though, instantly decided that when a man with a gun told you to get out, you got out, no questions asked. Like "Who's the Captain?" or "What's he trying to do?" or "Where'd I leave my car keys?"

However, as the room exploded into utter chaos, none of them had the foresight to actually ask, "What's this guy doing standing in front of our only exit?"

The result was not pretty. Caught between the stampede of panicked guests from the front and the squad of security guards rushing to the scene, the man was trapped. He had no choice but to fight his way out, even if it meant upping the body count in the process…

…which was just as well, because he was being paid to do what he loved.

He raised the gun and pulled the trigger in controlled, precise jerks, cutting a bloody swath through the crowd of civilians as he ran through it. Even as they attempted to scatter, running about in a manner akin to headless chickens, he weaved through their ranks with the dexterity of a snake. The security guards hesitated, not willing to harm the guests with friendly fire; he had no such compunctions as he ducked around them, sniping at the guards as he shot around, over and even through the hapless human shields.

It was a bloodbath. When the last sounds of gunfire had died down, two dozen guards and a third of the world's politicians lay dead on the marble floors, surrounded by blood and shell casings galore, and all that the killer had to show for it was a faint sheen of sweat.

That, and an armful of woman. The ash-blonde lass had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere, clinging on to his arm and favouring him with a breathy, sultry whisper of, "Oh, Sousuke…"

He bent over to kiss her, one eye on the destruction that he had wreaked on the gala, the other on the beautiful girl before him, and a satisfied smirk appeared at the edge of his lips…

Merida Island, 7 Oct, 1000h

The beginning and middle of the nightmare had been bad enough, but only the ending could have scared M into snapping out of his blank stare – and it certainly wasn't helping his receding hairline much. He stared down despondently at the latest action plan on his desk, wondering just how Mithril-Six was going to get out of this latest mess.

It had all started when some bright spark on the Board of Administrators noted that the United Nations had no intelligence.

What he had really meant, though, was that they needed a department devoted to espionage. And that was a fair suggestion: it was known to all that the UN was practically riddled with spies – again, fairly obvious, seeing as how the main building was practically an embassy for envoys of all nations. And so, day after day, Armani-clothed agents – better known as diplomats – had strolled in and out of the compound, exchanging vital military secrets over coffee and biscuits, listening through bugs hidden strategically in the toilets, and slipping coded microfilms under the table, all under the cloak of diplomatic immunity.

Vital secrets were leaking out of the UN more quickly than water into the Titanic. Clearly, something had to be done about it, and what better way to go about it than with a spy team of its own?

And that was the problem. The very concept of an intelligence arm of the United Nations, while necessary, was also well nigh impossible to implement. It was hard enough to find dedicated agents who were willing to put national interests aside for the greater good, but what was even harder was ensuring that they didn't cast aside their organisational loyalty just as easily. Add the enormity of the task – ensuring that the UN remained uncompromised by every single nation on Earth, members or otherwise – to the equation, and it was enough to make grown men cry.

But they'd done it 5 years ago, creating a body devoted to ensuring that the United Nations' best-kept secrets never left the headquarters. It was answerable to only a select committee, war veterans handpicked from member nations of the Security Council; not even the Secretary-General was privy to the full extent of its operations. And on a whim, they named it after Tolkien's "true-silver", boasting in its ability to fend off all threats that were presented (and conveniently forgetting that Frodo's chainmail was, technically, full of holes).

They called it "Mithril". And while conspiracy theories spread through the media like wildfire, the woefully understaffed crew of the fledgling intelligence agency struggled to keep up appearances.

It was the external activities division, Mithril-Six – or MI-6, as it read on the forms – that bore the brunt of the burden, trying its hardest to fend off espionage threats from all sides while running on a skeleton crew. Small wonder, then, that M had taken to wearing a cap indoors, even if it meant that the younger staff members had a field day sniggering behind his back. Stress had taken its toll on the division head.

Time had been kinder on the chief handler, K. The Russian was still sporting a full head of hair, even if it had turned a distinguished shade of silver, and he seemed to have complete confidence in his protégé's ability to perform the task assigned – an opinion that wasn't shared. "What do you think?" he asked, in a tone that made M wonder if K was actually oblivious to the pitfall that they faced.

