Chapter Text
It had started out as a stupid bet to see who could hack into the university’s servers first. Q had won, easily, and so they moved onto the next target. They never did anything with the information they accessed, there was no malice behind their actions. They were just two computer science students fucking around on their spare time to test the limits of their know-how. When the hacking targets became banks, they should have stopped. When the idea of accessing MI6 came up, they really, really, should have stopped. But they were young, bored and the world was their oyster.
Q’s friend gave up after two days. MI6 was truly on another level from everything else they had tried. But Q wasn’t one to give up; he enjoyed finally having something to do that challenged him intellectually. So, between uni work, he kept at it, until finally he managed to crack the security system. He was in the most valuable files of the country, he had managed to do the impossible, and of course he gloated to his friend.
“You should really exit their servers right now. Who knows what programs they have in place to trace you”, his friend had advised, and Q had agreed. Only a fool would stay digging through the systems of the nation’s foreign intelligence branch. But the temptation to just look around a little bit, to find out things only a handful of others knew… He had not been burned before, perhaps that was what made him so cocky: he was sure no one would be able to catch him.
And so he browsed the information that was now at his fingertips. He looked through personnel files, curious to see what kind of people the organisation employed. Then he clicked open some mission reports, nothing major, just some little tidbits of espionage gathered on the home soil. One thing led to another and he stumbled upon something incredible: the double-oh program. Agents with a license to kill. Government funded assassins. His heartbeat nearly doubled as he read about some of the agents and their missions; how was any of this legal? At one particularly gory mission report he couldn’t help but just slam his laptop shut, wanting to forget what he had just read. He didn’t sleep that night.
He should have at least tried to, since it turned out to be the last night he would spend at home before being placed under arrest.
The lawyer he was appointed was a very capable one, but even she could hardly do anything to save Q’s hide. The evidence was all there on his own laptop, he had no choice but to plead guilty to espionage. All he and his defense could argue was that he had not accessed the information with any malicious intent; he had not been planning on trying to blackmail anyone or to sell the information to a foreign power or organisation. That, however, did not hold much weight; he was declared guilty and sentenced to seven years in prison. His lawyer kept insisting it was a win, that he could have easily been sentenced for a much longer time and that with good behaviour he could get out in far less than seven years. It didn’t feel like too much of a victory to Q.
Arriving in prison felt surreal. Q was stripped of his clothes, searched, and issued the same clothes everyone in the prison wore: a blue t-shirt, grey joggers and a grey sweatshirt. The clothes hung too big on his body and already he was scared shitless that they made him look weak: a target for the other inmates. He could only hope prison was not like it was in the movies and the “fresh meat” didn’t immediately get beaten up on arrival. He was checked by a medical team, both for his physical and mental health. Then he met with someone who explained the rules and routines of prison life, as well his rights as a prisoner. Q wasn’t sure how much of anything that was said he actually processed; the panic inside him hadn’t subsided ever since the guilty verdict. He was not cut out for this, he was never meant to end up here, and it was horrifying to think this would be his life for the next seven years. As the guard led him away from the interview room towards what would be his home from now on, his cell, Q was sure he was actually going to have a heart attack.
“Alright, Holt. Here we are. Cell number 408. Your cellmate’s name is James Bond”, the guard said as they stopped, “He’s been here for a while, so I’m sure he’ll be able to help you if you have any questions. Good luck.”
With that, the guard opened the cell door, let Q inside, and left. The other man in the cell – James Bond, his brain reminded him – sat up from where he had been lying down on the bottom one of a bunk bed. He had striking icy blue eyes, Q noticed first. He looked like he could kill a man with his bare hands, Q noticed second.
“Welcome to your new home”, James Bond said, “I’m afraid I didn’t get a chance to get you a house-warming gift.”