I am finally getting around to reposting this fic (...again). I adore Ben Whishaw, but every time I see a movie these days I can't help but find a character that could've been rewritten as a woman and I feel like Q was the perfect character for an update. I do draw a lot of my fem!Q from Ben's performance and the brilliant aesthetic the movie made for the character and of course try to stick to the dialogue written whenever I can so it still falls in line with the canon. Not to mention the insane chemistry between Craig and Whishaw, I mean...that's lightning in a bottle right there. Thank you for reading!

Chapter One

Brave New World

The national gallery was abuzz with patrons. Women pushing strollers kept careful watch over their absconding children, still too young for daily schooling. Men in suits walked quickly about, searching for a bit of culture to absorb during their lunch breaks. A flock of tittering school girls ignored the audio tapes they had been given for their lesson, instead choosing to circle a small display of coal-black anatomically detailed statuettes and snapped pictures between hushed giggles. Several tourists, all hailing from different countries, wandered purposefully through each room, their eyes trained on maps when not absorbing each work of art. None of them paid any notice to their fellow admirers, far too wrapped up in the ancient and often priceless works of art lining the walls. Except for one. A young woman, slim and bespectacled, sat alone on one of circular leather ottomans placed in the center of the room, her eyes trained on the public rather than the art.

She knew every painting and its history by heart, having been a frequent visitor as a child and was pleased to find that, although it had been almost two decades since she had walked through the impeccably kept museum, not much had changed. She peered over her shoulder to briefly watch the elderly man seated behind her as he casually sketched a copy of the Gainsborough portrait hung on the wall in front of him. When was the last time she had been in a place like this? A place so packed with the masses that they seemed more like a single, gestating organism rather than a collection of individual strangers. For nearly two years she had actively avoided such spaces. She turned her head back, warm brown eyes flitting from face to face after a quick analyzation of each. Every so often, she would glance at the watch wrapped around her wrist. It's sleek face had yet to be introduced on the market and garnered the occasional stare from several of the suit clad men that passed her by. But she did not take notice, instead she kept turning her attention back to the 34th gallery and the bench that was still empty.

1:44pm . Her brow furrowed. He's late.

She wondered vaguely if something had gone wrong and began to list the possibilities in her head as a morbid way to pass the time. Perhaps the man had been spotted and killed, caught, or even, after all the work that had been done and all the waiting she had already endured...perhaps he had still been deemed unfit for service. She shook her head, dismissing the idea.

That can't be. More likely he's dead. She decided, quite casually. Such was the nature of Double-Ohs. Short life expectancies coupled with all the dramatics of a Hollywood spectacle. After all, this was certainly not the most clandestine of meeting places. Then again, she had not been privy to the choice, having not even been told of the meeting until all the details had been determined and approved.

And he could just be late.

Although it was the most likely of answers, it was in no way reassuring. She had been warned by a number of her new colleagues that Double-Ohs could be callous, unpredictable and entirely unapologetic. None more so than 007. From what she had gleaned during nearly a fortnights worth of orientations, it was clear that being in possession of a license to kill meant one was also licensed to bend the rules and skirt protocol if the circumstances required it. That revelation was one of the many antiquated MI6 doctrines she had no intention of abiding by now that she had taken control of Q Branch. A lively smile threatened to overtake her features at the thought. She itched to control it, the spark instead broiling in her dark eyes as she allowed the words to linger in her head for a minute longer, reveling in all that it meant.

I've taken control of Q Branch. She swallowed, as if only now just realizing the gravity of it all. Had she been told even five years ago the path her life would lead, she would've laughed out of sheer disbelief. And yet here she sat. In the short space of sixteen months, she had gone from being a wanted criminal to reluctant consultant, only to be fired on the grounds of improper behavior and or, as her superior had put it "blatant and conniving disrespect." To think that she was now the newly appointed head of the very department that had gladly booted her from their ranks only three months prior…

Is it ironic? She mused, too pleased to bother pinpointing the proper word. No matter.

The haste in which her newfound path had unfolded still confounded her. She had half a mind to pinch herself. It could all very well be a dream. The setting certainly lent itself to such a theory. To think she was now here, seated amongst the works of some of the greatest creative minds to grace the earth, waiting to begin what she hoped would be a long and storied career seemed even now like a fabrication of her mind. It did bear similarities to the fantasies she had conjured up while trapped, alone and hunted in the darker urban corners of many a foreign country.

