Black Widow Rising
A Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles
Fanfic
by Pjazz
2008
I got the idea for this story from my first T:SCC fanfic, Cameron versus Dodgeball. I mentioned the Taco Belle model terminator briefly, mainly as cheap gag. (If you've read my stuff you'll know I'm partial to cheap gags.) It got me thinking - what would it actually be like...
1
ARRIVAL
Noon.
Brentwood Resort and Country Club, Los Angeles.
Crystal Collins yawned and sat up on her sunlounger, reached beneath for her pair of Jimmy Choos. Fate had gifted her with rich parents and a standard of living in the upper one percentile, but it had denied her length of bone. She needed those three inch heels.
Crystal sashayed across the club terrace toward the swimming pool. She considered her ass her best feature and was intent on showing it to best advantage in her Marc Jacobs bikini. There was a hunk of a lifeguard on duty and she wanted him to notice big time. With luck he wouldn't be gay. So many of them were nowadays. Crystal thought it might have something to do with global warming.
She knelt by the pool's edge, trying to look as alluring as possible. No way was she going in. Club membership cost in the thousands,but this was still basically a public area. It was full of other people's...ick. Gross. If she wanted to swim she'd do so in her pool at home in Bel Air, where the water was drained and replenished every week.
Crystal was about to glance round and see if the lifeguard was checking her out, when something made her examine the pool more closely. The water seemed to be...frothing. No, churning, roiling, alive with a sort of kinetic energy, reminding her of a recent white water rafting expedition. How could that be?
Omigod!
There, in the deep end, a large air bubble had appeared from nowhere, flashing blue and green lightning bolts that earthed on the tile surround.But that was impossible underwater, surely? Inside the bubble...was that a person crouching? The sphere abruptly collapsed in on itself. The person was standing up! Submerged. On the bottom of the pool. And starting to walk toward the shallow end.
As the effect of the time deplacement wore off, the model T-4400 terminator strode confidently out of the pool, the water cascading down her naked body. The T-4400 was one of the honeytrap class, designed by Skynet to resemble an attractive latino female in her early 20s. She was raven haired, long limbed and voluptuous. She possessed the usual cyborg attributes - living tissue over a hyper-alloy combat chassis - but with one major technological advancement: enhanced artificial pheromones. This proved hugely desirable to human males.It messed with their hormones, enslaving them to their most primitive desires. It enabled the T-4400 to infiltrate and destroy rebel enclaves from within. Some, fearing her, named her the Taco Belle; others, respect mingled with the fear, the Black Widow.
But Crystal Collins knew none of this. It was still in mankind's future. All she saw was an incredibly buff naked woman walking out of the shallows.
Lordy, I'd kill for those legs. And those...wait. they're never real. Way too firm. And pert. She knew fake when she saw it. But It wouldn't hurt to ask.
"Excuse me..."
The T-4400's head snapped round. Target graphics locked on. Crystal was one false move away from death.
"What's the name of your plastic surgeon?"
The T-4400 smiled. Two rows of perfectly even white teeth. Her voice was throaty, with a trace of accent.
"Skynet."
Knew it! Knew they weren't real.
"Skye Net? Ooh, he sounds very New Age. Where does he practice? Is it the new place on Melrose?"
But the woman was walking away across the terrace toward the club buildings.
Hmm, well your ass is certainly real. You could bounce quarters off that heinie..
Crystal glanced over at the hunky lifeguard. He was staring fixedly after the naked stranger his eyes practically out on stalks.
Not the only thing out on stalks either.
Whoa. Definitely not gay.
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The T-4400 entered the Brentwood Club Ladies Locker Room. A sensor scan showed it was devoid of human presence. Good. She didn,t want bodies only their garments. And fast.
The clothes on the teak pegs were scanned for size and suitability. She selected black leather Prada pants, Mannolo Blahnik black leather boots and a red Lacoste tee with a yellow crocodile on the breast. She dressed quickly and was about to leave when an amber alert blinked in her visual display.
Cultural Requirement : Accessorise
She chose a gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch, Cartier sunglasses and a caramel leather Gucci purse. From the purse she picked out a platinum Amex credit card. It was issued to a Mallory Valdez.
