[ If asked, Bond would quite easily correct: no, it's not a habit of dying. It's a habit of coming back to life rather unexpectedly to those around you, and hell hath no fury like an agent taken by surprise. That's the bit that has most people scrabbling for a foothold. (It feels rather transparent to imply that he counts himself among them.) ]
Maybe I should ask for smaller shoes. [ Dry in its delivery but clearly not a life-threatening situation, if 007 has time to be civil in conversation. ] Something quaint in your size?
[ Quaint. Now there's a word Q has begrudgingly grown familiar with over the years. Hard not to, he supposes, looking the way he does (even though he's not the type to place much faith in appearances). A willowy frame, glasses, disobedient hair: not the first mental image one conjures at the mention of a budding provocateur, but Q knows that the times, they are a'changing.
To be considered quaint is to be considered unthreatening, which is perhaps half of the danger right there. Quaint things are quiet, small and precious, and by calling them quaint, one dismisses them. Emasculates them. Logic then follows that quaint things can also be dangerous.
The thought makes Q smile vaguely at the face of his mug, since there isn't anything better in the room to smile at. ] And here I had thought my radio and gun were far too quaint already.
[ Passingly, he adds: ] I do believe this qualifies as building bridges, Agent Bond.
[ A huff of a laugh. It's a quiet one this time round, a week's worth of tracking down a satellite that crashed in the Atacama desert. Certainly not an event worthy of a senior agent of MI6, let alone a double oh, but there's a fair bit on the line when it's a data packet attached to it that the Chinese are also after. Well— were.
The desert air is acrid and dry. There's a thin film of dust and sand over the side-mirror of his rental jeep, but Bond can't bring himself to care — everything is connected and plugged up to the laptop in the passenger seat, the road stretches out, and it's finally bloody cool enough to feel like he's not about to shrivel up and suffocate in the heat. ]
All the better to burn, Q. [ Over the line, Bond inhales. A hand out the window, one on the steering wheel, and the light of his cigarette trails cherry-red sparks alongside the centre-line of road. He ignores the blood on the end of his cuff. ]
I have been for the past five minutes. [ Q answer comes crisply, coupled with the faint murmur of deft fingertips upon a keyboard. ] But since you and I were busy exchanging pleasantries—
[ Information streams across the various screens of Q's station — a custom job, one petitioned and executed by special request. Facts, figures, triangulation schemas; they all flicker here and there, keeping independent times to an elaborate dance. Random and unchecked to the untrained eye but to Q, a certain kind of poetry, like every note of a single symphony played simultaneously and left for him to sort through.
Q pauses, but only briefly, before shuttling off the relevant information in a burst packet to Bond's location. ] If you'd turn your attention back to your computer. I think you'll find everything in order.
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no subject
Maybe I should ask for smaller shoes. [ Dry in its delivery but clearly not a life-threatening situation, if 007 has time to be civil in conversation. ] Something quaint in your size?
no subject
To be considered quaint is to be considered unthreatening, which is perhaps half of the danger right there. Quaint things are quiet, small and precious, and by calling them quaint, one dismisses them. Emasculates them. Logic then follows that quaint things can also be dangerous.
The thought makes Q smile vaguely at the face of his mug, since there isn't anything better in the room to smile at. ] And here I had thought my radio and gun were far too quaint already.
[ Passingly, he adds: ] I do believe this qualifies as building bridges, Agent Bond.
no subject
The desert air is acrid and dry. There's a thin film of dust and sand over the side-mirror of his rental jeep, but Bond can't bring himself to care — everything is connected and plugged up to the laptop in the passenger seat, the road stretches out, and it's finally bloody cool enough to feel like he's not about to shrivel up and suffocate in the heat. ]
All the better to burn, Q. [ Over the line, Bond inhales. A hand out the window, one on the steering wheel, and the light of his cigarette trails cherry-red sparks alongside the centre-line of road. He ignores the blood on the end of his cuff. ]
Picking up the signal yet?
no subject
[ Information streams across the various screens of Q's station — a custom job, one petitioned and executed by special request. Facts, figures, triangulation schemas; they all flicker here and there, keeping independent times to an elaborate dance. Random and unchecked to the untrained eye but to Q, a certain kind of poetry, like every note of a single symphony played simultaneously and left for him to sort through.
Q pauses, but only briefly, before shuttling off the relevant information in a burst packet to Bond's location. ] If you'd turn your attention back to your computer. I think you'll find everything in order.