"The situation is not ideal," M replied stiffly. "You know that among all the agents on our roster, this man is, by far, the most unsuitable for urban work. And I will not waste a good man at a time like this…"

To his credit, he only lied through his teeth when he said the word "good". The rest was true: due to numerical constraints and some senile old coot with a fetish for double zeroes, only nine agents had been permitted to carry the coveted "license to kill". And eight of them had already been dispatched…

K didn't even reply, merely focusing his gaze on the division head in a pose of quiet confidence. On his part, M returned the look balefully, and the two grand old men of Mithril-Six stared at each other from across the table for what seemed like an eternity.

Then, inevitably, M's resolve broke. He sighed, stabbed the intercom button with an unwarranted vehemence, and barked, "Get Uruz Double-O Seven up here, on the double!"

(The view is one out of a gun barrel. Enter Sagara Sousuke, stage right, as the "James Bond" theme begins to play.)

(Sousuke whips out the ubiquitous pistol from his jacket and fires repeatedly. The dying gurgles of a cameraman are heard over the strains of a guitar riff, which, inexplicably, segues into a rock remix of "Tomorrow". As one, the rest of the cast and crew scream, "SOUSUKE!")

(Somewhere in Japan, a J-Pop artiste prepares to sue.)

Full Metal Panic: The Spy Who Kinda Liked Me

(Silhouettes of scantily-clad women pan across the screen. The panorama is abruptly discontinued when one of the silhouettes picks up a harisen and promptly demolishes the camera – and cameraman – with it.)

(The next shadows – a pair of them – pose for a short while before slashing out at the screen with a pair of huge swords.)

(One final outline – a girl with a very obvious braid – appears, but it only lasts for a short while before the scene abruptly cuts to the launch of a cruise missile from an underwater submarine.)

(As the music crescendos to a finish, an incongruous image is seen: the shadow of an overweight, balding man gyrating to the beat before being dragged off by what seem to be security guards. Cut back to fanfic.)

Merida Island, 7 Oct, 1100h

What's a Mithril agent doing in a crappy place like this, with absolutely no one to spy on?

Clearly, or so it seemed to Agent Lincoln Park, somebody on Merida Island had goofed. The last place he'd expected to find Sousuke was in a platoon of peacekeepers on field exercises. He shook his head resignedly and approached the soldier who guarded the base perimeter, who scrutinised his pass.

"Oh, it's you Mithril people. You never call, you never write, you never send flowers…"

"Headquarters is looking for Sergeant Sagara Sousuke."

The guard gesticulated towards a dilapidated wooden hut at the fringe of the camp. "In there. You might not want to disturb him, though…"

"Really?"

"Yeah. He's… 'cleaning his gun'."

"'Cleaning his gun'?"

"Yep, 'cleaning his gun'." A wink and a grin, and he had returned back to his duties, waving Lincoln through. The rookie snickered. Everyone was entitled to do what they wanted in their free time, after all…

He tried the door of the termite-infested hut: it was unlocked. And incautiously, he strode through the doorway without even announcing his presence – a fatal mistake.

He should have knocked.

The only thing he saw was a blur at the corner of his vision, and a split second later, he found himself tackled down onto the floor, the cold muzzle of a gun pointing at his temple. Panic raced through his mind, a thousand regrets flashing through his mind as he wondered why he hadn't asked that cute girl out to lunch the day before his death at the hands of a crazed madman…

The hands that roughly searched him finally found his identity card. "Apologies." As the death-grip on his collar loosened, he got up to find himself looking at the unsmiling face of Sergeant Sagara Sousuke and the partially-assembled gun in his hand. "You were an intruder." There was no ambiguity in his voice at all.

"Right." Lincoln was in no condition to argue. "Don't shoot the messenger." He handed the envelope over with shaky, trembling fingers. In response, the sergeant fished out a wicked-looking machete from his webbing, and used it as anyone else would use a letter opener, ripping the edge of the envelope open with a violent slash.

The message was simple, and Sousuke had decoded it in the time it took him to scan the document: 007. Headquarters. Now. Signed, M.

P.S. Clean up before reporting.

"Roger." In a flash, the agent had reassembled the gun and stowed it back into his holster, hastily clearing up the rest of his belongings. "I shall inform the platoon commander."

"Um… you go ahead."

He waited for Sousuke to exit the building before finally allowing himself to slump down in a dead faint, his induction into the school of hard knocks a successful one.

Merida Island, 7 Oct, 1200h

"Sergeant Sagara Sousuke, reporting for duty, Sir!"

"At ease, soldier," M growled. "We're not exactly in the military anymore."

