disclaimer: I don't own Sailor Moon.

-five-minute ride-

It's a five-minute ride to hell.

I take it every morning. Seven days a week I board the number nine bus, flash my bus pass, and sit on the left bench in stop and go traffic until the bus pulls to a stop at the corner. It's only a five-minute ride, but some days it feels like five years. What you wish would end always continues, and what you wish would last forever always fades into oblivion.

It's a five-minute ride to hell, and it's a ride that I go through without thinking. Nothing ever changes. For the past five years of my life I've taken it without thought. The driver is always the same cranky old man. The same woman always sits across the bus from me — chattering on and on about her cats to no one in particular. On my right there's always the rabid businessman blathering on about stock prices fluctuating, looking oh-so-cool in his black, pinstriped made-to-fit suit. And on my left sits a grungy looking teenager, her black hair cropped short, her clothes baggy, and a pair of headphones clapped tight against her ears, the music so loud that I can hear it over the roar of the bus engine and the loud talking of Mr. Businessman.

She's bound to have hearing trouble in her old age. Hell, she'll probably be deaf by the time she's my age.

I don't even know why I take the bus. It's not that far of a walk, and on a nice day it's actually quite pleasant. The view's not half bad and it's a decent neighborhood. But I always end up taking the bus. Maybe I have some distorted point of view that makes me inflict punishment upon myself by climbing those dirty steps every morning. Or maybe I'm just too lazy to walk.

Either way, it's a five-minute ride to hell.

Today's looking up, though, I have to admit. For the past five days it's been nothing but straight rain and gusty winds. But today the sun is shining and the sky is blue — that deep, warm blue of a summer day.

And when I board the bus I see that it's been recently cleaned and the floor has been swept. The seats gleam as if they were recently washed, and the driver doesn't act quite as surly as usual.

The businessman is nowhere in sight today. I silently bless the bus gods that the man and his infernal cell phone are nowhere around. By listening to his rather thunderous conversations with his poor — and probably deaf in one ear — partner, I probably could have made millions on the stock market. Actually, probably not. Because if an obviously influential businessman has to resort to riding the bus instead of driving himself — or at least hiring a taxi — his advice probably isn't all that sound.

The teenager looks clean today, too. She probably has to meet someone today, like her grandmother or her aunt. Her hair is combed, her face is clean, and her clothes look like they were actually bought to fit her. Noticeably absent are her headphones. I notice that she actually looks like a nice girl without her churlish appearance and deafening music.

And the lady who sits across from me has obviously found someone who shares in her passion for cats, for a clearly smitten man sits next to her, hanging on her every word. I, for one, am very happy for them.

It isn't often that eighty-year-olds find love. Or lust, for that matter. Because, really, who would lust after a wrinkly, saggy, eighty-year-old? Even most people who are that age prefer a coherent conversation to any sort of physical attraction. A kiss on the cheek is about as far as I've seen any of them go. And that's as far as I want to think about them going, really.

And I highly doubt I'm the only one that shares this opinion.

The bus is relatively empty today. But it usually is on Sundays.

People are sleeping in, taking a much-needed one-day vacation from their hectic weeks.

Lucky people.

Today the bus ride goes quickly, and I am thankful. Perhaps, since time goes by so swiftly, it means that something good will happen today. After all, half an hour can go by without notice when you "run out of gas" on an "empty road." Perhaps the quick bus ride signals a good day. One can only hope.

The bus stops when we're about halfway to my stop. I glance up to see a familiar blue head bob as she digs in her purse for her bus pass. She notices me as she makes her way down the aisle and takes the seat next to me.

"Motoki-onii-san," she smiles, "I'm surprised to see you here! I didn't know you took the number nine."

"Every morning. Do you?" I ask, for I've never seen her ride it before.

"Not every morning," she admits. "Only on Sundays—those are the days I meet my mother downtown for breakfast. It's the only time we have to really talk, since she's so busy at the hospital," she explains. I nod absently. Having only met Ami's mother once at the hospital (don't ask), it's hard for me to form an opinion of her.

"I suppose we never catch each other because I'm an hour late this morning," she continues, frowning.

"Won't your mother worry?" I ask.

"I called her," Ami reassures me. "She said it was all right." There's a smile on her face, but a line of worry engraved in her forehead. I wonder if these "talks" with her mother amount to much more than critical ratings of Ami's personal, social, and academic life.

