Two Months into Pregnancy; October 24, 2018
Edwards Airbase Military Complex, Los Angeles, California.
I couldn't say that normalcy returned between us after the night of Kyle's sacrifice.
It was never really a relationship sworn by conventional habits or by human nature, even from its star-crossed origins, but a camaraderie born of the desire to live against the predetermined chosen fate for mankind. If not for our consistent efforts and devotion to the Resistance, the fragile threads which were twisted and tautened in winding vines between us, suspended over the precipice of destruction and deceiving in its stability...would never have even witnessed the birth of its existence.
They frayed now as my adoration grew stronger and his distance remained, never being steadfast bonds to begin with. I could not say I was surprised by their gradual slackening, especially after the encounter. But still, I prayed for the return to our unorthodox concept of normalcy. However dysfunctional our friendship might have been.
That night, he didn't return, and I dozed off by firelight, vermillion staining my freckles red and my flesh with numbing heat. Dreams brought only trembling, and I woke, near nightfall, roused out of tormenting night terrors.
After the realization dawned on me, that Kyle had never come back from his mysterious disappearance, I ducked beneath the flap of the tent, stagnant without the pull of a breeze, and wandered through the underbelly of the warehouse, searching for any gesture of life. His life.
It was hardly long before I found him, quivering within the breaching chill that had crept along the stone-cold walls. And by the way his shoulders shrugged forward, languid and not yet relieved of their burdening weight, I could already tell he had not heeded even a flimsy semblance of rest. It had been the aching shadows beneath his vacant eyes, the downcast figure of his mouth in its thought-provoked stillness that divulged his restiveness to me.
I reached for him, hoping to remedy the treachery which his worn, slack countenance rendered visible to me. The exposure to the weakness he so utterly abhorred.
He recoiled, risking not a glance in my direction – as if I'd break. Or of the fear of knowing I was the embodiment of his pensive regret. "Don't touch me…"He warned, lips thinning into a cruel, harsh line. "Not yet."
I hardly knew what to say in return. Was it hatred that froze the callous into the malicious plunge of his tone, the slope of his words?
Perhaps fear, or dismay?
For as long as I knew him, for as long as I had committed to memory the confining manacles of soul that scattered him, barren, within his own betraying body, he had remained the same enigma I had found the first moment I dared rest eyes on him. The same discretion he carried over misleading masks of feigned immortality, the same rebellion against pain and the craven vulnerability that came with surrendering to anguish. All he was, all he stood for, was another hollow shell.
Never loving as I did, never feeling, never wanting anything – only the burning desire to slowly self-destruct.
Only fighting for his hopes to revive what he had long since lost.
"Kyle, I – I'm here," I pressed a hand over his bare skin, the scars of the recent burns still pale flesh, but not yet raised. His very flesh withdrew beneath my touch. "I will always be here. I won't leave you."
"You can't, can you? Can't leave me, I mean…you're too damn invested now, isn't that right?"
His absence was unremitting, and yet his presence there was unlike any ghost of detachment I'd ever felt – omnipresent, it was, and all-consuming in its intensity.
Fear lodged itself in my throat, and it felt too narrow. Too claustrophobic beneath the desperate swallowing. "What…what is that supposed to mean?"
"Once you devote your own life to the existence of another…it's no longer just partnership…right?" Kyle's voice tapered off into a sort of interrogative musing, cleverly disguised as adolescent ignorance.
Had I so unwarily stitched my entire soul to my sleeve, published it like written word for him to read? Was this Kyle's method of confessing my own love to him, covert footsteps around a concept I had never revealed to him, and yet he stood before me now, weaving my own tale of unrequited love and desperation?
"It's one of those friendships…they turn into something else. Something like kin, when you don't got a family left to your name and you're nothing but flesh and bloodlust. Like family, you know?"
The weight of the world had released me from its crushing threat to fall. He knew nothing of my devotion to him, but a little pooling tendril of mourning unraveled somewhere inside – he wasn't confessing love to me; he was wandering over planes of brotherhood.
