Away
Chapter Ten: The Terminator
Michael Oxferod felt like he was going to collapse... which was weird, cause he was laying down. His entire body was drenched in sweat, and every bone in his body seemed loathe to move any further. But he would make them move in due time. For the last two hours he'd continually subjected himself to getting up from his bed (an act strongly prohibited by the doctors) and did various exercises (VERY strongly prohibited); jumping jacks, pushups and chin ups. He paid for his vigilance with not a bang, but a whimper; crawling into bed, trying not to just break down and seek mercy at the pain's behest, instead of collapsing dramatically on the hospital room floor.
Now he was trying to catch his breath, even a half hour after all that. He told himself it was necessary. He had to get that primer in right then, because Michael had resolved to escape from this place a little after James Ellison concluded his visit.
Mike had not been cooperative. And that, Ellison explained, was quite enough for the FBI to circumvent regular hospital procedures and whisk Mike away for more "vigorous questioning." It all basically meant a dignitary would arrive with the proper warrants to collect Mike; he was basically an invalid, after all, they didn't have to send in anything fancy. But Mike didn't intend for that collection to take place, whether at the hands of a smart suited walking stiff or an entire team of SWAT agent walking stiffs.
He was getting out of here. He just had to get his strength up.
He didn't want to think about the pain. If those fairly mundane exercises had been enough to send him crawling back to bed, he shuddered to think of his escape. It could be as mundane as getting on the elevator and walking out in his hospital gown. Or the Feds were already downstairs, and he'd have to fight his way out or die trying. As before with the "collection," Mike had resolved to leave no matter what. If he was here, he wasn't useful to anything. Wasn't useful to John.
He smiled... carefully. No pain reared its ugly head, though. He smiled wider. It wasn't necessarily a happy smile, more of... well, regret, really. Irony. He'd never felt a driving purpose like this in two years, and now... It was a weird, heady feeling that he welcomed... not with open arms, per se, but with a vigorous greeting. He didn't feel happy to have purpose again, to feel like a soldier and no longer a deserter. It made him feel like he was in a squad again, with Aaron, Max... Katie...
Here it'd be Derek Reese, Sarah Connor, John Connor, and Cameron. One high-ranking lieutenant, the two progenitors of the resistance, and a Terminator.
Well, when you put it like that, it's easy to feel out of your league. But there were no leagues, not really. This felt appropriate. They'd welcome him if he arrived to fight. All he wanted now was purpose again, to fight for something, to... be part of something. He'd spent so much time in this "past" as a nothing, a non-factor. Pleasing himself with stupidities, making conflicts out of thin air.
How strange it felt to love so strongly now. How strange it was to want to fight so vigorously now, for something so tangible. It was all there, though. It was there and he'd grab it.
And he would have grabbed it already if those fucking Feds hadn't arranged for his door to be locked. He'd gotten up a little after Ellison had left and tried the handle. No give (though he wouldn't have made it either way, given his lethargy.) The window was also a predictably suicidal option; it opened, but Mike was realistic enough to know he wouldn't manage the climb with his neck still in one piece. Therefore he was waiting for a doctor to come around and check his progress. They'd have keys, after all.
He'd been waiting for just that for... well, a while. Few minutes, give or take. He felt too restless to be cooped up here, he wanted out now.
He kept dozing, which sort of worried him. He was conscious not really in the traditional sense; it was more of an immersed thing than that. He was viewing everything through mostly thoughts alone, not really in pure, physical recognition. If he looked around the room, eyes wide open, and then closed his eyes and laid there for two hours he probably wouldn't register any time change. He'd just think one long, continuous thought. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, and he wanted it to leave him. It was easier thought than done, though. Much easier.
--
The air drone regarded three year old Michael Oxferod, and three year old Michael Oxferod regarded the air drone.
The air drone was a small, baseball shaped device that was propelled by tiny rotating fans all over its construction. It was clunky looking and white-washed, with microscopic cameras covering every surface that wasn't used to keep it afloat. The air drone was used for surveillance, and it reported back to a master which wasn't human.
Michael Oxferod was a stout boy with golden blond hair. That hair would probably darken, his father suspected, although Mike really didn't know how such a thing was possible. The most he was knew of was scavenging with mommy, eating, and sleeping. He also helped mommy when mommy wanted it. And he played with his father occasionally, or John, if he wasn't busy. Mike was aware, mostly, of only the mundane qualities of life. Not this strange and exciting thing that watched him now. It was alien to him.
He felt frozen. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe, practically. His eyes were anchored to this device as though they were slaves of it.
Mike and the drone were on the third floor of an office building; it was a sickly black color on the outside and mostly unchanged on the inside. All the windows of every floor had shattered, leaving glassless holes. The building was completely irradiated past the third floor, and even this floor balked at the geiger counter; he couldn't stay up here long. Mike wasn't even sure why he'd gone up here; mommy said the building was picked clean already. He just wanted to... look around, though. Mommy wouldn't be happy with that.
But he found the drone. That was something, right? He didn't know what it was, but it looked so... words couldn't even begin to describe it. The soldiers had lots of equipment like cars, guns, and other things, but this was completely different.
The drone bobbed and weaved in the air as it watched the little boy. Mike, slowly emerging from the shock of seeing it, giggled at the things erratic movements. It was alive, like a bird in one of the books! If he could catch it...
He looked down at his sack. It was completely empty, as though some higher force had expected Mike to go out this day and meet this drone. He raised the rucksack and poised it. Every muscle in his arms tensed, a weird feeling for him. The robot continued to rotate and make a soft whirrr noise. It looked almost as if it was waiting.
