California. Land of the In-And-Out, the glitz, the glamour. The noise of traffic to burst the bees out of her hive mind. Okay, so In-And-Out wasn't as good as Biggerton's Burgers. That **** was endorphic, but at least anything was better than nothing.
At least, unlike South Dakota, there didn't seem to be any Llama farms around. She could live with that. It was actually pretty nice in LA. Noisy, hot, next to water. Her pyrite keychain (swiped) dangled from her keys as she turned off the Mustang (swiped, but undeniably hers) and pocketed them. Run-down Motels never went out of season. It would be treason against nature for them to. ******, broken-spring beds and tepid showers, loads better than her backseat though.
It would be easy to take in the habit of throwing trash around her car, she mutters. Half remembering all her garbage dump trips (neighborhood yards and fast food restaurant bathrooms taking the brunt of it). Agent Runaway laughs as she stretches her arms above her head.
There's a base in San Jose. Screaming, electric shocks, experiments. Like her. Just not... successful. With a mad woman on the loose, they've cut back spending. Put it all on her. And what a gamble that was, she hummed. But there were plenty of off-radar, illegal, operating sublets. She'd need one to solder her pretty little mind back together.
Agent Runaway stifled a yawn and clawed her way into her motel room, barely kicking the door shut and collapsing on the bed. In minutes she'd shut down all her sensors, stop listening to the babble of the old woman who'd handed her her keycard at the desk and the squabbling couple next door. She was asleep.