bakerstreet | A Picture is Worth... Meme.

A Picture is Worth... Meme.

A Picture is Worth.... Meme
This ain't your mama's meme. Forget your RNG, forget your tired old prompts.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
It's easy. Comment with your character. Then go comment around.
But instead of pre-filled prompts with words or numbers, you find a gif or image (any gif/image from any canon or scenario you please) that sets the scene.
The picture is the prompt.

WARNING: THIS POST WILL BE IMAGE HEAVY. AND POSSIBLY NSFW AND THERE MAY BE TRIGGERS.
Some images will not be able to be hidden behind cuts, so please be aware that triggery material may be found within.

If you post an image that is violent or sexual in nature please LINK it, do not embed it into the comment.

Feel free to use this template to stick your image in there.

Good resources for images/gifs are weheartit or tumblr. For not so safe for work gifs/images go here and here.

Original Meme here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( MI6 agents do not have the highest life expectancy. It's worse, of course, for the 00 agents, but recent events have really hit home how close any of them are to death at a given time.

Recent events, like shooting 007 and MI6 being blown up quite spectacularly. Some of them cling to the illusion that they're untouchable, some of them try to deal with the knowledge of their own mortality in various ways.

Eve works. She loves her job, always has, despite its shortcomings and the troubles it brings. Work means she's present when Silva rudely interrupts the hearing, and work means that she follows him when he leaves, gun drawn and leaving M in Tanner's capable hands. )

[ anger is fresh and cutting, and silva's skin is crawling with it, the frustration of a plan gone awry because of (admittedly unsurprising) interference—and his own hesitation, the split-second of i have her, i have her, i—

he could have shot her in the head, bang, a neat little hole right between her eyes. he could have ended it. but he didn't, not fast enough, and the thought gets stuck in his throat as he leaves the carnage immediately, drops the magazine on the cold hard whitehall steps, inserts another into the glock from an inside pocket of the police uniform. silva's had plenty of time to practice crystallising his temper, cooling it down until it's ice-sharp, but this disappointment is still hot. he doesn't check corners, only moves with determination toward the exit point: get out, don't make a sound, retreat to safety before the next move.

so it's only when he reaches the vehicle that he catches movement at the corner of his eye. a split-second later, he flings open the car door, crouches behind it, before taking aim and firing a warning shot at the flash of motion following him. ]

( that he could have shot m and didn't is something that they both know, something that eve is not going to count in his favour because he may not have gone through with it, there may not be a bullet between m's eyes right now, but that does not mean that he hasn't done considerable harm.

she's just a little too slow to catch him unawares, but it's more than she might have had, a better chance than anything so far, since he's escaped and before that, really, given that his capture had been carefully orchestrated by none other than silva himself.

eve takes cover behind one of the columns — marble, she thinks, inconsequentially. breathe, aim, fire — eve takes out one of the tires because containment is the first step. don't let him escape again. )

[ silva is no longer the double-oh he used to be, older, warped, content now to slip smoothly through life wearing flamboyant suits and a dangerous air of unpredictability, his fingers laid gently across the keys of a computer. but he hasn't lost the drive, the ruthless efficiency which mi6's training had drawn out of him. here, the trappings fall away. here, his persona is of a killer, not a businessman—and all his clever associates know that silva has never stopped being a killer, even with the loyalty burned out of him. he doesn't have the time or inclination to send a smile, a slash of white teeth, a wayward touch. and it's because he isn't in control. hasn't regained it. not here, and not yet.

the tire shot has his men spilling out of the getaway car, three of them, all armed. one sets up behind the driver's side door, the others crouch behind the far side, guns drawn, bullets spattering the side of the building. silva darts a glance at the lackey closest, then at his immediate surroundings. check for entry points, for exits, formulate a strategy. he knows the drill, knows what the agent is doing (because of course it's an agent, he can't tell which yet, hadn't bothered to look at anyone other than m and bond and that dull bureaucrat mallory), because he's done it many times himself. make escape impossible, then engage the target head-on. either subdue or terminate.

