A/N: Thank you for the support Tessitura has been getting during my long hiatus. Your thoughts, comments, follows, and reviews are what motivated this chapter into fruition. Reviews are always appreciated.

IX

The Gunsmith's Daughter

Iosif Antonov, despite his strange history, was quite the exceptional artist.

Q, with his quiet passion for art, felt slightly ashamed to have not known of him sooner and only discovered him through the photographs of his corpse in the database. The man had an eye that suited his taste and perspective, portraying variations of a central thematic experience that made his art what it was: intriguing, but brilliant. Q walked further into the gallery with a firm grip on the flyer he picked up from the warehouse, his shoes squeaking slightly from the puddles he had stepped on while on his way here. He didn't know what brought himself to this place - certainly there were better and productive things to do at this moment - but perhaps it was the curiosity, or the idea of making a connection that would help him better understand Volkov, Bond, M... Her.

Her.

He shook away the thought, even though he had been tracking her Smart Blood for the past hour. What was she doing in the middle of nowhere?

As it was the opening night, the attendance was high. Passing through clusters of people standing in front of pieces ranging from a size of a film photograph, to large-scale collages of a multitude of film photographs thoughtfully positioned decorated with disciplined strokes of colourful acrylic paint all over them. These were nothing like the ink sketches he found in his file, in fact, they of a completely different style. Q took out his phone from his pocket, glossing over any new messages Moneypenny might have sent him since he arrived in this place. He subconsciously wove in and out of the clustered crowd with his eyes planted on his phone, swimming through the distinctive murmurs common in contemporary spaces. Some, he caught, were familiar with Iosif's work, while the ones who were unfamiliar responded with small yet acknowledging words. But in the end, it was all just chatter. Noise. He would have preferred the minimum possible.

Patel just arrived, apparently running late because of an errand. High government situation. He said he'll write you a report for your records after we find the colo, which I hope will not be too long a task. To add, he mentioned something about having certain CCTV footages? I... I could not call in Coulson unless we want M suspecting us at such a crucial time. I moved the bodies like we discussed, but now, the warehouse is unguarded. Hopefully the measures you placed will hold, because there seems to be a lot of very important files in here. I've pulled up some boxes on the murders of the double-Os that Volkov killed all those years ago and these seem to be of more detail, but a lot has also been blacked out. So far, there's no common thread between the three of them and neither has missions involving Volkov. I suppose they were just a job? Maybe we're overthinking this.

Rest up, Q. I will send another update soon.

Eve M.

Q pressed a button on his phone and returned it back to the pocket of his jacket. The part about resting up of course, was a total and complete lie. This was probably the only time he could visit this place, and despite it being that there was no real reason to lie to Moneypenny, he felt like he had to. There was something that he felt particularly conscious about, but it was not something he could pinpoint so simply. While Iosif's exhibit could potentially turn up some clues - clues that could contribute to the riddles they are trying to solve - Q wanted to be here, alone, and to himself. After all, enjoying it alone was always the way he enjoyed art, but as he told this to himself, he could not help but feel like that too was another lie.

"Friends by Free Will." he spoke softly to himself, his eyes wandering slowly over each piece he encountered. Iosif, it seems, had an interesting taste for company. Some of the photographs, while tainted with expressions of paint, seem to have once been the homeless, Russian hooligans, soldiers, and prostitutes.

At the distance, in an exclusive piece of wall, was a singular art piece about the size of the collages. But very unlike the collages, the piece was not a photograph. It was a large painting of a light-eyed girl with long, wavy blonde hair in an intricate painting style that made it look like a black and white photograph. A teenager, if he was not mistaken. Very much like the other pieces in the room, she was also marked by colourful strokes of acrylic paint and yet unlike the others, Iosif seemed to have been using the coloured acrylic to bring a certain focus towards the features of her face. She had a shrewd look about her, and a steady air of complete arrogance. There was something about her that put him off, yet intrigued him all the same. While he was not the best with reading people, art was often easier to predict than real people. A portrait or a painting piece only represented a preserved snapshot of time: a simplification of something more complicated.

After a moment of scrutinising has passed, he took in the piece as a whole and a thought occurred to him, "This is—"

"I don't like that piece." a woman spoke with an accented tongue.

Q turned slightly, startled and broken from his thoughts. A few heel clicks later, a dark haired woman dressed in an all-red suit stood adjacent to him with her arms folded; eyes pierced coldly like daggers on the piece before them. Scrambling for words, he lost them as quickly as he thought of them, and inevitably fell silent at the sight of her. She brought a certain energy in this room, but not exactly intimidating; disarming, at most.

She exhaled loudly, clicking her tongue, "I hate this piece. I will not be nice and say I dislike it, becuase I hate it. Yet, it is my brother's finest, the technique excellent, I simply have to display."

"Vera Antonov, I presume?" Q asked her, out of courtesy. She already gave him the answer.

The red suit lady turned her body slightly towards his direction, giving him more of her attention as she smiled, "Maybe. Then, what is your name, new victim of this painting?"

"Q." he replied, a little unsure himself. He did not know what to give her.

Vera Antonov scowled, "Q? Like letter Q?"

Q looked away from her intrusive gaze and back towards the painting. This woman had a way about her that reminded him too much of someone else, "It's uh... Pronounced like so. What is it you mean of about being a victim?"

