Bond is captured – manacled and attached to a slab of cold steel bracketed by lasers and buzzsaws, suspended high above a pool of sharks.

Out of the shadows cast by the harsh arc-lights illuminating his base hewn from the caldera, steps The Bond Villain of the Long Now.

He straightens his Nehru jacket, adjusts his monocle to better see the figures scrolling past on it’s HUD and clears his throat.

Bond suppresses a chuckle.

Time for the speech.

“Now Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.

In real-time.

with me.

and all of us.”

He takes a step closer to a suddenly frozen Bond.

He kisses his cheek with a brotherly tenderness the agent has never known.

And cuts him free.

12 years later. A park bench in Cambridge.

A dishevelled man in a raggedy tuxedo idly burns tiny marks in the wooden slats with his laser watch and stares into the middle distance.