#blofeld fanfiction

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 08 [Revised]

VIII: SENSE OF DOUBT

At twenty seven, Safin required organ transplants to mitigate the risk of cancer and other long-term effects. Once stabilized, he was transferred out of Severo-Kurilsk’s hospital into Kazan, for further treatments. A subsistence of weaning morphine injections, physical therapy. Relocation to a private clinic in Algeria.

Under the bright, bare ceiling, he continued to subsist. He could move around unassisted, as long as he wasn’t barefoot. He could load a pistol and aim without shaking too badly. These lesions across his face, down his abdomen, arms, would soften with time. He could not raise his voice above a guttural rasp. His first concern, after convalescence, was to go after the ones who took over his father’s company, and eliminated his family.

"You have a visitor," the nurse said.

There must have been a mistake. Safin had no one left to mourn him. He told the nurse to let this visitor in, and pushed himself to stand. Walking slowly over to the desk, he opened a set of drawers, pushing old documents aside, withdrawing the Makarov PM at the bottom.

The man who stepped into the room was well-built, dressed in a leather jacket and cargo pants. His right eye sat inert and glassy in his skull. Perhaps working for the SVR under an alias. Klebb was fond of using illegal agents rather than Russians for operations abroad. More likely, one of Zorin’s men sent to finish him off.

“Before your father's retirement,” the man said, “he worked with an Algerian sponsor, Cipher. Gostan knew his way around toxins, and this Cipher had enough funds to keep things running out of Russian jurisdiction. When Gostan’s wife turned informant to the Russian government, it was Cipher who invited the family to dinner to take their minds off the collapse of the USSR.”

“Foodborne botulism,” Safin said, glancing over at the desk. "That was Zorin's statement."

The man followed his gaze. “You read the reports.”

“At sea level, the spores can survive boiling water. If the bacterium survives long enough to produce toxins, you get botulinum.” A ragged inhale, exhale. His mouth dried up. “Pathoanatomical analysis confirmed the cause as a toxin of vegetative origin. It only takes three-hundred fifty nanograms, about a quarter of a grain of sand.” Safin looked at the man. “Where is this Cipher?”

"A contact of his expressed interest in meeting you."

Safin turned, pointed the Makarov PK squarely at the man's breast. "I don't have friends. Or family. On whose behalf were you sent?"

"Rene Mathis," the man said, hardly flinching. "He's worked with the Cipher and his associates before. He'll be able to tell you more." Safin's hand trembled. He gripped the gun tighter. "You've every right to be angry," the man said. "But vengeance alone isn't going to help you."

Safin cocked the gun. "What are you offering in return for this information?"

"Your father wouldn't have wished to see you rot away in hospital. I'm here to get you where you need to be." The man walked up to him and grabbed his trembling wrist. "You're still recuperating."

“That is a luxury I cannot afford,” Safin said. “There’s work to be done.”

⁂

At thirty six, Safin clung onto consciousness, playing limp on the floor of the hotel room. Dragging himself upright, he touched his ear. "Primo," he rasped, "we've been compromised."

Static his only answer. As if the situation would change, he demanded:

"Primo."

Harsh static in his ears. Safin ripped out the earpiece and wire. Panic closing in, on the brink of violence, he tempered himself. Now was not the time to lose composure. He had to get out of here. It was him or Madeleine now, and given the choice he'd already made up his mind.

The door opened before he could reach it. A hand half the size of his face covered him, lifting off of his feet and shoving him into the same laundry basket. No need to sedate him. Safin couldn't see, buried by laundry. The sound of wheels on carpet giving way to the harsh clatter-and-scrape of bare flooring. The elevator doors closing. The lift shuddered downward. All he could hear past the blood in his ears was his own ragged breathing and the hum of the elevator. Eventually the lift doors opened. Wheeling down a hall, there was an echoing clatter of the wheels on the floor.

The cart stopped moving. The same broad arm plunged into the hamper, dragging Safin out. A non-descript storage room, occupied by Klebb. As Safin was wrenched to his feet, he caught sight of a crumpled body in the corner. The maid met his eyes with a glassy stare. No matter what her saviour had told her, she was expendable. Only in those last moments did she realize the truth.

“She was a useful proxy,” Klebb's voice came from the other side of the room. “But she’s served her purpose.”

Safin had consoled himself with the idea that Blofeld had no reason to get rid of him. Now there seemed no point in denying it. What had taken him weeks to parse out through observation took her only a handful of conversations as he tipped his hand. Remorse had corroded his intentions too far to be forgiven. As long as Blofeld lived to pick apart her head, Madeleine would be as good as his enemy. All she’d had to was respond, initiate, and he hadn’t thought twice.

Hinx dragged him to his feet, arms behind him.

“You've led him to us,” Safin said, wrenching uselessly against Hinx’s grip. "All that's left to do is eradicate him." Klebb said nothing. She crossed over to a table opposite him and Hinx. “I tell you this for SPECTRE’s sake,” Safin said. “Blofeld's operation is running on borrowed time.”

Klebb’s mouth thinned. “If it were up to me, you would have never left Severo-Kuslik.” She reached into the bag and produced a syringe. “But it is not.”

Safin’s jaw set. There wasn’t much he could do, realistically. No point in asking, are you going to kill me. He could buy a few more seconds by reminding her of his loyalties—there wasn’t much point in grovelling. When Blofeld made a decision, it was final. His father’s island would be left in the hands of those who could never appreciate its true potential. Bond wouldn't keep his end of the bargain. But his frustation finally got the better of his patience. "Killing me won't salvage anything!" he snapped. "Your enemy must be dealt with." Hinx grabbed his head and held him still.

“All in good time,” said Klebb. "You have your own debt to repay."

The needle pierced his neck. A sharp, white-hot pain lanced through him but he did not lose consciousness. Hinx shoved his body back into the basket.

⁂

On floor twenty four, 007 and Madeleine were making their way towards the elevators. Between the pair of jilted lovers, Swann seemed to be handling the situation better. The tension in her shoulders easy to miss under that bulky black coat. She was a little harried. Scrutinizing him, not in an unkind way. It was methodical. Even a harsh, cold man could be tipped over into sentiment.

“Ordinarily, I’d say that we ought to stop running into each other like this,” said 007, stepping into the elevator after her, “and that it might give your friends the wrong idea. But I suppose we're past that point. They’ve been swarming the halls ever since that alarm tripped.”

Madeleine said nothing. Her hair still damp at the edges. She kept her eyes averse of his, fixed on a point over his shoulder. As the elevator descended, she gripped the rail tightly.

“I know these events can be rather hectic,” 007 said, “but I can keep you safe if you tell me who’s put you up to this.”

Still, nothing.

“Paloma,” he said, watching her face for a reaction. “She's a friend of mine. You haven't seen her around?"

“We talked briefly before the donor gala, and once when I went back up to my room. That's the last I saw of her.” She held his gaze without fear or hesitation. She'd make a pretty good informant if she lived long enough. Her blue eyes hardened as she added, “This isn’t going to work on me.”

“Well, you can either trust me, or take your chances with whoever is waiting for us downstairs,” Bond said. 

A muscle jumped in her delicate face. “And you are the new guard?”

“Of a sort,” 007 said, as the counter dropped down to single-digits. “I was hoping to get an idea of whoever you’re working for before I have to turn you over to MI6.”

“I'm afraid I won’t be able to help you,” she said. “They don’t tell me much.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” 007 said, closing the distance in a few, deliberate steps. She shrunk back against the guard rail but there was nowhere for her to go. “You've ingratiated yourself with a contract killer. You're already surrounded by men with criminal ties. Perhaps you've gotten this far by playing naive, but there's a limit to how far that will take you. For the sake of your life, if not your lover—”

“You've misunderstood,” said Swann. “I'm just a rubber stamp. If you were after information, you should’ve kidnapped him. All I'll buy you is a few minutes.”

She was bluffing, and remarkably confident. Whether or not Paloma was in on this as well remained to be seen. All of these younger agents seemed to be under the impression that a nice resume and connections could make up for a glaring lack of common sense. Leiter was going to be very unhappy if the events of tonight led them to yet another dead-end. But not as much as M.

The elevator stopped on floor five. The doors opened. On the other side stood a broad man, dressed as an attendant. 007 caught his eyes and offered an easy, mechanical smile that was not requitted. Swann was staring at the man with great concentration. Through the side of his mouth, 007 said, "I'll handle the negotiations. Just look aggrieved and they'll buy it."

Swann glared at him. He found it difficult, as he aged, to extend sympathy. At Safin's age he had desire for self-preservation bordering on nihilism. Drifting in and out of consciousness as Le Chiffre bled to death. The reversal of their roles was not exactly what Bond was thinking of. An affair was one thing, 007 had assessed that tension as soon as they stepped into the elevator. But the possibility of a double-cross made the situation far more delicate than he'd first assumed. He had no idea of Swann's history with Safin other than a recent, turbulent intimacy. She could be spurned, or simply putting on an air to spare him. Bond's strength was in seduction and extraction, and the occasional show of force when the situation demanded. What was a callous and unfeeling response to her was just part of the job for him.

Swann's eyes were lucid, indignance fallen away into fear. 007 turned his body as if to shield her and his hand hovered over the gun at his hip. The man began to advance towards them and 007 said, "This will only be a moment."

On the ground floor, the elevator doors opened. Hinx grasped Madeleine by the arm and steered her towards Primo, waiting by the reception. Swann said nothing as they cleared the ground floor, out of the Raddison Blu and across the sidewalk. She was shivering as he opened the door of the car by the curb and pushed her inside. 

On the other side of the car was Safin. He glanced over as the door opened, but said nothing to her. Hinx circled around the other side and Primo pulled out with the other chauffers. “It would appear,” said Safin quietly, boring a hole into the side of Madeleine's head, "that someone has set us up."

Primo glanced at them. "What was that?"

Madeleine took an unsteady breath. “Klebb took me aside and asked to monitor Safin discreetly.”

In all his time working for SPECTRE or any syndicate, Safin did not allow himself to be misdirected by personal sentiment. Primo was no different. Safin didn't appear to be upset by this revelation. He nodded to himself and said, “What was her price?”

“My loyalty for your life.”

Just like that, fifteen years of service were under scrutiny. The perfect foil, created inadvertently.

“What will happen to her?” Swann asked. "The woman?"

“That’s not your concern,” said Primo.

She took a serrated breath. Her hands on her lap, white-knuckled, but her voice was steady. “You think I don’t know how this works?” Her eyes locked on his working one in the rear-view mirror. “Somewhere down the line, every one of us is expendable.” A look in the blue eyes like she'd been gutted. “My father is my only insurance.”

Primo paused. It wasn’t his business, but a woman like this was going to keep prodding at him until he said whatever she wanted to hear. “You have nothing to worry about.”

The silence held, strained. Her anger felt perfunctory and desperate. She was beseeching Primo with her eyes for something he was unable to reciprocate. She’d armed herself with vulnerability as an offensive. It might have worked on Safin, but Primo’s feelings hadn’t changed since their paths crossed in Guinea.

It was as if he were the only one who could see it. This emotional caveat had diverted Safin from his original cause, to his own detriment. He’d been making Swann an exception from the day their paths recrossed. He never told Primo anything about his past jobs, and Primo didn't think much of Safin's insistence in Zurich. Convincing himself of the lesser evil, while a hassle in of itself, was less taxing than listening to Swann despair about how lucky she was to be alive.

She laughed softly to herself, looked downward. “At least, before, I could delude myself into thinking it was only ego. That he saw me as something to be protected, or won—but I don’t think I ever realised just how—”

“Why don't you ask him,” Primo said curtly.

Safin said, "Drive. We'll discuss this later."

⁂

An hour later, they were in the safehouse. The curtains drawn, but the overhead light was on. Safin felt no nausea or disorientation, or assorted aftereffects. If it wasn't a lethal injection, what else could it be?

The soft scratching of a pen against paper drew him from thought. Movement in his peripherals. She hadn't removed the black coat. Her head turned in his direction and she seemed to flinch at his approach. "I didn't realise what would happen. You must understand that."

"I'm not angry," he said. "Not with you."

Her mouth drew to a line. There was no point for her to argue on. The exhaustion in her eyes and her shoulders remained palpable. Blofeld had taken measures to secure her loyalty, but not her trust.

Unable to retreat into his own façade of indifference. Perhaps in all of her previous affairs, she’d hide herself in plain sight. Never allowing her true nature at the forefront. The power and the thrill of wielding such power usually lent itself to a fleeting thrill and longer-lasting disappointment. She had deluded herself into assuming he would be no different. There was something within her, a trace of that vulnerability worth preserving. The same principle to restore a garden from nothing.

“There is a meeting in Rome tomorrow. On your father's behalf, you will be expected to attend.”

"On SPECTRE's," she said.

"Your cooperation is better than the alternative."

Madeleine scoffed. “What difference would it make if I were willing?”

⁂

The cabin of White's private plane carried a sombre tension. Madeleine had been placed on a separate flight with Marco Sciarra and his wife. It was the first time since Vienna that White had been in the same room as Safin. Aside from the pilot and Primo, they had the cabin to themselves.

“I think it’s a bad idea,” White was saying. “This Heracles Project. Say it goes into mass production under MI6's watch. All the enemy has to do is collect our medical records, take the DNA—and that’s it. We’re history. One of the largest companies the world has never known, and its legacy will be known as the advent of some mistake. A power vacuum the likes of which—oh, hell, I shouldn’t go on.” White glanced over at Safin as though in apology. “What do you think?”

“It’s not important what I think.”

“That’s what cushy men like Denbigh say to get the papers signed,” White said with a scoff. “It’s the last thing I expect from a man on the ground.”

White hadn’t been on-the-ground since the mid-eighties. “Most people are already content to live as they are told and die quietly. Give them an invisible God flowing through their veins, and they'll understand it is better to concede than resist.”

White chuckled, but there was a hint of unease in his tone. “You’d have gotten on well with Gostan.”

“In the right hands, such a weapon would prevent collateral.”

“Yes, yes, always the right hands—and what are the chances it will be misused?” Safin held his tongue while White took his silence as a concession. “Ah, that's the trouble. You're so focused on the potential of this weapon that you cannot give any failsafes, or alternatives to its misuse. I’m surprised you and Denbigh don’t see eye-to-eye on the matter.” An intentional barb. Safin ignored it. Silence gripped the cabin. “How is Madeleine?”

“Unharmed.”

White scoffed, but there wasn’t any humour. “You’ve compromised yourself, pulling her into my dealings. She had no right to know about Blofeld.”

“Blofeld introduced himself into her life before I ever could,” Safin said. “Is that not how he operates with SPECTRE's offspring?”

A muscle jumped in White's thin jaw. “Truthfully, I've never been very fond of her taste in men. I'm not even sure she was fond of them, half the time. Perhaps she was trying to assuage my concerns, whatever she assumed them to be. But none of them ever used her as a bartering chip.”

“It was only a matter of time before her connections were brought to SPECTRE's attention.” The outcome was decided when he opened his mouth in Zurich. Before then, in the car while Klebb looked him in the eyes. Even now, Safin was faced with the same level of detachment which Swann had cultivated and White had mastered over a lifetime. A professional did not resort to petty envy.

“She's cleverer than I,” White said. "But she is a daughter of SPECTRE." The lines in his face stood out sharply. "Just as you are a son of SPECTRE."

"I gave you my word," Safin said. "She won't be harmed."

⁂

Under the arched room of the Cadenza, the same strained tension followed from the private jet. As Blofeld discussed the proceedings, Safin fixed his attention on him casually. When the discussion of the incident with 007 at the Raddison Blu came up, he remained calm on the surface, even as White expressed his interest.

"Are you aware, White, that your daughter has been targeted by the CIA?"

White went very still. In the warm light he had paled. He was looking at Blofeld. "I was not."

The grey eyes held briefly on the face of Safin, two seats adjacent. "You will be thankful to know that she has come away from the matter unharmed. No need to worry. She's proven to be a very resourceful asset."

White's reaction was subtle but immediate. He looked at Safin. He was trying to keep himself in check but coming to an understanding that something else had transpired. Safin held the eyes of Blofeld once addressed and did not stray. He could feel White's eyes digging at him. He did not allow his own tension to show in body language. There was no point in arguing. Blofeld was not a man that could be convinced so much as humoured. This was just about keeping White in check, not bartering for Swann's life.

“Swann has her purpose,” Safin said. “But a temp is all she need be.”

"Well, I see no reason to leave her out of our dealings," said Blofeld. "She has proven that she possesses both the intellect and resourcefulness to be trusted. She will be reinstated at the Hoeffler Klinik in Austria. A promotion, for the job well done in Oslo. There, she will be kept in good condition until we have need of her."

The chair beside Safin's shifted, wood scraping against marble. "She is useful as long as she is malleable," Safin continued, "007 is too great of a wildcard. We've already dealt with the aftermath. It gave MI6 the advantage. In the long-term, she's no different than Lynd." White's hand closed around his arm. Safin reached up and brushed his hand away. “My loyalty is to the syndicate,” he said flatly. 

No reason to expend any emotion. White was frustrated with the uneven turn of events. The outlier was an easy target.

"Mr White," said Blofeld coolly, "is there something you and Mr Safin wish to discuss?"

White scoffed. Wrenching his hand away from Safin, he said, “This isn’t about him, no more than it is about me, or any one of us gathered here tonight. You and I both know that, Franz.” The room was very still. “Since QUANTUM was lost, I have watched you drive yourself mad to make James Bond’s life a living hell. I’ve watched us sink lower. It caught up to Le Chiffre. If James was a genuine threat to our syndicate, you would not have hesitated to get rid of him. We had the advantage two years ago, when Olivia Mansfield still headed MI6, yet you allowed Silva to enact his revenge plot. Now we’re playing catch-up while our enemies bolster their defenses. This goddamned Heracles Project is a pipe-dream. There are too many drawbacks, and we’ve no alternatives! All of this has cost us. Le Chiffre, Greene, Yusef, and—”

“—you're speaking of necessary losses.”

“Appointed by YOU, Franz!” White exploded. He continued in a level voice, “For too long, I've stood by and watch you dismantle what has taken us decades to build, and rebuild, all for the sake of a childhood grudge. You’ve taken more than I can give.”

Blofeld’s face became stony. “You wish to resign?”

White stood up. “With what little dignity I have left, yes.”

Blofeld sighed. “Frederich, I’d advise you to reconsider.” His eyes flickered to the balcony. “Not in front of your daughter.”

White froze where he stood. A look between resignation and cold contempt crossed his features. “Ernst….”

Another one of Blofeld’s favourite games. Pitting two operatives against one another. Their fates were decided by him alone. Safin was looking ahead.

White's breathing changed. His days in the French Foreign Legion were well behind him. Even if he were still in peak condition it would not have made much difference. He grabbed the front of Safin’s suit with fingers that would not obey, to brace his own weight or apprehend the man responsible for his daughter's fate. His mouth foamed, a mixture of saliva and blood. Safin could not avert his eyes. He croaked out a word that was indecipherable, blood bubbling from his throat. Collapsing into himself, he began to seize.

Vogel disguised a flinch and shifted her feet away from the encroaching pool of blood and bodily waste.

Safin turned his attention towards the head of the table, where Blofeld sat, statuesque. His grey eyes glittered.

“Denbigh,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Inform your scientist that this weapon will need a little fine-tuning.”

