Welcome to my first James Bond crossover fanfic, and (if i'm not mistaken) also the first James Bond/Welcome to Night Vale fic too! It's the cast of James Bond set in the WTNV universe, with Cecil & Carlos being Q & Bond respectively, along with a few more favourites. It's 00Q, of course, and told from Q's point of view! Enjoy!
Make a name for yourself. Make it unpronounceable. Make it out of mud, blood, clay. Curse all those who learn this name.
I am your host, Q.
Welcome to Night Vale.
Hello listeners.
To begin with, the Sheriff's Secret Police have asked me to read out the following statement.
I'm unsure what it is about, given that I have only just now, this very second, received this piece of parchment, which materialised in my favourite tea mug just as I was about to take a sip.
Thankfully for the Sheriff's Secret Police, it was empty. Unthankfully, however, for me, it was empty. Anyway, the statement reads- Actually, hang on, you know what? Before I read this out let me just- Eve? Eve, are you there?
… Huh.
Well, dear listeners, it appears that Intern Eve has yet to come in today, which, although is unusual for her, given that interns are required to spend at least 23 of their 29-hour days in the radio station, I suppose it's to be expected after yesterday's portal incident. Hmm. Perhaps I should check on her later on…
But, as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself. Since Eve isn't here to make me tea, I guess I'll just have to do without.
Now so. Back to that note… Ah yes, here it is.
*Ahem*
"The Sheriff's Secret Police would like to remind you that the Night Vale Elementary School is hosting a bake sale this weekend, and all parents, siblings, and distant relatives are expected to attend. Home-baked goods such as cupcakes, chocolate cakes, and oh-no-i-forgot-to-bake-a-cake cakes are required, and all those who do not provide confectionary, will be arrested and executed by a Tibetan firing squad as usual".
… Considering that the ban on wheat and wheat by products is still in place, I'm not quite sure how this is meant to be achieved. Nevertheless, the note continues.
"The Sheriff's Secret Police would also like to remind you to assist the Neighbourhood Watch Program whenever possible, such as by keeping all windows open in your home, speaking loudly and gesturing wildly to increase the ease of surveillance, avoiding wearing tinfoil hats because although they do not actually block helicopter mind-scanners, they do make you look like an idiot-"
They continue in this manner for quite some time, raving on about boring conversations and noise pollution and something about nerve gas and- oh.
Oh, would you look at that.
It seems that a new man came into town today, listeners. A- A spy.
Oh my.
Old Woman Josie, out near the Car Lot, had an entire conversation about this new man with the Angels this morning, and since Old Woman Josie obeys the Neighbourhood Watch Program, the Sheriff's Secret Police had no problem overhearing their conversation, recording it, and then putting it in this statement for me to read.
A new man.
Apparently, the Angels said that his name is Bond. James Bond. Like those long-term lending agreements, the government issues from time to time. He's here on official business, said the Angels, though they didn't specify what. He's posing as a scientist, they continued, although he's really a spy and just pretending to be a scientist so he can investigate our small town under the pretence of science…
Well.
I don't know about you, dear listeners, but James the Spy already sounds like quite the character. Now, I know what you're thinking. 'But Q, this man has only been here five minutes and he's already lied to us!'. And yes, that's true, but our own Mayor lies to us every day and we still like her, right? And besides, nobody said that you can't be both a spy and a scientist, and we're used to spies from a vague yet menacing government agency anyway, so hey, I say we give James the Spy a chance!
The Sheriff's Secret Police don't go into any more detail about the conversation between Old Woman Josie and the Angels, because it was at this moment, they remembered that Angels don't actually exist, and if Angels don't exist then they can't be talking, now, can they? They have nevertheless advised that although James Bond knows he's a spy, and although we know he's a spy, he doesn't know that we know he's a spy, and since we don't know how this outsider will react to us having that knowledge, we are all to pretend that we don't know.
I have to admit, I'm still quite intrigued by this James Bond fellow. Perhaps I can find out more, later, when I check in on Intern Eve. If any of you dear listeners have more information about the new not-scientist in the meantime, feel free to call in! In the meantime, however, a word from our sponsors.
It's dark. You're driving home. Alone, as usual, nothing to worry about. Only you should. You should worry. Because it's dark. You're driving home. And you're alone. Oh, so, terribly alone… Your car engine rumbles and you pull over. Your car engine is smoking. It's dark. You're alone. You pull out your phone, but it's dead for no explicit reason. It's dark. You're alone. You look around, peering through the dark for some light. Any light. Help. It's dark. You're suddenly not alone. You wish you'd remembered a flashlight. Ikea
Welcome back, listeners!
During the break many of you called in, expressing both your concern about Intern Eve's welfare, and also providing more information about the new man in town.
