John tried not to worry. After all, it was against the very core of his nature; he was the cool kid, the boy with the motorcycle before anybody else even had a driver's license. Leading the resistance may have brought some extra responsibility, but it should (theoretically) never have kept him up at night. He lived life with ease. Took things in stride. Let it slide off him like water off a duck's back.

Yeah, right.

And now, piled on top of the loads of other duties, concerns, and fears was the fact that he hadn't seen either hide or hair of Kyle in the past three days. The boy may not have always visited him daily, but the bunker was small enough to spot him when John was walking to and from briefings.

He shouldn't have been worried. The boy could take care of himself. Missing him in the halls was probably a matter of coincidence. His hopefully accidental theft of the firearm was probably the reason why he hadn't stopped by. Perhaps he thought John would be angry with him, like any parent might be with a child. Or maybe there was a small chance that he had wanted the gun all along and was now biding his time until he found a way to keep it.

Who knew? Rationalizing and predicting Kyle's thought process, though, was sometimes like trying to pin the tail on the donkey when you were in California and the donkey was in Bulgaria. The incident with Perry had proven as much.

Yet, if Kyle was anything, he was steadfast and responsible. He hadn't been to this morning's training session, even though Perry hadn't been the one leading it. John had stuck to the shadows during his quick observation, not making his presence known, so it was unlikely that Kyle had seen him there and had gotten spooked away.

What was worse: neither of the two other kids he usually hung around with was there either. Although he rarely spoke of them, their constant companionship with Kyle had shown that the three worked together closely, if they were not friends.

If something happened to Kyle, his friends would probably report it. Unless something had happened to all of them.

John slammed the cover of the manila envelope with considerably more force than necessary. The little tingles of worry prickling the back of his neck were starting to interfere with his work. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed to make sure Kyle was okay before he could focus on anything else.

Most of the orphans were asleep at this time of day, huddled in distinct groups that reminded John of middle school cliques. A few sentries were off on the periphery of the corridor and none of them paid John any mind as he slouched down to identify each child's dirty face.

He ignored the little scars and gashes that marred their faces, and the dried blood that managed to work its way between the strands of their hair. He couldn't save them all, he knew, at least not individually; he had to continue to believe that this war he was currently leading would eventually be their salvation, if they lived long enough to see it.

John could enjoy this train of reasoning, since it allowed him to justify the lavish attention he gave to Kyle above the rest of the children. He was the founder of the resistance, was he not? And he did need to be born in order to found the resistance, didn't he? Thus the life of his father, the life of Kyle, was far more important than the lives of the rest of these orphans.

He couldn't stop, though, the small pang of guilt he felt when he looked away, disappointed that they weren't Kyle.

His heart clenched when he finished inspecting the last group. Kyle wasn't here. Neither were his friends or his dog. He stood and, even though he was alone, his characteristically cool demeanor still didn't completely falter, despite the dizzying spin of his thoughts.

Where was he, then? An obvious question, but pretty much unanswerable at the moment. Although John was probably one of Kyle's closest confidants, it still didn't mean that he knew where the boy might be other than training or in the corridor. Children in these times weren't like the kids he grew up with – they didn't loiter around the mall or go over to a friend's. They stayed in the securest places they could find.

John was standing there in the middle of the corridor, puzzling out his options, and nearly didn't here the small voice calling to him from behind.

"Sir?"

He turned to see a lanky boy limping towards him. There was a brace covering his right ankle and he was currently using a rusty red pair of crutches for support. John may not have had his father's memory, but he recognized the kid easily enough. He was Kyle's friend.

"Did you find Reese and Clark?" the boy asked, hopeful, his eyes pleading.

"Find them?" John swallowed the lump in his throat.

"They didn't tell you?" The boy looked nervous for a moment and darted down his gaze when John shook his head. "A few days ago we were out scavenging. We got pinned by a mini-HK. I fell and hurt myself. Reese and Clark went to retrieve the stuff we left behind when we fled, but they didn't come back for me. One of the patrol scouts found me yesterday."

"And you filed a report with the …" John heard himself ask though the haze of fear his mind was wrapped in. He couldn't immediately recall the name of the resistance department for categorizing and organizing the missing persons lists. It was linked closely to the department that handled the death lists by his own terrible yet necessary design.

"Yes, Sir. The patrol officer did."

Nothing more needed to be said about how useful that would be. There was a list handed out to each of the sentries and scout soldiers of all the missing people and their last known location. The soldiers assigned to those areas would attempt to widen their personal area of patrol in hopes that they could spot the person in question. It hardly ever worked. The debris that lined the city combined with the fact that the machines were often responsible for the disappearance to begin with made tracking anyone down next to impossible.

The only true purpose the department served was to give people a small measure of hope for their missing loved ones, as Kyle's friend was clearly demonstrating. Hope was what the resistance ran on, and it was needed no matter how lost or small the cause was.

But Kyle wasn't exactly what John would consider a small cause. In fact his survival was vital. He was Kyle.

It would be simple enough. John could call a few men together – it didn't have to be a lot, one or two from each unit – and organize a complete search party. He could have them ready and out by dusk.

A small girl woke up behind Kyle's friend and blinked up at them. Her shaggy hair framed and webbed over her face as she stared at John in wide-eyed recognition and wonder. She gasped and caused the others to stir, and soon the entire camp of orphans was silently marveling at the great John Connor in their midst.

"Are you going to send someone to help him?" Kyle's friend asked, either oblivious to or ignoring the waking children. John, however, found his eyes locked upon the young girl's gaze. She seemed to be studying him, sharp and curious. "He is your, well, you know …" Kyle's friend continued after a beat, his voice holding even less confidence than before. If John had been watching him, he would have noticed the boy's focal point fixed solely, dejectedly, on his worn out shoes.