Denbigh sounded as though he was going to be sick. “It’s still a prototype, sir.”

“Yes, and I kept him talking for quite a while,” Blofeld said with a wave of his hand. “Given Obruchev's description, he ought to have died a few minutes ago.” He signaled to the man behind his chair. “Kestutis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Largo’s release date should be coming up soon. Send him to Dr. Swann. He will replace Frederich before the end of the month.”

“Of course, sir.”

“All of this was possible thanks to the joint effort of our latest fill-in.”

All eyes turned to Safin, who was looking at Blofeld. Blofeld’s attention rose to the balcony above and Safin followed his gaze. “A means of assassination without guns or typical poisons. It is only a prototype, as Denbigh says. But in a few years, along with the Nine Eyes programme, we will have an unprecedented level of flexibility over our operations.”

Frederich Konig died for nothing. Safin was as little a threat to Blofeld's schemes as the temp who'd charmed her way into lowering his defenses. It was no fault of hers. He could be honest with her in a way he could not have before, not while her father lived. But before he explained his true purpose to Madeleine, there was something he must do.

⁂

At short-notice, Obruchev had agreed to meet SPECTRE's benefactor through Primo at a safehouse in London. He had been promised a better sum of money than Shatterhand could offer in return for intelligence about Gareth Mallory's dealings, off-shore. Silva had never mentioned anything about London or Heracles beyond his quest for revenge against Olivia Mansfield. It was possible, then, that Silva had not known or been complicit.

Before he stepped into the safehouse, Safin told Primo, "I'll handle this alone."

Primo bade him entry.

Valdo Obruchev, a balding man of smaller stature, looked up. “My client has informed me that you oversee the Heracles Project in London, is that correct?”

“Since 2011.” Obruchev glanced up at him over his glasses. “I am sorry. Have we met before?”

“My father was a client of Guntram Shatterhand’s.” Safin stepped closer. “I’m here to continue what he started.”

Obruchev looked at his face. A sudden flash of comprehension. “But you’re—”

“Just a can of herbicide.” Safin’s hand in his pocket curled around the butt of the gun. “Three days ago, one of your clients injected me with a strain of Heracles. It was used to eliminate Frederich Konig, alias Pale King.”

Obruchev struggled to find his voice. “Look, I only supervise the other scientists. Is it possible one of the strains was coded to this, uh—Konig.”

“It shouldn’t be an issue to verify.”

“Well, I don’t confer with Mr. Shatterhand personally. If you’d like, I can put you into contact the research team.”

His hand on the desk slipped out of sight. Safin reached over, caught Obruchev by the back of the head, slammed him into the desk. Wrenched him up, knocking his glasses askew. Obruchev yelped but made no effort to free himself. With the barrel under his chin.

“Put your hands where I can see them.” Obruchev scrambled to oblige. Blood began to stream from his nose. “How is Heracles meant to be utilised?”

“Once Heracles is introduced into the bloodstream, the target will exhibit symptoms characteristic of a chemical attack. If a person is inoculated and he is not the intended target, the weapon will do nothing.”

“Can it be transferred?”

“Yes, through physical contact. The nanomachines are crude, but efficient. They should become more difficult to detect as technology improves.” Perhaps Madeleine wasn't the target, after all. What reason would Blofeld have to eliminate his favourite temp? “As technology improves, we would utilize the weapon on a broader scale. Entire families could be eradicated with the right DNA, you see—but at this moment, that’s only an idea!” He winced. “The initial strategy was to target the intended victims under the guise of mandatory inoculation.”

“Such as West Africa.”

Obruchev began to nod before he caught himself pressing into the gun barrel, shrinking back into terror. “Ah—y-yes, that’s correct. The medical staff in Guinea were told they were getting a vaccine. We used their ignorance as a proxy, the perfect circumstance for testing Heracles without suspicion. But—what you’re suggesting is impossible. The bioweapon is under close surveillance, there’s no evidence of it being used outside of MI6’s jurisdiction. Look, I-I’ve told you as much as I can.”

Safin let him drop. He put himself between the desk and Safin. "

⁂

Three days since Rome, Madeleine was already back in Norway. It wasn't enough time to grieve her father. No amount of platitudes or promises from SPECTRE's ilk could soothe the panic that kept her up at night. The very paranoia that had kept her alive was slowing eating its way through her instinct for self-preservation. Alone in the early hours, she could almost fool herself that it was remorse, not survivor's guilt.

A sense of security from the last place she’d ever hope for. She’d been toying with the idea ever since coming to Oslo, but now she was forced to accept it as a lesser evil. In her previous life, she would’ve had the luxury of disdain. In pursuit of that dream of normalcy, she’d do anything to survive. Perhaps there was as much difference between putting her trust in Safin and coming into work as a rubber stamp for liars and killers.

Apart from his job, a few vulnerabilities, she knew as much about him now as she had last time they spoke. For her sake, he’d kept his distance. But sooner or later he'd let his guard down, and the only question was whether he deemed her worthy to live carrying his own secrets. A stranger with no ties to her wouldn’t be coming and going as he saw fit. Nor would she be opening her door to him. Her father never once talked about how he and her mother met. That part of their lives, she wasn’t meant to think of—it would make them human and fallible. As if they could be anything but. She wasn’t a child anymore.

She took no greater pleasure in the constant string of deaths and killings, nor looking the other way. Even with her father gone, that burden of inheritance wasn't lifted with him. In lieu of a target to point all of her misgivings, there was just emptiness. The inevitable, hopelessness of being trapped with another criminal who understood. No way of pushing him away. To be understood by such a man was another violation, as if it had mattered to him in the first place. As though she were really the first person he’d had to break-in for the sake of his clients, no need to flatter herself that he was genuine in his concern. He might be able to lie to himself, but not to Madeleine.

As she stepped into her apartment, the door was ajar. The lights were off, curtains drawn. Her heart skipped a beat or two. She closed the door behind her. The handgun was in the pocket of her trenchcoat, hanging up on the closet door. She reached casually into that pocket, scanning the permiter of the room for any disturbance. 

"There's no need for that." Safin was sitting on a chair, facing the front door. He looked as if he'd been sitting here since this morning. She would have noticed if he had. “Before my father died, he dealt in poisons. He owned a chemical facility on the Kuril Islands. Blofeld bought the island from the Russian government and has been renting it out to potential buyers. The attacks in West Africa, for example. ” He looked at her. “I wish to reclaim what’s been taken from me.”

“For your father’s sake?”

He scowled. “Beyond that. Think of the lives that were lost in Guinea. Your father's death. There will be more before our work is done.” Madeleine shrank into herself under the weight of his phrasing. Blofeld must have known. Her father would have known. Perhaps it was why Safin would elect to keep her out of harm's way. “That senseless collateral you witnessed, it was for the sake of testing this bioweapon. As long as you remained ignorant, you would be an outsider, free to live and look the other way."

"I've strived to lead an uninteresting life. Evidently it was never good enough." She said it plainly, but her eyes peered through him, into another place and time. She was reaching into herself, sifting through regrets, back to the same emotion. “My father would not repent. Not while he was alive.”

“It was for your safety that I kept my distance.” In a silent conflict with himself, Safin got to his feet., walked over to her. "What you saw in Rome was one of Blofeld's tests. I had nothing to do with the outcome."

"I believe you." She’d made a habit of internalizing the lack of her longevity since she was a child. The hitman sent to her door. All of her family seemed to meet the same fate, sooner or later. "But I'd feel safer if you stayed."

All she had to do was sound pitiable enough and he'd mistrust his judgement. Without the barriers of formality there was only desire to assuage. She turned and gripped his wrist, and he seemed to tense up. His expression changed. Eyes darted to her face and held there, but he didn't move and she did not react as her father had. Intuitively, she cupped his face and said, “You’re the only one who can protect me.”

He shivered, her touch a live wire. Their mouths met. His hand swept down her back, drawing her against him. Blotting out her grief. The more secure path to revenge was in the unravelling. As long as he was needed, he would go to her. They wound up on the sofa, and he didn’t close his eyes to kiss. She unbuckled his belt, but when her hands reached the hem of his shirt, he brushed her aside.

“Does it bother you?”

He blinked slowly, as if he’d misheard. He inhaled, exhaled, and said, “No.” As he sat up he held eye-contact. It was not benevolent, but the thrill resonated behind her navel.

He took her hand and placed it under his shirt, coming to rest against his sternum. Mottled and cool, the steady rise and fall of his chest. As she dragged her fingers down his stomach the damage pervaded. It was as though he’d caught a blow, or else been splattered with something chemical.

A mark along his jaw stood out and she pressed her mouth to it. His skin tasted bitter, the way memorial roses smelled. As she pushed him supine, moving down his body, he stifled a noise in the back of his throat without deterring her. Closing her eyes, this could be any man. If not for the cool hand on the nape of her neck and his ragged breath, the lie might stick.

SPECTRE would be watching. Just like any other lover she took home, they would glean nothing new.

[miwhotep]

I want to keep this blog more ordered, so I added a little post with links to my headcanons, analysis and further Milverton stuff - it will be easier for me to find them if I need to.

MILVERTON ANALYSIS POSTS:

Charles Augustus Milverton - the Conan Doyle canon and adaptational differences

Milverton, the Moriarty the Patriot version - the Conan Doyle canon and further inspirations

The problems with Milverton's character writing in Two Criminals

Milverton: the dark mirror of William James Moriarty

When Milverton is actually nice - his relationship with his secretary, Ruskin

Is Milverton blackmailable or not?

Ruskin/Louis similarities when it comes to their relationships with Milverton/William

Little, not evil things what Milverton likes

Milverton and his advertisement company - how did advertising worked in the Victorian era

Reasons why Milverton can still be alive

Another addition to Milverton and Ruskin's relationship

Milverton and Whiteley - similar, but opposites

What can be behind Milverton's surprise in White Knight

Analysis of my favourite Milveskin moments

Milverton as an employer

Milverton's eyes and the meaning behind them

The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun

Milverton and the classes

The Milverton/Ruskin conversations

Milverton/Ruskin color analysis

Milverton and his newspapers

OTHER ANALYSIS POSTS:

James Bond universe references in Moriarty the Patriot

A Moneypenny theory

Yuumori James Bond & cocktails

The White Knight arc and its connections to The Dark Knight movie

The Jack the Ripper case in Yuumori and in reality

MILVERTON THEORIES

The reason behind Milverton's motivation as a villain

MILVERTON HEADCANONS

Milverton's origin story

How did Ruskin met Milverton

Milverton as the Moriarties' possible agent-to-be in the media world

Random Milverton / Milveskin headcanons

Random Milverton / Milveskin headcanons II.

MILVERTON AS BLOFELD AU

Milverton's possible return as Ernst Stavro Blofeld - main villain of the James Bond universe

More about Blofeld and a list of reasons why Milverton is a possible candidate for the role

Milverton as Blofeld manga fan cover

OTHER MILVERTON THINGS

My Milverton cocktail recipe

Fan-made Milverton anime card & Milvey's flower symbol

Milverton manga character chart

Milverton & Ruskin chibi art

FANFICTIONS

All fanfictions (links with summaries)

Hope in the Darkness (Milverton villain origin story fic)

What Goes Around Comes Around (Milverton getting blackmailed by Ruskin's kidnapping)

Unexpectedly (Milverton/Ruskin getting together longfic)

[movieexpert1978]

Bed and Breakfast

anon:  Oh, please story about your favorite Christoph charakter, maybe fluff or smut, both is good. 88. Are you a good liar? 💌

so sorry I’m only getting to this now. Working days and being a night person really has done a number on me. I wasn’t sure if the question was a quote to put into the story or an actual question, so I just included it in the story. 

Nothing but fluff here. Blofeld is not my character. 

She grumbled as she came into the bedroom. She was so thankful for her mission to be finally over so that she could get some sleep. She was just about to lay down when there was a knock at the door.

“Yeah?” She answered. Her boss, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, came walking in.

“I’m glad to see that you made it home ok.” He says sincerely.

“I’m just glad to be home, sine you’ve been putting me on back to back missions these last few weeks.” She says as she crawls into bed.

“I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t my intention. Unfortunately, some of the other agents just aren’t good as you.” He says with pride. She can’t help but chuckle as she stares at the ceiling. He sits next to her on the bed and looks her over. Her eyes do indeed look very tired. “Do you need anything?” He asks. She looks over at him, her eyes already heavy with sleep, but she forces herself to get up.

“I need a shower and a million years of sleep.” She mumbles.

“You want me to get the freezing box ready for you?” He teases.

“You have one of those?”

“No, not yet anyway.” He grins.

“I won’t be shocked when I find one in the basement then.” She adds as she gets up.

“Would you like me to get you something to eat?”  

“No thank you.” She gathers her pjs and heads for the shower. “Maybe save something for me for later.” She says.

“Anything in particular?”

“Pancakes!” She nearly shouts excitedly. “Pancakes with maple syrup, uhhhh, I haven’t had that in ages.” She groans.

“I’ll leave a note for the cook.” He nods.

“Thanks.” She smiles. Before she goes into the bathroom, he comes up to her and gives her a tender kiss. She hums softly as one of her hands rests gently on his chest as he cups her face.

“I’ve missed you.” He rasps.

“Missed you too.” She whispers, while he presses their foreheads together. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

“Of course I will.”

“Thank you.” He gives her a quick kiss before he lets her go, allowing her to retreat to her shower. The hot water makes her sigh in relief as all the aches and pains temporarily leave her body. When she’s done the room is steaming, just the way she likes it. She dries off her body and puts on her pjs, eager for the bed now. She drives her long hair off, somewhat as she usually lets it dry overnight. When she gets out of the bathroom, Ernst isn’t present as he has some last minute paperwork to get through. She’s used to that as she climbs in with a groan. “My bed.” She mumbles, getting comfortable under the covers. There is always something nice and rewarding about sleeping in your own bed. She was plenty sound asleep when Ernst came back into the room. He smiled at the sight of her as he undressed to his shorts and a t-shirt. Her back was to him as he carefully climbed into the bed and wrapped an arm around her. A silver ring on his finger was showing. Normal people would easily take it for a wedding band, but it was something else entirely. He kissed the back of her wet head before he settled down to sleep.

Xxxxxx

He wakes up first the next morning. He usually does as it’s a habit he’s done since he was young. However, now he has the pleasure of having his favorite agent wrapped in his arms with her head in his chest. The sight never fails to make him smile. He won’t move until she does as he doesn’t want to spoil the moment. He plans for her to spend a nice vacation somewhere on a beach. She loves the ocean and open waters. Not to mention she playfully lathers too much sunscreen on him. He’s cleverly switched to spray on sunscreen now. That’s for a different time. Today he looks forward to eating pancakes with her. He looks at her as she mumbles and shifts, staying very comfortable in his embrace. He waits for it and she slowly looks up at him.

“Good morning.” He speaks first.

“Morning.” She sighs before she lays back down.

“Did you sleep good?”

“Shhhh!” She hisses making him chuckle.

“You can go back to sleep after breakfast.” He says getting up.

“Mmmmmm!” She whines in protest. He changes into his usual black outfit before he goes to the kitchen. The chef has finished a tray for the two o the. He takes it and heads back to the room.

“My dear please open the door, my hands are full.” He calls out. She mumbles as she gets up and opens the door. The smell of fresh pancakes hit her and she instantly brightens up. They go back to bed, carefully placing the trey on top of it before they start eating.

“Mmmmm…these are so good.” She groans after a few bites. “Did you make these yourself?” She asks curiously.

“Yes I did.” He lies with a smirk.

“Wait…are you a good liar? No never mind I know that, it’s your job. The chef made them right?” She says.

“Yes, you know I don’t know how to make pancakes.” He says after another bite.

“It’s not that hard. You just have to watch them so they don’t burn.” She explains. “That’s half the battle with cooking.”

“Very true.” He nods. The extra maple syrup does wonders on her mouth as she eats. He lets her finish up the plate.

“Mmm..thank you. That was an awesome breakfast in bed.” She sighs as she lays back down while he puts the trey on the dresser.

“You’re very welcome.” He rasps as he leans over her. She’s already half asleep as he gives her a few gentle kisses. When he’s done he caresses her face as she starts to doze off. “Go back to sleep.” He whispers.

“Stay with me.” She says curling up next to him. He can’t say no, so he’ll stay maybe a little while. He glances at her and she’s already back asleep. He smiles and kisses her forehead as he settles back down next to her.                  

[mlmxreader]

Wounded Wolf | Blofeld x werewolf!gn!reader

summary: Blofeld acts strange when you get hurt after a hit attempt goes wrong.

tws: injury, mentions of violence, swearing

You groaned heavily as you lugged yourself into bed, clutching the freshly dressed wound on your upper thigh, trying to stop the pain from shooting through it; you weren't sure why Blofeld had ever told you to go after Bond, knowing that he always had the gadgets to stop his plans. You supposed it had something to do with what had gone on between them as children, but you knew for certain that once Blofeld had gotten wind of what Bond had done, he would be... extremely furious, to put it lightly.

You were his best assassin, a werewolf with the ability to shift at will - a very rare and very powerful thing - but you were also more than that; you doubted that he loved you, you doubted that his feelings ran deeper than the occasional satisfaction late at night, but you at least had some sort of relationship. He always made himself scarce when you shifted, though, when you allowed the wolf to break its chains he was never to be found - you often thought that he didn't trust you. That he didn't trust the animal instincts, and that you would rip out his throat.

Your thigh throbbed as you growled, exposing fangs that never truly went away, slightly curved and sharp at the ends; Bond just had to get his hands on fucking silver, didn't he?

You couldn't do anything as the door unlocked, but when you heard the familiar footsteps, you knew you didn't have to, putting a pillow under your thigh to keep it a little elevated as you tried not to look at the bandages. Tried not to rip them off and to itch at the wound; that was always the worst part of silver, the deep rooted itch that it left, so deep down that you would have reached your bones before even getting close to it.

"Bond did this," Blofeld growled as he stood at your bedside. His hands in his pockets and a flare of anger in his eyes. "Didn't he?"

You nodded, jaw clenched as you met his gaze. "Who else?"

He looked down at the bandage, and in an instant, that flare of anger was gone, replaced by something you had never seen before; such a look made you squirm a little, unsure of what he was thinking. "Are you in any pain?"

"Enough to make me angry," you chuckled, shaking your head. "Why?"

"I'll have my physician come over in the morning," he said, daring to sit down next to your hip, his hand going to your bare chest as he nodded slowly. "You're hot. Do you have a fever?"

You shook your head. "Werewolves are-"

"Have a naturally higher temperature than humans, I know," Blofeld ran his free hand down his face. "That wasn't the question."

You groaned, struggling to move and to get comfortable, but he kept you pinned with his hand on your chest. "No, I don't... Blofeld, what the fuck is all of this?"

His voice, calm as ever, gave nothing away as he added extra pressure to keep you in one place with just his gaze. "I'm the author of his pain. Not the other way around."

"It was a hit gone wrong," you grumbled. "I almost had him. I just needed more-"

"You did nothing," he got up, running a hand across the back of his neck. "You need to rest."

He wouldn't admit it, he could never admit to such a thing, but Blofeld wasn't just there to find out about your condition for himself, he wasn't just there for business either; there was something in his stomach, something that tugged and pulled at the edge of his flesh, that had made him need to see you. To make sure that you were safe.

