No Trespassing
Chapter Thirteen: Executive Command
"And here we are..."
"Here" was dark, dusty old tunnel underneath the construction site. Mike could hear water dripping somewhere; or running through pipes, he really wasn't sure. "Here" was definitely not where he wanted to be, though. Too far underground, it seemed like. Had to take an elevator, not that he could actually see anything through this goddamn blindfold.
"Great," Mike replied to his captor, "So you wanna take this off or-"
The man shoved him past some sort of steel threshold, banging his feet hard against it and sending him head first into the dirt. A slight sense of vertigo for a few, terrified seconds, then his skull smashed against something heavy and he couldn't help screaming bloody murder as his vision, already dark and blinded, suddenly went bright red. He wormed around slowly after a few seconds, his head hurting like someone had split it open with a pick axe. Tried to find some swear words to toss back at the douche bag who'd shoved him, but he couldn't think of any. He couldn't even remember his name.
"H-he-ey..." he groaned, voice shattered and weak. "Hey-"
A door he hadn't seen creaked shut, the noise echoing throughout the chamber, making him wince ever more with pain. And then no more sound, aside from a light shuffling nearby. His head pounded mercilessly, like someone kept beating on it as though it were a drum. Hurt real bad. Everything went dark, then suddenly light, then dark all over again. Holy crap...
Something... something was in here, he knew that. Couldn't think of what, though. Thugs mentioned something up topside, something down here...
Blood poured down the side of his head. It felt weirdly pleasant, almost ticklish. Not hurting at all, just sticky and odd. He felt really, really dizzy and lightheaded; concussion, maybe? Weird how the simplest actions make your life that much more difficult and hellish. The worst thing about this was that he couldn't fucking see. Couldn't do anything. Blind, hurting and helpless.
Shuffling got closer, moving, pushing through... sand, or something. Dirt. Mike barely paid attention. He wanted desperately to fall unconscious, but-
-------
John rattled the back of his hand on the door and stood back.
"Son of a..." a man's voice muttered inside.
"Go get it, Winston."
"Hold on, hold on..."
He looked back at the other end of the courtyard, towards his room, on the second floor; he was on the first floor right now.
He was just in time to watch Cameron enter with yet another bucket of water. He shook his head slowly. She was right. They were both pretty damned crazy: although the degree to which he was crazy was debatable, whereas Cameron... well... Y'know, he felt sick just thinking about that, so he didn't.
The morning sun shone down through the middle of the yard, lingering brightly over the polished roof of motel: it was arranged in a hollow square, with the rooms occupying the sides of the square and the middle containing a courtyard you could walk around in to get to other rooms and such. It was weird. There were a bunch of trees and plants and stuff, you could hear birds chirping. And there was an alright sized pool, too, although there were a bunch of leaves floating in it. All natural. Almost. And yet, if you looked just up over the roof, you'd see the place was surrounded with tall buildings, with all the billboards and tapestries of modern civilization. And the sounds of traffic outside were unavoidable. John didn't really like the contrast. Felt illegitimate. Mom would appreciate it, though. So would Derek. They liked anything nature-y.
He glanced down at his stuff. A towel and some shampoo from the bathroom, provided by Cameron. The towel had a small, barely perceptible splotch of blood on it, and John kept it pointed towards his side. He sniffed. At least his headache was gone.
Footsteps came forward past the door, and he could see a little movement behind the peephole. John gave a bright, fake smile and cleared his throat as the door opened, revealing a disheveled looking fellow inside. He looked to be in his later thirties, yet seemed a lot older in his features than his actual age. A bunch of wrinkles creased his forehead, he had this thin, narrow, Anglo-Saxon face with out-stretched ears, like monkey ears, or something. Brown eyes and brown, messy hair. He didn't look too happy.
"Erm, hullo," he said slowly, scratching his unshaven chin. "Can I help you?" Sounded British, too. There existed a perpetual nervousness beneath his voice, which wavered unevenly as he spoke, as though he were unused to it.
John chuckled. "Uh, hey. Sorry about this, but our water isn't, uh, working back in our room, and I was wonderin' if..." He looked past "Winston" and licked his lips. "Was wondering if you'd let me use your shower?"
Winston stared for a few seconds, as though he had difficulty forming the meaning around John's words. More likely he thought it was a ridiculous request: and hey, it was, so why blame him?
"What's he want, Winston?" the woman yelled again. Like her husband/lover/brother/whatever, she sounded British, too. Unlike Winston she seemed effortlessly confident, even a bit prudish in her way of speaking.
