A/N: Thank you for your continued support of Tessitura. As always, comments/reviews are appreciated. For more updates/thoughts concerning this story and other projects, visit my blog (linked on profile) from time to time.

VI

Benefactors

1 Year Ago
London, England

M sat in her office, the heavy rain pouring against her windows as she sat in isolation. It was midnight, and the rest of MI6 had gone except for her. It has been exactly 12 hours since the incident, and although the she knew she made the right choice, the loss still haunted her mind. Sighing, she leaned back against her seat, a wrinkled finger resting above her lip as her eyes glazed on her laptop screen. She was writing his obituary - Bond's obituary - but she couldn't seem to continue as she stared at the blinking cursor at the end of the word 'Commander'. She looked away and examined the Royal Doulton Bulldog the very fool gave to her, and felt herself laughing slightly and quietly. James Bond had a sense of humour.

Her eyes returned to her computer screen.

The door of her office clicked open slowly, and although M jumped slightly, her shoulders relaxed and her face fell into a frown when she recognised her guest. She closed her laptop abruptly, shutting away 007 before folding her hands together on her desk, "You are supposed to have gone dark, Ms. Whyte."

"Good evening to you as well, Olivia." Rachel Whyte returned with a shrug, holding the door with her foot as she let herself in. She managed two takeaway cups of coffee with the help of hand and forearm, and her gleaming silver Hardballer with the other. The agent settled one of the cups beside the laptop underneath the lamplight, before seating herself on one of the seats opposite that of M's. "I heard the news."

"I reckon everyone's heard the news."

Whyte, who had her eyes held by the coffee she was about sip into, held a dry smile before the cup angled perfectly to her lips. After a small sip, she held the cup at eye level to amuse herself, "You know, this would never have happened if you sent me with him. I don't have to like Bond to keep him alive to get that hard drive, and if it's my intention of killing him that you're afraid of, I don't need a field mission to make that happen."

"You know why I can't send you."

M looked at the agent through the dangling lamplight that hung over her desk, the room now smelling like hot coffee and the cigarettes which always stained the agent's dark coat. Beyond her glass walls, there was nothing but darkness and no eyes were there to pry. She pressed her lips together, before reaching for the cup Whyte had set down beside her laptop. She did not like coffee, but she knew the agent brought it to spite her. But at the moment, she was willing to take a sip. This was it, after all, the sum of their relationship. It was a fine-tipped line hanging between friendship and acquaintances, and there was no clear indication of what it really was. They both sat here for a reason, and they both knew why.

The rain poured harder against her windows.

"I assume you have a Plan B?" the agent spoke again after a moment, with her grey gaze now directed to the old woman, who eyed the coffee strikingly. It humoured her, of course, seeing M's face make out this striking impression half-filled with disgust with the drink. "You've killed me with boredom all these years, that my amusement has gone as low as watching you resent that coffee."

"No." M said suddenly, still criticising the coffee and its bitter aftertaste. Something had occurred to her, a sort of realisation. "We have to keep going."

Rachel Whyte let out a loud huff, swiftly leaning away from her seat with waves of blonde moving against her face. She scrutinised the old woman, angling herself lower in an attempt to meet with M's focused gaze on the coffee cup, "Bond's dead, Olivia. It's over. You gambled, and you lost. We both did. The irony of your optimism is that you know I'm right, and the reason why you and I are here is because you are writing his obituary."

Her reluctance to respond at the spur of the moment, only made Whyte confirm that she was right.

M finally looked at her, but her face absent of anything telling. Instead, she held that typical hardened expression - a common sight to anyone in the receiving end of her commands. "Did you not hear me, Ms. Whyte? We keep going."

"You... You're fucking mad."

The old woman rose from her table and walked towards a locked cabinet, while Rachel Whyte gathered herself into a silent turmoil. The agent was taken aback - no - she was confused, uncertain, amazed, and maybe even impressed. This was a fool's game from the start, but Whyte believed it - that old woman made her believe it - and she is still making her do so. But from the short-sighted reality of the present, they were at a dead end. What else was there? Bond was dead, and Whyte was sure of it. There was no way he would have survived a poorly-executed shot, and falling into the water while suffering from the damage. The chances were slim to none, and Rachel Whyte was more than cynical to entertain another possibility. An empty, breathy laugh escaped her; the old woman couldn't be swayed.

