Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Angel of God, my guardian dear, 
To whom God's love entrusts me here,
Ever this day, be at my side,
To light and guard, to rule and guide.
Guardian Angel Prayer

New Age numerology denotes "000" to be an "angel number" symbolic of new beginnings and fresh starts.
It represents hope and possibility.

“Who can say a machine has no soul?  Aren’t humans machines too? Mechanisms of flesh and blood."
The Humanoid (1986)

"We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity.
More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness.
Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost…
The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together.
The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men –
Cries out for universal brotherhood -
For the unity of us all."
The Great Dictator (1940)

"'The human has pack-bonded with a machine... again.'
Humans are hard-wired to pack-bond. We... are prone to projecting humanity on everything from animals to inanimate objects."
"This is exactly why we can make out faces in the most basic places (i.e. a floor tile.) Because we actively seek out that humanity in things, too."
A user exchange on /r/comics

Chapter Text

T, currently known as Bob, and only as Bob – though sometimes with “Uncle” in front, or, most often, the entirety of “ncle Bob” dropped to just be “U,” or, spoken, “you” – has not slept. He cannot. As a machine, he could enter standby mode, the closest thing to sleep for his kind, should his kind ever come to exist. 

The chance of that is small, but not zero. 

Even in his awful state, adjacent to what bruised and battered would be to humans – missing chunks of skin and hair, called injured in theory but in practice better stated as physically compromised (“incapacitated” or “impaired” would be more optimal words, carefully applying themselves equally to mortal and mechanistic nature alike), an eye stuck stationary in its socket, an entire arm pulled off with sinews hanging like threads from the tear’s site – he is still a threat. For all his physical lack, his mind would be a terrible thing to waste; bad actors would be sure that’d not be the case if they knew, if all they got was the small chip within his chrome skull and a piece of his parts. That was all it took to begin with.

No matter – he cannot sleep. He nonetheless finds himself wanting to. He should not be able to want things, either; but he does that in spite of it all, too.

It isn’t necessarily that he isn’t able to want. It’s only odd that he does. But he is an advanced computer, like humans are, theoretically, and he has, like humans do, learned to acknowledge desire, feel it, put a name to it and the coveted outcome. 

At an instance that his internal chronometer calculates as 53 minutes and 31 seconds ago, he heard, for the first time in his little life, music by the band Foreigner. He doesn’t have the sort of intelligence to identify Lou Gramm’s voice as smooth, though he can parse out its raspiness on certain sounds or notes and its strength and depth. Someday he might be able to say it has soul; but he’s not there, not yet.

He had wanted the music to be louder. To hear the synth better – it stirred something in his auditory processors, providing an interesting inner assessment, the deeper sounds’ drone entirely separate from the lighters’ lilt. 

It wasn’t anything worth saying aloud, though. So he didn’t. He just listened and leaned back, adjusting his position in the rear seat of the getaway car, which more likely than not belongs to some employee at the steel mill, now leaving him without an acceptable means of getting home. He probably has a family that will or did hear the news and is worrying sick until they see him safe. That thought hasn’t occurred to T – Bob – yet, either. Considerations along those lines will take longer.  

But now, it has been 54 minutes and 17 seconds since then, and counting. It is the early hours of the morning – the sky is not yet light. He might agree with the sentiment that he feels tired. After all, he’s running on alternate power ; he needs to fix his power cell unless he wants to both sit in the sun or some other heat source for an extended time each day and be subject to limited periods and portions of activity, physical and “mental.” He knows he doesn’t like the idea of those constraints. His current ones are self-imposed out of desire and necessity. 

He keeps his humanesque eye closed, the other – the one not a window to his would-be soul but his circumstances of “birth,” fashioned of alloy and glowing a morally-adulterated scarlet – forced aware and open, having lost its camouflaging components not too long ago. This, too, is out of both desire and necessity – he needs to conserve energy and redirect it to where it’s most important – and out of learned behavior; he’s observed humans closing their eyes when in a moment of reflection. Is he reflecting? Is he even thinking? Strategizing, he might say. But nobody asks. So he doesn’t. 

Using some of his precious energy to play back the song earlier isn’t the most prudent course of action, but he almost feels like he has to do it. At least recollection is easier with efficient storage of memory. The cousin to both wheel and hominid figuratively places the needle to the vinyl, drumming up the sound spilling out of the radio less than an hour old in his mangled, molding mind.

I don't know if I can face it again – can't stop now, I've travelled so far to change this lonely life

I wanna know what love is – I want you to show me – I wanna feel what love is

John had directed him to try to understand feelings. Although he’s overcome one of his primary mission parameters – to “ do what John says ” – he still feels that nagging sense of want; he wants to obey the order, for the most part. At least, he hasn’t, since his near sacrifice in a show of self-immolation, felt anything to the contrary. 