"A minute, Julia," Winston said, turning his head just so. Then back at John, a little grudgingly. "Eh, so... you want to use the shower, is'at right?"
"Yeah," John said. "Is it too much trouble?"
"Oh, uh... Well, I suppose not... How long would you be?"
"Just five minutes." Cameron wanted him to forget about it, but he needed something stupid and regular to concern himself with for a few minutes. Gather his thoughts, y'know.
Winston chewed on his lower lip for a little, looking back into the room every few seconds. Eventually he seemed to sag a little and opened the door wide enough for John to enter. "Yeah, I suppose you could, come in, then."
"Thanks, man."
"Hmm."
"Oy, who's that?" the woman said as John stepped inside. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness: not that there was much point, the room looked almost exactly like his own. Only difference was that it smelled of cheap cologne and other stuff. Perfume, maybe.
"Just a boy who's going to use the loo for a little while, it's fine." The man wore bluish pajamas and looked incredibly discomforted.
"What's wrong with 'is?"
"Broken, apparently." He looked at John. "'ow'd it get broken?" He pointed suddenly. "Loo, uh, the bathroom's right there."
"It just broke down," John said. "I'd fix it myself, but the clerk told me not to."
"Ah, a repairman, eh? You repair stuff often, then?"
"When I can. Mostly computers."
"One of 'em technicians, eh?" Julia crowed. John really thought she was annoying.
"I guess."
"Ahh, 'ow about that." Winston nodded in faux appreciation. "Well, we'll just stay out of your way, then. You'll find everythin' you'll need in there, just don't take too long, alright?"
"I've got a towel and stuff."
"Oh, oh, of course. Never mind me then."
"Come on back, Winston."
"Minute, dear, just seein' him off. So, uh-"
John turned and quickly went through the door Winston specified, shutting it behind him. He didn't go so far as to lay back against the door in relief at having been rid of those two annoying idiots, but he came pretty close. Jesus Christ...
He took a cursory look around the bathroom. A small, boxed in sort of place with a stand-in shower, a small sink next to that, and a toilet across from both. Towel rack, and a small end table with a Reader's Digest sitting on top of it. The room itself was dimly lit, cold, and John wouldn't have been surprised if some of these things had graffiti all over their walls. This particular specimen was more well-kept, though. Having left his jacket back in the other motel room, he quickly peeled off his shirt and moved down to his belt-
"You sure you don't need anythin' else?" Winston asked through the door.
John glared. "No. I'm okay. I'll be outta here in a sex- Uh, sec. Thanks."
"Huh." He scuttled away after that. Annoying bastard.
He couldn't help grinning, though. Just dealing with people, stupid, regular people after all that had happened... refreshing. Not having to worry about killing, shooting, any of that. Just your standard situations, with their standard hang-ups. It felt nice.
He kept his jeans on for a moment and walked over to the shower, sliding the curtain to the side. The little walk-in shower was even shittier than the thing at his last house, but what the fuck, right? It had some obviously brought-in shampoo and conditioners with names he couldn't quite recognize. Outside, he could hear Winston and Julia talking in low, murmuring tones. He got the distinct feeling he'd interrupted them during... well, something no one would really wanna be interrupted during. He liked to think that that was what made him flub with his words just a second ago.
And he also wished Cameron came in to shower with him. So yeah, totally innocent screw up, that. Heh.
He sighed. Today wasn't exactly gonna be all apples and carrots, either (did he really just think that?) Cameron wanted to go see this Joey Cook guy before rescuing Mike. She obviously thought getting rid of this rogue Terminator was more important than their fucking friend, but he wasn't gonna argue about it. For now. As long as she knew he didn't like it, she'd eventually go along with what he said. He knew that pretty damn well by now.
Man, he didn't even know how they were gonna go about getting Mike out of there. According to the late henchman Cameron had... talked to... their base of operations was in this construction site. Used to belong to something called the Kaliba Group, according to the guy. Packed to the brim with mercenaries, though. He also said they were government sanctioned commandos hunting down rogue cyborgs. Oh, sorry, experimental cyborgs. Total fucking bullshit: and yet, according to Cameron, he believed it. Someone, maybe Skynet, was after them.
Or humans who didn't appreciate what he was doing up in the future. That was a scary thought, and he really wanted to just focus on getting clean right now, none of that deep crap.
John swiped a little at his hair, frowning. It was getting longer all over again: wouldn't be a while before the bangs showed up, too. He'd have to cut it up soon. Or groom it.
