Away
Chapter Twenty: The Returned
Byron the Mailman was about halfway up the porch, sorting through a bunch of envelopes with big corporate markings on them (whoever lived here was gonna get their asses crucified with bills) when he realized that the door to the house was nonexistent.
Which wasn't to say it wasn't there, it was just... in pieces. All over the porch. There were splinters of wood everywhere. Byron the Mailman blinked twice at the sight, as though not fully capable of processing it. Looked positively as if a bomb just took the place out, blowing the door to pieces in its violent wake. The foyer to the house, fully visible (since there was no door! Well, it was there, it just wasn't... bah,) was similarly in ruins. Big, nasty looking holes polka-dotted the inside wall. and there were slivers of black... metal, it looked like, sticking out from the floor. And everything else? Dank, mossy looking. Exposed to the rain for how many days?
Jesus Christ. Byron the Mailman knew this was Los Angeles and all, but this was technically an alright neighborhood. He liked going through this place, and to see such a stark snapshot of violence right here was... brrr.
"Hurm," Byron said. "Y'ello? Anybody home?"
Not a bad family living here, too. Nice house. Nice people. The woman was smoking hot, if a little... detached. Every gaze Byron got from her was of the thousand-yard variety, which brought him uncomfortably back to Iraq in the early nineties. The man of the house was no different; if anything, he was worse. Probably saw the elephant himself, but Byron wouldn't have bet money that the lady was an angel in comparison.
They were alright folk when you got right down to it, though. Byron wondered if they were alright. You couldn't exactly miss a destroyed door.
He cleared his throat and repeated his call, enunciating a bit more clearly.
"No!"
Byron the Mailman blinked. He stared into the house and tilted his head. Who- ... Huh.
He looked around. Didn't sound as if-
"Shee-it!" Byron cried, backing up slightly. A fat woman in a pink robe was standing on the path, a newspaper in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Smoke trailed up from the end of the thing, making an almost perfect spiral in the air.
The woman looked properly mortified.
"Yuh, sorry for the language, miss," Byron said, frowning. If he were white he'd probably be blushing. "You just took me by surprise is all."
If he were in Hollywood he probably would have gotten a grilling by some prim and proper lady whose kids were smoking joints up in their rooms all the while. This place was pretty close to that, but otherwise, pretty easy going. The fat lady rolled her eyes and took a drag from the cigarette. "That's alright, sonny. Didn't mean to scare you."
Byron grunted and turned around to slip the envelopes into the mailbox. He frowned when he realized that the mailbox had a rather large piece of blackened metal sticking out.
"Anyway, no one's home. No one's been home since the other day." A slight intake of breath as she sucked her coffin nail.
"Mmhm." Byron worked the packed envelopes in past the piece of... shrapnel, he was guessing. Holy Jesus. "What happened here, if ya know?"
"You're askin' the wrong lady. I jus' heard a bang in the middle of the night n' we assumed they were firing off some kinda fire cracker. They got two punk kids livin' here."
"Looks like a bomb went off to me," Byron said, taking another wide glance at the place. "No body got hurt, right?"
"Yeah, that's the thing." Pause, drag. "We all swarmed the place n' found the eldest walking outta here like it was nothin'. Wished us good night." The lady clucked and wheezed. "She's a funny one, lemme tell you."
"And you didn't call the cops," Byron said, already knowing the answer. He was glad his back was turned to the woman, bending down as he was to inspect a piece of shrapnel.
"Eheeh... No, guess we didn't."
Probably meant they didn't like the presence of cops around here. Maybe Byron was wrong about the whole joint business.
"I mean, jus' looked like foul play... ain't like it's our fault. They can repair it..."
"But they haven't been back since."
"Eh. Nope."
Byron rolled his eyes and sighed. Gang shit. Had to be drug related, or something like that. Whole family was down in Mexico by now. Christ, you get neighborhoods like these, you think they're spick and span, and then you just find out it's a bunch of bleach drained over a pile of shit. Breaks your heart.
He could feel her fidgeting uncomfortably on the stone path, for all the world as though she'd had something to do with it. Guilt by association? Maybe she didn't feel as if she were explaining it well enough. Or she didn't care. "Say, uh, I'm 9838 on this street. Got anythin' for me?"
Byron grumbled, picking his hand up from the shrapnel shard. It was black, unfriendly, cool and wet. "Ayuh, just hold on a second, miss."
"Oh, sure." Intake, suck. Cough. Wheeze. How long before she keels over from lung cancer? With a body like that?
Jeez, you find one destroyed door, one remnant of an alright American family ruined, and your entire day gets a whole lot darker. With all the recent terrorist attack bullshit, it wasn't hard to feel particularly pessimistic.
Byron was rifling through a bunch of envelopes, thumbing and holding onto the ones marked 9838, Maple Drive, when he heard two additional sets of feet walking up the path. More friggen' neighbors come to gossip, then. Byron wrinkled his nose, not bothering to look up; smelled like they hadn't bothered to shower this morning either. He was just gonna hand the fat woman her mail and get the hell back to the same old routine.
The fat lady let out a slight gasp.
"Jeez, what the hell happened to the door?" said a male's voice. Young. Byron blinked once and turned his head up to look at the newcomers.
Two kids were walking up the path, seeming to barely acknowledge the presence of Byron the Mailman and the fat lady. One was a teenaged boy, wearing a white shirt stenciled in with black symbols. Looked like a fence and a bunch of trees, to be honest, although Byron couldn't be sure because of all the blood caked into the shirt. The other one, a girl who was prettier than half the women you'd find on a dirty magazine cover, was in similar shape. A gorgeous head of brunette hair framed a face marred with blatant looking scars and cuts.
