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31_days2005-09-18 11:48 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-09-18 11:48 pm
[Sept. 18] [James Bond] Parade
Title: Parade
Day/Theme: Sept. 18 - Arrangement in black and gold
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG
Note: This is part two of a series that begins with Mockingbird. Deals with a touchy subject, so approach with care.
Her hair was an arrangement in black and gold, elaborate and far less attractive than she probably imagined. Her dress was sleek and red and didn't suit her at all. The photograph was recent; she was probably in her twenties or thirties. Where anyone else might have seen a beautiful, if overadorned, young woman, Bond looked at her face with the sharp eyes of one who knew much more.
Why the Superintendent had been so insistent on keeping her identity a secret, Bond was unsure. He was not particularly confident that it was in keeping with the law, either, but whenever espionage and police collided, rules were bound to be stretched and broken.
Bond, luckily, had friends in low places.
There were plenty of people in London who, for one reason or another, made it their business to watch the streets. They knew all the faces who came and went, and they tended to take particular notice of police stations, hospitals, and the like. Bond usually found that, for a small fee or a bottle of good spirits, they were willing to tell what they knew.
He'd spent a large portion of the afternoon with the various inhabitants of London's underbelly. Armed with their information, it had not taken him terribly long to find her. MI6's arm stretched much farther than many people realized, and Bond's security clearance was just a tad higher than was standard for a double-oh. He went on a hunch that, like almost everyone, she had at least one traffic infraction or drink driving offense that would put her name in the books. He was right. It was only a small incident of driving under the influence, but it was enough to get her into the police records and into MI6's criminal files. (Intelligence preferred to conduct their own background checks, and so kept such relevant information for such time as they might require it.)
Her name was Leah Bennet. The only photograph was a mugshot - a genuine one, under flourescent lights with nothing but whitewash in the background. She looked to have been coming home from a soiree; and who hadn't, at some point, had a little bit too much to drink at a party but decided to take to the roads anyway? Bond's rational mind was perversely obsessed with making excuses for her, perhaps to keep at bay the cold rage that was creeping over him. The whole thing was despicable. Whomever she was working for was a villain of the most diabolical kind, even going so far as to exploit genuine rape victims by creating a similar scenario in the same neighborhood to feign a connection for the police.
Why?
The question was not hard to answer. Bond had enemies everywhere - in governments, in terrorist groups, in broken homes that still felt the pain of deaths he'd caused and long since forgotten. He may have been another anonymous face to the average citizen, but in the world of crime and espionage he was known. It would be impossible to find the culprit without dogging Leah's steps, and the police would surely be watching for him. Until he was exonerated, there was nothing to be done.
///
Bond stood with his back against the wall, staring at his own image in the mirror. There were three men to his right and two to his left, all approximately six feet tall, and all built slender like himself. Slender - yes, there was no other word for it. He had to admit this, now, as he observed his lanky frame, drawn up almost obscenely straight like a puppet on a string.
His solicitor, specially provided by MI6, was outside. Bond was not particularly concerned with the proceedings; when the tests came back negative, this would all be null and void. The police were just biding their time. Trying to look busy.
Damn them.
Damn that woman, and her red dress, and her arrangement in black and gold. Damn her despicable self and her despicable boss, whoever he was, and what he was doing to Bond and the woman on the other side of the glass.
Damn them to hell.
Day/Theme: Sept. 18 - Arrangement in black and gold
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG
Note: This is part two of a series that begins with Mockingbird. Deals with a touchy subject, so approach with care.
Her hair was an arrangement in black and gold, elaborate and far less attractive than she probably imagined. Her dress was sleek and red and didn't suit her at all. The photograph was recent; she was probably in her twenties or thirties. Where anyone else might have seen a beautiful, if overadorned, young woman, Bond looked at her face with the sharp eyes of one who knew much more.
Why the Superintendent had been so insistent on keeping her identity a secret, Bond was unsure. He was not particularly confident that it was in keeping with the law, either, but whenever espionage and police collided, rules were bound to be stretched and broken.
Bond, luckily, had friends in low places.
There were plenty of people in London who, for one reason or another, made it their business to watch the streets. They knew all the faces who came and went, and they tended to take particular notice of police stations, hospitals, and the like. Bond usually found that, for a small fee or a bottle of good spirits, they were willing to tell what they knew.
He'd spent a large portion of the afternoon with the various inhabitants of London's underbelly. Armed with their information, it had not taken him terribly long to find her. MI6's arm stretched much farther than many people realized, and Bond's security clearance was just a tad higher than was standard for a double-oh. He went on a hunch that, like almost everyone, she had at least one traffic infraction or drink driving offense that would put her name in the books. He was right. It was only a small incident of driving under the influence, but it was enough to get her into the police records and into MI6's criminal files. (Intelligence preferred to conduct their own background checks, and so kept such relevant information for such time as they might require it.)
Her name was Leah Bennet. The only photograph was a mugshot - a genuine one, under flourescent lights with nothing but whitewash in the background. She looked to have been coming home from a soiree; and who hadn't, at some point, had a little bit too much to drink at a party but decided to take to the roads anyway? Bond's rational mind was perversely obsessed with making excuses for her, perhaps to keep at bay the cold rage that was creeping over him. The whole thing was despicable. Whomever she was working for was a villain of the most diabolical kind, even going so far as to exploit genuine rape victims by creating a similar scenario in the same neighborhood to feign a connection for the police.
Why?
The question was not hard to answer. Bond had enemies everywhere - in governments, in terrorist groups, in broken homes that still felt the pain of deaths he'd caused and long since forgotten. He may have been another anonymous face to the average citizen, but in the world of crime and espionage he was known. It would be impossible to find the culprit without dogging Leah's steps, and the police would surely be watching for him. Until he was exonerated, there was nothing to be done.
///
Bond stood with his back against the wall, staring at his own image in the mirror. There were three men to his right and two to his left, all approximately six feet tall, and all built slender like himself. Slender - yes, there was no other word for it. He had to admit this, now, as he observed his lanky frame, drawn up almost obscenely straight like a puppet on a string.
His solicitor, specially provided by MI6, was outside. Bond was not particularly concerned with the proceedings; when the tests came back negative, this would all be null and void. The police were just biding their time. Trying to look busy.
Damn them.
Damn that woman, and her red dress, and her arrangement in black and gold. Damn her despicable self and her despicable boss, whoever he was, and what he was doing to Bond and the woman on the other side of the glass.
Damn them to hell.