Chapter 74S: Reenactmental

DOUBLE FEATURE! Been a while since I’ve done one of these, but as I finished the first chap and got on the second, I thought they thematically fit really well. So after multiple rewrites of the two chaps, I mushed them into one. Sorry for the slight delay because of this decision, and enjoy reading a nice long action-packed one that’ll hopefully last your entire trip to the loo!

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Chapter 74S: Reenactmental

Bourne Wood, Surrey UK. July 2012.

“Who lives in a pineapple under the sea~?” Flipped-over like a pineapple upside-down cake, I found myself in favourable, familiar circumstances.

Even though the new surroundings made me a fish out of water. “Bas, if you could, you know–not? This isn’t the type of choreography that requires a soundtrack.” What a tragedy that the pesci production staff, unused to me as yet, seemed prepared to drop me on deck to flop like a fish. 

I clamped my mouth shut with an audible click of my teeth, ditching my pitchy performance, and went back to idly swinging while hitched to the wires I‘d been stitched into. 

As I dangled bonelessly, my arms sunk above me and gravity took hold of my head, too. 

Maybe it was the blood pooling in my noggin, but as my line-of-sight shifted downward, I got hit with serious déjà vu.

Ocean-blue eyes set as two oases haloed in the middle of glimmering sand-gold tresses. Blushed, sweat-soaked skin shone, as droplets of perspiration hooked my gaze across a pair of heaving, glossy baps. 

Big ones, too. “Just so you’re aware, mate. Disney’s super sensitive about anything that can get them in hot water—and the way you’re looking at me right now has me worried I’m due an appointment at the Ob/Gyn. Which I’m pretty sure is skirting sexual harassment.” 

The nostalgia goggles were unceremoniously ripped off my face; as was my salacious grin. 

I had intimate knowledge of Léa Seydoux’s full vocal range—highs, lows, squeals, and moans. And the deep Aussie burr nowhere near fit the bodacious bill. 

This wasn’t the mid-air meet-cute I’d had with Léa on the set of Goblet. And neither was this set comparable to any I’d had on Harry Potter. No elaborate designs, no mechanical marvels (as ironic as that sounded) like the Triwizard maze; not even the courtesy of basic props to help us actors orient within this barren space.

Everything was green. 

Studios recently were committing grave injustices by culling genuine imagination because of computer-generated insurrection. 

Everything was artifice.

Things weren’t the same, regardless of how anything appeared on the surface. Envy of my past was only natural. 

An emotion I ought to be careful with considering I’ve spent this entire too long ruminating over two blondes besides the one I’m ostensibly dating. The cameras didn’t need to be rolling, nor did the sound system need to be plugged in for eavesdroppers to collect their ill-gotten evidence. 

These walls didn’t just have CG eyes.

I’m not proud of it, but the fact very much was that I’d begun an affair almost immediately after landing on set. We’d worked together before so many, many times. What I’d done to Elsa was unforgivable, I knew. But her embrace wasn’t one I could ever escape.

And even if it was only the grainy handy cams capturing BTS for posterity, I’d learnt long ago that they often caught footage in greater clarity than the HD cameras used for proper filming. 

This couldn’t get out to the tabloids.

Hmm… best take cue from my light-headedness, and act dense. “I’m sorry, it’s just… you look so much like my Swedish supermodel girlfriend. Uncanny, really. This long-distance relationship thing is taxing. I’m glad you’re within arm’s reach—and what arms they are!”

Chris Hemsworth became rather green in the gills upon hearing that. “Someone get him down from there before I’m the one spewing sick all over this set!”

What main character wants, main character gets. At his highness’ demand, the stunt crew brought me low with grunts and squeaky pulleys. 

Thor, thus far, had turned out to be an altogether novel experience compared to my past projects. Well… I say novel, but I reckon my role’s about as thick as a pamphlet, to be honest. Not Malekith the character itself, I referred more to my general level of involvement on set. 

