Away
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. References to copyrighted works and institutions are to be taken only as having occurred in a fictional setting, not a real one. Likewise, any and all depictions of real persons are to be interpreted as having occurred in a fictional setting and have no actual bearing on events that have transpired in those persons lives. The events shown in this story are utterly fictional.
Notes: This is a direct sequel to my earlier work called "Flight is Right." To understand what's going on here, I'd recommend you read that first, if you have not already. If demand is high for a synopsis of that story, I will provide one. "Flight is Right" can be read via my profile, or by simply browsing this archive.
This has been beta read by CIsaac and Camelot Girl. Thank you both, very much.
As I've said before, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. Here we go.
Chapter One: The Drivers
"Hey... kid?"
Silence. He looked over at the driver of the bus and simply shook his head. No.
"Kid." And harsher this time. Sterner, with authority. There was a uniform behind the voice, after all. That had to give the driver some comfort.
And more silence just the same. The kid's eyes narrowed painfully. His head really hurt, and his face was faintly wet. The kid acknowledged that he must not have looked particularly imposing, after the state he was in for a minute or two after stepping onto the bus, but he didn't give a shit. Not one bit. The kid shook his head at the driver.
The driver was nervous. The kid could see that, sure. He sympathized. Really. He just didn't care that much. The driver was a hispanic man, probably in his later thirties. A thick mustache dominated his face, although it faced stiff competition from his eyebrows, which seemed infinitely furrowed with worry. His brown eyes were settled upon the kid, and he only looked away to concentrate on driving. The current red light allowed him to fix his (admittedly sour) attention on the boy.
The kid, who was white, peered back evenly with his own startlingly green eyes. It was probably hard for the driver to tell that, though, given that those eyes seemed to stare through a veritable curtain of dirty-blonde bangs. His face, charitably describable as "pretty," uncharitably describable as "girlish", was unsmiling, but did not necessarily seem unfriendly. It was positively blank, in fact, which likely disturbed the bus driver, given the explosion of emotions on that face that he'd so recently borne witness to. At any rate, the boy was quite aware of the fact that his face didn't transmit "imposing" all that well. To offset this, he wore a cheap leather jacket around a stark white shirt that had a bullseye insignia emblazoned near his heart. Rather silly, of course. He was aware of that, too.
No matter his choices of apparel, one factor succeeded at making him the sort of person you would think twice about when "messing with." The gun in his jeans. A Beretta 92 9-mm handgun. It was quite visible, and quite loaded. The boy had no intent of using it, though. It was just something he happened to carry around.
The kid and the driver stared at one another for a moment before the kid slowly shook his head once more. I said "no."
The driver frowned impotently. His eyes trailed over to the broken bus door, which had nearly been torn in half a few minutes before. The street-light turned green, precluding the driver from saying anything else. Vroom vroom, goddamnit. The boy leaned back against the seat he'd chosen on the bus and closed his eyes tightly. In truth, he wasn't a tough guy at all. Not that he was meantto be, of course, but it was the truth. Tough guys don't run away from their problems. And the boy was running.
His name was John Connor, and every year, since the day he could understand what his mother was babbling on about, he'd known in his heart that he was meant to do great things. He'd been told that he would be a general. And he would have soldiers. And he would have lots of guns and a head full of maps and doctrine. He'd had a feeling that there'd be lots of death and terror when he got to be that general, because there was such a thing as nuclear weapons and artificial intelligences. And there would be such a thing as robots. And all of this was pre-supposed, from a very early time, as early as the year 1984. Yes, all of this, his doing great things, his being a general, and there being such a thing as Skynet, would not come now, and not soon, but later. It seemed to stretch forevermore into the distance, ungraspable, but there just the same. Always later, that final trial. That great crusade. Tt would be prudent for John Connor to be prepared for it, and his mother, Sarah Connor, took that preparation into her own hands.
And every day was a trial. A new training regiment. He had to keep things in his head so he wouldn't forget. Every weekend he was given a new book by his mother, until very recently. The Art of War, by Sun Tzu. Infanterie greift an, Erwin Rommel. Guerilla Warfare, Che Guevara. Steal This Book, by Abbie Hoffman. He thought they were mostly useless, to be honest. Those guys hadn't had to go against an enemy that did not know the meaning of the word "attrition." That had no sense of loss. You couldn't starve off an entire army of machines from their food stores, because no food stores existed. John was pretty sure his mother knew this, but she'd whap him on the head for complaining and would tell him to keep reading. He had to get a mindset for these things, after all. It was the psychology of those books that mattered, not the tactics. So every day was a new trial, something more to learn in making him the perfect military leader. Perfect. Always perfect.
