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Ship Hits the Fan

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The sun hung bright in the sky, shining down on gentle, rolling waves nearly indistinguishable from the cloudless, blue sky.

Aboard the Neptune’s Pleasure , Bond lounged on a deck chair, the very picture of indolent ease. Outwardly, he was as relaxed and content as a prince in his palace.

Inwardly, he was still pretty relaxed and content. After all, how often did one land a mission that involved following the terrorist du jour undercover on a pleasure cruise? It beat lying in wait with a sniper rifle on a frigid rooftop in Moscow by a long shot.

Still, at least part of Bond’s attention was perked and keeping tabs on his surroundings, and he only had to feign surprise at the shadow that fell over him as he lifted his sunglasses to get a look at the person who had approached.

“Mr. Mortis,” purred Mrs. Honeycomb, as she shifted her considerable, distinctly feminine hips and moved her head in one attractive movement that both showed off her long neck and shook her artfully messed-up hair into one flowing mane while also revealing the curve of her shoulder. 

Bond couldn’t help but give her figure an appreciative once-over. As someone who considered himself a professional in the art of seduction, he couldn’t but admire the calculated ease which went into a gesture like that.

Mrs. Jasmine Honeycomb was the epitome of what detective writers in the 30s called the femme fatale. Quite literally so, as Q informed him via an encrypted message last night. Dear Jasmine had proved fatal to all three men she had married, Desmond Honeycomb being the last in the line. 

Rumour had it it was Desmond’s beautiful bride asking him to help her undo her corset on their wedding night which did for him at last, as he had successfully managed to hang onto his life and vast fortune through four attempted poisonings, all allegedly carried out by his eager heirs and children, Casper and Egypt.

“Mrs Honeycomb,” Bond returned the greeting, then went back to skimming the headlines on his tablet screen. Honeycomb Enterprises’ Stock Plummeting Due to Low Confidence in New Leadership read one of them. 

He had assumed the woman would continue on her way to the dining room where an exquisite brunch buffet awaited the late risers. He had enough to worry about playing Where’s the plutonium selling, terroristic Wally with the passengers without some gold-digger trying to snatch his cover, Dick Mortis, the energy tycoon, into her ever-growing catalogue of dead spouses. (Bond also found her apparent interest slightly insulting, especially after assuring Q the previous night that he was quite safe from her scheming, as she usually preferred her partners to be a great deal older than herself.)

However, Jasmine Honeycomb did the unexpected. She settled on a deck chair right beside him and, with her arms carefully arranged in a way that would most accentuate her cleavage, she once again tossed her hair as she turned to him. This time a cascade of her luscious locks fell over one side of her face.

Bond tried not to grit his teeth too visibly. Honeycomb had been 75, Bankcroft and Domínguez at least 80. He did not look anywhere near their age! 

He turned to give her a chilly smile only to find her looking at him with an expression on her face which seemed completely at odds with everything Q’s file had said about her.

“I need your help, Mr Bond!” Jasmine Honeycomb said in a voice that did not resemble her previous purr in the slightest.

That cover lasted long, thought Bond. Q was going to be pissed. He took special care with both the name and the background of this particular alter-ego.

“I need you to help me prove that horrible little shit Casper killed my poor Des before he could name me the Vice President of his company as he had planned!”

Oh joy! ran through Bond’s mind as he maintained his bland smile.

“I can help you get the terrorist, the one who’s making the deal to move his plutonium this week. He’s the one MI6 is after, isn’t he?” 

Bond felt his entire body tense at this. That was extremely confidential information, and there was no way in hell Jasmine Honeycomb had the proper clearance for it.

“It’s Edwin Outterridge, you know. A horrible little man. We took the Women’s 18th Century Literature at Cambridge together.”

Bond gaped at the woman who had propped her face in her hand in such a way that together with the cover of her hair it would be virtually impossible to read her lips from any angle.

“Now will you help me or not?”

Who was this woman? Bond wondered. The world of espionage at his level was a small one. All the players either knew each other from first or second-hand dealings, or they knew each other by reputation. The fact that she immediately identified him--when he’d been so good to not break character like Q always accused him of doing--and also honed in on his mission objective did not mean good things. 

He also didn’t like the fact that both he and Q had written her off as merely a garden variety gold-digging murderess. Not that there was anything wrong with that; it was a tried and true method of women getting lightyears ahead in the world. Frankly, if creepy old men were willing to marry someone young enough to be their granddaughter, then they deserved whatever untimely end she neatly arranged for them. Even Bond had some standards. 

