ext_29511 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
pecos.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2006-06-07 12:12 am
pecos.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-06-07 12:12 am
Beyond Design Limitations 16
I suspect that at least a couple of people have been waiting way too long for this chapter of the Story that wouldn’t End!, so I’ll get right to it. Your patience has been very much appreciated, darlings.
Sequel to Propehcy, which can be found here: http://www.chimerafic.com/main.htm
previous chapters of BDL can be found by clicking the Tag on my lj.
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Sixteen – Unlock A Door
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is NC-17
Angst, men fucking other men
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
NOTE 3: I’m really not trying to be hard on Disney
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Sixteen: Unlock A Door
Dominic
Upper body nearly inside the fridge, sniffing the milk suspiciously and expecting an encounter with alien cultures, Dom jumped when his phone rang. Watery, whitish low fat sloshed on his shoes as he shoved the suspect carton back and grabbed for his cell on the counter. Billy had gone to the studio for a day of voice work on Master and Commander, and even though he wasn’t due back for quite a while he could still need something from Dom. Hey…it could happen. The caller ID was a Los Angeles prefix, but no one from his phone book.
“Clancy’s Crab Shack – you need crabs, we got ‘em,” Dom answered. It never paid to let them know who you were until they gave it up first – ‘they’ being the world in general, and fangirls in specific. His fan base was small, but very inventive.
“Man U. are a bunch o’ wankers!” declared a rich Sheffield accent. “Aye, and Roonie shags grannies!”
He was pretty sure there could only be one man with sad enough taste in footie to insult the best team in Britain – the one and only Sean Bean. “Roonie just jumped yours, mate. She was beggin’ for it too!”
“You lyin’ bastard! Put down the racing forms and talk to yer old Fellowshipper.”
Dom grinned ear to ear. “Is that my dear, departed pal Boromir? Can I see your big, long sword? I hear that it’s all shiny from being polished.”
Beanie was laughing so much that he had to repeat himself twice before Dom finally understood what he was saying. “I’m asking you to come and get us at the airport, you Manky git!”
“Airport? Which airport, for Christsakes, Bean? LAX? There’s only about a hundred thousand places you could be there, you know.”
“We’re in that restaurant…the space-shippy one. They’ve gone and Disneyed it up inside. I’d get a cab, but God only knows where you fucking live now and – oh, uh, sorry ma’am…” he lowered his voice, speaking rapidly, “I’ve got an appointment tonight and nowhere to be until then. I don’t know where you’re at and I haven’t got any American money. The queue at the Bureau de Change looked mad enough to scare a hooligan.”
“Did you just get in trouble for cursing in public, you stupid fucking asshole?” Dom giggled.
“Same to you, mate. I said they’d Disneyed the place. Just come and get us, yeah?”
“All right, all right. It’ll take about twenty minutes, though. Longer if the traffic is crap or I get lost, both of which are likely. I’ll call you back when I reach the kerb.”
“Right, cheers!” Bean said.
Dom was reaching for his keys when he realized that maybe Sean hadn’t been using ‘us’ in the Royal way. Oh well, if there were too many people they just wouldn’t all fit in Astin’s – er, his – car. He scribbled ‘Gone to Gondor!’ on the back of a notice from the landlord and left it on the counter in case Billy got back early. Good thing the studio had sent a car for Boyd.
It was easily half an hour later that Dom pulled out of the solid stream of cars on the LAX loop and prayed that he wouldn’t get ticketed in the few moments it took him to hit RECALL on his phone. It hadn’t even been answered yet when Sean Bean bounded around the corner, grinning, followed closely by – God, was that really – Orlando? Since when did those two turn up, unannounced, and together? Sean took the front seat while Orlando slipped into the back. No wonder those two hadn’t wanted to hang out in the airport.
“Let’s go!” Sean said, his voice blurred as he turned to look over his shoulder, apparently making sure that Orli was good enough in back, or that they weren’t being followed by rabid fans. Dom concentrated on getting back into traffic with as few honked horns as possible. The LAX driveway was surely one of the lowest circles of hell.
Dominic had gotten as far as the stoplights at the 405 before he chanced a look in the rearview mirror and met curious eyes studying his own. He knew it instantly that it wasn't his old friend, Orli, thanks to their unusual history. “What the fuck?” Dom stammered.
‘Orlando Bloom’ had changed again, just like in New Zealand. This was a stranger!
Viggo
It had been a long, hot day on the set. As boring as being on your own movie set could get, being on someone else’s was worse. He didn’t see his opportunity until nearly dinnertime, but he was a notoriously patient man.
Viggo pushed the door shut behind him with a click, thumbing the lock and then trying the knob twice to make sure it was sound. He had no intention of being interrupted. The room was filled from wall to wall with racks and boxes and piles of costumes, the air suffused with aromas of sweat and cleaning solutions and musty cloth. Not exactly an enticing location on its own, but the fact that Orlando was standing a few feet away, preparing to strip off Will Turner’s clothing, somehow made up for the lack of atmosphere. Viggo had planned his attack well. Now all he needed was a bit of time.
“Damn sleeves,” Orli was muttering, worrying the numerous buttons on the voluminous cotton shift.
“Don’t bother with them now,” Viggo said softly, coming close enough to smell his lover’s hair as he wrapped his arms around the slim young man he’d been lusting after all day long. Orlando squeaked with surprise, trying to turn around to see if they were alone. “You’re mine now,” the Dane growled. Being in the wardrobe room made it all the sexier for being inappropriate as hell. His hands explored everything he could reach.
