Hey everyone!
I'm SO glad you're all reviewing! This is great! Really makes my day, u kno? Ok, so I'm not really running out of ideas here...but I'm getting a bit of writer's block. If ANY of you have ideas, SHARE! You guys are, as the French say, an INSPIRATION! Wait...Americans say that, right? Oops...LOL.
Tique- Hey, thanks! Mystique's chacter is really hard to get down, you know? She's so complex! I'm glad you think I"ve done a good job! *grins* *bows* Thank you, thank you!
Pendragon- Ello, Luv! Oooh! I'm SO glad you like my stories! I work hard on them, u kno, and it's just SO cool to have you review them and such! LOL. Seriously, thankyouthankypouthankyou! I LOVE your reviews! They make me smile! *grins so wide face cracks in half* Oh dear. That's another trip to the doctor...
Demiducky- Hey! LOL, yea Mystique has SO mnay sides, it's like writing about two hundred different people at the same time! But she's really quite enthralling, don't you think so? (
Rogue151: Hey! Sorry it took me so long to update (yes, I understand about writer's block, lol). Oh I DO hope you continue your story! I LOVE it! It's really exciting! Mystique doesn't remember about taking care of Rogue, because in this series of comics, that entire time in her life is never really mentioned. She does make a rather good mother in those comics though, doesn't she? (
Chapter 3
I admit it, I feel a little bad for Meghan while I sit here sipping at a Coke and watch her ravenously inhaling her grilled cheese sandwich—I feel bad because it has the texture (and taste) of cardboard, but she acts like it's the best meal she's ever had.
"Geez, Kid, why don't you try CHEWING the food? It won't get caught in your throat that way."
She looks up at me with cheese dribbling down her chin and I force down a grin; I'm NOT thinking she's somewhat-almost-a little cute.
Slowly I shake my head in disgust and hand her a napkin, motioning with my hand to show her where the mess is on her face.
While she carelessly wiped her chin with her sleeve and tosses the napkin on her lap, I force down a bite of salad and make a face.
She giggles you look goofy.
I raise an eyebrow and cast a wary gaze over her tousled hair and messy face, "I do?"
She really doesn't seem to care, though, and I find myself longing for that simplicity; not caring what I look like, as long as I'm happy and comfortable.
That would shave off about two hours of getting ready (if I didn't just have to melt myself into any form I wanted that is).
She finishes her sandwich in about five minutes, and when the waitress comes back she goes on about what a big girl she is.
I roll my eyes, "Can I have the check, please?"
The waitress eyes me suspiciously, happy smile and high-toned-joy gone; guess she saves that for 'big girls'.
"Don't you want dessert?" she drawls in her Southern accent.
I start to say 'no', but then I remember Meghan; how long has it been since she's had dessert?
What the heck, I'll be nice.
"Sure. Whatever. You like pie, Meghan?"
I swear, her smile must have lit up the whole room as she nodded empathetically, "My favorite's apple."
"Get the girl some apple pie, ice-cream on top
"Coming up, Hun."
"Thanks."
While the waitress wanders off, glanci9ng over her shoulder at me, I can't help but tp feel a little nervous; normally, my disguises are flawless, and I haven't tried to transform myself since I first met Meghan (figured it'd just freak the kid out).
So why has she been watching us for the past half hour?
I tap my fingers on the tabletop nervously as Meghan asks, "How come you're bein so nice to me?"
"Nice?" I scoff, shaking my head, "I'm just 'doing my duty', Meg. Nothin' 'nice' about it."
"You got me pie."
"I want some."
"You asked for the check first, and then you looked at me funny, and then you got pie. And you asked me if I liked it. And you got apple, my favorite."
Dang. Three points, all needing to be shot down.
I'm not nice, darnit!
"Well, I changed my mind. I decided if I had to eat tree leaves for dinner, I could at least get dessert. And I looked at you to make sure you wiped your face off."
Ok, one down, two to go.
How to answer these?
I rest my chin in my hand, my eyes flicking over to the waitress, who is still watching us (though she turns away every time she sees me looking)
"And...I asked if you liked it because...I can't eat it all by myself. Too mnay bl;asted calories. I got you're favorite because it's MY favorite."
Ha! Call ME nice, huh?
She smiles slightly, "I like you, Misti."
'Misti'?
Oh yea.
