As the gun went off, James wasn't prepared for this consequence. He had seemingly accounted for every outcome, every response, but he sadly wasn't prepared for this. His gun was empty... he had missed his target.

As Big Ben struck midnight, James Bond, double-oh-seven, fell dead. The man with the sniper rifle from the opening of all of his adventures, despite getting shot countless times, had finally found his mark.

He walked slowly through the corridor, stepping quietly on the finished wood which complimented the white walls. He yawned loudly.

"Oh, excuse me." James Bland said to fellow agents which looked at him with expressions ranging from disgust to curiosity.

Everyone else found the job exciting, sneaking through dangerous areas, the suspense of avoiding searchlights, of using their charisma to leave people dry of information, these were, however, not exciting for James Bland, double-oh-eight.

The thing arguably even stranger about him was that he found seemingly the monotonous parts of life simply exhilarating, practically racing over to a wall that was drying from being painted, or enthusiastically volunteering to mop the floor or iron clothes. In fact, he once spent all night "partying" by ironing his suit and tie which all male agents are required to wear.

James Bland knocked three times on the wooden and glass door, which proudly stated was the office of the director of the secret agents, George Connor.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

James Bland opened the door walked in, and closed it, giving him a rush of excitement. He loved this part, opening and closing the door.

"Come on in, James." George said.

Now for the boring part, being given some top-secret assignment or something. James thought.

Bland sat down in the spinning office chair. The office chair squeaked, denoting wear as he spun around to face his boss.

"Mister Bland, I'm sure you've heard the rumors and theories about Mister James Bond's disappearance."

"I have." Bland replied with apparent indifference.

"Well, I'm here to clarify why he's not been turning up. He's dead."

"Excuse me?" Bland said, unsure whether to start laughing at a joke or grieve at a loss.

"He's dead, James. At twelve-hundred hours last night gunshots were heard, at thirteen-hundred the police were present and investigating, the body of James Bond was found, deceased. I'm sorry James; I know he was a close friend of yours."

"If you will forgive me, I will take my leave sir." James said, beginning to leave his chair.

"I did not call you in here only to hear bad news, Mr. Bland," Connor said, "I have a special assignment for you."

James Bland proceeded to make himself comfortable in his chair once more.

"This is an optional mission, but with promise of great reward. Can I count on you?"

Bland hesitated, questioning why George delivered sad news, and then asked him to volunteer for a job. What if these events were connected? If Mr. Bland could do something, anything to give himself some closure over one of his most trusted friends' death, he would undertake the job.

He made a decision.

"I'll do it."

I really hope you enjoyed the first chapter! This was a fanfiction I wrote all the way back in 2017, and has only been minimally edited to preserve the original spirit. I'll be uploading on Thursdays and Fridays, so look forward to it :) Remember to vote and tell me what you thought of the chapter in the comments below!