The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
cont...
"There! Over there! Run!"
I look where John is pointing. At the end of the street a bus pulls up at a stop. Several passengers disembark. The distance is at least one hundred yards. We set off at a sprint. He has a headstart and I cannot close the gap. Over short distances muscle and sinew are every bit as effective as hydraulics. Any longer and my machine stamina would tell. I can keep this pace up indefinitely. In your face, Duracell bunny!
The last passenger alights and we are still fifty yards shy. Any moment the bus doors will close. Any moment the bus will pull away and leave us stranded.
It doesn't happen.
A slice of good fortune: the last passenger is an elderly man, inching down the aisle with the aid of a walking stick. Continents move faster than this guy. We arrive as he finally steps down off the platform, muttering to himself and ignoring us completely. I could hug him with gratitude, except I would most likely snap every bone in his body like so much dry kindling.
The bus driver is a short black woman in a blue uniform. "Dollar fifty. Each," she demands in a bored voice.
John pats his pockets. "Shit! I don't have any cash left. It went on the rental."
"No problemo."
I take a roll of hundred dollar bills from my pocket. I have learnt that humans can be persuaded to do almost anything by the application of two methods: the threat of extreme violence and the promise of large sums of money. The carrot and the stick. Not real carrots, of course. No. Commerce would be very strange indeed if goods and services required root vegetables as payment.
The driver takes one look at my hundred dollar bill and shakes her head. "Can't break a hundred. Not for three bucks."
"Keep the change."
"Can't do that either. Tipping's against company rules."
The sirens are getting nearer. The bus is still stationary. The doors are still wide open.
John takes the hundred from my hand and holds it up, addressing the other passengers on the bus. "Anyone swap a hundred for three singles?"
No response.
"Come on, it's not a scam. Three gets you a hundred. Help us out here."
A teenage boy wearing a baseball cap and plaid shirt under a grey hoodie gets to his feet. "Uh - I have three singles."
"Thanks, man. Big help."
The exchange is made. The driver is satisfied. The doors close and the bus pulls away from the kerb.
We make our way down the center aisle, finding seats opposite our benefactor, who is eyeing the hundred suspiciously. "Relax, man. It's the real deal," John tells him. The boy shrugs and pockets the money.
"I'm John. This is Cameron."
"Elliot."
"So, Elliot, any idea where the bus is going?"
"You spend hundred bucks on a bus ride and you don't know where?"
"We hit car trouble on the freeway. You know how it is."
"Not really. I'm sixteen but I don't have my permit yet. And I can't afford wheels yet anyway. I pretty much take the bus everywhere. This one goes north ten blocks then turns east on Irving. That's as far as I ride."
"Sounds good to me."
Two police cruisers speed past, sirens blaring, lights flashing. John and I both turn away from the window. We have had enough of being recognised for one day. Elliot notices and says, "That for you guys?"
"Crash on the freeway."
Elliot doesn't seem convinced but decides not to say anything further. Good call.
John says, "That's a nice hoodie you're wearing."
"This? It's just thrift store. Not a label or anything."
"That's how I like them. I'll give you a hundred bucks for it."
"You serious?"
"As a heart attack. Throw in the baseball cap. Deal?"
"Uh - sure. I guess."
John takes the boy's baseball cap and hands it to me. "Pay the man."
More money is exchanged. John dons the hoodie, zipping it up and pulling the hood over his head. An adequate disguise. I examine the baseball cap. It has the intials C-Y-N superimposed on the peak. CYN. Sin? How appropriate.
I pile my hair up and tuck it under the cap, pulling the peak low. Elliot stares at me. Suddenly his eyes widen in shock and he hurriedly looks away. Oh dear, am I showing too much bare skin? Did a boob pop out? That happens sometimes. They're like playful puppies. I glance down. No, not bare skin or wayward boobage. Elliot saw my gun pushed in the waistband of my jeans, exposed as my shirt rode up as I donned the cap. I carefully cover up again but the damage has been done. Elliot stares stiffly out the window, his whole body tense as a tuning fork. John's attempts at friendly conversation receive only grunts in return.
Another police cruiser races by. This time neither of us turn away. Instead it's Elliot who flinches.
"You okay, man? Look a little green around the gills."
Another grunt in reply. Mr Talky he isn't.
The bus travels ten blocks then pulls to a stop. Without a word or a glance to us Elliot stands up and makes his way off the vehicle. John stares after him for a moment then stands. "Let's go."
