1
MI6 Headquarters reminds you of home - a nest of strangers lying to each other and the world. As you enter M's reception room, the scent of ink and leather licks your proverbial face in greeting.
Behind her desk sits Miss Moneypenny. She is M's personal assistant and a transgressive reinscription of the masculine, colonising project. Unaware of this, she waves you toward a seat.
"M will see you shortly," she says.
To ensure this text passes the Bechdel test by talking with Miss Moneypenny about something other than a man, turn to page 2.
To ensure this text passes the Bechdel test by talking with Miss Moneypenny about something other than a man, turn to page 2.
To ensure this text passes the Bechdel test by talking with Miss Moneypenny about something other than a man, turn to page 2.
2
You coax your resting bitch face into a smile. "Thank you. Say, did you--"
"I've been processing travel arrangements for you and James," she interrupts, and you detect a note of envy. Despite Moneypenny's gradual alteration due to hegemonic reconfigurations, you sense that she retains a pining desperation, positioning her as a site for humour and condescension by the male other.
Rather than risk further uncomfortable dialogue, you spend the next six minutes pretending to type a text message. Finally, M phones and Moneypenny ushers you inside.
To enter with a post-gendered deference to authority, turn to page 3.
To enter with a post-gendered deference to authority, turn to page 3.
To enter with a post-gendered deference to authority, turn to page 3.
3
M, whose once complex gendering has regressed following Skyfall's reassertion of patriarchal dominance, suggests that you take the vacant seat by his desk. Next to it is a man you recognise as James Bond. Everyone recognises James Bond, really, and yet he still isn't dead, making him simultaneously the best and the worst spy in the business.
You take a seat, squeezing your legs into the narrow space not occupied by Bond’s manspreading knees.
"I've just been over the mission with James," M explains. "You will report to Q Branch, then leave for Cuba immediately. That will be all."
"Very good, sir," Bond replies as he stands.
Wait… nobody has told you anything. Should you point that out?
To assert your agency by asking for your own mission briefing, turn to page 4.
To assert your agency by asking for your own mission briefing, turn to page 4.
To assert your agency by asking for your own mission briefing, turn to page 4.
To demonstrate that unquestioning compliance is not an exclusively masculine trait and accompany Bond directly to Q branch, turn to page 25.
To demonstrate that unquestioning compliance is not an exclusively masculine trait and accompany Bond directly to Q branch, turn to page 25.
To demonstrate that unquestioning compliance is not an exclusively masculine trait and accompany Bond directly to Q branch, turn to page 25.
4
"I'm sorry, sir," you say, "and you must excuse me for this, but might I suggest - and this is just a suggestion - that you also brief me, just very quickly. I understand you're very busy but I feel I might have a better grasp of the details if I hear the briefing directly? Just a suggestion."
You sound like a freaking harpy.
"I think that would be wise," Bond says. The words are supportive, but the tone makes it sound like a double entendre you can't figure out.
"Very well," M replies. "As you're aware, 007, the thumb drive you retrieved in Istanbul contained sales and engineering data for a portable large-scale aerosol dispersion device. Using metadata stored on the drive, our analysts have determined that Cuban billionaire Cedro Del Toro has acquired 60 such devices."
To ask for clarification on how metadata could link these devices to Del Toro, turn to page 6.
To ask for clarification on how metadata could link these devices to Del Toro, turn to page 6.
To ask for clarification on how metadata could link these devices to Del Toro, turn to page 6.
To keep listening, turn to page 7.
To keep listening, turn to page 7.
To keep listening, turn to page 7.
6
You ask about how metadata could link the devices with Del Toro. When you say "metadata", you stumble like you've never heard the word in your life.
"Metadata is data about data," Bond explains. "Specifically, descriptive metadata can include details about a file's authors, times of creation and so on…"
You realise that, for reasons unknown, you have asked a question that you (as a competent spy) know the answer to, but onlooking lay-persons may not. It dawns on you: you have become a device for the delivery of exposition. You no longer have goals of your own and exist only to clarify confusing plot elements and demonstrate the true protagonist's competence. The mission goes fine and Bond saves the world, but you don't pay much attention except when he sleeps with you.