"What is this?" Whyte inquired as soon as she recovered, as her eyes fell at a folder pinned underneath an open wine bottle on the woman's desk. The agent slid the file closer towards her and held it under the lamplight, noticing the familiar MI6 crest stamped on its paper brown surface. Her words were not for permission, of course, but a verbal statement of her curiosity. "This... This is a CV."

Her attention was met by an enlarged passport-sized photograph of a dark-haired man, pale and young with gradient-style glasses of black and clear plastic. Whyte eyed him for a moment, held by fascination and condescension. His credentials, on the other hand, was less of an entertaining read. Not because his skills were unimpressive, but because she literally could not read it at all. Thick black lines were drawn over his name, personal information, and other important aspects that she could have been interested in. The only solid piece of information in the folder was his photograph, and based on the layout of the document beside his picture, it was not hard to tell that it was some form of curriculum vitae. Rachel Whyte looked at the picture again, her mind taking wild guesses about his age. He couldn't be older than nineteen, or maybe not.

"Was a CV." M corrected her, returning to the table. She held an unmarked disc in one hand, and a small brown envelope in the other. She placed the items on the surface of her closed laptop, and placed her hands upon the edges of the table as she remained standing, "That man is already hired."

Whyte gave her a look, then returned to the photograph, "As what? The MI6 paperboy? He can't be older than 20."

"He's 24 years old." the older woman replied, staring blankly at the folder in the agent's grasp. She anticipated her next move now that she had made her decision, and she knew that the best way to go from here was forward, "And he's your new quartermaster."

"You're joking." Whyte let out another huff, confusion on her face.

"When did I even humour you, 009?" M frowned in response, curving the wrinkled areas of her face. She directed her attention towards the disc and the small brown envelope, burying into her thoughts further before starting to place the disc inside, "He's excellent with computers. Best in his year, and the best across the British Isles. If we are to stay on top in this field, we have to step ahead. Our enemies are becoming smarter."

"Seven years." Whyte muttered, counting the numbers in her head. Seven years was the gap between her and this man, and to have achieved such a position so quickly made her think of his predecessor. The retired Q was a brilliant gunsmith and inventor, but he's not much with computers - at least not in manner this new one was supposed to be.

"You're the last person I thought to be so judgemental about age." the older woman arched a brow as she looked up slightly, sealing the the folder close with the disc secured inside, "You started young - trained young - as you have put it. You of all people should know, but then again, there's that arrogance of yours. That attitude can end you one day - one of the few reasons why I only send you out once in a while."

"I was already arrogant before you met me." the other woman dismissed, tossing the folder back on M's table as she took another sip from her cup. It may be closed now, but her eyes glazed at the stamped crest of the cover. The new quartermaster was a much younger man than the one before. He was different, at least looked like it. The agent's entitled sense of superiority told her to loathe him, "I was doing fine for the most part."

"Don't underestimate the abilities of your colleagues, 009. Your greatest allies are not always the people in the field." M looked at the agent as she responded, before placing the sealed brown envelope on top of the quartermaster's folder.

The appearance of the envelope interrupted their exchange, with Whyte's eyes darted towards the folder and M's hard expression becoming more unreadable as the seconds went by. The agent studied the old woman, then the folder, before returning to her again. Silent with curiosity, Whyte slowly slid the envelope towards her with her index finger before grasping it with two hands. Underneath the lamplight, the envelope was ordinary - padded within but the disc can be identified and felt. She flashed her eyes at M briefly, flipping the envelope over with her fingers. An address was written in M's cursive across the brown surface - to a London apartment not too far from the SIS building. The recipient's name was left blank.

"First a gunman, now a mail courier? You're taking me for granted now." Whyte scowled as she gazed up, waving the envelope with one hand. "My exciting career with the MI6 has taken a new low."

M chose to ignore the agent's comment, and stuck with the plan that was drafted within her mind, "That name you gave me months ago... Is that still valid?"

"As long as that person is alive, that person is a valid and valued asset." Whyte shrugged, repetitively reading the London address that was scribbled on the envelope. She has seen it before, this place, it was hard to miss. "He... He doesn't like change. That man. When change happens, there's usually death to come along with it."

"Good." M's reply was short, accompanied by a small nod that reassured everything she had laid out. The agent, who had a sharp suspicion, eyed her with a raised brow. "You will send that envelope to 007 when the time comes, and you will know when that time is. Be discreet."

