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fellowshippers2005-09-11 09:55 pm
pecos.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-09-11 09:55 pm
Beyond Design Limitations, 11
Loving thoughts to everyone out there in the world. It’s been a trying couple of weeks here, but with love and support and your best wishes I think it’ll get better. With the help of my beta reader, Gloria Mundi, and a hand from the lovely and gracious elfnut I’ve got another episode of the story ready to present, so without further blather from me here’s:
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Eleven – Finding Promise
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is PG-13
Sexual innuendo, naughty language, gay sex
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
WHAT IS IT?: RPS / AU
Sequel to ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
which can be found on my website
WHO’S IN IT?: Sean Bean, Orlando Bloom,
Johnny Depp, Viggo Mortensen and other
actors from ‘The Lord of the Rings’, ‘Pirates
of the Caribbean’, ‘Hidalgo’ and others
FEEDBACK: remember the golden rule, (please!)
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history
NOTE 2: Story takes place in early 2002
SPECIAL THANKS: to Elfnut for help with Spanish
in this chapter. Hannon le, Elf
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Eleven: Finding Promise
Viggo
He waited patiently through all the yadda-yadda of opening your voicemail box from a foreign phone, and for once the stupid thing accepted his code on the first try. There were messages from his family – brother and cousin, Exene, Henry. He replayed Henry’s several time just because he thought he could hear a new timbre in the young man’s voice, then once more before it sunk in that Henry wanted his dad to buy him a car. He’d have to think about that one. Some business problems from Pilar, and a couple of things his agent wanted him to consider. Finally, just when Viggo was about to lose interest and go out to photograph the blowing sand, a timid voice came on the line...
“Viggo...I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t been returning your calls. I’m...I haven’t been getting them really. Some problems with my cell and all, yeah? Just wanted to let you know that I’m good...fine really. Doing great here, and, uh, we’re having fun making the movie. I miss you and all, but you don’t have to worry about me. Okay? I’m fine. You can just stop worrying. Thanks and all. I, uh, I...I’ll see you sometime soon, yeah? Bye.”
There was a big pause, then an almost whispered “I love you.”
Viggo swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat.
Mickey
“Somebody knows a good thing when they see it,” Mickey muttered to himself, squinting at the rocky headlands enclosing the bay. A little pleasure boat was motoring in slowly. Nestled in the crotch hollow of the rocky hills was a picturesque little resort town, red roofs rising above the white sand beach, flowered trees and palms swaying lazily in the early morning sunshine spilling down green hills. This was Huatulco, in the state of Oaxaca, on the Pacific coast, south of Acapulco. The town slept late, fishermen having already come and gone, the main source of income being the few tourists who’d discovered this little bit of heaven – and none of them were early risers.
Mickey stretched luxuriantly and yawned. A man was raking the sandy central courtyard, and the scraping noise of the rolling pebbles was hypnotic. Birds chirped and twittered in the trees, insects buzzed. This was Mickey’s kind of place. Kostmayer had surveyed most of the town upon arrival, before the sun had come up, and he was pretty sure that if his target was here he’d be easy enough to locate. He was waiting now for someone to open the kitchen in that little cantina on the beach, or maybe the little grocery store. Anything where he could rustle himself something to eat. Maybe later he’d see about getting a room and some sleep, but for now he was happy just to soak up the morning sun and contemplate the vast blue ocean beyond those headlands.
He spotted a public phone at the end of the city pier, and wandered over to place a call. It took quite a while to finally connect, but he knew that he’d get through eventually.
“Joshua, good to hear your voice. It’s Kostmayer. Yeah...yeah...no, still alive. Sorry to disappoint you. Got a job for you, if you’re up for it. Can you fly down to Miami today and recover something I’ve got stashed there? Yeah, I’m serious. Rocks. Pretty red rocks. Like Dorothy’s slippers. Uh huh. Need to convert them to something more useful in, say, eastern Europe. Way eastern. No, nothing biological. Won’t touch that shit. Take a look at them and see what your guys in Brooklyn can do. Hey, now, I know how many carats are there and the approximate grade, so don’t think I won’t notice if you get creative. Twenty percent, like usual, nothing more. Uh huh...screw you too. Come on, you love to fly. Visit your mother in Ft. Lauderdale. All right...I’ll be in touch in a couple of days to see what you can offer me for them. No, you can pay for your own damn plane ticket, you tightwad. There’ll be plenty of profit. Right, here’s the location...” and he gave details.
Call finished, Mickey nodded at the few people stirring around the boats and walked back up to the plaza, hoping to smell someone cooking food. The man raking rocks and sand was still at it, having picked up a pile of fallen fronds, but he called a greeting to someone trotting by beneath the row of trees and Mickey’s eyes automatically followed the moving figure.
“God damn,” he muttered to himself. “Well, fuck me. Talk about easy.” The walk was only too familiar, as was the dark, tousled hair and easy-going posture. Even the tone of the cheery “Buenos dias,” was recognizable. Mickey dropped back into covert mode and moved off in another direction, but his entire attention was already focused on the young man who continued into the shopping area, turning a couple of corners before stopping at the door of a closed business. He got a key out of his pocket, and after a few moments got the door open, then closed it behind himself.
“I’m either getting really good at this in my old age or somebody up in heaven likes me,” Mickey mused. “The kid turns out to be like the fifth person I see in this whole town.” Shaking his head, he continued on his way, stopping to look into windows like a tourist, and reached a corner of the beach where not only were they moving tables and chairs out onto the sand, but he could sit under a purple flowering Royal Empress tree and watch the shop where the kid had gone. He ordered huevos and fruit juice and some hot pastries and mused on his luck. An older man arrived and let himself into the shop as well, then at eight the door was opened and a sign turned to read ‘Abierto’. Mickey wiped his lips, left a pile of pesos on the table and sauntered over.
The sign read ‘Natitas’, painted in cheery blue and pink on white, and a bright red rose with thorny stem decorated the wood. Mickey pushed open the door with a tinkle of bells and let himself into the shop. He stopped dead in the cool air inside, stunned despite himself. It was like a charnel house, a mausoleum, or the prop room on a horror movie. Rows of grinning skulls lined the shelves and life-sized skeletons hung like marionettes from the ceiling. The counters were cluttered with femurs and fingers and tiny little dead people doing all sorts of strange things. Mickey rocked back on his heels and blinked several times.
