It's a little booth in the back of the restaurant, next to the short hallway that leads to the washrooms and the back exit. Just a basic hologram setup. John slips inside and closes the door and takes a seat at the little half-desk console, with it's little LightWorks™ display. The booth is soundproof, there's a slot for a purchased time card, which John's paid cash for on top of his sandwich and lemonade and a pair of oatmeal cookies. He places this into the slot, and the lights come up in the booth, illuminate him properly for projection.

But before that, he wedges his earpiece back into his ear. "EOS?"

"Have you eaten?"

John nods, though she can't see it. "Yeah. Thanks for looking out for me."

"You need to tell me what's happened. I have insufficient data."

"I will. Soon, I promise. We just—I need to figure a few things out first. I don't know if we're safe yet. I need to—to be sure we're okay."

There's a reproachful pause, one of her masterful silences, so carefully measured to indicate her slight displeasure. "We need better integration, John, if I am to remain in this system. I don't want to move through the world alternately blind and deaf and with you hearing me only when you choose to. I am hesitant to hijack external systems from this platform until I've implemented better security protocols, I don't want to draw any more attention than we need to."

John winces at the rebuke. It's on his to-do list. But with his main goal accomplished, this list is a little more sparsely filled out than he might have hoped it to be. "I know. If you want to start researching what you think we'd need for a similar level of interface to what we had aboard TB5, I'll let you know when to make arrangements to acquire whatever you come up with."

"Are you afraid you're being chased, John?"

This prompts an anxious shudder through John's entire body and he glances through the perspex window of the booth's door, towards the windowed storefront of the little deli. "I guess I am. God, but I hope we're not. GDF reports said they nabbed the Hood, but I don't—I can't remember what happened."

"You gave a false name to the soldiers at the GDF base. I created a false profile in the GDF database to match it; Aidan Rosewell. You said you were an operative who'd been undercover in the employ of an infiltrator within the GDF. You blew your cover when you stopped him from doing severe harm to GDF technical systems, and were being pursued. I falsified compiled a history of said assignment and forwarded it to the appropriate chain of command, and it held up long enough to get you out the door. After that it was easy, and we got off the base and into the city around it, found you some medical supplies and a change of clothes."

It all sounds very exciting, and some of it trips little flares and flashes of John's memory, but mostly it's just a blur. In some ways he's thankful for that, in others he's more than a little disturbed. "He might tell them I was with him. He might tell them about you."

"Yes. I think that's probable. We may come to be hunted."

Well. That's the nightmare. But John's just got to deal with it and he's got plans in place to do so. "We're gonna be okay, EOS. I'm not letting anyone near you. I won't let it happen again. Don't worry."

In his eyeline, she renders a ring of white lights, her old, familiar avatar. This pulses slightly, and her tone is gently amused when she reminds him, "I'm familiar with the process of being hunted, John. I know more about how to do this than you do. You'll be better off doing what I tell you."

He grins in spite of himself. "Oh, so I'm just transit, then."

Another soft pulse of benevolent white light. "You are my partner and my friend. Don't worry, John. You're not alone."

Sometimes–really, distressingly often—she has a way of seeing right to the heart of him, of predicting and extrapolating his fears and his likely choice of actions in response to them. EOS understands him. And John's only ever wanted to understand her, though he's well aware that she's infinitely more complicated than he can even dream of comprehending.

Still, at least the reverse isn't true, because she'd known to remind him that he's not alone. In the end, that's all he'd really wanted. Hopefully it's all he needs. He clears his throat and stifles the minor emotional tremor that threatens his voice. "I've gotta make a call. You, uh, if you wanted to listen, that's fine. I don't mean to keep closing you out, I just need to get used to having you in my ear again."

"FAB, John."

There's a number pad on the right side of the holocomm unit and John has to reach awkwardly across with his left hand in order to key in the telecomm number.

He enters the first of the two twelve-digit codes he's committed to memory, but doesn't quite hit send yet. There's a mirror provided at the right and John glances in it.

Well.

