They tell you about attachments; a handbook on decorum, how best to conduct yourself. He’s a superior officer for fucks sake, tasked with technology and munitions; innovation toward better spies.
Favoritism was discouraged, but it happened. Of course it happened. Here was a man, the youngest Quartermaster MI6 had ever seen; an overachiever, loyal to Queen and Country– and to his agents.
Especially those who never questioned his youth or qualifications.
009 had been just that– he’d been welcoming, accepted the new Quatermaster for who he was and what he could do, and not an inexperienced man thrust into a role after an explosion took the lives of others.
But he was inexperienced, wasn’t he.
His gaze settles on the guns, hands reaching, tentative, for the one he’d assigned to Nine. He studies it, quietly, weighing it in his hands as though it would tell him the weight of his error (shoulders sag with his guilt).
“…We aren’t suppose to have favorites.” A pull of uncertainty in his features; uncharacteristic. His gaze lifts, sorrow filled eyes studying, cataloguing the lacerations, the bruising; blood stained and ruined features, aged and tired.
“Bond– I didn’t know. I didn’t know he would do this.” You must believe me.
From the very beginning Bond had questioned everything; from the cut of his own suits, to the weight of his weaponry, to the motivations of his handlers, and the state of the world. Bond was the sort of man to push, and push, and push until he knew precisely the reactions another would offer in nearly every scenario, with a plethora of variables.
Double-Oh Seven also knew that he did not particularly like Nine. It was why he picked at the man like a scab, snatching up his things, prodding fun at his tastes for gaudy showtunes and smarmy flirtations. Seven may have been envious of how easliy Nine wormed his way into the hearts of many, if he thought he were capable of the emotional response that envy required. When the man had shown up, packing his typical Q-Branch issued weaponry, Bond knew immediately that Roque was not present to lend a hand. Two Double-Oh's in once place seemed like overkill. And as it happened, Nine had every intention of putting Seven down.
Amusing. Unfortunate. Nine had also managed to slip away, an oversight but Bond's concern for his home base and the people there within drove him back to Mi6 rather than chasing illusive agents. Apparently Nine had acted without authorization, or he had acted on highly secretive authorization--investigation pending.
His trust in command and his comrades was shattered. Near irrevocably.
"And yet." Sliding that steel and ice gaze down toward the weapon that Q cradled as he spoke, Bond considered how many discharged shots had been made, considered the two nestled uncomfortably within his skin. Slowly he returned his gaze to the young Quartermaster's face, noting the warring of uncertainty and sorrow as they chased each other across his features.
Straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders, Bond was nowhere near as large as Roque was, not nearly as broad, but his personality was a wildfire that sucked air straight out of a room. His gaze was blades of ice, and he stared Q down.
"It was bound to happen." The agent answered, quite clearly dubious of the Quartermaster’s claims. He did not trust him.
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