When we step off the bus Elliot has a ten yard headstart. "Hey, Elliot. Wait up," John shouts.
The boy reluctantly stops. John walks over and embraces him awkwardly in a bear hug. "Thanks again, man. Really helped us out back there."
Elliot mumbles something in reply then slouches away, head down.
"It is highly probable he will contact the authorities and inform on us, most likely seeking monetary reward," I declare as John rejoins me.
"Not without this he won't."
A mobile phone is held up.
"You stole his phone?"
"You're not the only one can read the vibes. Weird. He was friendly at first then he just seemed to clam up. Maybe I need new cologne."
"No. He saw my gun."
"Ah. That explains it. The gun. The money. The cop cars. He figures we're another Bonnie and Clyde."
My database finds a match. Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. Outlaws during the Great Depression. "They died in a hail of gunfire," I point out.
"Yeah but they made a cool movie out of it."
"What's to prevent Elliot from calling the police when he arrives home?"
"If he's smart he'll figure out how he lost his phone and what it means. My guess is his home details are on this cell phone so he'll know we can probably track him down if he gets greedy. The two hundred covers what he's lost. He's still ahead of the game."
John calls home. The conversation with his mother is brief. One thing about Sarah Connor; she doesn't waste time asking too many questions when her son is in danger.
"Mom's on her way. Care to do the honors?"
I take Elliot's cell phone and crush it in my fist. Over a garbage can naturally. No one likes a litter bug.
We walk down the sidewalk. The sirens have faded away, the search moved elsewhere. Doubtless the police have discovered the abandoned rental car. They'll find no clues there, although if Rita Rubenstein truly existed she'd have some explaining to do. Oy vey indeed.
One of the stores is a fast food franchise with doors flung wide to attract customers. From within waft the aromas of cooked animals. Snowy would be in his element, and even John breathes deeply, saying, "Man, that smells good. You got any of those hundreds left?"
"Just one."
"You're like an ATM. Only with nicer buttons."
Buttons? I don't have any...Oh. Those buttons.
We enter the shop and buy barbecue ribs, spicy chicken wings and a number of other identified animal parts. The asian gentleman behind the cash register has no problem breaking a hundred, bowing politely and thanking us for our custom. Perhaps he should try driving a city bus.
-0-
John finishes his portion, keeping the rest for Mia and Snowy, when Sarah Connor screeches to a stop in the Suburban. "What kept you?" John dead pans as we climb aboard.
"Perhaps if you'd told me where you were going and why I might've been here sooner."
"You'd never have approved. You'd have said it was too risky, too dangerous, y'know - all that mom stuff."
"And I would've been right. What were you thinking calling that man in the first place? You know how dangerous he is."
"We've been over this. We need an ally if we're gonna prevent Judgement Day. Someone on the inside with direct access to the important stuff. It was blind luck we found out about the HunterKiller prototype. We knows what else is going on we don't know about."
"A man like Creed is never going to believe what we say. If he agreed to meet you it would simply be a trap."
"He believes us one day. You've seen the encrypted video file Cameron has in her head. Creed is wearing a Resistance uniform."
"Right before she chokes him to death."
"The point is he comes over to our side eventually. Why not sooner rather than later?"
"And did you? Persuade him, I mean."
"I never got to ask. He started calling me a traitor and I lost it big time."
"He was goading you. Making you lose your temper so you'd stay on the line long enough to trace the call."
"He'd have succeeded if it wasn't for Cameron. The cops wouldn't have had to look very hard. Just arrest the crazy guy yelling at his cell phone."
"You're not crazy," I reassure him, patting his thigh.
"Thanks. Still, I did manage one piece of misdirection. I told him Daniel Lieberman was dead. Heck, for all we know it might be true."
"No. Daniel's fine."
John twists round in his seat, surprised. "How do you know?"
"He...writes to me."
"He writes to you? D'you write back?"
"Of course."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Since a few weeks after he left."
"And you didn't think to tell me?"
"He requested I not. The two of you never seemed to get along that well."
Daniel Lieberman is a future Hero of the Resistance. He will invent a landmine that will decimate my kind and save countless human lives. I encountered him by chance while walking Snowy. He became attracted to me and this caused a certain friction to arise between him and John. Is it my fault I'm such an irrisistable hottie?
"So...how is Lieberman?" John asks finally.
"Doing well. He has a sixth floor apartment in Seattle."
"Seattle? What happened to Chicago?"