And it was. When Mike lunged, the drone glided gracefully away from the hem of the sack. It said "Obstruction avoided!" in a loud, scratchy voice. And then it continued to watch the boy, unmoving.
Mike's lip lolled out of his mouth as he looked at the drone. It was smart. Could it even be caught? If he caught it, would it get away somehow? That possibility frightened Mike, and a lot. He'd never felt a driving purpose like this in months. He felt like he'd fail somehow if he didn't catch this thing. This thing was the sun, the moon, and all the stars all of a sudden. It was the most important thing in Michael's life.
It was so neat looking!
The drone hung there in the air. Mike poised the sack again and leaped up. The drone soared downwards, dodging past the falling rim of the sack, and buzzed against Mike's legs. The little boy squawked in dismay as it flew level with him again.
"Obstruction avoided!"
"C'mon..." Mike grunted. He took in a deep breath. No more games. He was getting this thing.
He lunged at the drone, not even stopping to poise the sack. The brown coarseness of the sack brushed against the drone as it flew by, safe... or at least it thought, for in a bit of spur-of-the-moment brilliance, Mike whipped the sack back towards the drone with one hand as he used his other to push the flying object within, enclosing the drone in the sack's depths.
Mike didn't think. His hands acted as if on their own free will, wrapping the hem of the sack into a tight knot. The drone immediately started to bounce around the inside of the rucksack, smashing once against Mike's enclosed hands. He yelled in pain, but kept his grip tight. There was no way he was letting it go now.
Oh jeez. Oh jeez! He got it. He didn't even know what this thing was, and he got it, he caught it! It was something weird and cool, something he'd never seen before! All he knew about it was that it would impress the living hell out of his best friend, Allie. All he knew was that it would make his mother beam in pride. He approached this thing as animal. As nothing. He knew nothing of the dark, calculating intelligence that guided the drone's efforts.
Michael didn't know the meaning of the word "complacent." He did not stand to revel in his victory over the drone. Mommy taught him that quickness was godliness, and by the way Mike sprinted down the nearby stairs, Jesus was truly pleased with him today.
He went down the next flight of stairs, his breath coming in short, excited gasps. What was it in there? He'd never seen it before. Mommy would tell him. Or daddy. Maybe even John. He wanted to watch the drone for a long time, see what it could do. Just watch it. See-
A low, malevolent buzzing sound announced itself from within the sack. Mike barely had time to blink before a row of saw blades cut the rucksack to ribbons. The drone burst forth, tiny blades rotating swiftly at its sides. What remained of Mike's scavenging things lay broken in taters on the floor. Eyes wide as plates, the boy took a cautious step backwards.
"Hey!" Mike yelled, not knowing what else to do but chastise the rogue drone. It was gonna get away!
"Obstruction surpassed," the drone said. It hummed towards Mike, blades spinning busily.
Although Michael didn't stop to think about what those tiny blades could do to him if he stood there and let it happen, he did know danger when he saw it. The thing was flying toward him at top speed. Mike stepped out of the way, expecting the thing to continue flying past. It didn't. Instead, barely turning, it switched directions and came at him. Catching a light glint from the spinning metal at its sides was enough to convince Mike that enough was enough. He turned and ran for his life, hurling sporadic insults and pleas at the drone as it pursued him. He could feel the buzzing of the blades in his skin, and it wasn't even touching him; he kept tensing against his will, expecting the blades to touch in all their red-hot painfulness at any moment. It was so loud. It was gonna hit him. Mike was sure of it, even as he approached the last stairwell which would bring him down to the street. It was gonna hurt him!
And the drone could have done that. It could have killed Michael. Easily. But it didn't. Instead, as Mike ran down the stairs, the drone retracted its dual saw blades and quietly glided off.
Mike was barely able to breathe when he flew down the stairs and into the office building lobby. The furniture, old computers, and plants, although marked with decay and predictable disuse, were in remarkably good condition. A few refugees were lounging around on the old couches, a flaming barrel set in the middle of them. They appeared to be chatting with two soldiers. They all raised their heads as young Mike charged through, headed for the doors.
"Run!" he yelled.
One of the fugees, a bearded man of about twenty seven (although his wrinkles made him look more than twice that age) looked at his comrades in worry and spoke up. "What's wrong, Mikey?"
"Issa, uh..." Mike coughed suddenly and turned, realizing for the first time that he hadn't heard the drone now in over a minute. His heaving shoulders sagged suddenly in relief as he saw that it was gone. And now he felt tired.
"There a problem?" one of the soldiers said gruffly. His counterpart laughed.
One of the other refugees, one bearded and twenty-year old John Connor, stood up and walked on over to the kid. He was wearing that huge great coat he usually had, and a black beret (a souvenir from a local soldier) sat on top of his head. Mike remained where he was, faintly embarrassed now. But not too embarrassed. That thing was following him, it was just...
"What's the matter, Mike?" John said, kneeling down. The other fugees were respectfully silent, knowing John Connor had a way around children that was conspicuously missing in this brave new world. The soldiers continued speak in low tones with the refugees.
"Uh... uh, sumfin..." Mike pointed upstairs, unable to convey what had happened into an explanation John could understand.
The man seemed to get it, though. "Something scared you?"
Mike nodded feverishly. John clicked his tongue and stood up, offering his hand. "Show me."
Mike took his hand and led him on. John sent a look back toward his compatriots, indicating that they should stay put. The pair ascended the stairs and came back up into the gloom of the office building proper. "What was it, Mike?" John asked, silently examining the floor, which was bare of furniture or much of anything at all that hadn't been scavenged already. He looked down at the kid. "You can do it."
