A/N: Well, I promised you a longer chappie. Here it is! :-)
Disclaimer: I do not own Terminator Salvation or the delightfully eye-appealing character of Marcus Wright.
out·sid·er [owt sīdər]
(plural out·sid·ers)
n
1. somebody who does not belong: somebody who is not part of a particular group or organization
2. competitor unlikely to win: a competitor or candidate who is considered unlikely to win
Resistance Base, motor pool, later that day...
If Milo noticed that Marcus was more reticent than before the lunch break, he kept the observation to himself. The two of them continued trying to breathe new life into the battle-damaged Lucille. Marcus thought the car was so full of replacement parts they might as well have built a new vehicle from scratch. Nevertheless, when evening rolled around, the engine was starting to look like a recognizable piece of machinery rather than a mass of shredded and dented metal.
"Damn, we're good," Milo declared. He groaned and rolled the kinks out of his shoulders. "Gah! I'm feelin' my age. You're lucky, y'know. Never hafta worry about arthritis with those metal bones."
"Nah, just rust," Marcus muttered.
Milo chuckled. He started to follow the other mechanics to the exit, but abruptly spun around after a couple of steps. "Oh, almost forgot! One of the goats got its leg broke yesterday 'n' had to be slaughtered. Tabs managed to wangle some of the meat." "Tabs" was Tabitha, Milo's wife. She was one of the people who tended the compound's livestock, which consisted mainly of rabbits (for meat), a few chickens (for the eggs), and a handful of goats (for milk). Aside from the rabbits, the rest of the animals were far more useful alive and were therefore only killed as a last resort.
Milo continued, "She's gonna whip up a stew and we were wondering if ya wanted to come by and have some."
Marcus blinked in surprise. "You're inviting me to dinner?"
The smaller man shrugged. "Sure, why not?"
Marcus shifted uncomfortably. "I, uh, thought I might work on Lucille a while longer..."
"C'mon, man!" Milo wheedled, "You gotta get out of this place. It's like livin' in a damn dungeon."
The cyborg heaved a sigh. "Look, I appreciate the gesture and all, but-"
"But you'd rather stay down here and mope about whatever the heck you 'n' Blair squabbled about."
"How the hell do you know about that?" Marcus blurted.
Milo laughed. "'Cause I passed Blair on my way back from lunch, genius. And she was lookin' about as down as you usually are. Now I'm not asking what went on between you two, 'cause it's none of my business, but I gotta tell ya, this suffering in silence crap you've been doing is gettin' pretty old. So haul your ass outta this rut you've been digging yourself into 'n' come eat with us."
Marcus stared at him for a long moment. "Why d'you care?" There was no hostility in the question, only confusion.
"Well, for one thing," Milo grinned, "I get to brag to my kids that I work with a freakin' cyborg. That earned me some major cool points right there. But they've been bugging me to bring you over ever since."
Marcus chuckled in spite of himself. God help him, but he liked the guy. But the thought of trying to socialize with anyone brought a roiling sensation to his non-existent gut that he suddenly realized was fear. When the hell had he gotten so timid?
"Not sure how good I'll be at conversation," he admitted, and knew at that moment that he'd accepted the invitation.
Milo waved it off. "Don't worry. My family talks so much I don't think they'll even notice. Buncha chatterboxes. I can't imagine where they got it." He winked. Marcus snorted.
Resistance Base, Milo's quarters, evening...
After the nukes fell, many of the survivors who were exposed to the resulting fallout (and who didn't die within the next few months of cancer) were left sterile, or worse, produced infants that were horribly disfigured by mutation. Those who managed to have one or two healthy children were considered lucky.
Milo and Tabitha had seven children, four girls and three boys, with number eight on the way, to judge by the bump Tabs sported. Because of this exceptionally bountiful family, they were given more living space than anyone else in the entire base, including the revered John Connor. Milo wasn't kidding about them being chatty, either. The moment he entered the family's quarters, the first thing Marcus noticed was the murmur of high-pitched voices that flooded the room. As soon as they saw Milo, those voices rose in squeals of "Daddy!" and a stampede of youngsters rushed to surround him. Milo beamed and crouched down to sweep them in a group hug. "How're my little ladies and gents, huh? You all have fun at school today?"