Her nickname for me.
She decided 'Mystique' is too 'weird', so I'm 'Misti', now.
At least I can spell it like I want to.
Luckily, before I have to go off on some stupid, mushy statement, our waitress returns with our pie which is (thankfully) surprisingly good.
Meghan eats over half of it, which actually doesn't shock me, and when she's finished she simply sits back with crayons and a napkin and doodles some stars and flowers.
The weird thing is, after clearing our dishes, our waitress never returns with the check.
Which has me VERY bugged.
Maybe it's my instincts.
Maybe it's from too mnay attacks on poor-little-ol'-me.
In any event, my suspicions are for good reason, it turns out.
It's as I watch Meghan draw her version of the Mona Lisa that the waitress returns...with two armed police officers.
When I look and realize what's happening, Meghan is still coloring in Mona Lisa's face green.
I try to keep calm and collected as I inquire, "Can I... help you?"
"Yes, Ma'am. We're sorry to disturb you, but we have a few questions we'd like you to answer for us."
I shrug, nonchalant as always, "Sure. That's fine with me."
Meghan's eyes have found the cops now, and she's watching me nervously.
I just watch the policeman before me as he continues speaking in an annoyingly measured tone, "We're going to need to take you and your child downtown with us..."
He keeps blabbing on about my rights and everything as he takes out handcuffs; that sets me off.
I reach for my gun at the same instant that Meghan slides under the table and clutches my other hand; kid's relatively bright.
"...these cuffs are mandatory. You're innocent until proven guilty..."
I'm slowly sliding the gun up to rest on my lap, aiming it at the man's knee.
"...We'd appreciate cooperation-!"
There's an ear shattering blast, followed by a few screams and startled cries from some of the other customers.
The officer falls to the ground, clutching his leg and swearing in agony as his partner advances on me with his gun aimed, "Hands in the air!"
"If you say so," I reply softly, and lift my gun out from under the table, firing another bullet into the man's shoulder.
"I didn't WANT to do that," I lie as I lift Meghan out from under the table and start towards the exit.
The waitress—who ran at the first gunshot—is standing almost immediately nearby, so I toss Meghan aside and decide to pay her a little visit.
As soon as I know Meghan's fine, I slam the stupid wench into the wall, "WHADJA CALL THE COPS FOR?!?"
"You're the kidnapper of that poor girl, Meghan Carnelle. I can't let you hurt her any longer-"
"I'm not her kidnapper-!"
"Well, you're CERTAINLY not her mother!"
"I'm TAKIN' HER TO HER MOTHER YOU IDIOT!"
"I'm certain that's a lie. You've probably recently taken her and are taking her to your car to tie her up and starve her, aren't you?!@?"
"WHY WOULD I BUY HER DINNER AND A FREAKIN' PIE IF I WAS GOING TO TIE HER UP AND STARVE HER?!?"
That gets her for a sec.
She pauses and then gets a smug look, "I'll bet you're fattening her up, aren't you? So she'll be ugly and you'll be prettier?"
A bullet races past my ear and shatters the window; time to break for it.
"You're a real idiot, you know that?" I holler as I shove her to the ground and grab Meghan's wrist.
So THIS is what it's like to be in the middle of a gunfight!
Neat!
It's a little scary, and I'm kind of nervous that Misti will get us hurt, but she's pretty good at firing at the cops.
It's weird, saying that.
Misti's firing at the cops, so does that make her a bad guy?
I don't think so.
They were trying to take me away, and even though I would have liked that, they also tried to put Misti in jail.
She's not bad.
She shouldn't go to jail.
But then...why is she shooting the police?
Don't people who shoot at the police have to go to jail?
At least she's not shooting to kill them. She's just hitting their arms and legs.
Every time we get close to the door, there's another policeman who shoots at Misti, and that makes me angry; if anyone hurts her, I'll be so sad!
Misti doesn't look scared at all, though; she's just turning around and blasting at people like it's the easiest thing ever.
She's really good at this!
I hate to say it, since guns and shooting and stuff is bad...but I kind of want to be like her!
The kid is watching me with something of adoration in her eyes, and that gives me the ego-boost I need to get out of this peaceful family restaurant gone gang-shootout.
I fire a few last rounds, being sure to get them all into their target, then grab Meghan's arms and hoist her into the air as I barge through the exit, shoving my way through the door and stumbling over the parking lot.
