"Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted …" The young man's still pre-pubescent voice was oddly soothing, despite the fact that he managed to read in utter monotone, without any passion to the words, or even a hint of inflection.
Apparently, Kyle – John could not hope to refer to him as Reese anymore, at least not in his head – had not found Treasure Island all that interesting, either.
John stifled a sigh and leaned the back of his head against the concrete wall, listening to Kyle read. The boy was a quick learner, no doubt about that, and, with this book, he only happened to slip up or mispronounce a few words at a time.
"I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door …"
To say that, as a child, John had often wondered what his father was like would be just the slightest of understatements. It had, in fact, racked at his brain from the time he first realized that he was supposed to have both a mommy and a daddy. He imagined strong arms and a bright smile, warm words and gentle encouragement where his mother's training seemed to ask the impossible. Daddy also would have been able to soothe the tears away when mommy had a crying spell.
It wasn't until later that John realized that his father was the cause of those spells.
When he became old enough to listen to the tapes his mother had made, the picture of his father became equally clearer and more complex. He was a strong, skilled man, trained to overcome the most extreme difficulties, trained to adapt, trained to protect. Assertive when he needed to be – when his mission required him to be – but otherwise quiet and reserved. Seemingly emotionless and detached until contemplating a flower or describing the face of the woman he loved from a photograph.
The details were brief, and so the picture of his father remained incomplete. Had he truly loved his mother? Did he understand that he sired the great leader he cherished so? If he did, would he have wanted to stay and raise him? Or was his mission merely about protecting Sarah and winning timeless glory – a soldierly glory – for himself?
When he was ten, John was told, and had thought, that his mother was crazy. He had hated his father – his faceless, probably nameless father – then. He was no selfless soldier sent from the future, but some regular grunt asshole that knocked his mother up and took off. Left her alone to go insane while his own son was shipped off into foster care. The picture of his father had skewed into a fat, alcoholic, wife-beater that his foster father, Todd, would have been proud to call a drinking buddy.
Despite the trying circumstances surrounding fight against the T-1000, one good thing did come out of it – he now held proof that his mother had been telling the truth. His father was no Todd.
But that still didn't tell him who his father really was.
"And indeed bad as his clothes were and coarsely as he spoke, he had none of the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast …"
The sigh he had been holding in finally escaped, and John closed his eyes wearily.
As his mother had described the man, the boy wasn't much of a talker. He rarely volunteered information, and only then when asked for it directly. He tended to observe, to file everything he saw away into the recesses of his memory for some later use, and to ask question after question until the answers seemed to satisfy him.
But it wasn't that the boy didn't have personality. Oh, no: far from it.
"And that was all we could learn of our guest."
The book closed so softly that any other man probably wouldn't have heard it above the volume of Kyle's voice. John peeked open one eye slowly without making so much as a movement to alert the boy that he was watching him. His vision cleared through the narrow slit of his eyelid, and John could make out Kyle moving ever so quietly towards the mantel.
He was nearly silent, cat-like, and used his words to mask whatever sound he did make.
"All day he hung round the cove or upon the cliffs with a brass telescope; all evening he sat in a corner of the parlour next the fire and drank rum and water very strong."
Kyle was reciting the text from memory. It had been decades since John had read that book, but, he be damned if that didn't sound word-for-word. He felt a lump gather in his throat. His father, a photographic memory?
"Mostly he would not speak when spoken to, only look up sudden and fierce and blow through his nose like a fog-horn ..."
Kyle paused at the pictures, reaching for the one of John's mother. He didn't touch it, though, only traced her features loosely with the tip of his index finger. All the while he never missed a beat or a word of the story.
"Everyday when he came back from his stroll he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the road…"
"Quite a trick you've got there. Ever do it at a party?" John finally asked when Kyle's entranced stare began to twist at his heart and he could take no more.
Kyle jumped – his feet actually left the ground for a half second – and pulled the book tight to his chest. His expression, embarrassment mixed with shock, would have been humorous if not for the weight of Fate that his stare had produced.
"When I said 'recite' I didn't mean you had to memorize it," John said, clarifying. "How long did you spend memorizing?" He would deal with his mother's picture later.
The boy bit his lip. "I didn't, sir. Just read it the once."
John hopped off his bed and took the book. Kyle, clearly nervous, backed away as if John would strike him. The older man flipped through the pages, confirming his suspicions when he found the right page. Word-for-word.
"Well, I think we can call it quits for the reading practice; you seem to know your way around a page," he said, tossing Treasure Island back into his random book pile. Kyle, seeing that he wasn't angry, visibly relaxed. "Do you remember everything you see?"
John's mind had just a split second to contemplate the impact that such a concept implied before his regret for asking and Kyle's soft, "yes," both came.
Every death. Every body. Every torturous device the machines could think to turn against a human was burned into Kyle's mind like the branding was burnt onto his skin. Clear. Vivid. Forever.
John actually felt himself grimace.
For his part, Kyle pretended not to notice the reaction.
"Useful skill to have, there," John finally said, turning thoughtfully towards the mantel. His mom's picture caught his eye and held it as if she were staring at him accusingly, despite the fact that she was thrown into the recesses of her own memories. He wished she were here now. She'd know what to say, what to do. She'd be able to preserve the timeline and comfort the lost boy at the same time.
"Who is she, sir?"
Damn it all to hell if Kyle didn't just keep throwing Fate into the mix. But, then again, he supposed, it had already been there all along.
"My mother."
Kyle cocked his head to the side, frowning. "She looks so young."
"It was taken before I was born."
"Is she dead?"
"Yes."
"Do you miss her?"
"Yes."
"I don't have a picture of my mother," Kyle said softly.
