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At first, Bond thought it was all because of the photograph of Beckett1 he’d found in Q’s locker (where he’d actually been looking for gadget resources—and after examining the photo, had carefully placed it back). That the image had simply overlaid itself onto the adrenaline from the subsequent events: the escape to Antarctica, then the raid on MI6, followed by Greenway’s funeral and getting his license. And that this was why he had begun seeing a man wandering through the familiar corridors and offices of MI6 who couldn't possibly be there.
Bond first encountered Beckett on his way out of an elevator. The dead agent nodded to him in passing, like an old acquaintance, and stepped into the lift with a few Q Branch staffers. Only after the sliding doors closed behind him did Bond finally realize what he had just seen.
The next few days passed in a blur. Beckett seemed to deliberately pop up wherever Bond was heading: on the analysts' floor, outside M's office, near the firing range in Q Lab... Surprisingly, it wasn’t that the other members of staff failed to notice Beckett—rather, they treated him like a completely normal part of the team.
A week later, convinced the hallucination had no intention of fading, Bond finally gave in and, gritting his teeth, went to Moneypenny.
As usual, she was sitting in her circular "fishbowl" on Operations floor; the doctors had only just cleared her to return to work. When Bond walked in, she looked up from a thick folder she had been carefully studying.
"Bond? Has something happened? We don't have a briefing today—you just owe us the report on the previous case..."
James hesitated for a moment; he desperately didn't want to answer. But the decision had already been made, and taking a deep breath, he blurted out:
"It's not exactly urgent... Moneypenny, I think I need to see a psychiatrist."
She immediately set the filder aside, turning pale.
"What? Low mood, depressive thoughts, exhaustion?" Moneypenny's eyes filled with fear. "James, this really is serious! After everything you went through during training..."
"That's not it," Bond interrupted before she could finish. "It's that... I see a dead man."
To his surprise, instead of becoming even more alarmed, Moneypenny seemed almost relieved. She reached back for the folder.
"Ah, Beckett? He's currently filling the position of resident ghost for the 00 program."
"Resident... what?" Bond felt his jaw drop.
"Ghost," Moneypenny repeated.
And seeing James's bewilderment, she raised her eyebrows in surprise.
"Wasn't this in your training program? Here, listen..."
Over the next ten minutes, Bond learned what role ghosts played in His Majesty’s Secret Service.
…In fact, no one could say exactly when the phenomenon of mentoring spirits had first appeared. Perhaps it was as old as the 00 program itself. One day, someone had simply noticed that newly licensed young agents were accompanied by a barely discernible, blurry figure. Over the next few days, the figure would solidify, take shape, and finally turn into the image of an agent from the previous intake—still semi-transparent, but unmistakably recognizable. And so it had continued ever since: whenever a new generation of agents was left without an instructor or other mentors, the ghost of a recently deceased predecessor would appear to finish their training and set them on the right path.
"...So when you received your license and officially became Agent 007, the ghost returned too!" Moneypenny concluded.
Bond blinked in silence, trying to process everything he had just heard. Just a few days earlier, he would have assumed he was being pranked or tested for psychological stability. But now he could see Beckett with his own eyes!
Noticing his confusion, Moneypenny offered encouragingly:
"Why don't you try talking to him? Ghosts are usually quite eager to share their experience and answer questions. That’s why they appear in the first place!"
Bond gave an uncertain nod and left the office.
The opportunity to talk to Beckett arose that very same day. Bond went down to Q Branch to test some new tech. Beckett was right there—standing in the far corner of the lab, leaning over a prototype (something resembling a pocket printer, it seemed) and examining it closely. Judging by the past few days, James assumed this was one of his favorite spots.
He didn't get too close, stopping a few paces from the ghost, wondering how to begin the conversation. "Hi, I'm the new (and after Slovakia, the only) 00 agent, sorry about your death"?
While James was thinking, Beckett noticed him on his own and immediately straightened up, beaming like a shiny new penny.
"Ah, 007! Congratulations on getting your license!"
