San Francisco International Airport

[walking_napalm]

THURSDAY
0750 PST

"I land at Newark at eight tonight," Liz says into the cell phone, stepping around a tour group and their mountain of suitcases grouped in the middle of the concourse. "Yeah -- no, I can get a cab; don't send a car, I always feel like I'm in some weird spy movie when the Bureau does that -- "

The early morning sunlight stabs through the numerous enormous windows; Liz wishes for a free hand to shield her eyes, and she wishes for the comparative dark of New Jersey.

"I sent everything but my clothes and my camera back with Park on Tuesday, on the Bureau's plane," she says. She lowers her voice: "I wasn't gonna try to get a gun on a commercial flight, Shields."

"--No," she says, moving quickly down the wide corridor toward the security checkpoint. "Seriously, tell Manning that Red and I are both staying in Jersey or we're going to the Czech Republic together; he's split us up the last four missions. ... I'd love to tell him myself but I'm kind of in the wrong state-- Hi," Liz says, to the officer standing at the metal detector, and then she lifts the phone's mouthpiece again. "I'm at security." With that singular farewell, she shuts the cell phone.

"Hi," she says to the official again, and she lifts her camera bag onto the conveyor belt, then hefts her rolling suitcase on. It lands with a heavy thud. "Sorry."

Nasal and bored: "Whatever." The woman waves her through the metal detector.

---

" 'Scuse me. Ma'am." There's a man in a dark uniform, behind a table, flagging her down. Liz glances over her right shoulder then her left, as she slows down. People continue streaming past. The officer beckons more strongly, beginning to look irritated ("Ma'am," he says again), and Liz threads through the crowd of travelers.

"Random baggage inspection," the official tells her, and Liz -- tired, sick of traveling and hotel rooms and the recycled air of planes, ready to get home -- sighs sharply and lifts her bags onto the table. Folding her arms, Liz tugs one of the rubber bands that she wears, letting it snap against her wrist, and silently asks for patience.

The look that the official shoots her when he opens the suitcase and finds it packed with nothing but a sea of black fabric is pretty good. It would almost be funny, if she wasn't so ready to keep moving.

"...What was the purpose of your trip to San Francisco, ma'am?"

Shooting him a sour look: "Pleasure," Liz says flatly, and the guard blanches and waves her through.