But beyond that calm surface there was terror. Books were abstract ideas in paper form, something you can conceptualize, but not really see. Or feel. Those books, all of that training didn't prepare him for the real thing. Reading is one thing. It's something altogether different to be playing at an arcade, for example, and have someone made of liquid metal come after you with a pistol. Or to sit down for school and take cover as, once your name has been called, the substitute teacher turns out to be an assassin. It's something altogether different to hold a gun in your sweating, clammy hands and shoot bullets at pro-machine cultists, or gangsters. It's something altogether different to see one of your soldiers --one who idolizes you, no less-- take a bullet and bleed out on your kitchen table. The consequences you feel responsible for are overwhelming.
And beyond even those things there lies something deeper. Something you can't describe, which lies in your gut, which makes you feel so bad that you can burst. Everything feels different all of a sudden, when before they were just simple. You feel like a child in a body that's suddenly become way too big. You feel things you hadn't thought possible before, and they're very, very confusing for you (you're attracted to a robot, for example.) You feel painfully self-aware with every step you take, and some of those steps make you feel bad inside, even long after having taken them. The people around you call that feeling depression, but you don't care what it is, and you wish they'd just leave the whole thing alone. And on top of all that, you expect wonderful things from yourself. Hell, you feel like you can turn lead into gold, practically, and you're so dumb-struck when you realize that it just doesn't work. And... after a few tries you start to feel that nothing you do can work.
So overall, absolutely nothing has actually turned out to be like you thought it would. Nothing.
Well. Take all of that and you get John Connor as he sat there on the bus. And to John, all of that didn't matter anymore and wasn't worth fussing over, because now he was running away from his family, his life, and the very ideas that were supposed to make him so great. He was done with it all.
So nothing mattered anymore. Only him. And he was gone now. The only thing he had left were his thoughts.
--
Freedom is a loaded word, when you get right down to it. Not even loaded, it's... overflowing, practically. There are possibilities, routes, directions, opportunities, everything imaginable is at your finger tips when you have freedom. When you've spent your entire life knowing only one thing, and spending that life preparing yourself for it (and there's no time to stop and really examine it. That thing is coming at you as fast as you're coming at it,) a little taste of freedom is nothing short of dizzying. To have no sense of direction, and, at the same time, to have everything available to you... that's also nothing short of dizzying. Both in good ways... and in bad.
John was free. And yeah, he was also pretty dizzy. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he was on a bus. A big bus, with a few people in it. A big bus which rocked back and forth as it continued to speed along the freeway, and probably over-taking the local speed limit while it was at it. It was because of him. Anyway, maybe that was why he felt dizzy, but John was fairly sure it was the drunkenness he felt at just having run away from the only life he'd ever known. For better or for worse, he was really excited about it. For the few minutes after leaving Cameron behind in the dust he'd really been on the razor's edge, at least mentally... with delirious happiness, abject terror, and sadness so strong he'd had trouble breathing. He'd allowed himself that (or maybe it'd been forced on him, who knew?) but now was the time to calm down. And think. Plan. Blank out the world and just think, dude.
...
Ok.
Hell, what to do? He pretty much had a free ride. Cameron Phillips, a cyborg assassin (drop-dead hot and sort of human in her own ways) sent back from the future to protect his life, was probably on his trail, but he knew he could evade her. He could also evade his mother, Sarah Connor, and his uncle, Derek Reese if they ever came looking for him, too. The vanguards of his destiny had swiftly become a mix of lovers and tormentors in the past week of his life. He'd miss Derek and Cameron. A lot. His mom, he wasn't so sure, and right then, on the bus, he didn't think he cared all that much about her either. At any rate, he saw them all as potential obstacles in the way of what he wanted. And that was big in his head, right then. Really big. He didn't want to get screwed out of this, not ever. He wanted to...
