Disclaimer: Not Mine!
I was watching the pilot again, and I started wondering "what if Cameron was a human girl?" So I had to write a fic.
Her name was Cameron Phillips. I don't know her middle name – I never asked, and she never said. There wasn't much time for asking or telling – we only knew each other a total of fifteen minutes. If that.
Her father sold tractors. I don't know his name – I had been too busy thinking about how I never had a father to bother asking her about hers. I should have been nicer – I could have told Mom I had to stay after to meet with teachers or something. I could have been five seconds late to class. But I didn't bother to ask because I didn't think she was important.
Her mother stayed at home. I don't know her name either. But all I can wonder is how she's going to spend her days, now that she doesn't have to wash her daughter's clothes, or tidy her room, or even worry about how she's doing in her classes. Will she go crazy? Kill herself? – my mom would. Even if I wasn't supposed to save the world, she would go crazy, sitting around the house all day. She'd claim she had nothing left to live for.
Cameron Phillips stood up. I don't know why. Was she too scared to crouch down on the floor? Was she planning on running but I got in her way? Was she trying to protect the others behind her? Maybe she just froze and stayed frozen out of habit. If I'd had the time, I would have reached out and yanked her down. She probably would have smacked her head, but it'd have been better than…
Her body jerked as the bullets entered it – three of them. Why bother shooting her three times? She was just a girl. A fifteen year old girl – and not even his target. She collapsed on the ground, her eyes fluttering once, then closing. She died. One minute ago she'd been flirting with me, the next she was dead.
She went to school for two days, and then she was dead. She'd never get the chance to drive a car, or vote, or even drink (legally). She died – and I ran. I didn't scream, or try to save her. I just bolted, the only thought in my head for my own survival. I left her there. It didn't matter that she was still dead – staying by her body wasn't going to help that. I still feel like it's my fault.
Her funeral was yesterday – I saw the picture in the paper. It was a school picture – a stupid, dorky one. But she looked nice. Pretty. And then of course the obligatory baby photo – this one showed a two or three year old in a little ballet tutu, smiling broadly. And I couldn't help but notice that on the next page were ads for car sales. Cars that Cameron Phillips would never be old enough to drive.
She died because of me. I know that people have died for me. The thought makes me sick, but I guess deep down I know that there have been people that have sacrificed their lives to save mine. But…they had a choice. They knew what was going on and they died fighting. She was just a scared little girl. While we were both the same age, she was so much younger than I was – than I am. And it's different – watching it happen right in front of you, watching her body lose consciousness as the blood and life drained from it.
Her name was Cameron Phillips. She liked John Reese. But John Connor killed her.
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