MadMikeE, honestly, your review of the previous chapter, I laughed so hard and that's what I needed, so thank you! I was a little nervous that the chapter might only be funny in the movie in my mind and fall flat to everyone else.

*raised MadMikeE eyebrow*

Seriously. John Conner farted. That's a significant part of the chapter?

me, sheepish, yet unapologetic grin*

Yep. What can I say? Write what you know.

Ahem.

Anyway, thanks, man.

And here's the chapter, Gentle Readers.

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

*Trigger Warning For Disturbing Content*

Apocalypse Within An Apocalypse

There were many differences between the woman who gave birth to John Conner.

And the woman who became his wife.

And there were many similarities.

They were both young on the day their lives changed forever.

They were both in no way prepared for the violence and horror they were about to face.

Afraid, they screamed, they cried.

They both became angry, fought back against the men there to protect them, the men they would grow to love.

And they both grew to become stronger, tougher, in different ways, than they ever imagined they'd be.

And, in the end, they were both, more than they ever cared to admit sometimes . . .

"Kate. Kate, wake up."

. . . still very, very human.

She's up and on her feet before she's even registered her own consciousness.

"What? What is it?"

Ava's face is pale and drawn, even moreso than usual.

"It's Bella."

And Kate instantly feels dread.

Bella. Their resident pregnant woman.

Their hope for the future.

Their Eve.

Their Mary.

Their . . .

"Okay, I'm coming."

. . . fellow human being.

Kate's on Ava's heels as they race to the decontamination showers and-

"Oh my god."

-she sees it for the first time.

"Bella."

There's blood everywhere, it seems, bright, red streaks of it, along the tiled floor.

Handprints, puddles, gouts.

And . . .

"Bella."

. . . a blood-soaked woman.

"Oh my god."

And her blood-soaked bundle.

There's a sound and Kate turns.

Men are here.

Men with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

John and Barnes and Russell.

Standing in the doorway, taking in the whole scene.

Ready to respond, to help, to be of service.

Ava reacts before Kate does.

"No. No men. I'm sorry."

Shutting the door firmly in their faces.

Kate thinks this is a bold move from such a seemingly timid person.

But then the thought evaporates because . . .

"Bella?"

. . . they're rushing to her side.

Ava taking the woman's face in her hands.

"Bella. Can you hear me? What happened?"

The woman's eyes are blank as she sits cross-legged on the blood-slick floor.

Kate is afraid she is catatonic, is vaguely aware the child in her arms is unnaturally quiet and-

"I started having pains."

-overwhelmingly relieved when the woman starts speaking.

"I thought, it's not time yet, something must be wrong."

Quiet and low.

Tone flat and devoid of emotions.

"So I came in here. I didn't want to make a mess everyone would have to clean up. It's a shower."

And she just keeps staring.

"I bit down on a towel. Screamed into it and just pushed and pushed and pushed."

Staring a million miles past Kate, past Ava.

A million miles away from this horror movie of a room.

"I thought I would die and I was scared my baby wouldn't have anyone who ever loved him."

As she speaks, she rocks the child in her arms.

Rocks and stares and Kate feels sick and scared and angry and hopeless.

Bella's brown hair is hanging in her face and there's blood in it and Ava pushes it back out of the way and now's there's an extra blood smear on Bella's cheek, way back near her ear.

"So I pushed and pushed and pushed and there was so much blood . . ."

Her voice trails off, Kate touches her shoulder-

"Bella."

-and it picks back up.

Monotone. Lifeless.

"And when he came out, . . ."

Just like the baby in her arms.

". . . he didn't cry."

The deformed . . .

"He didn't do anything."

. . . dead . . .

"He just . . ."

. . . baby.

"He just . . ."

And then she really does stop talking, really does go blank.

Kate searches her face desperately for signs of human life, of recognition.

Doesn't see any.

"Bella."

Looks down at the baby.

"Oh my god."

And doesn't see any there either.

It doesn't have a face, not the way it should.

Still covered in vernix and blood.

A vaguely humanoid shape in the damp towel its mother has wrapped it in.

Still attached by the umbilical cord, feeding nourishment and life pointlessly into the cooling corpse.

She's heard of this, Kate has, read about it in recountings of nuclear events.

A growing fetus will absorb everything it can to live and grow, it's what they do.

That's why eating fruits and vegetables, plenty of lean protein and calcium, taking multi-vitamins during pregnancy is so important.

Why some women require eyeglasses post-postpartum if they don't, can experience bone density loss after several birthed children.

The baby takes whatever the body can give it to survive.

In this case, the child has taken all that.

And . . .

"Bella, . . . I'm so sorry."

. . . the poisonous radiation saturating the air hours, days, weeks, after the bombs fell.

And they sit and stare, Ava and Kate.

Shock and horror, unspeakable grief and despair.

Finally, Kate speaks.

She knows what must be done.

"Bella, . . ."

Though it hurts her human heart that she must do it.

". . . please let me take him."

The mother, barely into her thirties, rocking her dead child to her bosom, kissing the damp, lumpy crown of the head.

Shakes her head, presses him closer to her.

"No. He's mine. He's my baby."

Voice quiet and desperate and broken.

And Kate forces herself to say the words.

"Bella, he's . . . dead."

The mother, eyes staring blankly.

Nods, not looking at them.

"I know. I know. But I can't give him up. Not yet. He's still my baby. He needs to know he's loved."

The two women, the ones whose wombs and lives have not been further shattered by this atrocity, look at each other with uncertainty.

Dread.

The new mother, the mother of the dead baby, does not.

Instead, looking only upon her child, the dead one.

And speaks.

"He took the radiation."

"I know."

Voice lost and dreamlike.

"He soaked it all up so I wouldn't get sick. He sacrificed himself for me."

This isn't exactly what happened, the intention of it anyway.

She probably knows that deep down.

If she weren't so deep in her trauma.

But . . .

"I know, Bella. I'm . . . I'm sorry."

. . . that doesn't matter right now.

And the results, in the end, . . .

"Could we . . . could we take him, Bella?"

. . . are the same.

"No. Not yet. In a little while."

"Okay."

Apocalypse: an event involving destruction or damage on an awesome or catastrophic scale.

Yeah. I'm sorry.

But it's realistic.