Flight is Right

Disclaimer: The events depicted in this chapter did not happen. If, for whatever reason, they are related to true events, it is entirely coincidental. I do not own The Smiths, or any of their works. This is the language of "don't sue me."

Chapter Twelve: ...Often Go Awry, Part Two

query return; guest list? nine refs found. directing...

hotel room manifest

floor one: ...

floor two: ...

floor three: ...

It went on like that, listing floor names and then the guest staying on said floor a bit underneath that. All in small, very small green font on a solid black background. The management certainly wasted no time with aesthetics when it came to information. John Connor eventually had to start squinting and rubbing his eyes in irritation as he cleared the seventh floor of a "Forsythe, D." The black face-mask he'd worn into the security office was crumpled up next his his rapidly typing hands, along with the Beretta 92 pistol. He had to keep typing the same code over and over again into the query box to keep the firewalls from detecting an intruder. A simple safeguard, but it was extremely tedious just the same. Coupled with the fact that he had to keep his eyes diligently searching the screen for "Forsythe, D" on the guest list, and that made him a decidedly unhappy camper. He cursed softly and shook his left hand for a moment; it had developed a slight cramp. The joints in his fingers let out high cracks as he shook it. He pressed them against the surface of the security desk and stretched it a bit. More, slightly lower cracks. That was a really annoying sound. A lot of things annoyed him at the moment, though.

For instance, he was kinda ticked that Cameron Phillips hadn't said a word to him since their latest...

What would you call things like that? Having a moment of closeness with a machine. Touching, smiling, feeling giddy, yet confused at the same time. And then you watched said machine do exactly the same thing, feel the same things you felt. What would you call instances like that? Not flirting; he wouldn't exactly call "hey, I'm glad you didn't kill those poor bastards" and then feeling really good about himself as she just smiled at him "flirting..." But it was close enough. It felt nice afterward until he just examined it, and what it essentially meant. And the fact that, like an ostrich, he was pretty much hiding his head in the sand when faced with such thoughts as "do I like her? Like, in a romantic way?" It was only natural that he would hide his head, for obvious reasons. And that was why he still held out for Cheri Westin, his essential foil to Cameron. Again, for obvious, obvious reasons.

Right now he still felt alright about it. Right now he was stressed with the whole hacking bit, so it was easy for him to dispel shit like that. Right now he was still in "flirtation" mode, and he was annoyed that she hadn't spoken. His eyes scanned the eighth floor despondently and he eventually moved on, grunting. Typed the anti-firewall code again and slammed the "enter" key. He shut his eyes, and typed blindly for a moment.

"Cam?" he said quietly. He really wanted to talk. About anything, really. To take his mind off what he was doing? Sure.

Instead of a response, John heard nothing. He opened his eyes, turned from what he was doing, and took a look around, his right hand moving towards the Beretta. But the security room appeared empty. John flinched back, almost as if he'd just seen the room suddenly filled with ravenous crocodiles instead of it being bare of anything, most notably his sworn protector. What the hell?

John blinked and said, in a much louder voice, "Cameron?"

There was a moments silence. "Hey!" John yelled.

"Hey," came a softer reply, from the part of the office he and Cameron hadn't investigated. John slumped back in the swivel chair, his arms dangling at his sides. He sighed with some measure of relief, even though he knew she wouldn't have just left him like that. Never. Why had that fear even materialized within him? Damnit. From his slouching position, he said, "What're you doing?"

"Getting food," Cameron said as she appeared at the corner. She was carrying a brown paper bag in one hand and a can of soda in the other. John thought it was pepsi, but that wasn't exactly what interested him right then, to say the least.

He blinked as she advanced forward and set the paper bag on the computer bank, and then the can. It read "Diet Coke." She stood there and looked at John expectantly, her countenance one of understated anticipation. She looked almost smug, for whatever reason. John stared up at her, mouth slightly agape.

"Um," he inquired.

"You haven't eaten for five hours and nineteen minutes," Cameron explained.

John looked down at the brown bag. The name "Earl" was written in bold, black sharpie on the side. The top was folded neatly against the paper. The can of soda was sweating little droplets of water. He felt as though he should say "thanks, but I'm not hungry" or ask what was inside, but he felt fairly choked up.

She brought him food. Was it part of her mission to see to it that he was well-fed? Wouldn't that sort of thing only come into play if he was starving or something?

John looked up at her again and cleared his throat, a bit too loudly and awkwardly. He wanted to move, to do something. Then he'd feel embarrassed, probably. Somehow. Cameron was still staring at him with her deer-like eyes. Damn her, she was probably scanning all this, extrapolating on his silence, what it meant. Cool, collected. Scan this data, put said data here, check later. Machine intelligence. Calculated moves. Was this a calculated move? Or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing? And if so...

Christ, why did everything have to be a fucking analysis? She brought him food, good. Ok. If it was any human girl he would have absently said "hey, thanks" but no. The whole machine bit came into play whenever shit like this happened. It frightened him, to be perfectly honest. A question was on his lips. Yes indeed. He opened his mouth a bit more to let that question forth. To hear, and process, what she'd say. He would ask "why did you do that?" and her response would be prompt. Because you're hungry. And then he would-

Fuck it, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He grabbed the bag, almost angrily, and looked inside. Turkey sandwiches. John resisted the urge to run out of the room. Holy fuck, wasn't that convenient? His favorite type of sandwich. He cast a glance up toward Cameron and simply nodded, smiling tightly. She'd brought him food. Why was that such a big deal? It wasn't! No sir.

Stop getting worked up over shit like this, John told himself. Roll with it. Be cool. Don't think.

Cameron pulled up the swivel chair she'd sat in a few minutes before and plopped herself down again, "Have you found him?"

John turned to the computer, frowning. The screen was as he'd left it. Biting his lip, he swiveled around and quickly typed in the anti-firewall code, probably with only a few seconds left to spare. What he didn't know was that time had already run out, and someone had made note of his activities. Derek Reese was currently snapping off a salute at Sarah Connor, much to her chagrin.

"Not yet," John replied, "I'm starting to think he's not on it."

Cameron stared at the screen. "The chess representative might have lied to Sarah."

John frowned, taking a moment to remember the fact that Andy Goode's associate had told his mother where Daniel Forsythe was staying. He merely shrugged. He didn't want to consider any more complications than he already had to. He scanned the ninth floor manifest, and his hand absently snaked into the paper bag. He pulled out the turkey sandwich and took a small, tentative bite. After chewing for a moment, he eagerly took another, bigger bite. The thing was delicious. He made an appreciative noise and Cameron beamed at him, a reaction that sent a slight tingle up his spine. Her eyes widened considerably and she just...nodded at him. That was...nice. The misgivings...the weight behind what she'd done was still there, but more important to him was the pleasure it entailed. They locked eyes for a moment...he couldn't see much in Cameron's countenance other than plain happiness...at his happiness. Was she feigning it all? No way of knowing. He couldn't see anything beyond that face and into the computer chip which held so many secrets. For now, though...it was alright.

Cameron's eyes slid off his face and turned toward the computer screen. Without missing a beat, her hand suddenly stabbed forward, at the bottom of the list. John, his mouth full, turned clumsily and just about spit his food out in shock. He hadn't actually expected...

Forsythe, D. room 910

John gulped down his food forcefully and whispered, "Bingo." He reached for his cellphone.

--

Sarah Connor pressed the cellphone against her ear. She said nothing, she only waited. There was a moment's silence. She could hear John's breath on the other end, puzzled and short. Sarah absently cursed herself for the needless dramaticism and said "John?"

"Oh, there you are," John said, sounding a bit startled.

Derek Reese smirked. Sarah ignored him, although she did see that as a good sign. He didn't frown or glare when he heard her child's voice, and just a moment ago they'd been discussing ways of patching their relationship up. Derek seemed more than willing to pursue it, even eager.

