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[ ten forward ] first entrance
Jun. 20th, 2014 11:37 amThere is no time for preamble.
One moment James Bond, sixteen, Secondary 4, is in Scotland, about to board a train ... and the next, he practically stumbles into the USS Enterprise, thinking he'd been about to climb down a step instead of nothing at all.
It's a strange feeling, having the breeze against your skin and then suddenly not. And it's stranger still to be surrounded by laughter and shouting, a group of ten raucous teenage boys excited to be out of Fettes and headed towards some place different, some place where freedom awaits - Paris - and then suddenly, as though he'd gone deaf, nothing but the low hum of whatever is generating the lights and air in this place and monotonous chatter.
So one can imagine the perplexed look on James' face when he finds that a) the air is still; b) it is impossibly quiet in comparison; and c) this is absolutely, definitely not Paris. Or Scotland. Or a train.
Still, there's no reason to panic. His heart may be beating a hundred miles per minute and he feels like shouting just to dispel the rising something-that-is-like-fear-but-isn't-fear, but he simply straightens, flicks off invisible lint from his blazer and observes his surroundings with the sort of concentration one might have when they're committing everything to memory.
And then he cheerfully takes the nearest empty seat he can find.
It might be at your table.
"Ah, hello."
One moment James Bond, sixteen, Secondary 4, is in Scotland, about to board a train ... and the next, he practically stumbles into the USS Enterprise, thinking he'd been about to climb down a step instead of nothing at all.
It's a strange feeling, having the breeze against your skin and then suddenly not. And it's stranger still to be surrounded by laughter and shouting, a group of ten raucous teenage boys excited to be out of Fettes and headed towards some place different, some place where freedom awaits - Paris - and then suddenly, as though he'd gone deaf, nothing but the low hum of whatever is generating the lights and air in this place and monotonous chatter.
So one can imagine the perplexed look on James' face when he finds that a) the air is still; b) it is impossibly quiet in comparison; and c) this is absolutely, definitely not Paris. Or Scotland. Or a train.
Still, there's no reason to panic. His heart may be beating a hundred miles per minute and he feels like shouting just to dispel the rising something-that-is-like-fear-but-isn't-fear, but he simply straightens, flicks off invisible lint from his blazer and observes his surroundings with the sort of concentration one might have when they're committing everything to memory.
And then he cheerfully takes the nearest empty seat he can find.
It might be at your table.
"Ah, hello."
