A/N: Thank you for the support Tessitura has been getting despite the large gaps between updates. It is your thoughts, comments, and reviews are what motivated this chapter into fruition.

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Part 1:

Hunters in a Snowstorm

Sölden, Austria

Q hated aeroplanes, and not even all the pills he had just taken helped him like it.

Yet here he was, sitting in a narrow plane heading off to the middle of nowhere while overlooking the Alps. Q approximated his distance from the ground, which only helped the stirring feeling in his stomach to rise into his chest. With eyes focused on the little LCD screen in front of him, Q reached a hand to the window and closed it shut. While it had certainly made the person next to him very disappointed, he couldn't really care less. He was thousands and thousands of feet above ground, and even when he did not have the visuals, the numbers were enough to keep him overwhelmed. Q took a deep breath, trying to remember every kind of technique that would calm him down. It was not like he did this for fun, he did this because M had found them all out and this was his punishment.

To distract himself, Q pulled out his phone and connected to the onboard Wi-Fi. If aeroplanes had a redeeming quality, this was it. While this was not one of this smarter moves, especially because of his condition, he needed something else to do than think about his distance from the ground. Q tilted his gaze and swept his thumb across the screen, skimming through anything worth reading - or the trouble. A moment later, a small notification box appeared on his screen: it was from Patel. Q tilted his head briefly before remembering that small little request he asked of the man, the numbers in his head replayed the memory of the strange transactions of aeroplane tickets.

Sir,

I have done some investigating on the transaction we discussed last time. It seems that Agent 009 had made these purchases the day she was in Prague, and almost immediately after her mission had ended. I have attached the CCTV footages that I could gather, and the papers she used are all issued by the agency which further confirms that it was indeed 009.

K. Patel

Q wanted to be surprised, but he wasn't. In fact, he almost expected it to be her. No one gave him more trouble these past few days than Whyte, with Bond running a surprisingly close second to her. Bond? Second? The world has fallen. He tapped on the attachments and skimmed over the videos, watching Whyte stroll the airport casually with no attempt to hide herself. For a secret trip, she was terribly open about it - even charging the costs to the agency. As his eyes glossed over and over her agent code, he was once again reminded of the painting in the gallery. Larissa. Rachel. Their names are not even close, but names are merely just names - so easily swayed, so easily changed. But faces? Faces are harder, because they're always the ones that give you away.

He switched to his web browser and began reading about the place he was headed, which was also and unfortunately involved a ride on a ski lift. It was a sort of private clinic on the Alps, a healing ski resort of some kind with an in-house psychologist. Dr. Madeleine Swann. Q went on and kept scrolling, reading a small paragraph about their restaurant and bar. Because of the pills and the aeroplane, he couldn't bring himself to even eat the pack of pretzels the flight attendant had given him. He looked over the menu, noticing a pattern of 'clean-eating' dishes and drinks. This place was definitely not Bond's type of game, and that small certainty was more than amusing.

The ski lift ride that went after arriving at Innsbruck made him feel even worse, and the whole time Q had his eyes on the floor with his bagged clutched tightly against his chest. There was always something about the view that always told the engineers to put more glass, and unlike on the aeroplane where closing the window was an option, he had no control over this at all. While he was more than sure that the lift was very well-built, not even the marvels of engineering can make a convincing argument that he should enjoy these sorts of rides.

Leaning slightly on a wall, Q took a moment to collect himself. Looking at his tracking app, Bond was not going anywhere soon. Surely, he can risk a few seconds to catch his breath - especially after all the travelling that had spent his day. A small alert sounded on his tracking app, but before he could check it, he caught a glimpse of a familiar black-clad man lounging around the bar area. Bond. A sense of relief surged over Q, knowing well that he didn't have wander all around this building just to find the agent. It was almost too convenient, but Q knew that he had to take this chance. After all, he had come all the way up here just to look for and bring him back London. Hopefully, that will finally settle things with M and the status quo that is the uncertainty of his career with the MI6.

"Vodka martini, shaken not stirred." James Bond told the bartender, his smooth and deep voice filling the silence of the room as Q opened the door. This place did not serve alcohol as stated in the website, but it's not like Bond ever bothered to read menus - or instructions. The image of the DB10 sinking in the water came to mind.

"I'm sorry we... Don't serve alcohol." the bartender told him, his hands folded together as Bond's face changed into a frown.