Very uncle-ish. The man was a liar, no doubts there. He dodged her questions, tried to steer her in directions she wanted to stay away from. Was it born into him to avoid these sorts of things, or was dealing with familial (even if he didn't think he was part of that family) issues just something that he wasn't familiar with? Something that intimidated him? It wouldn't be surprising.

A war could do that to you. A long, terrible war. God, they had to stop this. The more Sarah was around him, around Cameron, the more she learned about just how terrible the war would be. Not only on them, but on her. On John. And the kid wanted her to stop it. She was obligated to try and fulfill that, even if...-

No, best not worry about that right now.

"Forsythe's in the manifest. Room 910, that's the ninth floor."

Sarah looked at Derek and nodded. The smile dropped from his face and he looked decidedly grim all of a sudden. Together they started for the elevators, bidding good-bye to the receptionist, who looked rather perplexed at the fact that the people who supposedly needed only to use a bathroom were now going up elevators. "How was the security office?"

"Um," John murmured, "You didn't hear the shots?"

Sarah closed her eyes tightly and shook her head a bit, wishing her son hadn't said that. That was just great. "How many dead?" she asked. Derek looked over and frowned.

"Oh, none," John clarified, sounding almost as relieved for that fact as Sarah felt. "I was just asking if you heard anything."

"Nothing," Sarah said, and she decided to drop it, "Get outta here, we'll handle the rest." They reached the elevator and Derek stared at the buttons for a moment, as if not understanding. After a moment's hesitation, he pressed the up-arrow button. Sarah gave him a sardonic thumbs-up, to which he replied with a one-fingered gesture of his own. Sarah idly wondered if he would have even considered giving the mother of the human resistance the finger about a year ago. If they'd seen each other, chances were he would have avoided eye-contact in reverence. But no, here they were. And there he was, acknowledging cooly that she wasn't a legend, that she was just a person, with personality. Flaws. And he gave her the finger.

Some typing on the other end. After a moment, John said, "Not yet, mom. I wanna expunge their camera records so they can't find out it was us."

Oh. Right. Why didn't she think of that? She hadn't raised no idiot, of course. Things like this, thinking outside the box, that's what she liked to see. None of this mopey crap he was going through. She wasn't prepared for that, she didn't want to deal with it. The type of care-giving she'd given John hadn't included guiding him through things like puberty, depression...Now it came back to bite her. Did she regret focusing too much on teaching him how to be a guerilla? She'd be crazy to. Still, it would have helped to be more well-rounded. Maybe he'd be happier today.

"Well," she said, "hurry that up and go..." she was silent for a moment, staring up at the elevator ticker. Coming down steadily. Looked like a slow day for the hotel. Smiling suddenly, Sarah said, "'Expunge', eh? There's a five-dollar word." Derek grimaced at this and rolled his eyes. Sarah gave him a half-smile, half-glare. Connecting was important, damn him. She thought he'd know that by now.

John snorted. "They pound a lot of vocabulary into your head at the school," he said amidst rapid-fire typing, "Hold on, Cam. Anyway, I'll call when we're finished up here."

The elevator let out a cheerful ding! and slid open. The elevator itself was mercifully empty. They stepped inside and Derek pressed floor nine. Sarah said, "Be careful, honey."

A slight pause from John, one that pained Sarah slightly. Saying things like "honey" and "sweet-heart" didn't come naturally to her. It took an effort of will to say things like that. And John was conscious of that. He murmured, "You too..."

There was a click as he hung up. Sarah absently set the phone to vibrate and dropped it in her pocket. She sighed. Derek remained silent as the elevator door slid shut. Jaunty Twenties music was playing, filling the elevator with sound that Sarah would have otherwise done without. The interior walls of the lift had hand-rails and soft cushioned surfaces. The front page of a Los Angeles Times, dated 1924, had been incased in a plastic holder on the front-most wall. Sarah gave it a quick look, found that she could barely read the small type-print besides the head-line (which was unmemorable) and turned back. A loud beep rang out every time the elevator ascended to a new floor. Derek was staring upward and into one of the ceiling lamps. He gave no sign of being irritated by the glare. Sarah cocked an eyebrow at him, but he didn't see it. He was deathly silent, frozen. Waiting.

Sarah inclined her head forward, all too willing to forget her problems with her son, and said, "You alright?"

Derek shoulder's jerked up a bit and he cocked his head toward her, as though surprised. They stared at each other for a moment before Derek looked down and raised his left hand to his forehead, rubbing it absently, "Sorry, what's up?"

"I was asking if you were alright," Sarah said, frowning, "You seemed a bit distant."

"Just getting myself in the zone," Derek replied, running his middle finger over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He took in a sharp breath and looked up at the ticker. It read "6."

Sarah frowned, "You really think that's necessary?"

Derek looked at her, "You of all people should understand that it is."

She shrugged and said, "I've been complacent until recently."

A frown from Derek. His eyes widened somewhat and he raised an eyebrow; he hadn't expected her to be so frank. He mulled over that for a second and said, pointedly, "Charley?"

"We lived with him for two years," Sarah answered after a moment's hesitation. Did he really have to know that? Maybe. And maybe not. Still, she went ahead anyway. "I'd hoped we could just settle down. So did John."

There was a louder beep, followed by a click. The elevator doors opened and Sarah and Derek walked out, leaving the roaring Twenties behind. That music had been joyous to the point of being downright irritating. The ninth floor was a lot like the first one, except it was narrower, and the floors had a different type of carpeting. Sarah walked over to the nearest door and read aloud "901." The door immediately to the left was 920. They settled on going right.

"So what happened?" Derek asked as they started walking. Both of them were checking their pistols, and Derek was reloading his. He seemed fixated on having as much ammo to shoot as possible, even when the clip was still full.

Sarah didn't want to tell him that a dream in which John had been shot by a Terminator inspired her into flight. She had perfect faith in her feelings when it came to matters such as these, but she knew explaining it to another person would be difficult. It would make her sound crazy.

And she wasn't crazy.

"What happened was that I realized what was going on," Sarah said. "No one is ever safe."

"I'll drink to that, unfortunately," Derek replied. They quickly concealed their weapons as a grotesquely fat maid walked by, a pair of gigantic headphones attached to each ear. Music (of which no genre or lyrics could be placed) poured forth from them so loudly that Sarah could literally see the walls shaking in the maids wake. Getting past her was near-torturous. Sarah found herself rubbing her ears gently a few seconds after the maid was gone. Derek looked annoyed, but otherwise unaffected. They shared a look and had to laugh. Sarah had to admit to herself that she was grateful for the maids passage. She didn't like to think about Charley, and the terrible, terrible thing she'd done to him. To John, too. It was necessary, however. Really.

Derek said, "Skynet would have won if it used loud music instead of nukes. I think we'd have killed each other just to get it off."

Sarah cast a glance back toward the waddling behemoth, "Some would survive."

Derek looked back as well and grinned; "More power to them." There was a distant, but distinct ding as the elevator took on a passenger, probably the maid. Good.

It didn't take long to reach 210. As soon as they stopped, they stared at the numbered plaque for a few seconds, as if trying to ascertain if it wasn't a trick or not. It wasn't. Sarah took a deep breath and looked at Derek. He nodded his head toward her and whispered, "What happens if he's in?"

"Let's put on the face-masks." Sarah arranged her hair to make the fit easier and slipped the balaclava over her head. She took a moment to adjust the eye and mouth pieces and looked at Derek.

"It suits you," she quiped.

Derek chuckled. "So we just knock him out?"

"Yep," Sarah said.

Derek nodded and brought out his Glock-17. Sarah did the same. "Let's do this," Derek whispered grimly; "Knock."

She knocked, rapping on the hardwood door twice in quick succession. They waited for about a minute before determining that no one was home, or at least that Forsythe was a heavy sleeper. Sarah jiggled the handle, found it locked, and quickly nodded to Derek. He nodded in return and jogged away toward the elevators to stall anyone who came onto this floor. Sarah reached into her pockets and swiftly fished out a pair of lock-picks. She pressed them into the keyhole and started probing, her tongue absently dragging itself out from her lips as she concentrated. Every noise was amplified about a hundred times to her, she could probably hear a pin drop. In the business of professional burglary, you tended to learn how to trust your extraneous senses. It took about two minutes for her defeat the lock, and she grunted as the satisfying click! announced itself. She withdrew the picks and raised the Glock. Took a deep breath.

