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Hmm.. "her"?
;)
Yeah, sorry about that. I forgot for a second that this is a Fleming-esque novelization. :\">
Bond sat at the foam of the sea, the silence of the glowing sunset sinking into the horizon, ending his day. The seas that had brought him to life; the seas that had given him his reality. The seas that made him a sailor, a soldier, and then the spy. The seas that took him from a false home, and into a real war. The seas that taught him the threat of death, and the value of life. The seas that had seasoned him.
Bond was nearly sick with his thoughts. This distracting way of thinking had come to haunt him over the past few months. He hadn't slept; first from the pain, later from the memories. He had fallen into this paradise around him, but his mind betrayed him from enjoying it. He had almost forgotten about the bed of tanned skin and dark hair laying beside him. How lucky he had been to be accompanied by this wonderful creature. He remembered the first time his eyes awoke to her. Her soft, caramel colored eyes examining his face, her long wavy black hair crawling across his cheek, and her velvet hands warming his chest. It had been a nice moment before she turned and called someone into the room, ending his distraction, and awaking his body to the pain. His fall had broken three of his ribs, burst multiple organs, dislocated his hip, and his lungs had filled with water as he drifted downstream. The girl had been swimming when his body washed up to her fright. Giving him a new breath of life, she had carried him to her home and called for the local doctor. She claimed he was a boyfriend she had met while traveling, and that they had been cliff diving and had an accident. The doctor hadn't questioned the bullet wound. It had taken him months to heal, the resting had made him lazy, and she had spoiled him. First with food and wine, and later with love.
He had long ignored any thought of his mission. He had failed, but not by his hand. Destiny had knocked him off the train and nearly killed him. He had come to decide that this third party, the beautiful girl in the grey four-by-four by the bridge, had to be one of him. Likely a contingency plan sent by M., in the event that something would happen. What fools M. had made them out to be; how embarrassing a show to such an adversary. Bond had planned his trip back and the argument with M. down to every sentence, even practicing to himself. He first planned a good lecture, but it only drove him to shouting. Less would be more with M. The man would scold Bond's failure fully aware, as any mother would be, it would only motivate him. Bond had healed and worked himself into routine, trying to get back to who he had been. He was ready to be back, but wasn't. M. already knew some version of events. Assuredly he had assumed Bond was dead and had already sent another double-o to succeed where Bond had failed. Bond told himself he didn't have to return, but he couldn't rest with where he was at. He told himself he could get used to the beautiful scenery, the lovely girl, and the easy life, but it wasn't translating. He remembered dreaming of Jamaica back in Istanbul, possibly returning to the lovely Honeychile as he had promised, and now life had placed the opportunity right in his lap and it disturbed him.
The sky draped a velvet mood across the world around him as he lifted to his feet. The girl comfortably moaned awake and looked up to him, into him. He saw her love, but felt nothing. He forced a smile, and lazily bounced his eyelids, reassuring her of his fabricated interest. Acting came naturally to him. He had loved before and knew how to convince her, and for now it had worked. A beautiful smile believed him, and her bit lip teased him. He had long decided he wouldn't love her. Something in him, a natural sense he knew not to question, told him it would not last long, and later logic had come to meet a similar conclusion.
Tonight, like most nights, Bond went for a drink. Planted along the vast blue beast was a rather simple seaside bar he had come to admire. It was a sublte interruption along the flat shoreline, with no walls, a straw roof, and loose planks dug into the sand for a floor. The dimmed lights and proximity to the sea were romantically inviting, but Bond admired it for its honesty and obscurity. It was worked by a man named Tuna, who had proved to be a good man. Bond never questioned whether Tuna was a nickname given to him, or something a parent would actually name a child. He lived by and for the sea, and he smelled of a man who did just so. Natively, his name was symbolic of abundance, and to Bond, his hospitality had been just that. His generosity and greatness towards Bond reminded him of a great man from his past; another Turkish friend from long ago.
Steadily Bond's glass grew busier. Translucent thought turned opaque, the worries waned, and he immersed himself among the crowd. The band was decent enough to get the drunk tourists off their feet. Occasionally a girl would be sure to make herself known, but they didn't take long to decipher Bond's disinterest.