The bus makes its routine stop at my corner. Today, however, I don't get off. The customers can wait today. I have a mystery to solve.

"Isn't this your stop, Motoki-onii-san?" she asks curiously. Damn.

Always knew she was a bright girl.

"Yes," I say, drawing out the word for a full three seconds, "but I'm in no rush. I'll see you to your stop," I add gallantly, wondering if she sees right through me.

"Ah. Of course," she agrees, demurely lowering her head and looking up at me through her lashes. I am so busted. If she really believed that

I was playing the gallant knight, she would have politely urged me not to go to the trouble of seeing her off the bus — but no, she knows what I'm up to. So she lets me pretend to be chivalrous. Which I most certainly am not.

At least, not all the time.

Suddenly, solving this mystery doesn't seem quite so appealing as before. Because if I think this bus ride is hell, I'm betting Mizuno Ami can really dish it out.

"So...er...what exactly does your mother do?" I question, fishing wildly for any topic of conversation. Her eyebrows raise a notch, although she covers her non-verbal skepticism well.

"She works as a regular doctor at the hospital, although she works more closely with the orthopedic surgeons," she answers clearly, her voice soft and her blue eyes sharp.

"I see. Does she always work?" I continue, wondering why it feels like I am the one under interrogation, not her.

"She has Friday and Saturday off, as well as two hours on Sunday morning," she replies. Her fingers clutch at her purse, and I give a brief, exultant, internal cry of joy as I realize that yes, Motoki, something is definitely bothering the girl.

Well, until I feel that very scary, very piercing, very blue gaze resting on my forehead, as if she can read my thoughts. Right. Back to the task at hand.

"So I guess you don't see her all that much," I venture. She shakes her head stiffly.

"No, not really. It doesn't bother me, though," she says, her voice sweet-tempered but her lips pursed in a manner that screams, "Leave me alone!"

Ah. Not getting off that easy, Mizuno Ami. You may be smart, but you've still got one thing to learn about this bus.

It's a five-minute ride to hell.

"It must be nice," I say, reclining a little, assuming a nonchalant air, "to be able to talk about anything with your mother. My mother's the type of woman who's rather business oriented—Father's just a figurehead of the arcade anyway — Mother's the real brains behind the operation.

"But anyway, whenever my sister or I needed maternal support, we basically had to make do with our father trying to give the support and love that only a mother can give. Does that make sense?" I query, glancing at Ami out of the corner of my eyes as I place my hands behind my head.

"Hai," she whispers, her frown very deep. Ah. Struck a nerve.

Perfect.

"Mother, of course, has always been supportive of whatever Unazuki and

I want in life. We could tell her that unclogging toilets is what makes us happiest in life, and she'd smile and ask us exactly what about a clogged toilet is so appealing. She's never shot down our dreams, which is important to us, especially since we rarely get to talk to her."

"I see," she murmurs, her eyes suddenly transfixed by the little bug clinging helplessly to the window on the outside of the bus, bracing itself against the sweep of wind that passes it as the bus lumbers on down the street.

Mizuno Ami, don't even think that not looking at me can stop me.

"Father's supportive too, but like I said, there's something special in feeling unconditional love and confidence from a woman who has her own busy life. Not that she doesn't make time for us – don't misunderstand," I warned. "It's just that since she has a life of her own to worry about, not just one about her kids and husband, it's really comforting to know that she'd be willing to put her dreams and aspirations for us and herself aside, just because we decide we want to unclog toilets." I worry for a moment, because I'm pretty sure that entire spiel was confusing. Actually, I don't think I even understand what I said.

"That must really be nice," she mutters, her eye twitching as the previously mentioned bug is pulled off the pane of glass by the wind.

"It is," I smile, choosing to pause the conversation and wait for her to begin talking. Even if she doesn't talk, I take pride in the fact that a visible crack is marring that perfect façade she puts up.

The silence is deafening, a verbal and physical irony that I find often holds true. She pulls absently at the zipper of her purse, her eyes landing everywhere but on me. I'm amused when she tucks her hair behind her ears with both hands, only to scramble to snatch her purse as it begins to slide from her lap to the floor. I don't dare laugh, however, and simply grin when she tries to regain her sedate composure.

It's another minute before she begins to talk.

