He's got eighty bucks in his pocket.
Cameron behind him, taking a minute to follow suit, he gets a block or two ahead before she catches up.
The truck is still in the theatre parking lot, place probably still crawling with cops, not safe to get it back.
She stands mere inches behind him, waiting for the streetlight to turn. He's glad she's keeping quiet, not saying any of her empty apologies, or attempts at consolation, because even the machine knows the events of the day are just enough to make him snap.
The man walking appears, he steps into the crosswalk without looking, Cameron's hand on his jacket pulls him back as a car running a red light screams past.
His heart doesn't race, his breathing doesn't catch, if he'd been struck dead it'd be just another number at this point.
He doesn't know where he's going.
He walks and she follows.
He's got eighty bucks in his pocket.
He looks for something cheap.
At first glance it looks like a place that rents by the hour and doesn't ask questions. The man behind the desk doesn't ask for ID, just looks at him then over his shoulder to her, and smirks with a knowing look.
He almost wants to say, she's my sister, but it's a tired lie and the man could probably care less.
The room is at the end of the hall, the kind of place that still uses real keys, walking by numerous rooms with the shades drawn ignoring the sounds, Cameron pauses in front of one before he grabs her wrist and pulls her along.
It smells funny, opening the door, wafting out like a cloud that's been trapped inside for decades.
Horribly flowered wallpaper, a lampshade covered in stains he doesn't want to know what from, and one bed.
She steps in wordlessly, eyes scanning the walls, assessing the room.
Idly he wonders what the chemical readout is, knows he's better off not knowing, and moves to sit on the bed, while she stays at the door.
They need a plan.
About what to do next, tomorrow, or how the hell to get Mom out of jail.
He asks for suggestions, eyes move to meet his, no she has none.
They can't leave her there, he's firm about it despite knowing she'll reject any idea because it's tactically unwise to break into jail. To put themselves in the limelight like that.
He shifts to rest against the headboard.
It's doesn't matter, he doesn't care about being unwise, it's been their MO practically from the start. It works, kind of, and when it doesn't they simply lose a number. Hardly anyone left now, so self preservation isn't exactly a high priority.
Head tilted in that way, always wondering where she learned it. He's upset, she's noticed, good for her. Realizing something so simple that would be obvious to anyone with a heartbeat.
He's lost three people close to him in less than twenty-four hours; she states the fact softly, trying to inflect some sort of calm in her voice. It just sends the anger into the red.
Staring the way she always stares.
A machine, that's all she is. A terminator whose primary function is to kill, no matter what reprogramming he might have done in the future, down deep in that chip she wants to kill him.
Those questioning, empty eyes.
She doesn't deny it.
Whether that's good or bad he doesn't know.
He wanted to kill James Ellison, she reminds him of this.
Of course she took the threat seriously, wanting to kill the man several times herself, he knows without a doubt, she'd let him if he suggested it. He won't bother to try and explain that it's different, that it was an impassioned surge of anger for selling them out.
Primary functions, crimes of passion, either way you play it, it ends with a body.
Sick of this conversation, lack thereof whatever, he flips on the clunky old television.
Mom's face is everywhere.
He doesn't remember falling asleep.
Opening his eyes, the TV is still on, some commercial blaring. Turning his head to see Cameron still perched on the end of the bed, hands still resting in her lap.
Two hours and seventeen minutes, that's what she says when he asks how long he was out, that's how long he assumes she's been sitting there in the exact same position. Part of him just wants to close his eyes again and sleep forever.
Charlie is dead.
Derek is dead.
Mom is in jail.
Looking down at him, showing no emotion, he wishes he could be more like her.
All he has left in twenty bucks in his pocket, the shirt on his back, and his killer robot guardian sent from the future.
His life is falling apart.
Judgment day, he realizes, is inevitable.
No matter what they do, the world is going to end.
His world already has.
Reaching for her, watching as she looks down at the sight of his hand on her wrist, she doesn't move at first when he tries to pull her down. Still looking down, her processor finally realizing, oh, she moves to lie beside him.
It's funny to think he's never been alone with her, not really. Not with Mom or Derek always floating in the background, not when Riley came into the picture. Not like this with her hair fanned across the pillow, curious hollow eyes watching as he moves his fingers through the chestnut strands.
Shifting closer, face hovering just inches above hers.
She's not going to make the first move, he knows, he has to do it.
He has to cross that line.
Kissing her, lips soft and sweet, she sighs into his mouth like a real girl.
So wrong he doesn't stop, doesn't care anymore, nothing else matters.
When he tells her he loves her, it falls breathless from swollen lips.
When she says it back, he hopes it's not a lie.