lastrat

[Bond's comm clicks on, and he sounds terribly exasperated, bored, and maybe a touch annoyed. It's mostly so he can talk over any questions coming through the network, so he doesn't have to answer anything. Just in case.]

I remember this flood. I'll be in the pub, if anyone feels like having their mouth taped shut. [Or jaw broken. Whatever.]

Chris, do us a favor and stuff a bar of soap in yours. [Or he could get earmuffs and do it himself, he would not be opposed!

And he is probably going to be leaving his communicator in his room, because no thank you, he enjoys his secrets. There's a very small window for catching him on the network.]

[Spam]

[Because he is not, in fact, going to the pub. In actuality, Bond is heading for the pool, where he is changing into blue trunks that are too short to be actual trunks what the hell and starting the first of many, many laps. Eventually, he'll tire and float in the deep end for a time.

He came here instead of the pub mostly because the pool is quiet, because he's not certain if he's affected, and because he doesn't know what answers would come out of his mouth if certain questions were asked. Why is he here? He knows that answer. But is it worth it? A mystery. Why did he fuck up so badly with Esther, with Ellie? He doesn't know. Why doesn't he just return to a world where his way of dealing with things is utterly acceptable?

It's too tempting. So he deafens himself with the water as he cuts through it, planning how best to avoid the Barge for the next few days.]

[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?