“We can’t,” Orlando breathed, leaning back into Viggo’s arms. Insistent, calloused fingers had already slid his unbuckled trousers down over his ass, exposing the jockstrap Orli had put on that morning when he read that they would be doing some scenes on the ship. He’d explained that whacking your nads on a random protrusion just once had taught him that necessity.
Viggo didn’t answer the protests as he pushed the pants lower, following them down to undo the buckles at the knees. Orli’s heavy woolen socks were shoved down muscular calves (didn’t these people realize they were in the fucking Caribbean sun?) and the whole rig was left in a crumpled ball. The jockstrap was tugged off more cautiously, but when it hit the floor Viggo all but tackled Orlando, landing them both in a heap atop a pile of ‘villager’ clothing.
Giggling, Orlando huffed, trying to sound scandalised – it wasn't very effective – as he began to crawl away. Viggo dragged him back, wrapping his arms around his weakly struggling partner. Those ribs were too close to the surface for his liking. He pulled at the open collar of the white shirt to brace himself as his other hand slithered around Orli’s waist to find his rapidly filling erection. He slid his grip up and down Orlando’s cock, thumbing the ultra-soft foreskin at the tip. Orli arched his back and gave a muffled cry as sensations overwhelmed him, twisting and thrusting his ass into Viggo’s crotch. That was just fine with Viggo.
Nipping and kissing at the exposed skin of Orlando’s neck, Viggo freed one hand long enough to unbutton and shove at his own jeans, getting them down sufficiently to free his bulging cock and tightening balls. He didn’t have to fist himself to hardness; Orlando’s protests and squirming had done that trick just fine.
“Someone’s going to find us,” Orli panted. “We can’t! I’m all sweaty. You’ll get us in trouble….” He managed a few kisses before falling forward onto his hands, allowing Viggo to drape himself over his back.
“It’s your movie, Puppy,” Viggo growled, pulling hard on the young man’s cock. “If you want to fuck atop the camera track they should let you.” He pushed a finger into Orli’s mouth, preventing any further protests. He’d waited several days for this chance, and he wasn’t going to let it escape any more than he was about to banish Orlando from his heart. They’d been flirting covertly all morning. Besides, Orli’s hotel room was about as inviting as a mortuary. They could just add a new degree of funk to the costume room.
“Oh…yeah,” the young man groaned as he was breached by the wet finger.
Rho
Rho took a deep breath and picked up his menu, wiggling just a bit to make sure that his thigh was in contact with Sean’s. He needed the reassurance. Dom was sitting across the table from him, staring blatantly, and with a fair bit of hostility. They were in a retro diner somewhere near Dominic’s apartment. The young man had refused to take them home or on to a hotel until the situation was explained to his satisfaction. Dom’s eyes narrowed and he asked softly, “Has something happened to Orlando again…the one from Wellington…the, uh, second one?”
“Orli’s fine, lad,” Sean said quickly. “He’s still in the Caribbean. In fact, I think Viggo’s with him.”
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
Rho breathed deep of strange smells and forced himself to maintain control of his emotions. He lifted his eyes so he could figure out what Dominic expected – what he wanted from Rho. It was an easy read, and Rho assumed a looser posture, adding a comfortable smile. “I’m a spare,” he said simply. Dom knew more than anyone expected, since he’d shared a brief mental link with Gamma before that clone had been taken. He just wanted to know the truth, and that would be the easiest thing to give him.
The young man glared back flatly, eyes angry. “A spare? Just how many of these things—uh, guys, are around?”
“Not sure,” Sean told him. “A couple more, at least.”
“I’m one of the lucky ones,” Rho said honestly.
Dom was quiet for a moment, processing the information. The waitress came around for orders, and Rho said he’d just have whatever Sean was having. He gave up the menu reluctantly – it had been covered with color pictures and he’d loved to have had time to study them. But he was working hard to suppress his excitement at being in the infamous Los Angeles with all the enticing things around him. He had to make it look like eating in a rather ordinary restaurant was completely uninteresting. He forced himself not to explore the contents of the condiments bowl or stare at the cars passing outside the big window.
“What’s your name?” Dom finally asked, actually curious, despite his misgivings.
“Rho,” the clone said with a small smile. “Or Rocoto.” Silence greeted his comment, so he added, “that’s a kind of pepper.”
“Pepper?” the Mancunian snorted. “They named you Pepper?”
“Beats a letter of the Greek alphabet,” Sean said.
Rho could only agree. He secretly longed for a real name, a real identity, and a real family to connect it all together. That was something he would never have.
Dom’s eyes narrowed again. “So, Sean, you’re going about rescuing these, uh…these lads?”
“Just this one, right now,” Bean said.
“I didn’t exactly need to be rescued,” Rho mumbled, thinking about his adopted Uncle and the natitas shop and the sleepy town of Huatulco. Okay…maybe he had needed rescuing. He peered longingly at a tray full of plates being carried past. Maybe he’d be getting one of those giant hamburgers! Sean had mumbled too much when he’d ordered. What was in the big glass full of pink and white? It looked cold. The kid who got the glass attacked it with a straw. What was the shiny bright red thing on top that the kid bit into? Was that a cherry? A plastic cherry?
