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Consciousness flooded James Bond all at once, but he did not show it. He stayed slack in his chair, eyelids limp, only listening. He sat strapped into the driver's seat, hands taped firmly to the steering wheel. They had put him in a thick white space suit that made his forehead prickle in fear-sweat.

He turned his head toward the mirror. His visor was so dark he could not see his own eyes staring back at him.

Beyond the car he heard nothing but the faint murmur of voices speaking on the other side of the glass.

The back of his head ached in a slow, pulsing way, but he wasn't bleeding. Couldn't have been that bad. He could still think. He could still get out of this.

Adrenaline erased the ache in his head, his horror and muted, near-forgotten panic. He knew where he was. Where he had to be.

Someone knocked at the window to his right. The passenger door rose.

The agent raised his eyes to see the face of the man he had pursued for weeks: the billionaire inventor who planned to blow up the Earth, once he shepherded all the most cultured and valuable people off of it.

"Musk," Bond spat. He sat up, maintaining a defiant air of dignity, despite his raging headache.

Elon Musk grinned back at him. He swung open the door. Behind him stood a wall of armed henchmen, their fingers poised over triggers. He waved a dismissive hand to him and relaxed.

Musk relaxed into the car beside him and patted the seat like it was his own child. "This was one of the earliest ones, you know. The first cars we produced."

Bond stared out the slanted window, steely-eyed and silent. He wriggled the fingers of his left hand out of his bulky glove one by one.

"It's a good send-off. Symbolic. People love a good symbol." He looked Bond over and patted his knee. "You're integral, you see. I couldn't have done this without you."

"Why are you doing this?" Bond sighed. His breath pearled in little beads of condensation down his visor.

"It's simple, Mr. Bond. I very much prefer you dead. And I would prefer to ensure no one can come looking for clues."

His left hand came free of the glove. The suit was thick enough that it more or less held its shape as he snaked his arm slowly, tenuously, out of the sleeve of his suit.

"What is it you plan to do, then?" Bond bit his lip, hard. This was his safest strategy. The best way to steal every spare second he needed.

"I think it's rather self-explanatory, Mr. Bond. Your suit"–he rapped Bond's helmet with his fist–"has a built-in radio. I've strapped you here to drive my car on its final journey." He spread his hands upward, and the ceiling panels opened overhead to a sky of smoke and stars. "You'll be my Starman. I'll launch you into space. This suit, lovely as it looks, is not as airtight as it could be. It was designed for a dummy, you see. You'll have to do, for now."

Bond growled through his teeth, "Damn it, Musk–"

But Elon Musk carried on as if he did not hear, "Don't try to hold your breath, Mr. Bond; your lungs will only explode. And the last thing you'll hear before shattering through our stratosphere and dying alone in the cold perfect vacuum of space… will be Earth. Cheering as you go."

He had his arm bent as far it could go without bulging in the suit. Did not so much as look toward Elon Musk.

"That's the plan, then?" he asked, solemnly.

"It appears so." Elon Musk smiled up at the stars. "You'll be flying straight to hell at eleven kilometers a second, buddy." He slapped Bond's chest and laughed like they were old friends. "And we were just getting to know each other."

Bond yanked his arm out of his suit, delved into his jacket pocket for his pen. An innocent little thing, the metal battered and bruised, the ink dry. No one would think to remove it when they patted him down.

Musk laughed. "It's admirable, but don't think you can escape, Mister–"

He never got the chance to finish.

James Bond depressed the tip of his pen. A burst of red light ate through the hide of his suit and sheared the windshield overhead in two.

Musk staggered backward and shrieked, "Shoot him! Shoot him, you stupid bastards!"

The men surged forward.

Bond leapt out of the spacesuit and bolted like a rabbit out of his seat. He still wore his suit, albeit wrinkled, and his pocket square gone. They had taken his gun, so Bond dove behind the car and raised his pen. Calculated to himself how much mortal damage it could really carry out.

Now seemed as good a time as any to find out.

/r/shoringupfragments

James Bond usually murders everyone in the room with a laser at the end of a movie right?

Source: first top-level non-bot comment from r/WritingPrompts.