He wasn't a very eloquent liar, and usually covered this weakness by being evasive — something he easily gets away with as he was becoming notorious for this tendency. Being in the backend of operations did not require quality deception through speech, and every other inquiry can be dismissed by repeatedly replying that it is a confidential matter. This conversation with Vera Antonov was more exhausting than his previous phone call with M, and his chest felt like it was pounding against his whole body as every second passed by. What is with this maddening curiosity about Iosif, that he dared to come here alone? Not telling Moneypenny was his first mistake.

"I thought Englishmen had simpler names. You prove me wrong." Vera nodded to herself, rocking her foot with the tip of her heel as she followed his eyes back to the painting, "You know it is funny, I travel around the world and display my brother's pieces, and this piece always attract such interesting people. Ironic, because she was not popular where we lived. But my brother was obsessed with her. Larissa."

"Ah." came straight out of his lips. So he was wrong.

Vera Antonov raised a brow, followed by an awkward snort from her lips as she watched his face with interest, "You are disappointed. Did she look like someone you know?"

"No one in particular." Q quickly replied, removing himself from the from further questioning along that route. Any further pressing from Vera would complicate things for him, and that was the last thing he wanted to happen. He looked at the piece again, he could not help himself. The similarity is unmistakable. He turned to her again, "You have met her, then?"

"Yes and no. We don't talk." she shrugged, reliving her memories as she told him. There was a slight distaste in her voice, but Q has failed to notice it. "I knew her, because my brother will be where she is. He followed her around. He followed her like he followed all those other people that are on display in this exhibit. She was the gunsmith's daughter, some Englishman who married a retired ballerina who lived near us. Her father, the gunsmith, well... He was an odd one. Very strange people went in and out of their home."

"Interest comes in many forms, I suppose." he only remarked, his eyes staying their gaze.

"Interest stops being an interest when it becomes obsession. But, as much as I have come to hate that trait, I feel like I too have escalated to obsession." Vera Antonov laughed bitterly to herself, looking down and over her folder arms as she began studying the tips of her shoes, "But then again, I always believed that the individual is always so vulnerable to the capacity of their thoughts. The secret dark side. Have you ever felt that, Mr. Q?"

For a moment, Q felt uneasy and confused. The question seemed sincere, and that was the problem, "Felt what?"

"The undying curiosity." Vera Antonov's lips curled into a thin smile, and there was a glint on her eyes as she looked up, "Isn't that why you're here?"

Q never answered her strange question. If anything, he really didn't know how. Vera Antonov, instead, took his silence as his answer and gave him a smile of farewell as she left him alone for the rest of the night. She gave him the strangest feeling, and the whole time they talked, it often swung between uneasiness and intrigue. Back in the gallery, there was pit within his stomach that dug deeper every second. He felt defenceless and vulnerable, hanging onto his strong desire to get out alive as anchor for his anxiety. The Double-Os did these things on a regular basis, and usually in places where the threat is very real and imminent. The regret of once claiming that field work was nothing pressed on more and more, but his pride would never allow him to admit that truth out loud.

For his first independent run on a lead, thing could have gone many different ways, but Q was more than impressed with himself that he had managed to keep himself contained. At least that, he would like to believe so - despite the internal nagging feeling of the otherwise. Walking past the bus shelter of the Vauxhall Bus Station, his thoughts carried him back to the painting of the teenage girl. Larissa, that was her name, at least that is what he was told. The resemblance was unmistakable, and he knew he had something there - something worth thinking about. If he was right, and Q was more than sure that he is, then he had found his connection.

"Just who exactly are you?" he murmured to himself, his fingers tightening on the strap of his bag as he boarded the boat from the docks.

As the agents prepared to ferry him to the bunker, Q felt the familiar and chilling breeze of the Thames. Resting and resting well was becoming more and more of a lie, especially now that he found himself going back to the office so soon. The mystery kept him restless, and his mind always fell in love with a good puzzle that needed solving. Maybe this was it, the undying curiosity - the secret dark side. The point of no return. But did he expect anything less from the world of shadows?

When he entered his workshop, it was quiet and almost desolate. This was expected, at least on days where there were no Double-Os or Moneypenny dropping by. He preferred it this way, especially in deep moments of thinking and problem solving. But what wasn't expected, was the unassuming presence of Bill Tanner. The man stood by one of his work tables, his eyes glued to a prototype which he seemed to be studying closely. As if sensing his presence, Tanner looked towards the direction of the doorway to acknowledge him. The uneasiness that have subsided during the boat ride returned, and Q felt his heart pound. What was he doing here? While most people in this department seemed to have a flair for uninvited visits, he knew this one meant something else.

"M is in other room." was all that Tanner said, which did not give him any assurance.

Slowly, Q placed his bag down onto the floor and began walking to the small room tucked in the middle of Q-branch and his workshop. If M was in any room, it would be that room. He felt himself swallow, did he find them out? Lying to M on the phone was already difficult enough, and lying to his face won't be any easier. But he would have to do that, assuming that the man still has no clue about the situation he and Moneypenny have been trying so hard to contain. Placing a hand on the slightly open door, Q braced himself for the worse. The pit in his stomach was once again alive, and his anxiety had his fingertips sweating. Arrogant as he is, Q was also a man of responsibility and the events of these past few days were very, very irresponsible.

M sat on a swivel chair centred on the wall of screens before him, his back turned against Q as the screens took all of his attention. He sat with an atmosphere stern intimidation, something expected from a man of his rank, and something also expected from a man who is possibly very upset with him. Despite drowning with overthinking, Q took all of his courage and spoke, "Sir."

The swivel chair swung 180 degrees, and almost immediately, Q was met with a very confronting question, "Where are they?"