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dorminchu · 1 year ago

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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.

#nttd #no time to die #lyutsifer safin #madeleine swann #rosa klebb #primo #mr hinx #james bond #mr white #ernst stavro blofeld #fanfic #fanfiction

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melynen · 11 months ago

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Scavenger hunt 75

Create a themed reclist of your teammates' works (new or old.)

AKA short little ficlets

All Access Pass | G | Mr. Hinx/Hugo Drax | by Castillon02

Summary: Drax just wants his new bodyguard to be able to go with him everywhere.

This is a silly and cute little ficlet, with a ship that I never expected to enjoy as much as I did.

Mantra | G | Jaws/Dolly | by Anyawen

Summary: He repeats the words over and over, to convince himself. It doesn't work, and that's okay. It's probably better this way.

This is a short little introspective ficlet. Jaws is a great character, and he’s really well written here, so I really enjoyed reading it.

Paper Cranes | G | by KittenKin

Summary: Therapeutic origami.

This is a character study of Q, really well written and definitely worth a read.

the grief martini | T+ | 00Q | by thestalwartheart

Summary: A double drabble in which Q deals with the anniversary of Bond's death.

A surprisingly sweet (in a bittersweet way) little ficlet about Q’s grief.

Identification | G | by oldestcharm

Summary: James has priorities. Sometimes they are way off.

A silly, funny little ficlet that made me laugh.

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safinsscars · 4 years ago

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#James bond #Ernst stavro Blofeld #Mr. White #Mr. Hinx #LeChiffre #Lyutsifer Safin #Dominic Greene #Raoul Silva

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jamesbondbrasil · 7 years ago

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Dave Bautista indica possível retorno de Mr. Hinx em "Bond 25"

Dave Bautista indica possível retorno de Mr. Hinx em “Bond 25”

O ator Dave Bautista postou uma foto em seu Instagram mostrando uma tatuagem com a marca da SPECTRE, no mesmo dedo em que usou o anel do personagem Mr. Hinx no filme 007 Contra SPECTRE. Seria esse um indicativo do retorno do personagem em Bond 25? (more…)

View On WordPress

#Bond 25 #Dave Bautista #Mr. Hinx

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hungry-hobbits-art · 3 years ago

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i'm drawing peepaw franzy and his two really annoying sons

#wip #james bond #so sad! son doesnt wanna take a selfie with peepaw #did you know that mads is the tallest main bond villain in the daniel craig franchise #not including mr hinx who is 6'4 #the guy that plays dominic greene is the shortest at 5'6

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slimfitjacket · 6 years ago

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Buy Spectre Dave Bautista (Hinx) Brown Suit at discount rate with worldwide free shipping from slimfitjackets.com online store. SHOP NOW!

#spectre dave #Dave Bautista #mr. hinx #Spectre brown suit #bautista #bautista spectre brown suit

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themuller13 · 7 years ago

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What to do when you survive certain death? Well, if at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

A small drabble for the 007 fest.

#007 fest #teammbranch #james bond #Hugo Drax/Mr Hinx #themuller writes or tries to

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samanthahirr · 2 years ago

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samanthahirr's 007 Fest 2023 Masterpost

COMMENTS

510 comments! With comment-multiplier bonus points, that's 700 points for comments!

FICS

(>750 words)

(No) More Than This (Chapter 1-2)

We Eat First With Our Eyes (2022 Prompt #6 "nsfw")

The Chase (Chapters 1-4) (2022 Prompt #6 "nsfw")

(750-2,500 words)

Relating in Kindness

With Heart Hardened

FIC SUMMARIES (i.e. "stories sam isn't writing")

The Vampire from the Deep * (2020 Prompt #31 "Vesper is a vampire")

Office Hours

The Quartermaster's Mission Holiday (2018 Prompt #22 "And then they were roommates" & 2023 Prompt #222 "Enjoying a nice view")