First of all, to put your minds at ease, or, well, as at ease as they can be given the black mind-scanning helicopters that fly perpetually overhead, I personally called Eve to make sure she was okay. She assured me that everything was fine and that she was simply living in a different time stream than me thanks to the portal incident, and as a result, won't be in until mid-afternoon which coincides with her morning. I apologised for calling her during the middle of her night, and hung up.
But now, the part you've all been waiting for. Just who, exactly, is our latest visitor?
Well, according to Old Woman Josie out near the car lot, who called in personally just a few minutes ago, his name is James Bond, he's from Europe, and he's neither small nor tall. Considering that Old Woman Josie regularly hangs out with 10-foot angels, however, she cannot be trusted on what can be considered small and/or tall. Madeline Swann, the Mayor's personal mind-reader, said he's handsome, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Another, anonymous, citizen of Night Vale said he's dangerous looking, shouldn't be trusted, and is a threat to our way of life and-
Okay. No. You know what? I know exactly who that was.
Raoul Silva.
Raoul Silva is such a spoilsport! Disregard the last statement I just made, dear listeners, because Raoul Silva ruins everything and has an idiotic taste in shoes and dyes his hair a completely unnatural shade of corn yellow and simply cannot bowl for the life of him! He's also petitioning for the reinstatement of computer in Night Vale, despite all computing machines having been forbidden after the Event in 1986. Gosh. To just disregard our history like that and now to offer unsolicited opinions about James the Spy that-
Ugh.
Raoul Silva.
And now, to allow myself time to calm down and bleach the thoughts of that guy from my brain, I give you, traffic.
Tonight's full moon has been brought to you by Pepsi.
Pepsi: We Created the Moon and We Will Eventually Destroy It.
That was, traffic.
Readers, let me tell you, the best thing just happened during the break and I can hardly contain myself. The new man, the spy, the non-scientist… visited me!
Or, well, he visited the station. The radio station. But since I was on break at the time and he didn't have the correct blood type to open the front door, I opened it for him and then he came in and introduced himself and asked about my lack of name and why I just went by the moniker 'Q' and then we had tea- yes, he drinks tea as well, isn't that just amazing? -and he started asking me questions about our little town and-
Okay. I know that he was only asking those questions to report the information back to his superiors, listeners, but I couldn't help but answer. All the while, he was taking notes on the cutest little clipboard, "for science" he said, and isn't it just adorable how dedicated he is in pretending to be a scientist?!
Anyway, he's just as handsome as Madeline Swann described, with a square jaw and white teeth and perfect hair that I hate and love in equal measure. His eyes were colder than ice, if that were a thing, but lit up like the glow cloud whenever he smiled.
Be still my beating heart.
Stop squirming in there. I mean it. Stop it.
Oh listeners, words are not enough to describe how brilliant this new man is… Hawk noises aren't enough either. He stayed for a while, a long glorious while, asking about the colour of the sky, a pale canary yellow today, and about the hooded figures outside the dog park that doesn't exist, and why we fear the librarians and boy scouts. I answered him best I could, this information is well-known after all, so I wasn't doing any harm, and he recorded all of my answers with a furrow between his brows which deepens the longer I talk.
He also had a shoulder holster beneath his beautiful blue sweater, and I wasn't sure whether or not to tell him that guns don't kill people. In the end, I didn't mention it. That should be common knowledge, right? That it's impossible to be killed by a gun? That we're all invincible to bullets and it's a miracle? I don't know if I did the right thing or not, listeners. But… I suppose… at least this gives me a reason to speak to him again, right?
Probably.
Possibly.
… Hopefully.
And now, the weather.
The old church down the street, concrete beneath my feet, the shadows of the leaves
I speak in ancient tongues, I stare straight at the sun, what I've done can't be undone
Blood on my hands but not on my soul, someday, God willing, I will be whole
And up above, I feel the love, from every star in the sky, I'll never be alone, I will never cry, I'll never be alone, I will never die
I hear them speaking still, my will is not my will, I wonder what is real
Dig in deeper, these and more than these, you gotta dig in deeper
The city council would like to remind you that any citizen who wish to use hammers must obtain a valid Hammer License from the City Council. Looking at you, John Peters, you know, the farmer? Apparently, John has been seen using a hammer to mend a fence on the edge of his imaginary corn fields, despite not having a license. As usual, he will be charged with treason and brought to the abandoned mine shift outside of town for correction. They would also like to remind you that books are dangerous and inadvisable and should not be kept in private homes. Did you read any good books lately? No? Good.
James, perfect and beautiful, left a few hours ago, and I already miss his cold yet comforting aura and his endless questions and curiosity about our lovely little town and anything that may or may not possibly maybe exist.
It's getting late, and it's almost time for me to sign off. I hope all of you out there have someone to ask you questions, someone to awe you with their perfect smile and hair, and someone to think about while you drift off to sleep on this clear, void, star filled night.
Outside, the world is dreaming, dear listeners… I'm not sure that I'm not, too.
Goodnight, Night Vale, Goodnight.