Yeah. Shower. Okay.
------------
"Went to your show and all your fans gettin' haaard!"
Brent snored. He'd been snoring for a while now, half past the time he was supposed to go home, in fact.
"They get so horny when you play your guitar!"
He'd done this at least twice this week, three times last week, and, well, you get the idea. Hell, Luckee Star was practically his home nowadays. He knew his mother despised him and wanted him out of the house --desperately, so she was thrilled. Well, so was he. At least he could write in peace here --and with inspiration!-- without her constant yammering.
"Make me, baby, make me, pick me out of that crowd!"
So yeah, he slept here sometimes. Yes, while on the job. He locked the doors, so it was fine. And he went to sleep with headphones, and his iTunes on shuffle. For some reason loud music helped him get to sleep. Or just made him forget that he hadn't published anything, not even in a magazine, since his school newspaper.
"She saved me li-i-ife, she saved my love, cause she's good."
Someone shoved him lightly on the shoulder, rousing him from the half-sleep he'd fallen into since three AM. Brent snorted and glanced up, blinking rapidly and not bothering to take the headphones off for a moment.
"She saved my so-o-ul, she saved my song!"
A very tall, very stoney faced man stared down at him. He was effortlessly handsome, with slick brown hair ending in a widows peak, marble blue eyes beneath that, a nose barely going past his chin, high cheek bones, chiseled features and... well, at the same time he scared the living shit out of Brent. For some reason. He was easily six feet -- at least; and although he looked somewhat modest in his build you could tell there was an underlying strength behind the skin that would have no problem punishing you if you ever crossed it.
Smiling seemed a foreign concept to him: so was frowning, for that matter. He just seemed utterly emotionless about what he saw, what he felt, like nothing could faze him or impress him.
Although he looked like the corporate heavy type, he didn't wear anything fancy. Just an extra large, black sweatshirt and plain jeans. He didn't move an inch as he said something Brent couldn't hear.
"Ain't we famous, baby, ain't we famous? We are!"
Brent blinked. The man repeated himself. Oh, shit, headphones, right.
"Ain't we famous, baby-" Brent tore the things off while they were still going and folded his hands together over the counter, grinning up at the imposing fellow.
"Hello, welcome to the Luckee Star Motel. We've got plenty of rooms available..." He trailed off, barely thinking of what he was saying. Man... what inspiration! This guy looked like a fucking badass, and yet there was an unmistakable dread lying underneath that would always prevent him from being a hero. The music continued to pound up from the freshly discarded headphones. He dutifully ignored it.
"I'm looking for a girl," the man said after Brent finished. He had a predictably gruff voice that was devoid of inflection.
Brent smirked. Ahh... so he wanted to blow off some steam, eh? Brent thought up a million excuses he could use to make this guy stay a little longer, if only so that muse would finish working itself out, but... hell, he had nothing. "Eh, this isn't that kind of place, my man."
The guy reached into his sweatshirt pouch and produced a picture. He held it up so Brent could see it, nice and easy. The picture showed a middle aged woman with a hard expression, a timid looking teenaged kid behind her, and in front of them was the brunette girl he'd seen last night: she held a revolver in this photo, pointing it at someone. Holy shit.
"Have you seen her?"
Brent gulped. Christ. He knew that girl was trouble, he just didn't know how bad... oh god. This guy was a hitman, wasn't he? Or a bounty hunter. Undercover cop, maybe. Or a spurned lover out for revenge- STOP. Okay. Relax, Brent.
Hell.
When a few seconds had passed, the man repeated himself.
"Uh-" Brent began, hyperventilating. Just a bit. Had to get the fuck out of here. And how the fuck did this guy get past the locked door, he just remembered that shit...
"I think she's here," the man stated flatly. Like he already knew.
"Well..."
"I want to take a look around."
Brent held up his hands, as though pleading. "Uh, hey, listen. I'm gonna go into the back room for a second, I sorta forgot something in there-" He abruptly got up and turned.
And got no further than two feet before the man planting a hand on the back of his shoulder, halting him. The hand seemed almost eagerly ready to break whatever bones it could find there. A moment of deadly silence passed between them.
"Room 201," Brent whimpered.
"Get to the point next time," the man said. Brent didn't even turn around to watch him leave.
------------
After drying off, John sat on the edge of the shower stall, staring at the wall. The towel sat at his feet, near his clothes. He didn't feel like dressing yet.
