I do not own Terminator.

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

No Fate

In Another World

She's no longer in the frozen cabin in woods of Northern California, Kyle at the ready, handsome face pinched and worried.

She's somewhere hot, hot and dry.

She can't see the world around her but she doesn't give a fuck because she's too busy being ripped apart by her son, her John, the baby who will grow to become the Savior of the Human Race, the Leader of the Resistance Against the Machines.

She's screaming and she's in pain.

Pain.

Pai-

"-n can be controlled. You just disconnect it."

Oh fuck you, fuck him, he's never given birth and he's not here and-

She'll never see him again because he is dead, he's fucking dead and she's alone and he's dead-

But she had fucked him, yes she had, she had made love to him, one glorious mind-blowingly, passionate night-

And that's why she's in this position, this unbearable fucking agony-

And she screams, she screams-

People around her want to help but she's gone crazy, fighting them off, they could any and all of them be Terminators, even though Kyle died fighting the one she destroyed and he said there couldn't be any others.

And she can't quite believe it, she can't be safe, nowhere can be safe.

They'd begged to take her to hospital when her water broke and she'd refused.

They'd attempted to physically take her, these 'friends'.

Enrique and his family.

She'd blacked his eye and punched Jolanda in the nose.

They'd cursed and sworn but she'd known she was right, nowhere was safe.

So they'd switched tactics, offered her their strongest tequila to dull the pain.

And she'd knocked the bottle out of their hands, spilling it to the ground.

She cannot be down on her guard, not even now, especially not now, she's too vulnerable already, they could come at any time-

And she'd pressed herself into the corner, pistol in hand.

Groaning and moaning.

Eventually screaming and cursing.

Crouching down, pushing and pushing and pushing until spots marred her vision and she sagged against the wall.

Jolanda had attempted to come forward again, to help, to support.

And Sarah had raised the gun-

"-fuck back, get the fuck back, motherfucker!"

All her carefully, diligently, desperately learned Spanish fled from her.

Only babbling English remained.

And that . . .

"Goddammit, get back!"

. . . containing mostly expletives.

Friends, she's treating her friends this way, the friends who fed her, clothed her.

Housed her these last few months.

Armed her, helped begin to build her cache.

They are true believers, that no one but family is to be trusted and society will eventually fall.

She can trust them.

But she has gone mad with birthing pains and terror for her son.

Love, blindcrazy love for the child come from her and Kyle, that man who came across time for her.

This child, her only child, she is sure, he is too important for there to be another.

He is hers and she loves him, wants him.

And he will be the one to save Humanity From The Machines, He Is The Only One, The Savior-

JC.

John Connor.

Jesus Christ.

Motherfucker-

And she screams and she can feel his head coming out, can feel his head ripping her apart.

And she screaming, screaming and crouching down, as far as she can go, pushing and pushing and pushing-

And he feels him go, dear god, he must have the shoulders of a fucking football defensive lineman-

And she screams, reaches down between her legs to catch his head, ease him down to the ground, she has to protect him-

And she's still holding the gun, clenching it so tight and-

As his shoulders breach, tearing her, literally splitting her skin-

The gun booms in her hand, she's accidentally pulled the trigger-

Fuck-

But she was holding it high and now there's a hole in the wall clear through to the outside instead of clear through a person and that must be some grace, she's not safe to be handling firearms-

And they're ducking, shouting curses and ducking-

But she can't let them get close, she can't risk her son-

"NO! Fucking back! Get fucking back!"

And he slides out of her, slides out in blood and fluid and she catches his head, catches her little boy that will grow up to be a man and-

"John-"

And she guides him to the floor, allowing him to thunk just enough-

"Waaaaaaa-"

And he's crying, he's crying, squalling and crying and shaking and she's crying now, tears mixing with her sweat, rolling down her face.

And she pulls her long shirt over her head without thinking, pulls it off and crouches down, now fully naked, distended belly and swollen breasts, dirt and filth clinging to her skin.

John's umbilical cord trailing from her ravaged vaginal canal.

She wraps him in her shirt, her precious baby boy.

Wraps him up without letting go of the gun and sits down, oblivious to anything and everything that's not him and the protection of him-

My son-

And cradles him in her arm.

My baby boy-

The arm not holding the gun.

And she . . .

Kyle, Kyle, I miss you, I love you, he's here, Kyle, he's alive, he's okay, I wish you were here. . .

. . . cries at how beautiful he is.