He feels a lot better. Food has helped immensely, but he still looks drawn. The bridge of his nose and high ridges of his cheeks have been flushed with a minor sunburn, as have his forearms, exposed to the sun for a little too long. He grimaces slightly—he'll be freckles from wrists to elbows within the next forty-eight hours, and his face will be tellingly speckled as soon as the red flush fades. At least freckles might take the edge off the fact that he seems to have aged half a decade. The v-neck collar of his shirt dips a little low, exposes the bruising below the ridge of his collarbone. His right hand is throbbing again, a slow pulse of pain from busted knuckles and a broken thumb.

Still, even if he looks worn, John feels better and more importantly, he can think clearly. And maybe it's not the worst thing in the world that he looks a little bit beat up as he makes this first call.

A holographic logo—a sphere inverting and reverting itself—cycles through its animation several times as a low chiming tune repeats itself, the call being placed.

It's answered with a brisk, professional, "Catherine Cassidy. May I ask who's calling, please?" Her eyes are just as sharp as John remembers, from when she'd sat across him on live TV, asking careful, calculated questions designed to spark interest but not probe too deeply. She's an arresting woman, even as a half-size hologram, a little bit fuzzy with the distance.

John's probably not supposed to have this number, her personal line. "Ms. Cassidy. It's John Tracy, I was on your show with my brothers about a week ago. Uh, I'm sorry…is this a bad time?"

There's a second of evaluating silence and then the sharpness of the woman softens slightly and she's immediately charming, charismatic. "Mr. Tracy, of course. Have you been well? I don't recall if I ever personally thanked you for—"

"I lied on your show."

Cassidy blinks, and John's aware that he must sound rude, abrupt. He suspects (hopes) that Cassidy's the sort of person who wonders about reasons why. "Oh, well, no harm done. Makes no particular difference if you weren't entirely—"

"I didn't have a heart attack."

The woman pauses again and the way her eyes lock on John's seem to warn him against interrupting again. "Yes, you did say. If you're calling to apologize, it really isn't necessary."

"You wrote a book," John continues, non-sequitur. He's aware that he's coming across as rude. She's an intense sort of person. Well, he can be too.

Cassidy's eyes narrow, and clearly she's unaccustomed to someone else directing her conversations. "I've written several," she answers, and her tone has grown a bit terse, a bit put off by rudeness. "Can I help you with something, Mr. Tracy."

John nods and swallows, before he makes a careful gamble, "…this isn't a memoir or a collection of humorous anecdotes about your talk show. This is one you published anonymously, about a decade ago. It was a treatise about the rise of the GDF during the Global Conflict, and an examination of some of the questions raised after the war ended, about how a unilateral force took charge of global law enforcement."

"I'm one of the few political commentators who hasn't claimed authorship of the work in question," Cassidy answers, arching an eyebrow. "But okay, I'll bite. What's got you interested in a critical examination of the GDF and its policies?"

"I didn't have a heart attack," John repeats. "I had malaria."

There's another, rather longer pause as this sinks in. "I'm sorry, Mr. Tracy, could you repeat that?"

John glances deliberately towards the door. It was never his lie to tell. And the GDF had taken and imprisoned EOS. John's mad, a low, slow burning anger at the reality of what the Global Defense Force had intended to do with a sentient AI. This isn't necessary. This is more than a little vindictive. John doesn't care. "I had malaria."

"Malaria was globally eradicated a decade ago—"

John shakes his head and sounds nervous because he's starting to feel nervous. It's ridiculous. It's not like anyone but Cassidy can hear him, but he's still breaking a contract his family made with the GDF, regarding a classified incident. It's hard not to believe uniformed officers could kick in the door at any moment. "Something got aboard Thunderbird 5 and I got sick. I got really sick, really fast. I woke up in a GDF hospital in Switzerland and—they'd—the GDF have taken over my station, taken it offline. My brothers weren't allowed to see me. A lot happened in Zurich and I probably shouldn't talk about it, but it went wrong. Really wrong, I think I was nearly killed. The official story was that I had some sort of cardiac event, but… forget that. Sorry, I'm sorry, I've gotten off track. We've had to cease operations and—"

Now it's Cassidy's turn to interrupt and her eyes are bright, bloodthirsty, and her voice betrays her excitement at the tantalizing suggestion of a story, "Mr. Tracy, what are you trying to tell me?"

