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31_days2006-04-24 11:59 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-04-24 11:59 pm
[24 April] [James Bond] Danse Macabre
Title: Danse Macabre
Day/Theme: April 24th - Shall we dance?
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG-13
It can take quite a while to die.
Depending upon wounds, location of wounds, poisons taken (internally or externally?), health and strength of the victim - anyone who's trailed prey in the woods knows that it takes more than a bullet to kill a bull moose.
Or a man.
Bond had used the second-to-last bullet in his chamber; it was a misfire, landing just shy of the chest and lodging itself in the stomach cavity. The body had spun in a sort of danse macabre, landing heavily and bonelessly on the tile floor. Blood leaked out from behind the hands that clutched.
He had no more bullets on him. He couldn't risk using his last on an already-dying man, but he couldn't risk leaving - there was still the possibility, however remote, that the gradually fading corpse could broadcast some kind of a message if he were left alone long enough. Now it was just a waiting game.
Bond sprawled back in a leather chair and watched the show. He almost wanted to laugh at the pathetic attempts to reach him, one bloodied hand at a time, dragging the leaking bulk across the floor. It would take hours that way. Then, of course, it might have another fifteen hours to live. But Bond wasn't worried. Felix had agreed to meet no more than - Bond checked his watch - three hours hence. The Briton decided to give his friend the honour of finishing this pathetic creature off.
He was tempted to slip into a catnap, but resisted. Boring? Maybe. It was certainly nothing on a good bullfight, or a good gipsy-fight for that matter. He felt as if he'd skipped to the last page of an airport thriller, and now entirely lacked the desire to read the whole story - didn't he already know the end? Enjoy the journey, hell!
Bond stepped into the kitchenette to pour himself a drink. There wasn't much in the way of liqour, but there was a bit of decent scotch and soda, so he mixed himself one, keeping an eye on his kill. He knew what was coming, if it found its voice:
"Water."
He looked away. It'll just trickle out of you, you miserable bastard.
A wet, pathetic cough. A spasm of pain.
Bond looked hopelessly out of the window for signs of Felix. For a moment he wondered if the corpse had actually asked for water, or if he'd just imagined it. Not that it mattered.
He made a point of treading on one limp hand as he walked past again. It caused a small reaction, but not enough to hold an audience. Bond scanned the bookshelves. Eventually he selected a few volumes of Hemingway in French, on grounds that he'd never read him in that language and wondered if it would make him any less tedious.
The answer turned out to be "no," but there was nothing better to do, so Bond lost himself in the circular banalities of Frederick Henry and Catherine Barkley for a good hour and a half. The corpse lay still, but Felix hadn't arrived and Bond had no transport. It wasn't even worth checking for a pulse.
A slow hour went by, with Bond dozing in and out of consciousness. There was no movement from the floor, no keening, hardly even a breath. Bond, knowing it was dangerous, reflected on the man who had once inhabited this flesh.
A soldier. An American soldier, for all that. A Marine Corps major; a fine upstanding young man. Except he turned out to be an utter psychopath.
Bit of bad luck there.
He got himself involved with all sorts of things, passing along whatever information he could - nobody ever traced it to him. Everybody liked him too much. Bond, after having been assigned to the task, finally tracked him down in Jamaica, where he was worming his way into a crime syndicate's inner circle. Typical.
The trick was to get him alone, and then -
Well, all that was finished. Bond let the white-hot anger and the ensuing calm wash over him. His mission was - at least in part - complete.
He just wondered why the miserable bastard had felt it necessary to kill off the girl who had tagging along with him, even as she began to learn the sinister truth. Loyal, but a stupid bitch. She didn't deserve -
Oh, hell, everybody deserved everything.
Bond heard the squeal of tires on gravel; he jumped to his feet. Felix was running as fast as he could on a good leg, a plastic one, and a cane.
He burst into the room.
"Hell!" he whistled, surveying the damage. "He dead?"
Bond shrugged abruptly. "I only had the one bullet left. Be my guest."
With cool precision, the Texan fired off two shots into the back of the corpse's head. It twitched, but Bond couldn't tell what caused this.
"Thanks," he said. "Let's be off, then, shall we?"
"Sure. I guess they'll clean it up."
"I guess they will."
As he stepped out into the soggy warm dusk, Bond thought of something that silly bitch had said, back before she'd known of this man's existence. Back when she belonged to someone else.
