007 Fan Fic. Continued..
James Bond welcomed the news that Hugo Drax had been caught, in the act, of political failure. This villain was brought down, not by bullet or bomb. But by their own, wanton, delusional hubris. Good!
Drax had been forced to resign from a top flight power post. Its precise title need not be named. Readers can infer, surmise, etc. Redacted. National Security. Official Secrets Act. That sort of thing.
Bond pondered Drax’s fate, as the razor blade cut into the mound of skin and stubble on the 007 face. Iron filings of stubble secreted themselves along the segues from sink to drain. A steady smear of blood punctuated the process; question marks of haemoglobin, signing the artwork of a sometimes beard.
James had been careless in getting down to this shave; having grown a ghastly quasi-beard. It served as both experimental fun and an ill disciplined acidity of laziness, with the procrastinator excuse of a cover /disguise. Despite his not, in fact, using disguises. Ever.
It felt good, all the same. Shaving was like shedding a skin. He was now refreshed. Recharged. Renewed. And ready for battle. But which war? Who to be the opponent?
Drax was vanquished, surely? And Bond’s own defence consultancy company was now growing, apace. Civilian / defence overlap. Helping the ‘good guys’ win their wars, albeit through policing the peace, to order, via methods unlisted. A perfect balance.
And yet, there was always a post script. A mission coda. New opportunities and enemies alongside alliances, forged in the embers of preceding conflict. In that sense, espionage was not unlike relationships. ‘Ex-pionage’, As Bond called it. There would be unfinished business, inevitably, if the war was worth fighting.
On that very front, Bond’s mind turned to Gala Brand. She had been on his mind, of late. Not that the girl in question had ever been ‘off’ his radar of conscious concern or merry-go-round of romantic daydreams. And then, as fate would have it?
A quick search of shared databases revealed that Gala was still active and operational. Fine. She was the best agent. But how many suitors did she have, off duty? Bond could not resist casting the net wide and looking in.
There appeared at least three categories.
- 1: older, verging on elderly. Monied. Bit thick but posing as poetic/musical/creative? Tim nice but, grim!
- 2: underworld /gangster/lowlife, ranging from boss to henchman.
- 3: assorted, well to do, successful enough but frightfully dull tech gurus/sportsmen/old flames/frustrated husbands/actors/writers.
None could beat Bond for sheer excitement /adrenaline/fun. Well, that’s what he hoped, anyway. If Gala fell in love or married any of the various types who pursued her? Bond would just know. A sixth sense of sorts would alert him.
Fine. Money counts. As indeed, do proximity and comfort. And 007 could always bury himself in work, find new muses or simply wait to win Gala back. Maybe. Advance and retreat and mix those two options, on repeat, forever.
Know when to cease, desist and shrug the shoulders of ‘I don’t care’. Even when that is a lie to yourself and everyone else. Think of it as a successful cover, in both love and war.
Besides, he and Gala were not an ‘item’. Yet. Nothing official, per se. She could come (yes) and go as she pleased, with whomsoever she chose. As indeed, could James. Neither was of a mood to close their respective fan club.
It just smarted that deep down, he longed for them to do so; running away together into an eternal sunrise.
Meantime? They had an understanding. If she summoned 007, then the man would arrive, on cue. Because the prospect was just too much damn fun to resist or pretend at any faux restraint.
The goal was to gradually make it even more fun and relaxing for her, whilst keeping alive the vital fires of mutual mystery and the chessboard of clashing ego.
Until, maybe, one day? They would simply fall into each other’s embrace and never leave. IE: His greatest, toughest mission, to date, was Gala Brand. And win or lose, what fun!
James Bond was in that perpetual paradoxical purgatory. Somewhere between emasculation and emancipation; a beautiful and theatrical aesthetic fusion of liberated androgyny and his own masculine misogyny.
This was personal growth. No question. And, despite the pain that entailed? He rather liked it. Creation and destruction in one bundle of pre-Raphaelite, Gala shaped, beauty.
All Bond required was an excuse to see the lady. It had to look accidental, professional, And perhaps, even boost his progress, en route? And then, providence/fate stepped into lend its helpful hand.
Cue Bond’s in-box email digest of defence and strategic chatter. Drax was not leaving without one, last, big gesture, it seemed. A party, no less?
IE: the Drax case, itself remained ‘open’, despite the man’s process of resignation. And since that mission was where Bond had first encountered Gala? A non syllogistic, linear logic, pointed him to somehow both confront Drax one last time and yet thereby, perchance, bump into the girl that 007 simply could not forget.
Bond crafted a request to the powers that be.
‘007 to control. Off books; off grid. Request invitation to Mr Drax’s imminent leaving do. Ensure he gets a proper send-off to remember. Will need cover story, expenses bundle, some Q Branch items and all the usual trimmings. Invoice to my company, easily. Debrief via consultancy report. Roger/10-4/over and out’.
And within an hour or so, Bond had a stiffy. That’s an invitation card, for those who thought something else. He would indeed go to the Drax farewell Ball. And Gala would be at that, well, ‘gala’? Bond now had a perfect excuse to confront both forces in his life. Love and war. At one event. He smiled at his own devil may care invitation to dice and dance with fate. Back, at last. Deo Gratias 😉
TO BE CONTINUED. JAMES BOND WIL RETURN. STAY COOL AND HYDRATED. THANK YOU FOR READING!
nb: all actor photos/clips are copyright proof and do not imply actual endorsement so much as minor, atmospheric, aesthetic casting nods! 😉
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