Well, what did he want to do? In truth, it was relatively simple. For now he'd lay low. Really, really low. Get a job in construction, probably, something low-key and ordinary. Work up enough money to secure himself a new identity, one that was curtailed to his specifications. No one else's. He'd go to a foster program, get a new family, people who'd actually love him and appreciate him. Have a father who was actually alive. A mother who saw him as a person, instead of a military asset. Heh, maybe even some siblings. That'd be cool. Brother or sister, though? Maybe both? Shit... what would that really be like? It was his long-term goal, anyway. He knew it was probably at least a year down the line, but he knew he could do it. He had enough smarts in him to do these things where some other hoo-haw kid wouldn't make it. He'd been in worse spots... although, to be fair, he couldn't remember just being on his own. Yeah, when he was ten he was mostly out of the house, but at least he... had a house, right? Fuck it, he'd have a house in a year's time, AND a loving family to boot. He wouldn't act like a punk-ass kid this time, acting like a fucking criminal. He'd act like a nice kid, because he was a nice kid, and he'd get someplace nice, and warm... loving. God, it made him shudder just to think about it.
And it'd be hard, yeah. Living on his own for a while. It'd be tough as fuck. But it wouldn't make him nuts, right? He wouldn't have to worry about some faceless assassin shooting him some day, or about becoming a grand leader of men, he wouldn't have to dwell on existential questions about unrequited love for robots and his own destiny... seriously, that sort of stuff? It got you crazy, man. Like his mom, she was borderline nuts at times. He didn't want that at all. His entire life he'd been just sort of standing there, watching as things happened. He'd feel really bad about shit at times, but never really understanding any of it.
This week he'd understood. This week, he'd participated. And this week proved that this life would not only make him crazy, it also proved that he was incapable of doing everything he, as JOHN CONNOR, was supposed to be capable of doing! So yeah, he'd ran away after that. Why bother staying if you know you're gonna fail, right? Doesn't make sense, after all. No way, jose. So, instead of all that, he'd do what he wanted. He'd always help people, he'd always do what he could for others. If nothing else, Sarah had taught him that you had to look out for people. John knew he was essentially a good person at heart. In a way, he was showing that goodness by leaving all of this crap. Skynet. Human resistance. He'd fail if he tried that, he knew he'd fail! And where would humanity be then, hm? It'd be extinct. No, someone else should do this. If Sarah failed to stop Skynet, someone a lot more competent would take up the reins. John was doing everyone a favor by getting out of it.
Right?
Right, so here he went. Short term goals, today? Right now? Go to a party at 8:00. Rather funny, if you thought about it alongside his long-term stuff, but right then it was what he wanted. He'd heard about it in gym class and it'd be a good place to put himself for a few hours. Maybe get his first taste of normalcy, too. That'd be great. And, for the time being at least, that was John Connor's plan. And yeah, this was sort of a humdrum start to it all. Sitting here on a bus, doing nothing but thinking. He hadn't gone into this expecting fucking balls-to-wall action, though. That was exactly what he didn't want. What he wanted was a new start, that was it. Start of a whole new him, of a whole new era. Change it all... free himself completely.
Brave new world out there.He couldn't wait to get in on it.
--
Susan Valdez growled as she swept the wheel towards the right, bringing the car just slightly out of the way of a garbage can that had been left to roll around in the street. Without hesitating she rolled the passenger window down and yelled "Fuckers!" at the group of people who were running after the can. And then she was gone.
And goddamn, that felt good. Her husband didn't care for it, though. Not that he was around to see it. He knew her well enough to know what was up when she started to curse at random.
"Honey, what was that?" Ronald said over the phone that was clutched between her ear and shoulder. He sounded distinctly resigned to "that", whatever he thought it was.
"Some punks on the road, dear," Susan replied, her voice going from revanchist and high-pitched to sweetness and sultry.
"Ah. Listen, honey, I think you're making a mistake here, y'know, with picking Steven up..."
She rolled her eyes. Of course she was making a mistake. She always made mistakes in Ron's eyes. Not the tragic, stupid sort of mistakes, though. They were the "Ronald's version of mistakes" mistakes. Things related to COMMON SENSE, which she sometimes --much as she adored her husband... sometimes-- thought he lacked.
"Not a mistake, dear. Common sense."
A sigh from Ron, "Just because a hotel and a police station were attacked by gangs consecutively doesn't mean a school is gonna be next. Much less Steven's school. And isn't school already... out?"
