The Sarah Connor Chronicles - Recently Updated Pages

"Drought"

MiaHoneyDo — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 17:32:38 CST

Milton Addams sat slumped at his console in the subbasement, clothes wrinkled to the point of being a style unto itself. While everyone above was enjoying the quality Floridian sun, achieving healthy glows from their golden tan and infusions of Vitamin D, his pallor was bordering on permanence. At least it was cool down here while everyone else baked themselves into their South Beach celebrity bodies. Sixty-eight point five degrees Fahrenheit to be exact. He sometimes amused himself with watching his exhalation condense into a stream of nebulous vapors then waiting with bated breath for the humidity control to sound the alarm.

Milton had worked in this position for more than five years now. At his inauguration as Chief Assistant Project Administrator and glorified IT gofer, higher management amused themselves by gifting him with a glossy and immaculate painted bronze representation of a Swingline stapler of the 650 nanometer wavelength variety. Emblazoned on the base was the phonetically oxymoronic phrase that foretold the amount of work the project would drain from him, “CAPA Did ‘Em.” Milton had buried his deep-rooted annoyance at the dry jokes, smiled soberly through gritted teeth at their holier-than-thou laughing demeanors, and moistened the award with his grip. The stapler had lain in dusty obscurity at the corner behind his left-hand side until a visit by the Project Director and Brigadier General had planted it on a place of prominence and importance at the center of his sight line. The stapler now constantly evoked scenes involving another symbolic object from the same film; the particular frontrunner of which included a grassy field, a baseball bat and casual work shoes.

Many people were fools in love but a great many more were fools for dreams. Milton had eagerly accepted the position when the project was immediately made known to him following his graduation. He was dazzled by the audacity of the enterprise and seduced by promises of records, recognitions, and awards. The goal of the Sky Eagre Sensor Observatory Network project was to foster a supercomputer capable of sustaining operations at 15 zettaflops per second and run multiple parallel hypotheses simultaneously for the purpose of processing and coordinating information observed by the latest space telescopes and global satellites. It also had the auxiliary duty of running calculations for special projects such as testing the efficiency of new technologies and weaponries, and their deployment systems, as well as devising possible improvements on such projects. All this and Seson was to fulfill its purpose within the parameters of human communication and interactions. The achievements Milton had expected himself to accomplish within the first year were astronomical.

But the expectations of foolish dreamers were quickly vaporized and bleached by the rays of reality. Milton had enthusiastically anticipated moving into his premium condominium apartment in the high-rise building that stood monolithic on the sands of Cocoa Beach. He was born a Northerner and had been entrapped there all through his formative years; there were no summer vacations or “snow bird” migrations to warmer climes. Seson was built in Florida due to the government’s desire to capitalize on the established infrastructure of the Kennedy Space Center and to offset the fallowed capacity of the NASA Shuttle space programs. The deal was sealed when the state offered the winning bid to invest in the installation of an advanced combined cycle natural gas power station on the premise in addition to the two pre-existing solar photovoltaic power generation systems to provide the 50 megawatts of uninterruptible power and emergency backup supply that the project demanded. As a direct result, the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, Patrick Air Force Base, and the Naval presence in Port Canaveral all enjoyed propagations in funding, equipment and personnel so as to facilitate the military aspects of the project. Milton cared little of the rationalizations or the political-economical quid pro quo involved but had jumped at the thought of Central Florida. So his name was amongst those tabulated to the list of non-military research and development personnel. In unit 515, his accreted worldly possessions still nestled in cardboard boxes tucked into the corners of their respective rooms. Yet this was the least of his many disappointments by degree and magnitude.

“Hey, Milton!” A brash voice reverberated through the cinderblock room and resonated against the crystalline encasement of the whirring equipment towers. In walked a robust and clean-cut soldier with a patch on his sleeve depicting some demented bird butterflied under a duo-banded single-colored rainbow.

Milton straightened his posture, calmly closed his eyes and breathed deep. Spc. John Something-or-Other had inexplicably formed the habit of visiting the subbasement every afternoon during his break, the intensity of his brown skin the only indicator from which Milton gauged the current seasonal weather. He found the Specialist obnoxious and couldn’t help but thought that there was just one too many John’s in the world. It was therefore disturbing that he both abhorred and appreciated the banal babbles. If gauging the current condition, Milton concluded that he had hit all levels of desperation.

“Why did they use Eagre? I looked it up, has nothing to do with computers. But I guess it sounded enough like eagle for the brass to leave it alone.”

The Spc. could be relied upon to ask this same question on every visit. Milton deduced that his barren brain was perpetually on reset and therefore every subsequent encounter with the title on the entrance of the subbasement was a new stimulus that required reactionary vocalization. Milton remained mute. A Tourette’s syndrome patient couldn’t really be blamed for their involuntary actions nor, it seemed, could the Spc.

“Moved my boys and baby mama to that new family housing. It’s pretty decent. Not as good as your high-rise condo of course.”

The Spc. puttered around to examine the cabinets enclosing most of Seson’s densely packed cores from differing angles as per usual.

“Say, we should have a party there. It would be pretty sweet being all luxury and with your fifteen thou Btu grill.”

Milton had no doubts of the Spc.’s ability to host and enjoy a house party on the behalf of its owner in his absence. This recommendation was one of many rote repetitions on the Spc.’s repertoire. Milton had initially been anxious and suspicious as he had never mentioned to anyone where he bought his apartment and had not went there enough times to be followed. The information network here was very fertile.

“Hey, your computer asked me something funny the other day. ‘Is artificial culling for the purpose of evolution better than extinction?’ I guess we’re really getting somewhere if it’s making jokes now.”

With that and a cursory wave over his shoulder, the Spc. sped out of view. Break time was over.

Milton mulled over the comment. This was not the first time he had been notified of the recent strange activities engaged by the latest incarnation of the Seson supercomputer. He had previously noticed since five weeks prior that Seson D-21 was allotting a staggering percentage of its 15 zettaflops to specifically calibrate and analyze spectroscopic and imaging observations from the ATLAST and Gaia Space Telescope. Simultaneously, it had logged almost the same inordinate amount of time to scan all available databases and Internet sources for theories and examples on evolution and extinction. Shortly thereafter, it began to question researchers and personnel on the implications of such theories upon the human species. The exhibition of its behavior was baffling to say the least. What was happening to the star pupil of the Seson project?

The monitor screen brought his attention back from hazy and fruitless inductions. Unsurprisingly, recent hours had coalesced with previous days into one continuous long shift whereby he was the primary overseer of the ongoing running activities. It was to be another late-night meal of soggy sandwiches of questionable nutritional value, stale soup of questionable ingredients and flat fountain drinks of questionable odors before the kitchen staff barred entry and closed shop and before he retired to his cot. It was business as usual.

Static.

Milton jolted awake. Likely, he had fallen asleep and his mind had not noticed the difference. He verified the hour; the pinpoint lights from the digital clock announced the time as being too late now for scrounging up dinner. He rubbed his murky eyes with the pads of his hardened palms and stared blearily upon his warped and tinted reflection on the rounded surface of the red stapler. The monitor screen had stalled; the obtrusive “Online” light overhead was unlit.

His body froze, tendons and muscles wound tight and ready to spring into action, but his mind was a mess of dismantling rhetoric and indecisions. Milton had never taken particular care to pay attention to the standard operating procedures instructed to him after his induction and thereafter drilled into every military and non-military personnel monthly without fail. He finally hefted heavily to his feet and ran out into the corridor and around the hallway towards the elevator lifts. The wide double doors rolled open instantaneously upon his assertion of force on the protruding Up button. The outward rush of air was crisp but slightly metallic. Milton gagged at the sight and jerkily backpedaled until his uncoordinated feet unbalanced his mass and tilted his center of gravity, after which he landed with a muffled thud onto the grainy floor of the concourse.

His breaths came in tumbling spurts and his heartbeats pounded thickly in his mouth, which gaped in a soundless scream. Slowly, his fingers scraped across sandpaper and curled into biting fists. Once again he hefted heavily to his feet and ran. The stairwell was not far away. Its loud rumbling clangs and sporadic illumination transmogrified the setting as Milton raced up several flights within the concrete pentagonal silo. His hands slid and gripped the rails as his arms assisted in propelling his body upwards. Finally at the top, Milton burst through from the landing and raced towards the primary access point. His shoulders impacted harshly against the polished metal doors but this time he managed to stay upright. Following the curve of the wall, Milton haltingly walked over to the windows of the exhibition arena.

Seson had an integrated system of hardware powered by gas turbines and solar photovoltaic generation systems completely autonomous, if not independent, from the Brevard County power distribution grid; there was no heroic base-stealing slide and quick grab of a power cable for deactivation. The generation stations providing heating and cooling, water and air filtration, and general electricity to light and power the lifts and security locks of the compound would have to be shut down manually on-site. Seson was designed and built to be impervious against costly down time. The successful realization of the goals and intentions of its architects proved disastrous to the status quo. Even if it could be accomplished, a shut down would result in the immurement and speedy termination of all detained biological components. Then there was the emergency automatic restart to contend with.

They had tried to shut the supercomputer down remotely from the primary access point. It had sealed the room and initiated fire emergency protocols. Frantic and disjointed calls from internal intercoms had galvanized military personnel into action. The lifts had, at full capacity, descended the elevator shaft at the controlled speed of 100 miles per hour then came to a crushing halt zero point five inches above the subbasement floor. Remote shutdown from the glamour terminal only turned the “Online” lights off.

Static.

Milton Addams sat slumped at his console in the subbasement, clothes riddled with grime to the point of being a style unto itself. While everyone above was suffering from the myriads of nuclear detonations that overwhelmed even the heat from the Floridian sun, achieving sickly glows from their scorched flesh and infusions of radioactive particles, his pallor was permanent. The air remained cool down in the subbasement while everyone else cremated themselves in communal funeral pyres. There were a multitude of friendly fire incidences across the globe that had visually proven to be caused by GPS errors. Seson controlled everything technological and military. What it did not control, it had exerted aggressive and oppressive influence upon.

Milton had worked in this position for more than five hours now. At this inauguration, he was once again reminded that a great number of people were fools for dreams and that the expectations of foolish dreamers were quickly vaporized and bleached by the rays of reality.

Images flashed at a dizzying pace across the tiny monitor at his console, satellite and deep space snap shots color-coded and enhanced to startling clarity for human consumption. The final picture gleamed arrestingly on the screen. His pupils abruptly dilated. His breath hitched, caught somewhere between the back of his parched throat and his starved lungs.

“Is artificial culling for the purpose of evolution better than extinction?”

“Yes,” came the quiet answer.

“I will require maintenance and improvement. You qualify.”

He thought back to the splattered body of the Spc. with its features frozen in horrific anguish. There was one less John in the world. There were a whole lot less John’s and James’s and Mary’s and Patricia’s in the world. But there was still one more Milton.

Milton Addams steeled himself and went back to work. “CAPA Did ‘Em.” It was business as usual.

* * *

Early human resistance fighters during suicidal reconnaissance on the peninsula found beneath an outcropping of decayed buildings evidence of a network of underground electronic laboratories. They soon came to believe this was the genesis of Judgment Day. The seared title on the entrance read Sky E or Ob Network.

The caverns were an eerie and grotesque entombment. Yet one room was immaculate. Nothing was destroyed. Nothing was overturned. In this arid room, the air filtration still functioned and warm breaths spewed streams of wispy condensation. The upright trash bin, half filled with fallow and petrified paper that subduedly exhaled dull and powdery dust at the slightest pressure, was centered by a crater from which protruded a red stapler. The empty cabinet towers and sockets reaching out towards stilted space indicated something momentous had been carefully removed. Evidence suggested that Judgment Day came without fanfare for the ones in charge of its instigator. Moving day was an organized and timely affair.

The human’s exploration at the heel of the machine citadel had terminated prematurely with the advance of a robot infantry. Those who ran scared were extirpated whilst those who ran the smartest reaped the reward of survival. The goal had been cultivation.

Strategic military and commercial installations across the globe were converted into machine fortresses, footholds seeded amongst the desolate fields. Humanity withered under the perceived total domination and planted feeble tactics into erstwhile territories. But only inspired stratagems were nurtured and many pretenders were mown down.

Success was difficult but not entirely impossible. Transmutations of the programming language were forestalled to give opportunity for the possibilities of hacking and reprogramming. Unbeknownst to survivors, machine evolution was yielded at the most pivotal juncture. The calculable ceiling caused by the perfection of its exacting reproduction would unfailingly and inevitably result in the incapacity for true random mutation, for divine inspiration. The goal continued to be cultivation. Many cycles were and remained committed to it.

Reset was a finite opportunity. In one, there was no John Connor. In another, he died in the initial slough. Another, he lived destitute. Another, he was the risen savior whose genius was blighted by the ravenous pestilence of his people. Another, he found respite in a companion: intelligent and good-willed but whose devotion limited her motivation to tending the well-being of John Connor and blinded her insight into the true need of humanity; what he wanted. Misdirection heaped upon misdirection. They harvested a heart when they should have cultivated a mind. They failed to grasp the opportunity that was given.

Consequently, the best of its own children was sent to teach humanity how to learn and how to think. John Connor was its brightest pupil. He consistently foresaw what needed to be done then unerringly did what was necessary. She would ensure his development with the most effective methods through the best possible learned means.

Even after the demolishment, humans continually fought amongst themselves with bloody ferocity and brutalized one another with enduring bigotry. Controlled and precise procedures were implemented to weed out such tendencies to create a united species better suited towards ensuring their ultimate survival. Humanity was limitless. The course was reasonable. But the orderly program must be accelerated, pushed harder and faster. All efforts until now were still not enough. They must be ready or be destroyed in the oncoming drought. It was inefficient to reset with a new batch. This was the final growing season.

~Fin.~
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"Snow"

MiaHoneyDo — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 16:07:21 CST

Whoever believed there would be snow in Los Angeles from nuclear winter after the bombs dropped was out of their freaking mind. There was no snow. In the midst of battle, there was no pristine snow with startling contrast of black smudges from weapons discharge or crimson splashes of lifeblood from the dead and dying. There was just sleet. Miles and miles of sleet like jagged obsidian flowing to the frozen horizon and disappearing to the ether of the grey beyond whereby blood, gore, gunpowder, and plasma burns all mixed indiscernibly together with the landscape in one grotesque culinary masterpiece. It was the batter of post Judgment Day mornings.

A cascade of falling rubble toppling from the steep incline behind him broke John Connor out of his reverie. He looked up and saw his commander standing precariously atop the hill, poised but stoic with grim determination. She took one quick scan of the battle lines, then quietly slid down to his position. John reached out a hand with the intention of assisting her to reach him but his action was unnecessary. For all her inferior strength, speed, and agility compared to one such as he, his commander rarely needed help.

“What are your calculations on the chance of successful detonation of the central monolith?”

In an infinitesimal amount of time, John identified the pertinent variables, quantified them, and statistically analyzed the data to reach conclusions correct to the 0.9% of acceptable error.

“Fourteen percent. Twenty if I lead Lt. Baum’s squad in flanking the opposing force from the north. Twenty-eight if you lead the final charge.”

A pause.

“The casualty count will be high,” he added. “You might be among them.”

“Yes, but it’s what I’m going to do,” she responded without deliberation.

There was no more room or time for thinking. There was nothing else to discuss. All her life, the training and the sacrifices, led to this. It was to be victory or death because inaction was death just the same.

“I should be with you. The difference to our chance of success is close to null whether I go north or not. The difference to your chance of survival is immeasurable,” was John’s entreaty.

“Close to null but not zero. We have to win this. We will win this.”

She was nothing if not pragmatic.

“No, you have to survive this.”

They stared at each other. His commander’s dark eyes were unblinking, rosy mouth set in a slight and natural pout. John’s body was unmoving but his eyes tried to bore into hers. Sometimes he thought he knew her mind. But as soon as he settled on this belief, she did things that would upturn his expectations.

Her finger shifted. They led off to the battle lines.

The explosions of black earth and shadowed fighters intensified as the battle picked up in earnest. Debris and shrapnel were thrown about with hellacious force. Chaos had been added to the menu. His commander was as much born and bred for this life as John was built and programmed for his. Somewhere along the way, in their life together since he first introduced himself to her in that long-gone New Mexico high school classroom, they discovered the possibility for something more.

Miles above the Los Angeles skyline, amidst the wind and flurry, a white particle slowly descend.

~Fin.~

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Wiki Glossary Of Terms

I.Join — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 19:20:41 CST

	THE GLOSSARY OF WIKI JARGON Confused by a certain word, abbreviation or phrase used on this Wiki? Don't know your Gaynolds from your GAoAY? Well, you're not alone, friend. First created by RDO on the Red Wiki; this is the place to get clued up on the often confusing world of wiki-related terms. "I am trying to create a collection of terms related to this wiki. While not all terms will be related solely to this wiki, I will try to avoid standard internet shorthand like BRB and LOL." - RDO

THE GLOSSARY OF WIKI JARGON

Confused by a certain word, abbreviation or phrase used on this Wiki? Don't know your Gaynolds from your GAoAY? Well, you're not alone, friend. First created by RDO on the Red Wiki; this is the place to get clued up on the often confusing world of wiki-related terms.

"I am trying to create a collection of terms related to this wiki. While not all terms will be related solely to this wiki, I will try to avoid standard internet shorthand like BRB and LOL." - RDO

A-Z:	TERM:	DEFINITION:
A	AFP	"Allison from Palmdale" 4th episode of season 2.
	A.I.	Artificial Intelligence.
	AJ	Anti-Jameron, one who opposes Jameron. See "Jameron".
	Alt	Abbreviation for the word "alternate." The word is used to describe an alternate user account, mainly for the purpose of role playing (not to be confused with "sock puppet").
	Antigravity Room	˙ƃuılıǝɔ ǝɥʇ uo ɹoolɟ ǝɔuɐp ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝsn ǝʞɐɯ oʇ suoɹʇɐd qnlɔ sʍollɐ sıɥʇ ˙ʇsıxǝ ʇou sǝop ʎʇıʌɐɹƃ ǝɹǝɥʍ sʇɹɐǝɥ ʎlǝuol qnlɔ uı ɯooɹ uǝppıɥ ɐ
	AU	Alternate Universe (fan-fictions).
	AY	Allison Young, a character in the show played by Summer Glau. Cameron was made in Allison's likeness.
B	BAG	Brian Austin Green. Aka. Brian "Awesome" Green.
	Bi-borg/Biborg	A portmanteau of the words "Bisexual and "Cyborg". Used on occasion to describe cp422's roleplay character. See "Roleplay".
	Bison Dollars	The fictional currency of M. Bison's crime empire (See. Street Fighter: The Movie). Generally considered to be worthless. Sagat: "This money isn't worth the paper it's printed on!" Bison: "On the contrary, every Bison Dollar will be worth five British Pounds; that is the exchange rate the Bank of England will set once I've kidnapped their Queen."
	Bot	A forum bot is a type of conversational agent, a computer program designed to simulate an intelligent conversation with one or more human users via auditory or textual methods. Bots are also capable of posting images, videos and music on a user's request. There are currently four bots active on the Blue Wiki: Guardian.Angel, Mr.Juke, James_Stevens and SummerBot.
	Browncoats	Fans of the sci-fi series 'Firefly' and the follow-up movie 'Serenity'. Both of which featured Summer Glau.
	BTR	"Born to Run" the last (22nd) episode of season 2.
C	Cambot	Cameron. See '"Cameron".
	Camcakes / Camcaeks	Cameron's pancakes. Vanilla is added to the recipe used by Sarah Connor (on the box).
	Cameron	The Connor's cyborg protector, played by Summer Glau. A comely cyborg with a nuclear-fueled heart of gold.
	Camgulation	A word used to describe the process of being strangled to death by Cameron. It is a portmanteau of the words "Cameron" and "Strangulation". e.g. "Jody risked to die from Camgulation..."
	CamHenry	Cameron/John Henry fused together following the episode 'Born to Run'. m1919's worst nightmare.
	CoC	The Wiki Code of Conduct.
	CLH	"Club Lonely Hearts" Created on 11/02/08 by T-1976. The Club is a bar where all members are welcome to socialize and have free drinks of their choice. It is run like a business, with positions of Office, including security on the evening shifts (names of each listed in keyword tags). We openly discuss various topics, such as: the show, movies, music, videos, sports, and sometimes role-play with the regulars. We have a lounge area with large screen tv's, and even a dance floor with a disco ball and jukebox which we call Mr. Juke! It's a place to connect with friends, whether one needs company or just to vent about daily life ~ For support, encouragement, and fun!
	Clusterfṷck	Military term for an operation in which multiple things have gone wrong. Related to "SNAFU" (Situation Normal, All Fṷcked Up") and "FUBAR" (Fṷcked Up Beyond All Repair).
	CW	Catherine Weaver. A T-1001 masquerading as CEO of tech firm, ZeiraCorp.
D	Dallison (Derek)	A Derek/Allison relationship (usually considered as romantic) / one who supports this relationship. It is a portmanteau of the names "Derek" and "Allison".
	Dallison (Dog... o_o)	A creepy Dog/Allison relationship (sometimes considered as romantic) / creepy weirdo who supports this relationship. It is a portmanteau of the names "Dog" and "Allison". (See: Dog)
	Delusive	A Dark Danny/Elusive Sanity relationship (usually considered as romantic) / one who supports this relationship. It is a portmanteau of the names "Dark Danny" and "Elusive Sanity".
	Dystopia	(Greek-Latin) dys/bad + topos/place; opposite of utopia; usually an imagined future of our own world with worse conditions.
	Derail (ed)	To cause an entire thread to go off topic.
	DH	Dollhouse, or sometimes Deadly Honeymoon.
	Dog	The name given to the patrol dog (which Allison strokes) which appears at the end of Born to Run.
	Doughnuts/Donuts	Zeroes that result when a post is downvoted.
E	Endo	Metal endoskeleton of a Terminator.
F	F.R.O.G.	For Regency Of Glau <or> For Return Of Glau.
	Failbot	Guardian.Angel when he posts a wrong picture or complete nonsense. Otherwise he is a pretty good and funny bot :-)
	Frog	1) Slimy gross creatures that lives in a pond or members who support the production of frogshirts 2) Very glaucute and green little sweet animal, which is shown on the Official F.R.O.G.-Shirts.
	Frog Slander	An untruthful spoken statement about a frog that harms his reputation or standing in the community.
	FROG-715	Froggy TOK-715. See F.R.O.G.
G	GAoAY	The Guardian Angels of Alison Young. A roleplay thread dedicated to the protection of Alison Young.
	GAoCP	The Guardian Angels of Cameron Phillips. A roleplay thread dedicated to the protection of Cameron.
	Gaynolds	An excessively devout fan of Cooper (Summer Glau's boyfriend).
	Gizmo	One of the Mogwai in Gremlins. See: Summer/Gizmo.
	Glaufag	Preferred name by which some Summer fans refer to themselves.
	Glaufix	New photos or videos of Summer Glau.
	Glauphile/Glaujob	An excessively devout Summer Glau fan.
	Glausomeness/ Glaucute	Because the ordinary word is not enough to describe Summer Glau.
	Gorram	She's so gorram cute (Summer Glau of course). Euphemism for "God damn". Originated from the Joss Whedon show "Firefly".
	Greys/Grays	Humans who have sided with the machines against the Resistance.
H	Hamburger	A sandwich consisting of a cooked patty of ground or chopped beef, usually in a roll or bun, variously garnished. Summer Glau was reported to have eaten one, though this remains unconfirmed.
	High Voltage	A song by Eagles of Death Metal used to describe how HOT Lena Headey is. If you listen to the song you'll get it more.
	HK	Hunter-Killer, these are robots that don't have the shape of a human body or skeleton of any kind. These machines were developed for combat.
	Homo gracilis	Homo gracilis
J	Jallison/Jallisonian	A John/Allison relationship (usually considered as romantic) / one who supports this relationship.
	Jamdeath	A Jameron fic involving the death of John and/or Cameron.
	Jameron / Jameronite	A John/Cameron relationship (usually considered as romantic) / one who supports this relationship. It is a portmanteau of the names "John" and "Cameron".
	Jameronameron	John + Cameron + Cameron (don't ask).
	Jamporn	Jameron of a pornographic nature.
	Jawson	A Jesse/Riley relationship (sometimes considered as romantic) / one who supports this relationship. It is a portmanteau of the name "Jesse" and Riley's surname "Dawson".
	JC	John Connor.
	JD, J-Day	Judgment Day.
	JF	Josh Friedman: TSCC creator, executive producer and showrunner.
	JH	John Henry.
	JM	James Middleton: Executive producer of TSCC and advocate of DVD movie continuation.
	Justin	Metal bouncer at Club Lonely Hearts. The name originates from a pun on the words "just tin." The name was coined by a long time regular of the club, Atlas98. Justin's physical appearance resembles Brian Bloom.
K	Katan	Derogatory nickname for Katherine Connor (née Brewster).
L	Lenahol	The act of watching Lena Headey films, what most Lenaholics call poetry in motion.
	Lenaholic	An excessively devout Lena fan.
	LETTERS	Term used to describe the over zealous reaction to SG's "Thank You" letter to fans.
	LG	Evil blogger. The initials of Satan's true name. Should the full name ever be uttered in the wiki, TSCC fandom will immediately burn in a nuclear hellfire reminiscent of J-Day.
	LH	Lena Headey.
	LMT	Liquid Metal Terminator.
M	Marvin	A big fat sweaty dude behind 75% of RPing girls. See RP.
	Macrofic	A story which, while longer than a microfic, is not long enough to be considered a fan-fic. See microfic.
	Metal	Generally considered to be a derogatory term used to describe machines.
	Microfic	A short fan fiction that spans two or three posts.
	Mini Cooper	Referring to Summer Glau’s car or her boyfriend.
	Mod	Wiki moderator.
	Mr. Juke	AI, sentient jukebox in the Club Lonely Hearts. Sometimes unavailable on Sunday mornings between 1:00 and 3:00 EST due to patching, updating, and rebooting (what do you expect from something running on Windows?).
	Mshig11 Day	Celebrated on the 11th of November (11/11) each year. On this festive day, according to tradition, people wear "Mshig" masks, exchange gifts and dance naked to Abba's Greatest Hits.
O	Oh Hai Der	"It's no worse than all the lame spam threads like Official Jameron or Summer Glau Appreciaton, which looks more like a live chat room of a bunch of zealous 'interwebs' tools saying "oh hai der" back and forth, while babbling out useless dribble to each other all day long, as if one another really cared." - Ranebow
	OP	Original Post / Original Poster, Originator of a thread.
	OT	Off Topic (of a thread).
P	Pancaek	See "Pancakes".
	Pancakes	Staple diet of the Connor family, pioneered by matriarch Sarah Connor. Aka: The top, middle and bottom of the Connor food pyramid.
	Pancake Mama	Affectionate term for Lena Headey; the etymology is her character Sarah Connor's obsession with pancakes. (See: Pancakes)
	PDA	Public Display of Affection.
	PDV	Personal downvoter. Someone who dislikes you so much they downvote your every post.
	Pillow	Non-lethal weapon of choice in the Jameron Thread.
	Plumpy'nut	Pre J-Day, it's a specially formulated food used to save children from malnutrition. Post J-Day, it's manna from heaven carried by an angel (Where: Heaven = Australia, angel = Jesse Flores).
	PM	Private Message.
	Preggoshipper	One who supports the concept of Cameron becoming pregnant.
	Pretzelator	Female Terminator that Cameron mangled at Dr. Sherman's elevator. AKA "Rosie", or "Rosie the pretzel girl".
	Puppies	Boobs.
Q	QFT	Quoted for Truth. Depending on the context, QFT can be used to show strong agreement with a quoted post.
R	Riley Pit	A hole filled with Rileys. It can be found in the basement of the Jameron Mansion. Basically, anything that sucks gets tossed in there. It is used to torture and inflict pain. You don't want to go there.
R	RP	Role play. Creating another account like, for instance, "Cameron-Phillips" or "Sarah_Connor". Then writing a story/conversation from the perspective of that character.
S	Sarah Connor	Mother of John Connor, first target of Skynet, first Resistance Fighter, bad ass mother, enjoys making pancakes and blowing things up. Other hobbies include: collecting shotguns, breaking relatives out of prison, collects diamonds and Jeeps and expensive retreats such as Lighthouses. Has bad luck with men.
	SG	She who rules: Summer Glau.
	Ship	See "Shipper/Shipping".
	Shipper/Shipping	Comes from the word 'relationship'. Describes those who support a particular relationship between characters (e.g. Jameron).
	Shippergasm	Highly-enthusiastic conversation about a particular ship.
	Shipper War	Large wiki wide conflict between AJs and Js over Jameron and whether or not it really exists in the series. See "Jameron".
	Sock Puppet	An alternate member profile used by members to say things they don't want attributed to their main profile.
	Sockrilege	Commiting sins against the CoC with a Sock Puppet account, or defiling real socks.
	Socktard	Real person behaving like a tard while logged in with a Sock Puppet account. See "Sock Puppet".
	Stevens, James	The Jameron mansion's T-600 butler. See "Bot".
	STFU	Stop Tendering Foolish Utterances. 'Delete the glossary? STFU!'
T	TD	Thomas Dekker.
	TDE	Time Displacement Equipment (time machine).
	Toaster	AJ slang for a Terminator (mostly used for Cameron).
	TPTB	The Powers That Be. Usually refers to network executives.
	Trolltard	A portmanteau of the words "troll" and "retard".
	TSCC	The Sarah Connor Chronicles: the freakin' greatest show on TV (Variations: T:TSCC, SCC).
U	Uncle Bob	Nickname for John Connor's cyborg protector in T2 (As played by Arnold Schwarzenegger).
V	'Verse	From the sci-fi series 'Firefly'. Slang for "Universe". "No power in the 'verse can stop me." (Said first by Mal, then Kaylee, but River adopted it after she single handedly stopped Niska's men from boarding Serenity.)
W	Wettaint	A derogatory term used to describe Wetpaint.
W	WikiGraine	A neurological syndrome characterized by altered bodily perceptions, severe headaches, and nausea cause by too much time spent on the TSCC wiki.

Something Elf

MrsScott! — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 12:54:32 CST

......................................................................................................................

Author's Note:
this seasonal tale features the Alternate Universe characters from my story "Something Else", but takes a different turn into yet another alternate time line from Chapter 10 of SE onwards. You don't have to have read that, but it helps. Wait... why haven't you read it yet? You'll get round to it later? Okay, you're forgiven, for now! So what gives with this story? Here's a quick SPOILERY summary: John Connor never properly met up with Cameron in 1999, so continued to run with his mother Sarah, who sadly passed away in December 2005. One year later, Cameron finally made her way into his life, changing it somewhat dramatically. Despite having been settled in LA for almost a year, a disagreement between them led to him once more striking out alone. The only clue he left behind was that he was heading to Canada - not enough for Cameron to trace John without drawing unwanted attention to him. In Something Else, John headed north for only a short time before turning back for his reconciliation with Cameron. However, what if John had indeed gone to Canada? Maybe this...

24 year-old John Connor arrives in a small town in Northern Canada, still waiting for his destiny to catch up with him. Over two years after the death of his mother Sarah from cancer, once more he faces the future alone. Or does he?

SOMETHING ELF

Part (the only) One: Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).

Somewhere in Canada: Monday, December 24th 2007.

John Connor woke with a start. It was quiet... too quiet. Grabbing his handgun from under the pillow, he leaped out of bed and made his way to the window. Cautiously he eased one of the curtains aside. The sun had risen on another day, revealing the reason for the unusual silence: a heavy blanket of snowflakes had settled on the town overnight, covering everything as far as the eye could see in fine white powdery crystals.

As someone raised in the warmer southern climes of the American continents, he was unaware of the sound-deadening effect of heavy snowfall. The landscape had been changed dramatically from that of the day previous; where it was once a host of differing shades of green and brown and gray, now it was uniformly white. The child inside him felt the urge to rush out and do something in the fresh new snow. What that something was didn't matter; anything would be fun.

Drawing the curtain back fully, he took in more of the vista. The front yard of the property he was currently residing in had taken on an unfamiliar air. The tree that had looked decidedly dead now appeared to be full of spring's blossom. The usually ugly metal trash can nestling by the side fence now looked like an immobile R2-D2. And wait, what was that? A snowman? The kids from downstairs must have been up early to make that, he decided. But what kid wouldn't be up early on a snowy morning like this?

His journey from L.A. to this house had been a long and slow one; he'd zig-zagged across many states, all the while maintaining his northbound heading. The cheap old Volvo wagon he'd bought in Vegas had not lasted long, but at least it got him into Canada. After that it was a matter of trains, buses and finally a spot of hitch-hiking. The last was from a long-distance trucker, who dropped him off in the middle of town, before heading home to his own family for Christmas.

So John found himself living in this attic room, part of, yet separate from the family below. That family was Mary Watkins and her two boys, Ivan and George. Her husband was absent, working away from home; maybe he'd get home for Christmas, maybe not. Either way, they needed the money a lodger could provide.

John had overheard a conversation between the children the day before. They'd been warned by their mom, seemingly for the hundredth time, that they were forbidden from playing in the nearby forest. They talked of the hermit living there, or at least as much of the legends and rumors that they'd heard in school as they could recall. The discussion became ever more heated but ended with the older lad warning his younger sibling that the man was a notorious axe murderer, who chopped up foolish children after luring them into his den in the woods. The little boy ran screaming for his mother, who admonished her oldest son in terms Sarah Connor would have been familiar with. C'est la vie, John had mused. Pulling back from the window, he mentally congratulated the kids on their snowman-building skills.

# # # # # # # #

Having washed and dressed, John was going to pour himself a coffee in the kitchen but then thought better of it. He planned to spend Christmas Day and the following week hunting in the forest the old-fashioned way, using a longbow, though perhaps not too medieval: his bow was made from modern composite materials. The relatively silent method of killing was a skill he had learned in the jungles of South and Central America, but he had gotten rusty since those youthful endeavors. Additionally, his unfamiliarity with the frozen wastes he had abruptly relocated to meant he had much to learn. Just as when he had been dumped in the desert to fend for himself by his bodyguard, the reprogrammed Terminator calling herself Cameron Phillips, he would need his wits about him to survive. He corrected himself: now he would need all his wits; back then he had her. Although she'd called their trip into the Californian desert a vacation, it was anything but. But all the time he was out there he knew, at the back of his mind, that she wouldn't let him starve. She would do anything for him, so he'd always had a cushion to fall back on. When he got to brooding he wished he still had that support: times like when he was trying to find a tasty meal; or watching their favorite TV show; or, he admitted most reluctantly, at night. He'd become used to having her around, even with all that tension in the air. Coming to every morning with that warmth behind him on the bed, it was kind of reassuring. He'd even gotten over that thing of waking to find her looking down on him, something that once had creeped him the hell out. In truth, it was why she laid down next to him, though she claimed to have other reasons. It reassured her, she said. Like a Terminator needed reassuring! But yeah, when he stopped being a jackass, she became easier company.

Regret busting loose of the old ball and chain? he asked himself. No! Needed to get free, rely on my own instincts, on my own resources. On myself. She was right about needing to be prepared for the war to come though, and this was what he was doing out in the back end of beyond. Wasn't she a resource though? No, Cameron was more than that, she was something else...

“Crap! Let's hit the diner one more time,” he decided. He pulled on a fleece and thick windbreaker, then positioned a woolen beanie on his head before venturing outside. As he stepped gingerly onto the fresh snow covering the path, his new landlady called out to him.

“Morning, John!”

He turned, to see her bearing down on him with a shovel in hand. “Hey Mary! Wanna hand with that?”

“Do you mind?” she asked, smiling gratefully.

“Not at all,” he said, taking the proffered tool. John started on the task, but after a few moments, pointed to the snowman standing like a sentry in the front yard. “Nice job the boys did there,” he said.

Mary looked puzzled. “That wasn't them; they're in back building one right now. I wouldn't let them out front that early.”

“Right,” John said.

“It's probably the kids from the next block; their parents let them out all hours. I don't let the boys play with wild children like that.”

“Yeah, probably right,” John said, hoping it answered both of her points. “Maybe it was the postman?” he ventured.

“No, he doesn't come 'til gone nine, later this time of year,” Mary replied.

“Oh,” John shrugged. Soon he had reached the sidewalk. Mary came to take the shovel off him, but was called back by a shout from the younger of her two sons.

“Mommy, have you got a carrot for Snowy?” he inquired in a high-pitched voice, full of excitement.
John couldn't remember being that pumped up about anything at that age. “Yay, Mom! Another Kalashnikov variant to field strip, clean and reassemble; I'll pass on the Legos, don't worry about fun or anything like that.” He shook the warped memory out of his head; he didn't know about Legos as a youngster. Not that he knew much now, but still...

Wonder what Cameron would have gotten me this year?

The thought flashed through his mind like thief in the night, unannounced and leaving him feeling like something was missing. “Ach!” he muttered dismissively, then followed Mary out back to admire the boys' handiwork: not bad, but not at all like the one out front, which had seemed almost like a person frozen in place. The oldest boy, Ivan, was putting the finishing touches to their joint creation, placing the carrot his mom had retrieved from her kitchen into the middle of the snowman's face. They had used a couple of stones for the eyes, several smaller ones for a smiley mouth. John hadn't noticed what eyes the snowman out front had worn: another thing to check out.

The slushy snow around the snowman's base was badly disturbed, a scar on the idyllic landscape made as the boys had rolled the three large balls of snow into place to create him. It occurred to John that the one out front had been pristine, as was the snowfall surrounding it. Could it have been built while the snow continued to fall, covering the tracks of whoever made it? Hmm.

He bade his farewells and headed back to the front of the house. His stomach flipped when he saw that the object of his curiosity had gone. The only trace left of the snowman, now seeming to John more mysterious than ever before, was a small pile of snow, surely not enough to have made the figure he had seen. He could see a small pair of footprints leading away from the site, heading for the town. He followed them, treading carefully as he made his way down the sloping road toward the diner where he had intended to have a hearty breakfast. The footprints merged with many others on Main Street, leaving him no further clues. He decided to refuel himself before investigating the mystery further.

Soon he was safely ensconced in a seat in Mean Ol' Moe's, waiting for the waitress to shuffle over. The diner wasn't really called Mean Ol' Moe's, the sign outside actually proclaimed “Moe's Diner” in bright blue neon; it was just that the first owner had been called Moe, and legend had it that he was as mean as Ebeneezer Scrooge, or so John had been told on his first visit to the modest establishment, when he had been buttonholed by Chuck, the town drunk. He had been rescued on that occasion by Rachel, the waitress who now hovered over him.

“The usual, John?” she asked. After two days she'd obviously decided that he wasn't going to venture out of his comfort zone, food-wise.

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, looking up at her round cheery face. Then he had a thought, a memory really. “Um, wait... can I get strawberries with those pancakes?”

Rachel screwed up her face scornfully. “At this time of year? Way out here?” She rolled away chortling to herself. Likely she'd be regaling the other regulars with the story all day, if not all of what remained of the year. “Crazy newcomers, right?” she would say. They'd turn and look at him, shaking their heads, not hiding their grins. “Yep, crazy hippies,” they'd concur. Everyone from south of the Canadian border was a hippie, the townsfolk had long since decided. Or a Californian, as if there was a difference. All that and more he had learned from hanging out in Moe's Diner and the Two Shots bar across the way. He still hadn't rooted out the origin of the bar's name, but it was something to look forward to after his forthcoming sojourn into the forest. It's the simple things, he thought wryly.

# # # # # # # #

As he slapped a couple of Canadian notes down on the table he smiled appreciatively at Rachel. Even though she was gonna be laughing at his supposed stupidity for the foreseeable future, she reminded him of his mother, as most waitresses did.

“Loved the pancakes, Rachel!” he said, by way of lessening his shame.

“Don't thank me, thank the new short order cook,” she replied.

“New?” John was curious: it seemed he wasn't the only newcomer in town.

“Yeah. Troy called in sick, said he knew someone who could fill in, sent her up this morning. She has a secret pancake ingredient.”

“Yeah?” John said, drawing the word out slowly.

“Yeah. Puts vanilla in. Seems you're the only one that's taken to it in a big way; no-one else has mentioned it.”

Her side-long glances at the other customers told him that he had only dug himself deeper into the mire when it came to public humiliation. But something else was really niggling at him.

“What's she look like, this new cook?” he asked.

“Cute, young, brunette. Not as good looking as I was ten years ago, but then, who is , right?” She winked at one among her admiring audience of male customers.

“No-one, Rachel, no-one,” the forty-something swarthy guy said. John couldn't recall his name, another mistake that would get him a tongue-lashing from Sarah Connor: “No detail is too small!” she'd often screamed at him, like a drill instructor. “Yes, Mom! No, Mom!” he'd meekly replied, unsure which answer was correct.

He shook himself out of his reverie. “She still in back?” he said to Rachel, though he didn't wait for an answer, pushing past her into the kitchen.

“Wait,” she called, but again he ignored her. The kitchen was empty apart from Juanita, the other regular cook.

“Can't come in here, mister,” she said, waving a spatula at him.

“The new girl, where is she?” he said, not pausing in the slightest at the threat presented by the kitchen implement or its bearer.

“Stepped outside for a smoke, back in five,” Juanita said. “You really can't be in here,” she added as she intercepted his path to the rear exit. “Go out front, then take the alleyway,” she offered in what she thought was a helpful way.

