Flight is Right

Disclaimer: I don't know why I bother with this; if any executive decides to have a look-see, why would he click on mine? Anyway, I don't own the Terminator franchise or this excellent television program.

Author's Note: This is my first foray into Terminator fiction as a story-writer, and I'll be the first to admit that I know very little of the franchise beyond the first two movies and the TV show. However, ever since seeing the second movie I fell in love with the whole thing. While I agree that the TV show serves as an excellent homage to Sarah Connor and her all-too-short story, I think that John and his all-too important role in the story also deserves a closer look. Therefore I'm making this story decidedly John-centric, although the other characters will definitely have their moments. I'm currently writing these words about an hour before the seventh episode of the TV series, "The Demon Hand." How that episode transpires will probably have an effect on how I'm going to write this. It may even force me to re-structure the entire plot, which I've basically got banged down in advance. However, as all stories are, the product we foresee and the product we get are very different.

Hopefully you'll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it.

Chapter One: The Four Figures

KA-BAM BAM BAM...KA-BAM BAM.

PEW! PEW!

The library was huge. It was much bigger than any John Connor had ever seen, not that he made a point of inspecting the full size of every one he'd been in, of course. It had an architecture that established itself as thoroughly boiler-plate; utilitarian, functional. The place was built like a rectangle with a hall partitioning another section of the building, which was identical to the part John was running through. The carpet he was sprinting on was a dull, trodden-on red with many spots where the red felt disappeared and gave way to hard, scratchy wood, which made harsh noises when stepped on. The walls John was running past, which were tan in some places, brown in others, were not adorned with paintings, or any art for that matter. You could find the occasional evacuation plan built into the surface, or an emergency telephone. The random outlet in which blank computer monitors were connected. Sometimes a window divided these walls. All the blinds were drawn. He didn't want to risk stopping and trying to get through one. The shelves that John was carefully taking cover behind were large wooden creations, with no smooth angles or pleasing design. They were simple brown planks built into one another for the purpose of shelving books. The shelves themselves were arranged into tight rows that characterized much of the building's interior. The books that served as make-shift bullet-stoppers came in seemingly infinite designs. They appeared in different colors, lengths, widths, and sizes, as all books invariably do. By some of the titles ("Rule By Steel: The Joesf Stalin Years", "What YOU Need to Know About Our Two Party System", and "100 Tips for the Beginner Novelist" ,) John guessed he was probably in the general information section. Not that that mattered much to him. Right now those books were his best cover against the iron-sights of the rifle that was currently sweeping for him.

By the sound of it, the gun tracking him was probably an AK-74, which he knew was a stupendously deadly weapon in the hands of a marksman. He thought he'd also heard two shots from a pistol, but he couldn't be sure. Although he hadn't seen his attacker yet, he assumed on principle (or at least the principle his mother had indoctrinated in him for years), that he was being pursued by a Terminator. Cybernetic organism, living tissue over metal endoskeleton. An adept infiltrator and deadly assassin. He was being chased by a robot from a future in which he would be the only thing standing between Skynet and a world devoid of humanity. Given all this, he was willing to bet that his assailant knew a thing or two about an AK-74 assault rifle. That rifle had a lot of killing potential, so he had to get out of there fast.

He wasn't supposed to question why he was being attacked, or how he had goofed himself into getting found out. The very, very first rule Sarah Connor had drilled into his mind was the word "run." And running was something he had learned to hate with all his heart, because it represented the fact that his future was still set in stone, that he continued to lack control over his destiny...that, for now, he and his mother had failed to stop Skynet from coming into existence. He was good at running. Years of training had sharpened his mind and his physical power. He could run for a long time without getting tired. He hated it intensely all the same.

(Quick AU: Sorry to break the long-winded introduction, but I just saw "The Demon Hand." Another great episode, and it gives a bit of advancement to the John and Sarah relationship. In relation to this story, I don't think it'll interfere much. Back to the action!)