"Firecracker," she said after a moment. They walked on past the fat lady, who stared blankly at the two.
"Bull," the boy said and he sounded... tired. He had tiny blue circles under his eyes, and his forehead was creased with sweat and a bit of grime. He seemed ready to fall down.
Byron's package of mail slipped out of his fingers, seesawing to the ground softly. The smell of the two was overwhelming at this range.
"No, it wasn't due to a cow," the girl pointed out. The boy stooped to pick up Byron the Mailman's mail and pressed the stuff into his hands, not even bothering to look up at the guy. Byron did not thank him.
"Y'know what, I don't even care. I just want to sleep."
"Yes."
They were up on the porch, backs turned, and then through the door and gone, voices carrying to the outside all the while.
Yeah.
Nice neighborhood.
"Huh," the fat lady said, nodding her head slowly, sucking of the cancer stick.
"Huh," Byron the Mailman said.
---------------------
When they were sure the two loiterers outside had finally left (and they spent an annoying amount of time standing there, gawking at nothing in particular,) John and Cameron trudged over to the kitchen table and both sat down. John stared around the place in dull amazement. After this long... and really, was it that long? Two days... after this long, and everything looks exactly the same.
But the mood is lost. The feeling of home. He should have felt comforted, warm, welcomed. But everything in the house was dead silence. No oil burner running, computers, kitchen crap.... none of those continuous, comforting sounds. It was cold, too. Cold because the door had been... uh, left open the whole night. And for the duration of a day. John idly wondered if there were no animals running around inside.
Besides that? Everything else was the same. Not a stone out of place. His leaving had felt like some... momentous event, something huge, like nothing would ever be the same.
But no. Only in novels do buildings turn to dust... when their spirit is lost. This place had him. Had Cameron skulking around, had Derek griping about the food, about how he had to sleep on the couch. Had his mom.
Had him.
Christ, he was being sappy for no good reason. No home could ever keep him. It was just a passing ghost... a white shape as your car goes down the highway. You see it, only catch a glimpse, never really know it. And then it's gone.
It was better than having nothing, though.
John slumped slightly on the table, staring dully at the wooden oak. He saw patterns he'd never perceived before, a whole new appreciation for it. You never really know something until you lose it.
Or leave it.
Jesus Christ, he felt like shit. Everything was starting to weigh in now. He'd made a mistake. A huge fucking mistake. Imagine if he'd never bothered leaving. If he just got on the bus after school with Cameron, went back here. Imagine, imagine...
But honestly... really. Why was he back? He didn't feel any better. He felt... relieved to be safe. He liked being with Cameron again. And when mother came home, when the misunderstandings were taken care of, he'd hug his mother. He liked being here again. When he was alone he did stupid shit.
But honestly, what did that all mean? What did it change? This was a reversion to the status quo. A nothing. He'd still feel... off. Useless. Depressed. Emotional. Inadequate.
Cameron sat there and absently adjusted her hair, brushing it slightly with her hand.
"The door," he said after a long while.
Really, it was only a matter of time before the spiral continued anew. Before he decided, again, that he didn't want any of it. Maybe he'd try a new method. A new way of escape.
"They tried to get you here," Cameron said. "The one I killed, and someone else."
"With a bomb?" Well, why not, John?
"They made one from our materials. We'll have to replace them. And the door. And fix the house." Cameron frowned and stared back at the broken foyer. John traced his hand along a wooden pattern. A spiral. Turning, turning, constantly returning to the same place, except in a different way. A different direction.
"I can handle it," Cameron said after a moment. "You should go upstairs. Sleep." Somehow, the way she said it, it wasn't exactly a request.
She was an interesting one. He'd been over this before, but it never failed to amaze him. He was a brat. A whiner. Sometimes he flirted with brilliance, but the virtue of being young and feeling entitled often got in the way of his wider destiny. Sarah criticized him of it. Derek was exasperated. Cameron just understood and did her best to work around it. She never stopped. Ever. It was her programming.
So why did it feel so good? Because it had evolved over these past few days into something... more complex than that. And John knew this. And she knew it.
And like regular teenagers, they both refused to confront it head on. Kind of funny when you thought about it.
"Nah," John said, shaking his head. "I should, uh... I should shower first. Wake myself up."
"You've been awake for many hours."
John shrugged. Felt like moving glaciers with his shoulders. Jesus, but he was tired as hell. "I wanna help you. With the door."
Cameron stared at him like she was trying to figure him out. Wasn't exactly hard, in John's opinion. Maybe not so much for her. He knew what she was probably thinking. Don't let him out of your sight. He'll try and escape again.
He cleared his throat and leaned over, yawning slightly as he forced some breath into his lungs. "I'm gonna take a shower. You can stand outside the door if you want. When I'm done, I'll come out, and we can clean the house up. I promise, Cam."
Her stoney, analyzing gaze turned soft, and she nodded. He didn't know if it was... relief or just simple fondness.
Either way, the expression made him grin.
--------------
Pulling his shirt off proved a little more difficult than he'd expected. The thing clung to his chest like a piece of saran wrap, or like they'd been through too much together and it didn't want to go. How much was packed into the thing? Some pre-sex sweat (weird how he thought of it that way, especially when it never got borne out) from the party. Sweat from running. The cold, slightly wet feeling in his armpits that he got when he aimed a pistol at his look-alike in the dance club.
Blood. Some of it belonging to a bunch of men with machine guns, some of it Michael Oxferod's. Some of it his.
Yeah. Certainly was a lot to go through. John yanked slightly on it and it came forward easily enough. He nearly groaned as it passed over his head; the smell was kind of rancid, to put it lightly. He planted the thing in the corner of the bathroom and worked absently on the rest of his clothing.