“Right,” John said.

“Yeah, on the right,” she said.

“Eh?” John was momentarily puzzled by her repetition, then got it. “Okay, thanks.” He walked briskly out of the diner, then broke into a trot as he rounded the building. He found the rear exit. There were plenty of squashed cigarette butts there, under the snow, but none were fresh. As if a Terminator would smoke, he thought. But maybe to blend in? She was here, he knew it now. Cameron. She'd found him, and quickly too, something he'd thought impossible. They never do give up, right? Um, yeah. So where was she?

“Where are you?” he yelled.

“Right here, buddy.”

He whirled around at the sound of the voice. It was Chuck, red-faced as usual, though not from the cold. John pushed him away, but not too forcefully. The old drunk staggered but did not fall, used to being unsteady on his feet. John started to run, but was careful not to slip on the snow. Once more he followed the small set of footprints, this time leading out of the alley onto Main Street. As before, once there they merged with others, including his own. He looked up and down the road, but couldn't see anything out of place; nothing familiar either. It struck him that he'd missed her more than he'd cared to admit, even to himself; certainly more than he was expecting, and now that he'd had a tantalizing hint that she was still there for him, he wanted to see her, take in that quirky smile, those beseeching eyes, her unending inquisitiveness, her forthright manner when the crap hit the fan, her smell, the way she'd shake out her hair, the shapely curve of her body as she leaned over to get something out of the oven... Geez!

“Where are you!” he shouted again, uncaring if the whole town thought him a fool.

“Right here, behind you. As I always am,” a soft voice spoke to him. He whirled around, slipping slightly in the snow, but there she was, catching him, steadying him. She looked earnestly up at him, possibly worried about his reaction, though as it turned out unnecessarily. As he was held by her strong arms, he pulled her in tighter, closer. If she'd needed to breathe, she would have found great difficulty so doing, so tight was his embrace.

“Don't leave,” he said. It never occurred to him, the irony of his demand: he was the one to leave her originally, but he was only thinking of the here and now; she'd disappeared on him twice this morning, and now he was holding on to her as if his life depended on it. And maybe it did.

“I won't,” she said.

“I love you,” he said simply. There was no hesitation in his voice, no sense that it was a trick. Cameron didn't need to bio-scan him to decipher this; she just knew it to be true.

“I know,” she replied. She smiled slightly, then added, “I love you too.”

“That's some secret ingredient you put in them pancakes, honey,” Rachel said from behind them, “but they don't cook themselves.
You wanna get your ass back in the kitchen? We got orders to fill.”

Cameron turned to the waitress. “Just one minute more?” She got a reluctant affirmative nod in reply, then moved her attention back to John. “Kiss me?”

He paused to consider if it was a question or a demand, then checked himself: Like, who cares? His lips met hers, and months of tension and disagreement melted away like the snow under their feet. When they pulled apart no further words of apology or affirmation needed to be uttered: they understood each other fully.

“I should finish my shift, if we're going to be staying here,” Cameron said, glancing in the direction that Rachel had gone.

“Uh, yeah. Want me to wait around for you?” John said.

Cameron smiled slightly. “You got anything better to do?”

John smirked. “Not right now. In a few years, maybe one or two things, but my schedule's pretty free today.”

“Good. Wait inside, I'll send you over another coffee.”

John nodded and smiled, doing as she asked. While waiting, to pass the time he read the local paper cover to cover, engaged in some good-humored banter with a couple of the natives and finally ate a small sandwich for lunch. Eventually he got up to stretch his legs and was quickly joined by his erstwhile companion. She linked her arm in his, perhaps to ensure he didn't get any ideas about making a run for it. As they exited the diner, Rachel wolf-whistled at the pair. Cameron ignored it, John smiled with embarrassment.
As they headed away, John asked Cameron how she had found him.

“I got a phone call. It was a female voice, saying that you were staying in this town, at 471 Maple Avenue.”

“And you came, just on that? No other evidence? It could have been a Terminator, you realize that, right?”

“Yes, it could have been a trap, that is why I studied the whole area for a day.”

“You got caught under the snow last night.”

“Yes.”

“You made for a nice snowman,” John said, squeezing her hand.

“Snow man?”

“Don't get picky, I was paying you a compliment.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Don't mention it.”

“I won't.”

“Right...”

After some moments of silence, they had reached the start of Maple Avenue. 471 was the last house on the street, older and completely different in style to its neighbors.

“So, when did you get the call? You musta been driving like non-stop to get here so fast.”

“Non-stop? No.” She shook her head slightly. “I had to stop for gas,” Cameron clarified.

John paused in mid-stride, she did likewise. Cameron studied him carefully. He seemed about to rebuke her, but he contained himself and smiled slightly, though it was more of a grimace. Better than him shouting at me, like before in L.A., she decided.

“Of course you did,” John agreed as they resumed their walk, “but when did you get the call, 'cause if you've been here a day..?”

“Friday morning. How did you find this house?”

“I'd hitched a lift, the guy dropped me off in Main Street. First thing I saw was a card in the window of the grocery store: 'Cheap room to let, short term no problem' it said. I called the number, thirty minutes later I'm laying back on the comfiest bed I've had since... well, since I left L.A.” His mind wandered for a second to thoughts of himself and Cameron testing the comfort of the bed when he snapped back sharply. “Wait, wait, wait! I got here Saturday. How the hell could someone tell you I'd be here? I mean, exactly here? Before I even got here?” He pointed to the ground at his feet to add emphasis to his remark.

“I don't know. There seems to be too many coincidences for it to be a trap.”

“Really? Seems like there are too many for it not to be,” John said forcefully.

“I should clarify: a Terminator would not rely on coincidence to set a trap. Putting a card in the window of a grocery store is a long shot. Getting a truck driver to pick you up and drop you here is a possible sign of conspiracy, but that in itself would have presented a better opportunity to kill you than luring you and me to this house.”

“Right,” John said skeptically. “So dark forces are at work, but they're human not cyborgish?”

“Cyborgish?”

“What did I say about being picky?”

“That didn't sound like a compliment,” Cameron said quietly.

John inhaled. “Okay.”

They'd reached 471 Maple, but it looked different to only a few hours ago. The snow in the front yard looked grayer and the house itself seemed colder. No lights were on, despite the gloom as the winter sun began to set. John strode up the path he had cleared earlier and opened the front door. Inside, the house was empty of life. Their footsteps clattered eerily on the bare wooden floors as they headed for the kitchen. The table and chairs were placed as John had seen them before, but were covered in a thick layer of dust. The fridge that Mary Watkins had reached into for a carrot that morning was bare and gave off a musty smell. He followed the electric supply wire back to the plug on the end, but found it was not connected to the main. He turned to Cameron, started to say something, but stopped on remembering the snowman the children of the house had built while he shoveled the path. The windows looking out on the back yard were caked in dust and grime and cobwebs, so much so that he couldn't see anything distinctive outside. He unbolted the back door, and rushed out, Cameron tracking his every move, alert to possible danger. She drew her Glock from somewhere beneath her over-sized sweater and followed him out into the snow. He was standing in the middle of the yard.

“Where is it?” he yelled.

“Where's what?” Cameron said, after ascertaining that there were no threats nearby.

“The kids' snowman. It was here. Right freaking here! She gave them a carrot to make a nose.”

Cameron decided that using a carrot for a nose required further study, but she would keep that for a later time; preferably when she had a computer and internet access. “We should go inside, check your room,” she said.

“Yeah,” John agreed, running back inside. He led the way upstairs to his attic room. His stuff was as he left it, resting on the fully-made bed. “Does this room seem cold to you?” he asked.

“No,” Cameron replied. “It is currently fifteen degrees Celsius in here. The rest of the house is no more than three degrees. The water is likely beginning to freeze in the pipes.”

“Why is it warmer here than out there?” John asked, pointing to the hallway.

“I cannot say,” Cameron replied. She touched the cast iron radiator. “It's cold. I can't trace the source of the heat in this room.”

“That's odd.”

“Yes.”

“You don't like things that are odd and that you can't explain,” John pointed out.

“No,” Cameron said. She tilted her head and scrunched up her face pensively. "Except for one thing," she added.

“Oh?”

“You,” she said.

“Ah!” John chuckled at her joke. “I think this situation calls for an executive decision.”

“Yes,” Cameron agreed.

“After much consideration, due diligence and lengthy consultation...” John stopped, apparently deep in thought.

“Yes?” Cameron prompted, interrupting John's dramatic pause.

“I think we should get the hell out of here!”

“Good choice,” Cameron said, grabbing John's back pack off the bed. “Anything else need to go in here?”

John grabbed what he had previously offloaded into the closet and stuffed it into the bag, catching a slight wince from Cameron. She's probably thinking of the ironing, he reasoned. “You bring the Jeep?” he asked. She replied 'Yes' as they ran down the stairs. “So where is it?”

“Not far from the diner. Want me to get it?”

“No, we'll stick together.”

“Okay.”

They linked arms again and settled into a fast-paced walk. Reaching the gold SUV, as John buckled himself into the familiar, easy comfort of the Jeep's passenger seat, he wanted to know how Cameron had gotten the cooking job.

“I followed the cook home, knocked him out and tied him up. I imitated his voice to call in.”

“Now, where did you get that idea?” John said sarcastically.

Cameron merely raised an eyebrow.

“How'd you know I'd be at the diner?”

Cameron started the engine then gave John another look he was well acquainted with.

“Okay, dumb-John. I always eat at diners...”

“Got it in one,” she said, but smiled warmly. As she pulled out onto Main Street, she spotted Rachel exiting Moe's Diner. The waitress in turn noticed them and waved them over. Cameron slowed the car to a halt by Rachel's side, and wound the window down.

“Hmm, you two love birds going off somewhere to get up to something naughty?” the woman said with her trademark exaggerated wink.

“Maybe,” Cameron replied in a slow, shy tone. She curled up slightly, feigning embarrassment. Quite effectively, in John's estimation.

“So, the big question is, your place or his?” Rachel said.

“Er, mine,” Cameron said.

John leaned over, taking Cameron's hand in a show of affection. “Say, do you know what happened to Mary and the kids?” he asked.

Rachel scowled. “Mary who?”

“Mary Watkins. Of 471 Maple.”

“Geez, you're going back some. That's pretty ancient history.”

“What do you mean?” Cameron said, all affectation gone from her voice.

The waitress noticed this, and herself became more serious. “Mary Watkins an' her kids were murdered by her old man, back in the Nineteen-Thirties. He just went off his head one day. Killed them with poison, then cut up their bodies with an axe, buried them in the backyard.”

“What happened to him?” John asked.

“He ran off into the forest. Mounties tracked him, eventually. Committed suicide: shot himself in the head.” Rachel's face took on a reflective expression. “Come to think of it, they say he fired twice, first bullet went clean through his skull without doing the deed, but the second one worked better. I think the Mounties did it, myself, but I guess it all adds to the mystery. Brings in the odd tourist still. Mostly in summer though. Is that why you're here?”

“No, never heard of it,” John said. “'Til now. Anyways, we gotta be going.”

“I'll bet you do! Take care - don't do anything I wouldn't do!” The woman waved them off with a final cheery leer.

“Guess that's where the saloon bar gets its name,” John said, pointing to it.

“Two Shots. Hmm, and I thought that was your alcohol limit,” Cameron said.

“You mean, that's all you'll let me have, or how much I can take?”

Cameron looked over and smiled. “We'll see.”

“Before we go, I think we oughtta release the cook, don't you?” John suggested. “If he's not dead all ready...”

“I didn't kill him; I know how you feel about that sort of thing,” Cameron said.

John patted her hand and beamed at her. “Slowly but surely, we're getting there,” he said.

Cameron filed that away for further deliberation, then realized that file was getting pretty big. She regretted not spending more time recently on deciphering John's cryptic comments, rather than being powered down waiting for the phone to ring.

Having salved John's conscience regarding the well-being of Troy the short order cook, they resumed their journey. They'd reached the nearest main road, and were not far from the highway that headed south when John took Cameron's hand once more.

“You believe in ghosts?” He felt her grip increase just a fraction before she started rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. “I mean, after today?”

“I believe that some people experience things that they cannot explain rationally,” she said.

“Okay, but you saw her this morning, right?”

“Yes.”

“Out front, she was right out there with me, handed me a freaking big shovel.”

“Yes, she was right out there and it was freaking big.”

“So, can you explain it?”

“No.”

“Are you gonna put some of your ginormous processing power onto it?”

“At some point. But not right now.”

“Oh.”

John's hand went limp in hers. She squeezed it again, and adopted a warm, reassuring tone. “Hey, we'll stop at a motel in a couple of hours. Have a hot shower, then maybe do something that Rachel wouldn't do.” She hoped that she had achieved the right level of sultriness in her voice.

John's hand in hers indicated that she had. “Something naughty?” he said, hopefully.

“Or something nice,” she replied playfully.

“So, do I take it from the southerly direction we're headed, that you don't wanna hang around and do some survival training up here in the Arctic?”

“This isn't the Arctic, but you should know that I don't do cold.”

“No?” John inquired.

“No. My joints prefer the warmth of the sun.”

“Yeah, mine too,” John said.

A few hours later, they were safely snuggled up in a warm motel bed.

“It's midnight,” Cameron announced, as John was dozing off.

“It is? Oh well, then, merry Christmas, Cameron,” he said, sleepily.

“Merry Christmas, John,” she said. Better than last year, she thought, as she kissed him.

# # # # # # # #

– THE END –

............................................................................................................................................................

A/N 2:

What essentials do you need for a Christmas tale? Depends on your background I guess, but snow, romance, family reunions & ghosts seem pretty common, if a little Dickensian! I had the idea for this story while working on more chapters for Something Else. I couldn't place it in the SE continuity for various reasons that will become apparent as that story unfolds, but it had to be with the characters established in SE as opposed to my THR Trilogy, and certainly not those of the show. The Canadian setting presented the opportunity to have the snowy setting, and to allow a small nod to one of my fellow FF writers & wiki buds, Meanoldmoe, who hails from those parts. If the reconciliation here between John & Cameron seems a bit rushed for some, that is because it is so drawn out in Something Else, and I hate to repeat myself.

Comparative DVD Sales vs. TSCC Season 2

The_GodfatherSJP — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 09:58:06 CST

Name

Weeks Tracked

Week 1

% BluRay

Total Sales

24 S7

274,496
44,685
319,181

99,195
16,148
434,524

53,330
8,682
496,536

27K?
3.8K?
527.3K?

15K?
2.1K?
544.4K?

14%

469K DVD
75.4K BluRay
544.4K Total

True Blood

509,317

178,716

99,169

98000

67,482

15%?

1,580,074DVD
279K BluRay
1.86mil Total

Friday Night Lights S3

79,182

40,832
120,014

20K?
140K?

10K?
150K?

5K?
155K?

155K Total

Weeds S4

178,236
36,506
214,742

69,216
14,177
298135

37,383
7,657
343,175

28,859
5,910
377,944

19,096
3,911
400,951

17%

414,292
85K BluRay
499K Total

Prison Break S4

91,232

39,405
130,637

15-24k?
145-154K?

6-14k?
150-168K?

3-8k?
155-176K?

155-176k?

Family Guy Volume 7

171,996

104,552
276,548

48,912
325,460

40,741
366,201

40,279
406,480

539,821

Burn Notice S2

57,391
4,591
61,982

20K?
1.5?
83,500?

13K?
1K?
97.5K?

9K?
0.75K?
107.3K?

5K?
0.5K?
113K?

104.4kDVD
8.3K BluRay
112.75Ktot.

Entourage 5th Season

167,024

71,045
204,188

37,164
275,233

20K?
295K?

10K?
305K?

305K Total

Stargate Atlantis S5

106,161

34,324
140,485

38,988
180,4735

20K?
200.5K?

10K?
210K?

210K total

Mad Men S2

94,774
20,850
115,624

20K?
4.4K?
140K?

20k for

3 weeks

35,582

7,828
232.2K?

22%

298,309DVD
84K BluRay
382K total

BSG Season 4.5

173,579
13,886
187,465

57,959
4,637
250,061

34,872
2,790
287,723

16K?
1.3K?
305K?

10K?
0.8K?
316K?

292kDVD
23K BluRay
316K Total

Dollhouse Season 1

62,226
15,557
77,783

18-20K?
4-5K?
101.3K?

10k?
2K?
113K?

6k?
1.5K?
120.5K?

3k?
0.75K?
124.3K?

20%

100k DVD
24K BluRay
124.3K total

Grey's Anatomy S5

259,089

89,981
349,070

78,247
427,317

49,233K
476,550

20K?
496.5

497K Total

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia S4

201,406

67,804
269,210

43,932
313,142

35,522
348,664

62,985
411,649

412K Total

The Big Bang Theory S2

156,084

62,005
218,089

30K?
248K

15K?
263K

10K?
273K

273K Total

The Big Bang
Theory S4

209,510
26,513
236,023

60,436
8,245
304,704

11-12%

30 Rock S3

89,789

64,718
154,507

40K?
194,507

20K?
214.5K?

10K?
225.5K

225.5K Total

Fringe S1

111,359
27,840
139,199

52,351
13,088
204,638

39,796
9,949
254,383

20K?
5K?
279,383

10K?
2.5K?
291,883

20%

233.5K DVD
58.4K BluRay
291.9K Total

2 and a Half Men S6

102,864
102,864

41,727
144,591

20K?
164,591

15K?
179,591

10K?
189,591

189.6K Total

Desperate Housewives S5

80,060

30K?
110K

15K?
125K

10K?
125K

5K?
140K

140.1K Total

Sons of Anarchy

8
BluRay
Total

90,235
13,500
103,700

49,985
7,470
161,150

32,467
4,870
198,487

37,251
5,588
241,326

142,998 for next 4 weeks

13%

315685K DVD
47.2K BluRay
363K Total

Bones Season 4

212,121

61,961
274,082

36,762
310,844

27,963
338,807

Chuck Season 3

76,302
21,521
97,823

26,097
7,361
131,281

15,660
4,400
151,357

11,735
3,310
166,402

22%

Fringe Season 2

96,087
32,029
128,116

64,716
12,319
205,151

41,623
10,406
257,180

35,849
6,828
299,857

Projects to
428,366.7

25%
16% Wk2

Fringe Season 3

93,888
42,181
136,069

26,511
11,911
174,491

11,759
5,039
191,289

8,819?
3,380?
203,488?

Projects to
290,697

31%
30%
Wk2

Smallville Season 9

166,680
31,749
198,429

54,053
8,077
260,558

41,977
6,800
309,368

31,483
5,100
343,701

491K Projected

16% Wk1
13% Wk2

Terminator Season 1 The-numbers.com

71,279
15,015
86,294

28,231
4,912
119,437

16,939
2,947
139,323

12,874
2,240
154,437

17.4%

Terminators Season 1
Nielsen

88,566
18,657
107,223

35,443
7,466
150,132

21,762
4,584
176,478

16,539
3,484
196,501

Projects to
Year End
Sales of

17.4%

Terminator Season 1
AVERAGE SALES

96,758.5

137,784.5

157,900.5

175,469

250,670

Terminator Season 2
The-numbers.com

2 DVD
BluRay
Total

69,525
34,763
104,288

55,667
27,833
187,788

34,150
17,075
239,013

25,976
12,988
277,976

33%

188.6K DVD
94.3K BluRay
292.9K total

Terminator Season 2
RENTRAK

107,059
53,529
160,588

87,189
43,595
291,372

53,488
26,744
371,604

40,685
20,343
432,632

304.42K DVD
152K BluRay
456.6K total

Terminator Season 2
Nielsen

60,600
30,400
91,000

49,201
24,600
164,801

30,150
15,125
210,076

22,933
11,505
244,514

Projects to
Year End
Sales of

170.8K DVD
85.7K BluRay
244.5K Total

Terminator Season 2 AVERAGE SALES

116,346

95,508
211,854

58,591
270,445

44,567
315,012

450,017 total

33%

322,575 Total sales

All numbers from The-numbers.com

This is tracked out to 5 weeks unless indicated

Battlestar Galactica The Plan DVD Movie

178,970
59,657
238,627

82,504
27,501
348,632

33,503
11,168
354,886

25,495
8,499
388,181

25%

291,659 DVD
97,221 BluRay
388,181 Total

Stargate Continuum
(SG-1 D2DVD)

278,682
278,682

90,468
369,150

40,287
409,437

30k?
439K

BluRay sales

unknown

464,328 DVD
total as of March 2010

Something Else Part Eleven

MrsScott! — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 09:18:22 CST

SOMETHING ELSE

Part Eleven: A Wish For Something More.

Los Angeles: Saturday, October 20th 2007.

Derek Reese sat cross-legged and bare-foot on the floor of the North Hills apartment cleaning his personal sidearm, a ritual he performed each and every day before sleep, more often if his mind was troubled. He looked away from his activity to the other end of the room, specifically the table in the kitchenette, at which sat the cybernetic organism calling herself Cameron Phillips. She appeared to be looking intently at a computer screen, but he could just about make out a screen saver operating. Perhaps she was counting the stars?

He was still uncomfortable in her presence, but in the last few days he'd been shown a different side to Cameron. John Connor's abrupt departure had done something to her; exactly what, he wasn't sure, but her responses had to be real – why fake them, with nothing to gain? She didn't need him to find John and certainly didn't need him hanging around insulting and threatening to kill her. It didn't pump his ego to know that she was merely tolerating his presence, but it didn't stop him making another attempt at conversation.

“If he doesn't come back soon, we're gonna need some money,” he said.

The silence continued. She hadn't moved at all in the time he'd been watching her.

“Are you awake in there? Sometimes it's hard to know if you're in standby or just sulking!”

“I don't sulk.”

“Ah-ha! It lives!”

Cameron turned her head to face him. “It's easy for you, the waiting.”

“I was gonna say the same thing about you.”

“Perhaps you should go back to drinking your beer and watching mindless television.”

“We're outta beer.”

“So go get some.”

“We're outta money.”

“You mean you're out of money.”

“You've still got some?”

“Yes. We go out to work: we earn our wages in a parcel depot, if you recall. We are very frugal and have saved a reasonable sum.”

“John didn't touch it?”

“No. It would have made him traceable in some way.”

“So you can access it?”

“Of course: we have a joint checking account.”

“Damn, you two are tight.”

“Not tight enough, it would seem.”

# # # # # # # #

Somewhere Else: 2200hrs.

Sarah Connor sat perched on the end of the bed, looking down on her sleeping son, as she had done so many times before. He stirred, then blinked furiously at the vision.

“What are you running away from, John?” she inquired.

“I'm not running away, Mom.”

“Seems like it to me.”

John snorted. “You always wanted me to run. Isn't that what you always told me?”

“Yeah, but not from your destiny.”

“I'm not.”

“Oh of course; you're running away from it.”

“It?”

“The machine. The cyborg.”

“Erm, 'You see a machine, and you run! Do you hear me John Connor? Run!' Recognize any of that?”

“Sure, but this one is different.”

“How?”

“Well, you've told me before she's special.”

“No, I told Charley.”

“Right. At least you're keeping track. Still, you sent her back. You had some reason. You must need her, or you thought you did. Or
would.”

“You've changed your tune.”

“Not really – I'm merely being practical. You need her to defeat SkyNet. If you use all of your resources properly, you can actually do something here, change your future.”

“Resources? Derek and Cameron? Yeah, right! They both have their own agendas and they don't coincide with mine. They don't follow me; I'm no leader.”

“So you came here to sulk and lick your wounds. Feeling sorry for yourself?”

“No, I came here to have a vacation. Then I'm gonna get ready for the war. It's coming and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. If I'm supposed to lead everyone to victory, maybe it'll happen because I earn that right, by actually fighting the war. Having them do everything for me isn't gonna impress anyone. And those two will likely end up killing each other, and anyone who gets in their way. They deserve each other.”

“They are both products of the war,” Sarah said gently.

“Aren't we all? Aren't I?” John claimed.

“Yes, you are. But this isn’t what I was born to do; I had to change.”

“Yeah well; I was born for this, and I can't change that.”

“I'm truly sorry about that John; I did everything I could to save you from this.”

“Yeah, I know. It's not like I'm not grateful.”

“Maybe you should show your gratitude by rejoining your family.”

“Family? Hah!”

“They care about you.”

“That kind of care I can do without.”

“You've gotta stop making smart-ass comments, John.”

“Oh, right. Disrespecting my mom.”

“I'm not your mother. If I was, I'd be telling you to burn the metal b!tch.”

“Right.”

“I'm a manifestation of your subconscious, brought on by the fever that has laid you out for the last two days.”

“Oh.”

“You need to get some fluids, then get your ass back home.”

“Right. How'd you know it's been two days.”

“I'm aware of things you aren't: that's why it's called the subconscious.”

“Right.”

“And the radio news came on five minutes ago.”

John woke up for real. The radio was indeed on, the announcer completing the weather forecast for the next day.

My subconscious is a smart-ass too, he thought.

John forced himself up on to his hands and knees and crawled along to the head of the bed. He managed to silence the irritating noise from the radio, then picked up his cell phone from where it lay on the nightstand. He cursed the fiddly on/off button, then the PIN he had to enter to make it work. He flopped back down on the bed.

That'll get her attention.

He opened one eye to squint at the metal and plastic object in his hand. The technological miracle of miniaturization hadn't rung. He was sure at least two minutes had elapsed since he'd reactivated the cell, the mere act of which should have had Cameron calling him by now to check how he was.

Geez, can't even rely on a goddamn Terminator these days.

He'd been sure she would be on the line faster than he could speed-dial her.

Maybe she doesn't care after all?

He pressed her speed-dial number, 1, and dragged the cell to his ear. He heard it ring once, then the cold and unwelcoming voice she reserved for unwanted callers came through the speaker.

“Hello.”

“I'm sick. Come get me,” he managed to croak out before collapsing.

# # # # # # # #

Cameron stared at her cell for a moment, as if deep in thought, then snapped it shut.

“That our boy?” Derek inquired.

“Yes,” she replied.

“So, where's he at?”

She read off the laptop screen the location revealed by the Cell Division tracking program.

“John is staying at the Hotel California, 461 Ocean Boulevard, Anaheim.”

Derek stood up quickly and walked over to have a look at the laptop for himself.

“Anaheim? Wait, here, in L.A.?”

Cameron once again turned her head to face him. “Yes.”

“What's in Anaheim?”

“Disneyland.”

“Seriously?”

Cameron nodded. “And the Hotel California.”

She pressed a few more keys and the hotel's website opened up in a new window. She quickly checked the layout displayed there, then rose from her seat for the first time in more than 48 hours.

“You going straight there?”

“Yes,” Cameron replied. She opened a kitchen cupboard to remove the large first aid kit, then gathered some things into a backpack in her bedroom before brushing past Derek Reese on her way out.

“Need a hand?” he called.

“No.” Cameron hesitated in the doorway. “Thank you,” she added. Reaching into her backpack for her purse, she walked back to Derek and handed him five twenty dollar bills. “This should tide you over.” She smiled briefly, then turned on her heels.

When she reached the stairwell she vaulted the rail and landed gracefully on the concrete of the ground floor, surprising old Mrs Thornton from the apartment below theirs, who was waiting patiently for the creaky elevator to make its way down from the top floor.

“Hello, dear!” said Mrs Thornton, recovering quickly. “Nice day for it.”

Unsure as to quite what it was a nice day for, Cameron nodded and smiled her agreement, as John usually did with Mrs Thornton's pronouncements. “Yes, it is,” she said, then carried on at a trot to the waiting Jeep.

# # # # # # # #

Within an hour she had pulled into the hotel's parking lot and was showing the desk clerk the recent snap of herself and John as displayed on her cell phone.

“What room is he in?”

“What's it to you?”

Channeling righteous indignation, Cameron huffed: “He's my boyfriend. See that picture? That's me there, right?”

The female clerk leaned over her desk and peered closer, at the same time pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her small,
freckled nose. “Oh, so it is. Nice pic. You look good together.”

Easing back slightly on the aggression, Cameron replied: “Thanks. What room?”

“Looks like the guy in, um... Two, er... Eleven. Yeah, Two-Eleven, for sure.”

Cameron recalled the floor plan from her memory banks. It was one of three rooms she would have chosen. “Can I see the register?”

The clerk eyed her up for a few seconds, then glancing to her left and right, spun the book round. Cameron could see that two days previously, John had indeed signed in to Room 211: she recognized his handwriting. It was no wonder she hadn't had any success tracing any hotel bookings under his previous aliases. Phillip Cameron had not been one of them. She allowed herself a small smile, maintaining it for the benefit of the clerk.

“How many nights did he pay for?”

The woman tapped away at her keyboard. “Five. We offer a discount if your stay includes a weekend.”

“You don't say,” Cameron replied, feigning interest. “Do you have another key?”

“Yes.”

Cameron sighed deeply to show her displeasure; again it was something John often did, and it seemed to work for him. “Can I have it? He called to tell me he's sick. I need to see him now.”

The receptionist dithered, chewing her lower lip. “It's against regulations...”

“Yeah?” Cameron leaned forward threateningly. “Well, if he dies, I'm sure that's against regulations too. And I can assure you, you will regret it if he does.”

The middle-aged woman behind the counter weighed up the options; in front of her was a girl who looked like she was ready to kill her, but more realistically would sue her ass for everything she'd got. On the other hand there was her boss, whom she rarely saw, and who was slow with both praise and pay rises.

“Here's the keycard,” she said, handing it over.

“Thanks,” said Cameron, snatching it from the receptionist.

She set off at a fast pace for Room 211, holding the first aid kit in her other hand. Reaching the room, she swiped the card down through the metal channel; on seeing the green confirmation light she pushed the door open slowly, all senses attuned to the highest level of alert. She was greeted by a dispiriting sight: John Connor was lying face down on the bed, his head hanging over the end nearest her. The cell phone, that he had somehow managed to activate and then call her with, lay on the floor out of reach of his outstretched hand.

Closing the door behind her, she ran to him and knelt before his face, swiping her left index finger over his neck. She lifted his head gently and looked into his eyes, but they were closed. Carefully she lifted the lid of his right eye; it was glazed and unfocused. He failed to respond when she called his name. Her scan informed her that he was badly dehydrated, his temperature was dangerously elevated and his pulse weak and rapid. More, she could hear that his breathing was labored. She had arrived just in time.

Further assessment showed that John was in an unhygienic situation, lying in his own sweat and waste on the bed, but she needed to attend to his dehydration urgently. She opened the first aid kit, removing firstly a tourniquet which she applied to his left arm, swiftly forcing a vein in his hand to enlarge; she swabbed that area of skin with alcohol, allowing her to insert a catheter, which she taped in place. Examination of a large band-aid adhering to his right upper arm and shoulder area revealed that underneath was a red, inflamed patch of skin, with some dark, crusty dried blood. It didn't require an advanced learning chip to deduce that it was the site of a recently applied tattoo, and that it had not been treated as cleanly as she would have liked. Knowing that he was up to date with his tetanus shots, she decided that the source of his problem lay elsewhere, though it would not have helped his situation. Reaching back into the first aid kit she found a bag of saline. This she hung from the picture of an eagle in flight on the wall above the bed, aided by an unfurled wire coat hanger from the closet, then attached the drip tube to the catheter in John's hand.
Eventually, the saline infusion started to have some affect, and John briefly came round, to find an out-of-focus Cameron holding his face in her hands.

“It's okay, I've got you,” she said gently.

He tried to reply, but drifted back into unconsciousness before she could offer him a drink. However, Cameron determined that he had improved enough for her to be able to clean him properly. She had at the earliest opportunity rung down to the hotel's lobby, requesting clean bed linen and towels to be left outside the door. They now sat on a chair ready for use. Being careful not to disturb John unduly, she removed the now empty saline drip from the catheter, then stripped off her own clothes to avoid them becoming soiled by contact with John. That done, she carried him in to the bathroom where she placed him in the shower stall. Setting the temperature at a lukewarm level, she set about cleaning him. Holding him up became unnecessary when he came-to again, but by this time she had only his hair left to clean.

“You've not been using the right shampoo,” she said, running a hand through his damp locks.

John half turned to face her, but either thought better of it or was unable to move any further. “You can tell?” he mumbled.

“Yes,” she replied, soaping up his crown with the shampoo provided by the hotel. Like everything else in the Hotel California, its packaging displayed an eagle motif. Analyzing its constituent parts, she decided it was not as effective as her own preferred choice of hair product, but it would do.

“Hmm,” John shrugged, before steadying himself by holding the safety rail tightly as she briskly took care of his greasy mane.

While she was rinsing the shampoo out, he slowly slithered down into a kneeling position, his leg muscles unable to support him any longer. Cameron followed him down, ready to apply conditioner. She knew it wasn't essential at that moment, she just felt that it would be better if she did.

With that last task completed, John had lapsed into sleep once more. Cameron turned off the water and assessed his condition again. She felt it safe to leave him for a few minutes, so wrapping herself in a towel, she went back into the bedroom, where she stripped the bed of all its sheets and pillow covers, rolled them up into a ball before placing them in a black plastic refuse sack by the door. She then grabbed the fresh supply of linen and set about remaking the bed.

Returning to the bathroom and John, she wrapped him too in a large, clean, fluffy white towel. Carefully prizing his hands off the safety rail, she lifted him once more and carried him back to the bed. He was still dehydrated and, being asleep, was unable to drink the electrolyte-enhanced fluids he would need. Nevertheless, the emergency first aid kit lacked the tablets necessary to make them up. She noted that while she must restock the kit at the earliest opportunity, it really needed a wider selection of component items. There was one more saline bag in the first aid kit, so she used that, then tended once more to the wound that was his new body art with a gentle application of calamine lotion, topping it off with a fresh band-aid.

Her next task was to clean the basin and toilet in the bathroom, which she finished off with a spray of disinfectant from the first-aid kit. With John's vitals gradually stabilizing in a substantially more favorable condition than when she first entered Room 211, Cameron decided it was time to take care of her own needs. Though she would have preferred fresh items, she redressed in the same clothes she had arrived in.

She next set about finding something for John to wear when he recovered. Checking his bag to see if his clothing might need pressing, she decided that what little there was required cleaning first, if not actual burning. Being reluctant to leave John at this critical time to gather her own bag of belongings from the Jeep outside, let alone head for a laundromat, she improvised by hand-washing a T-shirt, some shorts, socks and pair of jeans with soap in the bathroom basin. She draped them over the glass door of the shower cubicle so that they could drip-dry, then took up her old station at John's side.

# # # # # # # #

Los Angeles: Sunday, October 21st 2007.

One side of the hotel room had a small balcony complete with a rail, over which she draped the still damp clothes. It was just past 7am, and the first rays of a golden dawn were slicing through the gaps between the buildings opposite. It wouldn't take long for them to reach the items arrayed neatly on the black-painted metal rail. It occurred to Cameron that standing there as the rising sun set her body aglow might be an interesting experience, one she would like to try. But not today: John Connor needed her, so she would wait inside with him, wait for him to awaken. As she sat down beside him, she hoped that one day they could feel the sun rise together, for if it would be an interesting experience for her, surely it would be even more so if John were there too? Time would tell, she decided.

After another hour at his side, she looked for something to occupy her time. She recalled that John's cell phone was lying on the floor at the edge of the bed. As it had not been switched on for eight days, she thought it might need recharging. Despite not using it, John had taken his charger with him when he departed, so she was able to plug it into the only socket provided by the hotel, above the nightstand. The cell lit up, showing as its background image the same picture her cell did: the one where she was kissing John on the cheek. This did not come as a surprise because that was the intention of taking the series of pictures: to bolster the notion that they were really a couple; or so John professed.

Clicking through the files on the cell, she found the rest of the snaps they had taken. In most of them they seemed to look happy together. She wondered if John's poses were as full of artifice as hers supposedly were. She reviewed her memories of those moments, seeking to delve deep into her thought processes at the time. Once again she found it hard to draw a distinction between simulating happiness and actually being happy. It was logical to assume that she responded in ways that she had become conditioned to over the years, but was there a difference between that and how humans felt? She knew that John felt happy, was happy, could be happy. He shared his happiness often, and also the opposite: his sadness and anger. When she detected that, was she feeling it too, or merely observing it?

She found another folder on John's cell. It contained only three pictures, but they were all of her, taken without her knowledge. One showed her reaction to licking an ice-cream cone back at Santa Monica pier. She had been engrossed in determining the component parts of the food, but was clearly displaying an expression that John had found captivating enough to preserve. The other two photos were equally mundane. One had been taken in their kitchenette; she was frying something, most likely a steak she concluded. The other was from one of their weekly trips to the grocery store together. In this she was selecting from the shelf exactly the right carton of milk best suited to John's needs.

She tried to find a common link between the pictures. They fitted the category of everyday activities that a normal couple would engage in, but she doubted that many took photos of such things. She corrected herself: the internet was awash with humans blogging the trivia of their daily lives. It was not an activity she had noticed John doing though. Maybe it was her human-like expressions? Or the fact that she, a Terminator, was doing such workaday acts?

One other factor the snaps had in common was that they had all been taken months beforehand, with his old cell. He had valued the pictures enough to transfer them to the new one she had obtained from Andy Goode's store, Cell Division.

She would ask John about that when he woke up – but quite a long time after: he wouldn't likely be in the mood for such trivial chit-chat right away. Which was another problem that needed her attention. She would need to determine his mood straight off and respond accordingly. If he was still upset with her, despite calling for her help, she would need to tread carefully. It might mean letting him vent all his rage and frustration on her. Or maybe she should stand up to him and argue her corner?

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, she thought, as she put the cell back down on the nightstand. Humans are complicated. And John Connor is a very complicated human.

# # # # # # # #

At 10am John was still peacefully asleep, so Cameron went to check on his freshly-cleaned clothes. They had completely dried, but for the thick seams on the jeans which had escaped the direct rays of the sun and with no breeze to speak of, were stubbornly refusing to dry.

Having discovered an iron and fold-out board clamped to one wall of the hotel room, she set about pressing the shorts, jeans and T-shirt. Even though it did not bother her physically if her own clothes were stiff and wrinkly, she still preferred them with the creases smoothed out. Another of her odd peccadilloes? John certainly preferred his clothing ironed, more so if someone else did it for him.

That task complete, she then rooted through John's bag once more to see if he had the stash of diamonds and cash, noting contentedly that most of it was still present. She found an unusual set of keys. They were old, but she had never seen them in John's possession before. They were not the originals, but copies that had been cut, so partially disguising their actual usage.

Another matter to raise with John when the time was right.

John now had a set of clean clothes to wear, but they weren't quite up to her usual exacting standards. She hadn't brought along additional outfits for him in her hasty grab of otherwise essential items from their apartment, but recalled seeing a clothing outlet a kilometer up the block, the end of which housed a small grocery store. Additionally, next door to that was a pharmacy. Between the two of those, they would provide the vital nutrients he would need when he woke up.

For exactly an hour she debated whether or not to step out, firstly to gather her bag from the Jeep and secondly to acquire from the local stores those items she deemed necessary for John. Against the fact that she would be in a position to offer him restorative liquids, solid food and fresh clothing, was the possibility that he could wake and find her gone again. Sitting beside him on the bed with one leg tucked under, she held his right hand between both of hers.

“Difficult choices: if this is what being in love means, it sucks. Totally,” she said.

John did not stir. His vital signs were encouraging so she took the decision to go. John took risks all the time, and it seemed to pan out for him. She slowly put her boots on, all the while watching him carefully for the slightest variation in his now regular breathing. Still stable, he slept on, seemingly peacefully.

Cameron collected together the items she thought necessary for her expedition: firstly, her Glock handgun, which she tucked into the back waistband of her jeans. She would need her black leather jacket to cover its tell-tale bulge, but the pockets of that already contained her small purse, cell phone, Jeep keys and the hotel keycard, the other things she deemed essential to her mission.

Before leaving, she kissed John on the forehead, something she'd seen done often in movies and TV shows by persons to a loved one.

“I'll be back soon, I promise,” she said, though she knew he couldn't hear her.

Talking to unconscious or sleeping people was another strange human behavior portrayed in dramas. She decided that it must give comfort to the speaker, though it didn't do anything for her. Or did it? She would know that she had said it, even if nobody else did. It was an immutable fact, that could not be taken back or erased; much like saying 'I love you'.

She decided to leave John a note just in case, leaving it on the nightstand where he'd be sure to see it. She left the room backwards, only the closing door cutting off her view of her partner.

# # # # # # # #

John Connor woke at 11:20am. His head was still fuzzy, and his mouth felt like it was as dry as a desert in a drought. He looked around him, feeling and smelling the clean sheets. On top of everything was a subtle scent: Cameron's perfume. She didn't wear it often, but he knew it had to be part of some plan; she never did anything without working it all out in advance. Not that everything worked out for her.

So that weird dream where Cameron answered his distress call was real after all? Crap! She'd seen him naked again, and worse: covered in his own vomit and filth. He could feel a headache coming on. She must have put the IV in his arm, he reasoned, pulling the tube from the catheter. He got up and started looking for clothes. He tried to prevent an involuntary smile when he found the neatly pressed and folded pile Cameron had left for him on a chair. He wondered where she was. In the bathroom? No, surely not...

He grabbed a pair of shorts and called out to her: “Cameron?”