Mike raised his hands, balling them into fists. He brought them together and made a slight whoosh! sound. "It... uh... small?"
"Go on." John grinned.
"It... flew," Mike said. He stopped making the sound. Then he remembered something. "Oh!" He dashed away from Connor and went toward the other flight of stairs. John jogged alongside to keep up, silently removing his sidearm. He wasn't grinning anymore.
Mike knelt down next to the stairs and picked up what remained of his rucksack. He gave several pieces to John, hoping he'd understand. And he did. The thing was ripped to shreds."It did this?"
"Uh huh!"
"It didn't try to hurt you, did it?"
"Yeah!"
John hissed and dropped what he was holding. He gave another, more expert sweep of the room. Blasted furniture, blackened walls... not a thing. When he seemed to find nothing, he only looked more ill-at-ease than he had before. He cleared his throat. "Was it a birdie, Mikey?"
"Nuh uh."
John nodded. "Ok, go outside. If you see it again, come get me, alright? Don't let it hurt you, just come get me." He knelt down in front of Michael and ruffled his hair, giving the kid one of those odd looks he'd always give him. It seemed to border on... sadness, really and wonderment, with a hefty dosage of... regret? Mike didn't understand why. "You get it?"
"Yep," Michael said, smiling.
John patted the child on the shoulder. "Alright, go. You did good."
Mike trotted off. He felt... well, shaken by the whole thing, but not dreadfully so. Just a bit scared. If John assured him that he did good, then he did good, and he had nothing to worry about.
"Those two chuckleheads gone?" John Connor asked as he returned a few minutes later to his group.
"They ran Bill in for questioning," said a man named Jethro. "But he'll be alright, I gather."
"He'd better be, or Atlas is gonna get himself a goddamned ass kicking," John said.
Jethro laughed as the group of men started off into the innards of the office building. "Thought you wanted to avoid an ass kicking, Connor."
John shook his head. "We're gathering those guns in here for a reason, Jet, and it's not to fuckin' negotiate. If Atlas doesn't do exactly as we tell him come next month, he'll be dead. That's all there is to it. If there's gonna be problems, I'm gonna unmake them, you'd better believe that."
Jethro grunted. "Guess so. Hey, yuh, what'd Mikey see?"
"A shape of things to come."
--
"GET THE FUCK DOWN!"
John dived to avoid the fusillade of gunfire, barely able to force the words out of his mouth as his torso struck the floor painfully. He kept yelling. Kept screaming. Had to scream, to make himself heard over the shots. Someone else was screaming, too. Screaming in such bloodcurdling pain that John couldn't even assign a gender to the screamer. Bullets punched holes through the wireframe of the entrance hall to Benjamin's Place, shattered glasses on the bar top, struck human flesh without regard as to whether or not they were the intended targets.
They'd found him. Somehow. The cultists found him. Even here, even when he was no where near the house, or... ANYTHING they CAME for him! To kill him! It was like nothing had changed. Humans, Terminators, what the fuck was the difference?
None of that mattered now. The only thing that drove John was terror and instinct. The instinct to flee, to run for his life. Nothing had changed. Why did he even run away from home to begin with? He got up on all fours and dashed across the dance club, seeking cover behind a pillar, table, or something, anything that he could use. His mind operated in one stage only, targeting objectives and seeking them.
"What the FUCK IS GOING ON?!" Allison yelled.
Someone was screaming, "POLICE! CALL 911!"
"HELP!"
Chaos. An orgy of breaking glass and screaming patrons, of what patrons actually existed in the bar. Total pandemonium. How familiar this must seem to Allison. Cold chills raked across John's legs as he spurred them into movement, driving him toward the nearest cover. He felt like he was the only person moving with purpose, besides the two shooters. They seemed to be shooting at random now. John didn't know if they were targeting him in particular now or just shooting everyone they saw.
It was fucking terrifying, either way.
John collided against a table and hurriedly ducked underneath it. He bashed the table onto its side, into what he assumed to be the shooters line of sight and then huddled there, shivering, teeth chattering like mad. Jesus, he wanted his Beretta. So badly.
Ok. Holy crap, was his mind running on automatic. He didn't think of his inner monologues, or... anything, not Sammy, not Jesse, not nothing. None of it mattered. Ok. He'd wait until they stopped to reload, or shot something else. Then he'd run for the room section of the place, and he knew there was a backdoor there, which led into an alley. He knew that, he could escape from there, ruuuun through there.
"Oh god," John whispered. Ok... ok... wait for it...
Someone was yelling something. It was a guy. He sounded gruff and angry. "THEY'RE COMING, THEY ARE, JUST-"
There was a loud shu-chak sound of a shotgun being racked. Then an explosive sound of the shotgun firing. Then again. A deep rattling as the M4A1 carbine coughed fire. John didn't dare peek up to see what was happening. Bullets flew everywhere, exploding violently into the upholstery in droves, stitching crazed lines across the walls.
"BACK OUTSIDE!"
More firing, getting... distant? Oh, were they...? What the hell was happening?
Silence for a few seconds. The doors shut. A shelf of crystal glass collapsed behind the bar, all of them shattering in a crescendo of sound. Compared to the gunshots it was like a whisper.
The shotgun racked again, sending a discharged shell clattering to the floor. Footsteps. John shivered and laid his forehead against the underside of the table, unable to control his shaking. In a second or two he'd have to run. The hallway was right there. He'd make it. Sure. He could feel it in his heart, he'd make it...
John could hear a phone dialing. Footsteps. Light muttering.
