Contemplation Amid Cacophony
Chapter Text
The newly-opened W hotel in Times Square was as gaudy and excessive as everything else in that area, seeming to accept luxury and sensory-assault as a substitute for style. Its colors were muted pastels. It's lighting low, promising the pleasures of a perpetual nightlife. Bond's suite—while certainly comfortable and very spacious by New York City standards—could have been ported in from any modern luxury hotel anywhere in the world. The view looked out over the outside rim of Times Square where the great, commercial cacophony of brand names—Disney! ESPN! Bubba Gump! Toys'R'Us!—gave way to the stage theaters that were, ostensibly the electric impulse that drove the great, pumping, neon-blinded heart of this city. It was not a view conducive to peaceful rest, but then, it wasn't meant to be. This was a hotel designed to never let its occupants forget the sheer amount of stimuli blossoming like mushroom clouds on the other side of their thin wall. It was America in brief: everything you want, as much as you want, and more.
Bond would have found it depressing if he wasn't so unsettled by his meeting at the consulate. The extent to which the CIA had a hand in the exfil operation, despite having seemingly no interest in Jechul's defection struck him as too incongruous to let go. As did the anemic intelligence report Peart had given him. The man himself was an incongruity as well, Bond mused. He had the physique and manner of a field agent, the type The Farm had been churning out in droves since the 12thof September 2001 and regularly shipping off to Afghanistan and Iraq. He wasn't the kind of person they would have put on a simple analysis job, which made Bond skeptical that, when the time came, they would be content to stand aside and let England have the girl.
The blue, sword-like hands of his Omega Seamaster were inching toward 8PM. The welcome reception dinner would be kicking off. Bond considered making himself a drink from the minibar to fortify himself against what was sure to be a nerve-deadening evening, but he thought better of it.You're simply stalling…He scowled. It wasn't professional. He needed to attend the dinner in character, and there he would probably see the girl. If he couldn't do this, he was as bloody useless as M's detractors suspected. He showered quickly, shaved, and brushed his thick, black hair into submission before dressing in a charcoal Brioni suit, white Turnbull & Asser shirt, and a blue tie he wound in a four-in-hand knot.
The last thing he did was retrieve his P99 and two full magazines from its hidden compartment in his suitcase and slipped it into his shoulder holster.
Actions