"I'll have my men keep an eye on the property," he said, "you can rest, (y/n)."

"You ain't acting right," the words left your mouth before you could stop them, and you stuttered to apologise but he cut you off by gently grasping your chin between his forefinger and thumb.

Fuck, he had the prettiest eyes. Black in the dim light. So fucking pretty.

He let you go, and sighed. "Do your bandages need changing?"

You slowly shook your head, keeping a close eye on him as he prowled through the room, pausing at the window to peek through the edge of the curtains; there was something going on, and you could feel an uneasiness stick to your throat as you watched.

"Blofeld... you sure you're alright?"

He spared you a single look, and turned his attention to the unlocked window; he tugged it closed and double checked that it was locked. "You can't go anywhere in your condition. I'll have to stay."

You scoffed, a soft howl leaving your throat when you tried to sit up, able to feel the jagged edges of your wound pull and tug against flesh. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You can't stay here alone," he said it almost as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Not in this condition. So I will have to stay."

"Fine, fine, but..." you thought it was a silly request, but you had to ask. "Will you sleep here, with me?"

Blofeld shot you a look, one that always sent shivers down your spine, and he slowly nodded. "Of course."

Your shoulders relaxed as the relief left you, but when you struggled to move over, he tutted, shaking his head as he quickly made his way over; you weren't expecting him to be so... so gentle when he helped you to move over, but it was certainly a welcomed surprise.

"Say... I know you're not the feelings type," you started, "but, uh... all the things we've done... and what we've gone through... d'you think we could... y'know?"

He didn't answer, he merely grabbed another pillow and stuffed it under your leg. "I'll make sure you have painkillers and a decent doctor in the morning... have you eaten?"

"Uh, no," you said slowly. "No, I haven't."

"I'll be in the kitchen."

[perfumedhotels]

Don't you try to catch me (Living on the edge of the law)

Summary: prison break. That's all.

(Blofeld ain't mine. Only Holly/Rita.)

The rain whipped at the large windows of the complex. It had been raining for days on end, and it didn't seem to stop, only get louder and more fierce as the days went by.

Holly didn't mind it, really. Other than the fact that the loud ambience drowned out the clicking of her heels on the tiles which she adored. The sound always made her feel invincible.

After all, there was a reason they said heels and red lipstick put the fear of God into people.

Aside from that, she could really appreciate the way the dark clouds blocked out the blinding golden rays of the sun. That always used to bother her eyes at an hour like this.

As she walked down the corridor, the windows faded and gave way to plain bluish walls that were illuminated by ceiling lamps. It made the place look more like a Hitchcockian insane asylum rather than a high security prison. Well, the first statement was a better description for what the place was anyways, she thought. The only thing it was missing was for the lights to start flickering. And then the place would be a great set for a horror movie.

The clicking of heels stopped as she stood before the ID scanner that would lead to an even narrower and darker corridor where she would meet with her patient.

"Rita O'Brian. Psychotherapist." She announced into the small microphone that popped in front of her, and within seconds the large door was slid open.

She walked inside and her breath caught in her throat as she watched the portable "cell" move toward her.

She didn't know why, but the sight of him still frightened and fascinated her; like a rabbit gazing at a cobra.

She had seen him many times in different situations. Back in spectre, her fear seemed rational but now, being scared even though she had the upper hand, she didn't really understand it.

"Good day, Rita." Blofeld smiled as the chair came to a stop.

"Blofeld." Rita said dryly, trying to keep some level of professionalism as if she wasn't gawking at him a few seconds ago.

"You know what I want, Ernst. Spit it out and you'll be rid of me in no time."

Ernst gave a creepy giggle, staring at her as if he had completely lost his sanity to the monochrome walls of the complex. "Oh, but I enjoy your company, meine liebe. You know, one can really lose it when they spend every second alone in a small space." He then lowered his voice a bit, "Maybe you'd like to join me to see what it's like..? I promise I'm not a bad host. You know it, 'doc'."

His murderous smirk made the hair on her neck stand. She knew he wouldn't hurt her even if he wanted to, and god knew how tempting his offer was. To be alone... but she had a job to do and so did he, and if he kept talking like this while they were being listened to and watched, it'll all be over.

"Speak or else!" She hissed with frustration.

"Oh god... what would become of me?" He asked with the same expression, seemingly unphased. That was until the corners of the woman's mouth twitched into a twisted grin that by all means concerned him.

"Oh, nothing. You will speak." She said matter-of-factly as she reached for a small vial of clear liquid in her pocket.

Still, he remained the same.

"Sodium Pentothal. This should make you speak."

Truth serum.

His eyes widened. Was Rita seriously going to drug him for something that would get them both in trouble?!

"Rita-!" He was about to protest but the woman had already tilt his head to the side to administer the lethal drug.

The loud yet familiar sound of power outage snapped him out of his maddening anxiety and even though he opened his eyes, the world around him was still pitch black.

"And scene..!" She whispered in his ear and as if on que, he bolted out of the chair and ran, dragging her with him.

There's no doubt that Belmarsh was the most advanced prison in possibly the world. But the fatal flaw of their system was that a single power outage was enough to blow the whole thing on its behind.

Of course they had backups. But even that could be eliminated with enough tweaking. You just needed to know what strings to pull.

They finally stopped behind the wall, panting madly as they covered each other's mouths to keep the frantic guards from hearing them.

"That wasn't in the plan..! You nearly gave me a heart attack, you-" He couldn't continue when the pair of soft rosey lips pressed against his chapped ones in a rather aggressive kiss.

They couldn't really see each other clearly in the darkness but he could tell it was her from the intoxicating scent of her perfume and the all too familiar cosmetic oil taste of her lipstick that was going to stain his lips later.

They finally pulled away and Rita took a moment to collect herself before she spoke, "But the end justified the means."

"Well, I guess." He grumbled and she could almost picture him rolling his hazel eyes.

"With that acting... you could've started a new life..." Blofeld said quietly as Rita laughed for some reason or the other.

"Are you serious? Life without you... without this craziness is boring!" She chuckled even more as the lights began to flicker. The set of a horror movie... just like she had imagined.

Ernst didn't speak and only offered an appreciative smile before kissing her again.

God he had missed her. He had missed her smile, her chipping laughter, her madness which was unique to her own, her body, her...

It took every bit of willpower in him to break the kiss. Especially when she wanted him enough to claw at his shirt the way she did.

He didn't have time to think with his dick. Not when the MI6 basterds could pop a cap in their ass at any second at least.

"Right..." Rita huffed as she came out of a haze. "All the doors are open but leave out the back. Primo is waiting for you in the car. I'll see you again in a few weeks or months."

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles tenderly, running his thumb over them. "Thank you so much, my love. This wouldn't have been possible without you..." He said sincerely.

"See you soon, fox..." She smiled and kissed his forehead before she got to watch him grow smaller and smaller as he ran down the corridor until he disappeared out of the door.

[melynen]

Bravo - Blofeld/Q

((Written for the Random Prompt Table’s prompt Bravo. I’m not sure what to say about this drabble. 😂))

”Perhaps,” Q says, deliberately slow and calm, ”I did not think this one through.”

Blofeld nods appreciatively. ”Perhaps not. It’s good to acknowledge one’s failings, though,” he says in a way that instantly makes Q’s skin crawl.

They’re in a nondescript room, alone but Q can hear guards outside. He’s wearing clothes that aren’t his own, and his wrists are secured around the chair’s back. In short, he’s well and truly fucked.

”You weren’t my primary target, you understand, but you’ll be the perfect prize for after I’ve dealt with Bond.”

Q swallows. Yes, he’s fucked, both literally and figuratively.

[notsuchacleverboyq]

Spectre Deleted Script

Spectre (2015) is the 24th 007 movie, the fourth with Daniel Craig playing James Bond. It is the movie in which all the dots come together and 007 finally realises who's to blame for all of his sufferences and troubles.

James follows a man who is apparently dead, meeting old shadows of his past (such as Mr White), to then find out he was really onto something. This is more or less the general plot.

I recently found out this movie has got a deleted script, which was actually so good to get me wondering why it got changed for the new one.

It affected Bond and Q, more than anything else. The rest was more or less the same.

We might have had the chance to see Q getting in the action, but it got a different turn and the whole idea was deleted.

It all was going to start in Austria, after Q gave Bond a lecture about his questionable behaviour. Even in the finalized version, we can see the quartermaster get into a cable car cabin, when two men, sitting there with him, keep Q from getting out.

At this point, Q starts fearing for his safety and runs to escape the men once he has the chance. He manages to get away from them and lock himself in his hotel room, waiting for 007.

Bond and Madeleine arrive and, after a short discussion and some apologizes, Q gets back to London safe and sound.

But, initially, it was going to have a really different turn.

According to the deleted script, Q was still chased by those man and made it to the hotel room, but his pursuers broke in the place before Madeleine and Bond arrived to the quartermaster.

Once 007 and Doctor Swann make it to the hotel, they find evident signs of intrusion and Q is gone, with just his laptop in self sabotage mode left.

At this point, it's likely that the plot took a different way, probably because Bond found himelf busy trying to get his quartemaster back.

But, in the end, James is captured by Blofeld and thrown into a cell where he finds Q, who presents evident signs of an interrogation.

The two are left in there with no way to get out, despite how they must escape because of Q's not so good physical situation and the place quickly getting warmer and warmer (I think it was something like a oven, I forgot the correct word in both the languages I speak).

Anyway, after Q has recovered his senses he suggests Bond to use the exploding watch to unlock the cell; which he does and successfully gets both out.

However, while they're on their way out of the building, a man attacks them and Bond is forced to fight him. 007 is clearly losing the clash but Q quickly grabs a gun and shots the man, saving James' life.

This last scene is the main reason why I'm so upset with the producers.

How could they conceive such a great plot line and then relinquish it for a torture scene, exchanging Q with Madeleine when Bond meets Blofeld in his headquarters?

I still need to comprehend it.

The rest of the movie is left unchanged, since the deleted script says nothing about the other scenes.

Still, I think that the deleted script was better than the one we've got in the end. It's mostly because I adore Q and he would have gotten more screen time, but also because that script would have lead to a character development.

We know Q as the slender techie who buries himself in tons of work and never gets out of his branch (Fanfictions seem to agree with it).

In Spectre he literally flew to another country (despite his fear of flying) and got chased by a couple of men; which, by itself, already is a big change.

If he had gotten kidnapped and forced to kill a man in order to save Bond, we could have seen how he deals with such a trauma and how much shit he can take: it would have been a complete character representation.

What I mostly like about the deleted script is how it shows Q's strength: thin bodies like his are commonly associated with weakness, but Q isn't weak; his strength shows through his profession, his behaviour and how he deals with Bond.

That deleted script could have been a last confirmation about his might.

I'm also sure that it isn't some kind of fake news because Ben Whishaw talked about a deleted script during an interview: he said they had recorded a scene in which he was holding a gun and shooting at someone. He was also clearly unhappy that they decided to cut all of that and change the plot.

I'll leave here the link for a comic about this issue about Spectre script. It's really good, but it's uncompleted, I'm afraid.

Right under it there also is the link for the script.

[wipbigbang]

2021 Round - Artists Claims (Round 2)

Round 2 of claims for artists are open! The second round will go this week and then I'll post a new round on Thursday, opening it up for thirds. Everybody spread the word! We have 70 story summaries below for you to choose from, and this round, you may choose 2 stories to do art for! Just use a different check in ID with each sign-up.

This year, art claims are working a little differently than in years past. We are using a google form to streamline things, which should make things easier both for you as participants and us mods. To claim a story, the form requires email, check in ID, and the identifying number of your first choice of story. Putting your top three choices is best in case your first or second has already been chosen. Please be sure you've read the FAQ before claiming.

Click here to claim a story!

Sherlock Holmes (ACD Canon) #59 Title: Designation: H Pairing/Characters Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/Mary Morstan (mentioned), Mycroft Holmes, young (~10 years old) Victor Trevor (mentioned), and with appearances from teenaged (14-18 years old) versions of: Dorian Gray, Reginald Jeeves, A.J. Raffles and Bunny Manders, Hercule Poirot, Jane Marple, The Phantom of the Opera, James Bond, Tom Ripley, Nero Wolfe, Father Brown, Harley Quin (Agatha Christie), Mr. Satterthwaite (Agatha Christie), Ernst Stavro Blofeld (Ian Fleming), Jason Rafiel (Agatha Christie), the killer from “And Then There Were None” (Agatha Christie), and a very loose adaptation of Gregory House (House M.D.). Rating: Mature Warnings/Tags: Graphic Violence, corporal punishment, violence to and by children, eugenics. I’m a little bit squeamish about the violence, it’s there, but I don’t linger on it too much and I ask that the art not linger on it too much either. Also, no sex please (there’s none in the fic). Summary One minute, Watson is hurrying back along the path from Reichenbach falls, afraid that Holmes has indeed met his fate against the dreaded Professor Moriarty. The next thing he knows, he awakens in the infirmary of the strange Prometheus Institute, unsure whether it was all a nightmare or terrible reality. However, he quickly finds that the real nightmare is only just beginning; both he and Holmes - mercifully alive - are imprisoned along with two dozen young men behind the bars of a circular cell block, where their every move is observed by guards tasked with maintaining discipline and overseeing their training as the next step in human evolution. During the day they are trained in combat and put through complicated exercises in manipulation and subterfuge. At night they are trained in stealth; they must evade the guards and best each other in further exercises, which pit gang against gang. Watson soon learns the dark secret behind their abduction: Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes - and Victor Trevor - were raised in the Prometheus Institute, but the brothers escaped (around age 10-12). Now, it has caught up with them, and Holmes and Watson’s only hope of getting out alive is to overcome the shadows of their pasts and work with the violent, manipulative young prisoners. Inspired by umisabaku's fanfiction, Designation: Miracle.

[v-thinks-on]

There are still fics in the @wipbigbang looking for art; here’s one that I thought might be of particular interest. The FAQ for the challenge is here, and the form to claim a fic is here. If you’re intrigued - or know anyone who might be - spread the word!

There are still 16 fics waiting to be claimed - it’s an all-fandom challenge, and there’s a lot of variety, so take a look and see what strikes your fancy: https://wipbigbang.dreamwidth.org/129782.html.

Sherlock Holmes (ACD Canon)

Fic #59

Title: Designation: H

Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/Mary Morstan (mentioned), Mycroft Holmes, young (~10 years old) Victor Trevor (mentioned)

With appearances from teenaged (14-18 years old) versions of: Dorian Gray, Reginald Jeeves, A.J. Raffles and Bunny Manders, Hercule Poirot, Jane Marple, The Phantom of the Opera, James Bond, Tom Ripley, Nero Wolfe, Father Brown, Harley Quin (Agatha Christie), Mr. Satterthwaite (Agatha Christie), Ernst Stavro Blofeld (Ian Fleming), Jason Rafiel (Agatha Christie), the killer from “And Then There Were None” (Agatha Christie), and a very loose adaptation of Gregory House (House M.D.).

(You can pick and choose which of the characters you want to do art of, you certainly don’t have to know them all - or even any of the side characters.)

Rating: Teen

Warnings/Tags: Violence to and by children, corporal punishment, eugenics.

Summary: One minute, Watson is hurrying back along the path from Reichenbach falls, afraid that Holmes has indeed met his fate against the dreaded Professor Moriarty. The next thing he knows, he awakens in the infirmary of the strange Prometheus Institute, unsure whether it was all a nightmare or terrible reality. However, he quickly finds that the real nightmare is only just beginning; both he and Holmes - mercifully alive - are imprisoned along with two dozen young men behind the bars of a circular cell block, where their every move is observed by guards tasked with maintaining discipline and overseeing their training as the next step in human evolution. During the day they are trained in combat and put through complicated exercises in manipulation and subterfuge. At night they are trained in stealth; they must evade the guards and best each other in further exercises, which pit gang against gang.

Watson soon learns the dark secret behind their abduction: Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes - and Victor Trevor - were raised in the Prometheus Institute, but the brothers escaped (around age 10-12). Now, it has caught up with them, and Holmes and Watson’s only hope of getting out alive is to overcome the shadows of their pasts and work with the violent, manipulative young prisoners.

Inspired by @umisabaku’s fanfiction, Designation: Miracle.

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 06

a\n: Commissioned art by @marianaillust​ and @addictivities​ respectively.

Also: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

VI: WHY CAN’T I FORGET YOU, AND START MY LIFE ANEW?

At twenty eight Safin had no family or friends to call upon, nor piety. Nothing left to cling to but indomitable rage, sluiced away to expose the rot beneath artifice. The matter of his survival depended entirely on his abilities. For twenty eight years, he sought the wrong answer to his existence. A fleeting moment of vengeance could never compare to a legacy. Gostan endeavored to leave himself behind in a more permeable way than obituary.

Gostan's facility in the Kuril Islands, The Poison Garden. Before it was repossessed by the FSB, his father and a man called The Cipher worked together. Gostan had the knowledge of myriad poisons while The Cipher provided funding. Assassinations became suicides. Alternatives to euthanasia. Guntram Shatterhand, a colleague of The Cipher's, took command after Gostan died. An affluent horticulturalist, he could never appreciate its beauty.

Safin’s first job for QUANTUM began with Guntram Shatterhand and The Pale King. “You’ve worked for Shatterhand before,” said the contact. “In ’96, the Austria job.” Safin disguised his ignorance with a protracted stare. “Lucky for you, The Pale King isn’t one to hold a grudge. All that matters is that you accomplish the job.”

A colleague of The Pale King, The Cipher, otherwise known as Le Chiffre, was the kind of man who bet his entire fund in a short sale. If he crippled smaller economies in the process, so be it. The Pale King had functioned as QUANTUM’s head of finance until the mid-nineties, when Le Chiffre took control and spent the next decade at his own whims. Funding wars, drug cartels, human trafficking, gambling, nothing was below Le Chiffre’s interest. The Pale King had enough of it.

MI6’s new operative, 007, was his own complication. A real wildcard, with no problem blowing up an embassy in Madagascar to apprehend Le Chiffre’s bomb-maker. His recent attack on a private airbase put Le Chiffre in the public headlines and cost his latest stock investment. Not to be outdone, Le Chiffre decided to host a last-ditch game of poker at the Casino Royale in Royale-les-Eatix in order to break-even.

Vesper Lynd, a British Treasury agent with no prior field experience. After her lover was detained out of MI6’s jurisdiction, she struck a deal with Le Chiffre for his survival. The prize money should be transferred through Le Chiffre’s account back to The Pale King.

007 waltzed into the casino and introduced himself to the socialites as James Bond, as though he were a celebrity. He did not smoke. Drank steadily. Not to excess. Played well, up until one of Le Chiffre’s associates slipped digitalis in his martini. As 007 drank, the regulars at the table had not touched their own. And when 007 excused himself, staggering away from the table, the game proceeded as if nothing had happened.

Lynd excused herself as well. When 007 walked back into the casino, perspiring but otherwise unbowed, Le Chiffre’s confidence could not recover. By the end of the night 007 walked out of the Royale a very rich man, arm-in-arm with Vesper Lynd.

At around five in the morning, Safin was given the order. Le Chiffre was holding them both north of Dieppe.

