"It doesn't matter who you were before," she said. "Your name. Your background. Even your nationality. Because now you're British. You work for British Intelligence. And you answer to James Bond or Double Oh Seven."
She was nearly ninety years old, barely over five feet tall but standing as straight as she could and with the dignified posture of someone much younger and taller. Very tightly cropped white hair. Narrow blue-gray eyes that still held a youthful ferocity. Wide cheeks and a round chin with skin that sagged, though the years had brought with them a significant amount of gravitas.
"Do I have to do some sort of accent?" you asked.
"Certainly not," M said. "Your natural speaking voice is fine. Keeping a low profile is essential to the job, and that's hard to do when you're drawing attention to yourself by trying to act."
She took a seat at her desk and you sat down across from her.
"Our agency has perpetuated the urban legend of James Bond, Agent Double Oh Seven, since 1953. Over all this time, we've recruited a number of operatives to keep the rumors alive throughout the intelligence community. Now that you've officially been granted your License to Kill, you're officially a part of that legacy."
She handed you a manilla envelope labeled "For Your Eyes Only."
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