“Who are you working for?” he asked.

The woman shook her head lightly, in an almost dismissive way. “There will be enough time to discuss that later.” She replied, her eyes wandering towards the tablet the agent held in his hands and the headlines.

James locked the device in one swift movement and shifted on the chair. Anyone who looked their way would’ve simply assumed that Jasmine had found her next victim, and poor Mr. Mortis his own doom.

The Double-O took a deep breath and looked into her eyes again, trying to tell whether she was telling him the truth about the terrorist or not. But it was like tossing a coin in the air. This woman obviously knew how to conceal her real interests and the fact that she could even keep them hidden from an agent like himself, proved to be annoying for Bond.

“How did you know about me?” He asked quietly, keeping a calm and relaxed expression on his face in case anyone was looking their way.

Mrs. Honeycomb gave a small sigh.  “I guess you won’t help me unless I tell you, will you?”

James’ smile was charming from a distance, but showed a bit too much teeth to be anything other than threatening up close.  

“I saw you a number of years ago when my late first husband and I went on a vacation and he insisted we hit up some casino.  You were on a winning streak that had Silas extremely impressed. But you weren’t using the name Mortis then. I remembered you, and when I saw you again, I contacted an old friend of mine.  I sent him your picture, and he told me who you really are. James Bond, 007, agent of MI6.”  

She reached out and laid her hand on James’ arm.  He covered it with his own hand, mind wheeling as he thought.  Who knew his identity so well that he would just casually hand that information over to someone?  

“Your old friend?  What’s their name?” 

Mrs. Honeycomb giggled, actually giggled, as if he’d said something charming and funny.  She was good. “I have no intention of telling you that. I will be happy to help you, if you help me, but that information isn’t, and won’t ever be, on the table.  Let’s face it, I’m your in with that little weasel you’re trying to bring down. Unless you want to try to honeytrap him, which might work, by the way. He always did bat for both teams.”  

She slipped her hand out from under his and stretched, showing off her substantial bosom, before returning to her previous position, concealing her lips.  “It’s your choice. Have help, or do it all by yourself. If you have help, you could possibly even wrap up the mission early and enjoy the rest of your vacation.  And you’re clever enough that you can help me prove my innocence.”

James realised then that he didn’t really have a choice. For better or worse, Mrs. Honeycomb already knew who he was. It may come back to bite him later, but it was a risk that he would have to take. He just hoped it wouldn’t go horribly wrong before his next scheduled check-in with Q this evening. 

“Jasmine. May I call you Jasmine? I would be delighted.” James smiled beatifically. Anyone looking in wouldn’t have a clue what conversation had just passed between them. 

“Excellent. Well, then. There’s no time like the present. The sooner you help me with Casper, the sooner you can continue with your mission,” Jasmine whispered in his ear, looking for all the world like she was making suggestive innuendo. James was sure to play up the interested body language in return, adding a lingering touch to her shoulder. A little louder, she continued, “how about making this a private brunch in my cabin, Mr Mortis. It’s so much more… relaxed than the dining room.”    

James smirked his most self-satisfied smirk, for the benefit of any witnesses.

“Lead the way.” 

Once in the cabin, Jasmine quickly let her body straighten into a businesslike posture. “All right,” she said. “I was certainly planning on killing Des, but Casper beat me to it. Is there any way you can trick him into confessing or otherwise expose him?” 

“There might be,” Bond said. “But first I want to know about this Edwin Outteridge fellow.” 

“Oh, Mr. Bond,” a deep voice from the closet said. “I think the better question to ask would be, how much does this Edwin Outteridge fellow know about you?” 

Instead of waiting for Outteridge to out himself, Bond pulled his gun from the crotch holster Q had rigged up for his cruise outfit and shot blindly into the closet, an action which was followed by a satisfying scream.    

“Holy shit!” Jasmine said. “Holy fucking shit! You just fucking shot him!”  

“He’s probably not dead,” Bond said, making his way over to the closet. He stood to the side and kicked the door open, his Walther trained in front of him. 

“You just fucking shot me!” the deep voice complained. The voice turned out to belong to Edwin Outteridge. Bond had been briefed on him as a possible suspect, and he looked much the same as he did in his surveillance photos: weaselly face, tailored purple suit, and irritatingly Hollywood-looking teeth. Unlike the surveillance photos, he now had a red bloodstain blossoming across his abdomen. It would probably take him an hour or two to die if Bond applied some pressure to the injury soon. If not… 

“Where’s the plutonium?” Bond asked. 