“Buenos Dias, señor,” called the older gentleman, stepping forward from behind a desk covered with bones and skulls. “¿En qué le puedo servir esta mañana?”
By then Mickey had recovered himself enough to examine the nearest row of grinning skulls. They glittered in the morning light, like they’d been coated in glitter, and he finally realized that they were made of sugar.
“Tenemos algunas ya decoradas por aqui,” the shopkeeper told him, smiling, indicating a case filled with elaborately decorated skulls and bones, indicating that he had the final product available as well.
“Dia de los Muertos,” Mickey mumbled to himself. The day of the dead. This shop made sugar skulls and decorations for the yearly festival which honored the deceased and appeased restless spirits. They also did a fair trade in piñatas and party goods as well, from the looks of it. Some of the skeletons were so realistic that it was creepy.
“¿Estaba Usted buscando algo especial?” asked the older man, a puzzled expression on his face. He was wondering what Mickey was looking for.
“I’m sorry,” Mickey quickly apologized, forgetting to convert his thoughts to Spanish. “I just, I’d like to look around.”
“Of course, señor,” the shopkeeper said, switching easily to English. “I can decorate for you with any color you like. Maybe a gift?”
“¿Tio?” called someone from the back of the store, and Mickey turned quickly as the young man stepped around the corner. Their eyes met, and the shock of recognition was mutual.
“Mickey?” the young man said breathily.
Dominic
“I love your mum, Doodlebug, really, but....”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry. I just couldn’t tell her ‘no’ last night. She misses me too. It’s harder on her now that I don’t need her on set with me anymore. We’ll leave right after lunch, okay? And my flight isn’t until tomorrow morning, so we’ll have the whole night. Is there anything you want to do?”
“No...nothing,” Dom murmured, making his voice sound as innocent as possible as he slid a palm around Elijah’s waist under his shirt, nails scraping the tender skin just above his pants. They were on the patio, enjoying the cool morning air and waiting for Hannah and Zach to arrive so the family could have lunch.
“Sblomie!” Elijah giggled. “Knock it off!”
“Your mum knows we’re fucking, baby,” Dom whispered. “She might have been able to pretend we don’t last night – but then you had to go and scream ‘lick my ass, stud!’ louder than Paris Hilton in the Lakers’ Locker Room.”
“I did not! You liar! You were the noisy one, with that ‘uh, uh, uh, UH!”
“I was just keeping up my rhythm, baby.” Dom pulled up the shirt enough so that he could reach Elijah’s ribs, and he proceeded to nibble on them with lips and tongue, reducing Elijah to spastic twitching and laughter.
“Stop...stop it! Tickles! Dom...mie!”
Dom blew a big raspberry in his boyfriend’s navel and let his other hand slide easily under his pants along the hollow of one hip. He wiggled his fingers through the folds of fabric of Elijah’s boxers and finally secured a light grip on his cock, which was clearly starting to swell despite all the protests.
“Ah,” Elijah sighed, going limp. “You are in SO much trouble! If my mom comes out here and finds you molesting me she’ll....”
“She’ll what?” Dom whispered, sliding his thumb across the smooth head of Elijah’s cock. “Even Debbie knows you’re not a virgin, baby Blue Eyes.” His fingertips rummaged deeper, cupping the soft scrotum and tugging loose skin gently. It was an awkward position, with the two of them on a single chaise lounge, but the tough angles made it all the more thrilling. “I remember that you told me she caught you blowing the pool boy.”
“He was blowing me...I think,” Elijah sighed, pushing upwards. “Yeah, yeah...” he captured Dom’s lips in a searing kiss. “Lick my ass, you stud!” he growled into Dom’s eager mouth.
“Ewwww!” Dom gasped, withdrawing his hand and pretending utter disgust. “Talk about a mood killer.”
Huffing indignantly, Elijah scrambled to his feet and marched over to the little clapboard shed where the pool equipment was stored, happy to find the door unlocked. He shot a ‘come hither’ look over his shoulder, and ducked into the dark interior.
“Well, that’s a offer I can’t afford to refuse,” Dom told himself, rising quickly to follow, shooting a guilty glance toward the house. No sign of interference in that direction. The pool shed smelled of dust and chlorine, rubber toys and decaying leaves. It was oddly intoxicating, despite the heat. Just enough light came through the dirty window and around the doorframe to reveal Elijah leaning against the far wall, shorts pushed down and his now rigid cock wrapped in his hand, being stroked firmly. Dom was there in an instant, shamelessly dropping to his knees in front of his boyfriend.
Debbie and Hannah came out to announce that lunch was ready and found the boys in the pool, skinny-dipping, despite house rules. Elijah’s Mother frowned at them as they frolicked, pale butts visible under the water. “You two had better get into the shower before you come sit down to eat. Separately!” she added, turning away.
“Busted!” Hannah laughed, pointing a finger at her brother, laughing.
“Jealous,” Dom accused.
“Of that?” Hannah sneered, indicating Elijah’s naked form under the dancing blue water.
“Look what it got him!” Dom insisted, making a move to climb out of the pool in all his own nude splendor.
“Oh no you don’t!” Hannah squealed, darting towards the door. “I’ll go blind!”
“So glad to have you in the family,” Elijah told him.
“Am I?” Dom asked himself, climbing the cement steps.
Rollie
Picking through the cans of Red Strip and Old Milwaukee, Rollie found a lone tin of Four X and happily claimed it, shaking off the clinging ice. “That one’s extra, mon,” called the bartender. “Two dollars. It’s a big one.”
“And worth every cent,” Rollie assured him, putting his money on the worn counter. He resisted an urge to check the date, happy enough with the snap of the opener and a bubble of golden fizz tickling his nose. Australian ambrosia. The locals could keep their rum and that American piss. Tyler was a patriot at heart, and a beer snob when he could afford to be. He retreated through the noisy crowd to his seat at a table near the door to the beach, where several of the film crew’s techies were holding a heated discussion about how much explosive power an old fashioned cannonball would have really packed and how high one of their prop cannons could reach up the fortress walls with the right alignment.