THE END
7
"Your mission is to find out what Del Toro is planning to use the devices for and report back," M continues. "You will pose as Donovan Tate, a handsome aerosol distribution engineer Del Toro is considering engaging to cross-check the operation of the devices, and Jenna Russass, Tate’s busty personal assistant. The role of Miss Russass is vital to ensure that Bond can convincingly portray an important man."
Bond casually mentions that he has a degree in aerosol distribution engineering from Cambridge. Again, it sounds like a double entendre.
M wraps up the briefing and orders you to attend Q Branch.
To comply without question, turn to page 5.
To comply without question, turn to page 5.
To comply without question, turn to page 5.
To assert that this particular cover devalues and objectifies you, turn to page 22.
To assert that this particular cover devalues and objectifies you, turn to page 22.
To assert that this particular cover devalues and objectifies you, turn to page 22.
22
“That name seems a little suggestive,” you point out gently. “And does my job title really need to be ‘busty’ personal assistant? It seems gratuitous, not to mention so far from standard practice that it might blow our cover.”
Unfortunately, speaking causes M to perceive you as less competent. As a 2012 Yale study found, while male leaders who speak more are seen as more powerful and competent, speaking has the opposite effect for females. The reasons for this are beyond the scope of a simple choose your own adventure spy story, but the outcome is that you are dropped from the mission. Your career stagnates and you die unfulfilled many years later.
THE END
5
"After you, Miss Russass," Bond smiles as he gets the door for you. You are 99 percent sure that secret agents don't need to stay in character within the confines of MI6. In fact, you're 100 percent sure because unlike your male colleagues you actually read the materials you're supposed to read, and do the preparation you're supposed to do.
You pass through the open doorway, focussing your thoughts instead on the question of whether the concepts of chivalry and feminism can be (or even need to be) held in tension.
Turn to page 26.
Turn to page 26.
Turn to page 26.
25
“After you, Miss Russass,” Bond smiles as he gets the door for you. Miss Russass? That must be your alternate identity for the mission, since you definitely weren't born with the name. No doubt they've paired it with ‘Jenna’, creating the humorously sexual ‘Jenna Russass’. If you're not careful, you'll be just another conquest by the time the mission's over.
You brush the thought from your mind as you pass through the door, wondering instead whether the concepts of chivalry and feminism can be (or even need to be) held in tension.
Turn to page 26.
Turn to page 26.
Turn to page 26.
26
Q Branch is a large, open laboratory where dozens of people in lab coats are testing every single gadget all the time. They don't do any literature reviews or calculations or anything. They just turn all kinds of regular objects into weapons and then keeping trying them out on each other with hilarious consequences.
Q sees you enter and approaches. It's the elderly Q, not the suspiciously young one.
"Now listen carefully, 007," he says, leading Bond to an array of engineering gadgets. “Here we have everything an aerosol distribution engineer might need."
He hands Bond a calculator. "Scientific calculator. Accurate to 20 digits. And 200 yards." He presses a button and the calculator fires a dart, hitting a strategically placed dummy in the head. The dart explodes.
"He always did have a head for numbers," Bond quips, ignoring the fact that his line is nonsense and almost completely irrelevant.
“Pay attention, Bond.”
You are still there, but Q and Bond seem to have forgotten that. Honestly, I don't blame them. I had forgotten for a moment, too, and started writing regular fan fiction.
To bypass Q’s shenanigans and select your own equipment, as any trained field agent is quite capable of doing, turn to page 8.
To bypass Q’s shenanigans and select your own equipment, as any trained field agent is quite capable of doing, turn to page 8.
To bypass Q’s shenanigans and select your own equipment, as any trained field agent is quite capable of doing, turn to page 8.
To let Q and Bond complete their harmless expository shtick without you, turn to page 9.
To let Q and Bond complete their harmless expository shtick without you, turn to page 9.
To let Q and Bond complete their harmless expository shtick without you, turn to page 9.