"My name is Mallory Valdez." Her voice was husky, the accent more obvious since Valdez was an hispanic name.
New Identity: Confirmed
Pheromone gland : Activated
Mission status: Primary stage
She stared curiously at herself in the wall mirror. A makeover subroutine ran automatically. Pigment nanocytes deep in the epidermis enhanced her lips to a glossy sheen that would never wear out or stain a mans shirt collar. Eyelashes lengthened and thickened. Eyes switched from factory-issue grey to azure blue.
Makeover : Complete
Style : Contemporary early 21st century
Two women entered the locker room. Both blonde, they wore matching tennis whites and carried Addidas holdalls. They chatted amicably, trailing off only when they noticed the T-4400.
"Oh. Hello. Have we met? I'm-- Hey! Those are my leather Prada pants she's wearing. She's a thief. Grab her, Melissa. Don't let her leave. She stealing my goddamn pants!"
The subsequent screams were heard all across the resort, summoning 4 LAPD squad cars, a team of paramedics and a camera crew from CNN who thought the story of a mysterious 'Naked Ninja' juicy enough to be the lead news item.
But the T-4400 was long gone, intent on fulfilling her mission. And she absolutely would not stop until she had succeeded.
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2
Journeys
Ignacio Gomez was having a bad day. The last fare he'd picked up in his cab - LAX to Brentwood - had stiffed him with a 5 tip. 5 bucks, the miserable SOB. It's what gave capitalism a bad name.
To add to his misery his John Coltrane tape had snarled in the deck. Calming jazz music was all that took the stress of his job away. His BPI was off the chart. His doctor had prescribed beta blockers, but they made him feel like a zombie. And there were enough zombies driving round on the Los Angeles freeways as it was.
Then Mallory Valdez entered his life. The most beautiful women he'd ever seen was hailing his cab. He trode on the brakes. She opened the rear door and got in.
"Drive."
"Yes, ma'am. Anywhere particular?"
"I require drugs."
"O-kay. I can get you weed no problemo. But meth or rock are gonna--"
"Prescription medicine. From a reputable pharmacy."
"Oh. Right. Forget that stuff I said. My little joke. I know just the place."
Ignacio drove for 5 blocks then pulled over to the kerb outside GLICKSTEIN'S PHARMACY.
"Wait here," Mallory instructed. "I'll be back."
"Sure thing."
Ignacio watched her leave. Man, she was gorgeous. Where were you 20 years ago, sweetheart? He was feeling a little feverish. Not a virus now Lord, please.
Mallory returned 20 minutes later. The pharmacist had been reluctant to give her such strong drugs and in such quantity without a doctor's prescription. But she was persuasive. He now lay unconcious under the counter with a fractured skull.
Ignacio was delighted to see her. He felt like an hormonal teenager whose hot prom date had miraculously turned up on his doorstep. "God, I missed you. Did you miss me?"
Mallory ignored him.
"I'm Ignacio. Ignacio Gomez. What's your name?"
"Irrelevent."
"Is that first name or last name?"
In the T-4400's artificial brain an encrypted memory kernal blinked green. She opened it.
"I need pen and paper," she informed Ignacio.
"Oh okay. Coming right up." He fumbled open the glovebox. Months worth of cab detritus tumbled out. Greasy burrito wrappers, empty Oreos boxes, styrofoam cups with congealing residues of coffee. Christ on a stick, when had he become such a slob? He groped deeper and finally found a pen and small notepad. He handed them over.
She copied out the encrypted instructions. The memory kernal then deleted itself. Her machine mind was not in the least curious at these elaborate security precautions. She glanced at what was written then gave it to Ignacio.
"Drive to this address."
I'll drive you anywhere, beautiful. He thought. To the very ends of the earth. But what he said was:
"What's here?"
"The home of John Connor."
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Mid-afternoon. A clifftop in southern California, overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
John Connor stood on the edge of the cliff. He held a 3 iron golf club in his hand. He swung at the ball at his feet.
thwack!
