Who: James Bond and John Mitchell (oe) Where: Starting in HH, then moving out onto the streets What: Shooting Mitchell (Bond), being shot (Mitchell) When: Wednesday, 17th Rating: High for violence Open: Yes! Status: Incomplete
Mitchell could feel it again. The hunger perked up. Restlessness settled in his body. It would last till the next morning - till the next feed. He scratched his arm and got up from his seat in the kitchen. A beer, it would make things better, ease the mind and give him something to do. Blood was all he could think about. Blood and fear. Bond had attacked him. Now that Ana wasn't his constant companion anymore, he could be a victim again. Bond could kill him, blame the island if he was smart enough and get away with it.
He felt like vomiting. And screaming. He felt sick to the core. For once his past did not haunt him, no, this time it was his future. Mitchell snatched one of the beers out of the fridge. The coolness of the smooth glass distracted him for a moment. Every moment he did not hear the heart beats of the people around was a good one. He had to play by the rules - he wanted to play by the rules. He was good man - tried to be, at least. And he was full of anger. Bond's rage was something he did not deserve. He took a sip, letting the alcohol sooth his hunger.
A shower. A shower was good. It was a distraction and it was hot enough outside. The beer was left forgotten on the counter as Mitchell made his way upstairs to the bathroom. The paranoia was there. The images he had seen matching too much the staircase he was climbing. But Bond would be at the pub, drinking his sorrows away, wouldn't he? That was what he always did. There was no reason for him to be here. Slowly, Mitchell opened the door to the bathroom.