No Trespassing

Chapter Three: Never Use the Main Entrance

"Where's Derek?"

John passed Cameron, not waiting for an answer, and went straight for the coat closet. He pulled his leather jacket for a second, considered the thing, and replaced it. He reached deeper and pulled out an identical version; the only difference was that it was heavier and harder to move around in.

Cause it had kevlar sown into it.

"He's gone."

"Yeah," John said, pulling the thing on and tugging it down a tad until it was at least somewhat comfortable. "I noticed. Where's he gone?"

There was a rattling jangle as Cameron grabbed the keys. John cupped his hands, expecting her to toss them to him. Instead she walked to the door, found it unlocked, and opened it. She looked at John, moving her head slightly, as though questioning him.

"You're not letting me drive?" John frowned.

Cameron tilted her head the other way, seemed to think for a moment, and tossed them to John. He caught them with one hand, feeling slightly dazed.

They stood still and watched each other for longer than John would have normally allowed.

He cleared his throat and moved past Cameron, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with being cold. She just wasn't the same thing anymore, no other way to see it. He didn't like that at all.

"Christ, he didn't take the Ram?"

"He was running towards the park."

John blinked and looked back at her; nearly tripping over a stray brick in so doing. "What the hell is going on?"

"A man left him a note. He was wearing a mask."

"Porky Pig," John said sensibly. He jabbed the keys into the car slot, turned sharply, and opened the door.

"Yes."

"And what, Derek just took off?"

"Yes."

John didn't say anything. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and sat down. He looked up, frowned and adjusted the rear-view mirror; Derek was constantly changing it, pissed him off something awful. Cameron entered the pickup from the passenger side and nodded to him. She wasn't wearing anything to cover the cold; sensible given her nature, but she was usually good about appearances. It just bothered John, that was all there was to it. She'd either make a point of talking about heat, cold, sensation, whatever. And sometimes she just didn't give a shit.

John put the car in reverse and went off the driveway, then up into drive and they were off.

They were silent for a pretty long time. There was a lot of shit going through John's mind, which was basically par for the course. You never say anything to anyone. You just think it. You never talk. You keep everything bottled up where it can stay good and secured. It was how he'd been operating basically ever since Cromartie first attacked him in a New Mexican school.

His chief worry was about Mike. Two months, maybe a little more, plus or minus, and then he just calls out of the blue without any explanation. John was more than willing to believe he just wanted to get out of the hospital; he fucking killed a guy, and who knew what other crimes he'd committed during that week? He couldn't hide forever. John understood the need completely. He just...

He just hoped it was more than that. That Mike wasn't flat-out lying to him and merely using him as an escape route. John stared ahead, the only sound being the gentle thrumming of the engine.

He wouldn't do that, John thought. Mike wouldn't use him like that. Maybe Derek would. Cameron would, definitely. Not Mike. The guy wanted to stay on John's good side, for a very simple reason. He was a friend. That was how John saw it, and often that was enough. It was enough to do something for a friend.

For Mike? He wouldn't lie simply because he was in love with John.

John rubbed his head a tad. He had a feeling a headache was developing. Did that ever really dawn on John? That he was loved by another guy?

When he was fourteen, living in West Fork, there was this girl sitting across from him in English class who kept looking at him. John had been annoyed. He was annoyed with a lot of stuff that young. He thought she --Nicole, that was her name-- was trying to tease him, make him feel uncomfortable.

Sarah thought otherwise. She said Nicole merely had a crush on John. Crush. Yeah. He got it. Girl wants to bang a guy, or vice versa. He knew of the concept from an age that would appall most mothers, but he'd never really understood it, of course, until now.

From there, things sort of exploded into a million incomprehensible feelings for him. He couldn't talk to the girl. He just couldn't do it. Or it was the other way around. He wanted her to come to him. He knew better than that now.

When she got a boyfriend about a month later, he felt jealousy. It was a shocking thing to experience, and he remembered just sitting in his room for a while, staring at nothing in particular, just thinking.