The children all started chattering at once. It all sounded like gibberish to Marcus, but Milo nodded and added the occasional uh-huh like he understood every word. Finally, he straightened and patted Marcus on the shoulder. "Kids, I finally dragged Marcus over so you could meet him. Say hello so's I can show him how polite you all are."
"Hello, Marcus," the children chorused.
"Hi," Marcus responded, raising his hand in an awkward little wave.
One of the boys, who looked to be about five, tilted his head in curiosity and asked, "Are you a robot?" He wasn't able to speak his Rs very well, so the last word came out sounding like wobot.
"He don't look like a robot," an older girl stated almost accusingly.
Tabitha stepped out of the tiny kitchenette and said to the kids, "Your dad and I explained already. Marcus is a cyborg. That means only parts of him are machine, and the rest is human." She flashed a welcoming smile at said cyborg. She was a handsome woman with unruly dirty-blonde hair, gray eyes, and a small dimple on her chin. "It's good to see you again, Marcus."
"Thanks for having me," he said, a little embarrassed by all the attention. But at least they weren't all looking at him like they wanted to take a pipe wrench to his skull.
Tabs indicated the dining table taking up much of the room. "Go ahead and take a seat. Dinner 'll be out in a few minutes."
Without warning, little hands grabbed hold of his arms and started dragging him towards the table. "Sit by me!" "No, me!" "I wanna sit wif him!"
Marcus threw a helpless look towards Milo, who merely smirk and sauntered over to his chair at the dining table. Eventually, the seating arrangements were worked out with Marcus wedged between the little boy who first spoke to him and the oldest kid, a girl who looked to be about twelve and who blushed every time Marcus caught her ogling him. Tabitha strode in carrying a large steaming pot. The smell emanating from it made everyone but Marcus lick their lips. She set the pot down on the table, then she and Milo started filling bowls and passing them along either side until everyone had a share in front of them. Marcus gazed down into the plastic bowl. The stew consisted mostly of potato, with some chopped carrots and onion, and a few thin shreds of meat. He also saw flecks of what appeared to be some kind of spice, probably from the herbs raised in the "fields".
As soon as Tabitha sat down next to her husband, everyone grabbed their spoons and dug in. Marcus tentatively brought a spoonful of stew to his mouth. It was more flavorful than he expected. Salt was hard to come by and as strictly rationed as drinkable water, if not more so. Tabs seemed to have made up for that with liberal use of whatever herbs she had on hand. As he watched the family eat with gusto, he felt a pang of guilt. While none of them were starving, times were still pretty lean, and he really didn't need the full bowl in front of him.
"Doncha like it?" one of the kids asked.
Marcus saw the concern in Tabitha's expression and realized that saying he wasn't hungry might come across as ungrateful. He forced aside his uneasiness and ate with a little more enthusiasm. "It's very good," he assured them.
There was a constant flow of conversation throughout the meal. The children telling their parents about their day, Milo and Tabitha discussing things that needed to be done, minor conflicts between siblings over who got more meat with their stew. Every once in a while someone would try to draw Marcus in, but for the most part he was only an observer. He didn't think such happy, stable families were still possible. The kids were clean, healthy, well-adjusted, loved by their parents who were equally devoted to each other. Marcus was glad Milo and Tabs weren't among those sent out on combat missions. If anything happened to either of them the family would be shattered.
Even though he was enjoying this happy scene, it also emphasized Marcus's loneliness. He'd been close to his brother while growing up, but he never had anything this good. And he never would.
A light touch on his arm dragged Marcus away from his gloomy thoughts. He looked down to see that the five-year-old had stuck something onto his wrist. He moved his arm, but the object stayed in place. Marcus picked it up. It was a flattened piece of plastic shaped like a cartoon dog. It's maniacally cheerful features were cracked and faded with age. Marcus turned it over and saw a black disk on the back. A refrigerator magnet.
