Sweat bubbles atop his tanned skin, perspiring in glistening, watery beads. Long, sturdy legs push against the ground in a sprint—predator chasing prey—and the suit he had spent meticulous minute after meticulous minute pressing traitorously wrinkles.

James Bond, ever-the-gentleman-spy, has seemingly, yet again, sacrificed his dignity for His Majesty’s protection.

Don’t muck it up, 007, the tight-lipped snark buzzes in his ear, it’s coiled wire smacking against his sticky neck.

Bond’s chest heaves with effort as he turns a corner too harshly and slams into the cool stone of a local café.

“All due respect, I’m not exactly in the position to promise anything,” his rebuttal springs from his lips before he can stop it, and James winces at its lack of tact. He brings his hands to narrow hips, looking around at the caf.

In the distance, his mark. “Target lost,” the spy bemoans.