"The winters were too cold. He grew up in Florida, remember."
"The big baby."
"He has a girlfriend named Kristal. She works in an Apple store."
"What's she look like?"
"I don't know."
"He never sent you a picture? A wedding invite?"
"John..."
"Probably made her up."
"At least he has a job."
"What's that supposed to mean?" John reacts angily. "You think I wouldn't like a job? I'd love a regular nine to five. Except my job's in the future. Saviour of mankind. Lousy hours. Zero pay. No benefits. No vacation time."
"Once we went fly fishing in the mountains. The water was very cold. I didn't catch anything," I tell him. I am ignored.
"That's not what I meant," Sarah Connor insists. "The point is, Daniel has nobody. He left his old life behind. And his family and friends. He has no contact with them whatsoever."
"As I recall, he didn't get along that well with his folks. And his only 'friend' was that spotty kid from the video store who when I spoke to him wanted to know if there was reward for any information. If you ask me, he's well out of it."
"If you want me to stop writing I will."
John gives it some thought. "No. That's okay. It was a shock, that's all. I thought I was the one with all the secrets."
"What secrets?"
"Cameron and I got married without telling you. KIdding!" John laughs as his mother's jaw drops open. "See, not much fun is it?"
-0-
It is now mid afternoon. Too late to return home and make another trip to pick up Mia. Instead we head straight for the school. Snowy usually accompanies us but that will not be possible today. Doubtless he will sulk. Until his stomach tells him its hungry and it's time to stop sulking and start eating. And Snowy always listens to his stomach.
We take up our usual station outside the school gates. When the bell sounds a solid tide of students flow past us, laughing and yelling at each other, pleased the school day is over. Listening to some of the shouting I discern that several of the boys are fudge packers, while still others are corn holers. It is good they have decided on professions so early in life. None of the girls though. It appears emancipation has yet to reach the fudge packing and corn holing industries.
The tide becomes a trickle then...nothing. The cars and the buses leave. There is no sign of Mia.
"Where is that girl?" Sarah Connor chafes. "She doesn't have sports practice, does she?"
"She didn't make the soccer team. She's been complaining about it for days," John explains.
"Not everyone's good at sports."
"She is, though. Least as far as I can tell. Certainly better than me."
"And Snowy," I add. Though this isn't saying much. Snowy mostly runs away if the ball goes anywhere near him.
"I'll try her cell."
"If she's still in school she won't answer. They have to keep their phones turned off during lessons."
Sarah Connor tries anyway with no joy.
A slim black woman exits the school building and walks purposefully towards us.
"Isn't that Mia's form teacher?"
"Miss Jacobs. She teaches art as well."
Miss Jacobs stops beside our vehicle. "If you're waiting for Mia I'm afraid she's been detained."
"Detained?"
"There was an altercation with another student. She's with the Principal. We've been calling your home for the past hour."
"We had business in the city. What kind of altercation?"
"She punched another girl in the face."
"So she's being expelled?"
"Not necessarily. There was provocation. The other girl used racist language and there are multiple witnesses to back that up. We might be able to keep her in school."
"'We?'"
"Mia's in my form. And she's a very popular student. The other girl was, well, between you and me, she was asking for it."
We get out of the car and follow Miss Jacobs towards the school. "This other girl," John asks. "Her name wouldn't be Emma Van Buren, by any chance?"
"Fraid so. Has Mia mentioned her?"
"Frequently. None too warmly either."
We walk through the empty school corridors until we reach the Principal's office. Mia is seated on a chair outside, cradling her right hand in her lap. Sarah Connor squats down and asks in a surprisingly tender voice, " How's your hand?"
"Hurts a bit. The nurse said she doesn't think it's broken but I should get an x-ray just to be sure."
"Show me."
Mia tentatively extends her hand. Sarah Connor manipulates the fingers. "That hurt?"
"A little."
"It's not broken. Bruised at most. We'll ice it later."
"How d'you know it's not broken?"
"You'd be screaming now."
Miss Jacob says, "I'll let Principal McKenna know you're here."
When the door closes Mia says, "I'm gonna be kicked out, aren't I?"
"Perhaps not. Miss Jacobs seems keen to fight your corner for us."
"Talking of fighting," John says. "What have I told you, munchkin? If you throw a punch aim for the nose. Makes for a softer landing."
Mia giggles. "I did. She moved her head at the last second and I hit her jawbone."