Susan pressed down on the throttle. The sedan jumped forward with an exhilarating burst of speed. Her eyes fluttered tightly under the wind pressure.
"He has extra help on Thursdays, dear. And besides, it's a natural progression to target a school next, and even if it's not, we're not taking that chance."
"I don't know if you got his latest report card, honey-"
"I saw it. What's up-" she swerved, "FUCKERS!"
"- it says 'in danger of failing' every course. That means he's in danger of failing, you know."
A woman was stalking into the middle of the road several hundred feet ahead. Susan, ever the pragmatist, started to wale on the horn, "So?"
A short silence from Ron. The woman --she was brunette, Susan could see. Brunettes thought they controlled the fucking universe-- settled herself ahead of Susan's oncoming sedan and waited. Susan grinned. She wanted to play chicken, huh? She could play fucking chicken!
"Don't you think, if you took him out of school, that would just make things worse?"
"No gun-toting son of a bitch is getting my son, grades or no!"
"Honey, c'mon, think rationally here." Oh, whine, whine, whine, all he did was whine with that annoying voice of his.
"I AM thinking rationally!" On the sedan sped toward the brunette, unflagging in its course. The girl --drug-addled punk!-- did not seem to care.
"Sus, just take a deep breath-"
Susan's eyes widened as the girl pivoted herself forward suddenly, almost like a dancer would, and allowed the sedan to strike her head on. There was a hollow thump as her skull hit the hood along with the rest of her body. Susan screamed. The car turned and nearly did a full 180 in the street. The girl's prostrate form slid off and flopped down onto the asphalt. Gravel started to run up against the tires, making a loud screech. Susan had half a mind to pull her foot off the accelerator, but eventually, after a lifetime of swerving around on the street, the car came to a halt.
"Oh... shit," Susan said before any other thoughts could spill out to take that phrase's place.
Killed someone. Ron was yelling into the phone, but... for some crazy reason she didn't know what he was saying. Her ears were probably ringing. Susan was surprised to see --or feel. She felt it, didn't see it-- that the phone was still tucked against her shoulder. She killed someone. She looked out, her face crinkled with dreadful anticipation. The car looked fine. A dent in the hood. Not much else. A slight smattering of blood. She'd just killed someone.
"Oh, Je-e-e-sus."
"Susan! SUS, you there?!"
She ignored her husband's nasal, ever-demanding voice as she turned to see what she'd done. Body should be... yes, looking out the passenger side window, because... that was where the body was supposed to be. She remembered, she-
The brunette girl was standing just outside the passenger side, deer-in-headlight eyes wide and staring. The phone slipped away from Susan's sagging shoulders. Oh. She'd been so stupid. Seriously, just look at that.
The brunette cocked her head and walked around the front of the sedan, toward the-
Steven, right, sure, she had to get Steven because the men with guns were going around shooting everything up and the schools were next so she had to find Steven, oh god, oh Jesus Christ in a fucking HAND BASKET-
The girl smashed her hand through the driver window and grabbed Susan's collar. HOW WAS SHE STILL ALIVE?!
A moment later and Susan was sprawled out on the asphalt herself. Her knees skidded horribly, leaving a thin trail of bloody ichor on the street. She groaned in pain as the car started up. Her cellphone clattered to the ground right next to her. Bitch probably chucked it. Crazily enough, it wasn't even broken. Just scratched.
"SUSAAAAN!"
The sedan, which had cost Susan upwards 30,360 dollars (and something-something in tax. Ron would know. It also hadn't even been fully paid off yet), drove away. Susan groaned again, suddenly hating the world, and let her head fall against the street.
"Fuckers," she mumbled to Ronald. Wasn't sure if he could hear it, and she didn't care, either. But then she decided that that wasn't enough, so she scooted the phone over to her mouth and said, "I made a mistake." And then she fell unconscious.
--
The moment the bus driver had probably been dreading arrived; John stuck his hand on the thin yellow strip of tape near his seat. A short, cheerful ding! sounded off, and a red light above the driver's head blinked on. Now, ordinarily, the driver probably wouldn't know who did it; he couldn't keep his eyes on everyone in the bus at the same time, John supposed. But he was right there, next to the guy. The man turned his head slowly toward John, eyebrows raised in near terror. Then he looked back at the rest of the passengers. Empty, save for some guy in the far back. He was cradling a baby in his arms and looked about ready to pass out. New dad, likely. John was staring a bit himself, feeling, for whatever reason, envy.