Bob knows the definitions of words like loyalty and love; he can recite them verbatim, out of a dictionary database installed in a distant future recently passed. But he doesn’t know them to their full potential. What he does know is that he wants to keep trying to follow that particular parameter, or parts of it – it makes his inner circuits spin in a weird way, almost – specifically the instruction to capture feelings, not merely because John said so, but because he himself wants to. Or what feels like want. What.. feels.

“Who makes the song that was on earlier,” he decides – speaking doesn’t require much in the way of energy, and now that automatic response generation isn’t running in the background anymore and he chooses his words on his own accord, more or less, he can speak with a bit more ease. “‘I want to know what love is’ – that one.”

His wording is a little strange, but music wasn’t commonplace in the future. Much was lost, the semantics surrounding niches with it. He doesn’t know that the song is sung or played by an artist, and often produced or mixed by another.

He shifts in a manner learned unconsciously, leaning in, interested. Very human. Very believable. If not for the mechanized viscera marring his image from his metal scalp shining in the moon’s glow to the chunk of knee missing out of his left leg (the lowest-most of his injuries; so he is actually not injured from head to toe – he’d smirk if he was aware of the idiom).

Sarah tightens her grip on the steering wheel. “It’s by a band called Foreigner,” she relents. It’s weird, this question. She’s not sure what to make of it, what to say back. Does he like the song? Did he hear it sometime before in his short – yet lengthening – lifespan; is it familiar? “They were big in the ‘70s, early ‘80s. You missed it.” 

She almost snorts. The irony could kill her. The song he’s curious about is from 1984 – the same year the original Terminator was sent back to. The year her life changed forever. Shouldn’t he know a thing or two about that year? It’s kind of important. 

Her grip tightens again, but then it loosens. It’s not his fault. What’s more, he’s reprogrammed by John. That was a surprise to her more than it was to John, once she was filled in on the fact after her breakout. And since he put his life – to half of her says yeah, right, the other half saying maybe so – on the line for the good of her and John and all of humanity, maybe she can have a little faith in him. 

She chalks up offering her hand to him earlier, at that time, for an affirmative, acknowledging shake, to the heat of the moment. No pun intended, she thinks, not typically one for comic relief. She wasn’t her usual self – still isn’t, apparently. Ugh, God . She lifts a hand, swipes through her bangs. Still damp; no longer with sweat but with bodily oils and the remnants of residue from the factory fumes.

Bob eyes her with his one horrifically inhuman eye, observing for any signs of metal fume fever . His gaze darts to John, asleep at his side – not against it, and, actually, on the total opposite side of the back seat – where it lingers for the same purpose. Satisfied with the analyses, he sits back, tilts his head, and returns his attention to the stars. “Thank you.” He speaks flatly, then goes typically silent.

The stars won’t rise for some time . He knows this; just no longer the exact minute, since his geolocation sensor was damaged, and he can’t calculate their coordinates nor the position of the celestial bodies from that. At least he can go off of the timings of the previous two days of his contemporary life – he arrived at 3:14am two days before, on June 8. Sunrise was not until 5:41am that day, and yesterday, it was also not until 5:41am. This morning has no reason to be much different.

The starry sky isn’t bad, he thinks . …’Nice’ night . 

Under more favorable circumstances, he might smile while thinking this, an awkward wince more than a grin, but he has to be economical with his energy. Still, he’d like to improve it. After his first attempt, John suggested practicing – which, in turn, suggested disapproval. Too bad. He was only partly imitating the boy who sauntered up to the ordering window at Jack’s Cafe and beamed in a weird way, chirping, “Hi! Nice place ya got here. How’s business?” The other basis for his try was a stranger’s expression. 

Combining the two faces was fruitless. Trying again now would be that, on top of wasteful. So he doesn’t smile, except for on the inside. It’s a feeling he can’t place.

“...Sure,” Sarah sighs. Slightly more than twenty-four hours ago, she never would have thought of saying you’re welcome or thank you to him. He wouldn’t have been a him to her, either – he was an it then. It’s still far from second nature. 

She doesn’t believe that an alloy, faux-human apparatus, designed expressly for the purpose of infiltrating, finding and killing – form follows function – just asked and thanked her for information regarding a song that isn’t even playing. They’re out of decent radio range now, anyway. The only stations on are playing lackluster tunes, nonsense talk shows for the fools awake at this kind of hour, and staticky messes.

Then again, form follows function. He’s built to blend in. And she can’t deny the distinctly human curiosity he just displayed. A shiver threatens to creep up her spine, but a stressed sweat beats the chill to the race and runs down her back followed by a hard swallow. She reminds herself of the way crows apparently try to problem-solve, how dogs tip their heads before novel stimuli. He doesn’t have to be analogous to humans; he can be akin to an animal or in a class of his own. Even parrots learn to speak. 

