He walked casually into the blue-gray gallery, dressed for the occasion in a light shirt and the skinny lavender tie, as well as some bulky coats, now unzipped, that had concealed his possessions on the way in. He went straight for the blond man on the bench, whom he had spotted immediately on his way into the hall. MI6's youngest ever Quartermaster sat gracefully right beside the operative in the sharp, tailored coat, who looked with mild professional interest at the curly-haired man. The older agent had unconsciously shifted his left hand to his knee, resting his fingers on the gray material of his trousers. His subconscious was preparing to get up quickly if need be, and he was fully prepared for the situation. An MI6 Double 0 was lethal with or without a weapon. Even though he had come to an art gallery, the agent paid no attention to the large paintings with the gilded frames behind him, instead focusing intently on the person who had casually sat beside him. It did not seem like a coincidence (after all, he was here to meet his Quartermaster) but the bench was long and mostly empty besides the smartly dressed blond man. No one would have sat right next to him, as he was not only a stranger but looked quite intimidating for a visitor to the National Gallery. The young man, however, fit right in. He looked just like a university student studying art or some shit, with his thick-rimmed glasses and deliberately left messy hair. Skinny ties were also popular amongst the younger geek generation. Maybe he was some queer art kid with a thing for older men. Either way, Bond was sure that his Quartermaster wasn't this purple tie kid and that he might have to rise very quickly and inform M.
After a terse second or two on Bond's part scanning the newcomer for some kind of indication, or perhaps a glance of acknowledgement, the young man hadn't made any move to look back and instead looked straight ahead at the painting on the wall. Bond shifted before looking straight ahead at the art along with him, hand still on his knee in a subconscious move of awareness (the young man was certainly relaxed- Bond had noticed his casual stance which was too natural to be fake and his hands, the fingers of which were not clenched nor spread, both indications of strong emotion). Bond certainly wasn't the kind of pussy who took an art class in uni but his vision was over 20/20. He had read the small white placard near the painting ten times over, in between casual glances around the room for potential threats or potential Quartermasters. "The Fighting Temeraire" by JMW Turner was how the painting was identified, and he focused his attention on it as if the painting of the old ship would somehow give him insight to his peculiar bench mate.
"It always makes me feel a little melancholy," the brunet began in a relaxed tone that implied that he knew exactly what he was doing. "Grand old warship, being ignominiously hauled away to scrap." He paused with a sort of sighing breath that was part good acting and part true. Bond felt as if the man knew the title and painter of the piece by heart. He seemed to have seen it enough times. He kept his guard up as the thin man continued. "The inevitability of time, don't you think? What do you see?" He had turned to look at Bond with what may have been a spark of curiosity in his eye, then looked back at the piece, seemingly nonchalant.
"A bloody big ship," the blond agent replied, trying to keep his response gruff and brief, wanting to brush off the other man. "Excuse me." He made to get up off the bench and find somewhere else to look for his Quartermaster and inevitably his gun. This was getting ridiculous. Right as he began to rise, the other spoke again.
"007," he began just as casually. Bond froze and shifted back down into the seat. There was no way this skinny kid was the Quartermaster, and he didn't know why they'd sent a messenger… His thought process, however quick, was smoothly interrupted. "I'm your new Quartermaster."
Bond opened his mouth to speak as soon as the words touched his brain. He held in a short laugh. "You must be joking," he stated with an irritated and obvious lack of amusement.
Q took in a small, amused breath that in another setting may have been a polite chuckle. "Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?"
"Because you still have spots," Bond answered, obviously peeved but a bit too well trained to do something drastic in London's National Gallery.
Q knew that his quick snappy statement was false. He was quite proud of his complexion after he'd grown out of the irritating blemishes. "My complexion is hardly relevant," he countered, not bothering to mention his other thoughts. 007 was just as easily irritable as M had implied.
"Your competence is," he replied easily, still shifting as if he were uncomfortable. He was still somewhat shocked that the geeky-looking kid was the one he had come here for.
"Age is no guarantee of efficiency," Q said, mildly amused by the whole covert meet-up situation but more so by Bond's reaction to him.
"And youth is no guarantee of innovation." Bond was obviously not happy having to listen to him.
"Well, I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field," came the next quick and cutting statement. His chin rose just a little as if the small touch of arrogance assured the statement.
"Oh, so why do you need me?" Bond asked, dryly sarcastic. The skinny little shit was beginning to get on his nerves.
Q paused for a half second. "Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled." He knew there was just a hint of a smile on his face and he made little attempt to hide it. He was interested in the older agent's reaction to him.
Bond turned to look at the younger man, who did not acknowledge the glance. The ship in its frame seemed to be of utmost importance. "Or not pulled. It's hard to know which in your pajamas." He let the brunet glance back at him, and he seemed a bit interested that Bond had actually listened to something he'd said. Bond let a smirk tug up the right corner of his mouth. The kid had started to grow on him already. His arrogance was amusing, and it was time to see if it were justified. "Q," he said in recognition of his new Quartermaster, pronouncing the letter exaggeratedly and carefully.
Q looked at him, a real albeit small smile spreading across his thin face. He lifted his right hand off of the black box that had been resting against his outer thigh and offered it to the field agent. "007," he said formally as they shook hands.
As the grip ended a full-blown who would have known smirk assured its place on the face of the blond agent, and the brunet reached into his inner coat, a nice black sport coat with an inner pocket from which he retrieved an envelope.