A week after that and he went into a bike shop with Charley, and he couldn't get the woman behind the counter out of his head. She was probably two or three years his senior and she was... just... stellar. For him at the time? She was there, he was young, something about her just clicked and stayed in his mind. She had this... dimple on her left cheekbone that he couldn't not stop seeing, like it was imprinted in his mind. She had a bit of asian blood in her, he thought. The dimple was perhaps the most inconsequential part of her, and yet it was what stood out most. When he haltingly explained this to Charley, his would-be dad merely grabbed his shoulder, pulled him close and said "love is weird, Johnny."

The next day he purposefully broke his bicycle chain and asked for it to get repaired. Love was weird.

And now, John thought oddly, Mike feels exactly the same way about me.

The silence was getting oppressively tedious now. Cameron was dead as a stone for all John could tell. Just staring. What was going through her mind?

John reached over and turned on the radio.

"- and here's another ol' classic for you kiddies out there, ehehehe."

John smirked. Getting right into it. He liked that.

Music started up, slow and full of rich saxophone tunes. It accelerated in due time, reaching the lyrics in due time.

Rhythm and blues. Not John's favorite, but Cameron seemed oddly fascinated. She hadn't hear it before. He removed his hand from the dial.

"I'm... I'm so in love with yo-o-u. Whatever you waaant to do is alright with m-e-e-e-e..."

And he felt that way about Cameron.

Riley was different. Riley felt... appropriate. There was very little passion, very little...

She was appropriate.

"Cause you make me feel so brand n-e-e-e-w."

Anyway.

Mike, all of that... The whole situation was weird in a way John couldn't quite place. Knowing about that girl in English class was like... It felt like being born. And Mike?

That felt like growing up and learning that life sucks. The weirdest thing about it was easily traceable, of course. Mike was a guy. John was a guy. And the twain shall not meet. Both of them had ought to know that.

But no, it wasn't as simple as that. Mike was just wired differently. So what then?

Well, simply tell him no.

"And I-i-i-i want to spend my life with y-o-o-ou."

But that doesn't make a difference in how he feels. Love was weird.

You. You have to find a way to settle this so it doesn't turn into a "thing." You, John. Mike has something to tell us, and so you're gonna have to make contingencies in case he... y'know, starts to get clingy again.

And what contingency will that be?

John tapped the steering wheel; it felt like he was slamming on it. He'd have to find something, and that was all there was to it, goddamnit.

God, he hoped this would be easy. In and out. If there was any action it'd just create a whole bunch of problems that he just didn't need.

"L-e-e-et's... let's stay together... Loving you whether..."

He looked at Cameron. "You got a gun?"

She looked at him, just sort of clicking her head to the side. "No."

John blinked and glanced back out at the road. "Why not?"

"You didn't ask me to." She turned back to the window; "I can't read minds."

"Well, fuck."

"... whether times are good or bad, happy or sad."

"Why," Cameron asked. "Do we need one?"

"We always need one, Cameron," John said.

She merely frowned at him, as if he were missing the point. "Are we likely to encounter hostiles?"

"Ooooooo, yeah."

John cleared his throat. "I dunno. Mike-"

"Why does Mike need to escape a hospital? It's safe for him there." After a moment she added, "Relatively."

"Whether times are good or bad, happy or sad."

"He thinks the cops are gonna try and catch him there. They've been digging around and he's getting worried."

"And he's asking us for extrication."

"Yeah."

"It's why I want us to... le-e-e-et's... let's stay together..."

"This isn't relevant to our mission." Her tone of voice didn't change, which made the statement no less dismissive.

"This is our mission right now, Cam. If that hasn't dawned on you yet, well, there it is."

She looked back at him. "If you come into danger, we drop everything and leave. Deal?"

John moved one hand off the steering wheel and shook her hand. As usual, her grip was deceptively weak. "Deal."

"Loving you whether... whether time's are good or bad, happy or sad, c'mon, LE-E-E-TS..."

John smiled. "You're being pretty cool about this." He scratched the back of his neck.

"I do my best," Cameron said simply.

"Haha... Uh, well, any reason for it? Mom definitely wouldn't let this go on, and you're more strict than her sometimes."

