The sleek, almost sterile interior of the SkyTrain car hummed, a stark contrast to the drizzle outside and the cacophony of early morning Vancouver. G.I. Joe, all quiet competence in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that somehow still hinted at combat readiness, stood sentinel by the doors. His gaze was fixed forward, but his peripheral vision, finely honed over decades of protecting people from everything from paparazzi to actual projectiles, registered every twitch.
Across from him, in a quad of seats, the unlikeliest of travel companions were attempting a semblance of normal.
Gwyneth Paltrow, radiating an aura of crisp linen and expensive organic green juice, sat ramrod straight. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant ponytail. She clutched a minimalist, logo-free tote bag as if it contained ancient scrolls and her last shred of patience. Her eyes, however, kept darting to her left, where Corey Feldman was currently engaged in what could only be described as a one-man mime show involving an invisible skateboard.
Corey, wearing a slightly-too-shiny track suit and a baseball cap askew, was oblivious. He popped and locked in his seat, his hands tracing imaginary ollies and kickflips. He hummed a jaunty, off-key tune. “Woo! Almost landed that 720 McTwist, brah! Totally radical.”
Gwyneth’s jaw was so tight, Joe half-expected it to fracture. She let out a small, almost inaudible sigh, a whisper of a sound designed to convey extreme discomfort without actually complaining.
Joe’s voice, a low rumble, cut through the train’s hum and Corey’s phantom skateboarding. “Ms. Paltrow. Mr. Feldman. Next stop, Rupert.”
Corey immediately stopped, beaming. “Rupert! Awesome! You know, G.I., this ‘safety in numbers’ thing? Genius! I feel like we’re a real squad. Like the Goonies, but, like, older and with less treasure.” He winked at Gwyneth. “No offense, Gwen, but you’re definitely Brand. You know, sophisticated, classy. I’m more like Mouth.”
Gwyneth finally broke. Her voice, usually so smooth and modulated, had a razor’s edge. “Corey, darling, with all due respect to your… unique insights, could we perhaps… maintain a slightly lower profile? We are traveling to a studio. Anonymity is key for the creative process.”
Corey’s smile faltered only slightly. “Oh! Right. Anonymity. My bad. It’s just… I get so stoked about the craft, you know? The art.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Joe here was just telling me about Madonna and the Moshiach. Wild stuff, right? He thinks she totally conjured him up, and now he’s probably living in one of these new medium-density units in East Van, just waiting for his big reveal.”
Gwyneth stared at Joe, then back at Corey, her expression a complex mixture of disbelief and utter exasperation. “G.I. Joe. Did you truly discuss the eschatological implications of Madonna’s Kabbalah practice with Mr. Feldman on this public conveyance?”
Joe met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “Ma’am. My job is to ensure the safety and reasonable psychological well-being of all parties under my protection. Mr. Feldman expressed an interest in recent spiritual history. I provided context. As for the Moshiach’s potential residency, that remains speculative, even with the new zoning. Though the units are, admittedly, quite well-appointed.”
Corey clapped his hands together. “See, Gwen? Joe gets it! He’s not just brawn, he’s brains! And he knows how to keep things chill. Way more chill than, like, a bodyguard who’d make us take separate Ubers.” He nudged her. “Come on, it’s actually kinda fun, right? We’re like a little family! A dysfunctional, super famous, SkyTrain-riding family!”
Gwyneth closed her eyes for a brief, pregnant moment. When she opened them, she took a slow, deliberate breath, as if inhaling the last remnants of her dwindling zen. The SkyTrain began to slow, the automated voice announcing, “Next stop: Rupert Station.”
“Right,” she said, her voice strained but regaining its composure. “A family. A SkyTrain family. Just… try not to perform any interpretive dance when we disembark, Corey. The other actors might get confused.”
Corey grinned. “No promises, Gwen! Art finds a way! And besides, the Moshiach might be watching!”
Joe merely adjusted his earpiece, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips. His work, clearly, was never done.