Stupid, stupid.
He turned back to the bus driver. The bus stop was about a hundred meters away, John could see.
He cleared his throat and, for the first time since yelling the word "good!" to the bus driver (when he promised John that he'd keep driving,) spoke; "You, uh, gonna stop for me?" It was a simple question, which lacked a simple answer. He felt really bad, putting this guy in... this position. That was about all the sympathy he would spare, though. He felt like he had to spare as much of it as he could, actually.
The driver was silent. His eyes were firmly glued to the approaching stop. It was a simple bench with a pole nearby, sign-posted with information on the busses that visited here. It loomed into clear view... and then it was right there in the blink of an eye, right outside. The bus stopped. John turned to the driver again. He waited to hear the slight gaseous hiss of hydraulics that would signal the side-long door being unlocked. The actual door was untenable, having been destroyed by Cameron earlier on.
The driver pointed a hand toward said door, "That... thing is coming out of my ass, kid," he turned to John, "I'm responsible for this bus. Please, just... I need your info. Just gimme your information, make it easier on us both." He stared at John's pistol.
John placed a hand on it, blinking slowly, "No. Let me out." Cleared his throat.
The driver set a hand on his forehead. He raised the other one to wave listlessly in the air, "I-I barely make enough as it is and you come charging in here and some... some bitch tears the door off! That's coming out of my paycheck! Please, I don't..."
John shut his eyes. He didn't need this shit right now, not by a sight. Opened them, "I don't care." He removed the Beretta from his pants. "I'm not gonna point this at you, ok? Not yet. Open the door." Man, wasn't he smooth? This was a serious fucking downer, anyway. Now he'd feel guilty. Great. John started to absently run his eyes across the myriad of controls on the dashboard. Nothing he could really make sense of right now.
"Why are you doing this? Are you running from home? You kill someone, is that why you have that gun?" Guy was pretty fucking inconsolable, eh.
"No! I... dude, please. I... I don't wanna use this, you know? Just open the fucking door, just do it, ok? Please."
"Everything ok up there?" the dude with the baby yelled. Baby, clearly not liking the noise, started to wail. The man let out a squawk and diverted his attention.
"I'm going to lose my job," the driver said bitterly. He refused to look at John now, staring ahead at the suddenly foggy road, "If I don't pay, they take my job away. I can't pay."
He knew the fucking risks here. Why was he doing this? Was he fucking stalling? For what...? Holy shit. Holy shit, did these things have some sort of 911 quick dial?! Holy shit. He dropped the safety and snarled.
"Open the fucking door, I'm not gonna ask again!" Driver knew his face, he'd fucking describe him for the goddamned cops. He... he... he could ruin everything. Couldn't just up and murder the poor bastard, though! Right? Shit!
The gun lowered as John stood there, suddenly lost in anxious contemplation. His eyes went completely unfocused and dim. And he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the side-long door unlock. He stared, wide-eyed at the driver.
"Get out of here, you un mierda," the driver said.
John stared at the man for a moment. He couldn't do a damned thing for the guy. Why should he feel bad about it? Probably rat him out. No, this guy didn't deserve his sympathy. Not... goddamnit... He replaced the Beretta and said, "Jódete."
As he stepped off the bus and into the cold, open air, he wrapped his arms around his chest and absently wished something would happen to the driver. Something bad. And he also decided not to let his sappiness get the better of him from now on. This was life or death. Freedom or slavery. He wasn't gonna play games anymore.
--
Alert. Alert. Alert.
Cameron twitched. A quick sort of tilt of her head. Her HUD continued to flash insistently, as it had been ever since John's bus disappeared into the distance. A command-response prompt demanded her attention. She knew what it'd say. She didn't feel it was necessary to bother. Didn't want to bother. She was already failing her primary mission. The prompt would have a list of recommendations, all of which would only serve to grind her face ever further into what she'd so utterly failed to figure out on her own.
It was so simple. So easy, so avoidable, one could laugh at its lack of complexity. Cameron turned her eyes to the rear-view mirror. No one tailing her. No police. No road-rage infused driver. She twitched again. The prompt was getting irritating, she could barely concentrate her attentions on the road.