8
You spot a nearby digital camera and pick it up. It could be useful on your mission for recording intelligence.
A wave of imbecility rushes over you. ”Hey, boys, smile!” you say, pointing the camera at Bond and Q.
“Don’t touch that!” Q cries, a moment too late.
You press a button and the camera dispenses a puff of sleeping gas. You go cross-eyed and fall backwards, landing with an hilarious crash!
“Go easy on her, Q,” Bond says, as your consciousness fades. “She looks gassed.”
You've become pure comic relief. It’s not a traditionally female archetype, but there's no way you can contextualise and nuance Bond's discourse from here, so you have failed this feminist adventure.
THE END
9
Q finishes the briefing with a glorious final retort, putting Bond squarely in his place. There's so much finality about it that you can understand their annoyance when you ask what gadgets you will be given. Q hands you some lipstick that can eat through metal. It seems useful, though it arguably reinforces makeup’s feminised standardisation of women.
MI6 arranges a swanky private jet for your flight to Cuba. It shows how much they value your services, but a small part of you feels resentful since you’d much rather fly business class if it meant taking home the same pay as your male colleagues.
You and Bond are the only ones on the flight, and he’s feeling convivial. “You were stationed in Doha,” Bond says, offering you a glass of champagne.
“That’s right,” you reply, taken slightly aback that he’s bothered to learn about your background.
“What was your cover?”
“Forensic accounting.”
“Ah yes. I’ve always enjoyed a close examination of assets,” Bond leers.
To demonstrate your superior wit by replying with a double entendre of your own, turn to page 10.
To demonstrate your superior wit by replying with a double entendre of your own, turn to page 10.
To demonstrate your superior wit by replying with a double entendre of your own, turn to page 10.
To demonstrate your fierce independence by ignoring Bond and pulling out the latest Jeanette Winterson book, turn to page 11.
To demonstrate your fierce independence by ignoring Bond and pulling out the latest Jeanette Winterson book, turn to page 11.
To demonstrate your fierce independence by ignoring Bond and pulling out the latest Jeanette Winterson book, turn to page 11.
10
“I find that too frequently one uncovers a deficit,” you say, eyeing his junk pointedly.
It’s a satisfying pejorative retort, but you realise immediately what you have done. By engaging with Bond in overtly sexual wordplay, you have set in motion events that can end only in your immediate mid-air seduction. So that is what happens.
It’s great at the time, but because it completes your character arc, you are killed shortly after arrival in Cuba by a scorpion planted in your hotel room.
THE END
11
Bond accepts your disinterest with the comfort of a man who knows it is only temporary.
Several hours and drinks later, you land at a private Cuban airfield and disembark. The air is thick with the smell of cigars, because I have never been to Cuba but I know cigars come from there.
You are greeted on the tarmac by an androgynous female with an affectless object-machine aesthetic.
“I am Odda Peel,” she says. “I run Mr Del Toro’s security, and I appeal to a subset of the male population that is not aroused by traditionally ‘pretty’ girls. Mr Del Toro is currently occupied with a polo match and asked me to see to your needs.”
“Perhaps we could join him, time permitting?” Bond suggests, both furthering the mission and setting himself up for sexually charged wordplay. “I haven’t had a ride in days.”
“I’m sure I could accommodate you,” salivates Ms Peel (whose amarital honorific is used in a dismissive manner to suggest her lack of feminine qualities, and not out of deference to enlightened sensibilities).
She leads you both to a limousine, where a gigantic valet/henchman opens the door for you.
To enter the limousine, turn to page 12.
To enter the limousine, turn to page 12.
To enter the limousine, turn to page 12.
To realise that it’s almost certainly a trap (given James Bond is the most recognisable secret agent in the world, and given the limo driver looks like a professional wrestler) and take control of the situation by force, turn to page 23.
To realise that it’s almost certainly a trap (given James Bond is the most recognisable secret agent in the world, and given the limo driver looks like a professional wrestler) and take control of the situation by force, turn to page 23.