Pretty much the entire cast and crew were in the hotel lobby, bar, and ground floor that night, plus some visitors from the studio. Several people would be leaving on the morning ferry to return to L.A. for more technical work, and some wouldn’t be coming back, so of course there was a bash. Gore had announced that filming would be a late start the next day and it was declared to be a mandatory party night – a chance to blow off steam and work up a sweat doing something more creative than standing around under the tropical sun. The dance band were doing hits from the eighties, and Tyler thought to himself that you really haven’t lived ‘til you’d seen pirates getting down to Duran Duran.
Rollie proudly informed his compatriots that he had developed a computer model wherein all you had to do was fill in the type of explosive, surface area, weight of object and how high you wanted to blow it, and it would give you the exact load needed. He could achieve results within about a meter variation. “Course, that’s only good for launches up to about 200 meters, then things start getting wonky – too many other variables. But for short range or straight up, it’s all good.”
This was greeted with appropriate enthusiasm, and a new round of stories. Johnny Depp drifted by with a distracted expression on his face, probably still channeling Captain Sparrow, and proclaimed loudly “Where are the bosoms? I was told there would be bosoms!” One of the make-up girls pulled off her Black Pearl Crew tee-shirt and shook her tits at the actor. “Oh, that’s more like it!” Depp shouted, swaying dangerously, gesturing a show of enthusiasm with his drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. People applauded sporadically.
Yes, this promised to be a pretty good party. Rollie drank his Four X and told some mild exaggerations about a director he utterly loathed. Other lies and a few truths were swapped. Plans were made to do a ballistics test on the suitability of bowling balls as cannon projectiles. The thought was they’d certainly photograph better, with increased size, predictable weight and consistent composition. Rollie noticed that a group at the bar had opened up to admit Orlando Bloom, who had been particularly quiet on set all day. He seemed much brighter tonight – animated even. Curiosity eventually got the better of the FX specialist and he dismissed himself to go see what was being discussed over there as cheers came up from the tight group.
The gang were watching a chubby guy with a beard behind the bar doing magic tricks with glasses and coins. Rollie got into a place to watch over someone’s shoulder, glad of his 6’4” advantage, because this guy was damn good. Laughter and cheers as another trick was flawlessly pulled off, and the bartender rewarded their entertainer with a glass of something dark and smooth. He toasted his audience. One of the writers tried to do a trick involving drinking straws and a fork, but the fork ended up on the floor and the writer ducked out to boos, laughing. Someone else managed to flip a coin into a shot glass using a spoon, and he got a drink as well.
“Orli knows a trick,” urged the animal trainer, to much amusement.
“You mean other than getting the damn donkey to stay awake and keep its head up?” joked one of the cameramen.
“Oi, that donkey loves me!” Orli insisted, tipping back the remains of his glass. Rollie remembered the last time he’d seen this kid drinking. They really needed to keep him away from liquor. People cheered the actor on, and he finally lifted a hand to quiet the rabble, ducking his head from apparent shyness. He reached out and picked up a nearby shot glass, seeming to consider it, then set it several feet away from him on the dirty bar. “Pick a direction,” he said to the trainer.
“Uh, front?”
He seemed to move his hand, concentrating, and Rollie missed the motion, but a gasp from the crowd made him glance back at the glass, and it was closer to the edge of the bar. Cheers and congratulations, patting on the back. Bloom’s complimentary drink was delivered and tossed back. Someone insisted that he do it again, and Orlando smiled despite himself.
“Left!” someone urged loudly.
Orlando took a breath and this time Rollie’s gaze went to the glass. He could see very clearly as the shot glass slid across the wooden surface, leaving a streak in the spilled beer and condensation rings on the bar. More cheers from the crowd, and a couple of people started debating how he’d done the trick. Rollie moved back to accommodate a couple of people who were leaving the bar for other areas of the party, but his eyes stayed on the glass for a while. He saw when the bearded man who’d been doing tricks picked up the glass and examined it with a placid expression.
Orlando was complaining that he should get another rum for his repeat performance, and Jerry Bruckheimer was telling him that it was likely one more would have him out of commission until the weekend. His reputation as a lightweight was spreading. Rollie moved closer, listening blatantly to the bubble of conversation.
“Very nice,” said the heavyset man, returning the shot glass to the counter in front of Orlando, wiping the surface first with a cloth. “You got anything else up your sleeve?”
“It’s not in the sleeve,” Orlando said thickly, winking and wetting his lips with his tongue. He shrugged off Jerry’s hand and said, “watch this one!” Pre-warned, Rollie’s eyes were on the glass again as it turned over, all by itself, so it was rim down on the bar. People gasped and silence held for a moment, and then cheers erupted. Orlando raised his fists in the air, like he’d just won a round of darts. Rollie felt a creeping sort of dread in his gut that seemed to have nothing to do with bar tricks. This was wrong on some fundamental level.
Johnny Depp was suddenly there, pulling Orlando by his arm, tugging him off his bar stool and taking some of his weight as the younger actor swayed, giggling. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ladies and gents, but Mister Turner’s got a prior engagement,” he said, steering him toward the door. Orlando swanned grandly and snagged a kiss from his makeup girl as he was hustled out of the room by his costar.
Orlando
“You idiot,” Johnny hissed into his ear as they reached the stairs to the second floor.
“What?” Orlando complained, totally at a loss, swaying like Captain Sparrow, but without the artifice. “What...I was just having a bit of fun.” He huffed indignantly.
“Yeah, fun. Drunk and showing off...don’t you have any idea who that guy behind the bar was?” He dragged Orli up the steps, mouth set in an angry line.
Orlando really had no clue what he’d done wrong. Well...okay...there was a thing or two he probably shouldn’t have done...but he was just trying to be social. After he’d been feeling so down all day he’d thought that maybe mingling with the gang would be a good idea. Now Johnny was obviously angry, and he wracked his brain for a reason.
“That was fucking Ricky Jay, Bloom!” Depp growled.