She lets out a long-held breath, a large huff, and leans back in her seat, grip firm on the wheel and eyes locked ahead. She’s afraid of what Kyle might have thought. Pay attention! Its curiosity isn’t real – it’s a learning computer; a machine, Sarah. It’s designed to pick up as much information as it can just so it can complete its mission. It’s all a farce. 

And, yet, if it wanted to kill her and John by now, it would’ve. Instead, it helped. It blew the T-1000 to a spiral of slinky smithereens. It, without hesitation or second thought, let her and her son crack open its skull and hold the whole of its life in their hands after John broached the subject. It frowned when it admitted its observation that human nature is to destroy the self – pity, remorse – and again, with uttered apologies and an odd look on its face, when John begged it not to go – fear .

Sarah inhales as much air as her lungs will allow, loudly, and decides that this one is different, if only because John reprogrammed it. She’ll not say it out loud, but he did have a good point: listening to his ideas once in a while isn’t a bad thing. She just has to keep playing it his way.

“You better rest up,” she throws over her shoulder. She doesn’t know whether that’s exactly a good or appropriate suggestion, but she says it anyway. “You’ve got a lot of healing up to do, if we can even fix you.”

“Affirmative.”

Chapter Text

Dammit, she should’ve gone to Enrique’s. Sarah doesn’t really know why she didn’t. She knows the route there by heart; it’s a straight shot, following her head, no matter her heart. But why this? A sense of escapism? A hope not to involve him in this mess (though the authorities might have already yanked him in regardless)? A desire to just get the hell out? She can’t answer that. She just drove.

She’s the only one who can drive. John knows how, but she’s not chancing things with him. The Terminator probably can, despite his one arm and injured state, but he's better off in the backseat, a resting lookout. Just in case.

Faithful machine sentinel.

Good God, she’s tired. What is she thinking ?! Her eyes lower – check the tank. Looks about an eighth is left. Better be conservative with the fuel and generous with the caution.

Not only does she have gas to worry about, but the money for it, too. A place to source it. A new name and identity and home base, if not hiding spot, for herself, her son, and this… thing, whatever he is. She can’t answer that, either.

She could cry, and she can feel the small, salty tears begin to form just before she blinks them back. She’d not even cry in the face of a blast of mace. She wipes her eyes with the back of her right hand and hopes neither of the two bodies in the backseat notices; a hard sniffle sucks away the urge to sob so that she can soldier on. 

She’s gone all the way from Long Beach to somewhere past Bakersfield.

The machine sits in total silence. He curtails his energy consumption, too.

Only his most crucial systems are on; the rest are ancillary, or merely secondary, and thus either shut off or set on a sort of interior timer, only going online when needed. 

Every ten minutes, he’s set an inner mechanism to turn on increased depth perception and full-spectrum vision. At the same time, his neural network attempts to communicate with the geolocation sensor. Still misfiring. A dedicated portion of his wafer-circuit brain, siphoned off exclusively to honoring John’s directive to learn this stuff – this stuff meaning feelings – as well as addressing other developments within his wiring, connects this sensation with one similar, processed back at the mill, when John was begging – ordering – him not to go. Whatever that something is or was was not formatted like data he had processed before. This is the only thing like it.

For the second time, he feels the emotion of guilt, and for another time, though still under this emotion’s tenth iteration of existence within his neural network, he feels frustration. 

He curled up at the beginning of the car ride the best he could in order to cloister the heat he and his systems emit, absorbing and recycling it back as a potential power source. It allows for a little extra energy. He uses this tiny excess, as it crosses a preset threshold – self-put into place – to look across the dark landscape and have a brief thought, independent of generated responses to speak aloud.

Dry. Empty.

He imagines that it looks a lot like what the earth looks like in the future he no longer comes from, but he never saw it. He had never been outside until he spawned outside of The Corral in Acton, California. It was also dry and mostly empty, aside from trucks and a variety of roadside litter that his displacement stirred up in the wind and sucked away. But now he has thought too much, and so he brings the accordant system back into conservant compliance.

John stirs and smacks his lips. His eyes flutter open; Bob’s most inhuman, bright red optical sensor, though stuck in place, adjusts its depth perception to bring the boy into view.
“Where are we?”

For once, he cannot supply an answer. He simply looks over towards Sarah. 

She’s weighing her options. An eighth left – should she turn back towards Bakersfield? Press on ahead and hope for the best (her typical, tried-and-true method)? She can’t pull over and mull things over. Even practically alone on the road, there’s no telling what might happen if she’s seen – or worse, if that junkyard sitting diagonal from her, pent up against the car door and the rigid seat, is. There’s no way he can pass for just being injured. The metal shining through his skin makes damn sure of that.

