Cold, Steel Walls

I sit against the cold, steel walls of the containment cell, hearing the steady waves of the night sea splash against the carrier boat’s hull. There are no windows or port holes, so the sound is a muffled wash. I don’t know how much time has passed since I’ve been in here; it feels like hours. All that I know is that there is an austere-looking gentleman watching over me, although he seemed to be a bit more of a bloke than anything. The man donned a grey over-shirt with two pockets on each side of his chest, a white shirt underneath, both which are tucked into black slacks. He wore shiny, black boots that encased his knee-sock-covered feet and ankles. At first, I thought he might be a sailor. No, I thought to myself, still a bloke. I noticed his pale skin that had a grayish tint to it, but that might have just been from the lack of lighting in the room, and his ridiculous uniform; he was now a cadaverous bloke. He simply sits in his wooden chair, black nightstick in hand and silver handgun in holster.

Minutes pass, but the minutes feel like hours. The man breaks the silence every few seconds at an attempt to debase me. “I wouldn’t have expected such an esteemed spy like you to be so vulnerable. This required almost no effort.” Was that supposed to be an insult? I think to myself, almost chuckling. “Using nitrous oxide has to be the oldest trick in the book, chap. Your efforts were crass at best.” I reply. “Anyone who passed grad-school chemistry can concoct something like that. It’s not very grandiose.” At this point, this is mere fun.

“Tell that to the chemists then. That was not my work; I disavow. My work was simply to carry your sorry, unconscious body in here and lock you up,” he tells me, chuckling.

“Don’t try to expurgate your story, lad. I know that you also banged my knee against the doorframe on the way in.” I’m looking at him dispassionately now. He looks at me with a dismayed look upon his face. “I was only half asleep. And if anyone knew that such an ignoble man of such odium such as yourself had injured a prisoner, then you ought to be relegated.”

The grey-donned man peered at him with condescending eyes. “Just shut your mouth and be quiet, you MI6 infraction.”

Time to plan your escape; you could either ask him for water, or simply wait. The choice is yours.

Water: The cadaverous-yet-muscular prison guard is almost asleep in his chair behind his desk, but then you ask, “Lad, may I have a drink from that water bottle sitting in front of you? I’m so parched that I’m almost squeamish.”

The man grunts in a quite acrimonious manner, but agrees. “Fine, have your drink, scum.” He hands you the rather lukewarm water bottle.

You take a single, yet long sip from the bottle. You look at the bottle, and say “You know, after being on this boat, I’m a bit sick of water.” You take the water bottle and splash the guard in the face. During his state of consternation, he was highly susceptible to an attack. You grab hold of his shoulder and head and slam it against the stalwart prison bars, not leaving a single dent, but leaving the unredoubtable gentleman unconscious. You grab the ring of keys from his pocket and unlock your cellar door. Before you leave him, you ask, “Didn’t they teach you gentlemen to not be so subservient to your inmates?”

Once you make your way out of the holding facility, in hopes that your holder’s head trauma doesn’t dissipate (or even mitigate), you dart for one of the lifeboats, activate it, and head for shore. You hear your watch radio go off; it’s M. “How did you manage to escape, James?” she asks hypothetically.

You reply, “That, M, was simple. I wasn’t afraid to get my feet wet, and neither was he. Explaining further would just be an inconsequential prate.”

She doesn’t find your joke amusing, she never does. “There wasn’t a single perfidy in the air. And now we have our intemperate prize agent back in our restitution. Welcome back, 007.”

“My name’s Bond; James Bond.”

Wait: You sit in the cold jail cell and watch as your prison guard falls asleep at his chair. Minutes pass, and you begin to think your plan isn’t exactly working; you also regret not bringing your steel gauntlet to pry the door open. Then you realize that the gauntlet would be too corpulent for you to use and your guard isn’t bovine enough to not be able to catch you. Minutes become hours, and the guard continues to sleep, until you hear footsteps down the hallway, rather punctilious footsteps at that, as if sneaking. A figure comes into the light; it’s your fellow agent, Alec: Agent 006. He darts towards the snoring guard and pinches his pressure points, knocking him unconscious. He grabs the guard’s keys and unlocks your cellar door.

“I don’t mean to desecrate your work, 006,” you say, reproving him, “Put your footsteps were a bit loud for my taste.”

Alec looks towards you with a grin and says with dissension in his voice, “You impugn.” He chuckles softly.
You begin to jog towards the elevator, getting in the nearest open. “At least you didn’t pillage the place”, you say, uncertain, “Otherwise your acts wouldn’t be as beneficent towards our mission.”

006 stands next to you, arms behind his back like you, and chuckles, your statement disconcerting him, saying “Oh, please, Mr. Bond. Don’t you trust me?”

You look forward, replying “Rule one of the spy game: Trust no one.”