But his attention remained on the girl, and was disturbed if not surprised by the brief flash of envy that filtered through her eyes. It remained for a mere moment, but it was enough to make him swallow roughly. It was an expression mirroring Perry's from the other day – respect marred by jealousy.

So the rumors had spread this far, even.

"No, it'll run through standard procedure," he felt himself saying even as a part of his soul screamed out against it. He would be the leader this time. The selfless leader. It was the rational course of action – if he helped Kyle, the rumor that they had some sort of relationship would become valid and true. He couldn't undermine Kate's honor or his own integrity; the resistance needed its commanders strong and unblemished. It was for Kyle's safety, as well; what would the machines – or even unscrupulous people - do if they found that John Connor had a son?

Plus, if Kyle was going to be sent back in time in 2029, he would have to be alive at that point. To the best of his knowledge, John hadn't done anything to change the timeline, so Reese – the Reese that fathered him, that is – must have somehow survived this. If there were a change that could or would cause Kyle's death that John wasn't aware of, he wouldn't grow up nor be sent back to 1984. John wouldn't have been born and wouldn't have rescued Kyle from a certain death at the camp. Since John was still in existence and Kyle was still alive, he could assume that the past hadn't been altered from the original timeline. Thus Kyle was safe.

The girl, perhaps catching his bewildered frown and creased forehead, turned away and laid back down. Kyle's friend, not bothering to spare John another glance, hobbled over to the nearest wall and slid onto the ground, preparing to sleep.

John fought the urge to sigh. His shotty Back to the Future logic wasn't making him feel better. It rarely did anyway, but in this case the knots of apprehension gathering throughout his body made even his shaky walking near impossible.

He had to trust in Fate yet again. Perhaps he was being greedy, but Fate didn't seem nearly good enough.


"What we make for ourselves."

Kyle blinked. His pupils burned and he forced his eyes to shut against the blinding white glare. He waited nearly a full minute before opening them again and adjusting to the bright light.

His vision cleared, and, through the remainder of the cloudiness, he began to make out clear shapes, colors – red, brown, and blue. Red in wisps upon the rocks, brown in the miles of sand that stretched before him, and blue in the wide blanket of sky that encompassed it all.

He was out in the open on a warm Spring day. His first instinct was to run, to hide before the machines could find him, but the idea was quickly quelled. He was in no danger here, he knew it like he knew that it was Spring, although he had never felt a season before. Never mind that places like this didn't exist anymore beyond a few stray pictures and the memories of the old.

"No Fate," a soft voice said. "I don't think he was right."

Kyle whirled around towards the sound and came face to face with none other than Sarah Connor. She was dressed in her same blue jumper, with a pink headband tied around her forehead. She sat on a bench at a wooden table, looking past him in seemingly deep contemplation – much like she had in the photograph. Kyle was beginning to wonder if his mind had conjured up the picture from memory, when her gaze shifted to look directly at him.

He jumped slightly as her soft eyes pierced his, analyzing and accepting him all in one glance.

"I thought it was the drugs," she told him.

"Am I dreaming?" Kyle asked, bewildered and uncomprehending her words.

"I think so, yes," she said. She folded her hands on the table and looked almost nervous.

"Where am I?" He dared to take his eyes away Sarah's see the surrounding area.

"Calexico, near the Mexican boarder," she answered promptly but did not mirror his wonderment. Instead she kept her gaze firmly fixed on his face. Normally being stared at caused Kyle to become uncomfortable at best and annoyed at worst, but Sarah's gaze only made his cheeks blush and his stomach flutter. "But you tell me. You're making most of this up."

Kyle tilted his head in confusion until she pointed to a spot in the distance. He squinted, following the line of her finger until he saw the familiar outline of a young John Connor resting on a rock. With a smile on his face but otherwise motionless.

"You're drawing on the pictures John showed you to create this," Sarah explained patiently. "It's beautiful, Kyle. I only wish you could have seen it for real." She looked down at the table, that same sad expression filling her. "Well, you created everything but this," she amended, fingering a carving on the table, the words of which Kyle could not make out.

He moved forward to read it, but Sarah blocked it with her hand.

"What does it say?" he asked, knowing that she had covered it intentionally but letting curiosity get the better of him anyway.

"It isn't important; it's just a reminder."

"How am I supposed to remember if I don't know what it is?"

She smiled at this. "Not for you; for me."

"But aren't you my dream?"

"The answer to that question isn't so easy. I don't know. You never told me and I can't figure it out." She stood up without further explanation and silently walked towards him, standing in between him and the bench. Her skirt shifted in the wind, dancing along with the uplifted grains of sand. She paused an arm's length away and, reaching out, cupped his cheek with one hand. Captivated, he didn't think to flinch away. "Maybe it's just a gift. I get to see you again."

"But we haven't met before," Kyle insisted when she let her hand drop. Despite the warm air, his face felt cold at the loss of contact.

"I want to tell you – no, I have to tell you," she said, ignoring his last statement. "You need to survive. You need to fight. You can't give up. Not when you wake up, not any time in the future." He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued. "I know what awaits you, but you can beat it. Consider this dream a break from the nightmares that haunt your sleep. Let it refresh you, give you strength for the fight tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" he asked dumbly. He had no escape even remotely devised.

"Tomorrow," she confirmed. "It has to be tomorrow." A moment of silence passed between them – one of confusion for Kyle but of peace for Sarah. "Good luck, kiddo."

She stepped back to return to her bench and immediately Kyle knew that his dream was coming to an end.

"Will I ever see you again?" he asked desperately as she sat.

She smiled and fingered a nearby knife. "Oh, yeah. But it'll be a while."