♠ | 025 | Voice
lastrat: (where you go)
[personal profile] lastrat
[No video, this time, because he's still fucking angry. He can control the edge in his voice just barely - he can't control the glower. And he has yet to clean up his shattered Item, the second time he's broken it against a wall of his flat.

When he clicks on the audio, he sounds angry, but you might believe that he's managing it just fine. Might.]


Ellie's vanished.

[And that's all. He's not one for elaboration.]

[Private to Natasha]

Busy?

♠ | 020 | Voice + Spam
lastrat: (live and let die.)
[personal profile] lastrat
Private notes to Elena, Cassel, Chris, Selina, & Natasha )

[Pub Spam]

[He really ought to be in the infirmary, but don't try to tell him that. Bond died an ugly, bloody death, and stayed that way for a day or two. It's an ugly knowledge, and it coils tight in the pit of his belly. Liquor doesn't soothe it, just eases it for a while. It sits a little looser, quieter. And the burn warms him, settles and spreads. It hurts his throat, though the burn has always been pleasant before.

He remembers Elena's teeth sinking into his skin, tearing, and fixes another martini.

He's far gone, drunker than he's ever been on the Barge, and he can't bring himself to care. He usually only gets this pissed on planes, or in the safety of his own flat at home: not when there are dangers around any given corner, not when there are vampires, werewolves, people who have every right to strip reparations for bad memories from his hide.

Not that he'd let them - not that he could do much, like this.

He sits at the bar, a martini in one hand, the other rubbing his aching eyes. Sleep would do him good, but he can't bring himself to leave yet. Not until the ache in the side of his neck fades, not until everything becomes a low buzz and nothing else.]


Spam for Vesper )

♠ | 009 | Video
lastrat: (turning on a dime)
[personal profile] lastrat
[Backdated immediately post flood - Bond's camera comes on, and he is absolutely covered in paint of all colors save purple. It's hard to read his expression beneath it - he's half out of breath, half annoyed, half entertained.]

Wankers. Level six should have bagged it.

[There's a beat as he wipes - or tries to - his face on his sleeve. It just smears some more orange across his face.]

Don't think this makes up for a full-bore range.

[And three seconds before he kills the feed, he actually smiles. Let's be real, this is the best flood he's been through.]