Like something from a nightmare Bond eventually drifted into the eye of the storm, the sweaty sunburned field of flesh shouting and chanting around him. Tuna announced to them something Bond didn't bother paying attention to. In the next moment he understood perfectly. Tuna had brought out the crowd-pleaser. Staring at Bond across the weathered wood was the white lobster looking arachnid, all eight legs bent and it's body arched, it's tail slightly humming from the flow of poison, and it's pincers poised to kill; it simply waited only for it's glass cage to be lifted and it would be ready to strike. Tuna filled Bond's glass, and slid it across with a smile and a wink. Bond shrugged, picked it up and arched his hand to make a steady platform for the creature. He knew this game; a simple gamble him and Tuna used for the amusement of the crowd. A silent hum flowed around the bar, queuing Tuna to the lift the glass. He carefully grabbed just under the tip of the tail, the beast's legs struggling in the absence of structure. Carefully Tuna lowered it down onto Bond's hand, peeling the tail back and calmly spreading the leucistic bug onto flesh. It sat their, still in battle position, staring; waiting for stimuli to meet instinct and react, it's white body shining in the moonlight. Bond took on character for the crowd and straitened his back, staring into eyes that seemed to only see him. The crowd's gasps magnified as his hand slowly crept towards his mouth, his cheeks and temples firm with tension. A drop of condensation or sweat slid across Bond's fingers, and the creature shifted. His hand stopped and the crowd held their breath as if there was suddenly an absence of oxygen. A moment passed as Bond secretly enjoyed the risk of the moment. Finally, with a smooth swipe Bond gulped down the spirit and flipped his hand, slamming the glass down over the scorpion and pinning it's tail under the ring to the cheers of the crowd.
The morning awoke him slowly, dreadfully. His mind dragged itself to awareness with a heavy weight and took its time. His eyes remained closed behind the red glow of luminescent flesh as he prepared himself for the piercing burn of the sun's first greeting. He fought his own resistance and opened his eyes. He could feel the light bouncing through his head, spreading an indescribable pain centered everywhere from his neck to his forehead. He felt the iris' of his eyes pinch and let his mind rediscover his vision as he glanced around. He was alone, except for Tuna who was sweeping sand that would only be carried back by the wind moments later. Bond reached over the bar and dropped his usual payment with a courteous tip, and tested his balance before quietly limping away.
It was a Sunday morning, and the sea breeze hung a cool fishy aroma through the clay brick streets. Bond always enjoyed the quietness of the first sun-lit hour of the day. The early sunshine seemed to add a higher definition to the world around him, and even though the streets lay bare of people, they seemed more alive. His destination was a small trade station that seemed to hang off the platform of the local train depot. On Sunday mornings the first train brought in the international newspapers, and Bond entertained himself with the knowledge of world events. He was never really looking for anything in particular, but he had first made it a habit when preparing his return to his other life. The shop also sold cigars, cigarettes, and local hand-crafted tourist gifts. Bond took advantage of the variety of the cigars, testing a new one each week with his morning paper. He walked in and greeted the store owner, who never seemed to recognize him though he had to of by now. He responding with his usual ignorance and Bond shrugged as he made his way to the news shelf. He scanned the top row paper to paper, taking the time to read every headline. Halfway down the row his eyes instantly froze. His crossed arms slowly untangled as he felt a nothingness tingle down his spine. Bond read and re-read the headline article, shouting back at him in bold:
THE TOMORROW
Questions Linger After London Tower Explosion Weakens Western Foundations
London,
Shreds of burning paper fluttered down onto emergency crews late Saturday afternoon after a large explosion tore through a recently completed tower block in London. The explosion was reportedly heard as far down the Thames as Poplar. Emergency crews responded to the scene minutes after the explosion, aiding those evacuating the now smoldering structure. The blast tore through the lobby of the building, as well as damaging offices as high as the seventh floor. The glass of shattered windows littered the streets a few hundred meters in each direction. So far six people can be confirmed dead as crews continue to sift through debris. No officials have come forward with information as to the cause of the explosion, but witnesses claim to have seen a large lorry parked by the entrance only minutes before disintegrating in the blast, likely the source.
The recently constructed building's purpose is in question after shreds of paper blown into the streets were reportedly watermarked with government seals including The London Police Department and the Secret Intelligence Service. Not long after the emergency crews arrived the police barricade was pushed farther out as teams of unmarked workers swept up the litter in the streets. The building was initially licensed by a private company under the name of Universal Exports as evidenced by public construction records, but there have been no public records made available since the completion of its construction. Government officials, including the Prime Minister, refused to comment on the situation when approached, simply stating an official statement would be made at a later time.
