Minions, Assemble!

An LLS Production

"Homem?"

Being poked in the recently shocked ribs was not a good idea, even for someone in Her Majesty's secret employ. For James Bond, it was an unpleasant reminder of mortality. This sucks...

"Oi, ¿estás despierto?"

James opened his eyes, blinked, raised a sand-covered hand to rub his face carefully, and look again. Nope, it was a talking yellow lump. A yellow lump with goggled eyes, in blue overalls. No, clearly he was concussed at the bottom of the ocean.

The yellow lump opened a mouth filled with teeth – not sharp teeth– and yelled at trebled decibels that just drove James into a wish that his gun was dry. Maybe he could club it over the head.

"BOSS! BOSS! Hay un tipo aquí!"

All thoughts of potential threat assessments gone, James was about to extract his gun to take his chances before the yellow lump clubbed him bodily. "Hwahh!"

"Dave, what's going on- is that a human?"

English, at last. James raised his head to find another figure approaching down the beach, and found himself doubting again that this sylph-like creature could be human.

"O mar arrastou-o aqui!" the lump, henceforth named Dave, proudly presented. "Boss, um assunto de teste!"

"Well, drag him in," the sylph declared. "We can't leave him out here, that's messy. Throw him in the trash compactor."

"Aqui, il vivant!"

"Dave, say so earlier!"

As darkness approached from the corners of his eyes, the sylph knelt and started administering CPR. Hot and wet breath passed his lips, right before a horde more of the yellow lumps charged with war cries and hit him with an oxygen tank, causing him to cry out in pain.

"He's alive!" the sylph spoke, and James belatedly realised that the sylph was not only human, but also young, dark-haired, wearing half-moon spectacles, a shoddy T-shirt and jean-shorts, and still rather sylph-like. "Minions, bring him in!"

"Is this supposed to be a kidnapping attempt?!" James coughed as he was – roughly – laden onto a stretcher by yellow talking lumps with three-fingered hands and thrown to be carried out by a marching contingent.

The mission was supposed to be a simple assassination aboard a ship somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. While the actual murder was successful, the aftermath ended with him overboard and dumped into the Pacific for donkeys' years, before the Pacific saw fit to sweep him onto the beach of an island occupied by yellow life forms in overalls and ruled by a bespectacled sylph.

Either way, it ended up with Bond processed through the fastest medical examination, bandaging and field-patchwork before he was carried via marching brigade to a large grey throne room. The stage was overseen by a bank of computers. On the far wall, there was a large bespectacled 'Q', and underneath it bore the motto 'Orbis non Sufficit'. With some difficulty, James shifted until he could spot more of the yellow life forms rushing by. The Q was borne next to a name tag. A motif; it bore up to his thought of it being the same motif plastered on the ceiling of the infirmary was real.

The marching brigade dumped him onto the carpeted floor – rather gently – but cackled.

"Oh, you're awake." From behind the bank of computers, the sylph stepped out, this time in a brown cardigan worn over a shirt. "My apologies, I tend to get distracted in my work if not for my minions. I don't believe we've met, Mr...?"

"Bond, James Bond. Thank you for fishing me out of the Pacific. You are?"

"Ah, yes." There was a nervous clasping of hands. "I am the evil Overlord of this island lair. Call me Q."

There was a beat of pause – and applause, from the Minions – while the message properly sunk in. "You can't be serious."

"Why, because I'm not in a cape?"

"Evil Overlord?" James echoed. "Who does that?"

"My title choice is hardly relevant."

"Your age is."

"Age is no guarantee of efficiency."

"And youth is no guarantee of innovation."

"Oh!" the boy, the Evil Overlord, clapped his hands in glee. "You're very good at this. It's been so boring since Scotland Loch changed from consulting crime to −"

"Boss! Boss!"

One of the yellow lumps dragged forward another, the second one slightly elongated and babbling in the same gibberish language they all seemed to share. Q's eyes narrowed before he nodded to James: "Excuse me," and left. James watched in fascination as Q knelt down to listen, watching as Q shook his head in fond exasperation before smacking the minion behind the head and walking back to face James, kneeling such that the spectacles were almost touching James's nose.

"I apologise," warm breath passed over his face again, nearly causing James to lean forward.

"What for?" The actual reply was not something James was expecting.

"Mr Bond, it appears that your assignment was accidentally compromised by Kevin, who was hoping to arrange some unusual scenario involving a secret agent finding his way onto this island by sheer coincidence to charm me back into civilisation and Overlord-ship as a supervillain controlling an army of ruthless, intelligent minions." Q explained, already pulling out a cellphone and pressing on the screen. A card fell out, floating until it reached the carpet. "While I appreciate their intentions, I really have all the company I need-"

Q, Supervillain for Hire, read the card. It bore little analogue-influenced contact details, and more through digital media James could care less about, but what struck was the pristine condition of the text in contrast with the yellowing of age of the cardstock.

A little danger's never stopped me before,
Seduced by hypnotic eyes, and a kiss to die for.
Everything you do causes me pain,
Torture me with a smile, burning me with your flame-

"-and my minion's matchmaking attempt is highly not appreciated!" Q hotly rushed to the minions bearing boomboxes; each was blaring the same song. "Professional behaviour, guys, he's MI6!"

"Cupi Calalino?" Dave snickered to Kevin, making kissing sounds. Kevin punched him.

"Well, they'll be here in about six hours," Q turned back to James at last, his expression resolved and blinking like a small owl. "Was there... something else you need?"

"A change of clothes, and dinner," James lasciviously answered. "With a dinner companion. One that can preferably speak English I understand. Preferably followed by... some sports. I'm partial to dancing, myself, but something can probably be arranged."

At this, Q's lips parted in a mocking O-shape, almost good enough to fuck. "Why, no, Mr Bond. I expect you to dine."

Song is Jeffree Star: 'I'm in Love (With a Killer)'

Critique, s'il vous plaît!