I find the car within seconds and before I even realize it have buckled up (due to Meghan's nagging) and have pulled into the street and am speeding away as fast as I can without killing us.
I'm a little shaken up—who wouldn't be, after that?—but otherwise unharmed, which is VERY lucky, considering the number of people who were shooting at me.
After I'm pretty certain we're safe, I allow my concern to stretch a little to Meghan, "You ok?"
She nods mutely.
"Good."
I sigh and switch the radio on, leaning back into my seat; I can't help but to feel at least slightly proud of myself.
We both got out of their safe and sound, and I filled half a dozen cops with lead.
I realize how wicked that sounds and smile, creeping even myself out a little.
That's when the radio announcement catches my attention, and any feelings I have are washed away and replaced with seething rage.
"..with the attack on the well-known Susan's Café, where Meghan Carnelle was last seen in the company of a middle aged Caucasian female, height 5'7", weight in the lower hundreds. Her identification was left at the café, and has given this information: the name of the woman is Margaret Johnasen, her age is twenty-eight. She is said to have red hair and green eyes. She is armed and dangerous, so if you see her, please keep as far back as possible and call 911. Again, this is radio news, reporting live for-"
I instantly flick the radio off and stare straight ahead, heart thudding in anxiety and fury.
"This...is...just...GREAT! I'm wanted for KIDNAPPING now! They probably have EVERY COP IN THE CITY AFTER US! Do you KNOW what this MEANS?!? It MEANS that my vacation is OFF! I'm now a CONVICT on the RUN with a KID I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO I SUPPOSEDLY TOOK! AND THEY HAVE MY ID! THIS IS JUST MAGNIFICENT!" I yell, slamming my fist on the dashboard.
Meghan stifles a small sob and sniffles softly.
"Oh, STOP! I'M the one who should be CRYING! I'M the one who should be FREAKING OUT! I NEVER should have picked you up! It went against my better judgment! I do ONE good thing and it blows up in my face! Man, this is just...just PERFECT!"
She just sniffs again.
Pitiful.
"I should PROBABLY just let you out here and go on my merry way. Then I could just forget about this WHOLE mess. I could get another ID, some more money, and head to Las Vegas."
No answer, just more tears.
I take a deep breath to gather my wits and let it out slowly, "Ok. Ok, fine. It's good. It's fine."
I reach over and grab a napkin, handing it to her, "C'mon, stop that. Quit crying. I can't handle that. Don't cry. It's ok. I was...I won't drop you off here. I won't leave you. It's ok."
She takes the tissue and buries her face in it, crying still.
"It's OK, Meghan. Really. We'll...figure something out. This isn't the first time I've been on the run. Really. It's all good. We'll be fine."
"Y-You're m-mad at m-m-me!"
"No. No, I'm not mad at YOU...not at YOU."
"Yes!" she sobs in reply, still hiding her face.
Probably ashamed.
Super.
I shake my head forcefully as I pull over on the side of this deserted road, "No, really. I would say so if I was. I'm really not mad at you. I'm mad at...I'm mad at that stupid fat waitress for lying. And I'm mad at the cops for chasing us. I'm not mad at YOU at all, ok?"
"Then w-why did you y-yell at me?"
She glances up at me slowly.
Why do kids ask these things?
I suppose I should be honest, huh?
"Because you were the only one here. If you weren't here, I would have yelled at the radio."
I see the beginnings of a smile on her face, "Really?"
"Yea. Really."
"What if you didn't have a radio?"
I shrug, "I'd probably yell at the mirror. Or the steering wheel. I'd find something."
"You don't have to yell," she said softly, "It scares people."
"Well, maybe I WANT to scare people sometimes."
Mistsi sure is confusing.
I don't see why she has to yell.
Why would she want to scare people?
Scaring people is mean.
Misti isn't mean.
I know that.
She can't be, be cause she saved me.
I slowly look up at her; I feel shy around her for some reason.
She's kind of scary now.
Like someone bad, only...not bad.
Kind of like a good guy who's a bad guy at the same time.
Maybe she's both?
Maybe she's neither?
I don't know. All this confusion is really making my head hurt.
I wish I was at the House, lying in my bed and just sleeping in my room with the other girls.
I miss the House.
Why'd things have to change?