The streets of London and most other towns across England remained hauntingly quiet throughout the night and into the morning as people continue to fear the possibility of more attacks. One local shop owner told a Tomorrow reporter 'It seems The Cold War has run a fever.' Who is responsible for the explosion will likely remain unclear for weeks to come as investigators continue to sift through what remains of the bottom floors of the building and have ample time to go through collected evidence and eye witness accounts. Expect updates as The Tomorrow will continue writing with the latest news as well as carry out its own investigation. EC.
Bond blinked, his body now rigid with a tingling lightness, the shock of the adrenaline buzzing through him. He grabbed the paper and, almost running, ignored the grunt of the salesman shouting at him to pay as he broke through the door. He walked as fast as his legs would carry him to the station clerk and purchased a ticket for the 12:00pm to Paris.
James Bond will return in The Questionable Tomorrow
There is an actual tower in London that used to be the headquarters for the SIS that I'm referencing here. I'm reluctant to pin an exact date or year to the story though, because I feel I'd be painting myself into a corner. But the actual SIS did move over to a tower around '69 or '70, so that is my general timeline. I had trouble researching even an image of the building though, because now its been renovated into apartments. It's a rather modern looking building, I was surprised.
Another thing I went for was not necessarily revealing the building as MI6 HQ, and you really don't find out until next chapter. At first I saw this as an issue, then realized it leaves a bit of mystery to get you to keep reading, at least to chapter four, where it's revealed that it was indeed MI6 HQ, etc.
I hope Chapter 3 was worth the wait, and I sincerely hope at least some of you are enjoying it. I'd love some more feedback or discussion if anyone is interested.
Thanks for reading! On to Chapter 4 and the challenges of creative dialogue.
Good to see that you're not just retelling the film in text, plot events only, and leaving the psychology out of it. Fleming seemed to make much of sensations, inner thought, and microscopic situational elements, which you seem to be getting a hold of rather well. Hope to see that continue, and looking forward to the next chapter (which I wish you luck with writing, and hope you truly enjoy producing).
M.'s day had started with lowering the lives of six of his men to their graves. He had taken a moment alone with the coffins in the viewing hall, draped in the Queen's colors, silently apologizing. He wished he knew who to blame; who he could direct his anger; who he could use his full resources towards and all of his ability to bring to justice. His people were working hard. He knew they were putting forward their best effort, but his patience chasing shadows was dwindling. He needed results.
As did Gareth Mallory. M. hated politics, hated agendas, and hated questions. He had gone a lifetime without anyone questioning his patriotism; it was unquestionable. A lifetime until now. Now he had this politician, a 'man for the people' as it had been put, in his business, influencing his decisions, distracting his work. Never before had the prime minister raised an inquiry into his work. Never before had these politicians dared to stick their large fat noses in the dirty work of espionage. Before they had been scared of him, scared of his work; scared of what he had to do to keep England strong and safe. Now they feared their people. They had been threatened with death, the end of life, yet they would rather fear the people they had been elected to protect. At any moment they could turn their ignition key and disintegrate into an inferno of steel and leather and skin. Any letter could open to a toxic agent and suffocate them. Any day a shooter on the fifth floor across the way could focus his sights and hit the heart and they would be dead. But no, they were scared of the election. Scared of their voters rather than for their voters. Rather than fear this murderous shadow lurking, undoubtedly, beyond the Iron Curtain, they feared statistics and lowered approval ratings. It angered him to the verge of madness.
His meeting with Mallory hadn't gone well. He had been summoned to Trinity Square, pulled from his work, distracted from finding those responsible for an attack that killed six Londoners, to talk and have tea. He didn't hide his annoyance as he drowned Mallory in a deep glare.
M. was direct. 'If you don't mind me being blunt, why am I here?'
'As you are aware, it has been requested by the Prime Minister that I meet with you to discuss a response to the recent attack. He wants to ensure any and every operation goes flawlessly, and hopes you understand his keen involvement in this specific case.'
'Do not speak to me as if I am naive, Mallory. I have worked my entire career in espionage; I know an informant when I see one. He is spying on me.'