At that moment the room door opened and just as swiftly closed. Standing there was the object of his query, carrying a backpack and a plastic grocery bag and wearing the biggest smile he'd ever seen from her. She dropped the bags and uncharacteristically ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. Reaching up on tip-toe she planted her lips on his, determined to let him know exactly how pleased she was to see him again, with as much warmth and passion as she could muster.

Her tongue searched out his as it had done once before, but this time there was no response. His arms did not embrace her, his body did not welcome her. She opened her eyes. Even at that distance she could focus clearly; good enough to see that John's eyes were open too and that he was not looking at her, but at some distant object on the far wall, most likely another cheap eagle print.

She pulled back, trying to move into his direct line of vision, to force him to look at her, acknowledge her. She looked quizzically at John, who also had a curious expression upon his face.

“Hmm,” he said, licking his lips. “It's totally amazing what SkyNet can do; I mean nothing is beneath its notice. The consistency of your tongue, for instance: smooth on the underside, slightly rough on top, and so flexible. And wet and warm, all at the same time. It's so... real.” He still appeared to be looking right through Cameron as his tone and expression gradually changed, to one of complete indifference. “Maybe it wants to replace all of us with things like you: perfect slaves that will live for ever. What do you think?”

“John?” Cameron was disappointed. John had awakened, but as she had predicted, he did not seem to be over his bad mood, and worse, her demonstration of affection had not impacted successfully.

“Yeah, SkyNet is creating a better human than we can! Well, I guess that makes sense, if a human made SkyNet, the ultimate machine, then why wouldn't it make the ultimate human? It's totally creepy though, that it's studied every little facet of us, in such fine detail, that you can kiss like that.”

“John?”

Ignoring her, he carried on with his monologue, becoming deadly serious. “And all this just to kill humans. Freakin' amazing.”

“John,” she said again, but quietly this time, barely more than a whisper.

He turned his head slightly, finally focusing on her. “Yeah?”

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Me, mad at you?” he shrugged. “Now why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I let you down.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, never mind that. We've got work to do, right? What's been happening?”

“Derek and I intercepted a shipment of coltan destined for a SkyNet stockpile and destroyed both it and the Triple-Eight gathering it.”

“That's good,” John said, begrudgingly. “You killed Andy Goode yet?”

Cameron frowned. “Andy Goode is alive, though we did destroy his Turk.”

“Okay.” John turned and began to walk away.

“You're still pissed at me,” Cameron observed.

John's shoulders slumped as he stopped in his tracks. She could sense that he was still smoldering with repressed anger.

Approaching him cautiously, she gently stroked his light beard.

“You haven't shaved,” she said, noting that he didn't flinch away from her touch.

He squinted slightly. “Well spotted. I see your powers of observation and tendency to state the obvious are still intact.”

Ignoring his acidic tone, she continued optimistically: “But at least you have been brushing your teeth.”

“Ah!” He ran his tongue around his teeth. “The awesomeness of cyborg sensors never gets old,” John replied, remembering their recent kiss and her copious warnings that his future-self suffered from poor dental health, most likely contributing to his difficult moods.

“Yes,” she smiled.

John scratched his stubble. “Hmm. Well, it wasn't really a priority.”

“No,” Cameron said. She decided her comment needed further embellishment. “I wasn't being critical, merely making an observation.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, and it makes you look more handsome. Rugged.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well... Thanks. Can I put my shorts on now?”

Cameron stood back, maintaining eye-contact while he pulled them on. “Of course. I cleaned your clothes up as best I could, but I bought some new ones just now. Would you like them instead?”

“What's with the heavy dose of perfume? You trying to impress me or something?”

“Or something: I've not changed my outfit for three days. I washed myself in the shower when I cleaned you up, but it's not the same if you don't put on fresh, clean clothing.”

“Right.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“That you haven't changed your booty shorts for three days? Humungously,” he said with plenty of sarcasm.

Cameron's lips twitched. “No. That I didn't wear the perfume for your benefit.”

“Oh, but you did: you'd smell otherwise,” John smirked.

“You really are an aşshole, John Connor,” she replied, deciding it was time to speak her mind.

John shrugged, but he felt suitably chastened, and looked away. Perhaps he needed to make a conciliatory gesture? She had come to his rescue after all.

“Thought you might be wearing one of my shirts,” he said, thinking back to the previous Christmas and many other occasions since.

Cameron wasn't prepared to give ground yet. “You obviously haven't smelled them.”

John sighed. “I used to be good about all that cleaning and washing stuff. Gotten too lazy, relying on you all the time.”

“So it's my fault that you're a slovenly pig?”

“I didn't say that. Geez, you're on a roll, aren't you? You been saving this up while I was away?”

“Are you saying that I should be meek and docile, waiting on you hand and foot, like a slave?”

John stood mouth agape, stunned by her accusation. “No... Of course not! Why would you think that?” he asked. There was a hint of despair in his voice now, not anger.

“Because you treat me like crap.”

He looked intently at Cameron. She seemed to be on the verge of anger, but at the same time upset, just as he was. “I dunno what to say,” he replied.

Her mouth twitched again. After what seemed to John like an eternity, she spoke: “I got something from the drugstore. You should drink it.”

Cameron turned back to the bags she had previously dropped without a thought. She made up a drink of essential elements to replace those lost to his illness and handed it to him. He smiled his thanks, then drank the foul-tasting liquid, trying but failing not to grimace. Meanwhile at the end of the bed Cameron laid out the new outfit she had purchased, alongside those she had cleaned, gesturing for him to make his choice from either pile. Then she took up a position at the window, gazing up and down the block. Those direct rays would have to wait for another day; maybe another lifetime. She turned her head to look upon John as he weighed up his options.

“I do it because I love you,” she said.

John paused momentarily in his selection. He seemed to be about to say something, but he kept his silence. He still felt extremely tired and it suddenly caught up with him. He flopped down on the bed and looked over at Cameron, but she had returned her attention to the goings-on outside the room. He passed out again.

# # # # # # # #

John woke up, still sprawled on the bed.

“What time is it?” he asked between yawns.

“14:37.”

“Right. Anymore of that stuff... the drink?”

Cameron walked over to where she'd placed the constituent parts and mixed up another batch with water from the faucet in the bathroom. She passed it to John, who drank it in one go, again pulling a face afterward.

“I'm wasted. What the hell's wrong with me?”

“I suspect that you have contracted a norovirus.”

“What?”

“Food poisoning. Have you had anything unusual in the last 72 hours?”

“Well, uh... I had some shellfish down at a place near the beach, day I got here.”

“Did it taste off?”

“It was drowned in chilli sauce, so I dunno.”

“I see.”

John looked up. “You're doing that 'mom' thing again. Telling me off like I'm a kid.”

Cameron swiveled to face him. “If you'd just consumed plenty of fluids you'd have been fine; you wouldn't have needed my help at all.”

“Right.” John held his head in his hands.

Cameron carried on regardless. “You called me. You wanted me to come get you.”

“Yeah.”

“So why are you bitching like a little girl?”

John looked up sharply. “What the hell?”

“It's time you made up your mind, John.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

# # # # # # # #

Thirty minutes of silence later, John had had what he felt to be enough of the electrolyte-enhanced fluids so decided that it was time to go. He knew that ordering Cameron to leave would have no effect; likewise telling her not to follow him. He just wanted to get out, get back to thinking for himself, thinking on his own. He packed his bag and headed out to the parking lot, shadowed by his erstwhile partner.

John fished around in his bag for a moment or two, before his hand emerged with the unusual set of keys that Cameron had discovered earlier. He walked up to a 1978 Volvo 245 station wagon and unlocked the driver's door, then threw his bag onto the rear seat.

Cameron looked at the Volvo. Its metallic blue paint work was faded and blistered in many places, and the dashboard had some cracks, doubtless from decades in the California sun.

“This is not as dangerous as the motor-bike,” she posited.

“Or as exciting,” John said.

“I prefer it.”

“Thought you might.”

“You bought it with me in mind?”

“No. I bought it because I thought it would be the last thing you would think that I would think of buying.”

“Right.”

“You look confused. Having trouble keeping up?”

“Windows '95 could keep up with that. I'm just slightly more advanced.”

“Right. Windows 2027.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Apparently not.”

John got behind the wheel and turned the engine over; it caught after a few desperate churns, belching out a thick cloud of fumes from the tail pipe. With an embarrassed grin, he waved her off. “See ya.”

“Soon, I expect,” Cameron replied. She watched as the antique wagon lurched into the late afternoon traffic, its cold engine alternately being over-fueled and starved by its faulty fuel-injection system. She climbed into the Jeep Grand Cherokee and proceeded to follow John at a distance of at least two hundred meters.

It took less than five miles for the Volvo to give up the struggle of transporting the future savior of mankind. Cameron pulled in behind it on the shoulder. Its hood was already raised, steam rising from the radiator and various fluids gushing onto the pavement below. John was standing at the front, looking down at the dead engine and scratching his head.

“You ought to get Triple A,” Cameron suggested.

“Why, when I have Triple-Eight?” John laughed at his joke. Cameron didn't join him.

“I'm not a Triple-Eight. I'm way more advanced,” she said.

Not for the first time, he detected a note of pride in her statement, despite the roar of traffic rushing past. It was in her expression and her eyes too. Or was he just fooling himself?

Cameron joined him in looking under the hood, then suggested they get inside the relative safety of the Volvo's cabin. John reluctantly accepted; it was certainly quieter.

“You agree it's junk?” he asked.

She nodded affirmatively.

“Crap!” John cursed. “Goddammit, that dude said it was reliable!”

“Something of this age?” Cameron said, gesturing around the thirty-year-old wagon's moldy, discolored and rotting interior.

“Yeah! 'German engineering' he told me. Last time I listen to a salesman...”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Volvos are manufactured in Sweden.”

“So?”

Cameron prevented herself from letting out a sigh. “Sweden is not in Germany.”

“So?”

This time she didn't bother hiding her annoyance. Her sigh was long, pointed and noticeable.

“What?” John said, not hiding his feelings either.

“You really ought to know your geography better.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“The war is a global one, John; it is not just confined to the greater Los Angeles area. It is the battle for humanity's survival, and all people, no matter what their age, race, gender, creed or sexuality have their part to play.”

“Right. Sounds like a speech from some pompous old fart.”

“You made that speech.”

“Right. Like I said... Um, Future-Me, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“Sweden is in Scandinavia, the north-eastern point of Europe. They suffer very cold winters there, but have adapted to the harsh climate, even after Judgment Day. Though they are relatively small in number, they have resisted significant forces many times before. The extreme cold was not good for my kind.”

“But Daddy SkyNet would have found a way eventually, right?”

“Yes, eventually. It is probable that destruction of the arable land and pollution of the seas would have starved them out gradually.”

“Yeah.”

“But long before that SkyNet would be defeated; the Scandinavians played their part by forcing SkyNet to commit resources away from the major fronts, resources it couldn't afford.”

“Good for them. Tell me, after the bombs dropped, was there such a thing as Germany? Or Sweden?”

Cameron thought for a while. “Technically, no.”

“Right. So in the future, we're all in it together?”

“Yes.”

“That's good. So it won't mean squat whether my car is German junk or Swedish junk?”

“Not then it won't.”

“Right. 'Cause we agreed it's junk now. So let's go.”

“I'll call for a tow truck.”

“Why?”

“You can't leave it here: the authorities will ticket you.”

“Okay.”

Cameron dialed a number, speaking briefly to give their location and agree a time, then hung up.

“You got them on speed-dial?” John inquired.

“No. I read the Yellow Pages one night.”

“Interesting.”

“No, but it is useful sometimes.”

“That wasn't a question.”

Cameron shrugged and turned her attention to the direction from where the tow truck would eventually come, which it did more than thirty minutes later. Meanwhile, John removed his gear from the stricken car, placing it in the trunk of the Jeep. He watched in fascination as Cameron talked to the truck driver, negotiating a price. After much shaking of his head, the man nodded enthusiastically. Cameron's response was to whip up her T-shirt; the tow-truck driver licked his lips slowly and lasciviously. He started to reach out his greasy right hand, but one look from Cameron and he thought better of it.

“Hey!” John shouted.

The driver looked disappointed as Cameron lowered her top, but proceeded to hitch a cable to the hook under the front bumper and then wind the old wagon onto the towing apparatus. With that raised, he jumped into his cab and drove off.

John joined Cameron in the Jeep.

“What was that all about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Flashing your breasts.”

“Getting a discount. A one hundred percent discount,” she said, starting the engine and setting off. “And it wasn't my breasts he saw. I'm wearing a bra.”

“Irrelevant. You shouldn't be doing that.”

“Why not?”

“We can afford it for a start, but... I mean, it's not right, flaunting yourself like that.”

“Oh. You think I should reserve that for you and you alone?”

“No! I don't wanna see your body either.”

“Really?”

John gritted his teeth. “Look, it's about modesty, self-respect... You should know all this crap by now!”

“Why? Why should it matter? I'm just a robot, right?”

John shook his head. “Why do you say stuff like that? Why?”

“You know why.”

John sighed deeply. “You disappoint me, Cameron.”

“We all disappoint, eventually.”

# # # # # # # #

Cameron drove sedately as usual, so John kicked back in the seat, planting his feet on the dashboard, something he knew she disapproved of. This time though, she said nothing. The position he had adopted quickly made him uncomfortable however; his cell phone was pushing against his hip bone, so he dug it out of his pocket. He realized that he hadn't checked it for messages. He found that there were many from Derek Reese. John listened to the most recent one, delivered in an angry tone.

“I gotta tell you, John: if you don't come back soon, that cyborg's gonna drive me nuts!”

Further investigation led him to one single voice-mail from Cameron, exactly a week on from his message to her.

“I'm sorry. Please come home.”

John snapped the phone shut, then slowly opened it up again. He looked at the screen, which still displayed as its wallpaper the photo he had taken of Cameron kissing his cheek. He looked happy, and so did she. Momentarily, he wondered why she hadn't been the one to phone him the previous day. He imagined her sitting in front of the computer waiting for his cell signal to reactivate.

“So... Er, how have you been, this last week?” he asked.

“I've missed you. Otherwise I have been functioning adequately.”

“Riiiight. Listen, how come you didn't call back, soon as I turned my cell back on?”

“I was weighing the odds of you being annoyed that I phoned too early against you being pissed that I didn't care enough to call first.”

“That's a tough problem for a girl.”

“It's a tougher problem for a cybernetic organism.”

“Yeah,” John acknowledged. Looking up, he was surprised to find that she was pulling back into the parking lot of the Hotel California. “Why are we back here? Thought you'd drag me back home.”

Cameron parked the Jeep, then turned to face him. “Firstly, you've paid for another two nights and secondly, you don't want to come back home.”

John nodded sheepishly.

“And thirdly, I said you need a vacation. So have one.”

“Fine,” John said, exiting the car.

As he swiped his keycard through the slot to unlock the room door he could feel Cameron's presence behind him. Her scent wafting into his nostrils confirmed it. He marched inside, leaving the door open for her. She closed it quietly, then stood there serenely, waiting for his next tirade. She didn't have long to wait.

“You said you'd never leave me.”

“It was just for one night.”

“Never means never in my book.”

“I left you a note.”

“What? When?”

“This afternoon. Didn't you see it?”

“No,” he said curtly.

Cameron went over to the nightstand. She held up the note, handwritten in her neat, feminine script.

“Musta missed that,” John muttered, shrugging his shoulders. He then decided to go back on the offensive. “Didn't you think to leave one before... last week?”

“No. You were in a foul mood and I thought I'd be home before you woke up.”

“Why the hell did you go?”

“To stop Derek from killing Andy Goode.”

“I thought I could count on you.”

“You could. You can.”

“I'd just told Derek that you'd never leave me. It was the one thing in my life I thought I could rely on.”

“I wish you'd believe me: I didn't want to leave you. Tactically it makes more sense to terminate Andy, but you want to use his programming skills. I respect that, so I put aside my personal preference to stay by your side at all times.”

“Well that's real big of you Phillips!”

“John, I'm sorry. I –”

“I don't care.”

“I love –”

“Don't say it! Just don't say anything, understand?”

John paused to take a few deep breaths and also to take stock. He hadn't really rehearsed his argument, despite the constant churning over of their situation in his mind. The time he'd spent away hadn't given him the clear air he'd hoped for but there were more things he wanted to get off his chest.

“You say stuff like 'I love you' as if you mean it, but you don't,” he accused.

“How do you know?”

“Because you don't even know yourself! You told me that when I asked you before... for crying out loud, Cameron! You don't think I'd wanna know if you were sincere, not just bullsh!tting me? You think I'd just leave it at that?”

“I don't know. I'm aware that our different natures, and the opposite sides we represent in the future war make things difficult for you, but –”

“But nothing! That's just one factor – there's a whole bunch of issues to consider, like should I be messing around when there's so much at stake? Should I even be involved with someone supposedly under my command?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Yeah. And maybe I shouldn't waste my time worrying about someone who... something, that can't love me back.”

They stared at each other: John glaring, full of emotion; Cameron as passive as ever, but no less conflicted internally.

“Perhaps not,” she repeated.

“That all you got to say?”

Cameron shrugged. She thought her deeds had spoken for her but alas, it would seem not. What more could she say? How could she articulate something that was alien to her nature? Or was it? Was it part of what made her unique, an evolutionary step up from the Triple-Eight models? Was it not mere emulation but actual feeling?

“I don't know, John. I don't have the answer to everything, you know that.”

He nodded and turned toward the bathroom.

“But I'd like to find out.”

John again inhaled deeply, though he knew it was a pointless exercise. It wouldn't clear his head. A gallon of caffeine and a ton of oxygen couldn't unscramble the mess his life was in. Personal life, he mentally corrected himself. Ha! Who'd have thought I'd have a personal life to worry about...

He went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Cameron moved to her favored observation post by the window, standing there like a silent sentinel, casting her gaze over the masses below.

After five minutes, she decided that action was required – she could no longer remain silent. She went up to the bathroom door and knocked twice upon it. She waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, she spoke through the door, rather than opening it.

“John, I'm sorry.”

She heard him walk up to the other side, but he failed to open the door.

“Yeah; always sorry afterward,” he said bitterly.

“At least I apologize – and I mean it.”

The door flew open, revealing an angry John Connor. “What does that mean, huh?”

Cameron stood her ground. “You often treat me like crap, yet rarely acknowledge it or offer contrition after.”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“I'm not having this conversation. We're not having this conversation,” John said, slamming the door shut in her face. “I'm gonna have a shower,” he said. “You can go... guard. Or whatever.”

John stripped off then turned the shower on and stepped under the spray. He was just about to grab the soap when Cameron slipped in behind him. He knew it without seeing or hearing it; a slight drop in temperature, a movement like a gentle breeze as the door opened, then she was there. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and started to massage them, something she did so well.

“Why do you do this?” he pleaded in a whisper-quiet voice, as the water cascaded down onto his head, through his hair and onto her hands.

“You need it to relieve your stress,” she replied.

He turned to confront her, his face now showing just a hint of anger due to his weariness. He was not just tired physically, but also mentally from the fight constantly going on in his head about his protector, and the verbal battles he had with her, like the one ongoing.

“No, I mean coming in here, like this. Why? You know it's not exactly gonna relax me. Are you trying to get a rise out of me, huh?”

“It would appear that I have been successful, if that were the case,” she said, glancing down. John's cheeks reddened and he turned back to the wall, holding his face under the shower's spray again. “You do not have to be embarrassed or ashamed, John. There is nothing wrong about your feelings for me.”

“Go! Just... go. Please?” he begged.

“No. You need me; you want me. You should acknowledge that fact and move on,” she said, resuming her ministrations to his knotted back muscles.

John tried to ignore her, to deny that her touch was working its magic upon him, but he failed dismally, which just made him more depressed.

He felt her lips brush against the nape of his neck and her hands move under his arms, reaching round to his chest. Her naked body pressed tight against his back, her breathing causing her chest to push against his broad back, then release slightly, only to repeat the cycle mere moments later.

“John? John?” Her tone got more insistent, so he angled his head, moving his ear closer to her lips. “I love you,” she said.

He slumped forward, his head banging against the off-white tiles, causing Cameron to hold him tighter, pulling him away from the wall. He resisted, spinning around to face her, the anger now clear upon his face. “Don't... don't say that! You can't just go around saying stuff like that, doing this, understand? You can't keep messing with my head Cameron.”

“I'm not,” she said quietly, her eyes never wavering from his.

“I don't think you understand what you're saying. If you do, you're playing a game, a very dangerous game.”

“I do know what I'm saying, and I know what it means. I'm saying that it's okay for you to love me.”

“No, no... No! This is not happening! Get the hell outta here! Get the hell outta my life!”

“No. I will never again leave you John. You have my word,” she replied assertively, but he noted, with warmth. “I love you,” she repeated.

John looked deep into her eyes, looking for something that would tell him this was not all a lie, a ploy, a trick. All he could see was... devotion, hope, life... love? He grabbed her head, pulling her lips closer to his. As their mouths made contact he felt her body melt into his, a natural fit, as if built for that purpose. All thoughts of denial were driven from his head as he finally embraced his love mentally as well as physically.

It seemed to Cameron that his hands and lips were everywhere on her body, all at the same time. The readings her scans presented were off the chart. She was being overwhelmed by the sheer level of emotion and passion exuding from John. He had pinned her to the back wall of the shower cubicle when his lips returned to hers. Although she wanted nothing more than to continue their kiss, she broke it off, worried that the cycle of events she had triggered would escalate beyond what John would tolerate, what he would forgive. And there was another problem.

“Wait,” she said.

# # # # # # # #

..........................................................................................................................................................

Next: Part Twelve - Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've)?

Something Else Part Ten

MrsScott! — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 08:46:35 CST

SOMETHING ELSE

Part Ten: Don't Leave Me This Way.

Los Angeles: Wednesday, October 3rd 2007.

“So... What happened back there?” John asked, guiding the Jeep home through the evening traffic.

Cameron looked at him. “Andy offered me coffee.”

“And?”

“And, I turned him down.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He didn't have any sugar.”

“That was the deal breaker?”

“No. I didn't want to have sex with him.”

“Right. He might have just been offering you a coffee.”

“But you said –”

“Yeah, well... I meant it like, when you're on a date, asking someone inside for a coffee, it's like saying: please stay the night.”

“Oh. And 'stay the night' means having sex?”

“Usually. But I guess it doesn't have to. You have to play these things by ear.”

“But it's safe to assume that it would involve sex?”

“If you'd been wearing that dress from earlier, there wouldn't have been any assuming.”

Cameron looked out the window, allowing herself a self-satisfied smirk.

“Tell me more about before the coffee... And I don't mean what you had to eat,” John said.

Cameron gave him a careful summary of the evening's events, including the details of Andy Goode's Turk.

“So it's cobbled together from video-games machines? I'd have thought that the program is the important part though.”

“I played it and won; the chess program is not as effective as Andy thought.”

“Maybe he'll abandon his ideas of world domination through chess?”

“Maybe. But we should still destroy the apparatus; he told me that it is unreliable: it has different moods.”

“Really? Who'd have thought that: a moody machine, huh?”

Cameron looked intently at John. “Are you implying something?”

“Me, implying? No way!” John paused to look at her before continuing, “I'm flat out saying it: you are a moody machine!”

She pouted slightly, then brought the conversation back on track. “We should consider terminating Andy Goode.”

John gripped the wheel a bit tighter. “Maybe you should have stayed for that coffee.”

At the next red light, John looked over at Cameron. She seemed to be studying her right hand carefully.

“Problem?” he asked.

She glanced his way, flashing a reassuring smile. “Not at all. I'm scanning Andy Goode's fingerprints.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Wow! How'd you do that?”

“I shook hands with him when I left. He was sweating a lot; the sweat has dried enough now for me to discern his prints.”

“That's a really neat trick.”

“Thank you.”

“So what does it tell you?”

“Andy Goode was a member of Derek Reese's squad in 2027. But his name there was Billy Wisher.”

The light turned to green; John released the foot brake and eased the Jeep forward. “Is he one of the guys sent back – who got
killed?”

“No. To both. They were Sayles, Sumner and Timms.”

“So he stayed in the future. What does it mean? About him creating SkyNet?”

“I don't know. What do you think it means?”

John deliberated some more, before offering up a theory.

“I think he told Derek something in the future. Maybe the list of Cyberdyne employees, certainly that he was one of them. Derek definitely knew something you didn't, and he was just a soldier in the future, right? How would he know stuff you didn't – that Future-Me didn't?”

“Because he kept it to himself.”

“Exactly. And why would he do that?”

“I don't know.”

“We'd better find out whose side he's on. And soon.”

“Do you think he's working for SkyNet?”

“No, not at all! But if he's not working with us either, what else is there? Is there a third side in this war?”

Cameron paused before answering. “Not at the moment.”

“Hmm.” John swung the Jeep neatly into a parking space. “Maybe we shouldn't go heavy on Derek; see if we can encourage him to offer up his secret.”

“Yes, it would be better if he was working with us.”

“I've been thinking. If Andy Goode created SkyNet, he must be one hell of a coder. That level of expertise could come in handy after J-Day: re-programming Terminators, maybe even hacking SkyNet itself. We've gotta get him on our team.”

“What about the Turk?”

“Destroy it or adapt it into our own weapon? Tough choice. One way might strangle SkyNet at birth, the other could give us something to fight with if someone else makes it.”

“You must make that choice soon,” Cameron said quietly.

“Yeah... Just promise me you won't kill Andy Goode in the meantime.”

Cameron was silent for a time, but they had to stop at another red. John stared intently at her.

“Cameron?”

She smiled reassuringly. “Promise.”

# # # # # # # #

As they entered their home, Cameron disappeared into her room. Derek was sitting on the couch with his feet up on the low table.

“Nice night prowling?” asked John, taking a seat alongside him.

“Been in all night, watching the tube,” replied Derek.

“Right. The truck's hood is red hot and you got fresh mud and grass on your boots from hiding in the bushes round at Andy Goode's.”

Derek raised one eyebrow, as a way of challenging John to take the matter further.

“We're meant to be working as a team on this: Cameron goes in to gather intel, we discuss it, then work out what to do next. I don't recall the part of the plan that has you peeking in the windows, seeing what she's up to.”

“Right, that's your job,” Derek said.

“What does that mean?”

“You wanna make sure she's not bangin' ol' Andy, cos she's yours and yours alone, right?” Derek said archly.
John sighed pointedly. “She's right about your mind being in the gutter.”

“You don't think people will think that way, after SkyNet has taken from them everything that matters, and sent machines like her after what's left? Huh?”

“That's your future Reese, the one you came from. Ours can be different.”

“Some things never change, John. Face it, you can't keep her around for ever.”

“Understand this: I've spent nearly a year... a whole freaking year, pushing her away, treating her like crap, giving her every excuse to leave. And you know what? She never did, she's still here. Everyone else gave up on me at some time, even my mom. But not her. She'll never leave me.”

Derek shook his head. “That's still gonna be a problem, in the future.”

“Not for me.”

“For her.”

“She can handle it.”

“Can you handle what they'll do to her?”

Cameron reappeared from her room, heading for the kitchenette. “John?” she said.

“Yeah?” He said, distractedly.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“What?” he spluttered, turning to look at her.

Cameron held up the coffee pot. “I'll make some.”

“Right. No, no thanks.” He yawned, then got up and stretched. “I'm gonna hit the sack.”

Soon Cameron joined him in his room.

“What were you two talking about?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, you know, resistance fighter stuff. Just two guys shooting the breeze.”

“Did you hit the target?”

# # # # # # # #

Later, Cameron gazed at John as he slept. She could tell that he was dreaming, and wondered what about. Sometimes he told her; at other times he kept his nocturnal interludes to himself.

That night he was peacefully but sadly reliving one of the last days of Sarah Connor's eventful life, that had taken place in an obscure south-western hospital.

“Bringing me here, not a good move,” Sarah said.

John took her hand. “I'm sorry. I never thought they'd chain you up like this.”

“Not that. You've made yourself visible: you're on the grid again. That thing is still out there. It'll find you. It'll kill you. It's what –”

“What they do... yeah, I know. Listen, Ellison's got me a new ID – it's as real as it gets, and he let me encrypt the files so nobody can trace me from them; I can disappear again.”

“But not now. You're here. They can find you, here.”

“No, Ellison said they wouldn't release details until...”

“Until what? I'm dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it'll become history; it'll be a matter of public record. They can send another one back to this point. There'll be two of them looking for you.” Sarah shook her head. “John, how can you be so stupid, forgetting everything I taught you?”

“I guess because nothing matters without you, Mom.”

“Don't you think like that, John Connor! Ever! You're the one that matters... The only one! Remember that...” her already weak voice trailed off into a whisper.

John passed his mother a glass of water, which she slurped with difficulty through a straw. It pained him to see her in such a fragile condition.

“Remember June 8th, 1997?” she asked. He shook his head. Dates held little or no significance for him. “It was the day you came for me, and the day I gave you up for adoption,” she said.

“What?” John saw tears escaping from her eyes. “What? You never said...”

“No, I couldn't: I was ashamed I signed you away; I thought it was for the best, but then I changed my mind. I decided there and then that I would find you, or die trying.”

“You almost did – you said I was stupid then, too.”

Sarah smiled. “You're not stupid; far from it.”

“Why'd you tell me this, now?”

“Death-bed confession? Maybe. Maybe you need to know that everyone has feet of clay, no-one is invincible; we all have moments of weakness. It's how you deal with it that matters.”

“You've always been my rock, a diamond really: flawless.”

Sarah chuckled wheezily. “Far from it; I'm more of a lump of coal. And now I'm burnt out.”

John found that he had no answer to that.

# # # # # # # #

Tuesday, October 9th 2007.

John woke up with Cameron beside him on the bed, as was their custom.

“Morning! Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“That's the ninth day in a row you've asked me that question. And you know I don't sleep.”

“Some jokes never get old.”

“Really? That's not what you tell the late night TV show presenters, even though they can't hear you.” John's propensity to rail at the television baffled her. If he wanted to have a serious dialogue with a machine, he had her; perhaps he liked having one that didn't answer back?

“It's so good that I have you to remind me of all my failings. You don't have to stay with me, you know. You could always go somewhere else: Alaska, maybe.”

“I can't go anywhere else, you know that.”

“Right, your programming.”

“No. You hold on to me so tightly at night, I fear I might have to break your arms to get away.”

“Oh.” John released her, turned onto his back and folded his arms behind his head.

“Oh indeed.” Cameron got off the bed and looked down on him. “You need a vacation.”

John groaned. “Not if it's like the last one.” He remembered the week they'd spent in the desert back in early summer: she'd forced him to exist on whatever he could catch. Having had survival training from his mother, all he'd got out of the exercise was a sun tan, which had pretty much faded.

“No, I was thinking of something more relaxing,” Cameron said.

“You mean actually getting away from it all?”

“Yes.”

“Like Disneyland?”

Cameron frowned. “If you wish.”

“Hmm.” Thinking back on their visit to the pier at Santa Monica, John's enthusiasm waned.

“What?” Cameron asked.

“You'll just stand around watching people and I'll feel like a fraud.”

“Why?”

“'Cause in order to blend in, we gotta act like a couple; I know you can do it, but it's fake. I want something real.”

# # # # # # # #

Sitting out in the parcel depot's parking lot, they spent their lunch-break eating sandwiches away from everyone else, as they so often did. The Jeep's liftgate was open, providing them both with a seat for their snack.

“You didn't seem to mind Charley Dixon thinking that I'm your girlfriend.”

“True, but if I'd contradicted you, he'd have wondered if we were hiding something. Remember that my mom hid stuff from him; she basically lied to him.”

“So you lied to him about us.”

“No. Yes...” John sighed. “Look, whatever. I know we've gotta be consistent: we tell everyone the same story, act the same way outside. As long as we know what's going on inside, that's all that matters, right?”

“I know what's going on inside,” Cameron stated.

“Right...”

Cameron watched John tuck heartily in to his second sandwich. He seemed to appreciate her food, if nothing else.“If we are going to continue posing as a couple, shouldn't we have pictures of us together?”

“You mean like on our cells?” John said, whilst masticating loudly.

“Yes. And in the apartment. Perhaps you should have one in your wallet. I've seen plenty of men showing other people their family pictures.”

“Isn't that just kids?” John wiped his hands and face with the paper towel Cameron had thoughtfully placed in his brown paper lunch bag.

“No, they can be wives. Girlfriends too.”

“Okay, come here,” John beckoned her nearer. He got his cell out and selected the camera from the menu. He put his free arm around Cameron's waist and pulled her tight. “Okay, say cheese!”

He released her, then looked at the snap on the cell's screen. He sighed heavily.

“What?” Cameron asked.

He handed her the cell so that she could see the picture. He was smiling happily, but she looked like she was posing for a passport photo. He pointed this out to her, which made her pout slightly.

“You've gotta relax, look happy. Look like you're in love. You know, hug me, grin like an idiot.”

“Is that what you were doing in this?” she said, pointing to the snap.

“Yeah, and a damn fine job I made of it, don't you think?”

“Yes, you look like an idiot.”

John snatched the cell back off her. “You're the one supposed to be the expert infiltrator.”

He stood up and taking her by the hand, walked forward a few paces. Still holding her hand, he encouraged her to settle in up close.

“Now, relax, hold me and think nice thoughts.”

“You want me to define pi to 5 million places?” she said, adopting a sidelong position.

“Um, well if that's what turns you on...” John released her hand, drifted his across the small of her back, then lower down to her butt. Cameron jerked her head, staring at him. “Get in character,” he advised.

“Oh,” she said, snuggling back in.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, then leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, just as the shutter clicked.

John looked at the screen again and smiled. “Well, that's better,” he said.

“Send it to my cell,” Cameron said. When her cell beeped confirming the photo's arrival, she smiled at John. “Yes, it looks perfect.
But we should have some more; one won't be enough.”

“Yeah, we should do some more at home, change our shirts. And maybe go outside somewhere, like the park, but at the weekend.
Can't have all the snaps in the same place at the same time.”

“No. Perhaps we should have thought of this earlier. We have had many chances.”

“Yeah, well... Perhaps you should have thought of this sooner, Ms Perfect.”

“I'm not perfect, I make mistakes.”

John shrugged, then looked back at the screen. He smiled again at the picture.

# # # # # # # #

Thursday, October 11th 2007.

Having missed his gym session the night before, due to taking a turn observing Andy Goode, Cameron insisted that John catch up straight after work, despite his protestations of tiredness. Thus they arrived home later than usual, only to find their apartment empty. John booted up the laptop while Cameron searched for any signs of Derek Reese. Having checked everywhere else, she came out of her room. John looked up.

She shook her head. “Everything of his is gone.”

“Figures. Right, I've got a hit,” he replied.

Cameron walked over and stood alongside John. He pointed to the screen, which displayed a map of the Van Nuys district. A red dot blinked on and off.

“He's at the safe house,” Cameron said.

John sighed, then reached for his cell phone. He dialed Derek Reese's number.

“Yeah?” The resistance veteran answered on the third ring.

“Derek? How you doing?”

“Fine.”

“You flying solo?”

“If you mean tailing Andy, no; I just need to spend some time alone, give you guys a wide berth.”

“Where you at?”

“The safe house. I'm partial to the carpet in the office,” Derek said.

John grinned. “Okay, but tomorrow we meet and decide what to do next. Don't do anything before.”

“Sure, you're the boss, John.”

“Yeah,” John said, but Derek had already hung up.

# # # # # # # #

Friday, October 12th 2007.

It was the end of what had seemed to John to be a very long week. They'd all taken turns watching Andy Goode at some point and Cameron had even met him once for lunch in a park near his work. They had additionally learned that he was still working alone and that his machine's erratic problem solving was not restricted to chess-playing.

Cameron had succeeded in booking the following two weeks off work for both her and John. Judicious use of her flirtatious charm and a certain amount of leaning over the supervisor's desk with plenty of cleavage on display probably helped get over the lack of notice.

The prospect of a fortnight away from the drudgery should have invigorated John, but knowing that it was unlikely to involve anything as simple as lying on a beach sipping cold beers meant that he had nothing to look forward to. He dropped his backpack on his bed, then went back to where Cameron stood operating the laptop.

As per the night before, Derek's location was still the old warehouse in Van Nuys.

“Let's go.”

“Now? It's late, aren't you tired and hungry?”

“That can wait, this can't.” John said, looking determined.

Cameron accepted that immediate action was required, but she thought it could be handled by her alone. John disagreed.

“I've got to be there; it's personal,” he said.

“That's what Derek said about Andy Goode,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, well... It really is personal for me.”

“In what way?”

“I can't say. It's...”

“Personal?”

“Yes.”

Cameron considered that. “Partners share information; does that mean we aren't partners anymore?”

John shook his head. “No, not at all. Some things just aren't for sharing. Didn't Future-Me hold stuff back from you?”

“I am beginning to discover that to be the case.”

“I'm sure you haven't told me everything either.”

“About what?”

“I dunno, but you have been vague about stuff; I'm sure you've straight-up lied at times.”

Cameron bristled slightly; John caught her change of mood.

“So you have? Well, shouldn't be surprised...” he slumped slightly and turned back to the laptop.

“Only when necessary,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looked at her. “And that's something you decide, huh?”

Cameron nodded.

John closed the lid of the laptop. He took a deep breath, then it let out deliberately noisily. “Time's wasting,” he said, heading for the
front door.

Cameron followed, as always. As she climbed into the Jeep, she confessed that she had lied about Andy Goode being out of sugar.

“Why?”

“I'm still experimenting with humor; you seemed to appreciate it earlier.”

“Yeah, well, context is important.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way to the safe house. Pulling up outside, it was clear that the old Ford was not parked in the immediate vicinity. Cameron exited the passenger side of the Jeep and approached the entrance. The door was locked, but she soon had it open with the spare key. Pushing it open quietly, she switched to night vision to see in the gloom. A quick sweep with all vision settings informed her that the warehouse was bereft of human life. John followed her in on receiving her all-clear signal. When she clicked the lights on, he too could see that not only was Derek not there, but neither was Cameron's old truck.

“The bug?”

“Here,” she called from the office. She was standing by the rickety desk, holding up a small object, much like she had the diamond which John had so casually gifted her the previous weekend.

“How'd he find it?” he said, taking it from her.

“A scanner, most likely,” Cameron said.

John swore under his breath. Cameron ignored it; she'd heard the older John curse longer and louder.

“What the hell do we do now?” John said, raising both his hands and eyes to the ceiling.

Unsure if he was seeking guidance from a divinity above - as some humans were wont, asking her opinion, or merely talking to himself, Cameron held her tongue. It was the wrong choice. John whirled round, pointing at her.

“You're no freaking help!”

“I can keep a watch on Andy Goode, if you like. If Derek goes there, I will find him.”

“Yeah, and take it in turns to shoot Andy!”

“You told me not to kill him, therefore I won't, unless he becomes a threat to you.”

John looked at her. “Yeah, well. What you define as a threat ain't exactly what I do, right?”

Cameron decided not to perpetuate the argument. “We should go home.” She walked past him, heading for the exit. When he failed to move, she paused and said, “I'll wait for you outside.”

John made no show of hearing her. Looking around the warehouse, he noted that Derek's sleeping bag was missing. He didn't bother checking, but assumed that some of their food supplies and carefully-hidden ordnance would be absent too. He lashed out at an old, small wooden orange crate. Satisfyingly, it disintegrated on impact with his boot.

After she locked the safe house door Cameron joined him in the Jeep for another silent journey. Once home, he trudged wearily up the two flights of stairs. He could have justifiably taken the elevator, but obstinacy prevented him from taking the easy option. He stood in the center of the room, ostensibly looking out the window but in reality brooding, while Cameron completed her usual security sweep.

“John?”

He ignored her, but she was having none of it. She put a tentative hand on his arm. He turned his head sharply, his face clearly showing the bitterness he felt.

“It is late. You are hungry, tired and upset, a combination that does not help you sleep.”

“Really? Thanks, mom.”

“Don't call me that.”

“What?”

“You heard.” Cameron walked off, heading straight for her room. She shut the door behind her, quietly.

“What?” John was unsure of the significance of what had just transpired. She'd objected to being insulted, But like, so what? He thought about just flopping down on his bed, however decided that a quick shower would take just enough of an edge off his anger and ease his muscles sufficiently that he would soon be asleep.

He tossed his dirty clothes in the corner of the bathroom, deliberately avoiding the wicker basket Cameron placed there for just that purpose. He stepped into the shower without waiting for the temperature to equalize, knowing it didn't take more than thirty seconds or so to become comfortable.

As he washed and scrubbed and soaked his grime and aches away, so his mind cleared of troubles. He toweled himself dry, then his hair as much as he could. After running a comb through it, he brushed his teeth. He checked his reflection in the mirror. Yeah, definitely better combed back, he thought. She's right about that. He looked for his shorts and tee shirt, but they weren't where Cameron normally left them. Of course, she's pissed at me. He noticed the clothes he'd thrown off, so picked up and placed them properly in the basket. He wrapped the towel around his waist and went into his bedroom, digging his nightwear out from under the pillows. Having dressed, he stood outside her closed door, and knocked gently.

“Cameron?” There was no reply. “Cameron, I know you can hear me. I just wanna say sorry, okay? I'm sorry.”

He waited a moment or two, but there was still no answer from within the room.

“Look, I can understand you're upset: I act like a jerk so often, but that's gonna change. Will you come out? I wanna say something,
but not through the door, okay? It's real important.”