Right! Of course, Beckett could hardly fail to know whom he was coming to as a new mentor. And he likely remembered James from their very first encounter.
Bond nodded. The feeling was... strange. This was the first time he had heard Beckett speak—his voice was low and slightly raspy, as is often the case with heavy smokers. But there was no sorrow in it. In fact, Beckett didn't seem upset about his death at all; on the contrary, he practically glowed, as if becoming a mentor ghost had always been the peak of his ambitions.
Bridget waved from the door of the testing bay, and Bond let out a breath of slightly shameful relief and nodded once more.
"I have to go. It was good to meet you."
"Likewise!" Beckett saluted him with a coffee cup, his smile not dimming in the slightest. "See you at the next briefing!"
Walking toward the testing bay, Bond wondered how closely ghosts could interact with the physical world.
Three days later, Beckett did indeed show up for the briefing. When Bond entered the reception area outside M's office, he was already perched on the edge of Madame Ponsonby's desk, chattering endlessly about all sorts of nonsense. Madame Ponsonby accepted these attentions with dignity, and only a slight blush on her cheeks disturbed her usual imperturbable composure. Beckett was squinting contentedly.
Bond settled into a visitor's armchair, tactfully trying not to stare at them. It took him a moment to remember: the last time Beckett and Ponsonby had seen each other, they had both been twelve years younger. And they had first met over twenty—nearly thirty—years ago. Madame Ponsonby had outlasted more than one head of MI6 in her post.
The speaker on the desk phone flickered to life for a moment, and M's voice announced:
"They may come in."
Bond stood up and headed into the office.
When he looked back, Beckett had already vanished—only to reappear right in one of the armchairs inside. M didn't react, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but a deep crease formed between her brows: it seemed she didn't appreciate the ghost making such a conspicuous display of his abilities.
Bond took the vacant seat, and the briefing began.
The assignment promised not to be overly complex: infiltrate a group of mercenaries and reach their new employer. Bond knew how to bluff, and he knew how to keep a low profile. The cover story didn't require much time or effort either—a former agent who had fallen out with his superiors and gone on the run. One could say it was drawn straight from personal experience!
Beckett, who had been looking around the office more than listening to M's speech (much must have changed since his last visit to MI6), chuckled knowingly after it was over.
"An ideal match for the agent's profile. Isn't it, M?"
She looked at him for the first time. Until now, she hadn't raised her eyes from the mission folder.
"What makes you think so, 009? I don't recall anyone showing you the files of my active agents."
To be honest, Bond had no doubt that Beckett, having already befriended at least half the new staff, would have found a way to get any information he wanted. But the ghost only raised his eyebrows with mock innocence and spread his hands.
"I don't think a file is really necessary here. I've seen him drive."
The chase in Slovakia certainly must have left an indelible impression on anyone who witnessed it—and even more so on those involved. Using a tow truck as a ramp alone was quite something! Right now, Bond felt like apologizing for that and other similar stunts.
On the other hand, if Bond hadn't gone after Beckett, believing him responsible for the explosion at "The Grand Carpathian", 009 would likely have fallen into the hands of Damien's men swarming the runway.
And on the third hand—an extra couple of weeks of life had hardly changed anything for Beckett. Looking at the body with signs of torture in Aleph was horrifying even for a complete stranger.
After the briefing, Beckett settled into his usual position beside the coffee machine where he liked to hang out, occasionally chatting with passing staff. Bond headed towards him. Strictly speaking, new gear for the mission was waiting in Q Lab, but he reasoned it wouldn't go anywhere in five minutes.
As Bond approached, Beckett arched an eyebrow questioningly. And James, instead of talking about Slovakia, asked the question that had been spinning in his head ever since his conversation with Moneypenny about ghosts:
"Why did you come back, and not Greenway? After all, he was the mentor while alive."
A fleeting moment of thoughtfulness flickered in Beckett's eyes. He shrugged.
"I don't know. Maybe he's just had enough of dealing with young agents for now?"
Bond slowly nodded. That was a plausible answer, perhaps.