“Uh, the actor from ‘Deadwood’?” He slumped against his door while Johnny helped himself to Orli’s jeans pocket, digging for his key.
“Actor? Yeah...he’s an actor. He’s also a professional magician, and one of the best in the world with close-up magic.” Johnny got the door open and pushed him inside. “He’s also part of a group that exposes frauds and rip-off artists. He’s a professional skeptic, dedicated to debunking people who claim things like psychic powers!”
“Oh, uh....” Orli’s head was spinning. He sank into the chair by the window while Johnny whipped the curtains shut. It seemed like he didn’t want anyone to know they were in the room together. “...It was just a little trick, you know?”
“You really have no fucking clue, do you? Why don’t you just go perform some miracles on the beach as well?” Johnny was banging around the room, picking up clothes and slamming open drawers. “No wonder Geoffrey’s tired of keeping an eye on you!” he muttered.
Orlando’s heart dropped and he felt cold all over. His shoulders slumped and he found that he couldn’t meet Johnny’s gaze. So...it was all true. Everything he’d been afraid of. He really was a complete idiot without someone guiding his every move. No wonder Viggo had let him go. No wonder Sean was disappointed with him. Nobody could stand being around him for very long. Now even Johnny was getting sick of him. He’d not only let them all down, but he’d squandered all the work that Gamma had put into building a future for Orlando Bloom. He’d been passed the torch, and he’d dropped it.
Dropped it, and kicked it under the couch.
Johnny was kneeling in front of him now, rubbing his arms and saying something. The words won through slowly: “...because I really do care. You just can’t keep messing this up. You can’t keep risking it all. You’re only hurting yourself. Look, it’s going to be all right, Orli. But you have to protect yourself. These are stupid mistakes. You can’t make these kinds of mistakes and survive.”
Stupid. Yep. Utterly, irredeemably stupid. He knew that all of the clones had flaws; he knew that his were too many to count. He’d messed up again, and Johnny was disappointed. How could he be getting along so well as an actor and be such a complete failure as a human being? But then, of course, he really wasn’t really human, was he? He was something they’d cooked up in the lab. He had no business trying to live in the real world.
“Orli? Say something, Orli. I....”
“Thank you, Johnny. Thank you for caring and all.” He managed somehow to get to his feet, trying hard not to look as defeated as he felt. He schooled his features in a performance born of desperation. “I’m not going back down to the party, I promise. I’m just going to go to bed. Thanks, really.” He pushed Depp towards the door, nearly toppling himself with the effort. “Just want to sleep it off, yeah?”
“I don’t want to leave you in this condition,” Johnny said firmly, stopping.
“It’s not like I’m planning to drive somewhere, mate,” he said, trying to quirk a smile. “I’m going to go to bed. You go have some fun with the crew. It’s still early.”
Johnny was frowning. “Are you...?”
“We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah? Really. I’m just knackered and all. Uh, and a little bit drunk.”
“You can say that again. I swear, it’s like you’ve never had booze before in your life...every single time! I’d think that you’d learn to drink Cokes.”
He hitched a shoulder, and with only a few more comments he managed to get Johnny to leave. “Tomorrow, Orli,” the actor called through the door as Lambda turned the lock. He stayed there for several minutes, listening to the sounds outside, finally convinced that he was alone.
He felt cold, and empty. He felt absolutely nothing but despair inside.
Lambda slowly pushed himself upright and staggered to the bathroom. The light inside was too bright – cold and clinical. There were no lizards on the walls, no bugs circling the unforgiving bulbs. He washed his face, avoiding the mirror, and dried himself with a towel that reeked of make-up and old sweat. Lambda dug through the contents of his shaving kit and found a bottle of painkillers, taking several. He paused, seeing the container of prescription anti-depressants. Fat fucking lot of good those things did. Maybe he just didn’t take them regularly enough.
Lambda picked up the pills and opened the child-proof top, amazed that he could perform that simple function without spilling everything. He tipped the entire contents of the bottle into his mouth, and then followed it with several glasses of water, until all the pills were gone. They left a very bitter taste in his mouth.
“That ought to help,” he told himself, finally meeting his own eyes in the mirror. “You total fuck-up. What did Sean and Viggo ever see in you?”
But he already knew the answer to that one. They’d seen Gamma. Brave, noble Gamma. Gamma, who’d saved the world, and died doing it. Lambda bit back the bile rising in his throat and made his way toward the bed, flicking off the lights with a motion of his empty hand. There wasn’t anyone there to see him squandering his talents, he snorted to himself.
Nobody at all.
Sean
“Well, Molly, love, if your mummy already told you no, then why are you asking me?”
“Daddy,” sighed the soft voice, so much more cultured than her father’s Yorkshire tones, even at this young age. “But I really want to have one! Mummy just doesn’t understand.”
“Then I guess I don’t either. Just because your friends got the video doesn’t mean that it’s appropriate for you. It’s not violent, is it?”
“No,” she whined, in exactly the tone that said it was. “It’s not like your movie where you said all those bad words.” Oh, low blow, going for the ‘you’re a lousy role model’ gambit so quickly in negotiations. Molly lost her chance right then and there, because Sean did not take kindly to being played by women too young to vote.
“Your mum said no, and that’s final then,” he told her firmly. Sometimes it was easier to support the ex-wife...or at least appear to.
“That’s not fair!” his darling daughter complained bitterly, sounding every bit like the brat he knew she was capable of becoming at a moment’s notice. She was getting to be more and more like her mother every day.
His phone beeped, and it took Sean a moment to realize what that meant – time which allowed Molly to expand on her theme of child suffrage. “Darling, sweetheart, Daddy’s got to go. I’ll call you back later and we can talk some more about this videogame you want.”
“No you won’t!” she snapped accusingly.
“Yes, I will. I love you, Princess. But I’ve got to go now.” He was trying to look at the phone and still listen to his daughter.
“All right, Daddy,” she sighed, put upon so unfairly. “Bye.”
He hated saying goodbye to the girls under any circumstances, but this sort of thing was the worst. It was like he disappointed them at every turn. “Bye bye, Princess.” She had already hung up. “Damn,” Sean muttered, fiddling with his phone for a moment, trying to catch that other call. He was too late, but a few moments later the voicemail notification beeped and he connected.