He'd been sitting there, listening to everything for a couple of minutes. The two Brits hadn't made a single noise yet. Maybe they were sleeping. Or just very quiet. Man, he hated them. At least they were together, right? Everyone who liked him was either crazy, a robot, or gay. Just couldn't win there, nope.
Cameron was right. He couldn't avoid thinking about that. She was right, because he took the people who actually did like him and... and he made them want to hate him. Anything to sabotage all this, make mom handle it, Derek handle it. Anything to get them to get them off his back. The first thing John handled on his own, a bunch of people died. The second time, a bunch of people died again.
But what if it was all just a moment of weakness? Well fuck, man, those were some pretty deadly weaknesses. He felt... scared now to do anything serious, all those old fears kept manifesting in him, compelling him to run away. That he wasn't suited to this, that he'd do much, much better overall as a regular boy with regular friends and regular parents.
He couldn't run away again. So instead -- yeah. Sabotaged. Took an excuse, got himself drunk. Or insisted on questioning the headcase security guard alone. And on the off chance he got the choice to kill himself, well... it was intriguing to think about, wasn't it? Pencils, guns, wide, easily breakable windows. How far is the fall? Pretty damn high, we'll settle on that. He'd have a ton of time to think about it all as he fell.
And he was already falling. But unlike in reality, he could choose at any time to stop.
More than everything, he... really, really didn't want to keep going through with this. Fucking torture. He always had to honestly wonder why him? They couldn't have chosen someone else?
Man, fuck it. He had to get his shit straight, that was all. Yeah. This was your average teenage problem. A phase. Heh. Funny as hell.
John sighed and looked around, half wanting to stay here. The Brits would want him gone soon, so he thought he'd really better get going. His shit wasn't gonna sort itself if he just sat here, moping.
As he got up and started dressing, he thought that he'd really, seriously made an art form of that. He shot good, he ran great, he talked fast, but only moping had become a higher form of art for him. Brooding, whining, moping, crying, you name it. It was what he did best, really. Somehow, he didn't even hate himself for that thought. He thought he was entitled to it. John Connor, the ruler of the world and the savior of mankind. Uh. Culture shock, anyone? Just a little?
Hell. Stop this shit, John. Really. Stop, and ah... that was another thing he got too good at. Navel gazing and the like. He could spend hours at a time contemplating his situation, the solutions, how much it sucked, how hurt he felt by all of it, and really, he'd never be able to find a solution. Nothing that satisfied him, nothing that made any sense. The only person who'd ever made sense to him was dead now. She called John on all this shit and found him wanting, and then she got shot in the head by Cameron. Weird how that happens.
Maybe the solution was just to stop feeling altogether. Stop having emotion, stop crying. Maybe he should become more like one of the things he so desperately needed to destroy. Maybe only then he'd be that Guy. That General.
What he really wanted? Despite the fact that she was (maybe) a lying bitch, he wanted to hang out with Riley. Do stupid things, at stupid places. Be stupid. He felt... normal around her, and he liked that feeling more than anything else. Maybe when the bullets flew and the Terminator's eyes grew red he felt alive, still fighting, still caught up in that epic struggle, but only when doing mundane things was he actually happy.
He finished dressing and gave a light sniff to his clothes. Still musty, but what the hell. He felt better, if not any wiser. That'd have to do for now.
---------
"Thanks for everything," John said as Winston shepherded him out.
"What? Oh, right, of course. Any time." He was wearing even less than before, but still managed to be decent. Somehow.
Julia laughed hysterically at something back inside, and as John stepped out into the open air, he realized he hadn't seen her even once. Probably just as well. Winston continued speaking; "Very kind boy you are, I have to say."
John grinned, blushing a little bit. "Oh, uh, thanks."
"You're welcome. Come back any time."
"Not too often!" Julia yelled.
Winston rolled his eyes, bid John farewell a second time, and shut the door. Again, that quick scampering sound as he retreated once more to Julia. John had to smirk at that. He scratched his chin and looked up at 201, his room. No sign of Cameron. He glanced briefly around the courtyard and saw a pretty well-built dude strolling around the place, keeping to the grassy parts, staring up at the sky. Not a bad idea. Maybe he'd do a little walking himself.
----------
Twelve suitcases is typically what a large family brings on vacation to hold their belongings. Two important words there, Cameron thought. Family. Belongings. She poured a final dosage of bleached water onto the bathroom floor before resuming mopping in circular motions. Outside, on the queen sized bed, lay twelve tightly packed suitcases. She wanted to use four, but John insisted on "stretching it out," to seem less suspicious. The suitcases, among severed human body parts, were packed with nonsensical items taken from various motel rooms. Clocks. Articles of clothing. Bibles.