KA-BAM BAM!

PEW!

A bullet whizzed directly over his head, about a foot off mark. It sounded like a hornet buzzing by, leaving the sound of its trip in its wake. He cried out as it went by. He'd been shot at before, but it never failed, EVER, to leave behind a sense that the next bullet was about to zero in on his head. The fact that the bullet had come so close was his cue to break course and head in another direction. If you zig-zagged you stood a better chance. The second bullet was even further off mark than the first. It slammed into a book about three feet away from John. Bits of paper blew out from the center of the volume, scattering over the carpet. John was sprinting along between the rows, in the narrow aisle where you make the transition into the opposite row from the one you were originally in. He dived into one of the aisles, his hands held outstretched over his head to avoid damage. He hit a shelf of books laterally, causing four or five books to tumble down over his body. He desperately tried to keep himself steady as he hastily pushed them off, got on his-

Four bullets penetrated the books that hadn't fallen, about a foot above his head as he was getting up. He immediately flopped down and began a hurried crawl down the aisle. He heard soft, cushioned footsteps somewhere's away, interrupted occasionally by a harsh pak pak! as booted feet slammed into exposed floor. His assailant was walking at a steady beat, unhurried. It could take its time, all it needed was a clear shot and he'd be dead. John pushed aside several books and squeezed himself under a shelf and into the next aisle. He did the same for the next one, and the next after that. The footsteps continued at an even pace towards him. John wasn't gonna shake it by trying to confuse it. It knew exactly where he was. John pushed himself through another shelf and grunted in surprise; his jacket snagged on one of the book-ends. He jerked it twice, but it refused to come free. His breath became ragged as he quickly tore himself lose from the jacket, hearing a ripping sound. He scrambled forward, leaving the jacket hooked onto the book-end. He was strangely fond of the look it gave him, but survival was more important. The damned thing could have cost him his life if he'd tried to unhook himself manually.

He got up on his feet and started to run until he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eyes, several rows down. Almost as soon as he processed this, he heard two dry clicks emanating from the rifle, followed by a clattering noise as the assailant abandoned the spent gun. John was running at this point, towards the nearest window. Two sharp bangs emitting from a pistol followed him. A different sounding pistol also roared, probably from the attackers free hand.

He couldn't stay here any longer; too many close calls, and he wouldn't always be this lucky. Hell, he'd be lucky if he made it out of this place alive. If this continued any longer, people were gonna start dying. He sprinted through the empty aisles, backtracking toward a window he'd seen earlier. It was odd, though; he hadn't seen anyone since coming in here. Not a single person besides his attacker, and he was more than willing to bet his attacker wasn't a person at all. Behind him, bullets continued to fly toward him, getting closer and closer to an exact mark.

Finally, he made it out of the aisle, moving out into a relatively uncluttered space, beyond the long rows of book shelves. The window, whose view was obscured by blinds, offered his closest route of escape. He was on the ground level, and if he hit it with enough force it would probably shatter. First he had to pull up the blinds, which was the most dangerous part of all. Stopping and pulling a string cost seconds, seconds of doing nothing that would lessen the distance between himself and the attacker. He'd been trained to appreciate hastiness, and stopping like that screamed against his precepts.

He reached the window. He stopped moving and felt nearly overwhelmed as his body suddenly caught up with what he'd been doing. His hands went to his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He felt like he was going to come apart like a cheap card house if he kept moving after this, but he didn't let that notion into his head yet. He brought his right hand up and pulled hard on the slight rope that would pull up the blinds. There was a fluttering noise as they traveled upward. John allowed his eyes to drift idly over to view outside.

He couldn't call them back. The breath went out from his lungs as if someone had nailed him in the chest. His mouth fell open in shock as he took in the view that lay before him.