he fires again, takes a chip out of the marble column, then moves quickly behind the bulk of the car. his men will make for roadblocks if nothing else, little blips on the map. inconsequentially useful. whitehall is expansive, and he knows reports of his getup have been circulating ever since bond had spotted him on the tube; he can't escape on foot without getting gunned down. another car it is. stolen, this time, the old-fashioned way.

silva breaks for it while the others shoot, past the fence and through the gate, into oncoming traffic. a car screeches to a halt just next to him, and he points the gun amiably through the window with one hand, using the other to beckon quickly. the startled man opens the window briefly—officer?—and silva uses the opening to reach in, unlock the door, and wrench the driver out. he slides in, checks the mirror. drops the gun in the passenger seat and screeches off into traffic, hands curled tight against the leather of the steering wheel. ]

( there's a curse on the tip of eve's tongue, but it doesn't get a chance to pass her lips because her focus is on silva, on the gunfight, on his men; there's no time to swear, no matter how appropriate it may be. there's a certain beauty that eve can appreciate in that kind of focus, and there's ruthless intelligence in silva that she can admire without endorsing it.

perhaps it's too much of a risk, but eve has always excelled at thinking on her feet, at trusting her instincts — rather than let herself be drawn into a lengthy firefight with his men, she makes a break for it — shooting one in the process and it's luck more than anything else that the bullet fired by another doesn't connect to her shoulder. she can hear it whistle past her, too close for comfort. she isn't about to let herself dwell on that, either. the life expectancy of agents is short. she's made her peace with that, or thinks that she has. as much as anyone can.

the tactic says to formulate a strategy, but silva is still one step ahead, continually moving and it makes it hard to do anything but follow after him, to keep at his heels and hope that at one point, there will be mistakes, that at one point, he will stand still long enough for them not only to catch up but to actively formulate a strategy. she hates that he's still ahead of them, that one man can seemingly outrun and outthink this entire agency that she has put so much of her faith and sweat and effort into.

running into traffic isn't a smart choice, either, but eve makes it regardless, firing at the rear window, at the tires of the car he'd just stolen. )

[ 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. ]

( this time, eve does curse under her breath. at least he's out of the car, giving her a better chance to pursue him, a better chance to keep up. she's already running, shouting to pedestrians to get out of the way — the gun helps in making that point for her. the car blocks the access to the gate that silva's escaped through somewhat, and she ends up sliding over the hood of it. there's little time for caution now, no time to take cover and peer out from behind it to check that the path is clear, that he is not waiting for her behind the next corner, gun drawn.

he wants m. eve doesn't think that he'd hesitate even just a second in killing her if it meant getting to m. for now, though, he is on the run and she isn't going to let him get away if she can help it at all. she knows these streets. he probably does, too, but he hasn't been in london in a while, if her intel's accurate. does he know about the construction sites, the quirks of an ever-changing city that aren't big enough blips on the radar to be announced on the internet?

maybe it boils down to luck.

she's breathing hard already, but over the rush of blood, she's hyperfocused — adrenaline and training combining to let her run just a little faster than she might usually, to be quicker on her feet. she's not q to have the entire road map of london laid out before her, but she can think ahead, calculate where he might run, what lies ahead regardless, at least to some extent. )

[ he had given some thought to hanging back, waiting until the agent passed through the gate, before putting the gun to her head and ending the chase with a spray of thick red. but there are no guarantees, no backup; it's just the two of them, cat and mouse, and it's not over yet.

he had made sure to map out london before his arrival, traced it up and down and side to side until he was satisfied he'd covered it all to his liking. it hadn't been his home for some time—in fact he's not sure it ever was, just somewhere grey to live when he left his country and trained and killed and did whatever it took to please dear old mother—but the underground he knows very well, enough to get by without a computer. but it's trickier here, up top. without a map. being chased into alleys with little idea of how they fit into each other, like tabletop wooden maze with two little mice, trying desperately to get out.

so he runs instead, footfalls loud against the ground, eyes sharp, cataloguing everything. he might be older now, his breath might be coming faster than it did in his youth, but silva still knows how to play this game—the chase, the genuine rush of being hunted. it shapes you, this feeling. high stakes.

it's time to turn this around.

there's a backdoor (there always is, isn't there) into some anonymous building, going by the smell. cover. silva shoulders into it with a crack, rushes through—but quietly, checking corners. he can hear the sirens even through the thick walls; if he can just get to charing cross, shed the uniform, cover the hair, he'll be home free. this time. but not yet.

the dull chatter of voices is audible, but it sounds like it's a few rooms over, a mindless permeating noise. where he is it's dark, the antique hallway abandoned—some high-class pub must be a wall or two away, catering to confused or oblivious patrons, watching breaking news about the shoot-out at the hearing just a block away. not perfect, but it'll have to do. silva sets up around a dividing wall like a tightly coiled whip, firearm heavy in his hands, eyes narrowed. his forefinger rests lightly on the trigger guard as he takes aim at the entrance he'd just come through, sighting down it, watching the door creak a few inches inward at a stiff breeze.

he hadn't bothered to close it; it's an invitation. ]

( it might have been a quick death, had he decided that way, it might have ended quickly — or she could have reacted soon enough and turned the tables. there is no telling, in moments like this, who has the upper hand. is he running away or leading her on a chase? is she straining to keep up, or setting the tempo now?

there is no telling, though the open door is an indication as to what he thinks. she can't help but admire his confidence — can't help, at the same time, hoping that it will lead to some mistake, some flaw. confidence can be your greatest strength, and it can backfire. eve spents a split-second of time hoping (not praying, because she's never been religious) that it isn't over-confidence on her part, before she steps through the door, gun raised and her finger poised over the trigger, casing the room. )

[ there.

he doesn't hesitate—

—but it's not a kill shot.

the bullet buries itself in the door frame, an inch from her skull. silva's fond of warnings, especially when the odds are evened. it's a provocation. he might not be in a position to taunt anyone right now, but then again, he never really liked the idea of conventional interaction; not in gunfights, not in chases, not ever. he turns quickly so his back is against the wall, out of her line of fire. he'd caught a real glimpse of her then—very pretty, too pretty for the likes of mi6. miss... moneypenny, if he remembers correctly. from bond's file—one of mi6's best and brightest. the agent who'd shot bond off the train in the first place. a real pity his death hadn't stuck. and a pity she hadn't tried harder, for that matter.

silva tilts his head up, every muscle thrumming with cold adrenaline. there's a smile in his voice when he speaks, but it's not one of amusement. ]

What are you planning to do, Eve? [ it's loud enough to carry, rich enough and familiar enough to be unsettling. eve—a good name. the woman who was tempted by the snake. fitting, maybe. ] Take me back in a body bag?

( eve feels cold, despite having just run, despite her blood pumping. her hands don't shake, though, and she doesn't shiver — the last time she'd been this focused, it had been on two figures fighting on top of a moving train. she'd missed, then. she isn't planning on missing again. good agents learn from their mistakes, and eve may no longer be a field agent, but that doesn't mean that she's forgotten any of her training, that she's set her sense of duty aside. this is still her job, field agent status or not.

it doesn't give her pause that he knows her name. he's managed to hack into their system more than once. of course he knows who they are. ) Is that what you would like?