Dominic was still talking to Sean, and Rho had lost track of what they were saying. He chastised himself for letting his attention wander. But they were talking so softly, and there were so many other things to hear in the bustling restaurant. A cold glass was slid in front of him and he quickly took a sip. Coca Cola? What the heck…they come all the way to California, and Sean gets him Coca Cola? Geesh, they had those in Mexico. The waitress put a paper-wrapped straw on the table and hurried away. Rho stole a glance at what the kid at that other table was drinking. Oh, great…now he was digging into it with a spoon! Rho sighed, and took another sip of his Coke. His tummy growled in sympathy. There hadn’t been anything but nasty little pretzels on the airplane and he was hungry!
“Nobody’s going to believe it,” Dom was saying, leaning back like that just ended the topic right there. “You’re not going to fool anyone. Look at him…he’s just all…wrong.”
Rho’s heart dropped in disappointment. He’d felt so confident when they’d breezed through Customs and Immigration.
Three of the waitresses and the girl from behind the register approached their table with an obvious mission. “Your lunches will be out in just a minute, gentlemen,” their waitress said. She continued quickly, like she knew she was being too bold. “But would you mind terribly if we asked for autographs?”
“Please, Mister Bloom?” the register woman begged, sliding a pen and a napkin toward Rho. Rho felt like a sand crab, revealed suddenly by someone lifting rocks at the water’s edge. But here there was no way he could scuttle sideways to escape.
“Lord of the Rings is one of my favorite movies ever!” gushed a younger girl. Several of them spoke at once, complimenting the movie and apologizing for bothering them.
Dominic snorted in derision, probably because he’d been coming to this restaurant for months and no one had recognized him yet. Rho swallowed his nervousness, and took a quick cue from Sean about how he should be responding. He spread a wide smile on his face and quickly wrote ‘Orlando Bloom’ on the first piece of paper. He slid the paper across the table to Dom and said, “You’re very lucky to have Merry, the Hero Hobbit, and Boromir of Gondor here as well.”
Their intense scrutiny quickly spread to the other men as well and Rho caught the sly, ‘I’ll get you for that’ glance that Dom sent his way before responding to questions and applying himself to signing autographs as well. Sean was drawing little ‘x’s under his name, which seemed to be a hit with the girls, so Rho added it to his next signature as well. He didn’t want to write anything else because he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t come out in Spanish, but Dom was writing several things on the now-crowded napkins and order slips, asking for names and smiling warmly.
“Cheers, ladies,” Sean said cheerfully, obviously putting an end to the autograph session before the other diners started getting any ideas. He gently grasped their waitress’s arm and asked her, “Could you bring Orlando a strawberry milkshake while you’re at it, luv?”
“Of course, Mister Boromir!” she enthused warmly, retreating backwards, like they might attack her at any minute, a grin on her face. Rho winked at her, and she actually squealed before hurrying to the kitchen.
“Bloody fucking hell,” Dom mumbled, shaking his head.
“You were saying something about how nobody would believe it?” Sean asked, patting Rho’s leg reassuringly under the table.
Orlando
He lipped the edge of the cold glass with his bottom teeth, letting the sweet and sour flavor of the fruity drink linger sharply on the sides of his tongue. No rum for this pirate – his Captain had spoken, and it hadn’t been Jack Sparrow. They were in a crowd of Disney film people, at a party that had been set up by the crew’s catering company in a courtyard at one of the little hotels. Orlando had either forgotten what they were supposed to be celebrating or he’d never been told. It was all good anyhow – didn’t matter much. He was tired and content, and his ass hurt just enough to remind him that his cowboy had been for a ride only an hour or two ago.
Mackenzie Crook was wearing a paper crown and regaling Jack and Terry (the writer) with bar jokes while their director smoked a joint on the less-than-sly and batted away a persistent moth that had taken a fancy to his left ear. Two grips were armwrestling and Geoffrey watched primly from a seat on a box in the corner, smoking what looked like one of those skinny fey cigars. Viggo was leaning against the whitewashed wall chatting in Spanish with a man who had apparently sailed down to the island on a yacht of some sort. They were arguing about some place up north called Vieques, and Viggo was shaking his head a lot. The yachtie seemed to be getting angry. Orlando looked around for Johnny, but Depp had obviously elected to amuse himself somewhere else that evening.
Johnny had been huffy recently about ‘lack of support’ from their studio. He said he was used to being odd man out in a project – but he wasn’t used to needing to fight over every nuance. Of course, it had been Johnny who’d decided to make Captain Jack as queer as a Spanish Triploon. No doubt the execs at ‘the Mouse’ were all doubling their ulcer medications.
“Feeling better?” a woman asked Orli, inviting herself into his personal space and staring at his eyes like she was studying to become on optician.
“Quite, cheers,” he said with a smile. She was drinking Rolling Rock from the bottle and had an H. Stern watch on her wrist that probably cost more than most people’s dream car. This would be one of the elusive people from the Disney home office, then. She smelled quite nice, and Orlando leaned even closer, trying to place the familiar odor. Some perfume that Liv used to wear in New Zealand, maybe? “I’m as good as gold,” he assured her, oozing charm.
“I can see that,” she purred.
He smiled his ‘good guy’ grin, with a bit of teeth, and winked.
She busied herself with tasting her drink. “The rushes have been very exciting. Bob Anderson tells me that you’re a natural with the sword, Orlando.”
He shrugged dismissively. “Nothing like Viggo, there. He took to it right off. Viggo can do about anything he sets his mind to. I’m a bit of a klutz most of the time.”