He was staring at an impossibility. The window gave the observer a view of the Los Angeles skyline, but it was...gone. No, not gone, but ruined. Sweeping arches of buildings had been reduced to jagged lines scratching at the sky. What was once full and filled with seemingly endless rows of mirror-like windows was now gutted and hollow. Something large and bright seemed to lay among the broken skyscrapers, but you couldn't look at it directly without wincing in pain. Smoke billowed endlessly from the ruins. That was just the background. Immediately in front of him, in front of the library, were several mounds of debris, from concrete to glass and asphalt, cars, busses, burnt bed frames, torn clothing. A rusted swing-set. And skulls. Small and large, human remains were strewn about like cruel decorations on these mounds of debris. They were cast among those materials as though they were no better. The ground was ashen, almost grey. No plants seemed to exist. The sky was an angry hue of red. Strobes of light occasionally stabbed through the haze like search-lights; they came from flying ships of jet-black color and utilitarian construction. Something tall and rolling upright cruised at a hasty speed a mile away, occasionally stopping to probe around with a search-light. The dead silence was occasionally broken by a piercing scream of pain and despair.

Judgement Day. It had happened, but...how?

His eyes were glued to this view in front of him, and, of itself, his hand moved to pull back the blind again. He didn't want to go out there. He could stay, possibly take his chances with the assailant, possibly hide-

His hand stopped. He realized that there were people outside, in the small courtyard ahead of him. About four people, all kneeling, facing away. They were perhaps twenty feet from where he was. Standing beside them, holding a large cannon-like weapon, was a Terminator. John had never seen one in its entirety before, without the human flesh covering most of its metal skeleton. He'd expected some sort of snarling, hellish man made disfigured by machinery, staring forward with its piercing red eyes...

From behind it looked...like a man made of chrome. God, it looked so functional. Like it wasn't built for anything other than functioning and performing objectives. It was completely utilitarian, its appearance wasn't meant to automatically strike fear into the hearts of men who opposed it; the nature of its construction alone did that.

The four people outside remained motionless. The Terminator stared at them and spoke in an iron voice, "Turn around."

They all got on their feet and turned together, eventually swinging to face the library. They all saw him at the same time, their eyes focusing on him with laser-like precision. The woman was at the far left. She had dark, almost black hair, but it had streaks of grey. Her face was wrinkled and worn, but was cold and sharp at the same time, as though age had not diminished her senses. She was wearing khaki combat fatigues and similar pants. Her mouth was set into a ghost of a frown, but it seemed almost...pitying.

Next to her was a man with brown, unkept hair and a broad forehead. His eyes, though alert, appeared almost sensitive and kindly. There were traces of a goatee on his face. He was wearing a green overcoat, with a grey shirt underneath. He was frowning, but his eyes betrayed the anger (disappointment?) he likely felt.

The third man was extremely tall, with brown, smoothly combed hair dominating the crown of his head. Where his eyes should have been was instead a pair of gigantic sunglasses. He was wearing a jet black motorcycle jacket and biker jeans. He was completely expressionless, he just seemed to stare at John without any reaction other than analysis.

The fourth man was also tall, but not as tall as the one next to him. His hair was brown like the other two men, ending in a widows peak along his broad forehead, which was lined with two scars on the left side. His green eyes were cold and calculating, resembling tiny slits. Another scar stitched a line across his left cheekbone. He wore a plain olive drab uniform, devoid of markings. Like the man next to him, he was virtually expressionless except for his eyes, which regarded John's presence with something close to disgust.

In unison, they all pointed at him, their arms held rigidly ahead of them, fingers stabbed toward John. He took an involuntary back-step from the window. He shrunk under their exacting gaze, because they made him feel guilty. They were accusing him. He had done something wrong to these people, people he didn't even know.

The Terminator ignored them and what they were doing. It raised its own arm, the one which held the laser-cannon. Barely pausing, it fired four times in unison, each blast of plasma completely obliterating the heads of the people staring at John. He upper body jerked up in terror with each shot. His hands were shaking unbearably, his legs could barely remain straight. He wanted to get away from here but it was as if he was standing in cement, his eyes...anchored to these dying people. And as they died, their survivors, until they themselves died, remained unfaltering. They seemed unconcerned with their incoming deaths. They wanted to make their point known to John, whatever it was. Finally, the last person, the one with the uniform, collapsed bonelessly as his head was vaporized. It's task done, the Terminator swung around and, without pause, fired at John.

