[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?
last rat standing
- ♠ | 025 | Voice
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lastrat- March 24th, 2014
- ♠ | 020 | Voice + Spam
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- lastrat
- November 4th, 2013
( 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 )
- ♠ | 013 | Voice + Spam
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- lastrat
- July 7th, 2013
[Spam]
( Private spam in the firing range )
[Some time later, he circles back to the deck, looking slightly less murderous. He's gotten his hands on a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches in the interim, and he lights one now, leaning over the rail. It's been years since he smoked, not since he left the Royal Navy, really, and the taste is acrid against his tongue. It doesn't stop him from inhaling deeply, like the hard taste of gin doesn't stop him from drinking deeply. At least he doesn't cough.
When the cigarette burns low, he pulls it away from his lips, watching the embers burn and flare, before flicking it away over the edge. He watches until it disappears, then reaches for another.]
[Public]
[Someone is feeling a bit like shit. Which means it's time to hide it away and raise an innocuous topic while lounging in a chair in his cabin.]
I imagine between the lot of us there's been quite a bit of traveling. What are your favorite places? Beach, hotel, casino, I don't care. Where have you been?
[Private to the Admiral]
Put the adjoining door back between Vesper's room and mine, won't you?
- ♠ | 011 | Video
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- lastrat
- June 13th, 2013
[( Take the shot )
When the video clicks on, it's an accident; left sitting on a the table Bond uses to drag himself up, it starts broadcasting as he lifts himself up. It's hard to see through the rush of water that drops on it; he's still soaked. And then something darker drops into frame, thicker and nearly black, and when he pushes the communicator out of the way, blood smears over the camera. It stays there as he stumbles out of sight, recording the ceiling, the blood, and the sounds of a man unwilling to call for help.]