And here we are again :3

I managed to write something not too long ago, and since I don't want you to wait for too long, I'm publishing it now. Hope you like it 3

"By the cut of your suit, you went to Oxford or wherever and actually think human beings dress like that. But you wear it with such disdain my guess is you didn't come from money and your school friends never let you forget it. Which means you were at that school by the grace of someone else's charity, hence the chip on your shoulder. And since your first thought about me ran to orphan that's what I'd say you are."

Vesper Lynd had been amazing. She had been able to read him, through and through, almost as if she was unlocking locked doors in his mind, wanting to discover who he was underneath. At the time, he'd played along. But then she'd called him a cold hearted bastard. Not that he didn't deserve the term, he'd just hoped that maybe this one would be easy to work with.

It had proved quite difficult to get her to understand the game they were playing with Le Chiffre and the other terrorists involved. It had gone more or less well, her having as big an ego as he, but he'd enjoyed the game.

Well, that was until Le Chiffre tried to poison him, and one of his hearts had gone out, and she'd saved his life. He'd then won the poker game at the Casino with a straight flush, beating out Le Chiffre's full house, had something to eat to celebrate, realised Le Chiffre had kidnapped Vesper, taken his new Aston Martin DBS V12 on the road, been in a car-crash, been tortured and finally got saved by God knows who and woke up in a hospital near lake Como, knowing only that Mathis had something to do with Le Chiffre, eventually leading to his arrest.

Something had changed – he felt strangely infatuated with Mrs. Lynd, almost the same kind of infatuation he'd had with Tereza before Blofeld killed her on their wedding night. He'd promised himself he would never let himself love anybody after that incident, but he couldn't keep himself from admitting the fact that he was in love with Vesper, and that she was equally in love with him. Her insult, calling him a cold-hearted bastard was long-forgotten when he wrote his resignation letter to MI-6, telling them to basically fuck off and let him be.

And that had lasted a long while, until they ended up in Venice, and some of Le Chiffre's henchmen had figured out a way to get to Vesper, and ended up killing her. Well. She'd killed herself.

And that had been the time where he'd contacted MI-6 again. Or, rather, he'd contacted M. To debrief the mission, and tell them that his resignation letter was to be burnt immediately.

"If you do need time..." he remembered M asking, over the phone, after talking about the past mission. But he hadn't left her time to finish her sentence.

"Why should I need more time? The job's done, and the bitch is dead."

It was probably better to act as if he had never let it become personal. Not in the slightest. But he had. He'd been stupid enough to let her get close to his hearts, beyond his armor. He'd even thought about telling her about his two hearts, about showing her what his car could do. He'd wanted to hope that maybe, just maybe, she would've understood what it meant like to be different and have nobody else like you. He'd wished for someone to understand, and maybe she would have. But she didn't. Because she stabbed him in the back, and she broke all his hope of ever finding true love again.

M must have sensed his feelings, because she hadn't hung up at the time. "Jame did you ever ask yourself why you weren't killed that night? Isn't it obvious? She made a deal to spare your life in exchange for the money. I'm sure she hoped they would let her live. But she must have known she was going to her death. And now we'll never know who was behind this. The trail's gone cold."

He'd hung up. He'd hung up, and had almost thrown her belongings into the sea, when he thought of one last thing. He had to check her mobile phone. He just had to. He got a tingling sense that maybe, just maybe, she would've left him a clue of what was happening or what was going on. Why? He never figured it out. But when he unlocked the phone, and saw that she'd left him a message with a phone number, he chose to take it up.

He managed to track the number, using the tracking device in the TARDIS. He entered the numbers, and watched the different information come up from several secret agencies' databases: MI-6, CIA, FBI, IMF, SHIELD, but nothing of importance came up. Except one file from SHIELD, that one Hawkeye had written a few months before, which stated that Mr. White had been handling with some other terrorists in a bigger plan.

James decided to take matters into his own hands, not caring about international relationships, not caring about what was wrong and what was right: this Mr. White had broken something inside him, had let his heart rot, and James was going to do something about it. He didn't know exactly what, but he was going to do something.

He tracked Mr. White down. Figured some little clues out: Danish citizenship, house near the coast in Italy.

Eventually, he setteld down in the garden of that beautiful Italian mansion, a kalachnikov in hand, and waited for Mr. White to come home. When his car finally came around, Bond decided to play this card, his only card, to figure out what was going on, and how and why Le Chiffre had been killed, why Vesper had died, and how MI-6 had been unable to predict any of this before. He dialled Mr. White's number, and waited.

"Hello," was the first thing he heard.

"Mr. White? We need to talk." He didn't say his name, who he was, where he was, or what he wanted. Just that they needed to talk. It probably caused Mr. White to wonder, because not three seconds later, he asked him "Who is this?", but Bond never allowed more time, because he shot White in the foot, causing him to fall over, into the dirt, and scream out in pain.

He waited for a few seconds, watching as White tried to climb up the stairs, trying to get to either a phone or a red button, but he never allowed White to get further than just the steps. He crept out of the shadows, and stood above him, gun in one hand, phone in the other, a sly smile on his face. "The name's Bond. James Bond."

And with no second thought, he grabbed White, cuffed his hands together, and dragged him over the ground, not caring about how much he screamed in fear or in wrath, not caring a second about what other people would think, not caring who would hear or see. He never once asked White to shut up, he never asked anything. He just dragged him across the ground, until they both reached his black Aston Martin.

Bond opened the trunk, watching as White squirmed on the floor, like a worm trying to get away.

"They already know, Bond," White sneered through gritted teeth. "They know who you are, and what you've done. You won't get away with-"

He never finished his sentence, because James had violently yanked his foot into his face, knocking him unconscious. "Let them come. I'm ready for a challenge," he whispered at White's ear, all the while he pulled him from the floor, and rolled him into the trunk, closing it with a loud thud, looking at his surroudings, knowing someone was watching.

As he sat behind the steering wheel, knowing he had to get to Siena in Italy, he heard an engine roar somewhere near enough. A smile crept onto his face, as he turned the ignition on and let the engine scream, backing out of the courtyard, and onto an empty road.

Or so he thought.

Because not five seconds later, two black Alfa Romeo's appeared in his mirrors, and he heard the familiar sound of gunshots.

The chase was on.

I have an idea of how this fic's going to move on, but at the same time, I have no idea about it. Let me know what you think of it?

(Also, now we're done with Casino Royale, and Quantum's just getting started. Things should get more interesting when I reach the Skyfall timeline and what's further from that :D)