I do not own Terminator: Rise of the Machines.
I do not know the date of my own death. I don't think.
The Burden of Too Much Knowledge
It was a bizarre thing, knowing the exact day you would die.
Most people weren't privy to that information.
John Conner was not most people.
He didn't want to know.
". . . no, maybe I don't want to know."
"How does he die?"
Thanks, Kate.
Solidarity.
But he did.
July fourth, twenty thirty-two.
Independence Day, by American Revolution calendar standards.
Independence Day from life, in the post apocalyptic John Conner machine world, apparently.
And he thought about it, that day.
Alot.
I . . . guess it's a . . . good thing?
I mean, at least I can leave . . . follow-up plans.
Very specific follow-up plans.
Unless of course he was already incapacitated before the actual day.
Severe brain damage, subsisting as a vegetable, a slobbering, incontinent, incoherent mess, laid low by some previously unforseen tragedy.
Which he absolutely refused to consider.
Right now anyway.
I mean, hell, I can't even get out of Crystal Peak right now.
Because there was only so much bullshit fated existence he could consider the horrors of.
No, no, he would be himself, right up until the bitter end, he had no doubt.
Which meant . . .
Let's see, let's see, how to spend The Big Day.
Get up, pee, brush teeth, get dressed.
Steak tartare and lobster mac and cheese for breakfast.
Chocolate chip cookie dough and cat poop coffee to wash it down.
(Probably just a ration packet, military instant if there was still any of that left by then.)
Kiss Kate, the little wifey.
Pat Junior's head, hand the seven year old his semi automatic. Wave him off to the warfields.
And then off to work for The Savior of the Human Race himself.
No stuffy, boring office cubicles necessary.
Out there, in the trenches, leading The Resistance in the neverending fight against The Machines.
Break for lunch, he guessed.
Yellowtail sushi and silkie chicken dumplings on a bed of fresh, organically sourced kale.
Washed down with only the finest Yoo-hoo Chardonnay.
(More likely, nothing at all or a protein block. Canteen water.)
Afterward, mangle and destroy as many machines as possible.
And then, as the soft summer sun hung low in the bloated red wasted nuclear sky or maybe in the wee hours of the hopeless morning whilst dying men screamed in their sleep for Death or at least painkillers no one'd had access to since the Before Times . . .
Alrighty, now where's my 2:30?
Mrs.Wiggins, if you please?
Be mercilessly, mechanically slaughtered and dispatched forever by . . .
"Uncle Bob?"
It was weird to think about. Gave him a headache.
It gave him depression.
Morbid fascination and dark bewilderment.
How do I get up that day?
Knowing I'm going to die.
How do I go to bed the night before?
How do I sleep, eat, do anything, knowing I'm going to die?
How do I father children or be a support to Kate, knowing the exact date of my death?
Maybe he wouldn't see it coming.
Maybe he would just be there one minute, gone the next.
Maybe he would see the Terminator bearing down on him and be helpless to stop it, trapped, forced to watch the end of his life approach from a mile away.
I really hope I don't get killed on the can.
But what would he do?
How would he breathe?
How would he manage and survive until then?
How do you live knowing you're going to die?
How do you deal with every minute between?
Maybe the worry, the stress, the misery of all the fighting and killing and everything would make the Terminator's appearance and subsequent demise of him seem a release from the interminable agony of living.
After a lifetime of war, worn weary and beyond bone-tired, finally resting, at peace.
Sweet, sweet oblivion.
Forever.
In the void.
I don't know though.
I really like human pair bonding.
Speaking of which . . .
Hey, uh, Kate . . .
Instead . . .
"Hey, you okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah."
. . . he just hugged her.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
Tight.
"John?"
"I'm fine. I promise."
Really, really tight.
Could not stop thinking about this.
Still can't.
But maybe I can sleep now.
And the 'dying on the can' reference was a nod to Tywin Lannister, not Elvis.
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