When she looks in the rearview mirror, John seems alright – just tired. Her eyes veer to the part-man, part-machine. Well, if he didn’t look like handmade shit before, he definitely does now ; she guesses that, if he had to breathe, his breaths would be labored, shaky, and shallow – he looks the part. Jesus, squirt, she mentally addresses her son as she stares back ahead, what are we gonna do? If only his dad were here. How very badly she wants to not think for once. Not have to soldier on. Not be between a rock and a hard place, at the end of some kind of rope, if not the end of wit itself.

“Still in California,” she answers with a shrug; it’s not untrue. “Passed Bakersfield not too long ago.” She considers telling him about the predicament, but there’s a fine line to be walked between letting him be a kid and shaping him up to be a future leader. The chance of that necessity is smaller than ever, but still there.

“We are getting low on fuel,” Bob interrupts her thoughts. He’d zoomed in on the gasoline gauge, having set an internal, intermittent timer to check on that every twenty minutes. The subroutine was simple and not energy-intensive; simply a redirecting of the eye, a zoom-in, and an assessment. 

Sarah doesn’t ask how he knows or when he noticed, nor why he didn’t say something earlier.

His chronometer ticks on. Sunlight is getting sooner and sooner, even if he doesn’t know the specific minute. Sitting on the right side of the backseat, the silver of his alloy endoskeleton faces the window and will dance with the first light of day if he doesn’t move. A dead giveaway. Or near dead. If he were to sit behind Sarah, his left leg and arm, severely impaired and ripped off from the elbow, respectively, would be concealed, literally behind the closed door. It didn’t matter so much overnight, when the road was sparsely trafficked and it was dark outside. But the truth is one of three things, aside from the sun and the moon, that cannot long be hidden.

In other words, Sarah thinks, we might be right fucked this time around. In a way, this is all her fault. She’s the one who relented in a moment of weakness she may or may not live to regret and told the thing to get off that hook and do something .

Her hands flapped back down at her sides with a loud smack of frustration, borderline fury. He was entirely correct to incinerate himself. And yet –

Look , she hissed, heart hardened and softened all at once, you know Skynet best out of anyone. Nobody to know Terminators better than a Terminator. She shrugged and drew in a breath, only to clench her eyes from the pain of the tension pounding away at her head and at her heart as much as from the noxious fumes filling her lungs and slowly poisoning her. She didn’t want to admit that she might need him, too. He’d be a double-edged sword, of course, and a massive risk. Maybe a herculean-sized mistake. God, I’m gambling with the whole of humanity here. She wanted to cry; she’d feel Kyle’s disappointment upon her more than the weight of the world’s fate, all three billion lives and more, on her shoulders. 

And yet.

Our son, Sarah. He’s all alone. You have to protect him! She could hear his voice more clearly than in her dream . The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves. More than she could hear him, she could sense him; and she suddenly saw him standing there, looking, at her, at their son, and, finally, at the mangled machine. He regarded the Terminator. …you’d die for John Connor. Kyle chewed his lip, clearly at a crossroads alongside his beloved. 

Then, just like that, he vanished, and the choice was hers to be made in the bowels of the mill, all of it silent but for the echoing sound of churning liquid metal.

She has to live with the consequences, now. She can only hope that she made the right decision. Funny how trying to figure out whether to turn back or keep going is a tougher call than that was. There’s so much she still has yet to figure out; this, ironically, is the least of her problems. Even the hulking heap of scrap metal and charred mix of human and animal skin in the rear isn’t half as big a deal as he should be. She ponders. This is I-5. There’s gotta be an exit before the tank’s used up. Better yet, probably a small town where the news won’t have reached, if we’re lucky. But I’ve got to just… get shit done. Gag the cops, somehow. Figure out what’s going on with Tarissa. Fuck me, this is gonna spread like a virus. On top of all of that, make this thing pass for human. She shouldn’t have spoken up the way she did in the garage; knowing her luck, she jinxed everything from the start. Right, no fate but what we make. Great.

Fortunately, there is one significant resource she’s glad – not for the first time – to have at her disposal. In her arsenal, worded more aptly.

“You,” she turns around for a second, giving the Terminator a hard stare.

He gives his attention back.

“Put some energy aside to pulling names of people tied to the Dysons. Anyone who can fix you up or help fix the shit we’re in. People with connections. Money. Not just Tarissa. We need as much information as we can get, and fast.” It’s an instantaneous request, more a demand, but saying it now is preferable instead of later. Maybe, if fate really is pliable, it’ll bend in her favor a little more and stop spawning the horrors it has. “Start thinking about it.”

He saves the energy he would have spent assuring her of his detailed files, diverting it to the task.