The golf ball soared off the cliff, drifted down in a lazy parabola and plopped into the ocean below.
"How far was that?"
Cameron adjusted her rangefinder optics. "318 yards."
He had brought a bucket of old used golf balls to the cliff and spent the past 3 hours hitting them into the sea. It reminded John of one of the best times of his life. Before his mother had been locked up in the psyche ward, one of his 'uncles' had taken him to a driving range. They'd hit balls all day long. It was fun. A relief from the stress of being mankind's one Hope against the machines.
John reached for another ball. The last one. He hesitated. "Hey, why don't you give it a whirl?"
Cameron took the 3 iron. She placed the ball on a bare piece of earth then gripped the club in her right hand.
"Whoa. You're gonna hit it like that?"
"Yes."
"One handed?"
"Yes."
"Are you crazy?"
"No."
"Okay, Tiger, go ahead."
"Okay, leopard, I will."
"50 bucks says you whiffle."
"Whiffle?"
"Hit an air shot. Miss it entirely."
"It's a bet."
Cameron brought her right arm back.
THWACK!!
The ball seemed to be attempting orbit. On and on and on it soared, out into the wild blue yonder, before gravity finally claimed it. Cameron took the measurement.
"987 yards."
" 987 yards. One handed. If you turn pro can I be your manager?"
"Yes. I broke your club."
She held up the 3 iron. The shaft was bent and the metal blade sheared in half."
"Totally worth it."
"I did not whiffle. You owe me 50."
John searched his pockets. As usual he didn't have a dime on him.
"I've got a half pack of Lifesavers. Cherry flavour. Take it instead?"
"Yes. It's a tight present."
"You're a cheap date, Phillips."
He laughed at his own wit. After a slight pause Cameron joined in.
He felt a surge of warmth for the pretty cyborg. Okay, so the laughter was simply imitating his; she had no more affinity for humour than a lawn mower could appreciate the smell of freshly mown grass, but nevertheless the day would've been a lot less special without her to share it with.
"Race you to the road. Double or nothing."
"All right."
On 3. 1..2--"
John began running on 2. Cameron waited for the 3 that never came, finally realised she'd been duped and set off in pursuit.
She caught him easily and began pulling away when John veered toward her and leapt on her back. She easily piggy-backed him all the way to the the road a mile distant.
"You cheated."
"Sue me."
"You haven't any money. Only Lifesavers. Cherry flavour."
She's got me there.
John fetched the motorbike they'd earlier concealed behind pine scrub. It was a Yamaha 150. Not as powerful as he'd like, but the best he could wheedle out of his mother. Some tinkering with the engine had added an extra 10 BHP. Not much, but every little counted. He kick-started the engine, gunned the throttle.
"C'mon. It's getting late. Mom's probably flipping."
"Flipping? She is performing acrobatics?"
He grinned. Typical Cameron.
John fish-tailed the bike round on the loose earth and they set off inland, Cameron's arms wrapped tightly round his waist.
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Ignacio Gomez was begging, pleading, beseeching.
"Please don't go. I love you. I've never met anyone like you. I've got money. Not much. Some. We could go to Hawaii. Europe. Wherever you like."
The T-4400 ignored him and climbed out of the cab. She was satisfied her pheromone enhancements were operating to specification. The human was ripe for the slaughter. She'd ordered him to stop a block from the Connor house. There might be traps.
"Please! If you leave me I'll...I'll kill myself."
The Terminator regarded him with cold indifference.
"Please. Allow me."
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3
Destination
John pushed the motorbike into an outbuilding. He couldn't see her but he was sure his mother was watching him, disapproving.
"I'm starving," he told Cameron. "I could eat a horse."
"There are no horse parts in the freezer. Do you wish me to do a supermarket run?"
"Pizza's fine. Pancakes and WD 40 for you?"
"You mock me. I can tell."
"I--" He broke off. Coming towards him was possibly the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. And she was smiling at him. He felt a strange heady rush of euphoria.
Cameron doused the feeling by roughly pushing him toward the house. "Run. Get inside. She's metal."