Hopefully this would get them somewhere closer to the Turk. Hopefully this wasn't a lost cause. Most of all, she desperately wanted this to be understated.

In the spirit of understatement, Sarah calmly pressed the door handle downward --instead of kicking the door in-- and walked into Daniel Forsythe's hotel room.

--

Derek was leaning against the wall opposite to the elevator doors, absently twirling a straw he'd found on the ground --the local maid was apparently more interested in her apocalyptically loud music than actually doing work-- when said elevator let out a loud ding. Derek dropped the straw and quickly placed his right hand in the side of his trench coat, where the Glock-17 strapped. He told himself he wouldn't need it. Just some yuppie going to him room, or a member of the cleaning crew. The elevator doors slid back. The roaring twenties spilled out before he could see who was inside. No need to worry, absolutely no need. Sarah was about two minutes into her break-in, she'd be done soon. No need to worry, just-

It turned out to be Cameron. Derek's right hand dropped from where it was to hang limply by its side. An amalgam of emotions dominated his face, manifesting themselves at specific points. His eyebrows raised to their highest points in stark, naked surprise. His eyes darkened with terrible, probing suspicion. Conspiracy. His mouth fell agape in utter, speechless shock.

Cameron stepped out of the elevator, looked Derek up and down, smiled absently, perhaps not seeing his expression(s) and continued on past him, heading toward her left. Derek stared at her as she did this. A billion things ran through his mind at that very instant, all too fast for him to make sense of it all. One thing quickly cut a bloody swath through all the extraneous things and reached the top of his mind. JOHN?

"Hey!" he yelled, raising his arm to point at her. He didn't know why he did that. To focus on something. Something. He didn't call her a metal bitch, or anything related to machines, because-... she-... it wasn't-

...

Cameron turned around, looking somewhat harried. She cocked her head and said, oozing politeness, "Yes?"

Derek stared at her, his arm held rigidly at her, frozen, paralyzed. He was shocked. Surprise was gone. His eyebrows had assumed a look of apology, of fright. His eyes were still dark with suspicion. His mouth had moved upward somewhat, but was still agape, agape with a grimace. A grimace of...of...

He shook his head violently, still staring at her and said, "W-where's John?"

Cameron's eyes narrowed in confusion, and the smile got a little more forced, a bit more awkward. She tilted her head a bit and said, "I don't know who you're talking about."

She was wearing a pink shirt. Denim jeans. The pink shirt had a fucking design on it, some sort of black criss-crossy bullshit. Her hair was in a pony-tail, and it was short.

Cameron Phillips, model TOK-715, a Terminator sent from the future to protect John, had come in wearing a blackish grey shirt with similarly colored pants. Over that shirt was a black tight-fitting jacket so she could easily conceal the small pistol she'd chosen for herself. Her hair had been loose and wasn't bound up.

She was supposed to stay with John. She was supposed to know who John Connor, leader of the future human resistance, commander of Tech-Com, was.

THIS WASN'T CAMERON.

Holy fucking shit. Derek stared at her, his mouth slowly coming unhinged again as all of this donned on him. This...this girl looked exactly like her. Not a single difference in facial features, NOT ONE. It was the face of John's protector, of the horrible thing that danced in front of him several nights ago, it was the face of his-

He resisted the urge to scream and run away. He resisted the urge (the drunken, powerful, almost sensual urge) to jerk the Glock-17 out of his coat and riddle this woman with bullets until she was unrecognizable. Until she was worthless to both the world and to the machines that would come to copy her features into a skin-grafting unit.

He lowered his hand. He was still staring at her. "Cameron" stared back, slowly raising an eyebrow. Derek took a back-step. He frowned and his head hurt. Hurt a lot. His mind was filled with a lot of pain, a lot of memories, a lot of thoughts, implications, revelations. Was this important? He really didn't know. He should probably shoot her. Kill her. Interrogate her, possibly, if he was feeling...feeling...No. He didn't want to do anything. He wanted this thing, this woman, this apparition, to leave. She looked normal. Enough. No guns. She looked at you straight, like a regular person. She didn't analyze you, didn't look through you. This...he wanted...no...no...

He couldn't. He smiled wanly and said, "Hey, sorry, I thought you were someone else." A violent chill eddied its way down his spine, getting more and more icy, more terrible with every word. He should do something. He couldn't do something. GO AWAY.

None of this had fully processed through him yet. It was all stalled, clogged. As soon as she was gone, he'd probably collapse or something due to the sheer excess of thought within him, the weight. He just wanted this thing to go. This person to go, that was the DIFFERENCE.

"Cameron" blinked and nodded briskly, "Oh, that's OK. See you."

She walked off down the hall at a relatively business-like pace. Derek stared after her, frozen to his spot, until she disappeared around a corner.

"See you," he murmured before stumbling back against the nearest wall, with the eyes of a man who has witnessed a premonition of things to come.

He stayed there until the black-suited men, armed with assault rifles, started to come down the hall.

--

"Punctured bi-i-cycle...on a hill-siiiide des-o-ol-a-ate..."

John's right hand idly tapped the computer bank as he attempted the keep synch with "This Charming Man," the iPod headphone slung into his right ear. His head rocked back and forth. The computer screen, characteristic enough for the last half-hour, was dominated by a red-progress bar. Above it were the words "Deleting Archives." This was probably the eighth such progress bar in the last five minutes. John couldn't isolate any files in particular, so he'd opted to delete the entire archive. It'd probably set back the hotel back a couple of bucks, and he wasn't very interested in that at all, to say the least. Deleting the hotel's camera records would effectively erase all of their activities here, and the only witnesses saw a bunch of people in face-masks. Well, except the receptionist...but who could say whether or not she'd put two and two together to make four? Cameron was sitting next to him, probably listening in to what he was hearing at exactly the same level of sound he was hearing it at. Her eyes were fairly wide as she stared forward at him. He smiled brightly at her, feeling faintly embarrassed, in a bashful sort of way. But what the fuck, really? She wasn't gonna judge him. On he went.

"Will nature make a man of me ye-e-et..."

She'd never heard him sing before, even if it was imitation. He wasn't that much of a singer to begin with, though he liked to think he was at least competent at it. If he put a bit more effort into it, he thought he'd be really good. It wasn't a priority, though. Becoming good at singing was a priority for a fifteen year old with control over his life, who could make decisions for himself. John was not that fifteen year old. He continued tapping and glanced at the progress bar. Chugging along steadily, at least. Cameron continued to stare. John's hand accidently struck the brass metal of the Beretta 92 and he jerked it away to resume the motion. The brown paper-bag, addressed to "Earl" was empty, and the can of Diet Coke was half-finished.

"When in this charming car... this cha-a-a-a-rmi-i-ing ma-a-an..."

He drew out the last word a bit too short, and didn't use a tone he would have otherwise thought suitable for it. The Smiths probably wouldn't mind. The jaunty, thoughtful music continued to flow along. The less smooth and decidedly un-jaunty progress bar ran into a hitch and halted for a moment. John gave it a quick look as he said, "Why pamper life's complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seaaaaa-a-a-at..."

The progress bar suddenly jumped the rest of the way to the side of the screen and turned a bright, cheerful green. The header near the top blinked away and was replaced with "Successful." John nodded at this and reached forward to push the "OK" button, absently singing, "I would go out tonight...but I haven't got a stitch to wea-ar..." Time to get out of here.