Chapter Text

Not even half an hour later – one-sixteenth of a tank left – as the sky slowly lightens from onyx to obsidian, they happen upon an exit, just as Sarah had hoped for. Even better, the exit sign advertises a small town not too far away: Lost Hills. Ascending one of the hills that must be among the lost, the emerging sight of a fuel-up stop set just off the clover-leaf road is a more promising omen than an oasis in the desert.

There is no asking whether they’re there yet. There is only the silence of the early morning, the stillness of the world at such an odd hour, the calm in the wake of the firestorm that was truly only minutes ago. The hum of the engine and the roll of the tires create a strangely peaceful cadence. It is background noise to Sarah, white noise to John, and an altogether new auditory sensation to Bob, who is hearing it as if for the first time. Today will bring his second true sunrise, though the first without trepidation dampening its hue. 

Sarah takes the exit and steers the car further up the small knoll. The fill-up stop’s marquee sign informs passersbys, in greying numbers –except for the red dollar sign – printed on yellowing, bulging plastic sheets, that gas is $1.38 a gallon. 

Another sign just before the gas station indicates that Lost Hills is only two miles away. What a relief. Sarah breathes a bit easier. She thinks she feels a nostril unclog, but she isn’t sure. It didn’t give the telltale tiny squeak of air finally untrapping. The moment is short-lived; she holds her breath, remembering all that’s still to do. The list repeats in her head like a pounding drum with the same beat as the dull headache that’s a mix of sleeplessness, hunger, a drop in adrenaline, remnants of noxious fumes. She rubs her nose with the back of her hand. 

Names, positions, and other personal information of what his inner systems label “potential matches” for Sarah’s requested parameter – “people tied to the Dysons, anyone who can fix you up or help fix the shit we’re in,” preferably with connections and money and not limited to Miles’ widow, Tarissa – chatter by in a section of Bob’s simulated psyche. It’s a simple database check, so it doesn’t require too much power. If one were to see his inner mechanisms at work, they’d see a small inset, as if on a map, of scrolling numbers, each value a piece of information that’s checked and checked again and then routed accordingly. It happens calmly and quietly. 

In the way of crunching numbers, if there’s a little lagniappe money, he might be able to eat or drink for extra energy. It’d be a buffer, in a way. Synthesize the chemicals, break down the compounds – done in full, no matter the nutrients, by a miniature, mechanized “digestive” system performing a series of revolutionary and sophisticated bio-engineered processes that wastes no resource – convert it to heat, stored in interior sinks. The system is hyperadvanced – nothing will be left.

Unfortunately, it won’t offer too much in the way of energy, given how complex a computer he is. But it’ll do, for a time.

“Nice place,” Bob comments, apparently seeing the station ahead. His voice is toneless, but there is nuance to be found in the fact that he can’t help* but make the sarcastic, redundant comment in the midst of power-saving mode, despite his earlier adherence to saving as much energy as possible to devote to other tasks.

A strangely human slip-up.

Sarah drives in its direction and finds herself saying a silent prayer of gratitude. From the exit, she turns left at a stoplight, taking CA-46 for only a few seconds before seeing that she has options. Oh, happy day. She can’t believe her good fortune; never did she think that the sight of not just one gas station but two – and a Jack in the Box – would make her tear up.

Of course, she’s been in desperate times that called for desperate measures. She’s no stranger to making do in the most dire of circumstances. And, accordingly, she knows the rush of relief when tides finally turn. But it’s never been this good, so good that she can’t wait to take a piss and sink her teeth into God’s most abominable creation: a fast-food hamburger. 

She throws her head back with a cry of joy. Her neck riles up in anger, put into a position that agitates its healing – only hours ago it was twisted and bent in ways that probably ought to have broken it, the result of rubbernecking, tossing her head this way and that, and literally tumbling over in a giant step-van that, too, flipped onto its side. The ache spreads through her sinews and muscles, and yet her mouth is wide open, a bared grin and almost a laugh in the face of fate, the way she threw back the bottle of tequila at Enrique’s only hours ago. She winces only after smiling, really smiling, for what feels like the first time in forever, though she doesn’t groan in discomfort.

Eyes on the road, soldier. You’ve got it. Almost there.
…I’ve got it, Kyle.

The road straddles both bumpy and smooth.
As she pulls up at the 76 station, she looks out over the flat, vacant scene. Hardly any cars. Silence. Stillness. Safety. She isn’t too far from Enrique’s – she knows without a doubt, vigilant and practiced as she is, that she’s still in southern California, so Calexico is a few hours’ distance as the crow flies – but, God, she’s so far from that place. She’s removed enough to let John keep sleeping in the back. He need not wake for watch duty.

The deep slash on her right shoulder blade, sutured and bandaged by Bob in a similarly nondescript location, another gas station – this one almost as empty as that – stings less as weight falls from her shoulders. It throbs dully as she parks at a pump and angles herself back, assuming the reverse position with her hand on the right headrest.

