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 Alice]

Still alive? [He is the most caring warden. Obviously.]

[Private to the Admiral]

I'm running low on painkillers.

[Open CES spam]

[He's wearing navy sweats, jogging along a path through the woods. Most of the run has been thick with trees, and he's had to hop over more roots to avoid turning an ankle than he cares to count. James has been at it long enough that his breathing is rough and sweat has soaked into the front and back of his sweatshirt, turning the dark blue fabric even darker. There's a chill in the air, and he knew where the CES brought him the moment he stepped inside. He's spent the entire jog running away from Skyfall.

The trees are thinning, though, and he slows and drops to a walk, stopping to lean against the last tree. Ahead is one of the moors, and beyond that, one of the mountains he grew up around. He tilts his head back, considering its peak and rotating his right arm, rubbing at his shoulder. He wouldn't mind a climb, but doubts he'd get very far. It turns his expression even more sour, and a scowl settles on his brow before he starts forward again, down into the moor.]

[Spam for Vesper]

[He's sweaty and he smells when he comes back to the room, and the door isn't quite closed before he starts pulling off his sweatshirt. It gets tossed in the vague direction of the hamper, pants following as he heads directly for the shower. His usual shower process has been a pain since he was shot; the hot water eases the tension in his shoulder, soothes, but the cold doesn't just wake him up, it tenses his muscles and starts the ache back up again. He steps out of the shower, smelling much better than he did ten minutes ago - and with a slowly throbbing arm.

When he's dry, he wraps a towel around his waist, and stares at himself in the mirror for a moment, prodding at his scruffy jaw and trying to ignore how gray that stubble is. When he reaches for his razor and holds his arm up, though, it trembles. And he doesn't fancy shaving over his throat like that.

Clenching his fist around the folded blade, he exhales, then steps out into the suite.]

Vesper?