“Bean, it’s your spook. Get on the first plane you can find to Mexico City. Do it, right now. I’ll be in touch.”
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Eleven – Finding Promise
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is PG-13
Sexual innuendo, naughty language, gay sex
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
WHAT IS IT?: RPS / AU
Sequel to ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
which can be found on my website
WHO’S IN IT?: Sean Bean, Orlando Bloom,
Johnny Depp, Viggo Mortensen and other
actors from ‘The Lord of the Rings’, ‘Pirates
of the Caribbean’, ‘Hidalgo’ and others
FEEDBACK: remember the golden rule, (please!)
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history
NOTE 2: Story takes place in early 2002
SPECIAL THANKS: to Elfnut for help with Spanish
in this chapter. Hannon le, Elf
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Eleven: Finding Promise
Viggo
He waited patiently through all the yadda-yadda of opening your voicemail box from a foreign phone, and for once the stupid thing accepted his code on the first try. There were messages from his family – brother and cousin, Exene, Henry. He replayed Henry’s several time just because he thought he could hear a new timbre in the young man’s voice, then once more before it sunk in that Henry wanted his dad to buy him a car. He’d have to think about that one. Some business problems from Pilar, and a couple of things his agent wanted him to consider. Finally, just when Viggo was about to lose interest and go out to photograph the blowing sand, a timid voice came on the line...
“Viggo...I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t been returning your calls. I’m...I haven’t been getting them really. Some problems with my cell and all, yeah? Just wanted to let you know that I’m good...fine really. Doing great here, and, uh, we’re having fun making the movie. I miss you and all, but you don’t have to worry about me. Okay? I’m fine. You can just stop worrying. Thanks and all. I, uh, I...I’ll see you sometime soon, yeah? Bye.”
There was a big pause, then an almost whispered “I love you.”
Viggo swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat.
Mickey
“Somebody knows a good thing when they see it,” Mickey muttered to himself, squinting at the rocky headlands enclosing the bay. A little pleasure boat was motoring in slowly. Nestled in the crotch hollow of the rocky hills was a picturesque little resort town, red roofs rising above the white sand beach, flowered trees and palms swaying lazily in the early morning sunshine spilling down green hills. This was Huatulco, in the state of Oaxaca, on the Pacific coast, south of Acapulco. The town slept late, fishermen having already come and gone, the main source of income being the few tourists who’d discovered this little bit of heaven – and none of them were early risers.
Mickey stretched luxuriantly and yawned. A man was raking the sandy central courtyard, and the scraping noise of the rolling pebbles was hypnotic. Birds chirped and twittered in the trees, insects buzzed. This was Mickey’s kind of place. Kostmayer had surveyed most of the town upon arrival, before the sun had come up, and he was pretty sure that if his target was here he’d be easy enough to locate. He was waiting now for someone to open the kitchen in that little cantina on the beach, or maybe the little grocery store. Anything where he could rustle himself something to eat. Maybe later he’d see about getting a room and some sleep, but for now he was happy just to soak up the morning sun and contemplate the vast blue ocean beyond those headlands.
He spotted a public phone at the end of the city pier, and wandered over to place a call. It took quite a while to finally connect, but he knew that he’d get through eventually.
“Joshua, good to hear your voice. It’s Kostmayer. Yeah...yeah...no, still alive. Sorry to disappoint you. Got a job for you, if you’re up for it. Can you fly down to Miami today and recover something I’ve got stashed there? Yeah, I’m serious. Rocks. Pretty red rocks. Like Dorothy’s slippers. Uh huh. Need to convert them to something more useful in, say, eastern Europe. Way eastern. No, nothing biological. Won’t touch that shit. Take a look at them and see what your guys in Brooklyn can do. Hey, now, I know how many carats are there and the approximate grade, so don’t think I won’t notice if you get creative. Twenty percent, like usual, nothing more. Uh huh...screw you too. Come on, you love to fly. Visit your mother in Ft. Lauderdale. All right...I’ll be in touch in a couple of days to see what you can offer me for them. No, you can pay for your own damn plane ticket, you tightwad. There’ll be plenty of profit. Right, here’s the location...” and he gave details.
Call finished, Mickey nodded at the few people stirring around the boats and walked back up to the plaza, hoping to smell someone cooking food. The man raking rocks and sand was still at it, having picked up a pile of fallen fronds, but he called a greeting to someone trotting by beneath the row of trees and Mickey’s eyes automatically followed the moving figure.
“God damn,” he muttered to himself. “Well, fuck me. Talk about easy.” The walk was only too familiar, as was the dark, tousled hair and easy-going posture. Even the tone of the cheery “Buenos dias,” was recognizable. Mickey dropped back into covert mode and moved off in another direction, but his entire attention was already focused on the young man who continued into the shopping area, turning a couple of corners before stopping at the door of a closed business. He got a key out of his pocket, and after a few moments got the door open, then closed it behind himself.
“I’m either getting really good at this in my old age or somebody up in heaven likes me,” Mickey mused. “The kid turns out to be like the fifth person I see in this whole town.” Shaking his head, he continued on his way, stopping to look into windows like a tourist, and reached a corner of the beach where not only were they moving tables and chairs out onto the sand, but he could sit under a purple flowering Royal Empress tree and watch the shop where the kid had gone. He ordered huevos and fruit juice and some hot pastries and mused on his luck. An older man arrived and let himself into the shop as well, then at eight the door was opened and a sign turned to read ‘Abierto’. Mickey wiped his lips, left a pile of pesos on the table and sauntered over.
The sign read ‘Natitas’, painted in cheery blue and pink on white, and a bright red rose with thorny stem decorated the wood. Mickey pushed open the door with a tinkle of bells and let himself into the shop. He stopped dead in the cool air inside, stunned despite himself. It was like a charnel house, a mausoleum, or the prop room on a horror movie. Rows of grinning skulls lined the shelves and life-sized skeletons hung like marionettes from the ceiling. The counters were cluttered with femurs and fingers and tiny little dead people doing all sorts of strange things. Mickey rocked back on his heels and blinked several times.
