The world was a big place. Still, Q never thought he’d have to deal with yet another psychotic female agent who happened to also act as a girlfriend.
And yet here he was.
The first one was, of course, had a reputation that preceded her; she was the one who would not be named, the one whose damnatio memoriae had nevertheless failed to prevent him from thinking of her from time to time. After that there had been something of a hiatus; then afterwards, after a time, there was the hairdresser with the legs, who tried to strangle him in the shower after he said that maybe they should take a break; and then for a couple of weeks there was girl from the coffee shop, whose hacking skills weren’t nearly as good as his but who nevertheless managed to break into his phone and read all of his texts; and then there was the little disaster with the chef who declared after two days that she was moving in with him, and who he swore was eyeing one of his cats as a future ingredient.
Yes; by his own admission, he was cursed. And then you came along. And a bomb nearly exploded in his face.
Not that these things were related, of course. You just happened to be his girlfriend at the time he was targeted for an attack. No harm done; by pure serendipity his usual routine was delayed, and the he missed the bomb that had been planted inside the trunk of the car he was supposed to take. He hadn’t dodged it entirely, however, and though he had been at a distance, he had ended up with some incredibly minor, superficial wounds. So minor that it had really only been a cut on his cheek from some glass.
But the fact that it was on his face meant that he was unable to hide it from you.
This was the sort of incident that would leave a greenhorn shaken, but these days it wouldn’t even feature on his career highlights. After all, one of his own girlfriends tried to assassinate him; what was some random stranger? But even after he had tried to insist to you that he really was fine, you had taken one look at him, your eyes getting uncharacteristically soft with worry. You had taken his face in your hands, your thumb gently tracing the cut, and, ignoring his rather pathetic insistence, you told him one thing: “I’ll go get him.”
Soon, the anonymous attacker was not-so-anonymous. You had all but stood on the faces of those hunting the terrorist’s identity until they gave you a name, and afterwards, with that strangely persuasive American charm of yours, you had strong-armed your way into point for the mission. But this time there was no one else involved. You were going to be the one to hunt down his attempted assassin.
And hunt him down you did. Within an hour you had gotten a name: Conrad Andrews. With it came Andrews’ location, and with that you departed, telling him that you would be back soon.
Q could only watch helplessly as you left, not in control for this mission, wondering if you really would be all right; and then he remembered the time you had defused a bomb with your toes so that you wouldn’t have to put the phone down while chewing the fat with him. Still, when one of his associates turned and asked if he wanted to watch you work, he didn’t see any reason to do otherwise.
The scene quickly turned exciting. You went to Andrew’s residence. He refused to open the door for you, pleading his innocence with futility, until he made the mistake of getting too close to the door. You punched a hole through the rather flimsy material and grabbed his neck, pulling him as if proposing to pull him through what you’d created. He managed to break free, however, and fled out a window before you were able to kick down the door. You wasted no time in following him out said window, vengeance clear in your eyes as you went after him like the Terminator. When he carjacked an innocent bystander, you did so as well, giving a neighbor pulling up on a motorcycle some vague excuse of authority in order to take his ride. And off you went.
Conrad Andrews made it some distance, with you tearing behind him. Perhaps he thought he could make it some distance before he could get somewhere where you wouldn’t follow, but he would never get that far. Because you disappeared from his sight, just long enough for him to believe he’d lost you, until you rushed in from a bat out of hell from such an unexpected and improbable direction that Q wondered how you broke physics in order to make the maneuver. But anything was possible, he supposed, when you’re a girlfriend on a revenge mission.
You jumped from the motorcycle to land on the hood of Andrews’ getaway vehicle. He had only moments to process the sheer terror of your psychotic visage before you punched the windshield – once, twice, three times – before your fist made it through.
There were easier ways to catch a terrorist, Q supposed, than splintering a windshield with your bare hands and dragging him out through it. But when you took him to headquarters like a proud housecat depositing some prey, giving him that tender look like you had just performed some grand, romantic gesture – well, how could anyone tell you no?
By his own admission, based on the performances of his old girlfriends, he was cursed. And then you came along.
Still cursed, Q presumed. But if the universe practiced sadism, then he was always something of a masochist.