COCKTAIL RECIPES

The Skeleton's Bite *

The Jamaica Contact with a Side of Danger *

Jinx's Bikini *

The Blow Me Away *

Mr. Hinx Fizzy *

Paradise Bird ^

INCORRECT QUOTE MEMES

00Q - I want to wake up with you

Bond/Swann - You often use humor to deflect trauma ^

NomiPenny - How's the sexiest person here? ^

Bond/Moneypenny - Better off as friends ^

Bond/Tanner - I'm getting in the shower ^

Bond/Boothroyd - I want to kiss you ^

Q/Bond/Moneypenny - Sorry I'm late *^

Tanner/Mallory - Are you trying to seduce me? *^

Bond/Tracy - I don't do relationships ^

Bond/Mansfield - I really like your top ^

Bond/Felix - We both look very handsome tonight ^ (2023 Prompt #223 "Insecure about how they look")

HEADCANONS

10 Hosiery Habit Headcanons *

Bill Tanner's Bedding Set (2023 Prompt #22 "Flowers")

Original Character - Gina Castillo's Case File *

5 Biggest Swimwear-Embarrassments Headcanons * ^ ^ ^

7 HR Complaints Against MI6 Staff Headcanons ^

SCAVENGER HUNT TASKS

#1 leave someone an anonymous comment of positivity *

#6 create a crossword puzzle: "007 Animals"

#9 (x5) create an incorrect quote meme, images optional

#12 write an acrostic poem: "Moon Moth" *

#17 create a film poster with a local landmark "The Dying Reflection"

#25 show a character's bedding set "Bill Tanner's Bedding Set"

#26 show your pet working for MI6 "009-Lives"

#29 (x2) solve a Find the Difference post (@bluebellofbakerstreet & @kitten-kin)

#30 create a cocktail recipe "The Skeleton's Bite"

#33 (x3) solve a crossword puzzle (castillon02 & bluebellofbakerstreet & kitten-kin)

#35 spot a Bond reference in the wild "50 Bond Gadgets You Can Own"

#36 create a fancast film poster "First with a Bullet" (Aldis Hodge)

#43 gift a fanwork to a member of another team: "Drabble: Alec/Bond" for @emiliasilverova

#46 create an incorrect quote meme, images required: "I want to wake up with you"

#48 collaborate with a teammate: "The Chase" with @aprettyspy

MOODBOARDS/COVER ART

The Vampire from the Deep moodboard

The Quartermaster's Mission Holiday moodboard

Office Hours moodboard

Original Character - Gina Castillo's Case File moodboard

(No) More Than This cover art

We Eat First with Our Eyes cover art

6 Cocktail Recipe title cards (see above)

MISCELLANEOUS

Off the Books playlist (2023 Prompt #198 "create a playlist for a fic")

Fancast Film Poster "First with a Bullet" (Charlize Theron)

Drabble - MoneyTanner ^ (2017 Prompt #4)

Drabble - Tanner/Mansfield * ^

Drabble - Alec/Bond *

BETA'D WORKS

1 fic for @emiliasilverova (Achillean Delights)

2 chapters for @hammerbacks (Taking in Water chapter 2 & Warm Water chapter 9)

2 chapters of "The Chase" for @aprettyspy

EVENTS

1 film (Flash Gordon) hosted

1 Productivity Hours hosted

1 Bond Bingo Hour attended

4 Productivity Hours attended

5 Longfic Readalongs attended

* indicates Theme Day bonus ^ indicates Unique Rare Pair Ship bonus

510 comments, 15 theme days, 17 unique rare pair ships, 9 fics/chapters posted, 3 fic summaries, 11 incorrect quote memes, 3 drabbles, 6 cocktail recipes, 24 headcanons…and a dozen more miscellaneous creations! I had no idea I could be so productive/creative in a single month!

Endless thanks to my @teamqbranch captain and cheerleaders and teammates for their support and encouragement! I'm grateful I got to spend so much time with all of you this month. And a huge thank you to the @mi6-cafe mods for organizing such an awesome event! And now I need a nice long nap.

TOTAL POINTS FOR 2023 FEST = 1,670

#007 fest 2023 #007 fest #007 fest masterpost #teamqbranch #i survived #00q #stories sam isn't writing #my writing #james bond #007

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dorminchu · 1 year ago

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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.”