"I'm really starting to love this place." Bond muttered, his tone dry. There was something very foreign and very familiar with watching 007 operate in person, and everything almost felt too ordinary - if one didn't know that this man was armed and dangerous.

Q started to make his way to the bar as his chance opened, remembering the lengthy name of that one drink he saw on the website not too long ago. If he was going to order, he wasn't going to look stupid. He settled into the seat next to the agent, placing his messenger bag on the empty seat at his right, "He'll have the prolytic digestive enzyme shake."

"Certainly." he heard the bartender reply, along with some footsteps.

"If you've come for the car, I parked it at the bottom of the toilet." Bond said flatly, only looking slightly over his shoulder as gesture that he knew who he was.

Q did not take his tone lightly, as the stress of the BBC article and the things he had to deal with began to once again test his patience. Bond did not help his cause, whatever this whole thing was. Q kept his eyes straight ahead, replicating Bond's lack of eye contact while replying in the same tone, "Well not to worry, 007. It was only a three-million pound prototype."

Bond fell silent, then his voice lowered to a whisper. Still no eye contact. "Why are you here, Q?"

"I just fancied a break, to be honest. I'm a tad stressed at work, recently." Q maintained his tone when he replied, and while he meant his words to sound a certain way, he couldn't help but think that his delivery was more genuine than he planned. He looked down for a moment, thinking over his words, "What we see are people crawling over us, and the fact that M wants my balls for Christmas decorations."

"Get to the point." Bond snapped, a little annoyed but his voice still a whisper.

"The point, 007, is that Franz Oberhauser is dead. Dead and buried." Q gave him what he wanted, which was an answer straighter than straightforward. This whole chase escalated when Bond decided to chase the ghost of a man, and everything he and Moneypenny could find only pointed to the fact that Oberhauser was very much dead. He was facing him now, but the agent refused to turn his face, "Unless you come with me right now, my career - and Moneypenny's - will go the same way."

Bond did not reply.

"Do you understand?" Q went on, his eyes narrowing at Bond's face which seemed determined to stare somewhere else. He tilted his head slightly, examining Bond's seeming disinterest. The agent didn't seem to understand that his so-called 'license to kill' also had the license to end the careers of the people around him, "All hell is breaking loose out there, and here you are-"

"I saw him." Bond finally turned to look at him. Q felt himself pull back at the sight of the hard, cold gaze that pierced into his own. He had never seen that before, and he was very unprepared for it. So that was the look, he supposed, the look of a killer. He thought about Whyte: did she have this too?

"You thought you saw him." Q countered, but his voice changed as the lasting effects of Bond's glare lingered. He glanced at the bartender who busied himself with the shake, then returned his attention to Bond, "We've been through the records, he died in an avalanche with his father 20 ye-"

"Yes, I know that." Bond brushed off, cutting him out like he was hearing the same old same old. Again, Q saw the look. The agent kept his point short but firm, "But I saw him. He's not someone I'll ever forget."

Q looked away, trying to collect himself as any of his persuasion seems useless against Bond. He should've expected it, no, M should have expected it. What was he trying to accomplish, sending him all the way here to try and escort the agency's most stubborn agent? No matter how many perspectives he tried framing it, it always concluded to the fact that M merely wanted to punish him - to hold him accountable of all the things that occurred. If Moneypenny's job could be put on hold, she would be here with him as well. But there was a certain weight to carry in being M's secretary, and that demanded that she stayed in London most of the time. Because of this, Q was all on his own.

"So..." he started, turning to Bond once he felt like he was in better temper. Bond was insistent, so he must have something to show for being so stubborn, "Do you have a lead?"

Bond kept his eyes forward, "I have a name. L'Americain."

All this work, and just a name. For a moment, Q found himself believing Bond and playing his game. It was all for nothing of course, and he should have expected it. Field agents only ever thought of themselves. With M hot on his tail, Q simply cannot give him anymore time. This time he had to think of himself, Moneypenny, and the assurance that came with putting a stop to such a futile search.

Q couldn't help but scoff. He stood, grabbing on his bag and parka, "Well, that narrows it down. Look, I'm sorry 007, but time's up. My whole career is on the line here. Either you come back and do this through proper channels, or I go directly to M."

As he started to leave, Bond stood up as well - blocking his path. The agent tilted his dark, penetrating gaze towards him, "I need you to do one more thing for me. Then you're out."