I feel like crying again.
3:46 a.m.
How many hours driving is that?
We stopped for gas in one of those small, dirty towns with a total population of fifty at about 8:30 p.m.
I bought Meghan a soda and some pretzels for dinner.
I wasn't hungry.
I guess she wasn't either, cuz she only ate a few pretzels.
Now she's lying against the door, dead asleep.
The gas tank is on empty again, and the nearest town is about fifteen miles away.
I'm still deciding what to do with Meghan.
I'm a mutant spy; I CAN'T watch little kids.
It's not in my nature.
I'm not one of those maternal types at all.
I mean, I go around blasting people's brains out, playing the 'come hither' femme fatale, gambling my life and money and belongings away.
I'm not 'mom' material.
And I don't WANT to be.
I guess I COULD just drop her off at the police station, except that if I get within twenty feet of one, they'll have me down and out in seconds.
No, it's best just to keep on the move.
Maybe I should just drive her back home to 'Cal-ee-for-nee-uh'.
That makes me smile; I suppose that's always a good vacation spot.
Only thing is, it'll take WEEKS to drive there.
Then I have to come ALL THE WAY BACK to New York to continue my work for Ol' Bald-Man-In-A-Wheelchair Xavier.
Plus, I'll have to stop at a hotel sometime.
I don't think kids last well on the road.
Something about constant boredom and potty breaks and whining.
I'll go nuts and shoot her dead.
Then I'll feel bad and have to bury her somewhere and be wanted for ANOTHER murder.
Shoot.
So HOW many weeks'll this take?
And WHY am I doing this?
Oh yea.
I'm losing my spunk.
I can't even drop a simply six-year-old girl on the curb anymore.
Next thing you know, I'll be going soft on the man pointing a gun in my face.
"Oh no, Sir. That's ok. Here, take MY gun! It works SOOO much better!"
Great.
I've been defeated by a CHILD.
I shake my head tenaciously as I pull into the gas station; NO.
That WILL NOT happen.
I'll drop the stinkin' kid off at California, but I won't lose my edge.
This is a different situation.
And it's not like I'm being all mushy-lovey-dovey with her, either.
And I never WILL be, either.
I'm SO glad you're all reviewing! This is great! Really makes my day, u kno? Ok, so I'm not really running out of ideas here...but I'm getting a bit of writer's block. If ANY of you have ideas, SHARE! You guys are, as the French say, an INSPIRATION! Wait...Americans say that, right? Oops...LOL.
Tique- Hey, thanks! Mystique's chacter is really hard to get down, you know? She's so complex! I'm glad you think I"ve done a good job! *grins* *bows* Thank you, thank you!
Pendragon- Ello, Luv! Oooh! I'm SO glad you like my stories! I work hard on them, u kno, and it's just SO cool to have you review them and such! LOL. Seriously, thankyouthankypouthankyou! I LOVE your reviews! They make me smile! *grins so wide face cracks in half* Oh dear. That's another trip to the doctor...
Demiducky- Hey! LOL, yea Mystique has SO mnay sides, it's like writing about two hundred different people at the same time! But she's really quite enthralling, don't you think so? (
Rogue151: Hey! Sorry it took me so long to update (yes, I understand about writer's block, lol). Oh I DO hope you continue your story! I LOVE it! It's really exciting! Mystique doesn't remember about taking care of Rogue, because in this series of comics, that entire time in her life is never really mentioned. She does make a rather good mother in those comics though, doesn't she? (
Chapter 3
I admit it, I feel a little bad for Meghan while I sit here sipping at a Coke and watch her ravenously inhaling her grilled cheese sandwich—I feel bad because it has the texture (and taste) of cardboard, but she acts like it's the best meal she's ever had.
"Geez, Kid, why don't you try CHEWING the food? It won't get caught in your throat that way."
She looks up at me with cheese dribbling down her chin and I force down a grin; I'm NOT thinking she's somewhat-almost-a little cute.
Slowly I shake my head in disgust and hand her a napkin, motioning with my hand to show her where the mess is on her face.
While she carelessly wiped her chin with her sleeve and tosses the napkin on her lap, I force down a bite of salad and make a face.
She giggles you look goofy.
I raise an eyebrow and cast a wary gaze over her tousled hair and messy face, "I do?"