Two dudes rushed under me, arms out wide ready to catch me before my head could meet the perfectly safe foam-padded floor. I rendered them redundant by spinning myself upright into a practised rappel. “Please let us do our jobs, Mr. Rhys.”

“Never!”

Throughout my career, I’d made the effort, and had been generously granted permission, to stretch my legs beyond the confines of my caravan. Filming, editing, financing, art, and production over-and-above acting alone. Valuable knowledge and skills I’d painstakingly earned across the majority of my movies were indispensable in providing me with the confidence to produce Limitless and exercise my repertoire to the fullest. Here, though, for the first time in years, the scope of my abilities was restricted to the bare minimum. 

Instead of the king of the castle with free rein, I was relegated to the pampered prince who wasn’t allowed to wipe his own derriere. “Hrk–c’mon–son of a–why does this blasted thing always insist on staying stuck on you?” I T-posed, like the NPC they wanted me to be, as the pair of production staff wrangled the reinforced canvas wrapped around my torso.

The harness—Nessy, I nicknamed her—jealously bit into my skin as they jostled me about in a staccato of clinking carabiners. But my forevermore secret paramour refused to relinquish her loving hold. 

My love, I understand, but you must too–the world is not ready for our rampant romance. 

I stroked a gentle hand over the stubborn straps. “Ah! There we go!” The caress finally allowed the crew to unclasp. “Sorry, Bas. But I think we need to pause any wirework for a bit. Need to fix our equipment to behave before we can risk you in any accidents. Gonna have to ground you until we sort this out. You can take the rest of the day off if you wish.” 

Shaking my head no, “Nah, I’m cool. Don’t have it in me to just fart around.” I rolled my shoulders and began limbering as I decided what to do next. “Oi, Hemsworth! What say you and I do some more fight co-ordination? Let’s give the folks at home something more dynamic than just black clouds of gas pushing a god to-and-fro.” 

Eagerly hefting the tetris piece with a wii strap that substituted as Mjolnir, Chris tossed it, spun it, and caught it while pointing it at my face. Good balance, and deceptively weighted to ensure Chris’ biceps bulge whenever he wielded it. “Been at this for three films now, so don’t cry if I bash you, yeah?” 

“Right back at’cha!” I cracked my knuckles and punched my palm. “It’s clobberin’ time!”

“It most certainly isn’t! And Bas, you can’t say that. We don’t have the license for it. Please don’t make Marvel fire me before we’ve even had our first scene filmed.” Alan Taylor, our director, rushed in alongside Gary Powell, who served as the head of the stunt team. 

“It’s fine. Lawyers aren’t on set since we haven’t started filming. I say, let ‘em have at it. Bas knows what he’s doing—has since he was a nipper.” Gary, who, much like every stunt coordinator I’ve ever worked with, was a buff bald bloke in a too-tight tee. Which shouldn’t come as too much of a shock, considering he was the same person who’d been walloping me with prop reptiles since I was twelve. “Remember the Basilisk, Bas? We’re aiming for that level of refinement, but that first requires I see what you both are capable of. Get those fists swinging and don’t worry about any bruises—we’ve a robust makeup department to hide any damage.” 

Legal blinds closed and signal given, Chris and I unhesitantly commenced roughhousing to workshop our glorious final battle. Although probably best to pretend this whole thing wasn’t a glorified pillow fight—purely for cinematic value’s sake, of course.

Chris wasted no time and brought down his foam hammer. He leapt the short distance between us with a dramatic swing down. 

His attack whiffed. Partially because he wasn’t actually aiming to connect, and partly since I’d taken advantage of his sloppy form to pivot on my leg and sidestep. It sailed in front of my face with a pronounced cut of wind. I grinned at him smugly with a tilt of my head as he stumbled on his footing a bit. 

I was all teeth. He pursued with a challenging gnash of his own.

Chops, slashes, jabs, and kicks were combo’d out in the signature Thor style Chris has slowly developed over the years. I breezily dodged everything without taking any rebuttal shots. 