'It is hardly spying if we are open with our intentions, M.'
'This sort of thing is unprecedented. It has never been necessary in the past; it won't be necessary now. If the Prime Minister wants an update of my work, you can tell him he has my direct line. Anything further is bordering on a breach of security. I can not endorse any such thing.'
'Breach of security? You lost the information outlining plans of operation in Rhodesia! You let a bomb go off at your front door in the center of London! You may excuse the PM if he loses a little faith in MI6's security in light of recent events. It is no longer your decision.'
M.'s face dropped farther than Mallory imagined the baggy layers of skin would allow.
He continued in a calmer voice, 'I will be following you throughout the headquarters transition, and you will be providing access to any and all information necessary to the Prime Minister's inquiry. There will be no further discussion of the matter.'
M. stood, his face motionless and his body rigid. He was angry, but intelligent enough to know when and where to silence himself. It became clear that silence would be his best strategy to keep Mallory and the Prime Minister tame.
'There is a second topic you have been brought here to discuss, so please have a seat.'
'Not necessary.'
Mallory paused, then shrugged. 'So be it. My second responsibility over the next few months will be finding a suitable replacement for you-' Mallory lingered for a moment to look up at M. '-following your retirement.'
M. remained surprising calm. Surprising to both him and Mallory.
'I have no such intentions.'
'There will be no disputing it. I have convinced the Prime Minister to allow you an opportunity to finish strong. If it had gone his way, you would not have moved to Station L. You would have never met me. But as of now he is willing to allow you to bring whoever attacked us to justice. He knows what it means to you, and he is confident you will not disappoint. You've had a long run M., and England is forever indebted to you. Let us finish with this one last victory, shall we? Finish with some dignity.'
'To hell with dignity, and to hell with you both.'
M hardly remembered the trip home, his body instinctively returning him while his mind lingered on more important issues. It was a late Thursday night with a light rain that chilled everything it draped. His evening at Blades had proven uneventful. It was suitable relief to the morning before. He hadn't gambled much, knowing he'd be too distracted to concentrate given the weight of recent events, but it was preferable to his usual business of gambling the lives of those he worked with. He only went to relax. He needed a place where he could discuss other matters that didn't matter. Topics that didn't determine the future of political landscapes or influence the balance of life across continents. He could smoke and drink and be convinced by the people around him it wasn't killing him. But now he was home, the day finally done. He walked up to the large, flat faced white house across a small cobbled parking court. He stepped through the door, hung his heavy coat on the very last hook in the row along the hall as he always did, and casually entered the smoking room.
He had noticed the lamp on from the street. He had noticed smudges along the windows behind the bog myrtle bushes in his front garden. He had noticed the needles of the western hemlock trees from his yard, still soaked with rainfall, littered across the covered walkway smashed into footprints. He had noticed the bar cabinet door slightly ajar from the hall, and a short glass missing from the top right cabinet; the only glasses he used. He couldn't be bothered to worry who it was. Perhaps it would be his killer. Perhaps he was welcoming to the idea of such an abrupt ending. But no, he had guessed it was someone that he had known, and the missing glass told him the intruder had shared a drink with him at least once. The evidence proved right as he rounded the only corner of his smoking room to find James Bond leaning against his dull cream curtains, enjoying M's personal best bourbon, the shadow of a lamp shade dramatically covering his face.
'Where the hell have you been?' Scolded M. as he made his way to the open bottle of bourbon.
'Enjoying death.' Bond spat with an uncontrolled defensive hostility.
'How poetic.'
M. patiently stared at him, waiting for something to be said to break the foggy tension building inside the cramped room.
'I'm not here to apologize. I'm not here because of guilt or regret. I'm here to work.'
'Sounds like the words of a guilty man full of regret.'
'You would know.' Bond mumbled as he slapped The Tomorrow in front of M. on the coffee table between them, the bold title meeting M.'s eyes.
M.'s faced changed from an unreadable openness to a piercing angry stare. His cheeks dropped with his frown, his brow curved down to a point between his eyes, his nostrils flared, and his voice trembled.
