"I suppose you know why you're here." The woman with the silver hair addressed him with a businesslike manner. Her suit was impeccable and fit her well, and a small silver and pearl brooch near the collar pulled her outfit together perfectly. They were in a spacious office overlooking the Thames, decorated in a very minimalist style, with the only true hint of personality being an ugly ceramic bulldog painted with the Union flag that sat on the broad wood desk. He briefly wondered where it had come from before deciding to counter her statement.
"No, actually, I haven't been informed." The man speaking was very different from when he had been kidnapped and kept for a month (which he had found out getting out of the government car- the date was precisely thirty days after he had been abducted) in a basement. He was primly dressed in a checked shirt and lavender tie, along with a light wool cardigan in a light gray that accented his pale green eyes. His pants fit him, and he was wearing socks and nice black leather shoes, all of which fit well. The watch on his wrist had leather in the same very dark brown as his now neatly trimmed mop of brown hair. He regarded her with a slight air of irritation, as he'd been waiting in the MI6 headquarters since noon, in that time learning that the agency had known about his kidnapping before it had even occurred, and done nothing to prevent it. Most people would be much more frustrated, but the young man was interested in their reasoning.
"You have been labeled as a person of interest. Specifically, we've been interested in hiring you based upon your technological ability. Usually Q, the head of our division of technology, would conduct this briefing, but we've come to you because he's dead."
She did not mince her words, and he appreciated that. "Why did you let them kidnap me, then?" he said with a slight bite in his voice. "I'm sure your agents are disposable, but a good technological genius is rather hard to come by. Certainly you wouldn't want anything to happen to me."
"We wanted you to know if you could handle it," she stated flatly. "When you work for MI6, an enemy wouldn't care which division you work in. Often you could be of more use to them than any field agent could." She didn't seem fazed in the least by the 'disposable agents' comment.
"As I learned. What happened to them, those who I was ordered to kill?"
"You assume we knew. You assume correctly. You've harmed no one. We knew about the goings-on down there all along."
He didn't let it show, but a feeling of immense relief flooded through him. He nodded.
"Come back in fifteen days. When you leave then, you will either have a job or memory problems. I suggest the first option."
He was escorted out into the streets of London, somewhat lost in thought. It was cloudy but not raining, the weather a bit windy and biting and he was glad he'd worn the cardigan. He ran his fingers through his hair and slowly walked to the nearest tube station, not keen on walking when it was breezy out. Cardigans were nice, but the wind went straight through them. He stepped down the stairs into the tube station, grime on the walls and an irritated ticket man. He bought his ticket quickly and caught the tube, not exactly comfortable being so close to other people in this kind of setting, but it worked. He considered his need for this instead of being able to take a cab, wondering if he should take the job or not.
Before the tube had reached his stop he had given it enough thought to make a decision, but he knew better than to go back and engage the woman with the simple nameplate of "M" in conversation again. He would wait it out and return as she said, in exactly fifteen days.
Fifteen days with only freelance work to do passed agonizingly slowly. He had been employed at a large software firm, but he became bored out of his mind working out of a cubicle with only simple things to do. He needed something that he could throw himself into, something that would harness his full potential and make use of all of his talent.
He had decided to take the job. Maybe government work would help him somehow, probably keep him busy anyway. Boredom was poison to someone with a high IQ.
The first day after the debrief was only his third day home after the abduction. His flat wasn't at all different, and it was simultaneously comforting and unnerving. The gray walls were far too reminiscent of the basement, and he called in a service, using the dregs of one savings account on a hotel for three nights. He chose a soft blue and a light brown that reminded him of milk chocolate, packed up, and headed off to the nearest chain hotel with a few things to do before he took a job with a government intelligence agency.
The first night at the hotel was uneventful, but he tried room service and discovered that he rather disliked sushi. He went out late and got himself a new laptop, rather than what he'd been working with earlier. It was much faster and would be able to handle the new job. Besides some clothes and jerry-rigged technology that he fiddled with in his free time, there wasn't much to take from the apartment. He decided that the less possessions, the better.
This theory caved a little when he went out after a late breakfast on the second day to buy himself some sharp clothes, and specifically a suit. There was a nice little shop three streets down from the hotel that stank of hole-in-the-wall and did the finest tailoring either side of the International Date Line.
He walked the few blocks that it took, enjoying some rare London sun. He pushed open the door, and a small silver bell chimed his entrance to the old man behind the polished mahogany counter on the far wall. The shop was small, but had high ceilings, and it reeked of class and grandeur with its dark wood and racks of fabrics and ties in only the finest materials. Here, everything was made to order.
The old man regarded him curiously. He obviously didn't see many men as young and fair as the new customer was. He looked like a kid fresh out of college, instead of the salt-and-pepper haired clients of usual with the heavy rings who gave off a rich aura everywhere they went. He himself was well into his eighties and had seen a lifetime of the stinking rich types, occasionally a younger one hoping to get into the business, but a kid who looked eighteen stuck out more than most.
"Hello, sir," he said in greeting. The customer responded in kind, looking a little awed at the small, but magnificent, store. "Looking for a suit today?" He nodded.
"Job interview. A very important one. What would you recommend?" He asked, sure to respect the man behind the counter while trying to give the impression that he could actually afford to shop here and knew what was going on.
