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Eve Moneypenny was well-known at MI6 for being able to put a bullet through a target at 300 yards. She’d once earned a 238—very nearly perfect—on a ‘known distance’ range session. Of course, her next score had been 190, and then 173, before she’d picked up her score and moved back into the double-century range. She was known to run hot and cold on the shooting, just as with the rest of her training. Her instructors debated whether it was simple nerves, or a lack of willingness to pull too far above the rest of her training group. Eve’s scores weren’t quite high enough to support her initial placement as a long-term field agent. But M had asked for her specifically in the special services division, and M tended to get what she wanted. The first time that M had met with her, she'd opened Eve’s files and had made the young agent sweat for five minutes while poring over a year’s worth of notes. Finally, she’d blinked and narrowed her eyes slightly.Though someone may tell us: "Yes, you’ve entered my bloodstream, the room,
the whole springtime is filled with you …" —what does it matter? he can’t contain us,
we vanish inside him and around him.
"Agent Moneypenny, welcome to the team. I see your reputation precedes you.” M quirked her eyebrows at a page of scores. “You're well poised to make progress, now that your official training has..." she paused, "moved to a more targeted level." M looked down at the stack of files and turned the top page gingerly. "However, there are a few things we need to clarify. Shall we begin?"
"Yes, ma'am." Eve's eyes never wavered from M's, even as her new CO leaned forward and took a her air of politeness drained away.
"According to your instructors, you barely scraped by on a field exercise last month where your task was to destroy an enemy safe house. You removed or destroyed all technological equipment, vandalised the site, cut the electrical lines in two places, and after all that work, you left the building standing. When questioned on why you didn't just set fire to the building, you argued against it, saying that the area was too civilian."
"Which is a decision I stand behind."
M raised her eyebrows at the protest. "Were you looking for the element of surprise? Cut wires and property damage sound more like the work of rodents than the hallmark of an MI6 attack. Perhaps they’ll look to Cinderella."
M flipped to the next section of the file dismissively. "Then there's the matter of your shooting scores, or lack thereof. Your competitive performance on the firing range have remained steady across the course of the last eight months. That’s only remarkable because your individual records were consistently ten or twelve points higher—twenty points higher, in fact, on those four occasions where you were on site alone.”
M feigned surprise as she turned to the end of the file. “But never mind that, apparently you’re just here to get a date. Social engagements with Robinson, Evans, and McNealy—that’s in this rotation alone.” Eve shifted in her chair and looked away. “Can you shed any light on this situation, Agent?”
Eve crossed her legs and leaned back slightly in her chair. "My shooting scores were high enough on my first day of training to have passed me as an agent. That field exercise was designed to demonstrate I can meet mission objectives without damage to surrounding infrastructure, which was informed by our current efforts to cross-coordinate our operations with general military forces. I’m not sure where you’re pulling performance scores from any of my private training sessions or how they might be relevant to this conversation, but I’m afraid I can't speak to them if they're not on the record."
For the first time, M was truly perturbed. “We’re in the surveillance business, Moneypenny. Do you think there are any performance scores I don’t have?”
“I’m just saying I don’t have to speak to them.” Eve balanced one arm on the table, and hung on to M’s gaze with a challenge in her eyes.
M gave a tiny shrug. “I don’t care whether you’re nervous or whether you’re trying to ingratiate yourself to your team members. If your nerves affect your performance, this isn't the field for you. If you’re trying to get into the good graces of these men by being non-threatening, you’re not doing yourself or them any favours.” M rose slightly and leaned over the desk to glare at Eve. “If you don’t trust them enough to perform at a level that will show your weakness, and if you don’t trust MI6’s judgment on them, I can’t call that anything but insubordination. Whatever it is, you have a serious problem. Don’t come back to the training floor until you've resolved it.” M snapped the file closed and stalked out of the room.
+++
Eve returned to the training floor next morning as usual. M was already on the floor and immediately pulled her to the side.
“I thought I told you not to come back here.”
“You told me to resolve the issue and return.” Eve tossed her gloves down to the floor. “Reporting as ordered, ma’am.”
