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milliways_bar2012-06-10 04:30 pm
cruelcharisma) wrote in milliways_bar2012-06-10 04:30 pm
Entry tags:
Break on through to the other side.
James had been in a brutal, close quarters combat fight with... well, who gave a fuck what the bloke's name was. He'd turned out to be part of Quantum, and things had gone south rather quickly. M would be none too pleased with him for offing the chap without interrogating him, yet when locked in combat, it was either Bond or him. And Bond was always going to choose himself.
They'd traded severe blows in the Madrid apartment, and the adrenaline coursing through Bond — which might as well have been a constant component of his blood, given how often he found himself in such situations — fueled his fury. The thug was a hunk of meat and muscle, standing at least half a foot taller than him, and at one point picked Bond up and tossed him through a closed sliding glass door, shattering it as Bond fell through to the other side.
James hastily grabbed a long, severe-looking shard of the glass door as he pulled himself to his feet to find himself... not in the apartment. It was a... bar? And it definitely wasn't in Madrid, by the decor. And the thug wasn't there either. Dropping the shard of glass, he put a hand to his side to nurse the pain of a kidney shot, arching his back to loosen up after being thrown through the glass door, and slowly walked towards a bar stool. He felt small little superficial cuts along his face and hands, yet worried more about figuring out where he was, and getting a stiff drink.
Yet there was no barkeep. What kind of bar was this? "What does it take to get a vodka martini around here?" Bond said gruffly. And yet one appeared in front of him. He eyed it carefully, as he'd had trick martinis before. Had he died in that fight? Well, he thought, picking up the glass, when in wherever-the-bloody-hell-I-am. Down the hatch.
They'd traded severe blows in the Madrid apartment, and the adrenaline coursing through Bond — which might as well have been a constant component of his blood, given how often he found himself in such situations — fueled his fury. The thug was a hunk of meat and muscle, standing at least half a foot taller than him, and at one point picked Bond up and tossed him through a closed sliding glass door, shattering it as Bond fell through to the other side.
James hastily grabbed a long, severe-looking shard of the glass door as he pulled himself to his feet to find himself... not in the apartment. It was a... bar? And it definitely wasn't in Madrid, by the decor. And the thug wasn't there either. Dropping the shard of glass, he put a hand to his side to nurse the pain of a kidney shot, arching his back to loosen up after being thrown through the glass door, and slowly walked towards a bar stool. He felt small little superficial cuts along his face and hands, yet worried more about figuring out where he was, and getting a stiff drink.
Yet there was no barkeep. What kind of bar was this? "What does it take to get a vodka martini around here?" Bond said gruffly. And yet one appeared in front of him. He eyed it carefully, as he'd had trick martinis before. Had he died in that fight? Well, he thought, picking up the glass, when in wherever-the-bloody-hell-I-am. Down the hatch.