I do not own Terminator: Rise of the Machines.

I am not in a machine apocalypse. From a certain point of view. ;)

Not A Church Youth Group Sleepover

Fate and Levity and Whatever Else Pushes You Through

Stupid fate.

Stupid fucking fate.

He had been so blind.

You'd think after spending his entire life listening to his mother's recollections (rantings, even though they did turn out to be true), he would have figured it out by now.

No John Conner.

The Machines win.

And everything goes in a circle.

John Conner was born because his mother, Sarah Conner, had sex with Kyle Reese, his father.

Who had gone back in time to protect her, Sarah Conner.

And, presumably, though he, Kyle Reese, didn't realize it at the time, have sex with her.

John guessed.

Hi, I'm John. Nice to meet you.

Reese, right? I've heard you're a good soldier.

Listen, uh, I'd like to get to know you.

Because I'm going to have to manipulate you into loving my mom so much you're willing to go back in time of your own free will to protect her.

Human pair bond with her.

And die.

Because he, John Conner, had given his father, Kyle Reese, a picture of his mother, Sarah Conner.

To begin the obsession, the devotion, the interest, whatever one wanted to call it.

Befriended him, talked to him, confided in him.

Exactly what he, John Conner, had been told by her, Sarah Conner, that he, Kyle Reese, had said that he, John Conner, had told him, Kyle Reese, about her, Sarah Conner.

And on top of that, he, John Conner, had been born to be the Leader of the Human Race Against the Machines.

So successfully so that the Machines built a time machine to send a terminator back in time to attempt to kill him, John Conner, before he was even conceived.

Then again after he was born.

Twice.

So far.

Which would have never been necessary to do if he, John Conner, wasn't the Leader of the Human Resistance.

Which he, John Conner, wouldn't have been if he hadn't sent his father, Kyle Reese, back in time to have sex with, er, protect his mother, Sarah Conner.

Against The Machines which would have never had to attempt to kill her in the first place if they, The Machines, hadn't sent a Terminator back in time to kill her.

But, because they, The Machines, did, he, John Conner, was.

And now it all went in a . . .

Goddammit.

I have a headache.

. . . circle again.

All that.

And he still hadn't gotten it.

". . . won't have to kill me one day. You and I can go our own ways."

". . . stop it! We have to shut down the system core!"

"There is no fate but what we make for ourselves."

Yeah.

Sure.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"John? You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

His voice is muffled, face buried in her hair as he wraps his arms around her and takes a second to breathe.

"You sure?"

And she wraps her arms back around him.

"Yeah."

And he is really, really . . .

"Okay. If you're sure."

"Yeah."

. . . grateful for that.

But that was the thing.

They had to say that.

They had to believe that.

There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

Otherwise, hopelessness would win out.

People would give up.

People would die.

He wasn't just going to have to be the guy who taught people how to fight.

How to strategize.

And, yeah, there was that.

But anybody with experience (maybe not his experience but-) could do that.

But it was more.

He had to help people believe.

Believe there was a chance.

Believe there was hope.

Even during a time . . .

"This is John Conner. If you're listening to this, you are not alone."

. . . when they might think there wasn't.

He wasn't expecting it, wasn't prepared.

Sometimes life just throws you a curveball.

Motorcycle accident with a deer.

Reunion with a long lost Kripke's basement makeout sesh.

Bodily dragged into destiny by a past-familiar, future-terminating, Uncle Bob look-a-like.

And, of course, the machine takeover and summary destruction of almost all humanity.

And now, another unexpected situation.

Too many beans in a military ration meal.

And a bloated, gassy stomach.

"Hey."

Silent but deadly.

Sometimes it's the machines that get you.

Sometimes a hidden cancer that nobody, absolutely nobody, would ever have seen coming in a million years.

And sometimes, unfortunately, . . .

"Hey."

. . . it's fucking beans.

He sees the beginnings of a smile in her eyes, curling the mouth he obsessively kisses during human pair bonding.

Then as if hit with an invisible slap, or perhaps just an unpleasant stray thought, the smile reverses itself, and the rest of Kate's face reforms into a quizzical frown.

He doesn't realize for a second.

"What?"

Because just for a moment, it doesn't register.

And she is in front of him.

"Do you smell that?"

But apparently . . .

Shit.

. . . he'd been wrong.

Well, not shit. Not yet.

"Oh, n-, Kate-"

She's looking around, expression growing, by increments, concerned and maybe a little alarmed.

"I don't know . . . maybe a gas leak . . . or a skunk . . . oh god, what if it's a bioweapon engineered by the machines . . ."

And John, face burning with embarrassment, intervenes.

"Oh, no, Kate, it's okay-"

She tries to throw a tough snark.

"Look, just because the Terminator said you are the Chosen One doesn't mean the rest of us are safe from your cyborg buddies, Neo."

And he wants to facepalm himself.

"Kate-"

For the situation.

Kate's bizarre comment.

"Trust me, it's not that."

She shakes her head, still looking around.

"How do you know, John?"

Come on, Kate.

Look deep into my eyes.

And read my mind just this once.

So I don't have to say it out loud.

He presses his thought onto her brain with the determination of the truly and completely humiliated.

Until . . .

"Oh, that's y-, oh . . ."

And her quizzical expression evolves into disbelief.

You can process the apocalypse but you can't process this, come on, Kate.

And then, so subtle he nearly misses it, . . .

"Do you, uh, do you need to get checked out in the infirmary or something?"

Which eventually leads to him to the enjoyment of her cleverly sly reveal even more.

"I mean, I'm no gastroenterologist but . . ."

Even though his embarrassment . . .

"Okay-"

. . . is complete and total now.

"No, I mean, seriously, you might have a condition or something . . ."

"Alright-"

And they part amused ways.

"I can write you a referral."

With lingering smiles of levity.

"It might take a few centuries to contact your HMO but . . ."

The Terminator would have identified . . .

"I got it, I got it."

. . . easily.

Damn, I love her.

Thanks to MadMikeE for previously reviewing! And here's the thing I like about your reviews. I feel like they're honest. And I feel like you understand what's going on.

*Paraphrasing* "Hey, Storyteller, it's dragging. And I get why."

Very cool.

:)

Thanks to everyone else who's reading. I appreciate you too.

There's about to be some heavy stuff coming up.

I'm not stalling. I'm just getting some levity out first.