M arched her eyebrows. “You’re telling me you’ll no longer have an issue with accuracy out here.”
“I’m telling you I’m not going to stop practicing just because some old bird is getting under my skin.”
M blinked and said nothing. Eve stood stock-still in front of her and waited for a reaction, any reaction, from her CO.
After two or three seconds, Eve said, “I’ll just get back out there, then.”
“You do that. Dismissed.”
Eve backed away slowly, not taking her eyes off M’s face for several steps. She jittered and paced the corners of her tiny practice area until the range was declared hot; then she shot a 226 and brought the summary page back to M.
“For my file, ma’am.”
+++
“Do you show up just because you love to watch me work?” Eve looked up and smirked at M, in the spirit of experimentation. In the past she’d attempted to flirt occasionally, to no effect.
Q branch had been attempting to train mid-level agents on some basic field tactics, but the program was still in its early days, and Eve usually felt like she was outsourced labour for another branch of MI6 that had laid off their IT techs.
M’s gaze didn't even waver from the electronics panel Eve had been bugging—buggering. “Maybe I’m more thorough than a bare-minimum review. Just because every other instructor in the last six months has done a kiss-and-run inspection on you doesn't mean you can expect the same from me.”
“It wouldn't kill you to just once show up when I’m fresh, now would it?”
“I’m sure that every target you’re sent to eliminate will say, ‘How are you, Eve? I’ll just hold back in this safe-house until you’re feeling more rested.’ This performance is the one I can rely on, not whatever fancy tricks you can pull off after you’re properly warmed up.”
“I doubt the electronics panel is coming to kill me,” Eve protested.
“No, it’s the arms dealer who owns the electronics panel who is coming to kill you. And if you can’t figure this out, you may as well stay there and let yourself be killed; it will be nothing compared to what Q will have waiting for you if you lose valuable information in there.” M pointed delicately to the circuit board with one manicured finger. “Here’s the current; if you don’t clip it first you’ll fry the panel.”
“No one else has.”
“Are you sure they've got your model? Sure enough to risk it?”
“Heartless termagant,” she muttered to herself as she pulled the manual back out from under the desk.
+++
Eve was learning to gauge her performance by whether M was hazing her as usual; these days, it was the kind word from M that unsettled Eve. The mutual criticism was old hat for them; M always knew how to get under Eve and throw her off balance, and Eve learned to trust M to push her without breaking the skin. It was a rare occasion that M would smile at Eve or offer support. Eve used to live for those moments, and think of them as the times she’d found M’s true self. But over the last two years she realized that M’s natural state was to gripe and scold. Eve was prouder of her performance, these days, when M didn't need to smile to keep her motivated.
She’d been in the shop for over three hours when M finally came downstairs to observe her. Eve had finished a run and an hour of strength training before ending up in the shooting range. This week it was hot inside the building, and her shirt clung damply under the shooting vest; next week the range would be as chilled as a meat locker. Agents didn’t need heat or cooling. Agents didn’t need tea, or reliable transportation, or easy access to paper clips. This was MI6, and agents made do with what they found.
“What are you doing down here?” Eve asked M. The agent next to her--Connor--blinked at Eve's impertinent tone and sidled away from her, so as not to get hit by the impending blast.
“I'm despairing for the state of the Empire.” M's scorn swept over Connor as well before landing on Eve.
M raised her eyebrows at Eve’s target page and managed to look deeply unimpressed without moving her face whatsoever. “Your shooting seems to decline with age."
“And yet, I keep ranking in the top ten percent.” Eve gestured to the rankings board behind her with her chin, the tiniest glint of pride in her eyes.
“That’s precisely why I’m so concerned.”
Connor stammered an excuse and left.
“Did you want to take a few shots, ma’am?”
M crossed her arms over her chest and settled back along the guard rail, gazing towards the target line. “Just shoot another round, if you please.”