#nttd #fanfic #fanfiction #james bond 007 #lyutsifer safin #madeleine swann #mr hinx #ernst stavro blofeld #rosa klebb #this is where the fun begins :D

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ignaciosanchez1701 · 3 years ago

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SPECTRE!Madeleine headcanon

She was born Madeleine White in 1986. She was very close to her parents growing up, moving to a live in a remote place in Norway when she was still young, they travelled a lot.

Her dad would go away for work, sometimes for weeks at a time, and the years went by he would be away longer and longer.

In ‘98, she and her mother were attacked by an unknown intruder. Though her mother was killed, Madeleine managed to find her fathers gun and shoot the man, and though he left, she found a place to hide and stayed there.

Mr. White got home not long after, finding his wife, devastated he shouted for his daughter and she finally came out of hiding place. He told her to pack her things, as they were leaving and wouldn’t be coming back.

He finally told her that his work involved some very bad and dangerous people, and he had thought she and her mother would be safe if he kept them at a distance, especially as he moved up the ranks and became more involved. It was why he was around less and less.

She was angry at first, and wanted nothing to do with it, blaming him for her mother’s death, but White insisted she however she felt, she needed to be prepared; it would be the only thing that kept her safe. He put her into a “special school”, where her education included fight training, with and without weapons, and instruction on how to deceive people.

They try to teach her how to be seductive to gain a persons trust, but she snarled at the idea, deciding she wouldn’t act like a swooning damsel to get people to trust her, she just needed to appear credible and she could do that by being a professional.

In 2005, she changed her last name to Swann and started studying psychiatry.

***

In late 2014 she was brought onto a project, apparently selected by Blofeld himself for a special assignment. There was a British agent that had been causing the organisation a lot of trouble, already having taken out some prominent members. They were laying down the foundations of a trap that would eventually send him her way.

She was unsure, but her father told her he had the utmost faith in her, that he would be the one to send the agent to her, that his position was shaken, and this would be her chance to secure her own position. This would also be the last thing he would do.

They were going to set her up with an office in the Hoffler Klinik, a private medical facility in Solden, a resort SPECTRE occasionally used for meetings due to it’s more remote location. Though it wasn’t owned by SPECTRE, or not as far as she knew, they had several staff on the payroll.

The office she was given was large, prominent, with windows all around providing a view of the location. She settled in and took on several clients as she waited.

It was several months before she got a call from her father. He had been alerted that Bond was headed his way, and it wouldn’t be too long after that Bond would be with her so she should get ready. They got to say goodbye, knowing it would be the last time they would ever speak.

When the request for an appointment crosses her desk, she has already cleared her schedule, so she is able to see him as soon as possible.

Bond was both not and exactly what she expected. She allowed him to feel he had all the information, and allowed her real emotions over her fathers death to surface as he tells her of it, telling him to leave. She is confident he won’t, and the type of person to feel more secure in where he stands with a person if he has to work to convince them of something.

Hinx unexpectedly shows up. He tells her they have to go far a little ride, and when she objects, he points to the room below, where Bond is stood talking to a dark-haired man. She frowns and starts to leave, but on of Hinx’s men grabs her arm as he tells her ‘he needs to see you first’. She asks why and he grins, ‘He can only come after one of you’.

Frustrated that she wasn’t informed of this, and that nobody seems willing to tell her more, she gets angrier still when they try to inject her with something in the car, and when they say it’s just to look convincing, she snaps at them that it’ll only set back their plans if she can’t function.

When Bond catches up, she lets her anger out, throwing up an adversarial defence knowing he’ll want to break through, but calms down significantly when he tells her they have to go meet a friend of his. On the way to the Pevsner, she is curious if anyone’s going to be waiting for them, if Hinx’s vague hint was they were after this friend. And if the room is empty, she may be able to flip her anger to concern and manoeuvre her way further into Bond’s trust.