Marcus looked down at the grinning boy, cocked an eyebrow, then stuck the magnet onto his forehead. Probably scramble my circuits, he thought wryly, but apparently the old fridge magnet wasn't strong enough to cause any harm. Several of the kids giggled at the sight. Even Tabitha and Milo had a chuckle over it. The incident inspired the kids to spend the rest of the evening putting magnets all over the cyborg.
It was weird; such a blatant reminder of his difference should have made Marcus uncomfortable, yet it didn't. He supposed it was because the youngsters weren't scared of him, not to mention the fact that their parents trusted him enough to let him play with their kids.
"Okay, bed time!" Milo declared. This announcement was met with a chorus of high-pitched groans. "C'mon, now. Say goodnight to Marcus."
"Goodnight, Marcus," the children said obediently.
"G'night, mista wobot," the little boy chimed in.
Marcus smiled and said goodnight back as the oldest kids herded their younger siblings towards their bedrooms.
"Thanks for having me over," he said as the couple showed him to the door.
"It was nice having you," Tabitha replied, then surprised him with a brief hug.
Milo told him, "I gotta warn you, I might ask you over again sometime."
Marcus smiled. "I might take you up on it."
The walk back to the motor pool seemed longer than the journey to Milo's quarters. Those he passed in the halls either ignored him or threw wary glances at him, and most of them made sure to keep as much distance between them and him as the corridor allowed. After the warm acceptance of Milo and Tabitha's home, this rejection hurt more than it normally would.
A couple of minutes later he saw Blair up ahead. It looked like she was on her way to her bunk after leaving the mess hall. She was wearing her leather jacket and flight suit.
"Hey," Marcus called out.
Blair turned and he was relieved to see a faint smile touch her lips. "Hey," she responded, "Where'd you come from?"
"Milo invited me over to his place for dinner."
Her eyebrows went up. "And you took him up on it? Good for you."
"Yeah, I was a hit with his kids." He told her about the fridge magnets. Blair laughed, then her laugh morphed into a yawn.
"Sorry. I'm worn out."
"I won't keep you, then," Marcus said. He continued walking, calling over his shoulder, "Night, Blair."
"G'night." Blair stared after him until he came to a branch in the corridor and disappeared around the corner. She didn't notice when he returned to watch her retreating back as she made her way to the barracks.
Resistance Base, one week later...
There were no more factories, except those run by Skynet. Nothing intended for humans was manufactured. There were no supply drops. If anything was needed - clothes, medicine, replacement parts for vehicles - people had to go out and find them in the ruins of dead towns and cities, risking detection by the machines in the process. There were those who made a living at this. Small bands of well-armed men and women who braved the dangers of the outside world to scrounge up anything useful for barter. One such band that regularly did business with Connor's Resistance cell consisted of four men. Everything about them, from appearance to personality, could be summed up in just one word: coarse. Marcus disliked them on sight. He knew their type. Hell, he was one of their type, back when he was human. Brutish assholes, strutting around like they owned the world and everything in it because they had no qualms about knocking down anyone who got in their way. How they got hold of some of their merchandise was open to question, but there was no denying these things were desperately needed.
This time it appeared they'd raided an abandoned dental office. There were cases of toothpaste, floss, toothbrushes, mouthwash, dental tools, and local anesthetic. In return for these necessities they accepted food, booze - both salvaged or homemade - boots, socks, ammo, and anything else they deemed useful or desirable.
Marcus didn't need any of the things they offered. His teeth, like pretty much everything about him, were artificial and impervious to decay. He was still present to watch the trading, however. Over the last week he'd been leaving the seclusion of the motor pool, sometimes without even having to be goaded by Milo or Blair. As a result, people were getting used to him. There were fewer stares, fewer instances of people subtly cringing away from him. They didn't accept him as one of them, but least they weren't as afraid of him as they used to be.
Marcus saw Blair haggling with one of the traders, a musclebound guy with a thick beard and a sweaty bandanna on his head. The man's grin reeked of lewdness as he leaned close to mutter something in Blair's ear. Disgust flickered across her face before she schooled her expression into a flirtatious smile. She said something that made the guy's grin even wider and he handed over several items in return for a bottle of whiskey Blair gave in return. Her smile dropped the instant her back was turned to him and she pushed through the crowd of people still waiting to trade.