The door opens. Miss Jacobs says, "The Principal will see you now. Mia, you wait here. We won't be long."
We enter the office. Three chairs have been placed in front of the Principal's desk. Sarah Connor takes the centre chair with John and I flanking her. Miss Jacobs stands to the side, arms crossed over her chest, back to the large picture window that looks out over the school playing fields.
Principal McKenna is a woman in late middle age, seated in a black leather swivel chair. She has a short severe haircut that only looks good on Halle Berry and the girl from The Matrix. Behind her on the wall are several framed photographs showing her with the Governor of California, Vice President Biden, and astronaut Buzz Aldrin. She seems to mix with many famous and important people. I wonder if she knows Honey Boo Boo?
"Thank you all for coming, though I regret the circumstances. I trust Joyce has explained what happened?"
"My step-daughter was racially abused and defended herself."
"It's not quite that black and wh-er, I mean it's not so straightforward. This isn't the first time Mia has resorted to fisticuffs."
"Just a minute. Where is the other girl? Why isn't she sat outside your office as well? And why haven't you summoned her parents?"
"Miss Van Buren said her teeth hurt and insisted she wanted to see her orthodonist immediately. And her parents don't pick her up from school. They send a car with a driver and maid, neither of whom speak particularly good english. I felt it inappropriate to involve them."
"Whereas we're fair game."
"The Van Buren's are long standing contributers to the well-being of this school, whereas you see fit to ignore every PTA meeting we invite you to."
"We're getting a little off track, don't you think, Valerie?" Miss Jacobs say emoliently.
"Ah. Quite. The fact is, we cannot have students brawling in the corridors."
"It was hardly a brawl," Miss Jacobs reponds. "According to witnesses, Mia let fly a right hook and Emma went down like a sack of potatoes. Floyd Mayweather couldn't have done it better."
Principal McKenna frowns. "I'm sorry. Floyd - who?"
The information scrolls down my HUD. I have recently updated my database with popular celebrities and sport stars. "Floyd Mayweather jnr," I announce. "A professional boxer of Afican-American descent who is currently undefeated and regarded as the best pound for pound fighter in the world."
Principal McKenna stares at me but doesn't speak. I notice John trying and failing to suppress a smile.
"Be that as it may," Principal McKenna continues. "She struck another student. A clear breach of school rules."
"After being provoked. Witnesses heard racist language used. Also a breach of school rules."
"And one I will deal with at a later date. I am well aware there are two sides to this story."
"What were the girls arguing about anyway?" John asks.
Miss Jacobs says, "Emma has been made captain of the girls soccer team and Mia wanted to know why she wasn't picked. I understand Emma told her in rather crude terminology that hispanics are useless at soccer."
"Oh really?" John smirks. "I'm sure that will come as a shock to Lionel Messi."
Principal McKenna frowns again. "I'm sorry. Lionel - who?"
Once more I have the facts at my disposal. "Lionel Messi. An Argentine soccer player who plays for the spanish club Barcelona. Widely regarded as the best soccer player in the world."
Principal McKenna stares at me. "Who are you?" she asks in a puzzled voice.
I smile. "You can call me Cameron."
"Be that as it may -uh - Cameron, Mia struck another girl over something as trivial as her lack of talent at a ball game."
"Mia is an extremely talented soccer player," Miss Jacobs pipes up. "Many of the faculty were very surprised she was overlooked, especially given our dire results lately."
"I'm sure Coach Carter has his reasons, Joyce."
"Coach Carter was the person who made Emma Van Buren captain of the team, even though she can barely kick a ball in a straight line. And Emma has since filled the team with her cronies, who are just as bad. In case you hadn't noticed, Valerie, we are now bottom of the league when we used to be near the top."
"I'm certain Coach Carter knows what he's doing."
"What he's doing is driving around in a brand new SUV when a few weeks ago he had a rusty old pick up truck and was heard complaining about the price of gas. Quite a switcheroo. It's the talk of the staffroom."
"Are you suggesting this is somehow connected with the Van Buren girl being made captain of the team, that Coach Carter accepted a...a bribe?"
"Given that none of the faculty have had a pay rise in six months, then yes, that is exactly what I'm suggesting."
Principal McKenna glances nervously at us, her previous poise and vague air of condescension suddenly lacking. "Well, it appears I have not been fully apprised of the - uh - facts of the matter. In the circumstances I think it best to postpone any punishment until I have investigated more fully."
"So Mia's not being expelled?"