"That depends. Do you think it'll be dangerous?" She looked at him, eyes low and probing.

John lied.

"Then I'm willing to make amends in this case." Cameron stared back onto the road.

The song ended, the speaker's voice slowly fading.

"Amends?" Wait...

"For causing you discomfort yesterday night."

John's head whipped toward her, his mouth slightly open in surprise. "Wait, what?"

"You're about to hit a pedestrian."

"Fuck me-" John jerked the steering wheel slightly to the side, avoiding the jogger by a comfortable margin. Still got John cussed at, but at least the guy wasn't dead. The woman's angry voice faded into the slipstream.

"You should pay more attention," Cameron said, almost like they were discussing the stock market.

John could have cared less. "Ye-you're apologizing?"

"Yes."

He settled back into his seat, his hands seeming to constrict instinctively around the steering wheel until he could see the plastic rising up between his fingers. He stared ahead for a very long time before he managed to make some sort of noise in his throat. "Really."

"Yes. What's wrong?"

John made himself shrug. "Uh, nothing. It's just... well, uh. You don't really... do that a... whole lot. It's just... surprising."

"I was foolish in choosing to have that conversation when I decided to. You weren't emotionally receptive to it. It wasn't the right time."

"I'll say," John murmured. Louder he said; "So when is the right time? Uh, in your opinion..." He couldn't even think about this, only that it was...

Sweet of her. In a warped sort of way. She 'd apologized. Cool.

"I'll know when." She smiled reassuringly at him, and he wasn't reassured in the slightest. Maybe he didn't need to be. "Trust me."

John didn't say anything. He didn't care. He just sort of grinned at her, and he didn't say a goddamned thing.

------------

The lobby of Mercy Hospital was boiler plate; exactly what you'd expect to find in any metropolitan medical center, really. Big waiting room with soft blue carpeting, white walls, plenty of posters helpfully written in large letters. Like the lobby, they were the stock fare.

It also looked rather quiet and sparse on people, except for the pair of cops sitting around the waiting room. John watched them from the corner of his eye as he and Cameron walked up to the front desk. This place was pretty familiar, and he basically knew his way around; he'd been here only a few months ago, after all.

One cop, a big guy with a thick brown moustache and plenty of flabby bits on his face, was rifling through a magazine with a generous amount of guns featured on the cover. Probably brought it himself. Anyway, the guy was sitting with his feet put up on one of the wooden end-tables. He seemed pretty engrossed in what he was looking at.

The other guy was as thin as the first was fat, seeming almost like a rope if you looked at him from the side. His arms and legs were like sticks, and he had this long, almost horse-like face, topped off with a no-doubt strictly enforced crewcut of blond hair. He was standing off to the side on the waiting area, staring at John and Cameron as they entered. John tilted his head somewhat as he regarded the officer. Not too big. He'd go down easily if it came to that. The cop who was sitting down also didn't look as if he had much fight in him. Both of them were armed, though. John blew slightly upwards his forehead. Hm.

He turned to the front desk just as the receptionist greeted them.

"Howdy, you," she said, grinning at the pair of them. John glanced at Cameron. Most people thought they were related, and the receptionist seemed to be under the same impression. Why did no one ever consider the possibility of...

Eh. "Welcome to Mercy Hospital," the woman continued.

"Hey," John said, keeping his voice low. "We're visiting one of your patients, uh, Mike Oxferod."

The woman's eyes went wide, her mouth forming a near-perfect O. "Oh my, I think you may have picked a bad time to come see him."

John chuckled nervously; it was half appearances, half sincere. "Uh, why's that?"

The woman licked her lips, folding her arms together. "Uh, I'm not sure if I'm allowed to say." She glanced conspicuously at the cops.

"We're his friends," John said, sagging his shoulders a bit. Christ, he didn't want to do this, but he couldn't remember the damned room they had Mike in.

"Very good friends," Cameron added.

The woman frowned, and she licked her lips again. "Well, the thing is, I think he's getting talked to by the L.A.P.D... soon. I think he might have witnessed a crime, or something. They didn't really tell us much."