Cameron pushed herself up from the swivel chair she'd been sitting on and grabbed the back of John's hood. He abruptly stopped singing and had just enough time to grab the Beretta when Cameron dragged him down with violent abruptness and swung herself around him, drawing the SIG-Sauer out of her jacket. He hadn't even said a word to her, nor yelled, nor yelped in pain. Nothing. Something was-

John's head hit the floor with a dull smack. He saw stars. Felt dizzy. Morrissey continued to sing along without John's help as the door to the security office burst open and the man from the lobby, wielding a large, heavy pistol clambered inside. The still unlit cigarette was clutched tightly within his grimacing jaws and he aimed point-blank at Cameron. Someone yelled something in Russian.

"This man said... it's gruesome... that someone so handsome should caaaaa-a-a-a-are..."

John quickly rolled himself around to his back and aimed down the iron sight of the Beretta at the mafioso. For that was what he obviously, so evidently was. John's right thumb slammed the safety off, cutting the digit in the process. Cameron raised the SIG. The man, seeing the danger, stopped aiming and just squeezed the trigger. A flash of light. The heavy-set pistol bucked in his outstretched hand and slammed into Cameron's torso. She flinched back once and calmly finished adjusting her aim. John had the man down in his iron-sights first, but Cameron would be more accurate. Another man scampered in behind the first man, wielding an Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle, going to the right. John, in a sudden, still dizzied frenzy, quickly tried to correct his aim toward this newcomer. His thumb was throbbing in pain, and blood spilled down the side of his hand, intermingling with the sweat.

Cameron fired. The SIG spoke twice in loud, sharp barks and the man jerked twice in turn, blood blossoming like spring flowers on his torso. His eyes were wide with pain and sudden, terrible confusion. One in upper chest, the other just about where his heart was. He let out a strangled scream and he dropped to the floor, releasing his grip over the huge pistol. He stopped screaming as suddenly as he'd started and he started jerking around like an asphyxiated fish. Sweat poured freely over John's eyes as he finished aiming, slightly blurring his vision and irritating him. He ignored it as best he could. The second mafioso was crouching quickly, setting the collapsable stock of the assault rifle against his shoulder, and he peered down the iron-sight at Cameron. His fingers tensed up on the trigger easily, slowly. He wanted it to count, John could see that. Two more men were jumping over the body of their dead pal. John didn't see what kind of load-out they had.

"Ah! A jumped-up pantry boy... who never knew his pla-a-ace, he said-"

John tapped the trigger hard and the Beretta spoke, causing his arms to jerk back with the concussive force of the gunshot. The round struck the man in the leg, at about the upper calf. He bounced back against the wall and the AK-47 clattered to the floor, discharging a round. The wayward bullet struck the wall and exploded, causing smoke to billow away from the hole it had created. The man clutched his hugely bleeding leg and fell forward in abject, impotent pain, cursing. John swung his arms toward the other mafiosos, gripping the pistol tightly with increasingly slippery hands.

-"return the rings, he knows so much about...these things!"

The men within the door started to fill the room with sporadic, panicky gunfire, causing John to let out a short, terrified scream as he felt the whiz-bang of bullets traveling around him, toward him, over him. Near his head. He heard the ricochets, saw the computer bank explode in a shower of sparks and metal. Heard Morrissey singing busily, the gunshots constantly drowning out his voice. Cameron flinched back several times as a few rounds impacted her. None went through her. They just pierced her skin and bounced off her endoskeleton, creating audible clang noises. She cocked her head, almost looking amused, and dropped one of the men with a clean shot to the head. Blood and bits of bone flew out from the back of his skull and he collapsed without a sound, still holding his pistol. A rank smell began to dominate the room as the man's bowels released themselves as he expired.

The last man, not processing any of this, possibly out of adrenaline or terror, continued to fire from where he was, clutching a MAC-10 machine pistol. Flames burst from the muzzle of the grey weapon, spewing bullets in all directions. He was wearing a black face-mask, identical to the ones John and Cameron had over-taken the security office with. His outstretched hand was clammy and plaster-white, a pool of urine was quickly spreading around the crotch area of his jeans. He was saying something in loud, scrambling Russian. John absently heard the word "guys, guys!" a few times. He aimed directly for the thugs chest, suddenly not caring if he killed him or not. Everything was like swimming now, dark, slow. Light stretched down from the top to illuminate the bottom. There's terror. Cameron remained rooted to her spot, simply aiming over open sights with an air of utter dispassion at the terrified thug.

"He knows so much about these things!"

The SIG-Sauer barked and barely recoiled in Cameron's masterful, unrelenting grip. The bullet pierced the mafiosos neck and he dropped his uzi. Blood sprayed as though from a fire-hose onto the floor and a loud, high-pitched whistling screech emanated from his mouth. The bottom half of the face-mask went from black to splotchy red. Both of his hands darted up to his neck and he began to press down against the wound with fanatical intensity. His hands quickly became bright red. The eyes on his face were wide and carried very little recognition of much anything besides primal fear, pain. Fear of death. Pain, god, what was that like? Was it stinging? Like being punched? Or was it like a void, something you couldn't contain, something that sucked everything, all of you, into its gaping maw?

Cameron shot him in the head. A good part of the upper half of his skull blew away. The mafioso's hands relaxed, trailed downward to his stomach, and he fell head first into the pile of his dead comrades.

The music cut off for a split second and Morrissey quickly resumed, saying "I would go out tonigh-"

John pulled the headphone out from his ear and he laid back against the cool, tiled floor, shutting his eyes like vaults. He took in a breath. His torso, head, arms...hands were all sweating profusely. He ran a hand down his body and breathed. Coughed. There was a lot of dust in the air. His gun-wielding hand dragged down to his side, turning back and forth absently. His thumb was bleeding rather a lot now.

Cameron stood where she was for a moment, probably scanning for more assailants. The guy John had wounded, writhing in pain, was reaching toward the AK-47, and Cameron stalked forward, bent over, and snapped his neck with a loud, reverberating crack.

"We have to go, right now," she said, turning around. John opened his eyes and lifted his head up. He grabbed the iPod and stuffed it into his pocket as it still played. He started to lift himself up, and heard his knee joints popping. Got up to his feet and silently reloaded the Beretta. Cameron was staring at him. Several bullets had pierced her jacket, and she was bleeding in a few spots. She didn't heed any of this. A shit-piss smell filled the room, causing John's nostrils to flare in protest every time he took a shaky breath. Smoke everywhere. Blood all over the floor, like a fucking tidal wave had just come in through the door. One of the maffiosos was jerking up and down, his nervous system having not gotten the hint that he was dead yet.

John brought his bleeding thumb up to his mouth and looked down at it, almost with clinical detachment. A small stream of blood rivered down the side and pooled at his palm. The cut was pretty wide. The pain wasn't too bad, it was just throbbing gently. He had...

"What the fuck?" John asked, amid coughs. This hadn't fully gone through his mind yet. He was still high on adrenaline. Shooting. Combat. Dead men. Blood. The shakes would be coming soon. He resisted the urge to start whimpering in fear. None of those guys had said a word, they just blockbusted right through didn't do nothing holy crap he'd almost DIED they just shot at them.

Christ! What the hell was that about?!

"Russian mob," Cameron said, stepping toward John. She was reloading her pistol, and she seemed hurried now. In the distance, John heard someone yelling in confusion, in panic. "Either Anton Pasternak phoned ahead, somehow, or someone found out we were here, and what our intentions were."

"Oh, jesus christ," John whispered, his eyes going wide. He laid a hand on the computer bank and started shaking, raising his right hand to rub at his forehead, almost looking exactly as he had when Derek Reese had woken up on their kitchen table, yelling for his brother. Cameron finished reloading and gestured, with the gun, toward the door, "We have to get out of here."

John looked up at her, still breathing heavy, "I have to call mom."

Cameron's eyes narrowed and she stepped forward, grabbing John's arm. Apparently she wasn't interested in pandering. She pulled him up from the computer bank and started walking, "Let me go, damnit!" She didn't budge. They kept walking and she pushed several corpses out of their way. John nearly tripped on one of their legs, and he had to resist the terrible urge to vomit. A person was standing at the end of the corridor, and Cameron gave him a look. It was just a guy, wearing a tacky tuxedo. He didn't look menacing, he looked frightened out of his wits. As soon as he saw the be-pistoled figures walking towards him, he bolted.