The vehicle used to transport 007 and Lynd, parked in front of the gate to the French-style summer villa. A hasty departure from the Royale left less time to tighten security. No men on post outside the villa. Aside from his silenced PB and bulletproof mask, at a distance Safin could pass for a standard concierge. Two guards playing cards under the naked bulb, summarily dispatched. The woman, bound at the wrists and ankles, did not look up. With a pistol to the back of her head she shuddered to life, hackles raising.

“Vesper Lynd?” Her trembling worsened against the gun’s barrel. “Where is the money?”

“Password,” she whispered. “It’s an account I have to transfer, there’s a password—”

“Who else knows?��

“No one.” Lynd shuddered. “Just me.”

The gun lifted. From his breast pocket he produced a small cloth. "Thank you." His gloved hand clapped over her mouth and nose. She struggled but could do little with her arms and legs tied. The chair rattled with her resistance. When she went limp, Safin pocketed the rag and moved over to the unlocked door. The stench of stale blood and sweat mingling with freshly-brewed coffee.

007, tightly secured at the ankles and wrists against an upturned chair, stripped naked. The outline of Le Chiffre, crouched with a knife. He rose on the balls of his feet but did not look at the door directly.

“Is the car ready?” Safin did not answer. 007 struggled against the dirty floor, punch-drunk. Le Chiffre nudged the side of his head with a polished shoe, eliciting an animal sound of distress. “Inform the driver I will be running late.”

Safin raised the pistol and shot Le Chiffre in the knee. Le Chiffre cried out, crumpled to the dirty floor, dropping the knife. As he scrambled for it, Safin closed the distance and stepped on his hand. Physical violence itself was often redundant during an interrogation. Psychological warfare, the anticipation of a threat, could give a better indication of a man’s psyche and frailties.

Safin kicked him in the stomach. A gurgling rasp, Le Chiffre doubled over and wheezed. “You know what I’m going to ask.”

“The money? Look—I’ll get the money. You go back up those stairs and tell—”

“Either you’re a degenerate,” said Safin coldly, “or grossly incompetent. Perhaps both. I’ve waited twenty eight years to speak with you.”

Le Chiffre swallowed dryly, his eyes flickering to the PB. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Safin’s grip tensed. “Gostan Radinovich. You sold his weapons to the highest bidder and slaughtered the rest of his family. But you weren’t careful.”

Le Chiffre’s eyes flickered. His mouth thinned. “Wasn’t anything personal. If you put that gun down, I’ll come quietly.” His hand shifted underneath him. A hidden weapon. A pager. It made little difference, with Lynd’s word.

“There’s only one thing you can do for me,” said Safin quietly.

A silenced shot. Le Chiffre’s expression froze. The rivulet of blood bloomed from his forehead. He convulsed softly where he lay, his body exhuming itself of waste, Safin lowered the gun, regaining his composure.

A low, animal groan. 007, semiconscious in the dirt. His skin crusted with blood, as was the metal cane laid beside the upturned chair. Safin averted his eyes out of respect.

That same morning, 007 and Lynd were relocated to a private clinic to receive medical attention. The Pale King’s money was transferred into the account a few months later.

⁂

During the late-aughts, Safin was offered a long-term contract as a fixer by Marco Sciarra, one of SPECTRE’s assassins. Concerned for his wife’s security as well as his own, Sciarra was looking for someone reliable and discerning. Just a button man, as Sciarra put it. His colleagues would gather, talking about anything that came to mind over alcohol and perhaps. The occasional trouble with spouses. If there was a mistress who’d overdosed in the guest bathroom, or a subordinate who couldn’t keep his hands away from someone’s daughter, Safin would take care of it. In this way, Safin gained a deeper understanding into their company woes.

Le Chiffre’s death was weatherable—outside of his monetary value, he had always been weak-willed and perverse. The loss of Dominic Greene, along with the Pale King’s kidnapping, put several more QUANTUM members in the public eye. They already had informants within the CIA, INTERPOL, and to a lesser degree MI6. After the deal in Bolivia fell through, The Pale King began liquidizing QUANTUM’s assets. While this was a significant loss, it presented an opportunity for redemption. Establishing connections with more disciplined operatives, and requesting favours—by 2012, he had amassed enough power and funds to create a private intelligence agency in QUANTUM’s shadow. The Pale King would never reach the level of success he had once had, his loyalty to the company was paramount.

SPECTRE had to diversify its portfolio. Collaborating frequently with smaller, unscrupulous groups looking for a cut of their earnings. Exceptions had to be made for their cohorts, undeserving of a seat around the table at the Palazzo Cadenza. A wordless divide formed between the old blood and new. The head of SPECTRE became increasingly utilitarian and ruthless. Like Le Chiffre before him, he was never “too good” for any business. SPECTRE’s pursuits branched out into counterfeit pharmaceuticals and human trafficking and terrorism.

Their latest operative, a Brazilian with bleached hair, was making the rounds, introducing himself. Safin happened to make eye contact, the Brazilian sauntered over and said, "Lucifer, isn’t it?"

Safin noted the concave in his jaw, slight droop of his eyelid. "Tiago Rodriguez."

The Brazilian huffed. "I haven’t been called Tiago since my resignation from MI6." He took up a spot on the wall next to Safin, as if they were having a casual conversation. "I confess, I assumed you would be older." They sized each other up. “Sciarra is a good friend of mine. He spoke highly of you.” Silva’s eyes scanned his face. The scars imbued. “You dealt with Le Chiffre and 007. Yet you’re still only a fixer.”

“It’s my assignment.”

Silva’s mouth curled. “You learn a lot about a man, in his final moments. It’s very intimate. I’m curious. What was Le Chiffre like?”

“How much does SPECTRE pay for your dental?”

The room went quiet.

Silva, unmoved, looked him in the eyes. Something cold and precise. The same part of him that woke up every morning, in Hong Kong.

His melodic laugh cut through the tension. “That’s very good!” Safin hesitated. This wasn’t really working out the way he’d intended. "It’s strange, Lucy," Silva was saying, glued to his spot along the wall, "you’re the only one here I seem to have any commonality with. Both of us, intelligence officers. Abandoned by superiors in the line of service. Out for revenge in our own ways.”

No one in his life had ever called him Lucy. If they had, it would’ve lasted all of two seconds before they were summarily dealt with. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy of Silva. “How long have you spent rehearsing this?”

"I’ve always had a knack for improvisation."

Best to humour his ego a little. “What is your business with SPECTRE?”

"Cybersecurity. It’s far from my only endeavor. Just between us—I’ve been fortunate enough to establish a contact in Hong Kong. By the next quarter I should have my own investment." Safin said nothing. "I’d even be willing to give you a discount."

"I’m not interested."

Silva huffed. "Oh, come now. No one is that antiquated."

"It’s bad for business, to shit where you eat. Look what happened to Greene."

Silva hummed, as if this was a point worth meditation. "You’ll learn to compromise, if you ever come to work for SPECTRE. Don’t let your intelligence get in the way of an opportunity." He clapped him on the shoulder.

That same year Silva’s quest for vengeance ended with MI6’s head of SIS, Olivia Mansfield. 007’s interference cost them intel on a dozen NATO agents, and their hitman Patrice; Safin assumed his seat. The surviving members of SPECTRE assembled at the Palazzo Cadenza.

Their leader, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, surveyed them with a look of polite but unmistakable disapproval. Time and time again, Blofeld pulled the organisation away from certain collapse. Despite the string of incidents over the last six years, there was no lasting ill-will felt towards him from any member at the table. They were bound together by something deeper than the need for money or power.

"It is a shame," he said, "that we have lost two of our operatives. I will commend Patrice for his efforts, with NATO. And Silva for his tenacity. Yet, he also drew SPECTRE’s name into the light. We have made this mistake before, with Mr. Greene. There will be no repetitions, going forward." His voice was light and flat. He had an enigmatic smile and childlike gleam about his eyes whenever discussing a topic of interest, or destroying his enemies—there was little difference. Silence around the table in anticipation of his decree. Blofeld smiled. "At the same time, it would be foolish not take advantage of this opportunity. MI6’s standing has been brought into question. We are already in the process of infiltrating their numbers. Now we will see to it that they devour each other.”

⁂

By 2014, the hot topic of contention among SPECTRE operatives was the new head of SIS. "Mallory is a thorn in our side," said Max Denbigh, the latest import from MI5. "But not impermeable. He’s just cleared out a derelict lab down in London for construction. We believe he plans to manufacture a biological weapon, similar to the one used during the false flag operation in West Africa."

A former SAS Lieutenant Colonel, the only stain on Mallory’s immaculate record was Project Heracles. Peace did not exist without the threat of consequence. The cruelest man could not return to a family of distended corpses. In theory, Heracles was more efficient than a traditional assassination or malfunctioning automobile. Somewhere down the line, every man became expendable. Most did not appreciate this truth while they were alive.

Denbigh was on pace to become Director-General of the Joint Security Service—a proposed merge of MI5 and MI6 into one branch for the sake of transparency, which should go into effect next year. During this period, a series of global terrorist incidents would generate favour towards the proposed global surveillance initiative, “Nine Eyes”. SPECTRE would be given immediate, unrestricted access through the Centre for National Security. Contact had been quietly established from a private intelligence compound in the Saharan desert.

"SPECTRE’s machinations were achieved with careful planning," Dr Vogel said. "If we allow Heracles to fall into the wrong hands, the weapon will point back to the scientists.”

"We can simply dispose of them as necessary."

"The nanobots require DNA samples," Blofeld said. "By what means would these be acquired?"

"You’re familiar with Smart Blood? That’s a tracking device we inject into the arm of every operative in the Joint Security Service. With Heracles, an injection won’t even be necessary. All it takes is a little DNA and skin contact."

“But it will be impossible to control,” said Abrika. “What is to stop a group with ill-intent from targeting our families?”

Denbigh shook his head. "It’s only an idea. It will be fine-tuned during development. Progress will be much smoother once the Nine Eyes programme is complete."

"What worked in Africa," said Safin coolly, "will not suffice for the rest of the world."

Denbigh glared across the table at Abrika. “We could be accomplishing far more than we have been, relying on ground missions.” His eyes fell on Safin as he said this. “With no disrespect to our operatives, perhaps it’s time we reevaluated our approach.”

“Doctor Vogel,” said Blofeld, “has already delivered on her shipments. It is Mr. White who came up short. A quarter of a million.” Blofeld’s hands on the table remained still, like a taxidermized model. "Since last year, we’re just not pulling in numbers like we used to." A casual glance in White’s direction provoked no response. "I don’t wish to diminish your contributions, Mr. White. You’ve been a loyal friend from the beginning. No doubt, this is just another rough quarter we have to endure. But given our current diplomatic standing in Africa,” Blofeld said, “I believe Sciarra and Guerra should be capable of handling Safin’s responsibilities for the time being. Field missions are well and good, but if you spend all of your life on the ground it’s easy to neglect the bigger picture." The smile on Blofeld’s face never touched the eyes; it was just another mechanical action. "If there are no objections," said Blofeld, "then we’ll conclude the meeting here."

Safin turned his head to the head of the table. His voice was taut. "With respect to your decision, I think 007 is more of a threat to our operation than—"

"—I fail to see how this is your concern," Blofeld said with a wave of his hand. "Denbigh is keeping tabs on him."

"James Bond has lost us more funding and connections in five years than in the syndicate’s history. If our goal is to weaken the new SIS, as you suggested last year, then we should target their rogue agent."

"I assure you," said Blofeld curtly, "it is within our interest to be patient. It is imperative that we do not fall prey to obsessive suspicion.”

Safin held his tongue.

⁂

Twelve hundred miles away, Madeleine opened the door to her apartment. She kicked off her shoes and set them aside in the closet. She stumbled into her laundered clothes in the basket, from the day before. She cursed and sat down on the side of the freshly-made bed. After three months, she was falling into her new life. The apartment in Lakkegata, a twin room on the topmost floor. Split between kitchen and bedroom, with separate a bathroom. Glass doors on the furthest wall led to a red-brick patio. Amenities included in the bill. No locks on the bedroom doors. Bi-weekly cleaning.

Most affluent twenty-somethings wouldn’t have the presence of mind to think like a criminal. They were caught up in more pressing dilemmas, like aging parents and taxes and strained friendships. Substance abuse. Lack of self-fulfillment. In a clean, well-lit apartment complex, you didn’t need a portable safe stored between the coats and the shoes. Why ever think about installing a hidden camera in the potted plant, unless you were prone to paranoia?

In the safe; prepaid phone, false identification. Voice protector. Beretta, untouched since Zürich. Spare ammo. Cleaning kit. License to carry.

In the space behind the wall, behind the outlets you could make a crawlspace. Store money, jewels. Anything small or easy to misplace from drawers.

As a child, her father’s colleagues were faceless men in double-breasted suits. After her mother died, he figured he could stop dragging Madeleine along to business parties. Feigning interest in her schooling. Her hobbies. Choice of friends. Her mother would have a lot to say about her taste in men.

Last week, her receptionist pulled her aside during lunch and explained she really couldn’t keep fielding her calls. It wasn’t her father. Just a recruiter from the MSF, who knew her from a friend of a friend. "I’m in the middle of putting together a charity gala. You know the conference hall at the Raddison Blu hotel? I was wondering if you would be interested in attending, since you’ve been so loyal to our foundation." To make the MSF look good. Another injection into the public eye. Madeleine called back and said she would love to.

Living alone, there were no prerequisites for her behavior. A copy of Les Fleurs du Mal placed strategically on the end-table. If it was moved, the cleaner had been here. The television was only useful if she was in the mood to listen to music. White noise. Reading aloud to herself in the empty room, or working. On a clearer day she’d sit on the patio and look across at the buildings opposite. The gentler breeze on her face, sunlight. Ambient traffic below. Perhaps she’d rise from her seat just in time for the silenced shot to pierce her breast. Falling back into the chair, blood staining the red brick. Perhaps it would be more subtle. The patio door sliding open. A hand on her back sending her headfirst over the metal railing. It could be the maid.

Another empty casket and eulogy. A small handful of colleagues she hadn’t talked to in years would materialize, offer their condolences. Then everyone would go home. Her father's final mistake, rectified.

Without the emotional baggage, her gun was a necessary evil. Without practise, it was simply taking up space. So she had taken to frequenting the nearest gun club, twice a week.

She'd reached a point of stability, not comfort. Taking point. Raising the gun. Eyes on the target. Her hands trembled a little. Each shot, a new perforation in the target. Stench of gunpowder. Acrid taste of human rot in the back of her throat. Rush of saliva flooding her mouth. Standing in the snow, clutching the gun in her freezing hands. In the gallery. What guiltless monster said, I did it, and it was nothing personal. You won’t go the way of your mother? What drove a killer towards empathy, if not a different kind of madness?

The one constant in her life was Hinx, her new CPO. He went with her to the range. He had a wrestler’s build, dark eyes. His forearms were thicker than her neck, and he hardly said more than a few sentences to her. His silence was a comfort where Safin’s offered ambiguity.

The other constant, she'd encountered during her first foray to the Raddison Blu hotel. It was her father's idea to visit for her birthday. A quiet, awkward dinner, engaged in a one-sided conversation. All she had to do was nod along, but she brought up her mother. In Zürich, she left behind her old shame. Cowardice masked as civility. She said, without using names, that she'd figured it out herself. She made some excuse to get away.

Conrad was a little older than her but not by much. Clean-cut. Sandy hair. He didn’t give his last name, but he bought her a drink at the bar two floors down. The staff in the restaurant were rather aloof, they both agreed. And there was no harm in a drink. She told him about her clinical psychiatry and he told her about his work in business. It really didn’t matter much. Plenty of men saw the veneer of a well-dressed, attractive woman out drinking by herself and looked no further than the enigma in her eyes. Vulnerability molded into dependence.

But surely, said Madeleine, he didn’t invite her to drink with out of the goodness of his heart.

He got a kick out of that, for some reason. She was awfully cynical.

But you haven’t denied it, she said, offering a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

Of course, she didn’t sit down out of the goodness of her heart either. There was no such thing as a free lunch. She took another sip. Her head buzzing.

It took very little effort to convince him into going back into his apartment. A meaningless affair to staunch the void inside her heart. It never solved anything but it was something to do to escape the alternative of being left alone with her own reflection. Better, to be percieved as enigmatic and untouchable and desirable. She was picturing his face in the newscast. Another dead body. Someone’s son, perhaps. The only stakes were another dead body. No exploded cars. No broken bodies decorating the pavement. Polite good-byes, no excitement there. 

She had very little time or interest in ingratiating herself with another person. Desire was flattering, but pointless in the long-term, once the spark subsided and there was nothing left to barter. As she got older, the ache in her chest became easier to weather.

Conrad was someone to hold in the dark. Their trajectories were so far removed there was no sense in comparing them.

She woke up early. The sun had yet to surface. There was hardly any sunlight in Norway, this time of year. That morning in Zürich felt years apart, yet inescapable. The overwhelming promise of dread at her door. That sense of peace, clarity, in its wake.

Two hours from now, she had to be in the office. 

Conrad was awake.

He said that he’d like to get to know her better. He’d enjoyed talking to her.

Considering his offer. A means of staving off that emptiness, just for a while. Of rebuilding what was once lost. Smothering all of her unreasonable fears with a veneer of safety. Conrad didn’t have to learn every secret. Nor did she have to understand all of his.

She’d gotten off on normalcy in France, and to a larger degree in her father’s care. There wasn’t anyone in her new life to miss her.

At the apartment, the only signs of activity were her misplaced sheets. The running washer-and-dryer combo. The dishwasher to be emptied. Groceries in the fridge. No alcohol. Maybe go out and have a drink, what could that hurt? It forced improvisation, socialization. Blending in with the people on the street. Waiting for the car to explode. Each night, the weight on the bed was only hers. She showered, redressed and took a couple painkillers. No one was offering her tea.

⁂

The private clinic ran several different operations, including a diversion program. Their focus was on rehabilitative incarceration. Madeleine’s pool of patients came from a selective list. Kęstutis, the senior corrective counsellor, called her a rubber stamp. A short man with heavy-rimmed glasses and thinning brown hair, he was usually fair when it came to the bureaucratic side of her job.

Her office was a bit more spacious. Cream walls, dark wood furniture. Everything was too clean and smelled a little like disinfectant. About as reassuring as a trip to the dentist. No amount of tireless work was going to erase her status as Mr. White’s daughter. Every morning, she placed the gun on the front desk, the staff avoided eye contact. Secure in her office, buried in papers.

The clientele possessed a debonair that would suggest opulence. Always looking to talk their way out of their situation. Offering bribes. Some would attempt charm. They’d take notice of how well she was dressed. Her perfume. Making small talk that only wasted their allotted time with her. She took down their reactions with a detached interest. Yes, of course you’re feeling disrespected. It’s natural. You were in the right, you had to defend yourself.

Guerra, her latest client, in his late thirties. He dressed in a two-piece suit. Madeleine watched him through the window, speaking to the receptionist. Leaning on the counter a little too long. Guerra was here on drug charges. When the door opened he took a seat, body language placid. "You’re new," he said. "How long have you been working here?"

"A few months."

Guerra’s eyes shifted past her, toward the window. "Your receptionist is a little uptight. You’re not going to be like that, are you?"

Madeleine’s attention flickered to follow. The receptionist’s interest in her paperwork a little too protracted. During each session, Hinx was never out of sight. Through the slats of the blinds, on the other side of the door.

“I mean, I don’t know whose dick she had to suck to get this job. It’s a disgrace.” He shrugged. “You’re White’s daughter? Guess you’d know a thing or two about it.”

