Thank you to all for the reviews. Much appreciated as usual. The Sim version of Alec and Ashleigh are very content at the moment, although most of their attention is being paid to baby David. I had hoped for a girl… but humph. I have no idea how to get them online, I do believe there is a function for this within the game, but I'm playing on a laptop that doesn't have internet access, so I'm stumped. If I find a way, you'll be the first to hear about it.

I love to hear what you think might be happening in the story, so stick your theories in a review if you like.

Updates have been slow for several reasons, the first being a sprained right wrist, and then a few days ago I learnt a valuable lesson. Never ever put your finger in boiling water, even if you are saving a teapot from smashing on the floor. Secondly, never ever take your finger out of the water, realise the teapot is still falling and then immediately put your finger back in. This is called stupidity. And it's very, very painful. However, the good news is the blistering will go down in a few weeks, and the teapot is still in one piece. And I'm learning to type without my index finger.

Pussicle - I owe you an email. Things are ok with me, just not online much. Still missing you. x And yep, am enjoying this a lot. How on earth did you guess sweetie??


When Natasha Trevelyan had woken up, she had found herself in a small room, sparsely, but comfortably furnished. She had a small bathroom that was through a door to her right, and at the same time, three times a day a tray of actually quite nice food was slid through the door.

She had no idea how long she had been there. She felt sleepy most of the time, and not quite…

Right.

She didn't feel right. Her childish mind struggled to comprehend the situation, but she couldn't understand it all.

She was scared, even more scared than that time when she had ran away from home, and had been lost in the dark, hearing the strange sounds of the night, and imagining all sort of monsters coming to get her.

Daddy had found her, hearing her frantic sobs and following the narrow cliff path until he had come across the shallow cave that had been her hiding place. For a terrible moment he had been so angry, angrier than Natasha had ever seen him, but then he had swept her into his arms, and kissed her hair, and cheeks, and crushed her in his embrace.

He had taken her home, and they had agreed to forget all about it.

Somehow she didn't think her daddy was coming to get her this time. Or her mother. Her mother had fallen to the floor, and Natasha had seen blood before, when she had fallen over, and grazed her knees, or skinned her elbows, but she had never seen that much blood before, not even after she had sliced her hand on the sharp blade of a kitchen knife.

Was her mother dead? Natasha didn't know. There was too much she didn't know. She sat quietly on the bed, chewing on her left thumbnail. It was exactly the same comforting gesture her mother used when thinking hard. She frowned, staring around the room. Everything was so dull, plain navy covers on the bed, a hard grey carpet on the floor, no pictures on the walls. There were no windows either. A clock told her it was four o clock, but she didn't know if that was night or day. She ate when food was given to her, and she slept when she was tired. Fresh clothes had been provided, but Natasha ignored them, preferring to wear the clothes she had been taken in. Her clothes. The t-shirt was getting grubby, but it and her trousers were hers. Not some stranger's clothes. There were still grains of sand caught in the hems of her trousers, and she would roll it between her fingers. It was sand from her beach, from her home. She would keep it safe.

She heard footsteps, and looked up. A frown flickered across her face, it was too early for the next batch of food. She was a naturally curious child, and this change to her routine intrigued her.

It also frightened her. As the door opened, she cringed back against the wall.

The man that entered did so quietly, and without fuss. Gently he closed the door, and stood quietly, watching the girl.

Natasha stared back.

He was like a bear, she decided. He was tall, but then all men were tall to a five year old child. He had broad shoulders, emphasised by the woollen jacket he wore, and he seemed very solid. He was bulky, and his stomach was rounded beneath the tight fitting sweater he wore. He seemed very old to her. He had grey in his hair, he must have been at least a hundred years old.

It was his face that caught her attention though. He had eyes that seemed to sparkle with life, and amusement, his nose was big, his hair neatly cut. It was his beard that made him bear like, thick and heavy on his chin and jaw, surrounding a smiling mouth.

He smiled under her close scrutiny, and she gasped.

She had never seen a tooth made of gold before. The idea was strange enough to her to make her forget her fright.