+++
The computer screen blinked off again and Eve shook her head, dazed. The ancient clock on the wall buzzed slightly and rounded the corner to 4 pm; the analysts at MI6 were giving her a wide berth in order for her to finish her report. She’d just been pulled straight from an operation that was--uncomfortably—only a few hours away from London, and had barely had time to clean herself off before the debriefing had begun. At this point it only made sense to finish writing so she could go home and sleep for eighteen hours, but Eve could barely see straight enough to type and couldn't bear to get up and leave.
“Three hostile agents arrived after Agent Collins had secured the premises and before this agent had placed surveillance or located computer equipment with relevant data. Collins signaled appropriately to leave the building, but the team were unable to do so, given the exposure risk and the loss of mission objectives. Ronson created a diversion while this agent placed surveillance; when Collins began to take fire both Ronson and this agent returned shots. Collins and Ronson secured data while this agent shot and disabled two hostile agents, one fatally. Third hostile escaped to the west and was not pursued. Ronson led—”
M entered quietly; Eve looked up and focused back on her computer screen, barely stifling her yawn. M settled herself on the edge of the desk across from Eve.
“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly.
Eve considered the question, bit back a defensive response, and let herself slump slightly. “I’m exhausted.”
“You killed a man today.” M’s voice was carefully neutral.
Eve looked at her watch. “Yesterday, actually.” She looked back at the screen, back at M. “Did we need to talk about that? It will all be in the report.”
“Why didn't you stay to kill the second one?”
Eve shrugged. “He was down, and he had five or six minutes until he bled out. He wasn't an immediate threat.” Eve remembered the feeling of the man’s body slumping against her as she went through his jacket, smearing blood across her pants and up her arms, getting blood under her fingernails. Six minutes had been a generous estimate. He had likely been dead, or near enough, by the time Collins had been extracted from the scene.
“You didn't want to.”
“I didn't need to. He wasn't the mission. If you want me for assassinations, that’s fine. But otherwise I’m not going to waste the bullet.” And he was already dead, Eve thought to herself.
“You shoot like a hunter. Would you be interested in training for double-oh?”
Eve looked at M tiredly, then looked down at her hands to avoid M’s gaze. “I’m supposed to be impressed by that offer.”
“It wasn't an offer, it was a question. You should consider before you answer.” M stood, carefully. She was still in her pumps, but she seemed shorter than she’d been two months ago.
“Are you worried that I’ll break, after killing a man? Is this a test?”
“It’s not a test, it’s not an offer, it’s a question, Moneypenny. If you’d like to train for double-oh status, we’ll consider it. If you’d like to continue in general field work, I’m sure you’d continue to excel. If you’d like to be a damn secretary, you’d be a fine one, except that you’ll continue to be a mistrustful pain in the arse to anyone tasked with commanding you.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “It was a difficult mission. Accept that and get over it. Or go home and sleep it off. You’ll still be leaving for Istanbul next week; you’ll be working with Ronson and a double-oh, whichever one’s back on rotation. We’ll discuss it further when you return.” With a sharp nod, M left Eve alone and shut the door behind her.
Eve tapped a pen on the keyboard, considering.
+++
Istanbul was all sixes and sevens, with Bond and Ronson both working opposite ends of the mission. Eve didn't mind Ronson; he always had the better plans, of the two of them. Eve had come in earnestly with an elaborate cover story and some fabricated obstacles for the buyer, and Ronson had just shrugged and said, “They need a driver. I’ll try to be their driver.” Of course, no one simply waltzes in with a driver’s license and a British accent and gets hired, but Ronson always did more prep work than he let on. He’d worked as hard as Bond ever did, but without the smoke and mirrors. He wanted neither glory nor blame, just wanted to get the job done more often than not and wanted to go home and send cards to his nieces, which MI6 filtered through his “home” in Montreal.
The terse report that Bond had given on Ronson’s condition was alarming; M’s reaction was worse. What would they tell Ronson’s nieces? Eve wondered. She felt a wave of gratitude to whomever at MI6 was responsible for contacting the family, maintaining the cover, and coordinating the news. She would vastly prefer to go shoot his killers, rather than deal with grieving relatives.
Eve tried to maintain his focus as she pulled the car around to pick them up—to pick Bond up. Be like Ronson was; work hard, try to finish the job, get yourself home.