She turned her head to study the man he’d indicated. The yachtie was now gesturing angrily, his angry voice becoming the dominant sound in the room. Orlando understood enough of the conversation to realize that it was political. No doubt Viggo had said something that offended the obviously wealthy Puerto Rican.
“Of course, Viggo Mortensen. I understand that we’re giving him a ride tomorrow,” the woman said, speaking rather slowly. It seemed like she’d never seen Viggo before, and had just realized that he was also a very handsome man.
“A ride?”
“To Morocco.”
Orlando felt the floor lurch beneath him. “What?”
“On the corporate jet,” she added, eyes still glued to the Dane as Viggo tired to calm the sputtering yachtie. “We’re going to check out the Hidalgo set as well.”
“Viggo’s…leaving? So soon?” Orlando set his glass down, clenching his suddenly clammy hands together. He tried to stop the hot flush from rising to his cheeks. He couldn’t do it.
“They have another couple of days of principal filming, according to schedule.” She finally tore her gaze away from Viggo and spotted Gore, almost as if she’d forgotten that Orli was even there. “Is he smoking what I think he’s smoking? Goddamn it, Verbinski…image!” The woman stomped off in a huff, likely to see if she could get the director to put his spliff out – or at least hide it.
“Viggo’s leaving?” Orlando repeated to himself. His eyes narrowed. Viggo could have at least told him first. He could have maybe mentioned it, instead of tripping Orli up and screwing him on a pile of dirty costumes. Even afterwards…instead of muttering endearments and wiping them both clean with a pirate’s headscarf, he could have said something. Bitterness chased the sweet fruit taste right out of Orlando’s mouth.
Goddamn Viggo.
The Puerto Rican was gesturing wildly when the glass bottle in his hand exploded, like it had been crushed by some mighty grip. He jumped back from the gush of beer, shaking his fingers, surprised to see blood mixed with the dripping mess.
Viggo stared in amazement when he felt the glass in his own hand suddenly vibrate. He released his fingers just as the glass shattered. Stunned, Viggo looked up in time to see Orlando’s angry eyes across the improvised bar.
Mickey
Waving off the steward with the “chicken or beef?” entreaty, Mickey shifted uncomfortably in his middle-of-the-row seat and opened up the new laptop. He’d picked up a replacement computer in New York and had it crash installed with all the programs he thought he might be able to use. Those Burmese rubies smuggled out of Thailand had turned out to be better than he’d hoped, and even with his fence’s cut taken out he’d cleared a little over two hundred thousand dollars. But even a bit of ready operating capital hadn’t been able to snag him a first class seat on the very full flight to Frankfurt.
First order of business was to score a bit of positive karma. He started to wire-transfer twenty thousand dollar to the Tree of Blessings Orphanage in Ulaanbaatar, thought for a moment about the Mother Superior’s alarming visage, and changed it to thirty-two thousand. That ought to keep the Mongolian orphans in porridge and morality lessons for a while. The circling swarm of censorious nuns in Mickey’s own conscience nodded and backed off for a few days. He made sure that the donation would be anonymous, and filtered the money through Sean Bean’s account just in case. Let the Catholic Church harass Bean for future donations. That made Mickey grin, though it undoubtedly knocked off some of those karma points.
He changed some preferences on the computer and fiddled around with it for a bit until he was sure that one seatmate had fallen asleep and the other was utterly engrossed in the movie. Turning the screen a bit more for better privacy, Mickey dug into his email and started some search engines working on updating his current intel folders.
The first thing that puzzled him was that Margaret Taylor had never responded to his last enquiry for more information about the Galacorte projects she’d been assigned to during Lambda’s tenure. He’d just missed visiting Doctor Taylor while in Thailand, and had vaguely planned to meet her when he returned to see Phi again, some time in the nebulous future. It seemed out of character for her to ignore a message. He tracked it, and found that it had been received, and most probably read, more than a week ago. A prickle of concern tweaked at Mickey. He sent a targeted search out into Thailand, scouring news and police and diplomatic sources.
The results scrolled out quickly, and he perused the long list with an expert’s eye. The report of a Caucasian woman killed in a traffic accident near Chang Mai made his stomach drop like sudden turbulence on the peaceful flight. The woman had been identified by clients of her clinic as Doctor Taylor. Mickey’s slightly-rusty covert operative’s instincts kicked in and he read with increasing horror the coroner’s sealed report and a classified file sent to the American Embassy. The coroner had found what looked like evidence of a gunshot wound in Doctor Taylor’s skull, but it was hard to be sure with the trauma incurred when her car had gone off a very steep road and rolled for over a hundred meters through a stand of teak.
Cold efficiency took over and Mickey fired off a string of messages, hiring a retired Mossad agent in Bangkok to investigate the death thoroughly. Elam would do a good job, and would get back to Mickey quickly and discreetly. Old spooks took care of each other when they left the service of their countries – or at least the few who were lucky enough to survive did so.
His next search came up with interesting results almost as quickly, and with even more dire implications. Three other known members of the cloning team had died recently, including one of the men who’d pursued Gamma to New Zealand. All of the deaths were ‘accidental’ in one way or another. “Well, well well,’ Mickey thought as the plane tore eastbound over the Atlantic. One questionable death was something to think about. Four, four that he knew of, was a clean-up in progress.
Someone was hunting down the Galacorte scientists. Perhaps that shot taken at their car in Mexico City hadn't been as random as he’d suspected before. Mickey’s lips tightened in a line of determination. If the scientists were being killed the clones could be targets too.