I never imagined to be kept waiting, she thought after glancing once more at her watch. It is nice to get out, though.

For the past week she had been all but confined to the new, temporary underground MI-6 facilities, meeting potential new hires and rushing several projects into an expeditious birth. She had gone with little sleep and less food, but it was no burden to her. She was used to working this way.

And how could I complain? After all that has happened...

Not even a month earlier, she had been another person entirely. She was back in England after twelve years away, forced from home and country due to a mixture of her own youthful mistakes and by situations more or less beyond the realm of her control. She had no aliases to hide behind, no team of loyal staffers, no guard and no permanent home. She was just Maggie Dawson, holed up in a hotel not far from Paddington station, unsure of what to do or where to go next.

It was on a cold, gray morning, winter still clinging stubbornly to the city, that her answer came banging loudly on her door. After casting a bleary eye at the clock by her bedside, she registered that it was 9:28 am. When the knocking failed to subside, she clamored from the warm layers of pressed sheets and comforters and wobbled to the door, her mind a mess of colorless dreams and the still ebbing effect of sleep aids.

She rustled through her bag set on a small coffee table and pulled out dingy cable-knit sweater. Like most of her clothes, it was about two sizes too large for her boyish, shapeless figure. If the knocking hadn't continued to increase in volume, she would have considered searching for something more suitable than the tartan pajama pants she wore, maybe even run a comb through her hair, but the banging was incessant and she didn't want to rile the knocker any further. With a muffled grumble she adjusted her glasses and opened the door.

Two men dressed in black trench coats stood in the hallway. The first was perhaps one of the tallest men she had ever laid eyes on. His mouth was set in a grim line and he kept his gaze up and forward, hands clenched together behind his back. The second was shorter, stouter...and familiar.

"Mr. Tanner," She said, straightening and instinctively running a hand through her mess of bed crumpled curls. "This is a surprise."

The man nodded in agreement, offering no greeting as per usual.

"You've been called in." He said bluntly and made no attempt to offer any further explanation.

She blinked, trying to make sense of his words.

"I...believe I was sacked." She responded, blankly.

"We'll give you a moment to change," He responded, pointedly. She followed his gaze down.

When she looked up again, the two men were already making their way down the hall towards the elevator where two others waited.

With a creased brow, she slid back into the room and returned to her bag. She stood over it for a second, frowning as her brain tried to work through the haze of interrupted sleep. The heavy hotel door fell shut behind her with a loud bang, rousing her further.

Something must've changed. She concluded. But what?

She rounded the table and grabbed the television remote from the arm of the couch. The sound remained muted, but it wasn't needed. Once it flicked on, she was met with a fury of flames and swells of thick, black smoke. At the bottom of the screen the headline read: EXPLOSION ROCKS MI6.

Quite suddenly, she was wide awake. She felt as though she had been pricked with a syringe and filled to the brim with adrenaline. She pressed the power button and watched the screen flick to black. In it's large frame, she could see her reflection bathed in a dark void. Her hair was truly a mess, it stood on all ends, curling every which way. By her calculation she had been asleep for close to eleven hours. A record she hadn't reached since childhood.

Her heart bubbled up into her throat. Do they...could they think me responsible?

It was very possible. She had spoken of the possibility of such an attack nearly everyday of her employment. Each time she had been met only with a dismissive wave of the hand by one of many superiors. But MI6 was always listening. And now she was being called in. An hour after the attack. She could only hope that they were calling in her for questioning. The likelihood of politely asking a suspected terrorist to come in, as Tanner had, seemed low. A shiver raced violently through her at the thought of the alternatives. Steeling herself, she swallowed down her fears and went about dressing into more appropriate clothes.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much she could choose from that was clean. She managed to pull together an outfit of slim, brown corduroys, a somewhat wrinkled button up and a navy cardigan. She then slipped on her only pair of oxfords and her weathered rain jacket. Finally, she pulled her hair up and back, crafting it into as neat a bun as she could manage and brushed down her bangs with a damp comb before slipping out the door and into the hallway. It wasn't what she would call an improvement, but the situation - as dire as it now seemed - certainly didn't call for anything more.

