by r_a_parker (mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/205166.html)
Alone in the command center Richard sat, his elbows braced against the shiny black roundtable, leaning forward into his clasped hands, resting his lips against his steepled index fingers. The machines around him buzzed and hummed, but he paid them no mind; he stared straight ahead at nothing, though even his expressionless face told its own story. He’d changed back into his civilian clothes, a shirt and slacks so expensive they looked cheap. His graphite-grey helmet lay on the table next to him, cracked up the left side, and a half-patched wound up his left cheek toward his ear told of where the helmet had been when it had suffered that damage. Alone, he waited, and he’d wait as long as he had to, impeccable and patient.
The heavy metal doors swooshed open (or at least they would, after foley got through with them), but Richard didn’t flinch, not even as Brandon stormed in, his own blond hair matted with blood. “What the hell was that?” shouted Brandon, bringing down his gloved fist on the metal railing. He was still in costume, though the star-spangled pattern up the sleeves was burned and torn in artful places, exposing his golden-tanned, muscled body beneath.
“Oh, good, you survived long enough to complain.” Richard moved nothing more than the muscles necessary for speech. This wasn’t amateur hour, not by any means, but even amongst professionals, Richard was a professional.
Brandon’s entire body was tense with fury and betrayal, his jaw set firm enough that it might have put his teeth in danger of shattering. “You knew the thrusters would fail. You set us up.”
“No,” said Richard, and now a cloud of real anger bubbled up through his ice-cool voice, “you were so intent on being a hero that you couldn’t wait for–”
“You set us up!” Taking powerful, echoing strides, Brandon walked around the empty comm station to the short set of steps that would take him from the center’s upper level of control stations to the sunken center where Richard sat. “You couldn’t stand knowing that your idea wouldn’t work, so you sabotaged the only way we AAAUGH!”
With one hand holding onto the brim of his iconic Homburg hat and the other clutching the precious stone orb, genealogist Mo Bentham races down the dark tunnel. The dark waves almost catching up on him consist of pitch black, venomous spiders. When he rounds the corner, an impossibly large spider web is found to cover the entrance to the cave.
“Seriously? If only the American army worked that swiftly…”
Really. The hyperbolic reaction may have been something like throwing the first thing he can grab across the room, preferably straight to his boyfriend. But Tyler’s not into theatrics so he only manages to blurt out, “You’re going to do what?” He stares at Kevin incredulously and hates the way Kevin’s acting so nonchalant about this—this preposterous idea.
“It’s just for publicity, Ty. You know how it is,” Kevin says with a shrug then lifts the mug filled with hot coffee to his lips like they’re in the middle of a simple discussion about the weather.
INT. – RILEY’S APARTMENT – BATHROOM – NIGHT
Close-up on RILEY’s face as he leans in close to the mirror, applying mascara. Catchy pop music plays in the background. Slow pull back, so that we can see him pausing in his ministrations every now and then to bop along to the music, moving his shoulders and arms, mouthing along to the lyrics. He looks as though he’s in his 20s, with fine, almost feminine features, and short brown hair and multiple piercings in each ear: a variety of hoops and studs in his lobes, a cartilage piercing in one ear, and a bar in the other. Full-sleeve renderings of Aztec gods and other mythological imagery cover both his arms. Pull back farther, and we can see a tramp stamp of an infinity symbol in the small of his back. He’s dressed in a pair of dark red briefs.
As the engine noise dies away, the sounds of the jungle close in around them. It’s been five hours since they left the last town, longer since they saw another vehicle. The red mud track stretches out in front of them like a streak of blood through the trees.
“Are you writing blog entries in your head again, man?” Nick asks.
Rowan drops his forehead down to the center of the steering wheel. The horn makes a sad little squeak and follows the engine into the afterlife. “Next time,” he says, into the dented plastic, “Kitty’s getting the rental car.”
Nick swings the camera toward the back seat to shoot their security consultant. Rowan found her in a bar in Cambodia, back when Highjacked by the Truth was just a blog with a cult following. She stops buffing her nails to aim her 9mm at the camera and tell Nick sweetly to go fuck himself.
“Hey,” Rowan says. “We’re not gonna get on cable like that, kids.”
“Chef Kassa, you have been sliced.”
“Rental,” was the first thing Col managed to gasp when he finally separated their mouths, wheezing into Gary’s, “rental, rental, god damn you, rental.”