To realise that it’s almost certainly a trap (given James Bond is the most recognisable secret agent in the world, and given the limo driver looks like a professional wrestler) and take control of the situation by force, turn to page 23.
23
You make a sound like a Snowy Egret, the MI6 code for “it’s a trap”. Your mastery of ornithological mimicry is such that Peel and the gigantic henchman are completely unaware - but Bond decodes your signal instantly.
“Of course it’s a trap,” Bond says under his breath. “How else are we to gain access to Del Toro’s inner sanctum?”
Oh no. It appears you’ve completely misunderstood the rules of the James Bond universe. You’ve failed not only as a woman, but as a genre-aware postmodern story agent.
“But, but...” you stammer, “surely they won’t take us to the inner sanctum. We’ll be sent to a run-down farm in the countryside where we’ll be butchered and fed to a hungry pig, miles away from Del Toro and his retro-futuristic mansion or colonial lodge or other similar expensive real estate.”
Peel’s ears prick up. “That is actually quite a good idea,” she says.
With the element of surprise gone, you and Bond are easily overpowered and driven to a run-down farm in the countryside, where you are butchered and fed to a hungry pig. The mission is a failure and Del Toro’s evil plan proceeds unhindered. Nice work. Your only consolation is that by leading Bond to his death you’ve finally ended the chauvinistic franchise, but in doing so you have set the feminist cause back a good ten years by appearing to be a killjoy, which is something men really hate.
THE END
12
Your limo pulls up beside a sprawling polo field. Peel points out Del Toro, mounted on a mighty black stallion and striking a polo goal. Even from a distance, his head appears lumpy and misshapen, like crappy papier-mâché. After some vigorous celebration, he rides over to greet you with a monologue.
“I see you have noticed my lumpy, misshapen head,” Del Toro monologues. “I was born without a skull, you see. In Cuba, most skull-less children are abandoned, but my parents built a skull for me using pottery shards. They loved me very much. When I was three, they were killed before my eyes by your government.
“As I grew, the minerals in the pottery augmented my intelligence beyond normal levels. It is matched only by my hatred for your government and democracy in general. Fortunately, you are just an engineer with a busty personal assistant, so I will invite you to play polo with me, Mr Tate.”
“I would be delighted,” Bond replies.
“The game will be one-on-one, half-court polo,” Del Toro says. “I will play shirts, and you will play skins. If you win, I will give you the contract to review my aerosol distribution devices.”
He is addressing Bond, but horse riding was your sole childhood hobby. You could easily outplay Del Toro and win the contract. Do you speak up?
To disrupt the exclusionary power dynamics enabling gender inequity and challenge Del Toro, turn to page 13.
To disrupt the exclusionary power dynamics enabling gender inequity and challenge Del Toro, turn to page 13.
To disrupt the exclusionary power dynamics enabling gender inequity and challenge Del Toro, turn to page 13.
To stay silent like a meek little girl-child and watch Bond play Del Toro, turn to page 14.
To stay silent like a meek little girl-child and watch Bond play Del Toro, turn to page 14.
To stay silent like a meek little girl-child and watch Bond play Del Toro, turn to page 14.
12
Your limo pulls up beside a sprawling polo field. Peel points out Del Toro, mounted on a mighty black stallion and striking a polo goal. Even from a distance, his head appears lumpy and misshapen, like crappy papier-mâché. After some vigorous celebration, he rides over to greet you with a monologue.
“I see you have noticed my lumpy, misshapen head,” Del Toro monologues. “I was born without a skull, you see. In Cuba, most skull-less children are abandoned, but my parents built a skull for me using pottery shards. They loved me very much. When I was three, they were killed before my eyes by your government.
“As I grew, the minerals in the pottery augmented my intelligence beyond normal levels. It is matched only by my hatred for your government and democracy in general. Fortunately, you are just an engineer with a busty personal assistant, so I will invite you to play polo with me, Mr Tate.”
“I would be delighted,” Bond replies.
“The game will be one-on-one, half-court polo,” Del Toro says. “I will play shirts, and you will play skins. If you win, I will give you the contract to review my aerosol distribution devices.”
