So M was my favourite character in Bond, and I cried my eyes out when she died. But I decided to write a story of what was going through her head during her final...five minutes? Hour? I don't know. This is from about when the Aston Martin gets blown sky-high (that was sad too, i must admit) and when M dies, however long that takes. I might do one on Silva, too. I liked him as well. This is in the first person cuz it's from M's POV. Oh, is it too late to say that this contains spoilers for Skyfall? Meh. This fic has details of what I think M's real name was.
N.B: I can't remember exactly what M or Silva say before they die, so that bit's just me making it up as I go along.
As I force myself to put one foot in front of the other on the way to the chapel, Kincade's arm around my shoulder is some little comfort, but it doesn't distract me from the pain in both my left hip and my hand on the same side. I've got no idea what kind of state they might be in, and I'm not entirely convinced that I actually want to know, either. Damn you Silva. For someone who, like myself, doesn't officially exist you've caused one hell of a lot of damage. If you want to kill me, then just do it. Do eleven other people really have to die, and another two undercover NATO agents exposed to get to me? Apparently so. But he's a...cyberterrorist, I think I heard Q calling him. No, Q said something about cyberterrorism and I think I just made the link. I've got absolutely no idea what that might mean, though. Through past experience, I'm guessing that it means blowing stuff up with a computer. Still, all terrorists, cyber or otherwise, are the same. Kill your target and anyone who gets in the way. It's really in his nature.
Thinking about that scumbag, Raoul Silva, has brought another thought to my head. And a pretty terrifying one, at that. What if he kills me? He will, given the opportunity. But what if he's done enough damage to me already? I push a lock of hair out of my face, and I notice with so much shock I'm surprised I don't just keel over and have a heart attack on the spot that I can see right through my injured hand. I used to wonder what would happen if you shot a bullet at someone's hand from point blank range. Would it go straight through or just bury somewhere inside it? Well, I can tell you now that it goes straight through, and into whatever's behind it. In this case, whatever was behind it is somewhere about a foot above my left thigh. And I can tell you this, a bullet hole in your hand feels far worse than it sounds. That may explain how I heard and felt bone breaking when I was shot.
Anyway, whet if I do die? It's a scary thought. I personally hate the idea. It's one of the major design flaws with human species. I, for one, find it too...permanent, for want of a better word. Well, it happens to everyone at some stage, but when you're potentially...and hour? Five minutes? A day? I don't know how long I have left. But when you're actually preparing yourself to die, then it scares the living daylights out of you. I think back to when I first met Bond. He called me the 'Evil Queen of Numbers' or something like that. What I responded with has become a bit of a recurring joke between us. 'When I want sarcasm, I'll listen to my children.' If I do die, which right now seems pretty realistic, I hope he takes over from me, though a desk job probably isn't really his forte. The last thing I want is that muppet, Mallory, taking over from me. Bond, in particular, needs someone like that as his boss like he needs a hole in the head. I have to say though, sometimes I just feel like giving just that to both Bond and Mallory.
Thinking of Bond brings my thoughts back around to the sarcasm joke. And then back to my kids. I haven't seen them in God knows how long, I must say. It frightens me even more that they have no idea what I do, where I am, who I am. To them I am Judith Dench, their mother who they never see due to the fact she's an actress or in some kind of other job I would rather poke my eyes out with sticks than do. That's my identity to all of my immediate family. I could die, and they'd all be told I was killed in a shoot-out at a hotel or something like that. They won't know what really happens. They never will...