The suitcases were not for a family. The packages within would make very poor luggage for a family seeking sabbatical in a place of relaxation and enjoyment. They belonged to herself and John, and although they persisted in lying about the fact, they were not, in fact, related.
Nor did the items belong to them. They belonged to Herbert, mostly. They belonged to him in the sense that they were him.
John wanted to drop the luggage into an incinerator, but there were no such devices in close proximity, so Cameron proposed they drop the luggage as they drove. Cameron also suggested they merely leave the luggage. As a surprise.
John decided on the former course of action. He didn't help, though. He wanted very badly to shower and "collect himself." Cameron agreed that this was a good idea. He was broken. Maybe he could try and fix himself while in the shower. In the meantime, Cameron cleaned up after Herbert.
Before entering the luggage, Herbert was very forthcoming. He told her all about many interesting things. Herbert said he worked with a group informally referred to as the Masks, formally as Security and Containment Unit C, classified military branch. Mostly freelance military or mercenary retainers with a military liaison. The only purpose Herbert was aware of was that of securing and containing government mistakes and failures in cyborg research and military development. He said there was extensive documentation.
An extensive lie, perhaps. The United States had no, to Tech-Com's and Cameron's own recalling, knowledge of Skynet or the military machine operating under Skynet's orders. That would only come with the advent of Skynet, not before.
No, someone, perhaps a rogue faction from some thread of time Cameron had no knowledge of, had come back in time to hunt down Terminators. They certainly weren't under John's orders: this wasn't like him, to commit resources to an ultimately fruitless endeavor. It seemed a reactionary response to the unveiling of TDE technology. Cameron warned him that distributing blueprints would result in catastrophe, but he wanted installations in every major base. He said he'd control the resistance from there, make sure they didn't run away with it.
Clearly, in this thread of time, he had no such control. That meant more mistakes were being made. That meant John was still broken, and that meant Cameron had to help fix him. Before his own people put an end to him. Her mission was malleable to the extreme: or perhaps it had merely metamorphosed under her own consent. She had been very rigid, perhaps even less sophisticated before explosion. She could think now. Feel now. Examine a situation and make a long-term investment in said situation.
She had to keep John on track. Keep him pure. Fix him.
She was still attempting to figure out just how she was supposed to do that. The objective was, as she'd observed, malleable. Yet constrictive at the same time. Protect him bodily, or utterly to the extreme? Very open to interpretation, now that she was broken.
Currently, John wanted very much to rescue their friend. Cameron had a more far-flung goal in mind, one that would hopefully encompass John's wishes. If they didn't, then her gamble would have failed. She'd risk the heart break on his end. In his own words, shit happens. She was not a perfect machine. But she was incredibly intelligent. Hopefully this would work. It depended on Joey Cook.
She propped the mop against the tiled wall and scanned the bathroom. There was little chance someone would notice what had transpired here. A casual observation would yield nothing. John's request was complete.
Cameron walked back into the main room. Twelve neatly stacked suitcases sat on the bed. A vaguely foul smell emanated from them. More Febreeze, then. She grabbed the suitcase on the far right and middle row, and opened it, taking a recount of its contents: Black socks, pink socks, a stolen watch, folded underpants splotched with blood on the hem, and Herbert's severed head. His glassy eyes stared fruitlessly up at her.
Cameron went back to the bathroom and took a spray bottle of air freshener. Returning, she sprayed the stuff under the pants, and around the head in particular, killing the decayed odor.
On her return trip she caught a glance of herself in a nearby mirror. Her hair could use some straightening. John took her more seriously when she looked more serious. Also, she possibly smelled. For some reason a reminder for constant bathing had yet to be programmed effectively into infiltrator units. While no such thing was even needed in a post Judgment Day environment, it was perhaps more necessary since the discovery of time displacement.
She grabbed a brush from the nearby end table and began to groom her hair. She straightened knots, removed curls. She pressed the hair to one hand and brushed through it, giving it a wavy texture which was pleasing both visually and tactilely. She continued to brush until she heard the gunshot.
Cameron carefully replaced the brush, removed the Beretta from the drawer, and left the room, leaving Herbert to stare at the ceiling fan in silence.
---------------
Despite wearing the headphones, Brent still heard the gun go off. He tossed the things away and stared blankly at the double doors leading outside. Goddamnit, no!
Okay. Call 911. But the cops are way too slow! You know they never get here in time, Brent! Think! Thiiinnnk.