"Since the blame for the incident seems to be more opaque than I first presumed, no, I don't think that will be necessary. Some form of detention and extra assignments for both girls will be a better use of this school's disciplinary powers."
We exit the office along with Miss Jacobs. "Well, that was...interesting," John says.
"Do I get to stay?" Mia asks hopefully.
"You do. Though there can't be any more punching people in the face - whatever the provocation."
"I won't. I promise."
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were using Mia to push your own agenda," Sarah Connor suggests shrewdly.
"Well, possibly," Miss Jacobs admits. "Though I really didn't want Mia expelled. Valerie - Principal McKenna - isn't a bad person. She's actually a very good administrator. It's just when it comes to - uh -"
"People. Yeah, they're the worst," John grins.
"Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to show some things in the art room. It won't take long."
"Sure. Why not. You saved us the hassle of finding a new school.
We walk through the corridors. John says, "So this Coach Carter person. Is he really on the take?"
"Most of his department is paid for by parental donations, notably Emma Van Buren's parents who paid for the main football stand to be built. He was put in a difficult position when Emma suddenly announced she wanted to be captain of the football team. I believe she needs the credit to get into a good college. And believe me, with her grades she'll need all the help she can get. I suspect there were phone calls made to Coach Carter. Arms twisted. He's on his second divorce so I doubt he put up much resistance."
"Emma's useless," Mia avers. "She won't even try and head the ball in case she musses up her hair. And she's packed the team with all her snobby friends. They stand around like supermodels. All the other schools laugh at us."
"I don't have a grudge against Coach Carter," Miss Jacobs continues. "He's welcome to his SUV. What I object to is our school soccer team regularly losing eight- or nine-nil. It's more than embarrasssing frankly; it's humiliating."
We enter the art room, which is a large open plan space with circular tables for the students to sit at. A number of paintings are pinned to the walls, most are crude daubings suggesting untutored hands at work. Some are better. One in particular catches my eye. I walk closer, stop and tilt my head. I am looking at me. Or rather a painting of me done in oils.
"Do you like it?" Mia asks shyly coming to stand beside me.
"It is...interesting."
"Is that good or bad?"
"What Cameron means is it's very good," John replies. "When did you paint this?"
"About a month ago. I did some sketches at home then finished it here. I mostly paint Snowy."
MIss Jacobs joins us. "So you didn't know about Mia's talent?"
"Not really. I mean, she draws stuff but nothing like this."
"I don't have the right paints at home."
"We'll have to get you some. Heck, a few more this good you might be able to pay your own way through college."
Everyone laughs. I spot several pictures of Snowy on the wall. Miss Jacobs says, "Ah yes, the famous Snowy. Mia paints him often. My favourite is the one where he looks sad. With his little paw in the air. Almost breaks your heart."
Yes. Snowy's 'sad' pose, where he holds a paw in the air, tilts his head, droops his ears and widens his eyes. Sometimes in does this at the Mall and complete strangers come up us, hand over money and implore us to buy some food for the poor little doggie. Poor little doggie? Short furry scam artist more like.
"We're painting a life model next week," Mia says. "A naked man." She giggles.
"That's right, Mia," Miss Jacobs replies with a knowing smirk. "His name is Maurice. And he's sixty years old."
"Oh gross!"
"I'm sorry, my dear, I'm afraid Harry Styles wasn't available at such short notice."
More giggles. Then: "May I please go to the bathroom? I was sat in that corridor for ages."
"Very well, Mia. Don't be too long. The janitor will be here soon to lock up."
When Mia is out of the room Miss Jacobs says, "There's another painting I'd like you to see." She sorts through a pile left on a desk. "I gave the class an assignment. Paint what scares you you. Most of the children painted things from popular culture - vampires, zombies, direwolves."
"Direwolves?"
"From the TV show 'Game of Thrones'. What their parents are thinking letting them watch something that violent I can't imagine."
Ah yes, 'Game of Thrones.' John enjoys watching this show. Me not so much. Too much nudity. Female nudity. John says he hardly notices but his quickening pulse tells the lie. And then there is the curious resemblence between Queen Cersei and Sarah Connor...
"Mia painted something different. Unique, in fact. Ah, here we are. This is what she painted."
The picture is held up. We stare at it in silence. Miss Jacobs frowns and says, "Is something wrong? You all look like you've seen a ghost."
Not a ghost.
A terminator.
Mia has painted the metal skull of a terminator.
"Mia painted this?" John says finally.
