Captors and Clichés
Bond woke to a dull throbbing reverberating through his skull. Great, he thought, another concussion to add to the list. Remembering, he could guess that it stemmed from the nice sized knot that he could feel forming on the back of his head. Why they always had to go for the back of the head was beyond him. Although effective, it was also hard on the merchandise. As he raised his hand to check the damage, he wiped ineffectively at the blood dripping into his eyes from the deep cut through his left eyebrow, with a deep grimace. That was going to leave a scar.
He wasn't surprised by the sound of clinking chains that reached his ears as he lifted his hand. Oddly resigned, he looked down to see his wrists encompassed by a set of old fashioned metal manacles. The manacles appeared to be connected by, oh, Lord save him from the cliché. He couldn't hold back the sneer. Braided chains drooped down between his legs and snaked behind him, rattling with every movement. Even though it sent a sharp jolt of pain through his head, Bond couldn't avoid rolling his eyes at the sense of melodrama displayed by his captors.
As he followed the length of the chains with pain sharpened eyes, he saw that they were connected to a rusted loop built into the stone wall he had pushed his cold, numb body up to sit against.
Wonderful, he thought drolly, an antique. As he attempted to find a weakness in the manacles hold, he grimaced slightly at the thought of what all this was doing to his suit, and slightly less so for the rough bite of the metal as it ground against his wrists.
Handcuffs and ropes were so much more elegant, he sighed, and so much more easily dealt with. As he turned his head to eye the rusted loop of metal protruding from the wall, he couldn't contain a quiet hiss through tightly clenched teeth as his head rolled against the rough stone, aggravating his head and sending bolts of pain radiating through his neck and skull.
Q wasn't going to be pleased, was oddly Bond's first clear thought as his situation became more apparent. And when you combine the loss of his plans, Bond's own dilemma, on top of the ire the man already felt at the loss of his latest toys, well, the boffin was going to be apoplectic.
If Bond's situation wasn't as pressing, he would take the time to thoroughly enjoy the mental image of Q in a strop. And Q thought he was so clever, sneaking away before he made it back. As if he wouldn't notice the tech's absence during his now habitual end of mission pass through Q branch. It was too easy to rile up the tech, and too much fun. He couldn't recall when exactly he began to hunt out the boffin at the end of missions, but Q had yet to disappoint him-on a mission or otherwise. He couldn't suppress the rush of affection and not a small amount of heat that rose at the thought. Honestly, Q should have known better than to try and sneak away. Away from of all people. Bond chuckled. It wasn't like Q to be so slow. Like Bond would truly have stayed put as ordered, and not take the opportunity to return ahead of schedule and to a friendlier climate.
A bloody merchant vessel, honestly, Q, Bond thought with fond exasperation.
Q might think him completely unaware of his plans outside of the office and the mission at hand, but Bond was well aware of what his Quartermaster got up to while he was away. Just like he was aware that that bloody ship was meant to play the role of babysitter and keep him occupied while Q made a hasty retreat from headquarters.
As if Q would get very far without some type of shadow, likely him. Or that the minions could keep a secret from a determined, well trained Double-O. A smirk briefly flittered across Bond's face, before it returned to its characteristic blankness. Bond had had a few, well, more than a few, days of leave saved up, and he had been picturing Q's face at his unannounced presence on his little jaunt when he had been subsequently surrounded.
As his thoughts had once again drifted to a certain maddening handler, Bond had arisen and wound the course chains around his forearms. Bracing himself against the wall with his left foot, he attempted to pull and tug the manacles loose from the rusted loop of metal. After one last ineffective heave, Bond resigned himself to waiting for his captor's arrival. While the metal seemed brittle, the wall mounted connection refused to budge. Apparently although antiques, they were more than effective.
He sat and once again contemplated his dismal surroundings. It had all the makings of a Hollywood B-movie scene. The damp, exposed cellar, with bare exposed brick floors and walls, and a large wooden door that was no doubt latched with the perquisite steel padlock to match the lovely manacles. The cavernous room was empty save for a small little stool set against the far wall, and a deep puddle of water that had gathered in the right exposed corner of the room.
Bond sharply glanced away as the sun beamed into the room from the rather large hole in the ceiling only to hit the collected water, and catch him across the eyes. As he turned his head away, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps coming down the outside corridor.
With nowhere to hide and the inability and disinclination to do so anyway, Bond deftly returned to the position he had came to in, and quickly regulated his breathing and demeanor to feign his previous state of unconsciousness. He forced his tense body to go limp as the padlock was loudly removed and two sets of footsteps entered the room.
He listened intently as one man moved to approach his still form, and the other, heavier set of footsteps, stopped in the center of the room.
"So, this is a Double-O?" the man asked his companion, inching closer to the downed agent with a sneer laced heavily with bravado.
"Keep your distance, you fool." barked the other man, voice deep and commanding.
"He doesn't look that dangerous." a higher, younger voice remarked.
"And you are not getting paid to look, let alone think. Now drop the damn tray and let's get the hell out of here." A muffled thump came from the vicinity of the stool, along with the clink of glass.
"I mean, look, he is all tied up." The young voice took on a slightly more sadistic and gleeful tone as the footsteps inched closer.
Bond braced himself minutely, just in time to take a kick to the side. Bond didn't have to fake the low moan that escaped him.
"Antonio, do not be stupid!" the older man snapped, stepping forward.
When the idiot maneuvered closer to his downed figure to kick him again, Bond forcefully rolled into the man's legs, catching the man off balance and sending him crashing to the ground beside him. He quickly pinned the younger man to the floor. Bond deftly snagged the gun out of the back of the man's pants as he held him against the ground with a strong forearm.
The older man opened his mouth to call out, only to gargle as blood gushed from his throat through a bullet hole.
As the rather fat man fell to the ground with another bullet centered between his eyes, Bond quickly brought the butt of the gun down onto the younger man's head, smashing it against his forehead as he attempted to twist out of Bond's hold. Just as he thought...highly effective and hard on the merchandise. The man sagged against the floor, out like a light.
Bond stood gracefully, deftly straightened his lapels, shot his cuff links, and brushed down his trousers out of ingrained muscle memory. He hefted the gun, and with a small shrug of his shoulders, turned to the side and shot down at the chain of the manacles. He could only snort as the chain easily broke.
He didn't know if he should be more offended by the blatant clichés, ineffectual henchmen included, or by the fact that his captors had been cheap enough to buy reproductions instead of original steel.
As he turned to walk away, he paused a moment, only to turn and swiftly kick the prone form at his feet. The small groan that issued forth brought a thin vindictive smile to the corner of the Double-O's mouth as he made his way silently through the door, already contemplating how he was going to make all this up to Q.
After all, he wouldn't want to make it home only to be killed by his favorite handler, he thought with a smirk, as he made his way soundlessly down the dank corridor.