CRUMBLING HEIGHTS, a james bond fanfic

CRUMBLING HEIGHTS

"You're from one of the houses, aren't you? What were you, twelve?"

Eyes. Mouths. Long tongues. Grasping arms, and sweaty bodies intertwining. The stenches of foul liquor and even-fouler breath, mingled with spent passion. These are the mementos of my youth, the paltry trinkets that I cling to when I seek to remember where I came from - and why I'm with him.

Have you ever been inside a Chinese brothel?

They are the same throughout the world, operating on the exact same principles that govern any other place of commerce. There are buyers, sellers, and various products for sale. However, there is no stock exchange. The shareholders are bartenders and frequent visitors who profit from syringe-induced bliss. While these onlookers stare, the customers become far less than the sum of their individual parts. The sellers themselves become the merchandise. It's an ancient game, one where the conqueror always wins and the conquest always loses. Oddly enough, I don't mind. I've always been one for sport, though not gambling. It's the senselessness of it, the plot of a mind-numbing story repeating again and again. I'm not looking for love, but where's the vaunted passion?

"How much do you know about fear?"

It was he who first taught me that I had a brain, and I must use it. He saw more than a spark of brute cunning in my eyes, one born of animal instinct and survival. He saw intelligence cowering in darkness, and slowly brought it out into the light. "Séverine," he said, "if you want to be more than a commodity, then you must behave like one. I am a very good, and very wealthy, teacher. I will take your fragile world and crush it under my heel, because it's made of broken glass. My name is Silva. Either come with me, or take your place again among the other wares. Which do you choose?" There was no doubt in my mind.

People speak of honor, and condemn those who have lost it.

People speak of virtue, while the most consistent one they practice is protecting their own reputation.

People speak of sin and conceal theirs.

Most of all, people speak of love, while they themselves know nothing of it. Are they to love such a one as I?

I've killed people before. I may not have pulled the trigger, but I sent them to oblivion unawares.

How much do I know about fear? Whenever a death's-head looms in my mind's eye, I'm not afraid. I know there are worse destinies. That is what Silva has taught me, beyond the so-called "social graces". Those were only a façade. Such a fate awaits this man, Mr. …Bond, if he fails to fulfill his promise to me.

"Meet me aboard the Chimera, Berth Seven. We cast off in an hour."

A monster constructed of grotesquely disparate parts: that's what I am. My head is a lion's, deceptively feral and crowned with a glossy mane. My body is a goat's, which is apropos. If it doesn't produce kids, it can at least provide entertainment for the males with larger horns. My tail, however, is a serpent's - that of a Kimodo dragon instead of a snake. My bite was once poisonous, but Silva has stolen that from me. He's crushed not only my world, but all of my defenses. I hate him for it, and soon I shall have my revenge.

"I like you a lot better without your Beretta."

It's true - I do feel naked without it. My weapon is not just a mechanism to kill. It's my one measure of safety in this world, and here I am in the shower, exposed. However, my anxiety is moot. It's useless. It is Bond, not Silva, who has come to visit me. I know within an instant I'll surrender, and it's worth it.

Worth what? What does a piece of merchandise have to give that her customers haven't already bought?

"A glass of fifty-year-old Macallan. Whoever shoots it off her head wins. Let's see who comes out on top."

Bond aims at me. I know that Silva knows his weaknesses - his blurry eyesight, shaking hands, and erratic aim. "A physical wreck," he told me as he tied my hands. "007 has gotten old, Séverine, and so have you. However, that's not it at all. You've betrayed me, and now we'll see if your little intrigue will pay off!"

For the last time, I fix my eyes upon Bond's. "Ne pas peur," I whisper, relishing the words. Don't be afraid…

He fires. Just above the crown of my hair, part of the rock statue to which I'm bound is pulverized.

The precariously-balanced glass of premium scotch is not.

"My turn!" Silva grins gleefully. He aims.

I gaze up at the sky, the plaster ceiling of my ever-confined world, and watch its heights crumble at last.