Any time now Cameron was gonna insist that they have a chat. Probably similar to the one they'd had just before John left, where he laid out all of his reasons for wanting to run away.
Now he'd have to lay out all of his reasons for why he'd stay instead. It wasn't hard to see why everyone was so pissed off with him. It was all a big contradiction and he knew it. Everyone knew it. They couldn't trust him.
But see... no one else really knew besides Cameron. And she, if anything, was his most exacting defender. Who was to say she would ever let him out of her sight again? How much did programming really trump her inner, growing ideas as a person? A being? How much could she trust without violating her protocols, her fail safes, everything that ensured the big black line between robot and human?
Christ. They were just gonna talk, he'd probably cry a whole lot and feel goddamned ashamed of himself in the end, and they'd probably call it even.
Inside, he knew what was what. His swirling feelings aside, yesterday was... a lesson, if anything else. He wouldn't let Michael go. Wouldn't let him die, even when it seemed absolutely hopeless. It wasn't easy, but he did it anyway, maybe if only to ensure that he wouldn't feel guilty, but whatever.
He was a friend. Cameron was with John the whole time, too, when she could have easily written the kid off for dead. But neither of them gave up because of John's insistence alone. That had to count for something.
Wasn't exactly leadership quality, sure. But it was a step.
John looked around for a second, making sure a towel was in the room. He grasped it in his hand and ran the hand up and down. Good and dry. He brought it over to the tub and started up the shower, setting the temperature to hot. Not incredibly hot, but good enough to get some steam and wake him up. He stood there, occasionally slashing his hand down through the jet to test how warm it was. It was broiling the first time, a little better the second, and just right the last. He went inside and stood under the stream, blinking slightly in shock at the feeling of it all. He felt like he was getting looser, less constrained all of a sudden.
He couldn't expect to please everybody. Far from it. He wasn't the leader yet, just because of his doubts, his misgivings...
He acted like... a fricken' kid when he made all of those judgments before. When he assumed his mom hated him, when he declared that he'd be forever useless... In the same circumstances, looking back, would he make the same choices?
He didn't like to think about that. That probably meant yes, but you couldn't be sure, of course.
He was just trying to get all his ducks in a row for Cameron.
That was a stupid thing to think. Okay, he was getting all of his ducks in a row for himself, too. Trying, at least. He had to convince himself as well as Cameron that he wouldn't be doing shit like this again.
And he was having a real hard time.
He felt tired, confused. His eyes were barely open, he'd been through so much lately. What he wanted was to be clean. To sleep. He wanted his nice, soft bed. He wanted home, and he had it. Wanted Cameron, his family. That came before everything else.
And when he had a chance to recoup, he could take a step back then, and, with a rational eye, examine himself.
He stared up at the shower head, at the star-like spraying of water, letting his hair get wet, all of him. Clean.
God, he hoped so.
--------------
It ain't over til' it's over.
That was an English idiom, attributed to Yogi Bera. Cameron knew this not because she'd looked it up on the internet, or because she spent hours reading the dictionary.
It was a line of text, converted to numbers, imbedded in her wider programming. She didn't know who said it until she decided to take the phrase and put it in a Google search engine.
What did that mean?
Cameron moved over to the hallway, past the bathroom and, by extension, John. The shower was running. So far he was keeping to his promise. She grabbed the broom and dustpan, turned fluidly, and walked back over to the foyer.
It meant that one of the Cyberdyne programmers had a sense of humor, and a particular love of baseball. All the same, it was a rather apt phrase, given her nature. You don't give up, ever, until you are unable to go any longer. That was the simple definition, really, although Cameron was sure a more baseball oriented answer was available somewhere.
Nothing is over until it's over. It was a self-explanatory quote, really. They were the kind most used by humans and most appreciated for their simplicity.
It applied to Cameron's situation. To the whole situation, really. She moved the broom over the pieces of shrapnel, drawing them all into the dustpan. She did it quickly and efficiently, not wasting a single stroke. It was fairly tedious work, even for a machine. Absently she looked over at the doorway, rebuilt the door in her HUD down to every last detail, and made a note to go buy (or steal) a replacement from the local Home Depot.
John had returned. He wouldn't be leaving for quite some time, Cameron suspected. But how long would that really be, until those thoughts began to seep in again? Until the stress of it all became too much for him to bear, when the knife became too sharp for him to handle? What other releases would he search for, to free himself from his situation?
Cameron was supposed to plan for every contingency without question. It was an essential aspect to her function as a product of war.
But it was a difficult thing here. She didn't like to think about the consequences of John disappearing one day, whether via his own death or another flight is right scenario. She didn't like to consider what it would do to her, to everything in her world. Every tragedy translates to the selfish sense of loss. If you lack investment in something, it is hard to feel bad about it, after all. Cameron was... frightened, to say the least, of the prospect of a world without John Connor.
What would it mean, after all?
Nothing good. It was why she had to plan for every contingency without question. To prevent herself from feeling that way.
What a wonderful, terrible evolution of her psyche. From a pure objective oriented being to... mixed, really.
At any rate, she had a lot to think about. They had an unknown amount of time to spend before Sarah and Derek Reese returned home. There was quite a bit they could accomplish in that short time span. Cameron saw herself, again, acting as psychologist.
It hadn't worked out last time. Hopefully she'd learned something. John's primary concern was vested in his own worth and how it effected the people around him. It was a fear that translated into many things; his status as a child, as the future leader of the civilized world, in his mother's eyes, in Cameron's eyes. He was worried about how his performance in those areas would be perceived by his peers, the biggest being how competent he acted, how soldierly, how cold, how efficient. All that was expected, psychologically, of a military leader.