Someone wanted to play rough. Mickey could do rough. He liked it rough.
Sequel to Propehcy, which can be found here: http://www.chimerafic.com/main.htm
previous chapters of BDL can be found by clicking the Tag on my lj.
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Sixteen – Unlock A Door
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is NC-17
Angst, men fucking other men
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
NOTE 3: I’m really not trying to be hard on Disney
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Sixteen: Unlock A Door
Dominic
Upper body nearly inside the fridge, sniffing the milk suspiciously and expecting an encounter with alien cultures, Dom jumped when his phone rang. Watery, whitish low fat sloshed on his shoes as he shoved the suspect carton back and grabbed for his cell on the counter. Billy had gone to the studio for a day of voice work on Master and Commander, and even though he wasn’t due back for quite a while he could still need something from Dom. Hey…it could happen. The caller ID was a Los Angeles prefix, but no one from his phone book.
“Clancy’s Crab Shack – you need crabs, we got ‘em,” Dom answered. It never paid to let them know who you were until they gave it up first – ‘they’ being the world in general, and fangirls in specific. His fan base was small, but very inventive.
“Man U. are a bunch o’ wankers!” declared a rich Sheffield accent. “Aye, and Roonie shags grannies!”
He was pretty sure there could only be one man with sad enough taste in footie to insult the best team in Britain – the one and only Sean Bean. “Roonie just jumped yours, mate. She was beggin’ for it too!”
“You lyin’ bastard! Put down the racing forms and talk to yer old Fellowshipper.”
Dom grinned ear to ear. “Is that my dear, departed pal Boromir? Can I see your big, long sword? I hear that it’s all shiny from being polished.”
Beanie was laughing so much that he had to repeat himself twice before Dom finally understood what he was saying. “I’m asking you to come and get us at the airport, you Manky git!”
“Airport? Which airport, for Christsakes, Bean? LAX? There’s only about a hundred thousand places you could be there, you know.”
“We’re in that restaurant…the space-shippy one. They’ve gone and Disneyed it up inside. I’d get a cab, but God only knows where you fucking live now and – oh, uh, sorry ma’am…” he lowered his voice, speaking rapidly, “I’ve got an appointment tonight and nowhere to be until then. I don’t know where you’re at and I haven’t got any American money. The queue at the Bureau de Change looked mad enough to scare a hooligan.”
“Did you just get in trouble for cursing in public, you stupid fucking asshole?” Dom giggled.
“Same to you, mate. I said they’d Disneyed the place. Just come and get us, yeah?”
“All right, all right. It’ll take about twenty minutes, though. Longer if the traffic is crap or I get lost, both of which are likely. I’ll call you back when I reach the kerb.”
“Right, cheers!” Bean said.
Dom was reaching for his keys when he realized that maybe Sean hadn’t been using ‘us’ in the Royal way. Oh well, if there were too many people they just wouldn’t all fit in Astin’s – er, his – car. He scribbled ‘Gone to Gondor!’ on the back of a notice from the landlord and left it on the counter in case Billy got back early. Good thing the studio had sent a car for Boyd.
It was easily half an hour later that Dom pulled out of the solid stream of cars on the LAX loop and prayed that he wouldn’t get ticketed in the few moments it took him to hit RECALL on his phone. It hadn’t even been answered yet when Sean Bean bounded around the corner, grinning, followed closely by – God, was that really – Orlando? Since when did those two turn up, unannounced, and together? Sean took the front seat while Orlando slipped into the back. No wonder those two hadn’t wanted to hang out in the airport.
“Let’s go!” Sean said, his voice blurred as he turned to look over his shoulder, apparently making sure that Orli was good enough in back, or that they weren’t being followed by rabid fans. Dom concentrated on getting back into traffic with as few honked horns as possible. The LAX driveway was surely one of the lowest circles of hell.
Dominic had gotten as far as the stoplights at the 405 before he chanced a look in the rearview mirror and met curious eyes studying his own. He knew it instantly that it wasn't his old friend, Orli, thanks to their unusual history. “What the fuck?” Dom stammered.
‘Orlando Bloom’ had changed again, just like in New Zealand. This was a stranger!
Viggo
It had been a long, hot day on the set. As boring as being on your own movie set could get, being on someone else’s was worse. He didn’t see his opportunity until nearly dinnertime, but he was a notoriously patient man.
Viggo pushed the door shut behind him with a click, thumbing the lock and then trying the knob twice to make sure it was sound. He had no intention of being interrupted. The room was filled from wall to wall with racks and boxes and piles of costumes, the air suffused with aromas of sweat and cleaning solutions and musty cloth. Not exactly an enticing location on its own, but the fact that Orlando was standing a few feet away, preparing to strip off Will Turner’s clothing, somehow made up for the lack of atmosphere. Viggo had planned his attack well. Now all he needed was a bit of time.
“Damn sleeves,” Orli was muttering, worrying the numerous buttons on the voluminous cotton shift.
“Don’t bother with them now,” Viggo said softly, coming close enough to smell his lover’s hair as he wrapped his arms around the slim young man he’d been lusting after all day long. Orlando squeaked with surprise, trying to turn around to see if they were alone. “You’re mine now,” the Dane growled. Being in the wardrobe room made it all the sexier for being inappropriate as hell. His hands explored everything he could reach.