"You gotta understand, Ghost…you're all I've got left. And it's so fucking confusing – hating you like I do sometimes. Like I know you hate me the same way…"
I only wished he knew how deep the gashes his words left behind. How they seeped, how they stole into lucidity and robbed me of the most primal ability to think. To feel.
His mouth twitched visibly, agitation resurrecting a sleeping anger within. "Everyone has a hatred for something, don't they? And it gets so goddamn tiring hating the same unfeeling fucking machinery, and it doesn't care that you hate it…that I sometimes have to turn it on you, out of frustration...."
He paused, drinking in, greedily, a solitary breath. Like it was so hard to breathe. "Like now – I can't stand the sight of you. I can't stand to even hear you breathe, to feel your hand on my skin," he murmured, but I could feel the rage in him, pulsating, undulating beneath stoic scars. "Sometimes I can't stand the fucking sight of you, Ghost."
His hand collided hard against the rigid surface beneath him. Out of anger. Out of spite.
"Does that even make any fucking sense?!"He shouted to the walls, and I cringed.
He drew an emaciated hand through the sullied flaxen strands of his hair, and his fingers, bereft of its gloves now, paled against the all-pervading dark. Something hollow escaped him, something like a sigh – but too much like a void to resemble anything at all.
"I'm guess I can say I've officially lost my fucking mind-"
I captured his evading fingers, and he looked at me, questioning the forcefulness I rarely exposed from secretive depths. "Kyle, living in this world – we've all lost our fucking minds. It's how hard you try to find it again, to try to make sense of what's left that makes the lunacy worth it."
He had appraised me then, comprising my words inside his head into phrases he could understand, fastening the loose ends I had left for him to shape into sensibility for himself.
Knowing that sometimes, out of lapsing indifference to the ways of the world, Kyle resented me, was hardly conclusive. In fact, the ambiguity of his intricacies escaped me in every way they could, and their innate evasive tact made it all the more difficult to chase after. His anger was so dizzyingly indecisive and elusive that, as the months passed and he began to unfurl again from his revulsion, I attempted to erase it completely from acknowledgement.
All I knew was that, as his brother, as his companion – he cared for me in the midst of his infrequent descent into loathing.
Days seemed to trickle into monotony after that, colors bleeding into one another, and sunsets and sunrises held no distinct variance for me. Same aesthetic beauty, same purpose – to usher in another day which would prove as heedless as the last.
And the better half of two months dawned on me, lying beside drowsy Kyle beneath a makeshift tarp for warmth as he yielded to much needed rest. It was so sudden, like rapture, that small blinking lights dotted my sight. Where had time gone? Had its ability to pass slowly been destroyed in the fires that stole from us our world?
In the mere duration of two months, Kyle had begun to watch me, in growing fascination, shift into new light. In becoming an expectant mother, despite the existence in squalor and depression of our race, I had begun to glow beneath my mask of misery, and Kyle had never seen the human growth of life before. And as time passed, he proved to be more intrigued and confused by the life within me than the actual reality of pregnancy.
With the knowledge of Kyle's success in impregnating me, the senior officers deemed me in a 'delicate condition' and confiscated my combatant obligation from me until the birth of the baby. Before long, only Perry was ignorant of my condition. I had become, like Kyle had prophecized all impregnated women to be, a sacred fucking vessel.
All hopes of gathering supplies for not only my own subsistence, but the baby's as well, perished so quickly after that. I would forgo usefulness, forgo habit...and just repose in the ruins I fought so hard to abscond.
Kyle, out of self-ordained obligation, began to bring home canned proteins and fruits, whatever he could find amongst the debris he encountered during his brief travels and haggle from Perry's resistant first officers. And in that way, those small endeavors that seemed so trivial to his superiors, I knew he cared for me. And it was enough.
It was as we huddled over a meager portion of canned peaches and gruel that he told me of the hope that begun to swell amongst the base.
"There's others, you know." He assured me, and I smiled half-heartedly at the trailing slobber that trickled down his scarred chin; he always was the one to eat too fast to enjoy it, and yet was the most patient in the field.
