Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 2: Worth Two in the Bush [HE]

Let me get something completely clear before recounting what exactly happened to Hayes and I in Quiche, Guatemala this afternoon. I have no control over what happens in Hayes' life; I have no control over his decisions, values, or aspirations. I have no control whatsoever, not even an inkling of leverage. I see what he sees, I hear what he hears, I smell, taste, and feel the same as he. The unfortunate truth is that I'm just a passenger within a host, and like any parasite, there's an effect on the carrier. Sometimes, my presence causes him to fall out of this dimension, and sometimes, he doesn't land on his feet.

We're both quite uncoordinated in that respect, really. It's not my fault. It's not anyone's fault. If anything, it ought to be SHADR's fault for not coming up with some fancy gadget to prevent the little mishaps he's had throughout the years, and I know he shares the same sentiment every time he comes crashing back to Mother Earth in the most inconvenient ways possible. I know he's thinking of it now as he hacks lazily through the jungle, feeling the familiar tingle of another world tempting him through the threshold.

Then again, to him, that may also just be sweat and heat prickling at his back. It's hard to tell the difference. I, on the other hand, know exactly what it means, but what use is that? I'm silenced.

It's a lonely existence.

"Tell me again why we couldn't just climb down a fancy little ladder from a helicopter and be there already?" he pants, back held at a slouch as he fumbles for a water bottle strapped to his pack. "We're a busy crowd, yeah? My idea could've saved us at least two hours of hiking. And a lot of wat-" He cuts himself off, waterfalling the liquid, now lukewarm, into the back of his throat. Some of it misses and dribbles down his chin, but he hardly cares anymore. To hell with decency and resourcefulness. He works in research, not archaeology. He works in development, not the "let's see who can take the most heat the longest" department. Combat wins, hands down. God. If it weren't for the health insurance, hoo, they'd be hearing it-

Someone quite attractive glances at him through the corner of his eye, and he gives him his full attention as the man opens his mouth. Alright, keep your rubber dick in your pants, Host. "We couldn't risk interfering with the energy signature. Better safe than sorry, Hayes."

"At this point, I'd rather be sorry." Is that humor? A hint of sexual tension? Whatever it's supposed to be, it's lost in breathy muttering. Thank goodness for that. Best to stomp this where it stands, Host.

The other man shakes his head and picks up the pace, leaving Hayes behind with the other drained slowpokes. A particular disappointment flushes through his chest and he casts his eyes down to the vague dirt path that the others've trampled into existence, distracting himself with where to step. He should be distracted. There's plenty here to overwhelm him, and the more he absorbs, the more I absorb, and while that doesn't really help anyone, I like knowing where we are.

On either side of us thrives overgrowth and canopies of emerald, ferns and leaves reaching out to wipe the sweat from his exposed skin, to tickle his ankles. He knows they're just leaves, too, and yet he continues to actively flinch away from their touch, as if they mean to hurt him. In another world, maybe, but here? This dimension is built for fragile children. Throw them into an alternate reality and see how they fare, that's my pitch.

Still, the lot of us carry on. Hayes has lifted his chin by now, caught in the wonders of afternoon light playing through the leaves and catching on the colorful feathers of birds shooting between them. There's movement and noise everywhere, and the combat team up ahead takes no expense in diverging from the path if need be. Hayes drinks it in like sweet nectar through his parted lips, and-

-and there's a taste of something else in the air. A sparse and distinct burning. It settles on his wet tongue.

He furrows his brows and moves forward, about to tap good 'ole Pierre on the shoulder to let him know of this discovery (as he typically does with any news, be it significant or not - "I once held a snake, y'know, didn't even flinch," said once over reading through data on solar flares). However, there's a parting in the path up ahead, and as the jungle or whatever it is parts away to what could be a semi-clearing, he catches sight of sandy rock, too tall, too squared off despite being dulled by age, to just be a regular old boulder. The light catches on whatever this is, too, and throws its rays onto a conglomeration of dust floating off the surface of whatever this thing is.