John continued to jerk and weave, trying to release himself from Cameron's soft, but binding grip. She could apply pressure if she wanted, make it painful. She wouldn't, though. John yelled at her, "Cameron, let me go!"

"It's too dangerous here," she said dully. They were approaching the lobby now, all it would take was a turn of the corner and they'd be there, several yards from the front entrance. John stopped walk and tried to pull himself away. Cameron froze as well and she whirled around. He'd stopped shaking. He had to warn his mother, goddamnit. They were in danger, all of them. Did they even know? Christ, christ, christ. John glared unabashedly at Cameron, hating her all of a sudden. Right hand was weak, it was bleeding. He raised his left hand instead and tried to punch her, clumsily. She halted it with her right hand while the punch was delivered. She cocked her head, "John, you have no choice in the matter." She looked slightly pained, as if it hurt to explain this to him. As if she just wanted to drag him away without a sound, like any other, more boiler-plate member of her "species" would. Anything without emotion, without having to deal with that in him. She didn't want to hurt him.

John stared at her coldly for a moment, in silence, rooted to where he was. She tugged slightly at his hand, indicating that it'd be easier, much easier if he just cooperated. John heard a sound like fire-crackers some distance away. Oh, god. Cameron gave no sign of recognizing any of it. They stared, waiting.

John let his voice get hitched a bit, wavering, "Cam, please..." he shook his head and his mouth fell open a bit in abject sadness.

Cameron blinked. Yes. She said sternly, "John-"

A tear spilled down his cheek, "Please!" he cried, holding his free hand to his head.

She let him go, backing away somewhat. Her eyes were wide and apologetic. Holy christ. John quickly drew a hand over his face and felt vaguely horrible about having manipulated her this way, and so skillfully. She didn't even realize that he'd been faking it, she was so scared about hurting him, whether it was real or not. Oh god. John's eyes had turned cold again, with a slight hint of hurriedness. He turned away from Cameron and his hand dived into his pocket, reaching for the cellphone.

Suddenly he felt that it wasn't so much of a stretch for him to condone torture in the future.

The iPod headphone came out along with the cellphone. He heard the last guitar-only bit of "This Charming Man" as he feverishly pressed the buttons for his mothers cellphone number.

--

Base folder; DForsythe, temp account

RE: problems

I know exactly what you're talking about. Continue as you were. I'm going to deal with the problem shortly. - Sarkissian.

RE: Turk?

I have it, it's all secure. Someone killed Andy, however, and it was definitely not that rat Dmitri. Weird. You'll have your info soon enough. I expect the payment to be prompt, as you said. - Sarkissian

RE: security

You think you have problems? You're SAFE compared to me, goddmanit. I'll arrange for some of the guys to "stay" at your damned hotel. Quit your whining before I decide I'm no longer invested in your "business." - Sarkissian

It was a lot more than Sarah had expected. And a lot worse, too. The hotel room, barring a few interesting magazines and some obvious paperwork related to the awareness program, was bare of any useful documentation. Except for the computer, which was a veritable gold mine. And Sarah wasn't sure whether she should be happy or angered at that. Who the hell was Sarkissian?

The man in the photo, of course. Well, now they had a name to match with the face. Great. Where did he live, though? What was his address, his phone number? Anything like that would have been even better, but no... She had only the confirmation that Forsythe was definitely involved in the theft of the Turk. Somehow. How did she feel about this? Really, how?

Good. Which wasn't to say that she was happy, not necessarily. The introduction of yet another antagonist into her life was never viewed upon with warmth. And it probably meant that this man, Forsythe, might be involved with the creation of Skynet.

How had that happened? Why was he pursuing a business with this shady man, this man who'd gotten Andy killed? Who killed Dmitri and his sister? How much did Daniel know about what he was doing...? She'd long since stopped asking the question of how a regular person can create a computer system that decides to annihilate a whole race. These things simply happened. Was it fate? None but what they could make. If this man played a part in the future war, then Sarah would do all she could to stop him.

Even kill him? Perhaps. Things had changed now that she knew Daniel was definitely involved in all this. They could use him to find out more about this Sarkissian character, but she didn't want to leave him be without at least...doing something to make sure he couldn't play a role in that future she so desperately wished to avoid. Ever.

All things considered, she felt good. Purpose was restored, and they were no longer flying blind...until the next snag came around.

She closed out of the emails and tried to check for anything in Sarkissian's profile, via a link through the inbox.

You are unauthorized to view this page. Please obtain permission from the hotel staff. -- Sincerely, The Checkers Staff.

Right then, time to leave. She shut off the computer --there were tons of things that threw her off about these things. She hadn't liked them back in 1999, and they were doubly confusing in 2007-- and gave one last look to the hotel room. This was just the beginning of something...she could feel it. She sighed.

Snap...click!

Sarah froze for a split second, her eyes going wide at the sudden shock of what she had just heard. The shock wore off almost as soon as it had entered her. She lowered into a crouch and dived to the left --a randomly chosen direction-- and winced as a bullet crashed into the armoire she'd been standing in front of. Chips of wood sprinkled down on top of her as she landed with a loud thump. She rolled to the side, unholstered her pistol, and swung it in the direction from where the round had come. Her shoulder ached in protest as she did this; she still bore the scar from when Cromartie had shot her.

She scanned the room, the Glock-17 held outstretched in front of her, peering down the iron sights. She was staring into Daniel's bedroom. It had bachelor-sized bed, along with a computer desk, two side-tables, and a shuttered closet door to the immediate left of the bed. A red laser sight glanced out from it, probing. It settled on her leg, which Sarah jerked back up to her buttocks as another bullet flew out from the closet, breaking some of the shutters cleanly in half. Smoke billowed out, almost as if the little room was on fire. Dust sprang up from the carpet as the bullet struck. Sarah scrambled up and laid her back against the corner of the entrance that led into the rest of the hotel room.

Another bark, loud and reverberating. The huge round tore a hole through the wooden wall, just above Sarah's head. The gun being used by her assailant sounded like an Israeli Military Industries XIX Desert Eagle, .50 caliber.

Fuck.

Sarah pivoted around the corner and fired four times into the closet, tightly controlling the recoil of the Glock to ensure accurate hits. Dust and splinters of wood cascaded down from the shutters. The red laser beam jerked up as one of the bullets evidently struck home. Sarah grunted in some satisfaction, but stayed exactly where she was. There was a moment of silence, and she found herself idly wondering where Derek was. Someone was on to them, goddamnit.

The red light returned. Sarah dived to the right, dodging the passage of three .50 rounds. She paused, breathing heavily. Wait, what did this mean-

She heard the closet door burst open; literally collapsing, sending beams of wood every which way as the occupant tore it down. Dust and splinters sprayed out. Slow, menacing footsteps from Forsythe's room. Servo-motors and tiny, almost inaudible whirs.

Sarah stood up, very calmly, brushing some dust off of her. Outside, she heard rapid-fire gunshots, answered by short, barking pistol retorts. Things were going to hell in a hand basket. Derek screamed "SARAH! SARAH?"

She ran for the door, tightly controlling her breathing and not allowing the piercing terror, that horrible feeling in her heart to spread and infect her entire body. She tore the door open and risked a single, cool look back into Forsythe's room

A man stared at her, down the sights of a jet-black, titanium coated Desert Eagle. He was huge, bigger than all the Tee Triple Eight's they'd encountered in the last several weeks. He wore an understated blue button shirt, along with regular, extra-sized denim jeans. He wore sunglasses.

He had brown, crew-cut hair. An angular, Germanic face. Sunglasses hung on the bridge of his nose, obscuring his pale green eyes.

Funny. She almost felt comforted by seeing it, realizing that the last time she'd seen one of its model, Cyberdyne Systems T-800 Model 101, it had given her and John a "thumbs-up" as it descended into a pit of molten metal, having just saved their lives.

She was almost comforted. Almost.