He is addressing Bond, but horse riding was your sole childhood hobby. You could easily outplay Del Toro and win the contract. Do you speak up?
To disrupt the exclusionary power dynamics enabling gender inequity and challenge Del Toro, turn to page 13.
To disrupt the exclusionary power dynamics enabling gender inequity and challenge Del Toro, turn to page 13.
To disrupt the exclusionary power dynamics enabling gender inequity and challenge Del Toro, turn to page 13.
To stay silent like a meek little girl-child and watch Bond play Del Toro, turn to page 14.
To stay silent like a meek little girl-child and watch Bond play Del Toro, turn to page 14.
To stay silent like a meek little girl-child and watch Bond play Del Toro, turn to page 14.
13
“I’ll play,” you suggest. “Unless you are afraid I will beat you.”
Bond and Del Toro laugh uproariously. “This is a full-sized polo field,” Del Toro says, “and you are a woman. How do you expect to beat me without male genitalia?”
“You must excuse my busty personal assistant,” Bond apologises, shutting you up with his eyes. “Her womb sometimes makes her over-excited and hysterical.”
To watch Bond play Del Toro and hope they both trip and die, turn to page 14.
To watch Bond play Del Toro and hope they both trip and die, turn to page 14.
To watch Bond play Del Toro and hope they both trip and die, turn to page 14.
14
Bond and Del Toro play a frenetic game of one-on-one polo, which you successfully refrain from pointing out is not a real thing. Del Toro cheats, but Bond is awesome and eventually triumphs. Peel applauds him arousedly.
“Congratulations, Mr Tate,” Del Toro says. “You have won the contract. Sign this, and we will celebrate at my lodge before you begin.”
The gigantic henchman/valet presents Bond with a pen and some fine print. Bond clicks the end of the pen, and it releases a cloud of gas! Bond faints. You raise your fists for some krav maga action, but are struck from behind!
To be knocked unconscious, an inevitable outcome regardless of gender, turn to page 15.
To be knocked unconscious, an inevitable outcome regardless of gender, turn to page 15.
To be knocked unconscious, an inevitable outcome regardless of gender, turn to page 15.
15
You awaken, aware that you are bound. Bond is tied up beside you, also coming to. You are shackled to a shiny science contraption - one of the aerosol dispersion devices - inside a shiny metal room. You and Bond are alone, until Del Toro’s voice crackles through a speaker.
“I’m afraid that you have been recognised, Mr Bond,” Del Toro monologues. “I must say, it was cruel to involve an innocent busty personal assistant in your schemes.”
You sigh.
“I thought that perhaps you would appreciate a demonstration of my aerosol dispersion devices. As you are no doubt aware, I have 60 of them. They are positioned around the globe. I mentioned earlier that I hate democracy - this is because people are stupid. I have developed an airborne virus that activates the consciousness of the infected, dramatically improving their intelligence or, in most cases, killing them.”
“You’re mad, Del Toro,” you say. It’s a cliche, but you haven’t had a line for a while and it’s nice to speak.
“All of my aerosol devices will now activate simultaneously. In five minutes. Goodbye, Mr Bond.”
The mic goes dead.
Five minutes! You’re lucky Del Toro doesn’t activate the devices immediately, but it’s still not long. What do you do?
To reach for a hairpin and undo your shackles, turn to page 16.
To reach for a hairpin and undo your shackles, turn to page 16.
To reach for a hairpin and undo your shackles, turn to page 16.
To kiss your shackles, turn to page 17.
To kiss your shackles, turn to page 17.
To kiss your shackles, turn to page 17.
To shriek helplessly while you wait for Bond to do something, turn to page 18.
To shriek helplessly while you wait for Bond to do something, turn to page 18.
To shriek helplessly while you wait for Bond to do something, turn to page 18.
18
Seriously? Sure, this story may have ridiculed you for certain positive choices, but giving up like that is a disgrace. Despite its content, this is still described as a ‘Feminist James Bond Choose Your Own Adventure’, and if you don’t respect that then I will demonstrate my contempt for you.