'What happened to your tooth?' she asked immediately.

The man grinned wider, and the tooth caught the light. 'One day, Natasha, I will tell you.'

Her eyes widened again. Eyes so like her father's, the man noted. The same icy green. 'You know my name,' she stammered.

'Of course, I do. I know a lot about you, Natasha.' He said the name again deliberately. 'Natasha Trevelyan.'

'What else do you know?' she asked, sticking out a stubborn jaw.

'I know that you're a very special little girl. Your mother's name is Ashleigh, your father's name is Alec. I know your father very well, although it was a long time ago. I've yet to have the honour of meeting your mother.'

She didn't like this, she decided, there was something very wrong with what was happening. 'I want to go home,' she announced in as confident a voice as her young self could manage. 'Now.'

The man laughed. 'I'm afraid that's impossible, Natasha.'

It was the answer she had been dreading. She could feel fear pricking at her again, and tears were threatening to well up in her eyes. Her daddy had always told her to be brave, and she knew that he would want her to be brave now. She wouldn't let this man, this bear man see her cry. Her chest hitched with the effort of holding back the sobs, but she refused to let them win.

Amused, Pierre Merkalov stared down at the small, five year old girl. Her jaw was stubbornly set, her hands screwed into fists as she fought for control. Five years old, and so determined, he thought with a sudden burst of pride. Alec had taught her well.

Carefully, he sat on the bed, not so close as to worry her, but close enough to give a sense of companionship. She eyed him warily, and then jumped as he placed a thick finger under her chin, tilting her face up so he could look at her.

There was little of Alec in her face, he decided eventually, none of his long, square jaw, no sign of the large dominating nose. Instead he saw a round face, the merest hint of slanted cheekbones, a button nose, and large, rounded eyes framed with thick lashes. Her skin was soft and peachy, albeit smeared with dirt, and tanned to a smooth gold. Her hair was a dark brown, thick and tangled around her face, falling to her shoulders. Must take more after her mother, he concluded, although no one could deny that the colour of her eyes was exactly the same as Alec's.

The speed was Alec's too; he thought a fraction of a second later as he jerked his hand back, small white teeth clashing together exactly where his finger had been just a moment ago. She snarled at him, and bared her teeth again. It was time to settle at a safe distance, and he did so, moving slightly away from the child.

'No biting,' he said idly. 'Didn't your father ever tell you that?'

Natasha stayed stubbornly silent, although she grimly remembered the horrible sensation of being made to bite a bar of soap after she had bitten her father's hand. It was a rare punishment for a rare act of disobedience, and it had ensured that there had been no more biting after that. Somehow though she didn't think her father would object to her biting this man, in fact, she thought he might actively encourage it.

'I wasn't lying earlier, you know,' Merkalov said mildly. 'When I said I knew your father. I did, I knew Alec Trevelyan for a very long time. Would you like to hear about him?'

Natasha stared at him, wary of a trick, but suddenly she nodded.

So Merkalov spoke. And Natasha listened.


Ashleigh Kain had been a good agent. Ashleigh Kain had listened to her superiors and obeyed orders. Ashleigh Kain had learnt the skills that had made her a good agent.

Just the once Ashleigh Kain had disobeyed orders.

And it had led to a sort of happiness she had never imagined.

That was the irony of the situation; she thought as she pulled open the door to a closet, things had been happy.

Why couldn't they have been left alone in peace?

The metal box was heavy, and securely fastened with a coded padlock. Ashleigh's fingers nimbly twisted the dials until the number she had used came up.

It was no accident that the number was 009.

Inside was a gun. It lay neatly dismantled, the sections ready to fit together to make it a seamless weapon, ready to be used against her enemies.

She didn't know who her enemies were. She tipped the neatly organised contents of the box onto the bed, making sure not to note where each individual component fell. That would spoil the test.

Her hand snatched at the strip of material, a velvet scarf neatly hung up in the closet, the narrow strip of material soft and smooth in her hands. She wrapped it round her head, tying it firmly until she was securely lost in its black depths. Blindfolded, her hands reached for the first part of the gun.