“We can’t,” Orlando breathed, leaning back into Viggo’s arms. Insistent, calloused fingers had already slid his unbuckled trousers down over his ass, exposing the jockstrap Orli had put on that morning when he read that they would be doing some scenes on the ship. He’d explained that whacking your nads on a random protrusion just once had taught him that necessity.
Viggo didn’t answer the protests as he pushed the pants lower, following them down to undo the buckles at the knees. Orli’s heavy woolen socks were shoved down muscular calves (didn’t these people realize they were in the fucking Caribbean sun?) and the whole rig was left in a crumpled ball. The jockstrap was tugged off more cautiously, but when it hit the floor Viggo all but tackled Orlando, landing them both in a heap atop a pile of ‘villager’ clothing.
Giggling, Orlando huffed, trying to sound scandalised – it wasn't very effective – as he began to crawl away. Viggo dragged him back, wrapping his arms around his weakly struggling partner. Those ribs were too close to the surface for his liking. He pulled at the open collar of the white shirt to brace himself as his other hand slithered around Orli’s waist to find his rapidly filling erection. He slid his grip up and down Orlando’s cock, thumbing the ultra-soft foreskin at the tip. Orli arched his back and gave a muffled cry as sensations overwhelmed him, twisting and thrusting his ass into Viggo’s crotch. That was just fine with Viggo.
Nipping and kissing at the exposed skin of Orlando’s neck, Viggo freed one hand long enough to unbutton and shove at his own jeans, getting them down sufficiently to free his bulging cock and tightening balls. He didn’t have to fist himself to hardness; Orlando’s protests and squirming had done that trick just fine.
“Someone’s going to find us,” Orli panted. “We can’t! I’m all sweaty. You’ll get us in trouble….” He managed a few kisses before falling forward onto his hands, allowing Viggo to drape himself over his back.
“It’s your movie, Puppy,” Viggo growled, pulling hard on the young man’s cock. “If you want to fuck atop the camera track they should let you.” He pushed a finger into Orli’s mouth, preventing any further protests. He’d waited several days for this chance, and he wasn’t going to let it escape any more than he was about to banish Orlando from his heart. They’d been flirting covertly all morning. Besides, Orli’s hotel room was about as inviting as a mortuary. They could just add a new degree of funk to the costume room.
“Oh…yeah,” the young man groaned as he was breached by the wet finger.
Rho
Rho took a deep breath and picked up his menu, wiggling just a bit to make sure that his thigh was in contact with Sean’s. He needed the reassurance. Dom was sitting across the table from him, staring blatantly, and with a fair bit of hostility. They were in a retro diner somewhere near Dominic’s apartment. The young man had refused to take them home or on to a hotel until the situation was explained to his satisfaction. Dom’s eyes narrowed and he asked softly, “Has something happened to Orlando again…the one from Wellington…the, uh, second one?”
“Orli’s fine, lad,” Sean said quickly. “He’s still in the Caribbean. In fact, I think Viggo’s with him.”
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
Rho breathed deep of strange smells and forced himself to maintain control of his emotions. He lifted his eyes so he could figure out what Dominic expected – what he wanted from Rho. It was an easy read, and Rho assumed a looser posture, adding a comfortable smile. “I’m a spare,” he said simply. Dom knew more than anyone expected, since he’d shared a brief mental link with Gamma before that clone had been taken. He just wanted to know the truth, and that would be the easiest thing to give him.
The young man glared back flatly, eyes angry. “A spare? Just how many of these things—uh, guys, are around?”
“Not sure,” Sean told him. “A couple more, at least.”
“I’m one of the lucky ones,” Rho said honestly.
Dom was quiet for a moment, processing the information. The waitress came around for orders, and Rho said he’d just have whatever Sean was having. He gave up the menu reluctantly – it had been covered with color pictures and he’d loved to have had time to study them. But he was working hard to suppress his excitement at being in the infamous Los Angeles with all the enticing things around him. He had to make it look like eating in a rather ordinary restaurant was completely uninteresting. He forced himself not to explore the contents of the condiments bowl or stare at the cars passing outside the big window.
“What’s your name?” Dom finally asked, actually curious, despite his misgivings.
“Rho,” the clone said with a small smile. “Or Rocoto.” Silence greeted his comment, so he added, “that’s a kind of pepper.”
“Pepper?” the Mancunian snorted. “They named you Pepper?”
“Beats a letter of the Greek alphabet,” Sean said.
Rho could only agree. He secretly longed for a real name, a real identity, and a real family to connect it all together. That was something he would never have.
Dom’s eyes narrowed again. “So, Sean, you’re going about rescuing these, uh…these lads?”
“Just this one, right now,” Bean said.
“I didn’t exactly need to be rescued,” Rho mumbled, thinking about his adopted Uncle and the natitas shop and the sleepy town of Huatulco. Okay…maybe he had needed rescuing. He peered longingly at a tray full of plates being carried past. Maybe he’d be getting one of those giant hamburgers! Sean had mumbled too much when he’d ordered. What was in the big glass full of pink and white? It looked cold. The kid who got the glass attacked it with a straw. What was the shiny bright red thing on top that the kid bit into? Was that a cherry? A plastic cherry?
Dominic was still talking to Sean, and Rho had lost track of what they were saying. He chastised himself for letting his attention wander. But they were talking so softly, and there were so many other things to hear in the bustling restaurant. A cold glass was slid in front of him and he quickly took a sip. Coca Cola? What the heck…they come all the way to California, and Sean gets him Coca Cola? Geesh, they had those in Mexico. The waitress put a paper-wrapped straw on the table and hurried away. Rho stole a glance at what the kid at that other table was drinking. Oh, great…now he was digging into it with a spoon! Rho sighed, and took another sip of his Coke. His tummy growled in sympathy. There hadn’t been anything but nasty little pretzels on the airplane and he was hungry!
