lastrat

[When the feed comes on, it's to Bond's back, moving away from the camera. It only takes a moment for him to get far enough away that it's clear where he is - an empty, Barge standard room - and that he is not alone. Esther is sitting in a chair facing the camera. Bond steps around her, pulling off his tie and tugging her hands up to bind them in front of her. When he looks up at the camera, it's brief, and only to assure himself that the recording light is on.

As Esther rouses, she focuses, and immediately begins to tear up.] What are you doing? Let me go!

Stop that. [Bond is short with her, his patience gone. He's been back less than an hour; of course Esther would be the first to run into him.

When Esther shows no intention of obeying, Bond steps in front of her - not to hide that he backhands her, because that much is clear even without direct line of sight. He starts speaking without looking at the camera, moving around behind Esther again. He ignores her tears, and more than that, her cries for help.]

Usually I don't mind a good lie. [He reaches for the ribbon around her neck, and grabs a fistful of her hair when she shrieks and tosses her head. When he tears it away, there's a scar around her collar. He has to raise his voice, because the moment he pulls it free, she starts screaming like a wild thing, not the prim little girl she's been pretending to be.] But I think this one's gone far enough.

[Her wrists are next, and Bond pulls her arms up. Esther struggles, half rising; Bond shoves her back into the chair, and rips away the ribbons on her wrists, revealing more scars.]

Most of you will remember a flood where the Admiral thought it would be a good laugh to send us back to our youth. [He throws her arms back down, glaring a warning, and pulls a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. Bending over her shoulder, he drags the cloth over her face, holding up the makeup stained pocket square for the camera. He returns to the task, hand tight in her hair to keep her still, acting as though her shrieks don't phase him. The more makeup he wipes away, the less child-like she looks.] Esther tried to convince us that she'd been aged up instead of down. [Grabbing her by the jaw, he forces her mouth open so he can shove the handkerchief in as a temporary gag.]

She's a grown woman, responsible for the fire, my death and near death, and Ellie's attack. These scars are from a straitjacket - the one she wore when she was a teenager. She's been pretending to be eight for god knows how long - long before the Admiral decided she deserved a second chance. [He sneers.] I'd certainly disagree.

[Private to the Admiral]

Changed my mind. [He smiles, but it's more like a grimace.] Give Ivy a lifetime supply of weed killer instead.

[There a pause, then a pained sound as he shifts on his not-as-comfortable-as-it-ever-looks infirmary bed.]

Who are you? You bring back the dead, you compel us to write these lists, you use fucking magic - what are you? Go on. Give us a hint.

[Public]

[Sup, Barge. It's been quite some time since his initial message to the Admiral: the anger and pain have been spectacularly muted. He's trying hard to focus on the video, but his eyes wander now and then. Fighting morphine is a miserable fucking experience, but at least nothing hurts.]

Well.

[His mouth works for a moment, jaw flexing, tongue poking at the side of his cheek. Cottonmouth is also unpleasant.] Death doesn't stick.

Case anyone was wondering.

[He blinks hard, but his eyes go wide then close completely, and it's a long moment before they snap open again. He should be sleeping, but he's fighting it, and it's making him much less than lucid.] Put her in the - don't touch her. Don't touch her.

[And he's just managing to shut the feed off before he drops the comm.]

[Infirmary spam]

[His...everything hurts.

Pain isn't new to him, not nearly, but this is unlike anything else he's ever felt. It's nausea, and a tightness in his throat like it's still swelling shut, and a burning in his palms like he's touching - he didn't know what it was like. A live wire? Acid? Sometimes he dozes, and forgets what it was like to feel his organs fail, listen to his last breaths, feel his heart stop. Sometimes he's acutely, painfully awake, staring hard at the ceiling and trying to force his mind to go blank.

It isn't easy. There are only a few thoughts in his head, and none of them can be settled.

He thinks of the ship, of his predicament: it's real, he was pulled from Bolivia into space to redeem himself for - well, for several murders, he imagines. There are worse people out there. At least he kills for a reason.

Usually.

He thinks of Poison Ivy, and the way he'd been powerless to disobey her, and the way her skin had killed him. When that fills his head, he looks around him for a weapon of some kind, just in case. But here there's no scalpel to dive for, no blunt instrument to hide beneath his pillow. He doesn't like it, and it keeps him wary and alert.

But when he dozes is the worse.

Then he thinks of his breath rattling in his chest, and of his throat closing, and of everything going black. He thinks of a red dress in blue water, and bloody lips, and nausea always sets in again.

Everything is wrong, here. Everything.]

[Bond has been laying low, for the most part: investigating quietly, observing, looking for the Admiral and the Bridge and all the other things people initially told him he'd never see or find.

It galls him that they were right.

He's also spent his time half convinced that this is all a drug induced dream meant to obtain information from him. He still isn't sure either way, honestly, so when the video clicks on, Bond's face is inscrutable, because you're getting nothing from him, Quantum. When he talks, it's easy, smooth, because he is a very good bluffer.]

Suppose this is real. Suppose we are actually on a ship meant to cure us of our villainous ways. Tell me how it works. Tell me how often it works. And what do the wardens get out of it?

[He smiles, and it's easy but doesn't reach his eyes.]

While we're here, I've learned from my mistakes, 'Admiral.' [The inflection is small, but present: he really means Quantum.] Kindly send me back to live the quiet retired life, if you please. [There are much more important things than his immortal soul, or whatever the fuck this is supposed to be about, at stake after all.]

[Private to Ivy]

It strikes me that I may or may not owe you an apology.

[Private to Lark]

Heard anything?