As you scream, a piano falls from a passing jet and lands on you. Your body expands and contracts like an accordion for a bit, before you are whisked away to hospital where you spend the next thirty years writing Men's Rights columns for conservative newspapers. Meanwhile, a former boyfriend posts some nude photos of you to an internet porn site and there’s nothing you can do about it because it’s still not a crime.
THE END
16
Like wearing an apron, picking a lock with a hairpin is a simple task that any woman can perform. You retrieve one of your own and set to work on your lock. Before you finish, Bond releases you with his laser cufflinks.
“We need to hurry,” he urges, as though you weren’t doing anything.
To escape with Bond, turn to page 19.
To escape with Bond, turn to page 19.
To escape with Bond, turn to page 19.
17
You plant a wet, sloppy kiss on the shackles. If you had worn that corrosive lipstick Q gave you, this might actually have been productive.
Bond releases you with his laser cufflinks and a patronising sigh. “We need to hurry,” he urges.
To escape with Bond, turn to page 19.
To escape with Bond, turn to page 19.
To escape with Bond, turn to page 19.
19
Bond speaks quickly as you exit the aerosol dispersion chamber.
“According to my understanding of the aerosol dispersion schematics and Del Toro’s organisational structure,” he says, “Del Toro will be overseeing the launch from the control chamber. There is a manual failsafe which I assume Ms Peel will be guarding. What do you suggest?”
Klaxons blare. You need to act fast.
To suggest that you will eliminate Del Toro while Bond takes care of Peel, turn to page 20.
To suggest that you will eliminate Del Toro while Bond takes care of Peel, turn to page 20.
To suggest that you will eliminate Del Toro while Bond takes care of Peel, turn to page 20.
To suggest that Bond eliminate Del Toro while you take care of Peel, turn to page 21.
To suggest that Bond eliminate Del Toro while you take care of Peel, turn to page 21.
To suggest that Bond eliminate Del Toro while you take care of Peel, turn to page 21.
20
You make your suggestion. Bond looks perplexed.
“Perhaps you mean I will eliminate Del Toro while you take care of Peel? That other way makes no sense, because I would be fighting a girl with no intention of doing sex to her, and you would be fighting a man who we actually need to defeat.”
He runs off.
To engage in the obligatory girl-fight, turn to page 21.
To engage in the obligatory girl-fight, turn to page 21.
To engage in the obligatory girl-fight, turn to page 21.
21
You make your suggestion. Bond is silent for a moment or two, before springing into life. “I know!” he cries. “I will eliminate Del Toro while you take care of Peel.”
To roll your eyes and say nothing, turn to page 24.
To roll your eyes and say nothing, turn to page 24.
To roll your eyes and say nothing, turn to page 24.
24
You confront Peel, who stands between you and the manual failsafe. Fortunately, she has two knives instead of a gun. This will make it much harder for her to kill you, and much easier for her to slash your clothing without seriously injuring you.
“Welcome to Cuba, bitch,” she says, unnecessarily.
In fact, the ‘b’ word is thrown around a lot and amidst the shrieking and scratching you both lose a lot of clothing. Eventually you kill her, deactivate the manual failsafe, and use the ‘b’ word on her again. Yes, I know this was supposed to be a feminist story, but it’s really hard to do that without seriously upsetting the Bond form.
The klaxons continue to sound as you race toward the control room. It’s a mess, but Bond is alone and unruffled, battling with a countdown timer.
“Where’s Del Toro?” you ask.
“He wanted to be here, but he received some shattering news,” Bond says, whimsically implying that Del Toro suffered an horrific death. Bond uses a shard of Del Toro’s broken pottery skull to disrupt the circuitry, stopping the timer with one second to spare.
As you prepare to become Bond’s reward for completing his mission, you reflect on your own success. Maybe you didn't construct a nuanced challenge to gender normative frameworks, but you accompanied James Bond and you didn’t die, so that’s something, right? Sorry, that’s all I’ve got for you.
THE END