Ok. Ok. Ok Just... rise up. Slowly. Just enough so that you can see what's out there. Stop shaking. Get ready to run.
You couldn't escape a feeling like this. It was like a turning wheel... no matter how hard you tried to get away, the same thing always rides on back up to you. It's unavoidable. There would always be this adrenaline in his life, this...
Stop.
First he had to check. Make sure he was good to go, y'know? He slowly raised himself up and peeked.
Cameron Phillips stood over the overturned table. She extended her hand to him, shotgun held tightly in her right. She was wearing a coat, and a cartoon mask sat on top of her head, up past the scalp.
"Hello, John," she said, with a smile that was almost timid.
Oh, man.
--
Cameron just about spit in Hicks' face when they faced each other outside. Neither of them had even broken a sweat, and they'd just laid waste to an entire club. The street, though relentlessly busy most of the day, was practically empty now. Little wonder, seeing as how a bunch of those cars had crashed into each other in their mad attempts to escape the nearby gunfire. Their occupants had sensibly fled.
And the cops were gonna be here any minute, provided the Taylor and Robinson's teams didn't beat them to it. Motherfucker.
"Are you for real?!" Cameron yelled. Oh, yeah. She wanted to finish things, alright. She'd be happy to do it, just shoot that long-haired kid in the noggin. Wouldn't even bat an eye, Hicks reckoned.
But Hicks didn't want to die in the process, nor did he deign to glare at Cameron as he explained this fact. "That fucking machine was in there. The one who looks like you, she's protecting him."
She blinked, shoulders drooping. "Oh, hell. I'm sorry."
Hicks raised an eyebrow. His hands were working over-time, reloading the carbine without him even having to think about it. There was Fallujah again. "For what?"
"Yelling at you," Cameron said, sounding embarrassed... but not too embarrassed. Christ, he wished she wouldn't act like this. All creep-like, you know.
"Don't worry about it." Holy crap, did she get hung up. "Get the grenades out from the car, and the taser."
Cameron turned and ran for the car, holstering her pistol as she went. She looked tense. Combat high. She fucking blew that hobo's head off, in there, right before that shotgun started blasting. He wondered how she was feeling right then. If she really was anything like the rest of those fanatics, then...
Hicks himself felt... detached. Sort of dull. Good. If he didn't feel, he wouldn't have to think when the bullets started flying. For now, though, he had to act fast. Think fast, too. He stabbed a couple of buttons on his cellphone and waited.
"Taylor," came a raspy voice on the other line, after a few seconds.
"Yeah, listen. Disregard what I said about coming in through the front. Forsythe scoped out a back entrance with an alley. Park your boys right there. Alright? Just look around for it."
"Affirmative," Taylor said. As usual he sounded completely monotone. It was an act, which made the whole charade all the more disturbing. "Have you seen him?"
Hicks glanced into the club. Trace amounts of gunpowder smoke billowed from within, escaping into the air outside. How many had they murdered in there? Hicks saw the fucking kid, and they just... lit up everyone in sight. They were all dead anyway, right? Atomic dust in four years. What'd it matter if they died now or later?
"Yeah, that's why you need to cover the escape."
"We will. Is that all, Hicks?"
"Yeah."
There was a light click from the other end. Hicks closed the cellphone and shut his eyes tightly, wondering why he didn't tell Taylor about the machine that was still in the club.
Cameron was starting back over, four grenades in her hand and the taser in the other. Behind her, to the tune of about a hundred meters behind her, a large black van blockbusted past a street corner, took out a stop sign, and started to hightail it towards them with a high-pitched squealing of rubber on gravel. That'd be Robinson. A van filled with eager fanatics, all armed with every manner of death-dealing equipment. Even with his pet Terminator, Hicks thought grimly, that Connor was fucking toast.
How could this go wrong?
--
She was right there. Standing above him, staring right on down. He couldn't run. John had no delusions, no... feelings that he could outrun her this time. She was right there, standing above him, staring right down, and he was in her power.
Was it a coincidence, that those guys attacked when she just happened to be here? Or had she orchestrated this to remove all measures of doubt? Used the old lady routine, to get a good gauge of how he was feeling, and then...
It would have been brilliant, if that was her plan. It would have worked flawlessly. Better strategist than me, John thought as he glared up at her.
Evidently, though... she thought otherwise. Why else would she be here? Because of her programming, or course. She had no stake in whether or not he'd actually live up to his fucking destiny. She was a robot. Go from point A to point B, deviate only when necessary. Simple.
God, he hated her. She was gonna capture him. He'd failed. No family. No real life. He hated her.
"Are you alright?"
He blinked, and did not answer. He felt surprised at how little he was thinking about this, how he wasn't panicking, negotiating, running... He felt clear. Failure. That was it. Where was a fucking knife? So he could slit his own fucking throat.
Cameron spoke again. "Are you shot, John?" She looked back out towards the door.
John shook his head. "No. What the fuck is happening?"
"They're here to kill you," Cameron said, eyes flitting back to him. As he laid there, sprawled. Defeated. "We have to go. Now."
John pushed himself up. "You're here to take me back."
"Of course." She didn't make any sudden moves, which was somewhat surprising.
"But..." He looked around the blasted club, taking in a shuddering breath. "Same old shit, right? It's like nothing's changed. I get in trouble, you come bail me out. You planned this."
She tilted her head. "What?"