So far it wasn't working. Cameron didn't expect that it would for quite some time, but John was impatient. He either wanted to be that person or he wanted to distance himself from it entirely. Two extremes that guaranteed virtually no happiness. It wasn't difficult to see why he reacted the way he did over the course of this week.
Cameron stopped for a moment, the broom held in mid-swing.
She was feeling something close to pity.
Funny.
Her primary objective was to make sure he'd survive to fulfill his destiny. She'd only recently begun to realize that that didn't just translate to protect when shot at, shadow when in dangerous areas. It implied much more. Perhaps John intended that when he sent her.
What she needed to do was emphasize the fact that he was still in the learning process. John had to make his peace with that. He had to make his peace with the fact that hardship was inevitable. Tragedy beyond comprehension. It was all on the way. He had to realize he wasn't there, or away, he was in transit. There was room for error, when you got right down to it.
This wouldn't be easy.
She'd tell him that she'd be there to help. She always would be, no matter what happened. No matter how she felt about him, in the end. That was her mission, first, second, and last.
--------------
Around ten minutes later, John found himself frowning at the empty bathroom. Dirty clothes in the corner. Not much else. Some deodorant around. Medicine cabinet. Himself in a mirror, wrapping the towel round his waist.
No clean stuff. Well, 'cept for him, of course. He looked at the door apprehensively. Heh. And why? All he had to do was walk to his room. It was like, two feet away. He did it all the time. Get inside his room, get dressed. You're home now. Safe now. There's nothing complex about this. You can take your time.
He hadn't heard Cameron in a while. And why does that matter, John?
It doesn't, you idiot.
Whoa, what was with this all of a sudden? Where did all this come from? It was like he was expecting something to happen. Some sort of... culmination. He didn't know. Maybe it had to do with the fact that... Gah. They got... close in the last few days. Even when he hated her, wanted her to leave him alone, when he ran from her, she was there, breathing down his neck.
And how easily he made up with her when there was no place left to run to! What did he want? Something. They kept... they kept getting somewhere, but no place tangible, if you could get that. Few days ago and he was shirtless behind a back alley, behind some church. She offered herself to him. He had no idea why, and sometimes he regretted actually... denying her.
But why would she do it? To get it out of the way? Was it sincere? Could robots feel that sort of crap, get anything out of it? If he... if they did what she was suggesting, would she just sit there as he inexpertly... did his thing? Would she be like an accessorized vibrator?
John smirked, shaking his head lightly. When all your defenses are gone, when the cards are all on the table, this is what you think about, Johnny? You turn right to sex?
Christ, he was tired.
John opened the door and turned into the hallway, absently running a hand through his wet hair. Way too much shit going on. And y'know what? It'd keep on coming.
Man, that was it. He'd alluded to it constantly, but he never really understood until now. Shit was gonna keep coming down the pipe, no matter what. No matter if he liked it or not. He just had to... deal. For now.
He blinked as he almost bumped into Cameron; she was just sort of standing there in the middle of the hall, and he kept staring down at the floor, lost in thought, so...
Yeah. He stopped as soon as she appeared at the periphery of his vision, looking up sheepishly at her.
"Erm. Hey."
She had the dustpan folded up in one hand. Probably bringing it to the trash, all the shrapnel. This was what an attempt on his life evened out to in the end. Taking out the garbage late one night.
He stood there, dripping.
"Do you feel more awake now?" Cameron asked. It was a pretty intense sight, seeing her like this. Y'know, sometimes she made a show of acting like a regular girl. An act. Around school sometimes.
Right now she was sort of hunched a bit. She looked almost frazzled, like she'd been thinking too much. She looked like she'd been helping out around the house for a few hours.
And why? Why act like this? For his benefit, John would sometimes conclude.
"Yeah," John said. "I do."
He grabbed her arms and, clumsily, with perhaps a bit too much force, pulled her over to him and just...
He kissed her. Like, on the lips. Right there. They were together.
It felt good, too.
She sort of... molded against him. She was a bit lower than him, and so she just arched right over backwards to compensate. Compensate. She tilted her head slightly against his. She just hanged there as he held her in place. No arm wrapping. No... no complex stuff. It was simple, it was quick. It was good.
And she tilted her head, sighed softly into his mouth. John's eyes were shut tight, but he felt it. He felt everything. She was somewhat cold and wet against his body, but he was pretty warm himself, so it was okay. He breathed in with her, and she breathed in with him.
He didn't wonder if it was some subroutine calling up the proper motions to make this as real as possible. It felt real. Maybe it was a masquerade, but she went along with it, and right then, for the first time ever, he didn't care that she was a machine.
She tasted terrible. She tasted like blood, after a fashion. Dried copper. She was smelly as all hell. He probably looked insanely awkward, holding her like this. She was heavy. He felt like he couldn't hold onto her much longer. It wasn't a perfect kiss.
Wasn't a perfect relationship either. At the moment, he didn't care.
He felt like dispensing with the towel, but, at the same time, was terrified of what would happen if they went any further along with this.
They went on with the breathing thing for a little bit. Maybe a few seconds. It was an easy hook, something regular, something sane about the kiss that they could focus on. They breathed in together.
And they parted. She was the first one to let go, backing away slightly, giving enough indication to John that he should let her go. He did. Arms felt like blocks all of a sudden, and hands like marble. Unmovable. He didn't want to let her go. He felt scared of what would happen afterwards. If they could have gone the whole day with it, in some way, instead of these few seconds, it would have been better. Thoughtless.
But he did it.
He stepped back. She stepped back. He absently readjusted his towel, which had somehow gotten a bit looser. Had he felt ready? Fuck yes.