( if he wants to play psychological games, fine. it'll give her a little more time to assess the situation, their respective positions. she has little cover where she is, but there's an opening to another room not to far from the entrance, no door in the doorway, but if she could make it into that room, it would provide her with the cover of a solid wall, enough to stop another bullet. and she would have as much of a shot at his position from there as from here. )

This doesn't have to end with someone in a body bag. ( keeping her voice even; bored almost. it takes some effort. it takes more effort not to reveal her intention to move before she does; pushing herself off the wall and half-running, half-throwing herself through the opening.

it's not elegant and it isn't poised. it doesn't need to be either of those things. )

[ he fires before he answers. misses her just barely, though this time the failed shot isn't intentional—he meant to hit her then, but she's fast, good girl. good training. his answer echoes after the crack of the gunshot, aiming unblinkingly at the new doorway she just disappeared behind: ]

Maybe not.

[ he stays where he is, stock-still and alert. from this angle, the wall is meagre cover, so he crouches a little, breathes through his teeth. then, slowly, he edges forward. ]

Mommy's going to be very angry with you. Disobeying orders, no reinforcements, no guarantee of survival. Especially after your last disaster. [ he makes a pitying noise. ooph. ] What a mess.

[ mind games have always interesting to him; the give-take of power and perception, so important these days. even moreso after a piece of his own mind got lost somewhere back in china, all those years ago, taken by his captors and shredded beyond recognition. he has no doubt that she knows what he's doing, but it would be remiss of him not to take this chance in spite of the situation. ]

But I suppose... you helped me. [ that hard drive had been hard to come by. ] Thank you for that.

( that was lucky, and she knows it. a fracture of a second later, slower, and that bullet might have hit her. she gives herself this: one moment to breathe — exhale, inhale, steady — and she's on her feet again, heart beating wildly but her composure undamaged.

of course he's playing mindgames, and of course she recognises it. they train for situations like these; the recognition makes it easier not to let it get to her. she may have unwittingly helped him, but that, too, had been chance more than anything. some things you cannot control, and eve is trying to let go of those things. focus on what she can change, what she can control, which is her reactions, her own actions if not always their consequences. ) I'd say that you're welcome, but I'd be lying.

( she can see his movement, can just barely make it out in the play of light and shades. she doesn't have a shot. )

Do you have anyone who'd be angry with you? ( because two can play this game. ) Anyone who cares?

[ he lets out a thick bark of laughter, abrupt and over too quickly. his voice is giving away his position, but he doesn't mind; they're both in a stalemate until an overt movement is made, though he continues to prowl just beyond the door, watching it like a hawk through the dim light. ]

Freedom has its price.

[ his tone makes it sound like he doesn't care—and he doesn't, really. the only person he ever truly respected betrayed him and he's going to make her suffer for it, not out of love, but out of slow-burning revenge. there is no room for caring in this business; anyone who says otherwise will inevitably go the way of vesper lynd, and wasn't that a pathetic show for all involved. so predictable. so predictable. ]

The whole world is angry with me. The whole world cares. [ he pauses, smiling to himself. ] But not in the way you mean.

I can see why he likes you.

That's what I thought. ( she wonders what he used to be like, before he turned into who he is today. had he always been a little too close to the edge?

bond would probably agree with him. maybe m would, too — that there is no room for caring in this business. eve thinks you have to care, otherwise you forget the purpose of all this. she doesn't want to end up some empty shell carried forward only by a sense of honour or duty, or revenge. she doesn't want to stop caring. perhaps that is a liability. she'd like to think of it as a strength instead. )

I'm not sure I'd like the freedom you have in mind.

No?

[ a quiet snort, a rush of breath out the nose. more pseudo-pity. ]

You can do what you want. Say what you want. You'll never have to take orders you don't agree with again. [ little old ladies, he remembers. is he to give this speech to every agent he meets? they don't really get it; and it angers him, a little, the disappointment fresh in his mind and rising back to the surface. he had been so close. ] Or take shots you don't want to take. Life is so dull when you live it under someone else's thumb.

[ casually, though his voice lowers as he approaches, another step, and then another: ] I don't know how you stand it. Caged up under the pretense of 'serving your country.' One day they'll betray you, and you'll see what a waste it is. It's inevitable.