“Buenos Dias, señor,” called the older gentleman, stepping forward from behind a desk covered with bones and skulls. “¿En qué le puedo servir esta mañana?”
By then Mickey had recovered himself enough to examine the nearest row of grinning skulls. They glittered in the morning light, like they’d been coated in glitter, and he finally realized that they were made of sugar.
“Tenemos algunas ya decoradas por aqui,” the shopkeeper told him, smiling, indicating a case filled with elaborately decorated skulls and bones, indicating that he had the final product available as well.
“Dia de los Muertos,” Mickey mumbled to himself. The day of the dead. This shop made sugar skulls and decorations for the yearly festival which honored the deceased and appeased restless spirits. They also did a fair trade in piñatas and party goods as well, from the looks of it. Some of the skeletons were so realistic that it was creepy.
“¿Estaba Usted buscando algo especial?” asked the older man, a puzzled expression on his face. He was wondering what Mickey was looking for.
“I’m sorry,” Mickey quickly apologized, forgetting to convert his thoughts to Spanish. “I just, I’d like to look around.”
“Of course, señor,” the shopkeeper said, switching easily to English. “I can decorate for you with any color you like. Maybe a gift?”
“¿Tio?” called someone from the back of the store, and Mickey turned quickly as the young man stepped around the corner. Their eyes met, and the shock of recognition was mutual.
“Mickey?” the young man said breathily.
Dominic
“I love your mum, Doodlebug, really, but....”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry. I just couldn’t tell her ‘no’ last night. She misses me too. It’s harder on her now that I don’t need her on set with me anymore. We’ll leave right after lunch, okay? And my flight isn’t until tomorrow morning, so we’ll have the whole night. Is there anything you want to do?”
“No...nothing,” Dom murmured, making his voice sound as innocent as possible as he slid a palm around Elijah’s waist under his shirt, nails scraping the tender skin just above his pants. They were on the patio, enjoying the cool morning air and waiting for Hannah and Zach to arrive so the family could have lunch.
“Sblomie!” Elijah giggled. “Knock it off!”
“Your mum knows we’re fucking, baby,” Dom whispered. “She might have been able to pretend we don’t last night – but then you had to go and scream ‘lick my ass, stud!’ louder than Paris Hilton in the Lakers’ Locker Room.”
“I did not! You liar! You were the noisy one, with that ‘uh, uh, uh, UH!”
“I was just keeping up my rhythm, baby.” Dom pulled up the shirt enough so that he could reach Elijah’s ribs, and he proceeded to nibble on them with lips and tongue, reducing Elijah to spastic twitching and laughter.
“Stop...stop it! Tickles! Dom...mie!”
Dom blew a big raspberry in his boyfriend’s navel and let his other hand slide easily under his pants along the hollow of one hip. He wiggled his fingers through the folds of fabric of Elijah’s boxers and finally secured a light grip on his cock, which was clearly starting to swell despite all the protests.
“Ah,” Elijah sighed, going limp. “You are in SO much trouble! If my mom comes out here and finds you molesting me she’ll....”
“She’ll what?” Dom whispered, sliding his thumb across the smooth head of Elijah’s cock. “Even Debbie knows you’re not a virgin, baby Blue Eyes.” His fingertips rummaged deeper, cupping the soft scrotum and tugging loose skin gently. It was an awkward position, with the two of them on a single chaise lounge, but the tough angles made it all the more thrilling. “I remember that you told me she caught you blowing the pool boy.”
“He was blowing me...I think,” Elijah sighed, pushing upwards. “Yeah, yeah...” he captured Dom’s lips in a searing kiss. “Lick my ass, you stud!” he growled into Dom’s eager mouth.
“Ewwww!” Dom gasped, withdrawing his hand and pretending utter disgust. “Talk about a mood killer.”
Huffing indignantly, Elijah scrambled to his feet and marched over to the little clapboard shed where the pool equipment was stored, happy to find the door unlocked. He shot a ‘come hither’ look over his shoulder, and ducked into the dark interior.
“Well, that’s a offer I can’t afford to refuse,” Dom told himself, rising quickly to follow, shooting a guilty glance toward the house. No sign of interference in that direction. The pool shed smelled of dust and chlorine, rubber toys and decaying leaves. It was oddly intoxicating, despite the heat. Just enough light came through the dirty window and around the doorframe to reveal Elijah leaning against the far wall, shorts pushed down and his now rigid cock wrapped in his hand, being stroked firmly. Dom was there in an instant, shamelessly dropping to his knees in front of his boyfriend.
Debbie and Hannah came out to announce that lunch was ready and found the boys in the pool, skinny-dipping, despite house rules. Elijah’s Mother frowned at them as they frolicked, pale butts visible under the water. “You two had better get into the shower before you come sit down to eat. Separately!” she added, turning away.
“Busted!” Hannah laughed, pointing a finger at her brother, laughing.
“Jealous,” Dom accused.
“Of that?” Hannah sneered, indicating Elijah’s naked form under the dancing blue water.
“Look what it got him!” Dom insisted, making a move to climb out of the pool in all his own nude splendor.
“Oh no you don’t!” Hannah squealed, darting towards the door. “I’ll go blind!”
“So glad to have you in the family,” Elijah told him.
“Am I?” Dom asked himself, climbing the cement steps.
Rollie
Picking through the cans of Red Strip and Old Milwaukee, Rollie found a lone tin of Four X and happily claimed it, shaking off the clinging ice. “That one’s extra, mon,” called the bartender. “Two dollars. It’s a big one.”
“And worth every cent,” Rollie assured him, putting his money on the worn counter. He resisted an urge to check the date, happy enough with the snap of the opener and a bubble of golden fizz tickling his nose. Australian ambrosia. The locals could keep their rum and that American piss. Tyler was a patriot at heart, and a beer snob when he could afford to be. He retreated through the noisy crowd to his seat at a table near the door to the beach, where several of the film crew’s techies were holding a heated discussion about how much explosive power an old fashioned cannonball would have really packed and how high one of their prop cannons could reach up the fortress walls with the right alignment.