Initially, I fell into my taekwondo rhythm with sharp hops, precise footwork, and firm forms. But as I warmed up and oriented myself deeper into character—as well as on Gary’s salient advice. “Too elegant, Bas. You’re a half-insane space elf who’s been driven loony over millennia. Go crazy!” I began loosening my body and tightening my performance. 

My joints were the first I let go of. Hunched over with a slight slouch, my arms dangled lifelessly beside me and swayed with any and every minute motion. I injected my moves with otherworldly grandeur by emphasising the effort I put into arching at unnatural angles. 

Literally bending over backwards as I twisted and contorted my body in hyperbolic parabolas. 

Refusing to be outdone, Chris began exaggerating his actions as well. Swirling on his heels, revealing his back, and then completing the circle with broad swipes of his prop hammer. 

Too flashy, too easy. I didn’t merely see it; I watched the entire movie-length it took Chris to complete his motion, leaving the gaping opening at his side. Dip. Foam whipped precariously close to the back of my skull as I purposely leaned into the attack and darted square into his zone of personal space. The muscles in my arm engaged again. I stabbed clawed fingers directly into his exposed underarm, and coochie-coo’d his waxed pits. I wasn’t actually gonna hurt the guy.

Well, maybe except his pride a little. “Oi—! That’s not right!” He retaliated with a reflexive slash as he flinched away from the tickle. 

In a manoeuvre that would’ve seen me relegated to a wheelchair had I been any less flexible, I almost snapped my spine as I limbo’d beneath him. Poised in the stereotypical gymnastics bridge pose, I planted both palms on the ground, kicked my feet off, and flipped into a handstand. 

Certain that popping him with a sweet chin music would have Feige storming into the ring to tag team my rump along with the insurance adjuster, I prevented my heel from making any contact. 

The proximity still caused Chris to stumble backwards. I casually somersaulted back onto ten toes. 

“Taking it up a notch, are we?” Hemsworth found his lost footing after a few paces, pinched the tether of his prop, and windmilled it. 

“We can get spinny, if you like.” Stanced with my lead leg stomped forward, I judged the distance between Chris and me was generous enough to allow me to pull off something with a tad more acrobatic flair. I jumped, compressed every fibre of strength in my obliques, and twirled mid-air with my trailing leg folded back ready for a scythe kick.

Ecstatic, startled, bewildered, terrified, then resigned. 

Those were the precise sequence of expressions that played across not Chris’ face, but mine. Hemsworth just had ‘Oh, shit!’ stamped across his forehead instead. Mostly because as he spooked at my erratic athletics, his grip on the wii strap slipped and it careened towards my gorgeous moneymaker for a bullseye hit. 

Funny. As my three-sixty rotation slowly finished revolving, I followed the hammer’s trajectory. Had I worried a little less about potentially getting too close to Chris, the prop would’ve missed me. Safety precautions became my undoing.

Instead, I ate a faceful of irony—and I wasn’t talking about fake Mjolnir. 

No cartilaginous crunch—wumph!—but even a cushion at velocity impacting your beak at the wrong angle can rupture a blood vessel. It’s just physics, and as a result, I was in sudden desperate need of a physician. 

My hands instinctively cupped my face. “Fu—!” Curse aborted, I clenched my teeth with steely grit—or that very well may have been the taste of hot metallic blood flowing in rivulets over my lips from my streaming nostrils. I’ll just blame it on the wind getting knocked out of me as I crashed onto the padded floor, I think. 

Not that it mattered, though. Plenty of panicked swearing exploded from the onlookers to compensate. 

Ignoring the sting, I attempted to prop myself up, until a pair of hands clutched my shoulders and gently pinned me back down. “Sorry, mate. Probs best you stay down and wait for the first aid kit, yeah? Took a serious knackering just then.” 