That didn’t take very long. Madeleine looked him in the eyes. “You will conduct yourself appropriately, while you’re in this office.” Guerra stared back, indifferent on the surface. “Do you not want to be cleared of these charges?”

The flash of insult in his eyes. Shoulders tense. “I was referring to nepotism.”

“You understand,” said Madeleine, “this process requires your cooperation. When I write this report, it doesn’t only reflect on my judgement, but your competence.” Her hand slipped under the desk, on a small button under the lip. She kept her voice stable. “My verdict is the only thing keeping you out of prison. You really think it’s prudent to disrespect me?”

Guerra was unpleasant, but his weakness made it easy enough to corral him into submission. Just another spawn of a successful businessman who’d never faced the consequences for his behavior. He’d brood or make idle threats and take it out on someone else who didn’t have a CPO like Hinx to look after them. Another bloated corpse on the cover of that day’s tabloid, hauled from the belly of the Akerselva river.

The only difference between her and the trust-funds cycling through her office was her clean record.

 ⁂

Next morning, Madeleine came into work. Guerra had canceled their meeting without so much as an explanation. A stocky woman with greying hair and sharp eyes sitting in the reception area, introduced herself as Klebb.

Madeleine bade her into the office. "You’ll have to excuse me. My last client cancelled this morning. I wasn’t expecting anyone else."

The woman did not sit. Under her arm, a manilla folder. Closing the door behind her, she drew the blinds. "You’ve been reassigned."

"I wasn’t notified. You will have to speak to my—"

“I am not here to be coached, Doctor." The woman set the folder down on the desk. "When did you last speak to Lyutsifer Safin?"

Madeleine hesitated. The woman’s eyes scanned her face. "Three—months ago."

"In the seventeen years I have known him, he has never spoken as openly to an outsider as he did to you."

Madeleine hesitated. She hadn’t told anyone a word about Zürich.

"We have eyes everywhere," said Klebb, with the barest hint of a smile. "The recording from the safehouse provides fragments. Not the whole picture. Safin is the son of an intelligence officer who dealt with many poisons. Before he was discharged from service, he was quite formidable."

"He was discharged? For what reason, if I may ask?"

Klebb smiled. It was not a pleasant or natural look on her face. More like something practised. The cruelty shone through. "A canister of herbicide ruptured and exploded at close-quarters. Most of the documents were destroyed to erase his identity." At last, she took a seat opposite Madeleine's desk. “While he was old enough to be attending school in the orphanage, there were many physical fights with other children.”

"Did he initiate these fights?” Klebb stared at her. "Perhaps he felt as if he had no one to protect him from harm."

"It is possible," said Klebb. "He was given many psychological evaluations, but was able to clear all of them. Nevertheless he kept getting in trouble. When he was nine years old, he was set to be counselled on the threat of expulsion. A month after this, the psychologist assigned to him was found dead in his office. It was suspected at the time to be Safin’s doing but unable to be proven. The case was overlooked.”

"Did he get in any more fights after this incident?"

Klebb paused. "If so, they were struck from the record. He was only an orphan."

“I don’t follow your logic.”

“He has no tolerance for what he perceives as a lack of professionalism." Klebb said with a slight scoff. "He has always been this way, even as a boy. Forward-minded. The whims of a progressive activist serve no purpose in his line of work.” Klebb paused. “That is our issue, Doctor. If he is willing to be so open with you, what else is he willing to give up?”

Madeleine was staring at the binder full of Guerra's documents. “If you cannot provide anything more substantial than allegations, I'm afraid I cannot help you.”

Klebb’s eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting I am mistaken?"

“You are asking me to profile a man I knew for all of one week. You asked for my opinion. I don’t see the correlation you’re making.” Klebb’s scowl deepened. Madeleine said, "I’d like to prepare for my next client."

Klebb left without a word.

Kęstutis came down for a visit. “Ms. Klebb was here to see you.”

“I cannot help her.”

Kęstutis paused. "Is it safe to say, that you would be able to profile Safin accurately if he were in-person?"

Madeleine stared at the stack of papers regarding Guerra’s case. “I imagine so.”

"And you are due to attend the charity event in March?"

"That’s correct."

"Very good," said Kęstutis, smiling the same way Klebb had. "I believe we can negotiate."

⁂

After Silva’s termination, Blofeld enforced a new policy. Every operative and guard at the Palazzo Cadenza must undergo mandatory visits to a specialized clinic, selected by Blofeld. The operative’s families and associates must be vetted, in the interest of preventing another crisis.

As long as he said whatever the therapist was looking to hear, he’d get out in a matter of hours.

The clerk at the front desk—a lithe man in his mid-twenties—was speaking to the client, in this case an elderly woman with dyed hair and too much makeup. "I haven’t seen you before."

"Yes, I’m new to Oslo." He readjusted his glasses. "I take it you’re here for an appointment?"

Ms. Bartlett confirmed this. "Are you English?"

"Originally," said the clerk. "I’m sorry, I’m rather busy."

The plate on his desk read Winston.

Safin gave his name—Zahov—and appointment—issues relating to peripheral neuropathy.

"Dr Swann is running behind schedule," the clerk said. "She’ll be with you in a few minutes."

Dr Swann.

Safin nodded curtly. The waiting room, sterile, uninteresting. Guerra, who had been coming here for weeks, was sitting opposite the window into the office. The blinds were drawn. Hinx stood by the door.

He caught Safin’s eye and nodded. Just a pair of white-collar businessmen. “Cancelled. Now I’m stuck sitting on my ass waiting for a new therapist.” He scoffed. "No hard feelings about the assignment, eh?"

Safin said nothing. His mind was consumed by the scope of his approach. The usual story wouldn’t work as easily with a familiar party. Swann’s veritable grudge against him and his family. Whatever she had been told might not be true.

Guerra made some blasé remark about urine sample and/or collection. Company perks. Perhaps if he didn’t fuck, Safin said, he would not be in this situation.

The corner of Hinx’s mouth turned up.

Guerra’s scoff was mirthless. “Now you can talk.”

“I have no choice but to listen.”

“Mr. Zahov?”

Safin stood up, tense. Walked into the office. Dr Swann glanced up over her desk. Indifferent to him. "Have a seat and we’ll begin."

No sign of familiarity. Dr Swann levelled with him. He did not break eye contact or hesitate to answer anything. Walking through general questions. "What is your relationship to your parents?"

"My father was an officer. I have two brothers and a sister. We are not close."

"You grew up in Russia?"

"Moscow."

"And you attended military school from 1993 to ‘96."

"Transferred."

Dr Swann paused. "There is a discrepancy, between what you have told me and what I have here." Safin glanced up sharply. "Psychological evaluation in ‘92, followed by hospitalization. Three weeks. Then, military school."

Safin told her a story of a kid who coerced him to steal eggs from the industrial refrigerator. It fell onto him and killed him. He’d only heard about it secondhand, from the older kids. But Dr Swann listened attentively. "These kinds of situations aren’t always so cut and dry. There are a lot of factors, in your life and I’m willing to guess, in this boy’s situation as well."

His tone lowered. "Your life is different from mine."

"In what way?"

He looked at her outfit. The well-tailored suit and dress. Shoes to match. "You understand the theory. You see patients on the other side of a desk. You go home. You do not live as they do."

"It’s common for children who have gone through to place the blame on themselves."

Safin scowled at her. "It’s fear of harm that keeps men in line." He glanced at the bowl of pink candies. "Upset a power structure, you create a vacuum. Many smaller operations fighting for control. There are no scruples. They impose their will upon the same people who were promised civility under the original hierarchy. Someone must keep the peace."

“Is that how you view yourself? As a lesser evil?”

"Where they cannot act, I have no qualms." He sat back in the chair. "My options are… limited, with respect to my condition."

"Does it concern you, that you might die with your work unfinished?"

He frowned slightly. "I will die at the whims of my failing body." At the hands of an enemy operative; whichever comes first. "I’ve made peace with it."

"And what if you were to become so sick, you couldn’t continue?"

He looked her directly in the eyes. "That’s inevitable for every one of us, Dr Swann." A small smile she did not return. He let the silence hold, studying her past the point of normalcy. She did not break it, nor acknowledge his attention.

The meeting concluded. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, I think so.” She paused. “You’re only scheduled here for one meeting.”

“You seem preoccupied,” he said.

“I’ve had a busy morning.”

He stood as though to leave.

Noting the weariness in her posture, spine a little too stiff. Beneath the immutable shell, what else was there?

“Are you all right, Madeleine?”

She stiffened. The erosion of that formal barrier into a tacit acknowledgement. Better to give one’s enemy an out than close every door. “I’m fine, thank you.” She met his gaze. The color of her irises, closer to grey than blue. This would not be the last time they spoke.

Clearance took anywhere from a couple weeks to a month, irrespective of orders. Blofeld preferred to keep each operative in the dark, working as usual. This way the verdict was a surprise.

Without new orders from Blofeld, he had to lie low. This was not strictly unusual. Mr. White told him to keep an eye on his daughter, and this did not necessitate making his presence known to the outside world.

Hinx confirmed a few key points: Madeleine did see her father in November, according to the staff at the restaurant in Raddison Blu. She frequented the gun range twice a week. She would go out with a handful of colleagues from the clinic, but never took anyone home.

The bug in her apartment, planted by the housekeeping, depicted another side to Dr Swann. Still going through the motions. Alone, with a glass of white wine. She drank more often when she was alone, but never to excess. The door would close after the sound of the pneumatic hiss. Anything to fill the empty space.

Her instinctual fight-or-flight response rewritten into a constant, soothing panic.

Conrad was Dr Swann’s longest-running foray. He’d talked her into Kavakava to learn Argentine tango. Despite the pretense of familiarity, Madeleine was never seen with him, or spoke of him outside of work. Safin would be able to get what he was after without any complications. He waited for Conrad to arrive home from work. "Waiting for someone?"

Conrad side-eyed him over his glasses. "Yeah. My girlfriend." Fumbling with a cigarette. Older than he looked, at a glance. "She’s not usually this late."

"How long have you been engaged?"

"A couple weeks." Conrad frowned slightly. "We’re not—sorry, I’ve got to take this."

“Put the phone down. She’s still at the clinic.” Conrad’s hand went still. “You’re just something to occupy her time.”

“What the hell?”

"You’re a sensible man," said Safin, "and I have no qualms with you." Eye-to-eye. “I’m letting you off easily. You are not to contact her again.”

Standing against the wall further back, in a white dress shirt and black dress which hugged her ass but didn’t cling. She looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else, but the trouble wasn’t worth the effort of moving her feet.

Madeleine didn’t strike him as the type to become overtly attached. They understood each other well, in that sense.

They locked eyes across the room. Recognition flashed over her face like a shadow. She inclined her head.

Leading him through the outer ring of dancers. Away from the centre. His only frame of reference was ballroom dancing at Kazan military school. This wasn’t the same. To be led, and follow, in lockstep with the other dancers. No words exchanged.

Under different circumstances, they might have met. A harmless, miserable existence, ignorant of the intimate relationship with one's mortality. He had surrendered his purpose to a singular goal. He felt that same urgency which she so desperately chased after. That tireless imperative for security. To blend into the shape of normalcy, among this crowd. Understood, if only for a few minutes.

⁂

The people working at the clinic, said Madeleine, were especially callous. She never appreciated what she had before, too busy pushing others away. The stamp of nepotism she couldn’t quite shake, no matter how many hours she put in.

Madeleine scoffed. “You insert yourself into my evening and don’t have the decency to explain yourself?”

"I see."

"You don’t seem surprised."

“You’re becoming a better actor than you were in France.” The look in her eyes did nothing to deter him from studying her. 

“How long have you been following me?” There was a lower pitch to her voice. A frenzy beneath the anger. Safin said nothing. “Perhaps I misled you. But you need to let this go.”

Safin looked at her clearly. “This?”

“It is not conducive to my interests, to be seen with someone from work.”

"I’ll walk with you," he said. She looked up. "It was not my intention to disturb you."

At the slightly dilapidated front desk of the hotel, she checked in under an alias. Long corridors in a faux Soviet-style. “There’s a piano bar, here. I haven’t gone there myself. You’d like it.” Up the lift. Following down the hall. Unable to outpace her loneliness. He couldn’t take his attention off her. The artificial smell of her perfume, permeative on his clothes, burned into his senses if he inhaled too deeply. Eating away at his restraint. She stopped at her room, unlocked the door.

“Well, this is it.” Her shoulder pushed the door a little wider. “It’s rather cold,” she said. “I needn’t have asked you to accompany me all this way.”

For each life she cast aside to spare her own, she only injured herself. So he would have a little coffee, for her sake.

This occupation and lifestyle left no time for conventional relationships. A psychological evaluation did not stop him from considering her in ways best left tacit. It was her profession to get into the heads of clients unsure of themselves.

Madeleine’s room was a suite with separate bedrooms. L’Occitane products in the bathroom. With a little scowl, she mentioned how the establishment down the street was rented to a loud party. “It’s usually like this, the later it gets.” She glanced at the window. Expression shifting. “But I don’t mind the noise as much as I used to.” Even with the windows closed, the beat of the synth permeated through the room. The strobe flickered, as did her resolve. “I don’t—usually do this.”

“With one of your clients?”

Madeleine hummed. “There’s a first for everything, isn’t there?” Plush carpet muffled the sound of her approaching footsteps. His window of opportunity or entrapment, shrinking around him. This close, all she had to do was wrap her arms around his neck. A hidden lens in the lamp within a twenty-foot radius. Her eyes, closer to grey than blue, fixed on him. Caught in an epiphany. “Oh, come on,” she muttered, “that was a joke. I would never do something so indecent.”

What had been covert on the dancefloor, in her office, was no longer so. He allowed her to close the distance.

The truth about women, Silva once told him, is that you can do anything to them, except bore them.

A greater purpose and justification leaving no room for error. That was his only peace. Tracking down his father, obtaining the history of his family’s company, there was no end in sight. This woman offered him the simple pleasure of her company.

Drawing her against his chest. Pressing her to the doorframe. Running his hands over her shoulders, arms, small of her back. His mouth found the pulse beneath her jaw.

Unbuttoning her blouse. Her ribs expanding, deflating. Her attention on him unflinching. The crane of her neck an invitation. He laid his fingers along the jumping pulse.

Tugging her underwear aside, pushing into her. She shuddered, draped her arms around his neck. Forehead to the side of his.

Softer, smaller hands over his clothed stomach. Unfastening his belt. Sliding into his pants to wrap around him. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed down to the bone. The flicker in her eyes, adjacent to fear, carried no hopelessness. A recognition, acknowledgement: I’m a monster, just like you.

Mr. White had always been impartial. She’d been taking the same birth control for years. There was no compunction.

Pointing him into her flesh. The riot of illumination limned the room, over her skin. The glint of her sclera, pupils dilated.

He cradled her face in his palm, never closing his eyes. A flush stained her cheeks, down her throat, below. Her nipples scraped against his clothed chest. Her expression recalling that quiet moment in Zürich, cradling the gun.

In his arms, far more intimate. Her soft, panicked breaths against his cheek. She could order him to kill, and he’d only ask for a name.

Leaning against each other, her mouth just under his ear, she said, “You knew I was being followed.” Safin went still. “You took care of it.” He nodded. So slightly it could be dismissed as turning his face into hers. “Thank you,” she breathed.

⁂

A few hours previously, Conrad walked up the street into a nearby cafe. He passed by the row of booths to his left and had a seat in the furthest corner. The man seated across barely looked up from his laptop. “Were you followed?”

“No.” Conrad handed over a glasses case. “Tell your friend to leave me the hell alone.”

Q's typing slowed. He looked up.

“This guy cornered me,” Conrad muttered. “Outside my apartment. Says I’m not to be speaking to her anymore.” He shook his head. “Thought he was one of yours.”

“Well,” said Q in a practiced tone of indifference, “perhaps you should reconsider your approach.”

“She wasn’t that interested in me to begin with,” Conrad said. “Hell if I know what her taste in men is.”

She’s bored, Conrad. You have to be a little more exciting.

Conrad scoffed, made a half-gesture towards his ear. “He’s got a fucking line for everything.”

Q nodded vaguely. His keystrokes paused. “That’s all I need for now.”

Conrad left toward the bathrooms.

Q left to a rented room two blocks from the cafe. In his room, he took his laptop and removed the glasses from the case and plugged it in, silently reviewing the footage. His earpiece crackled:

Safin, wasn’t it?

“Most of the patients in that psychiatric clinic have had ties with QUANTUM in some form or another,” said Q. “He’s an exception.”

Why’s he interested in her?

“Dr Swann’s father is the Pale King.” A beat of silence. “You remember Le Chiffre?”

A derisive exhale. All too clearly.

“Well, seems he and White and Dominic Greene met in the same division of the French Foreign Legion. There’s another man, Shatterhand. I couldn’t find anything definite on him in the archives.”

She’s our link into their new headquarters.

“Perhaps. Still doesn’t explain Safin’s game.”

It's probably just an affair. Let me handle it. Q exhaled. Smoothing this over to M wasn't his idea of time well-spent. Additional stress went to his aching jaw. Come on, I’d get the information within a fraction of the time.

“You’ve got other uses outside of filling paperwork.”

Let me guess, he brought up parliament again, didn’t he?

“Acatama, actually.”

Scoff from the earpiece. That was eight years ago. Look, Conrad obviously can’t sort out his—

“Double-oh seven,” Q said, “I don’t exactly disagree here, but it’s beside the point.”

What’s the worst I’ve done?

Q paused. “In the field?”

I doubt Dr Swann’s only living here for routine psychological evaluations.

“I suppose not,” said Q dryly. “I’m of no use in that regard.”

I’ll ask around. She still works at the clinic?

Q stiffened. “Double-oh seven—”

Now, Q. I’ll be a good boy. I won’t blow up any buildings.

The call ended.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” Q muttered to no one.

Safin's alias, Zahov, is taken from Avakoum Zahov versus 07, an unofficial(?) Bond novel by Andrei Gulyashki. You can read about its creation in this article.

The line about women and boring them comes from the 2013 film The Counselor, coincidentally spoken by a character played by Javier Bardem.

Still trying to get a hold on 007 & Winston | Q’s characterization. I’ve always liked the idea that 007's one-liners amuse him more than anyone else, but he’s charismatic enough to get away with it. Next chapter will be his "on-screen" debut.

[mlmxreader]

Escape | Blofeld x gn!reader

summary: you get caught whilst helping Blofeld escape, but there's one place that you can go when you manage to get away

tws: swearing, smoking, violence and injury

You watched it all happen, leaning against your trusty motorbike that Blofeld that told you time and time again that he wished you would get rid of in order to get one of the newer models - he said they were faster, they could weave through traffic easier, but you liked your one best with its scratched up body, the scarring on the dark green paint a thousand a little stories you would never be able to speak of; you waited for your time to strike, only daring to get on the bike once they started to move him to Belmarsh. It was easy to catch up, even easier to make sure Blofeld could escape; but you were knocked off of your bike, and after you had crashed into a ditch, you felt cold metal around your wrists.

It wasn't long before you were hauled into a car and passed onto Britain's finest secret agent, making you grumble as you raised a hand to wipe your brow of blood and sweat, the chains rattling.

"I've had to move my flight to Jamaica for this," Bond said, keeping his eyes on the road.