Pretty much the entire cast and crew were in the hotel lobby, bar, and ground floor that night, plus some visitors from the studio. Several people would be leaving on the morning ferry to return to L.A. for more technical work, and some wouldn’t be coming back, so of course there was a bash. Gore had announced that filming would be a late start the next day and it was declared to be a mandatory party night – a chance to blow off steam and work up a sweat doing something more creative than standing around under the tropical sun. The dance band were doing hits from the eighties, and Tyler thought to himself that you really haven’t lived ‘til you’d seen pirates getting down to Duran Duran.
Rollie proudly informed his compatriots that he had developed a computer model wherein all you had to do was fill in the type of explosive, surface area, weight of object and how high you wanted to blow it, and it would give you the exact load needed. He could achieve results within about a meter variation. “Course, that’s only good for launches up to about 200 meters, then things start getting wonky – too many other variables. But for short range or straight up, it’s all good.”
This was greeted with appropriate enthusiasm, and a new round of stories. Johnny Depp drifted by with a distracted expression on his face, probably still channeling Captain Sparrow, and proclaimed loudly “Where are the bosoms? I was told there would be bosoms!” One of the make-up girls pulled off her Black Pearl Crew tee-shirt and shook her tits at the actor. “Oh, that’s more like it!” Depp shouted, swaying dangerously, gesturing a show of enthusiasm with his drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. People applauded sporadically.
Yes, this promised to be a pretty good party. Rollie drank his Four X and told some mild exaggerations about a director he utterly loathed. Other lies and a few truths were swapped. Plans were made to do a ballistics test on the suitability of bowling balls as cannon projectiles. The thought was they’d certainly photograph better, with increased size, predictable weight and consistent composition. Rollie noticed that a group at the bar had opened up to admit Orlando Bloom, who had been particularly quiet on set all day. He seemed much brighter tonight – animated even. Curiosity eventually got the better of the FX specialist and he dismissed himself to go see what was being discussed over there as cheers came up from the tight group.
The gang were watching a chubby guy with a beard behind the bar doing magic tricks with glasses and coins. Rollie got into a place to watch over someone’s shoulder, glad of his 6’4” advantage, because this guy was damn good. Laughter and cheers as another trick was flawlessly pulled off, and the bartender rewarded their entertainer with a glass of something dark and smooth. He toasted his audience. One of the writers tried to do a trick involving drinking straws and a fork, but the fork ended up on the floor and the writer ducked out to boos, laughing. Someone else managed to flip a coin into a shot glass using a spoon, and he got a drink as well.
“Orli knows a trick,” urged the animal trainer, to much amusement.
“You mean other than getting the damn donkey to stay awake and keep its head up?” joked one of the cameramen.
“Oi, that donkey loves me!” Orli insisted, tipping back the remains of his glass. Rollie remembered the last time he’d seen this kid drinking. They really needed to keep him away from liquor. People cheered the actor on, and he finally lifted a hand to quiet the rabble, ducking his head from apparent shyness. He reached out and picked up a nearby shot glass, seeming to consider it, then set it several feet away from him on the dirty bar. “Pick a direction,” he said to the trainer.
“Uh, front?”
He seemed to move his hand, concentrating, and Rollie missed the motion, but a gasp from the crowd made him glance back at the glass, and it was closer to the edge of the bar. Cheers and congratulations, patting on the back. Bloom’s complimentary drink was delivered and tossed back. Someone insisted that he do it again, and Orlando smiled despite himself.
“Left!” someone urged loudly.
Orlando took a breath and this time Rollie’s gaze went to the glass. He could see very clearly as the shot glass slid across the wooden surface, leaving a streak in the spilled beer and condensation rings on the bar. More cheers from the crowd, and a couple of people started debating how he’d done the trick. Rollie moved back to accommodate a couple of people who were leaving the bar for other areas of the party, but his eyes stayed on the glass for a while. He saw when the bearded man who’d been doing tricks picked up the glass and examined it with a placid expression.
Orlando was complaining that he should get another rum for his repeat performance, and Jerry Bruckheimer was telling him that it was likely one more would have him out of commission until the weekend. His reputation as a lightweight was spreading. Rollie moved closer, listening blatantly to the bubble of conversation.
“Very nice,” said the heavyset man, returning the shot glass to the counter in front of Orlando, wiping the surface first with a cloth. “You got anything else up your sleeve?”
“It’s not in the sleeve,” Orlando said thickly, winking and wetting his lips with his tongue. He shrugged off Jerry’s hand and said, “watch this one!” Pre-warned, Rollie’s eyes were on the glass again as it turned over, all by itself, so it was rim down on the bar. People gasped and silence held for a moment, and then cheers erupted. Orlando raised his fists in the air, like he’d just won a round of darts. Rollie felt a creeping sort of dread in his gut that seemed to have nothing to do with bar tricks. This was wrong on some fundamental level.
Johnny Depp was suddenly there, pulling Orlando by his arm, tugging him off his bar stool and taking some of his weight as the younger actor swayed, giggling. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ladies and gents, but Mister Turner’s got a prior engagement,” he said, steering him toward the door. Orlando swanned grandly and snagged a kiss from his makeup girl as he was hustled out of the room by his costar.
Orlando
“You idiot,” Johnny hissed into his ear as they reached the stairs to the second floor.
“What?” Orlando complained, totally at a loss, swaying like Captain Sparrow, but without the artifice. “What...I was just having a bit of fun.” He huffed indignantly.
“Yeah, fun. Drunk and showing off...don’t you have any idea who that guy behind the bar was?” He dragged Orli up the steps, mouth set in an angry line.
Orlando really had no clue what he’d done wrong. Well...okay...there was a thing or two he probably shouldn’t have done...but he was just trying to be social. After he’d been feeling so down all day he’d thought that maybe mingling with the gang would be a good idea. Now Johnny was obviously angry, and he wracked his brain for a reason.
“That was fucking Ricky Jay, Bloom!” Depp growled.
“Uh, the actor from ‘Deadwood’?” He slumped against his door while Johnny helped himself to Orli’s jeans pocket, digging for his key.