Cameron hefted the dustpan, stared at it for a quick moment, and let it fall to the floor. It hit with a dull rattle.
"Uh," John said.
"John..." Cameron said. Her face was blank. Default. Almost scowling a bit. She didn't have time for the act right now.
"That-"
Cameron went silent. She wasn't gonna fumble with her words. She needed time to think of something to say.
"I should go," John blurted.
"Yes," Cameron said, sounding relieved. Oh, god. What just happened? "We should talk later."
"I'm going to bed," John said. "Feel tired. Yeah."
Cameron said nothing.
"A-and we'll talk later. You can come in. Later." He smirked suddenly, and it felt almost... spasmodic. "Heh. Heh. Yeah."
He walked on, turning sharply towards his room, still smiling. The encounter hadn't quite clicked in his mind yet. He kissed the machine. Ah, there was the clicking. HE KISSED CAMERON.
Whoa.
He turned around, half expecting to not see her there.
She was staring at him. There was a thin, barely there smile on her face. But it existed.
And he was still doing it himself. Yeah. Yeah, it happened. They did it. John gulped down suddenly and continued into his room, blinking as though he'd been staring at the sun too long. Yeah, it was awkward. Yeah, it had about a million implications if they chose to make something out of this. But yeah... he felt good.
He felt happy.
------------------
It was pretty late when they landed, and the sudden screeching of plane tires was more than enough to wake them both up. They gathered their meager belongings and weapons, prepared to leave.
Airport security was a cinch to get past.
There were several tickets plastered onto the Jeep as they relocated it out in the parking lot. Bunch on the windshield, a request to tow the car when day broke.
Sarah and Derek smirked at one another and pulled the things off. Getting inside, they both shivered; the interior was cold, every piece, every bit of machinery like ice. Sarah turned on the defroster.
They drove out of the airport and started home, along familiar streets and past familiar sights. Los Angeles. No matter where she went, no matter how far she ran, it would always end up here. It was important, vital somehow.
Sarah didn't mind it.
A dozen lights would pass at a time; traveling cars, the regular beat of city life. Advertisements, neon signs blazing. A million passerbys, and any of them could have premeditated agendas. Any of them could be inhuman behemoths. Sarah did not scan them. She was not their target. Not their worry.
For now she'd completed her mission. For now, she'd rest. For now.
There was always tomorrow. Tomorrow to find the Turk. Tomorrow to protect her son's life.
Tomorrow to feed.
When Derek was asleep in the car, looking remarkably young with his mouth hanging open, Sarah stopped the car outside a super market and went inside. Inside it was cold, air conditioned. Sterile. Regular. The usual midnight crew was here. She passed a Middle Eastern man wearing a leather suit, with wrap-around sunglasses and a large cigar hanging from his mouth, a grin that flipped through a section of trashy romance novels and thrillers. She passed two boys kissing each other discretely in one of the aisles. A woman in a yellow jumper, grimacing as she scanned the magazine rack. A frazzled, red haired lady and her silent-as-the-grave three year old son, staring around from his perch in the shopping cart. Curious, cautious, un-boisterous. Reserved. Watchful. Ever, ever watchful.
Who did it remind her of, Sarah wondered?
She tromped on slowly, thoughtfully, wrapping herself a little tighter in her coat.
Around fifteen to sixteen is when they start getting rebellious. When she was eighteen, supporting herself as a waitress, she'd sometimes visit her mother. And God, Sarah, what a terror you were. Gimme this car, I want an iguana, tell me everything there is to know about sex.
Sarah would, her face red, agree that she'd been a hyper little bitch. Mother would look at daughter and smile, shaking her head mischievously. Well, you evened out. You'll even out more, I guess. You're just like your father that way.
She wondered when John would even out.
If he needed it. Something told her it wouldn't be his desire for a car that'd be the most of her annoyances. His wasn't the kind that was simple. He wasn't his mother. He was built for much more than that.
And could she blame him for wanting to be less than the sum of his parts? Could you blame anyone?
He messed up. He'd continue to mess up. She had to make her peace with that, let him know she didn't hold it against him. Apologize. Hug. Love.
God, she wanted to let go. But every time she loosened her grip she felt Kyle's hands grasping round hers again, making them firm.
She'd try to be his mother. In a way that was more difficult than being his exacting drill sergeant, his task master. Could you strike a balance? Was it possible to juggle his destiny and his desire for normalcy?
If they were to end Skynet, then she had to. She had to give him the glimpse of what things would be like in a world that wasn't run by machines.
And she barely knew that world herself. Still... she had to try. That was all she'd ever do, all she ever could do. Try, try, try. Sometimes she'd succeed.
She grabbed a roast from the meat section and doubled back to the front of the store. There was only one cashier. The two boys from before were standing in front of her in line, carefully looking away from each other. One was on a cellphone, and he kept using terms like "girl," and "sweet."
Just another person wearing a mask.
When they were cleared, Sarah stepped up to the cashier.
"Night," the teenager mumbled.
"Just this," Sarah said, passing the roast to her.
The cashier checked it off, arm and hand moving laboriously forward.
"Anything in the news?" Sarah asked. She smiled.
"No," the cashier said.
Sarah said nothing. The roast was cleared. Payment asked.
She was starting to understand how he felt. Thinking too much into this, figuring out all the angles, the ways out. The escapes. She'd made her peace with her life, and it hadn't been easy. Hadn't been simple. It cost her four years in a mental hospital. It cost the life of her friends and her loved ones. Her admirer, her teacher, and the boy's father.
Sometimes she felt like he should accept what was coming to him. Sometimes she wished for the nukes to fly, the people to die, so her son would live up to what she was expecting. That was what her experience wanted.