Oh... Jesus Christ. He felt fucking blinded by anger. She was gonna treat him like this? Even when she'd won? "You bitch. Those guys, you..." He made some sort of listless gesture towards the door, suddenly overcome. It was like a sparked fuse that just gets itself doused. Why did he bother arguing? Why bother accusing? She'd come at the right time. She made all the right decisions, exploited every weakness he had. The old lady trick had been enough. Those guys were there to kill him; they weren't being guided by Cameron. There was no larger conspiracy. There was no need for that.
He felt like dying. Maybe he should run out there.
"It was you all along," he said, voice barely rising above a whisper. Around him he could hear the crackle of flames. A table was on fire. People were speaking in low, panicky voices to each other. Otherwise, though? Quiet. Very quiet.
"Yes," Cameron said, removing the mask from the top of her head. "We shouldn't stay here, though, John. Don't make me drag you."
"Why didn't you just pick me up... Why bother with the disguise, what was the goddamn use?"
Cameron stared at him. "Because I knew you'd want to tell someone why you did all this, John. I wanted that someone to be me." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "And now I know."
"I hate you," he said.
Cameron tilted her head.
"You can't just... leave well enough alone, you keep coming. You never stop. Ever."
"Yes."
"You don't care, Cameron. Not about me. The only thing you fucking care about is the chip in your head, telling you what to do."
Cameron's hand remained on his shoulder. It moved up to his neck, and he found himself laying his head down against it. "I do care, John. You've got to trust me on that."
"Then let me go."
"The building's surrounded."
"I don't care. Lemme go."
They stared at each other for a few seconds, silent.
She removed her hand.
"Are you going to run?"
John didn't respond. He ran for the door.
He could feel... waves in her hand. She cared. He knew she did, in her warped, alien fashion. It was barely human, what she felt, but he knew it was there. It was a slave to her higher programming, but... all week, you couldn't fucking deny it. What they'd done together, what they'd consciously avoided, her pure dedication to him... She criticized him. Talked to him as an equal, mostly. She literally took bullets for him. They would stand together at a fucking bus stop and he would kiss her on the cheek, and he didn't know why. She would bury two people and show him how much she'd learned. And she would stare at him. She loved him. Somehow. Maybe it wasn't even a human love, but it was hers. He didn't know if he could return something like that. It scared him.
What was he so afraid of? To be a leader, or to deal with the consequences of coming up to that? To weather the hardships? Was he afraid of that? Perhaps. She let him run. She was gambling. He knew that. Gambling on him just... stopping, going back.
What little strength he had left for that fantasy in his mind still drove him. A mother. A father. Siblings. A school that he'd stay in for more than two years. A job. A college. Real life problems. No murder. No machines.
He couldn't even visualize it in his head now. That was all there was to it. The pictures wouldn't come up. He saw Sarah. A John Doe grave for Kyle Reese. He saw Cameron. He felt nothing for Campo de Cahuenga. He had no career aspirations.
He passed the entrance hall and peeked out behind the corner. He couldn't see much beyond the glass door. There was a slight cough to his side.
Oh, man. Sammy.
He jumped over the counter, not even stopping to see if she was alright first. She was laying there, sprawled against the wall. He could see blood, but no wounds. It was like his mind refused to process it. Here was someone he'd felt something for. Kinship with this person. Two peas in a pod, right? What did it get her? What did it get him? Absolutely nothing.
"Sam? Sammy?" He prodded her shoulder.
Sammy blinked and looked at him. "What the hell are ya doin' heah?"
John ignored the question. "Ar-are you ok? I mean..."
"I can't walk," she said. "They hit my leg. I can't feel the bone."
She looked so calm.
John nodded. "Do you need anything?"
"I want you to run," she whispered. "They're after you, Johnny, I hear em'."
John breathed out and laid his head against the wood of the counter. "I-I'm just going out, ok? I'm gonna... It's not... worth it."
Sammy chuckled. "You gonna let them kill you?"
He didn't nod. Nothing.
"Why?"
"I'm dead anyway. I don't want anyone else in here... y'know, biting it because of me."
Sammy grabbed his arm. "Don't, John."
John looked at her. "You're gonna die if I run away. They're gonna kill everyone in here to get to me." He knew he was wrong, but he was looking for any old excuse. He was looking for a light switch. Flip it off, down, so he wouldn't see anymore. A bullet could do that.
"Don't worry," Sammy said, smiling. She looked so calm. Outside, John could hear screeching tires. "I don't care. You've still got somethin' to live for."
"No I don't."
"You can hear a pin drop in this place, Johnny," Sam said. John thought that was impossible, but he believed her. She moved her hand down to his own hand. "I don't know what's really goin' on with you, but I don't care. She's right. You gotta go with her."
John just stared at her.
"You were... I..." Sammy looked up, smiling. "I could see somethin'... I dunno how to explain it. You're important. More than me."
"No... You still..." John said, practically sobbing now.
"My parents are dead, John," Sam said. "I never told you. They couldn't answer the phone cause my house burned down. I'm nothin'. You still got somethin'. So run, alright? Don't kill yourself."
"You don't even understand."
"Yeah, but who gives a shit? Run, John. I don't wanna see you die."
He bent forward against her and kissed her. She wrapped her arm around him. She felt warm. Vibrant, even as she was wounded. What clarity she must have possessed. She had no stake in life. Only perspective. And she was right. Killing himself would do nothing, except...
They parted after a second. Sammy nodded. "Go with her. She likes you."
If she was willing to die for him, on feeling alone...
He felt like he didn't deserve that.
John blinked and nodded at her, barely able to breathe. "A-a-alright."
She patted him on the shoulder. "They'll be in soon. I can heah em'. Go." She kept smiling. Just smiling.
John stared at her. "Don't die."
