Prologue: Dead Men Can't Talk
A cigarette lighter briefly illuminated the face of a man in a small, dark room. Behind him, dawn rose over the mountains of Hungary, the sun's early rays would surely start shining within the hour. The man's lighter flicked shut, a lit cigarette now in his mouth. He was sitting in a chair against the wall, opposite his bed with the small window to the left and the door out on the right.
He knew not how long he had been sitting there, his cold, dead eyes gazing forward. A hint of a shiver running down his spine. Five martini glasses sat to his right, on a nightstand that sat beside the chair. Words shot through his mind at blinding speed, like bullets in a gunfight.
The man blinked, forgetting he had left a small earpiece in his right ear. "Our man is moving down your hall, towards the bathroom. Get ready." The voice was that of Q, a young man who Bond still doubted was in a position to be giving him orders of any kind. Bond nodded, giving a sort of grunt of affirmation before he stood, dusting off his grey suit jacket and adjusting his black tie, which then rested on a worn white dress shirt.. He patted his left breast pocket, smiling faintly as he felt his Walther PPK snugged tightly against his chest, a silencer just below it. He looked down to the space just below his door, and saw a slim shadow move below it. through the lit hallway. Bond grunted, whispering softly, "That him?"
"Yes, now you mustn't dabble. We haven't a moment to spare."
As Q chastised him, he had already opened the door to his room slowly, shutting it behind him. He began to tail this man, making sure to shut off his earpiece as a precaution, and place his right hand on the grip of his Walther. The man in front of him didn't lose nor gain any speed, which Bond thought of as a good sign. The man himself was taller than James, with a receding hairline and no sense of preservation when it came to black hair coloring. He wore a black pinstriped suit, and rested his left hand in his left pants pocket casually. He was lean, too. Almost so lean that Bond wondered if he was following a schoolboy.
Before he noticed, the man turned abruptly towards a wooden door and stepped inside. Bond heard the *click* of a lock even from ten paces away. He figured it was now or never, and slowly drew his Walther along with the silencer, which he screwed on. Three yellow lights just below the hammer blinked in confirmation. Bond took up position just outside the bathroom, switching the safety off, aiming at the door, and.....
Bond held his gun more to his side, unsure if it wasn't still of use yet. But before he could move in to open the door, it flung open and a foot slammed into Bond's toned gut. He keeled over as a figure ran past him, down the hall towards his room. James gave chase, holding his gun outward and firing another shot for the man's leg. It missed, instead hitting the hall's red carpet. By then, the target had reached the end of the cabin and was struggling with a lever to open the door to the next one over.
The target arched his back, reaching his right hand around to feel for the bullet that had just hit his spine. He fell back and hit the floor like a rock. As Bond approached, the man managed to prop himself up against the door he was originally trying to open. Blood was already spreading from his wound. He looked up, with that old, cheeky face of his. His eyes rested merrily on his robust cheekbones, with a slim nose and rather thin lips. Bond aimed the gun at his head, but something crossed his eyes that the other man saw.
"I was under the impression MI6 stopped taking in pacifists."
James frowned. "And I that they had never trained runway models."
"Fah!" the man coughed. "So what is it you want? Information?"
Bond's face tightened briefly, a purse of his lips signifying the obvious. "Talk."
"Ah, but I know how this will end either way. You forget that." the man said. He had a hint of sadness in his voice.
James nodded, "That much may be true, but the least you could do is help the people you chose to turn your back on all those years ago."
The target frowned, spitting back, "I made up my mind then, and it hasn't changed now. Convince me."
Bond smirked cruelly. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Bond."
And with that, he shot the man in the head. The next day, the train was stopped and police were called, but no evidence as to who the killer was could be found, except a rose and a note written on a typewriter. It read,
"From Mallory, With Love."
Chapter One: From Mallory, With Love
Bond stood in M's office, looking out his window at the city he held dear; London.
"We have one down, then?" M said, sitting at his desk. Bond turned partially to face him. Today he wasn't dressed as fancy. Just a plaid vest and a dress shirt, with a black bow tie. M's desk had different files strewn all about, with maps and portraits of various men pinned up on his walls. M had even started growing stubble, which wasn't like him. He was usually very clean shaven.
"I'm afraid so." Bond said, hands sliding into his pants pockets. "It's a shame he had to go the way he did."
"Why do you say that?" M said, holding a coffee mug in his left hand.
"Not every day you get killed by yourself." Bond stated coldly, stalking slowly across the office, before turning to M and leaning back on a wooden wall, which was the only bare space he could fit.
"Bond, this isn't an issue to be taken lightly. We take our eyes off of this 'Quantum' bunch for a split second, and-" he paused, looking up at Bond. "And they get one of us. One of the people we trusted. We have to move quickly."
James nodded in agreement. "What's next?"
"Excuse me?" Bond lofted a brow.
"We tracked another agent there. He's running a restaurant called The Ritz there." M paused, looking up at Bond. "You've never been?"
"To Vegas? No, I have, but it left me with a bad taste in my mouth."
M smiled. It had been the first time in weeks, and yet what would have, any other day, just been a standard sarcastic remark had now become what very well might have been the highlight of his day. "Join the club. Now, we have you booked on a Noon flight today. it's about 7:45 as we speak. You'll want to poke your head in and have a word with Q. Heard he has something lovely planned for this."
Bond turned to leave. "And 007?"
He turned back around.
"Know who your enemies are."
Bond opened the door out, smirking. "I always do."
Edited by Caesar004, 04 March 2014 - 02:11 PM.