John nodded a few times. "Yeah, well, he got shot a bunch of times a few months ago."

"Oh, was it those end-of-the-world freaks?"

"I think so."

"It was," said Cameron.

"I thought they were all in prison," the receptionist said, and it sounded almost as if she were pouting.

"We're just visiting for a little while," John said.

The woman sighed. "Alright, I'll pencil you in, but you'll have to wait a while." She leaned over her desk, grabbed a nearby pencil, and poised it over the check-in booklet. "I guess it's nice of you kids to come see him, mostly it's just been his sister and dad. So what's your-"

"Why do we have to wait?" said John.

The woman blinked and looked back up. "The cops are already up there, son. I think they'll be done soon, though. Names?"

John laughed nervously again; and it was all sincere this time. He had to stop himself from looking back at the cops in the lobby. Cameron was already looking towards the doors; the ones that led to the rest of the hospital. "Uhh, I guess we'll come back some other time, and uh, what room's he in? So we know when we get back."

"You're not gonna sign in?"

"Not right now," John cleared his throat loudly, trying to think. "Some other time."

"Well, alright. He's on the third floor, room, uh... 1908." The receptionist was frowning rather blatantly now, and her green eyes kept darting back and forth between John and Cameron.

"Thanks a million," said John, and he grabbed Cameron's arm. She tilted her head and allowed herself to be dragged. "C'mon, uh, Allison."

Cameron's system suffered a momentary, nano-second long malfunction as the name was processed. She blinked once and tilted her head slightly. "Okay."

"You're welcome," the lady behind the desk said as they left. The thin cop watched them as they exited through the front door, and John immediately looked from side to side as he stepped back into the sunlight.

"Damnit," he muttered. Think, think, think. Okay. Uhh... Find a door. Another door. Right. Good.

"Are we leaving?" Cameron asked.

"No. Help me find a side entrance, maintenance stairway, something." He started along the east side of the building, wincing as an ambulance with sirens wailing roared into the parking lot. "We need to hurry."

"We can use the front door."

"Cam..."

"It'd be the quickest way." She wasn't moving to help him.

"And the dumbest."

"The intelligence of entrances doesn't factor into mission planning."

"Look, just help me, okay? They could be dragging him down to the lobby already."

Cameron fell silent and started to follow John as he circled around the building, watching the white concrete wall like a hawk. John kept tapping his leg with his hand, and he started to think that maybe he was developing a nervous tic that had to do with tapping things incessantly.

They found a green side-door near the ER terminal about two minutes later, and the whining of nearby ambulances threatened to drown out all sound in the area. John ran his eyes briefly over the door and gave it a tug; locked. Of course. He stepped back and nodded at Cameron. When in doubt, use the robot.

She gave him a little half-smirk, as though she were aware of this, and pulled the lock --and most of the door handle-- off with one jerking of her hand. The door flipped open easily enough after that. John gave a brief glance over to the ambulances and went on inside. A bunch of dusty metal stairs greeted the pair.

"Third floor," John said. "Close that thing behind us, okay?"

Yeah. Today was sure gonna be boring. You should know better than that by now, John.

She did, and they started up the stairs at a half-run. They did this in silence for a little bit until they reached the first floor, and then there were footfalls all around them as doctors and nurses and probably patients move around beyond the staircase, ignorant of the two infiltrators. This thing probably wasn't used all too often.

John laughed.

"Y'know what I noticed, Cam?"

"What did you notice?"

"I noticed we never use the main entrance. We always take some other, sneaky way." He took a moment to shake a kink out of his right leg and kept going. As he did this, Cameron stopped to wait for him, and then resumed following when he moved on again.

"Using back ways is safer," she said. "There's less resistance."

"Yeah. But we never use the main entrance. Ever. Always too dangerous, or we're just too paranoid to even try it." He grunted and consciously stopped himself from tapping his leg. "Every time we go out, we just either go in shooting or we sneak. Y'know?"

"You're saying you wished we could use the front door."

"And pick up Mike like any normal people would, yeah." He sighed. "I mean, it's smarter this way, but just one day I'd like to use the front door. You know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean, John."

John reached another landing and looked at the door there, marked with a stenciled number 3. He nodded back at Cameron, she nodded back at him, and they went through the door together.

-----------

A little earlier.

The circus theme started playing.

Mike Oxferod turned away from the window and shot a glare at what was probably the most annoying cellphone in the entire fucking universe. When he first received it about a month ago he thought the "ring-tone" was funny, and he immediately asked if he could change it. The nurse just frowned at him, saying that it was hers (a spare) and that she was lending it to him. And that those ring-tones cost money to change. So Mike relented. Now whenever it rung you'd hear the sounds of clowns tromping out onto the three rings, honking their noses and shit, and it was doubly annoying for Mike because he'd never been to a circus, let alone knew what a clown even looked like.

One thing you realize when you've spent your life at war: it's either very easy to become accustomed to civilian life, or become annoyed at its silliness. Mike fell somewhere in-between. The cellphone just irritated him.

He hobbled over to the desk and grabbed it, not bothering to check the ID. He already had a fairly good idea of who it was, and he didn't have much time to waste.

"Hey," he said. He started back towards the window, taking a moment to catch his breath at the hospital bedpost. He wouldn't complain about that, because at least he could walk now.

"Hello," said Philip Westin.

Mike blinked. Oh. "Uh, hey dad."

"How'ya feeling?" He sounded worried, probably because Mike was breathing so hard.

"I'm, uh... I'm good." Mike reached the window and stared at it for a little bit. It was one of those double-hung slash windows with a wooden partition separating the two panes. Offered a good view of L.A., was about... maybe six feet off the ground in total height. Mike put his hands underneath the latch and pushed up. It budged promptly. Still locked. Mike's eyes popped out slightly at the exertion.

There. There was another thing that pissed him off. After fourteen fucking years of avoiding HK drones, he'd never been badly injured, but two years after teleporting back to the comparatively safer "past?" He got shot twice, fell in love, and was hospitalized with a developing form of asthma, of which he still couldn't suss out the pronunciation. All he knew was that it made it difficult for him to breathe.

One could call that karma, Mike supposed. He killed a lot of people ever since coming "back" to this place, and not all of them deserved it.

Well. He was nothing if not attempting to atone nowadays.

"You don't sound good..."

"How's Cheri?" Mike asked. He swiped a hand over his head, dispelling a few beads of sweat, and looked up the length of the window to find the lock situation well above his reach. He could lean, of course, but that would probably knock the air out of him. He decided to try it anyway.

"She's at school. She misses you a whole lot, Michael."

"I miss her, too." He started to get up on his toes to try and knock the latch back into the unlocked position. Almost immediately he started trembling and he had to fall back down. Christ, this was a pipe-dream. Why was he even bothering?

"Mike..."

"I'm okay."

"Are you doing something right now?"

"Sort of."

Philip said nothing for a little while. "Ah."

Mike glared at the phone. "So I noticed you didn't come today..."

"Mike. I've got a life to take care of. I know you probably don't see things that way, but..."

"I'm sure your life will be worth plenty in four years time." He leaned up to try again, and this time he nearly fell back onto the floor on his ass. He put a hand up on the wall to stabilize himself. Okay. So that wouldn't work.

"... Mike, I'm just getting you riled up, I'm sorry. How about I call later?" Man, Philip was a cool customer.

"Naw, it's good," said Mike. He sucked in a breath and looked back across the room. The chair would work. "We should really talk about what's gonna happen, though."

"Actually, we don't. We're going to keep going with our lives and hope your friends fix it."

"And if they don't?" Mike walked over to the chair, grabbed the back of it, and started dragging.

"This'll have to come at another time, Michael. I called to see if you were okay. I'm sorry I couldn't make it and you'll have to deal with that. I'm sorry. That's life."

Mike said nothing and continued to drag the chair over to the window. He did this haltingly for about a minute until he'd reached the window, and he climbed up on top of the chair, easily in touching distance of the latch now. He flicked the latch to the side, unlocking the thing, and he climbed down.

"Mike, what're you doing?" Philip asked, sounding pretty much exasperated now.

