"My name is Alec Trevelyan. I am an MI6 agent of the United Kingdom. I inherited my predecessor's codename—from this day forward, I am 006."
"March, 1986. The Director of Intelligence knows, and I know—but he thinks I don't know, and I pretend I don't know. I'm not British. I'm a Cossack. A Cossack betrayed jointly by Stalin and the British government. I was trained by British intelligence from childhood, taught loyalty to the Empire on which the sun never sets, loyalty to Her Majesty the Queen, filled with ideals about overthrowing Eastern tyrannies. But after learning my true identity, I became lost."
Agent 006's diary entries from this period were chaotic. Several pages were creased, and the handwriting was faint. Of course, those weren't tears—he had simply drunk too much.
"June, 1986. The mission failed. I was abandoned as cannon fodder by another MI6 agent—007. For the British Empire? For Her Majesty the Queen? Such glorious slogans. Such stirring rhetoric. And yet the very man who once called himself my close friend, 007, cast me aside in the name of 'mission priority.' I want revenge. I will have my revenge on the so-called Empire on which the sun never sets—and on the British Queen!"
Once his objective became clear, 006's fighting spirit reignited. He would use his skills to prepare a very special "firework show" for Her Majesty.
"October, 1995. I planned to steal the military satellite GoldenEye, but 007 ruined the plan. I had to fake my death and escape Russia."
"August, 1999. I rebuilt my intelligence network. The results were astonishing. Russia was descending into chaos, and from it we acquired massive quantities of weapons and talent."
"January, 2000. I secretly assembled manpower and planned meticulously, eventually stealing Stark Industries' latest Jericho-I missile. We dismantled it and smuggled the components out of the United States in batches. Your Majesty, I've prepared a magnificent firework for you. I hope you enjoy it!"
"February, 2000. The most critical circuit board in the missile control system still hasn't arrived. I have no choice but to return to America to track it down."
"March 5, 2000. I'm furious! My perfectly crafted plan was completely destroyed by four idiots! Ruined! All of it! The plan is blown. I must disappear!"
"Afternoon of March 5, 2000. A plane crash drew in countless agents! They're all looking for me. Damn it! I can't let them trace me back. Even today's pie doesn't taste right—my stomach is upset. This is truly the worst luck!"
"March 6, 2000. Phoenix's police and gangs are running wild. FBI, CIA, allied intelligence, enemy intelligence—all here. Phoenix has 1.5 million residents, and more than 20,000 agents have slipped in. That's one agent for every hundred civilians! I'm losing my mind! And I can't stand eating fast food every day—what is wrong with Americans and their terrible food?"
"March 9, 2000. Ordinary people don't notice it, but I can see it—Phoenix is on complete lockdown. If I leave my current hideout, the chance of exposure is high. Sigh... I can only keep hiding. To avoid suspicion, I'll get a job tomorrow. I'll work at a fast-food place for a few days and feel out the situation."
"April 5, 2000. That heartless boss withheld two-thirds of my pay! Normally I'd put a bullet in his skull! But now... I must endure. Endure! Endure! ENDURE!"
"April 12, 2000. I can't take it anymore! That bastard boss actually dared to grope me!"
"April 15, 2000. I became a delivery courier. And a bunch of young punks laughed at me? Never seen a forty-year-old deliveryman before?"
"May 29, 2000. Delivery work is exhausting! My knees are killing me from pedaling that damn bicycle. And these Southern drivers ignore traffic laws—I was nearly run over by a silver pickup truck. I quit! I now work as a bartender."
"June 2, 2000. The city seems less guarded, but I must remain cautious. It could be a trap."
"June 3, 2000. Just as I expected—the agents suddenly mobilized. Hiding in the shadows, I even spotted Victoria Hand. Why is a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in Phoenix? Unbelievable. Is she here to capture me? I must continue hiding."
"June 20, 2000. The uproar over the pension scandal looks like a good opportunity. I mingled with the protest crowds for two laps around the city. Security really is looser. I think after two more days of observation I can finally leave. One more thing—the boxed lunches they hand out taste awful!"
"June 24, 2000. I've switched to yet another new job—convenience store cashier. I need untraceable cash. If all goes well, tonight I'll finally escape this cursed Phoenix! Hahahahaha!—"
The diary ends abruptly.
When it resumes, it is already on a new page.
"June 26, 2000. I'm injured—badly. Shoulder, chest, lower abdomen—three gunshot wounds. But I can't remember anything from the last two days. Nothing. As if something carved out my memories. And my head hurts."
"June 27, 2000. I found signs that one of my safehouses had been used. I asked a few acquaintances—they said I brought a woman there and took something. Damn it! I can't remember any of it!"
"June 29, 2000. I left Phoenix. The wounds haven't fully healed. I need a quiet place to recover. But the memory loss terrifies me. I must find out what I did during those missing days."
"Night of June 29, 2000. A broker contacted me. He said I bought a file from him—information on former ISA agent Samantha Shaw. Damn it! If I remember correctly, she should already be dead—killed by the government. Why did I buy her file???"
"June 30, 2000. I arrived in West Virginia. I've used an identity here for years—along with my wife and our adopted daughter. Truthfully, I love them. If not for my past as an agent, a peaceful life for the three of us would have been wonderful. I need to recover, search for my lost memories, and give Ruth and Sharon a happy life."
"July 1, 2000. Sharon is a lovely girl, but she seems a bit afraid of me? Is it because I've been gone too long? But this sleepwalking issue isn't normal. We'll see a doctor tomorrow..."