Bond Seven
Agent Bond Seven is ready to complete his fiftieth mission with deadly precision. Little does his target know that in this post-apocalyptic world, evolution has taken some very unexpected turns.
Greetings, fellow denizens of the depths. This is Bob Nine, your faithful voice in the void, bringing you a special report from the labyrinthine bowels of Bunker 51.
Today's broadcast is brought to you by the Department of Suspicious Circumstances, reminding you that appearances are often deceiving, especially when you're not looking. And by the Doomsday Seed Vault Resort and Casino, where humanity's last hope meets humanity's last vice.
Now, gather 'round for a tale of ambition, ingenuity, and the relentless pursuit of... shall we say, "problem-solving" in our lovely subterranean sardine can. A tale that proves once and for all that in Bunker 51, career advancement is just a garrote away.
Deep in the intestines of our concrete cocoon, on Engineering Level -106, a story was unfolding. A story of Bond Seven, an agent with a mission. His fiftieth mission, to be precise. (And by "mission," we mean... well, let's just say it involves making people ‘un-alive’.)
The day had started like any other for Bond. He'd woken up in his perfectly ordinary sleeping pod, performed his perfectly ordinary morning ablutions (involving an unusual amount of personal grooming, but who are we to judge?), and consumed his perfectly ordinary nutrient paste (with a side of unidentifiable fruit-adjacent substance).
As he’d dressed, he'd reflected on the importance of the day ahead. Fifty missions. A milestone that would surely earn him a promotion, or at least an extra ration of vitamin D supplement.
Now, as Bond stood in the shadowed corridor of Level 106, the distinct aroma of ozone and desperation filled his nostrils. Above him, the constant groan of ancient machinery reminded him of the bunker's ceaseless digestion of its inhabitants' hopes and dreams. The flickering lights cast an eerie dance of shadows on the walls, as if the very darkness was trying to escape the monotony of bunker life.
In the distance, he could see his target: Workshop 106-C, rumoured to house nothing more exciting than spare parts for our beloved air filtration system. But Bond knew better. The whispers of shadows and the enigmatic mutterings of the sentient mould had suggested to him that a certain technician was assembling something that would make our last fireworks display look like a damp match in comparison.
As he waited for the perfect moment to strike, Bond's hand slipped into his pocket, retrieving a small bag of what he affectionately called "lock ticklers" - an essential part of his mission kit. These makeshift lockpicking tools, fashioned from repurposed cutlery were his keys to any door in Bunker 51.
To pass the time, Bond devised a little game: he'd see how many of his lock ticklers he could balance on his nose before they clattered to the floor. Perhaps not the wisest activity for someone wishing to go unnoticed, but it was fun. It was the only challenge he enjoyed failing, apart, that is, from his mandatory weekly sessions with the Department of Emotional Conformity.
When this diversion wore thin, Bond's thoughts turned to darker things. He mentally catalogued the myriad ways he could complete his assignment, flipping through the arsenal of bunker-approved termination methods at his disposal.
A Sonic Disruptor would be far too noisy, not to mention impossible to obtain since the Great Shortage of '89 had forced the recycling of all non-essential metals. The Fast Action Response Team would be on him faster than you could say "mandatory reeducation."
Perhaps a vial of the mysterious black ooze that sometimes dripped from the ceiling on Level 42? Now that's a real doozy. A pure substance of unknown origin, primarily favoured by the Department of Unnatural Selection. The ooze would be way too unpredictable for this job, potentially turning the target into a sentient puddle with delusions of becoming an indoor lake.
No, Bond had settled on a more... personal approach. After all, in Bunker 51, the personal touch was often the deadliest.
When the corridor finally cleared, Bond made his move. He approached the workshop door, his lockpicks dancing in the temperamental keyhole. After a few tense moments that felt longer than the list of approved safety violations, the lock surrendered with a satisfying click.
Bond slipped inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The workshop was a cluttered maze of half-assembled machinery, tools that looked more suited for medieval torture than engineering, and the ever-present fungal lamps that dotted the walls like bioluminescent acne.
He crouched behind a large crate labelled "DEFINITELY NOT BOMB PARTS (SO STOP ASKING)." From his vantage point, Bond scanned the room, taking in every detail.
A tall figure stood at a workbench, methodically assembling something that looked suspiciously like an air filter. Bond recognized his target instantly: Mallag, a mid-level technician with ambitions that exceeded both his security clearance and his ability to keep secrets.
What Mallag didn't know was that his co-conspirator, Tirak, was currently enjoying an all-expenses-paid vacation to the delightful Oxygen Deprivation Chamber on Level -119. Tirak had sung like a canary, if canaries could sing and weren’t prone to blubbering incoherently about pressure switches and blast radii.