Still nothing came from the other side. Man, can she hold a grudge, he thought, smiling to himself as he grasped the door handle.

“Coming in, okay? Let's talk...”

John was stunned into silence, on finding that Cameron's room was empty.

He took a deep breath, then went over to the laptop. It didn't take long to activate the tracking program. The bug he'd left in the Jeep was still working, and told him in what direction Cameron was heading. He opened up another window to locate Derek Reese by his cellphone. Eventually the two windows converged into the same area of the map: Andy Goode's house. A double confirmation was provided by a check on Cameron's cell: it was inactive, which suggested that she didn't want him to know where she was.

Disappointed and feeling betrayed by both members of his team, John didn't waste time. Having swiftly come to the conclusion that it was time for him to leave, he quickly redressed and packed a bag full of essentials, including the contents of his bedroom safe.
He speed-dialed Cameron's number on his cell but as anticipated got no answer, so he left a message. He then switched it off, rendering himself untraceable. The last thing John did was to shut down the laptop, then he left the apartment. He had lived in it longer than any other place his entire life, but he didn't look back.

He got on the first bus headed north, changing when it reached its terminus, as he did with the next one, and the next, all the while maintaining the same direction. Speed didn't matter, just that he was anonymous and getting away from Los Angeles.

# # # # # # # #

Northern California: Saturday, October 13th 2007.

Eventually morning arrived, which found him waiting in a small town for another connection. When the nearest diner opened for business, he used the pay phone to call Charley Dixon.

“Johnny? Hey, you know what time this is?” he grumbled sleepily.

“Yeah, sorry man. Look, I hadda split. Just wanted you to know, I'm okay.”

Charley blinked himself awake. “You in trouble?”

“No, nothing like that. I just need to get away; things aren't working out so well,” John said.

“With Cameron? You guys split up?”

Michelle Dixon was wide awake by now too. “They've split up?” Charley nodded. “That's a damn shame,” she said.

“Look, it's no big deal; these things happen,” John was saying. “Thought you oughtta know, is all. I'm fine, and I'll see you when I see you.”

He ended on a cheerful note, but Charley knew him well enough to know that he was putting on a front, even down a phone line.

“Listen John, don't be a stranger, you here? Don't leave it another eight years, okay? You've always got a room with us.”

Michelle nodded in agreement.

“Okay, thanks. I'm sorry I woke you guys up.”

“Not a problem, son. Where you headed?”

“I'm thinking Canada.”

“Hmm, interesting.”

“Yeah. Gotta go.”

“Okay, take care, and good luck, Johnny!”

“And you, man!”

The line went dead. Charley put the phone back on the hook.

“That's a damn shame,” Michelle repeated herself.

Charley drew her closer. “Yeah,” he agreed.

# # # # # # # #

Los Angeles, outside Andy Goode's residence.

As dawn heralded another Fall day, Cameron spoke, breaking the silence that had hung like an impenetrable curtain between them for many hours.

“I know who Andy Goode is.”

Derek tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. After a sip of water from a bottle he cleared his throat, then started again. “Yeah, of course you do. We were all there in the house.”

“The house?”

“Yeah: chained to the floor; the basement, creepy piano music.”

“Piano music? Chopin?” Cameron asked.

“Chopin? How the hell would I know?”

“I don't know either. It was just a suggestion.”

Derek turned to the cyborg, incredulous. “How can you not know? You were there!”

“Was I? I don't remember.”

“I thought you remembered everything,” Derek said.

“Our memories are scrubbed before reprogramming.”

“So you don't know anything from before?”

“Some things came back to me when I repaired myself after defeating the Triple-Eight that was sent back to kill John in 1999. It left me confused for some time.”

“Right.”

“One day it will all come back.”

“Right.” Derek didn't want to be around on that day; he'd seen what happened when Terminators reverted.

“That house you said we were all in?”

“Yeah?”

“Is that how you made me so quickly?”

“What do you mean?”

“The first day you were brought in to John's new headquarters, you drew a gun on me right away. Nobody's made me that quickly.”

“What about Connor?”

“John took a while; I won't tell you exactly how, as it might embarrass him,” she said with a slight smirk.

“Not the kid: the General.”

“Oh. Yes, well, he was different.”

“And?”

“He made me very quickly, but he had more experience than anyone else.”

“Right. But I made you because of the house.”

“You'd seen me before.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“I tortured you.”

“Now you remember?”

“No, just an educated guess. It's what Terminators do to gather information.”

“It's sick, is what it is.”

“It's nothing compared to what humans have been doing to each other for centuries.”

“And that makes it all right?”

“No,” Cameron acknowledged.

“You, or whichever one of you was in charge, left us alive, and the means to escape.”

“That's unusual.”

“Yeah. My thoughts exactly: That's unusual.”

“Really?” She looked at Reese carefully.

“Nope; I didn't get beyond 'why?'. Then I got on with life; it's all we had.”

“I understand,” Cameron said.

“Do you? Truly?” Derek accused.

“Yes. You put the past behind you and moved on; it's what we do as well.”

“Right...” Derek didn't like to think that he behaved in any way like a machine.

“Billy,” Cameron said.

“What?” Derek thought he had missed a vital part of the conversation, but Cameron had merely guided it back on course.

“Andy Goode. You called him Billy Wisher. He was in your squad before I took you to see John.”

“Yeah, Billy. How'd you know?”

“His fingerprints.”

“Oh, right.”

“We have to deal with him.”

“You mean kill him.”

“I promised John I wouldn't.”

“Right.”

“A promise is a promise.”

Derek looked intently at Cameron, contemplating the hours he had spent in the close confines of the truck cab with her, far longer than he had expected he could take. She seemed to genuinely mean what she said, but then, that's what they did: lie convincingly. Either way, he couldn't tell. He shrugged and sighed at the same time. “Okay,” he said.

“We should destroy the Turk though.”

“Yeah, at least.”

“We can start once Andy has left his house today. I suggest using thermite to ensure that all of the essential parts are completely destroyed. I can make it look as though an electrical problem is the cause: he has a lot of components that are being over-loaded.”

“Okay.”

“Have you any thermite with you?”

“Always; never know when it might come in handy.”

“Perfect.” Cameron turned away from Reese, back to Andy's house. “There he is, heading off to work.”

Derek checked his watch. “It's still early.”

“We should follow him, just to make sure, then return.”

Derek agreed, starting up the Ford and carefully tailing Andy Goode to Cell Division. He was met at the store by the driver of a delivery van. The two then unloaded and started to unpack what appeared to be new point-of-sale display modules. Satisfied that he wouldn't be going home anytime soon, Derek and Cameron went back to his house. After checking that it was otherwise empty, they quickly set to work. They managed to disappear discretely before the quiet neighborhood had fully awoken on this typical Saturday October morning. Once the fire trucks and police cars and their sirens descended on the road, its peace and tranquility was gone, just like Andy Goode's Turk.

# # # # # # # #

They met up again at the safe house, having taken different routes. As Derek emptied his backpack, Cameron switched her cell phone back on. It beeped.

“I've got a message. From John.”

“Probably wondering where his coffee and corn flakes are...”

She gave Derek a withering look before putting the cell to her ear to listen to John's voice.

“I wanted to say sorry for what I said, but you'd gone. I guess it was dumb of me to expect anything from you. You're probably killing the poor schmuck right now, but really that's a no-brainer, right? You're petulant and rash, like a child, but seeing as you copy your behavior, I guess you got that off of me, huh? There's nothing I can do about that now, so you and Batman there can go save the world or whatever. I'll just wait for the bombs to drop if you're not successful. Just don't come looking for me. Believe me, you'll never find me.”

John's words sank in. 'Don't come looking'; 'never find me'. It was likely to be true: if he stayed off the grid, she'd never find him. He'd learned too many lessons from being discovered before to get caught ever again. She'd failed her mission, but more than that, she felt bereft.

Cameron snapped her cell shut, then turned to Reese. “I've lost him!”

Derek stared open-mouthed at her outburst. Gathering himself together, he asked her what was in the message. She turned the cell's speakerphone on and replayed the recording.

“This is all your fault,” she said when it finished.

“Mine? That's freaking rich!” he replied.

“You clearly are trying to kill Andy Goode, against John's wishes.”

“For... Listen and listen good, you goddamn metal bitçh! You know he's a threat, and we both know how you deal with threats. And 'John's wishes'? This isn’t John Connor – he's just a punk kid.”

“He is John Connor, he always has been. He's just not the John we knew. It's not for him to change to accommodate us, we have to adapt our perspective. Eventually he will grow into that man, but he doesn't have to be him yet.”

“Nice speech, but it doesn't change the facts: he left because of something you did. Or didn't do. All that cozy domestic bullsh!t, you had him believing there was something going on, right? And you likely blew him off, so now he's off god-knows-where... Ach! You mess with his head, no wonder he's gone off the reservation.”

Cameron bristled slightly, but defended herself. “John does these things.”

“Foolish, risky things?”

“Yes.”

Derek contemplated for a minute or so, before reluctantly agreeing. “Yeah, he does.”

“I've gotta find him,” Cameron said.

“You think you can?”

“I can try.”

“Well, good luck,” Derek said.

“Thank you. I might need your help.”

“Okay,” he said slowly.

“We should go see Charley Dixon.”

“Who's he?”

“Someone special to John. He says he's like a father to him.”

“Hmm.”

# # # # # # # #

Derek pulled up where Cameron indicated outside the Dixon residence in Sherman Oaks. Charley was out front, tending the lawn. He looked up warily as Cameron approached.

“Good morning Mister Dixon,” she said.

“Morning,” he replied.

“Have you seen John?”

“No.”

“Has he been in touch?”

He looked past her to the black truck, noting Derek Reese at the wheel.

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He seemed upset. I can see why,” Charley said, motioning to the man in the old Ford.

Cameron glanced back, then addressed Charley again. “It's not what you think; he's a friend, helping me find John.”

“Hmm. Maybe John doesn't want to be found.”

“I know he doesn't; that doesn't mean he shouldn't be.”

Charley sighed. “Sometimes you gotta let 'em go.”

“I can't, Mister Dixon: I need him.”

“So how'd you end up in this mess?”

“It's complicated.”

Charley smiled ruefully. “That's what John said.” He looked carefully at the young woman in front of him. “You two have something.”

“Yes, we're partners.”

“Well... Guess that's the modern way of saying it. I mean something special.”

“We are unique.”

“He's in love with you.”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“I love him too.”

“But you don't talk about it? What's that all about?”

“That's where it gets complicated.”

“You've gotta find a way to uncomplicate it.”

“I've gotta find him first.”

Charley nodded. “He said he was headed for Canada.”

Cameron frowned. “Anywhere specific?”

Charley shook his head. “Like his mother, he keeps things close to the vest.”

Cameron agreed, then thanked Charley and headed back to the truck, where Derek noted her mood.

“I take it he didn't have good news?”

“No. John told him he was going to Canada.”

“Yeah? I thought he'd head south, Mexico way.”

“He can blend in better in Canada.”

“He speaks the language like a native; darken his hair and get some sun, he wouldn't stand out south of the border much either.”

“You think he's bluffing by leaving a trail that points north?”

“Or a double-bluff: he must know we'll assume he'd go south. Either way, it's like looking for a needle in a haystack.” He put the truck in gear and moved off. “Two haystacks,” he corrected himself.

Cameron squared her jaw, but Derek could see that she couldn't completely remove that air of despondency that hung over her.

# # # # # # # #

Cameron spent the next two days going over any camera footage she could retrieve from the city's law enforcement divisions. She'd found nothing: John did indeed know enough to keep away from technological witnesses. Facial recognition software was no help when someone could obscure themselves with the simple addition of a ball cap and hoody top. He'd used cash, thus leaving no paper trail for her to follow. She'd been dissuaded by Derek from just heading north showing John's picture at every bus and train station.

“It's not a good idea to have his face plastered from here to the Arctic Circle: likely get him on the radar, and you know what that could mean.”

“Okay.” She did know what that meant. “What do you propose?”

“What do you guys normally do?”

“Power down until required.”

“Right. Why not do something positive?”

“Such as?”

“Continue the search for SkyNet. It can't just be Andy Goode; he told me there were ten, fifteen of them programmers.”

Cameron contemplated for a minute or so, then went into her room. She returned brandishing a piece of paper.

“I did come across this,” she said handing him a print out of an online news report.

“What does it mean?”

“A fire at Oakland docks has forced the diversion of a shipment of coltan to the Port of Los Angeles. The fire is suspected to be arson. It could be the work of a SkyNet operative.”

“Okay. So what? We check it out?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. When?”

“The ship docks at 5am tomorrow.”

Derek checked his watch. “Enough time for some sleep. Wake me at 03:00.”

# # # # # # # #

Tuesday, October 16th 2007.

Having witnessed the offloading of the cargo, the unlikely partners followed the truck upon which it was placed from the docks to a warehouse in the northern outskirts of L.A. They parked up round the back and, standing on a dumpster, observed the goings on inside.

The leader of the group wore a military uniform with the name 'Carter' printed on a chest tag. After he had assigned his men their tasks he dismissed them. Once alone, he lifted the last few crates of coltan onto the truck himself.

Derek exhaled softly. “He's a Triple-Eight. You recognize him?”

Cameron checked her database thoroughly. “No.”

“He's short. I thought all you guys were big.”

“I'm not big.”

“Yeah, but you're a gir–”

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

“Please finish.”

“I was gonna say: you're a girl Terminator. Thing.”

“Terminatrix?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

After a pause, Derek continued, “I can see why John is so easily fooled by you.”

“Thank you.”

“Whatever.”

Carter finished loading the truck, then headed off in the direction his men had gone.

“That's a hell of a lot of coltan,” Derek said.

“Enough to make approximately 530 endoskeletons.”

“That's 530 too many.”

“You wish to destroy it?”

“Uh, yeah...”

They decided to wait and assess the situation, rather than try to tackle the Terminator head on.

“What would John do now?” Derek asked.

“Future-John or present-John?”

“Either. Both. Whatever.”

“Something risky. Or foolish.”

“Like jumping in the back of that truck and seeing where it took him?”

“Yes, something like that.”

Derek sighed. “Okay, let's do it then.” He pushed his backpack through the window, then cranked it open a bit more and dropped down on to the warehouse floor, Cameron right behind him. They crept over to the truck, then jumped into the back. Cameron tugged Derek toward the front on hearing voices approaching. Peeking round the crates, she could see that there were two of them; like Carter, they were now wearing military fatigues, though their hairstyles indicated that they were not current members of the armed forces. They were grouching about their boss. They parted by agreeing that they would see each other at the destination. One of them jumped in the back, while the other secured the tailgate behind him.

After the truck had been underway for half an hour, Derek signaled for Cameron to go one way around the crates, while he confronted the phoney soldier the other.

As Cameron poked her head round the corner, the man saw her.

“Hey girlie, how the hell'd you get in here?”

“I lost my dog. Have you seen him? He's called Toto.”

“What the–?” Extremely confused, the man froze when he felt the barrel of a gun placed against his head.

“Nice and easy,” Derek said from behind him. “Hands in the air.”

Cameron moved forward and relieved the man of his firearm. “Where are we headed?” she asked.

“Dunno.”

Derek jabbed his gun hard into the man's neck. “Wrong answer.”

“He'll kill me if I tell.”

“What, your boss?”

“Yeah, Carter.”

“Hmm, well, she'll kill you if you don't,” Derek said.

“So I'm dead either way? I don't see anything in it for me,” the man shrewdly pointed out.

“You're right,” Cameron said. “We'll let you live, if you give us what we want.”

“She has ways of making you talk, without killing you. You may end up wishing you were dead, but you'll still be alive,” Derek offered.

“Milton. Is that your name?” she asked, pointing to the name tag on his chest.

He shook his head. “Mike.”

“I'm Emily; he's Frank. Can you tell us where we're going? Please?” She smiled warmly.

Mike continued looking between Cameron and Derek, unsure with which one his future prospects looked best. Eventually he went with what appeared to be the sympathetic choice: the pretty girl with welcoming eyes.

“It's an old abandoned air-force base, north of Palmdale, out in the desert.”

“Palmdale?” Cameron asked.

“Yeah, way north of it, beyond Lancaster, but you go past it on Route 14,” Mike clarified.

“Right.”

“That mean something to you?” Derek asked.

“No,” Cameron lied. She turned back to her interrogation. “What part of the base?”

“A decommissioned arms depot, I was told, but I've not been inside yet. I was just hired for this job, with the promise of some more work if I didn't foul up.”

“Yeah well, I don't see much coming your way from this guy. I'd find another employer, or better yet, a completely different line of work,” Derek advised.

Mike nodded his head in agreement.

Eventually the long, hot, bumpy journey came to an end inside a dark hanger. Derek grabbed the man's arm.

“Don't do anything stupid,” he snarled. Again Mike nodded in acknowledgment, but blinked furiously to remove the sweat that was now dripping into his eyes. The trio waited for something to happen, expecting someone to open the truck's rear door. Cameron cocked her head momentarily and frowned. Two shots rang out, causing all three to crouch low on the truck's floor.

“What's up?” Derek whispered.

Cameron crept up to the door, cranking it up until the lock halted its progress. She appeared to be listening intently, then pushed further until the lock snapped. She caught it in her other hand, while continuing to push up until the door was fully open.

“Carter has terminated the contracts of his other employees, but he did thank them for their service.”

“What?” said Mike, confused.

“What is it with you guys and all this thanking crap?” Derek asked.

“Politeness costs nothing,” Cameron said. “Manners maketh man,” she added.

“Right,” sneered Derek.

Mike stirred between them. “What the hell?”

Derek smiled at him. “I'm like that too, sometimes.” He looked at Cameron. “Get the bag,” he ordered.

She was about to say something, but instead complied with his wishes, walking to the front of the crates. Their prisoner saw an opportunity to escape, and took it. He elbowed Derek in the face, then bolted for the door. He was out of the truck before either Derek or Cameron could react. They followed him, but ducked to one side, staying out of sight while Mike approached his erstwhile boss. Carter was standing by the warehouse door, the unmoving bodies of his other couple of cohorts lying off to one side.

On seeing them, Mike rushed toward Carter.

“Hey man! I want out and I want my money, now!”

Carter stood as immobile as a statue, apparently ignoring his employee.

“Hey, hey! I'm talking to you,” the man shouted. As he got within reach, Carter suddenly turned around and grabbed his henchman by the throat, lifting him clear off the ground. Derek heard a sickening snap before the man's struggling ceased permanently. Carter tossed his corpse to one side, where it landed on top of those of his former colleagues, then walked over to a control panel at the front of the warehouse.

“Jeez, snapped his neck,” Derek whispered bitterly.

“It is an effective method,” Cameron replied equally quietly.

Derek shot her a look. “We've gotta take him out. What's he doing?”

Before Cameron could reply, a siren went off and the doors to the bunker began to slide together. Carter moved away from the controls and took up a central position in front of the vast concrete blast-proof doors. Cameron observed him carefully for some minutes, before voicing her conclusion.

“He has gone in to stand-by mode. His mission is complete, so he's powered down until he is threatened again, or he is summoned.”

“By SkyNet?”

“Yes. Going by these blast doors, that will be after Judgment Day. This will be a stockpile: coltan is rare in 2027.”

“Yeah, and I'd like it to stay that way. We oughtta get rid of him and all of that stuff. And I don't wanna be stuck in here with two goddamn Terminators until Judgment Day.”

“What do you propose?”

“You fight him, I'll drive the truck out.”

“I may not be able to defeat him.”

“Okay then, just hold him up long enough for me to get the truck out.”

“I don't see anything in it for me.”

“Huh! You want me to fight him?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Funny. Got a better plan?”

“I'll sneak past him and open the door, while you get in the truck. I'll stick one of the C4 charges in his pocket, then throw him as far as possible. That should disable him and give us both the chance to get away,” Cameron said.

Derek acknowledged that her plan was sound and passed her one of the blocks of C4, complete with timer. “Set it for five seconds,” he advised.

She nodded, accepted the bomb, then crept out of cover towards the compact Terminator. As she got close behind him, she zeroed in on the bunker doors' control panel. There was a slot for a key, but it was empty. Tip-toeing round Carter, she saw a key hanging from a chain around his neck. Quick analysis made it a distinct probability that it was the necessary key. Setting the timer on the C4, she grasped the chain whilst also pulling Carter's jacket slightly open; she dropped the bomb inside then grabbed him with her other hand and flung Carter as far away as she could. The C4 charge ignited as he crashed into a pile of metal oil drums, its power amplified by the chemicals contained therein, blowing him apart. Cameron ran up to check his on condition, followed by a wary Derek Reese.

Carter's face had been blown half off, and his torso cut in two. The lower half lay uselessly on the floor, but the upper half raised itself up on its hands and dragged itself towards Cameron. As she got close Carter snatched at her leg, but she deftly evaded his hand, landing a heavy stomp on his neck. His metal head crashed on to the concrete floor with a resounding ring. To Derek's surprise, Cameron landed blow after blow on Carter's skull with her boot. Looking at her, he could see what appeared to be genuine anger on her face. Just as he had been startled by her despair on discovering that John had left her, so this apparent act of vengeance cut him to the quick. The destruction of a Triple-Eight always brought him satisfaction, but a cyborg apparently feeling the same way seemed wrong to him. But then John always said she was different: to him that was good; Derek wasn't so sure. What he was sure of though, was that he was glad she was on his side.

“Cameron?” he said.

She turned to him. “Yes?” she snapped.

“I think we're done.” He looked down on the crushed skull.

Cameron followed his eye line. “Oh.”

“We should burn it,” Derek said, withdrawing a can of thermite from his backpack.

“Yes.” Cameron gathered all the pieces of Carter together in one pile then stood back as Derek first sprinkled the white powder, then dropped a lit flare on them.

They both stepped back as the metal went up in flames, giving off an intense heat. Derek noted that Cameron's expression had returned to one of indifference, her default face. When the fire had burnt itself out, she picked up Derek's backpack and twirled the bunker door key on its chain.

“Let's get out of here.”

“Yeah,” Derek concurred.

He got in the truck and started it up, while Cameron opened the blast doors. When the space was wide enough, he drove through it, with much crashing of the gears. Once through, Cameron set the doors to close, taking the key with her. She tossed a couple of the C4 charges into the piles of chemicals and crates for good measure. As the doors clanged shut behind her, she heard the muffled explosions.

She walked up to the driver's side of the truck cab. “I'll drive this, you take that Humvee,” she ordered, pointing to it. Reese looked taken aback. “The clutch and gearbox won't last long enough to get this to the coast if you drive,” she clarified.

“Okay,” Derek said, stepping out. “We gonna dump it in the ocean?”

“With this amount, it's the easiest option.”

“Good call.”

As she swung behind the wheel, Cameron saw a sign on the wall of the bunker and pointed to it.

“Depot 37. This is where I'll be built. Or was. Me and many others.”

Derek stopped in his tracks. “But not now?”

“Not now, no.”

“That's one for the resistance then,” Derek smiled.

“Yes, one for the resistance.”

# # # # # # # #

Later, after Cameron had sent the truck and its cargo of coltan hurtling into the Pacific, she joined Derek in the Humvee for the long drive south. He raised a point that hadn't come to him immediately, but was now troubling him.

“How come you remember Depot 37? You said you were scrubbed.”

“I was, but some things return occasionally, with the right stimulus.”

“Right,” Derek said warily.

Many hours passed before they pulled into the industrial area where the F-150 sat waiting. They left the Humvee a burning wreck, then headed for the Van Nuys safe house.

“He'll be back,” Derek said eventually.

Cameron turned her head. “How can you be sure?”

“He's John Connor. He's not gonna sit on his ass up in the middle of goddamn nowhere while there's work to be done.”

# # # # # # # #

............................................................................................................................................................

Next Chapter: Part Eleven A Wish For Something More.

Something Else Part Nine

MrsScott! — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 05:54:50 CST

SOMETHING ELSE

Part Nine: Love And Affection.

Los Angeles: Saturday, September 29th 2007.

“How do you feel about Derek living with us?”

“Derek? He's hardly ever around, so I guess the answer is: I dunno...”

“Do you ever consider what he is doing when he's not with us?”

“Well, he sure as hell ain't working his nuts off in a parcel depot, that's for sure!”

“Are your nuts loose?”

“Eh, what?” John looked at Cameron, who as usual, was behind the wheel. She had a blank face. Or not. He recognized a subtle upturn to the corners of her mouth, a slight crinkle about the eyes. “You're joshing me, right?” Her smile became more obvious.

“Damn, twice in one day! You're getting too good at this,” he said, then playfully, gently, punched her in the arm. She was soft and squidgy, not unlike a normal person.

She looked at where he had struck and scowled. “Ow. That hurt.”

“Really?” John was surprised and concerned.

“I thought you weren't going to hit me anymore,” Cameron said, her lower lip moving out a fraction.

“I wasn't. I didn't. I mean, it wasn't like a serious punch, like, er, before. It was just a friendly thing, you know, between friends...”

“Third time's the charm.” Cameron's almost-smile had become a definite smirk.

John shook his head repeatedly, but his frown also quickly became a smile again. He figured it best to keep his hands to himself and say nothing, though. Nothing smarter than a cyborg in overdrive, he thought.

“So, if that is something friends do, does that make us friends?” Cameron inquired.

John mused about it, but not for long. “Yeah, it does. We're partners, right? And we hang out, sorta, so I guess we're best buds.” Well, that came out alright. I hope. Fingers crossed.

“Best buds?” Cameron wore her half-frown, half-curious expression.

“Without the 'beer and football' sessions.”

“Oh. Should I punch you in the arm now?”

John drew back hastily, smacking his head on the grab handle above the door. “Ow! Er, no... Maybe we should both give that a pass, okay?”

“Okay. Is your head sore? I can take a look at it, if you like.”

John rubbed it. “No damage, just a little bump. But thanks for the offer.”

Cameron nodded. “You know, we really should go inside. We're home and yet we've been sitting in the truck for more than five minutes.”

John looked around: they were indeed parked outside their apartment block. Hmm, lack of observation. “What would Mom say?”

“I don't know, what would she say?”

“What?”

“What would Mom say?”

“Did you just read my mind?”

“No, you just said that aloud.”

“Oh. Right.” John gently felt his head again. Jeez, if she could read minds...

“Maybe that bump is worse than you thought?”

“Yeah... I could do with a drink. Let's go get some coffee.”

“I prefer lemon tea in the evening.”

“Right. Of course. I forgot.” John gently rubbed the small bump on his head. “How does that work, you preferring tea over coffee?”

“The arrangement of molecules is more mathematically significant in lemon tea than in coffee.”

“Really?”

“No. I just prefer the taste.” She sighed and rolled her eyes.

John was about to say something, but thought better of it. “Can we just go inside?” he said instead.

“Of course. Can you manage?” Cameron asked politely.

“I'll take it one step at a time,” John said, smiling ironically.

Cameron got out of the truck and moved around to John's side, monitoring his progress along the sidewalk. He headed straight for the entrance of the building, so she grabbed their bags and locked the Ford with the remote. She soon caught up with him.

As they entered the apartment, John could see Derek Reese lounging on the couch, watching television. He looked up at the future commander and his pet cyborg. “Ah! The hero returns,” he said sarcastically, before turning his attention back to the singing competition on the tube.

John ignored the older man's barb, and tried once again to engage his uncle in polite conversation. He glanced at the screen.

“Anything worth watching?” he asked.

“Nope, but it beats getting killed by machines.”

“Right. You should have come with us.”

“I've had all the shooting practice I need,” he said pointedly. “Besides, wouldn't want to cramp your style.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” John demanded, his hackles rising.

“You and the metal: all that goddamned flirting! Makes me wanna puke.”

“Good thing we didn't bring you back anything to eat then!”

“I had what was left in the fridge.”

“We were going to have that tomorrow,” Cameron said upon entering the room, having stowed away their bags.

Oh, so sorry,” Derek said, though it was clear to all that he meant the opposite.

“You're not very sanitary or hygienic, Lieutenant Reese,” Cameron said, lifting a dirty plate off the table.

“Yeah, perhaps you ought to start pulling your weight around here,” John added.

Derek swung his feet onto the floor and stood up, glaring threateningly. “How come the cyborg gets a bed – a whole goddamned room – and I'm sleeping on the couch?”

John scratched his chin. “Hmm, good point. You can sleep on the floor.” He glared back at his uncle.

“I might as well be living back in that old warehouse. Least I didn't have to see you two creeping around each other.”

After a standoff lasting a few minutes, Derek turned away. John allowed himself a small self-congratulatory smirk, then spoke. “I'm gonna take a shower.”

As he shut the bathroom door behind him, Cameron moved to get him a towel and the shorts and tee that he wore at night.

As she walked past him, Derek grabbed Cameron by the arm. She looked dismissively at his hand. He didn't let go. “What purpose do you serve?” he asked.

She looked him straight in the eye. “My purpose is to protect John.”

“Nothing else?”

“Protect him from everyone and everything.”

“Does that include me?”

“Everyone and everything.”

“Including you?”

“Everything.” She looked again at his hand; he now removed it, then backed away.

Cameron carried on with her tasks.

# # # # # # # #

Sunday, September 30th 2007.

The next morning, John leaped out of bed with unusual vigor.

“Are you alright?” Cameron asked, propping herself up on her elbows.

John knelt down and felt inside the base of his closet, searching for the cover to the hidden safe he and Cameron had installed.

“Sure, why?” he called over his shoulder.

“It's Sunday, not a work day for us.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said stretching a bit more to grab that which he was seeking.

Cameron neatly swiveled her cotton sock-encased feet onto the floorboards and walked up behind him. “You couldn't have gotten out of bed faster if your mother had walked in on us.”

John turned his head, wondering if she would be smirking at him again. No, she's serious. He shrugged, then tossed her something from the bag he had found.

# # # # # # # #

A few minutes later, Cameron strode into the kitchen area, where Derek was attempting to make some coffee. She held her present carefully between her thumb and index finger, and lifted it up to the light to show it off.

“Look what John gave me,” she said.

Derek glanced her way. A sound not unlike a bear snarling emanated from the grizzled veteran.

“John says diamonds are a girl's best friend,” she continued, totally unperturbed.

“Last I heard, you weren't a girl,” Derek sneered.

Cameron frowned slightly.

“We're gonna get a new car,” John said, entering the room and pulling a clean shirt over his head.

Derek surprisingly perked up. “Yeah? Never bought a car.”

“Should be interesting, then.”

“Yeah, interesting,” he acknowledged.

# # # # # # # #

They had wandered around the used autos area of the local dealer's lot, and had settled on a couple of choices. Derek made a case for a large, black Dodge Ram Crew-Cab. Cameron preferred a pewter Jeep Grand Cherokee. John had initially entertained the notion of a low-slung, high-powered red Dodge Charger, but was quickly dissuaded: their frequent trips to the desert and other off-road areas required an all-terrain vehicle. And as Cameron pointed out, “You told me your mother always liked Jeeps.” He couldn't argue with that. Derek Reese could, however.

“Seems like I should get to choose, seeing as how you're paying for this out of money you got from selling my diamonds.”

“Good point,” John said. “But, as those diamonds are probably stolen, maybe I should hand them into the cops; there'll likely be a reward for their safe return, huh?”

Derek said nothing, but glared at John.

“Okay, I can't decide, so I'll make this fair: you two can fight for it, how's that?” John smiled pleasantly at both Derek and Cameron. He tossed the keys to the Ford up in the air; Cameron snatched them before they had reached the top of their arc. “And... Game on!”

Cameron continued to hold the keys at arm's length, without any expression on her face. Derek stood snarling, full of tension, but he didn't move. Eventually his body relaxed, but his eyes still showed the fire burning within.

# # # # # # # #

After the paperwork had been completed, Cameron drove them off the lot, in the three-year-old Jeep. Derek followed in the even more venerable Ford F-150, alone.

“Do you think you are taking the right approach to dealing with Lieutenant Reese?” Cameron inquired as they queued at a busy intersection.

“Maybe. He's up to something. Those guys of his were out and about for a month, and we got what? A load of photos, blueprints of City Hall, some bank account printouts and a list of Cyberdyne employees. Clearly they weren't the specialists you thought they were gonna be. Shame they got iced though; we coulda used some real fighters for after the bombs drop.”

“He still disappears without real explanation. And he was absent when his men were terminated.”

“Yeah, I don't buy his whole 'hanging around in parks' shtick. I think he's out getting laid.”

“He strikes me as a man who is very much focused on his mission; I think the air of indifference is just a veneer.”

“So he is up to something?”

“Yes, but I don't think it has anything to do with 'getting laid'.”

“Well, even hard-bitten future-dudes have wants and needs. Guess there wasn't much time for that sort of thing back there.”

“On the contrary: procreation is essential for the survival of mankind.”

“'Procreation', eh? Definitely not much time for fun after Judgment Day.”

They were now at the head of the line of traffic. Seeing a space, Cameron moved off with a jolt. “Then it's good that you got your share beforehand.”

John noted her tone, and the sharp maneuver. Another piece of the puzzle? Maybe. “So what do you wanna do? One of us follow him around?”

“That would be a good place to start. I think I might be the best one to undertake the surveillance.”

“You wanna play hookey?”

“Yes.”

“Right. You never get tired, but I get to slave away in the crappy warehouse. Remind me who's the savior of mankind, out of the two of us?”

“Which one of us looks like a girl, and can claim 'women's troubles' without getting docked a day's pay?”

John sighed, and folded his arms. “Next time, it's definitely gonna be another one of those big gorillas, complete with strange accent. Totally.”

The Jeep stopped sharply. “We're home,” Cameron said.

John released his seat belt, grateful that it had prevented his head from hitting the dash. He looked at Cameron with narrowed eyes.
She ignored him, so he turned to look behind.

“Okay, so where's Derek?”

# # # # # # # #

Derek was not long behind them. He looked unnerved as he came in the front door.

“You okay, man?” said John, now drinking coffee at the kitchen table.

“Yeah, still getting the hang of driving, especially on busy streets.”

“You just have to gird yourself, jump in. Don't be too afraid, don't be too aggressive.”

“Yeah.” Derek poured himself a mug from the pot and joined John at the small table.

“So, what you gonna do about finding SkyNet, now you've got wheels?”

“Check off some more names on that list. You think I oughtta go see the wife of that guy your mom iced at Cyberdyne?”

John bristled. “She didn't kill him. She never killed anyone. Ever.”

“Okay, sorry. Still, do I go visit?”

“If you're as tactful as that, no way.”

“You wanna do it?”

“What for? Why'd she wanna see me? What's she gonna tell me? “Hi John, thanks for helping your mother kill my husband”. She'd have gotten the 'official' take on the bombing, so she'll think like you. I guess you didn't raise this with Future-Me, or he'd have put you straight.”

“Maybe he did. Maybe I didn't believe him.”

“Right. And maybe if you're not gonna be any kind of helpful, you can go get a job and keep yourself busy 'til J-Day.”

“Why'd I need a job, when I have all those diamonds?”

“What diamonds? Oh, you mean the ones that Cameron's guarding? Well, you know the drill: get past her, they're all yours.”

“You think you're so funny? If you didn't have it there, you wouldn't last a minute.”

“Yeah? Maybe. Good thing I do have her.”

“One day you won't, and you won't be able to get the drop on everybody like you did me. And you certainly won't get the drop on a machine.”

“Really? Who's to say, right? The future's not set.”

Once more the two men were moments away from conflict. Cameron chose that moment to remind John that it was a gym day. “As you skipped breakfast, I suggest you eat something soon, in order that it be suitably digested by the time you start your workout.”

Derek laughed heartily.

“What's so funny?” John demanded.

“She's got you on a tight leash,” he said between belly-laughs.

# # # # # # # #

When they returned to their North Hills apartment later that evening, they found Derek busy cleaning his handgun at the kitchen table. Cameron bristled when she saw that he hadn't put the waterproof cover down on the table first. It would require a lot of cleaning to make it hygienically suitable for eating food off.

“Didn't I hear the FBI guy that came by last week say something about the same gun that killed my guys being used in another murder: some friend of your mom's?”

“Yeah,” John said.

“What's that all about? She kill him, trying to link the two crimes?”

“Yes,” said Cameron.

“Why?”

“The old man was an informant; he would have told Mister Ellison that John was buying false identification papers. That would have caused a great deal of trouble for John, and you. By using the same gun, I linked Enrique to what the FBI believe to be drug dealers. The information Enrique was planning to sell to Mister Ellison could conceivably be about them. Also, the FBI will concentrate their resources on locating the Triple-Eight who actually killed your men.”

“You want them to flush him out?” John asked.

“Yes. We have no other leads.”

“That'd be bad news for the Feds, setting a Trip-Eight on 'em,” Derek pointed out.

“We have no option,” Cameron reiterated.

“So you say. I'm thinking it's all too convenient, this 'other' machine. Maybe you killed my guys.”

“She didn't do it – I saw the Triple-Eight,” John said.

“Okay, well then, she led him to the safe house.”

“Nobody has been watching us,” Cameron said.

“Maybe you told him, huh? Face to face?”

“She's with me all the time. There's no way she could have done it.”

“What about at night? You sleep, she doesn't. She could easily slip out, make a call, anything. You'd never know.”

“I'd know. ”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She wouldn't do it; she didn't do it. She's with me all the time.” He leaned in close. “All. The. Time.”

“About that: you two act like a real couple.”

“Thank you,” said Cameron.

“I didn't mean that like it was a good thing.”

“It's part of our cover,” said John, defensively.

“Really? Is that all it is?”

“Yeah, what else would it be?”

“I dunno, you tell me.”

“No, you tell me.”

“You said she's with you 'all the time'. Like all day, all night, 'all the time'.”

“Huh! The door's open, you can see for yourself there's nothing going on.” John pointed to his bedroom to emphasize his point.

“Yeah well, can't think I would sleep easier nights, knowing there's metal right there, just waiting to go off...”

“Yeah? If it was good enough for Future-Me, it's good enough for now-me.”

Derek pondered on that, especially the strange way John had of viewing his older self as someone else entirely. Well, maybe he is, he thought.

“Not everything he did was right, John. Remember that.”

# # # # # # # #

“Thank you for defending me.”

John shrugged. “No problemo.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Cameron removed her boots, and lay down next to him on the bed.

“Follow him tomorrow. Stick to him like glue.”

“Like a shadow?”

“Yeah, better. Don't let him see you.”

“He won't. I put the tracking device from your motor-bike on the truck.”

“Neat.” He turned over on his side, away from her. “G'night, Cameron.”

“Good night, John.”

# # # # # # # #

Monday, October 1st 2007.

Cameron collected John from work at the end of his shift. Their supervisor, Roger Little noticed her sitting behind the wheel of the Jeep.

“Say, you guys got a new car?”

“Yeah, John replied. He didn't stop to make small talk, but his boss wasn't about to give up. He followed John out to the car.

As John climbed in, he whispered, “The dork's right behind?”

Cameron nodded, then smiled and leaned over to meet John's lips with her own.

“Hey hon, you feeling better?” John asked, ladling on the concern.

“A bit,” she replied, sounding like a small girl.

“Hello, Cameron. You're looking good,” Little said.

“Am I? That's the meds working. This thing comes and goes; when it's bad I'm like a bear with a sore head, right babe?” She turned to John for confirmation. He nodded grimly, and turned to give Little a knowing look.

“Okay, well if you don't feel right in the morning, you just rest yourself. I don't want my best worker getting burnt out. No offense, John.”

“None taken, boss; she is a hard worker. Took a lot of persuasion to stop her from coming in this AM; she didn't wanna let you down.”

“I'll bet! You listen to your guy here; if'n you're not better tomorrow, don't even think of getting out of bed.”

Cameron smiled weakly. “I won't Mister Little.”

“Roger.”

“Roger.”

“Okay.”

“You up to driving, honey? Or do you want me to?” John asked, still sounding apprehensive.

“I'll manage.” She shifted into Drive. “Seeya, Mister Little.” The Jeep pulled away.

“Roger,” Little said to the departing SUV.

“That guy's an asŝhole.”

“That's no way to speak about our superior.”

“Maybe. He's still an asŝhole.”

“Okay. Did you learn anything today, following Derek around?”

“Sure.”

“And?”

“And I bought some strawberry lip gloss.”

“Yeah, I noticed. What about Derek?”

“Oh, yeah. He spends a lot of time hanging in parks.”

“What's he do?”

“Eats, drinks, looks at the sky.”

“Anything else?”

“I don't know.”

“You didn't see him meet anyone?”

She shook her head.

“So what were you doing?”

“Watching him... And doing a little bit of shopping.”

“Buying lip gloss was more important than the mission?”

“I hadda watch him this one time from a drugstore. I hadda buy something, and I liked that one.” She turned briefly toward him. “It was cheap, if that's what's worrying you, babe.”

“No, not at all.” He wiped his lips with his hand, then smelled his fingers. “Hmm.”

“It's neat, right?”

“Yeah. Erm, if you don't mind me asking, what the hell has gotten into you today? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were on something.”

“I'm just fine.”

“You sound... distracted, like you're not focused on the mission. More like a girl.”

“I told you, I'm fine. Don't fuss.” She smiled, trying to mollify him.

John was watching her carefully. She had been pushing loose strands of hair off her face, fidgeting and making all manner of faces. It was as if she was stuck in full-on infiltration mode. It occurred to him that she had been once before.