"Others?" I asked, drawing a stained sleeve over my mouth as I watched him. "Other what, exactly?"
"Pregnant women…two more, to be exact. And Ross and Hicks – they just tried last night on two girls."
"Were they willing?" I allowed my secret hope to come forward, and a wave of nausea spilled over my knotted stomach as he shook his head slowly.
"No," he drawled, fixating his eyes on a barren shred of ground exposed beneath our rustled tarp. "No, they weren't really. Obligated, more like it."
"How far are the others?"
"Same as you – about two months. I heard Perry's trying to figure out a safer place for the expecting mothers. That way, all the pain and obligation that was put into these kids – it won't be for nothing."
The conversation had adopted a sort of ominous shadow over its intent, and I watched Kyle closely, who dug through the thick syrup of the peaches and discovered one last orange-fleshed lump of flesh concealed at the bottom of the silver tin. He cut it in half, wordlessly offering one to me, and took the other.
"I don't see how I'd be any safer somewhere else than I am with you," I observed and Kyle, as he set aside the can, looked unimpressed by the argument – he seemed to think differently of the situation. "What, Kyle…do you not want me here? Is that what it is?"
His eyes darkened, the pale green of them churning with an aggressive retaliation. "Don't, Ghost. You know it's not true."
"Then…why…" I surveyed the ground, taking comfort in the sifted sands, windswept remains of desert ushered in from careless boots and jackets. "Why do you want to send me away?"
"Protection. You're not fit for duty anymore, and it's no use having you here. They'll have you somewhere safe. I don't know where, and when, or how they'll do it-"
"Kyle, you can't do this. You can't."
"God damnit, why do you act this way!? Be so fucking stubborn against your own good all the time, like it'll mean something in the end? What will it bring you, huh? You're beginning to show…that means not just Perry's fucking ass-kissing first officer is gonna know anymore and keep it under wraps for you. Perry's gonna find out, and he's gonna fucking make sure this kid lives. Whether you like it or not."
My hands, at the vague mention of the baby amidst Kyle's indignant words, withdrew to my slow swelling stomach. There was no movement there, just the gentle dreaming of blooming life. But it was there – and I took comfort in its formless presence.
"It's not about you anymore, or the kid. It's about survival, and making god damn sure we don't go extinct at the hands of those metal motherfuckers. They can't win, Ghost. You know they can't as well as I do."
Sometimes, it hurt hearing him speak of the baby in such equivocal gestures. The kid, or the child…never his kid, or his child, or our baby. I owed it all to duty that he spoke this way, and began to wonder, after the birth of the baby – would he even look on it as his own daughter, his own son? Would the resolute foundations of mere accountability crumble and fade into past regret as he first looked upon the very child which he had created? Or would there be nothing – no affection, no love? Just acknowledgement of existence, and a brush of dismissal.
Looking at Kyle's expression as he watched the length of my hands sprawl thoughtfully over the raised surface of my stomach, there was expectation. Hope for the child when there was no hope for me.
I knew in watching the harsh frontage of the war-hardened soldier falter into something softer, something more child-like and warm and affectionate, that he would sacrifice a portion of his heart.
After all – he'd never loved before. And his heart was still pure behind its solid, callused wall.
At first, the abstracted whispers that roused me partially from my sleep were demanding, but not harsh. And then, as my slumber-induced confusion grew and the whispers aggressively with it, the severity was inevitable. I was shaken, hard and unrelenting, until my vision began to unfurl from its dreamy haze, and the voice became a sharp hiss.
"Wake the fuck up, would you Ghost? Jesus…throw your jacket on. Leave everything but your clothes behind, and report to the entrance gate. That's an order."
It was an aggravated command that dragged me from all hopes for sleep, and I abandoned the tarp, rustling over me as I crawled from beneath its warmth. One glance beside me, and the empty space rattled the void in me. Kyle was gone – I wouldn't have the chance to say goodbye.