Apart from occasional encounters in the hallways, James's life and work at MI6 didn't change much with the ghost's arrival. Except that during missions, there were now two voices in his earpiece instead of one. Appearing in the field during operations was strictly forbidden for Beckett to maintain secrecy. So he stayed with Moneypenny in Operations, helping analyze incoming data and occasionally offering advice. Now, without the computing power of THEIA, any assistance was very welcome.
But right now, help wasn't required. Bond was casually surveying the restaurant's decor, sitting with Linda—the mistress of a crime lord who was the target of the operation. Neighboring tables were empty: either pure luck, or most people preferred venues closer to the beach. Dim lighting created an intimate atmosphere—which was also very convenient given the mission.
Linda herself brought a couple of cocktails from the bar and placed James's glass on the white tablecloth. Then she gracefully slid it closer to his hand.
"To interesting—and promising—acquaintances!" Her smile was absolutely charming.
Bond took hold of the slender stem. The mojito shimmered in the evening lights, ice cubes flashing with colorful sparks.
Linda raised her glass. Bond mirrored her movement.
"Bond, did you see them mix your cocktail?" Beckett's voice in the earpiece didn't make him flinch, but it definitely broke the magic of the moment.
Bond hastily moved his glass away, pretending to admire Linda's shapely figure through it. She crossed her legs as if impatient. And James definitely didn't imagine the nervous grimace that crossed her face.
"Well? Drink!"
He set the glass back on the table. Outside the window, a rustle sounded like the footsteps of people trying to stay unnoticed—apparently, the restaurant was empty neither by chance nor thanks to James’s luck.
He needed to act quickly, so he tried the first bluff that came to mind:
"Let's run away! From this restaurant, maybe even from the city... There's a wild beach nearby. Just you, me, and the sea—what do you think?"
A shadow flickered across Linda's beautiful face. She was still smiling, but it didn't take keen observation to see that the smile was forced.
Nevertheless, she coquettishly twirled a lock of red hair around her finger and purred with exaggerated sweetness:
"Of course! Finish your cocktail—and I'm all yours!.."
Bond gave her his most confident smile.
"Great! Wait for me just a minute."
He stood up from the table and headed toward the restrooms.
But instead of pushing open the door with the stylized male figure icon, Bond turned the corner and slipped into the staff smoking room. Escaping through the bathroom window would have been more convenient—it was much wider—but the henchmen were almost certainly already waiting for him there. At least the smoking room window faced the opposite side of the building.
Closing the door behind him, James asked into his earpiece:
"How did you guess about the cocktail? Did someone try to poison you too?"
"They didn't 'try'. They did poison me." Beckett sighed audibly. "By the time you reach my age, you'll have a very long medical record."
Bond gave an affirmative grunt. If he'd had any illusions about the life and work of a 00 agent, they had shattered as early as his first encounter with Webb.
He approached the window and yanked up the sash. It didn't budge.
"And what will it say? My record." It wasn't that James was particularly keen to know which poisons were most commonly used against MI6 agents. He just wanted to hear at least someone's familiar voice while struggling with the jammed frame.
"Digitalis poisoning, strychnine..." Beckett began dutifully listing them. "Cyanide, of course—can't leave out the classics!"
The list sounded impressive. Bond made another mental note, which common sense dictated he should have made after meeting Damien: never accept drinks from strangers.
"Cyanide—in a tooth capsule?" He slammed his shoulder against the frame. Again, no luck.
"In a capsule," Beckett confirmed. "Except not in a tooth, but crushed into my whiskey. Always keep an eye on who's pouring your drink, Bond."
James nodded to his invisible companion and gave the sash one last tug. It finally shifted. Slowly, inch by inch, Bond managed to raise it enough to squeeze through the gap. Literally slipping through the opening, he landed on the lawn and took off, staying low and hiding behind the overgrown bushes.
The first attempt to get close to the target had failed. But that was tomorrow's problem—and he still had to survive to see tomorrow.
...A month and a half after he showed up, Beckett was banished from Q Branch to a nook with coffee machines by the elevators. The ghostly aura apparently had a detrimental effect on the particularly delicate equipment: new developments constantly glitched, started delivering electric shocks, or threatened to break down altogether. That was where Beckett now spent most of his time, sipping coffee with milk and astonishing random visitors with his translucent appearance.
The staff in charge of tours usually tried to hustle visitors along as quickly as possible:
"It's a new development. A hologram. And remote movement of objects based on... er... magnetic fields!"
Every time Bond encountered such a scene, he also tried to maintain a detached and unperturbed expression.
(Once Q, handing him the fifth new watch that month to replace one broken on a mission, exclaimed in exasperation: "I'm beginning to think this isn’t about ghost energy at all!"
Later, with nothing better to do, James recounted this conversation to Beckett by the coffee machines. The ghost looked at him with respect.
"I always told 004 that the new generation of agents would surpass us! My record was three watches in two months...")
Overall, life at MI6 completely settled into its usual routine. Beckett continued to supervise Bond alongside Moneypenny over the comms, but left him alone otherwise. Except for one incident.
That operation went sideways right from the start. The drive stolen from a diplomatic mission held information that could cause catastrophic reputational damage to all of Britain and spark a crisis larger than Slovakia. Worse still, by the time the analyst team pinpointed its location, it was already nearly decrypted. Time for preparation was tight, and there was a clear lack of data for proper planning.
"We cannot allow this information to fall into the wrong hands." After briefly outlining the task, M looked at Bond with her piercing brown eyes. "007, you are our only hope."
It seemed to be becoming a cherished tradition. Bond nodded.
Naturally, security at the mansion where the drive was kept turned out to be far heavier than originally anticipated. And—of course!—retrieving it quietly proved impossible, and it all ended in a firefight.
James could consider himself lucky that the bullet he took hit his abdomen closer to the side. A little higher and to the left, and this mission would have been the last in his short career.
As it was, the wound didn't even hinder his movement all that much. Despite the blood loss, Bond managed to grab the drive and descend into a tunnel, and was now trudging away from the mansion. The enemy had undoubtedly called for reinforcements, but for now he had a head start.
Moneypenny guided him as usual, directing him along the shortest and safest route. After another turn, Bond thought he heard footsteps behind him—distant for now, but rapidly approaching.
"Moneypenny? Eve?" His head spun, and he had to lean against the wall, gripping a rusty ladder leading up toward the tunnel ceiling. "Looks like I'll be having company soon."
"Give me thirty seconds." Judging by the clatter of keys, Moneypenny was already searching for a hiding spot or the nearest exit from the tunnel. When duty called, she consistently demonstrated a remarkable ability to pull herself together and focus on the task.
Taking advantage of the moment, Bond closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. His side was burning, and ignoring the pain was becoming harder with every second.
"The exit you're heading for is the only one in this section of the tunnel. You'll have to make it there."
"He won't."
James couldn't help but flinch. He had already forgotten that Beckett was also in Operations; the ghost had been silent from the very start of the mission until now.
"Not with a wound like that. Bond?" James became all ears. "Look around. Are there any hatches or shaft covers nearby? Cables and utilities may be separated from the main section of the tunnel. If you’re lucky, you might find somewhere to wait it out."
James looked up. Above the ladder, there was indeed a dark, circular patch that resembled a hatch cover.
"I think I found one. Up there."
Beckett ordered without hesitation:
"Climb up to it. It's your only chance."
"No!" The fear in Moneypenny's voice burned his ear. Bond, who had started to move toward the ladder, stopped abruptly. "If you lose time and they catch you, it's over. Keep moving along your current route!"
"He won't make it," Beckett repeated stubbornly. "And we don't even know for sure if he can get through that way at all. I've been in tunnels like these; cave-ins are common. We only have old maps, and if—"
The connection cut out. For a few seconds, a dead, unnatural silence hung in the earpiece. A strange thought crossed James's mind, perhaps brought on by blood loss: it was as if Moneypenny had muted her mic to talk to Beckett in private
Unable to do anything about the pause, Bond looked around again. The tunnel blurred before his eyes, disappearing into pitch darkness just five yards ahead. The rusty ladder beneath his hand wobbled and seemed ready to crumble at a breath of wind.
"So where do I go?"
When Moneypenny's voice came through the earpiece again, it had an unusual, almost fierce firmness to it.
"James... keep moving forward."
The earpiece flickered back to life for a moment with a muffled echo, as if Beckett were still trying to argue or shout through to James over Moneypenny, before falling silent again with that same wrong stillness.
Bond forced himself to let go of the ladder and took a step.
The next moment, Beckett appeared right in front of him. The ghost’s face was stern, a deep crease set between his eyebrows. He nodded toward the ladder.
"Climb up."
James stopped and looked up. Now he could better make out the outline of the hatch, which presumably led to the tunnel's utility shaft.
The sound of footsteps was growing closer and closer.
"Bond, you need to go right now! Climb the bloody ladder!" Beckett was no longer merely pointing at it; he had turned his whole body in its direction.
The earpiece flared to life again, exploding with what sounded almost like a plea:
"Bond, keep going down the tunnel!"
"Get up there, damn it!" Beckett jabbed a finger frantically at the ladder.
James took one last look from the dark tunnel to the hatch above.
Sorry, Moneypenny.
Clutching the hole in his side, he began to clamber up the slippery metal rungs.
Beckett didn't show up at the hospital even once—probably out of fear of damaging the delicate equipment. So it was Moneypenny who gave Bond the update on how the operation had concluded. She burst into his room not just pale, but ashen grey. Her first words were:
"James... Further ahead, the tunnel was blocked by the rising water."
Bond leaned back against his pillow. For some reason, he wasn’t surprised at all.
The debriefing took place after Bond had been discharged and was able to be present in M's office. Strictly speaking, it wasn't so much a debriefing as a scolding of Beckett, boiled down to several points:
"A blatant violation of MI6 protocol!"
"Disregard for a direct order!"
"Astonishing irresponsibility in light of a potential Secret Service intelligence leak!"
Finally, M exhaled and concluded:
"A reprimand will be entered into your file. Posthumously!"
Bond gritted his teeth. He was about to step in and remind her that the operation had succeeded only thanks to Beckett's intervention; that without him, Bond personally would be lying somewhere in that tunnel with a bullet in his head, and the drive would have fallen into enemy hands. But Beckett beat him to it.
Throughout M’s tirade, he watched her with an expression of mild, polite bewilderment on his face. And once sure she wasn't planning to continue, he asked with curious, almost amused levity:
"So, after the description of the last twelve years, there are still some blank pages left in my file?"
But his eyes weren't amused at all.
The reprimand was waived, reduced to a verbal warning. And the matter of unauthorized field assistance was quietly swept under the rug.
...A few months later, in the summer, Bond stayed late one evening finishing a mission report. When he stepped out of the elevator on Q Branch's floor, it was the dead of night. None of the staff were around, of course—only Beckett, who had shoved the coffee machine aside and perched right on the desk, absentmindedly swinging his leg and watching the shiny toe of his shoe slice through the air.
"Is Q here?" Bond looked around.
The lights were off except for a few dim night-duty lamps. Soft music was playing—"Quinacridone Dream," the quartermaster's favorite album, which Bond had already heard after the raid on Webb Industries. But Q himself was nowhere to be seen.
Beckett looked up at Bond with the exact same absentminded expression with which he had been examining his shoe.
"Gone home. The workday is over."
"Yes, but..."
As far as Bond had gathered, if anyone at MI6 ignored working hours, it was Q, who routinely stayed past midnight, or at least longer than any of his subordinates. And he certainly wouldn't have left after scheduling a meeting to hand over experimental gadgets for the next mission.
Beckett stared at Bond for a few more seconds, frowning as if not quite grasping what was going on. Then his face suddenly cleared.
"Ah! You're here for the gear? Q left everything on the platform. You can take it."
Bond tossed out a routine "thanks," directing it more at the empty air than at Beckett (who was once again looking completely detached from the outside world), and walked over to the platform. After collecting the gear—a new watch variation with an expanded range, a perfected shelter sphere, and a pocket drone no larger than a folded wallet that streamed footage straight to a smartphone screen—he returned to the elevators, but didn't press the call button. The situation demanded that he say something, but for perhaps the first time in his life, Bond had no idea what.
Under his gaze, Beckett initially pretended not to notice anything. Then he sighed. And finally looked back at Bond, wincing as if from a dull, aching pain. Just like Q himself when James, before his first real mission in Slovakia, had asked if he remembered Agent 009.
"Yes, 007. To answer your unasked question: yes, Q and I have talked. And yes, about Operation Knightfall and everything that followed. He'll be fine—he's a grown man and can take a punch as well as any of us."
Deep down, Bond doubted that anyone at MI6 or anywhere else could take a punch like the former 009. A few times he had secretly tried to imagine what twelve years on the run from those he considered his best—perhaps his only—friends would have done to him.
To be honest, Bond hoped he would never have to find out.
"Answering your second unasked question: yes, Greenway and I talked as well. There. If you want to ask anything else, now's the time."
"Did he apologize?"
Beckett blinked, as if caught off guard by the question. Then he looked up at the ceiling.
Through the lab roof, of course, it was impossible to see what was happening outside. Yet Beckett watched intently, as if he could see the first light of the breaking day right through the stone and concrete.
"You know, James... it's summer, dawn comes early. And we've stayed up almost until morning. How do you feel about taking a walk?"
Bond nodded.
Outside, morning had indeed begun. The sky was its usual London grey, but bright and evenly lit, like a dim fluorescent lamp. The first joggers were already out, and early dog walkers had emerged from their homes. The air smelled of street dust stirred up by sweepers, grass from the neatly trimmed lawns still wet from the night, and the scent of water carried on the wind from the Thames.
Beckett walked slowly beside Bond, breathing deeply and steadily. If he could taste coffee, perhaps he was capable of catching the scent of morning London as well.
As for the cold, he was unlikely to feel it: despite the chill lingering from the night, Beckett remained in his suit, with neither a coat nor a jacket thrown over it—a definite advantage of being a ghost. And judging by the fact that random passersby didn't glance at his translucent figure, he was invisible to them.
In silence, they reached the Thames Embankment, where Beckett stopped and leaned against the granite parapet. Bond settled in beside him.
"So what about Greenway? Did he ask for forgiveness?"
Beckett looked down at his hands. For the first time, Bond noticed that the translucent skin showed healed scrapes on the knuckles.
"Out loud? No. But there are things that don't need to be put into words." He raised his eyes and squinted, as if watching something in the low, pearl-gray sky that only he could see. "You know, Bond, at first I didn't intend to return. I didn't want to find myself back at MI6, looking into familiar faces. But now I think it was precisely what I needed—to see that a worthy new generation has come after us. To see that they are ready to protect Britain just as we once did."
Beckett sighed.
"I even think that might have been John's main apology—refusing to return to the world of the living so that I could go in his place. Sly old fox! It seems he doesn't know me as poorly as I started to think after Knightfall..."
He straightened up and turned to Bond. Amusement sparkled in his pale eyes, strangely mingled with a subtle, inexplicable sadness.
"Good luck, James. You have a bright life ahead of you. Perhaps a difficult one... But if anyone can handle this job and its challenges, it's you."
Beckett extended his hand, and Bond shook it automatically without thinking. Cold pricked his skin—not unpleasant, just unexpected for a human touch. For a moment, the sensation of pressure felt entirely real.
Letting go of James’s hand, Beckett tilted his head back again, now openly watching some invisible object. Bond turned away for a second to follow his gaze. And when he looked back, Beckett was already gone.
Bond leaned against the parapet again. And for the first time since joining the program, he felt completely alone.
1A photo of Q and Rhys Beckett together in their youth is one of the collectibles that can be found throughout the game. When viewed in the inventory, it comes with an updated profile of Beckett, which states that he was posthumously exonerated of all wrongdoing.