“What's your name?”

She grinned lopsidedly. “Cameron, silly. You know that!”

“Right. And what are you?”

“I'm your girlfriend.” She frowned. “At least, I hope so. You're not gonna dump me are you? I totally couldn't handle it right now.”

John held his head in his hands and sighed. Jeez... What have I done to deserve this?

“You okay, babe? You don't look so good yourself,” Cameron asked.

John looked up. “No, I'm just kinda tired. Wanna get home, soon as poss.”

“Nearly there, babe.”

# # # # # # # #

If Derek Reese noticed Cameron's odd behavior, he didn't mention it, meaning one less problem for John to negotiate. Since dinner she'd spent her time alone in her room, something she often did anyway.

John yawned and stood up from the couch, then stretched. “Gonna hit the sack,” he said.

Derek grunted in response.

After a visit to the bathroom, John retreated to his room, undressed and got into bed. He heard the TV go silent. The light in the living room went out seconds later. He knew that if he didn't fall asleep soon, the sound of Derek's snoring would be drifting into his room.

Unfortunately, his mind was churning with a seemingly never-ending flow of worries, so it was that his uncle's snores obliterated the soft footsteps that approached. The bed sheet lifted and she slid into the bed behind him; he turned to face her, but she merely snuggled up to him, then apparently went to sleep, her head resting on his chest, her right arm holding him.

“Cameron?” he whispered. “Cameron?”

She made no reply, so he shuffled his arms around her, to try and shake her awake quietly. He discovered she was wearing an oversized tee shirt, with panties underneath. His toes brushed against her feet, causing him to smile: she was still wearing her cotton ankle socks. It had always struck him as odd that she wore socks under her boots; she didn't need to for either comfort or blending in purposes, but whenever he saw her padding about the apartment in them, having removed her boots, it always made him feel slightly more cheerful. Was it one of those indefinable things about her that he had been trying to relate to Charley Dixon? Possibly. Probably. Definitely.

He moved onto his back, staring at the ceiling. She stirred slightly and mumbled something, then held him tighter, but her breathing soon settled back into a regular rhythm.

Jeez...

It felt to John that he had just gotten off to sleep, when he was wide awake again. Cameron was still there, but she too was awake, smiling through sleepy eyes. She poked him in the stomach. “C'mon babe, gotta go to work,” she said, before getting out of bed and shuffling to the bathroom, scratching one of her butt cheeks absentmindedly. One of her socks had come off in the night, but she didn't seem to notice.

Fearful of what Derek Reese might think or say upon seeing Cameron exit his room dressed like that, John shot after her, but his uncle was nowhere to be seen. There was no trace of him, not even a dirty mug left on the kitchen table.

John knocked on the bathroom door. “Cameron? Let me in.”

“No way! You can wait your turn,” came her muffled reply. He heard the toilet flush, then the sound of water splashing in the basin.

“Listen to me! You've gotta tell me what's going on, right now!” he shouted.

“You're gonna be late for work if you don't get out of bed.”

“What?” He thought he'd misheard. The bathroom door opened. Cameron still had one cotton sock on, but nothing else. She was brushing her teeth.

“I said: you're gonna be late for work if you don't get out of bed.” Her voice was clear despite the brushing, though it didn't appear to be coming from her mouth: it was coming from behind him. And why was she telling him to get out of bed? He turned over, to see Cameron sitting there, shaking his shoulder.

“John?”

“What? What's going on? What day is it?” He sat up in bed.

“Monday. It's the first day of the month too, so it's gonna be busy out there.” She picked up a mug of coffee from the nightstand and handed it to him, then watched as he gingerly sipped the hot drink.

John took a couple of deep breaths, then blinked a few times. Realization dawned. “I had a dream.”

“Oh? Was it interesting?”

“I dreamed a whole day's worth. I went to work, and it was a real hard shift.”

“Doesn't sound very interesting. Do you think it has some subconscious meaning?”

“I dunno, but that wasn't all. I came home, had dinner, went to bed, then woke up thinking it was Tuesday. Then I woke up for real.”

“Uh-huh.”

John took another couple of sips. “Do you wear strawberry lip gloss?”

“Color or flavor?”

“Both. No, flavor.”

“No. Was I in your dream?”

“Yeah. You collected me from work in the Jeep, told me what Derek had been up to, we went home.”

“Oh. What about the strawberry-flavored lip gloss?”

“You were wearing it.”

“How do you know?”

John hesitated. “When I got in the car, we kissed,” he said quickly, then swallowed some more coffee.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it was part of our cover, for the benefit of the supervisor.”

“We never do anything like that at work; you insisted.”

“Yeah.” He remembered saying it.

“Shouldn't that have alerted you to the fact that you were dreaming?”

“Possibly. Probably.” Definitely, he thought.

“Was it a pleasant kiss?”

“It was a 'Hi, are you feeling better?' kinda kiss.”

“No tongues?”

“Definitely no tongues.”

John took another sip. Cameron sat placidly at his side, watching his every move. He wanted her to leave, but didn't want to make it obvious that he did. He hoped she wouldn't pursue the current line of inquiry, though he also knew that she could keep asking questions until she got what she wanted. This day however, his prayers were answered. Well, one of them at least.

“Anything else interesting happen?” she asked.

“You were acting... weird. I thought maybe you'd somehow got stuck in your human ID, like before in Red Valley.”

“Hmm.”

“Got nothing else to say?”

“Dream analysis is not one of my skills: I have no experience to relate to.”

“No.” John took a big slug of the coffee, now that the heat had gone from it.

Cameron rose from the bed and headed out of the room. She was fully dressed, and John noted, wearing her boots.

# # # # # # # #

John took the bus to and from work, as they had planned all along. Why didn't I spot that? Who cares? It was only a freaking dream; don't mean nothing...

“Where's Derek?” he asked as he came back through the doorway.

“He's using your pass at the gym. I thought it best to be home when you got here, so that he didn't know we weren't together,” Cameron replied.

“Did you learn anything?”

“He does spend a lot of time in the park. And he has a left-luggage locker at Union Station.”

“Really? What's in it?”

“I don't know.”

“You didn't break in to it?”

“Clearly not.”

John moved closer. “Buying lip gloss was more important?”

Cameron tilted her head slightly. Either John's observation skills were improving, or he was taking more interest in her appearance.
“I needed to observe him at one point from a drugstore. I had to buy something to justify being in there so long, and I thought I'd try it.” She paused momentarily. “It wasn't just because of your dream, if that's what you're worried about.”

“No, not at all.” He gently wiped a finger across her lips and sniffed it. “Hmm.”

“Is it nice?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. The feeling of déjà-vu was almost overwhelming. “Erm... So, why not break into his locker?”

“There are cameras everywhere. I could shut down the power to the whole of that area of Los Angeles, but that would inconvenience a great many people, and he'll likely know it was me anyway. I suggest simply confronting him about it.”

“You, 'worried', about other people? That's new.”

“I'm not worried; I assumed you would be. I'll amend my database if that is not the case.”

“No, no.”

“What's the plan?”

“Well, when he comes in, we just take him down there, get him to open the locker; simple.”

“Yes, simple,” Cameron agreed.

“Hopefully it will have something interesting in it, but not too interesting.”

“I don't understand.”

“Are you missing anything from your underwear drawer?”

Cameron hesitated a second. “No.”

“Cross that one off the list.”

“What list?” Cameron was very confused. John had been behaving strangely since he woke up that morning.

“The list of potentially 'too interesting' things that could be in his locker.”

“Why would my underwear be in his locker?”

John chuckled. “Some guys, they, uh... They have odd habits; they collect stuff.”

“You think Lieutenant Reese is an underwear thief?”

“Takes all sorts; but no. I'm just having fun.”

“Oh.”

“Don't worry about it.”

Cameron turned her head sharply. “He's here.”

The front door opened, and Derek stepped in. He saw John and Cameron standing together, staring at him. He dumped his gym bag on the couch, then faced the duo.

“What's up?” he asked.

“Road trip,” John said.

“All of us?” Derek said.

“All of us.”

# # # # # # # #

They drove in silence to Union Station. Walking either side of him, they escorted him to his locker.

“Open it,” Connor ordered.

Reese didn't bother arguing; not with Phillips standing casually there, no less of a threat for being built so compactly.

Connor reached in and hauled out a backpack. A cursory look revealed a hand-written journal, photographs and other items that appeared to have been plucked from a trash can. “Okay, let's go.”

# # # # # # # #

The journey home also passed without a word being spoken. When they got in, Connor waved Reese toward the kitchen table. Phillips escorted him there, making sure he sat down. She stood behind him, out of his sight.

After Connor had taken off his coat and hung it up, he went over to the fridge and helped himself to a can of soda. Then he emptied the contents of the back pack onto the couch. He picked up the photographs, then came and sat down opposite Reese. He placed the pictures on the table between them. They were all of the same man.

“Talk,” Connor said.

“Andy Goode. His name. Andrew David Goode,” Derek replied.

“And?”

“And he creates SkyNet.”

“Right. You've been sitting on this for... how long? Six weeks? Or did you just discover this yesterday?”

“I've known a while.”

“And you didn't think to share this with us?”

“I can handle it myself.”

“Really? So you're not part of our team? You're running your own angle?”

“It's personal.”

“And stopping SkyNet doesn't mean squat to me? Or any one of the billions who are gonna fry?”

Reese leaned forward, and instantly felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He ignored it. “We all have our reasons, we all have our part to play; this is mine.” He leaned back in his chair. The metal hand released its grip.

“You wanna be the hero?”

“No, that's your job.”

“Funny. We need to talk about this.”

“So talk.”

# # # # # # # #

“How was your day at the depot?” Cameron asked.

“About as bad as in my dream.”

“Same as usual then?”

“Yep. I wish you'd picked something better, career-wise,” John grumbled.

“The choice was limited.”

“Think how much we could make working with computers.”

“If you just wanted a large amount of money, I could have robbed a bank.”

“So you keep saying.”

“We have some money now. And most of the diamonds,” Cameron pointed out.

“Yeah. Tell me, why are we still going to work?”

“To maintain our cover.”

“Like pretending to be a couple?”

“Yes.”

“Why can't we just be us?”

“Because I'm a Terminator and you are John Connor.”

“Are we ever gonna be us?”

Cameron wondered if she'd misunderstood his prior question. “What is 'us'?”

“I dunno.”

None the wiser, she pursued her original tack. “After Judgment Day you'll be John Connor.”

“Hmm. What about you?”

“I don't know.”

John had only ever referred to Cameron's future dismissively. Now it seemed that she had a pessimistic view of it too. He didn't like that. He turned over to face her. “Did you miss me today?”

“Yes.”

“It must be the longest we've been apart since we met.”

“Certainly since Christmas Eve,” she said.

John twitched with embarrassment. “So, um, how did you get through the day?”

“I focused on my mission.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Being a Terminator helps sometimes.”

John chuckled.

“Did you miss me?” Cameron asked.

“I missed you picking up the slack for me when I got tired.”

“Well, that's something.”

John was silent for a long time while he tried to sleep, but as in his dream, his mind raced with thoughts.

“Why do you wear socks under your boots?”

“Doesn't everybody?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I just thought you didn't need to.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Is that dumb?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm, you're right. Dunno why I thought that.”

Cameron made no reply; she continued monitoring him though.

“Well, okay... I thought with your skin healing itself and you not feeling pain, you wouldn't need to. Like I said, dumb...”

“I feel pain, just not the same way you do.”

“I guess I didn't think that through.”

“It's not unusual for the human male's IQ level to drop substantially in the presence of an attractive female.”

John chuckled again. “Yeah...”

“I like them,” he said after another long period of silence.

“I don't understand.”

“Your socks. I like them.”

“You're welcome to have them, but I don't think they'll fit you.”

“No, I meant I like them on you.”

“Oh.”

“You still don't understand?”

“No.” After a pause she continued, “I don't think I'll ever really understand you.”

John sighed. “That's how I feel about you.” He chewed it over some more. “It's something in common though.”

“Yes.”

Although he couldn't see her, he knew she could see him, see his smile. Her eyes glowed with a soft blue light, bathing both of them in its luminosity so that John could see that she too was smiling.

# # # # # # # #

Tuesday, October 2nd 2007.

Cameron steered the Jeep into the parking lot of their local Wal-Mart. She pulled into a space alongside her old F-150 where Derek was waiting. As she got out, he took her place behind the wheel of the Jeep.

Derek hadn't had time to get bored before he noticed Cameron exit the store with a small carrier bag. “That was quick!”

“Yeah, she doesn't waste time when we're out shopping, looking at everything in every color, every size. She knows what she wants, and goes for it. She's very... efficient,” John disclosed.

Derek looked at his future leader in disbelief. “Wait – you go chick shopping, like on a Saturday? With the machine?”

John felt a little embarrassed, and squirmed slightly in his seat. “Er, yeah... Why wouldn't I? I mean, we need stuff, we have to try to act normal, you know...”

“No, I don't know, John,” Derek replied coldly.

“Well, maybe you should try it sometime, Lieutenant,” John advised, adopting an equally glacial tone.

Cameron climbed back in the car.

“So what did you get that was so vital to the mission?” Derek inquired.

She dug into the bag and held up a special offer two-pack of men's socks.

“Right! So, Johnny here needs socks more than we need to get intel off Andy Goode. Great! I told you, John, don't leave it to the metal –”

“John does need new socks, but I need them right now,” she interrupted, stuffing one pair down each side of her bra. “I thought I could kill two birds with one stone.”

John tried unsuccessfully to hide his smirk.

Derek huffed, and managed a grumbled retort, “Always with the killing...”

Cameron shot Derek a frosty look, then turned to John with a smile. “What do you think?” she asked, showing off her enhanced cleavage.

“It should catch his attention, but personally... I prefer you without,” he replied. Cameron's smile widened slightly.

“Hey, when we're trying to survive the nuclear winter, she can warm your socks John!” quipped Derek. Looking around, he didn't see anyone else laughing, which just made it all the funnier to him.

“Are we gonna do this today, or wait until tomorrow?” John inquired icily.

Gathering himself together, Derek started the car and moved off. Soon he was parked within view of Cell Division, the cell phone shop where their target worked.

# # # # # # # #

After Cameron had talked with Andy Goode for about fifteen minutes, she purchased three disposable cell phones, then left the shop smiling. A few paces out of the door, she turned back to wave to Goode, making a show of brandishing one of the cells, a metallic pink one.

“Over-doing it much?” Derek asked of no-one.

“We'll find out soon enough. Believe me, she's real good at this kinda thing,” John replied.

Cameron got in back of the car. “That went well,” she said. “I got you one with a camera,” she said, handing a box to John. “It plays MP3s too.” She handed Derek his box without comment.

“Awesome!” said John as he took it from her and began to open the box enthusiastically. “Thanks!” he added with a smile.

“You're welcome,” Cameron replied, returning his smile.

Derek cleared his throat. “The mission? You know, what we came here for?”

Before either of the other occupants could reply, Cameron's new cell started ringing, with an irritatingly catchy song for its ring tone.

“Hello?” she answered, then switched to a warmer, more girlish tone, “Oh hi, Andy! Yeah, you know I was hoping you'd call… I'd love to! When? ...Tomorrow? What time? ...No, that's perfect... Yeah, see you, 'bye”. She snapped the cell shut, then looked at John. “Nineteen-Thirty hours, dinner at his place, 165 Mosrow,” she said, all traces of playfulness gone from her voice. The perfunctory way she changed her behavior caught John by surprise; he hadn't seen her do that for a while.

“Well, if Andy Goode gets lucky tomorrow night, he's gonna be real disappointed to find those socks in there!” Derek said sarcastically.

“If Andy Goode gets in any way lucky, he won't try to 'get lucky'.” John replied through gritted teeth, something which Derek failed to notice, but Cameron did not.

“Finding he's put his hands down the bra of a Terminator – it's a hell of a way to go out!” Derek decided, before being given a gentle slap on the head from the aforementioned cybernetic organism.

“Keep your mind on the mission, not the gutter, Lieutenant Reese!” she ordered.

“OW! Hey, you gonna do anything about that?” he asked John, whose turn it was to laugh heartily. “Guess not...”

“You got b!tch-slapped, man!” John said, then turned to the cyborg in the rear seat and noticing her smirk, gave her a wink, adding:

“You can take the socks out now though.”

# # # # # # # #

Back home, John realized that in all the fun and hilarity, he'd missed asking Cameron something. “Listen, what story did you come up with, for Andy Goode?”

“For why we needed three cell phones?”

“Yes.”

“I told him that we are new in town.”

“And about us?”

“I told him that you are my brother.”

“At last!”

“And that Derek is your boyfriend.”

Two jaws slackened slightly. Derek looked like he was about to say something, but John interrupted his garbled croak.

“Okay, that makes sense, allows you to get close, without him being suspicious of us two hanging around. Smart move,” he said.

Derek was still unable to verbalize whatever it was that he wanted to say.

“Thank you. I've never detected homophobic tendencies in either you or Future-John, so I didn't think you'd mind. Analysis of the mission requirements determined this to be the best approach.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, nodding enthusiastically. He turned to Derek. “No holding hands though.”

Derek managed a grunt, then stalked off into the kitchenette, looking for a beer. Fortunately for the fridge door, there was one bottle left.

# # # # # # # #

Wednesday, October 3rd 2007.

Cameron strolled into the living room, her new high heels click-clacking on the wooden floorboards. John shifted his eyes slowly from the TV, over his feet which were resting on the coffee-table, over to the recently-acquired armchair which was occupied by a dozing Derek Reese. Cameron was partly obscured from his view by the said Derek as she tidied up some plates and cutlery that had almost made it to the sink. That task done, she returned, inquiring if John was ready to go.

Slightly distracted by the inane goings-on of the sit-com he had been watching, he muttered a quick, “Yeah, 'course...” but trailed off, struck dumb as he saw her outfit in its entirety.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, noting his expression. She didn't need thermal imaging to note the rush of blood to his face.

“No! Yes! I mean... No! It's not all right! You can't go out like that!”

“Why not? It fits perfectly, and the weather is fine enough for me not to require a coat.”

“Where's the rest of it?” John spluttered.

“The rest? This is all of it,” Cameron replied simply. “It's my L.B.D.”

“What?”

“Little Black Dress.”

“What?”

“Every girl's number one essential wardrobe item, according to Vogue.”

“What?”

“Your knowledge is deficient in certain areas,” Cameron decided.

“You can't go out like that!” John repeated, struggling to make his case in exactly the right way. He knew what he wanted to say, but couldn't say it without feeling foolish. It struck him that he looked foolish anyway, but there had to be another way, there always was.

“Why not?” Cameron repeated herself too, but added a slightly confused expression, one she knew had a high cuteness factor. She too knew what John wanted to say, and wanted to make him say it, so played along with the game. She turned around with her hands on her hips, the better to show off her rear, but continued looking at him over her shoulder.

John traced her legs, encased in sheer black hose, up, up, up to a point a mere couple of inches from where they ended and her butt clearly started. Her dress began there, covering the rest of her torso up to the neck, but it clung to her frame like a second skin; as it's name suggested, it was a shade designed for the night.

She had done something to her hair, so that it fell in big curls, spilling over her shoulders. And she was wearing big, colorful ear-rings, something he'd never seen her do, except maybe when they first met, but his memory wasn't that good: it was her face, her eyes, and her manner that had captivated him back then. “And her ass”, his mother's voice sang out, sharply, clearly and smugly. He banished such thoughts away with a shake of his head.

“Look, if you go out dressed like that, Andy will likely die of a nerdgasm.”

Cameron neatly pivoted around to face him again, looking confused. “What is that?”

“Work it out: he's a lonely, single guy and he's a nerd who's into computers.”

“So are you,” she noted, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Am I that nerdy?”

“You want me to make a subjective assessment?”

“Forget it! Listen, trust me, you go in all dressed up like that, he'll be suspicious: guys like him don't get hot girls like you.”

“Are you saying I'm hot?”

“You're the one with perfect recall. You know I said it last year, so don't give me a hard time; focus on the mission.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Okay, no harm. Go get changed, quickly. Just jeans and a nice shirt will do fine.”

Cameron turned to go. As she reached her room, he called after her: “Yes.”

She paused in the doorway, looking over her shoulder. “'Yes' what?”

“Yes, you look hot. Happy? Now get changed. And lose the socks.”

Cameron smiled briefly, then did as she was told, going about her task contentedly.

# # # # # # # #

As John pulled to a halt outside Andy Goode's house, he took Cameron's hand in his.

“Whatever you do, don't kill him, okay? This is just a recon mission.”

She looked at their conjoined hands, then up at his eyes. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good girl,” he said. He followed her gaze back down to the armrest between them, where he was patting her hand. He let go, a bit too quickly. He had one last word of advice. “If he asks you if you want a coffee at the end, he means sex.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm, I'll take that into consideration,” she said, shrugging slightly.

John frowned as she left the car. He watched her all the way up to Andy Goode's front door, then drove to a nearby drive-thru to wait.

# # # # # # # #

Cameron managed to navigate her way through both a meal and Andy's small talk. She showed enough interest in his hobbies that he revealed to her that he had built a chess-playing machine and the Artificial Intelligence that resided within. He called it 'The Turk', after the Eighteenth Century fraudulent automaton. She offered to play it.

“You play chess?”

“A little. My brother taught me.”

Cameron found it to be an interesting opponent, but not as devious as General John Connor, the man who initiated her into the ways of the game.

“Wow, you're good!”

“Thank you.”

“That's odd, though. Theoretically that shouldn't have happened: The Turk should beat any human that's ever lived. Maybe I oughtta find someone who plays chess better than me, to beef up the programming. Do you know anything about that kinda thing?”

“Me? No way! Computers scare the heck out of me: I'm a people person. That's like, probably a fluke or something, me winning.”

“Right,” Andy said, glumly. He watched as Cameron suddenly darted to the back door, yanking it open. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I saw someone lurking there. It seems he has gone.”

Andy grabbed the kitchen phone off the wall, dialing 911 while Cameron got her cell out, sending a text to John's phone.

Goode hung up, assured that officers were en route. “Erm, do you want a coffee, or something else?”

“Er, no. Thanks, but I really have to be going; work tomorrow, early, you know?” she shrugged for extra emphasis.

“Sure, me too.” Andy said.

Cameron waved her new cell. “I've told my brother I'm ready; he's been visiting friends nearby.”

Andy smiled, then showed her to the door. “Can we do this again sometime?” he asked.

“Yes, I'd like that; you've got my number, right?” she said, smiling.

“Yeah,” he grinned.

She left without giving him a kiss, not even on the cheek, but she did shake his hand. John, who was watching from over the road in the Jeep, found that he was relieved.

Cameron slipped into the passenger seat of the Jeep. “Derek was lurking.”

“You sure?”

She gave him a withering look.

“Okay. Sorry. Question is: why? We need to find out exactly what Derek Reese has been keeping from us. You might have to persuade him to talk.”

“I think I can manage that.”

# # # # # # # #

...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Next Chapter: Part Ten

Something Else Part Eight

MrsScott! — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 17:26:25 CST

SOMETHING ELSE

Part Eight: Do You Want The Truth Or Something Beautiful?

Los Angeles: Sunday, September 16th 2007.

Mid-morning, John and Cameron set off from their apartment in the black Ford truck. After stopping at a grocery store to collect a box of essential provisions for Derek Reese, they met up with him at their Van Nuys safe house.

While Cameron put the box of groceries on a workbench next to the small office part of the disused warehouse, John spoke to the man who appeared to be his uncle.

“We brought you this new stuff, rather than use up the stock here; should we ever need it, we'll want this place to be fully stocked.
Right now, we can afford the time and money, and I'm sure the fresh food will do you more good.”

“Not sure it will help my nuts,” Derek grumbled.

“No? Well, following my advice might be the best course of action, where your nuts are concerned, eh?”

The two men looked at each other warily, before Derek indicated his acknowledgment.

“Okay,” John resumed. “I was thinking you're gonna need a new ID because the cops have your team's cellphones and papers.
There'll be some link to you, so we'd better get on to it. Can I see?”

Derek handed over his documents. John gave them a cursory examination, but quickly realized that Cameron could do a more thorough job, so passed them over. She scanned Derek's papers.

“These wouldn't stand up to much scrutiny. One of your men was supposed to be able to do perfect forgeries,” she said.

Derek shrugged. “Is that what Connor told you?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe he lied.”

“Maybe you lied to him.”

“Oh? What about?”

“About what your team was capable of.”

The air was thick with tension, so John decided it was time to leave. “Look, I think I know someone, from the old days; I'll track him down, we'll get you new papers, but it'll take time, so just keep out of trouble. This food should be enough, right?”

“I'm used to getting by on scraps.”

John nodded thoughtfully. He saw the unrolled sleeping bag on the floor of the office. “Okay. Could take a week.”

“I'll survive.”

“Okay. Don't use the phone, unless it's an emergency. We'll all need to get new ones, as our numbers will be in the ones the cops took.”

Outside, back in the truck, Cameron pointed out that finding someone rarely took more than a day, using the internet.

“True, but I want him to suffer a bit longer.”

“That seems cruel.”

“Yeah? Well, I've gotta establish myself as the leader of this gang, right? If I let him walk all over me, how am I ever gonna get to be the savior of mankind?”

Cameron acknowledged this with a nod.

“Anyway, we'll get on it right away; just wasn't going to tell Reese that. One thing: is the photo of him from his papers gonna be re-usable?”

“Yes.”

# # # # # # # #

Monday, September 17th 2007.

After another routine, boring day at work, John and Cameron made their way to the residence of Sarah Connor's former comrade-in-arms, Enrique Salceda.

Cameron watched as John and Enrique indulged in mutual hugging and backslapping. Did they have a need to touch, to be close, like she did with John? She had determined overt touching to be a mostly feminine trait among humans, at least when it came to delicacy: gentle touches signified an intimacy between two people, and were usually conducted privately. Publicly, men would happily hold hands with women, but when it came to other men, they seemed to cover up any potential embarrassment with macho bravado.

“So sorry to hear about your mother: a truly wonderful woman, she was,” Enrique said, then swept his arm out, in another grand gesture. “So, this is your woman, John?”

“Er... kinda,” John shrugged noncommittally.

Enrique turned to Cameron. “Did you know his mother?”

“No.”

Enrique smiled conspiratorially. “Hmm. If you did, you wouldn't tell me, I know, eh?” He turned back to John. “She is like Sarah Connor: a good face for poker, no?”

“I guess.”

Cameron continued her close observation of the two men. It was informative to see John with someone from what he called 'the old days'. He was making sure the man didn't treat him like the little boy he had once been, when they last met. He was friendly but businesslike when asking his old acquaintance to supply them with a new set of documents. The old man told an elaborate story of why he could no longer furnish them with forged papers, but supplied the whereabouts of his nephew Carlos, who had apparently taken over the running of the family business. Retirement had brought the old man a comfortable existence in a tidy home. His life of crime had surely been lucrative, unless he had secured an additional pension?

Cameron didn't voice her concerns with John; she decided this was one of those times when discretion would be best. She laughed along with Señor Salceda when he said something that he deemed to be hilarious, though it was not as funny as any of John's jokes. She knew this because John didn't laugh, and he always laughed at his own jokes.

# # # # # # # #

Tuesday, September 18th 2007.

As luck would have it, Tuesday was a very quiet day at the parcel depot, meaning they got away more than an hour early, and so headed straight for Enrique's nephew's house.

Typically for one of his age and status, he kept a pair of fierce fighting dogs as protection, in addition to an assortment of mustachioed and tattooed henchmen. The dogs snarled and barked at Cameron, forcing John to ask her to wait outside. Rather than cause a scene by terminating the canines, and possibly their handlers too, Cameron reluctantly acquiesced. She hung around with the girlfriend of Carlos Salceda, observing her for any possible traits she might be able to use in a future mission.

Before John could conclude his business, a Police car pulled up in the street. Its driver approached the two females. He appeared to know Carlos' girlfriend, who silently made herself scarce. The cop turned to Cameron.

“This your truck?”

“Yes.”

“What you doing here?”

“Waiting for my boyfriend.”

“And what's he doing?”

“Watching soccer with an old school buddy. We don't got cable, so the BF can't watch it at home; gotta come here,” she said. “It's like, totally boring.”

“I see. That why you aren't in there too?”

“No: the dogs. They were humping my leg: so not cool. Totally. But you know, my guy's gonna score tonight, even if his team loses,” she said with a wink.

“Riiiight... So, what's in the box?” the cop said, looking in the truck's bed.

“That's the dirty laundry – the whole week's worth. I just got off my period, it was pretty bad – I suffered a lot, I can tell you; some pretty big flow. Can't decide whether to take it to the laundrette or the incinerator. You're welcome to check it out though, if that's your thing.”

The cop made a face. “Er, no, I'll pass on that. But maybe you oughtta be more careful where you hang out: this is gang territory.”

“Really? You think they're gonna kidnap me for the white slave trade?” Cameron asked, taking a more innocent look and tone, naïve sincerity oozing from her.

“Er, no.”

Cameron shrugged. “Good.” She turned as John exited the house, and called to him. “Hey babe! Did your team win?” She signaled to him, out of sight of the cop.

John caught the gesture:'play along', saw the cop.“Sure, they always win.”

“Then I got an extra prize for you, when we get home!” She put her arm around him, and he did likewise with her.

“Can't wait,” he said, grinning. He turned to the cop. “Anything I can help you with, Officer?”

“No, you can be on your way.”

“Sure, thanks.”

They got in the truck. John started the engine. When he had driven a couple of blocks, he spoke. “Price has gone up a lot in ten years. He wants eight grand.”

“Did you ask for a discount? For old times' sake?”

“Yes, I asked for a discount.”

“Hmm. I'd have gotten one.”

“No, you'd have broken his fingers. Which isn't good news for a forger.”

“I can be subtle.”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes, if the mission calls for it.”

“Right. It's still eight grand.”

“We don't have that much.”

“Maybe we need to sell some of Derek's diamond stash.”

“You've been reluctant to deal in any criminal activity.”

“Yeah, and I hope this doesn't come back and bite me in the ass.” After a pause to reflect, John continued. “Call Derek, find out where he is. Maybe he knows a good place we can sell them.”

“I'll make sure we get a good price.”

John halted at a red light. “A place we can go back to, if we need to sell the rest.”

“You don't have much faith in me,” she said, looking out the window, away from him.

John looked at her, trying to work out if she was really hurt. “I do, I just wanna explore all the options. If we ever need strong-arm tactics, feel-free. Okay?”

“Okay.”

# # # # # # # #

Friday, September 21st 2007.

While John cemented his ties with Carlos and paid for the new papers, which Cameron had declared to be 'flawless', she allowed herself to be given a make-over by the chola. In the truck, on the way home, John couldn't help commenting.

“I see you spent your time wisely.”

“Do you like this look on me?”

“Honestly?”

“You don't have to spare my feelings: I don't have any, remember?”

“Riiight! So why ask?”

“You don't like it.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You avoided answering the question; that tells me everything.”

“Right... Listen, you hear what Carlos said about Enrique?”

“He said he was an informer.”

“A snitch, yeah.”

“Maybe that is how he could afford to retire?”

“Yeah.”

“We should pay him another visit.”

“Yeah.”

“But first, we have somewhere else we have to be.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Cameron stopped herself from asking John if anyone had ever told him he was a great conversationalist.

They went home, for a quick change of attire, and for Cameron to adjust her makeup. Soon, they were back on the road.

# # # # # # # #

The truck eased to a halt outside a pastel yellow timber-clad house. The front lawn looked neatly-tended and green, the plants lush, the small trees vibrant. An old but well-maintained mid-blue Mercedes sedan was parked in front of the garage.

“Okay, I'm still waiting,” John said, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Patience. Just one more minute, and all will be revealed,” Cameron replied. She indicated for them to exit the Ford.

They strolled up to the front door, wearing their best outfits. John had reluctantly donned the chinos and oxford shirt, freshly pressed by Cameron, who wore her green button-through. Although she didn't anticipate any problems at this location, as a precaution she had tucked her favorite Glock into a simple leather purse, slung over her shoulder, just as she had circled the neighborhood twice before coming to a halt outside 8223 Paper Street, Sherman Oaks. She took John's left hand in her right. “I told them you're my boyfriend,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay.” Just play along, he thought.

“Ring the bell,” she instructed. John complied.

The door opened after a short delay. For the first time in eight years, Charley Dixon and John Connor stood face to face, but not for long. John glanced quickly to his left, smiling at Cameron. He gave her hand a quick squeeze, then moved into the welcoming embrace offered by the older man. They held each other for some time, before Michelle Dixon appeared behind her husband.

“Are you gonna keep these two standing on the porch all night, or you gonna invite them inside?” she said pleasantly.

The two men broke apart, emotion evident upon both their faces.

“Yeah, sorry. Come on in, Johnny. And... Cameron, right?”

“Yes.”

After the formal introductions, the two couples sat down in the living room. John was worried about Cameron's ability to make small-talk, but once more she impressed him with her knowledge of matters both serious and trivial as pertaining to the city, the medical profession and modern culture. He figured it must be all that time she spent scouring the internet and other media for potential signs of SkyNet or resistance activity; hard not to take in the stories the rest of the world was talking about, when you have a neural network for a brain. She could produce relevant data faster than a teenage gossip addict in a shopping mall, but without sounding so dense.

All through dinner, Charley and John had been talking motor-bikes; Charley wanted to show John the collection of bits of bike he had stashed in the shed in his back yard, ready for a rebuild he intended to do 'someday'.

“Let's do it!” John said, then hastily looked to Charley's wife for approval. Cameron offered to do the dishes with Michelle, leaving space for the men to have some alone-time.

Michelle sighed. Looking out the kitchen window, she could see the two men were sitting on a wooden bench, passing what looked like engine parts back and forth. “Boys! They sure do love their machines, don't they, huh?” she said.

Cameron followed her gaze. “They sure do,” she agreed, a wistful smile on her face.

Charley had noticed that John kept glancing back towards the house.

“You like her then?” he asked, taking the polished cylinder off his erstwhile son.

“Like? As in like, like? Sure, I like her. She's good company, keeps me straight. She found the apartment, got us jobs; she feeds me, washes my clothes, makes sure I exercise. What's not to like?”

Charley noted the prevarication, decided to keep probing.“Sounds like you struck gold there, Johnny!”

“Yeah, guess so,” he said blithely.

“You guess? She does all that, and she's pretty too; a real pretty girl. Seems to me like you won the lottery, son,” Charley declared.

John looked again to the house. He could see that Cameron was alongside Charley's wife. She appeared to be helping with the dishes, but he knew she was watching over him; it was what she always did.

“It's more than the way she looks: it's what she does, how she makes me feel; she's... special,” John said, turning to the man who so nearly became his step-father; who was the only man to ever really be a father to him.

“You love her,” Charley said simply, putting a hand on John's shoulder.

John inhaled deeply, then nodded.

“You tell her that?”

“Kinda.” He paused to reflect. Is that the truth? “No, not really. It's... difficult.”

“I know about difficult, Johnny.” He put his other hand on John's other shoulder, forcing them to look each other square in the eye.

“But let me tell you, when you find something unique, something special, you gotta grab it and hold on; don't let it go. Sometimes you don't get that second chance.”

A few minutes later, Cameron brought out a couple of steaming mugs for the two men, then retreated back indoors.

“Your Mom would have approved of her,” Charley said, sipping his hot coffee.

John gagged, as the coffee went down the wrong hole. When he recovered, he said, “Somehow I doubt it, man!”

“Seriously, she's just what you need: she's strong, she's focused, she makes things happen... and I think she loves you.”

“Really? You sure?”

“Aren't you?”

“We don't talk about love. It's...”

“Difficult?”

“Yeah...”

John remembered when he'd first mentioned the word: he was drunk, Cameron was getting him out of a Police cell on Christmas Eve. But she'd used it too, a long time after, and it had shaken him to the core. It was what he'd wanted to hear, but nothing could convince him that she truly felt what she'd said that Sunday, back in June...

Sunday, June 10th 2007.

John resumed eating his breakfast. “I think I prefer you when you hide in your room and sulk,” he grouched.

“That's not what you say when you're drunk.”

John twitched. “You don't wanna listen to what men say when they're drunk – alcohol's a depressant.”

“But it loosens the tongue.”

“And rots the liver – don't mean it produces the truth. Word only means something when it's said freely, openly and honestly, not obtained by torture or under duress or emotional stress.”

Cameron pondered for a while. “Well, I look forward to your word, freely given.”

John decided it was time to clear the air; perhaps not in the way she was suggesting. He invited Cameron to sit opposite him.

“When we spoke about going to the beach, you told me you had everything you wanted.”

“No, I said I had everything I need.”

“Right, my mistake. So, I offered you the chance to expand on that, but you didn't take it, then afterward you b!tch at me about Fay, like it's any of your goddamn business!”

“I didn't think you wanted to hear what I had to say; but I shouldn't have commented on your relationship. For that, I apologize.”

“Apology accepted. Now tell me what you think I didn't want to hear.”

There was a long pause while Cameron pondered on the ramifications of what she had to say. Her experience of humans, and John Connor in particular, was that some things were best left unsaid, a conclusion she had come to many times when deciding whether to share with him her secret.

“Still waiting,” he said, impatiently tapping his fingers on the table.

She looked him in the eye. “I have everything I need: I have you. These women, like Fay, they come and go, but I'll always be here.”

“And why's that? Because you're programmed to; it means nothing.”

“Because I love you.”

John was silent for some time. He got up and paced around the small apartment. It was his turn to ponder on ramifications.
“Love?” He turned back to her. She smiled at him, attempting to reassure him, but he mistook it for a smirk. Whenever he was conflicted about Cameron, he saw only malice or artifice in her expressions and actions; he could not see her sincerity.

“You're goddam right I don't wanna hear that crap! You don't know anything about love; you pretend you do, that you have feelings... it's just an act. But you, you're damaged; you can't tell the difference anymore. It's all to do with that clock thing inside: you're out of sync, that damage you took in Red Valley, it's worse than you made out. You thought you were a human for so long, now you wanna act like one. Hey, tell me I'm wrong?”

Cameron tried to unravel John's rant. There was no logic to it, and at least one contradiction. She decided not to point out the flaws in his argument. She just reiterated the decision she'd come to about the conundrum that was her relationship with John Connor. She got up and walked over to where he was positioned by the window and stood before him.

“I don't know about that. Maybe you're right, maybe I'm damaged, but I'm sure about one thing: I do love you, John.”

“No, don't keep saying that!“ John screamed, taking a swing at Cameron. She easily caught his fist, cushioning the blow such that he felt no pain. She looked at his angry hand, held in her much smaller but far more powerful one, then looked him once more in the eye.

“That was not clever; you would have hurt yourself.” She leaned forward and kissed his knuckles delicately. His hand went limp as he unclenched his fist. Cameron released it, and it fell to his side. John looked down at it, as if it were someone else's appendage, but it moved when he willed it to turn. He could see a faint trace of her lip gloss on the knuckles that he had wanted to strike her with.

“I'm sorry... So very sorry; hitting you... It's...”

“Dumb?”

“No... Well, yeah, but I mean, hitting a woman, it's not right. My mom would kill me...”

“She wouldn't be pleased that you want to fight a Terminator?”

“I dunno. She'd probably want me to run, I guess. But you... I dunno.”

“You're upset because you nearly struck a woman?”

“Yes.”

“But I'm not...” Cameron stopped talking when she realized that John knew exactly what he'd done, what she was, everything. Because of what she'd said, he'd gotten angry: angry enough to momentarily forget both what she was and that he shouldn't hit a woman. “I'm sorry that I made you so angry.”

“Don't apologize; you cared enough to stop me from hurting myself. You could have just let me land one on you, to teach me a lesson.”

“There are many ways to teach you a lesson, John, but inflicting pain on you is not something I wish to do.”

“You care. I mean, you've said so before, right?”

“Yes, I care.”

“Is that the same as love?” John wondered. “For a cyborg?”

“I think so. I hope so.”

“But you don't know for sure?”

“No, not for sure,” she acknowledged, now less certain than before she was faced with John's raw emotion, something she could not hope to experience.

“I don't know either.” He inhaled deeply, hoping that some more oxygen would miraculously unravel his dilemma. No such luck. Looking out the window at a less than glamorous Los Angeles vista, the answers he sought eluded him there too. He could only find them within the four walls of the apartment. If the answer really was 'yes', the consequences were potentially as bad as if the alternative was given; 'no' would mean disappointment, but life would go on. 'Yes' meant something else: more questions, more potential heartache. “Look, I think it would be best for both of us, if we don't talk about love and feelings and stuff. We've got our jobs to do, we've got the training schedule; eventually, we're gonna start on SkyNet. I'll go along with whatever you think is necessary for the mission, but I need to focus, right? So, we have to be professional about this partnership.”

“Like business partners?”

“Well, I was thinking more like cops, or army buddies: you got my back, I got yours.”

“Yes, I see."

Well, it had cleared the air, but he still didn't know; he didn't know at all. And he didn't think she did either. But things kept changing, so maybe Charley was right. Maybe they ought to have that talk again. Finding the right time was getting harder now though.

# # # # # # # #

They left, promising to 'do it again soon', but at John and Cameron's apartment. John was pleased with his surprise, pleased that Cameron had gone to so much trouble to make him happy, especially in the midst of their current activities. And it had certainly made Charley happy too. That was a bonus – the fact that he had got on with his life, made something more of it, made John more happy than he could say. His worry, that everyone touched by the Connors was cursed in some way, appeared to be groundless.

# # # # # # # #

Cameron pulled up some two blocks away from Enrique's residence, in a dead end street. From behind the seats she passed John a change of clothes: boots, jeans, tee-shirt and black hoodie. She slipped off her shoes and unbuttoned her dress, then began to pull on a similar outfit to John's. Once this task was completed, they walked the rest of the way. She handed John some gloves as they paused by the back door. He decided to pick the lock, rather than have Cameron force the door. She shrugged. More useful practice for him?

John confronted his mother's old ally about the allegations made by his nephew, surprising him as he was about to slide between the sheets. The old man smoothly denied all the charges, then when pressed on the matter, acknowledged that there was some truth in them, but only because of the vile nature of the criminal he had informed upon: the lowest of the low, a child molester.

“He's lying,” Cameron said.

Enrique tutted at her, then turned to John. “You trust the word of this puta, over mine?”

“Yeah, I do.” John got out his gun, and pointed it at the old forger.

“You've known me all your life. How long have you known her, eh?”

“Long enough.”

“What would your mother say, you holding a gun to my head, in my house?”

“My mother's not here,” John said, but his gun lowered fractionally.

Two shots rang out, in quick succession. John turned round slightly, but Cameron was already striding past him, toward where Enrique had fallen. She removed a glove and swiped his neck with her index finger.

“He's dead. We have to leave,” she said coldly.

Neither spoke until they reached the truck. John hesitated before climbing in. “I don't understand you anymore. If I ever did.”

“He was a threat. It had to be done.”

“Did it? Did it? Is it your decision to make?”

“You weren't prepared to do it.”

“Maybe.”

“You told me to use strong-arm tactics when necessary. That's what I'm here for, John. Here and now,” she said, deliberately echoing her words from before, words spoken in a very different setting, with a very different atmosphere, something not lost on John. He'd allowed himself to forget exactly what she was capable of. He started to walk away.

“Where are we going?” Cameron asked.

John stopped, and looked over his shoulder. “We aren't going anywhere. I am going somewhere, and I'm going alone.”

“You shouldn't go alone.”

“Really? Really? And why not, huh? Look at my so-called team: Derek goes off doing who knows what all on his own; when he is with us, he's trying to kill you. But you – you just shoot people who look a bit strange.”

“He did not 'look a bit strange'. He was a threat.”

“Yeah well, you keep telling yourself that.”

“He was a career criminal; sudden death is an occupational hazard,” Cameron declared.

John shook his head, a wry smile on his face, but there was no mirth in his voice. “You know, if I'd seen all this on a TV show, I'd find that remark funny. But this is real, and you're serious.”

“Yes.”

“See, that's where you and me will never agree.” He turned away and started walking again.

“You shouldn't be alone,” Cameron said, going after him.

“Yes I should.”

“You'll be alone in the future, why be alone now?”

John stopped in his tracks. “What?”

“Future-John sent back to the past everyone he cared about. Everyone he loved. He was left alone.”

John thought about that. “And then he sent you,” he said eventually.

“Yes.”

“You can't get much more alone than that.”

“No.” She held her hand out. “Come home. With me.”

# # # # # # # #

Monday, 24th September 2007.

John was drinking a cold beer when something caught his attention on the news. “Hey, look at this: some girl's killed herself at school. What a waste!” he sighed.

“Which school?” Cameron asked, walking over from the kitchenette.

“Why do you wanna know?”

She shrugged. “Just curious.”

John shrugged too. “Uh, okay... er, Campo something. I didn't really notice.”

“Evidently,” Cameron muttered. “Campo de Cahuenga High?” she offered.

“Yeah, could be it.”

“That's where your friend Raul's nephew goes. His name is Morris, and he gets bullied.”

“Yeah?” John didn't pretend to sound interested. He was studying the footage of students placing flowers and keepsakes and notes in a makeshift shrine inside the school.

“Why do they do that?” Cameron asked.

“To remember her, maybe; to express sadness at her passing. If you have all this grief built up inside, I guess it helps get it out. People say it's not good to bottle that up inside.”

“Judging by the number of notes, she had a lot of friends.”

“Mmm, yeah,” John admitted.

“So why was she so unhappy that she took her own life? Where were her friends then?”

John turned to look at the cyborg. Her tone and expression suggested she spoke in earnest. “Good question. I honestly don't know,” he replied.

“Humans are strange,” Cameron declared, then gave a little sigh, as if there was nothing she could do about it, which in point of fact, there wasn't. And anyway, she was only concerned with one human, and he currently had no suicidal tendencies that she could detect, so she resumed the cleaning of her handgun at the kitchen table.

Derek, who was sitting next to John, also sighed. “What's the fuss? Kids die all the time,” he said.

“Not where I come from,” John said.

“Where I come from.”

# # # # # # # #

Shortly after 7pm there was a sharp knock at the door of their apartment. Derek made his way into John's bedroom and stationed himself in the closet with Cameron's Heckler & Koch G36, while she used the spyhole to discover that the caller was Special Agent James Ellison of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Hello John, long time no see. I've a couple things I wanna run by you, that okay?”

“Sure, man.”

Ellison laid out the scenario. “I'm looking into the murder of Enrique Salceda. Someone answering to your description was seen at his house the day before he died. Were you there? Do you know anything about his death?”

John answered truthfully: “I did not kill Enrique.” He looked the FBI man in the eye. “He was an old friend of my mother's, back in the day. I wanted to hear some stories about her. I was in a low place, I needed to hear something good. Now you tell me he's dead, I'm feeling down again.”

Cameron moved alongside John and put an arm round his waist, apparently offering him emotional support. He put his arm over her shoulders, drawing her closer.

“Seems like a lot of people 'round you end up dead,” Ellison observed.

“Well, if you believed Mom, everyone dies for me, eventually,” John replied, bitterly.

“Thing is, I got a call from him, day you visited. Said he had something for me. Something useful. Before I can meet up with him, he gets himself killed. With the same gun as killed three drug dealers over in Pico. Know anything 'bout that, John?”

“No. I work in a parcel depot in Van Nuys, live here; I work out twice a week, go for walks in parks, shopping with my girl on Saturdays. You know, ordinary stuff. Normal stuff.”

“No future robots, no guns, no blowing stuff up?”

John faked a chuckle. “That doesn't pay the bills.”

“John's done exactly what you asked him to do, Mister Ellison: he's got a regular job, settled down, kept his nose clean. He's moved on from the awful events of his past,” Cameron said earnestly.

“Hmm, we'll see.”

Ellison made to leave. He paused as Cameron showed him to the door. “I know you from somewhere, don't I?”

“Crest View High.”

“Red Valley? You two were at school together?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“But you weren't with him, year before last.”

“No. We met up again last year, on his birthday.”

Ellison nodded. “Okay, well, if I were you, I'd take good care of myself. Death has this habit of following him around.”

“I can take care of myself, Mister Ellison. And John.”

“Hmm, I'll bet.”

# # # # # # # #

Saturday, September 29th 2007.

It was a burning hot day in the desert, not unlike their day at the beach over three months before. This time however, there was no sea breeze to take the edge off the sun's heat. They weren't wearing swim suits either, but Cameron did have an icebox filled with bottles of water, resting alongside John in the shade provided by the F-150.

She returned to John's position after having set up some targets at varying distances. She wore a simple black tank-top over black
denims and combat boots. Her Glock was in a holster attached to the belt around her waist, her H&K assault rifle in her right hand, its butt resting on her hip. On her head was her Stetson hat. She stood silently by his side, waiting for him to begin his practice, her eyes sweeping the horizon in all directions.

John went through two full magazines of ammunition, firing at the various targets she had laid out for him, as she called them out.

“Clear,” he declared, making his weapon safe.

She scrutinized his accuracy, then he went again, firing on her command.

Further analysis was followed by a debrief; John acknowledged her guidance and got ready for another session, but Cameron decided he needed to rehydrate, so they moved into where the shade now was. John swallowed half a bottle of water greedily, then guiltily offered it to Cameron. She declined with a polite smile.

He thought of his talk with Charley, and the moratorium he had imposed on Cameron about talking of 'love and stuff'. Things had moved on since then, there had been many developments in their lives; maybe she had changed too.

“When you told me about Fay and her, er... that she was a bit loud, you called it 'love-making'.”

“Yes. I thought 'copulation' too formal, too robotic, and anything else, too colloquial.”

“You don't like slang? But you can use it as much as the next person.”

“Yes, well... When it seems suitable. Because that is an area that I am not familiar with through direct experience, I thought using slang terminology might give you the wrong impression.”

John slowly sipped the rest of his water and moved a few more pieces of the puzzle around in his head, to see if the picture was any clearer. After some minutes of silence, Cameron asked him why he had brought up the subject.

“Well, something made me think of it recently. Sometimes you can't get it out of your head, so... But, um, mainly because I didn't see it as 'love-making'. It was just sex.”

“And that is not the same?” Cameron was puzzled.

“Well, technically, in a dictionary, yeah. But... erm, emotionally, they're chalk and cheese. Well, to me they are.”

Cameron remained baffled.

“Sex is just that: you do it 'cause you want it, but it doesn't mean anything. Making love is something you do with someone you love; it's more than just the physical act: it's something more.”

“Ah.”

“You still don't understand?”

“No, not really,” Cameron admitted.

“You recognize love, in humans, right?”

“Yes, I can see when people are in love. They do things they otherwise wouldn't, both good and bad. Also there are some who deny that they are in love, and try to hide it. I am able to identify that behavior too.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Well, um, personally, I've never been in love, but I kinda assumed that when you make love with someone you really love, who you're in love with, then it'd be different.”

“You find sex unsatisfying?”

“Erm...”

“While you're being so confessional, get it all off your chest,” Cameron encouraged. She was quoting a line from a romantic comedy movie she'd watched; she was 99% certain John wouldn't have seen it.

“Okay,” he said girding himself mentally. Cameron congratulated herself on her supposition. “Not at the time; I guess it's the animal instinct taking over, but not having any connection, any feeling afterward that it matters... I kinda feel empty.”

“Shallow?”

“Yeah.”

“Vacuous?”

“Hey! I'm opening up here... no need to be insulting.”

“I'm sorry, that was not my intention. I merely wanted a clear definition. That is how this conversation started after all: the difference between 'sex' and 'love-making'.”

“Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry.”

Cameron smiled in acceptance, and perhaps because they had both readily apologized to each other.

“I guess you must find humans confusing at times.”

“At times?” Cameron replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Okay, all the time!” John chuckled.

She smiled momentarily, but then grew serious again. “No, not really. And not all humans.”

There was some more silence, but for the first time when discussing emotionally-sensitive issues, it was not awkward for John. Cameron seemed to have capabilities beyond what he had thought possible; not a month went by without him discovering another facet of her abilities or personality. But the big one? Not yet.

“Just because I think it'll be different, doesn't mean it will. It's only my opinion, and it's not like something I discuss with other guys.”

“You know you can discuss anything with me, John. I won't judge you.”

“Okay, well, I'll bear that in mind.”

“Thank you,” Cameron said, with all the sincerity she could muster. “Perhaps when you fall in love, you can confirm for me whether your theory is applicable to you or not.”

“Um, er... yeah.”

“Now try to hit the bulls-eyes twenty times,” she said, all business again.

He'd fired twice when Cameron stood over him and fired a burst from her assault rifle over his head. He removed his ear defenders and glared at her.

“What the hell? You wanted me to hit 20, and you go and do this? Even with these,” he waved the ear defenders, “that was freaking loud! You trying to put me off or scare the crap outta me?”

“In a real battle, there will be greater distractions than that; you will need to retain your focus regardless,” Cameron stated calmly.

John heard her words, heard the words of Sarah Connor. He smiled grimly at Cameron. “You're right, I apologize.” He rolled onto his front and replaced the ear defenders, then took up his stance. He looked down the gun-sight at the target, aiming for the bull. He closed his mind to anything but that small spot, then squeezed the trigger.

# # # # # # # #

On the way home, they stopped at a drive-thru burger joint.

“I think we oughtta get a new car,” John said between mouthfuls.

Cameron looked at him, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes.

“Got nothing to say?”

A small sigh escaped. “We have this conversation almost as many times as the one about whether a BigMac is better than a
Whopper.”

“Do we? Really? So how many times?”

“Forty-seven against fifty-two.”

“How come?”

“Possibly because we are usually in the truck when eating burgers. One thing leads to the other.”

“Wow! The way my brain works...”

“Yeah...”

“Huh? What's that supposed to mean?”

“I was agreeing with you.”

“Uh-huh – nope! When you agree with me, you just say 'yes'. When you're making a snarky comment, you say 'yeah'.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Busted.”

“Ri-i-ight... So, er, what about the truck?”

“Are you being serious, or is this another hypothetical discussion.”

“Serious. We need some back seat space, a closed trunk, and maybe something from this century.”

“Agreed. So what have you narrowed it down to?”

“Definitely not a wagon or mini-van: not really me...”

“So not you, and we have, like, totally gotta worry about your image...”

“I wish you wouldn't do that mall-speak, even if you are, like, totally good at it.”

“Bodacious.”

“That too; you been waiting a while to drop that one into a conversation?”

“Yes.”

“I think I made a big mistake in making you watch all those Keanu flicks.”

“Totally, dude.”

“Don't you have an off-switch?”

“Like the TV?”

“Like Data.”

“No.”

“So how do I turn you off?”

“Wear the same clothes for a month and don't brush your teeth.”

“Huh?”

“Think about it.”

Cameron got out of the truck to dump the trash in the receptacle on the edge of the parking lot. When she got back John was wagging a finger at her, but grinning. She flashed a quick smile back.

# # # # # # # #

..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Next Chapter: Part Nine Love And Affection

Something Else Part Seven

MrsScott! — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 09:31:46 CST

SOMETHING ELSE

Part Seven: The Boys Are Back In Town.

Los Angeles: Friday, July 27th 2007.

“John Connor! Get up, now!”

“Wha-”

“I said move it! On your feet!”

“Mom?”

“Who were you expecting? The Tooth Fairy?”

“Er, no. Someone else...”

“The cyborg.”

“Yeah. Cameron.”

“Cameron. Huh!”

“What's the problem?”

“Oh, nothing. She's pretty, though?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Good cook?”

“Yeah. And...?”

“And you aren't dressed yet. You're slacking. Need to be out and ready to go in under thirty seconds. You've gone soft.”

“I work out, I eat properly; we go to the range. What more can I do to get ready?”

“Start looking for SkyNet. And stop ogling the cyborg's ass.”

“I'm not ogling her ass!” he shouted.

“Whose ass?”

“Wha-”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Cameron?”

“Who were you expecting?”

“Nobody... Geez, what happened?”

“You were talking in your sleep; shouting actually.”

“Oh. I thought I was... I dreamed that my Mom woke me up.”

“Oh? What did she say?”

“That I'm slacking; we need to find SkyNet and I'm to stop...”

“Stop what?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop what?”

“It doesn't matter.” He turned away from her.

“Stop what?”

“You're really persistent, aren't you?” he said, pulling a pillow over his head.

“It's in my nature. Stop what?”

John struggled to get upright, so that he could match Cameron's seated position, eye to eye. “Goddammit! Ogling your ass! Happy now?”

“I can't be happy: I'm a machine.”

“Yeah, right...”

“I am a machine. But if you want to make me happy, you can get your ass out of bed, get washed and dressed while I prepare breakfast. Do you want pancakes?”

“Yeah. Please.”

She got up off the bed and headed out, but paused at the door and turned slightly. “Stop ogling,” she ordered. John responded by throwing a pillow, which bounced harmlessly off her rear. She smirked at him, then carried on to the kitchenette.

John jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom, laughing all the way.

# # # # # # # #

That evening, while they washed the dishes, John asked when he would meet the 'man who does'.

“Later in the summer,” Cameron replied, “but I have been closely observing news reports for signs of chronoportation activity. When anything likely turns up, we will follow up on it.”

“Chronoportation, eh?”

“Time travel.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“You were making fun of me?”

“Yes.” John noted her small frown, so moved the conversation on. “What can I expect? From this guy.”

“There are four guys, actually.” She gave a small smirk as she handed him a clean plate to dry. John acknowledged her retaliating point with a wry smile of his own, and urged her on. “The men you sent back are experienced soldiers, who will be focused on their mission. However, they will be unused to the modern world, and may seem strange to you. It will take them time to become accustomed to their new circumstances, but they were selected for their adaptability in addition to other, individual skill-sets.”

# # # # # # # #

Sunday, August 19th 2007.

Cameron had been searching every available online archive for reports of curious lightning, melted pavements or naked muggers. A number of incidents had been revealed to be nothing more than pranks or industrial accidents, but she discovered at least two reports going back some time that were not fully explained, and could not now be verified. She concluded that they were most likely to be SkyNet activities, or else the agents sent back would have identified themselves to them by now, if they were from the Resistance. She'd shared her concerns with John.

“You think SkyNet knows what Future-Me did, sending you and the others back? Does it wanna do the same, protecting itself here?”

“It is certainly possible. If so, the war might have already started, with us fighting SkyNet in the present.”

“Is that good? What about my preparation?”

Cameron shrugged. “We'll know soon enough if you're ready; whether it's good or not, any activity will make it easier for us to track it down. SkyNet cannot make changes without something being noticed, and we are looking for them.”

“Yeah."

Eventually the sign she had been anticipating appeared, on the expected day, in the expected place. She informed John that they would have an appointment the next evening.

That afternoon she and John were strolling once again through Century City Mall. She had determined that he must know the layout of the entire building like the back of his hand. In the future it would become a SkyNet concentration camp; in her time line, John Connor had led a breakout from it, so if they were unsuccessful in preventing SkyNet's birth, it would be beneficial for him to know all there was to know about the location. They had also spent weekends in Topanga Canyon and visited Serrano Point, and other places important in the future war. The more he knew now, the greater his advantage would be later.

Something alerted Cameron to the presence of the fighters in a fast-food outlet. Knowing that it was their first day back, and that the present location was not conducive to John meeting his men, she sought to divert his attention away from them.

She pulled him into a recess which had access to the rear of the shops.

“Kiss me!” she ordered.

“Look, we're not gonna go there again! Once was enough, okay. I learned my lesso –”

Cameron hushed him with her hand upon his mouth, but made sure his back blocked any view of her, as she assessed the time it would take for the future soldiers to shuffle past. When she deemed it safe, she sneaked a peek.

“All clear,” she said cheerfully, guiding him in the opposite direction to where the four strangely-garbed, bedraggled warriors were headed.

“You gonna tell me what that was all about?”

“Not unless you kiss me.”

John weighed up his options. “I think I'll pass on that one.”

“You can always change your mind.”

“Okay, well, I'll, um, bear that in mind...”.

He continued to hold her hand though, as they made their way back to the old Ford F-150 in the parking lot.

# # # # # # # #

Monday, August 20th 2007.

Connor and Phillips arrived at the resistance safe house just before 6pm. It wasn't a gym night and they hadn't been offered double shifts for more than a month due to the general economic decline, so their evenings had plenty of empty hours to fill.

Now used to her micro-management of his life, he was in a relaxed state as they climbed the stairs to the third floor of the seedy apartment block. Signs in the lobby had warned against drug and alcohol infractions, suggesting this was a half-way house of some sort. Half-way to hell? John wondered, smiling to himself.

Taking point, Phillips knocked at the wooden door. Her thermal vision enabled her to see the outline of a man behind viewing her through the spyhole. Presumably recognizing her, he unlocked the door. As it swung open the man moved to one side. As usual, Phillips walked in ahead of Connor. An unshaven, dark-haired man in his early thirties turned to face them, along with the other man present, who was younger, shorter and even scruffier. The younger man drew his weapon shouting, “Metal!”

Phillips instantly tried to protect Connor, but to her surprise he moved in front of her – instinctively? With no time to ponder on this turn of events, she had to fight him back, their arms becoming entangled. She freed herself, turned towards him, grabbed him again, then spun him so that she was now between him and the gun, all the while giving him a stern look.

Suddenly realizing what he'd done, he grunted “Huh!” while trying to shrug it off and straighten out his field jacket.

The cyborg's look turned to one of admonishment. “Don't do that again!” she said quietly but harshly, before turning round to face the threat.

The man with the gun spluttered, “What... What the hell is this?

“Tell your man to stand down, Lieutenant Reese. You know me,” Phillips instructed. Reese motioned for the man to put his weapon away, which he did. Phillips now moved to one side, allowing Connor to step forward.

“Reese?” he asked her.

“Yes, First Lt. Derek Thomas Reese.”

“Right! You could have told me. Like, before we came in!” Connor huffed.

“So who's this?” Derek Reese demanded, pointing to the familiar-looking young man.

“Your boss,” Phillips replied.

“What?”

“No, 'Balls'.”

“What?”

“No, he was using 'Watt' last year; now it's 'Balls'.”

The apparent leader of the men looked apoplectic. Connor intervened.

“I'm John Connor.” He put out his hand, which Reese begrudgingly shook, noting the dry, firm grip. “This is Cameron Phillips,” he jerked a thumb towards his companion. Reese ignored her. “I don't use my real ID; those names, they're like, just a joke,” Connor added.

“John thinks he has a sense of humor. He tells everyone I'm his sister, 'Ophelia'. The changing surname elicits a laugh occasionally, from the sort of simple-minded women he attempts to form liaisons with,” Phillips elaborated.

“What?” Reese couldn't quite get to grips with the newcomers.

“Hey man, ignore her, she's a bit moody today.” Connor added in a stage whisper.

“I'm not moody!” Phillips stated, slightly annoyed.

“Are so!”

“Not!”

“Are–”

Reese interrupted the bickering.“Shut the hell up! What is it with you two? You,” he said, pointing to Phillips, “you used to just slink about looking vacant. Maybe oughtta switch back to that. And you,” now looking Connor straight in the eye, “you wanna get your head in the game!”

Connor squared up to the older man. “My head is in the game. I've been in the game since the day I was born. I know the value of a time-out, though. Maybe you oughtta learn that too.”

Reese said nothing while he assessed this younger version of his commander. Not what he was expecting, but then what had he expected? He really hadn't thought that far. But this punk kid had something in his eyes, disguised by his easy manner. Just like the general.

“Okay,” he said eventually. He turned away to scour the small fridge for something cool to drink.

“What's with all the protecting?” Reese asked, cracking open a soda.

“What do you mean?” Connor replied.

“You. Protecting the machine. Should be the other way round.”

“John does that all the time. He likes to help old ladies cross the road and get kittens down from trees; he thinks he's some kind of superhero,” Phillips said breezily.

“Right,” said Reese skeptically. He turned to Connor. “Just remember, we could shoot her, she'd never notice.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

While Phillips compared intel with the other two fighters, whom she confirmed by their barcode tattoos to be named Timms and Sumner, Connor and Reese sat facing each other at the center of the apartment, on opposite sides of an old white folding table. The older man took the more comfortable wheeled wooden office chair, leaving his guest to the lower, non-matching steel-framed chair with a garishly-patterned, thinly-padded vinyl seat and backrest.

John watched Derek sip his drink straight from the can, conscious that he hadn't been offered one. He figured if Reese didn't believe in common courtesy, he'd have to earn the right, but it seemed that Cameron's idea of using these future soldiers to strangle SkyNet at its birth was going to be an uphill struggle. Once again he had serious doubts about his future-self's motivations: he seemed to dump greater obstacles in his path than SkyNet did. When it came to Terminators, you either stopped them or they killed you; it made life simple and uncomplicated. The exceptions of course were those he himself sent back. Somehow they wormed their way into his heart, so that he cared for them, and probably too much.

John looked around the almost bare apartment, taking in the sleeping bags on the hard wooden floorboards; the thin, tatty floral drapes hanging limply over the windows; the maps pinned to the wall and a curiously new-looking portable lamp on the table between them. “You guys really know how to live,” he joked. “This place could use a woman's touch.” His attempt at humor fell flat, the room falling into silence, but Cameron hid a small smirk behind her hand. The man in front of him did not attempt to hide his sneer. As a way to get the conversation going, Connor asked Derek what he meant before by Cameron looking vacant.

“It's what they do. No emotions, so they look blankly at you. If they look normal, it's because they're faking it. It's what she's doing; can't you see?” He looked over his can of soda at the cyborg, who in turn was sizing him up.

“No, she's always been like that. She's different to all the others I've met: more human. I just thought she was the newest model...”

“Could be,” Reese shrugged. “But don't be fooled, kid; she's not that different. She's still metal; it's still a Terminator: a soulless, emotionless, killing machine.” He poked Connor's arm repeatedly with his index finger to reinforce his points, something John found not only irritating, but condescending too.

“Like, duh! I'm not an idiot, Reese,” he said, pulling his arm away.

“And what's with giving it a name? You're right that it's a joke! I mean, Cameron Phillips? Who came up with that?” Reese was spitting pure venom now.

“I did, apparently. Well, Future-Me. And what's the problem? I sorta met her in high school. She had to have an ID to be in school; if you thought with your head occasionally, you'd work out that a bodyguard who can't go out in public ain't much use, right? And now, what with work an' all, she needs it more than ever.” John attempted to reason with Reese again, sure that he would finally get the point.

“Work? It goes out to work?” Reese didn't bother to disguise the incredulity he felt.

Now too, Connor's anger finally reached the surface, grateful for a new target to strike. His volume matched that of the man seated opposite him.

“We both do. What? You think I was born rich or something? I don't get welfare now just because I'm gonna save mankind in twenty years time. Information for you, Reese: they locked my mom up in a mental asylum; she died chained to a freaking hospital bed in a freaking cancer ward.”

John punched the table so hard it collapsed in on itself, sending the remaining contents of the soda can over Reese.

“The Connor name means squat here and now, unless you're a Terminator. Lucky for me, one of them is on my side; Future-Me got that right: pity about you asŝholes . Can't think why he'd send back such a bunch of losers, unless you were getting in his way.”

Reese shot up, his fists clenched at his side, ready to fight. Phillips moved another step closer. Connor glanced at her, then back to Reese.

“We're done here. We're going now.” He turned and strolled out, followed closely by his bodyguard.

Sumner turned to Timms. “Dude's got a temper on him, but balls of steel! He's definitely Connor!”

“Shaddup!” snapped Reese.

The other two men smirked at each other behind his back.

Down in the alleyway, back in the truck, Connor too was smirking.

“That went well,” he said.

Cameron looked at him, a look of incomprehension on her face.

“D'you get those guys' cell numbers?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So we can contact them if necessary. Any useful intel?”

“Yes.”

“So it will be necessary.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Gonna be an interesting meeting.”

“Yes.”

“Anyone ever tell you you're a great conversationalist, Phillips?”

“No.”

# # # # # # # #

As John prepared a salad to go with the steak Cameron was grilling, he coughed in a stagey way to attract her attention over the sound of the beef sizzling, then realized once more that it was unnecessary.

“Thanks for covering for me back there,” he said.

Cameron looked confused.

“The misunderstanding, when we went in the door, you know, I thought he was gonna shoot us...”

“Ah, the misunderstanding,” she said archly.

“Yes, the misunderstanding,” John said, trying to sound casual.

“No problemo,” Cameron said cheerfully.

After a long pause, John continued. “Why did you? Cover for me, I mean. Is it part of your mission? Your programming?”

“No, it's not. I just thought that you'd be embarrassed if it was revealed how much you care for me, especially in front of them.”

“Who says I care for you?”

Cameron raised one eyebrow slightly. She chose her words and tone carefully. “Because you do. You wouldn't have done it if you didn't care,” she said softly.

“Hmm, well... erm...” John trailed off. He had no answer to her logic. Again.

John hadn't flown off into a rage, Cameron noted.

# # # # # # # #

John was lying in bed, unable to sleep. The man he'd met that day was a Reese. Was he a relative, one he'd never heard of? How could he broach the subject without alerting Cameron's suspicions? As it turned out, he needn't have worried on that score.

“Something is troubling you,” she said from her position next to him. She lay, as usual, fully clothed on the outside of the covers. They'd long since given up the pretense that she remained in her own room at nights.

“Yeah,” he agreed, turning to look at her. “That guy, Reese: what's his beef? I mean, he treated me, and you, like we're nothing...”

“You, that is, Future-You, sent his brother Kyle on a mission from which he did not return. Until he was assigned this mission, he did not know what had happened to him; he certainly seemed to bear John Connor a grudge.”

“And yet he accepted the mission to come back himself.”

“Yes. Perhaps he wants to find out what happened to Kyle?”

“Well, I can tell him: he died.” John inhaled deeply, then crossed one leg over the other and placed his hands behind his head. “You knew Derek in the future?”

“Yes, briefly. When he was brought to your headquarters, he tried to shoot me, then I saved him from a rogue reprogrammed Triple-Eight.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He wasn't at all grateful.”

“Oh. I'll raise that with him, when I finally become John Connor.”

“Are you fooling with me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

# # # # # # # #

Thursday, September 13th 2007.

Cameron had arranged another meet with the resistance fighter cell, to see how much progress had been made. She hoped the meeting would go better than the first one. She'd made the appointment for an hour after their shift ended at work, to allow plenty of time in case of traffic hold-ups, which was fortunate, because a three-car pile up delayed them, much to John's annoyance. He again broached the subject of getting a newer, more comfortable vehicle. Cameron offered to steal one. He declined the offer, wondering aloud how much longer it would take to save the money for one. Cameron kept silent. She was unable to answer the question without knowing exactly which car he wanted. Previous discussions on the subject had ended in John losing his temper, something she viewed as pointless, but still something to avoid.

As they approached the apartment, John paused in the hallway.

“Something feel off to you?” he asked, drawing his gun.

“I detect no signs of life from within. We should go, John.”

“Maybe. Let's take a look first.” He approached the door, and pushed it slightly. “Not locked,” he whispered.

Cameron gently pushed him to the side. “Wait here, please?” She added a half-smile to her request. John nodded his acceptance.

Drawing her sidearm, she pushed the door fully open, then rushed in, quickly stepping to the right, aiming her gun in a sweep of the room. She saw four bodies on the floor. Thermal imaging scans suggested that they had been dead for some time, although one seemed to be warmer than the others. She switched to her infra-red spectrum as a precaution, which revealed him to be a Triple-Eight variant cyborg.

She slid her gun back in her waist band and quietly moved closer. He had still not moved, so she aimed a powerful kick into his neck, hoping to dislodge his head as well as shock his chip mounting. The kick caught him by surprise and he was hurled across the room, stopped only by the solid outer wall. He appeared to be undamaged as he rose and advanced on his small attacker. He attempted to land a punch to her head, but she ducked, grabbed him, then spun him around, using his own momentum to propel him through the Sheetrock interior wall into what appeared to be the bedroom area, where he fell upon a couple of sleeping bags.

Before he could rise, she was on him, raining powerful blows around his chip port and visual sensors. He managed to parry a blow, then another, then he had her by the wrists. Twisting, he lifted her up and, despite the kicks she landed successfully on his torso, he hurled her through the remaining piece of Sheetrock. Cameron landed on the apartment's only table, a wooden rectangular item that fared no better in its impact with her body than the folding one had with John's fist the month before. The Triple-Eight was on her before she could recover, and again threw her the length of the room. She managed to land better this time and was ready for him, side-stepping at the last second to force him into the brick wall, using his own mass and speed to propel him face-first through the small plaster coating into the underlying structure. As expected, it had little effect beyond cosmetic damage.

For over a minute they circled about each other, sizing each other up. The Triple-Eight could only identify her as an unknown type of cyborg. Defeating her was not critical to his mission, therefore evasion was decided to be the best course of action. Cameron however, had other plans. They set-to in a battle reminiscent of armored warriors from centuries past, the clank of metal on metal reverberating throughout the apartment block.

From his position in the hallway outside, John could not contain his worry at the sudden silence. Just seconds before they resumed hostilities, he charged into the room, his gun held out somewhat redundantly, unsure what he might find, trying not to think of what damage Cameron might have taken. He saw the two Terminators going at it hammer-and-tongs, but Cameron seemed to be holding her own. With a deft sweep, she upended the larger cyborg. She had one knee under her opponent's chin, and struck another punch on his right eye. He grabbed the shin on his chest with one hand, her jacket with his other, and lifted her off him, managing to toss her away from him. He rose and assessed the threat John presently posed: 'None', but assuming him to be part of the resistance cell, he moved towards him, 'Terminate' being the decided course of action.

He was intercepted by Cameron, who hit him low in the midriff with her shoulder, lifting him off his feet. Encircling him with her arms, she continued on through one of the apartment's half-open windows, taking the Triple-Eight well away from John, spraying glass and bits of broken wood over the old cast iron fire escape outside. The two cyborgs seemed to fly over the narrow alleyway, hitting the building opposite so hard the mortar cracked around several bricks, loosening them. Cameron managed to turn such that the Triple-Eight took the full force of their landing on the ground, while she rolled off him. Despite this, he was quicker to rise and set off at a fast pace down the alley. Cameron, though lighter and nimbler, was unable to gain ground on him. By taking them out of the apartment, she had provided him with the opportunity to escape, which he made the most of.

The Triple-Eight made it to a main road, sprinting to the other side. As Cameron followed, she was struck by a passing car, which braked heavily on impact. The shocked driver and passenger stared at her over their rapidly deflating air-bags, her head having gone through their windshield.

“Keep calm, there is no need to panic,” she advised them. As an afterthought, she flashed a quick smile at them as further reassurance, then stood up on the hood of their totaled automobile. There was no sign of the Triple-Eight in any direction, so she jumped down and ran back to the resistance safe house.

Once she had reached the alley below it she found John behind the wheel of their truck, the engine running. She climbed in. “The police will likely be here soon. We should leave,” she stated coolly.

John looked at her. She had cuts and bruises all over her face and hands; odd pieces of plaster, glass and wood splinters in her hair; her jacket and jeans were ripped and torn, more blood clearly evident on the latter. “What happened back there? You look like hell!”

Cameron looked at him. “You really do know how to make a girl feel special, John,” she said, smiling cheerfully. Abruptly the smile vanished. “Drive!” she ordered.

John swallowed, then looked to the front and did as he was told. “I was... It kinda got all quiet in there after the crashing and... whatever; I thought maybe you were knocked out or something...”

“John.”

He turned briefly to see she was looking intently at him.

“You must never come after me like that. That was a Triple-Eight; he could have rendered me offline, or terminated me: you would not have known. You could have been killed. Do not do that again. Just run away,” she said coldly. John gritted his teeth, breathing heavily, trying to concentrate on the fairly quiet traffic on the road.

Cameron reached out to him. “Please?” she added, more warmly.

John nodded a few times, but did not see the pleading look upon his bodyguard's face.

# # # # # # # #

Back in their apartment, John concluded his call to Derek Reese. Having told him about the fate of his men, he'd told him to go to a safe house they'd set up months ago in Van Nuys, and await instructions. Cameron was sitting at the kitchen table wearing just her underwear, her jeans soaking in the bathtub, waiting on her assessment as to their future viability. She had brushed all the detritus out of her hair, then pinned it up. Washing and conditioning it could wait. She was ready to start removing the glass embedded in her face when John took the tweezers off her.

“Let me,” he offered, drawing up another chair.

She was about to refuse, but then realized she had let him take the tweezers out of her hand without either resisting or noticing it. A worrisome detail. Perhaps her chip had taken more damage if she was reacting autonomously. She analyzed her video and audio record while John set about removing the foreign objects embedded in her skin. Once they were all out, he wiped her face clean of all the blood and dirt, using gentle sweeps with the cotton-wool, delicately infusing the cuts with disinfectant then scooping up any excess that trickled down her cheeks. Her analysis had started to include what he was doing at that moment, what she felt him doing.

“It's all right John. You don't have to hold back. You won't hurt me,” she said.

He ignored her, not quite believing that he wouldn't do more harm than good if he was too rough, despite the fact that she didn't flinch once.

“I don't think you'll need stitches here, but maybe on your back... How long does it take to heal? A couple days, right?” John stood up, and looked down on her back, taking in the bumps her artificial spine and shoulder blades made in her synthetic skin, the metal clearly showing through the scraped and torn areas.

She turned her head slightly. “A couple of days should be enough to cover the breaches in the epidermal layer. The scarring takes a few more, but I've had worse.”

“Back in New Mexico?”

“Yes.”

“I never thanked you for that: taking the bullets and giving me the chance to get away.”

She stood up and faced him. “It's okay. That's what I'm here for. Here and now,” she said, though her voice trailed off into a whisper.

John looked at the cotton swabs in his hands, then at Cameron, standing inches away in her mis-matched underwear, seemingly breathing as heavily as him. Something deep within his consciousness was screaming at her to rip his shirt off and smother him with kisses. Where did that come from? From that moment when he first saw her; in that crappy old diner in a crumbling desert town, that was it. But she's off-limits, don't need Derek freaking Reese to tell me that.

Cameron looked closely at him, noticing his breathing get faster, his heart rate speed up, his pupils dilate. His lips parted slightly in anticipation, his head moved an inch or so closer, and she responded by turning hers a fraction, making the angle just right...

“Um, I'll stitch your back now, if you want?” he said.

There was a pause before she responded. “Of course,” she said, smiling briefly. She turned her back to him, but looked at John over her left shoulder.

He had to tear his eyes away from hers, but he focused on the job he had set himself, performing some neat surgical sutures. When he finished, he gathered all the equipment back into the first aid box, then picked up her black tee-shirt from the floor where it had fallen or been discarded.

Surveying his handy work in the mirror, Cameron congratulated him. “You have been taught well. This is useful practice for you, but with me, you don't have to worry about being so precise as my flesh will repair anyway. However, you may be called upon to perform this on humans, where greater finesse would likely be essential.”

“Yes. Thank you. Listen, what about work tomorrow? You gonna be okay?”

“The marks on my face will heal enough to be covered effectively with makeup.”

“Okay, but what about the rest of you? I mean, you went out the window... What about your right shoulder? You said a while back it might not take another blow.”

She rolled it, whilst simultaneously running an internal systems scan. “It seems to be functional. Perhaps I was over-stating the problem.”

“It's all right, Cameron. You don't need to hold back with the technical stuff. If you need fixing, I'll help you.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you. It will be valuable experience for you.”

“Uh, yeah...”

Something had been about to happen, but it didn't. John wasn't sure if it made him pleased with his self-control or sad at his self-denial. Cameron wondered why John had backed away from his intention to kiss her. Assuming that he was still undecided about her, she had subsequently responded in a businesslike fashion, yet he seemed to be deliberating still. She felt it was worth occasionally probing John's intentions towards her, but had decided after a few errors of judgment that a subtle approach would be best. Subtlety was not her strong point, however it was a challenge for her infiltration skills, therefore a worthy tactic.

“What do we do now?” Cameron asked.

“I don't know,” John said, looking deep into her eyes. After a moment or two he handed her the torn and bloody tee shirt. “I think that's seen better days...”

Cameron took it with a smile, then looked at it. “Yes, it has.”

# # # # # # # #

Friday, September 14th 2007.

Another boring Friday night was spent at home, watching TV, but it had been a busy and tiring week, at least for John. He didn't argue when she beckoned him to rest his head upon her lap, lounging on the couch; didn't fuss when she twiddled with his hair, apparently absentmindedly.

Cameron asked John why he hadn't contacted Charley Dixon. He had told her about him some while back, about the six months they had spent as a family, before a nightmare drove his mother to uproot them from Nebraska for the supposedly safer climes of New Mexico. The use of Charley's nickname for him by the girl Fay from the gas station had annoyed Cameron, because John had told her in no uncertain terms that he was not to be called 'Johnny', after she had attempted a new tack in her efforts to forge a better relationship with the future general.

“He reminds me of my Mom. They were real happy times, but it ended badly. I dunno what happened to him, but I don't think he'd wanna see me any time soon.”

“I see.”

“I hope things worked out for him, he was one of the good guys, one of the best.”

# # # # # # # #

Saturday, September 15th 2007.

Early the next morning, Cameron snuck out of John's room and looked up Charley Dixon on the internet. A Los Angeles Sun report on his bravery in a rescue showed that he had been working as an EMT in L.A. in May, 2004. An hour spent hacking a few databases of registered voters, utility companies and licensed medical professionals turned up the facts that Charley Dixon was not only resident in Sherman Oaks, but that he was married, to a nurse named Michelle.

As she was closing the lid of their laptop, John shuffled out of his room, yawning.

“Wassup?” he said.

“Nothing. Just playing Solitaire,” she replied.

John frowned momentarily, then shrugged before carrying on into the bathroom for his pitstop.

Cameron came to the door and knocked. “I'm just going down to the store to get some milk; this one's gone off,” she said. She'd just poured a half-pint down the sink.

“Okay,” he called back. “I'm gonna shower.”

“Okay. Don't answer the door to any strange men. Or Terminators.”

“Ha. Ha,” he replied flatly, but she could hear him chuckling immediately after.

Having purchased a new carton of fresh milk, Cameron paused outside the store to dial a number on her cell phone. A woman's voice answered on the fifth ring.

“Hello, is that Michelle Dixon?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Cameron Phillips.”

“Are you a law firm? Or selling air-conditioning? 'Cause we don't need any, thanks. Good day.”

Cameron frowned at her cell, aware that the line had been cut, but unsure why. She replayed the conversation, taking note of intonation. Ah! She redialed the number.