"And why should I care?" You scoffed, patting your pockets and groaning loudly. "Where are my fucking cigarettes?"

He took one hand off the wheel and grabbed the packet, and chucked it on your lap. "Why did you break him out?"

"Because unlike you, he's got people who give a shit about him," you spat. "Unlike you, he's got somebody who cares."

Bond looked at you from the corner of his eye, and shook his head; he let you light up a cigarette and roll the window down. "You realise Blofeld doesn't care if you live or die."

"He does," you said, the words rolling from your mouth as if you knew more than he did. "There's a lot of things you don't know, Mister Bond... and if I'm honest, if this little drive is a way for you to intimidate and scare me into giving you information, I've only got one thing to say."

"And what's that?"

"Suck my dick," you growled, the chains rattling each time you moved.

You finished your cigarette, waiting for the perfect time to strike; when he was caught behind a bunch of idiots on electric scooters, you knew the moment had come. You moved quickly, grabbing the back of his head and slamming his face down against the steering wheel; his training was good, you had to give him that. The way he tried to grab you and to how he succeeded in getting a few jabs to your ribs was certainly impressive; but you got the upper hand quite easily, using the car to your advantage as you pushed him against the door and grabbed his arm. You yanked the bone down until you heard a loud break, and you chuckled. He didn't give up, trying to use his free arm to try and hit you and to get you to back down; but you were taught to fight dirty, and you bit down on his arm when he tried to open your side's door.

You didn't give up, not until you managed to snap his thigh bone as well. Not until Britain's finest was unconscious and bleeding in that damn car; you took the keys from his pocket and unlocked your chains, shrugging them off with a chuckle.

"I guess your flight to Jamaica will have to wait, Mister Bond."

With ease, you made your escape. You wouldn't be caught again, you knew that much.

You managed to steal a motorbike from some poor soul who was just trying to park on the pavement, but you knew where you had to go; deep, deep within the woods there was a cabin. You knew the way there well enough, just as you knew how long it would take to get there, you knew how much time you had and how best to use it; it wasn't far, but you had to abandon the bike in the woods, the scrubs and the mud too thick to get any vehicle through. You fumbled for the key you kept in your boots, and when you dug it out, you breathed a sigh of relief so heavy you thought you were going to faint.

The door was unlocked, though, and as you pushed it open, you cleared your throat. "Blofeld?"

"(y/n)," a familiar voice called back, making you smile as you made your way to the kitchen.

"Oh, am I glad to see you," you breathed out. Petting the fluffy white cat that sat on the table. "You got the cat?"

Blofeld shrugged. "I couldn't find a pet sitter."

Chuckling, you took a seat at the table, still running your hand through the feline's soft fur. "I don't think I killed him."

He turned to look at you, tilting his head to the side. "Why not?"

"It's not my place," you shook your head. "You should be the one to do it. Not me. You said it yourself, you're the author of his pain - you should get the final blow."

He nodded, and brought his hand up to the bandages on his face; he had dressed the wound shortly after his escape, the pain mostly subsided, but he stopped. And he growled. "I will."

"You want me to take a look at that?" You asked, gesturing to his eye. But Blofeld shook his head. "I guess you finally got your wish."

"What wish?"

"You kept telling me I needed to upgrade Old Sparky," you shrugged. "It's in a ditch, dented and broken. I've got no choice now."

He licked his lips, his mouth ever so dry as he looked around. "Did anyone follow you?"

"No," you shook your head. "Except for a few flies."

Blofeld didn't say anything, turning around and fixing himself a cup of coffee; you knew he would never love you, that he would never care for you the same way someone cared for their spouse, but you didn't care. You were there with him now, and at the very least, he knew that you cared and he knew that you were loyal. You always had been.

"Are you hurt?"

"A few scrapes and bruises," you hummed, smiling when the cat started to purr softly. "A couple jabs to the rib... nothing that needs attention, though."

"Your ribs?"

"Yeah, Bond got me a few times," you admitted. "But it's fine. They're not broken or bruised, I don't think."

He nodded, and without even daring to look at you, he passed you a cup of coffee and gently patted your shoulder; you froze up for a second, but relaxed again when he turned away. Maybe there was something there, you thought, maybe beneath all the sadism and the villainy, maybe there was a little more to Blofeld than he let on; you still didn't understand why, of all things, he risked getting caught again just to get the cat, though.

[perfumedhotels]

Slow dancing

(I'm trying writing again! Please be kind. It's been years since I last wrote something. :) I do not own Blofeld or Spectre. But Holly/Rita is mine.)

It was almost 2 in the morning as they walked in the narrow corridor that led to her unit in the complex.

Ernst had organized a celebration for the night in light of securing an alliance with the Cosa Nostra. This was important to him, to SPECTRE in general. There was so much they could achieve from the alliance. They were after all a massive criminal organization, with influence in both America and Italy. They had killed two birds with one stone. And it was all thanks to Holly. Aside from that, he was happy to be reunited with her.

She was a remarkable agent. Especially since she was not as criminally talented or even technologically or medically a genius.

He had heard the whispers of his employees calling her a prop. And, he would agree. She was a prop. But sometimes the best thing a show has or the thing it needs the most is a prop.

Holly had been a great help to his operations. He'd dare say she was one of his greatest investments ever since Spectre was formed. She was worth every dime he'd put into seducing her to join him and his organization.

Aside from that, she was a great company. She was very sensible and passionate. And overall, a lovely person to hang out with. Not to mention, Princess loved the girl. She was a friendly cat of course. But it was rare for her to enjoy another person's presence to the point of ignoring him when called for food.

But he wouldn't deny that it came off as a surprise to him when Holly admitted her feelings to him and asked him to get in a relationship with her.

Ernst was rather surprised. It wasn't the first time someone had brought that up to him. But he always thought that he was feared greatly by his employees. And to have a woman as young as her ask that shocked him immensely. He should've expected it, honestly. And to say that he wanted that was an understatement. But he simply couldn't let it happen. She was too young.

But eventually, he agreed to a sort of friends with benefits relationship. It wasn't exactly what either of them wanted but it was the best. And frankly, the most he could do. He had to, after all, be careful about his image among his men. Not to mention this was also the safest option for Holly. He'd rather die than letting Bond catch wind of her.

“Be careful," Ernst commented as she almost tripped while entering her apartment. She was rather intoxicated. "I'm fine..!" She slurred, plopping onto the nearby couch. "Get me a glass of water?" Ernst nodded and walked to the kitchen counter and poured her a glass of water. She always got nervous in ceremonies. But it was unusual for her to get this drunk. He figured it might be because of the way men stared at her tonight. She was wearing a red silk dress that complimented her figure quite well. And unfortunately, he wasn't the only one who thought that...

"I sincerely apologize about tonight." He handed her the glass and stood aside as she chugged down the water. "But I truly appreciate your great work. Thank you." He added with a genuine smile and watched as she returned the gesture and got ready to stand back up. "Wait!" He said when he noticed her struggling with her balance. "Huh?" She looked at him with her deep brown eyes that were reddened due to the alcohol.

"These are getting on my nerves." He mumbled with annoyance as he kneeled down and slowly removed her heels. He didn't understand why she liked them very much. They looked painful to walk in. They were stylish, of course. But to wear them to missions seemed rather extreme.

"There." He said as he got back up on his feet and offered her his arm which she gladly took. She barely had a balance on her own.

"I expect you at tomorrow's conference." He said once he had sat her on her bed.

She gave a careless nodded, still holding his hand. "Stay the night..?" She mumbled, more in a commanding tone than a questioning one.

"I can't." He shook his head. "I have some unfinished business."

"Come on..!" She mumbled and slowly started to undress, slipping each sleeve off her shoulders. "At least fuck me before you leave."

Ernst's eyes were almost bulging out of their sockets from shock. "Holly, what the hell?! You're drunk!" He said and quickly stopped her, frantically fixing her sleeves.

"It's Rita!" She snapped, pushing his hands off her body. Right he should've known she was uncomfortable with him using her real name.

"Right. Rita. I'm sorry..." He said, holding his hands up and stepping away from her.

"It's fine... Say... Get comfortable... I'll go grab the champagne." She mumbled, getting back up and almost stumbling.

"No. Fraulein, you're drunk. We can't and won't have sex. I am deeply uncomfortable with sleeping with someone intoxicated." He said softly, holding her by the arms. He wasn't lying. He might be a criminal. But even he had lines he'd never cross.

"Right..." She sighed and sat back on the bed. "Sorry... It's just... Forget it. You said you have work?" She said, trying to change the subject.

"Yes... Is everything alright? You're acting rather strange." Ernst said cautiously and sat next to her, making sure to keep his distance.

The girl gave him a quick nod and rubbed her temples. "it's just that... I don't know... It's probably because I'm drunk... But I don't feel appreciated..." He took note of her words, panicking silently. Had he done something wrong? Had he crossed a boundary?

"... I feel like chopped meat... Like I'm just a good fuck... I feel like I'm not important to you past being a warm body or a way to relieve stress..." Her words caught his attention, making her panic even more. What had he done? He hadn't forced her into this arrangement, had he?! He had made it clear that she could call this off anytime and it won't affect her position or the safety of her family.

"Rita... I-I'm sorry..." He gulped fearfully. "I am truly sorry... I never meant to make you feel like this... We can call off the arrangement right now and I'd walk out the door and we won't have to meet again." He said.

"This is not necessarily about sex. I enjoy sleeping with you. And I appreciate your attention to consent and I love how you treat me after we're done. But I feel like we aren't even friends. I want things friends do... Not just sex..." Rita mumbled, watching as he relaxed a bit and let out a deep sigh.

"Alright. Thank you for clearing that up." He said after remaining silent for a bit. "Regarding what you said... What can I do for you? I'm sorry I made you feel insignificant..." He said honestly. He was yet to recover from the shock and was holding his hands tight on his lap.

Rita took her time to think of a request before she finally said, "Dance with me. You never dance with me."

His mind flashed to all the instances he had brushed her off. Even tonight he had ignored her when she had cheerfully walked to him, asking for a dance.

"Dance..?" He echoed, quite unsure of what he had heard.

Rita gave him a quick nod. "I can wear another dress if you want. I know you think red is a cliché. Did you say you like blue?" She said, standing up again and walking to her closet.

"No! It's perfect." He said and quickly rushed to her grabbing her by the wrist. "I will gladly dance with you... Just, would you please put on some music?" He said softly. She gave him a quick smile and walked to her desk where she kept her laptop and after some browsing, put on a slow song.

"Darf ich diesen tanz haben, fraulein?" Holly looked up to see Ernst extending a hand towards her, a big smile playing on his face.

She returned the expression and placed her small hand in his, nodding at his words.

He led her to the middle of the room and slowly placed both hands on the small of her back, noting how her small arms wrapped around his neck.

"Is this alright? Should I move my hands higher?" He asked cautiously.

"It's perfect..." She whispered with a smile and started dancing with him.

The music echoed in the room, somehow drowning out the sound of the sandstorm that was happening outside. It was rather relaxing and it was able to calm him down after everything that had been going on.

But the best thing about this was Rita's eyes. He'd never seen them like this. So glossed over and in another world. Yet so happy and dreamy. It was worth it. And the feel of her skin was amazing as always. It was always so soft and warm.

They had never been so close unless when being intimate. But this was somehow better. Maybe because they were not distracted by animalistic desires and were able to solely focus on each other and the moment.

"Is this your first time?" Rita commented, looking up at him as her hand traveled to his chest.

"Hm? Not really. But it's been a while." He responded with a smile after snapping out of his daydream. "Is it obvious?" He smirked. "A bit." She joked. They both laughed and remained silent before she spoke up again. "Are you embarrassed by me?"

"What gave you that idea?" He frowned, slowing down his movements. "you never acknowledge me in crowds. You always push me aside. Are you ashamed of me?" She clarified, keeping his gaze.

"Of course I am not. It's just that there's a lot of rumors going around about us and I don't want to fuel them." He said bluntly.

"I see..." She sighed, looking down. "So I was right then. I'm just a fuck friend, correct?" She mumbled.

"Fraulein... I'm sorry but I can't do much more... And if you feel used in this relationship you can easily stop everything. You are in control here, Rita." He said, placing a finger under her chin and tilting her head upward so she faced him.

"Ernst..." She sighed and pressed herself to him, snaking her arms around his body.

She was crying. He could easily feel it from the cloth of his shirt that was slowly dampening. And from her breathing, that was significantly slower. But he didn't know what to do or say to calm her. Well, he did. But he couldn't let it happen. Or he was rather ignoring it because the thought of it scared him.

"Come now... You need to rest. Things will be better when you wake up..." He said in a soothing tone and slowly pulled her from his body. She looked at him, her brown eyes glassy with mascara running down her eyelashes and her chestnut hair matted to her face with tears.

They looked at each other with pity, both apologizing silently.

Slowly, Rita moved even closer to him, pressing her hand to his chest. And he was about to speak when a pair of soft lips pressed against his in a sudden yet soft kiss.

He was completely frozen and it felt like his heart will break out of his ribcage. He was nervous and scared with a billion thoughts running through his head at the speed of light. Should he touch her? Run his fingers through her hair? Hold her hands? Or should he push her away? Should he kiss her back? Could he? And right as he decided to kiss her back, she pulled away and he almost went with her like a drunk who was fooled by a bottle of rum.

"Rita-" He went to speak but was silenced by a single digit being pressed against his lips. "Don't. Please. Let me have this fantasy." She sighed. "I'm sorry..." She backed away, stumbling back on the bed.

Ernst let out a heavy sigh, finally snapping back to reality by the sounds of her cries. "There, there now... It's nothing..." He said, helping her lie down. "I'm sorry..." She sobbed. "For what?" He gave her a warm smile pretending that nothing had happened. "Have some rest. I'll see you tomorrow." He watched her relax a bit. But she didn't stop crying. "Things will be better tomorrow." He whispered, playing with her hair.

She just gave him a tired nod and watched as he walked over to her laptop and shut it down before walking to the light switch and turning down the lights. "Ernst..?" She called as he walked to the door to leave the room. "Are you saying the truth when you say that things will be better tomorrow?"

He turned and looked at her. "I'm not sure. But we can hope."

"Does that mean you'd change how you feel about me? Love me as I love you?" She sat up halfway.

"You're drunk. Get some sleep. You're not thinking straight." He sighed. "Guten Nacht, fraulein." He said before leaving her unit. He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't already love her. But it was the safest option for them both.

[melynen]

Random Prompt Table completed

Frog, James Bond/Madeleine Swann, G (for Frog)

Bravo, Blofeld/Q, T+ (for Bravo)

Alarm-ing Discoveries, Eve Moneypenny/Bill Tanner, T+ (for Horn)

Sneak, James Bond/Q/Alec Trevelyan, T+ (for Sneaker)

Skip, Q/003, T+ (for Skip)

The Secret (Just One Heartbeat Away)

Chapter 1, Tiago Rodriguez/Q, T+ (for Frame)

Chapter 2, Tiago Rodriguez/Q, Tiago Rodriguez/James Bond, T+ (for Ice)

Chapter 3, Tiago Rodriguez/Q/James Bond, T+ (for Spare)

Caught, Q/Alec Trevelyan, T+ (for Caught)

[wingsy-keeper-of-songs]

Double Trouble

A little gift for my girl @movieexpert1978 as she wanted something with Blofeld since he’s her favorite. And she had this hilarious idea of what happened if Elisa used to date King and they split up (on good terms) and she ended up with Blofeld? Thus, this was born. I hope you enjoy it, lovey!

Sometimes when he closes his eyes, he can see her. Eyes wide and impossibly blue, long dark hair falling over her shoulders and a sweet face unaccustomed to seeing such despicable acts of violence. It’s been quite a while since he’s seen her last, since they’d parted ways as good friends rather than lovers. He misses her, and a part of him always will, but she’s moved on and so must he. He met with the other man briefly, and a deep secret part of him didn’t like the man in the slightest. He was too proud, too much of a prat. He’d looked at him as if he were no better than the dirt under their feet. He recalls Elisa looking at the man adoringly and that same dark secret part of him wants to scream. He keeps that part buried deep within awful memories and painful experiences. The man’s name is a mystery to him. He calls himself Franz Oberhauser in public, but keeps a secret name in the shadows. They’ve crossed paths before they had a lady in common. Schultz was often tasked with cleaning up SPECTRE’s messes. He’s put a few bullets in quite a few valuable henchmen and Oberhauser or Blofeld or whatever he was calling himself was made quite aware of it.

             “I’ve had my run-ins with your friend,” the man was saying to Elisa. “Several, in fact. His aim is impeccable for a man of such limited resources.” Schultz forces the polite smile to stay on his face, though he’s sure it could be mistaken for a snarl if one were to look closer.

             “He doesn’t miss,” his companion for the evening says with a fond look at him and venom in her smile. “He’s highly capable of a lot of things, Herr Blofeld.” Blofeld laughs softly as if he doubts this, but his face betrays nothing of the sort.

             “I’ve witnessed enough of his skill not to argue otherwise,” he says. “I wonder if he would ever be willing to teach a few of my associates how to aim.” Over my dead body, Schultz thinks murderously.

             “It’s a skill that takes patience, which some of your friends are sadly lacking.” He says instead and he doesn’t miss the dark look that comes over Herr Blofeld’s face. Schultz inwardly smirks. Take that, you pretentious prick. Elisa seems to notice the tension between the two men and she looks from Blofeld to Schultz nervously.

             “Well, I can assure you that SPECTRE is doing very well,” Blofeld says under a tight smile.

             “Much better than you were before?” Schultz inquires with a quirk of an eyebrow. “The way I hear it, the head of the snake was cut off some time ago and you’re squandering.” The woman on his arm (going by the name of Nora) looks surprised that he’s broken out of his polite façade.

             “Maybe we ought to change the subject,” Elisa says nervously.

             “Nonsense, if the good doctor wants a show of power, he ought to get it.” Blofeld replies with a crooked half-smile that’s lost all politeness. Schultz is fully prepared to shoot his way out of this situation and he meets Blofeld’s gaze with a matching smirk of his own.

             “By all means, demonstrate away.” He says coolly. Both men jump when Nora bangs a fist on the table.

             “No one is demonstrating anything,” she says with narrowed eyes at the both of them. “If the two of you wish to act like children, there’s a daycare a few blocks from here.” Schultz withers just a bit under her steely glare while Blofeld looks surprised anyone would accuse him of being childish. “All we’re here for is a good dinner and a chat among friends,” Nora continues. “And you’re embarrassing your date, Herr Blofeld.” Blofeld’s gaze softens just a bit when he glances at Elisa and Schultz just hates it.

             “Apologies, then.” He says as he takes Elisa’s hand in his and kisses the back of it. “It wasn’t my intention to embarrass you, my love.” Schultz looks away as if pained. This doesn’t escape the other woman’s notice as she lays a comforting hand on his shoulder.

             “Perhaps we ought to finish this conversation another time,” she suggests to Elisa rather than to Blofeld. The brunette nods.

             “Maybe when the boys can get along a little better,” she agrees with a teasing smile at the other woman. Both women stand up and their opposing men stand with them. Blofeld gets Elisa’s jacket for her while Schultz pays the bill and shrugs out of his own jacket to give to his lady.

             “Who says they have to come along?” Nora says to Elisa with a grin of her own. “Honestly, I can’t take this one anywhere without him getting into some sort of trouble.” Elisa laughs.