Instinct. Agents had to be taught to use it, had to learn how to reach into one's self and find that innate little skill that had been almost lost in the modern world. Gut instinct, some called it, others named it intuition. It was the primitive survival tool developed by our ancestors in a world of danger and predators.

Agents needed it. An uneasy feeling, a prickle at the base of the spine, a sudden cold sweat. All these symptoms had to be analysed, had to be confirmed as danger signs. Ashleigh could remember the countless sessions spent meditating, attempting to go within herself to find that lost attribute. She had found the sessions awkward, unable to relax enough. She didn't need to slow her breathing to discover her inner instincts. Because most of the time her instincts screamed at her.

They screamed now, but she refused to listen. She didn't want to hear what they were saying.

The pieces of the weapons found their way to her hands, slotting together like a deadly jigsaw puzzle. Her right hand reached out, for the final piece, the clip. She paused.

Her instincts told her she was wrong.

Her hand changed direction, pulled by invisible string to the left, and her fingers found the cool metal, gripped it, and slotted it firmly into gun.

She tore the blindfold from her eyes.

Her instincts never lied. They weren't lying now.

'You never forget how,' a soft voice spoke behind her.

She spun, gun ready in her hand, and pointed it straight at her godfather's head. 'No. You never forget.'

Bond paused, somewhat disconcerted by the loaded gun pointing straight at him. 'What do you know about white feathers?' he asked carefully.

Ashleigh paused. Every schoolchild in Britain knew the significance of a white feather. Those able men who had refused to sign up for the armed forces during World War One had been sent white feathers, sometimes by lovers, by friends, even by their own families. It was an accusation of cowardice. She knew that Bond was thinking along the same lines.

'A symbol of cowardice,' she murmured.

Bond nodded. 'Someone is accusing Alec of cowardice, of weakness. What I want to know is do you know who that person is?'

The gun never moved an inch; it remained steadily aimed at him. 'Why do you think I know?'

'You're his wife.'

'I'm as much in the dark as you are, James,' Ashleigh said dangerously, her tone warning Bond to drop the bitter subject.

'Then enlighten me to what you do know. Explain to me why your daughter is missing, why your husband has just abandoned you.'

A muscle flickered in her cheek. 'I don't know,' she answered through gritted teeth.

'I think you do,' as he spoke, he was edging towards her, hoping to ease his discomfort by disarming her. 'I think you know more than you're willing to say. Why bother to protect him, Ash, why?'

She didn't answer, her own suspicions ready to overwhelm her.

It was his moment. He snatched for her wrist, hoping to twist it, to make her drop the gun, but she realised what he was doing, and with reactions almost as good as his, she darted away.

'James,' she warned, but he ignored her, they circled each other determinedly.

She was quick, but he was quicker, and had the greater strength. He dove at her, snatching her into an awkward embrace, fighting to get her to release the gun. He clawed at her wrist, but she was fighting hard, until she managed to get her left arm free.

The blow to his head surprised him. It didn't hurt, but the fact Ashleigh had dealt it was enough to stun him. It gave Ashleigh the leverage she needed, and neatly tucking her foot behind his leg, she jerked his feet out from under him.

Bond fell back onto the soft bed, and once recovered, stared at Ashleigh. Her pale skin was flushed with angry blood, and there was a hardness in her eyes he had never seen before.

'Enough, James,' she snarled, and to prove her point her thumb levered back the safety.

'What do you know?' he asked again.

'I have my suspicions,' she said in a resigned voice. 'And right now, that's more than enough.'

'So what now?' he spat.

She smiled, and that smile was cold. 'Its time to call in a few favours, James. And I'm planning to start with you.'

'What favours?' he asked, narrowing his eyes.

'I highly doubt M will let me walk away from here,' she explained patiently. 'And that's exactly what I need to do. You're going to get me out of here.'

'Or you'll kill me?' James mocked.

'No,' she smiled sweetly, and trailed the gun lower, aiming it directly between his legs. 'But I'll certainly disarm your favourite weapon.'

He swallowed. He couldn't be sure how serious she actually was, but it was a risk he wasn't prepared to take.