An ironical smile on a sinful mouth.
"It reads better than it lives."
Day/Theme: April 24th - Shall we dance?
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG-13
It can take quite a while to die.
Depending upon wounds, location of wounds, poisons taken (internally or externally?), health and strength of the victim - anyone who's trailed prey in the woods knows that it takes more than a bullet to kill a bull moose.
Or a man.
Bond had used the second-to-last bullet in his chamber; it was a misfire, landing just shy of the chest and lodging itself in the stomach cavity. The body had spun in a sort of danse macabre, landing heavily and bonelessly on the tile floor. Blood leaked out from behind the hands that clutched.
He had no more bullets on him. He couldn't risk using his last on an already-dying man, but he couldn't risk leaving - there was still the possibility, however remote, that the gradually fading corpse could broadcast some kind of a message if he were left alone long enough. Now it was just a waiting game.
Bond sprawled back in a leather chair and watched the show. He almost wanted to laugh at the pathetic attempts to reach him, one bloodied hand at a time, dragging the leaking bulk across the floor. It would take hours that way. Then, of course, it might have another fifteen hours to live. But Bond wasn't worried. Felix had agreed to meet no more than - Bond checked his watch - three hours hence. The Briton decided to give his friend the honour of finishing this pathetic creature off.
He was tempted to slip into a catnap, but resisted. Boring? Maybe. It was certainly nothing on a good bullfight, or a good gipsy-fight for that matter. He felt as if he'd skipped to the last page of an airport thriller, and now entirely lacked the desire to read the whole story - didn't he already know the end? Enjoy the journey, hell!
Bond stepped into the kitchenette to pour himself a drink. There wasn't much in the way of liqour, but there was a bit of decent scotch and soda, so he mixed himself one, keeping an eye on his kill. He knew what was coming, if it found its voice:
"Water."
He looked away. It'll just trickle out of you, you miserable bastard.
A wet, pathetic cough. A spasm of pain.
Bond looked hopelessly out of the window for signs of Felix. For a moment he wondered if the corpse had actually asked for water, or if he'd just imagined it. Not that it mattered.
He made a point of treading on one limp hand as he walked past again. It caused a small reaction, but not enough to hold an audience. Bond scanned the bookshelves. Eventually he selected a few volumes of Hemingway in French, on grounds that he'd never read him in that language and wondered if it would make him any less tedious.
The answer turned out to be "no," but there was nothing better to do, so Bond lost himself in the circular banalities of Frederick Henry and Catherine Barkley for a good hour and a half. The corpse lay still, but Felix hadn't arrived and Bond had no transport. It wasn't even worth checking for a pulse.
A slow hour went by, with Bond dozing in and out of consciousness. There was no movement from the floor, no keening, hardly even a breath. Bond, knowing it was dangerous, reflected on the man who had once inhabited this flesh.
A soldier. An American soldier, for all that. A Marine Corps major; a fine upstanding young man. Except he turned out to be an utter psychopath.
Bit of bad luck there.
He got himself involved with all sorts of things, passing along whatever information he could - nobody ever traced it to him. Everybody liked him too much. Bond, after having been assigned to the task, finally tracked him down in Jamaica, where he was worming his way into a crime syndicate's inner circle. Typical.
The trick was to get him alone, and then -
Well, all that was finished. Bond let the white-hot anger and the ensuing calm wash over him. His mission was - at least in part - complete.
He just wondered why the miserable bastard had felt it necessary to kill off the girl who had tagging along with him, even as she began to learn the sinister truth. Loyal, but a stupid bitch. She didn't deserve -
Oh, hell, everybody deserved everything.
Bond heard the squeal of tires on gravel; he jumped to his feet. Felix was running as fast as he could on a good leg, a plastic one, and a cane.
He burst into the room.
"Hell!" he whistled, surveying the damage. "He dead?"
Bond shrugged abruptly. "I only had the one bullet left. Be my guest."
With cool precision, the Texan fired off two shots into the back of the corpse's head. It twitched, but Bond couldn't tell what caused this.
"Thanks," he said. "Let's be off, then, shall we?"
"Sure. I guess they'll clean it up."
"I guess they will."
As he stepped out into the soggy warm dusk, Bond thought of something that silly bitch had said, back before she'd known of this man's existence. Back when she belonged to someone else.
An ironical smile on a sinful mouth.
"It reads better than it lives."