![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
♠ | 006 | Video
[When the video clicks on, Bond moves away from the screen to sit forward on his bed, scooping something off the comforter in the process. The communicator is propped up on a chair in front of him; the cushion is just barely visible at the bottom of the screen. Both his hands are full - in his right is a glass, with two fingers of a dark, orange-gold liquid; scotch, a gift from Pepper for Christmas. He doesn't have much more left.
And in his left hand is a necklace - specifically, an Algerian love knot. His thumb keeps running over it, his attention settled on the necklace like it's the only thing that matters. He isn't drunk, but he might be heading in that direction.]
Before I came here, I was in a bar, in Bolivia. The man I was meeting was CIA, and I suppose as close to a friend as I have. I don't make friends, generally. I have colleagues, and acquaintances, and enemies. Felix is a good man, though. The CIA had a capture or kill order on me, but he gave me the intel I needed. Greene was meeting Medrano at the Perla de las Lunas. That was my chance. That was our chance.
There was a girl, Camille. Former Bolivian secret service. When she was a child, Medrano killed her father, raped her sister and mother and killed them, too, all in front of her. He set fire to the house, and left her to die with her family. [This isn't just rote information; he sounds in control, but there's anger, under the surface.] Orphans make the best agents. She escaped, obviously. I don't know how long she's waited for this opportunity. [Because he doesn't know exactly how old she is or was, but.]
I wanted her to have her revenge. Because I don't think I'll have mine.
[He takes a long drink, glances down at the necklace, and stands to pocket it. On his way back down, he grabs the communicator, holding it up to eye level now. He holds up the glass - there's less than a finger left now - contemplating it.]
I think I've started drinking too much. That's part of being a double-oh, you know - drinking. So many covers require blending into high stakes environments. But it's different, here. Everything's sedentary. I feel it more.
[He knocks back the rest of the glass with a vague shrug.] But it's better than grieving.
Let's lighten the mood some, shall we? Ivy told me, on my first day here, that I'm featured in a series of books, and movies. Tell me about them. I think they might be absurd fiction, but I'm concerned there will be a degree of accuracy that I'm extremely uncomfortable with.
And in his left hand is a necklace - specifically, an Algerian love knot. His thumb keeps running over it, his attention settled on the necklace like it's the only thing that matters. He isn't drunk, but he might be heading in that direction.]
Before I came here, I was in a bar, in Bolivia. The man I was meeting was CIA, and I suppose as close to a friend as I have. I don't make friends, generally. I have colleagues, and acquaintances, and enemies. Felix is a good man, though. The CIA had a capture or kill order on me, but he gave me the intel I needed. Greene was meeting Medrano at the Perla de las Lunas. That was my chance. That was our chance.
There was a girl, Camille. Former Bolivian secret service. When she was a child, Medrano killed her father, raped her sister and mother and killed them, too, all in front of her. He set fire to the house, and left her to die with her family. [This isn't just rote information; he sounds in control, but there's anger, under the surface.] Orphans make the best agents. She escaped, obviously. I don't know how long she's waited for this opportunity. [Because he doesn't know exactly how old she is or was, but.]
I wanted her to have her revenge. Because I don't think I'll have mine.
[He takes a long drink, glances down at the necklace, and stands to pocket it. On his way back down, he grabs the communicator, holding it up to eye level now. He holds up the glass - there's less than a finger left now - contemplating it.]
I think I've started drinking too much. That's part of being a double-oh, you know - drinking. So many covers require blending into high stakes environments. But it's different, here. Everything's sedentary. I feel it more.
[He knocks back the rest of the glass with a vague shrug.] But it's better than grieving.
Let's lighten the mood some, shall we? Ivy told me, on my first day here, that I'm featured in a series of books, and movies. Tell me about them. I think they might be absurd fiction, but I'm concerned there will be a degree of accuracy that I'm extremely uncomfortable with.
no subject
[The whole of Lark's existence, summed up there. He is a monk.]
I was criminal defense, but when I started my own firm I started dabbling in corporate entities. The big money. I have hunches about you, but what do you really do?
no subject
Ah. [He smiles a little, and pauses, thinking baout switching it over to private - but it seems well known already. Anyone doing their homework may as well know. It's too small a ship for cover identities, anyway.]
I work for MI6, O Branch, 00 Section. I take care of foreign threats to Her Majesty's Realm. I kill people.
I kill a lot of people.
[Monk, meet hitman.]
Were your hunches right?
Private;
I thought you worked for the military, except you're so much more at ease than the soldiers I've known. So I thought you probably consult for them...which would put you as a cop or politician of some sort. Spy, that's what I was missing.
I kill people, too. Or have. When I have to. The hard part is always disposing of the bodies. What's your favorite trick?
Private;
[He shrugs noncommittally.] I'm not often concerned with disposal. Usually I have a contact or two. When I don't, I hide them somewhere close; I'm not usually around long enough for it to matter if they're found.
Private;
Private;