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MI6 was an entity that dealt in lies, half truths and misdirects. Maybe because of this, MI6 was one of the biggest gossip mills in the country. Secret agents, bureaucrats, and technicians alike seemed to enjoy feeding into the tall tales and myths surrounding their workplace and their coworkers.
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Eve overhears a couple of the Q Branch technicians whisper as she walks through the open bullpen of minions to retrieve Q for a budget meeting.
“I heard Moneypenny bet an assassin’s pay out on a game of roulette. She then took the pay out, and the money she won, and has hidden it away in the Cayman Islands.” She grins slyly. No one would really believe them. Her secret retirement fund was flourishing under her investment banker’s watchful eye. No need for anyone to know it was in the millions already. “Rob, 006’s handler? Caught 006 leaving Moneypenny’s flat late last night. That’s what, her second 00 agent she’s slept with?”
Her fourth, thank you very much, Eve flips her hair over her shoulder. She’s proof the DOD theory is invalid, or perhaps she’s just immune. She clears her throat, and the two techs look up at her, petrified. She smirks at them, and goes to fetch Q.
As Q grumbles his way to their meeting, Eve texts Alec Trevelyan, asking if he’d like to take her out for dinner tonight, then take her home, again. Eve grins, they might be dating, by 00 standards, and her own for that matter. She rather liked the idea.
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Sylvia, 002, had heard whispers about the dark activities that Q Branch supposedly got up to in their spare time. Rumors, tall tales, and myths seemed to ooze from the division. The TSS had always had a couple screws loose, but Q’s Branch, the elite minions, were real pieces of work.
Sylvia is heading down to a secret conference room to rendezvous with the other 00’s in privacy when two M Branch secretaries head towards her. She ducks into a supply closet before they notice her, and has the opportunity to ‘gather intel’, eavesdrop, as the two pause in the corridor. One had recently brought documents that required Q’s signature and notarization down to the Q Branch bullpen. When they’d walked into the office, they found themselves in the dark, lights off, and candles lit around the space. The Q Branch boffins were huddled together in a circle, around Q, and chanting in tongues. Q had brandished a large ornate knife, before plunging it into a monitor. The minions had cheered, and Q had laughed an evil laugh. The other M Brancher laughed openly at his friend, and Sylvia could help but chuckle herself. Q? Destroying tech? Very unlikely.
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Q chuckles as he pulls the knife he’s testing out of the dead monitor.
“A worthy offering to the deity of our servers.” Q nods. R nods as well. The minions around them are still chanting, some in Latin, others whatever secondary language they knew, Q could hear pig Latin, polari, backslang, Sindarin and most notably, Klingon.
“Remind me to add a Trekkie screening to the interview process.” Q mutters to R.
“Too many Trekkies?”
“Shaka, when the wall fell.” Q nods. R laughs.
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Q walks through the cafeteria, hoping the cook who likes flirting at him is working tonight, and will be willing to fry him chips, when his ears start burning.
“The 00’s are being weird.” One of Q’s minions grumbles.
“Aren’t they always?” Q doesn’t recognize the person, but knows they work in M Branch. “Not like this, they’re being weirder than usual. For one, all of them are currently in London. All of them. Do you know how rare that is? A once a year occurrence. Maybe.” The Minion sighs exasperatedly.
Q’s cook sees him, smiles, and disappears into the kitchen. Q sits down near the gossiping pair and pulls his phone out so he looks distracted as they continue to talk.
“They’ve been milling and stalking around Q Branch, like bored house cats. It’s like they’re trying to unnerve us, or they’re plotting something.”
“With what brain power?” M Branch laughs.
“Has no one considered that they play dumb so we think they’re incapable of things??” “Perhaps they’re planning a war, or how to take over the world.” The M Brancher chuckles. “That’s just as likely as the mythological paintball game the 00’s play.” The Minion scoffs, tired of his companion not taking them seriously.
Q makes a mental note to give his minion a few days off, clearly they needed a break, they sounded crazed. But they weren’t wrong. Neither of them, actually. Q smiles as the line cook brings him a paper bag, grease already starting to soak into the bag. Q thanks the younger man, and scoops up his prize.
Time to retreat to his office for lunch, and perhaps, a nap. It’d been days since he’d gotten some decent rest. Maybe James could come stand guard for him after he was done for the day.
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James is sitting in his computer chair when he gets back to the office. He’s dressed down, a rare sight within MI6 walls, cream colored Henley, and dark wash blue jeans. His feet are propped up on Q’s desk, and his hands are folded behind his neck. He grins roguishly at him.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Always.” James drawls.
“Any casualties?”
“Just bruised egos. Not mine though. We won.”
Q hums, coming to set his bag of chips on the desk. James sits upright, and pulls Q down into his lap.
“Come home, let me celebrate my victory properly?” James rumbles, his hands pushing under Q’s jumper.
Q chuckles, it sounds much better than his planned nap.
“You need another shower anyways.” Q states, patting his hand against James’ chest. “You have paint under your ear, and gods know where else you didn’t manage to scrub.”
“I’ll let you scrub my back.” James chuckles.
“Oh, you’ll let me, what a great honor!” Q laughs, but pulls his jacket on, and starts packing his work bag up. Perhaps he can work from home tomorrow, James curled around him in bed. The thought is lovely.
“Tell me all about the paintball tournament.”
The Q and M Brancher in the cafeteria were actually correct, the 00’s had been stalking about Q Branch planning for war, they did every year, their own twisted version of a family reunion, a paintballing excursion. An entire day of ghillie suits, guerrilla warfare, stealth, and when all that failed, good old fashioned brawling. It was one of MI6’s best kept secrets, and two office workers had nearly figured it out today. The myth of an entire team of heartless, cold blooded killing machines, was thrown out the window when the 00’s were handed a paintball gun. Or in Alec Trevelyan’s case, paint grenades.
“00 teamwork training exercises.” James corrects him sternly, but his eyes are laughing. “Ah yes, how silly of me.”