“Nobody’s going to believe it,” Dom was saying, leaning back like that just ended the topic right there. “You’re not going to fool anyone. Look at him…he’s just all…wrong.”
Rho’s heart dropped in disappointment. He’d felt so confident when they’d breezed through Customs and Immigration.
Three of the waitresses and the girl from behind the register approached their table with an obvious mission. “Your lunches will be out in just a minute, gentlemen,” their waitress said. She continued quickly, like she knew she was being too bold. “But would you mind terribly if we asked for autographs?”
“Please, Mister Bloom?” the register woman begged, sliding a pen and a napkin toward Rho. Rho felt like a sand crab, revealed suddenly by someone lifting rocks at the water’s edge. But here there was no way he could scuttle sideways to escape.
“Lord of the Rings is one of my favorite movies ever!” gushed a younger girl. Several of them spoke at once, complimenting the movie and apologizing for bothering them.
Dominic snorted in derision, probably because he’d been coming to this restaurant for months and no one had recognized him yet. Rho swallowed his nervousness, and took a quick cue from Sean about how he should be responding. He spread a wide smile on his face and quickly wrote ‘Orlando Bloom’ on the first piece of paper. He slid the paper across the table to Dom and said, “You’re very lucky to have Merry, the Hero Hobbit, and Boromir of Gondor here as well.”
Their intense scrutiny quickly spread to the other men as well and Rho caught the sly, ‘I’ll get you for that’ glance that Dom sent his way before responding to questions and applying himself to signing autographs as well. Sean was drawing little ‘x’s under his name, which seemed to be a hit with the girls, so Rho added it to his next signature as well. He didn’t want to write anything else because he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t come out in Spanish, but Dom was writing several things on the now-crowded napkins and order slips, asking for names and smiling warmly.
“Cheers, ladies,” Sean said cheerfully, obviously putting an end to the autograph session before the other diners started getting any ideas. He gently grasped their waitress’s arm and asked her, “Could you bring Orlando a strawberry milkshake while you’re at it, luv?”
“Of course, Mister Boromir!” she enthused warmly, retreating backwards, like they might attack her at any minute, a grin on her face. Rho winked at her, and she actually squealed before hurrying to the kitchen.
“Bloody fucking hell,” Dom mumbled, shaking his head.
“You were saying something about how nobody would believe it?” Sean asked, patting Rho’s leg reassuringly under the table.
Orlando
He lipped the edge of the cold glass with his bottom teeth, letting the sweet and sour flavor of the fruity drink linger sharply on the sides of his tongue. No rum for this pirate – his Captain had spoken, and it hadn’t been Jack Sparrow. They were in a crowd of Disney film people, at a party that had been set up by the crew’s catering company in a courtyard at one of the little hotels. Orlando had either forgotten what they were supposed to be celebrating or he’d never been told. It was all good anyhow – didn’t matter much. He was tired and content, and his ass hurt just enough to remind him that his cowboy had been for a ride only an hour or two ago.
Mackenzie Crook was wearing a paper crown and regaling Jack and Terry (the writer) with bar jokes while their director smoked a joint on the less-than-sly and batted away a persistent moth that had taken a fancy to his left ear. Two grips were armwrestling and Geoffrey watched primly from a seat on a box in the corner, smoking what looked like one of those skinny fey cigars. Viggo was leaning against the whitewashed wall chatting in Spanish with a man who had apparently sailed down to the island on a yacht of some sort. They were arguing about some place up north called Vieques, and Viggo was shaking his head a lot. The yachtie seemed to be getting angry. Orlando looked around for Johnny, but Depp had obviously elected to amuse himself somewhere else that evening.
Johnny had been huffy recently about ‘lack of support’ from their studio. He said he was used to being odd man out in a project – but he wasn’t used to needing to fight over every nuance. Of course, it had been Johnny who’d decided to make Captain Jack as queer as a Spanish Triploon. No doubt the execs at ‘the Mouse’ were all doubling their ulcer medications.
“Feeling better?” a woman asked Orli, inviting herself into his personal space and staring at his eyes like she was studying to become on optician.
“Quite, cheers,” he said with a smile. She was drinking Rolling Rock from the bottle and had an H. Stern watch on her wrist that probably cost more than most people’s dream car. This would be one of the elusive people from the Disney home office, then. She smelled quite nice, and Orlando leaned even closer, trying to place the familiar odor. Some perfume that Liv used to wear in New Zealand, maybe? “I’m as good as gold,” he assured her, oozing charm.
“I can see that,” she purred.
He smiled his ‘good guy’ grin, with a bit of teeth, and winked.
She busied herself with tasting her drink. “The rushes have been very exciting. Bob Anderson tells me that you’re a natural with the sword, Orlando.”
He shrugged dismissively. “Nothing like Viggo, there. He took to it right off. Viggo can do about anything he sets his mind to. I’m a bit of a klutz most of the time.”
She turned her head to study the man he’d indicated. The yachtie was now gesturing angrily, his angry voice becoming the dominant sound in the room. Orlando understood enough of the conversation to realize that it was political. No doubt Viggo had said something that offended the obviously wealthy Puerto Rican.