"Mother's a wonderful doctor. She came from a rather poor family - she made it through school and college on scholarships. She was the top of her class in high school, and she was the second best student in college. She graduated both with honors, and she was immediately snatched up by the hospital.

"She met my father while she was still an intern — he'd been involved in a car accident and had come out with a broken arm. She patched him up and sent him on his way — with her phone number in his pocket. They had one of those whirlwind romances — the kind that you know will never work out. They were only married a few years — eventually his carefree, easy-going attitude got to my mother. She's practically obsessive-compulsive, and she just can't see that some people don't need a schedule or set purpose in life to live," she says, a hint of anger creeping into her voice. She pauses, regains herself, and then continues.

"I was five when Father left. He writes occasionally, and more often than not he sends me a sketch. Did you know that he painted a picture of me before he left? It's hanging in a gallery in Kyoto — 'Artist's

Daughter at Five,' it's called," she smiles. I smile too, picturing a younger version of the woman sitting before me. A version whose smiles come more easily, whose eyes shine more brightly, and whose dreams don't seem quite so desperate.

"I've lived with Mother my whole life. I lead a very different life than she did — we're rather well-off," she admits, blushing. I wonder why she seems so ashamed of her affluence.

"I've always attended the very best schools, and Mother assures me that

I will become a very good doctor someday. Sometimes, though, I wish

Mother wasn't a doctor herself, because it seems like I'm simply a carbon copy of her," she sighs. "But don't get me wrong," she frowns, shaking her head, obviously confused by her own rambling thoughts. "I want to become a doctor because I want to help people — not because it's in the blood or anything. It's just that I've heard the other doctors at Mother's hospital talking about me — that I'm being pressured into being a doctor because of Mother. And it makes me wonder if maybe I am," she trails off, her eyes finally glancing up to meet mine. I find myself staring into endless pools of blue that seem to be searching mine — not for love or friendship, but for understanding. Understanding that she's unsure too, that she's not the self-assured Ami that everyone assumes is perfect. I wish that I could convey that I understand through my own eyes, but from the wistful expression on her face, I know that my message was lost in transmission.

"I have to get the very best grades to get into the right high school, and then top grades there to be accepted into the proper college.

Because of my studies, I have no time to take an art or music class — something I've always wanted to do. But Mother has told me time and time again that I haven't time to waste on such trivial things," she sighs.

"Studying...is not much fun," she admits, and I laugh at the matter-of-fact tone she uses. "People think I love to study, when really I don't. They also think I'm a nerd and a freak, and I don't have that many friends outside of the other girls," she says, speaking of Rei and Usagi and the others. "They're nice and all, but sometimes I wish they weren't the only ones who looked past my high grades," she says, playing with the handkerchief she found her in her purse. She folds and unfolds the scrap of white fabric, needing an outside source to occupy her thoughts on, rather than the telling confessional she's letting me hear.

"But Mo — I've been told," she amends, "that I needn't worry about my peers. Going out and having fun will interfere with my studies, and nothing should take precedence over those," she laughs sadly. "Not even saving the world," she mutters. I pretend not to hear the strange comment.

"I have this dream, a very small one," she assures me, "of being an artist, like Father. Of being able to just let go of all my schedules and studying and to just sit down with a pencil and paper and sketch a tree, just because I like the way it looks. Or I'd like to write a song — one of those songs that make you feel happy, just because you've heard it. I want to be a person that brings beauty into the world," she admits before the bus rolls to a stop. She glances out the window and then smiles apologetically up at me.

"This is my stop. I'd better go," she shrugs, standing up and bowing cordially. Her eyes evade mine again, and I know that the realization of everything that she has told me is sinking in, and that she's rather ashamed of her rambles.

"Until later this afternoon, Ami-chan," I wave, watching as she walks off the bus. I sit and think for the next fifteen minutes until the bus circles back around the city and I wind up at my corner. I get off the bus and stand on the sidewalk for a moment, staring after the bus as it takes off down the street. I wonder about everything Ami revealed to me — the hidden artistic side of her, the hidden unsure side of her, and the hidden hopeless side of her. Shaking my head free of the confusing and conflicting images of the girl I thought I once knew, I walk down the street towards the Crown. Luckily there is no one waiting to get inside except for Mamoru, who merely raises an eyebrow in my general direction as he lounges against the wall.

"What took you so long?" he asks, glancing at his watch. "It's twenty minutes past opening."

"It was a long five-minute ride."

-end-