“Actor? Yeah...he’s an actor. He’s also a professional magician, and one of the best in the world with close-up magic.” Johnny got the door open and pushed him inside. “He’s also part of a group that exposes frauds and rip-off artists. He’s a professional skeptic, dedicated to debunking people who claim things like psychic powers!”
“Oh, uh....” Orli’s head was spinning. He sank into the chair by the window while Johnny whipped the curtains shut. It seemed like he didn’t want anyone to know they were in the room together. “...It was just a little trick, you know?”
“You really have no fucking clue, do you? Why don’t you just go perform some miracles on the beach as well?” Johnny was banging around the room, picking up clothes and slamming open drawers. “No wonder Geoffrey’s tired of keeping an eye on you!” he muttered.
Orlando’s heart dropped and he felt cold all over. His shoulders slumped and he found that he couldn’t meet Johnny’s gaze. So...it was all true. Everything he’d been afraid of. He really was a complete idiot without someone guiding his every move. No wonder Viggo had let him go. No wonder Sean was disappointed with him. Nobody could stand being around him for very long. Now even Johnny was getting sick of him. He’d not only let them all down, but he’d squandered all the work that Gamma had put into building a future for Orlando Bloom. He’d been passed the torch, and he’d dropped it.
Dropped it, and kicked it under the couch.
Johnny was kneeling in front of him now, rubbing his arms and saying something. The words won through slowly: “...because I really do care. You just can’t keep messing this up. You can’t keep risking it all. You’re only hurting yourself. Look, it’s going to be all right, Orli. But you have to protect yourself. These are stupid mistakes. You can’t make these kinds of mistakes and survive.”
Stupid. Yep. Utterly, irredeemably stupid. He knew that all of the clones had flaws; he knew that his were too many to count. He’d messed up again, and Johnny was disappointed. How could he be getting along so well as an actor and be such a complete failure as a human being? But then, of course, he really wasn’t really human, was he? He was something they’d cooked up in the lab. He had no business trying to live in the real world.
“Orli? Say something, Orli. I....”
“Thank you, Johnny. Thank you for caring and all.” He managed somehow to get to his feet, trying hard not to look as defeated as he felt. He schooled his features in a performance born of desperation. “I’m not going back down to the party, I promise. I’m just going to go to bed. Thanks, really.” He pushed Depp towards the door, nearly toppling himself with the effort. “Just want to sleep it off, yeah?”
“I don’t want to leave you in this condition,” Johnny said firmly, stopping.
“It’s not like I’m planning to drive somewhere, mate,” he said, trying to quirk a smile. “I’m going to go to bed. You go have some fun with the crew. It’s still early.”
Johnny was frowning. “Are you...?”
“We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah? Really. I’m just knackered and all. Uh, and a little bit drunk.”
“You can say that again. I swear, it’s like you’ve never had booze before in your life...every single time! I’d think that you’d learn to drink Cokes.”
He hitched a shoulder, and with only a few more comments he managed to get Johnny to leave. “Tomorrow, Orli,” the actor called through the door as Lambda turned the lock. He stayed there for several minutes, listening to the sounds outside, finally convinced that he was alone.
He felt cold, and empty. He felt absolutely nothing but despair inside.
Lambda slowly pushed himself upright and staggered to the bathroom. The light inside was too bright – cold and clinical. There were no lizards on the walls, no bugs circling the unforgiving bulbs. He washed his face, avoiding the mirror, and dried himself with a towel that reeked of make-up and old sweat. Lambda dug through the contents of his shaving kit and found a bottle of painkillers, taking several. He paused, seeing the container of prescription anti-depressants. Fat fucking lot of good those things did. Maybe he just didn’t take them regularly enough.
Lambda picked up the pills and opened the child-proof top, amazed that he could perform that simple function without spilling everything. He tipped the entire contents of the bottle into his mouth, and then followed it with several glasses of water, until all the pills were gone. They left a very bitter taste in his mouth.
“That ought to help,” he told himself, finally meeting his own eyes in the mirror. “You total fuck-up. What did Sean and Viggo ever see in you?”
But he already knew the answer to that one. They’d seen Gamma. Brave, noble Gamma. Gamma, who’d saved the world, and died doing it. Lambda bit back the bile rising in his throat and made his way toward the bed, flicking off the lights with a motion of his empty hand. There wasn’t anyone there to see him squandering his talents, he snorted to himself.
Nobody at all.
Sean
“Well, Molly, love, if your mummy already told you no, then why are you asking me?”
“Daddy,” sighed the soft voice, so much more cultured than her father’s Yorkshire tones, even at this young age. “But I really want to have one! Mummy just doesn’t understand.”
“Then I guess I don’t either. Just because your friends got the video doesn’t mean that it’s appropriate for you. It’s not violent, is it?”
“No,” she whined, in exactly the tone that said it was. “It’s not like your movie where you said all those bad words.” Oh, low blow, going for the ‘you’re a lousy role model’ gambit so quickly in negotiations. Molly lost her chance right then and there, because Sean did not take kindly to being played by women too young to vote.
“Your mum said no, and that’s final then,” he told her firmly. Sometimes it was easier to support the ex-wife...or at least appear to.
“That’s not fair!” his darling daughter complained bitterly, sounding every bit like the brat he knew she was capable of becoming at a moment’s notice. She was getting to be more and more like her mother every day.
His phone beeped, and it took Sean a moment to realize what that meant – time which allowed Molly to expand on her theme of child suffrage. “Darling, sweetheart, Daddy’s got to go. I’ll call you back later and we can talk some more about this videogame you want.”
“No you won’t!” she snapped accusingly.
“Yes, I will. I love you, Princess. But I’ve got to go now.” He was trying to look at the phone and still listen to his daughter.
“All right, Daddy,” she sighed, put upon so unfairly. “Bye.”
He hated saying goodbye to the girls under any circumstances, but this sort of thing was the worst. It was like he disappointed them at every turn. “Bye bye, Princess.” She had already hung up. “Damn,” Sean muttered, fiddling with his phone for a moment, trying to catch that other call. He was too late, but a few moments later the voicemail notification beeped and he connected.
“Bean, it’s your spook. Get on the first plane you can find to Mexico City. Do it, right now. I’ll be in touch.”