“Fuck off!” Outteridge snivelled.

Bond tsked him as he maintained a lazy aim with one hand, activating the comm link in his ear with a faked scratch using his other hand.  He heard it click on and the familiar voice saying “Q Branch” as Jasmine cried, “We have to call the medic.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Mrs. Honeycomb.”

“But if he dies here it will raise questions,” she hissed, as Q went blessedly silent.

“Not for me,” Bond said.  “No one will believe the word of a conniving, murderous heiress over a respectable businessman like myself.  You’ll be in quite a bit of trouble with two murder trials to defend yourself in.” Bond grabbed Jasmine’s wrist and put the Walther in her hand, making sure to get her fingerprints on it.  The green light indicating a match flicked to red as her palm touched the handle. “He’s frankly more your type than I am. I am sorry that Mr. Outteridge is bleeding out on your white Gucci slingbacks, but really if you were concerned about them you shouldn’t have let him hide in your wardrobe.”

“But I didn’t ,” Mrs. Honeycomb insisted.  “I’m just as surprised as you are!”

James heard Q start typing over the comms.  “The most likely explanation for Mr. Outteridge hiding in your wardrobe is that you are working together, and your job was to lure me here so that you could dispose of me before the plutonium deal was concluded.  Otherwise explain how you knew my name and mission parameters .”  Q gasped.

“I would never work for him!  I loathe him,” Jasmine cried. “His thesis in our literature class was—”

“No one gives a rat’s arse about your Cambridge Women’s 18th Century Literature class, Mrs. Honeycomb!  I need to find the plutonium.  If you aren’t working for Mr. Outteridge here, for whom are you working?  Your old friend knew my name and mission and shared it with you.  Would he be the type to share information about you with Mr. Outteridge?”

“He would never!”  Q’s typing paused for a moment, and then resumed.  “I don’t know how he found out my room or that I was going after you.  Why would a plutonium dealer care?”

Mr. Outteridge groaned on the floor of the wardrobe as Q said, “I’ve found something, 007.” 

A beep sounded from James’ phone, and he pulled it from his pocket.  A photo showed in the text app, featuring Jasmine and a very familiar face.

Bond could feel the muscles in his eye twitch once. “Leiter.”

Immediately, his head whipped back to look at Mrs Honeycomb, this time under an entirely different light as his head processed the information. 

The woman’s eyes were shifting hurriedly from between him and a very much bleeding out Mr Outteridge, her cheeks flushed and her posture well-set in desperate stubbornness and fight-or-flight mode. None of her behaviors so far had betrayed even a slight bit of her carefully-crafted facade, and if Bond hadn’t already spent all of his focus on the situation at hand, he would’ve probably been impressed.

Mrs Honeycomb here was likely either a CIA agent or informant, and honestly, should this actually check out, it would explain a lot of things—starting from the reason why her so-called old friend knew so much about him, including his moniker.

Not the murders of her previous husbands, nor why she was asking him for help when she should’ve had the CIA backing her, of course.

But well, no time like the present to find out, especially whilst he was framing her for possible murder. 

“I’ll ask again,” Bond started because there were certain things that shouldn’t be taken at face value. His hand tightened around her wrist, the delicate flesh bruising easily under his frosty ministration. “Who—”

The ringtone of an incoming phone call punctuated like a hot lance through the thick tension of the cabin, and Outteridge’s sweaty, scrunched up face turned ashen, the mobile device ringing up a storm in his pocket.

Mrs. Honeycomb stepped back, but Bond held firm. She continued to tug on his arm, her voice imploring. 

“Don’t answer it, please don’t answer it!” Her voice was quiet, she wasn’t screaming...yet.

Q was silent in his ear.

“If I don’t answer it, I won’t know who it is will I?” Bond pulled her closer to Mr. Outterridge.

“Hold on, 007.” Q’s voice was soft, but harsh in his ear. 

The warning brought him up short for a half a second, until the slow inevitable pull of a clue tugged at him. Ignoring Q and Mrs. Honeycomb, he fished the mobile out of the inside breast pocket of the god awful purple suit. Villains these days. None of them knew how to dress properly. Mrs. Honeycomb gasped beside him. Christ, is that all they taught women these days. How to gasp helplessly. Had their roles been reversed he’d have broken her arm in three places already, fractured her jaw and she’d be missing some hair.