+++
It was difficult enough to drive under fire and try to navigate unfamiliar terrain off a map that was obviously at least four years out of date. But to do the whole thing while on a bloody conference call with three of your bosses, none of whom agreed with one another, and decoding instructions through a tinny headset, was just too much. She wouldn't dare pull out the earpiece—she’d never hear the end of it, in more ways than one. But the tense exchanges between M and Tanner and Bond had become infuriating.
Things were happening faster than Eve could explain them to M and Tanner. Bond was on a train. Now there were cars coming at her. No, not in the opposite lane, from the air. Why, thought Eve, did she have to do all the bloody explaining? It wasn't as if they ever made Bond narrate. Of course, his narration would probably make Tanner wince and make M turn pale.
Getting ahead of the train wasn't second nature to her either. She should have a clear shot at the curve of the tracks, but the wind over the ravine was unpredictable.
“Take him down, but make sure Bond gets the drive before you do.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Here, in the safety of Istanbul, Eve could finally roll her eyes.
It wasn't actually that far between the overlook and the train. The wind slowed for a moment and Eve started to believe she had a workable vantage point. Bond was lumbering across the train car drunkenly; both the combatants were starting to look tired. You should have climbed that second mountain, James, Eve thought. She settled her shoulders into position, exhaled, and held steady as the train approached.
“I may have a shot,” she reported. As the train roared closer, there was an unaccountable tremble in her shoulder. “It’s not clean. I repeat, I do not have a clean shot.”
“Can you get into a better position?”
Eve wished, once again, that she could pull out the earpiece, and her hand shifted on the gun stock. The wind was picking up again. She pressed her lips tight so as not to reply.
“Take the shot.”
“I can’t, I may hit Bond.”
“Just take the bloody shot!”
Eve could feel the bruise under her collarbone from a bite that Bond gave her; she rested the stock of the gun there and tried to focus. Don’t think about Bond. Think about the target. (Don’t think about Bond as the target.) He’s a known shape, his assailant will be on top of him; sight on Bond and fine-tune the shot when the moment requires. What’s behind the shot? No secondary targets, no obstructed visuals. She could shoot through Bond, if it came to that. Wind is blowing north. Keep him slightly to the left of the target. Steady, Evvie.
Eve squeezed the trigger. One hundred and fifty yards away, Bond went down.
+++
This time it was Eve who sought out M. She climbed the stairs up the northwest wing of Vauxhall Cross and stood in the darkened doorway of M’s office until she saw the older woman look up.
“Finished your report, have you?”
“No, just coming in to debrief, as it were.”
“What, you want me to console you, stick out my shoulder for you to cry on? It’s just another mission. You did your job; that’s all. You could have done it better, I suppose.” M’s face was impassive. “But I gave the order. I’m the one who killed him. You just pulled the trigger.”
“Respectfully, ma’am—”
“When have you ever been respectful?” M hissed. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment her face was full of hatred. Then she abruptly turned away and faced the window.
Eve threw her laptop down on the couch inside the door and dropped down beside it petulantly.
When M turned back towards Eve, her face was relaxed again. She crossed the room and sat down across from Eve, who was staring down at her arms crossed over her chest. “Next week you’re going in for psych screening.”
“I won’t. Don’t need it.”
M arched an eyebrow. “I believe this is your second kill in two weeks.”
Eve glared up at M. “I thought you said were the one that killed him. But you’ll never go up for psych screening, would you?”
“Not for all the tea in China,” M agreed.
The silence stretched between them uncomfortably. Eve opened her mouth twice before she could bring herself to speak.
“I’m sorry. That’s all I wanted to say.”
“Apology accepted.”
M’s voice warmed her fractionally. She would not cry, she would not. “Would you like me to leave?”
“No, stay.” M rose from the couch and poured two glasses of scotch, handed one to Eve without making eye contact. “I’ve got my own report to write.”
Eve sank back onto the sofa with her laptop and stared blankly at her report. M returned to her desk and began the obituary. They sipped their drinks and wrote together for the next half hour in silence.