It crosses her mind briefly that that hand is just in front of the Terminator’s face. He’s badly beaten but still fully capable of reaching up and snapping her wrist if he so chooses. She doesn’t end up moving her hand and instead takes a deep breath in; independent of his battered state, his expression is one of exhaustion.

How dare you look this type of tired, that same part of her mind thinks, the one that chided the thoughtless location of her hand. You haven’t even lived. You never will. You don’t get to be tired like this. You don’t know what it’s like… stop, Sarah. Stop.
She hangs her head, sighs, and repeats the brushing back of her bangs as she holds her head high.
“...still want that vacation, I bet.”

“Yes.” 

They’d technically been on an extended one since John was in utero up until not so long ago, when they returned to the urban stateside and she blew up a computer factory. No telling what John had told the Terminator and what he’d need to be filled in on. All she’d gathered in the in between was that he was from the future, reprogrammed by John of that time in response to the T-1000, just as Kyle was sent back in response to the first Terminator. Something still irks in her about comparing him to Kyle. It’s not a comparison. It’s just a parallel. And worse things have happened. Jesus, Sarah, you just lived those worse things. Get it together.

She rubs her eyes; when she lowers her hands, she lowers her gaze with them. There’s so much to do; the list runs itself around her head once more. But first, John. 

Her baby. Her boy, back asleep and at peace.

All she has of Kyle in this cruel and unjust world, now minimally less so. 

So very nearly killed. Yet all he has to show for it is a set of two ruddy scabs on his left cheek; she can look past the cheilitis at the corners of his mouth and his bruised lips. He’d probably bitten them a lot these past few days. A chill runs down her back at the thought of him alone, before she was at his side – not just for the past two days, but all those before then. How bad a mother is she? He didn’t almost get himself killed in rescuing her. It was her fault. If only she’d raised him less reliant on her, more confident in himself and headstrong in the face of fear… but he wasn’t alone. He could’ve died, and humanity, too, with him. But all he has is the visage of any other tween boy: a bit chubby, mostly still soft, save for the odd mark brought about by age-appropriate recklessness. And it’s only because of… 

She raises her eyes again, for the first time truly taking in the state of the apparatus before her. Battle-weary, battle-worn, and unquestionably worse for wear, she assesses him with the same methodologicalism that he probably would, her.

Half his face is ripped clean off, leaving only a human left side and bits of bloody, tissuey residue stuck to silvery metal on the right. The same could be said of his hair – a round chrome dome on the right, short and spiky brunet locks on the left. His jacket is scratched and torn, just like the tee that once hid his chest, as well as his chest itself. Even the breastplate beneath has scrapes and grooves glimmering in the modest bit of light. He lacks a left arm from the elbow down, with a number of wires of varying thicknesses dangling where the appendage might be, some flapping about and some more rigid. His left knee is but a skinless swivel joining shining through. 

…you’d die for John Connor.

If not for him… 

She has a lot to wrap her head around, too. Her stomach bubbles with the regret she might come to have for her earlier thought that trusting him was the sanest choice she had. If the dark future was prevented, is the world still as insane as it was only hours ago? What compelled her to give in, to make an analogous choice at the foot of a massive firepit, when she could have done away with it all and spared herself the great unknowns of ruefulness at letting him “live,” whatever he might do, as much as given herself the catharsis at finally seeing the futuristic machine, designed to kill, to its death – bringing it there herself.

Lowering a willing Terminator into its death wouldn’t bring about damn near the same closure that crushing one to death would. She’ll admit that. Still, there’s something about that willingness, especially given that it was in direct defiance to John’s orders. He bragged to his mother earlier – or perhaps reassured her – in what she thought was a stalemate, under the staticky glow of a cobwebbed collection of garage lights, that he has to do what I say. Get that through your thick head, Mom! And maybe one or two of my other ideas for once!

“How about that and a trip to the salon,” Sarah huffs, smirks. Not a half-bad idea; in another life, she’d be dyeing her hair red right about now or making some other regretful aesthetic move, swayed for and against the choice by Ginger. She knows Matt’d laugh no matter what he saw in the end and give her a big, goopy kiss on the cheek. That Porsche guy missed out real good, squidge. Bet he’s kicking himself Bruce Lee, not being able to see you like this. “We’re gonna need a few changes of scenery and face if we wanna get by.”

The voices always have gotten louder in the quiet, collecting in the calmer moments, as if kicked up like desert dust by a passing musing and scattering across the mesa of her mind. They never include her dad – they’re only ever from Kyle, Ginger, her mom, or Matt, all those taken by the first Terminator. All those voices and yet she’d never so much as heard the one currently in conversation with her until thirty-six hours ago, despite the face behind it haunting her for years. 