“Well, 007? Since you disobeyed, you can at least read the note out loud to class.”

Bond smiled at the irritation in Q’s voice. “Yes, Headmaster.” He stopped smiling from the painful blow to his groin. “The caller is-”

Fuck.

“007?” Q asked.

Mrs. Honeycomb had finally gotten her shit together and kneed him where the sun don’t shine. He pulled her hard against him, only to feel something sharp embed itself into his right shoulder.

Fuck. This time he thinks he said that out loud.

“007!” Q yelled into his ear nearly breaking his eardrum.

The world faded to black and he wasn’t sure if he had time...to...tell...Q...Q...Q…

When he next became aware of his situation, Bond blinked his eyes open.

His cheek rested on the metal floor. His head ached.

Although a dim gray darkness filled the room, colours swam at the edge of Bond’s vision. Red turned to orange, orange to a neon green, green to purple with splashes of pink gingham. It reminded him of the time he and Hedrick Williams experimented with psilocybin mushrooms at Fettes. Hedrick had graduated with honors. Bond barely passed.

He had been drugged. He wondered what the villain used and how long it would take to regain his powers of perception without all the colours creeping into his vision.

Bond shivered.

Across the room, an industrial-sized fan blew cold air across his skin. The coolness seeped through him, like the first gust of winter wind that threatened to take his breath away when he stepped onto the roof of the Riverhouse in a snowstorm. A bright chill that stabbed at his cheeks and made his eyes squint against its fury… only a bit less glaring than that. Bond briefly wondered what kind of industry would use such a fan, but his mind snapped to more pressing matters. He had been stabbed… no… injected… he remembered Mrs. Honeycomb. His hand went to his shoulder, but it stopped before it reached its target. Further investigation revealed that a length of chain bound his hands to a pipe that ran from floor to ceiling.

He struggled to get to his knees, and in doing so, he realized that he still wore the swimsuit that Q had outfitted him with as part of his travel ensemble. So much for enjoying his time on the plutonium-seeking cruise. He had been divested of his flip flops and his earpiece. He wished he had a blanket, or the warmth of a naked woman half his age, to restore his body heat.

If only he could contact Q. He was about to tell him something when Honeycomb attacked. The drug, he realized. It had affected his ability to think coherently.  

He shook his head from side to side to clear the cobwebs.

The phone… Q told him not to answer it. If only he had listened. The cobwebs cleared like strands of used dental floss dangling from the waste bin on a week that the maid had the flu.

He pressed both palms flat on the floor and felt the vibrations through the metal. Since he knew the sounds that seafaring vessels made, he surmised that he was still aboard the Neptune’s Pleasure. The whirring of the fan kept him from hearing clearly, but there was no mistaking one sound- the clang of metal against metal as the door to his quarters was thrown open.

Bond’s eyes widened.

He tried not to gasp like a student of Women’s 18th Century Literature.

“I should have known this was your doing,” Bond snarled.

The responding chuckle would have raised the hairs on the neck of a less experienced man, but as the face of Ernst Stavro Blofeld lowered into Bond’s compromises view, Bond was starting to rethink his entire plan. 

“You should have, but then again, if you did, I would be out of business.” Blofeld sat on the something - it was still hazy - in front of him. He was stroking that every present cat. “I expect the best from my employees and they should be lead by the best as well.”

Bond bit back a groan. It sounded like every boring leadership meeting he had been forced to attend in the Navy. No wonder his cover was blown so quickly. This was not the first time they had crossed paths. 

“What do you need to steal Plutonium for?” Bond asked. “Can’t you just buy up the factory?”

“Ah but where’s the fun in that? And when I heard that sweet Mrs Honeycomb was going to petition for your help? Well I just had to arrange this little meet up. And she has the details all wrong, poor thing. Desmond had been working for me for years. It was only when he met her that his return diminished.”

Bond was getting a sick feeling in his stomach. He knew where this was going. It had happened too many times. Everywhere they turned, SPECTRE had their fingers in pies. Or people. No, let’s go back to pies. 

“So you murdered her husband and let her take the blame?” Bond drawled. “Not a shadow of a doubt and no one to even think of looking for foul play.”

Blofeld smiled. It was a sickening look that didn’t reach his dead eyes. “No foul play involved, Mr Bond. He signed the same contract they all do.”

“So what now? Your smuggler bleeds out, Mrs Honeycomb finds another detective, no, you kill her, and then I escape and we do it all again?”