The tall man stood alone, waiting for her by the doors that led to the lobby. Adapting what she hoped was a look of easy indifference, she followed him to through to the front exit, where a black SUV was waiting. The ride was silent and shorter than she expected. After three turns the car was ushered through an iron gate and driven down into what looked like a long-abandoned tube tunnel. Before she could note where exactly they were, she was whisked into an underground facility and into the office of the head of MI6 herself, the preeminent M.

She sat behind a large metal desk upon which lay two file folders, an unopened laptop, telephone and a ceramic dog draped in the sort of cheesy patriotism that was usually relegated to tourist traps and market shops. The room itself was carved into the stone, the ceiling comprised of sloping arches, bearing meandering cracks and sputters grown by time and strain. The desk sat before what must have been a newly installed glass window that looked down upon a range of desks where people, some with faces Maggie recognized, bustled hurriedly about. Tanner followed behind her, carrying a box with paperwork that he added to one of the many stacks littered along the walls of the appropriately grand but still slapdash office. With a nod to M, he stepped back and took his place at a much smaller desk by the door.

"Sit, Ms. Dawson." M said, without taking her eyes away from the sleek, leather bound folder that lay open in front of her.

Blinking in the cool fluorescence light hanging above, Maggie could see two chairs placed before the desk. The one furthest from her was occupied by a man. She couldn't remember ever seeing him walk the halls of MI-6 during her brief tenure, though he had the distinct look of a government man. He seemed to be in his early fifties and his beleaguered eyes were a near perfect match to the slate gray of his suit. He watched her carefully with the steadiness of a hawk, his mouth set into a frown laced with obvious chagrin.

Maggie chose to ignore it. With a curt nod she lowered herself into the open seat, the fabric of her jacket crunching softly as she settled, trying to keep her posture as relaxed as possible.

M pulled one of the pages free from the folder, holding tightly to one corner as she reviewed it. Several seconds of heady silence followed. Maggie began to wonder whether she was meant to speak.

"Absolutely not," The man said turning towards M and leaning forward in his chair. "She's a child."

Maggie's brow rose up past her bangs and she looked between M and the man, clearly she had entered the conversation too late.

"She may look like one, but I assure you she's well past the voting age," M said with thinly veiled bite. "I don't see what you have to moan about, Mallory. This is what you wanted, isn't it? Someone less...what was it you said yesterday, antiquated?"

As a bitter silence began to permeate the room, Maggie began to put the pieces together.

"I take it I was right," She said softly but assuredly, adjusting her glasses.

Finally, M looked up to meet her eye. The paper slid from her grasp, silently falling to join its peers.

"Yes," M said bluntly, while expertly ignoring the man's annoyed chuff. Maggie fought to hide a smile. She was rarely wrong, but even though she had been repeatedly underestimated, thanks most often to outdated bias and sheer (usually male) denial, she couldn't deny that being proven right was a swell feeling. It never seemed to get old. Having just reached her 30th year, Maggie was beginning to doubt it ever would.

"And…" Maggie baited. Met only with silence, she bit down on her lip and led with her first theory. "...You suspect me."

Better to know now than to be led around like a fish on a hook, slowly and agonizingly tugged towards death via a sentence of the highest treason.

"Certainly not." M said, as if the very notion was ridiculous to consider.

Maggie inhaled for what felt like the first time since he had left the hotel. The pain in her lungs, which hung heavy in her chest, drifted away.

"Then why am I here?" She asked, allowing just a sliver of her frustration to break through the carefully crafted walls that kept her secrets confined within her. It was well known, after all, that the Lady M preferred honesty to bullshit. No matter the circumstance.

"To witness a miracle." M said, without missing a beat. "I'm about to do something I've never done before."

Only now did she offer a glance to the man sitting across from her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Maggie jolted by the insinuation spoke first.