When I arrived, two other women stood shuddering in their thin coats, and I recognized them immediately – the two which Kyle had designated as my companions in self-committed torment. They looked as equally confused and weary as I undoubtedly looked, shuffling into the small cluster and awaiting the familiarity of the voice that had directed me here.
We were not left to wait long, with only the dogs to keep our company and pant against our torn boots; a figure emerged from beneath the shadows that hung low over the base. Those who weren't creeping behind the veil of nightfall, searching for survivors, intercepting infiltrations – they kept to their tumultuous nightmares.
"Reed, that's the last of 'em. We'd better get a move on," announced the approaching figure.
"What the fuck is going on?" One of the women beside me, looking bleary-eyed and dirt-encrusted even in the darkness, addressed the soldier who began the ascent up the staircase. "Where are you taking us?"
"Shut up and obey orders, and you'll be fine," replied the soldier who'd arrived behind the small group of women. "We're relocating you to a safer base. Bigger and more secure than the military complex, and the best medical officer around these parts. They'll take good care of you there."
And after the man finished his small announcement, I was beckoned by the taller, slighter man standing nearby, quiet as he bent his index finger toward him.
"Ghost, c'mere…"He muttered gently.
I stepped forward upon the issue of command, and realized, looking up into the obscured face of my commanding officer, that it was one of Perry's esteemed messengers. I'd never come to know his face by name, but by title.
"Reese, he left this for you. Gave it to me at the gate before he left with McKay for an infiltration interception. Said he found it somewhere..." he reached into his pocket and, as his palm unfolded from its fleshy grip, a small flash of silver caught my eye.
And as I peered at it through the gloom, the clarity as to what exactly the sliver of metal struck me – it was a charm, shaped in the form of what looked to be an angel. It was such a tiny little thing, delicate even, that I was almost too afraid to take it, much less wear it.
"He left this…for me?" I asked as I, ever so cautiously, slipped the seraph charm over the chain that hung around my neck, and it slid gently beside the heart-shaped globe – the very same he'd made for me on my eighteenth birthday.
"Said it was for the baby – dunno what the kid meant by angels and such but…I think he's starting to really lose it, you know? Good soldier and hell he's a tough soul but – he's losing himself, I think."
I bit my lip, holding tighter to the small charms around my neck. "You think…you think you could tell me what's gonna happen to him? With me going and all?"
"Most likely go on, you know…like we all do. Get a new partner, and once he adjusts to the humdrum again, he'll come back around." The man replied, and, as a voice called for him at the top of the staircase leading toward the dreaded surface, he slipped past me.
A terrible feeling curled itself around my stomach, and I feared it would suffocate the baby from the way it squeezed my insides and hindered my ability to breathe. My arms wound protectively over my middle, and I watched the world spin beneath my feet. One rounding whirl at a time.
It was likely I'd never see Kyle Reese again.
Upon arrival, we were received by a guard and ushered unceremoniously into the heart of the base. Much of the same derelict refuse wafted over the filth-infested air to greet us, and in its customary malodorous function, I derived some numbed sense of comfort.
As pathetic as it was to correlate my own personal savior to a smell that described the wretched conditions of human living standards, I could afford him no exquisite portrayal.
He was as infected by dirt and blood as the rest of us, and his clothes hung in limp drapes over his emaciated body. His face still gaunt, and though beautiful, streaked with sweat and grime, and the hair which hung in greasy clumps over his forehead held no luster worthy of praise.
He was as polluted as any animal, but bore the soul of a quiet hero. And for that, I gave him devotion and muted praise.
Kate Connor was there as we entered her small medical quarters, for inspection in regards to physical health. Malnutrition and pallor was to be accepted as routine, being a daily struggle inescapable by all, and I noticed that even Kate herself endured the shadows of hunger beneath her inquisitive eyes. And as scattered as humanity was across the endless reaches of the planet, and equally divided we sometimes believed we were here – we were meticulous with recording the births and forward strives to reach the desired future we longed for.
The other two women passed casually through their inspections, and with what sparse tools Kate Connor had, she managed a careful and methodical examination as to not miss one irregularity in our separate feminine conditions. And upon giving their names of their child's father, Kate did not seem at all unruffled by the discoveries. Until, of course, she happened upon mine.
