Title: Death Be Not Proud
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The story and characters of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles belong to a bunch of folks, none of which are myself. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author Notes: Originally published on LJ on 4/2011. This was a short fic that just popped in my head. Definitely gloomier than what I normally write, but I just had to write it.
With an angry twist of his lips, John pulled a switchblade out of his pocket. Locating the damaged port cover in the skull that housed the chip, he quickly pried it open. He pulled the chip out with a solid yank, seeing the exposed, red eyes of the machine sputter one last time, before fading slowly to nothing.
"Metal motherfucker." The teenager growled low in his throat. His fist closed tight around the chip, the metal digging a patterned impression into his palm.
He looked up past the wreckage of the machine, straining to see through the smoke that still lingered. Jesus!
"Mom?" Tense seconds ticked by with no answer.
"Mom?!" Shit. "Are you okay?"
His feet propelled him forward unsteadily, stumbling and coughing. Holding a grimy sleeve across his face in an attempt to block out some of the smoke, he hacked again. Blinking stinging eyes, he froze at the sight in front of him. And blinked again, rapidly, just to make sure it was real. No! No, no, no…
John instantly recognized the slight, crumpled form. Shoving away the RPG that she'd used to bring the machine down, he carefully rolled her over. His mother's dark hair was matted with bits of debris and dirt. Her green eyes were open, but glazed with intense, real, pain.
"Oh God!" His hands pushed against the two oozing bullet holes in her stomach, becoming immediately sticky and slick with blood.
"Just – just stay still. I'm calling for help." Somehow, he managed to dig his cell phone out with one hand, while keeping the pressure on with the other. He cursed, finding the buttons on the device difficult to manage with the slippery, bloody keypad. Or that he couldn't see through the tears that now clouded his vision.
"John…" Her voice, faint but determined.
"Hello? Yeah, I need help. My mom's been shot…the end of pier 37 at the corner of Highland Street…what? Stop wasting my time with questions, just fucking get here!"
"John." Again, his name, getting weaker.
"No, mom." He dropped the phone, cradling her head with his free hand. "I don't give a fuck about the authorities! I'm getting you help!"
"It's done, John." His mother's voice had steel and finality in her words. "It's okay."
He shook his head vehemently. "I don't believe that."
"I did what I always do. What I always knew I would do." Her gaze was steady, despite her ragged breathing. "I died to save you."
"I can't!" John's chest felt like it would explode with the tightness of denial mixed with grief.
"Yes, you can." Her tone was quiet. Reassuring. "I trained you. You know how to lead the people. To free them from the machines."
"It's not that!" He screamed. Don't you get it, mom? "I can't live without you!"
"You will. And you knew. You knew it was always going to end like this. No matter what. Whether from cancer, or if it was now, or in the future, it was always going to be –"
Her words were cut off as she inhaled and choked violently, blood sputtering up from her mouth and splashing on her cheeks. Tenderly, he attempted to wipe the crimson stain away with the edge of his sleeve, marveling at how warm she felt. How alive.
"Mom…" His voice begged her, the gods, anything he could think of. To not let this happen.
Her breath was now a thready, guttural wheeze. That terrible sound that would chase him in his nightmares until he died.
"I love you John." A shaking, dirty hand reached up to smooth through his shorn hair. Caressing his head, like he was a baby. "My John."
"I love you too." He managed, his voice wavering. There. I said it. She knows.
A ghost of a smile upon bloodied lips. "My boy."
She clutched at his head with a last, ferocious burst of strength, her green eyes blazing into the ones that so mirrored her own.
"You'll be fine." A last rattle of breath. "And so will I…"
John's eyes became unfocused, as he stared at nothing for long minutes. Unbelieving. Blinking harshly, he realized that his mother's hand had slipped bonelessly from his head. That her eyes had closed. And that for the first time he could remember in ages, that she looked content. A small smile still etched on her features. A sliver of hope in the ugly, maimed condition her body had been left in.
She was happy. Because she was confident that I'd be fine. That I would live.
He gasped and choked on his tears at the realization. Pulling Sarah Connor into his arms, John clutched at the warm body with all his strength, burying his face in her shoulder.
The gulls that were peacefully preening on the pilings of the dock, started and took to the air with protesting squawks, upon hearing the long, seemingly endless howl that morphed into excruciating sobs.