“Have you had a chance to see the aquarium on board?” Blofeld asks, standing up now. “A most amazing array of creatures. No, I think I will take you to this room of wonders tonight. Then you can die with something beautiful as your last view. How does that sound?”

The door banged open. “It sounds rotten.”

Bond looked and this time he did gasp like a student of Women’s 18th Century Literature.

Moneypenny was being led through the door, dressed much like any other cruise ship guest except for the unusual accessory of a gun to the head.

“Look what I found, a second beautiful thing to view as you die”, said Blofeld as he trailed out of the room, leaving them in the company of his guards.

Not long after, Bond and Moneypenny were led down the hall.  As he was pushed into a room, he noticed a long table, set for a buffet.  Bond was pushed into a sturdy steel chair and his handcuffs were fastened so that his hands were attached to the sides.  Moneypenny was pushed into a similar chair but without cuffs.

Looking up, he sees Blofeld, framed by a huge aquarium wall, hand-feeding fish slices to his cat.

“I do so enjoy the irony of eating sushi in front of this tableau.  I decide which fish live another day and which fish die for my enjoyment.  The same with people, I decide. Today, you die. I hope you have enjoyed the beautiful view.”  

Blofeld motioned to a guard, who took out Bond’s Walther.  Blofled said, “Shoot him now”.

The guard pulled the trigger but then looked puzzled when the gun didn’t fire. He tossed it aside and went for his own gun.  Bond struck out with his legs, distracting the man while Moneypenny lunged forward off and picked up Bond’s gun. The gun’s light turned to green.  She fired three quick shots at the guard, the first two barely missed the guard’s darting head, but the last was a clean shot to the middle of the forehead.

She scanned the room to find Blofeld and his cat had fled the room.  She bent down to free Bond and used a Q-branch bobby pin to pick the cuffs.  She had the first one open when there was a tremendous cracking noise. They both looked up to see a fault line spreading up the tank wall.

“Oh you gotta be kidding me!” James groan out once he is free from the cuffs and rubbing his sore wrist.

Eve was chuckling as she stuck her bobby pin back into her locks. She gets near to the man on the floor and poke them with her foot. Agent training have taught them to always be careful and double-tap if needed but for James cases triple-tap and throw the empty gun at the person face if needed.

A quick word of catch was heard before James’ Walther was tossed at him. His reflexes let him catch it and put the gun back into the holster before he went back to check for more guns and bombs. One can never pass over being over armed when you have a criminal mastermind on board the ship which is about to go to hell along with the mission.

“Had enough of eyeing my posterior? Shouldn’t you be checking if anyone else is coming over to make sure we are actually dead? There is a fault line that is breaking apart too if you don't mind moving now.” James narrows his eyes at Eve whose eyes are eating up the sight of his butt.

She looks like a cat who just ate a canary, a very juicy one from the looks of it. “Ah… You can’t blame a girl for enjoying a nice male specimen in front of her, can you? Your butt is a much better view than the old man I saw on this trip. Remind me to thank Q-Branch for the clothing they put you in and that front gun pouch. I totally dig that, emphasise the bulge. I should be off then. See you later old man.” 

She pulled out a ear piece from her bra and dropped it into his hand. With that she cocked her gun and left the room to check if it is clear. 

“Good to know you're saved.” Came the bored voice of Q once James turn his ear piece on. “Now get back to work. The world can’t save itself. And now that Blofeld is involved, shit is about to hit the fan.”

James chuckles. Somehow he is not bothered that Blofeld is involved, if he managed to thwart his plan once he can do it again. 

“Yes sir, on it. And how hard can it be.” James spoke out loud.

“Don’t say that!” Q yelled into the earpiece making him wince. The second time his ear nearly get blown out for the day. 

The fault line spread and it let out a sickly groan as the metal split apart. 

“Q, is there a possibility to check…”

Heavy boots thudding on the metal floor caught his attention. James plaster himself into a dark corner, waiting. He mentally counts the number of men he could hear.

Getting ready to do what he did best, he  shot the men relishing in the sound they made going down. "Now..let's go looking for the big fish." Q branch came back to life in his ear. "Your puns are terrible as always 007" that got a smile out of James "I thought you loved them Q" 

“They’re deplorable, like yourself. How about you focus on the mission, 007.”