"You're...offering me my job back?" She said, nerves sparking in her chest like embers crackling in a fire. She certainly had never wanted to be fired. After being apprehended overseas, the idea of setting herself on the right path seemed a long shot. Only for her doubts to be dashed by the surprising offer to join the newly minted team of developers under Q branch. How better to right a decade of wrongs by assisting the very people she had once hoped to target? And yet, she found what few starry eyed ideals she had were quickly crushed by the rampant threads of archaic thinking and rules that dominated the Q branch. She had not meant at the out start to be so impertinent with her superiors, but their constant refusal to consider the turning of the world led to many an argument, which of course made her seem, as Q himself had put it once or twice, like a "brassy, autocratic shrew."

"No." M said.

Maggie frowned, allowing the confusion to show on her face. She was certain that was the implication.

"We can now confirm…" M said, her voice going low. She stopped, taking a moment to breathe. "...that most of Q Branch was destroyed in the bombing. Dozens of lives have been lost, Ms. Dawson, including all of your former superiors."

Maggie lowered her head, unable to meet the flash of grief that flashed in the older woman's eyes. She knotted her fingers together in her lap, wringing them through one another while failing to come up with a proper response. Thankfully, M did not wait for her.

"Which means," She continued, touched her hand to the page on the table. "We are now without a Quartermaster."

Maggie's head shot up. "I-I don't understand."

"I'm offering you a promotion, Dawson." M said, curtly. "Of the highest capacity."

Maggie's mouth fell open as the cogs in her brain tried and failed to process what she had been told. M gestured to the man seated beside her.

"Mallory, here...doesn't believe you are the proper candidate for this position," M said, shooting him a steely look. "In fact, he has spent the last hour trying to convince me against bringing you on again."

Maggie looked towards him, hardly able to take in what M was explaining.

"I was looking over the transcript of our last discussion." She said, glancing back down at the pages in the folder.

"My exit interview." Maggie injected. "When you...let me go."

M looked up, seemingly daring her to continue. It was a challenge that Maggie could not turn down.

"I believe you called me a cocky little cyber clerk." Maggie said, mockingly amiable.

"I remember it," M quipped stonily. "And I stand by it."

An impish grin flashed across Maggie's face. "Fair enough."

"As I was saying," M continued, "after reviewing the responses you gave on the hazards plaguing the branch...I believe you are the only person right for the job."

Mallory sighed loudly. Maggie kept her eyes trained on M.

"And since I am still the head of this organization," M said, her voice hitching up in volume. "The only question left unanswered is...will you accept?"

Maggie didn't need to think it over. She would be a fool to even hesitate.

"Yes, mum." She said, with a clear and concise nod.

"Good girl," M said, snapping the folder shut. "Tanner will take you through the rehiring process. Temporary housing has been arranged. I suspect you will have everything sorted by the end of the week."

"O-of course" Maggie nodded. She rose from her seat, her head spinning like a top.

Thankfully, Tanner was there, his hand holding the glass door open. Maggie scuttled over, feeling suddenly as light as air.

"And Dawson?" M called.

Maggie turned. "Yes?"

"Welcome back."

In the weeks that followed, Maggie was lost to a whirlwind of meetings, regulation hearings and interviews. She of course had to be vetted by several committees and while most expressed doubt similar to that of Mallory's, M's approval was paramount and therefore very little time was spent dwelling on objections. While the whole of MI-6 was still trying to pull together the remains of their operation, it was Q branch that had been hit hardest. The team, once boasting a brigade of veteran employees had been whittled down to eight. Whoever had been responsible for the attack had made sure to rightly fry whatever systems could be accessed. It was a liability Maggie had tried to warn the higher ups about on multiple occasions. A move that had etched a target into her back and had ultimately led to her severance. Not that any of it mattered now.

Having been stripped of all electronic records, the remaining members of her team had been forced to scrounge any information they could find from the charred but still intact paper files kept hidden under lock and key. She was almost thankful for this, it meant she could start from scratch and build up the department how she saw fit.

Still the position did not come without setbacks. She would have to adapt to working with others again. Her communication skills and dress would have to be adjusted. After meeting with a pair of nearly indiscernible financial toffs, both of them dressed to the nines in pinstriped suits and projecting more gloominess than the London skyline, she was given temporary approval to work with a padded budget but warned not to overreach so early into her career.