And she was his mother. That was her Achilles heel. Mother. Protect. Nurture. Protect. Prevent. Love.
She couldn't realistically condemn him to this life. She had to do everything she could, for now, to see that that life would not be borne out. That was her real mission, and damn the human race for it above all else.
The roast was dumped into a plastic bag, and Sarah walked out of the supermarket. In the shadows, she heard two people laughing softly to themselves, their throats filled with a haughty sort of fear and excitement. Loitering near a bunch of children's rides was the red-head from before, holding onto her forehead and chattering testily with someone on a phone. Her young boy was illuminated by a bunch of red fire truck lights, bouncing up and down and laughing for once.
Sarah smiled to herself and walked on.
Derek blinked as she got back into the Jeep.
"Where're, uh, we're at... where?"
"Just stopped to get some stuff in the house."
"Oh."
And she drove on. Turned on the radio. The Sacramento Robotics Laboratory was raided at around twelve o'clock Pacific Time by the SPD. Evidence of terrorism was plentiful. Nothing was said of the apocalypse, of Terminators. All classified. The FBI was getting involved. The corporation's assets were liquified and distributed to ZeiraCorp, NexStep, and Alen Enterprises, all having had stock in SRL to begin with. David Nossbaum was in custody.
Anonymous tip, all of it.
She'd apologize to John for smacking him. For yelling. She'd be soft. She'd be flimsy.
She'd batter away through hell and high Earth to save him.
-----------------
"Alright, back in. C'mon. There ya go."
David winced as the cuffs came off his wrists. He raised his arms up high and walked into the cell room. Again.
The cop behind him stared at him with practically marble eyes.
"Fucking terrorist."
There was a screech as the bars went round again, back to where they loved to be. Constraining. Restricting.
David looked around his cell again. Same as ever. Clean. Sterile. Grey. Basic. Very, very basic.
David walked over to the cot and sat down. He stared ahead rigidly.
This place bored him. He wondered when Samuel would arrive to free him.
They'd interrogated him exhaustively. He said nothing. Any false words, any missteps could condemn him forever to damnation.
His corporation was finished. That was all well, however. Salvation comes to those who preserve. He'd start over again. He'd do things right, with Samuel at his side.
He'd win this time. Destroy the enemies of the apocalypse, the glorious rebirth of the phoenix, brought forth by the machine. The harbinger of Jesus' coming.
There was no such thing as the supernatural. Things happened for a reason; there was nothing that could not be explained. The end of the world would not come about in the wake of an army of vengeful angels. It would be human made, as all things are.
He'd wait for the chance to start anew. It wouldn't be long now. They'd cut through all the bullshit, head straight to the Turk. The machine.
After several hours, he got up again and started to pace the cell. It really was rather boring.
Behind him, something that was made by nothing human slurped silently inside, through the bars of the window. There was nothing there for David to see, so he did not look. The night did not concern him. Nothing to see.
The thing unfolded onto the floor and slowly drew itself up, reverting into the form it fancied.
Like clockwork, David Nossbaum turned around and blinked at Catherine Weaver.
"I should have known," he said simply.
"Yes," Catherine agreed, raising her arm out. It contorted, grew weird and ineffable. Dark, yet filled with light. David stared in amazement.
It turned into a scythe.
Weaver. Appropriate handle.
"Goddamn you," he said.
The only sound thereafter was the sound of blood spraying to the floor, and two separate pieces of man crumpling. Catherine blinked as a light sheen of blood dribbled down her dress and face, and she turned and slurped right back out from where she'd originally come.
----------------
Awake and alone, Michael Oxferod tapped repeatedly on his laptop, researching, living for John, and waiting for the axe to fall.
---------------
At around eleven o'clock John stirred. A hand was touching his head, running along his hair in smooth, gliding crescent motions.
He opened his eyes, groggily. He felt... better. Better than he'd felt all week.
Sleep could do that to you. He'd dreamt of nothing in particular, and he felt better for that. Somewhat.
Cameron slowly retracted her hand, and retook her place on his bedside.
John flipped himself around on the bed, drawing his arms up and locking them together behind his head. His hair was all tousled, up behind his forehead. Not in the way. He stared at her unfettered.
She was perfect again. She smelled clean, regular. No fertilizer. No blood.
Back to status quo.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
He smiled warmly. How did he feel about her now?
Better. Maybe it wouldn't last. Maybe it was nothing at all.
"You wanted to talk?" John asked.
"Yes."
"Do you trust me?"
"I don't know. Do you trust me?"
John nodded. "Yeah. I do."
"No matter what?"
"No matter what."
Cameron nodded, in a brisk sort of way. It was incredibly... woman.
"How do you feel now, John?"
John leaned back against his bed slightly, looking at the ceiling. He knew what she meant. It was a fairly direct question.
"I'm scared, Cam." He shook his head. "I'm so fucking scared. I... I'm back, I'm here, I know. I'm not away. I'm here. I know you can't possibly... trust me, y'know, because... you don't have a reason to." He sucked in a breath. Watched the wall. "I feel sick and confused. I feel like I can't ever be normal. I feel like I can't predict the future and I don't know what's going to happen to me. Right now? Here? I have a concept goin' in my head. I'm the leader of three billion people. All of them. They trust me.
It doesn't feel real. It feels fake, like a story. My life's been built around a story, Cameron. Every part of it. A fairy tale. Do you realize how fucked up that is?"
"I'm real," Cameron said.
"Yeah. You are. I don't want any of this fairy tale, but I don't see any way of avoiding it even if I try to escape. Somehow... it just won't work. That's why I plead, I beg, Cam, for her to stop it all."
"It won't happen tomorrow."