She'd completed the examination dutifully, checking temperature and vitals promptly upon my arrival in the underground medical office. One other medically trained officer stood by in case of emergency, and acquired tools for her upon command. Everything ran smoothly, and before long, she again grasped the clipboard which held my newly formed medical record.
"So, Irene…is it?" She murmured distractedly as her pen scrawled agitatedly over the records, but her good bedside manner was still persistently consoling. "The name of the father, if you would be so kind as to share it with me…"
"Reese, Kyle. DN38416."
I could hardly restrain my startled lurch as the clipboard clattered against the hard ground, and Kate bent forward to retrieve it, ostensibly flustered. But being a strong woman, which I had seen in her the very moment I walked through tent flap which concealed the secret haven of medicine away from the surrounding encampments, she gathered herself accordingly. But her pen wavered.
"Repeat the father's name?" She asked, and her sharp, bright eyes blinked warily at me, caught in a web of doubt. She was obviously wondering – had she heard me correctly?
"Kyle Reese," I replied cautiously, clasping my hands together over my stomach. "Is there…anything wrong?"
"No, nothing….would you uh, excuse me? I have some business to attend to," she turned to the spare soldier standing quietly beside her, awaiting orders. "See to it these three find somewhere to sleep."
She was gone before I could hardly question the fleeting moment of instability that had passed through her. Something like a wave of electricity, numbing her for that sporadic instant? Or was it something more formidable, something she would never think of imparting to me, a lowly foot soldier with an obscure name and the same dirt-streaked face as any other.
And so I hardly thought anything of it for a long while, dozing in the comforts of a corner I'd adopted as my new home. That is, until I was awakened by an unfamiliar face – a soldier who gently shook me from my tousled dreams.
"State your identification, soldier."
He was precise in his speaking, no disorderly bothering with gracious resorting to manners or inquiries after well being. I knew, instantly by his nature of appearance, that he was here, before me, by command.
"Private Ghost, DN43233, 132nd Regiment, under Commander Perry," I replied groggily, blinking away the fog of sleep.
"State identification of Kyle Reese."
"Private Reese, DN38416, 132nd Regiment, also under Commander Perry."
"How do you know this man?" He continued, and his voice had begun to assume a certain austerity that made me uneasy.
"Man? My apologies, sir, but…Reese just barely turned 18."
"How do you know him is the question," stated the soldier, and his voice rose slightly in its inquisition. "Please give honest answers to my inquiries; I am here under the orders of John Connor."
"John Connor?" I felt my heart thrill at the recognition of such a celebrated name. Disbelief rendered my ability to think absolutely dormant, it seemed."As in...the leader of the Resistance?"
"Answer the question." He repeated.
"He is my partner….ever since Liberation Day."
"What is his vital status, as of now?"
I offered the man a suspiscious glance, out of sheer uncertaint as to the nature of his question."Well....alive. I just left him with another partner, Private McKay at the Edwards Base."
The soldier then gave a curt nod of his head, an indication of dismissal. He turned, pivoting on the softened heel of his boot so swiftly that it made me feel dizzy in light of such rapid movement. I followed his retreat toward the shadows which scourged this underworld, this replica of agony and despair I had seen in my own battered home.
And as the soldier disappeared, I saw a figure retract into the burrowing shadows – a man that by face, by the long, jagged scar that shattered his exquisitely hard features, no one would ever forget. A man whose name was nothing short of mythological legacy.
John Connor looked at me one last time, a dispassionate glance that throttled me to the core, and then followed his messenger into the shrouding dark.
A/N: I think I like having my author's notes down here. Much better, I think...that way you can just start reading the story and not have to glaze over my rambling. :P Anyway, I don't know why I've felt so inclined toward writing this lately but - to my Chekov readers, I will be updating Awakening and The Female Hypothesis this week. If not this week...then as soon as I can.
Thank you, in advance, for all the feedback! It is always appreciated, not to mention helpful.
