The Son Who Wasn’t Quite Ready

By Olivia Merrie Roldant

Once upon a time, in a world filled with danger, intrigue, and gadgets that would make your grandma faint, there was a secret agent named James Bond. Now, before you get any ideas, this isn't that James Bond: he's more of a “Steve Bond,” but the point is, Steve was the real deal. The best in the business. He had a license to kill, a wardrobe that made everyone look like they shopped at thrift stores, and a car that doubled as a jet, or maybe a submarine. Steve wasn’t even sure anymore. All he knew was that he was good at his job. And he was cool. Very, very cool.

But then Steve had a son.

His name? Timmy Bond. Timmy wasn’t quite the chip off the old block. More like a slightly melted, misshapen pebble. 

While Steve’s missions involved infiltrating high-stakes casinos, dodging laser beams, and hanging off the side of speeding helicopters, Timmy’s biggest challenge was deciding whether to play Fortnite or Minecraft. His combat skills consisted of dodging his mom’s attempts to get him to clean his room. And the closest thing Timmy had to a gadget was a broken, hand-me-down iPhone that could barely load a YouTube video.

Steve had tried to teach Timmy the ways of espionage. He’d enrolled him in fencing lessons, which Timmy quit after a week because “it was just like pretending to sword fight with strangers.” He had him practice stealth by sneaking up behind his mom and saying "Boo!" to which she always responded with a chanchala to his head, completely ruining the point of it.

One day, Steve had to go on a mission, leaving Timmy in the care of the agency for a few days. Timmy was thrilled. Not because he was excited to see the top-secret world his father was a part of, but because it meant unlimited access to the snack cupboard in the agent headquarters.

"Now, Timmy," Steve said as he adjusted his tuxedo, "don’t touch anything, don’t get into any trouble, and most importantly, don’t get yourself caught."

Timmy, who was on his third bag of chips by this point, gave a half-hearted thumb-up. "Got it, Dad. No problem." 

Twenty minutes later, Timmy had accidentally triggered the building's laser security system while trying to find the bathroom. He hadn’t been paying attention when a red laser grid shot across the hall. As he stepped into it, the alarms blared. 

“Unauthorized access! Unauthorized access!” a robotic voice announced, followed by a soothing but oddly smug British accent, “Better luck next time, Timmy."

Timmy froze. He knew he had one chance. The lasers were all around him, and he had no idea what to do. So, naturally, he did what any rational teenager would: he Googled "How to avoid laser security systems." 

Meanwhile, in the field, Steve was scaling the side of a building, fighting off enemy agents while pulling off some ridiculous stunts. He checked his watch. "Alright, I should wrap this up and check in on Timmy."

Back at the agency, Timmy had finally found a way to disarm the lasers by accidentally knocking over a stack of papers, which somehow triggered a hidden button to turn them off. However, now there was another problem: he had tripped the building’s self-destruct sequence. 

“Self-destruct in T-minus 5 minutes,” the robotic voice declared ominously.

Panicking, Timmy ran down the hall screaming for help, but all the agents were busy making espresso, practicing their martial arts moves, and discussing the latest Bond movie. It was, after all, a secret agent agency, not a daycare centre.

Just as the countdown reached “T-minus 30 seconds,” Steve burst through the door, looking winded but completely composed. “What did you do, Timmy?”

“Self-destruct,” Timmy whimpered, pointing at the red countdown clock. “It’s fine, I think I... accidentally... figured out how to stop it?”

Steve sighed. “I leave you alone for 30 minutes, and this happens. Watch and learn.”

With the speed of someone who’d done this a thousand times, Steve casually leaned over, pressed a few buttons on the control panel, and reset the entire system. The self-destruct countdown stopped at exactly one second. 

Timmy blinked. “You’re so cool, Dad.”

“Yeah, well, I am,” Steve said, dusting his hands off like it was nothing. “Now let’s go get some dinner.”

Timmy smiled, feeling like he was on the edge of being an actual spy, until Steve added, “But first, you owe me about a hundred hours of cleaning up your room.”

And so, the mission was complete. Steve Bond saved the day... and Timmy? Well, he had a room to clean and a mother to hide from.

By Olivia Merrie Roldant