"Ticket to Shanghai," he said, handing Bond the envelope, which was larger than letter sized, white with heavy paper and "007" typed on it in a font reminiscent of a typewriter. Bond tucked it into the pocket of his own navy blue coat. "Documentation impossible."
"Thank you," Bond responded, as Q lifted the black box and handed it over as well. It had a shiny silver lock on its case but was not locked and there was no key.
"And this," he added. Bond opened the box to find a small black gun.
"Walther PPK/S 9 millimeter short. Has a microdermal sensor in the grip." He was talking tech for the work he had done for palm recognition. Honestly, he could have done it with a simple sensor of the type he had mentioned, but he hadn't had access to Bond's physical palm print and had wanted to do all the modifications by hand and by himself. There was a certain…personal touch. He also trusted himself more than any machine. "It's been coded to your palm print so only you can fire it." Q glanced away again as Bond turned his head to the Quartermaster. "Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement." Bond found the idea appealing, intelligent, and a bit sexy. Anyone killed with this gun died by Bond's hand.
The blond agent noticed a small space in the foam of the case for a rectangular object. "And this?" he asked.
"Standard-issue radio transmitter," Q replied, handing Bond the small silver gadget. He didn't mention the work done on that either. "Activate it and it broadcasts your location." They both focused on the transmitter, which looked even smaller in Bond's fingers. "Distress signal," Q clarified. Bond pressed a small black square of plastic on its front. A tiny, perhaps a centimeter and a half long antenna rose from its top and a small yellow light above the button began to blink. "And that's it," the brunet finished. Bond pressed the antenna back into the body of the device, placing it in the case.
"A gun, and a radio," 007 muttered, clicking the case shut. "Not exactly Christmas, is it?" Q had already picked up on the dry-sarcasm talent of Bond's.
"Were you expecting an exploding pen?" the younger agent replied with the same tone, turning to look at him. "We don't really go in for that anymore." His mouth quirked a bit as he looked at the field agent, a gesture that may have somewhere else been a wink. Q stood up, taking in a breath as he stepped in front of Bond and began to walk away, quickly glancing at the high glass paneled ceiling above them. He turned around to look at the other agent. "Good luck out there in the field," he said cordially but not very formally, "And please return the equipment in one piece." His tone revealed just a bit of condescension. He turned back around and walked away, perhaps to explore more of the gallery.
"A brave new world," the now lone agent said aloud as Q left. He remained on the bench, staring at the painting of the ship for a while before returning to the agency.
Bond appreciated the quirky new Quartermaster for the second time in Shanghai (as the first had been with his humor) as he gripped his Walther, intent on following Patrice, the man in possession of the hard drive, into an abandoned office building in which he knew he'd need protection. It registered his palm print and he smiled as the lights above the grip blinked to green.
Q would have gone to Macau himself to tell Bond of the decryption, but he was afraid of flying. He knew it was irrational, but the fear existed in spite of him. Bond replied "Of course he is" when given the news by Eve. It seemed like something Q would have. There was a smile hidden somewhere amongst his words.
Bond was on edge walking into the grand candle-lit casino. The people milling about and the komodo dragons below set off his sense of unease. Occasionally he would touch the gun to make sure he still had it, knowing that his life likely rested in the skills of a new, young Quartermaster.
As soon as the first hit came Bond knew that he would probably be depending on the gun to walk out alive. The suitcase was a useful weapon, he mused as he swung it at the enemy, but anyone could take possession of it. He analyzed the situation, starting with the location. His mind raced as he fought off the well-dressed men with a suitcase full of Chinese money over a pit holding multiple komodo dragons. He had very little of an advantage and tried to use his physical strength to the best of his ability without getting all three of them thrown to the dragons. The bridge was narrow and didn't give him much room, but he swung the metal suitcase as forcefully as he could at the heads of his assailants. He had just successfully nailed one before the other ran at him, grabbed him by his lower body and with an excess of momentum managed to send them both flying over the rail into the komodo pit. He felt the adrenaline surge as soon as his feet were knocked out from under him and realized what was happening a half second later. He prepared himself to land safely without broken bones, taking mental note of the position of his gun and the length of the fall. The falling itself took a much shorter time than expected, and he noticed one of the creatures slowly emerging from the shadows as soon as he gracelessly hit the ground. It was hissing- not a good sign. He rolled to his feet as gracefully as possible, getting away from the reptile as he did so. It was probably a very bad idea, but the lizard was dismissed as his attacker managed to get to his feet as well. Bond assumed a fighting stance and quickly ducked the first punch that was thrown at him, almost hitting the dirt. He rose even more quickly and got in a hard slug to the face before having to dodge another punch. Another quick hit by Bond and the assailant was falling, nearly hitting the dirt of the komodo pit before managing to pick himself back up. Bond cursed himself for a moment for his lapse in concentration and felt blood start to rush to his head as he was picked up, strangled-sounding yells coming from one of them as Bond was thrown and hit the dirt on his back. He laid there for a second, trying to regain his breath, frustrated that he wasn't in the shape that he had been before. He had to contain a smile, through, as his attacker quickly took his gun. The dark haired man pointed the weapon as a komodo dragon behind him crawled out of the shadow. Bond picked himself up and dusted himself off as the lizard behind his attacker grew closer, forked tongue out and flicking as it approached the man's leg.
"Good luck with that," 007 quipped, pointing a finger weakly at the other man while breathing raggedly. The attacker gripped the barrel of the weapon but the lights directly below the hammer were not green, but red.
The ugly, bulky, bearded man may have been the one to kill Bond if his pulling the trigger had not resulted in a soft click.
Q had saved his life.