I do not own Terminator.

And I can't let go of Michael Biehn yet. He just has too much heart.

No Fate

Into The Woods

Sarah Conner takes a long, deep breath of fresh, clean air.

The sun is shining through the green leaves of the trees.

Right down onto the back of the man she loves.

The man from the future.

The man out of time.

Kyle Reese is standing at a stump he's using for splitting logs.

Axe in one hand, dog nearby.

He raises the axe in both hands now and-

Whack-

-splits the log in half.

He's not a big, buff, bare-chested lumberjack man with rippling pecs and bulging biceps like in magazines.

He's still lean under his plaid shirt and her father's jeans and boots.

But she enjoys the view and when he turns to find her, she gifts him a loving smile.

She still remembers the first time he had to cut down a tree to replenish their fireplace stash.

He had hesitated, holding his palm to the rough bark and she had seen him there.

Imagined there weren't many trees left in his/her/their future.

And she had gone to him.

"Kyle? It's okay. There's a lot of trees in these woods."

Gesturing to the vast forest her family's cabin was set in the middle of.

He had nodded, trusting her, but still hesitant.

And she had tried again.

"We can even plant more."

To his complete lack of comprehension.

And she had tried to explain what she had learned in second grade Thanksgiving social studies.

"Yeah, I mean, you dig a hole, put a fish in it or something-"

Becoming amused and embarrassed at his utter bewilderment at the notion of growing a tree from a fish.

"Look, we can figure it out, okay?"

And then she had laughed and kissed him and he had let her.

And then chopped down the tree to keep them warm.

It's August now.

They have come a long way in only three months.

Subsequently released from the hospital after doctors, nurses, cops, and medical tests concluded they were physically stable and completely without any further useful information regarding the unexplainable crime spree of the past few days.

Deposited somewhat unceremoniously on the sidewalk, they had wandered the streets, feeling terribly exposed, weaponless, with only the money Kyle'd acquired before acquiring her and whatever had been in her pockets when she'd struck out for the movies on the May 14, centuries ago.

Convinced they might be followed by some sort of police detail still searching for answers no matter they did, Sarah'd brazenly gone straight to her old apartment, by way of the bus, bravely crossed the police tape, cried at the death and destruction left behind by The Terminator, failed to locate Pugsley, cried some more, stuffed a bag full of toiletries, spare cash.

And the spare key to her mother's house.

After that she'd withdrawn the last pitiful bit of the three hundred seventy-eight dollars and thirty-two cents in her bank account.

Cried some more.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

"No. Yeah. I don't know."

And so they'd holed up in a seedy motel for the night, much like the one they'd shared that one hot and steamy night.

Until to replicate their steamy night of passion on account of Kyle was still healing and . . .

"-feel safe."

"It's not. Nowhere's safe."

And she'd known . . .

"-stay in the city. Anybody could be a Terminator."

"There are no more. You beat him. It's over, Sarah."

"It doesn't feel over. It feels like he's still out there."

She had been unconvinced, unmoved in her conviction.

And so he had relented.

"Okay. Where do we go?"

. . . the only place they could go.

"Home."

The next morning after a breakfast of bitter coffee and stale bagels, they'd struck further out into the hostile world she'd never much considered before.

They'd taken the bus east to San Bernardino, Sarah as of yet being unwilling to steal a car and become a fullblown fugitive.

Yet.

She'd braved the leftover horror and debris from her mother's to take . . .

". . . car. My name is still on the insurance and everything."

And wiped her tears, accepted a hug from the man . . .

"I'm sorry, Sarah."

"Yeah. I know. Come on."

. . . she loved.

And raised the garage door.

They'd driven another hour east to Big Bear to The Cabin and Sarah had, for the third time, broken down in tears and despondency over the broken door, the mess, the Terminator had left behind in his unrelenting search for her.

Still, it had been fixable and there had been no blood and no bodies, her mother gunned down in her very own front door as she answered it amist packing for The Cabin, gouts of blood dried upon the floor still tacky and sticky to her feet as she had transversed the kitchen to take the money out of the cookie jar.

So they had found her Dad's tools and fixed the door. Found her mother's broom and dustpan and cleaned up the broken glass.

Cleared away all the destruction.

And . . .

"What do you think?"

"It's good. Secluded. Sturdy. Lines of sight."

And even though she had still been unable to sleep soundly that night . . .

He'll find us.

If another Terminator is out there, he'll find us.

. . . it had still been better . . .

I have to get ready.

I have to be prepared.

. . . than . . .

"Kyle? I need you to teach me."

"Teach you what?"

"How to survive, for a start."

"Okay."

. . . before.

Thanks for reading, whoever's out there! I appreciate it. :)