Of course he wouldn't commit suicide. That wasn't like John at all, he wouldn't do it even when presented with the means! If he'd wanted to take his life, he could have slashed his wrists in the kitchen as they talked earlier today! And yet, even after that, she continued to pay useless homage to Derek's fears, looking in all the wrong places. She knew John was dropping hints, but she didn't know what kind of hints until he ran onto the bus. He was telling her all of those things, being so open with her because he wanted to say good-bye. She'd assumed he meant that metaphorically; that he would kill himself. But no, he meant it literally, extracting himself from what he saw to be an undesirable situation.
Before that, before that incredible realization (that smack to the face), she'd drunk from his openness, his emotion for her. It was so empowering to have him tell her those things, to give clarity to what she'd been so confused over for weeks now. She was anomalous. A quirk. Oddball, kook. Not in her human sensibilities, but because of them. There were always problems with the new series'... they'd develop... oddities. Need for sexual stimulation, undue attention to hair, affinity for sunglasses, gaining pleasure for death... and now love? It was completely possible. The TOK-715 CSM 121® was built for deep infiltration procedure, relying on model's deceptively frail constitution and beautiful physical qualities to disarm enemy combatants. The chip was modified, far more than any model previous. They'd placed things in it that simply opened more doors, more awareness.
You go along the tree long enough and you'll get to a certain branch. Always. A quirk. Love. Attraction. An oddity. She'd developed a quirk. She felt things for that boy that she hadn't even considered before now. She could love. Fully capable of it, obviously. Inferior models like the T-888 were built, in some instances, to fully exhibit love, albeit unto their target. But to love fully due to one's volition? Of free will? She hesitated to think that it had gone that far with John, but it was definitely something she should not have been feeling normally. The "big talk" with John had been all she'd hoped for, and more. It had opened her eyes.
She cared for him. Beyond her programming's dictations, she cared for him as human and as mind, rather than simply as objective. That would have unforeseen problems. And benefits.
One benefit was that, now, she was all the more dedicated to finding him and making sure he'd never run away ever again. They'd really been so foolish in not having assumed that to begin with.
She sighed and swept her hand over the controls of the car for a second. She wanted some music. She found it oddly calming, despite the fact that it sometimes prompted her to feel like dancing.
Had to find the bus. She'd taken down the number. CLA147. That was John's bus. Ever since they'd begun using the bus system to get to school, she'd downloaded and mapped the entirety of the LA transit system into her files. She knew the pathway this bus would take, it was all a matter of overtaking it before John escaped again. She was quite fully in pursuit mode by now. As soon as she'd see the bus, for example, she'd immediately grid-map it for escape routes, then for average speed and probability of easy commandeering. The gas tank location and bullet-piercing factor would be of particular import-
Error.
No, no. Don't even think about that. Pursuit mode. Termination tactics were not even necessary here. Far from necessary. But they were like close cousins, really, pursuit and summary termination, so very much tied to one another. She couldn't help those thoughts from entering her chip. There wasn't much she could do other than be self-conscious of it. Constant reminding. That, too, would be distracting.
Music.
She dialed through stations, picking up on the various genres near-instantly as they sounded off. Eventually her hand eased. Music, loud, cheerful and melodious, filled the car. It switched quickly to a more understated tune as the singer began. Cameron smirked lightly. The lyrics resonated as oddly ironic for her.
"We'll meet again... don't know where... don't know whe-e-e-en! But I know we'll meet again... some sunny da-a-a-ay..."
She nearly jerked as her cellphone started to vibrate. She methodically drew it out from her pocket and checked the ID.
It read "MOM."
She briefly considered ignoring it. That would only hasten their return from Sacremento, though, if contact with John suddenly ceased. Cameron wanted as much time as possible to get him back before they came back. It would simply be easier that way.
"Keep smiling through... just like you... always doooo! Til' the blue skies drive the dark clouds awaaaay."
"Hello," she said, thumbing the green phone icon and holding the cellphone to her ear. There was a bus ahead. She quickly magnified her visual sensors... Not John's.
Sarah's voice responded, "It's about time, Tin Miss. John's phone broken?"
"It's out of batteries," Cameron said after a moment's hesitation.
"Oh. Everything alright there?"
"Everything is fine. Where are you?"
"So will you please say 'hello', to the folks that I know. Tell them... I won't be loooong!"