She cooly took in the Terminator's appearance and shut the door behind her. A .50 round tore through, but it missed.

--

Derek sprinted past Sarah almost as soon as she was out the door, barely avoiding a large bullet that came crashing through said door. Sarah turned tail, probably seeing the mafiosos who were chasing her brother-in-law, and ran along side him.

"There's metal," Sarah said, reloading her pistol as Derek did the same.

Oh christ was all Derek could think. Things had gone to hell in a hand basket. A bunch of suited thugs wielding assault rifles had ambled their way toward him down the hall, from where the Cameron look-alike had gone. They had ignored Derek until he shot one of them in the head, after which they deemed him a problem. It didn't take long for their force of munitions to send him running, barely avoiding getting a round in the skull himself. And now there was-

The door to Forsythe's room collapsed in a cascade of dust and hardwood.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK," Derek yelled. He peered down the hall, sighted the obvious Model 101 (those things were favorites with Skynet. They were imposing enough to be used liberally on the battlefield, which sort of decreased their proficiency as infiltrators, as they got to be pretty well-known. Still, just seeing them sent chills down your spine, they were so fucking big,) and fired twice at it. He missed both times. The T-800 held a rather beefy pistol in its right hand and absently raised it to fire. Behind it, the three surviving mobsters crouched in perfect, terrified unison and started to shoot at the Terminator. The T-800 bounced forward and fell to the ground under the pressure of something like a million 7.62x39mm rounds hitting it all at once.

Derek whooped in delight at the hapless mafiosos shooting their own "ally" and continued sprinting, sending a few bullets toward them for good measure. He missed. Sarah ran backwards for a moment and put a few bullets into the skull of the Terminator. It got up, peered at the retreating resistance fighters, and turned to deal with the mafiosos. Derek and Sarah never got a chance to see what it did with them, for they turned the corner and Derek could see the elevator doors. They absently heard a spate of gunfire further off in the building, and Derek felt ice run down his spine. Oh christ.

"C'mon, go, go!" he breathed.

Sarah didn't argue. They just about flew the rest of the way and Derek stabbed the down button. They both took positions against each others backs, pistols outstretched. Derek was heaving up and down, nearly beat. First action and here he was barely able to stand. He should have rested a bit longer, goddamnit. His gut hurt like a motherfucker.

"Well, this is getting interesting," he murmured.

"Shut up," Sarah spat. She fired off once, and Derek yelled, "What, what?!"

Silence from Sarah, and then, "Sorry."

Derek growled, coaxing a shrug from her. They both looked up at the elevator ticker. Almost there... They resumed their quick --hopefully quick-- vigil.

"Did you hear any gunfire?" Sarah asked.

"Uh, no."

"Damnit."

Almost as soon as she said this, Sarah fired her pistol three times in quick succession. Derek couldn't look back to see what it was, for a black-suited thug came round the corner. Derek adjusted his aim a bit, watched the thug sight him, turn to run away, and dropped him with a shot to the chest. The man jerked back and collapsed, dead. Derek reloaded. He made a questioning noise, and he was answered by the moaning of a middle-aged man. Derek cooly waited for Sarah to finish off the thug she'd dropped, keeping his pistol turned toward the corner. Someone in the hotel room nearby was screaming bloody murder, yelling about how the cops would get them and take them away to prison.

"Finish him off," Derek said.

"He's cool where he is," Sarah responded. Derek sighed and whirled around. He sighted the prostrate mafioso and aimed down the iron sight at his head. Sarah pushed his arm down just as he tightened his index finger to squeeze the trigger. She gave him a meaningful look, indicating that he should leave well enough alone. Staring at her, Derek re-positioned his aim slightly and fired three times. They both stared down at the thug, three gaping holes in his chest cavity. Sarah turned to him, eyes full of sudden, insane rage.

"You mother-" she started.

Ding!

"-morning. Every evening, ain't we got fun?"

They turned and sprinted onto the elevator lift, barely managing to dodge a liberal amount of .50 cal bullets.

"Second floor!" Sarah yelled. Derek pressed the barrel of his Glock against the "2" button and the elevator doors slid shut. Almost a second before closing completely, the frame of a rather large man appeared in the door slit.

They both raised their pistols in anticipation. They never got a chance to fire, though, as the elevator gave a halting jerk and started downward. The 20s tune continued on unabashed, its long-dead singer completely unaware of their situation.

"Not much money, oh but honey, ain't we got fun?"

Somewhere up above them, a loud, reverberating double pound echoed down the elevator shaft, followed by silence. The Terminator had withdrawn. Derek took in a deep breath and fell back against the plush elevator walls, just in time for Sarah to smack him hard in the face. Derek blinked and started to draw his hand up to-

She smacked him again, on the other side. Derek flinched back this time, frowning, and gave her a side-long look.

"You murdering bastard," Sarah spat.

Derek raised an eyebrow, "He'd have killed you without blinking."

"I know," she replied, "And that's the difference between me and-"

Ding! "Times are bum and getting bummer! Still we have fun..."

Derek trained his pistol over Sarah's shoulder as she raised hers with both hands. The doors slid open. Daniel Forsythe, resplendent in a peach over-coat and yellow hat, stood in the opening, eyes wide. Barely missing a beat, Derek and Sarah calmly stalked over to him and dragged him inside. His hat flew off his head and drifted away as the doors closed. The elevator continued down towards floor two. They both trained their guns on Forsythe, who raised his hands over his head. The man was pretty chubby, and his soft face, now absent of glasses, had gone stark white in terror.

"W-what the is t-this?!" Forsythe blubbered.

"We are so lucky today," Derek said absently to Sarah. He was just about ready to kill this bastard, what with the whole "Terminator in the room" deal.

"And yet we aren't," Sarah said evenly, staring at Daniel, "What's Sarkissian's address and phone number?"

"In the meantime...in between time, ain't we got fun?"

Daniel paused. Who the fuck was Sarkissian? Forsythe paused for a bit too long and said, in a low, almost deadened voice, "Uh...who-"

Sarah lowered the gun and bashed the barrel against his gut. Daniel let out a horrendous cry of pain and doubled over, raising his right hand in a weak attempt to fend her off. Sarah withdrew the pistol and aimed, "Ready to talk?"

"Go to hell, bitch," Forsythe spat. Sarah's mouth fell open.

Ding! Sarah and Derek whirled around, watching the ticker. It read "5." What the hell-

The elevator doors slid open and bullets came spilling through, prompting Derek and Sarah to take cover at the sides. Loud, frenzied Russian followed. Forsythe, still doubled over, yelled, "Don't shoot, you idiots!"

Derek stabbed the elevator button frantically as Sarah blind-fired past the corner with her pistol. Forsythe hobbled to the side and laid himself out against the wall. Tearing noises as the AK bullets struck the soft cushioned elevator walls.

"The rich get rich and the poor get children..." on went the song, which was beginning to seriously irritate the living shit out of Derek.

He side-stepped, pistol raised, and fired twice down the corridor, which was occupied by about five mafiosos, all crouched or standing, Kalashnikovs at the ready. Two had pistols, but bullets were bullets. Derek didn't try to select a target, he just fired off twice and back-stepped into the elevator, barely avoiding a wall of lead. Sarah yelled to Forsythe, "Just tell us and we'll let you go!"

"Never!" Daniel cried theatrically. The elevator doors began to slide shut, halting the flow of bullets. Frantic Russian from behind, followed by a stampede of footsteps. They were gonna head them off again. Sarah, evidently realizing the same thing, cried, "Motherfu-

She halted in mid-sentence and holstered her pistol, drawing her cellphone out. She pressed it against her ear;

"John? Oh, christ, thank god. Get out, get out now, we're stuck on the-"

"-No, don't bother. We'll be fine, just get...John, do- John. John."

Forsythe eyed Derek and Derek eyed Forsythe over open sights. Derek shrugged and Forsythe tilted his head a bit, eyebrow raised. Elevator started moving down.