She really doesn't seem to care, though, and I find myself longing for that simplicity; not caring what I look like, as long as I'm happy and comfortable.
That would shave off about two hours of getting ready (if I didn't just have to melt myself into any form I wanted that is).
She finishes her sandwich in about five minutes, and when the waitress comes back she goes on about what a big girl she is.
I roll my eyes, "Can I have the check, please?"
The waitress eyes me suspiciously, happy smile and high-toned-joy gone; guess she saves that for 'big girls'.
"Don't you want dessert?" she drawls in her Southern accent.
I start to say 'no', but then I remember Meghan; how long has it been since she's had dessert?
What the heck, I'll be nice.
"Sure. Whatever. You like pie, Meghan?"
I swear, her smile must have lit up the whole room as she nodded empathetically, "My favorite's apple."
"Get the girl some apple pie, ice-cream on top
"Coming up, Hun."
"Thanks."
While the waitress wanders off, glanci9ng over her shoulder at me, I can't help but tp feel a little nervous; normally, my disguises are flawless, and I haven't tried to transform myself since I first met Meghan (figured it'd just freak the kid out).
So why has she been watching us for the past half hour?
I tap my fingers on the tabletop nervously as Meghan asks, "How come you're bein so nice to me?"
"Nice?" I scoff, shaking my head, "I'm just 'doing my duty', Meg. Nothin' 'nice' about it."
"You got me pie."
"I want some."
"You asked for the check first, and then you looked at me funny, and then you got pie. And you asked me if I liked it. And you got apple, my favorite."
Dang. Three points, all needing to be shot down.
I'm not nice, darnit!
"Well, I changed my mind. I decided if I had to eat tree leaves for dinner, I could at least get dessert. And I looked at you to make sure you wiped your face off."
Ok, one down, two to go.
How to answer these?
I rest my chin in my hand, my eyes flicking over to the waitress, who is still watching us (though she turns away every time she sees me looking)
"And...I asked if you liked it because...I can't eat it all by myself. Too mnay bl;asted calories. I got you're favorite because it's MY favorite."
Ha! Call ME nice, huh?
She smiles slightly, "I like you, Misti."
'Misti'?
Oh yea.
Her nickname for me.
She decided 'Mystique' is too 'weird', so I'm 'Misti', now.
At least I can spell it like I want to.
Luckily, before I have to go off on some stupid, mushy statement, our waitress returns with our pie which is (thankfully) surprisingly good.
Meghan eats over half of it, which actually doesn't shock me, and when she's finished she simply sits back with crayons and a napkin and doodles some stars and flowers.
The weird thing is, after clearing our dishes, our waitress never returns with the check.
Which has me VERY bugged.
Maybe it's my instincts.
Maybe it's from too mnay attacks on poor-little-ol'-me.
In any event, my suspicions are for good reason, it turns out.
It's as I watch Meghan draw her version of the Mona Lisa that the waitress returns...with two armed police officers.
When I look and realize what's happening, Meghan is still coloring in Mona Lisa's face green.
I try to keep calm and collected as I inquire, "Can I... help you?"
"Yes, Ma'am. We're sorry to disturb you, but we have a few questions we'd like you to answer for us."
I shrug, nonchalant as always, "Sure. That's fine with me."
Meghan's eyes have found the cops now, and she's watching me nervously.
I just watch the policeman before me as he continues speaking in an annoyingly measured tone, "We're going to need to take you and your child downtown with us..."
He keeps blabbing on about my rights and everything as he takes out handcuffs; that sets me off.
I reach for my gun at the same instant that Meghan slides under the table and clutches my other hand; kid's relatively bright.
"...these cuffs are mandatory. You're innocent until proven guilty..."
I'm slowly sliding the gun up to rest on my lap, aiming it at the man's knee.
"...We'd appreciate cooperation-!"
There's an ear shattering blast, followed by a few screams and startled cries from some of the other customers.
The officer falls to the ground, clutching his leg and swearing in agony as his partner advances on me with his gun aimed, "Hands in the air!"
"If you say so," I reply softly, and lift my gun out from under the table, firing another bullet into the man's shoulder.
"I didn't WANT to do that," I lie as I lift Meghan out from under the table and start towards the exit.
The waitress—who ran at the first gunshot—is standing almost immediately nearby, so I toss Meghan aside and decide to pay her a little visit.