"I'll try." She seemed uncommitted to the suggestion, though.
John turned away. "Good bye."
He felt her waving him on. "See ya, Johnny."
He hauled himself over the counter and made his way back towards Cameron Phillips, mind and heart ablaze.
--
When the elderly matron unlocked the hospital door and stepped through, she saw nothing but what she automatically assumed to be a sleeping teenager on the bed. She found herself nodding at this as she locked the door behind her; the boy had been shot in the spleen, and for some odd reason she never caught him while slumbering, which he desperately needed to regain his energy after suffering through such a wound.
She tip-toed over, merely deciding to check his temperature and breathing rate instead of the usual twenty questions routine. The boy had already been grilled by an impatient --though endlessly polite and urbane-- cop, and she was loathe to increase his discomfort any further.
He never would have admitted to such a thing, though. In the short time she'd spent with this boy, he'd never wanted for anything. If breakfast was offered he merely took it without questioning the contents. He never balked at needles. Nor did he ask for anything much in particular. He didn't moan, nor whine. His personality could be described best as glacial at times, but otherwise he was polite and sweet. He had a strong will, surely enough. A wound like the one inflicted upon him would have easily killed most people, either due to shrapnel or blood loss. And if they did survive it, the suffering they'd have to endure would be painful indeed.
Michael just took it in stride, though. The matron respected that.
She reached over and laid a hand on his forehead. He looked restless. And-
Mike's eyes flashed open. He grabbed the matron's arm and pulled her astride him as he swiftly moved his right arm around her neck. She didn't even scream. She didn't breathe, either.
"Keys," he said.
The matron took in a deep breath, smothered as she was against Mike's chest. "Dear... what...?"
"You've got five seconds before I break your neck like a fucking twig, KEYS."
She was way ahead of him; Mike could hear the ring jangling in her hand. Prudent.
"Throw them onto the floor," he said, his voice without inflection.
Her free hand tossed the keys out behind her. A second passed and Mike blinked as he heard them clatter to the floor. Grunting, he used his right hand to push the matron further onto the bed as he slowly got up from it. He released her left hand from his own and stood up. He used his right to push her down as she attempted to sit up, and then he was off the bed completely, standing. The matron remained face down against the sheets. Mike glanced over to the key ring. Brass and copper gleamed, encircling the golden ring.
"What's on that?" He muttered, "The key ring."
"Your room. Other rooms. A-a broom closet. Michael, why-"
Mike took a loud step forward, silencing her. "You're gonna stay in here. I'm gonna lock you in. You understand? You can start banging in five minutes."
"You won't make it, Michael, please. You can't possibly make the trip downstairs. You're still too weak... dear..."
She trailed off as Mike stooped to collect the keys. Every step was a torture, just as the matron said. But he didn't care. Mike stared down at the assorted brass for a moment in confusion. "Which one?"
"B-25," she said.
Mike trotted over to the door and browsed through the tiny selection until he found the one she'd specified. The door knob clicked loudly as he inserted it and turned. Least she's honest, he thought.
"Is that cop out there?" That bastard pig could ruin everything.
"N-no, they... took him a-away."
Great. He clicked the doorknob to the left and pulled it open. He took a step forward, paused, and turned to the matron. "I'm sorry."
"I forgive you," she said at once, sounding shocked.
Mike went past the door and slammed it shut behind him. He locked it and pocketed the key ring. Walk, walk, walk. Get those kinks out. He didn't even know where the hell he was, much less the specifics of this place, but he walked.
A lot of green and white tiles. Floral design on the walls. Bright lights from the ceiling. A bunch of people in white and green were walking around, some with clipboards, others with stretchers. None of them challenged Mike as he moved past them, absently wincing with every other step he took as he was.
He walked for about five minutes, turning down hallways and avoiding stairwells for the time being. He didn't think he'd be able to negotiate stairwells too well. Not without sending waves of pain like volts of electricity up his spine, of course. It looked like he was on the second or third floor, given some of the windows he looked through as he passed.
After a bit he realized why no one was asking about him. A bunch of other patients in similar garb were also roaming the halls, albeit with helpers at their sides. Michael's purposeful stride seemed to belie the need, in the mind of the passer-by, that he did indeed need someone to help him walk. Would have been nice, actually, now that Mike thought about it.
"Hey," Mike said, clearing his throat at a passing nurse. The guy seemed to be about in his early twenties, with spectacles covering his eyes and a shock of platinum blond hair on his head. Mike immediately felt something catch in his throat as the guy's eyes flicked toward him; he wasn't half-bad looking, even...
Oh, Jesus, knock it off!
"Yep?" the guy said, looking faintly disturbed by this sudden intrusion into his routine.
"Yeah, uh..." Mike coughed. "T-,uh, t-there an elevator around here?"
The nurse nodded. "Yep, just came from there." He pointed back the way he'd been coming with his right arm. "Go left, keep going past the first set of halls, then go right. You can't miss it."
Michael grinned. "Thanks, buddy."
The nurse cocked an eyebrow. "Uh. Yep."
Off Mike went. Smacking himself. He could feel Aaron chastising him all over again, even if the guy was long dead. And not even born yet, technically. Focus, focus.
It was hard indeed to focus, though for mostly different reasons now; each step didn't just become torturous, it became... exquisitely painful. Ten dollar word did wonders to describe the feeling. The bones in his legs rattled and shook with every step, as though they wouldn't support the weight above them much longer. There were times, as he walked, when his vision just seemed to flare, or lose focus as pain threatened to overwhelm him. What he was feeling was possibly quite visible on his face but, as luck had it, he encountered no one else in his trip to the elevators. When he stepped on and stabbed the 1 button, he collapsed against the soft cushioned wall, breathing each breath as though through a filter.