He yelled out in terror as the blast tore away half of the wall in front of him. Bits of brick and concrete flew scattered into the air, shattering the window as they flew. John found control of his senses and backed away, out of sight of the machine outside. Dimly, he could hear it beginning to move towards the broken wall, intent on killing all it found. John had to get away, hide somewhere safe and get a hold of the situation. He turned.

He found his protector, Cameron Phillips, standing in front of him. She was so beautiful; she had a face that could have been designed only with machine-like precision. Little wonder; she was a machine, just like the one stalking John from outside. And yet she was capable of such...human qualities at times.

He saw none of that in her now, her face was empty of emotion, or anything for that matter. She looked positively blank, almost uninterested. But her eyes were focused, for a pistol, held in her hand, filled in the gap of space between them: it was pointed at his head. She wasn't looking at him, as she usually did. She was sighting on him from behind a gun. John was frozen again. His eyes drifted toward her belt, finding two clips of 5.45 mm rounds attached to it; ammunition for an AK-74. She was his assailant. She was after him, trying to kill him. She was going to kill him. He began to back away, and he remembered the other Terminator outside. Fighting to control his voice, he tilted his head to Cameron's face.

"Cameron, what-" he began, hurrying to get the words out before-

Without warning she dropped her aim a few feet and fired. The sound of it firing was nothing more than a high-pitched bark. The round struck him directly in the knee cap, causing the joint to shatter in his leg. Small pieces of bone and blood spewed from the open wound and splattered on the floor. The pain John felt was sudden and exquisitely intense. He screamed in pain, barely able to control anything his own movement anymore. His legs gave out from under him and he collapsed, falling backwards. His head slammed into the wall with a smack, and his vision went bright red as he lay there, writhing in agony. He didn't even bother trying to put pressure on the wound, he knew it was over. He started to moan in pain, unable to bear it. He didn't want to remember his mothers lessons, about how it was important to control pain, to master it and not let it overcome you. That would do him jackshit. This was it, he was done for.

He laid there, staring at the ceiling, his breath coming in short gasps. Something seemed to be buzzing in his ear; the sound of his own pain. Cameron appeared overhead and looked down at him, her face completely expressionless. She stood there for a moment and then crouched down, bringing her face down low over his own. He could feel her breath. She looked so empty, so hollow, when she could appear almost lifelike at times. Why had she done this to him? Why had he been betrayed?

What had he done to make her do this to him? What had he done to all these people, people he didn't know and people he trusted, to make them despise him like this?

"Don't worry," she said tonelessly, interrupting his thoughts, "This is for the best."

The hellish red eyes of the other Terminator appeared in his vision. He whimpered; that was all he could manage at this point, he was so spent. Cameron's eyes flicked up at the other cyborg. It's own eyes swiveled up to acknowledge her presence, and it a slight nod: it was her kill, she deserved to make the finishing blow. That's what that nod basically translated to. She was being given the pleasure of finishing John, a deference to her skill. She nodded in return and suddenly John was staring into the barrel of a pistol.

He barely felt, or saw anything, as the gun suddenly jerked upward with the explosive force of the shot, and the bullet entered his head.

John let out a cry of terror as he suddenly came awake. He thrashed for a moment on his bed, grabbing a pillow and, after squeezing it for a moment, threw it across the room. He let out another yell as he jerked upward and stared wide-eyed into the darkness of his bedroom, each shuddering breath shaking his entire body. He was drenched in sweat, but felt a chill all the same. He stared around, unblinking for a moment, and his breathing slowed gradually. A silence that roared in his ears descended.