As soon as I know Meghan's fine, I slam the stupid wench into the wall, "WHADJA CALL THE COPS FOR?!?"
"You're the kidnapper of that poor girl, Meghan Carnelle. I can't let you hurt her any longer-"
"I'm not her kidnapper-!"
"Well, you're CERTAINLY not her mother!"
"I'm TAKIN' HER TO HER MOTHER YOU IDIOT!"
"I'm certain that's a lie. You've probably recently taken her and are taking her to your car to tie her up and starve her, aren't you?!@?"
"WHY WOULD I BUY HER DINNER AND A FREAKIN' PIE IF I WAS GOING TO TIE HER UP AND STARVE HER?!?"
That gets her for a sec.
She pauses and then gets a smug look, "I'll bet you're fattening her up, aren't you? So she'll be ugly and you'll be prettier?"
A bullet races past my ear and shatters the window; time to break for it.
"You're a real idiot, you know that?" I holler as I shove her to the ground and grab Meghan's wrist.
So THIS is what it's like to be in the middle of a gunfight!
Neat!
It's a little scary, and I'm kind of nervous that Misti will get us hurt, but she's pretty good at firing at the cops.
It's weird, saying that.
Misti's firing at the cops, so does that make her a bad guy?
I don't think so.
They were trying to take me away, and even though I would have liked that, they also tried to put Misti in jail.
She's not bad.
She shouldn't go to jail.
But then...why is she shooting the police?
Don't people who shoot at the police have to go to jail?
At least she's not shooting to kill them. She's just hitting their arms and legs.
Every time we get close to the door, there's another policeman who shoots at Misti, and that makes me angry; if anyone hurts her, I'll be so sad!
Misti doesn't look scared at all, though; she's just turning around and blasting at people like it's the easiest thing ever.
She's really good at this!
I hate to say it, since guns and shooting and stuff is bad...but I kind of want to be like her!
The kid is watching me with something of adoration in her eyes, and that gives me the ego-boost I need to get out of this peaceful family restaurant gone gang-shootout.
I fire a few last rounds, being sure to get them all into their target, then grab Meghan's arms and hoist her into the air as I barge through the exit, shoving my way through the door and stumbling over the parking lot.
I find the car within seconds and before I even realize it have buckled up (due to Meghan's nagging) and have pulled into the street and am speeding away as fast as I can without killing us.
I'm a little shaken up—who wouldn't be, after that?—but otherwise unharmed, which is VERY lucky, considering the number of people who were shooting at me.
After I'm pretty certain we're safe, I allow my concern to stretch a little to Meghan, "You ok?"
She nods mutely.
"Good."
I sigh and switch the radio on, leaning back into my seat; I can't help but to feel at least slightly proud of myself.
We both got out of their safe and sound, and I filled half a dozen cops with lead.
I realize how wicked that sounds and smile, creeping even myself out a little.
That's when the radio announcement catches my attention, and any feelings I have are washed away and replaced with seething rage.
"..with the attack on the well-known Susan's Café, where Meghan Carnelle was last seen in the company of a middle aged Caucasian female, height 5'7", weight in the lower hundreds. Her identification was left at the café, and has given this information: the name of the woman is Margaret Johnasen, her age is twenty-eight. She is said to have red hair and green eyes. She is armed and dangerous, so if you see her, please keep as far back as possible and call 911. Again, this is radio news, reporting live for-"
I instantly flick the radio off and stare straight ahead, heart thudding in anxiety and fury.
"This...is...just...GREAT! I'm wanted for KIDNAPPING now! They probably have EVERY COP IN THE CITY AFTER US! Do you KNOW what this MEANS?!? It MEANS that my vacation is OFF! I'm now a CONVICT on the RUN with a KID I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO I SUPPOSEDLY TOOK! AND THEY HAVE MY ID! THIS IS JUST MAGNIFICENT!" I yell, slamming my fist on the dashboard.
Meghan stifles a small sob and sniffles softly.
"Oh, STOP! I'M the one who should be CRYING! I'M the one who should be FREAKING OUT! I NEVER should have picked you up! It went against my better judgment! I do ONE good thing and it blows up in my face! Man, this is just...just PERFECT!"
She just sniffs again.
Pitiful.
