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.

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( 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/