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James Bond was dying.
He was kneeling in the living room of a wood cabin, on an island in the Baltic.
Dying.
A Walther PPK was smoking in his hand and blood was slowly sinking into the sheepskin rug. The orchids in the Alvar Aalto vase by the bookshelf had flicks of brain matter on them. Silly flowers to have in this climate, Bond thought, as he moved his head to catch a last glimpse of the room. But fitting, nevertheless, to have such beauty around him as he left the world.
He closed his eyes and waited for oblivion to come.
Oblivion never comes when you want it, he thought, after a few moments. And then, just as you think it won