On her eighth day of work, she had managed to procure an assistant. Malcolm Denison was an Oxford boy, only four years her junior, but he was smart and quick on his feet. He had been hired only two months after Maggie's initial employment and Maggie had taken a rare liking to him. By the will of fate, he had called out sick on the day of the blast. Once his orientation was complete, she was allowed a single free day to return to her hotel, pack up her belongings and sleep off her malaise. In her absence, Malcolm assisted in the training of the several new hires she had insisted on at the start. They included three hackers adept and cracking through security so that MI-6 as a whole could immediately begin the long task of beefing up what little existed before. Two developers were also hired. They were young but well trained and she was certain she could trust to work with the programs she herself had created some many years past. Finally, there was a trio of technical engineers, who could begin assembling the necessary equipment to better protect the secrets of the United Kingdom. It was a start, but her team was far from complete, clocking in at 18 employees, it was a definite skeleton crew compared to what Q Branch had been before the attack. She did want to streamline the branch, but everyone would be pulling double duty until the culprit of the attack had been found and dealt with.

She returned the following morning, rested and ready to begin this new chapter of her life. The new "digs" (as Tanner called them) had been vastly enhanced in the time since she had first been there. A team of workers had been dispatched to clean, paint and properly light the cavernous tunnels. Once they had finished, the surviving members of MI6 had burrowed into the underground much like hibernating animals. The new Q branch had been moved into one of the larger paddocks. Her mainframe was stored underneath newly constructed glass floors, several inches thick, that could only be accessed through doors that were built into the floor Tanner was there to meet her on her first "official" day and walk her through the grand tour with Malcolm following dutifully along. He had already offered to carry the two messenger bags that were hung over her shoulders, but she declined. The first contained her personal laptop, smeared with a collection of stickers that she had acquired during her time abroad. The second held four changes of clothes and a small number of other personal essentials. All were things she preferred to keep hidden, where no one could tamper with them or even see them until she deemed it appropriate. No matter how heavy they were.

"...in time you will meet all the Double-Oh's," Tanner said, walking several steps ahead of her at an alarming pace. "Normally there would be a formal introduction with all nine present but given the circumstances, time is of the essence and several of them are involved in missions already in progress.

"Yes, of course," Maggie agreed, doing her best to keep pace. "Um, Tanner-"

"That said, all pending projects have been put on standby. M will need you to review each of them and decide which ones should be reinstated immediately, if any. Did you read the dossier I gave you-"

"Yes," Maggie answered. "Could I-"

"Once the conference room has been set, the results will be discussed."

"Alright-"

"With M's approval of course. Once this is behind us, we can focus on shoring up the staff so that you can focus on-"

"Tanner."

"Yes?" He came to a stop so suddenly, she nearly toppled into him. Malcolm screeched to a stop behind her and paused to adjust one of the straps that had fallen down her shoulder. Maggie jumped at the contact but composed herself enough to smile.

"Oh, that was-thank you Malcolm. Um, yes. What was I going to...Ah, before we get started today." Maggie said, "Could you...point me towards the ladies?"

"Of course." Tanner said with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders.

He took an abrupt right, leading them down a narrower corridor with minimal lighting.

"Are you able to find your way back?" He asked after stopping at the fourth door down.

"Yes, your tour was more than sufficient." Maggie said, placing her hand on the chilled iron door.

"Can I get you anything, mum?" Malcolm asked, hovering like a sparrow just behind Tanner. "Coffee or-"

"Tea would be most appreciated," Maggie said. "Earl Grey, if you have it. No milk, no sugar, strong."

"Very good."

No doubt I'll get used to that, She thought as she watched them go.

With a deep breath she leaned into the door with all her weight. Unlike the rest of the compound, the restrooms had been left untouched by the renovators, aside from a few minor upgrades. It was a quiet, concave room. The air was cold and thin, made more so by the aging stone that made up the walls and low ceiling. Maggie crossed through the locker room, relieved to see they were empty. She set her bags down on a bench that sat in the middle of the washroom, her eyes trailing upwards in search of cameras or any other recording devices. She could sense deep in her bones the history of this place as if it had been sealed in for all these years and was only now allowed a chance to dissipate.

Out with the old, She thought, before crouching down to pull a small case from one of her bags. In with the new.