No. ( she can hear him approach, his voice and the softest echo of his steps, no matter how careful he treads. this house is old, not well insulated against sound.

she wants to hope for back-up, but knows that it might not come. maybe she's on her own. maybe this is it. maybe she'll die here. if she does, she'll try to take him with her, but she has no intention of dying. none whatsoever. he has a point when it comes to not taking shots she doesn't want to take — the first thing that resonates, to some extent. her superiors aren't perfect, she knows that, too. m has never let her down, has never acted with the best of intentions for england, for her agents. it's lamentable and at times, it demands hard choices.

eve might not always agree with them, but she can understand. she does. )

It happened to you. That doesn't make it inevitable.

( she may have a clear shot soon. if she moves to take it, he will have the same shot. does she want to take that chance? )

[ his answer is a dry chuckle, laced with irritation. ]

It could happen to anyone. That is what makes it inevitable.

[ closer. closer. the tension in the air is—taut, like wire. silva adjusts his grip on the glock almost lovingly, moving ever forward, an inexorable force. he has a straight escape to the door he came through, but that way lies the police—and he'd honestly rather kill her first. ]

( she'd be more pleased to hear the irritation if he hadn't gotten to her with the one comment, too. that's why these games are dangerous; you never know which hits are going to connect, and how. )

Is that what you tell yourself to make it bearable? ( perhaps taunting him isn't smart; not even if her voice is still even, curious more than actually taunting. almost gentle, and she suspects that will be more insulting than anything else. maybe if he is angry, it will lead to mistakes. maybe it will lead to hyperclarity on his part and she is digging her own grave deeper with each sentence, each passing second.

there is no way of finding out without action, and eve didn't join mi6 to do nothing. she abandons cover, gun raised and aimed at where she assumes him to be. it only takes a split-second of correcting her aim, then she's pulling the trigger. )

[ a flash of movement, and his reflexes take over. he doesn't have time to stifle the rise of anger, but it doesn't make him careless, only focused—enough to see the shadow cross his path, enough to dart forward, to the side, aim in an instant. fire ruthlessly without hesitation.

it's in the second after the instantaneous ringing bang that he staggers to the side, into a glass cabinet that cracks (but doesn't break) under his weight. the gun is still half-raised in muted defense, but his focus now is on his side, his gut, where eve's bullet had torn through the soft flesh just under his ribs. he looks down curiously, presses his palm to the oozing warmth. it comes away soaked in red.

he looks up at her, eyes narrowed, but still with a smile, an unshakeable amusement even through the lancing pain. she hasn't shot him in the head yet—hasn't made a move to finish him off, which is how he knows he got her too. laughing hurts like a bitch, but it's worth it. he can't help himself. ]

Well done! You didn't miss this time.

( she would have shot him again — perhaps not in the end, perhaps only to incapacitate him further, but she would have shot him again — if not for his bullet lodged in her shoulder, if not for the pain.

she doesn't hide the way she grits her teeth against the pain, the grimace, nor does she stop herself from going down on one knee, knocked off balance by the impact and in too much pain to find it again. those things aren't important enough to spent energy on. what is important is this: switching her gun to her left hand to aim it at him. she may miss, but at least she has a gun trained on him again. it makes her feel safer.

and maybe she would have shot him again then, if not for the sound of sirens, the footsteps. she can only hope that these are legitimate cops. )

Thank you. Your praise means the world to me. ( bitten out, but trading sarcastic quips with him is something to focus on beside the pain that's making her vision swim. she can't very well pass out now. )

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A Picture is Worth... Meme.

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sfldkj any idea how you want to play this? ;;

UM well they could both be shot non-fatally OR i am cool with just him getting shot idrm at all! :3c

both shot non-fatally and then back-up arrives? or would you prefer him escaping idk idk

sure! and you know what LET'S MAKE HIS LIFE DIFFICULT back-up it is c:

LOVELY \o/