Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Harry Potter world or Terminator. Some dialogue borrowed from the movie Terminator.
Ch. 2
The diner was like any other around this country, characterized by an aroma of grease and coffee. Nothing that was served was could be mistaken as being even remotely healthy. Just continuous artery clogging fuel for the oblivious masses trying to get from one place to the next.
A trashy apartment shared with a woman met at work. Another waitress. Ginger, who hoped to be an actress one day.
Picking up shifts.
Covering when Ginger had a casting call. Helping to eat a pint of ice cream when she failed. Dragged to clubs to celebrate trivial success. Escaping the apartment when Matt, the boyfriend, stopped by so she wouldn't have to listen to the headboard slam against the bedroom wall or the moaning as they went at it. Taken to the movies on double dates with Matt's many friends in the hopes that she would loosen up.
New cloths, new style, new accent, new name, new time.
New wave.
Life moved on. Months ticked by.
Her melancholy slowly began to abate, it had to if she hoped to stay sane. She even found herself able to crack an occasional honest smile now and not the fake ones she had since perfected. Being trapped in the past was oddly freeing in some ways.
No expectations. No worries.
Just wait until time caught up with her again.
She could pursue long forgotten dreams, dismissed when her letter had arrived.
Become a dentist like her parents had always planned, become a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, whatever she pleased. It wasn't what she had imagined or planned or fought for these past seven years, but it was all she could do. All that kept her from dwelling on what had been lost. Kept her distracted, kept her sane.
She took her GED and was already saving up for community college. She could make a life for herself and schoolwork like always would help her focus.
Ginger thought she was nuts.
Like, oh my God, why are you like wanting to waste your time, on like school? It's like so boring.
They were young and she let herself revel in it for once. Her once pale complexion tanned under the blistering California sun, her bushy hair was cut, bleached, and styled under Ginger's capable hands. She no longer resembled a refugee, having finally gained back the weight the war had stolen. A wardrobe of thrift store finds and she was a new woman.
She had to be.
She had to stay under the radar. Not get noticed, be normal, be ordinary. Stay hidden.
They could be out there waiting, planning. She had to stay alert.
It was just like any other day with laundry to do, bills to pay and a shift starting in a few minutes. Putting on the ghastly pink polyester uniform which often reminded her of what the toad-woman use to wear, will wear, she began her shift.
Coffee, pie, coffee, BLT, coffee, burger and fries, not chips, fries. More coffee. No wonder American's had so many health problems.
Keeping a smile plastered to her face she endured complaints, the spilt drinks and even the occasional pinch to her bum. The tips were lousy and her uniform was soon a mess after some brat put ice cream into the pocket thinking he was being funny. The lunch rush finally finished and she went to the backroom for a break despite protests from the manager.
Maybe she should start smoking like the rest of her, clueless about the possibilities of lung cancer, co-workers to get the man off her back.
With no warning two of said co-workers appeared and grabbed her hands shoving her back into the main room. Brought to the television the volume was cranked up.
"Once again, Sarah Connor a 35-year old mother of two was brutally shot to death in her home this afternoon…"
The mask fell into place. She laughed and brushed away the silly coincidence.
Movements became automatic she served her customers. Punching out, a quick change.
She ran.
Her mad dash threw her headlong down the street, breaking up crowds, cars slammed their breaks. She kept moving 4, 7, 11, 15, 22 blocks. Her limbs shook with the effort, her breath became labored, her shirt clung to her with sweat. Almost spent she stopped not able to go any further.
It couldn't have been a Death Eater, the woman had been shot.
No one knew where she was or even who she was. It couldn't have been wizards, she had stayed far away from their world not wanting to draw attention. It was something she couldn't risk, affecting her own personal timeline in some way. Plus it was just plain stupid to go around without any records this close after Voldemort's first fall, absent a bloody wand even if she wasn't in Europe.
No one was looking. No one even knew to look. She had checked for others who could have also traveled back. Made herself paranoid for weeks about the possibilities, but nothing. She was alone.
So who would want her dead?
It wasn't a coincidence.
It never was.
She needed to leave. Something was coming for her. Something unlike anything she had ever faced before, but first she needed a plan. Planning obviously being what she was good at. Think. Think-
She would need supplies. Her apartment was off-limits and all she had was her bag containing her uniform and the day's pitiful tips. It wouldn't get her too far.
Looking around nothing was familiar. The sun was setting. Needing to rest and think she walked into the first place she came across. The bar was already packed, but she managed to secure a table by herself and ordered a glass of water.
Glancing around the bar she couldn't see anyone out of place. She was safe for the moment. Think. She needed to think. Where would she go? What should she do?
The flickering of the television in the corner caught her eye.
"This just in the police have announced the names of the second of two execution style murders which took place today. Incredibly the names of the two victims are virtually identical. Two hours ago 35-year old Sarah Anne Conor was pronounced dead at the scene in her Santa Monica apartment. Sarah Elois Connor was slain earlier today in her home. Now police are refusing to speculate on the apparent similarities between these shooting deaths and no other connection between the two victims has been established as of yet. We'll have more on this late breaking story as it comes in."
Another gone. How many more?
What was going on?
A phonebook was hanging by the payphone. With trembling fingers she passed the Clappers, the Clarks, the Collins down to the Connors. Not Sarah Anne or Sarah Eloise.
Connor, Sarah J 309 Calder Cayon Drive.
She was the next one, the last one listed, but she was safe. Would be safe as long as she didn't go back to the apartment.
The apartment, that Ginger was at by herself, waiting for Matt to drop in.
A single woman in the apartment of Sarah Connor. An easy target. Whatever was happening her face must be unknown, otherwise the others wouldn't be dead.
At least she hoped so.
Not dwelling on that thought she used the payphone in the back of the establishment to call home. She wouldn't let another person die for her.
It rang.
The message machine clicked on.
"Ginger? Ginger are you there? It's Sarah. You need to leave the apartment. I can't explain, but you're in danger. You need to get out of there. Answer me. Take off your blasted headphones for once! Please answer me, Ginger! Get out, run just Run!"
No answer.
She only let herself be paralyzed with indecision for a moment before she left the bar. She had to take the risk.
She was a bloody Gryffidor after all.