“Off you fuck, go lay someone who doesn’t have more important things to do,” Q says cheerfully.
Bond leaves Q Branch empty-handed.
“The answer is still no,” Q says, breaking the gourmet chocolate bar in half. He hands one half to Bond and takes an enormous bite out of the other half. “Mmmmm. Feel free to keep trying, though,” he says.
There’s already a chocolate smudge at the corner of Q’s mouth, and for a moment Bond forgets the pen in favor of fantasizing about interesting ways to clean Q up.
(Q’s answer is the same for the stolen German prototype and the miraculously-returned-in-one-piece Walther. In the latter case, Q takes the time to press a ‘Good job’ sticker onto one of Bond’s hideously expensive lapels and sends him an e-ticket to a Bon Jovi concert.
It’s the first concert Bond has been to in years that isn’t work-related, and it’s brilliant.)
“For the thousandth time, no, 007,” Q says. “I will not make you an exploding car, pen, boat, shoe, tie, or tube of toothpaste. At this rate, however, I may well be tempted into designing an exploding condom just to see if you try to use it.”
Bond begins, “I had no idea you would be so interested in what I do with my–”
“–with your only exploding device?” Q interrupts dryly. “Metaphorically speaking, that is. Literally, you don’t have any.”
“Yet,” Bond says. “I don’t have any yet.”
Q doesn’t kick him out, so Bond sticks around, gossiping with the other boffins, observing Q, and mourning the fact that the C4 is kept in a room with special “No 00s Allowed” security measures.
He’s been hanging around Q Branch a lot, lately. The annoyance strategy requires frequent contact in order to wear down the target’s endurance, after all.
In the early days he had toyed with the idea of tricking one of Q’s staff into retrieving something from the armory for him, but most of them had demonstrated commendable loyalty and a surprising amount of spine when it came time to turn him down. He had exactly one taker, a lonely technician named Tom Watts who’d only wanted a nice date and a good fuck for his troubles, and somehow Bond’s feet had taken him to Q’s office shortly after that conversation, to report this potential breach in security.
He doesn’t only want an exploding pen, it seems. He wants Q to be the one to give it to him.
If one carries a pistol it is their responsability to allways seek continuing training, outside of common target practice, in weapons retention and law.
Some background on the instructor:
Doug Harmon has been a certified police officer for 10 years. He is currently employed by a large metropolitan law enforcement agency in Atlanta, Georgia. He has extensive experience with real-world violent incidents and deadly threats. In conjunction to his well-endowed knowledge of federal, state, and local laws he has started criminal investigations and begun the prosecution of convicted felons, fugitives, and organized crime radicals. He is presently assigned to a Special Operations Division S.W.A.T. Team. As a team leader he is tasked with the development, training, and quality of standard for all S.W.A.T Operators. He also creates, implements, and evaluates firearms and tactical training evolutions, which are written into the Standard Operations Procedure (SOP) by the S.W.A.T. Commander. Prior to his employment as a police officer, D.M. Harmon served his country in the United States Marines for 8 years. His primary job assignment was Field Radio Operation/ Security Forces. During the crisis of 9/11 in New York City, he was deployed with the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit (MARSOC) for two terms. He served honorably in Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom which he received several unit ribbons, awards, and metals to include a Combat Action Ribbon. The award was approved in reference to actions taken during a firefight in Kandahar, Afghanistan.
Warrior Wednesday: Corporal Theodore J. Crisswell, a field radio operator with Headquarters Battery, 2nd Battalion, 11th Marine Regiment, scans the area while on a recent security patrol in Afghanistan.
With the help of a gigantic cosmic lens, astronomers have measured the magnetic field of a galaxy nearly five billion light-years away. The achievement is giving them important new clues about a problem at the frontiers of cosmology – the nature and origin of the magnetic fields that play an important role in how galaxies develop over time.
The scientists used the National Science Foundation’s Karl G. Jansky Very Large Array (VLA) to study a star-forming galaxy that lies directly between a more-distant quasar and Earth. The galaxy’s gravity serves as a giant lens, splitting the quasar’s image into two separate images as seen from Earth. Importantly, the radio waves coming from this quasar, nearly 8 billion light-years away, are preferentially aligned, or polarized.
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A/N: Written for @spnbuddywriters SPN Team Building Challenge. The prompt for this part was the song Open Your Eyes by Daughtry (listen here).
~After another heated night, will you heed Dean’s pleas or are you already in too deep?~
Dean woke to an empty and cold the bed the next morning. The light breaking through the dingy motel curtains, illuminating the dank room. Running a hand over his face, lightly scratching the scruff, he sighed, making his way toward the bathroom. A quick shower helped to ease the tightness in his aching muscles. He was gathering what little he had in the room, not wanting to leave anything behind, when he spotted it, a single sheet of motel stationery laying on the table.
I am so sorry, but I couldn’t stay. Thank you for saving me and taking care of me last night. Please don’t think I wasn’t listening, but this is something I have to do. I couldn’t live with myself if I don’t at least try. You say I won’t feel better after the rush wears off, but even if I die trying, it will be better than not trying at all.
I have nothing left here; no one. Please don’t look for me, Dean. I don’t know if I could leave you again. Please take care of yourself. Godspeed, Dean Winchester.
“Damn it, Y/N!” I cursed out loud, balling up the note and throwing it across the room. I had no idea how long she had been gone, but I may be able to catch up to her, no matter what she thinks she meant in that ‘Dear Dean’ letter. If she was intent on going down this path, the least I could do was make sure she was prepared. I peeled rubber leaving the parking lot, trying to reach Sammy and keep my eyes open for any sign of her.