"That's right. Quite eerie, isn't it. Wouldn't want to meet this fella on a dark night."
"Did she - uh - say what it was?"
"She said she dreamt about it. It was chasing her."
"Chasing her?"
"That's right. Is everything okay? I gave her a good grade. It's very accomplished. Notice the brushwork around the red eyes. They almost seem to glow."
"May I have this?" Sarah Connor asks.
"Ah -yes. I guess. The assignment's over. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer the one of the sad little doggie?"
"Quite sure. I see more than enough of him at home."
Mia returns. Sarah Connor quickly rolls the painting up and tucks it under her arm. "We'd better be going. Thanks for showing us around."
"My pleasure. If you're serious about buying art supplies I can give you an some addresses if you'd like. There's a terrific little place on Melrose that does oils and watercolors."
"That'd be great. Thanks."
We walk back through the deserted corridors. Mia skips ahead and says, "Can we stop for takeout? I'm starving."
"There's some in the car. Go and make a start if you like."
"Cool!"
When she is out of sight Sarah Connor stops and unfurls the painting. "Is this what I think it is?"
"It's a terminator skull. What else could it be?"
"When did she see one of these?"
"She didn't. Never has. I'm certain of it."
"Could she have seen the two you brought back from Sacramento?"
"Don't see how. They were kept locked in the garage until she went to school."
"I can't believe I'm saying this - could that dog of hers said something?"
"Snowy never saw them. I made sure he was out of the way before I burnt them in case the fumes affected him. Besides, he doesn't have the vocabulary to describe a metal skull with glowing red eyes."
This is true. Snowy understands bones well enough, but mention skulls or skeletons or basic anatomy and he is as clueless as any Karadashian.
"Okay, well, maybe she did dream it."
"You believe that?"
"I don't know what to believe. It hasn't seemed to affect her too much."
"And it's not something we can really talk to her about, is it. 'Hey, Mia, remember that metal skull creature you painted? It's real. And it's coming to get us. Sleep tight."
We exit the building and return to the Suburban. Mia is seated in the back, lips and fingers shiny with the greasy residue of the takeout meal. "Delicious," she pronounces. "Did you get any for Snowy?"
"We did," John replies. "Only you seem to have eaten it all."
"Oh no, he'll be so disappointed! We have to buy some more."
"Or we could just feed him regular dog food," Sarah Connor suggests reasonably. "You know, like a normal dog."
"But Snowy isn't a normal dog!"
Don't we know it.
-0-
Evening. Mia has finished her assignments and is now seated in the middle of the room brushing Snowy, who is standing obediently on several sheets of newspaper to catch any dirt and shed fur. I am no longer allowed to groom Snowy since the first and only time I did so I brushed so vigorously bald patches appeared. Hello - has no one heard of ventilation?
The phone rings in another room. We hear Sarah Connor answer it.
John hands Mia Snowy's collar which he has polished clean. "I don't how he gets this so dirty."
"He rolls around in the dirt, that's why. Keep your tail still, Snowy. I'm trying to brush it. He's such a fidget."
Sarah Connor appears in the doorway. "That was Miss Jacobs on the phone. Coach Carter has admitted taking a bribe and been suspended from his post. That Van Buren girl is on probation and is no longer part of the soccer team."
"Yes! Justice at last." Mia punches the air in triumph. "Hey - you think they'll make me captain of the team?"
"Doubt it, munchkin. You're on probation as well, remember."
"Oh. Well, anyone's better than Emma."
"Listen, you don't have any trouble sleeping, do you, Mia? No nightmares or nasty dreams?"
"Not really. Though I dreamt the other night that I was made of gingerbread and Snowy tried to eat me."
"Oh I'm sure he wouldn't actually try and eat you, even if you were made of gingerbeard."
Snowy shakes his head vehemently. He's fooling no one. He would. He totally would.
-0-
Word on the previous chapter: No one got that John Ryan is a character in my other TSCC fanfic 'Metal Guru'. He's a government spook implicated in causing Judgement Day. Same guy? Sure, why not. Different timeline.
Herodatus was a fifth century Greek philosopher. I've always thought he'd make a good name for a rock band. "We. Are. Herodatus. And we are here to ROCK YOU!"
Is a dollar-fifty a typical bus fare? The Elizabeth Banks character in 'Walk of Shame' pays this sum so I used it here. $1.50 is 80p in english money. Take you about ten yards. Lol.
Next: Old friend. New lies.