John let out his breath slowly, wearily. That part he'd never considered much before: grandparents. If his father had been a faceless shadow, they had been the wind blowing past the shadow's hair – so vague, so slight, that they were completely beyond his notice, even as a boy.
He had killed them. By accident, of course, but what difference did that really make? The raid on PC-148 – the camp Kyle had been held in – had gone to shit from the word 'go.' The op had been simple – throw out the generators, manually take down the guarding HKs, and lead the prisoners out to safety. He couldn't have guessed that the machines would have installed a backup HK power grid. It was definitely new protocol.
What was supposed to be a routine rescue turned into an all out battle before they could even gain access to the civilians. When the machines realized that they were going to be on the losing side, they then turned their weapons on the prisoners. Another new protocol. Kyle was the only one who managed to escape the massacre.
John had long since stopped feeling the spikes of guilt. The weight of responsibility and the burden of being the one who constantly had to make that call had beaten it out of him. Yet it wasn't as if he felt as though he could do no wrong. It was more like guilt had taken up such permanent residence in his heart that he couldn't even register it anymore.
And so it was with the death of his grandparents.
He was sure Kyle knew the details, as quiet as he was on that particular subject when he asked about everything else. One of the other civvies might have told him, or even the doc. How Kyle reacted, if Kyle reacted, John simply didn't know.
"Who are the other people, sir?"
"Well," he said, turning his attending back to the photos. "This is me, when I was a kid. Probably about your age." He had just gotten away from the T-1000, he remembered, and he felt nothing but relief at the fact that it was seemingly all over. "We were heading back to Mexico. My mother was testing out her new field camera."
"We look alike," Kyle noted blandly.
John's heart skipped a beat, but he refused to let it show. "How can you tell with all that grime covering your face?" he retorted, jokingly
Kyle looked up, but before his lips could form into a pout, he stopped himself and his face went expressionless. "Who's she?"
"My wife, Kate."
"You're married, sir?"
"Yes." John almost had to smile. Life wasn't always so bad. "You'll probably meet her eventually, but she's directing the Colorado front now. We don't have much opportunity to see each other anymore."
Kyle didn't respond, but, instead, looked to be puzzling something out, the way he always did.
"I have something for you, anyway," John continued, changing the subject. "Let's go."
The gift he had in mind was ready to go now, but he had originally planned to wait another week, until Kyle had demonstrated that his ability to scavenge was adequate. But, what better way to learn how to do something than to be put in a situation where you needed to do it? Well, that was the rule of this world, and Kyle knew it well enough as it was, but this time it would actually be a treat.
He led the boy down a rarely used tunnel and down a flight of crooked stairs. Nobody ever came down here, they hadn't really discovered it yet, John supposed, and so it made a perfect hiding spot. Especially with its large population of rats.
A soft whine greeted them as they made the final descent into a shallow alcove. His dog, Molly, was there, eagerly greeting him. Three pups followed in her wake, bouncing happily at what they considered to be a surrogate father.
"I've had them down here for a few months," John said. Kyle was instantly on his knees and allowing the playful puppies to crawl all over him. "The doc just wouldn't have them after they were born, and I didn't want people to harass them or try and make a meal out of them. They can't drink just milk anymore, though; they have to start hunting for food."
Kyle wasn't paying any attention. He was too busy playing tug-o-war with an old, chewed up piece of rubber.
He was also smiling. Kyle's smiles were rarer than an unopened can of fruit in the hot zone; they had to be coaxed out of him. And usually they were brief and slight, not the full, face-splitting grin that he showed right now.
John had to pause just to admire it.
"A dog can be very useful," he continued, knowing he was speaking to air. "He'll help you hunt, help you spot the machines. I want you to have one."
Kyle stopped dead in his movements. So, he was paying attention. John had to stifle a grin. Kyle turned wide-eyed, shocked, and the piece of rubber was completely forgotten. One of the littler pups dragged it away into the corner.
"You'll have to train him," John told him. "You'll have to help him find food outside. You can't feed him from the rations. It can get dangerous, hunting everyday. But, if you think you can handle it …" He trailed off, watching Kyle pick up a boy that had been nuzzling against his knees since he had arrived.
He held him close to his chest. The pup happily licked his hand as he stroked the top of his head. His eyes were closed tightly.
"You want that one?"
Kyle only nodded silently.
"So, what are you going to name him?" he asked pleasantly, casually. John wanted to keep the conversation going, worried that Kyle was going to have some sort of emotional breakdown.
"Name?" Kyle's eyes opened, slightly misty. He regarded John with some confusion.
"Dogs usually have names."
"Oh," Kyle said, staring back down at the dog, thinking. "What should I name him, sir?"
"Whatever you want."
Kyle continued to stare blankly. The puppy looked back up at him, equally puzzled.
"How about Wolfy?" John suggested. There, problem solved.
"Wolfy, sir?" Kyle asked, glancing back up. "I've never met a person with the name Wolfy before."
"People have people names and dogs have dog names," John explained, badly and briefly. "Wolfy's a fine dog name. But you name him whatever you want."
"I like it," Kyle said quickly. "Wolfy." He picked the dog up, holding him underneath his front legs. He was rewarded with a long lick across his face.
And then John heard a sound he'd never thought he'd hear.
Kyle laughed.
Ghostwriter: Hey, don't condone my laziness, that'll just make it worse:-p But, yeah, I did enjoy it.
Mat: I think part of what makes John such a good leader is everything his mother told him about the future, including little details like the dogs. Gotta love those self-fulfilling prophecies. And Kyle has to be a mystery, I don't think I could write him as a completely open book, it just wouldn't be any fun ;-)
