South of the Border
Part I

It's well past midnight when we cross the border into Mexico. The guards don't pay us much attention, which tells me that my and Wade's faces are not on anybody's watch list... At least, not yet.

"That was easier than I thought it'd be," Wade says.

"Oh, yeah," I add. "Getting in is the easy part."

Getting out, I don't add, is a much more challenging road.

Wade takes Calle Segunda west, the beach calling to us even at this hour. We drive through the rougher parts of town until they give way to tourist traps and condos. It's not a pretty city by any means, and from the looks of things, it appears to have suffered severe water damage rather recently.

Oh...

"Maybe the beach isn't such a good idea," Wade mutters to my surprise. I look at him, masking my confusion. "This place might be worst than Santa Cruz."

"Don't be like that," I tease, but my mind is heaving with relief. "The tide must have come in a little high, maybe."

But the closer we get to the beach, the more debris we see littering the street, the sand. Before we got to San Diego, the beaches were sparse with washed-up seaweed, maybe the occasional jellyfish. Out here, there's old beer bottles and cans, random garbage, gross clumps of whatever-the-fuck else. And yes, the waves reach all the way up to the boardwalk.

"A little, huh?"

"I didn't expect it to be like this," I snap. "I've never been here before."

"I'm not blaming you, babe," he says, "but I mean, we could have taken our time getting down here. That's what I usually do. It's the best way to get your waves' worth in before the chunder."

"You said Mexico." I say curtly, an icicle of frustration forming in my gut.

"You said Mexico," Wade returns smoothly, the warmth in his voice melting it away, "and I said it sounded rad. Plus, I know you wanted to spend Christmas somewhere, even though we're celebrating the wrong thing."

My body hums with heat. I can separate this sensation from the arousal in my gut; it's the same internal fury I felt when I got arrested back in LA.

Back in the precinct.

The feeling of lava flowing from my nerves and searing across my bones until they might as well have been made of lead. Heaviness, heat, a buildup of energy, an orgasm, the satisfaction of my fist connecting with a bitch's jaw, an earthquake. I try to push the Legacy down, but it's too powerful. Of course, I go years without anything after telekinesis and then my very next Legacy just so happens to be one of the strongest there is. Or maybe I'm just too weak to handle it on my own.

"Hey, you okay?" says Wade, his concern bleeding into my vision, my nervous system, my Legacy. "Babe, your eyes!"

The beach croaks. It's subtle, and I only notice it from the throbbing pain that travels up my spine. But the higher it goes, the worse that the ground throbs in response. No, no, no, I can't repeat Santa Monica here in this town. At the precinct, it was a bittersweet blessing, a perfect way to bail. Here, I'll be giving myself away. If those X-Files assholes survived, if the Mogadorians somehow catch word of what I can do, another accident might lead them right to us.

So I get rid of it. I cast it out of my head, way off into the sea. It'll still detonate, but those on land will at least have a head-start. As for Wade...

I bury my face in my hands and begin to choke, like I'm sobbing. Maybe that'll write off whatever weird shit my eyes are doing, maybe not. I'm worried that if I look at my reflection in the sun visor I'll be too terrified to explain it. So I just fake crying. Maybe my eyes are red, or bloodshot, or my pupils have grown so massive that they may as well have hemorrhaged. Wade doesn't say anything, but I feel his eyes on me. Studying me. And then it all comes spilling out.

"I just wanted to spend this time with you," I murmur into my palms. "I knew you weren't gonna stay in LA forever, and it hurt so much that I..."

"I get it," he says, and now there are actual tears breaking forth from my eyes. "Don't worry, Hope. I'll find us something to do."

Overall, if not annoyed or totally weirded out, Wade sounds tired. This is my fault. We've been going nonstop for the past twelve hours. I didn't really take Wade's standard travel procedure into account—if he even follows a procedure at all. I mean, it's not Wade who's on the run from alien bounty hunters. His nomadic worries consist of insomnia, boredom, and the slim chance some stiff police officer will pull him over and run his fake medicinal marijuana card. Compared to getting run off the road and shot in the back of the head, I'd take boredom and cops any day.

"Hey," says Wade, "look at that."

I lift my face from my hands for the first time in five minutes. We're still driving along the beach, the tides retreating from the wet sand at a little too fast a pace. I'd rather us be somewhere deeper inland, or at least high up. But, knowing I can (probably) help us outrun a tsunami by either car or on foot, I humor him. The world is no longer bleeding red, but the edges of my vision remain sharpened and scarlet. Ahead of us is a massive fence made of connecting steel panels. The old rusted metal spokes holding it up are graffitied with colors and words. With my enhanced vision, I see that these are Spanish names and prayers.

We're looking at the U.S.-Mexico border.

More coming soon.