http://scalyfishman.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
scalyfishman.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
damned_institute2009-07-07 04:42 pm
scalyfishman.livejournal.com) wrote in damned_institute2009-07-07 04:42 pm
Entry tags:
Day 42, Afternoon: Morris Park
With the early morning’s embarrassment out of the way, Depth Charge had decided to devote a chunk of the day to familiarising himself with Doyleton: its ins and outs, the stores, the street names. Anything that could prove useful if he ever managed to escape- that, and having something to keep his mind busy after the incident in the used car place. Not only had he looked stupid, he’d looked careless and stupid, and neither of those were looks he really wanted to go for.
Finally he drew his circuit of the town to a close in a run-down park just off of Kelley Street, and boy did it ever look like slag. There was something oddly refreshing about it after the squeaky-clean stroll he’d taken around Perfectville, and anyway, he could hear the sound of a stream in the distance. Good enough for him.
The paper bag he’d been given on the bus was starting to feel irritatingly heavy to him, so it didn’t take long to pick a bench and sit down to eat. Depth Charge opened it up. Ah-hah. There it was. His old adversary. The orange fruit.
What was it Mori had done? Peeled the top part away? With the care of a ‘bot picking the wires on a ticking bomb, he began to strip the outer layer off of the fruit. So far so good. At this rate he might even be able to eat the slagging thing...
[What light through yonder window breaks? Tis the East, and Lugnut is the sun!]
Finally he drew his circuit of the town to a close in a run-down park just off of Kelley Street, and boy did it ever look like slag. There was something oddly refreshing about it after the squeaky-clean stroll he’d taken around Perfectville, and anyway, he could hear the sound of a stream in the distance. Good enough for him.
The paper bag he’d been given on the bus was starting to feel irritatingly heavy to him, so it didn’t take long to pick a bench and sit down to eat. Depth Charge opened it up. Ah-hah. There it was. His old adversary. The orange fruit.
What was it Mori had done? Peeled the top part away? With the care of a ‘bot picking the wires on a ticking bomb, he began to strip the outer layer off of the fruit. So far so good. At this rate he might even be able to eat the slagging thing...
[What light through yonder window breaks? Tis the East, and Lugnut is the sun!]
no subject
He'd never met the man in front of him. He knew it, he was certain of it. There was something familiar...the cafeteria, the day before, he realized. Even then, the other man shouldn't have known that name, since the staff seemed so very determined to use the false one he'd been handled. If they even knew it was false in the first place.
"I'm sorry," he replied, perfectly, emptily polite. "I think you'd mistaken me for someone else."
no subject
No, it had to be. The false politeness, so perfectly British, couldn't come from anyone else. He'd heard that tone before. Fine. If he was going to deny having known him, having killed him, then Alec was going to pull no punches.
An idea occurred to the former 00. Even if his blood boiled at the sight of him, surely it would be better to have James as at least some sort of ally. Don't kill him. Yet. If he truly did not recognize his fellow 00-agent...that presented a lovely opportunity. He'd never have thought he'd try to enlist Bond's help, especially not after Cuba, but...things changed. And if he had to break out the big guns, if he had to prove his former friendship by telling Bond how his own parents had died, information he didn't share out too willingly, well...!
"I doubt it, 007. We're very old friends, you and I." The code number would get his attention, if nothing else.
no subject
His thoughts zipped along a lightning-fast review of everything and everyone he'd seen since setting foot in the town. A trap? It seemed possible, given QUANTUM and their apparent reach, and certainly more plausible than finding an unexpected ally out of left field. He could use this, he was certain, if he could just figure out the game...
And why this man was insistent that they knew one another.
"I think I'd recall an old friend," he replied evenly. "Though come to think of it, you do look a bit familiar. I don't suppose we met at the opera?"
no subject
This was a do-over, he realized. He'd gotten a mulligan on that meeting in Statue Park, and here was the chance to make it more effective, to have Bond working with him rather than against him. For whatever reason, Bond looked different and didn't seem to know him. That was a problem in the realm of kicking his face in, but could strategically be turned to his advantage.
"I never knew you to be a patron of the performing arts, James. I thought you'd recognize a fellow double-0. Or has this--" He touched his scar briefly, and his voice grew faintly bitter -- "changed my appearance so much?"
Good. Milk it, Alec. Play him like a fiddle - especially because everything he'd said so far was true.
[OOC: For some reason, this is happening and not beatdowns. *shrug*]
no subject
Of course, this so-called old friend not picking up on the reference meant only that he wasn't aware of the incident in Austria, not that he was trustworthy. But then, that wasn't the question, was it? Trustworthy enough for the time being, as an ally or an information source, might be a different matter entirely.
"Yes, well. Sometimes we all need to be a bit theatrical." James smiled, pleasant and empty and just a little strained around the edges. He studied the other man intently, but even mentally erasing the scarring, there wasn't even a twinge of memory. What sort of game was this?
"I'm sorry, are you certain you're not thinking of someone else?" He hesitated, and then, mindful of a prickle at the back of his neck that could well be paranoia rather than the indication of an actual watcher's presence, offered a hand. "Daniel Moore." He doubted the name would fool the man for a second, but the gesture was the point of it anyways, indicating, if not provisional trust, at least a willingness to listen.