Ignoring the stinging sensation, I blinked away the tears that pricked at the edge of my ducts as I peered at a stammering Chris from between the gaps in my fingers. My peripheral vision also caught scrambling; at least Fedex was only mildly exasperated 

This was a tenuous situation that could spell the end of any personal stunt work. I sincerely believed that Nessy would sooner see whatever poor bloke they duped into becoming my body double die—or at the very least, horribly crippled. Basically, nobody else but me need take fault for my falls—especially those who were merely watching me be a prat on set. I was my own responsibility. 

Also, I really didn’t want anyone taking my fun away. 

I assessed the relative position we were in; Chris hovered over me and held me down, as I bled underneath him. Prime superhero battle fodder, in my opinion. Let’s continue the charade. The show, after all, must go on.

“Peek-a-boo!” Quickly fanning my palms open, I jump-scared Chris. Who, witnessing whatever obscene visage I currently had, revealed I likely would need to roam around with a mask for a while. I clutched his forearms, tucked my knees to my chest, placed my feet on his hips, and vaulted him overhead. 

“You—gah—cunt!” My supine suplex slammed him above my head with a satisfying wheeze. “We’re defo gonna have to put some variation of that move in the film! But—ungh… I reckon I’ll let my stuntman sub in.”

Before I could devolve into cackles, a shadow fell across my bleeding face. 

Gary, one hand on his hip with the other scraping his scalp, loomed nervously over the both of us. “I…er, think that’s us done for the day…” Which was quite the one-eighty from his days coaching me in the little-leagues of stuntery. In times past, he was the one urging me to get back on that horse (animatronic snake) no matter how many times I fell. 

A line of thought that sparked another retrospective response from me. “You wish!”

“—I do!” See? Even Chris was committing. 

“No way I’m letting a bucket of bolts defeat me!” God of thunder, innit? 

Gary, Chris, Alan, and the rest of the production staff appeared on the verge of an aneurysm when I said that. However, considering I was the one with the nosebleed, the attending medical tech attended to me first with a bundle of gauze and an ice pack to stem the flow. 

“That’s absolutely the point of the fight, Bas. You’ll have to lose—but rest assured, I’m putting the shite you pull in the movie. No question about it, it looked phenomenal before you got clocked. Adding our digital aftereffects will further enhance the sequence. But I think we can all use a break.” 

As the med tech helped prop me up onto my feet, I was prepared to lodge a nasally complaint. But my nose wasn’t the only place that was getting stuffed with cotton. Fedex approached and occupied my mouth with my phone’s receiver.

Had she already called Anita or someone? “What kind of Olympic-record tattling is this?” 

She shook her head in denial. “Coincidence. I have not had the opportunity to snitch on you yet. I will do so afterwards.” With that blatant admission, I had no choice but to answer the phone.

“Hullo?” I moved away from the crowd for some privacy, as well as so that my personal nurse could clean me up.

“Given what little context I could cotton on to, am I to assume you’re causing headaches again? Some things never change, do they?” I recognised the posh voice on the other end instantly. “What is it this time? Subterfuge? Injuries? You really must take better care of yourself, Bas!” Well, would you listen to that? Another blue-eyed, blonde-haired blast from the past.

Unlike my schnoz, Elsa really couldn’t catch a break, could she? JK Rowling was rather stiff competition when she was demanding my attention. 

“The latter. Mite hypocritical coming from you, though, eh? We have a fairly sordid history if you’ve forgotten.” 

“I haven’t. So you can stop waggling that pinky at me.” How did she know!? “Don’t need you spraining it like anything else you’ve apparently broken, since I’m requesting use of it again soon—this time, for queen and country.”

As Jo described the offer she’d been tasked with relaying to me, I was grateful that the filming for Thor was within London. Accessibility was key in not interfering with adding something more to my schedule. Not like I was ever gonna say no to more wirework, I had precious little to do as it is. 

–

Hall H, San Diego Convention Center. July 2012.

If my current predicament were an album, I’d title it ‘Greatest Hits’, because the old hits didn’t stop coming. Disney and Marvel execs were doing their damndest to recreate my comic-con viral successes.