             “It’s quite the same with him,” she nods at Blofeld who looks as if he were about to argue, but at a Look from Schultz, he keeps his mouth shut this time. “Trouble seems to follow him everywhere.” Schultz and Blofeld keep silent as the women chatter away about various topics when the cars show up. Elisa schedules a shopping date for herself and Nora without the two men.

             “Be sure to keep an eye on that one,” she nods at Schultz. “He can be just as devious as my Ernst.” Nora slips her arm into Schultz’s as the other couple get into the car.

             “Believe me, I’m aware of that.”

[wipbigbang]

We have 23 stories left to claim for art for WIP Big Bang 2021. Perhaps this one might interest you?

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#59

Title: Designation: H Pairing/Characters Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/Mary Morstan (mentioned), Mycroft Holmes, young (~10 years old) Victor Trevor (mentioned), and with appearances from teenaged (14-18 years old) versions of: Dorian Gray, Reginald Jeeves, A.J. Raffles and Bunny Manders, Hercule Poirot, Jane Marple, The Phantom of the Opera, James Bond, Tom Ripley, Nero Wolfe, Father Brown, Harley Quin (Agatha Christie), Mr. Satterthwaite (Agatha Christie), Ernst Stavro Blofeld (Ian Fleming), Jason Rafiel (Agatha Christie), the killer from “And Then There Were None” (Agatha Christie), and a very loose adaptation of Gregory House (House M.D.). Rating: Mature Warnings/Tags: Graphic Violence, corporal punishment, violence to and by children, eugenics. I’m a little bit squeamish about the violence, it’s there, but I don’t linger on it too much and I ask that the art not linger on it too much either. Also, no sex please (there’s none in the fic). Summary One minute, Watson is hurrying back along the path from Reichenbach falls, afraid that Holmes has indeed met his fate against the dreaded Professor Moriarty. The next thing he knows, he awakens in the infirmary of the strange Prometheus Institute, unsure whether it was all a nightmare or terrible reality. However, he quickly finds that the real nightmare is only just beginning; both he and Holmes - mercifully alive - are imprisoned along with two dozen young men behind the bars of a circular cell block, where their every move is observed by guards tasked with maintaining discipline and overseeing their training as the next step in human evolution. During the day they are trained in combat and put through complicated exercises in manipulation and subterfuge. At night they are trained in stealth; they must evade the guards and best each other in further exercises, which pit gang against gang.

Watson soon learns the dark secret behind their abduction: Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes - and Victor Trevor - were raised in the Prometheus Institute, but the brothers escaped (around age 10-12). Now, it has caught up with them, and Holmes and Watson’s only hope of getting out alive is to overcome the shadows of their pasts and work with the violent, manipulative young prisoners.

Inspired by umisabaku's fanfiction, Designation: Miracle.

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 07 [Revised]

a/n: Commissioned illustrations by Daniel Purnama, @addictivities & @marianaillust. This chapter wouldn't go as hard without their awesome work! <3

VII: A MOMENTARY LAPSE OF REASON THAT BINDS A LIFE FOR LIFE

Safin exited the hotel alone. He was staying in a different facility, a few blocks away from all the noise. Yet, even as he put more distance between himself and Swann, he couldn’t bring himself to accept what he’d done as a mistake. If he kept her close, she’d put another bullet in him. Push her away, and she’d find someone less merciful. Perhaps that was his fault. He’d made himself too convenient to discard, and now Swann felt powerful.

As far as Safin was concerned, the culmination of the evening was a means of securing Madeleine’s trust. Deep down, she would concede there was no way out of this so-called honorable life beyond termination, or acceptance of one’s circumstances. Denial bred its own strain of unshakeable commitment. Just as his actions left a stain on her conscience, so too had she percolated his better sense. The woman he’d met in Guinea and the woman in Oslo weren’t disparate. One evolved from the other’s catalyst.

A broad sandy-haired man looked over from across the street, catching his eye, and nodded. Safin continued walking. His destination was on the opposite side of the street, a block past the crosswalk. The man was travelling parallel to him on the other side of the street. When Safin crossed over at the light, as he approached, he kept a hand stowed in his coat pocket. As Safin got close enough to make out the distinctive watch around the man's wrist, the man said, “Do you have the time?”

“James Bond, Universal Exports,” said Safin with a cursory glance. “Or do you still go by Arlington Beech?” The man wasn’t as amicable as he had been a moment before. No doubt he was used to leading the conversations on the back of charisma alone. “It’s been eight years. You should consider a different alias.”

“It’s never been an issue.” 007 studied him. “Zahov, isn’t it?”

Safin exhaled in a plume of steam. “Our business was settled.”

“We were never formally introduced,” 007 said. “I thought this would be prudent.”

Safin said, “If all you want is to talk, find a woman to listen to you.”

007’s lip curled. “I’m afraid tonight is strictly business. Though it’s been terribly dull. So, what’s a man of your profession doing in Norway?”

Safin considered his options. Bluffing could only get him so far. “Medical evaluation.”

“Oh, those are terrible,” 007 said, with a sympathetic half-smile. “Work has been keeping me on a shorter leash. I don’t drink half as much as I used to.” He side-eyed Safin, as though this was meant to break the ice. “It’s been a while since Montenegro. I haven’t thought about it in—damn, it’ll be eight years.” A flicker of remorse crossed his features. Whether it was genuine or practised remained to be seen. “Things seemed much easier, back then. I was willing to give up my future. Honest to God, I’d almost convinced myself I would be happier that way.” He sighed and shook his head. “Hope’s a dangerous thing.”

“Indubitably,” said Safin. “But you still work for the English.”

“For Queen and country. Beats a desk job, though I suppose it’s all the same to you.”

Safin continued walking past the hotel. 007 fell in-line beside him, speaking over the white noise of passing traffic and civilians,

“Word gets around. All of these terrorist attacks, these bombings, the chemical attacks in Africa—I think we’d agree that they’re not exactly coincidental. As would your friend from the clinic. Swann, isn’t it?” 007 lowered his tone. “You didn’t hear this from me, but it’s likely that whoever sponsored the donor gala is fronting for a larger cover-up. Swann might try to run like she did in France. Whether or not she succeeds, all the intel she’s got leaves with her.”

They’d stopped in front of the hotel. “What are you suggesting?”

“We might have a chance at stopping whoever’s been behind those chemical attacks. But that depends on Swann. Obviously, we’d be happy to bring her in and question her. She’ll be relocated, no harm, no foul.���

“Must be a slow day for MI6, if you are doing what is expected of you.” Safin masked the slight tremor in his free hand which he stowed in his pocket, drawn to a fist. Despite his alcoholic tendencies, James Bond was not enfeebled by dioxin poisoning. He had about twenty-to-fifty pounds on Safin and a reputation for killing enemy operatives during field-missions. Unlikely, that it would happen out here. The only loss for SPECTRE would be a spot on Sciarra’s security team and an empty seat at the Palazzo Cadenza. “Yet it seems the loss of your British Treasury agent and SAS have not tempered your insolence. I wonder what will?”

007 scoffed. “I’ve got four hundred and thirty seven days left ‘til retirement. I’m on my best behaviour.” Safin turned about-face towards the hotel doors, as 007 added, “One shouldn’t get discouraged, Zahov. Sexpionage isn’t for everyone.”

Safin stopped mid-stride and looked over to assess what he had heard. He hadn’t been at a loss for words like this since Raoul Silva. As 007’s eyes, arrestingly blue, fixed on his, he experienced that dull unease that came with being outmaneuvered.

“You continue to meddle,” Safin said quietly, “and it has cost you greatly. Perhaps it is time you learnt to cut your losses.”

“You see,” said 007 in a flat voice, “that’s your problem, Zahov. You’ve been talking as if you think it’ll never happen to you.”

Safin smiled, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “One is only as good as his last mistake.”

007 returned to an air of amicability without missing a beat. “I’m willing to learn from mine. Put aside our differences, if it’ll spare more bloodshed.”

Perhaps it was time to start tying up loose ends. 007’s cooperation would come as surely as Vesper Lynd’s. But 007 still had his uses, even if he wouldn’t live to understand the gravity of his contribution. SPECTRE’s battle of attrition with outside parties could not go on forever. A temporary truce was an acceptable alternative to another year of disrupted operations, ending in 007’s clean retirement from MI6. To dismiss the opportunity would be a terrible mistake, indeed.

“I’m listening.”

⁂

By the next morning, Madeleine was going into work, seeing the usual clientele. The world didn’t stop for anyone’s mid-life crisis. It would have been easy, before, to reassure herself that she was in no real danger. The occasional slight from a disgruntled patient was just that. No real harm would ever befall White’s daughter, because she was careful not to overstep her responsibilities. Her upbringing left little room for reflection, but it was the only way she could bear to live with herself.

Ever since coming to Oslo, she had allowed herself to be frozen over. Clients came and left with irregular familiarity. There was a comfort in the façade, of looking the other way, not asking questions. As long as she could separate her secrets from her own work, she’d be able to help others. Putting up a front, not just for her own sake but for the betterment of others. With enough time and patience, she could delude herself into acceptance. Of all the options afforded, this was the lesser evil. Reapplying gauze to the same old wound, as if enough smothering would stop the rot.

Her ordinary colleagues never could grasp the root of her distress, and her father had been distancing himself from his mistakes all her life. Her past relationships weren’t built for longevity. Sure, there was an occasional snag of self-doubt or remorse, but she’d always find a way to assuage it. The men that found her attractive weren’t going to look deeply into her problems. Men like Safin had an emotional range tied to the extent of their control. When he’d tracked her down, following her to the hotel, he made it a point to not coerce or impose. If she told him to leave, she had no doubt that he would. Most people in his position would be asking for a favour. An early clearance, a lesser sentence, as if she wouldn’t have to answer to Kęstutis regardless.

At the end of each day, she’d turn off the lights and close the blinds, and be faced with the same epiphany. Maybe it hadn’t mattered who and what Safin was, at the tango bar, the safehouse, or the hotel in Guinea. He’d given her the truth when her father’s associates refused. To dwell any deeper on her own shortcomings wouldn’t make Klebb’s assignment easier. It was too close to hypocrisy, for her tastes.

By the end of the week, she’d submitted Safin’s evaluation. He should be cleared for work. The next morning, Klebb was in the waiting area. “Dr. Swann,” she said. “I was hoping to speak with you.” Madeleine’s next client was an hour from now. She unlocked her office door, and Klebb invited herself in. The blinds were still drawn from last night. Klebb flicked the light on. “Your personal evaluation of Lyutsifer Safin, what is it?”

Madeleine paused, taking Klebb’s silence as a grant to speak. “He’s pragmatic. He spoke about his job as a purpose, and he has revealed very little about himself in all the time I’ve known him. Even outside of work.” She looked at Klebb. “He followed me, last week, but asked for no favours. He’s not made contact since.”

Klebb nodded. “We’ve provided women before, some of them younger than you. It never worked. He had other ambitions.” Her eyes raked over Madeleine, as one might appraise a prized race-horse. “It seems I have underestimated your competences.”

“Our methods differ.” Refusing to acknowledge Klebb’s statement for what it was, Madeleine walked over to her desk. She wasn’t the first Klebb had spoken to about handling an operative, and she likely wouldn’t be the last. Dealing with snide remarks from the patients was easier to stomach than the notion of her own complicity, but given the alternatives, it was a necessary discomfort. “I doubt he’s going to give you what you’re looking for so easily.”

A cruel twist played on Klebb’s mouth. “There’s no guilt to be had, Doctor. You’ve found an approach. Now it is a matter of assuming control.” She walked up to the desk and grasped Madeleine’s wrist in short, strong fingers, as if to shake her hand. “On behalf of the syndicate, I must acknowledge your achievement.” Madeleine drew away before she thought better of it. Klebb did not rebuke her. “Now that we know what you’re willing to do, the rest should be easy.”

As soon as the door closed, Madeleine took a shaky breath and exhaled too quickly to assuage her hammering heart. She’d assumed Safin would have a history of misconduct. Someone who got a rush out of vigilantism, righting wrongs, would want to play the hero. What better way to ingratiate oneself into her life than as a saviour? A confession he couldn’t excuse, getting in the way of his usual MO, forcing him to overcorrect to the point of vulnerability. He wouldn’t form the same attachment to a stranger, or an obvious foil.

A man in control would never have pursued her to the hotel directly. He would have convinced her that she might be unsafe otherwise. She’d been looking over her shoulder since she was a little girl. There were less dramatic explanations, of course. The client and therapist had a very intimate bond of trust. It wasn’t uncommon, during the process, for some patients to mistake their own feelings of gratitude as infatuation. Whether or not Safin had a history of this conduct, it was a possibility worth considering.

In the back of the filing cabinet were the documents Klebb had left her. Madeleine took out an old photocopy of a dossier from 1985. He would have been six going-on seven. Already she could see it in his eyes, he was no stranger to violence. Without studying him in-person, she could only project Klebb’s words onto the image. Or perhaps she was only noticing what she’d overlooked in the eyes of the adult.

To kill him, at this stage, would be a waste. He’d yet to disappoint her.

⁂

Ernst Stavro Blofeld was having a peaceful afternoon at his home in Morocco. The house itself had been built within the crater’s depths. He’d been coming back here each year, since QUANTUM was dissolved. Solomon, the white blue-eyed Turkish Angora, was his only companion aside from the workers on-site. Construction on the meteorite base was well underway. Once finished, there would be enough rooms to accommodate their latest scheme. A string of apparent terrorist attacks across Europe and Africa would no doubt convince the right world leaders that mass surveillance was an inevitable response to such uncontrollable danger. With the merging of MI5 and MI6, there would be less incentive to rely on field agents, in spite of the drawbacks that came with automation. No solution was perfect, of course. But in time, SPECTRE would be just as much a part of the CNS without the latter knowing the wiser.

Swann’s conduct at the clinic remained acceptable. No serious complaints from her patients or coworkers. Her actions outside of work were more interesting. She’d ignored the mole from the CIA after a few meetings. As an educated guess, she’d treat Safin accordingly—whether or not Safin would keep his distance remained to be seen. Pitting less-disciplined operatives against each other was one of Klebb’s favorite pastimes, a vice Blofeld tolerated for the sake of maintaining an iron grip over the syndicate. Seducing a former patient suggested a level of callousness and or compartmentalization beyond her own father’s ability.

This March, next year, would be James’s last in active service. It was a shame, but a man like James would never have fit in the syndicate anyway. Despite his talents for espionage and conditional empathy, he clung to duty for his country as if it was enough to absolve him. Blofeld could not adhere to such man-made limitations, not as the head of SPECTRE. He and James were destined to lead, while those of lesser stock would fall in line. James had a harder time accepting this fact.

The phone rang. Blofeld picked up.

“Her report was inconclusive.”

“So I’ve heard.” Solomon passed through the room, barely glancing at him. “The evaluation was more of a courtesy.”

“James Bond has infiltrated our operation. He’s made contact with Safin.”

Blofeld nodded. “That’s an interesting development.”

“With all due respect, sir, we have let this side-operation with Swann go on for too long. She is not delivering the results we had hoped for.”

Solomon bumped against his naked ankle. Blofeld reached down to scratch behind the cat’s ears. Dr Swann might not be the hardened operative that Safin was, but she was no fool. “Dr Swann has seen an opportunity you and I have overlooked. That is to be commended.” A strained silence on the other end of the line. Blofeld’s bony shoulders lifted. “It was your decision to bring Safin into her office. If anything changes, she’ll report to Kęstutis as we discussed. Your job is to ensure the good doctor is not killed while her father is alive to witness it. Let Safin dig his own grave.”

Klebb, on the other end, would no doubt be very unhappy about this affront, not only to her mission but to her headship. She was not going to accept defeat by an outsider, let alone this thankless little bitch with no respect for their syndicate. But she’d come around, she was not ruled so closely by emotion. It was why Blofeld had picked her as an advisor.

“Of course, sir.”

“Excellent,” Blofeld clicked off. He looked down at Solomon, who had sequestered himself around his foot. “I think we may have the candidate we’re looking for.”

Solomon mewed, indifferent to anything but attention.

⁂

With one thing and another, the night of the donor gala arrived. On the twenty-fourth floor of the Raddison Blu, Madeleine was getting ready. The double silk georgette gown wasn’t out of her price range, but it wasn’t too expensive to be worn once and discarded. Despite the offer extended on behalf of Klebb to cover costs, Madeleine insisted on buying everything herself. The last thing she needed was to be indebted to anyone from her father’s ilk.

Directly adjacent to her room was Safin’s. Last week, Kęstutis mentioned that he’d been indiscreetly reassigned to her, but nothing more. Safin hadn’t spoken to her since February. Hinx had been chauffeuring her to-and-from work, and to the Raddison Blu, without ever mentioning the change in itinerary. Still, it was in her best interest not to ask too many questions.

The door adjacent to her room opened and closed. “Dr. Swann.” The dark suit jacket and dress pants were closer to a deep purple than black. Under the warm lights, he looked less sickly. A tiny opaque cord attached to an earpiece wound down the side of his neck into his dress shirt. “This event will be crawling with other operatives. It’s best to be cautious.”

She struggled to redirect her thoughts. The lack of unease was becoming its own stressor. “I don’t have much in common with these people aside from sharing a tax bracket.”

“You don’t enjoy yourself?”

“It’s tolerable.” Putting up a front seemed like a pointless expenditure. “I cannot imagine it's as difficult as your own responsibilities.”

“I’m just following through.”

Something was off. His usual detachment wasn’t there. He didn’t have to look at her directly, but even as he scanned the room his attention kept coming back to her. Not stifling or predatory, just—direct. She said, “It seems you still have some reservations.” He turned to look at her, but didn’t elaborate. “All these other times I was followed around by strange men, they would come to the door. They would tail me on the street, but they never followed me to an address.”

“The man you met was a CIA source.” The look in his eyes was sharper. “Were you unaware?”

“I’m aware of what you are.”

His expression was easy to read. Acrimonious, but still in control. “It’s unwise to be so careless, even if you feel you can afford to be.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“A daughter of SPECTRE will always have enemies.”

“I try not to linger on possibilities. It never helps.”

Safin turned as if to leave. His tie was a little loose, uncharacteristic of his usual fastidiousness. Without thinking consciously, Madeleine closed the distance, straightened his tie. He went very still, but didn’t say a word. As she drew back, the expression on his face have been a trick of the light, but it wasn’t mistakable. She said, “Shall we?”

Out the door, down the carpeted hall. The well-dressed man waiting for the elevator caught her eye and smiled. A twinkle in his eyes, electric blue, said he’d be nothing but trouble for whoever caught his interest. “James Bond,” he said. “Retired professional gambler. I’m here on behalf of an old friend.”

“Dr Swann,” said Madeleine. “On behalf of my colleagues in non-profit.” It was difficult to act natural with Safin drilling a hole in the back of her skull with his eyes, but not impossible. 

Bond’s attention went to Safin, who merely said, “Security.”

Bond nodded, with the tiniest flicker of emotion in his eyes. The elevator doors opened. A glass entry-point led into the elevator itself. As Bond was saying, “Seems they’ve done some work on the elevators,” his eyes passed over her and Safin. It was not overt. Just a tilt of the head in their direction, but Madeleine was not going to implicate herself any further. “You were in Guinea, last year, wasn’t it?”