Bond slipped a small, cold object into his hand. When Q looked down, he couldn't believe what he was seeing: it was a ring, very much in the same make and likeness as the one owned by Rachel Whyte. He tried to hide his surprise from Bond, whose sharp eyes remained attentive to their exchange. Back in London, Q only thought of this as some ordinary ring. A keepsake, or some sort of trinket that Whyte kept around her pocket. Seeing how Bond, too, was in possession of such a ring, it only muddied the little connections he had been doing to make sense of the woman. Then, for some reason, his mind reminded him of the painting of Larissa.

"Find out what you can from this." Bond said, speaking in a low yet careful tone.

Knowing what he already knew about the ring, and now Bond's apparent involvement in the whole mess, Q knew that he will never really be 'out'. He flickered his gaze up, accepting his fate with a frown, "I really really hate you right now."

Bond remained resolute, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. The agent leaned toward him slightly, a narrowing distance that caused Q to instinctively lean away in response, "What does she see in you, I wonder?"

The frown in Q's face deepened, his grip on his bag tightening as Bond studied him, "Who?"

"It must be this, then." Bond nodded, as if speaking to himself all this time. A slight smirk was on his lips as he straightened, giving Q the space he had momentarily intruded, "Thank you, Q."

Q gave him one lasting glare before he started towards the door. Field agents, who do they think they are? He had come here under M's orders to give Bond a convincing argument to return, but instead of the ideal path where all is solved and all is well, another layer of complexity was added to this whole mess. Now there was a name, as well as a ring. But of course, it never ends with such simple facts. Whyte, of all people, just had to apparently be involved in this situation as well. However, unlike Bond who had happened upon such a thing, she seemed to actually own one. But if she did, then her path and Bond's do not stray very far. Should he have told him?

"Monsieur, now. Please?" an accented voice spoke behind him, Q could only assume it was for Bond. If there was anyone in this place causing trouble, it would be the agent.

"A moment." Q heard Bond tell the voice, before watching him turn his way by hindsight as he pushed on the door, "Where are you staying?"

Q glanced at him, trying not to make eye contact with the figure in which the other voice belonged to. There was danger coming, but he was not going to be a part of it. "The Pevsner. Room 12."

"An hour." was Bond's prompt reply.

He nodded at him, turning away as the proceeded to the steps on the way back to the lift. Just before the door closed, Q heard the quick and sharp sounds of open combat beginning. There indeed was danger in that room, and he was more than glad to have none of it. But if not getting involved was the plan, he had to make haste. Escalating his pace, Q looked left and right every few seconds to ensure that he was not being followed. The lift was less than a few metres away, and it would be better for him - for everyone else as well - if he could just leave this place unscathed. He had enough trouble in London these past few days.

Looking left and right once more, Q took his hands out of his pockets and boarded as the door opened. It was only after he had sat down that he noticed the presence of someone else, a shadow of person that he had failed to detect despite his apprehensive approach. Q felt his heart pound, but kept his face straight as a bald man sat opposite of him with eyes like daggers. To seem unaffected by his presence, he pulled his laptop out from his bag and opened it, keeping face and even tried returning the stare the man was giving him. His knuckles were white, and his hands were cold. But he had to remain calm, it was the only way he was going to survive this ride. The thought of being so high above ground was not helping his case in any way.

Q placed the ring onto a portable scanning device and waited for his computer to do its work. As he did so, a number of interesting matches came up in the toxicology reports. He felt his eyes narrow, placing a hand on the trackpad as he scrolled through the list of people who may have owned such a ring. What he found particularly interesting was that these faces were not unfamiliar, in fact, they were too familiar. He may be a new quartermaster where time was concerned, but he studied Bond's cases enough to know that these people were all - at one point in their lives - Bond's greatest enemies. Like a calling, his mind returned to Whyte: where does she fit in this mess?

Packing his laptop back into his bag, Q devised a quick exit plan to get ahead of the bald man with the persistent stare. He was still under a level of threat, and if he wished to not be a part of the pile of corpses Bond's actions were making, Q knew he had to make it in one piece. When the door opened, he was met by a black-clad man wearing a matching fedora. By the smug look on his face, Q knew he had given himself away. He turned towards the bald man who was still planted on his seat, and he too carried the same obnoxious expression. This is it. He was trapped.

