Part I (and on LJ)

It’s written in an experimental style for me, and, well, it’s fanfic, so pls. be kind.

Fade in from commercial as a black-haired woman aims a rifle at Eliot.

She’s wearing the same outfit as the men on the floor – black fatigues, black tank top, black jacket. She’s too slender, too weedy, to be believable as a soldier, and her hair is loose, tangled black curls everywhere. She’s aiming the rifle with military precision, though.

“Shoot me.” Eliot grunts out the challenge. “Come on, shoot me. You can’t, can’t you? You need me alive.”

“Yep.” She pulls the trigger.

Location: Their Newest Office.
Time: The next morning

“So, this is what we have. Sophie and Parker cased the bar; the bartender remembers Eliot and King going out for a smoke; King was drunk enough that he was falling all over Eliot.”

The Last Call Bar

“I have to say, they weren’t the sort that I pegged for being a little bit swish, you know, but the way the older guy was all over the younger one…” The bartender sits down on one of his own stools. “Sorry, ma’am. You said the old guy was your husband?”

“Ex.” Sophie’s persona snips the word off. “My ex-husband. And his boyfriend, you say? Well, that certainly explains a lot about him and his poker games.”

Gambling debt explains a lot. The bartender nods. “Men do stupid things when they’re trying to hide things, ma’am. I’m awfully sorry. It’s just, he ran out on a tab…”

The Office.

“And Parker found in the back…”

Parker dumps a bag onto the table; cigarette butts and matches fall onto the table. “This isn’t the interesting part, unless you find it interesting how many cheap cigarettes people smoke. No, this is.” With thick gloves on, she extracts a single needle-tip from an envelope. She sets it down on top of the envelope and adds a spent cartridge.

“Tranq. He was tranqued.“ Hardison glares at the dart as if it’s offended him. “Shit.”

“And King?” Nate is staring at the needle, too. “Concrete facts, Hardison. King?”

“As far as we can tell, he’s missing, too.”

Somewhere in Tír na Cali

Eliot comes to in a glass box; the box is only big enough for him to sit in. His hands are shackled behind his back, his ankles cuffed together, and the metal collar he is wearing is thick and clunky-looking.

There is a man we haven’t seen before in the cell to his left; in the cell to his right sits an uncomfortable-looking Brendan King. Both are wearing the same sort of plastic collar that Eliot was earlier sporting; neither are handcuffed.

A gorgeous redhead strides into view, her heels clicking loudly on the floor.

Cut to Commercial.

Part IV (and on LJ)

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