"What was that about?" Marcus asked.
Blair grimaced. "Let's just say his suggestion left a bad taste in my mouth. I plan on brushing my teeth extra long tonight."
Marcus chuckled. After their heated conversation back in the garage, Blair's behavior reverted back to the status quo, almost like it never happened. She continued to try and draw Marcus out of his shell, never backing down or giving up. Sometimes her persistence left him furious. He threatened more than once to leave, only to have Blair counter with a promise that she'd come after him. He called her a stalker. She called him a self-flagellating idiot.
And the weirdest thing was, no matter how angry they got, they both got some kind of perverse enjoyment out of these arguments.
Marcus noticed that in addition to the toothpaste and a new brush Blair had several boxes of dental floss. "You planning on doing some crafts with the kiddies?" he asked, vaguely remembering a time in his childhood when he strung macaroni on a length of floss to make a necklace for his mom.
Blair shook her head. "When I was a kid my dentist told me flossing was even more important than brushing. He said if he had to choose between one or the other, he'd pick flossing."
"Hunh," Marcus grunted. Funny the kinds of things that stuck in people's minds.
Tabitha wandered over toting a cardboard box full of dental supplies. "I had to give 'em most of my cooking herbs, the bastards," she groused. No one said keeping seven kids' mouths cavity-free would be cheap.
"You need help carrying that?" Marcus asked.
"No thanks, I got it." Tabs blew a stray curl out of her eyes. "You seen Milo?"
"Yeah, I think he's still tinkering with Lucille." They'd finished all the major repairs on the car a couple of days ago. It could run, but it was a rough ride.
Tabitha rolled her eyes. "Him and his cars. The other women in his life." She shifted her hold on the box and headed for the exit. "Well, better get this stuff home. See ya later, Marcus, Blair."
"Later."
Raised voices drew their attention back to the trading. Kate Connor was negotiating for the anesthetics and dentistry tools. From the look of things, it wasn't going well.
"We can't spare any more fuel," she stated, "We need what we have so we can send out patrols in case the machines get close to our base."
The guy she was talking to, a stocky black man with a long diagonal scar bisecting his face, obviously didn't care. "Me an' my boys put our asses on the line gettin' this shit. We're not about to just give it away."
John spoke up. His recovery from his wounds had progressed a great deal over the last three weeks, but he was still thin and tired easily. Nevertheless, his voice possessed its full commanding strength. "I'm sure there's plenty of other things we can offer that you'd be willing to take instead."
The scavenger smirked and nodded towards a young girl. "How 'bout some quality time with that pretty thing an' some of her friends."
His men laughed obscenely. John's expression hardened. "You know better than that, Ross. We don't trade in human beings."
Ross snorted. He eyed John with a mixture of speculation and disdain. "Tell ya what. Things've been dull as hell lately. Why don't we make this interesting? How'd you feel about betting for the supplies?"
"What'd you have in mind?" John asked.
Ross smirked. "We'll arm wrestle for 'em. We win, you pay the fuel. You win, you get the drugs an' the tools, no charge."
"You're not a hundred percent yet," Kate cautioned her husband.
"It don't hafta be him," Ross declared, "Pick any one of your boys." He encompassed the crowded room and the rest of the base beyond with a sweep of his arms. "Hell, pick the toughest sonuvabitch you got. I guarantee nobody can beat Ox." At the mention of his very appropriate nickname, one of Ross's guys stepped forward. A giant of a man with muscles that bulged not from overuse of steroids, but from a combination of genetics and years of strenuous labor. He was so big people expected to feel tremors when he walked.
John pursed his lips. The truth was, they really needed those supplies, especially the dental tools. A month ago they almost lost a man to a tooth abscess. People tended to downplay these things, but mouth infections were a very real danger. They had a dentist among them, but without proper equipment at his disposal there was very little he could do.
Connor scanned the surrounding faces in hopes of finding someone who might stand a chance against Ross's thug. That was when he glimpsed Marcus just beyond the edge of the crowd. "Wright!" He beckoned to him.
