Moneypenny watches Q. Knows his moods better than most. Can tell when he’s having a wreck of a day and needs to be asked out for a drink. Can tell when she should absolutely not give him more paperwork or M’s complaints about the budget, and when he might be open to compromise on certain line items.

And he’s careful. Very careful. But he works amongst spies, and though Eve is not a field agent, she still has the instincts. She’s noticed the winces. She’s noticed the occasional marks on his wrist, despite the fact that he pulls his cuffs down and the sleeves on his shirts are on the long side.

At first, she worries that he’s in an abusive relationship. She comes close to sitting him down and trying to get him help.

But then she notices something else...

Those days when he’s wincing or hiding marks… he’s happy. He’s calm… content. Those are the days she can go to him with budget compromises or requests from M and Q bears them almost cheerfully. It’s the days before — the days leading up to the wincing — that Q is stressed and difficult.

Item #16: Create a logo for your team.

Everything old is new again: cocktails, fascism, the existential threat from nuclear annihilation...

It makes one want to return to to the classics.  And the classic Sazerac was not made with rye.  It was made with very good cognac.  

Q decides to try something new when M bemoans the lack of good basic cocktails at the last bar they’d tried.  It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate these new-fangled gins and such.  He just prefers every drink not to be an experiment.   He likes to know what he’s getting.  He wants familiarity, considering that his world is frequently turned upside down by bloody agents.

So Q makes him a classic.  A barrel-aged Sazerac made with the original (1920′s was it?) Cognac.   But he adds a twist.  Extra bitters, because it could use a bit more punch.  And M had expressed interest in some bitters he’d tried when on mission... in a drink called “secret agent” which a CIA contact had ordered him as a joke.  But the flavor is nice, and well, M does have a lot of secret agents around that would make him pull his hair out if he had any left.  Bitter seems appropriate.

Q,

I still don’t know why I’m here.  Survival Wilderness Training in the US seems more a way to get me out of your hair than anything actually useful.  The fact I’m with CIA agents might foster cooperation, but really, why do I need to know edible plants in the wilds of California, of all places?

Today I climbed 4500 feet of elevation with a 75 lb pack.  After roughly 3000 feet I thought perhaps you were trying to teach me a lesson.  That I am too old or too soft to do this anymore.  I admit, the altitude gave me some trouble after my months at sea level, and I’m the oldest taking the training by several years.

After 4000 feet I thought perhaps you hate me now.  I know the way I left — taking the car and the girl and leaving the destruction of Nine Eyes in my wake — didn’t make me many friends.  Even the other double-ohs were a bit icy on my return.  The Q Branch minions don’t even acknowledge me when I enter the branch.  I’m sure there was a lot of cleanup I missed, and I’m resented for it.

But then I got to the summit and saw this:

And now I don’t know what to think.  Surely someone who hates me wouldn’t wouldn’t send me somewhere so spectacular.

I found this phone when I unpacked my tent.  Sending me with contraband, Q?  It says it has no service, but if I know you, you have it hooked up to our satellites so you can keep tabs on me.  So I’ll send these messages like postcards, not expecting a response.

Dear Q,

This morning just after breakfast I heard a helicopter.  It was jarring.  The first sign I’ve had of civilization, other than this connection to you, since I began.  

Not that this connection is much.  You only respond by adding apps.  But I realize I’ve been depending on it, this thin little lifeline.  Not unlike the smart blood that I knew allowed you to keep tabs on me.  Having MI6 track me was always a bit invasive feeling, but never you personally.  I always like knowing you were watching over me and had my back.

I realize now you probably knew where I was the whole time I was retired.  Were you tracking my health?  Did you still have alarms that would sound if my heart suddenly stopped?  Certainly, it wasn’t your job anymore.  Would you have found that too invasive for a mere civilian?

Part of me assumes I abused you too much before leaving to maintain your interest.  Part of me hopes you were watching over me from a distance.

The only reason I can think for a helicopter to be out here is search and rescue.  I’m glad I’m not the one needing it, and hope whoever is the subject of the search has someone watching over them as carefully as I have you watching over me, and it’s not too late for them.

And I hope they deserve that person more than I’ve deserved you.

Dear Q,

I got out early as planned, before anyone else was stirring.  I’m a bit stiff from yesterday, but an hour on the trail loosened me up.  

I’ve been thinking about strategy.  Being first to make your destination gains you a certain number of points.  That seems to be the strategy most of the others are taking.  We are all carrying enough freeze-dried food that one could just hike long, fast days and use that and get in first.  However, that’s not really using the survival training.  That’s just backpacking.  And the deduction for using the food goes up the more of it you use.  Like baggage fees on airlines.

So I’ve decided to maximize my reliance on the plants they told me about, and use as little of the food they’ve sent with me as possible.  And since I left before breakfast, the one instructor who was awake offered me one “free” food package.  I chose a bag of jerky, which I can use over days to supplement my diet with protein.  I’m not even hungry yet today.  

I have two mountain passes to summit on this trip.  The first will likely be the day after tomorrow, and the more hiking I do today and tomorrow, the earlier and fresher I get to make that ascent.  I also need to gather enough food today in that time to get me started on summit day, since I hope to be high enough up the slope that many of these plants won’t be growing.  I’ve rigged one of my gear bags to hang from my belt so I can forage as I hike.  That’s a trick I learned from Kincade.  I’ll have to remember to thank him.

Dear Q,

Ah hah!  So you are getting these!  I awoke to find a new app on this phone.  Stargazer.  I’ll try it tonight.

I did my first summit this morning.  There was still a bit of snow at the top.  Now that I’m back in subalpine regions, I’m foraging as I hike again.  It doesn’t take much concentration now that I have a better search image.  

Which means I have a lot of walking to do in complete solitude with nothing much to occupy my mind.

Perhaps you do hate me, after all.

Self reflection has never been a strong suit of mine.  I know this.  In part my childhood taught me that thinking too much about the past just led to pain.  M’s philosophy that regret was unprofessional discouraged too much reflection as well.  After my foster brother was captured, I thought perhaps making a clean break would be good.  Remove the necessity of thinking about it too much.  I’ll take door number two, please.  She said she loved me.  When was I going to get that chance again?

Well, you can imagine how well that worked out.

And now you’ve sent me halfway around the world with nothing to do but think on my sins, to quote our friend Silva.  And I don’t know exactly why I’ve chosen you as the receiver of my personal reflections.  Certainly, I’ve already shared more in these postcards than I routinely do (at least on purpose) during psych exams.  Maybe it’s because you have proven you have my back when I need you, consequences be damned.  Maybe it’s because you’ve earned it, this glimpse into my psyche, considering all the shite I’ve given you over the years.  Maybe it’s just because you gave me a phone, and no one else seems interested.

You’ll probably share all of this with psych.  I can’t blame you.  You are the Quartermaster, after all.  On the other hand, I think you hate psych as much as I do.

Whatever made me think I could run off with a psychiatrist of all things?

Dear James,

Yes.