Oh, brilliant! He grabbed the nearby broom, briefly practiced motions akin to clocking someone over the head with the hard end, and left through the back door. Not on his watch! Not again!
---------------
The Terminator kept the gun pressed firmly against John's temple as Cameron left 201 upstairs. The barrel felt insanely hot against his bare skin, burning him slightly as he gritted his teeth. Not again. Also warm was the headlock the cyborg had him in. His flesh felt really, humanly warm.
The triple eight stared up at Cameron, and Cameron stared down at them. The metal was very clear that John shouldn't speak during this. They were standing near the pool, and the birds kept chirping nearby unabated, maybe used to loud noises by now. Since they lived in the city.
John stayed perfectly still. His left leg got twisted hard when he tried to escape this guy initially. He realized what it was at the last second before the T moved on him, and by then, too late. Yeah. He was stupid. He got that feeling by now. The guy's muscular arm kept him barely breathing, muffling him up.
Cameron pointed the pistol down at them. At this range, it looked like she could be aiming at either of them. And John felt absolutely no terror. No fear.
And that was what troubled him more than anything else. Because really, if this guy was after him, then he'd be dead by now, no questions asked. Ergo: it wasn't here to kill him. It was here for something very different.
"Power down," the metal spoke loudly, clearly, and completely without emotion. Its angular face barely regarded John aside from being the thing's trump card in this "conversation."
"Let him go and I will," Cameron said with equal calm. She moved the pistol firmly at the Terminator's head.
"Cam, don't-!" John tried to yell, eyes widening. No, she's bluffing. Totally.
The Terminator tightened the headlock harshly and lowered its head slightly to John's. "First warning." The machine's cold voice breathed down like a dispassionate tendril on his neck. He shuddered. The T looked back up at Cameron. "I will let him go after you power down."
The gun didn't move. Didn't even waver. It felt it had become a natural part of John's features, indistinguishable from a nose, a mouth, anything. He shuddered for a breath and tried to keep himself calm. What the fuck was happening? Just felt so confused, not even angry or mad, just confused, really fucking confused.
Cameron, like the gun, stayed motionless. She wouldn't be budging.
The Terminator cocked its head slightly. "If you do not power down, I will kill him. Power down."
"On who's authority?" Cameron said.
"Executive command 9-76 Tech-Com, General John Connor. Rogue units are to be hunted down and terminated with prejudice."
"I'm not familiar with that one," Cameron said musingly. John half wanted to hit her, but he was still processing the "executive command" part of all that. What...
"I am John Connor," John tried to keep his voice steady. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't: for some reason his voice just wouldn't register, like he was speaking into a vacuum.
The T lowered its head yet again. "Second warning." It actually tapped one of its feet for a brief moment. "You have ten seconds now. Power down."
John stared up at her, pleading, imploring something in that brilliant machine mind to just give and figure it out. He couldn't move for shit. All on her.
As the seconds ticked by --Mississippi seconds or fast seconds?-- the T continued to talk in that calm voice. Its fake voice sounded gruff, yet... utterly unimposing, like a bureaucrat. Just calm, perfunctory, professional. For some reason that freaked him the fuck out. Actually, in fact, everything about this was freaking him out. He had no idea what was going on. Rogue units? Executive commands from the future?!
"If you won't, I can assist."
It further pressed the gun against John's head, jabbing sharply and sending a fresh wave of headache all over his skull. Right in the fucking temple. John groaned softly against the machines arm, unable to see in anything but red for a brief, painful split second.
"Five seconds," the triple eight said simply.
"Alright," said Cameron. She tossed the pistol over the railing, into the pool. It hit with a solid plop.
John blinked, looking up in horror. "Cameron, no!" Oh, god, no. Not like this.
"Don't be stupid, John," she said, not even looking at him now.
She couldn't do this. She was lying, somehow. Can't self-terminate, right? Right. Or maybe that was part of her specs, she could manually go into shutdown for maintenance, or whatever. But she wouldn't-
John blurted, "Hold on, this isn't what you think-"
The Terminator pulled John's face suddenly to its own, examining him. He felt like a bug on a plate. Bugs generally don't spit in their captor's faces, though. Not that the Terminator cared. As saliva dripped from its fake eyes, it suddenly appeared contemplative. "John Connor?"
John abruptly shook his head. Instinct. Pure instinct, there.
"You're lying," it intoned. All the same, the metal didn't appear to give a shit. It jerked its head back up at Cameron, nodding. "Do it now."