The white-haired man glanced at the lanky, younger one, initially thinking about sending him off to a department store, but took in the other's strong posture, set jaw, and air of confidence and led him into the back.
Taking his measurements took little time, as he cooperated and wasn't mouthy. The customer decided on a black, superfine wool in an English cut. He had confidence that it would be perfect before the fifteen days were up. He wanted to make a good impression on Q division, and make himself look older and more professional. He exited the shop more confident than he'd entered it, and encountered a light London drizzle on his way out. Typical.
The next few days passed without incident, and he moved back into his newly painted flat. It still stank of the liquid color but that would be gone soon enough. He began to draft his plans for MI6 while sitting in the middle of his bedroom, taking swift notes on his new laptop, which he had plans to heavily modify. Night fell before he knew it, and he ate some leftovers from breakfast before turning in.
Two weeks after he had talked to M, he returned to the tailor. The silver bell chimed gently as he stepped in in his nicest checked shirt and the lavender tie, which he was rather partial to. His jeans would be coming off soon, so it made no difference what they looked like. He rang the bell at the wooden counter and waited as the old tailor made his way up from the back. They nodded at each other in silent greeting before heading to the back.
He changed quickly out of his jeans and pulled on the finely crafted dark suit, which fit him perfectly. The tailor apparently didn't think so and did some pinning and drawing with chalk before letting the customer see himself in the mirror. He looked at himself, trying to put on an air of confidence. He looked older than his years, finally, and he smiled. He was ready to take on M again, and hopefully replace her dead staff member. He knew that MI6 agents usually looked the part, and he wanted to prove to her that he could not only undergo the torture and kidnapping of a field agent, he could dress just as well as them too. Hopefully she would be impressed. Clothes did make the man, after all.
He woke up far too early that next day, before the sun had even risen. He made himself some Earl Grey in his small, modern teakettle and downed it, letting the caffeine rush into his system. He got back in bed with his laptop to do some final revisions of his plan before getting dressed and heading out to pick up his suit. He turned to look in the mirror once more, absentmindedly flattening his hair with one hand before heading out to MI6.
Being seated across the large desk in the large office made him feel especially small. The suit did little for his perception of size but wonders for his confidence. He knew he would leave here with a job, and a good one at that. M regarded him with some interest.
"You dressed up. Why?"
"It is a job interview after all," he quipped, smiling a bit, trying to cover the odd churning anxiety in his stomach.
She smiled slightly, looking about as pleasantly surprised as someone without facial expressions could. "You've decided to take the job."
"Yes, I hear you're in dire need of a Quartermaster."
"You've heard correctly. Welcome, Q. Don't screw up."
Q smiled, readily accepting his new title. "I suppose I start today, then."
"Put them in order, boy." She nodded towards him and slid a temporary ID badge across the desk. He took it and put it around his neck, then got up and resolved to find his own way down to Q division.
It didn't take him very long. Q division's offices were just a few floors above ground, as most of the testing for the new gadgetry was housed safely underneath the earth. Constant bangs from firearm testing weren't something that the oblivious people of London wanted to hear all day and all night. He ditched his suit in his new office, a gorgeous place with loads of potential and no ugly ceramics on the desk, and then thoroughly explored the sub-basements, knowing that he was going to be spending a lot of time in them over the course of this job. Taking off the jacket would make him seem like just another young lackey putting in his hours. He wanted to observe what he had before taking control of the place. All in all, they were an organized, hardworking bunch that needed a leader. He smiled at all the cups of tea abandoned or forgotten on many of the large number of available flat surfaces. It seemed that the average operative in Q division was in the right place- they were intelligent people who disliked sleeping and loved caffeine, along with computers and taking things apart. Q liked most of them upon sight. Around the floors they inhabited there were small knots of people creating a low buzz of intelligent techie chatter. He was quite tempted to join in when he heard a few of them talking about a retina recognition upgrade to the security system at MI6. Q blended in easily with most of them, using the ID card to look around, taking mental notes about what needed fixing. Fortunately, there wasn't much, except the lack of real organization within the division. He was confident that he could pull Q division together more easily than M would expect.
After he'd wandered around the research and development floors of the division, Q donned ear protection and observed weapons being put to the test down in the ranges in the subbasements. It was impressive to say the least, ranges of a few hundred yards or more with capable agents or some of the more rogue and hands-on Q division operatives on one end, and a tiny-seeming target on the other. Needless to say, the target came away with many more holes in it than the shooter. Q was fascinated by their accuracy and vowed to himself to pick up shooting here at MI6. It would do him good, and he'd be able to protect himself if he were to be ambushed again. He also loved to have a few good tricks up his sleeve. He may look young and inexperienced, but he wanted to prove to MI6 that he was good. And to be good, you had to be more on the inside than you seemed on the outside.
He wrapped up his tour of Q division and went back up to the office to grab the coat- he wanted to stay looking sharp talking to M. He took the elevator up until it stopped at her floor, pulling on the coat in the process and attempting to flatten his rather unruly hair. The walk to her office was short and he regained his air of confidence, happy that it was no longer false in the slightest. He waited outside the door for a moment, hearing voices, but backed up as her last meeting left. Then he entered with a smile on his face.
"M. I see that Q division could use me. It's not as bad as I expected. I'll be back tomorrow. And do see about getting a permanent ID made for me. I expect to be here for a while."