From Tokyo’s underground drift scene to the Hogwarts Express, Disney wanted to utilise my hype-train template by using me for a surprise reveal. Their tactic to boost the appeal of the back-to-back Marvel panel at SDCC showcasing both Iron Man 3 followed by Thor: The Dark World.

“Look how they treat me now—a pariah unfit for wider society! My nose may be in a right state, but it doesn’t mean I have leprosy, you know? Why keep me apart from anybody when facial injuries aren’t contagious? The other cast shan’t require neither nipping nor tucking just because I’m around them.” I didn’t know why I bothered complaining out loud; I was almost entirely alone. 

Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t a masochist. Denial play wasn’t on my roster of proclivities—cosplay was, though. 

Therefore, Disney sequestering me behind layers of black backstage curtains at comic-con, without so much as a fake moustache, was agony. I was being myself by myself, while the rest of the Thor cast got to enjoy each other’s presence in the anteroom on the other side of the stage from me. “I—I’m s—sorry, Mr. Rhys. But we’re not allowed to leak even an inkling of a s—spoiler.” All I had for company was a studio PA, too anxious to speak without stuttering, monitoring me; and a brown paper bag filled with a light snack. 

Mercifully, my isolation was interceded by a familiar face. “Ya’ know, I remember I was the one who gave you the whole D.A.R.E. anti-drug campaign, and everything. But I know a guy who can score some grade-A uppers. Never thought Bas Rhys, of all crazy people, would need a pick-me-up.”

“Abandoned all your adoring fans to kick me while I’m down, Downey?” RDJ waltzed into my corner of the prison block dressed in his own Disney-curated jumpsuit. A regular three-piece at a glance, but closer inspection revealed Iron Man’s iconic gold and red colouring—oh, and the plastic light-up toy glove no doubt on sale at Disney parks for more money than even my billions could afford. 

“Hey! My half of this shindig’s almost done. Someone’s gotta ensure you haven’t slipped the leash and somehow turn this whole thing sideways. It’s why Feige stuck you far away back in the nosebleeds.” He flippantly gestured at the bandage across my bridge. 

“You don’t give me nearly enough credit. Sideways is so pedestrian, I’m far more inclined to flip topsy-turvy.”

A genuine grin that actually scrunched RDJ’s eyes with crow’s feet split his polished PR facade. “Ping—!”

“—Fucking pong!” I stood up from my piddly stool and clasped his outstretched hand, which then brought us into a back-thumping hug. 

“Man, you and I are so simpatico. Totally missed our back-and-forth banter from our days in the tropics. If I’d known you’d be squeezing into the multicoloured spandies beforehand, I’d have advocated for you to get on my movie instead.”

I shrugged as we separated. “Preferences aside, my schedule would’ve been an insurmountable obstacle, anyway. Wouldn’t have mattered, though. I’d wager I’d be hidden here waiting to be unmasked as the villain whether it was this movie or yours.” 

“Is that what’s got you moping?”

“I guess—I dunno…recently, everything’s had this inescapable veneer of repetition. Like someone shoved me in a washing machine, put on a spin cycle, then told me I’m in a spaceship hurtling through galaxies. But I know damn well I haven’t moved an inch. I’m just staring at a view that’s a swirl of colours that’s remained unchanged for ages.” 

RDJ’s eyebrows poked above the rim of his fancy sunglasses. “Wow, sport… uh, maybe I should have you introduce me to your dealer. That’s heavy shit, Bas. Still, gotta admit, I understand it, too. Hasn’t been a handful of years yet, but I have this sinking feeling in my gut that I’m gonna be part of this dog and Tony show forever. I stay appreciative though, mind you. Thunder and my first Marvel feature in the same calendar year completely revitalised my career. Look no further than Avengers. You seen the box office on that beast? I’m gonna surpass your popularity for the first time this millennium!” 

Narrowing my eyes, I consulted quick mental maths. Today was the thirteenth of July, so… “give it a couple days.”