A few moments later, like a saving grace, a line of skiers and snowboarders oblivious to the tension all boarded the lift. While this was definitely not over, the group provided him a moment's peace by creating a buffer between him and his assailants. Q felt his heart pound again as he sank back down on his seat, his brain racing from corner to corner for viable solution. It wasn't too long until they reached another stop, and as he watched the eyes of his assailants wander, Q took this time to rush out of the tight space as soon as the door slightly opened. He ran as fast as much as he could, weaving in and out crowds hoping to make an unpredictable path. Field agents make it look so easy.

When Q turned to a sharp corner, a firm gloved hand reached to his own and pulled him into an open fire exit door. The change of pace was all a blur, and he didn't even have a chance to see how close his assailants were on his tail before it happened. Q spun and stumbled slightly, but the hand that held him kept him steady. In the contained space, a woman's chuckle echoed against the walls with a sound so familiar that he immediately looked up.

Rachel Whyte returned his glance, a smile fixed on her face and a gun with a silencer in her hand.

"Figured I should set the mood." Whyte remarked in form a greeting, her eyes wandering as a gesture to the space they were in. She was wearing black jacket similar in style as Bond's, but with a drawstring hood and several more zippers on her arms and chest. She went back to the door and opened it slightly, her hand still holding his, "Well, those blokes went the other way. Lucky you."

Q was still recovering from what just happened, and struggled to re-align his thoughts, "W-What are you doing here?"

"Less questions, more moving." Whyte hushed him, making a small motions with the hand that held the gun. Unlatching from the door, she pulled him down towards the stairs, "Here I thought you'd know I'd be here. That Smart Blood stuff is useless."

It wasn't until a couple of flights of stairs later that Q's assailants returned to haunt him. There was more than he had anticipated, for the man approaching them by the seconds was neither of the two that cornered him at the lift. Whyte kicked the man down with a swing of her foot, sending him tumbling down the steps as she aimed her gun and fired twice at his chest. Her grip on him became more persuasive as Q's eyes lingered on the body, still overwhelmed at how his situation has changed so quickly.

"Come on, you." Whyte told him, springing him back to focus as they descended more flights of stairs, "They just keeping coming and coming, don't they?"

The bald man was expecting them at the bottom of the staircase, retaining the smug look he had back at the lift like he had won. When he swung an arm for Whyte, she ducked, pulling Q down with her as well. She sprang back up, hitting his jaw with her elbow and used his weight to push the door behind him open. Since the man was definitely taller than her, he stumbled more instead of falling as they broke out into the icy air of winter. Whyte aimed her gun at the man, shooting him twice to his death.

Q looked around as she started muttering to herself, counting the bullets she had left. There was still a little bit to go before they were back to some sort of civilisation, and it was only then that Q realised that his escape plan was not entirely thorough.

Whyte scanned her area, her grey gaze active and thorough, "We are missing one person. The man with the hat."

Her inquiry was immediately answered by the sound of a raging snowmobile, a vehicle driven by the very man missing in her tally. It was only in this moment that Whyte had finally let go of his hand, pushing him to other side as she fell back on the snow behind her. The snowmobile darted past them, failing at its ambush but not in its pursuit. The man turned the vehicle around, his aim straight for Whyte who rolled away just in time.

Q struggled to sit up as he watched Whyte go against the man with the hat, his back sore from the impact against the building's cold wall. He remained still, absent from the interest of the snowmobile while trying to make sense of everything. A few moments ago, he was trapped in a lift analysing toxicology reports coming from a strange ring. Now he was here standing awkwardly by a building wall, watching an equally strange woman having a face-off with his last living assailant. Q tried picturing her with the men that showed up in the toxicology reports, and found himself shaking his head insistently. It felt like night and day, but it also did not.

When Whyte found her gun in the snow, she stood up once more and shot the man dead once and for all. The snowmobile, now without a driver, sat still with its engine hot and ready. She made her way towards Q once more, reaching for his hand like it was a habit. When she started pulling him towards the direction of the snowmobile, he firmly stopped in his tracks which caused her to recoil slightly. His grip wasn't too strong but it was enough, and if she really wanted to, Q knew she had enough strength to counter his pull like it never happened.

Instead, she chose to entertain him.

Whyte looked at him, making it obvious that time is of the essence, "What now?"

Q squinted his eyes, partly from his suspicion and partly from the prickling breeze of the wind. It was now or never. "Just who exactly are you, Rachel Whyte?"