Disclaimer: Same as usual. Only the new characters shown are mine.

Special thanks to Grazia D. for all her help! ;-)

James opened his eyes slowly. Pain assaulted him from multiple points, but he forced himself to ignore it. He shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts, and took stock of his physical condition. His mouth felt dry, and there was at least two days stubble on his chin. He hadn't been hit that hard, and came to the conclusion that he must have been drugged. His nose was broken – no doubt from the blow it had been dealt – and judging by the size and nature of his headache (and the fact that his eyes refused to focus) he probably had a minor concussion as well.

Bond realized he was still dressed in his camouflage, and had been set none too gently on a concrete floor. Both his wrists and ankles were bound, but there was no gag. He tested his bonds and his muscle status by straining against the ropes. A few moments later he relaxed – slightly disappointed. He had been tied rather well; the rope wouldn't give an inch. And his muscles felt tight, but he expected nothing less after lying like a trussed up chicken for two days.

The room he was in was made entirely of concrete, and it was small – about eight feet square. One lamp hung from the center of the ceiling; over a single chair. James felt a cold sweat begin to bead on his forehead and upper lip. Memories of Le Chiffre's torture surfaced in his mind as he stared at the chair.

Calm down, Bond told himself. How do you expect to get out of here if you can't even think clearly? He took a deep breath that caught for a moment in his throat, and felt himself begin to relax. He knew the odds were slim that he would ever be tortured in such a way again, but his anxiety refused to completely dissipate. At least it was down to a manageable level.

Biting his tongue lightly – to produce saliva – Bond began to run it around his mouth and lips. He strained against the ropes again, this time only to further awaken his muscles for whatever lay ahead. James grunted as the rough strands dug into his skin, but felt gratified as the pins and needles in his hands and feet began to subside. He focused back on his physical condition, trying to determine the source of every spasm of pain he was feeling.

There was his headache (from the possible concussion), broken nose, lower back (probably caused when they dropped him on the floor with his hands tied behind him), wrists and ankles (from the rope), upper left arm (probably where they'd injected the drug), and an uncomfortable pressure that reminded him he had not used a bathroom for a few days.

Not too bad, he thought to himself. I could fight if I had to.

Bond spent the next few minutes planning ten different escape scenarios – based on the number of men that would come through the door, how many would be armed, whether or not he would be placed in the chair, and the possibility of breaking it to create a weapon for himself. He mentally catalogued all his options, and satisfied that he had not missed anything, he shifted onto his right side so he faced the door. His headache did not appreciate this sudden change in position, and Bond realized he could not afford to be hit in the head again – it would render him helpless in an instant. He added this into his scenarios, and then settled down to wait.

xXx

Bond didn't know how long he had been sleeping – nor did he even remember falling asleep – when the slamming of a heavy door just outside his cell jarred him awake. Digging his fingernails into his palms to bring himself to full alertness, he waited. The door closed again, and he heard the sound of a key being inserted into the door before him.

Only one man entered – the large one who had broken his nose. Bond gritted his teeth as he thought of the many painful things he'd like to do to the gorilla before him. But he remained mute as the man entered and walked straight for him. James caught sight of a small corridor just outside his cell that led to the heavy door whose slamming had woken him. Two doors to get out of here, he thought – and his spirits fell a little. That will make things complicated. He ran his scenarios again, but nothing helpful came to mind.

When the large man reached Bond, he lifted him easily and tossed him in the chair. James grunted as pain spasmed through his head, but said nothing. Rough hands checked him over – his broken nose, arms and legs, even his ribs. Bond could think of plenty of reasons for this; none of them good. At best he was assessing his prisoner's strengths. At worst, deciding how to inflict the maximum amount of pain. Still, James said nothing.

"So, Mr. Bond, did you enjoy your rest?" the voice was gravelly and deep, with a slight Irish accent. That was unexpected.

"I think the service leaves a bit to be desired," James quipped back. Irish (as James had decided to call him) laughed – a grating, pneumatic sound that spoke of years of smoking.

"They told me you were funny." The man was still looking him over, and Bond winced when the large hands found the goose-egg on the back of his head.

"They?" Irish stopped, and his eyes met Bond's for the first time since he'd walked in. They were a deep emerald green – sharp and cold.

"You don't get to ask questions, Mr. Bond." James nodded his understanding.

"I do have one last question, however," he said slyly, "and it is vitally important."

Irish grunted; a warning look in his eyes. James smiled.

"Where does one go to the bathroom around here?"

Irish said nothing, but his meaty fist flew up and hit Bond on the side of the head. James felt himself falling and cried out as he hit the floor. Perfect, he thought as the pain assaulted him. First that bastard hits me on the back of the head, and now the left side. The floor seems to have taken care of the rest…

"Such wonderful hospitality," he managed to mumble before passing out again.

Clears throat.

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