Some woman was talking. Michael blinked and looked around, dazed.
"The bill is not expected to pass through foreseen Republican filibustering, though Democratic majority leader Harry Reid is reportedly optimistic."
Oh. A radio. Mike looked down again and continued to try and breathe. Tears of pain and exhaustion slid unnoticed down his face.
Soon as he was out of here he'd break into some car, take a long doze, and then drive off. He'd be able to rest easier at the Connor home, anyhow.
Wasn't he assuming so much, then? That they'd accept him? Of course they would, they had a Terminator and another soldier, like him. How could they refuse? He just had to get there first. One step at a time.
"In breaking news, police are reporting a spate of gunfire on Pico Boulevard, downtown Los Angeles. The assailants were seen arriving in a green Toyota Corolla, and appeared to be shortly joined by others in a black van. According to, uh, preliminary reports the assailants are similar to the group of men and women who assaulted the North Hollywood police precinct during the evening last Wednesday. The wave of violence starting with gang warfare at the Checkers Hilton hotel on Tuesday appears to be continuing, despite statements made by the L.A. District Attorney last night. We'll keep you posted as the situation unfolds.
"In other news, the search for the recently disappeared Republican lobbyist Jessica Peck continues even as..."
Same men who... OH, Jesus, it was those fucking machine cultists.
That meant...
It could be a coincidence, Mike thought to himself. But the world was too fucking small for coincidences already, if Mike's encountering of the future leader of the human resistance had anything to say about coincidences. He had to see what the fuck was going on there. Pico Boulevard... Mike tapped into his mental map of L.A., long tailored after spending two years randomly wandering its streets in cars. That was in downtown... not too far from here. He'd make it in five minutes if he got a car, and if traffic wasn't too bad.
Had to move fast, then. Mike pushed himself up from the elevator wall to stand as the lift reached the first floor. The doors slid open.
Federal Agent Greta Simpson, walking amid a crowded lobby of patients and employees, gawked at Michael as he stepped out. Their eyes met instantaneously. She was wearing smart business clothes with a badge displayed prominently on her right breast. A piece of paper --a warrant-- was gripped in her hand.
"Son of a bitch," the woman said mildly. The warrant dropped from her hands as they darted for the sidearm holstered on her hip. "FBI, FREEZE!"
"Ohmaigod!" someone yelled. Michael steeled himself, didn't think, and charged forward. OW OW OW OW OW-
He slammed himself into the agent, sending the two of them sprawling to the floor. For Mike it was an intense, almost ecstatic wave of pain as he collapsed onto the floor. Greta merely growled as she toppled, hands reaching out to shield her face as she fell. Michael screamed. It felt... jeeeeessus.
Desensitize. Don't focus on the pain, as crippling as it may be. Mike blinked rapidly and scrambled on the floor towards the agent and he slugged her in the face. Greta howled in pain and gritted her teeth as they grappled. Mike's hands flew down to her thigh and struggled to remove the nine millimeter from its holster. Greta, not noticing this, delivered a hard, high-heeled kick to Mike's stomach.
"BIIITCH!" Mike yelled, in lieu of screaming again. She may as well have taken a knife to his stomach, it hurt so fucking badly.
It didn't matter, though, cause he managed to secure the firearm in his hands. He jerked it out of the holster, thumbed the hammer, and fired a random shot into the air before anyone could react.
Dead silence. Greta ceased struggling and instead shied away from the teenager. She looked understandably shocked. And frightened. She was probably expecting to die, eh? Mike wondered if he shouldn't oblige her.
Instead, Mike just pulled himself up into a crouch, keeping his aim tight on Greta's head. No one moved. No one had had time to move since the struggle even began, and now they definitely didn't fucking move.
"Everyone calm down... and just don't move, alright?" Mike was bawling in pain pretty openly, but he didn't care.
"Son of a bitch," Greta said softly, laying on the floor as she was.
"Don't fucking mess with me," Mike said. Some guy behind the counter was rapidly pushing a button. Panic alarm? Probably. He'd be long gone before anyone arrived, though.
"Not anymore, no," Greta said.
Mike didn't even respond. He was so far away now from this conflict that it wasn't even funny. Hot wire a car. Drive it. See what was happening with that gunfight. Focus, focus, FOCUS.
He lowered the pistol and ran out the door, leaving it to drift slowly to a close in his wake.
--
He was coming back. Cameron expected this. She didn't know why she expected it, but there it was all the same.
John looked... profound. That was the only definition Cameron could assign to it. That was technically a regression in her facial map scan's effectiveness, but she didn't care one bit. She felt... relief. He was coming back. She wouldn't question why. She didn't care why. John was coming back to her. That spoke volumes.
Talking to John under the guise of the old woman had been rather effective, if... completely unorthodox. She'd determined beforehand that apprehending him wasn't nearly enough. She had to know why he did these things, so she could help. His disjointed summary of the emotions he'd experienced during this exodus of his had been... well, informative. It told her that he was already feeling an undue amount of stress with his situation, which would be effective in convincing him to stay. He'd gone from convicted in his flight to somewhere residing in the middle ground. A simple push would tip him over the edge, back towards where he was supposed to be. Where he was meant to be.
The recent turn of events would certainly help. But really, would it be because he saw no other option, or because he truly wished to come back? That was what worried Cameron now even more than the lurking assassins outside. What was the point if he had no stake?