"Mather Airport, still waiting on the terminal to get off. Been here two hours." Sarah was a confusing person more often than not. Her words suggested annoyance with the situation, but her tone said otherwise. She didn't care, evidently.
Cameron shrugged to no one in particular, "Anything else. We're both alright on this end."
"Yeah, let me... talk to John."
"They'll be happy to knoooow, that as you saw me goooo, I was siiiinging this sooong."
Cameron cringed. She mimed passing the phone to a non-existant person in the passenger seat and quickly brought it back. No other choice.
"Hey," she said, using John Connor's voice. For authenticity's sake she added a tiny bit of weariness to "his" tone.
"Hi, honey. I... I love you."
Cameron blinked. "I-I do too, mom. What's up?"
"We'll... meet again... don't know where... don't know wheeen!"
"Yeah, that was pretty sudden, wasn't it? Well, Derek's been giving me food for thought, and things are a bit more... rational for me, now. Clearer. I just want to... apologize. For having acted so harsh to you. It wasn't right... at all."
Cameron could only think If only he'd waited. She said, "Oh... I mean, it's ok, mom... I know..." She paused. Intentionally. It's what he would have done. A chorus interjected along with the rest of the lyrics, repeating the refrain.
"No, it's not ok. You did what you could in the situation you were in yesterday, and I wasn't forgiving at all. I'm afraid of losing you... John. I'm so afraid it hurts sometimes, and for you to tell me those things... I didn't know what to think. I didn't think. It was wrong, it hurt you when you were already in bad shape, and I... I just want to say that it won't happen again. You can spread your wings. I promise you that. You can talk to me about anything, John. I know you might be feeling down right now, but you can talk to me about it. I'm just a phone call away, I promise you. I won't ever say no."
Sarah paused, as though to chew through the speech in her mind, see what was wrong with it, what were lies and what was genuine. Her sorrow for having overreacted at her son was palpable. That much was certain to Cameron, but she wasn't so sure about the other half. She would continue to be controlling if she had anything to do with it.
And, maybe, she wouldn't get the chance. Cameron stifled a sigh and she made herself sniffle loudly, "God... thanks. I will, I'll... I'll do that. Thanks, mom."
A short silence from Sarah. "Alright, honey. I just wanted to let you know that I'll always be there for you. I'll always find you."
"We'll... meet again... don't know where, don't know wheeeen!"
"I'll always find you." Yes, that felt appropriate. Humans tended to be cyclical in the ways they conversed. For dramatic effect only or out of appreciation for the opposite speaker, she barely knew. It sounded appropriate, though.
"I love you, John. Always remember that. See you soon."
"Bye."
"But we'll always meet again some sunny daaaaaaay!"
Click. Cameron stared at the phone for a moment, as though it were something more than it simply was. Conveyer of messages. If only. Why couldn't he have been there to hear all that? That was what she'd do. She'd repeat the entire conversation, verbatim, simply by manipulating the phone, to John when she caught up with him. Yes. That would work very well, she could see nothing which was wrong with it. At all. With a slight, purposeful sigh she replaced the phone and looked up.
CLA147.
Screeeeech!
--
Emilio Vanuela just about had a conniption when he felt a car smash into the back of the bus. A light sheen of sweat covered his face, wetting his formidable eyebrows, which in turn caused them to droop annoyingly against his eyes. He was blinking constantly, having barely been able to contain his rage even after that fucking puto of a kid got off the bus. A little after the new father and his brat got off, he'd been free to yell and scream as loudly as he'd desired. Best, after all, to get it out of your system before having to face the music. Well, he'd gotten it damn well out of his system when suddenly, out of no where, the damages bill suddenly got higher. The bus chugged to a halt. The other car let out a loud cough as it stopped as well.
"Hijoputa!" Emilio screamed, unbuckling himself from his seat. It was probably a woman. They were the worst drivers! Every car accident he'd ever been in --none were his fault, of course-- and it was with a fucking lady. Why they could not stay safely away from the wheel, he did not know. With hope she at least wouldn't be a long-haired gun-toting emotional freak. He stepped toward the broken door, remembered that it was b-r-o-k-e-n, huffed, went back to unlock the sideways door, turned around and-
"Madre de dios," he said softly.
Not only was it the person who'd broken the door to begin with, AND the person who was associated with the kid with the gun, AND the person who'd crashed into his bus... SHE WAS A WOMAN!