"John, listen to me...Sto-... John, I swear to god, if you do that- Oh, fine, we're heading down to the second floor, just wait for us."

She snapped off the cellphone and sighed, "Stubborn little..."

"He cares about ya," Derek said, smiling gently.

"I know, it's just-"

Ding! "...Ain't we got fun?!"

The doors opened, disgorging a hail of gunfire. Derek was beginning to get a headache. In the meantime, Sarah turned back to Daniel Forsythe and said, "Daniel, just tell us before I let him shoot you."

Forsythe spat at her, "You...idiots. You're from the future, aren't you?"

Sarah and Derek shared a look, which was interrupted sporadically by flying, super-heated rounds of lead. The bullets stopped for a second and one of the Russians yelled, "GRANADO!" or something close to that effect. A tiny frag grenade bounced into the elevator. Sarah scrambled forward and picked it up, and then tossed it back from whence it came. Terrified screams followed, and then scrambling footsteps. A Russian dived into the elevator and Derek punched him in the face and forced him back out again.

"Explain," Sarah said cooly, sending a few bullets down the hall.

KA-BOOM!

Daniel glared at her, "You're here to stop Skynet," he said, and quite rightfully. But he sounded...

Derek's mouth fell open, a mixture of rage and shock dominating his face, one almost fit to rival his expression when he saw the Cameron duplicate. He sounded ACCUSING.

ACCUSING?!

"Don't bother," Forsythe went on. Both of them dropped their pistols to their sides, staring at him in mute horror, "It can't be stopped. You won't stop it."

"What are you...?" Sarah trailed off, sounding...just terrified, almost. Angry. Very angry. Derek was just...how could anyone...The elevator doors shut.

"Let me go," Forsythe said, "If you let me go, I'll put in a good word for you. I won't help you find Sarkissian."

A good word. "That thing in your room-" Derek said.

Daniel laughed in his face, looking somewhat annoyed that Derek had gotten him off the whole "let me go" subject, "You're from the future! Shouldn't you know what it is?"

Derek knew what it was. He raised the pistol, stabbing it toward Forsythe, "Let's kill him," he said. "I can't...how can you do this, you fucking prick? You betray your own fucking species?"

Daniel shook his head, "No, I haven't betrayed anyone. Skynet will not destroy the human race. It will free it. The chosen ones shall live as the rest are nuked into fucking oblivion."

Chosen. A lot was piling up here. A lot.Sarah and Derek glanced at each other again, more than a little overwhelmed by the information they were suddenly receiving. It would be foolish to say that they'd been expecting something along these lines. This was way too much, he could barely process it. Sarah looked...shell-shocked.

Derek really wanted to shoot him. He looked down at his left hand and that found half of the nails had been chewed off. Christ, he hadn't even noticed he'd been doing that.

Daniel stared at the two of them, alternating his glance every second or so. He looked frightened, probably of being killed, and yet at the same time appeared utterly smug in the knowledge that he was sure neither Sarah nor Derek possessed. He looked...hopeful. Like they were playing into his hands, or something.

"The rich get rich and the poor get laid off...in the meantime...in between time, ain't we got fun?"

"I promise you," he said, "that when the bombs fall, you'll be spared. Really. Just let me go..."

--

"Attention residents," said a voice over the intercom, "This is the manager, uh...we've called the police department and they're sending every available car they have. Just stay in your rooms and wait it out. Don't panic."

John looked back down at the elevator doors and muttered, "Too late for that." He was sucking a bit on the cut on his thumb, trying to assuage the dull pain he felt. Every now and then he heard sporadic staccatos of gunfire. It gave him the chills every single time. Each was a moment where his mother could be killed. Which made further blasts of gunfire a mixture of comfort and dread.

Cameron didn't respond to his comment. She was kind of pissed at him. John didn't think she realized that he'd been fake-crying, but she was mad all the same that he'd opted to stay and help his own freakin' mother rather than run away. He really didn't feel like considering the fact that she'd let go of him in the first place. Only that she did, that was what mattered. If he thought about why she did it, and how he got her to, then he'd get all distracted, and that wasn't what he wanted right now. Wanted to stay focused.

John started tapping his foot. Cops were on their way. This day was getting so fucking complicated, and seemed happily able to eclipse the last few days of his week in its horribleness. God, they had to hurry, or this would turn into an even bigger clusterfuck real fast. He hoped that they'd found something useful at least.

A door further down the hall opened up, which jerked John back into the present. He whipped his head toward the noise and reached into his jacket for the Beretta. Cameron moved forward, positioning herself in front of John. She stared as well.

Four black-suited men came through a gun metal green door and immediately made a bee-line for another, similar door nearby. They were carrying an amalgam of death-dealing devices, in one form or another. John tensed up and drew the pistol, lifting himself up from where he'd been leaning on the wall. Cameron looked back at him and shook her head. One of the mafiosos sent a look over to them and seemed to freeze for a moment. Gave them a look. Cameron raised her hands in mock dismay, her face becoming a mask of fright and panic. The mafioso snickered and went on, ignoring them. Cameron's face went blank again and she looked at John, expecting-

"Cam, we gotta-" John began.

"No," Cameron denied immediately, "We have to avoid potential violence towards you."

"They're going up to kill my mother."

Cameron looked at him, eyebrows furrowing. He stared back, eyes wide and pleading. He wondered if he should turn on the waterworks again, but decided against it. That would be cruel, and he felt horrible enough already.

"Do you want me to kill them?" she asked tonelessly, cocking her head towards the last retreating thug. She said it so simply, so...business like. Creepy as fuck.

John looked down, gulping. They had to hurry, the gunmen were just about gone now. The word "yes" was on his lips. Holy god, though, how could he say something like that? That was crazy. Cameron nodded her head toward him, expectantly.

God help him, he nodded. Why the fuck not? Had to protect his mother. He...

"Don't kill them," John said, as Cameron began to stalk off after the gunmen, "Just put them out of commission."

There was a moment of silence as she walked. John frowned, wondering if she'd deny him that. But no, she said, "Alright. Hide. Don't do anything."

John nodded at no one in particular and sighed as his protector disappeared behind the still opened door. He stuck the Beretta in his jacket again and started clicking his heels together idly. The elevator ticker let out the occasional beeps, indicating that the elevator was still a few floors up. The mafiosos would want to catch Sarah and Derek while they were in a confined space. God, how had this all gone to hell so easily? What the hell happened? Someone must have seen something, heard, or saw, anything. But how? Really, how? They'd been so fucking careful.

Part of this was his fault. He knew that from the moment the dude from the lobby, now dearly departed, kicked in the security office door, wielding his huge fucking gun. If John had just let Cameron work Anton Pasternak over a bit, they'd know that the place was infested with a bunch of Russian mobsters. But no, nah, nope. He let his morals get in the way. He couldn't stand the thought of torture and then simply washing his hands of it. He wasn't like that! And now his mother was in danger...so was Derek. He thought he fucking hated Derek, but the man was his uncle. He'd fucking die if they were killed. Literally. He would die. Without his mother to guide him, to train him...he was at sea with no hope of rescue. Cameron could protect him, but she was just one against a world of potential enemies. He'd be lost.

Just thinking about it gave him the shakes. Most of it was from combat, just being all jittery and shit. Flying bullets... that kind of shit did you in, mentally. And John was fifteen, for chrissake. He knew what was expected of him, but... Terminators were fine. They were evil (Cameron?) He knew they could be defeated, he'd seen it happen twice. They were an uncompromising enemy (Cameron, uncle Bob?), one that didn't even hate you for what you stood for, anything like that. They were creatures of point A to point B (Cameron?)

Someone came walking down the hall a few meters away, from past the corner it seemed. John gave the guy a look. He wore a plain white buttoned shirt, tan khakis. He wasn't much taller than John. At this distance he couldn't make out too much in the way of facial features. The guy was sort of huddling, looking over his shoulder. Just a scared resident. John returned, absently, to his thoughts.