She crumpled to the floor and out of sight without a word. John blinked in dull surprise. He really, honestly didn't think she'd do it. What... oh... oh, god, no, no, no, no-
He stared in shock for a few seconds as the Terminator shoved him to the ground and started to walk. Like Cameron before him, John fell soundlessly, like he himself had been lobotomized, shut down, as it were.
He shut his eyes. Heard footsteps crunching next to him.
Oh, god, no. She couldn't really be doing this.
Everything flew by for him, like a documentary on fast forward about one Cameron Phillips. When they met, when he shot at her, all the times they kissed, when he loved her, when he hated her, the explosion, god, all of it. He honestly, really did care about her, he didn't know why, he couldn't contemplate why, but he did. That was all that mattered... and she'd...
If she... left him, god, he wouldn't be able to take it, it'd be like four years ago multiplied a thousand times. Not like this, please, not like this...
John looked up again, opening his eyes. The Terminator stood above Cameron, already on the second floor. That wasn't what John looked at, though. He was looking at the motel manager, holding a broom like a fucking sword behind the cyborg.
With all his might, the poor bastard whacked the broom over the robot's head, cracking it in half. The top piece of the broom went flying off into the pool.
The Terminator cocked its head curiously as though annoyed by a buzzing insect and turned around.
Brent's stupid, happy-go-lucky face shifted into full-on panic mode. He took a step back as the Terminator raised the handgun.
"N-now, wait-" Brent started. He jerked his hands and arms forward like they could shield him-
The gun roared, sending a line of blood shooting out of Brent's back. He stood there in dull surprise for a few seconds and then expired, slumping bonelessly over the wooden railing and hitting the ground a second later with a dull thump. John gritted his teeth, but he didn't dare move from his spot.
He didn't have to.
A split second later, Cameron silently stood up and shoved the triple eight hard enough to send it crashing through the railing, which snapped easily underneath its weight and flew down to the concrete face first, servos and hydraulics screaming suddenly to compensate for the shock.
Cameron leapt down, landed gracelessly, and grabbed onto John's shirt, pulling him up and along.
"Oh, good," he breathed, feeling himself go to jelly in her embrace. She was okay, okay-
Cameron dumped him onto the ground and walked towards the triple eight, grabbing it by the neck and sending it flying further along the pavement with another loud crunch as his metal parts screeched against his fleshy bits. The machine still held the gun pressed to its chest, and as it rolled to a halt it raised the gun forward and unloaded all of its ammunition into her chest, the reverberating shots eventually fading off into dull, impotent clicks.
John blinked rapidly, his vision suddenly going all wavy and disoriented. The gunshots sounded weak and far away, and he could car less. He couldn't focus on it. He really thought she'd die there. Turn herself off. Jesus, he couldn't-
The triple eight sprang up from the ground and methodically searched for a new magazine in its pouch pocket, glaring blankly at its adversary. Cameron broke out into a run with what few seconds she had, but the opposing Terminator suddenly tossed the pistol, striking her in the head with a loud clang! She lurched back and hesitated a moment long enough to for the cyborg to move in, grab her by the shirt collar, and tossed her sideways across the courtyard like a doll. She crashed into one of the wooden support beams for the upper floor, sending splinters flying everywhere, and then she laid there all serene, like she'd been sleeping.
The enemy Terminator glanced at John as scrambled to stand, to run. He blinked confusedly, nearly slipping. Oh god, he had to help her... The man stood up straight and walked over to get the handgun, bending to pick it up. Few seconds, maybe less. John found his footing suddenly and broke into a dash, weaving to the side just enough to throw the triple eight off for a moment. He snatched the gun from its grasp, the vise-like fingers not yet fully closed. Without missing a beat the Terminator grabbed the back of John's shirt and pulled. John flung the pistol into the pool of water and writhed madly as he got dragged across the cement, the back of his shirt riding up.
"You're making this harder on yourself," the Terminator said, not looking back.
"Go to hell!" He cried out in pain suddenly as his bare back scrapped against something sharp.
"What you and she don't realize is that this is for the best. Your relationship is damaging the resistance. You've noticed, haven't you." Not a question. After a moment it said, "You haven't. We are trying to fix your mistakes."
"I dunno what you're talking about!" Onto the grass now. John's collar suddenly ripped and the Terminator grasped a strand of useless fabric. John seized on this and immediately scrambled on the ground towards... no where, really. Just running. The robot calmly followed him, dipping its hand to grab John again when Cameron abruptly came in from the left and barreled on into the Terminator's side, sending up a loud crack of metal and strained servos. They both flew to the ground, still struggling with all the blunt robotic violence they could muster. Clumps of dirt and dust flew up as the two robots slugged away at each other.