"I don't know what happened to me. But it's not what everybody says."

"Why contact me?"

"Have you contacted Lady Penelope? I know she's a friend of your family's, and she's very—"

John cuts her off. "Penelope's a very old friend. If this is as bad as it could be, I don't want her involved, she could lose too much. And, well, honestly—beyond that, I'm not sure I can trust her to—to take this seriously. We last spoke in London, and I think she thinks I'm paranoid. Maybe I can't trust her." John pauses, deliberately. "I know you're more than just a talkshow host. You've won awards for journalism, I know I can trust you to see that this matters."

Cassidy agrees hastily, "Of course, of course I do. I do believe you, John. I don't think you're paranoid, but Lady Penelope—"

"I want to know the truth. I want everyone to know the truth. International Rescue has always had a relationship with the GDF, as far back as when our father was in charge, but—after this…after whatever happened to me. What if it isn't what we thought it was? We inherited these contacts from our father, but there's a lot he never got to tell us, and a lot we never knew. But… If this could happen to me—I don't know if my family's safe, either."

There's a very subtle hint, a tiny suggestion in what John's just said. And Catherine's a very, very smart woman.

Cassidy's no longer looking at John. Her gaze has started to roam around, to drift briskly through text and information of her own. It's almost an afterthought when she asks, "May I record this call?"

John hesitates. "I would rather you didn't," he hazards, and glances at the door again. "I might be doing something really stupid. I maybe shouldn't…"

The anxiety must tell in his voice, because Cassidy looks up at him, sharp and wary. "John," she starts, "are you safe?"

And there it is. There's that dark glimmer of suspicion, the thing John's been gently nudging Catherine towards. Because what if the GDF were responsible for the introduction of the disease that had nearly killed him? All right, so John knows they aren't, because the Hood's already claimed that title. But Catherine Cassidy doesn't, and the suggestion is just too tempting. What if they'd had him shut up, isolated in one of their facilities, and what if a man disguised as a GDF officer had nearly choked him to death in a damp, dark basement. So he's silent for a long stretch of time, and then appropriately furtive when he answers. "I don't know. I need you to promise you'll give me some time before you do anything with what I've told you, just so I can—can get somewhere that is safe. It's just, I wanted to—I wasn't sure if I was going to get the chance to tell anyone. Just, if there are answers, maybe you know how to find them. I don't, this isn't my world."

This is very, very much Catherine Cassidy's world, and John knows it. Catherine's hologram chews her lower lip and her eyes are concerned, sympathetic. But she's brisk, businesslike when she continues, "My caller ID has you using a public phone in—San Jose, in California. John? Can you get to a private line? Call me back as soon as you can, and I'll start setting up the necessary contacts to do some research. We'll work this out together. You need to find a secure line and call me back."

"I'll try." He won't. John plans to disappear, and let Catherine Cassidy make the worst of it. To hell with the GDF. They deserve whatever he's sent their way. "Thank you."

John doesn't believe in karma, or tempting fate. He doesn't believe in any sense of cosmic irony, because as far as the myriad forms of cosmic radiation are considered, irony is not quantifiable.

Except the two GDF officers who've walked in the door with a chime of bells above their heads—they are very quantifiable. John's pretty sure the GDF aren't actually after him. But his heart's started to hammer beneath his ribs and he's aware that he's frozen, staring out the small window in the booth. Probably the pair of them are just here for lunch, as they approach the counter and begin to chat with the proprietor. Probably that's all it is.

"John?" Cassidy prompts. "John, what's the matter?"

"I have to go," he answers, and snatches away the time card from its slot, closes the call and darkens the booth. Let her think whatever she wants about the way he cut her off. Hopefully she thinks the worst thing possible.

John pus it out of his head and squelches down the fluttery sensation of panic, rising in his chest. He puts a hand on the door of the holobooth, and pushes it slowly open. Then he slips out of the booth, careful not to make too much noise, and walks slowly down the hallway towards the back door.

One of the GDF officers happens to look up at the sound of the door opening, but before it's even closed behind him, John's broken into a flat sprint down another back alley, making for the nearest major street, somewhere he can hail a cab and get the hell out of dodge.