Humans screaaamed when you shot them. They had souls. When you killed them, they just died. It wasn't like being shut down. They bled a lot, screamed, cried for their mothers. He fucking hated this. He had to shoot human beings today. He had to shoot and help to kill the very sorts of people he would come to lead (maybe.) That was fucked up. He had wanted to keep the fight to Skynet, goddamnit. All of the shit he'd felt when Sarah went off to murder Miles Dyson had re-emerged as soon as the subject of killing Andy was brought up. This wasn't what was...it was terrible. He wanted it to stop.

There was a distant thud of an explosion from further up, which caused John to jerk up and stare at the elevator, dread rising in his chest. He half-expected the elevator to come screaming down, bringing his family hurtling to their dooms. But there was nothing, which didn't exactly relieve him. What was happening up there? He shifted on his feet and kept his eyes fixed on the ticker. A simple, yellow-lit down arrow flickered back at him. It gave no indication of whether his mother and uncle were dead, and it really didn't seem to care, either. John glowered at it and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

He listened. No more gunshots. He heard footsteps approaching. Probably the dude he saw a few moments ago. Some weird noises coming from the stairs, intermingled with grunts of pain. Cameron was going to work. He wondered if they had any chance in hell of overpowering her, that maybe he shouldn't be too cavalier in ordering her off to go do something violent for him. His mom alone had managed to destroy a T-800, after all... God, there was too much ambiguity. He was way too stressed for someone his age-

Click.

Eyes widening until they resembled dinner plates, John whipped the Beretta out of his jacket, slammed the safety down (cutting his thumb again), and pointed it into the face of the white-buttone-

Michael Oxferod stared at him from behind the sights of a Browning Hi Power pistol, eyes narrowing substantially. His head was kind of tilted to the side, giving John a cold, almost appraising stare, like a bird examining a worm. John's face was the very definition of shock; all stretched back, eyes huge, eyebrows elevated, mouth agape. He looked as if he'd just witnessed an explosion or something. Like he'd seen pigs with wings playing basket ball with cigar-smoking dogs. How was- why- hee...

His mind was coming unhinged. HE was going NUUUTS.

"John..." Michael said slowly, shaking his head a bit. At least he looked confused to. He kept the pistol elevated and gave John another side-long look. "?"

He didn't actually say ? but it certainly felt as if he should have. John realized he must look like a statue of some sort, so he moved his eyes down to the pistol. His bangs were in kind of in the way though, so instead he just watched his hair. He was going through the same motions Derek had experienced when he saw the girl who was Cameron yet was human.

This was the kid he...punched. In the head. And forced...into the bench. Because he sat with Cheri Westin. Gave him splinters. Got detention over all of that. And here he was...pointing a gun at this face. Having a gun from the kid also pointing a gun at his face. That thought didn't make sense, hold on a second. Was he coming to exact some sort of protracted fucking vengeance?

"What...are you doing here?" John asked him, the words trailing out of him like molasses.

Ding. The elevator doors slid open, disgorging a rather large, hulking Austrian man who was wearing sunglasses. Michael let out a yelp of terror and started to run in the other direction. The Terminator stalked out of the elevator, sent a look toward John, toward Michael in the other direction, rapidly disappearing past a corner, and walked over to the other elevator, pressing the call button. He cocked a rather beefy Desert Eagle and stood patiently in front of the second elevator shaft doors, probably waiting for his mother and Derek.

You would swear you heard something snap in John's head. He turned slowly to look at the Terminator. Exactly the same, sans the biker jacket and pants. This would be hilarious if it wasn't so surreal, and so fucking...

Thoughts drained from his head. He felt positively dizzy, like it was blood being re-routed away from his brain. The world was spinning gaily. He cocked his head sharply, almost like a machine would. Resettled. Stared at the Terminator.

He wanted to hug him or run away. Pseudo-dad right here, standing in front of him. The Terminator looked at him carefully and said, "Go away."

He should probably shoot him. Where was Cameron? He felt dead, like someone shot him. He was shot. No he wasn't. He'd be bleeding if he was shot. But his thumb was bleeding again; blood was dripping and everything. Did that mean he was shot? Perhaps...perhaps...John's tongue was lolling out from his mouth in dull concentration. He stared at his hair and the Terminator. He realized that he was thinking, just a bit, like a lunatic right now, that he wasn't being fully rational, that perhaps he had snapped under the sudden unlikely appearances of these two "people." Mike and the Terminator. Easy seeing...yeah. Terminator was there to kill his family. He didn't know why. Maybe that was its assignment. Mike, he didn't know. That was kind of weird. Just a bit weird.

He was shaking like a wet dog. Didn't realize that. He stared at the Terminator. Had to get himself back. The Terminator looked at him carefully and said, "Go away, now."

Terminator. Uncle Bob? No.

Huh...he felt really tired.

John looked down at the rest of the Terminator. It was wearing a sky blue shirt, which was really quite ill-suited for this weather, as well as denim jeans with a designers label. He had a belt with several grenades strapped to it, along with two huge clips of .50 rounds. John looked up at him. The Terminator looked back.

"Who're you waiting for?" John asked, his voice kind of high and almost dreamy, euphoric sounding.

The Terminator responded immediately, "Two people who broke into a hotel room on the ninth floor."

"Wow," John said, "You gonna catch them?"

"I am going to shoot them. Go away."

"Wow," John repeated, blinking a bit. Things were kind of slow. He was kind of...wow. Behind him, Cameron opened the gun metal door, having religiously beaten up the mafiosos, and immediately started to walk towards John and the Terminator, her eyes locking onto the latter. She unslung her SIG-Sauer. Down the hall, Michael Oxferod crouched near the corner, trying to ignore the influx of people rushing to get away. Police sirens echoed. A little further up in the elevator shaft were Derek and Sarah, moving steadily downward. Daniel Forsythe was dead. The remaining mafiosos who were conscious were busily freaking over the losses they'd sustained and were unanimously deciding to book it.

On the ninth floor, the Cameron look-alike, peering into a bank of monitors, observed all of these events with increasing dread. On the computer bank next to her was a memo entitled "SKYNET - SUBMISSION. KNOWLEDGE. YOKE. NUKES. ELEVATE. TEACH." The background featured a pale yellow eye staring down at a mushroom cloud.

The Terminator raised the Desert Eagle and fired twice at Cameron just as she moved to pull the trigger. The first bullet struck her in the chest and sent her bouncing back. The second hit her at the same spot and forced her to the ground. As this exchange occurred, John scooted forward under the Terminators arm. The Terminator moved a hand to bash John out of the way. John's hand bloodied hand darted forward and pulled the pins on two of the grenades, still attached to the Terminator's belt.

"JOHN, YOU-" Cameron was yelling.

But he didn't hear the last part, for the Terminator brought his hand around and "smacked" him in the torso. The force, which was like that of an anvil, sent John sprawling several feet away. The wind knocked right out of him and he couldn't breath. Something felt broken. Possibly a rib. Cameron rolled her way toward him and threw herself on top of John, trying to cover every square inch of his body with her own, juxtaposing herself in the path of the inevitable shrapnel. John was still sort of loony. He raised a hand and tried to stroke her hair, but she grabbed the arm and forced it down with frantic, violent force.

The first grenade exploded, which threw the Terminator, laterally, into the wall behind it, crushing the foundation and sending plaster and wood everywhere. It took the brunt of the shrapnel, most of which penetrated through its skin and disrupted the inner-workings of its endoskeleton. Shrapnel jackknifed through the air and John yelled in pain as a flaming hot piece pierced his arm. Cameron shook convulsively as a dozen fragments washed over her. The second grenade exploded almost in unison with the first, which tossed both Cameron and John bodily through the air several feet down the corridor. Two more burning shards of shrapnel arched into his back, and blood rushed out of his mouth as he impacted the floor. Cameron rolled a few feet further and started jerking convulsively, letting out a high-pitched, metallic screech.

There was a hissing roar. A freight train noise. Everything went black. John absently ran a hand down his chest and found that his shirt was literally burning off.

He heard running footsteps. And there was nothing else.