As Bond watched, Mallag's tall frame hunched over the workbench, carefully connecting wires with trembling hands. The man's mumblings were a symphony of technical jargon and nervous whimpers, punctuated by the occasional "Oh Void, what am I doing?" and "I should have stuck to repairing toasters."
Bond couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for Mallag's handiwork. The bomb shaped exactly like an air filter, looked like it could take out half a level. It was almost a shame to stop him. Almost. But Bond had his orders, on that, the sentient mould had been clear.
The mold's instructions, whispered in spore-laden breaths had been unambiguous: "Stop the bomb, eliminate the bombmaker, and don't forget to water us on Tuesday." Bond made a mental note to update his calendar. After all, one doesn't simply ignore the wishes of an organism capable of devouring both concrete and abstract concepts.
He knew it was time to act. After all, there's a time for patience, and a time for decisive action in service of the greater good.
With the silence of a shadow and the grace of a cafeteria worker ladling out mystery stew, Bond crept up behind Mallag. The technician was so engrossed in his work, muttering about radiation scrubbers, oxygenators, clogged nano-mesh, and the like. Bond instinctively recognised these mutterings as code words for bomb components.
Bond reached into his pocket and pulled out his weapon of choice: a garrote fashioned from hydroponics bay fibres and the last strings of his moral compass. In a move smoother than the lies on his official incident report would be, he reached up towards Mallag's neck.
It was at this moment, dear listeners, that Mallag's finely-tuned sense of impending doom (a common evolutionary trait among Bunker 51 inhabitants) alerted him to a presence behind him. As he began to turn, his eyes – stained an unnatural shade of gray from years of staring at regulation-colored walls – widened not just in shock, but in utter disbelief.
For in that split second before Bond's garrote found its mark, Mallag found himself staring not into the eyes of a fellow human, but into the intelligent, almost mocking gaze of a fully evolved simian in a perfectly tailored suit.
Yes, you heard that correctly. Secret agent Bond, the silent predator of Bunker 51's shadowy corridors, was an ape. An ape with opposable thumbs perfectly suited for both lockpicking and garroting, it seems.
Mallag's hands, once so steady with delicate wiring, now flailed uselessly at the fibre slowly crushing his windpipe. As the light faded from Mallag's eyes, Bond couldn't help but wonder if the man's last thoughts included a reevaluation of everything he thought he knew about Bunker 51's population demographics. Or perhaps he was simply questioning his life choices. After all, if you find yourself being strangled by an ape, it's probably time for some serious introspection.
Moments later, it was done. Bond stood over Mallag's still form, idly grooming his fur. Fifty missions completed. A nice, round number. Perhaps he'd treat himself to an extra bunch of bananas tonight. (Just kidding, of course. Bananas are but a distant memory in Bunker 51, much like common sense and non-suspicious deaths.)
But Bond's work was far from over. After all, in Bunker 51, a suspicious death would be far too... well, suspicious. With the practised ease of someone who had done this forty-nine times before, Bond set about arranging the scene. He carefully positioned Mallag's body to look like the victim of a tragic workplace accident. (After all, those air filters can be terribly unforgiving.) A few adjustments here, a strategically loop there, and voila! Nothing more than an unfortunate incident report waiting to happen.
As for the bombs, Bond wasn't one to let such meticulous craftsmanship go unappreciated. He studied them with the reverence of a connoisseur, marveling at their uncanny resemblance to ordinary air filters. "Brilliant," he muttered, running a finger along a perfectly camouflaged intake valve. "They've thought of everything."
With the care of a veteran bomb disposal expert, Bond set about neutralizing the threat. He dismantled each device with surgical precision, occasionally pausing to admire the attention to detail in the "circuitry" that looked suspiciously like air purification mechanisms. As he worked, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret at destroying such masterpieces of deception.
Hours later, surrounded by a sea of deconstructed parts that would never filter - er, detonate - again, Bond allowed himself a satisfied smile. The maintenance crew would later stumble upon this graveyard of dismembered "air filters," scratching their heads at the curious abundance of HEPA-grade materials and the lingering scent of pine-fresh cleanliness in the air.
As the distant sound of shift-change klaxons echoed through the bunker, Bond knew it was time to make his exit. He gave the workshop one final scan, nodded in satisfaction, and slipped out into the corridor.
The halls were soon flooded with end-shift workers, a river of tired souls trudging towards the community nutrition dispensaries. Bond seamlessly merged into the flow, just another faceless cog in the great machine of Bunker 51. Well, a faceless cog with considerably more body hair and a penchant for bananas, but who's counting?
And so, dear listeners, another day ends in our cosy underground home. A day where secrets were kept, problems were solved, and the gears of our little society ground on, lubricated by the blood of... well, best not to dwell on such things.
Remember, in the darkness of Bunker 51, we are all each other's eyes. Stay vigilant, stay alive, and whatever you do, don't ask too many questions about your neighbors' species. This is Bob Nine, your voice in the void, signing off.