#and I hope safin is in the same ballpark of bamf

[dorminchu]

Blood Simple

Fandom: James Bond Genre: Suspense/Humor (at the end?) Rating: T Warnings: Aftermath of torture ft. Silva's attempted suicide via cyanide capsule, generally desperate circumstances. Characters: Lyutsifer Safin, Tiago Rodriguez | Raoul Silva, Mr. White, Blofeld Summary: "1997: Five months after being traded over to Hong Kong and left for dead, Tiago Rodriguez, formerly 006, is given another chance by SPECTRE's up-and-coming operative."

The realisation came to Rodriguez suddenly and with brutal clarity. After enough time the very act of torture and reprieve became a routine. Today his MSS captors told him he had been handed over neatly for six other agents and Olivia Mansfield—M—would be made chief-of-staff.

Whether or not this was a lie, it didn’t matter anymore. They had told him the very worst thing he could hear. Physical pain was something he had been trained to anticipate and respond to—they could drown him and beat him bloody, take his nails, take his tongue, take anything and he would remain silent. But this, he knew, this was far more intimate. Despite the lack of an innate personal connection to Olivia Mansfield, it managed to dig at some part of him that still operated with a naïve urge to prove himself—to somebody, anybody. Like the proverbial child seeking praise, he had taken his efforts with the Chinese intelligence as far as he could before the inevitable capture; like the disapproving mother-surrogate who would never offer up any love, she had fed him to the wolves without a second thought.

The inevitability of his fate did not take away the lasting damages. It gave, at best, a fleeting sense of certainty. He played the game of a limp, broken man and ensured the guards would be content that they were breaking him down at last. The soldier that pushed him into the cell wasn’t keeping a close enough eye on him. They had checked his body ceaseless times for a weapon but never thought about what was right in front of them.

He waited for the sound of retreating footsteps. He broke the left molar with all the strength he had left, tongued the capsule, bit down.

The contents flooded his mouth along with blood. Rodriguez knew he had won and so began to laugh, a garbled, animal noise. The guard outside barked sharply in Cantonese.

He lost control of his body.

. . .

His cheek was not against the solid, smooth floor of his holding cell—something soft. The smell—where ever he was—was clean. Sound of something garbled and tinny on his right. There was light beyond his eyelids. He thought at first that he was still asleep—trapped in a passing dream, waiting for the inevitable pull back into the old cell where he would awaken. Perhaps a swift reprimand for this little stunt—more physical pain before they denied him the agency to end his own life.

The seconds passed uninterrupted. The very act of breathing was almost more than he could bear. After so many days of malnutrition and oxygen deprivation he was very weak—he could not thrash himself away. He willed his eyes to open. He was in a bed, and his head remained elevated. He could not feel anything in his lower jaw.

So, he was alive. Then the capsule had not done its job after all; M’s last hurrah.

He could not stifle a laugh at the thought. It felt like a dry sob, or a guttural heave before vomiting. He forced himself to breath, deep, ragged, as though lulling himself to sleep. He waited for the inevitable beating but none came. He couldn’t hear anyone else except for the tinny voice—knew distantly what it was. He listened eagerly for a scrap of information or a date, a month. The weather outside was clear and bright. What season? He would learn, in time, that he had been held captive for five months. But for now he could only lay still.

The sound of footsteps pulled him back. The doctor eyed him steadily. He did not ask where he had come from or why he was in such sorry shape. He simply told him that he had been asleep for three days and he was lucky to be alive. He was currently being held in Hong Kong Central Hospital.

He caught sight of himself for the first time in a long time. The look in the dark green eyes was flat and the gaunt skin gave him the appearance of an animated corpse. The structure of his jaw warped and eaten away, the skin melted over the hole like wax. The ridge of his right eye socket became exposed under pale skin.

No, it could not be so simple. Hatred and fear of his interrogators would turn inevitably into a masochistic infatuation. They would merely let him think it was over. He would be nursed back to health—a prolonged moment to breathe that was poisoned with sickening anticipation—and then he would be put back in the cell and it would start all over again.

He had almost no strength left.

He was the last rat. Her favourite. Essential and disposable as any other agent who had gone beyond measure. His rank meant nothing. And now all that was left of him was a mangled inhuman shape and the agonizing minutes while he clung to his new purpose: revenge. It was an endless stretch of ambiguity between unconsciousness and mechanical action, such as breathing.

His mind was very thin. But he was calm.

"Tiago Rodriguez?" This voice was soft, unfamiliar. Rodriguez shivered instinctively, like shaking off a fly. The man stepped into view. "My name is Safin. I was sent to retrieve you."

He had a fresh face that suggested he couldn’t have been older than twenty but his eyes seemed colder. His English was accented but clear. The name was also curious. It was unlikely he was from MI6—then who had sent him, and why?

Rodriguez held his gaze with a cold half-alertness that suggested he was not completely gone but getting there. Safin did not flinch at the sight of him. "You have been taken out of the hands of the MSS. Right now they assume the man Tiago Rodriguez to be dead of cyanide poisoning. But, you're probably wondering why you are alive?"

Rodriguez stared fixedly at a point to the left of his head. The doctor had stepped out of the room. Safin approached but kept leery of him as one would a cornered animal. The metaphor came blunt but it was applicable. Rodriguez's eyes snapped back to Safin, narrowed.

"Your efforts were not in vain. You may have lost your position with MI6, but there are other places that would be more than willing to take on someone of your skillset." He smiled coolly. "Should you decide you want to work again, there is a man in Italy you can contact. Ask for the Pale King."

Rodriguez already was fashioning a plan to get back on his feet. As soon as he was able he would put it into action.

. . .

Now it had been seven months to the day of his resurgence as Raoul Silva. In this time he had patched himself over with a new dental prosthetic. The vengeance within his blood had simmered. Getting back to Italy took the better part of those several months, but in due course the Pale King led him to a man named Blofeld, who was more than happy to take on a man of his persuasion. This inevitably brought him to Rome and he was given a new number—11. Around the table he saw the faces of several men and women that would become his new associates—and one that rang familiar.

After the meeting they all dispersed. Except for No 12.

"You are Lyutsifer Safin?" asked Silva.

Safin paused. "Yes."

"How old when you first joined?"

"Seventeen."

"My God! You have some light in your eyes. Someone will crush it out of you soon enough."

"I have no intention of overextending myself." He spoke plainly, without room for insult.

"Ah, what good is intention? You think you are smarter than the rest. You have done your organisation a great service and you have your little number to prove it. But is that what you want?" Safin did not answer. “This year I will be twenty nine. In seven years with MI6 I did all that was asked of me. When they decided I was disposable, they left me to suffer."

"You sound so sure of it."

They studied each other like two predators competing for the same proverbial bit of game. Then Silva brightened. "I look forward to working with you in the future, Lucy."

Safin bristled. Evidently no one in his life had called him Lucy before. But he kept it in-check, said coolly, "Of course, Silva."