Again she found herself wishing Sarah, or even Derek were here to help her. They could penetrate John, find out his personal nuances and exploit them far more effectively than she ever could. Her function was to guard John, not to...
But here she was, trying to be his psychologist and collector at the same time. She felt no indignation for it, but she knew she had to work above and beyond her abilities to make sure the status quo was restored. More than that, even. She'd already done things that were technically impossible for most units. She did not question them. Not yet.
She was simply glad that he was coming back. She could protect him. Talk with him. Be with him. Live for him. It was what she wanted.
John walked over to her and stopped.
Cameron spoke first. "Are you going to come with me?"
"I dunno," John said.
"What will make you know?"
"Sell me."
Cameron tilted her head. "I do not want to make profit off of you, John." How could he even suggest that? She wouldn't do that.
"No, I mean... y'know. Sell me. Tell me why I shouldn't bother with this. I wanna hear it from you, I wanna... know I'm not making a fucking mistake."
Cameron nodded. "Walk with me, first."
John walked with her. They started towards the hallway.
"The truth, John, is that there's no freedom for you." She shook her head to emphasize this fact. "And I feel sorry for you because of that. You told me you want a real family, a real life. I ask this, John. What is the definition of real? You have a family, John. You have a life. No one would call it normal, but it is yours. And I sympathize with you. I understand that you desire understatement, non-importance, but that's impossible, and I think you've already guessed that. You have to live through it as best you can.
"I don't sympathize on the matter of you wanting a real family, because you do have one, John. I understand you and Sarah have disagreements. I understand they may hurt, but I also understand that it's mendable. You don't hold grudges for long. Neither does she. I don't say this because I understand it completely; it's simply what you've told me, both here and in the future."
John kept his eyes averted as she spoke. Kept tapping his fingers. She could see him turning, warming to the idea already. He looked pained because he knew it was true. He knew he'd acted petulant in trying to run. Humans had difficulty admitting to weakness or fault.
But not on the last count, apparently, for John looked back at her as soon as she stopped speaking. It was a glare. "That's why she smacks me around, right? Gives me the cold shoulder? Doesn't even say good bye? That's family, right?" He saw a perceived fault in her "lecture" and he was trying to use it to rid himself of the entire point. It was a useful tactic.
Cameron smirked. She had her own trump cards, of course. "You can talk to me about anything, John. I know you might be feeling down right now, but you can talk to me about it. I'm just a phone call away, I promise you. I won't ever say no."
She spoke with Sarah Connor's voice, words Cameron wished John could have waited to hear. "Your mother said that to me yesterday, about ten minutes after you kicked me off that bus. She was sorry for the way she acted toward you. She still cares for you, John. We all still do, and you've forgotten that."
John stared at her, wide-eyed. "You're fucking lying."
"No. It's recorded on my cellphone, but it was taken by one of those men." She smirked. "I can get it back if you want."
"You..." he stopped. Physically stopped, too. They'd passed a few doorways, and Cameron could hear activity in the club proper. Ordinarily she'd have already gotten him sprinting by now, but... they had to get this out of the way. He had to be in this, full-speed. John was looking down. Realization dawning. Cameron tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. If he decided to "have a moment" right now, it'd be a very inopportune time indeed. "Jeez," he said weakly. "I've been acting like an asshole, haven't I?"
"It'll all be alright."
"Jesus Christ. I... Jesus, Cam, I'm so fucking scared of it. I'm afraid I'll screw up, and that'll be it. I don't think I have what it takes. That's..."
Cameron rubbed his shoulder, smiling gently. "That's what you have to learn, John. And you will. Soon."
He was crying a bit, but he didn't seem to notice it. Neither did Cameron, really. He was exhausted more than anything else. She could tell that by his face alone, not having to rely on any complex scans. He sniffled absently. "Gonna take something real big to turn me into a badass."
Cameron raised an eyebrow. "Being a badass is irrelevant to being a competent leader."
John held out a hand, keeping his head bowed. Cameron took it and gently rubbed the top of it with her thumb. He grabbed her hand and wrapped his arms around her as they stood there. He said nothing. Cameron decided nothing had to be said and returned the embrace. John was shaking all over.
"What a day," he muttered.
"There are men with guns approaching, and I think we should go," Cameron said.
"I need to think about this." They parted.
"About what?" Why did she feel so... confused all of a sudden? She was supposed to be the reassuring one here. She thought she'd done a good job of it, too. Being... touched by him, though... it felt overwhelming. Her sensors were positively abuzz with conflicting reports. Things that didn't make sense, statistics that contradicted one another. Weren't reconcilable.
On his own terms, John called what she was feeling love. Cameron didn't know anything about that.
Just more side effects? Possibly. And you know? She didn't mind it one bit.
John watched her for a moment before turning away. "About whether I'll come with you or not."
"You have to."
"No one's pointing a gun at my head except those guys out there. And as soon as we're safe, I'll tell you what I think." He paused for a beat. "You'll accept whatever I say, alright? Whatever my decision is, you'll respect it. Promise me."
"You know I can't do that, John."
John took in a breath. "Please... do it anyway."
He sent a look back to her. Cameron blinked. Quite delibritely. "Alright. I promise."
It felt like a promise, too. Perhaps it would be, although she didn't expect him to resist any longer at this point.
He took in a deep breath. "A-alright, then. Need to get my backpack outta my room, shouldn't take a minute."
She nodded. John jogged forward and stopped in front of a door, hands working quickly to unlock it. And as he worked, Cameron found herself smiling at him. She didn't know why.
John must have noticed this, because he looked back at her and smiled himself.
It's good to have you back, Cameron thought.