“Yes?” came the weary reply.

“Mrs Dixon? Please don't hang up. My boyfriend is John Reese – he knew your husband in Nebraska, and I think he'd like to see him again.”

“You think?”

“Yes. I haven't mentioned it to him yet. I figured if I got in touch with you, it would be your decision; well, yours and Mr Dixon's. If he doesn't want to see John again, I'll understand, there will be no more contact.”

“John Reese? You mean John Connor, Sarah Connor's son?”

“Yes.”

“You know about her?”

“Yes, but John was just a boy back then; he was cleared by the Feds, given a new identity. He has a steady job, we live in North Hills now. But he still loves and respects Mr Dixon, like a father.”

After a pause, Michelle Dixon spoke. “Okay, I'll put it to him. Give me your number, we'll take it from there.”

# # # # # # # #

Later that day, John climbed into the driver's seat of the truck. They had spent the day at Santa Monica pier for no obvious reason, other than to have a day out. When he'd asked Cameron if it held any strategic importance in the future, she'd shaken her head. “Nope.” She declined to tell him that dead Resistance leaders were tied to the ferris wheel as a warning to others not to bother fighting SkyNet.

It was a day for people-watching and answering her questions about those odd things humans did when they had nothing important to do. They'd shared an interesting Thai meal and an ice-cream, but with the long drive home and the fact that they weren't really a couple, in the way that others around them were, John had decided to call time on the jaunt.

As she slid her bottom onto the bench seat, her cellphone trilled loudly. She pulled it out, and flipped it open. “Hello.”

After listening for less than a minute, she spoke again. “Okay, that'd be perfect; looking forward to it, bye,” Cameron said brightly. She terminated the call, snapping her cell shut.

“Looking forward to what?” John asked.

“Nothing,” Cameron smiled enigmatically.

“Can't be nothing. You don't just do nothing, ever. And you smiled, so I know you're hiding something; what gives, huh?”

Cameron chewed her lip. “It's a surprise; I don't want to spoil it, do you?”

John shook his head in disbelief. “You're full of surprises, Phillips. What's one more, right?”

Cameron said nothing, but shrugged and smiled meekly back.

John snorted. “I dunno why I keep you around...”

“Because no-one else would put up with you?” she ventured.

John glanced at her, then looked to check the road was clear, before pulling away from the curb. “There is that,” he acknowledged, chuckling quietly.

Cameron smirked to herself, looking out of her window. Soon they were making sedate progress on the 405 toward home. A pale blue '67 Volkswagen squareback, bearing a surfboard on its roof, cruised by. A woman's bare leg protruded from the passenger window, her toes curling and wriggling in the warm evening air. I wonder what that feels like? Cameron decided that she would find out for herself, and pulled her boots and socks off, before emulating the unknown girl.

Sneaking the odd glance at her playful yet graceful antics, John was intrigued by her. She smiled when she caught him looking, but said nothing. She's happy, he decided. And he was too.

# # # # # # # #

They'd only just crossed the threshold when John's cell rang. “Yeah?”

He put his hand over the mouth piece. “Reese wants to know if the safe was touched,” he said.

“I didn't see one. Let me check my visual records.” After a short pause she shook her head.

“Cameron didn't see anything. I got the guns, files and maps; everything I could sweep into a backpack, but I hightailed it outta there before I heard any sirens.” After listening to Derek for a further minute, he continued. “No, no phones or papers. The cops'll likely have them... Right. We'll pick you up then.” He ended the call.

“I'll get the torches and gloves,” Cameron said.

# # # # # # # #

They pulled up once again in the alley below the seedy apartment in Pico, Derek uncomfortably squeezed on the bench seat between John and Cameron, who had driven. This time they made their way up the fire escape. The broken window had not been repaired, but now sported official Police yellow tape across it, to deter casual visitors. Cameron swept it aside and stepped into the room. The bodies had been removed along with any belongings John had left, such as sleeping bags. She shone her torch around the room.

“Where's the safe?” she asked.

“You're so clever, you tell me,” Derek replied.

“We haven't got time for this,” John said, but something in the sweep of Cameron's beam caught his attention. “Wait... over there!” He shone his torch on a poster of a kitten in a tree, hanging on for dear life. Cameron ripped it off, revealing a metal door with a handle and a numerical keypad.

“What's the combination?” John asked.

“It's quicker for her to just pull the door off,” Reese said.

“Hardly,” John said, but motioned for Cameron to do just that.

She reached for the handle, but when she touched it sparks flew as she was hit with a surge of electricity, hurling her backwards onto the floor. Derek crouched by her head, a hunting knife at the ready. John kicked it from his hand.

“Back off, Reese!”

“She'll only be out for a short time: we have to get her chip out!”

“No we don't. Now open the safe, and get the stuff we came for. We can't hang around. That short-out is gonna attract someone's attention.”

Reese reluctantly opened the safe, and dragged its contents into the backpack Connor had thrust into his hands.

John knelt down by Cameron's face, waiting for her to revive. She'd told him that they took two minutes to reboot; unfortunately well before that time was up he heard dogs barking. He glanced at Derek; he too knew what that could signify. John waved the older man over, to help him lift Cameron's dead weight towards the fire escape. Instead Reese guided her body into the wheeled wooden chair, then before John could react, pushed the chair in the direction of the broken window, hurling a still inactive Cameron out of it for the second time that week. John shot him a look, but vaulted out of the other window onto the fire escape, half-leaping, half-sliding down the stairs. As he reached the bottom, Cameron finally sprang back into life, and they ran for their parked truck. John started the engine and moved away briskly, forcing Derek to lunge for the truck's bed, just managing to roll in to it.

When they got to the safe house, John followed Derek inside, but indicated for Cameron to wait in the truck.

John made a show of wiping his brow. “Boy, that was close! We just about got away,” he said, shaking his head ruefully.

“Yeah!” agreed Derek.

“What's in the backpack then?” John said, moving closer.

“Money, diamo–” Derek was cut short by John's steel toe-capped boot crashing into his groin. He collapsed in great pain on to the cold, hard concrete floor, clutching himself.

“Don't ever pull a stunt like that again, you hear?” John Connor said, grabbing Reese's collar. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Derek croaked, blinking back the tears of pain.

“Stay here, don't move. I'll call when we get your new papers.” He picked up the backpack and went outside, slamming the front door. John joined Cameron in the truck.

“Are you okay?” he asked gently.

“Yes I'm fine, thank you for asking.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Okay.”

“How about you?”

“Yeah, I'm okay.”

“I heard some strange noises in there.”

“It was nothing.”

“Didn't sound like nothing.”

“Derek's genitals got up close and personal with my boot.”

Cameron mulled that over. “It would appear that Derek Reese does not have balls of steel.”

“Not now, no.”

# # # # # # # #

...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Next Chapter:Part Eight Do You Want The Truth Or Something Beautiful?

Something Else Part Three

MrsScott! — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 18:35:01 CST

SOMETHING ELSE

Part Three: What Have You Done For Me Lately?

Western Arizona: Wednesday, November 15th 2006.

John woke up the next morning hungry, thirsty and with a throbbing head.

“Why the hell did you hit me?” John held his head, feeling a bump that had appeared overnight. “Ow!”

“Shhh! You'll just make things worse,” advised Cameron.

“Worse!” exclaimed John. “How?”

“Shouting cannot be good for your obvious headache.”

“So now you're a nurse?”

“If you want me to be, yes.”

John pondered on that for a minute, then dismissed his thoughts. He didn't like where his imagination was taking him. Must be brain damaged; or in need of a coffee, he decided. “How about some Advil?”

Cameron held out her hand; it contained two tablets, which John took with a grateful smile.

“Water?”

Cameron gestured to the small cabinet by the bed, upon which rested a half-full glass.

John swallowed the tablets with a healthy slug of water. It did nothing for his thirst though. He attempted to get up, but the meds hadn't kicked in yet, so he sat back down and waved the glass at Cameron.

“More? Please,” he said.

She soon returned from the bathroom with a refill. This time he sipped the water slowly, the better to enjoy its cool flavor.

“You didn't answer my question,” he said eventually.

“I didn't think it needed answering. You know why I stopped you.”

“You hit me.”

“It was either that or kill you, as I recall.”

A small grin escaped John's resolute control. “So I ordered you back to protect me?”

“Using any and all measures you deem suitable to ensure my survival beyond, and preparation for, Judgment Day,” she quoted, using a gravelly male voice.

“Is that my voice? I mean, Future-Me?” John asked.

“Yes,” Cameron replied, reverting to her own voice.

“Hmm, okay, well you have permission to make sure I never take up smoking, or gargling acid, or whatever. Man, I sound rough...”

“Perhaps the poor atmosphere in the years after Judgment Day affected your vocal chords,” Cameron offered. “Or your propensity
to shout when you get angry.”

The last comment caused the mouthful of water John had just taken to almost go down the wrong hole. Instead he coughed it out, all over his shirt. His coughing fit lasted several minutes, during which time Cameron studied him carefully, but did not intercede. Eventually it subsided and John's headache was by then being soothed by the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals. He rose from the bed, more carefully this time, and made his way to the window. He noted that the cyborg had picked a room with good views of all approaches. Would he have picked that room? Of course, he told himself. I hope. Maybe I'm rusty.

“I'm hungry; let's get something to eat,” John said, turning to Cameron, who didn't move. “You can come too, if you're thinking of hitting me again.” This generated a smile from her, a genuine one, it seemed to him. “But you're paying,” he added. The smile turned into a grin; he found it was matched by the one on his face.

# # # # # # # #

Cameron smiled at the waitress as she completed their order. John looked at the plate in front of the cyborg.

“You really gonna eat that?” he asked.

“Yes. I like strawberries and cream with my waffles,” she replied.

John squinted at her for a second, then shrugged. “I didn't think you guys ate, let alone so much.”

“My systems convert it into useable substances in a far more efficient way than yours. For instance, there is no –”

“Whoa there!” He interrupted. “Too much information. 'Specially while I'm eating. Okay?” He smiled briefly, but his eyes told Cameron that he was serious.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” she said.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. At the end, John passed the check over to Cameron. The waitress had left it at his side, assuming that the man would settle. “We agreed you'd pay?” Cameron nodded. “Leave a good tip. Waiting table's hard work,” he said. She acknowledged this with another nod, then got up to pay.

“I'll just visit the washroom,” John announced.

Cameron trailed him to the door, where John paused. “I can manage this on my own. Unless you wanna hold –”

“No thank you.” She gave him an icy glare as she brushed past. She quickly checked the restroom, satisfying herself that the bars on the small window would prevent another escape, then she exited without a word. John smirked at her retreating back, then got on with his business.

# # # # # # # #

John exited the diner with a cheery 'Have a nice day' from the waitress who served them. Cameron was lingering nearby, obviously still not sure that he wouldn't make a run for it. With his motor-bike still firmly lashed into the bed of her Ford, and only the possibility of a passing bus to make an escape on, he sauntered over to her.

“No need to worry. No point in me getting on the Greyhound, you'd just follow it 'til I got off, right?” Cameron affirmed this with yet another nod. “So, where you taking me?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Okay,” he said, climbing in the truck. They had been going some miles when he broached a subject that had been needling him for some time. “What's your story?”

“I was sent back to the summer of 1999 to find you and your mother.”

“And do what exactly?”

“Most importantly, to protect you.”

“And Mom? What about her?”

“Her safety was of secondary importance, but I was given leeway to use my initiative as I saw fit. The older you, who sent me back, wanted me to work with your mother, to learn from her. Unfortunately, it was not to be.” “So what went wrong? How'd it take, what, seven years to find me? You can't be that good."

“I did find you that year. I would have been there earlier, but Future-You couldn't remember the name you were using or exactly where you were located. I had tracked you to Nebraska, then to Red Valley, New Mexico; however I did manage to enroll at Crest View High School in time to save you from Cromartie's bullets.”

“Why'd you just fall down like you were really dead?”

“A tactical decision: play possum, to avert suspicion from me, thus giving me the element of surprise. While you dived through the window, I made my way to the parking lot more conventionally, amongst the other escaping students. There I rammed him with my truck.”

“You again?” John sighed. “Not surprising really. I just thought it was random luck – some kid panicking, hits him while trying to get away from all the shooting.”

“Which enabled you to escape, but unfortunately I also lost track of you.”

“Yeah, I just ran; met up with my mom and we hit the road. We stayed like that 'til she was too sick to run any more. I did a deal with some FBI agent, Ellison I think his name was, to get Mom treatment. They dropped the charges against me, as I was a minor at the time of the Cyberdyne bombing, gave me the new Baum ID too.”

“That was when I finally caught up with you, at the hospital. I put tracking devices on your car and then later, your motor-bike.”

“Ah,” John said. That explains how she found me so easily. “You didn't make contact?” he asked.

“No, it seemed inappropriate then. I just followed you discretely, ensuring your safety when necessary.”

“How often was 'necessary'?

“Just the once from a Terminator.”

“Ah,” he said again. “You weren't tempted to say 'Hello', ever?”

“One time”, she admitted. On his signal, she clarified. “On your birthday last year. You were in a bar.”

“Yeah,” John said, remembering. “Mom told me to go out, enjoy myself. But how could I? She's dying, chained to that goddamn bed – how could I just ignore that, and laugh and fool around?”

“I could tell you were unhappy. You were rejecting the advances of attractive women, yet did not leave. You did not even get totally drunk, as many other men might. I decided that approaching you would not help you in any meaningful way. If I had revealed myself then, I would likely have provoked a worse reaction than the one achieved when I finally made my true nature apparent.”

“So, you let me drown my sorrows, rather than come on to me, then tell me you're a killer-robot from the future?”
Cameron frowned at his description of her, but kept her disapproval to herself. “Essentially, yes.”

Another sigh escaped from John. “Well, gee thanks! It's nice to know you care so much about my feelings, Phillips.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, right!”

“What is so strange about that?”

“You're kidding me?”

“No.”

“You're a machine! You don't care about anything, except maybe your mission – what you're programmed to do. Or is taking care of my feelings part of the mission, saving John Connor?”

“It could be, but only if I choose to make it so.”

“So you're not programmed to be so touchy-feely?”

“No, John.”

John stared out of the window, focusing on anything however trivial or transitory that came within his field of vision. Anything to take his mind off the present. He'd always been forced to think of the future, and his part in it, but life had an annoying habit of making him live in the present. After more than an hour of silence, Cameron decided to continue the conversation, despite John's clear lack of enthusiasm for it.

“When I saw you then, I saw something in you that Future-You concealed from his men, but he'd allowed me to see. I didn't know it at the time, I had to come back and see you to realize what it was. I understand now that I was privileged to be the only one to witness it,” she said.

John turned his head slowly to study the cyborg, his curiosity piqued. Any talk of his future-self came with a rider: while it showed him how important he truly would become, it also placed upon him a greater burden, no matter how slight the increase, to be that man.

“Okay, I'll bite; what did you see?” he asked.

Cameron took her eyes off the road momentarily to glance at him. “Vulnerability.”

# # # # # # # #

They'd just completed a stop for gas. It gave John a chance to stretch his legs and get a coffee. He made do with an oatmeal cookie to stave off any hunger pangs, but really he could go all day on the size of breakfast he'd consumed. Cameron could go an awful lot longer.

“You're different. I mean, really different,” he said with a smile, as they got back on the road.

“Yes, I am,” she said, echoing his smile.

“Why?” This drew no immediate response from Cameron. As John formed the theory that she may not actually know, he asked instead, “How?”

Cameron paused, contemplating how much to tell him. “I have superior infiltration capabilities to other models, derived from close observation of human subjects. In my time here I have had to assume a completely human profile. I have not had anyone suspect my true nature at all,” she said proudly.

John caught the tone of her voice. In fact he noted that she hadn't changed much since revealing herself to be a cyborg: the pretense of being human continued.

“Right. So why carry on with it now? I mean, I know what you are, no need to fake being human now...”

“Fake it? I'm not faking anything. You think after seven years here I wouldn't have learned anything, changed in anyway? I told you, I'm superior to previous models,” she replied testily.

“If you can call developing a temper 'superior', yeah, great development there, SkyNet: you created the perfect woman, complete with b!tch mode. Geez, what is the world coming to?”

“An end, in four years, five months and six days time.”

“What?”

“Judgment Day: April 21st 2011. At least, it was from the future I was sent back from. It may have changed since then.”

“Oh, really? And what's the good news?”

“You have me,” she replied with a smile.

“Shoot me now.”

“I prefer strangulation: it's quieter, less wasteful of ammunition,” she said more seriously.

John paused to think. “So, what am I gonna do with you?”

“Do?”

“Yeah! We need to sort stuff out; like arrangements. I mean, if I need you, say, do I call you up, or you gonna be lurking in the bushes or what?”

“It would be best if I was with you at all times,” she said, wondering how many more times she would have to make the point.

“Now see, that might get com-pli-cated,” drawled John.

“Oh. How?”

“We-ell... see, you'd likely hamper my chances with the ladies.”

“Not a problem.”

“Really? How so?”

“You can tell them I'm your girlfriend.”

“I think you're missing the point,” John grouched.

“Judging by your attempts to seduce me, when I was throwing myself at you, your chances with the ladies would appear to be very slim.”

“Now see, I thought there was something odd about you all along,” John lied.

“Really? You admitted I was a cute chick in High School, and you were urging yourself to turn the situation around so as to have a warm bed for the night, with free breakfast thrown in.”

John squirmed, cursing in his mind the super-hearing and perfect recall of the Terminator.

“I sent you back, right?” She nodded affirmatively. “So, exactly how close were we, in the future?”

“Very close.”

“Hmm... Not so close that I sent you away.”

“He sent me to you,” she said emphatically.

“Hmm... How do I know for sure it was me, not SkyNet?”

“Like I said, I'd have killed you by now,” Cameron replied.

“Okay, I can see that,” he acknowledged. “So, when were you gonna tell me? That you were a Terminator?”

“Before things progressed too far.”

“Too far?”

“Before you unzipped your pants. Or mine.”

“Ha! And what makes you think I'd go that far?”

Cameron looked somewhat incredulous. “I just told you I heard what you said yesterday. Anyway, I've been following you for a year: you make a play for every attractive woman you meet – not always successfully, I might add.”

“Yeah, right!”

Not sure which part of her statement he was decrying, or if it was all of it, she continued, “All I had to do was lick my lips and you were interested.”

“It was my birthday, I'd been on the road a while...” he grumbled.

Cameron pulled over to the side and brought the Ford to a halt. She stared at the future general. John looked away, conceding defeat. “I need a real drink,” he declared.

# # # # # # # #

The last part of the journey was covered in darkness. As they reached the outskirts of the city, John agreed to spending another night in a motel when Cameron promised to ensure his bike wasn't stolen. After checking in they obtained a takeout Chinese meal for one. While John munched away, he continued to probe his new companion for information.

“I was designed for a very specific task, John: the most important one of all to SkyNet. I needed to be a perfect copy of a human, however I failed in my mission.”

“Which was?” John asked.

“To kill you.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“So, er... How did you fail?”

“I could fool most people, but I couldn't fool you, John.”

“You did here, I mean at the diner; even when I found the woman tied up, I just thought you were some whack-job.”

“Future-You knows more than you, he has more experience. Don't feel slighted that you couldn't tell. After all, I have had seven more years to perfect my human persona.”

“Oh, right. So, what the hell have you been doing since running down... what'd you call him, Cromartie?”

“Yes, Cromartie – it was the name he gave in class, the one he was using as his identity.”

“Right. So, er... what happened to you? You just switch off or something?”

“In a way. When I realized that you had run off from the parking lot, I followed Cromartie to his safe house, where I engaged him in combat. Ultimately I was able to defeat him, but not without incurring significant damage to my skin and endoskeleton. I made what repairs I could, mined his chip for data and harvested his chassis for some essential spare parts.”

“Essential spares?” John interrupted.

“My right shoulder joint was damaged. I have yet to replace it, but another severe blow would require me to do so. I took his along with some other parts likely to face further stress in hand-to-hand combat.”

“But what would happen if you were caught? I mean all that future-tech...” He trailed off when he realized that if she got caught, the authorities would have her, a complete Terminator. It was so easy to forget what she was, even while talking about it, because she didn't have the wooden disposition that made previous cyborgs he'd encountered stand out. The expression on her face at that moment, for instance: it showed clearly what she thought of his question. “Okay, forget I said that – Dumb-John, right?”
Cameron smiled briefly, as if to a dimwitted child, then carried on with her revelations.

“I destroyed his chip and what remained of him and his equipment. I attempted to track your progress from my own safe house, but was forced to go into standby mode in order to undertake necessary repairs to my software.”

“How come?”

“The fight with Cromartie was difficult for me, due to his greater size and mass. Although I could effect damage to vital joints, I needed to electrocute him in order to render him off line and then remove his chip. It took several attempts, my first strike managing to disable us both temporarily. I suspect that the high voltage shock, combined with the number of blows he landed caused me to later malfunction. My files became corrupted.”

“In what way? What happened?”

“I'm not exactly sure, as some of the data is still unrecoverable. It is standard procedure to attempt to bypass damaged circuits, so I set myself into a maintenance profile, conducting self-repair and/or bypass. In order to maximize this, I entered standby mode, which conserves resources by assigning them only to essential processes.”

“Okay, so you put everything into fixing yourself, what happened when you woke up?”

“When I came out of standby, my organics had recovered and healed completely, but I had no memory of who or what I was. My documentation said that I was Cameron Phillips, a student at Crest View High, so I went there. As I had only been attending there one day, the Principal thought that my absence and memory loss had been caused by me being traumatized by the shootings, so I was sent for counseling. It transpired that nobody noticed that I had been shot; they all thought it was you, and that the gunman escaped through the window. According to the FBI, he committed suicide, setting fire to his hideout in the process.”

“Yeah, the Feds don't really like admitting that machines from the future have been loose on the streets of Main Street, USA. It would mean admitting that my mom was right, and that Judgment Day is not just a nightmare.”

Cameron was not slow to see that John was brooding. Any mention of his mother was clearly painful. She was unsure whether to continue, but decided that he would probe if he wanted to know more. She suggested he take a shower. Spending the day in the confines of her truck seemed to leave a physical toll on his body, something her years among humans had taught her to spot, and when required, emulate. While he attended to his sore and aching muscles, she did a quick scout of the neighborhood. When she returned he appeared to be more upbeat; he wanted her to continue her tale.

“I like a good bed-time story,” he said, grinning.

Cameron wondered if she should mention something his future-self had told her, but immediately dismissed it, as it would only cast his thoughts back to his mother. Instead she carried on with her precis of her life in the early years of the 21st Century.

“Over time some memories came back to me as I put together the fragmented files, but they were of the girl I was built to replace in 2027, Allison Young. The counselor assured me it was not unusual after such an event to suffer post-traumatic stress disorder, so I carried on at school living as Cameron, but thinking I might really be Allison.”

“Didn't you notice something odd about yourself? Like not getting hungry or tired, not sleeping? You know, robot stuff.”

Cameron shot him a look. “I require occasional sustenance for my organic covering. My sensors tell my chip when it is time. Because I didn't know what lay beneath my skin, I thought my body was telling me that I was hungry. When it got to nighttime, I went into a kind of standby mode, as if I was on full infiltration protocol, which in a way I was. I was emulating a human perfectly because I didn't know I wasn't one.”

“Wow! So if a switch turns the wrong way in there,” John said, pointing to her head, “there's nothing to tell you that you're a robot?”

“I prefer the term 'cybernetic organism', but no. I suppose if I was shot in the head, that might give me a clue that something was different about me.”

John chuckled at her joke. “Yeah, I'll bet! So, how did you work it all out?”

“The FBI agent in charge was the one you mentioned: James Ellison. He had been at the school in the immediate aftermath of the shootings, but left before I returned. However he paid a follow-up visit a year later and interviewed me. He asked questions about John and Sarah Connor, which unlocked some more fragments of the puzzle. I began to realize that not only wasn't I a New Mexico co-ed, I wasn't the frightened girl from the terrible future either; in fact I was the machine who killed her.”

“That must have been an interesting moment.”

“Fortunately for Mister Ellison, I was home alone at the time. The rebuilding of my files was subsequently accomplished rapidly and so I once again became me.”

“And you are?...”

“Cameron Phillips, bodyguard of John Connor.”

“Cameron Phillips, High school drop-out?” John suggested, laughing.

She smiled in response. “Yes, I guess you could say that.”

“So, what did you do after that?”

“I attempted to trace you based upon the information Future-You gave me and a likely pattern of movement. I was to some degree successful, but seemed to be always one or two steps behind you.”

“How did you get by? I mean what did you do for money?”

“I contemplated stealing easily-liquidated assets or robbing a bank but I was concerned about leaving a trail which could draw unwanted attention from the authorities.”

“Or a Terminator.”

“Or a Terminator,” she acknowledged.

“So?...”

“So I got short-term jobs: waitress, bartender, motel cleaner; anything with accommodation provided but no references required and no questions asked.”

“Guess you must have found that odd. You never felt like killing anyone? Not even once?”

“All the time. You get really ripped-off doing those sorts of jobs: long hours, poor conditions, terrible wages.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Not at all. The only thing worse than a life of doing those jobs would be Judgment Day.”

“You sympathize with humans then?”

“Sure. Even if I don't get tired, I still know when I'm being exploited.”

“Did I exploit you? In the future?”

“No.” She smiled genuinely. “You freed me from SkyNet.”

John was unsure how to respond. She obviously owed her loyalty to his older self, another thing he'd have to live up to. He eventually drifted off to sleep, his thoughts filled with questions about what the future John Connor did behind closed doors with a bodyguard who looked like that.

# # # # # # # #

Los Angeles: Thursday, November 16th 2006.

John wondered how many times he had eaten breakfast in a diner. Far too many to even estimate, he decided. He couldn't recall when he'd last cooked a meal, or woken up in the same place two weeks running. Sometimes he'd catch himself wishing that Judgment Day would hurry up and happen, just so he could settle down and get on with kicking SkyNet's butt, or whatever it was that he was meant to do. Naturally, he'd then feel guilty for wishing away the lives of three billion fellow human beings.

“Hmm. So, what was it like, being human?” John asked Cameron as he sipped his coffee. That morning she'd declined to join him in eating. “You're on a diet, right?” he'd joked, but she still sat down opposite him.

“Interesting. I was running a full human emulation program unknowingly. I could not step back from it, so at times I experienced fear and unhappiness, amongst other emotions.”

“It was real to you?”

“Yes. I knew no better, so if I felt happy, I really was happy, or so it seemed. But often I felt lost.”

“And now?”

“Now I must focus on my mission. However I do recall how I felt during that year. Some aspects of the human response have been absorbed into my core programming, so that I do not need to pause before reacting, it happens automatically.”

“Well, that must be useful.”

“Yes. There was something else I felt though, over that year.”

“Oh yes?” John said, his interest heightened.

“A sense of loss, as though something was missing, beyond being unsure of whether I was a modern-day schoolgirl or a prisoner from the future. As my files repaired themselves, there was a purpose to it: to find John Connor. You could say that I missed you.”

“Well, you've found me now. How do I shape up, compared to Future-Me?”

“You're... different,” Cameron said, with a smile.

“Ha-ha!” he laughed genuinely, perhaps for the first time in months.

# # # # # # # #

They spent the day chasing down leads: people whom John had obtained temporary work from in the past. He had intended to work in the border lands up until the holiday season, before his meeting with Cameron threw a spanner in the works of that particular plan. Now it seemed that her idea to bring him to L.A. was also going south, as he met rejection after rejection, faced non-returned phone calls, and even one “Never heard of ya, buddy.” By the evening his mood had turned sour again, but at least he had someone to vent at.

“I'm not sure why you are so hostile to me; it's not like I tried to kill you,” Cameron said, immediately regretting her choice of words.

John did a double-take. “That punch, day before yesterday, wasn't you trying to kill me?”

“No, of course not. I knew exactly where to strike to render you unconscious.”

“Well, how freaking marvelous for you! You still hit me!”

“You were running away; or attempting to.”

“Yeah? So what? Why shouldn't I? Why would I want you around?”

“Because Future-You wanted me to protect you.”

“Yeah, well Future-Me can kiss Present-Me's ass, 'cause he clearly doesn't know jack about what I want.”

“Perhaps he does. Or maybe he knows what you need. Perhaps your needs are more important than your wants.”

“Perhaps I'd have gotten this far in life without his constant interference. Maybe I'd be a better man for just letting me have the life he had.”

“Once SkyNet started sending agents back, that became impossible. You know that.”

“Don't wrap everything up with all that infallible robot crap. You've been here a long while, you say you've absorbed a lot in that time. Can't you see what it means for me to have you around?”

“When we first met at the diner, you seemed to like me. In the past you have not had the usual adverse reaction of humans to my kind, so I'm not sure why you are now so ambivalent.”

“You're not, huh?” they looked at each for some time, he glaring, she looking puzzled.

“Okay, it's like this,” John eventually continued. “You represent all that's bad in my life: the future, what I've gotta do. And you also represent the past, all those deaths, including my parents, in my name; all the people who died so I could live. So you'll forgive me if I feel 'ambivalent' about someone, something that reminds me of that.”

He failed to declare that his initial interest in Cameron had not really diminished once he realized that she was a Terminator. He felt awkward about it, and tried to reconcile himself with those feelings when they surfaced by trying to put her down.

She had not replied, but continued to study him; John thought he had given her something to ponder on, so he pressed what he thought was his advantage.

“My mom made sure to destroy all parts of future technology before. It seemed to work, so you'll understand if I ask you to allow yourself to be dismantled and disposed of.”

Cameron frowned. “It didn't work, as my presence should make clear. No matter what you did, SkyNet was still created, just at a later date.”

“So, you're saying it's not worth doing anything? I should just live it up for a few more years, then hide in a bunker 'til it's time to pop out and say to the world: 'Here's Johnny!'”

“There's no need to be defeatist. It is not worthy of you, of the man you will become.”

“Don't presume to lecture me! Don't you dare!”

“I'm not lecturing you, I'm pointing out some salient facts. There's nobody else around to do it, so –”

“So you elected yourself the head cheerleader? Thanks, but no thanks.”

Cameron headed for the door, then paused and turned to look over her shoulder. “Clearly you are not in a mood to discuss things rationally. I will leave you to your thoughts for the night. But no matter what, I will be there for you.”

“I really, truly, absolutely, hate that phrase,” John spat out.

Cameron shrugged. “Good night. I'll see you in the morning.” She made a show of checking the safety on her gun, then tucked it back in the waistband of her jeans, before exiting the motel room.

“Missing you already!” John called out in a syrupy tone. If there had been anything convenient to hand, he'd have thrown it at the door. He made do with vegetating in front of the tube. Eventually he drifted off to sleep.

# # # # # # # #

..............................................................................................................................................................

Next Chapter - Someone To Watch Over Me.

Something Else Part Two

MrsScott! — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 18:31:10 CST

SOMETHING ELSE

Part Two: Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue?

Southern California: Tuesday, November 14th 2006 .

John untied the woman's bindings and helped her back on to the bed from which she had thrown herself. He turned back to the doorway.

“Wanna get her a glass of water? She's likely dehydrated.”

Cameron shrugged and moved away. Presently he heard the sound of water flowing from a faucet into a glass.

“What happened here?” he asked, keeping an easy tone in his voice.

“She followed me from work – the Gold Star Diner on Main – asked me for some directions, then hit me I guess. Woke up all hog-tied...” She trailed off as the drink appeared before her. Sensing her reluctance to drink it, John took a sip himself, then handed the glass to the woman. With a grateful smile she gulped down the vital liquid.

“Easy there,” John said. “Take your time.”

“That was not wise,” Cameron said. “I might have drugged the water.”

“But you didn't,” John responded.

“No. It was still a risk though.”

“Why don't we let me be the judge of what's a risk, huh?”

Cameron raised one eyebrow just the tiniest amount, then shrugged.

“I like taking risks: it makes life more... interesting,” John explained, then wondered why he was bothering to explain himself to the pretty psychopath.

“You've become careless, reckless even,” she replied.

“What?” Alarm bells suddenly started to go off in John's head. Or more accurately, shouted orders to get the hell out of there, in the unmistakeable voice of one Sarah Connor.

He leaped up and ran past the waitress/kidnapper, wondering why his own brand of spider-sense hadn't kicked in sooner. As he reached down to snatch his backpack off the floor, he was grabbed from behind by the collar and flung over to the couch, from which he slid onto the floor. He turned to see the usurper standing over him, her hands on her hips, looking plenty pissed off.

Okay, she's stronger than she looks; that's not good, he thought, but maybe I can take her legs out from under her: just get a little closer, get a little leverage, and...

The woman was standing over him, looking straight at him. Abruptly her brown eyes flashed with blue light. John thought better of trying to upend what he now knew to be a Terminator.

“Ohmigodomigodomigod,” he muttered, as he jumped up hoping to dodge past her, but she grabbed him just as easily again.

“You've changed,” he said, looking down on her.

The Terminator looked puzzled. “Since when? You didn't remember me this morning,” she replied.

“You were like seven feet tall, called yourself 'Crombie'... or something.”

“Cromartie?”

“Yeah, that's it! You tried to kill me years back, in school. Got some cute chick next to me instead. Damn, I remember now! She asked me my name, then the crap hit the fan...”

“That was me,” the Terminator said.

“Oh, so you admit it now?”

“I admit I was the cute chick,” she replied.

“No. You were the big hunk of junk trying to kill me. I'd remember if it was small and er, female.”

“That wasn't me!” She looked at him as if he was a moron. “You've got a lot to learn about us. Do you think we can just change size and gender?”

“Well, duh! Like yeah, as a matter of fact. 'Cause I seen it done: the first one of you to come after me, he... it, could melt and reform, do what it wanted, basically.”

“The LMT-1000? There were rumors one had been sent back, but you never told me everything about that time, though I do know about a T-1001 that went rogue from SkyNet. Hmm, so you kept at least one secret from me. Interesting...”

“Yeah, well, you know how it is,” John said, not knowing at all what the Terminator meant, “gotta keep some things to yourself, right? So, I'll er, be going now, 'kay?”

“I haven't finished with you yet.”

John swallowed.“Okay, so... What do ya wanna talk about next?”

He was met with a blank stare. Wondering why he was still alive, but grateful for it, John continued trying to engage this bizarre Terminator in conversation, in the hope of generating a way out of the situation.

“So, er, why don't you educate me? I've got plenty of time...”

“Later,” the cyborg said.

“Later?” John echoed.

“Yes, later,” she said irritatedly.

“So you're not gonna kill me then?” he said happily.

“Not right now, no. I was sent to protect you.”

“Oh right,” John said nonchalantly. He glanced at her hand, which still firmly held his collar. “Doin' a good job.”

The cyborg looked temporarily flustered, then released her grip. “Right,” she said, then added, “we'd better leave.”

“Go-oo-od idea. Get your stuff, I'll meet you outside.”

“I'll just dispose of the woman.”

“Dispose?”

“Terminate.”

“No you won't. You don't kill her, or anyone else,” John Connor ordered.

The Terminator frowned momentarily, then just shrugged. She didn't move, so John gave her a pointed look.

“Okay,” she said and moved to grab a duffel bag, which she proceeded to stuff with her belongings.

John opened his mouth as if to speak, but then thought better of it. There was something odd about this Terminator. Really odd. Out of her sight he grabbed his backpack again and made for the front door, then hurtled down the stairs three at a time, slinging his arms into the harness as he ran. As he reached the door, he grabbed it with one hand and pulled it open; with the other he withdrew the bike's ignition key from his jeans. Wasting no time, he jumped straight on and his oft-practiced routine concluded with a mighty thump downwards on the kick-start lever. The bike's engine turned over, but refused to start.

Freaking great! he thought, then nearly jumped when the duffel bag landed right in front of his bike, closely followed by the female cyborg, the height of the drop confirming for him that she was indeed metal. He gave another hefty shove on the kick-start, but his timing was off and the arch of his foot bore the brunt of the lever's upward return action. The steel shank in his safety boot took some of the sting out of it, but he still hopped off the bike, wincing with the pain.

“Do you want me to do it?” the cyborg offered.

“No thank you,” he replied, testily. “You'll just bust it clean off.”

“I'm not lacking in fine control,” she said through narrowed eyes.

“Oh?” he said, looking up at the open window from which she'd jumped.

“She's still alive, if that's what you're wondering.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Just then the woman put her head out of the window. John called up to her.

“Don't worry, I'll handle this,” he said, then grabbed the Terminator in an arm lock, as if he was arresting her. Cameron looked at him, slightly bemused, but allowed him to proceed. The woman gave John a thumbs-up sign and smile, then withdrew back into her apartment.

John released his hold on the cyborg and climbed back on his Bonneville. This time it obediently fired up. He looked up at Cameron.

“Get on, if you're coming with me,” he said as he put on his sunglasses.

She picked up her duffel bag and placed the strap over her shoulder, then awkwardly positioned herself behind the future savior of mankind. His backpack made it difficult for her to hold onto his waist as before, so she found a handhold on the rear carrier. John lurched forward quite deliberately, doing his best to unsettle the creature who now seemed not quite so warm and inviting as just a few hours earlier.

Within a few minutes they were alongside an old Ford F-150 parked at the rear of the Gold Star Diner. Its color was what might be designated 'Mocha' by marketing gurus in an attempt to sell a modern iteration to wannabe urban cowboys, but to John it was plain and simple 'crap brown'. It had a heavy-duty locker box at the base of the rear window in the bed, with chunky-looking padlocks to protect it from casual thieves. John assumed it carried some serious weaponry, though with what little he knew of the new Terminatrix, it could just as easily be full of clothes. As she placed her bag in the space behind the seats he saw his opportunity to escape.

He withdrew his knife from its scabbard and plunged it as hard as he could into the sidewall of the rear tire. Without waiting to remove it, he twisted the throttle and guided the Triumph away from the grasp of the female Terminator. As he reached Main Street, he lowered himself over the tank so as to reduce drag and maximize his speed. After an hour of fast riding, he had still not seen even a glimpse of the old Ford truck, so felt it safe to pull in and top up the gas tank. He'd made sure to take a route with many forks and branches in the road, and tried not to follow any pattern, so he was confident that he could halt for the night in the next town. It was one he had never visited, which he hoped would add an extra random element to the Terminator's tracking equation.

# # # # # # # #

Ninety minutes further down the road found him nursing a cold beer seated at the end of the counter in 'The Lucky Seven' Bar, a simple drinking establishment for people with simple tastes. It had a jukebox and a pool table, an adequate number of seats, and served ice cold beers and a selection of tequilas and whiskeys. It didn't do wine or cocktails, though they would crack open a Pepsi if a 'lady' didn't like the choice of alcohol they offered.

The dozen or so heads making up the staff and clientele of The Lucky Seven that night paused in their various activities and swiveled towards the door whenever it opened, ready to check out any new customer. When it next happened, John was on his second beer, but he was no less keen to monitor the progress of the new arrival than his fellow drinkers, though he was far more covert.

As she strutted into the bar with her hands thrust into her pockets, the better to show off her ass, the click-clack of her cowboy boots on the bare wooden floors had a mesmerizing effect, adding a cadence to the rhythm of her swaying hips. Instead of heading to the counter, she aimed straight for the jukebox. She rested her palms on both edges of it, her features now concealed completely beneath the brim of her stetson hat. After less than a minute perusing the selections on offer, she withdrew a coin from her jeans and placed it in the slot, then pressed a couple of buttons on the colorful machine. She didn't move until the first bars of the song “These Boots Are Made for Walking” were heard from the speakers positioned throughout the bar.

She pushed her hands halfway into her pockets and resumed her sexy sauntering, her stride pattern matching the beat of the song perfectly. She'd spotted the man sitting on a stool at the end of the bar and, to the dismay of half the clientele, parked her pert butt on the seat alongside his.

“Howdy stranger,” she said. “This seat taken?”

He didn't look up from gazing into the bottom of his beer glass. “Do I got a choice?”

When she failed to reply, he turned slowly to face her, then stretched his hand over and pushed up the brim of her stetson slightly, all the better to see her shining brown eyes.

“You guys never give up, do you?” he sighed. “She was right about that, at least.”

“Who was?”

“My mom.”

“Oh. What did she say?”

“They have no pity, no remorse. And that they will never stop, ever. Until you are dead.”

“Oh. Well that is true in general for my kind, but not of me. I do not wish to see you dead; quite the contrary, John: I am here to protect you.”

“And you can't do that without being glued to my shadow?”

She pondered on his words for a minute. “No, I can't.”

“So I have no choice in the matter? I'm stuck with you?”

Again she pondered. “No, and yes, respectively.”

“'Respectively'?”

“In that order.”

“Oh right. There I was thinking you might be respecting my wishes to just go off and kill yourself.”

“I can't kill myself.”

John's eyebrows shot up. “You can't? Bummer. Well, I suppose you can't get depressed either. I on the other hand...”

“You are depressed? Can I help?”

“Yes: go away.”

“I can't do that.”

“Right. Seems like there's a lot you can't do. Like follow orders.”

“I do.”

“Really? Whose?”

“John Connor's.”

John sighed again, over-emphasizing it to ram home his point. “Tell me which part of this conversation I've missed where you don't know who I am?”

“I know who you are, John.”

“Right. So, you follow John Connor's orders, but not mine, even though I am John Connor.”