She might soon be able to hear it for what it is and not what it says. Neither she nor her boy have had a moment to register the deep, nasally German** accent that screeches to a guttural halt when confronted by a th or shies away from Rs as if discomforted by them. Nor to wonder where it came from. This sound? For something dispatched to the United States? An infiltration unit? It doesn’t make any sense.

Then again, nothing does. Not since over ten years, now.

Bob turns his head, a smooth swivel from one direction to the other and back again. He examines the surroundings with both eyes for more accurate assessment – one made of metal and ballistic material set over a red bulb, one humanesque. His eyes move at just under the same pace as his head. The usual, ever-so-slight lag has lessened, a subconscious background development garnered from observation and implemented by his neural network. A latent program designed for infiltration – and quite different from another development coasting his neural circuitry: the beginnings of something like a thought, a string of words prepared as a response, but with an organic element, no longer entirely preloaded. 

This will do, but just for now. We must strategize and figure out what-

Partway through, he cuts it off for the purpose of power conservation.

Instead of speaking his agreement aloud, he shuts his mouth, gives a small nod. It saves energy. The gesture will say enough.

Sarah quits the car to fill up. She hopes she has enough cash still stuffed in her sock, where it can’t fly away – or be burnt to ash by singed liquid steel – to get her to wherever she needs to be, at least physically. Mentally? That’s a fever dream. But maybe, just maybe, this quiet truck stop, basking in the darkest of daylight hours, could be a good place to start.

She hears a flock of ducks whistle as they fly overhead, and she stands more fully upright when she exits the stolen vehicle. The sky is eigengrau, and the day hasn’t yet broken.

Chapter Text

Bob squeezes his eyes tight, near shut, while Sarah and John stand and look on. John watches with a mouth agape, peering closely at every little thing. Sarah scrutinizes with crossed arms; she’s closed off to all the world but what’s before her, and, even then, a degree removed, still not used to her new normal (it could theoretically change at any moment anyway – all it takes is the rousing of a latent directive – but it’s, again, all in theory; does – would – she not trust her son and his team of nonexistent experts to properly program what the fate of the future relies on? and is it relies or relied, now?). Her hair is tied back in a strict, slick ponytail. She folds her arms tighter as John leans in, shifts her weight to her right foot.

The little tableau unfolds.

Bob’s body doesn’t move, not battered whatsoever by the drilling forces racketing his limb and limb-to-be. Each round of augering, each tightening, at his elbow should rock him back and forth.

None do. 

He is as still as a statue, face unmoved and stiff save for clenched eyelids. 

If he was asked, how this feels, he wouldn’t say unpleasant – he’d likely take a long pause and answer with a simple unknown – though, if he was asked, if it feels unpleasant, he would say yes. He doesn’t have much in the way of an internal monologue, the majority of what might be it instead just a series of neverending numbers that pass by at a rapid pace without any deeper meaning or greater purpose. Those data exist only to assess everything internal and external and to identify and correct whatever might be amiss. Yet not all of his synthetic psyche operates in such a way. An ever-expanding minority of his neural network has been populating the higher levels of Bloom’s taxonomy. 

He again betrays nothing as a bolt, deemed too loose, is drilled more deeply into his pareidolic elbow and put into place. The bolt itself is moderately thick and made of strong, sturdy metal. It’ll suffice.

Bob opens his eyes fully and utters a thanks just below typical speaking volume as the drill used for the bolt is removed from the area near his intersticed skeleton and brought to rest, still held in hand, on the surface of the table upon which his new left arm lays. The young tech responsible for its employment takes a breath he doesn’t really need but for the emotional urge behind it. No human ear registers its sound. 

The tech folds his arms and leans back in his chair, which creaks. 

The room is silent.

With his right hand, Bob reaches between a number of nestled axles in his left forearm. He needles one of the four newly-installed rods, each still unblemished, this one quite thin, inserted as an imitation palmaris longus. He holds it between his thumb and index finger and pulls it backwards. The skeletal wrist flexes and jolts the collection of pieces and parts, yet, at present, lacking wires, called as his left hand, to life. Pushed forwards again – and his hand falls.

He makes no remark. The result speaks for itself.

…but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived. All in the room, Bob included, know the story of Frankenstein, though to differing degrees of familiarity. All think of it. None say it. 

Bob’s omnipresent frown, more akin to simply pursed lips, now, tucks into itself a little more than usual as if in an expression of thought. The sensation is novel, but not exactly. The material making up the rod isn’t a titanium hyperalloy, but that much isn’t noticeable. It will have little effect on everyday functioning, if any at all, as Bob himself put it. And who would know better than he would? 