He shook his head. "No. It won't happen tomorrow. It won't happen the day after that. We're gonna keep going until it's done. I'm scared of it."
"But you're not alone, John."
He blinked, taking in another deep breath. "Feels like I am sometimes. Like I'm the only person experiencing all of this. Do you realize? The only way this is gonna work is me becoming like you. Do you understand that? A normal person can't conceive this. A normal person can't approach this without changing all of himself. I can't be human, and... that, that is what I want to save, it's what I wanna keep. Me. John Connor. I, I, I don't know what's gonna happen. I don't know what's going to happen to me tomorrow. I can't run from it, though. So I won't."
"You won't," Cameron echoed. "And we'll all work together to stop Skynet from existing. That's all we can do at this point. Work."
He nodded. Crying, yeah, and he nodded. "Tell me you're right. Tell me it's gonna work."
"I can't. Like you, I can't predict the future, John. I didn't predict that kiss. I can't predict if you'll make anything of it. I can't say for certain if you love me or not, or even if I love you. But we can wait and see what happens instead of fleeing from it. Fleeing guarantees defeat. It guarantees death."
They were silent for a bit as John laid there and cried. He just shook and he kept nodding. This wasn't over. It wouldn't end with a conversation. The story would go on no matter what.
"So what. Stay? Stay and let my life... let my life erode, until there's nothing left but the mission?"
"I can't predict the future. Neither can you." Cameron leaned over. Concerned. There, there. "If you keep your life, your personality, yourself in your mind, John, it doesn't have to be an erosion. You can hold onto it. You can hold onto everything. You have. I've seen you."
"Don't spoil it," John said. "You'll ruin the surprise."
Cameron smiled. "You'll find out, one way or another. I think it'll be alright, in the end, no matter what happens. What are you going to do for now?"
John blinked and shrugged. "For now I'm right here. We know where the Turk is, now. I won't just sit here and mope, I guess."
Cameron stared.
"I'm here," John said firmly. "Terrified, uh, but I'm here."
"I can stay with you if you want."
He smiled. "Yeah. That'd be nice."
He got up slowly out of the covers and sat down next to her. She looked confused, but didn't seem to mind.
"About what happened earlier..."
Cameron nodded.
"Well. It was just a sudden thing. Y'know?"
"Yes. Does it mean anything, John?"
John leaned his head against her. "I know what it means. It means I like you. As for you, well, you're the machine. I'll let you figure it out what it means for you."
She leaned her head onto his, and it felt too heavy. Unnatural. But it was alright.
He looked on ahead. "When you figure it out, be sure to tell me."
"I will."
----------------
He was in a library.
He was running from something.
Bullets were flying.
He ran.
He dodged.
His heart rammed up into his throat with every step. Felt tense. Pure, almost.
Not too bad, all things considered.
He got to the window. He couldn't catch sight of his attacker. Maybe for the best. Everything felt dark, muted, swampy.
The blinds were drawn. Had to get them down. He felt more than heard the footsteps, running up behind him, readying.
He'd crash himself through the window to escape.
He pulled the string. Blinds went up, revealing what there was behind the glass.
It was a ruined landscape.
In the distance, black, sleek metallic monsters trolled around, finding what they could find and destroying all of it. Things lit up on the horizon with brilliant, deadly flashes that signaled death. The air howled in agony.
John stared ahead to the courtyard, and found four figures walking there. There was no white-washed metallic creature holding them in place. They were unfettered. Free.
He counted the figures and gave them names. There was Sarah. There was Derek, in Kyle's place. There was Cameron, in Uncle Bob's place.
There was him, a young boy with long hair and combat fatigues. No scar.
They talked, and they didn't seem to notice the boy who was secretly staring at them from afar.
He was already there, among them. A comrade in their hands.
He turned. Cameron was standing there, holding nothing in her hands. No gun. No malice.
"You're safe now, John."
John nodded at this, relieved, and smiled.
"Thanks."
-----------------
"Pancakes? At this hour?"
Sarah Connor shrugged, flipping the thing over and placing it neatly on a plate. "Why not?"
"I dunno, I figure something... gah, forget it. Go wake him up."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "You're something, Reese, lemme tell you." She handed him a bunch of plates. "Put these on the table."
"I'm a regular work of art," Derek grumbled.
And she was already gone down the hall. Shaking his head in wonder, Derek set about arranging the table, calling up old memories from childhood to nursemaid him through the process. Pancakes at one. Sure. Why not? They had plenty to celebrate.
According to Cameron, everything was fine. Dandy, in fact.
It was all bullshit, of course. She seemed... different, quite suddenly, and Derek wouldn't be surprised to realize John was frazzled himself. The only thing that mattered was John being alright, though, and by all indications he was. That'd have to do for now.
His wasn't the type for suicide after all. Derek grumbled to himself and scratched his chin, smiling oddly to himself.
Well, long as this chapter was put to rest, he could finally start to concentrate on another. He slipped Vick's chip out of his pocket again and stared at it.
"I would wait on that," said a woman's voice.
Derek looked around and found Cameron staring at him.
"Why should I?"
She spoke with a wiseness he thought impossible. But then again, his standards were becoming increasingly irrelevant, weren't they? "They need to catch their breath. John especially."
John especially. Derek frowned as he placed Vick's chip back. He wouldn't question it. Something happened between these two, and Derek, realistically, knew he'd never be able to find out just what. Best to leave that for an unveiling. On their own terms, goddamnit. "Tomorrow, machine."
"Tomorrow," said Cameron Philips.
A beat.
"You hungry?" Derek said.
"Yes," Cameron said, a little bit of irony in her voice.
"Hurm. Sit down." And he sat down himself. "Almost time to eat."