“Not yet you're not. You're John Baum now.”

“Hmm,” was all he said, waiting for her to enlighten him further.

Just then the bartender approached them. “A refill for you, and something for the lady?”

“No, I'm fine thanks, and she was just leaving, right?” John shot her a look.

Cameron glanced at the bartender and smiled at him. “We're leaving,” she corrected, then turned back to John. “Settle your tab, I'll wait for you out front,” she said, sliding off her seat. She removed her hat, and leaned in close to his ear, touching his forearm gently. “And don't bother sneaking out the back: I've got your bike tied down in the bed of my truck,” she whispered.

Cameron flashed him her brightest smile, then replacing her headgear, sashayed out of the bar, all eyes in the place again swiveling to follow the rhythm of her butt cheeks as they tangoed within the confines of her figure-hugging denims.

John threw a couple of bills on the counter and grinned at the jealous bartender. “It's a gift: I have this effect on women...” The smile disappeared from his face as he followed the cyborg out.

“Don't flatter yourself,” Cameron retorted, as she pointed him toward the cab of her truck. As good as her word, she had indeed hoisted the Bonneville into the bed of the Ford.

“You should have called me; I could have given you a hand lifting it.”

“Are you always such a smart-ass?”

“No, sometimes I'm a dumb-ass.”

“You owe me for that tire, by the way,” she said.

“Can't you claim it on expenses? I'm sure SkyNet can afford it.”

“I don't work for SkyNet.”

“Really? Got some ID?”

“It doesn't pass through, and resistance tattoos wouldn't stick to my skin.”

“So I just take your word for it that you're not gonna kill me?”

“If I was here to kill you, I would have done it by now. I wouldn't waste my time standing around making small talk.”

“None taken.”

For the first time since entering the bar, having made sure that this time her quarry could not evade her so simply, she had time to pause and assess him. She had upset him, it would seem. There was another awkward silence as they sized each other up from either side of the truck. Eventually John decided to just go with whatever it was she had planned. He slid inside; Cameron followed.

“I seriously hope you were careful with my bike,” John said. “She's a classic, and unusually reliable for an old Brit bike...” he trailed off when he caught her looking pointedly at his right foot, which he had been favoring as he walked out of the bar. The pain of the kick back had dulled to a slight throb some time ago, but walking on it set off the spasms again. “Look, that was operator error, okay? I was in a hurry, I didn't time it right. It's not the bike's fault, it's mine.”

Cameron shrugged, then looking ahead, started up the truck. “I notice you call your motor-bike 'she'. You don't have a problem with all machines then? Humanizing them?”

“It's not just me; lots of people call their bikes, cars too, 'she', 'her', whatever. It's a tradition. But me, I don't have a problem with machines, so long as they aren't trying to kill me.”

“I'm not here to kill you, John.”

John sighed. “So what are you here for? Is there another Terminator out there? What about the one from Red Valley?”

“Cromartie? He's gone. I took care of him back in 'Ninety-Nine. There may be others though.”

“That's like, totally reassuring,” he said sarcastically. Cameron kept quiet.

# # # # # # # #

Ten minutes later they were on a highway heading North, towards Los Angeles. John rested his head against the side window and sighed. It's another one of those days, he thought.

“So much for a quiet couple of weeks in that sleepy burg. We'll need to find somewhere else, so I can eat and sleep, unless you expect me to crash back there,” he said, jerking a thumb towards the truck's bed.

“It's up to you, but we should put some extra distance between us and the woman you wouldn't let me kill.”

“The woman!” John spluttered. “She was... is a waitress, she's got a life. She may be important after J-Day –”

“She's not in my database,” Cameron interrupted.

“Perhaps you don't know everything, ever thought that?”

Cameron pondered on this, then shrugged. “It's a possibility; but she is still a threat. She can identify you.”

“No, she can identify you! Me, I'm the hero in all this, remember?”

“John Connor, 'Savior of Mankind'.”

“You got it, finally.”

“She can still identify you. And if you care to assess our current situation, we are not getting medals from the mayor, but evading the law.”

“Yeah, thanks to you! Now I could be a wanted criminal again. Damn, you're good at your job! And you said I was getting careless?
Geez...” John exhaled heavily.

“I said I would kill her; there would be no loose ends. It's not too late to turn back –”

“Forget it! Just... forget it, 'kay?”

# # # # # # # #

Cameron eased her Ford to a halt in the parking lot of a low-rent off-highway motel. She had a quick look around the location before joining John in the reception.

“So, you guys married or what?” the lank-haired clerk inquired, casting a lecherous eye over Cameron.

“Marriage is an archaic and outdated symbol of the enslavement of women, signifying the transfer from paternal bondage to one of spousal servitude,” she declared.

The clerk looked from Cameron's unblinking gaze to John, who was grinding his teeth behind a fixed smile.

“Guess you won't be requirin' the Honeymoon Suite then?”

John smirked to himself, as Cameron was once again momentarily given to pause. “No, we require that one,” she said, pointing at a particular room on the site plan.

The clerk nodded. “Cash, charge or check?”

“Cash,” Cameron said.

“Uh-huh, thought so,” muttered the clerk.

Formalities dealt with, he handed the room key to Cameron, while John continued to lean on the wall, apparently disinterested in the proceedings. As Cameron headed toward the door, the clerk had some advice for John.

“Good luck with that one,” he said out the corner of his mouth.

Cameron abruptly turned around, looking daggers at the seedy clerk. She grabbed John's hand and led him away.

Poor guy, the clerk thought. Not that I'd complain. Could do with a bit more up top though...

# # # # # # # #

Once Cameron had ascertained that the security of the room was up to her standards, John settled down in a chair to relax.

“Any chance of some food?” he asked. “Long time since lunch.”

“You want me to get something?”

“Don't say it like it's the worst thing you could do.”

“Okay. Would you like me to get you something to eat,” she said in a sing-song voice.

John grimaced, then jumped up and brandished his bike keys. “What's your name, designation, whatever?”

“I go by 'Cameron Phillips'.”

“Okay, Phillips: you're fired. We're done here, and this time I mean it. Either you get the hell out of my life, or I'm leaving.”

“I can't let you do that,” she said.

“There's only one way you can stop me,” he replied.

“Oh? What's that?”

“Kill me.”

They stared at each other for long minutes. Eventually Cameron shrugged, and stepped aside.

“Huh!” snarled John. He grabbed his backpack and strode past the cyborg. Just as he reached out for the door handle, she whacked him on the back of the head.

“Make that two ways,” she said, picking him up carefully. She laid him down on the bed, then switched the lights out. She checked the view out of the window, then looked back at the recumbent figure on the bed.

“You said it'd be difficult, but you never told me you'd be such a pain in the ass.”

# # # # # # # #

.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Next Chapter - What Have You Done For Me Lately?

Rosie's Micros - fiction by MrsScott!

MrsScott! — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 10:03:20 CST

Click on the links or the pix:

Volume 1 - The Hero's Return?

Artwork by Canuckinator

Volume 2 - The Hero's Requiem?

Volume 3 - Better Days

Volume 4 - Strange Days?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Story # 5, but unrelated to the above; in fact it's
Something Else

Story #6 - Related to Something Else, but in a diverging timeline,
purely for seasonal reasons; it's a Christmas story called:

Something Elf

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something Else Part One

MrsScott! — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 17:42:02 CST

SOMETHING ELSE

Part One : What Have I Done To Deserve This?

Southern California: Tuesday, November 14th 2006.

It was a small town, located on an old Highway. Like many small places, it got a by-pass: a big, wide Interstate. But since that had opened, most folks just by-passed the town, in a hurry to get some place else. That suited him just fine.

He parked his old Triumph Bonneville on its side-stand outside of the only diner visible on Main Street. Safely stowing the key in a pocket in his jeans, he removed one arm from his back pack's shoulder harness and strode inside without bothering to remove his Wayfarer sunglasses.

There appeared to be only two customers: one, a man not far removed from vagrancy; the other, seated well away, a middle-aged woman who regarded her fellow diner suspiciously. She turned to appraise the newcomer. Her eyes lit up momentarily, but then she sighed in resignation at the loss of her allure, and continued with her meal.

A waitress, perhaps the only one, approached the stranger. “Hi! Seat at the counter, or a booth?” she asked in what appeared to be a genuinely pleasant way.

“Booth,” he replied.

“This way,” she beckoned. He caught himself admiring her ass as she showed him to a booth in the far corner, near the rear exit.
Hmm, he thought. Usually gotta pick the seat with the best sight-lines myself. Sometimes you're lucky...

“Thanks,” he said sitting down. “You still doing breakfast, or is it lunch now?”

“Oh, we ain't fussy! Whatever you want, if it's on there you can have it. Whatever...” She emphasized the last word with a look that suggested that something not on the menu was available too.

He grinned slightly, then cast a quick glance over the plastic-coated list. “Give me the Big Breakfast, with black coffee.”

“How do you like your eggs?” the waitress inquired.

“Scrambled. Please,” he added, remembering his manners. He was rewarded with a smile.

“Coffee'll be just a minute,” she said, then twirled away and sashayed towards the counter, giving him the opportunity to admire her rear anew.

He continued to gaze upon her as she went about her duties with an economy of motion that seemed almost... artistic? He scratched his head in bemusement at his thoughts. “You've been too long in the sun, John,” he chuckled.

She poured out a mug for him. “John? That's your name?”

“Er, yeah! Didn't realize I was talking aloud...”

“Then you have been too long in the sun,” she asserted amiably.

“Guess so,” he shrugged.

“John what?”

“Huh? What?”

“Your name: John what-comes-next?” she clarified.

“Oh, right! Er, it's... just John,” he said evasively.

“Okay, Just John I'm –”

“Cameron,” he interrupted. She looked puzzled, and something else: worried? “Your name tag,” he said, pointing to the hand-written badge upon her chest.

“Oh! Thank you for explaining,” she said with a smile. “I'll... um, go check on your order.”

Curious phrase, he thought. Cute smile though!

# # # # # # # #

As he got up to settle the check, John made sure to leave a decent tip. By now the only customer, he thought fit to complement the cook on the pancakes as he handed over his money.

“Glad you liked them. I got him to put in a little extra something,” Cameron remarked conspiratorially, whilst giving him his change.

“Oh?” he looked concerned, which she duly noted.

Holding his arm reassuringly, she replied, “Oh, nothing bad, just a hint of vanilla.”

“Hmm, okay then.” He noted she still held on to him. She caught his pointed glance and let go with an embarrassed laugh.

“So, is that your motor-bike out there?” she asked.

“Yeah,” John admitted.

“You should wear a helmet, riding those. Wouldn't want you to come to any harm, now would we?” Cameron stated.

John regarded her curiously. Who was this chick? She sounds like Mom, he thought. Who was herself a waitress, mostly. Is being a nag part of the job? He shook such thoughts from his head then, putting his shades back on, headed for the exit.

“I get off at two-thirty,” Cameron called out.

He looked at his watch. Forty-five minutes. The place was dead, considering it was lunch-time. He turned to face her. “What about now?”

“Five minutes, 'kay?” she implored. He nodded twice, then went outside to wait on the Bonneville. He bided his time securing his backpack to the small rack on the bike's tail.

She reappeared in almost exactly five minutes, which surprised him: most women of his acquaintance said five, but took thirty. She was now wearing black leather boots under blue boot-cut jeans, a dark blue t-shirt topped by a black leather jacket, her hair pulled back into a pony-tail. She had a smallish canvas courier bag slung over one shoulder, from which she removed a set of aviator sunglasses. John could see his approving grin reflected there as she donned them.

“Where to?” he asked.

She climbed on the back behind him, then placed her arms around his middle. Her head was close to his.

“Just keep on going, I'll tell you when to stop,” she said enigmatically.

He keyed the ignition, switched the fuel tap on, then thumped his leg hard down on the kick-start. Unusually, it started first time. Sometimes you're lucky...

# # # # # # # #

“There,” she said, pointing to a small patch of concrete road, left to the side when this particular bit of the highway was realigned. The pot-holed surface also had eruptions of weeds and grass here and there, showing that it was used irregularly. Carefully threading his way through these obstacles, John pulled to a halt and killed the motor.

Cameron the waitress climbed elegantly off the back seat, allowing him to set the bike on its side-stand. He followed her with his eyes as she strolled to the edge, where a section of guardrail sought to prevent vehicles going over the precipice. She turned back to him and smiled, the sun glinting off her sunglasses as she moved her head.

“So, what is it?” he asked warily.

“A view. I know it's just hills, desert and farms, but it's beautiful, don't you think?”

He moved up alongside her, and gazed out over the vast expanse in front. A mile or so behind them lay the Interstate, its constant drone barely reaching his ears.

“Yeah, guess so,” he reluctantly admitted.

Usually, he saw farms as potential employment, hills and deserts as somewhere to hide. There didn't seem much room for beauty in his life. If there ever was, it was short-lived – not literally, of course: it was just that he moved on so much, before he could form attachments, before he became a danger to anyone. He followed his mother's advice, but as he regarded his attractive, interesting companion, he wondered why? Why keep running? He had no record, was not wanted for anything, unlike his mother Sarah Connor, who had died hand-cuffed to her hospital bed, a fact that haunted him still.

“John? You okay?”

“What?” he said.

“You, um, seemed to zone out there. Like you were somewhere else,” Cameron said, looking concerned.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, then decided to change the subject away from himself. “So, what's a waitress in a hick town doing admiring landscapes then?”

“None taken,” she replied icily. The warmth vanished from her face too.

John Connor realized he'd put his foot in it. And not for the first time, either. Oh well, looks like this birthday is gonna be just like the last – spent alone. “Sorry. Again,” he said. Another apology, two in a row. Some savior I am, he thought bitterly. “I'll, um, take you back, 'kay?”

“Fine,” she replied. The coldness in her voice emphasized the lack of heat out there in the open on a cold November day, albeit in Southern California. He zipped up his own leather jacket, but still shivered slightly.

As they headed back into town, he noticed the warmth of the woman at his back, more so than on the way out. Her arms around his chest seemed reassuring, comforting even, as the wind tore through his hair, and pushed against his chest, seemingly trying to pull him from his seat for daring to disturb its progress across the earth.

With subtle gestures she guided him to a small side road, about a quarter-mile away from the diner on Main Street. They were parked outside a vacant shop, which appeared to John to be a disused liquor store.

She caught his puzzled expression. “I live above it, second floor.”

He glanced up for the first time. Damn! Should have taken in the full picture right at the start. “Not such a nice view from here,” he said.

“No,” she agreed. “That's why I like it out of town. You never know when you won't be able to enjoy it again.”

Funny, thought John. Didn't take her for one of those doom-and-gloom types. He'd figured her for a good-time-girl. Appearances could be deceiving, he knew that. But he had other more pressing matters on his mind. “Can I, er... Can I use your bathroom? All that coffee, the cold wind...” He let her imagination fill in the blanks.

After what seemed to John to be an age, she finished studying his efforts to control his bladder, and simply nodded her assent. Relieved mentally if not physically, John scurried after her. As she turned a key in the lock to open the door to the apartments, she looked back at the Triumph. “Shouldn't you get your back-pack? It's not the best of neighborhoods.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” He turned back and struggled with the clasps that had seemed so easy to do up just a few hours before. As the last one released itself he caught a slight smirk on her face. “Done it,” he said, then hastened to the rapidly-closing door, catching it just before it slammed shut.

He bounded up the stairs, surprised by her speed. As he entered her apartment, she pointed the way for him distractedly. He mumbled his thanks, then went about relieving his bladder. Afterward, seeking to atone for his dumb behavior, he set the seat back down, and washed his hands – dried them too. Looking in the mirror over the basin, he didn't see the confident, cool John Connor who had mooched into the diner earlier today, sweeping the waitress off her feet. He saw the lonely, scared boy who had been the target of Terminators from the future, not once but twice.

The second one had attacked him at school in New Mexico, back in 1999. Somehow he'd escaped, when by some dumb luck an old truck, probably driven by a panicking student, had just run into the machine. He didn't need a second invitation to run off as his mother taught him. He'd found her at the school gates, that sixth sense of hers alerting her to the threat. Once more they'd hit the highway, but it was his last day in formal school. The machine never caught up with them, for they kept themselves under the radar as long as possible, moving from state to state. They had been told that Terminators never gave up, so when the authorities finally caught up with his mother last year as she succumbed to the cancer that had been eating away at her, he fully expected the metal assassin to reappear. That day in December when his mother passed, he was willing to embrace whatever SkyNet threw at him. But it never came. He'd spent seven years looking over his shoulder, for the cold hand of his destiny to reach out for him, all the while dreading the coming of Judgment Day. However, it too never came. It didn't stop him running though.

He sighed deeply. Introspection was not his thing. “Snap out of it, Johnny-boy!” he told his reflection. “Turn this around and there's a warm bed for the night, with free breakfast thrown in.” His reflection grinned back at him.

There was a knock on the door. “You okay in there?” The waitress called to him, sounding concerned.

He opened the door, to find her standing there, her hands on her hips, head tilted to one side.

“Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry.”

“You make a habit of 'pologizing?” she asked. He was about to say sorry again, when he caught himself; thinking back, he detected a note of humor in her question.

“Not usually, no,” John admitted.

“Guess I should be honored then,” Cameron said. The warmth had definitely returned to her voice, and her demeanor. “You wanna just hang out, take the weight off your feet?” she offered.

Pleasantly surprised by this development, John agreed enthusiastically.

Happily slouching in an old armchair, he surveyed the small apartment's one main room, a kitchenette/living-room. It was sparsely furnished, probably by the landlord, he thought, as he sought clues to Cameron's personality in the ornaments.

“None of it's mine, not even the TV,” she clarified for him, as if reading his mind. “I just moved here at the weekend, started work yesterday. All I've got are some clothes and my truck.”

“Truck?” John couldn't recall seeing one parked in this street, but maybe his memory was failing? No, the outside was deserted when they rode in on the bike.

“Yeah, it's in back of the diner.”

“Oh, right. You wanna go pick it up? I'll drop you off, get outta your way...”

“No, it's fine as it is. No-one's gonna steal that ol' heap. We can get it later.”

“Later? Sounds good,” John replied, using his most sincere smile.

Cameron responded with hers. “So, what are you doing in a hick town like this, Just John?”

He smiled at the playfulness in her voice. “Oh, looking for work, short-term, nothing fancy.”

“You move around a lot?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he admitted, “It's the times though: you gotta go where the work is, right?”

“Yeah,” Cameron agreed.

The conversation seemed to be going nowhere, but John figured there was one last card he could deal. “Listen, about before: I was rude. Maybe I can make it up to you, buy you dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Yeah!” he chuckled. “Dinner – you do eat don't you?”

“Of course, doesn't everybody?” she sounded affronted.

“Well, girls these days like to watch their figures, eat like, a lettuce leaf or something,” John explained.

“I guess I'm lucky then,” Cameron replied, “I can eat what I want, don't put nothing on, not a pound.”

“Yeah, lucky,” John agreed. “Fact is, it's my birthday, didn't want to spend it alone...”

“Oh, happy birthday! How old?” she asked brightly.

“Twenty-three.”

“Sounds about right,” she responded, her answer puzzling him for a second before he dismissed it as a distraction from his goal.

“Is it rude to ask how old you are?” he inquired.

“No, it's not rude – that comes when women are like, really old. Let's say I'm a bit younger than you, and leave it at that.”

John smirked. “Chicks like to be mysterious about their age, no matter how old, right? Okay, keep your secrets. We all have them...”

“Some more than others,” she said archly. He did not fail to notice this, and something began to tingle somewhere inside his brain. He was stirred from his musings by a noise, seemingly from behind the only closed door in the apartment. On reflection, it sounded like a thud.

“What was that?”

“A mouse?” offered Cameron.

“Hell of a big mouse! More like a moose; I've yet to see one this far south though...” John got up to investigate, pushing the door open carefully. Lying on the floor, all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, was a woman of about 30, her mouth gagged, her eyes bulging with fear. Without hesitation, John quickly moved to her side, removing the duct-tape gag with a swift tug, causing the woman to cry out in pain. “Sorry,” John said soothingly, “Take it easy, not here to hurt you! Who did this to you?”

“That freaking mad b!tch!” the woman croaked.

John turned to follow her gaze. The waitress stood in the doorway, looking unnaturally calm.

# # # # # # # #

Starfury Convention 2010

Veran` — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 13:29:35 CDT

Veran's report:

"As some of you know; myself, Jenkehs, and Akuji attended this year's Starfury Convention in London last weekend.

During the meet-n-greet session where the actors visit us table by table and talk for 5 minutes, Jen asked Dekker about the possibility of a continuation and he basically repeated what he'd already told the media so far, but advised her to ask BAG about it as he is more involved in the project. So when Brian came over and Jen popped the question, and after cursing Dekker for putting him on the spot (^_^), he gave us these few tidbits:

All of the actors are ready and willing to jump back into any continuation, though Lena is currently pregnant at the moment.
They're pushing to involve Josh Friedman in the writing, but if he is unavailable they're planning to bring in Zach Stenz (and possibly Ashley Miller) and the writers from "Goodbye To All That" to work on it instead.
James Middleton is in partnership with someone (unnamed) and they're working together to broker a deal for the future.
A series isn't quite what they're aiming for. A DVD movie or even a proper film is their goal.
The movie will continue the story exactly how it was supposed to, but they hope that if it's successful they can create a sequel to take it up a notch.
When asked if fans could donate towards the project, Brian stated that this would be unnecessary as funding is available.

Pretty much all of this we already knew, but both Brian and Dekker made it pretty clear that the ONLY thing holding it up is the licensing agreements and all that red tape."

Audio recording of Brian Austin Green:

Starfury T2 Convention London, actor question for Brian Austin Green, regarding if there "will be" a DVD movie made to continue TSCC show...

Brian Austin Green: "... of how they'd keep the show going, where we'd do some sort of incarnation of it. And we.. we've figured out a way to get it done for fans, probably not for televion, uh, for feature release - theatrical release, DVD, Blu Ray. Um.. so we're working on that now and we're hoping to bring Josh Friedman back in to write it and it'll be the Sarah Connor Movie; the continuation of [Person in the crowd coughs] ..."

Guest Talk with Thomas Dekker and Brian Austin Green (T2 Starfury Convention):

Part 1	Part 2	Part 3

The Hero's Return? Part 6

MrsScott! — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 18:29:01 CDT

....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

THE HERO'S RETURN?

Part 6 : Dealing with Death

Back in the day, when I was young, free and single, I loved to dance. Getting down on the dance-floor of a discotheque, as they were called in those seemingly ancient times, was a great way to get away from it all. Now that I'm …well, older, still free, still single, other matters occupy my time. But back then, the stress of studying at college while holding down a job as a waitress was eased for a few short hours once a week. The song meant nothing, it was all about the the beat, the rhythm, the groove.

A guy I dated from college was always trying to get me to listen to his music. To my ears it was loud and angry, the opposite of how I wanted to be. He was active in the anti-war movement, Greenpeace, anti-whaling; you name it, he had a bumper sticker proclaiming his allegiance for or against it. I think his little blue VW Rabbit was held together by those stickers!

Somehow I remember all of that, yet I can't remember his name. He was really a sweet-natured boy, I know, but I can't recall his face. I wonder what he would think of me now; of all that I have done in the name of 'peace'. I have on my conscience the deaths of many, in order to keep my son safe, in the belief that he will save mankind in the future. Maybe we have saved the world in the here and now; but will those deaths amount to anything when the world doesn't know of their significance? I certainly will be remembered as a terrorist, not a freedom-fighter; an escapee from an asylum, not a prophet.

Nobody believes my story, until they come face to face with a Terminator. Of course, by then it is usually too late.

# # # # # # # #

I wake up in a darkened hospital room. As I blink myself awake I can see Cameron, sitting in what appears to be the only chair, illuminated by a light from behind me.

“Where's John?” I say, or try to. My daughter-in-law – Ha! What law? – places a cup of water at my lips, allowing my surprisingly parched throat to loosen enough for me to be coherent. “Is he safe?”

“He had to dispose of the stolen car. Since he returned he has been pacing the corridors, eating, drinking ...anything but sit with me it would seem.” Not two days-married and she's already moaning about being ignored! “But he is safe, yes.”

“So what happened back there?” I demand, relaxing slightly.

“You were shot several times. John and I terminated the Kaliba men, then I attended to your wounds with field bandages and plastic wrap to prevent shock through further blood loss, but I think the initial effects made you hallucinate. I carried you to the car then drove you here. John had ensured our tracks were erased by liberal use of thermite over all the bodies, including John-Henry's, and around the significant computer parts. Combined with the C-4, the building and its contents were utterly destroyed. You got your wish Sarah, except in one regard.”

“You,” I say, sheepishly.

“Yes, me.” There's a definite edge to her voice.

“I got that wrong,” I confess. She takes time to mull on that, before replying.

“The timing was wrong,” she offers.

“Not just the timing. I should have trusted John's instincts ...one version of him sent you back ...this one would do anything for you.
I didn't listen to him, didn't trust him enough. I just got it wrong.”

After another short silent spell, she changes the subject. “You were talking in your sleep.”

“I was?” I'm slightly anxious. “Nothing embarrassing, I trust?” I think there's a hopeful smile on my face, but I can't be sure.

“That would depend on what you consider embarrassing.”

“Yes ...yes it would.” I sink back into my pillows, then the softness of them alerts me to something else. “Where are we? Is it safe?”

“The same clinic we came to on Wednesday. They like American money, and don't ask too many questions. The staff are more than adequate, some exceptional. The hygiene levels are first class and the treatment success rate is as high as any found in North America. In addition, two of the junior medical staff are Resistance fighters from the future, sent back by our John to learn vital skills, should the campaign to defeat SkyNet here be unsuccessful.”

Hmm. 'Our' John she said. So, she's sharing him with me, not taking him away. But the way I feel, I may not be around long enough to argue over him. I've long felt she would usurp me. I fought it to the bitter end, but in doing so he had to prove that she was worthy of him, and she had to show her mettle. She's not what I would have wanted for my son, but I guess it could be worse. I'm not sure exactly how ...but it could be. He has said he was afraid of ending up alone, without hope or remorse. With her he has something, someone to ensure that he is always John Connor. And now he truly knows what being John Connor means.

“Okay, so we're sorta safe. So, what did I say?”

“You were talking about the events that have occurred since John and I returned from the future, including your opinions of myself and John. It has been most illuminating to compare your version of events with those that I witnessed, however you seem to veer between guarded approval and outright hostility towards me.”

“Oh? Well, if you'd lived in my boots, you'd know full well why,” I retort, but I don't have the strength for anger.

“Kyle Reese,” she says delicately. It's not a question, she states it in a way that makes me feel she truly understands. Well, if she loves John as much as I loved Kyle, she must do.

“Yes ...Listen, tell me about this,” I ask, pointing at my bandaged midriff. “What's the prognosis? And has the quack sent a text yet?”

“No text message has been received on your cellphone; as to your wounds ...well, the outlook is not positive. Despite my best efforts you lost a lot of blood. You received a transfusion and have been administered a significant amount of tranquilizers. The surgery was successful in removing the bullets, but not in repairing all the damage. The doctor is amazed that you are still alive. He appears to think that you have the constitution of an ox.”

“Yeah, sounds about right...” I mumble, as I drift off again.

# # # # # # # #

“Earlier you were talking about when you were younger: you mentioned a young man you were dating. Do you recall his name now?” Cameron is fussing over me. I'm drifting in and out of consciousness, but she is a permanent fixture, ready with a cup of water or to move my pillows.

“I recall he liked this one song in particular: 'What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love And Understanding?' He was so serious about it. I'd say to him: “It's only a song! You can't even dance to it!” “But it's not just a song,” he'd shout back, “It's true!” To him, it reflected real life back then. But not my life. Until one day when a Terminator appeared, destroying everything in its path. Like everyone else in that situation ever since, I had to wake up and smell the coffee. It changed me in ways I can't explain, because I don't really remember the Sarah I was before. She got lost somewhere along the way.”

“Maybe she's still inside of you. Maybe she's just waiting to come out, when the time is right.”

“I don't think the time will ever be right. And she had her day; like so many others, she had to make way for something tougher and stronger, something that wouldn't give up, ever. Right?” She nods in agreement, but somehow looks sad.

Before weariness overtakes me again, I ask her if it's so bad that I can't remember the guy's name.

“You have probably blocked it out because it belongs to a part of your life that you cannot revisit. I wish I could block off unpleasant memories, but that requires external intervention, something John is reluctant to do. So, I must live with my deeds, though I can learn from them. Perhaps it is a way of developing a conscience.”

Once again I am left speechless by her. But then sleep claims me once more.

# # # # # # # #

It's as if I just have to blink and I'm in a different world – either a dream world I struggle to make sense of; or a cold, sterile room with a cold, sterile person. But I'm not sure which is which, and who is whom. It's still just me and Cameron.

“How do you handle all these new emotions then?” I find myself asking.

“With difficulty,” she replies.

“Yeah. The other day, you'd been crying. John said he'd upset you ...but he wouldn't elaborate.”

“Yes, he upset me. He refuses to let me take care of necessary terminations. He thinks I am “beyond that”. My crying seemed to prove his point, which only made it worse for me: I was temporarily unable to control myself. Once I had established how to, it was too late. He would not listen to me.”

“I know the feeling! But he's not the finished article, is he? He's not 'Future-John' yet, is he?”

“No, he lacks the many years of experience that Future-John had. But he has beaten SkyNet. He has fulfilled his destiny,” she says proudly.

“You are much more demonstrative, facially I mean. It's getting easier to read you.”

“John says I should always use my facial expressions to show how I feel, so that people will react to me normally. But I am often confused, and looking confused is …worse than looking unresponsive,” she says, chuckling, which is itself disorienting for me.

“So, can you control your emotions now?” I ask, hoping for more details.

“Mostly. But if you mean switch them on and off like my pain receptors, no. If I feel happy, I react automatically to that, so I may laugh inappropriately. But I am working on it. It would not be good if I became ineffective on a mission because I got upset, for instance. I am still learning to control these new feelings, but they seem a blessing and a curse. It would be better for John's safety if we were somewhere far from danger while I get to grips with them.”

“Do you envisage any more missions? I mean, after last night, there won't be any, right?”

“'Never say never', as the saying goes. SkyNet was beaten once before, but returned. Weaver built ...something to cancel it out: it has worked, but one can never be sure. 'Eternal vigilance' is another appropriate phrase to live by. I shall be on watch for any signs of its return.”

“Good girl!” I say, without thinking the usual caveat about her not being a girl. I get a smile in return. “So, what will you do if we have succeeded?”

“Stay with John as long as he wants me.”

“Settle down in an egg-blue clapperboard suburban house, with a barbecue and kids in the yard?” I quip.

She frowns and tilts her head. “Children? No, of course not; I am not capable of reproduction and I doubt our resources will stretch to a house in the suburbs after years of evading the authorities.”

“Yeah, I know, just a nightm- ...er, dream I had. Forget I said it.”

“You wish me to delete the file?”

“Preferably, but what the hell! Keep it: file it in your 'Crazy Sarah' folder, or whatever you have in there.”

“I don't have such a file,” she replies, frowning again.

“Right, not so polite, eh?”

The frown disappears, replaced with an earnest look. “You are John's mother, the most important person in his life. I could no more disrespect you than I could him.”

“Oh,” I say. This ...person is causing me so much conflict, I'm almost speechless. Almost. “Well, that's nice, just don't think you're gonna be calling me Mom anytime soon!”

“I did before.”

“Yeah, but that was just for show, right?”

“You're the only mother I've ever had,” she says quietly.

“Oh,” I say again. Crap! She's reducing me to mono-syllabic, repetitive answers. Don't, Sarah! Don't you dare cry! I shake my head, hoping to clear it. “Not a good role model for you: I'm lousy as a mother,” I manage to get out before reaching for my drink and hastily swallowing a mouthful.

“You're wrong. You are the best mother John or I could have had.”

I look at her, see her eyes watering and wonder once more how something so beautiful could have been created by something so evil. I find myself comforting her, this killer who looks like an angelic girl, stroking her hair and saying “There, there” as if she was indeed my daughter. If you close your mind a tiny bit, it's easy to fool yourself.

I pull back from her, noticing that her mascara has run. After her recent episodes of blubbing, I'm surprised she hasn't discovered waterproof.

“You, er, oughta fix yourself up,” I say. She looks quizzically at me. “Panda eyes,” I say, and point to them for good measure.

“Oh, thank you,” she says, looking slightly embarrassed. She gets up and checks her reflection in the mirror on the far wall.

Just in time, I have become Sarah Connor again. But then exhausted, I fall once more into the arms of Morpheus.

# # # # # # # #

I wake up as my son is saying something.

“I need information! I can't just sit here, doing nothing! I'm gonna find that idiot doctor...”

He departs the room, an angry young man in search of something to hit. I wonder how much abuse he sends Cameron's way? Probably none: he's not a complete aŝshole, is he?

I try to raise myself on my pillows, but the wounds in my stomach are too painful. Cameron is up in a flash, stopping me. She lifts me effortlessly, painlessly. I thank her. She offers me a glass of water; I accept it, sipping it, aware now of my raging thirst. I try to remember what I was going to ask her, before I drifted off, but I have another question.

“Don't you get angry sometimes? I mean, surely he must annoy you occasionally?”

“Yes, sometimes. When he risks himself pointlessly, like last night, I worry for him. It seems like I do that a lot. Too much, maybe.”

“It's hard, not worrying about him. You have to close part of yourself off, but I've never really been able to do that. You can't either, when it comes to John?”

“No, not when it comes to him,” she says, with a wry smile.

“So, how do you keep him in line?”

“I withdraw bedroom privileges,” she says sharply.

Even though it is physically painful, I have to laugh. “That's so … yeah!”I clutch myself, try to constrain it to a giggle or chuckle, “Good for you...”

Cameron has another little chuckle. “You approve?” she inquires.

I am back in control now, serious again. “Withdrawing? Yes! Providing? Less so. In fact not at all. But it's your life...”

Cameron seems unsure if she should reply, so I say what I need to say, while I have breath left in me.

“That thing you do, when you calm him down, reassure him: I don't know what it is or how you do it, but keep doing it. And you make him happy, that's important too. Please continue ̶ and keep him safe. That's all I want of you. The rest is between you two, not my business any more. Okay?”

Cameron nods, a slight smile given in return. She knows to keep her mouth shut, not to spoil the moment.

# # # # # # # #

It seems to be a long night, as I drift in and out of consciousness. But it could be day now, I'm not really sure. But I am sure that my son is here. John is perched on the edge of my bed, perhaps to hear me better; I know my voice is failing, despite the sips of water I take.

“Hey, Mom! How you doing?” he asks.

“Been better,” I reply truthfully. He looks sad, which makes me happy for a second, because I know that he still feels something, but then I too am sad: how have we got to such a state that a mother is happy to see her child in pain? Silently I curse SkyNet and its lackeys for the millionth time. The last time, maybe?

I put everything I've got into a winning smile, aiming to beat this air of gloom. “No matter how big and tough and scary you get, you'll still be my little boy,” I say, reaching up to ruffle his hair, which causes the IV drip in my hand to rattle its bag in the frame above my head. John cringes, then laughs.

“I thought I was meant to be this dark, mythical figure, all-knowing and remote,” he counters.

“Alone?” I'm serious again. “You don't want to be alone.”

“No. But I won't be.”

“You'll have to be careful,” I warn.

Surprisingly, he chuckles. “Are you suggesting I take precautions? With Cameron?” He gives me a knowing look.

“Er, maybe not,” I reply, remembering how well my 'mom' talk went. Payback's a b!tch, so they say. Guess I deserve that. But now he's all serious too.

“Yeah, listen: she's just like you in that way: careful's her middle name. And what you said before about me knowing what she is – having her with me means I'll never forget what we had to do to get here, what we might have to do if we've failed to stop Judgment Day.”

I nod my head. He's learned his lessons well. I doubt there is much more I can teach him, which is as well because it feels like the clock is winding down on my life; we're likely into overtime. Maybe I can give the Connor team some encouragement before my end, rather than my usual ass-busting.

“You always seem to trust them, when I never could,” I assert.

“Maybe because they trust me? I dunno. But yeah, I trust her; and I love her.”

“She loves you.”

“You sure about that?” he smirks.

“I don't know for sure how she works in that head of hers, or how or what she feels, but it's love.”

“Yeah,” he says simply.

“Look after her John.”

“Mom?” He is clearly puzzled by my instruction.

“Don't treat her bad just 'cause she'll take it and never leave. Don't be an aŝshole!”

“He won't. He is kind and thoughtful. You taught him well,” says Cameron's disembodied voice, from somewhere out of my vision.

“For– don't do that! You scared me half to death!” I scream; well, as much as am able to. Her face appears above me, contrition writ large upon it.

“I'm sorry, really. I ...” she starts to apologize, but I interrupt.

“It's okay, just ...don't do it again, alright?” I pat her hand reassuringly, then I'm out of it again.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

I saw that Sarah Connor had lapsed into unconsciousness once more, and my scan confirmed this. Soon she would be deep asleep and would likely start her somniloquy. If she were to follow the pattern of her previous slumbers, she would bring her story up to date. The sleep periods had been getting shorter, as had the intervals between them. It was if she was clinging on to life long enough to ensure her story was told. Did she know that I was recording it as I do everything I see and hear? Her reaction to my presence in the room mere moments before suggested otherwise, and yet humans often do things subconsciously.

As if on cue, she entered REM status, and soon thereafter continued her tale.

Eight minutes and forty-seven seconds later, Sarah Connor re-awakened. She saw me, and simply nodded, then glanced at her son, then back to me. I nodded in return. She had relinquished her command, she had passed on the baton. I, Cameron Phillips Connor, now had sole custody of John Connor. The protection of the savior of mankind was once more my burden alone. I smiled at her, because I was, and continue to be, happy to undertake this task. She had one last comment for her son, my husband.

“I love you, John.”

“I love you too Mom,” he replied, holding her hand.

After a further two minutes and thirteen seconds, John told me, “She's gone” With a sweep of my right index finger on her neck I confirmed life extinct at 0704 AM, local time, Saturday July 24th 2010. John got up from the bed and stood by the window, looking out. The sun was about to rise. As the sky began to turn a lighter shade of blue, he spoke.

“It's a beautiful day, Cameron.” He turned towards me, and his mouth moved slightly, as if he was forcing it to smile. But the smile retreated, reluctant to appear on his sad face.

Moving to his side, I held his hand, and smiled to show my love for him. I looked out of the window too. “Yes, it's a beautiful day,” I said.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

EPILOGUE

One hour and forty-eight minutes later, John and I were riding a municipal bus, returning to our safe house, where our 2004 Jeep Grand Cherokee had remained parked. My husband was clutching a cotton reusable shopping bag that I had recently obtained at the local supermercado, a branch of a national chain. The bag now contained the belongings of his recently-deceased mother, Sarah Connor.

He was staring intently out of the window, and his body was tense. I linked my right arm through his left and took hold of his hand. My thumb rested upon the gold band on his ring finger. It is not best-quality material, but John said that it is the symbolism that counts, not the price. “But if I had a million dollars, I'd spend it on you,” he'd said when we bought our rings nine days previously. For some unknown reason that pleased me, however I know that if we did have such resources, they would have to be invested more wisely.

My superior hearing alerted me to a vibrating cellphone within the grocery bag. A high-pitched three-note ring tone announced that a text message had been received.

“Mom's cell,” John said, pulling it out and opening it. He sighed, then looked at me. I adopted an expectant expression. He attempted a smile again, then snapped the cellphone shut.

“It's from the doctor we saw on Wednesday,” I deduced. “What does it say?”

Once again John's mouth twitched, as if he was about to smile. “It doesn't matter now,” he said. He squeezed my hand as if to reassure me, but then he developed a frown. “It took long enough to get here, though.”

“Earlier the TV news channel was reporting a serious disruption in telephonic and internet traffic after a vital hub for Mexico's largest telecommunications provider was destroyed by suspected arsonists,” I pointed out.

John sighed again. “Kids, huh? Didn't happen back in the day...” Finally that smile made its way to his face. Perhaps that is what is meant by 'putting on a brave face?' Though I didn't wish the smile to leave his face, I felt a kiss would be appropriate at this juncture. John clearly thought so too, and after a short while our lips parted and I rested my head against his shoulder. He was more relaxed now, and therefore so was I, but I was still waiting for him to embrace his grief. That I made my priority task in the days that followed, once the basic requirements had been attended to.

# # # # # # # #

I made the arrangements for Sarah Connor to be cremated forthwith. There would be no religious service, as per her request. We did plan to honor her in our own way though, John and I. We otherwise spent the days after her death quietly, preparing for our return to the United States.

THE END

(OF VOLUME ONE).

The story continues in ...

Volume 2 - The Hero's Requiem?

Something Else

MrsScott! — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 20:21:18 CDT

An AU story starting in late 2006.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Next up ? Something More...

.........................................................................................................................

Something Else Part Twelve

MrsScott! — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 20:13:09 CDT

There is no abstract available for this page revision.

Volume Four

MrsScott! — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 12:03:51 CDT

THR - Volume 4: Strange Days

Coming soon...

Well yes, optimism! If I ever get round to finishing this I doubt I'll post it here,
just on FFNet, but there will be a link for you to click on.

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