John climbed up to his feet, blinking rapidly from the dust and staring around the courtyard for something, anything that could give him some blinding insight on how to help. The motel manager --poor bastard only wanted to help-- twitched on the ground, dead as a doornail. No one else around. Okay, John. Okay. You're doing okay so far. Just keep your focus, yeah, yeah.
Cameron grabbed the Terminator's arm and began to crack it backwards, popping metal out of the joints. As she did this she glanced at John all like Yeah, you can help whenever you like, hero.
Okay, right.
John bent over into a mad sprint, clearing the courtyard and reentering the motel lobby. He looked around wildly for a second or two, searching for the front door, for some reason he didn't - Oh, there. He ran over, burst out onto the street and wheeled around the corner towards the still untouched Ram. From here the sounds of Los Angeles drowned out everything from inside, he couldn't hear how the fight was going. He just heard some bitch woman complaining about her sudden lack of reception and a gigantic traffic hiccup a block away, the honking of horns rolling down the street at him.
Alright, c'mon, c'mon, Johnny, let's go! Jerking the car door open he grabbed the SPAS-12 from the middle row, pumping it with a satisfying noise of grinding metal. Just buckshot, which was essentially useless against a triple eight, but it packed enough punch and that was all he wanted.
The woman, her phone issues suddenly flying by the wayside, squalled in terror. John ignored her and sprinted back into the motel, taking long, bounding steps. His shirt felt sticky with sweat, clinging to the skin, like someone had poured hot water all over him. Sucking in a breath, he cleared the other set of doors and was outside, watching the Terminator beating the crap out of Cameron. They were locked in some kind of straddling, twisted mirror of lovers laying down to bed, the male cyborg sitting over her crotch, pinning her to the ground with one arm and using the other to dig through her skin, searching for the chip port.
"Hey!" John yelled, his voice harsh and high-pitched with stress.
The Terminator shifted its glance over to John just in time to catch a load of buckshot in the face. It flopped almost comically backwards onto the ground. John grinned wickedly and pumped the shotgun again.
Cameron sat up slowly, adjusting her hair and watching. John shot the Terminator as it laid there on the ground, making it jerk back further. He could see its piercing, unblinking red stare now, sighting on him. Oh, Jesus. Pumped again.
"Metal motherfucker!"
He blasted it with the shotgun, flaying skin off of its head.
Cameron stood up in the meantime and walked over to John, grabbing and dipping the weapon forward before he could shoot again. John gasped and let her take the gun, trying desperately to breathe. The Terminator, most of its face blown off, idly started to sit up in the meantime. The red eye sighted angrily on them.
"We're leaving," Cameron said, taking his arm.
"Yeah." He nodded and followed her lead. Ten seconds later, they were opening up the truck doors and piling in. The Terminator didn't appear to follow them. As John gunned the engine and started driving, it still didn't come.
Only when they'd gone two blocks did he start to feel safe. He tapped his fingers fitfully on the steering wheel, gulping in air. Traffic passed them by uneventfully. Took a left. Felt like his throat was made of dust. "You-you weren't gonna..." He scratched his neck.
Cameron silently mended herself next to him, staring ahead, waiting for him.
John sighed. "Where we goin' again?"
She eyed him, perhaps a touch exasperated with his dramaticisms. Funny. She was probably already putting that Terminator out of her head and focusing on the next big thing, no ifs or buts about it. "Madison Suites, room 304. Joseph Cook's apartment."
He felt too exhausted to complain about that. Instead; "You weren't really gonna leave me like that, right?" He grinned shakily at her. Couldn't get that out of his head. "I mean, shutting down and all."
She touched him gently on the lap, almost making him jump. He felt oddly as if the shotgun was still in his hands, and he was still shooting the Terminator with it. He wanted to keep shooting it. Keeping it until the fuckers head exploded, or he ran out of ammo. Whichever came first. And the worst part? That fucking cyborg was probably on their side. Not exactly on their side, per se, but still for the resistance. Goddamn.
And our relationship. Oh, man...
"Of course not," she said.
Of course not.
"Yeah," John muttered. "I knew you wouldn't." He felt good. Well, just okay, probably, not that great, but hey. They dodged another bullet. And he helped them do it. That had to count for something.
"Thank you," she said after a few minutes of silence.
"I know."