" Hell! Mom! Heads up! Incoming! "
Cameron moved to intercept. But the intruder did something totally unexpected. She stopped and put her palms up in the universal peace gesture.
" I have no wish to harm you, John Connor."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Mallory Valdez. From the future."
Sarah Connor burst out of the house, dressed in khaki fatigues and white singlet. She threw John a pump action rifle; and aimed an Uzi machine pistol at the T-4400.
"Get out of the way, John. I need a clean shot. These are uranium-tipped bullets. They'll frag that metal skull to spacedust."
"John Connor," Mallory said raising her voice slightly. "When you were with your foster parents Frank and Janelle you had a dog named Max. The terminator sent back to protect you you named Uncle--
"--Bob, Hold fire. She might be legit."
"We can't trust her."
"Why are you here?"
"To protect."
"Who sent you?"
"You did. Who else would know your secrets?"
"Yeah. We've been down this road before. I know the drill. Come up to the house. Easy now, Any funny business, your shiny chrome ass is swiss cheese."
"No, she could be lying," warned Cameron, "I know this model. It is a Taco Belle."
A frown creased Mallory's perfect face. She turned to Cameron.
"I prefer the term Black Widow."
" Honeytrap design, model T-4400. Infiltrate and destroy."
"And what are you? A TOK 715. I believe they stopped manufacturing those years ago."
She attempted to walk up to the house. Cameron blocked her way. They were eye to eye. Toe to toe.
"Get out of my way, obsolete machine."
"I am not an obsolete machine."
"Okay. Enough." Sarah Connor barked. "You two want a pissing contest do it on your own time. Both of you - inside."
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It was a strange tableau. Sarah and the T-4400 sat on one sofa; John and Cameron facing them on the other. Sarah rested the Uzi machine pistol casually on her lap, her forefinger on curled on the trigger.
"You're much more handsome as a young man," Mallory told John, giving a megawatt smile and tossing her thick mane of hair. "Do you know that?"
"Uh, no, but thanks. I think."
Sarah Connor rounded angrily on her son. "So you sent another terminator back to protect you. What the hell are you thinking in the future, John? This isn't a menagerie.There are too many running loose as it is."
"Oh I don't know, mom," John retorted. "I guess I must think I'm Marty McFly or something. Or maybe I'm just trying to save civilization. Y'know, avert Judgement Day, the usual selfish superhero crap."
"I am not here to protect John, " The T-4400 stated bluntly."I'm here to protect you, Sarah Connor."
"Me? I don't need a bodyguard. Especially not one who looks like she won a Miss South America beauty pageant"
" You will be diagnosed with cancer in 16 weeks. Dead inside a year."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
"No. No. That's not possible. I had all the tests done months ago.I'm clear."
Mallory nodded at the Uzi machine pistol. "The future holds many variables. Things change."
"Mom! The uranium ammo! It's must still be radioactive."
Ashen faced, Sarah shook her head slowly. "No. It's safe. Sergei told me they were non-toxic, something about the isotope half-life being decayed below danger levels. He handled them himself. Why would ne risk doing that if they weren't safe?"
"Sure he handled them. For minutes maybe. Not enough to cause any harm. And a scumbag Russian arms smuggler can't possibly have his own agenda. Jeez, Mom."
"But they're the only ordnance that penetrates their damn armour. Think of it. One clip and they're scrap. The advantage it gives us..." Sarah trailed off, lost in thought.
Too late. Too late. the damage already done. All those hours spent stripping and reassembling the weapons. The radiation gradually seeping unseen into her flesh, her bones.
Less than a year.
Sarah flung the pistol across the room. It clattered against the wall.
"There is still a chance of survival," the T-4400 announced. "80 percent if the course of treatment is administered immediately."
"That's why you're here - to offer me false comfort? You metal bitch. Why not come here months ago, before the deal went down?"
"The time stream is complicated. I do not completely understand the theories behind its manipulation."
John massaged his forehead with the base of his palms, pressing, kneading. He rounded on Cameron.
"Where were you during all of this? Huh? Your sensors didn't pick it up? The radioactivity. You couldn't, what, see it glow in the dark or something?"