"Yes, Sir!" Sousuke walked over to the briefing table, where M and K waited. And, as per instructions, he had changed out of his fatigues into a working dress uniform.

As the chief handling officer in Mithril-Six, it was K's responsibility to deliver the briefing. "You are no doubt aware that the twenty-fourth of October is United Nations Day. And, as part of the usual procedure during UN Week, the branch offices around the world will be open to the public."

Sousuke nodded. He had been on security detail for a number of such events before, but it was unusual to send a Double-O agent for such work, unless a threat was involved.

So the next part of K's briefing was expected. The lights dimmed as the slide projector started up, showing a brief montage of the aftermath of various terrorist attacks in urban settings. "Also, you are probably aware that in the last few years, the terrorist group known as A21 has committed multiple atrocities against civilian targets." A hospital. A childcare centre. A supermarket. The slides went on and on, a relentless onslaught of grotesque images. "Their objective, as publicly announced, is the removal of all UN activities from Japan."

Sousuke was unfazed: he'd seen worse before. But still, that didn't make the acts any less wrong, and targeting non-combatants was at the top of his list.

"Intelligence indicates that they intend to strike again soon, and there is sufficient evidence to suggest that it will be during UN Week. So far, efforts to track down A21's cells have been promising, but we are far from neutralising the core group."

M decided to include some commentary of his own at that point. "As you might have surmised, all the other Double-O agents were dispatched to track down these cells some time ago."

The slide changed to a picture of the United Nations University in Tokyo. K continued, "This year, the proceedings will be held at the UNU for the entire week. In addition to the public, there'll be a dinner function on the evening of UN Day itself, attended by UN staff members as well as dignitaries from all over the world."

The lights went back on as K concluded his part of the briefing. "Security at the proceedings will be handled by the JSSDF, in partnership with our UN peacekeepers. As far as the plans have shown, it's going to be very tight – at least, from the outside." There was a note of foreboding in his voice as he added the last phrase. "That's where we come in."

"Basically, Sagara," M continued, "We're the last line of defence. With so many dignitaries around, it's a no-brainer that they'll be a tempting target for A21. Your job is to… neutralise," he muttered, the distaste evident in his voice, "any terrorists who may elude external security. Because, according to tradition, they always do."

He elaborated, "For the purposes of this mission, you won't be going in as a Mithril-Six agent." The Double-O designation was Mithril's dirty little secret: the United Nations would never admit to running the equivalent of a black ops squad, even if every other nation in the world had one. Besides, the very presence of an intelligence officer would attract undue attention, especially from the targets they were trying to hunt down. "So to get you in, we've assigned you to bodyguard detail for one of the UN's R&D crew. The details are in the folder. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir." Sousuke accepted the folder, but didn't bother opening it. He would have plenty of time to familiarise himself with it later.

"One more thing," the division head added, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Sir?"

"As mentioned, we'll have a lot of important guests at the function."

"Understood, Sir."

"Therefore… Please try to keep collateral damage down to a minimum," M almost pleaded, the nightmare returning to haunt him. "We don't want another Canicatti Affair on our hands."

The strained tone in Sousuke's voice was the only evidence of his indignance. "Sir, I believe that my actions were completely justified, given the situation."

M sighed again – he did a lot of that these days – and removed his cap, running his hands through what remained of his hair. "Justified? Definitely. But you have no idea how hard it is to explain the spontaneous combustion of thirteen Ferraris and one beachside mansion."

(In fact, a novel, The Canicatti Affair, had been published not long after the incident, purporting to tell the full details of the raid on a local mobster by members of an international group of secret agents. What was less well-known was that Mithril had commissioned its production, that it was actually a relatively faithful account of the events that night… and that as a result of its shooting to the top of the fiction lists, nobody believed a word of it.)

(Not that it helped M's mood much.)

"I expect cleaner jobs from Double-O agents. Anyway, the briefing's over," he finished irritably. "Go and collect your gear from Tessa. And make sure you bring it back intact!" And if you fool around with her, so help me, I'll keelhaul you from behind a submarine.

"Roger."

The door closed silently on 007's exit, leaving K to clean up the aftermath. "You shouldn't be so hard on him, M. After all, he does get the job done."

"I know, but the others could do it with less fanfare."

Credits: Many thanks to Weltall Elite, for proofreading in spite of his tight schedule.

Comments, feedback and the like are appreciated. Hopefully, it gets funnier.