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Q was fully expecting to be interrupted eating his regulation Caesar Salad, no croutons, primed as he had been for Ronni to arrive and finally admit defeat. It appears that the point he and Bond had been trying to make may have actually registered.
‘I’m sorry, Special Agent Ashby, I’m going to need better than that if you wish me to consider cancelling the next session in the Ring.’
‘Q, I would like to respectfully concede… 007’s superiority in the field of hand to hand combat. I don’t ever believe… I will be as good as he is.’
‘I doubt you’d ever have to be. He’s the best there is, and you should always have something to aspire to.’
He uses every word with care, as has been the case increasingly in the last three weeks: knowing how to antagonise her was developing into something of an art form. Bond used his strength, Q backed it up with subtlety. They made for a potent combination.
‘With the greatest of respect, I don’t think this is ever a skill I’d aspire to be an expert in.’
Now it appears, bitterness in her voice he knows has been brewing for days, and Q feels it appropriate to put down the Civil Service cutlery. He’d wondered how long she would take being pushed as they had: Bond had expected concession after the previous afternoon’s punishment. Her stamina was impressive, as was her stubbornness. However, this was exactly what would be expected in the field, required as part of the training. Every agent’s limit was different, this much was obvious from decades of metrics. Ronni’s was particularly high regardless of how bad she was clearly feeling.
There is a question he’s wanted to ask since Bond returned from Carnagie and told him the story of their meeting, need to understand motivation, without the reasoning seeming obvious. That’s why he’d chosen Bond for this task, after all. He was, like it or not, the exact embodiment of her nemesis.
‘I’m curious, Veronica. Why do you hate 007 so much?’
Ronni doesn’t, she knows instinctively: she has come to be comfortable with the man since arriving back in London. He’s offered increasing insights into improving fighting styles, shortcuts around the department’s mainframe, even how to get an extra bottle of water every time from the Barracks vending machine. She knows he’ll default to flirting whenever the chance arises in the Lab, and if he drifts too close to her at a terminal personal space will always be re-asserted.
No, she doesn’t hate him. It’s his persona that’s the problem, and Q knows it.
‘I don’t, Q, I simply object to both him and you persistently using 007 as a metaphor.’
Bond listens with increasing fascination, no need for earpiece on this occasion as he waits quietly outside Q’s office. Ronni’s kicked him so hard in their last bout that there’ll need to be medical attention to his shoulder, but for now a dressing on the wound will suffice, because he knows if she’s grasped their game there’s a revelation coming. As she lay bleeding and battered on the ground, 007 hopes an understanding of the fundamental truth has registered. This isn’t about her, they’re just reinforcing a point.
‘Suddenly I am interested in where this is going.’
Q finally responds, staring at the woman intently: Bond notices blood dripping down her forehead, which she wipes away without thinking.
‘He’s a metaphor for what, exactly?’
‘What I will never be. He’s a unattainable benchmark. I can never reasonably be expected to match the physical abilities or robustness of a male agent, yet I am forced to aspire to them. That seems wholly unacceptable.’
‘Yet we continue to push you into confrontational situations with him, because whether you like it or not he is the benchmark. Whether you can reach that standard or not is largely irrelevant, but there has to be a system of measurement. Your problem is your arrogance, that you falsely assume where we decide to record your success.’
Bond can’t help but smile at her use of him as a metaphor for so many things: level of physical strength, ingenuity, continued inability to be taken seriously by a number of senior male Q Branch techs. He’d suggested not judging herself on his criteria but she’d countered, that was what everyone else did, and it was just wrong to accept that standard. Finally, perhaps there would be understanding what really mattered in the equation was her first, above him. Once this was apparent, a great many things would undoubtedly change for the better.
He’d had this speech himself, remembering how the current 004 had handed him his arse for the best part of a week before he got the rationale. Training methods hadn’t changed that much, the only difference was the way in which the points were presented. Q might be his junior in years, but he pretty much took the trophy for reinforcement. He watches as Ronni’s body language alters, registering the sag of exhausted shoulders, and he knows she’s understood.
Ronni wonders if she could have saved herself three days worth of suffering if Q’s point had registered sooner. Her naïvety really was a problem, but it didn’t matter. She’d not given in, lasted the required time at least twice, even if today 007 had walked all over her. It would be easy to correct Q but she won’t: arrogance was never the right adjective, but it was the one people would throw at her whenever stubbornness arose. Her parents, colleagues, ex-boyfriends. She’d blame innocence, they’d go straight for arrogance, and there was no middle ground. In the end there was no point trying to correct people, simpler to hide further away. On reflection, this was not a good idea when dealing with her employers.
However, in this case, she was beyond caring and just wanted to lie down in the Barracks cot.
‘I thought you’d be pleased my judgement isn’t as perfect as you thought it was.’
‘Special Agent Ashby, it may be time to grasp that perfection is a subjective term. As a 00 agent your primary objective is always to complete the mission assigned to you. As long as that happens, everything else is secondary’
‘If that were true, 007 would be out of a job. I know the official line, and I grasp the reality that accompanies that. I need to be the best I can be, and I am. I was naïve to believe I could second-guess you, and you have made me suffer for that. I now understand why you’ve let me take three days to reach that conclusion.’
Her head hurts, blood dripping down from her forehead becoming impossible to ignore. About to use a sleeve to staunch it, she doesn’t expect someone to place a hand there with a dressing, least of all Bond. He appears clearly in pain: sweatshirt is torn open, another blood-soaked pad failing to do the job it’s been placed for. She really did make a mess of his shoulder, and it slowed him down, but the only way to stop him for good would be to put a bullet through his crotch, but that probably wouldn’t be enough. For the purposes of this exercise a swift kick in the balls would have brought respite, but she’d never had the nerve. If Q puts them back together, that would absolutely be the opening move.
‘Great. Now you’ve finally worked it out, we’re both going to need stitches.’
As she watches him limp away, Ronni allows herself a brief moment of satisfaction.