“Of course, Viggo Mortensen. I understand that we’re giving him a ride tomorrow,” the woman said, speaking rather slowly. It seemed like she’d never seen Viggo before, and had just realized that he was also a very handsome man.
“A ride?”
“To Morocco.”
Orlando felt the floor lurch beneath him. “What?”
“On the corporate jet,” she added, eyes still glued to the Dane as Viggo tired to calm the sputtering yachtie. “We’re going to check out the Hidalgo set as well.”
“Viggo’s…leaving? So soon?” Orlando set his glass down, clenching his suddenly clammy hands together. He tried to stop the hot flush from rising to his cheeks. He couldn’t do it.
“They have another couple of days of principal filming, according to schedule.” She finally tore her gaze away from Viggo and spotted Gore, almost as if she’d forgotten that Orli was even there. “Is he smoking what I think he’s smoking? Goddamn it, Verbinski…image!” The woman stomped off in a huff, likely to see if she could get the director to put his spliff out – or at least hide it.
“Viggo’s leaving?” Orlando repeated to himself. His eyes narrowed. Viggo could have at least told him first. He could have maybe mentioned it, instead of tripping Orli up and screwing him on a pile of dirty costumes. Even afterwards…instead of muttering endearments and wiping them both clean with a pirate’s headscarf, he could have said something. Bitterness chased the sweet fruit taste right out of Orlando’s mouth.
Goddamn Viggo.
The Puerto Rican was gesturing wildly when the glass bottle in his hand exploded, like it had been crushed by some mighty grip. He jumped back from the gush of beer, shaking his fingers, surprised to see blood mixed with the dripping mess.
Viggo stared in amazement when he felt the glass in his own hand suddenly vibrate. He released his fingers just as the glass shattered. Stunned, Viggo looked up in time to see Orlando’s angry eyes across the improvised bar.
Mickey
Waving off the steward with the “chicken or beef?” entreaty, Mickey shifted uncomfortably in his middle-of-the-row seat and opened up the new laptop. He’d picked up a replacement computer in New York and had it crash installed with all the programs he thought he might be able to use. Those Burmese rubies smuggled out of Thailand had turned out to be better than he’d hoped, and even with his fence’s cut taken out he’d cleared a little over two hundred thousand dollars. But even a bit of ready operating capital hadn’t been able to snag him a first class seat on the very full flight to Frankfurt.
First order of business was to score a bit of positive karma. He started to wire-transfer twenty thousand dollar to the Tree of Blessings Orphanage in Ulaanbaatar, thought for a moment about the Mother Superior’s alarming visage, and changed it to thirty-two thousand. That ought to keep the Mongolian orphans in porridge and morality lessons for a while. The circling swarm of censorious nuns in Mickey’s own conscience nodded and backed off for a few days. He made sure that the donation would be anonymous, and filtered the money through Sean Bean’s account just in case. Let the Catholic Church harass Bean for future donations. That made Mickey grin, though it undoubtedly knocked off some of those karma points.
He changed some preferences on the computer and fiddled around with it for a bit until he was sure that one seatmate had fallen asleep and the other was utterly engrossed in the movie. Turning the screen a bit more for better privacy, Mickey dug into his email and started some search engines working on updating his current intel folders.
The first thing that puzzled him was that Margaret Taylor had never responded to his last enquiry for more information about the Galacorte projects she’d been assigned to during Lambda’s tenure. He’d just missed visiting Doctor Taylor while in Thailand, and had vaguely planned to meet her when he returned to see Phi again, some time in the nebulous future. It seemed out of character for her to ignore a message. He tracked it, and found that it had been received, and most probably read, more than a week ago. A prickle of concern tweaked at Mickey. He sent a targeted search out into Thailand, scouring news and police and diplomatic sources.
The results scrolled out quickly, and he perused the long list with an expert’s eye. The report of a Caucasian woman killed in a traffic accident near Chang Mai made his stomach drop like sudden turbulence on the peaceful flight. The woman had been identified by clients of her clinic as Doctor Taylor. Mickey’s slightly-rusty covert operative’s instincts kicked in and he read with increasing horror the coroner’s sealed report and a classified file sent to the American Embassy. The coroner had found what looked like evidence of a gunshot wound in Doctor Taylor’s skull, but it was hard to be sure with the trauma incurred when her car had gone off a very steep road and rolled for over a hundred meters through a stand of teak.
Cold efficiency took over and Mickey fired off a string of messages, hiring a retired Mossad agent in Bangkok to investigate the death thoroughly. Elam would do a good job, and would get back to Mickey quickly and discreetly. Old spooks took care of each other when they left the service of their countries – or at least the few who were lucky enough to survive did so.
His next search came up with interesting results almost as quickly, and with even more dire implications. Three other known members of the cloning team had died recently, including one of the men who’d pursued Gamma to New Zealand. All of the deaths were ‘accidental’ in one way or another. “Well, well well,’ Mickey thought as the plane tore eastbound over the Atlantic. One questionable death was something to think about. Four, four that he knew of, was a clean-up in progress.
Someone was hunting down the Galacorte scientists. Perhaps that shot taken at their car in Mexico City hadn't been as random as he’d suspected before. Mickey’s lips tightened in a line of determination. If the scientists were being killed the clones could be targets too.
Someone wanted to play rough. Mickey could do rough. He liked it rough.
no subject
no subject
Thank you .... it is winter here, so a lovely long read is absolutely necessary!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject