No Trespassing
Chapter Ten: Carrots and Apples
"ALLAH AKBHAR! ALLAH AKHBAR!"
"NEEK HALLAK!"
"Koos othlek!"
Constant, unending gunfire. Nerve rattling, leg rattling, soul rattling gunfire. It just never fucking stopped, and oh god, the voices, they never stopped too, they were worse, so much worse than any other sound, the malice was, oh god-
"Sharmuta!"
"ALLAH AKHBAR!"
"Wake up!"
Rumble rumble rumble here comes the cavalry, too late, all dead, already shot, already pissed yourself, already killed them-
"Dude, wake up!"
Porky's eyes flashed open. He stared up at the bright, shining sun, nearly finished as it was in the sky, about to call it in for the day, about to let the moon take it's shift. Reminded him too much of that horrible place, felt he was still dreaming. He closed his eyes and whimpered.
A split second later a hand shook him on the shoulder. Porky cried out and looked up at the floating figure standing near him. He pulled back in his blood coated seat, grappled uneasily with his pistol.
"What!"
The bus driver held a finger to his mouth, shushing him. "Shut up already..."
"Ge- get me... to... uh..." Porky blinked and looked back outside, taking stock of his surroundings. Urban jungle, just like... just like when he'd passed out. Everything quiet... no cars, just the low ambiance of the city in the background... Where...
Oh god, it all came rushing back...
That fucking cunt Reese shot him.
Oh god. Where... he'd fallen unconscious, how long... ? Jesus God... He glanced up at the bus driver. Only feature he could really discern was the guy's ethnicity, Latino. He also looked incredibly annoyed, and also a bit frightened.
"Where..." Porky mumbled.
"It's where you wanted to go, man." The man rubbed part of his hair line, crested with sweat as it was, and raised his arms apart obligingly, like he was being diplomatic and polite.
Porky struggled to remember what he told this guy. Anywhere? Anywhere but where he'd been, where Derek had been? Oh god...
A car drove past the mostly empty bus and pulled over a good hundred feet away.
Where... where? Stupid memory...
Oh, right. Daffy was waiting for him. With Kyle in storage. He was... warehouse district. Sure, yeah. Totally discrete, no cops, just hobos. Perfect place to plant a little boy for keeping.
Oh goddamnit... Hillary was fucking dead, Derek screwed up the deal. No money. No deal. Those were the terms. No money and no deal meant dead Kyle. And Hillary was fucking dead. Who was gonna do it now?
No deal... no money... no cut. Fuck. OH, fuck. He'd been shot, how... how the hell was he supposed to pay for hospital fees, how...? No money, goddamnit, no...
Porky whimpered again. The bus driver shoved him slightly on the shoulder.
"Keep your fucking greaser palms to your goddamned self!" Satisfied, Porky collapsed again into the seat, his chest heaving. He didn't... feel like moving.
The bus driver grumbled. "This is the second fuckin' time this has happened, and I ain't takin' no more shit, man. Off the bus."
"Fuck your bus..." Porky groaned. He sounded like a whiner, a little boy.
"You're bleedin' all over tha fuckin' seat, I ain't explainin' this shit to my supervisor. Get off so I can get back to work."
Porky glared at him. Why couldn't he just fucking shut up and leave him alone?
Right, though. Totally right. He couldn't stay here. Had to find Daffy... had to rest. Lay down under some nice blankets, get... bandaged. God, he felt dizzy. He absently reached down and ruffled a bit underneath his shirt, feeling his chest. He... oh man, how'd that happen? There was a hole there. A perfectly round, wet hole. Didn't even hurt... not even a sting.
Porky raised the gun up, waving it slightly. "Move, move, I'm goin'."
The man grunted his approval and pulled a lever next to his control panel. With a hiss of hydraulics, the bus doors opened. Porky slowly moved himself up off the seat, taking a cursory glance back at the thing. It'd been blue. Now it was red. Like, all over. He turned from it, gulping. All him. All of that, him.
Holy crap.
Walking felt... easy. Just one step, two step, and then off the bus. The hard part was how weird he felt as he did this... he felt... empty, tired. He felt his insides slosh around as he moved, like... like they were getting shallower, weaker. Small... niggling pain in his stomach, going up his back, too, but other than that he felt very little.
Porky stepped off the bus, which immediately shut its doors and drove off without so much as a fare well. He silently stowed the pistol in his jeans and looked around the street.
There was a small, grey sedan up the road, to Porky's left. Around that and around the merc was the warehouse district, lonely and desolate. Fat, steel constructions everywhere, all rusty and gray, their shadows made tall by the settling sun. Somewhere, hundreds of meters away, a large truck drove down the street. Not a sound traveled through this place. Just refuse blowing lightly on the pavement, the noises of L.A. proper to the east. Porky sucked in a breath and started limping his way down the sidewalk, attempting to jog his memory for the location of the warehouse. It'd... been in his head, made himself memorize it, but now he couldn't remember for the life of him. Why was it so hard?
So tired. He wanted to just lay down and go to sleep...
But he walked. He left a small, trickling trail of redness behind him, fresh and attracting nearby bugs already.
He looked at the sedan as he passed it, but he saw no one inside. Whoever'd been driving it was long gone. He kept walking.
Pass La Plata street... make a... a right? Or left? He glanced worriedly up at the street sign. Washington Avenue. No La Plata. Where'd it go? Oh god...
The directions were on the tip of his goddamned tongue. He could... think about it, perceive them in his head, the words, the facts just wouldn't come to him. Felt like teasing, he was being played with.
Maybe Daffy would... wait.
Cellphone. Yeah. Hell, why hadn't he thought of that before?
Porky fished through his pockets for a moment, feeling the phone in his hand, but not able to grip it, y'know? Like his fingers just didn't want to work. God, felt like none of him wanted to work except his legs...
He managed to get a good grip on the phone and pulled it out, immediately thumbing in the numbers with extra careful precision. He looked around the street again. Still empty. Still okay. He whimpered and put the thing to his ear.
"We're sorry, the number could not be completed as dialed-"
"What..." He checked the number as the mechanical voice droned on.
Oh, seven NINE four three...
After a few seconds: "Porky?!"
"H-heya."
"Wh- dude, you sound awful, what the fuck?"
"I g-got shot."
Silence. Daffy started breathing loudly.
"W-w-w-" he stuttered.
Porky closed his eyes tightly for a second and glanced back around the empty block. Blood rolled uncomfortably down his side, matting his clothes to the skin and dribbling down to the sidewalk. He felt so tired.
"I'll be fine," Porky managed, somehow able to find his gruff voice again. "Listen, uh... I'm, uh..." He blinked rapidly, "gruff" voice disappearing rapidly now. "I dunno where I'm supposed to be going. I'm in the warehouse district, after... uh... after the bus."
"What happened?!"
God, what did happen? Slipped his mind for a second there... oh wait. Yeah. "Um, Hillary, Derek killed 'im. I got, uh, got outta there."
"Oh thank god..."
Porky blinked again. "What?"
"Dude... we got played."
Oh god, he was gonna talk about something complex and Porky wouldn't friggen' understand a thing the guy said, not in the state he was in... "Uh, listen-"
"They came and took Kyle, man. They took him to another location, told me to stay put."
"What-"
"I dunno! And now Hillary's fuckin' dead, but it's like they were expecting that. They said to just wait! Fuck! It all makes sense now!"
"Uh-" No, it really didn't. God, his side hurt. It was getting much darker out all of a sudden, like the sun had decided to speed up its descent. Or was that only him?
"It's a conspiracy!"
Porky whimpered. He realized the darkness he perceived was merely a shadow falling over his path.
"Uh, yeah, so... are you okay?"
"N-no."
Footsteps behind him, even and unhurried.
"Dude, just lay down somewhere and rest, no point in staying here anymore. I'll come find you! Don't worry, man. Just stay put, lay down."
Porky stared up at the sky for a moment, like he was appealing to some higher power, and then he looked behind him, just turning his head slightly. Derek Reese walked behind him, a silenced pistol held across the small space between them.
He stopped and gulped hard, still looking at Derek as the man mouthed Keep talking.
Wyatt turned and stared down at the ground, watched blood fall, sprinkle onto the pavement below him.
He wasn't gonna make it.
"Where are they taking him?" Wyatt asked as calmly as he could.
Rustling sounds on the other end. "Uh, I'll tell you when I get to where you're at, sort a busy right now." Daffy chuckled nervously. "Uh, hey, where are you anyway?"
He rubbed his lips with the back of his hand and looked back at Reese again. Considered lying, just to spite the man. He considered lying for all of two seconds before he decided he wanted to live.
"On the corner of Washington Avenue and..." he looked up at the street sign again and saw La Plata written there in white, stenciled letters. Wyatt blinked. "La Plata."
"Oh, easy. Okay, just sit there. See you in a few, man. Uh. Don't die."
"Okay."
Click.
Wyatt put his hands up on his chest and closed his eyes for another few seconds, thinking hard about his place in the world, his outlook on life. He thought about his sixteenth birthday, the day his girlfriend kissed him for the first time. He thought about getting bad test grades and his parents wanting him to go to a better college. Iraq. These mask wearing guys. He thought about all he could have done with the money. He also thought about how tired he felt, how he'd probably die of blood loss even if Reese didn't kill him right now.
Thought about that initial rush he'd felt when they took Kyle from the park. Oh, Jesus.
He turned around and glanced at Derek Reese. The man cocked his head slightly, not a hint of emotion showing up on his face.
"Please..." Wyatt whispered.
No response.
"I can help you find him..."
He wanted to be back in college, to play beer pong on weekends. He wanted to study and make his mom and dad proud. He wanted to renounce guns and gun-related things for the rest of his days. He wanted to go back to his little apartment in downtown and just sleep.
Wyatt gulped and tried to smile at the man.
"I want-"
Derek shot him in the head.
----------
It's a beautiful day. The streets are filled and everyone's moving to and fro. The sky is cloudless and the sun shines down, making the skyscrapers of L.A. shimmer in its light. Normal. Happy.
When suddenly... there comes a rumble. Low at first, barely discernible above the hustle and bustle of downtown. But slowly it strengthens in intensity, and what starts as a mild shaking becomes a full-on cataclysm of rock and debris, rocketing from the ground. The people, the cars all react as one organism, practically at the same exact instant: they go crazy. An earthquake, surely. Can it be the Big One? That continent shaking disaster all Californians fear? Maybe that goes through everyone's mind when they feel a slight tremor. Is this it? Is this the beginning?
It hardly matters, for this is not any mere earthquake. It's something far worse, something bizarre and incredible. The ground splits in half and more rock flies out... along with... something else. Everyone sees red at first, horrifying redness flowing out of the crater. Lava! Magma! Too hot, get outta there! The stuff pops, sizzles, burns anyone who's too slow to get out of the way. Impossible to imagine, yet there it is! The lava rises far into the sky, and underneath is charred brown sediment and rock, scraggly formations forming a sharp, horrifying contrast to the buildings that surround it. A whole city street engulfed in lava, everyone's running away! From the inside of the hideous mass come glowing poles, a bouncer, terrible mood music, and scantily clad women spewing in different directions!
And on the surface of that great volcano are the words "Mount Vesuvius."
--
John blinked.
What- Where?
Volcano?
Someone kept talking. What's... His vision refused to clear, he felt like he'd been... drugged, or...
He felt a deep fatigue in his chest, sitting down and staying put. His head, his mind were wobbly and lethargic. Couldn't think straight, real tired yet unable to go back to sleep. He sniffled and felt like he had to sneeze. Laying down or... he was laid down. Okay.
"You think we should stop for now?"
No response. The speaker... Oh. Oh, yeah.
He'd fallen asleep, heh. John quietly glanced around the back of the truck, first looking out the opposite window. A large, concrete-plastic volcano stood in view, its maw overlaid with another coat of red, sort of violet-ish, paint. A bunch of green words hung slightly below what John was capable of seeing. He looked back up at the top, half expecting to see a half-naked girl teasing him there. No such luck. What a fucked up dream. Everything came back to him. They wouldn't let him drive, too worried about how tired he'd felt. Made Mike do it.
Mike went on. "I mean, you guys have visited, what, two places today? Well, we, I guess. Anyway, y'know... both times we got into fights. John almost fucking died there, and the cops..." He paused, looking at her. "You alive?"
"Strictly speaking, yes," Cameron replied.
He sighed. "Cameron..."
"Yes?"
"... Never mind."
"If you wish to address security concerns, talk to John."
"John is, uh..." he looked back at John, making him close his eyes quickly. "Look, you're his bodyguard and... he's sleeping right now, so-"
"John asked to command this mission. It would be inappropriate to go over his head and abort."
Mike scoffed. "Like that's ever stopped you from telling him what to do."
"It's different between me and him."
"Whatever. That doesn't matter. The point is, I've lived in this world long enough to know by now that we've left a really big trail for the cops to follow, especially if we keep getting into gunfights. We oughta give it some time before we make our next move, y'know?"
"Bring it up with John."
Mike said nothing for a bit. John wondered if it was safe to look again. When Mike spoke again, it was barely over a whisper. "I'm asking you."
"My opinion is irrelevant."
"Ye-Fuck you. What the hell is up with you?"
Silence. He heard someone settling slowly against the seating. Probably Mike.
"... We're here," Cameron said.
"We can't do anything right..."
"What?"
"Nothing. Forget it." He moved back and suddenly John felt a hand shaking his shoulder. "Wake up."
He had plenty of experience with this, although it never, ever worked on mom. John pretended to still be asleep. Deep inside, it was sort of a defense mechanism. What the hell were they talking about?
"John, wake up, we're here. C'mon, put on a good face."
"S-stop..." John mumbled. He did his best not to smile.
He heard Mike giggle. "Oh, please."
"He's faking," Cameron said.
This gave Michael pause for a second. Probably he was looking nervously at Cameron, probably a secret exchange went between them. How much did he hear? John kept quiet, rolling over slightly. He bet he could get away with it for a minute or two, enough to suss out what those two were up to. Questioning his authority was a given, but... It felt like something else, something secret. He didn't like it.
"Hm. If he's faking, he won't feel this."
John realized, quite abruptly, that after his, ahem, "dream" he'd sort of gotten a tad... excited. If Mike- Ohhhh, shit. Fuck it. His eyes flashed open. "I'm awake!"
Mike burst out laughing.
------
Twilight was beginning in earnest as they left the truck. The sky darkened enough to cast a weird sort of smokey gloom over this part of the city. Maybe it was the smog in the air. L.A. was pretty bad about that sort of thing. One big politician had wanted to do something about that --if he could become governor-- but the recall on Gray Davis failed, so it looked as if the skies would be clouded with smoke for quite a while yet.
Not like it'd matter much longer if...
The club ahead of them was called "Mount Vesuvius," with the V's shaped into strippers who were bent at the stomach. It sort of troubled John. Not the strippers, but the name. He hadn't seen it up until now and he had a fricken' dream about it. A thoroughly ridiculous dream, at that.
... Maybe it was more clairvoyance coming out? Oh, fuck that. That was just a coincidence. A self-made prophecy, the library shit, don't...
John shivered. Whatever. He absently readjusted the gun in his jeans. So far they were up to one unused shotgun, two Berettas, and one stolen Beretta. And they weren't gonna go without them this time. The bruise on his chest hurt way too much for him to forget about it, to just go in half-cocked once more. And goddamn, so far he was making a pretty big hash of this "leader" thing.
It wasn't for lack of trying, though. He'd make this work. Hell, they kept getting what they wanted, they just... couldn't help the gunfights from happening, or the critical injuries, etc, etc, and such and such. Goddamnit.
A bouncer in a grey overcoat hung out near the entrance, his head tilting left and right periodically as he searched for likely suspects. Probably this was when the club got really popular. John checked the address on the street corner once again. 1105. Man, at least that fucker Aldus had been good for something. John was sort of glad the guy was dead, now that he thought about it. Still... Mike had been stupid to hand that gun back to him. He could have shot the kid in the back. John was mostly just pissed that the guy couldn't live the rest of his days in prison, living with what he'd done, the father he'd gotten killed.
Eh.
John nodded to Mike and Cameron as they walked next to him; they'd sort of flanked out to the left and right exactly like bodyguards. They treated him with kids gloves now, especially after him getting shot in the bank. In a way, that sort of comforted him. He wouldn't be alone, at least.
"Remember to ask for Joey Cook," he said. "If anyone asks why, just, uh..."
Mike cleared his throat. "We'll think of something."
"Yeah." He glanced up and checked the neon signs hanging slightly underneath the Mount Vesuvius one.
HOT EMPLOYEES - PRIVATE SHOWS - ALCOHOL - INEXPENSIVE
...What? Employees? Were they kidding?
The odd language aside, he was mostly worried about the presence of alcohol. That meant they had to provide good enough ID. Mom had carefully arranged for John to be eighteen so he'd be able to get away with a driver's license after he'd dropped out of school, but she made it just so he wouldn't be able to go out and buy beer. It hurt his head just thinking about it. Cyborg assassins thirsted for his blood and she chose to concern herself with him surreptitiously knocking back a Coors at midnight.
Which was ridiculous, of course.
From here, right alongside the curb, they could hear synthesized electronica inside. Also some lyrics, but John couldn't really understand them. No one ever really paid much attention to the music in these places. Beneath the plastic volcano was the darkly painted concrete side of the building, with more neon signs and a few posters showcasing the girls inside. Heather, Felicity, Dominique, Velvet. Just once John wished he could see something off-beat, like Marge, or whatever.
The bouncer glanced at them from behind a pair of slick sunglasses. He looked sort of like a reject from a Hong Kong action film with the trench coat and all. John wondered if he even had a gun.
"Don't make an ass of yourself," he muttered to Cameron.
She grinned at him. "Sure."
John blinked and went back to staring at the ground.
The bouncer started to yap in a paradoxically smooth, rich voice as soon as they'd gotten close enough. "Well hey there boys and girls, welcome to Mount Vesuvius, best voyeur emporium God ever put on this Earth. Don't dig too deep, though cause 'en you get burnt. Hiss."
"I-" John tried.
"Now my name's Alexander, 'n I'll be watchin' over your good selves tonight as well as the lovely ladies available fer ya viewin' pleasure. We here at the Mount promise you a simply un-fer-getable experience 'ere that'll keep ya comin' back ever single night, this here's our honest-to-Jesus guarantee."
"Okay-"
"I see we've got two gentlemen and a lovely lady who're lookin' to have 'emselves a simply excellent time-"
Mike coughed.
Alexander went on with an unfailing grin. "Two gentlemen an' a one lovely lady all lookin' to have 'emselves a simply excellent time, Miss Velour'll be your hostess inside n' now I'm gonna have'ta ask for some ID to send ya on your way into this 'ere active volcano."
John gratefully provided him with his fake license. The bouncer accepted it, checked it for a split second, and handed it back.
"Mmmhm, seems like ya bona fides are in order, now how 'bout your fellow voyeurs 'ere."
"They're with me," John said patiently.
"Now I'll have ya'll know I'd be very cross if I heard there were some underaged drinkin' goin' on in the premises. I'm the thin grey line between good ol' fashioned carnal entertainment and the harsh criminal underworld on the outside, n' I ain't toleratin' none of it."
"Do you know a guy named Joey Cook?" John asked.
Alexander the bouncer chewed on his lower lip for a second, his eyebrows elevating past the confines of his gaudy sunglasses. "Mmm. That that queer from the cooking channel? Name like that'd suit em', the wife watches his dang show all the time, but she don't really know what she's missin', I tell you, I can cook for-"
"Thanks, I guess you don't." John pushed lightly on Mike and Cameron, forcing them inside. He made tracks behind them.
"Have ya'll selves a good time 'n there!"
"Strange guy," Mike said idly as they walked through the threshold. It got darker inside for a few moment, you could barely see ahead of you. Sort of like the prelude to a theme park ride.
"He talked too much," said Cameron. "People who talk so much have something to hide."
John sighed. "And maybe you're just programmed to be paranoid as hell and he's just... quirky."
They glared at him. John rolled his eyes.
A little further inside they came back into --what little there was-- the light of a very small lobby. It had a velvety sort of feel to it, with every surface soft and darkly textured. The posters from outside made a return appearance on the back wall, and underneath those were two comfortable looking plush benches. Behind the front counter was a woman dressed in a surprisingly immaculate floor-length black dress. She smiled pleasantly at three of them, although her eyes lingered just a tad too long on Cameron. The cyborg cocked her head slightly as she perceived this, but didn't say anything. The woman was... well, yeah. She wasn't bad to look at, and John thought he might be staring, so he decided to stare at the posters instead.
"Welcome," the woman said. Like Alexander she seemed made for public speaking, albeit not as whacky as the former. "There's an eight dollar cover charge per head for minors."
Crap. That bouncer buzzed ahead.
"Oh, sure," John said, reaching in his pocket and feeling nothing. His wallet was... other pocket, right. Jeez. He reached in, fished it out, and checked it, half expecting to see a moth fly out. He actually did have a bit of money, but it wasn't even enough for him to get in."Uh." He looked up to see Cameron already removing a few bills from a hefty looking stack of green. Oh, sure, leave the cyborg with all the cash... Mike noticed John's reaction and grinned.
The woman accepted the money and smiled. "Excellent, enjoy yourselves. The bartender will ask for appropriate ID, so don't think about it. Everything else is open to you, however. Ask about the private shows."
"You know a guy named Joey Cook?"
Still smiling, she shook her head.
"Alright, thanks."
John's cellphone started to rumble in his pocket as they started to walk away. "Damnit," he muttered. If it was Riley, he'd find time to talk. If mom, god forbid...
He let it ring. They'd find a place to sit and then he'd-
Oh. Oh, wow.
Past the corner was Mount Vesuvius itself. John envisioned most strip clubs as these shoddy, sort of wooden-concrete places with lots of hollering and dirty middled-aged men. Girls with sticky looking hair and a lot of bad smells, y'know, the stereotype. This place was... hell, it was classy.
In keeping with the apparent theme, the club was spacious, but deceptively low-ceilinged. A bunch of faux molten stalagmites hung slightly down from the top, and beneath that the club was rimmed with red, soft-surfaced walls. That wasn't what really got John's attention though. It was, predictably enough, the girls. They were fucking stunning. You wouldn't think them... y'know, highly paid escorts or strippers or whatever cause they radiated class, every bump of their hips, every move seemed planned and choreographed. They'd wink occasionally at you like they were formal and well-respected entertainers, they seemed controlled, really. Sort of weird. More than that, there was... there was a lot to look at, heh. A bunch of them were dancing in synch on this big plastic stage that was made to look like an overflow of glowing lava, bathing them in an artificially orange light.
The rest of the club was a little less stark, with red couches and recliners abounding in an orderly line surrounding the stage and some tables and poles interspersed liberally between. Along the wall was a very long cushioned bench that circled the entire room. John caught a few people already... ehm, being serviced. Patrons --and employees-- were everywhere, but the gender difference was pretty easy to tell. Cameron was probably the only... "girl" in the room who was wearing more than two articles of clothing.
Towards the front but tucked off to the side stood the main bar. Despite its location, the shelves of alcohol behind the bar were prominently lit, immediately catching the eye and attracting one to the secondary attraction of the club; booze. A green-lit staircase hung off towards to right, and finally, there was a row of tables at the far back, but there weren't a lot of people over there. How many people came for the friggen' food, anyway? You could go to McDonalds for that, you could only come here for... Holy crap, he wasn't breathing.
John just stood there, probably looking like a lost little boy until Cameron wrapped her hand around his.
"Huh?"
She raised an eyebrow at him, unsmiling. Crazy as it may sound, it undeniably meant Don't get any ideas.
John stared back evenly. Since when have you had a say?
-------
They grabbed a table at the back of the place, far from the hijinks going on in the main room. It was hard to dismiss eye candy so cavalierly but they had a job to do. Cameron elected to go off and interrogate some of the girls; she reasoned that her also being a woman would disarm them and make them more psychologically willing to divulge the necessary information; her words. With that fairly creepy statement done with, off she went. Apparently she thought he couldn't get into much trouble with Mike around.
John glanced at the other teenager, who merely nodded at him, his throat catching on something.
Sure. No trouble at all.
He looked out at the strippers for a few moments before turning his eyes back to the table. He traced his finger on the surface of it, going around and around in ever decreasing circles until he kept jabbing it into the same place.
"So," he said, getting up, "Wanna drink?"
"She told us to stay put." Mike smirked and looked up at John before he could complain. "So let's go."
"Heh."
And on they went. The club was expansive enough so that Cameron wouldn't realize they were gone right off the bat, and even if she did, what the hell could she do about it? They moved past a couple of oversized red couches and started toward the bar. Mike kept his hands deep in his pockets while John continually rubbed the back of his neck; felt real itchy. He also got the feeling he was blushing way too much. Funny. You always think you're gonna be cool and confident in a place like this, but it was just so open and there that he couldn't help feeling just slightly overwhelmed.
"Hey sweetie!"
They passed a girl --and a man, by extension-- who were rather, ehm, busy. The stripper seemed uninterested enough in her lap dance to holler at John.
He grinned and nodded to her. "Hey there! How's it going?"
The woman said nothing for a moment. She probably would have paused altogether if she wasn't currently on the job. The man, a dude in a business suit with the words NexStep written into the fabric, canted his head up and glared at John. "We're busy."
John laughed and moved on, waving back to the woman. She didn't wave back. And they kept going. Ahh...
"How often do you go to these places?" Mike asked.
"Not often. I think this is the second time I've ever been in a, y'know."
"Oh." And the first? was the unspoken question from that moment onward until they reached the bar. The man standing behind it wore an expensive looking suit and his hair was carefully gelled. He had this prim-and-proper no nonsense look on his face, sort of like a butler. John was beginning to get a better feel for the regular clientele... no wonder no one knew a two-bit thug.
The bartender inspected in a practiced, perfunctory sort of way and frowned. "I don't think you're old enough for this..."
Jeez, they're fascists here. He was reminded of Allison the bartender, who didn't give a rat's ass one way or the other. He'd really liked her...
"That's okay, just... y'know, whatever's allowed." He looked around the bar and decided to sit down on the nearby stool. Mike quickly sat next to him.
"And the first?" he asked, smirking guiltily.
John shrugged. "It was a while ago, so, y'know, don't worry about it." He wasn't exactly at liberty to discuss it anyhow.
The bartender came back with water. He planted the two sweating glasses in front of them and then made towards the other end, his nose turned up.
"Windbag," John muttered. He turned and looked around for a few seconds, shaking his head as a woman winked and walked by. "Sorry this place isn't more your speed, heh."
"Shut up," Mike said.
He blinked at him as Mike bent his head over and sipped from the glass. "Uh... sorry. I didn't..."
He set the glass down hard and turned on John. He didn't seem angry, just a little annoyed. "You know what's weird? In 2025, no one gave a flying fuck what I was like. We were all human, no one cared." He put up a hand. "I can't go one day now without hearing about it. I didn't realize that in some countries people would fucking kill me just because I'm, y'know."
John turned and started to run his hand up and down the glass, rolling his head a bit and looking away from Mike.
"And you especially," Mike said.
"Me."
"Yeah, you."
"You realize I wouldn't have such a problem with it if you didn't keep, y'know, coming onto me and whatever?"
Mike paused a second. "I said I'd stop. I'm done. I respect that."
Yeah, sure. No matter what he did, Mike always... was that called "true love?" Being so into a person, no matter what happened, that you just couldn't get them out of your head no matter how much you tried? You can't take a step back, you can't say "stop?" Sounded like obsession. At the same time, a small part of John wanted to reciprocate just for that feeling alone. He'd already gone through this, but... it felt nice, at least. But even if he did entertain it, he'd feel awkward as hell and he refused to entertain that. He'd already tried rejecting Mike with insults when reason failed. All he had left was to say "no" over and over again.
John thought about Riley. He thought about whether or not he'd stop loving her if she asked him to. Whether he really felt "true" love for her, if such a thing existed.
He couldn't visualize it. Not whether he would or he would not, he just...
"Then I'll stop talking about it," John said.
"Thank you."
"You're a real fucked up best friend, you know that?"
Mike blinked. "W-what?"
"What?"
"I'm your best friend?"
John shrugged. "I don't have any other friends." He picked up the water and stared at it for a second. "Hey!" he yelled.
The bartender strutted back over, raising both brows high.
"A Bud," he said. He tapped the counter.
"ID, please," the bartender said at once. Mike blinked and turned back around, very silent all of a sudden.
"Fuck ID," John spat. "I can pay for it, now go."
"Hmph." The bartender whirled around and glided on over to the tap. John glared at his back. That's right, do as I say. I'm John freaking Connor.
Mike scratched his chin. "Yeah, me too."
The bartender stopped for just a moment, as if to acknowledge the request.
"You drink?" John asked.
"You drink?" Mike smiled.
"Woohoo!" someone yelled in the club.
"Not really."
"So why...?"
"I dunno, I really don't."
"We're on a mission, y'know."
"So why did you order, then?"
"You lead by example, John."
John grunted. Whatever, neither of them were saints, so it didn't matter. "Oh, hey, by the way!"
The bartender sighed.
"Do you know a Joey Cook?"
And he paused in mid-step.
John and Mike leaned forward over the bar at the same exact second. It would have been funny if John didn't feel so dead serious all of a sudden.
Slowly, the man turned around. "Why do you ask?"
"I just wanted to talk to him," John said.
"Mm."
Mike made an annoyed sound.
"So...?" John said, trying his best to smile and failing. All other distractions suddenly fell by the wayside, like he'd suddenly developed tunnel vision. This guy knew who they were after. He represented a quick, easy way out of this and back onto the mission. So nothing else mattered.
Slowly, he nodded. "Yes, I know him. He's not on our... valued list of clientele, per se. I'd advise you against meeting him. He's not the sort of man you just talk to."
"I'm sure he can't be that bad. Is he here right now?"
"Not that I'm aware of, but I wouldn't really know. He's rather the unsavory sort."
"Who would know?"
The bartender hesitated again. "Can I bring you your drinks?"
"What's the matter?"
"I'll... tell you both in a second if you would just be patient."
John waved his hand, leaning back from the counter. "Whatever, take your time." After a moment he sighed. "I hope he actually knows something." He glanced back at the club and found Cameron staring at him from across the room, conversing with a stripper. He felt like a fly being observed by a spider all of a sudden, and he turned around again, reaching blindly for his water.
"So what's she like?" Mike asked.
"Creepy as hell," John said softly. He downed some water and wiped his mouth.
The other teenager laughed. "No, no. Not... her, I mean. Your, uh, y'know. Riley."
"Oh. Why?"
Mike shifted uncomfortably, probably wishing that question hadn't come up. "Well... I dunno. You seemed to like Cameron a lot."
A mental barrier erected itself easily over the past instances of John considering sex with his robot protector, all the tension between them, the times they displayed undeniable affection for each other. Times they kissed. He constructed a wall to cover all those instances and said, "No. Not really, no. She isn't real, not like... not like that. C'mon."
"Did something happen between you?"
John looked at Michael. The question had been far too on-the-nose to have just been spur of the moment. "I told you... she hasn't been normal since, y'know, since that explosion. She's been weird."
"I know. Did something else happen?"
He looked away, said nothing and tapped his fingers on the counter again.
She appears at the mouth of the tunnel. Even as his mouth falls open in shock, he realizes he expected to see her sooner or later anyway. Just not this soon. In a way, she's more dangerous than the liquid metal shithead who was after him four years ago. She knows them. Knows their psychology, where they'd run to. It's easy for her.
As Sarah revs the engine and that blank, murderous look gets closer and closer, John wonders what he --honestly-- would have done if they actually lost her today. Even with her stalking him, he wouldn't help but feel a "this is weird" sensation when her absence really falls on him. He's grown dependent, far too dependent on her. She gets his food, protects him as he sleeps, goes to school with him, and he loves her desperately. Is this her way of getting back? When she finally finds him, will she gloat?
Suddenly they're on top of her, and he doesn't see her as they pass. He feels her attack, though. He feels it in his whole body, and gravity suddenly stops working as the van flies through the air and crashes against the ground.
Inexplicably, as he looks around, he realizes he knows this place. It's so familiar.
"John?"
"Nothing."
He sighed. "Okay, Riley, then. What's she like?"
Thank god. John looked up at the ceiling. "She's okay. Funny. Pretty. Big, uh... y'know." He smirked.
Mike snorted.
Yeah, that's Riley for ya. Not a bad face, not a bad chest and... you know next to nothing about her. Oh, yeah, she's an orphan. Her parents died in a fire. She's apparently fond of archaic phrases and she seems to orchestrate events imperceptibly. When a Terminator went after you, she batted not an eyelash and it was never mentioned again. You know her way fucking well, Johnny.
"I guess you guys met in school?"
"Yeah. She just walked up to me one day and asked me to skip with her. I brought her home and we hung out awhile. Got to know each other... she's nice, y'know." He grinned. "It's all carrots and apples with her."
Mike started laughing. He folded his arms together and looked up at the ceiling, smiling broadly as though remembering something fondly.
"Wait, what?"
Before Mike could answer the bartender suddenly returned with two beers in hand. John couldn't be any less interested now. Mike gladly accepted the thing and took a slight sip, making a face when he pulled the glass away. John didn't bother with his, wondering whether he should remind the barkeep of his obligations or ask Mike just what the hell was so funny. He decided to keep to business and grabbed the bartender by the arm before he could slip away unnoticed.
"Hey! Let me go!" he cried.
John dug his hands into the man's skin, making him wince in pain. He pulled the man closer, dragging him half-over the counter top. A couple of glasses toppled and fell over, making a huge racket that went completely unnoticed due to the hijinks going on behind them. The bartender made a slight "meep" sound deep in his throat and relented, making John crack a smile. "Hey, you said you'd tell us about Joey."
"Err, yes."
"So?"
"Can you please let me go?"
John glanced over at Mike, who appeared to be ignoring them. That was actually a good thing, now that he thought about it. Looking back, he said, "No. But I will once you tell me, okay? All on you, buddy."
"Uhhh, well..."
"No pressure."
"Let me think, I can't think when you're... where's the bouncer...?"
"Never mind where he is, you'll be fine. C'mon."
"Well, Joey, uh... Um... He... visits one of our cooks every, uh... week. Yes."
Mike looked up from his drink.
"Go on."
"And, well, I assume they speak at length whenever they're not... doing business."
"What kind of business?" John cocked his head.
Mike suddenly planted a hand on his shoulder. "Uh, where is this cook?"
The bartender suddenly seemed a castaway regarding a life vest, turning eagerly to a supposed savior. "In the kitchen, of course! You can find him there, yes! He's not allowed to discuss business, though!"
"That's okay, I've got business. Go on and tell him." He nodded at John.
"Huhhh," the bartender suddenly seemed far less interested in being "saved" by Mike.
John let the poor bastard go, frowning. He felt as if he'd just missed something vitally important. As the bartender beat a hasty retreat, John turned to his friend, raising an eyebrow. "Uh?"
The kid coughed. "It's, uh, easy if you know what he's talking about. The cook's, uh..." He frowned. "I forget, is prostitution illegal?"
"Yeah." Oh, jeez.
"Then that's why the guy didn't want to talk about it."
"Oh, fucking gross."
Mike shrugged.
"Dude, this is no time-"
He got off his stool. "Relax, I know. I'll grill him for everything he's got and then leave, nothing else."
"Good." John slouched down into his seat, suddenly embarrassed beyond belief. What the hell did he care, anyway, if Mike... Goddamnit. He did. Sort of. It was weird. He felt Mike lingering for a bit, as if he felt everything wasn't okay.
John supposed there was something else after all. "Uh, before you go?"
"Yeah?"
"Why were you laughing before?"
Mike brightened. "Oh! It was what you said! When I was growing up people would say that all the time, it was just weird to hear it again."
"Carrots and apples," John repeated numbly.
"Yeah. It means happy thoughts, or something good. Cause, y'know, what else is good and happy post-JD besides carrots and apples?" He smiled again, a little bitter this time. "Anyway, you'll stay here then?"
"Yeah." He stared at the wall, his very first meeting with Riley playing over and over again in his head now. It's a common phrase, surely. Right?
Mike patted him on the shoulder. "Okay, I'll, uh... I'll be back. See you."
"Yeah." Mike went past the counter, briefly checked if it was okay with the bartender (and it was) and disappeared behind a door.
John glanced at the drink and stared at it for a minute or two before he decided to down the whole thing.
A/N: There will be a *ton* of action next chapter, so stay tuned. As always, your thoughts and critique are appreciated.