“Yeah. Sure, buddy!” He rolled his eyes at my perceived overconfidence. “Point being, in our glam industry you’ve got two choices: steady and stagnant but with a stable paycheque incrementally getting fatter. Or volatile and fun, but with the risk of failure.” Downey pursed his lips in affected irritation and tried to flick my visibly swollen nose. “Or the ever-present peril of self-inflicted violence, in your case.”

“Gamble either way. The cost is sanity or success. No in-betweens, huh?” 

“Those only exist if you demean yourself with daytime television. Don’t expect me to watch a single episode of any soap opera, regardless of how many Emmys you win. But let’s drop the mushy stuff already. I pay my dentist well above market rate to keep my whites pearly—don’t want cavities. Especially since I’m still on the clock until the next batch of comic book nerds are fielded into the hall.” He whipped out a sharpie from his pocket and jabbed it at the area beyond my curtained cell. “Stragglers out there paid extra for an exclusive autograph sesh. Whaddaya say you stretch your legs and join me? Exercise might cheer you up.”

“W—wait! He can’t—!”

I waved off the PA’s urgent concern. “Yeah, yeah. I know Feige’s M.O. and hard-on for spoilers. Sorta defeats the purpose of my being here.” 

“So? This is comic-con, baby. You can’t walk ten feet without tripping over a costume. Slap one on, and no one’s gonna know it’s you. ‘Sides, with me as your chaperone, who’s honestly gonna care about anyone on my tailcoats? Better hurry, though. My contract stipulates I only have to do this for ten minutes.” 

Itching to disrupt the monotony, I agreed without a second thought. “Gimme.” Stealing RDJ’s marker, I upended the sandwich in my snack pack, and drilled two peepholes through the brown paper. Finishing with a smiley on the bottom, and a scribbled epithet across the forehead to display exactly what this disguise was supposed to be.

“Bag Rhys? Seriously? You sure they’re gonna fall for that?” 

Slipping my head inside the mayonnaise-scented paper, I nodded with full confidence. “Hiding in plain sight always works like a charm. No way anyone’d believe I’m actually this stupid. Joke’s on them!” 

“Cool. Then what are we waiting for, Scooby-Doo?” He made for the exit.

I buoyantly followed. “Nothing anymore. Let’s meddle with some kids!” 

“Phrasing—better yet, zip it!” 

I did exactly that. Acting the silent sentinel as RDJ roamed through throngs of pit-stained geeks creaming themselves over his signature. Half of whom had the undried ink streaking off when they worshipfully brushed their clammy palms over the autographs.

Few put me under any level of scrutiny. Except for an apparent superfan of mine, who eagerly showed off her me-themed tat sleeve when she assumed I was a kindred spirit with the same celebrity obsession.

A real pity I couldn’t sign anything for her without giving the game away. But once my walkabout reprieve had finished, and it was my turn to expose myself on stage, I vowed to make it up to her somehow. “And as a special comic-con exclusive surprise! Officially announcing our showstopper villain, put your hands together for—the man, the myth, the legend, himself—Bas Rhys!”

Feige wanted a simpler entrance. Walk over, wave like a royal, and bask in the whooping ambiance before taking a seat with the rest of the cast for the Q&A. 

On reflection, however, that just wasn’t true to me. 

Bewildered, startled, then ecstatic, in that order. The uproarious audience’s response when I, as Bag Rhys, trotted into the spotlight. Yanked the bag off my face a tad violently, twinging my nose. And gave the people my patented Bas Rhys monologue by making an entire show of myself.

Amidst the chaos I caused, I found my gawping fanatic and tossed her my mask as a memento. She snatched it out of thin air, and buried her face in it to take a huge whiff. “Well, that’s certainly one way to drink me in…” She expertly fought off all other rabid paws reaching to purloin her prize.

Creepy, but I didn’t begrudge her an honest reaction. A damned sight better than the manufactured shock of my co-stars.

Ultimately, my own methods manifested the mishigas studios so desperately craved. And if the price being paid for it was a modicum of pain on (and in) my own end, so be it. 

If I was gonna create eruptions, I’d much rather face Pompeii than paper-mache.