"I'm trying to secure an escape route in case the cops show up. I shot a guy two months ago when I escaped the first hospital you sent me to, y'see. So yeah, I think they're catching on."

"M-Mike, what?"

The door to the hallway opened up, and Mike glanced back at the police officer who stood there. The officer was wearing plainclothes and had a pretty impressive build. No identification, but Mike knew he was a cop.

"Yep?" Mike said.

"Are you Michael Oxferod?" the man asked.

"Naw, he's down the hall, I think," said Mike.

"Ah, my apologies. Must've got the wrong room, kid. You feel better now!" And he left, casting a look towards someone Mike wasn't able to see.

That would probably buy him one or two more minutes.

"Mike, who-who was that?"

"A cop."

"Is he-"

"He just left."

"Ah." Some hemming and hawing on the other line.

Mike opened the window and stared down for a few seconds. Three story drop, unfriendly winds to say the least, and the window was facing the parking lot, which offered witnesses a ton of opportunities to see him descend... if he could descend, goddamnit. He looked back at his hospital room, and at the bed. Some well-worn blankets and a bed sheet. It wouldn't be enough. If he was healthy he'd be able to manage it, probably, but with this asthma or whatever the fuck it was called he'd just end up breaking his neck.

He slowly pulled himself back into his room and sat down on the chair, all the drive and inspiration for escape having left him. He'd have to wing it. Fuck.

He'd read somewhere (probably wikipedia) that a person is supposed to feel most serene when confronting their fate. A man turning himself in, or committing suicide, or, y'know, about to die. They accept it. It's their time to face the music, and they're only gonna be seen as less dignified if they don't just... go along with it. One time he read that some British guy actually shook the hands of a bunch of men who were about to shoot him. As far as deaths went, that was probably one of the better ones.

Mike didn't know much about dignified captures, though, and he had a feeling that his impending capture probably wouldn't be all that relenting at all. In fact, he intended to cause as much trouble as humanly possible.

Hell. He had to hope John would get here in time. He wanted to get the fuck out of here, sure, but there was a little something more... important going on that John had to know about.

After a while, Philip said; "I think this is something we should talk about."

"What?"

"You're, uh, killing... of somebody. It's..."

"I... I know, okay?"

"You're sixteen years old," Philip said. "It's... wrong, Michael. Why didn't you tell me about-"

"Yes," Mike said, and everything, his entire built-up casualness, it came crashing down. All the tension, the things he'd been ignoring for two months of languishing in a hospital came roaring back to greet him. "Yes, I'm sixteen years old, and yeah, I've killed somebody, Philip. I fucking killed someone because it was either him or me, and I-I see his face every single goddamned day now. His fat fucking face, with that gun pointed at my chest. I killed him. I did it out of cold fucking blood. I'm six..."

"Mike..."

"I'm sorry, Philip," Why was he apologizing? Who was he apologizing to? Oh god, why was he doing this right now? Jesus, fuck, he wanted to do something now. He wanted to see John again, get back into the routine, get back into life, and now he was gonna get captured. Fucking... "Y-you know what else?"

Silence.

"I'm done," Mike said.

"Done with what?" His father sounded oddly resigned.

"I'm never gonna kill anybody, anymore. Ever. That's what I decided." Mike let out a haggard breath and ran his palm over his face. Odd how that just came out of nowhere. "We can talk about this later, alright? Some other time. I gotta get outta here."

A beat. "Be careful, Michael." And after all that incomprehensibility, he still didn't give a fuck. He was just concerned about a kid who wasn't even his. Amazing.

Mike hung up and flung the cellphone onto the bed. And then he put his hands on his head and waited for a little while, just thinking to himself.

Maybe no one was coming.

Well. He'd have to get out by himself, then.

He went over to his laptop (hidden under his pillow) and retrieved a flash-drive that was sticking out of it. He frowned at it and cupped the thing in his hand.

The door opened once again and the cop from before strode on inside, looking comparatively less friendly than he had before.

A/N: Was gonna write more, but I've already written enough. Some action in the next chapter.