As she straightened she caught sight of her own reflection in one of the dusty mirrors that had been hammered above each of the five sinks lining the wall. The silence deepened. Looking down she fiddled with the latch that kept the case shut. It was a souvenir of sorts, one of the only things she had kept during her travels. She had only been back in London for a year, but after all that had transpired...her time away felt like another age entirely.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she opened the case. A small silver pen was magnetized just under the opening latch inside. She took it up between her thumb and index finger and pressed it down into the lower left corner, triggering the hidden bottom to pop open. After pulling it up, she fished out the contents: a paper copy of her original passport and her original birth certificate. She lifted the certificate up to the light, eyes squinting to read the faded scrawl put down by the doctor.

Margaret Louise Dawson. Born January 23rd, 1982.

Her eyes drifted down the document, pausing only momentarily on the other names listed. Amanda Dawson & Sebastian Pesaro. Her parents.

What would they think? If they knew… She shook her head.

No use dwelling on the past. Not now that her future was secured. She turned one of the faucets until a steady stream of water began to flow. Maggie. The name seemed foreign to her now. A stranger's name. She had never liked it, even as a child, especially knowing her grandfather had chosen it. She had changed it at the first opportunity. There were other names, some she chose, others that were given to her. They had all served her well, but now she had no further use for any of them.

She cranked the faucet once more until water slapped loudly against the basin of the sink. With her eyes trained on her parents names she took the certificate in both hands and ripped it straight down the middle. Then, stacking the pieces together repeated the action once, twice and finally three times. She opened her hands slowly, letting the pieces drift down into the sink and watched, nearly numb, as they muddied, ink bleeding down into the drain, until the last shred had disappeared.

"Goodbye Maggie Dawson," She said aloud.

She turned her gaze back to the mirror, allowing herself one last smile as she adjusted her glasses. Already she felt and looked like a new person.

"Hello Q."

She looked to her watch again.

1:54 pm.

She glanced up towards Gallery 34 once more.

Ah. A flutter of nerves ignited in her stomach. There he is.

With her attentions now squarely focused on the man sitting in Gallery 34, the details of her surroundings fell away. Her beating heart pounded in her ears. A sign of nerves. Strange. This was the first time since her hasty induction that she felt so apprehensive. Was it perhaps the dream-like location that was throwing her off? Or was it simply due to the fact that this would be her first time meeting one of the infamously difficult Double-Ohs?

She stopped, hidden under the shadow of the arched threshold that connected the two room and took a moment to analyze her contact. Even though he was sharply dressed in a tailored navy jacket and slate suit, he looked scraggly and weather-beaten. His skin was sallow, eyes cursed with a heaviness that suggested he was in desperate need of a hot shower, a good shave and about a week's worth of sleep. He sat before what some considered to be the most important piece of art in the whole of the National Gallery.

The Fighting Temeraire, she thought, recognizing it instantly. How...appropriate.

She wondered if he had chosen it purposefully. It was hard to imagine a man in his line of work would possess even a passing knowledge of art history. Perhaps he was simply drawn to its amber coloring, vastly contrasting as it was to the other works of art that had been hung on the walls.

With a steadying breath, Q stepped out of the shadows and made her approach. With each step, the tension fell away as old instincts were awakened. This task was simple, compared to what she had dealt with in the past. This man was a killer yes, but she now outranked him. Silently, she lowered herself down onto the padded bench next to him, her eyes trained on the painting. She could sense him stiffen and turn to look her up and down. No doubt she was not at all the person he was expecting to meet.

"Always makes me feel a little melancholy," she said, her voice no louder than the whispering footsteps that passed them by. "A grand old warship, being ignominiously hauled away for scrap."

She breathed deeply, pushing the last of her nervous energy out of her body.

"The inevitability of time, don't you think?"

She turned to look at him then, an easy smile gracing her face. He kept his eyes trained ahead. Eyes that were, by all accounts, the most stark shade of blue she had ever seen. They stood out against his pupils as vividly as figures carved in dutch china.

When he didn't respond, she dared to proffer a question. "What do you see?"

"A bloody, big ship." He answered, his voice as crude as smoke.

Q fought to hide a grin. Perhaps these Double-Oh's were not as enigmatic as she had been led to believe.

"Excuse me," He muttered, preparing to take his leave.

"007," She called, her volume hitching up a hair.

He froze a moment before emitting a tired sigh and falling back into his seat.

"I'm your new Quartermaster."

