The Late-Night Ride of Reliable Media

 Chapter 15: A Late-Night Ride of Reliable Media

It’s a cold, dark street. Max is astride on her motorcycle with Media slumped behind her, unconscious and bound. She maneuvers the bike to the curb, downshifts, and comes to a stop. With practiced ease, she retrieves a switchblade from her jacket and frees Media's hands from their bonds.

As Media regains consciousness, confusion and panic grip him. He scrambles to his feet, disoriented and terrified at finding himself outside. His voice trembles with fear as he realizes his predicament.

"Oh my God - I'm outside. This bitch has got me outside," Media exclaims, his panic palpable as he staggers around in a frenzy.

Max observes him with annoyance and concern, muttering to herself as she witnesses his erratic behavior.

"What have I gotten myself into," she laments, her frustration evident as she watches Media's frantic movements.

Media's distress intensifies as he struggles to catch his breath, clutching at his chest and gasping for air. Max, unfazed by his hysteria, calmly hands him a paper bag from a nearby trash can, instructing him to breathe into it.

"Breathe in this," Max orders, her voice firm as she guides him through the process of calming down.

As Media's breathing stabilizes, he shoots Max a hateful glare, his resentment evident in his expression.

"You evil little witch," he sneers, his animosity boiling to the surface.

Max, undeterred by his hostility, asserts herself, warning him against any further aggression.

"I don't want to hurt you. I want you to help me find my friends. Swing at me again, I'll turn you into a eunuch," she threatens, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Media, chastened by Max's warning, recoils, and attempts to regain his composure. But his defiance soon gives way to nausea, and he doubles over, retching onto the pavement.

Max approaches him, her demeanor serious as she confronts him head-on.

"You're pathetic. How much will this cost me?" she demands, her voice tinged with frustration.

Media, feigning innocence, attempts to evade her question, but Max sees through his facade.

"I've got a rich benefactor. Do you want to deal, or do I ride off into the sunset and leave your scared ass here?" she challenges, her resolve unshaken.

Media hesitates but ultimately acquiesces, a sly smile creeping onto his face as he recognizes an opportunity for profit.

"I'll take that stupid expression on your face as a yes," Max declares, her gaze unwavering as she commands him to mount the bike.

With Media reluctantly seated behind her, Max revs the engine and speeds off into the night, determined to uncover the truth behind Media's involvement with the mysterious army man named Lydecker.

Max continues along the dimly lit streets of Sunkiss Park. She navigates the motorcycle with a cautious yet determined demeanor. Media, still seated behind her, is visibly tense, his eyes squeezed shut in fear as he clings tightly to her waist. Max, feeling his grip, reprimands him with a slap on the hands.

"You're holding on a little too tight," she admonishes, her voice firm but not unkind.

Media responds with a mischievous grin, reveling in the proximity to Max.

"Hey, this is your gig. I'm just along for the ride," he retorts, his tone tinged with amusement.

Unamused by his response, Max issues a warning, her voice laced with a hint of menace.

"If you don't move your hands three inches lower, the only thing you'll be riding is a rope tied to the back of my bike," she threatens, her words carrying a weight of seriousness.

Media, recognizing the gravity of her warning, quickly complies, adjusting his grip and shifting his hands away from her waist.

Max steered the bike to the curb, her eyes squinting as she scanned the area, her senses sharp and alert. She held a finger to her lips, silencing Media, who obediently fell quiet. Listening intently, Max picked up on voices nearby, their tones disdainful.

"This place is disgusting. How do people live like this?" one voice remarked, prompting another to reminisce about Mexico City's post-riot conditions. Max, now fully attentive, maneuvered the motorcycle, her movements deliberate and calculated.

"Soldiers! Two of them. But I know there's more. They're like roaches," Max whispered, her voice low but firm, as she prepared to navigate the bike through the darkened streets.

Media, still unable to discern the soldiers, questioned Max's observation. "I don't see soldiers. What drugs have you been taking?" he quipped, but Max's stern expression silenced any further doubt. With a determined twist of the throttle, the motorcycle surged forward.

In the bivouac area of Sunkiss Park, soldiers stood guard, one diligently scanning the surroundings with a flashlight while the other, more relaxed, indulged in a cigarette. Their peace was shattered when Lydecker approached, his presence commanding immediate attention.

"Soldier?" Lydecker's voice cut through the night, causing the relaxed soldier to spin around in alarm, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Lydecker wasted no time reprimanding him, swiftly knocking the cigarette away and delivering a stern warning about the dangers of smoking in the field.

As the relaxed soldier hurried off, Lydecker turned his attention to the remaining soldier, Gung Ho Soldier Wilson. Assigning him a reconnaissance mission to the stadium, Lydecker emphasized the importance of stealth and cautioned against engagement with the enemy. With a crisp salute, Wilson acknowledged the orders and set off to carry them out.

Meanwhile, Max and Media navigated the darkened streets, their destination looming in the distance: the decrepit and dilapidated stadium. Max's reaction upon seeing it mirrored Media's own sense of dismay.

"Is that it?" Max's incredulous question hung in the air as they came to a sudden stop. Media, still reeling from his own discomfort, tentatively confirmed the sight before them.

"Yup, that's it. Can we please get indoors for a minute? I think I'm going to throw up again," Media pleaded, his voice laced with unease.

Max wasted no time, dismounting the bike and instructing Media to watch over it while she headed towards the stadium. As Media scanned the area for shelter, he spotted the neon lights of a nearby bar. His relief was short-lived, however, as Wilson and another soldier emerged from the establishment, casting suspicious glances his way.

Caught off guard, Media found himself frozen in the middle of the street, his guilt palpable. Wilson's sharp eyes bore into him, recognition dawning on his face as he leveled his weapon, commanding Media to halt. Caught between fear and desperation, Media only requested shelter and protection from the looming storm.