Marcus looked surprised to be singled out. Dozens of faces turned towards him, increasing his discomfort.
Blair nudged him. "Go on."
"Right," he sighed, "Guess I gotta earn my keep."
There were murmurs and a few smirks among the Resistance members at their leader's choice. The crowd parted to let Marcus through. Ox took one look at him and threw his head back in a bellowing laugh. "That runt?" he sneered, "That's who you're pittin' against me?"
"'Less you're afraid I'll beat you," Marcus challenged. This was met with ohhhs and chuckles amongst the bystanders.
Ross shook his head in mock disappointment. "I was hopin' for a little excitement," he sighed, "But if that's the way ya want it..."
John's head bobbed in a curt nod.
A large crate was set out to serve as a table, with two smaller crates on either side for seats. Ox settled his considerable weight down on the seat he chose and the crate groaned in protest. In his smug certainty, he didn't notice that Marcus's did the same thing when he sat down. Marcus met his opponent's derisive gaze with cool indifference. Beating this lummox wasn't going to be a problem. The trick was making it look like he had to struggle for it. Ross and his men were bound to get suspicious, but if it looked like he defeated Ox too easily, they'd know something about him wasn't right.
The two men rested their right elbows on top of the larger crate and clasped hands. Ox tightened his grip with crushing intensity and Marcus winced. His reaction wasn't totally fake. His flesh seemed to have the same pain receptors as any human's.
He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder, and heard Blair's voice in his ear, "Kick his ass."
Marcus smirked, but didn't take his eyes away from his opponent. He felt a sense of loss when Blair took her hand away.
"On the count of three," John said, "One...two...three...go!"
Ox shoved against Marcus's arm and seemed mildly surprised when it didn't go down right away. Shouts of excitement and encouragement surrounded the competitors. Side bets occurred. Among the Resistance members it wasn't so much over who would win as how long Marcus would draw it out. Marcus contorted his face as if he were straining and let his arm gradually get pushed lower and lower. Ross and his men grinned in certain triumph. The back of Marcus's hand was just an inch away from the crate's surface when he decided enough was enough and started putting a little effort into it. The smug look on Ox's face slowly faded as he found himself pushing against what felt like a steel bar. It wasn't long before his huge muscles strained against this unexpected strength, but his arm continued to slowly bow under. Marcus continued to pretend that this effort cost him. He even let Ox gain a couple of inches once or twice to make it look like he was tiring. But in the end, Ox was the one who lost (which is what happens when you pit a human against a cyborg).
The crowd roared in victory. Ross and his men stared, incredulous. Ox rubbed his aching wrist.
"What the fuck was that?" Ross snarled once the hubbub died down.
"You said pick the toughest sonuvabitch I had," John retorted, "I did. He won. Pay up."
Ross glared in suspicion. "Somethin' don't smell right. The hell are you trying to pull, Connor?"
"Your man lost in a fair fight," he said, though it wasn't strictly true, "Are you going to honor your part of the bet or not?"
The scavenger looked like he'd bitten into something rancid. Finally he turned to one of his men and snapped, "Give him the damn supplies." He turned back to John. "My gut's telling me that boy of yours ain't normal. If I find out you played me..." he let the rest of the sentence hang unfinished.
John met the other man's gaze without flinching. Once Ross and his men stormed off in a huff, he turned to Marcus and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."
Marcus nodded in return. As the crowd dispersed, several people slapped his back and shouted congratulations. Marcus smiled and thanked them, but he didn't feel any kind of warm glow from the attention. He knew they weren't motivated by acceptance of him. He was still just a machine to them.
"Congratulations."
The light touch on his arm affected him more than the most heavy-handed thump on the back. He looked at Blair and this time his smile was genuine. "Thanks, but it's not like I strained myself or anything."
Blair shrugged. "The point is, you did it for us. You're part of this group, even if the others can't see that yet."
"I'm not sure I see that yet."
Blair smiled in that slow way that always drew his attention to her lips. "You will."
Marcus wished he shared her confidence.