“Spoilsport.” And with that Bond was off, like the good agent he was, to start his hunt for the aforementioned ‘big fish’. He really should catch up to Moneypenny before doing anything rash, but where’s the fun in that? For the life of him he can’t remember how exactly she got this mission. Wasn’t she supposed to be done with field work? Not his problem, anyways. 

The rest of the room was clear apart from the unconscious bodies of the guards Moneypenny had so helpfully taken care of and Blofeld nor Mrs. Honeycomb were nowhere to be found so he left to find his fellow MI6 agent. Hopefully she hadn’t gotten to their Big Fish, he wanted to take care of him himself. 

He rounded the corner with his gun primed in his hands. 

“Hey, Q?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s the probability of there being hungry, man-eating sharks around here?” If there were sharks around here he might as well put them to good use. 

“Well, you are currently off the coast of western Australia which has the highest rate of fatal shark attacks in the world. Most of the attacks are attributed to tiger or great whites. Though, the likelihood of one coming close enough to lets say -- I don’t know -- eat a very suspicious body dumped off a very large cruise ship by a very suspicious man that is supposed to divert any sort of attention, especially of the suspicious kind, is pretty slim.”

“How the fuck did you know all that?” 

“I watch Shark Week.” He what?

“You what?”

“Watch Shark Week, please do try to keep up Bond,” he said, not sounding the least bit perturbed that he just gave Bond enough info to tease him about for roughly a month and a half. “We have a mission to complete and some of us want to get home.”

“Have to feed your cats?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What are their names?” He has always wondered. At first he had thought Q was just taking the piss but he overheard him and R showing each other various pictures of their cats. Apparently Q was the kind of person to take a billion photos of his cats sleeping. It was kind of adorable. “Since I don’t have the clearance to have yours.”

“So many questions.” If he was anybody else Bond would have thought Q was annoyed, but he could hear the smile curling in the words. God, he had so much ammo to tease Q with now…

Cat photos. Shark week. What a nerd.

“Well?”

“Haven’t you got big fish to catch?” Q responded with a question to evade the question. Rapid typing loud against the quiet musing of Q’s voice. Before Bond could come up with a witty comeback, Q’s sharp orders had him obeying on reflex as he turned a corner hiding behind a large pipe. Shouts of a few guards could be heard as they ran down the corridor Bond was just on. 

“Look up 007.” Q’s voice sounded once the coast was clear. Trained eyes caught sight of the tell tale lens of a security camera, offering the camera a cheeky wink, Bond double checked the coast before ducking out of his hiding spot. 

“Found him yet?” Bond asked after Q had directed him through a series of turns through the service passageways of the level he was on. 

“I don’t have eyes everywhere on this damn ship, apparently privacy of their patrons were taken quite seriously.” 

Bond sighed and fought down the urge to simply run ahead in a random direction. Just as he was growing restless enough, Q’s voice cracked to life in his ear.

“Oh I see you. There you are.” A tone of triumph echoing such familiar words. “Take the next left then get down to the floor below, there’s a door down the left hallway.” 

Bond turned and found a short metal bridge linking the corridor he was on to the one across. The service ladders all led upwards. Peering over the railing to the floor below where another metal bridge stretched right below the one Bond was on. 

“I only have the footage of Blofeld entering that door. No other camera feed after that.”

“Excellent.” Bond groused. A grunt, a sharp exhale and several soft thuds echoed through to Q’s own earpiece as Bond got himself down to the floor below and to the door. And then silence. 

“Where are you?” Q asked quietly several seconds after he lost sight of Bond on the camera feed.

“Take a wild guess, Q.”

The plate on the door read simply, “Crew”.  Opening it Bond found himself in a small intimate compartment.   Very little surprised Bond anymore. Which is why the large round bed with a plush fuzzy red devete hardly seemed remarkable to him.  The gentleman lounging on the bed however, now he was worth remarking about.  He was laying in a nest of pillows asleep,  MId 30s, tousled hair, wearing only a lightweight pair of linen pants.  A uniform tunic hung discarded on the back of a chair.  

The cabin was far warmer than was comfortable and there was an odd rattling mechanical noise coming from the vent near the ceiling.

The man on the bed stirred from his sleep and drowsily called out, “are you from maintenance here to fix the vents?”

 A whirring noise caused James to briefly look up catching the motion of yet another camera.

“Is no place safe from prying eyes?”, James asked wearily.  “As long as you're here could you do something about the heat?”

“Would you like me to engage in some fan service?”, Q asked.

Bond tilted his head and smirked at the camera.

“Oh, grow up double oh seven.”