Madeleine turned. “Yes.”

“My colleague is an avid supporter of non-profit organisations. She should be downstairs already.”

“I’d be happy to speak with her,” Madeleine said.

Under his ear rested a similar opaque cord. Her stomach lurched with the elevator’s descent, still in the double-digits, as James Bond leant casually along the arm of the cabin. Safin hadn’t looked anywhere but the doors and Bond, briefly.

“Why does a retired gambler find himself at a charity gala?”

“Money,” Bond said simply. “I’ve got enough of it.”

A career chauvinist, perhaps. He wasn’t here to socialise. Madeleine looked at the doors. Past floor nineteen, eighteen. “I haven’t been to one of these events in some time.”

Bond was polite enough to be taken aback. “You seem like you’d fit right in.”

Madeleine forced a scoff. “I can’t remember the last time I actually sat down and talked to someone. If I had that much in common with the people here, I’d start drinking and talk about my real problems. I’d end up in the river by Tuesday.”

Bond smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “And you’ve got a good sense of humour.” Her pulse quickened. A laugh she smothered in her throat with a blithe smile. Down to the single-digits. Madeleine would rather be socializing within a crowd than trapped in this elevator for another minute. “Are you feeling all right?” Bond had the decency to sound concerned, but his eyes were scanning her.

“I’ve never felt better,” she said.

The doors opened. She moved past Bond, into the crowd.

In the ornate women’s bathroom, her hands clenched on the cool marble rim of the sink.

She’d never pictured an existence where she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder. This was no different than one of her father’s business parties, sticking to the sidelines. She wouldn’t have to endure the smell of tobacco. She’d make connections that had nothing to do with her father’s ilk, and perhaps say a few words about the horrible tragedy of last year, and no one would be the wiser. They’d call her brave and enduring.

In the mirror she found the woman reflected. The wave of calm she’d felt in Zurich. She wasn’t going to survive the night if she couldn’t pull herself together. She’d always been running on borrowed time. Within her shrinking social circle, all of her closest associates seemed to be criminals in one way or another.

If she was to survive the night, she’d just as well learn to improvise.

The door opened. Madeleine turned on the sink.

“Are you all right?” The dark-haired woman in the black dress might’ve been in her early twenties. She was tall and lithe, could be a dancer or a soldier’s build. Her nails were painted burgundy. Smell of cologne followed in her wake.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, grateful to talk to someone who expressed concern. “Thank you.”

“You’re Dr. Swann, is that right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I understand you’ve met James,” the woman said. “He was just telling me about your charity work. Oh, where are my manners?” She laughed easily. “I’m Paloma.”

⁂

After the dinner, the raffle had been going on for half-an-hour and it seemed pointless to linger when little else was expected of her. Paloma, who seemed eager to socialise but was sympathetic to her plight, elected to go with her.

“I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well,” she said. In the reception hall, Madeleine stopped and said, “Your cologne. Did you change it sometime during the night?”

Paloma chuckled. “I’m not sure what you mean. I didn’t wear any this evening.”

Madeleine forced a polite laugh, feigning embarrassment. Her gaze wandered to Paloma’s hands. The nails weren’t manicured. “It’s been a long night. I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

When they got up to the rooms, there was a tab on the door reserved for housekeeping. “That’s strange. I’m the one that asked for housekeeping.” Paloma glanced at her. “Are you sure it’s your room?” Madeleine shook her head, unlocking the door with her card-key. Paloma said, “It’s all right. I’ll ask downstairs. Maybe there was a mix-up.”

As soon as Madeleine was alone, she unlocked the door with a cold weight behind her navel. In the tall mirror adjacent to the door, Madeleine could see a sliver of light through the cracked bathroom door. She’d turned it off when she left the room. The maid opened the door.

“Oh, excuse me. I wasn’t aware you were coming back.” Her hand shifted on the doorjamb, fingernails painted. She smiled and said, “I’ll just finish straightening out the towels.”

Madeleine nodded. “All right.”

The maid closed the door behind her. She didn’t have any towels with her, or a cart for that matter.

In a haze of calm, Madeleine walked over to the bedside table. She withdrew the Glock. Forced herself to breathe evenly, inching herself towards the wall beside the bathroom door. On the other side of the door, the maid was moving around.

Madeleine grit her jaw, taking aim. Inhaling, holding, exhaling. At this range, she’d hit the woman in the stomach.

All movement on the other side of the door stopped. The door opened.

Madeleine squeezed the trigger. Gunshot permeated the room. The maid staggered backwards. She twisted her body around and her foot caught over the rim of the bathtub. She collided into the wall opposite with a pained grunt, slumped to meet the tile, trailing blood in her wake, unable to brace herself. Madeleine levelled the gun.

“Are you alone?” The maid’s wide eyes snapped up to the gun, then to Madeleine. “If there are others, you must call them off. Or do you want to make this more difficult?”

She took a breath and raised a hand and touched her ear. Her voice carried no suggestion of pain. “Sir. No, I’ve got it under control.”

Madeleine did not lower the gun. She moved over to the cabinet. Opened the drawers, took out a bottle of painkillers, placed it on the edge of the sink. She eyed a bath-towel and tossed it to the woman. She switched into a less-aggressive register. “I have—” no intention of killing you? No, that offered a window for negotiation. She had to establish control. “—a few questions. If you cooperate, I will call someone down to see to your injuries.”

The woman’s eyes were fixed on her. Trickle of blood issued lazily from her mouth, the same colour as her lipstick. The predominant stain from where she’d been shot was seeping onto the white tiles, forming a puddle.

“You must tell me why you are here,” said Madeleine, “so I can phone for help.”

The woman’s lip curled on a laugh. Blood stained her teeth, seeping over her tongue. “Do you know what your friends do to people like me? They’re only ever going to find pieces.”

“If you don’t say anything, it’s likely you will die. You have nothing to lose.” The operative’s eyes flickered to the phone. She muttered something under her breath. “What was that?”

“Oberhauser is who you want.” Madeleine hesitated. “I’ve given you a name,” the operative snapped. “Now make the damn call.”

Madeleine nodded. She took the phone and dialed the number. Waiting, chest tight.

“Stockmann speaking.”

Madeleine froze. She’d heard this voice before. Beginning to weather with age, but unmistakable after all these years. Not since she was young enough to stay home with maman, back when her father was still visiting L’Americain with his family. That gnawing, icy sensation of attempting to outpace the inevitable tightened her chest. She opened her mouth but the words didn’t come as naturally as before. “I—” she cut off, struggling to compose herself, “—I need your help.”

“Dr. Swann,” the voice immediately thawed into sympathy, an expert salesman, “I wasn’t expecting to hear your voice. Is something the matter?”

“There’s—a woman in my bathroom. She’s injured.”

“I see. We’ll send someone up to take care of it.”

“She needs immediate medical attention.”

“Of course,” Blofeld said. “You’ll be escorted out as well. Just sit tight.”

The call ended. The operative had grabbed the towel, putting pressure on her stomach. It was inundated in blood. “How do you know this man?” The woman balked at her. Her eyes darted to the large mirror in front of the sink. Madeleine, despite her own terror, was running out of patience. “I made the call. Now answer—"

“—shut the fuck up,” the woman said through gritted teeth, “right now, or you’re going to get us both killed.”

The wound looked bad. Madeleine grabbed another towel and knelt down on the tile to assist.

“The hell are you—?”

“Don’t move,” Madeleine muttered. The woman did not relax. But she did comply. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“You’re going to ruin your gown,” said the maid, in an incredulous tone. Madeleine ignored her. There was no great shock, no time for the epiphany. All that remained was cold lucidity.

“I’ve never killed a person before,” she said. “Though I almost did.”

The operative hesitated. “Recently?”

“No,” Madeleine said. “I was a little girl.”

Soon enough, the door opened and in walked Hinx. He grabbed the housekeeper off the floor as though she weighed nothing and shoved her into a laundry hamper. As he was about to wheel it out, the door to the adjoining room clicked open. Hinx, with his hands on the rim of the laundry hamper, turned to watch as Safin walked in.

“Sciarra is with the target,” Safin said. “I’ll handle this.”

Hinx nodded, and wheeled the operative out, leaving them alone. Safin glanced at the bathroom, then to Madeleine’s state of dress. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He looked at her. “You left early.”

“I excused myself,” Madeleine said, careful to avoid any undercurrent of accusation. “There was a mix-up at the front desk. Evidently this woman wasn’t here to refill the soap bottles.”

“She’s alive,” Safin said.

“I’m not a killer.” Madeleine's lip curled into a scowl. “She gave me the name Oberhauser.”

Safin went very still. He seemed to process this, then went along tightly, “For what reason?”

“I told her to call off her friends.” Even without all the pieces, Madeleine was getting closer to what Klebb was after. She had not imagined it would be so simple. She just had to push him a little more. “Oberhauser called the phone and told me someone would take care of it.”

“You were under no authority to ask her for anything.” Lapsing into dangerous quiet, his posture simmering on the edge of violence.

As her heart thrashed against her ribs, she said, “You wouldn't take your eyes off of me all evening. Did you think I would not notice?” He did not answer. Her mouth curled, trembling. “Perhaps you suspected something was amiss.” Goading him into complicity, the same sense of inertia as running across the ice. “You knew that there was an operative hidden among the donors and you were happy to use me as bait. It didn’t matter whether I survived.” Safin held her gaze, the flash of a warning in his eyes. A vindictive sense of satisfaction counteracted by her own entrapment. “Or perhaps you’ve set me up? What, to erase your mistake? I bet it’s not even the first—”

He caught her by the throat, and in two strides she was backed up against the wall.

Grabbing for his wrist for what little it would do, Safin’s expression didn’t change. “The only negotiation,” he said, “is whether or not you are sent back to your father in a box.” The hand around her throat didn’t compress. He turned his mouth into her cheek, and hissed, “Hit me.”

It clicked.

Before Madeleine could act, he grabbing the front of the dress as though it were a shirt-collar, wrenching sharply upward.

The fabric tore. Madeleine decked him. Safin did not flinch. He corralled her by the shoulder, maneuvering them both into the bathroom. He shut the door and let go of her. Walked over to the shower, turned on the hot water.

“You’re in shock,” he said in a flat, deliberate voice. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

He’d torn the gown across her clavicle. She covered herself on reflex, but her mouth trembled anyway. Safin muttered something to himself that wasn't in English.

“Take a shower,” he said curtly, eyes flickering to the mirror behind her. “I’ll be back.”

Madeleine had nothing to lose. She stayed under the shower and let herself be warmed. Eyes on the flawless white tile. Same bottles on the ledge, devoid of blood. The bare skin on her throat tingled. There was no point on which to focus without wandering back to her own lack of agency. You could not lose that which you never had to begin with.

The maid, or operative, had looked at the mirror. There must be something in this room used to transmit audio or video. The only way she and Safin were getting out of this was to play along with what was expected. Klebb, it seemed, would anticipate a scandal.

Madeleine turned off the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. The mirror was fogged over and she could not distinguish a face. Madeleine hit the switch. Overhead fan whirred to life.

⁂

As Safin checked the adjoining room, he was already wasting time. Ostensibly, Blofeld had sent him to take over the operation. This agent posing as a maid was another distraction, no different than the CIA-boyfriend. 007, no doubt livening up the party on floor two, was the real threat, and here Safin was, trapped in another one of Klebb’s tests.

Swann was a good actor, but she had betrayed her own intentions under pressure. Frightened and seeking an escape, it was natural to pin the blame on him. Aside from her father’s presence, her contact with Blofeld was her only insurance. After all, her ignorance was the real reason she’d survived this long. Despite the slip-up, she’d been savvy enough to disarm the operative without killing her, and play along with the ruse. If she remained in the dark about Bond, she had a chance to survive another year unscathed.

This shouldn’t be difficult. Contact Kęstutis before the inevitable call down to Rome, courtesy of Blofeld. He’d explain that there was an attempt on Swann’s life, and it was dispelled without incident. Easy to the point of convenience, which sounded more like a test than a genuine attempt on Swann’s life. With that in mind, Safin circled back to her room. The bathroom door was closed, but the fan was on. A sliver of light crept under the door. He rapped twice, said, “It’s me.”

The door opened. She was covered only in the white towel. Fair hair clung to her face, saturated with water. A tangible shift in her demeanor, from alarm to conviction, a look in her eyes that was ruinous and bright.

She grabbed his lapels. Pressing her mouth over his. Safin didn’t reciprocate, or pull away. She raised a hand to touch his face, side of his neck, as if he were made of something more delicate than flesh and blood. She breathed, “It’s all right,” twisting in his guts more intimately than a knife.

If you leave, her eyes screamed, they will kill me.

If Safin stayed, if he gave even the slightest impression of empathy, he was a dead man. If he walked away, nothing would be suspected, but any intel she possessed would vanish with her. Putting himself in dangerous situations wasn’t his style, but there was a time for exceptions. So it wasn’t much of a debate, letting her pull him into the bathroom. They’d be listening. Not much point looking under the bath towels, the tiny overpriced bottles of shampoo, soap. A hidden microphone could pick up noise within a twenty foot radius. His attention caught, briefly, on the faux-plant on the counter, next to the sink.

Permitting her to lead, divesting him of the suit jacket, setting it aside on the black countertop. Unfastening his tie. He blocked her from the mirror with his body. Svelte. Beautiful in a cold, unyielding sense without implying fragility. She smelled like the hotel soap. Her hair still damp from the shower, one hand furled against his breast. The pulse in her throat fluttered under his palm. She wasn’t looking at him.

When he took her by the chin, he got no reaction beyond a slight intake of breath. Stray droplets of water rolled down her hair and scattered onto his shirt. Her eyes flickered from the mirror to his face in tacit understanding. Their lives depended on their ability to put on a charade. 

⁂

James Bond was running out of patience. The raffle wasn’t close to finished. He’d excused himself from the proceedings, to the dismay of the partygoers who were a little too tipsy to register the precise reason for his exit. All the better, as he moved out of the ball-room and into the reception hall. You could only drink so much mineral water without eying the alcohol. He’d learnt his lesson from Montenegro about accepting drinks at a QUANTUM function. Make no mistake about the sponsors, this was, in some way or another, the same crowd and the same intent. Dr. Swann’s role in their scheme wasn’t clear, but Bond was willing to get to the bottom of it.

Paloma was on the way back to the party. “Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“Dr. Swann wasn’t feeling well,” she said. “I went up with her to the twenty-fourth floor, but there was a mix-up with housekeeping. I thought I’d notify someone on-staff before I came back.”

“She must have left early,” Bond muttered, watching Paloma carefully.

“The CPO was around,” Paloma said. “He left a few minutes ago.”

Bond nodded. “To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a bit under-the-weather myself. Give them my regards, won’t you?”

Paloma nodded. “Of course.”

He stepped into the reception hall and touched his ear. “Leiter, I’m starting to think Swann never spoke to your charming protégé.”

“Her tracker is registering her location,” Q said. “She’s on the fifth floor.”

Bond frowned. Unless her Smart Blood tracker had been cut out, it seemed impossible. “Is it possible to change a Smart Blood tracker’s ID?”

“Shouldn’t be,” Leiter added. “I’ll have Q and our boys look into it.”

“I suppose the doctor’s having an interesting night,” Bond muttered.

“Evidently,” Q’s tone suggested he wasn’t in the mood for another one-liner, “but she’s not why you’re here, 007.”

Bond conceded. “Where’s Safin now?”

“He got called off,” Q muttered. “Something tripped an alarm system in one of the rooms on the twenty-fourth floor. Must’ve been installed in-advance.”

“I’d figure the gunshot would have tripped the alarm before your plant.”

“That device was administered to you, 007,” Q added curtly. “I’m curious to know how it ended up where it has.”

“It would seem there’s more than one mole,” Bond said. Everything about this mission had reeked of contrivance from the start. To his knowledge, Paloma hadn’t spoken a word to Swann in-person until tonight. Bond simply fed Madeleine the cover story. “We’re being misdirected.” Bond scowled. The younger field agents had a particularly bad habit of getting side-tracked, or caught unawares. All theoretics and no common sense. He made a beeline towards the elevators. “I’ll make this quick.”

Q said, “Keep the collateral to a minimum.”

“Since you asked nicely,” Bond said, as he punched the button and the elevator doors closed.

⁂

On the fifth floor, the door to the laundry room opened and Hinx wheeled in the hamper. Rosa Klebb was waiting patiently. She caught his eye and nodded. Hinx plunged an arm into the hamper, retrieving the operative by the forearm as if she were no heavier than a child’s doll. She was plunked down into a chair. She looked into the face of Klebb, who did not smile. “It’s good of you to join us.”

“Fuck you!” the operative spat. “That bitch pulled a gun on me!”

“007 is on the move,” Hinx said. “How do you want to handle this?”

Klebb nodded. “You know what to do.”

Hinx left them alone. Emboldened by his departure, the operative unleashed her beleaguerment on Klebb. “This operation is a shitshow.”

“I understand your frustration,” said Klebb patiently. “We are in the process of negotiating a deal with your contact. In the meantime you and I will discuss the details of your transference.” Klebb’s smile was warm, genuine. This was the favorite aspect of her work. “On what grounds do you feel you’ve been mistreated?” The operative fell quiet. “Come now,” Klebb said in a gentler voice, “you’ll find I am not as unfeeling as the man I must answer to. It is in your best interest to speak to me.”

“She’s working for Blofeld,” the operative said, as if not able to convince herself of the statement’s verity. “She asked me if I knew anything about the name.”

“Swann knows only what she is told.” Klebb had a small phone in her hand. “Once we have our verdict, you will be let go.”

⁂

On the twenty-fourth floor, Safin began fixing his pants. He didn’t say anything, or look at her. A repeat of the situation last month. If Klebb assumed this to be weakness, as she was wont to, he could simply play along as expected. Her fate was the same, regardless of whatever sentiment he chose to extend. Such matters were corrigible.

The door to the hotel room opened and shut. Fixing his tie, donning the suit jacket, Safin considered his options. Most likely, Hinx had come back to finish the job. It was also possible 007 had charmed his way into entry. An easy lie about his wife’s misplaced card, a careful smile, and the attendant would overlook his lack of a wedding band.

Swann considered him without verbalization. No different from the therapist in the office.

He turned as if to kiss her jaw, and muttered, “Wait here.” He pulled back.

Nothing had changed in the room itself.

Aside from the knife strapped to his ankle and his wits, he had little to work with. Safin hadn’t been informed that anyone else but Hinx would be here. There was no back-up.

The man on the other side of the door forced it open, grabbing Safin by the lapels and driving his knee into his chest.

007 noted the change of clothes set aside. With a glance back at Safin, he muttered, “Q, you’re never going to believe this.” With his attention on Madeleine, he wasn’t paying full attention to his back. “Doctor Swann.” Madeleine recoiled against the wall.

Safin reached down his leg for the ankle holster. Swann’s eyes darted to him. In the second it took 007 to catch up, Safin was on his feet. He aimed for his neck, but 007 turned around and it caught the meat of his shoulder. A chop to the side of the head and he was on the ground, vision flashing.

“Stay down,” 007 growled, “and don’t fucking move.” He looked over at Madeleine. “I’ll get you out of here.”

“What about him?”

“His friends can decide what to do with him.” 007 gesticulated with the Walther PPK. “Get dressed and we’ll go.”