----------------
At around one o'clock, John woke up again. There was a new visitor at his bedside.
He blinked and stared.
"Mom...?"
Sarah nodded her head, smiling. It was like watching a crack on a flawed gem. Pretty. "Hey, John."
He sprang up, throwing the cover aside, and hugged her tightly, squeezing with all his might. She let him do it, and said not a word.
"Oh, Jesus, I missed you."
She said nothing. But she did hug him back now, and they remained like that for about a minute as John reveled in being the child again. When he moved back a bit, he brushed his hair back slightly, licking his lips.
"Listen, mom, about... y'know-"
She shook her head slowly. "I don't blame you for anything, John. You did what you had to. It's all over now, anyway."
"Is it?"
"SRL's finished. It's been on the news."
"I knew you'd kick their asses."
She laughed. He laughed.
"So what'd you guys do while we were gone?"
John shrugged. "Nothing much. Found something interesting, though." Now where'd he put that slip of paper with Sarkissian's phone number...?
"Hold that thought; first, are you hungry?"
John nodded rapidly.
Sarah nudged him. "Made pancakes."
"Oh, god, mom, do you ever make anything else?" He grinned and waved his hand slightly. "Doesn't matter, I'd eat anything. C'mon."
Sarah tilted her head. "How're you doing, by the way?"
John sat back slightly on the bed.
He was depressed, he felt inadequate sometimes and deliriously cocky the other times. He felt like he had something to prove and sometimes thought he didn't want to do anything. He was weird and he was a regular kid. He wanted to get lucky with a girl and he wanted to take his time and wait. He was a walking contradiction, the leader of the human race and just an average joe with a particularly odd future ahead of him. He hated machines and loved to toy around with them at the same time. He understood what makes things tick and sometimes the tickers surprised him. He had a woman with him whom he loved and she wasn't a woman at all. He loved his mother and sometimes he couldn't stand the sight of her. He had an old ghost named Kyle breathing down his neck sometimes, with a mystique that bothered him and made him sick with curiosity at the same time.
He was scared, but he also felt ready. He was a pacifist, and yet realized that, eventually, he would kill. He was a soldier, and he was the tech-guy. He wanted to wait and find out, and he wanted to charge ahead into battle. He was starved for attention and he was living in the center of the universe. He wanted to flee, but he also wanted to stick out and see what would happen. He was a slave to fate, and he had changed the future of another. He was a deeply, deeply confused man in a young kid's body, built ahead of his time.
He'd had his chance to run, took it, and had somehow returned right to where he'd begun. A deviation. A mistake.
A lesson. Nothing had changed much except for him, and life would go on. No matter what happened, no matter what challenge was thrown at him, he'd live. He'd be there. He'd stay. And life goes on.
"All things considered?" John Connor said, "I'm doing good."
To be continued in Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Vick's Chip.
---------
And that about wraps up this whole thing. It's been quite a ride, I suppose. Where my last full-length story (Deus Ex) was about plot and style, this one was decidedly more of a character study and an exploration of my ability to write a story without a real set of guidelines, besides upholding the fandom canon. I hope it's been enjoyable, and you still obviously have time to point out errors or offer praise. There's never a bad time to do any of those, but construction is always better than simplicity, if you get what I mean.
Why'd I write this? I had the idea of John choosing to run away instead of, say, killing himself or something similarly dramatic. I wanted to keep it basic; childish. You get scared and your first instinct is to flee. Is this a story of surmounting that instinct? I don't really know, because I made the decision to fit this INTO the T:SCC universe, rather than transcending it. I am not the final word.
Did I like writing it? I guess. I liked Flight is Right better, now that all's said and done. I don't quite know why yet. I'm still proud that I was able to write all of this, however.
As a character study, I hope I've done John Connor justice. I've been a bit severe with him, I'm guessing, but I've tried to keep this as realistic as possible. In the end, we only have what we see on the television screen; I hope this has been a useful addition to that experience.
If you've got any questions about the themes in this story, the path it went along, the writing style, the whole thing in particular, I'd be happy to answer all of it. Simply review and I'll return a message to you.
And is this particular story line done? It probably would have been if I'd chosen to kill off Michael Oxferod. That was the basic premise of my dilemma; if I keep him alive, that's a pretty big indicator that I'll keep going. If I kill him, it's basically over. And since he's still alive, I suppose i'll be revisiting this chain of events somewhere down the line. I don't quite know where to go from here, but there are at least a few story lines that require closure. So keep on the lookout, essentially. I may have something to add down the line.
That said, I've grown somewhat disillusioned with the stock fare here on this website and my drive to continue reading has lowered immensely except for the rare instances that I find something brilliant (here's looking at you, Pjazz and CIsaac.) So I may not be as prolific as I once was, in short.
As usual, I suppose thanks are in order. The reviewers, obviously, for letting me know that people are reading and, indeed, liking what I write. Praise and feedback are vital to my drive to continue writing something. I wish you'd be a tad more constructive, all the same. And to my beta readers, of course. CamelotGirl, who hasn't quite been in contact for a while, and CIsaac, my loyal, though occasionally tardy beta reader who's been fixing my mistakes since the day I started this. As a man more famous and wealthier than I once said; to write is human, to edit is divine, and by that logic, CIsaac, you are a fucking god.
Back to the reviewers, in particular I'd love to thank dakota423 for being a loyal and perceptive reader, and Myxale for sticking around since the days of Flight is Right and always offering praise and insight.
As I said, I don't think I'm quite done with this whole thing yet (sort of a contradiction of my beginning statement, but you understand.) The thread of John Connor running away is obviously closed, though, so it's high time to move on to a new one.
Stay tuned, and thank you for being here.