They stared at one another for a few seconds before she walked up to the door, destroyed what was left of it by way of ripping it off and tossing it onto the sidewalk, and stepped onto the bus.
Emilio didn't think.
"DIIIIEE!" He rushed over to her and lunged. The result was very much like what you'd get if, after having had one too many tequilas, you crashed your car into a steel wall. Vehicle destroying imagery was rather central in Emilio's mind at that point. At any rate, his head and chest rang like a pair of brass cymbals when he struck the girl. Every bone seemed to shake and recoil, and he was surprised that his skull didn't break apart in the end. It certainly felt like it had. He collapsed to the floor, eyes huge with surprise.
"Die..." he muttered. He kicked her listlessly. How was she able to do that? Just stand there like that, not even moving? She didn't even look fazed by his terrifying ferocity!
She stooped and grabbed his throat. It was nothing less than a vice, relentless. Hauled him up and stared blankly into his huge, cow-like eyes.
"Where is he?" she said. There wasn't even a hint, a teasing of emotion in her voice. It was gloriously to the point. She softened her grip to let him respond.
"Fuck-" was all he had time to say before she squeezed again, eliciting a wet gasp from the driver in the place of a word. She cocked her head slightly and looked him over once. Looked back at him.There was a very natural sort of glitter in her eyes, which was terrifying... because of what she was doing, and how emotionlessly she was speaking.
"Last chance. Where is he?" Released.
"I-I don't know!" he said.
She nodded, "Where did he get off?"
Emilio stared at her, babbling helplessly, "D-don't kill me!"
"I won't kill you if you tell me where you dropped him off."
"Y-you ruined me! I'm going to lose my job!" No, no, no, why wasn't he telling her what she wanted to hear?! He didn't want to get hurt again, but he vented anyway. Goddamnit! No! Stupid, stupid!
She nailed him in the stomach with her free hand, open-palmed. The pain Emilio felt was exquisite, like an art form, it was so masterful and unrelenting. He screamed unabashedly. Where did she get that strength from...? Unbelievable... Outside, cars went to and fro past the parked bus, their occupants totally unaware of his plight inside. He wasn't sure what was more unnerving to him, in the end. The boy's uncaring stubbornness or the girl's alien brutality.
Ignoring his whimpering she removed her hand and said once more, "Where did he get off?"
He told her where he got off. She processed this for a brief moment before saying, "Thank you. Did he say where he was going?"
"You bitch... you're both... bitches... usted perra!"
She did not hurt him this time. Instead, she released him --slowly--, and went into her jacket pocket for a moment. Emilio merely let his head droop back and stared at the ceiling. Everything was so shiny...
A moment passed and he suddenly felt something small and cool in the palm of his hand. He blinked and rolled it between his fingers.
The bitch saved him the trouble of squinting; "It's a diamond. They're a girl's best friend, and, in your case, very valuable."
She was bribing him. This would be more than enough to pay off the damages. How much were diamonds worth, anyway?! ¡Madre de dios! His eyes suddenly got a whole lot less blurry, and he held the thing up to his eye. It could be, like, rock candy or something, right? Could be a trick! But it looked so beautiful... the way light shined through its tiny, clearly cut form...
She went on; "Did he say anything?"
"N-no."
She nodded, "You got into a serious accident. A hit-and-run. You didn't see the license plate. You didn't even see the car. The teenager you saw wasn't there, and I wasn't there. If you tell anyone otherwise, I will find you, and I will kill you."
He blinked. "Y-yes, yes, of course!"
The girl smiled. It was a frightening thing to behold, watching that slackened, featureless gaze suddenly become friendly. "Enjoy the diamond."
She got up, turned around and, without a second glance, ran off the bus.
Was this a sign? Was God making him suffer and then rewarding him? For what? For whom? It was too confusing, and Emilio didn't even know what to think as he laid there, trying to regain mastery over his scattering thoughts.
Whoever these two people were, they were... odd. When all was said and sifted, it was hard for him to place them as... just evil. Not with the boys emotions, which were almost palpable before he got a bit crazy. Not with the girl's odd reward for his cooperation. In the end he was basically most glad over having escaped both encounters with his life, but he would have difficulty hating either one of them, looking back. The diamond had plenty to do with it.
And for all their faults, they both seemed ready to move hell and high water to get what they wanted.