[ the rear window shatters. silva ducks his head, allowing the car to swerve, the sound of honking horns and screeching tires surrounding him as he tries to navigate his way through the busy lanes without slowing down. a jolt somewhere in the rear axle tells him that a bullet's punctured another tire, and he hisses out a breath, eyes flicking from the rearview mirror to the road. he can see the silhouette of the agent: gun drawn, slim figure, probably female—(and that narrows it down considerably, doesn't it)—but he doesn't stop to try and identify her further. can't afford wasted time, can't afford to be caught again without a failsafe in place. they might not know all his tricks, but q's a quick study, and silva knows boy wonder won't be letting his guard down like that again.
when he'd led bond on that merry chase, it had been on purpose; he'd rigged the london underground knowing bond's expertise would allow him to keep up, to be at the right place at the right time. he'd left the door open. an invitation. stayed until the lights went up—come hither. then he'd thrown a train at him. now, with a failed mission and scorched dignity under his belt, silva has to think on his feet, get back to his roots. he might be one step ahead, but it's anyone's game. (and isn't that thrilling, just a little? enough to take the sting off, anyway. enough to keep him occupied in the interim, between escape and find m.)
silva can still move with a punctured tire, but he won't get far with it, not on these streets and with an agent on his tail. his eyes search the surrounding buildings as he scrapes by a cab, shearing paint from the metal. the vehicle is handling well under the circumstances. silva can tell the man who owns it doesn't care for the brakes as well as he should, but that's a non-issue when he's only got a few more metres to drive before it ceases to matter.
with an anticlimactic bump, silva runs the car onto the kerb. pedestrians who had been looking on with interest scatter as the hunk of metal careens toward them, shrieking to a halt in front of another gate, leading down a narrow alley between two buildings, near an intersection. his hand finds the glock, and, weapon outstretched, he slides out of the car. throws another glance behind him, ducks down, shoots the lock off of the gate, and runs through. ]
no subject
when he'd led bond on that merry chase, it had been on purpose; he'd rigged the london underground knowing bond's expertise would allow him to keep up, to be at the right place at the right time. he'd left the door open. an invitation. stayed until the lights went up—come hither. then he'd thrown a train at him. now, with a failed mission and scorched dignity under his belt, silva has to think on his feet, get back to his roots. he might be one step ahead, but it's anyone's game. (and isn't that thrilling, just a little? enough to take the sting off, anyway. enough to keep him occupied in the interim, between escape and find m.)
silva can still move with a punctured tire, but he won't get far with it, not on these streets and with an agent on his tail. his eyes search the surrounding buildings as he scrapes by a cab, shearing paint from the metal. the vehicle is handling well under the circumstances. silva can tell the man who owns it doesn't care for the brakes as well as he should, but that's a non-issue when he's only got a few more metres to drive before it ceases to matter.
with an anticlimactic bump, silva runs the car onto the kerb. pedestrians who had been looking on with interest scatter as the hunk of metal careens toward them, shrieking to a halt in front of another gate, leading down a narrow alley between two buildings, near an intersection. his hand finds the glock, and, weapon outstretched, he slides out of the car. throws another glance behind him, ducks down, shoots the lock off of the gate, and runs through. ]