A secret organization known as PRISM. Conversation between boss and agent.
“My lady, the missile are loaded and ready for deployment,” the henchman said. Blofeld kept her back to the henchman, staring out the window.
“It shouldn’t have come to this, you know,” she said quietly. “But maybe it was inevitable.”
“My lady?”
Blofeld turned. “Oh, nevermind, just thinking. Let’s go.” She took two steps when the henchman’s legs suddenly gave out, and he tumbled to the floor. Blofeld started at the motion, and looked for the attacker. From the shadows emerged a woman dressed in an immaculate black dress, her perfectly groomed hair framing a face filled with both anger and mischief. In one hand she carried a silence pistol.
“Bond?! You’re alive?!”
“Of course, Blofeld. SPECTRE was helpless before me, you think your little successor organization would be any challenge?”
“Well… I had hoped PRISM would give a little more sport.”
“It might help if you don’t give away your location in the organization’s name. I mean, really, People’s Republic of Ireland, South Monmouth?”
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