His hand bolted up to his forehead, pushing away a few locks of hair, and felt. There was no ragged, bloody hole. He was alive.

A dream. A bad dream. He was alive. Everything was fine. He went on shaking, not able to stop. He'd never dreamt so vividly in all his life, not once. Any other time and it was like someone fogging up a piece of glass with their breath and then scribbling a design on it, only to have it fade away within moments. This wasn't like that. He remembered...all of it.

Goddamnit, and he'd screamed.

As if on cue with that particular thought, the door to his room opened, barely making a sound. Cameron stood in the hallway, sweeping his room for threats. All he could see was her silhouette. A pistol dangled from her right hand. She appeared relaxed, where his mother would have looked tense and ready for combat. He knew for a fact that it wouldn't take much time to go from "relaxed" mode to "ready to kill everything evil in the room" mode if circumstances provided.

Of himself, his hands brought up the blanket up to his neckline, as if it would do any good in hiding him from a cyborg killer. It was irrational of him; Cameron was his protector, after all. And yet...

"John?", Cameron called out. It wasn't an "are you there?" sort of call; she was staring right at him. She wanted him to say something.

He didn't want to say anything, not to her, not after what had happened. What he wanted was to make a dash for the closet. That, too, was a stupid, immature thought. Dreams were dreams, they represented base thoughts that couldn't be expressed in anything BUT dreams. Cameron wasn't going to shoot him. She was programmed to protect his life. The last thing she could do was stalk him and kill him.

He cleared his throat and, tightly controlling his voice, said, "Yeah."

Cameron remained where she was, but nodded her head at that, "You were dreaming," she said in her matter-of-fact tone. She probably knew that as she was coming in here, too. That was one of the things that irritated him about Terminators (or at least the ones sent to protect him,) they always stated the obvious.

"Yeah," John said. He realized he must have looked tense, upright and clutching at the blankets. He slowly settled back into the bed. Cameron remained standing at the door; there was more to say, it seemed. "Yeah," John repeated, a bit more clearly, "I was dreaming. Sorry for the noise."

"That's strange." It was a statement, spoken as a blunt fact. There was no hint of curiosity or questioning in her tone, she was merely stating the obvious again; it was strange of him to dream like this.

"Uh," John retorted.

"You usually don't react as you just did is what I mean to say," Cameron went on. She began to resemble an actual person now, and not just a black-over-white silhouette. She was wearing night clothes, a considerable advancement from her previous policy of next-to-nothing-night clothes. Her shining brown eyes were focused on his own, her expression one of puzzlement. "Usually you sleep rather soundly." She stared at him for a few more seconds and added, "Was it a nightmare?"

"I, uh, guess," he answered, rubbing at his forehead. It was pretty slick with sweat. Dropping his hand to his face, he made as if to shield his eyes from the light coming from the hallway, "Let me go back to bed." He wanted her away from him; he was already beginning to strain at the memory of her holding a gun to his head and firing, but remember he did. He didn't want to see her after something like that. He preferred to be left alone after something like that.

"Your mother has many nightmares," Cameron said, evidently ignoring his request, "People have nightmares when their conscience isn't clear." She was obviously quoting there; she did that all the time.

"Right," he muttered, and he made a show of wincing and closing his eyes, "C'mon, it's late."

"Is your conscience clear, John?"

He opened his eyes slightly and stared over at her. "What?"

She didn't miss a beat and repeated the question in the exact same tone of voice. Was she supposed to say things like that? He cleared his throat again; a lump had suddenly formed. "Yeah," he said, and he found himself closing his eyes tight now. He felt himself reddening with the lie, "Of course it's clear, why wouldn't it be?"

He didn't see her reaction to that. All he heard was her voice, "Sorry to have bothered you." Then the door creaked shut.

His conscience was not clear. He felt guilty. Those people, stabbing their fingers toward him before their deaths. Cameron hunting him down, shooting him. Accusing, punishing him. For what? How could he know? He didn't know, and yet he felt guilty all the same.