"I should PROBABLY just let you out here and go on my merry way. Then I could just forget about this WHOLE mess. I could get another ID, some more money, and head to Las Vegas."
No answer, just more tears.
I take a deep breath to gather my wits and let it out slowly, "Ok. Ok, fine. It's good. It's fine."
I reach over and grab a napkin, handing it to her, "C'mon, stop that. Quit crying. I can't handle that. Don't cry. It's ok. I was...I won't drop you off here. I won't leave you. It's ok."
She takes the tissue and buries her face in it, crying still.
"It's OK, Meghan. Really. We'll...figure something out. This isn't the first time I've been on the run. Really. It's all good. We'll be fine."
"Y-You're m-mad at m-m-me!"
"No. No, I'm not mad at YOU...not at YOU."
"Yes!" she sobs in reply, still hiding her face.
Probably ashamed.
Super.
I shake my head forcefully as I pull over on the side of this deserted road, "No, really. I would say so if I was. I'm really not mad at you. I'm mad at...I'm mad at that stupid fat waitress for lying. And I'm mad at the cops for chasing us. I'm not mad at YOU at all, ok?"
"Then w-why did you y-yell at me?"
She glances up at me slowly.
Why do kids ask these things?
I suppose I should be honest, huh?
"Because you were the only one here. If you weren't here, I would have yelled at the radio."
I see the beginnings of a smile on her face, "Really?"
"Yea. Really."
"What if you didn't have a radio?"
I shrug, "I'd probably yell at the mirror. Or the steering wheel. I'd find something."
"You don't have to yell," she said softly, "It scares people."
"Well, maybe I WANT to scare people sometimes."
Mistsi sure is confusing.
I don't see why she has to yell.
Why would she want to scare people?
Scaring people is mean.
Misti isn't mean.
I know that.
She can't be, be cause she saved me.
I slowly look up at her; I feel shy around her for some reason.
She's kind of scary now.
Like someone bad, only...not bad.
Kind of like a good guy who's a bad guy at the same time.
Maybe she's both?
Maybe she's neither?
I don't know. All this confusion is really making my head hurt.
I wish I was at the House, lying in my bed and just sleeping in my room with the other girls.
I miss the House.
Why'd things have to change?
I feel like crying again.
3:46 a.m.
How many hours driving is that?
We stopped for gas in one of those small, dirty towns with a total population of fifty at about 8:30 p.m.
I bought Meghan a soda and some pretzels for dinner.
I wasn't hungry.
I guess she wasn't either, cuz she only ate a few pretzels.
Now she's lying against the door, dead asleep.
The gas tank is on empty again, and the nearest town is about fifteen miles away.
I'm still deciding what to do with Meghan.
I'm a mutant spy; I CAN'T watch little kids.
It's not in my nature.
I'm not one of those maternal types at all.
I mean, I go around blasting people's brains out, playing the 'come hither' femme fatale, gambling my life and money and belongings away.
I'm not 'mom' material.
And I don't WANT to be.
I guess I COULD just drop her off at the police station, except that if I get within twenty feet of one, they'll have me down and out in seconds.
No, it's best just to keep on the move.
Maybe I should just drive her back home to 'Cal-ee-for-nee-uh'.
That makes me smile; I suppose that's always a good vacation spot.
Only thing is, it'll take WEEKS to drive there.
Then I have to come ALL THE WAY BACK to New York to continue my work for Ol' Bald-Man-In-A-Wheelchair Xavier.
Plus, I'll have to stop at a hotel sometime.
I don't think kids last well on the road.
Something about constant boredom and potty breaks and whining.
I'll go nuts and shoot her dead.
Then I'll feel bad and have to bury her somewhere and be wanted for ANOTHER murder.
Shoot.
So HOW many weeks'll this take?
And WHY am I doing this?
Oh yea.
I'm losing my spunk.
I can't even drop a simply six-year-old girl on the curb anymore.
Next thing you know, I'll be going soft on the man pointing a gun in my face.
"Oh no, Sir. That's ok. Here, take MY gun! It works SOOO much better!"
Great.
I've been defeated by a CHILD.
I shake my head tenaciously as I pull into the gas station; NO.
That WILL NOT happen.
I'll drop the stinkin' kid off at California, but I won't lose my edge.
This is a different situation.
And it's not like I'm being all mushy-lovey-dovey with her, either.
And I never WILL be, either.