"I am not equipped with a Geiger counter. It is not part of my specification."
"Then what use are you!"
Even as he said it he knew he was just searching for a scapegoat; something or someone to assuage the guilt and fear now consuming him.
I should have known. Should have prevented this. How am I going to save humanity if I can't save my own mother?
"You - Mallory. You have the medical supplies for the treatment?"
"Yes. The correct procedures and dosages are stored in my memory cortex. Future John Connor has had his chief medical officers working this case for years. It is priority one."
"And does it work?"
"I am not programmed with that information."
"Okay, okay. Do you have everything you need?"
"I must procure some extra equipment from a hospital or clinic. Then I will be ready to begin"
"Wait. On your way here did you draw any attention to yourself? Are cops gonna be looking for you?"
"There was some collateral damage."
"Yeah, I bet there was. Okay, make a list of the stuff we need; I'll handle it."
Sarah got to her feet, still ashen faced. "I'll get the jeep."
"No. You stay here. Rest up."
Cameron stood ready to accompany him. John found he could barely look at her. "No. I don't need you."
She slowly sat back down, inscrutable as ever.
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CODA
Night. John Connor lay outside on the flat roof staring up at the night sky. A billion billion galaxies. Each with a billion billion stars. Or so he'd been taught. He wondered if there was life out there; intelligent life dumb enough to invent machines to do its bidding. Perhaps there were a thousand Skynets out in that vast darkness. A million. Meat versus metal. A celestial rites of passage. Darwinian evolution on a cosmic scale.
He tensed. Someone was coming up the ladder. Cameron. He relaxed, shifted sideways to give her room to lay down beside him.
"There are many stars tonight," she said.
"Tonight and every night."
"They are far away. Yet burn very brightly."
"If you wish upon a star your dream is supposed to come true."
"A star is a sphere of hydrogen in a constant state of nuclear fission. It is incapable of wish fulfillment."
"Yeah. There's always a catch. Where's Mallory?"
"Setting up a sterile treatment room."
"What d'you think of her?"
Cameron retrieved a phrase she had data-mined from school.
"She is a total skank."
John grunted. "She says she can save mom. That's all that matters right now."
"She has activated her pheromone gland. She will try and seduce you. You will not survive."
"What? Why would she seduce me?"
"It is her nature. A root command. The T-4400 was created for the purpose. Autonomic function. She can't help it anymore than a dog can help having flies."
"Fleas."
"Oh. Fleas. Thank you for correcting me."
John recalled that odd sensation of euphoria outside the house.
Was that a pheromone gland in action? If so, he had no immunity.
"So what do I do? Order her to switch this - gland- off?"
"Yes.She is programmed to obey your orders." Cameron hesitated." Unless you wish to be seduced by a machine?"
"I...Why would I want that?"
She remained silent.
"I'm confining her to the house. She can care for mom 24/7. I can't risk taking her to school. Not with that gland thing of hers."
"She would be very popular. With the boys. Her type always are."
"Listen. Earlier. I said stuff. Stuff I didn't mean..."
"Your mother is sick." Cameron grasped his hand and gave a gentle sqeeze. "I understand."
She rested her head on his chest. He could smell her hair.
Above them a shooting star crossed the heavens.
John Connor made his wish.
THE END
Obviously this fanfic deviates from the tv show's timeline. Consider it an alternative history if you prefer.
T2 stated Sarah Connor is dead of cancer. What type and how she contracted it go unsaid. It's plausible she might've dabbled with depleted uranium-tipped ordnance and got sick that way. Too far fetched? I plead Artistic licence.
A honeytrap agent has a grounding in fact. During the Cold war Soviet female agents seduced western diplomats and then blackmailed them for info.
The name Mallory Valdez was just plucked from the air. As was the T-4400 model number.
Think the tv show's brill, but it really suffered from the writers strike. So many plotlines left hanging. What was Cheri's big secret? Why'd Jordan top herself? Was she boinking the Principal? What gives with the trompe l'oeil painted on the wall? Blackmail? Perhaps the answers will come next series.
Thanks for reading. All reviews welcome.
PJ