I do not own Terminator.
And I can't let go of Michael Biehn yet. He just has too much heart.
No Fate
Now and Then (As In The Future)
When he isn't captivated by her . . .
"Hey."
"H-h-hey."
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Ready to go again?"
"Really?"
"Yeah."
Yeah."
. . . Kyle Reese seems to be captivated by everything surrounding him.
A man born in rubble, raised in destruction, trained in war.
Now Sarah Connor has brought him to a peaceful, idylic existence in the heart of the California Big Bear forest.
Birds tweet their days away, squirrels scamper without fear, even of the overly alert German shepards that watch them with tongues lolling and ears perked in attention.
Fish and turtles swim in the sparkling lake half a mile away from the cabin.
Sarah takes him on walks, pine needles crunching under their feet.
The skies are often clear blue and clouds float across them with the laziness only nature can so perfectly imbibe.
Snakes hide themselves from the bigger creatures and only rarely have they been warned with rattles.
Warned . . .
"What is that?"
"Rattlesnake. They rattle to warn enemies."
"Will they attack?"
"Not if we don't make them."
"Let's not."
. . . and turned away.
He stands under the stars, gazing upward with opened mouth.
Sometimes he cries.
"Kyle? What is it, what's wrong . . . oh."
"What is it?"
"A deer."
"It's . . . it's beautiful."
Sometimes he doesn't.
And Sarah Connor is very glad . . .
"Yes. It is."
. . . Kyle Reese didn't die in that factory.
"We need a bug-out bag."
"A bug-out bag? What's that?"
"Supplies in a bag. In case something happens. Grab it and run."
"Okay. Give me a list."
A change of clothing. Water. Food. Toiletries.
Money. Keys. Flashlight. Knife. Gun. Bullets.
Her father was not an outdoorsman, no Grizzly Adams by any stretch of the imagination.
But he did keep a rifle, two pistols, and couple of boxes of ammunition at the cabin.
And Sarah Connor supposed . . .
"These too?"
. . . just like everything else here . . .
"Yeah. That's good."
. . . they were hers now too.
The bag wasn't for long term survival in the backwoods-campfire-and-ground-boonies.
But it was . . .
". . . get away."
"Okay."
. . . stashed by the door.
". . . matches."
"Okay."
Where they could get to it in a hurry.
And so . . .
". . . anything else?"
"Toilet paper. First aid kit."
. . . that was one more thing.
It was a little bulky.
Especially for a girl who never liked to carry a purse when she didn't need to.
She had to practice running with it.
". . . slip on the pine needles."
"I'm only sweeping the house, not the entire forest."
But it was manageable.
And designed . . .
". . . poncho?"
"What's a poncho?"
. . . for seventy-two hours of survival.
Her nightmares are terrible when they come.
Being chased by terminators, Kyle turning into a Terminator.
Looking into Kyle's dead eyes in the factory instead his closed eyes on that ambulance gurney.
They're vivid and powerful and in them she feels helpless, desperate, unable to save herself or any one else.
She struggles up out of them, fighting and thrashing, sometimes hitting out at the arms that encircle her . . .
"-arah, it's okay, it's alright, I'm here, you're safe, Sarah . . ."
. . . as she moans and cries.
Other times she cannot awake, oh she thinks she's awake when she opens her eyes and observes a hazy world all around her.
But then she tries to speak, tries to move.
And it's quicksand, it's underwater, she's immobile.
And more vulnerable . . .
"-uhhh, uhhh-"
. . . than ever before.
When she finally awakens, really truly awakens, she's shaking, trembling, and shaking.
And she has to get up, walk the house with a dog by her side, peek out of the windows, run her hands along the back of the couch.
Hear the night creatures quietly going about their business in the dark.
She has to pour a glass of water, sip it, feel it wetting her tongue, dripping down her throat.
Smell the leftover chili she didn't wash out of the pot, instead leaving it for in the morning, how irresponsible and unorganized, she can't possibly be The Legendary Sarah Connor, I don't even properly wash the dishes and now the gunk will be stuck in the morning and I'll have to scrub-
And eventually she goes back to sleep again.
And sometimes . . .
"Kyle?"
. . . she doesn't.
Because it's not all sunshine and rainbows and woodchipping and midnight farts in the time after the terminator had destroyed the life she had known.
There's a thunderstorm, their first week in the cabin.
Dark clouds cover the sky, blot out the stars and moon, dome the whole world.
Lightening staccatoing the night sky and thunder booming its way down deep in her marrow.
Sarah had been asleep, awakes to him gone.
It doesn't initially bother her; Kyle doesn't seem to sleep well or for more than a few hours at a time.
So she considers just going back to sleep, letting the storm do its thing and going back to sleep.
But she misses him, she loves him, she wants to be near him.
And so she gets up.
Gets up and goes to find him.
Finds him as she so often does, standing just aside a window, keeping line of sight, tracking, watching for movement.
And she sees the gun in his hand, gripped tight, so tight.
She goes to him.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Lays a hand on his arm, high up on the bicep.
Feels all the muscles tense, knotted and tense.
"Are you okay? It's just a storm."
Watches him swallow hard, watches him scan the woods.
"Yeah."
And feels her skin crawl as it does so often when she thinks about terminators, the future Kyle has warned her about, over and over.
"Kyle?"
She watches him swallow hard, tries to take the gunless hand in hers, show love and support.
Only to find the hand closed, tight, into a fist.
"This is the way it looks."
His murmur is almost drowned out by a crash of thunder.
"At night, in the war."
Another flash of lightning, several, in rapid succession. Followed almost instantly by deep rumbles of thunder that rattle the windows in their casings.
Kyle doesn't flinch, Kyle never flinches.
But his muscles are clenched. So tight and so hard Sarah wonders if he is internally heading into a full-fledged panic attack.
If he even has the ability to do so after an entire existence spent in war.
She wants to help. She needs to help.
She doesn't know how to help.
She runs her hand down along the length of his arm, finds his hand.
That hand wadded up tight into fisted ball.
She strokes that hand, knowing she can't prey it open.
But hoping he'll release his fingers.
And he does.
His palms are damp with sweat and there's color on her fingers in the flashes of lightning.
It's blood, welling up into shallow crescents cut into his skin by his fingernails.
"Kyle-"
"I'm fine. I'll be fine."
And she has to . . .
"Okay."
. . . believe that.
Thanks to AryaStark88 for so kindly reviewing the previous chapter. Interesting to have Noone review this chapter. ;)