'You've got some bloody nerve breaking into my home, drunk and hungover, smelling of indescribable waste, raiding my drinks cabinet, and attempting to lecture me. Months of purposeless absence and you assume you can just show up and return to business as usual! Nonetheless in the midst of one of the worst terror attacks in the heart of the country you abandoned! You seem to have forgotten you are, or were, only the seventh of many in the Double-O section. You seem to forget the army of intelligence officers who have done more work for this country than you could ever accomplish. And how foolish of you to show up now and in such a manner! If you weren't in such an ungainly state it wouldn't be a stretch to question you responsible for recent events!'
M paused for good effect before continuing.
'If you've come to argue I will have none of it. I have not the time for it. I have the murder of six lives to investigate. Six of my hardest working people. Six of my friends. If you want to linger on the past, if you want to take things personally, I have not the patience nor a place for you. If you want me to feel bad for you, you've forgotten your line of work. You've forgotten your purpose, and you can return to whatever corner of the world you've been wasting away in, I won't be needing you.'
His eyes focused in on Bond, and his words were final. The ultimatum hit Bond as if the man had thrown a powerful punch into his chest. Suddenly Bond was put in his place. Suddenly he remembered the respect he had for this man. Suddenly he saw how out of line he was. Suddenly, the argument was over.
M. slid back in his chair and calmed himself with a gulp of drink. Bond made his way to the faded leather seat across from him, and quietly leaned forward into his hands.
A few minutes passed in tune to the ticking of the grandfather clock somewhere in the background of the house, and the quiet sipping of M.'s drink.
'So then-' M. paused, 'Why are you here?'
Bond looked up from his palms, his eyes strained and pink from held back tears. M. answered for him.
'You're here because we are under attack. You know we could use you, and you want a way back in. Well-' M. picked up the newspaper from the table and unfolded it. 'Well, here you have it.'
Bond quietly stared an appreciative look back at M.
'How in the bloody hell did they run this so quickly? How do they know these things?' M. asked to himself as he had all day, re-reading the article for what must have been the hundredth time. He put on glasses Bond had never seen him use. 'Who is EC?'
'Elliot Carver.' replied Bond. 'Editor in chief of The Tomorrow, and owner. He's been steadily building a media empire since the end of the war. He's given Murdoch one hell of a run for his money. He quite suspiciously came from nowhere. Had some legal troubles early on. He was first to break the news back in '63 of the Profumo sex scandal, and he's continuously had the break on the biggest stories since. He seems to know things before they happen. MI6 inquiries have been unable to find anything malicious. Well, beyond the occasional government smear.'
'Suspicious indeed. Never mind him for now. What do you know of the attack?'
'Only what the article reads, sir.' It was as if the two men had time-traveled back to M's desk, business as usual. As if the previous argument hadn't taken place. Bond enjoyed it.
M. took off his glasses, looked down at his watch, then angrily put his glasses back on to read the time. 'Yes, well, it's getting late. I'll have Tanner bring you in to brief in the morning. I'll have to arrange things with the doctor.'
'The doctor?'
'Yes, you remember Doctor Hall? Your absence will raise questions, and you'll have to be deemed fit to return to active duty. I can make no exceptions. Things will be different, Bond. I'll tell you more tomorrow. Obviously we won't be meeting at my office for some time. Report to Station L at sunrise. You do remember?'
'Yes.'
'Good.' M. said as he stood and walked towards the hall. Bond stood as well. M. suddenly stopped and turned, looking down at Bond over his glasses.
'Oh, yes. Almost forgot. Your flat has been sold and most of your belongings have been moved to storage.' Bond frowned back at him with a vigorous expression of surprise. 'Standard procedure following the death of an operative with no next of kin, I'm afraid.' M. responded, almost seeming to enjoy the words.
'Yes, I suppose I'll just find a hotel for the night.'
'You bloody hell won't be staying here!' M. laughed the words as he left the room and cut the light in the hall.
James Bond will return.
The new plot synopsis is as follows:
"After a seemingly simple assignment goes terribly wrong for James Bond, he is given a new lease on life free from the world of espionage. Trying to sort out a new beginning, Bond's loyalty returns him to his previous life as MI6 is under new threat from the shadows of M.'s past, and Britain's present."
It will still be set in the early 1970's and heavily focus in London and Scotland. It will highlight actual events concerning the Irish revolution and I will continue to mimic at my best ability Fleming's writing style. I should get to writing soon, as my schedule has cleared up.
I hope you enjoy... Ian Fleming's Skyfall.