Nonplussed, James shot a swift look in the direction of the young woman seated on his right. She was taller than most yet slight like a birch tree, all limbs and no shape. She wore a crumpled windbreaker that seemed to be at least two sizes too large for her over a patterned navy and emerald tweed jacket tailored to fit her spindly form. A crisp collared blouse was tucked underneath, a string of thin, velvet navy ribbon was tied off in a long bow where a man would have sported a tie. Her hair was dark and thick, several sections of it pinned haphazardly at the back of her head, held in place by a bronze circular clasp. Thick bangs hung down over her brow line. A pair of perfectly rounded, tortoiseshell glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose. She was no doubt older that she looked, but her face lacked even a hint of makeup or fuss.

"You must be joking," He said, dismissively.

"Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?" She replied, blinking coolly, completely unbothered by his dismissal.

"Because you still have spots." His words poised to wound.

Q couldn't help but grin, her eyes still trained on the painting. Over the past week she had been privy to all sorts of explanations contesting her qualifications, but never had her looks been drawn so ostentatiously into the fray.

I'll give him points for creativity. She reasoned.

"My complexion is hardly relevant." She countered, careful to keep her tone congenial.

He bit back, "your competence is."

"Age is no guarantee of efficiency." If her time with Q branch before her firing had yielded anything of use to her it was that. When once she had been intimidated by her older superiors, she knew now that she was just as qualified as they were.

"And youth is no guarantee of innovation."

It is with me. Q thought.

"I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of earl gray than you could do in a year in the field." The words were out of her mouth with the swiftness of a nocked arrow.

"Oh, so why do you need me?" He questioned, almost petulantly.

She paused, lips struggling to hold back another smile as she feigned consideration.

"Every now and then a trigger needs to be pulled." She allowed, unable to resist goading him further.

"Or not pulled," he challenged. "It's hard to know which in your pajamas."

She could feel his eyes on her and turned her head towards him. His eyes were locked onto hers. That steely, steadfast blue so reminiscent of M. Before she could respond, the bitterness faded from them and he lifted his hand out to her.

"Q."

She blinked, glancing down at it as though she had never seen one before.

"007," She said finally, her smile now sincere.

A show of acceptance, she noted. Reluctant maybe...but I'll take what I can for now.

As she turned to retrieve something from the pocket of her coat, Bond couldn't help but smile. This reeked of M's doing: a new hire, so unexpected it boarded on the preposterous. That new hire had once been him. Now it was this spritely little know-it-all. No wonder that Mallory fellow had seemed so on edge.

Q handed him an ivory envelope with his number stamped at the center.

"Ticket to Shanghai," she explained. "Documentation and passport."

"Thank you," He said brusquely, pocketing it.

"And this," She lifted the case and passed that off as well. "Walther PPK-S nine millimeter short. There's a micro-dermal sensor in the grip. It's been coded to your palm print so only you can fire it."

She watched him inspect it out of the corner of her eye, waiting for questions that never came.

"Less of a random killing machine," She ventured. "More of a personal statement."

"And this?" Bond asked, referring to a small, square indent in the bottom right hand corner of the case.

Q handed him a small piece of machinery.

"Standard issue radio transmitter. Activate it and it broadcasts your location...distress signal." She clarified. "And that's it."

"A gun...and a radio," He parroted, "not exactly Christmas, is it?"

Q's smile turned wry and she suppressed the urge to launch into defense. Instead, she was reminded of her former superior and his inexplicable flair for complicated dramatics. No more would Q Branch churn out waves of kitschy gadgets.

"Were you expecting an exploding pen?" It was perhaps an untimely, arguably tactless jab, but one she simply couldn't resist. "We don't really go in for that anymore."

Now that I'm in control.

She stood then, pressing down the fold of her jacket with one hand. There was work to be done. Lots of it.

"Good luck out there in the field," She said with careful sincerity. "And, please return the equipment in one piece."

As she walked away she could hear him mutter to himself, "Brave new world."

Q smiled as she passed under the shadowy threshold and into the next gallery.

Indeed. She thought.

Thank for reading! I promise to stop posting and taking down and posting and taking down. I just love this fic so much and with each new movie I realize changes need to be made. But this time, I'm sticking to my guns.