James Bond In WW2

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-Bond's P.O.V-

The months following Harris's execution blurred into a whirlwind of blood and battle.

It was 1943, the height of World War II. The Allied forces were making gains in North Africa, while the Soviets held the Eastern Front.

But Europe remained a stronghold for the Nazis, and the situation in France was dire.

The Resistance fought valiantly, but Gestapo crackdowns made every victory pyrrhic.

I volunteered for every dangerous mission thrown my way, not out of glory, but out of vengeance.

Each successful raid and each precise shot took me closer to avenging Marcus, Royce, and the others I'd lost.

---

Three months in, my name carried weight in the camps. Fifty-six confirmed kills, and I had survived operations that should have ended in disaster.

My sniper skills had sharpened to near-perfection. Marcus would have been proud—or horrified.

Evelyn once joked that I was channeling Marcus himself, my accuracy as deadly as his.

I carried his rifle(Lee-Enfield No. 4 Mk I(T)) everywhere, treating it with the care of a treasured relic.

Physically, I had changed too. Now at 15 years old.

Months of relentless combat and the onset of Puberty had pushed my body to its limits.

I'd grown taller—noticeably so—and my shoulders had broadened. My once-lean frame now bore the marks of a soldier honed by war. Evelyn never failed to comment on it.

"You're like a bloody tree now," she teased, patching me up after another deadly mission. "Think you'll stop growing by the time the war ends?"

I shrugged. "Guessing the bullets don't care."

She laughed, but I caught the flicker of concern in her eyes.

---

After a night of healing and rest, I was summoned to Commander Barlow's tent that crisp March morning, with no idea just how my life was about to change again.

This would be my first Black-Ops mission, afterall. And trust me, you don't forget your first.

"Private Bond," Barlow greeted, seated behind his battered desk. His voice carried its usual mix of sternness and grudging respect. "Sit."

I obeyed, my boots crunching on the rough canvas floor.

Barlow slid a folder across the desk. I opened it, studying the grainy photographs inside.

A sprawling castle perched on a rocky hilltop loomed on the pages.

Its towers seemed to pierce the overcast sky, and the winding road leading to it was surrounded by dense forests.

"Château du Sangreal," Barlow said. "Located in southern France, near the foothills of the Pyrenees."

The name rang a faint bell. "I've heard of it. A fortress-turned-palace, owned by the House of Charlemont. French nobility."

Barlow nodded. "Correct. The current count, Jean-Claude Charlemont, inherited it two decades ago. On the surface, he's a loyal Frenchman hosting lavish parties to keep up morale during the war. But our intelligence suggests otherwise."

I raised an eyebrow. "Collaborator?"

Barlow's expression darkened. "That's what you're going to find out. We suspect he's allowing the Nazis to use the Château for weapons research. Top Nazi scientists are rumored to be working there on experimental technology—something big. If they succeed, it could tip the scales in the Axis's favor."

I clenched my jaw. "And the French?"

"They don't know we're intervening," Barlow said. "This mission is strictly black-ops. If the French catch wind of a British operation on their soil, it could sour our alliance."

"So, infiltrate, confirm the intel, and get out," I summarized.

Barlow leaned forward. "Not quite. If you find evidence of advanced weapons research, you are authorized to destroy it. No matter the cost."

---

The mission's weight settled heavily on me as Barlow explained the details. The Château's grand party would provide cover for our infiltration.

Guests from across France were invited, creating the perfect opportunity to slip inside undetected.

There was, however, one catch.

"You won't be going alone," Barlow said.

I frowned. "With due respect, sir, we both know I work better alone."

After the 6th squad I joined cast me out on grounds of volatile tendecies and insurbodination(please I saved the whole fucking team), the Commander and I came to an understanding. All my missions would come from him, and be tailor suited for my special talents.

"And with respect, Private, this isn't your call," he retorted.

The tent flap rustled, and I turned to see Evelyn stepping inside. She wore her field medic uniform, her sharp blue eyes glinting with mischief.

"Surprise," she said with a smirk.

I turned back to Barlow, barely containing my frustration. "You're sending her?"

"She's your partner," Barlow said firmly. "Her medical expertise and quick thinking will make your cover airtight. You'll pose as a couple attending the party."

"She's not trained for infiltration," I argued.

Evelyn stepped closer, poking a finger into my chest. "I'm standing right here James. And I've survived just as many missions as you. Maybe more."

"Sir..."

Barlow sighed, rubbing his temples. "Bond, your job is to adapt. Evelyn's presence strengthens the mission, not weakens it. Unless you'd like me to find someone with less tolerance for your insubordination?"

I clenched my jaw, biting back my retort.

"Good," Barlow said. "You'll receive additional training to prepare for the Château's environment. Dismissed."

---

The following week was grueling.

Evelyn and I trained to blend into high society. For her, it was second nature—dancing, polite conversation, and charming smiles. For me, it was like pulling teeth.

"I'm a soldier, not a socialite," I grumbled one evening after another failed waltz.

Evelyn rolled her eyes, guiding me across the makeshift dance floor. "You're a soldier who needs to blend in. Try not to look like you're planning a murder with every step."

Her teasing grated on my nerves, but I had to admit, she was a good teacher. And I, always the eager learner.

By the time the mission night arrived, I could hold my own in a waltz, if not gracefully.

---

Château du Sangreal was breathtaking up close.

The towering towers glowed under the moonlight, and the warm golden light spilling from its windows hinted at the opulence within.

Evelyn and I stood at the base of the grand staircase, blending in with the crowd of aristocrats and military officers.

She wore a stunning emerald gown that shimmered with each step, while I donned a tailored tuxedo with a bronze half-mask shaped like a lion's maw.

My dark hair lay smooth, flowing to the back of my head.

"You clean up nicely," Evelyn murmured, looping her arm through mine.

"Don't get used to it," I muttered, scanning the crowd.

As we ascended the staircase, the Château loomed larger, a monument to both beauty and power.

"Ready?" Evelyn whispered.

I nodded, tightening my grip on her arm. "Let's dance."