James Bombed, Free Agent

[In a world swallowed by crisis, it dawned on Bond a word was missing from that phrase. It should read perpetual crisis. He'd seen enough, he'd had enough. Who would save him?]

Repressed much, Mr. Bombed?

"Does being a secret agent mean you have to keep your feelings secret?"

The thought has popped into Bond's head with irrefutable fury, a vexing thorn in the night. It was as if he'd awoken from a light slumber, aware but not fully realizing his situation: Bond had been living a lie for most of his life. He had bought into his own myth. Perhaps this recent revelation started with that infernal department psychologist (Bond really had no time for the self-doubting 12st century) who asked him: "What would you do with your life if there were no 'bad guys' left in the world?"

He tried to be glib saying there "would never be a shortage of that kind!" But the prying woman had torn the lid off a festering issue 007 had never wanted to face, one he had smothered with women, drink, and adrenaline. Like a slipping disk in the spine, his soul had fractured over the years making it harder and harder for him to do his job. And it is his job he uses as a refuge from the inadequacies of his personal life.

With its always impeccable timing, the universe had arranged for the assignment Bond hated most: cold blooded assassination. Also as always, the man's file read like a demon's resume. But the idea of "winning through attrition" had become stale and untenable to 007. This gave him a scare like no other in his life; a creeping, gnawing fear that cannot be wished away or escaped. Had his life been a fraud?

James Bond reflected on such while viewing the moody sunset outside his high-rise lair.

Though while wearing one himself, Bond in a recent casual conversation on the state of the world remarked, "We should just kill everyone in a suit. All the trouble starts with those fellows." It was an unsophisticated comment, taken out of context of his true thinking, but James on occasion liked to shock and there was a certain truth to what he had said even without qualification. In other words, he knew only the guilty would take offense and it gave him great pleasure to observe those who squirmed at the statement and those who did not. Sidney Reilly got nothing on this boy, Bond mused to himself.

The impermanence of his luxury flat decorated with only the finest items suited Bond to a T. He bought not for status but for competence - the only true currency in 007's world. The fact that elite competence often comes with a high price made no matter. Bond did not keep up with technology but relied on those who did to keep him current with the latest home gadgets. As always with Bond, his endeavors were a team effort. But as he looked on his half-empty Crystal Skull vodka he knew he was on his own on the mission of life. One is always alone at the end of the day.

The assassination mission had been refused. 007 stood in disgrace. It was the first time he'd truly done something for himself. Serving queen and country can only be a temporary thing. The furious backlash he received surprised him. Hadn't his years of service counted for anything? He saw hurt and betrayal in his superiors' eyes as they flooded him with stern invective and pleading logic. Bond wasn't just saying no to this particular mission, but to the whole idea they had the right to order him around. Rejecting that had truly ripped the masks off their faces once and for all.

Who in their right mind would kill
on orders from a moronic freak like this??

"No one's smart enough to tell me whom I should or should not kill."

So James did what he always did and got good and bombed on Vodka. This was no mere port in a storm as usual, though, but rather a wall between him and the world. In his drunken fog, he could not refuse the clarity that had been knocking at his door for so many years: his career as a secret agent ended with his marriage to Emily. She challenged him with intelligence in ways no one else on the planet could.When confronting his criminal opponents, Bond would often smirk to himself as he imagined Emily's assessment of the redoubtable personal failings that had driven the criminal to his loser's fate. World leaders were also not spared: "Putin would rather face a firing squad than an actual woman."

Emily kept Bond alive in ways no government agency could ever hope to. He always joked that even if he hadn't married her he'd still need her in his life and whatever woman he did marry would just have to understand. But while Emily was the least demanding soul he'd ever come across, living up to her proved more than he could bear. The growing chasm in their relationship brought ruination to his heart. With gallows humor he commented on his failed relationship to his buddies, "I can't go off and join the bloody Foreign Legion - I'm already there." His inability to grow had shackled him as he watched her sail away to places he could never reach (though she had concerns the frozen Bond did not see).

Ten years of underlying disintegration had to come to a head, Bond had been slowly dying. He hoped Emily would be proud to see him now, breaking free at last. But what could he really do with his life? Is it too late? Emily was an acclaimed writer - a career not requiring the presence of evil in the world. To do something that emanated from the inside - that he had no desire to face, ever, under any circumstance or under any penalty. That was one line he would not cross, one he'd -

"Dammit, stop!"

The alcohol, the pain, the isolation had driven Bond home. Being an ex-00 agent wasn't the end of the world. It was the beginning. Facing into the bottom of his glass, Bond saw his reflection for the first time. It occurred to him that perhaps he had shortchanged himself. He'd driven himself to relentless excellence in his chosen line of work - the best in the world. But the world remained the same criminal enterprise it had always been and had never pulled its weight in the bargain of 007 risking life and limb to save it.

Dear world, looks like we both need to grow the hell up.

EPILOGUE: In three months Bond was dead of a heart attack while passed out drunk. MI6 made no announcement as even the threat of Bond still had its uses. The secret burial was unattended. After a lifetime of repression, a fractured Bond could not break free to express himself - a horrid fate for one so full of feeling. Playing the role of the satisfied retired English gentleman (to the hilt, as in all things) may have fooled the world but not his broken dreams. He passed away at 56, same age as another Englishman he admired: Ian Fleming.