However, the dark-haired man is there, meaning the others had failed, a surprise given the look of him. He is introduced only as Q, clearly a codename, and appears to be a tech specialist. His presence has Swann confused, as she was under the impression that Bond was operating without 6’s permission, or so she had been told. So, either she had been lied to, someone had their information wrong, or Bond had friends helping from inside.

She stays mostly quiet, seeing the opportunity to gain trust by revealing SPECTRE is the name of the organisation, which given what they have already seems fairly moot, and that L'Américain is a place.

She takes Bond to the hotel in Morocco, maintaining that she wants distance between them, while trying to figure out how to ‘accidentally’ find the secret room, and convince Bond to keep taking her with her.

Luckily Bond finds it himself, eventually, and they find the information that leads them to Blofeld. She is surprised to see pictures from her childhood, and uses the genuine sentimental emotions to persuade Bond to let her come with him, as he seems fairly convinced White was trying to strike at Blofeld.

When they leave, she leaves a message of where they’re going, knowing they’re being watched.

On the train, she can tell Bond is properly warming to her, so she reciprocates, telling him pieces of her past.

She sees Hinx approaching and is confused what he is planning, as there is no need to intervene since Bond is willing walking into Blofelds trap. When he attacks Bond, she gives a few token efforts to intervene, and as the fight escalates, moving further down the train, she hurriedly asks grabs her phone to ask what to do, receiving a prompt reply, ‘kill him’.

She takes the gun, chasing after the pair, and shoots Hinx.

She ends up sleeping with Bond.

At Blofeld’s base they get split up, taken to separate rooms, Blofeld comes to speak with her and she tells him what she knows, and about the man from Austria and what he seemed to have worked out from the ring. Blofeld smiles as if he already knows this.

She is rejoined with Bond, and they are led through the facility, Blofeld showing the footage from inside 6, and then the footage of her father’s death plays. She already knows this is what happened, but it still hurts to see it. Bond is knocked out, and as they are setting him up in some contraption, she voices her concern.

That they officially conceded defeat, doesn’t mean they have in truth. Q, at least, was definitely working against their plans. Blofeld shows her a number of files, some high ranking 6 personnel, and she points out the man she saw. Blofeld just smirks, Denbigh is already onto that one, they have plans for him.

Swann points out it’s not just him, and they cannot rule out whether others are working with him. Blofeld tells her she can work her way in, but she says killing Bond is a bad idea, that she needs him alive, as they’ll never trust her if she goes back alone.

He shrugs and tells her it won’t be a problem.

The chair scene, and Bond hints to her about his watch, she makes a quick decision, taking it and destroying the controls, freeing Bond. He is instantly in action, and she does her best to keep up as they make their escape.

He takes her to a safe house in London, where they wait alone for a while before people arrive. Only one enters, M, the boss, and she listens as they run through their plan. She follows them outside to get a look at the others, only 3 others and recognises them from the files, possibly they are the only ones, but at the very least they are the top of the pile.

She makes her exit, telling Bond she doesn’t want to part of it, and walks away as they drive off. She sends a text and moments later a car pulls up and she gets in. Blofeld is waiting, his mood unreadable, his face newly scarred.

She informs of what she heard, of how many, who, and their plan. He makes some phone calls as they drive through London, coming to stop at the old MI6 building.

She is confused as he leads her through the abandoned building, talking through his revenge on Bond, how everything worked out quite well, considering, until they end up in a room where he secures her to a chair. He tells her, ‘Bond will come for you,’ and she asks him if she is supposed to die. He smiles and tells her ‘you might get out. I did.’

Bond does reach her in time, and they make a narrow escape, chasing down the helicopter, Bond shooting it down onto a bridge. She follows behind, and watches with satisfaction as Bond stands over Blofeld.

At the other end she can see the rest of the team, and it’s with a further sense of victory Bond looks to them and starts to walk towards her. Denbigh dead and his plan in ruins, Hinx dead, now Blofeld in the custody of the British government, a number of high positions SPECTRE were open and for the taking.

#teamqbranch #007 fest 2022 #headcanon day #QB-S1 #spectre #james bond

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