Whyte gripped on the envelope, sitting straighter from her lax position as things finally made sense. The disc - the name - she gaped right into M's eyes, and the old woman did not to say anything more because the answer was written across her face. Rachel Whyte's face slowly frowned, the shock vanishing from her. She understood now. "This is your plan, then, to die? This disc... It can kill you."

"You don't need a disc to die in this job, 009. If it is to die for my country, then it is my honoured duty. When I took this position, I made a decision. This comes with that decision, and if death is the end of it, and so it will be." M explained herself in a way anyone who worked under her expected her to, holding onto her dignity while betting on the thinner possibilities. "What, 009, are you now implying that after all these years of you trying to spite me... You actually care for my life?"

The agent looked away, the envelope still in tight within her grasp. She made no answer. The rain outside went on.

Acknowledging her silence, M took a deep breath and sat down onto her seat, "Time is of the essence. There are moles within the MI6, and I am aware of them. It won't be too long until they really find you out."

Whyte searched for the words she could not find, and instead of some remark, she found herself looking blankly upon M. The old woman, on the other hand, stayed firm like stone. Aloof, almost, as she began returning to her desk duties ignoring the grey eyes that trailed her. Every word was spoken so naturally, that the agent began to question why she herself felt some hesitation. M gave her word, and this - this envelope in her grasp - was that word. A simple order. Perhaps, the agent thought, that it was M's unusual optimism that felt so unnerving. This was not the M that she knew, or maybe, she did not know her at all.

"Cold, calculating... Right down to the numbers... That's what I liked about you, Olivia." Whyte spoke softly after a while, louder than a whisper. Her free hand opened towards the Royal Doulton Bulldog on the woman's desk, clasping the small sculpture around her fingers as she brought it to eye level, "But if there's any flaw to you, it's him. That Bond. Favouritism. To you, he's a machine - an animal like this bulldog - stubborn but hardy. Loyal. Sharp. But you don't even know if that bastard's even alive."

"The field agent that assisted him might have missed her shot, but the damage he endured should not be fatal." There was no trace of doubt in M's reply, even the doubt that made her write his obituary. She knew Whyte took the trouble to look for any form of breaking, and she refused to give the agent that satisfaction. Bond was alive, and she was more than sure of that now. "As far as we are concerned, 007 is still active and on duty. You shall attend to the matters we have discussed when he returns."

There was a clarity in her words that Whyte understood, but not necessarily accepted. The ceramic dog sculpture still rested upon her palm, daunting in appearance just like that bastard. A miserable expression took her, along with the memory of the time she accepted M's words to ring as true. The agent was not so sure anymore, for the old woman held onto her bias. What were the odds? She wondered quietly, impatient and cynical. She did not waste all these years for another gamble, but it seems as though it was the price of playing with fire.

"They're watching us, you and I, and our every move. This disc..." Whyte tapped a hand over the envelope that was now on her lap, sharing no eye contact with M. This was the key, Bond's most challenging task, the domino effect. "You're entrusting it to me. How are you so sure I wouldn't disappear? I can always leave you. Leave all this."

M took only a second to think about her words, "You can, but you won't. Because you know in yourself that this is the best choice you have. I win, you win."

A chuckle escaped the agent's breath, helpless in argument. Whyte placed the bulldog back on the desk, and rose slowly from her seat. Her pistol was back in her grasp, and the envelope now tucked into her inner coat pocket. "I'm leaving."

She stepped to the side and turned from the table, feeling her pocket for the presence of her cigarette box before grabbing her coffee cup from the floor. The agent moved abruptly, shuffling as she headed towards the closed glass doors of M's office. This was another useless gamble, and she had enough of it. But what M asked of her was not a request, and this envelope in her coat was an order underneath strict terms. When Whyte hastily opened the door, she was reminded of how she was bounded into these complications. M held her on a leash, and she allowed the old woman to do that. She cursed under her breath, pausing her movement as she held the door still.

Rachel Whyte had her head tilted down to the floor before looking up, swallowed by the darkness of the office before her. She clenched hard on her teeth as she tried to speak again, the small movements of her body telling of her uneasiness. A resentful tone broke from her, "Just make sure that he comes back."

"He doesn't have a choice."

A/N: Thank you for reading the sixth chapter of Tessitura. Comments/reviews are appreciated. Your support keeps this story going, thank you.