| [Private to the Admiral] Zoe Luther's not going back to what ever shit world she's from. She's going to come back with me, so...make that happen. [and the most grudging:] Please. [Public] [This broadcast is coming to you from...the pub. James has slipped in and found himself a glass, and though he really wants a martini, he does not yet know how to make one. He's holding a glass with two fingers of gold liquor in it instead, and toasts silently when the feed comes on.] I know you've tried to be just super kid friendly here, [and wow he could not sound more sarcastic], but pool parties? Fruit and juice in a greenhouse? Fucking wasted on those of use older than the age of seven. Thanks for letting us know this place was here, though. At least it's not too late to have a decent time. Cheers. [He knocks back the drink...and cuts the feed before it's obvious he can't finish it all in one gulp.] [Spam for Esther] [James Bond is, contrary to every image he's displayed here, capable of minding his own and not being a shitheel. That's what he's doing, when he walks down the hall, in a jack that's clearly too big for him. It looks dumb, but he's been making the sacrifice: it keeps the gun shoved down the back of his pants hidden. He's worked out how to use it, though he can't figure out what, exactly, made his hands move of their own accord to get it done. He's not sure about aiming, but arrogance says he's shot his father's rifle enough, he can work it out fine. He hasn't had to test that yet, and he'll never admit it, but that's definitely a relief. It won't be soon.] [Spam for Vesper] [He's bleeding so much more than he thought he was. The glass shard got him in the stomach, and he knew it was bad when it happened, but his every thought had been on escaping. When he managed that, he'd run, hand tight against the burning in his side. Blood slipped between his fingers, coated them, but he barely noticed. Not until he just couldn't move anymore, at least. He collapsed in the corner of a common room; he's not sure which. Things have been getting a bit blurry. When he looks down at his stomach, his shirt is tacky and wet; he thinks, really distantly, that it's ruined. Letting his head knock back against the wall, James closes his eyes and let's out a breath that's half a groan, half something much too close to a sob for him to admit to. He's not going to cry. He's not going to cry. But you might die whispers a little voice in his head, and he doesn't believe in God or Heaven anymore, but he hopes he sees his parents again.] |
last rat standing
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lastrat- August 11th, 2013