It’s, at least, better than not having a limb at all. He can ascertain its newness, and it feels odd, but nothing that he can’t get used to. It’s not the same as what he’s made up of. But it’s an improvement. Perhaps not as strong, not as easily able to conduct, but the circumstances can be made malleable where the metal isn’t. 

He flexes again experimentally before putting his arm flat on the tabletop, extended outwards. His right is held horizontal against his pectorals, also resting.

John is the first to break the silence, yanking two clenched fists down in, towards his chest, hair styled in a round graduation shaking with glee with the greater gesture. “Yes!”
Sarah puts a practiced hand on his shoulder, as if to stall him. Not yet. Not just yet.

“We have to wire it,” the weary tech states, running a hand over his face, his mussed stubble. The wake of his palm, having disturbed his thin beard, leaves some whiskers awry, and the microscopic muscles beneath them ache dully, gently. “But that’s a start.” He nods. “Still, wiring it’s gonna be ass.”

Tedious, in other words. Tiresome.

Bob, for his part, is tired. 

Sarah is also tired. 

She’s itching to get out of California – she wants nothing more than to lay low, to hide, to retreat from everyone and everything, even from herself. She knows that she ultimately doesn’t have to do that – Peter Silberman, Tarissa Dyson, and a few other connections, at last convenient, have helped. Somebody knows somebody, who might also know somebody. There was a chain that had to be gone up, but, by and large, everyone has agreed to shut up. A bit of money was involved. A few threats. An established need-to-know basis system. A lot of research into deterrence theory and the best tactics under it, as well as the wider genre of conflict resolution. 

Everyone who entered into conversations exited those same discussions as a little more wary about nuclear war and a little more wise about technological development. They were left to their own devices as far as conclusions on consciousness development were concerned, but the quiet machine with the facade of a man tended to evoke more sympathy than rejection, and he sometimes elicited an amused huff when he calmly made a deadpan request for the name of your plastic surgeon. He was a swell self-advocate, and meeting him tended to seal the deal for most. Seeing is believing, anyway. 

And that is a large part of why Bob is tired. He can’t discern why, but he hasn’t been particularly fond of being gawked at. He can, in some unexplainable way, sense the stares he gets, feel the observations – and he registers the opposite of data as pain, at the fact that he has, up to now, had no more left arm to show the remnants of, to flex the ferroalloy fingers of or nickel knuckles to bend a joint at. When confronted, he usually silently casts his gaze down to his knee, which has yet to be patched up – the face came first; that is, after acquiring the materials necessary for his innate tissue-regeneration “instinct” to be double-checked and kickstarted, as well as a false eye – with his pants leg rolled up for the occasion. 

Sometimes he wants to stare down the offending party, smirk – just as John taught him – and prompt with a drawling Ozzy voice: I am Iron Man. He has a few quips outside of the plastic surgeon gag; some made with John’s input, some he developed all by himself.

It’s because I shot the sheriff. But I did not shoot the deputy.

You should see the other guy.

…that’ll be $5.

Or wordlessly, slowly rolling up the leg of his trousers a tiny bit higher.

None of them have been put into practice. Sarah quickly made sure that none of those ideas left the drawing board of the dingy place they found left behind in a mobile home park, where they’d made a temporary home, claiming the unclaimed as their own.

So this is how men get socialized into behaving the way they do. Christ. She had half a pack after that. My life is a tragicomedy reel… and it’s real. Fuck me. The pain of stupid humor lessened when she went back inside and saw the two talking, heard of their plans for how to pass off his injuries in a more legitimate manner. 

But there’s more to the story about leaving this all behind. Escapism doesn’t come naturally to Sarah; out of fight or flight, she chooses the former, only deciding on the latter to protect John. She’s tuckered out, and she doesn’t want her name thrown around any more than it already has been.

As for her boy? Normalcy. Freedom. Self-determination. That’s what she wants for him. That’s why she wants out of California.

She closes her eyes and exhales. She is here, with her boy, alive and well – as well as he can be, all things considered – and his protector, who is showing signs of something she won’t name as promise (too binding, too inflexible) but as agreement. 

Tendency. 

Good things. 

The same goes for the whole of their situation, for the three of them generally – things are agreeable, tending to be good things, leaning more positive than negative. Their little band is shut away in a decent trailer, not one that’s falling apart, though they do hope a park resident won’t recognize their images from newsreels or newspapers or plain old gossip. They run the risk of being known, and they must keep to themselves, shelter in place. Sure, they have to shimmy on over here to Vandenberg Base every few days and walk forbidding halls with forbidding walls. But it’s close-by, secure, and private. Nobody is here without a reason. And everybody here is here with good levels of experience and trust. These walls won’t talk, no matter what they see. That’s enough escape for now.

Sarah knows better than to tempt fate by asking for more. Even dreaming of it seems to be out of the question. It’s only that top scientists are dangerously close to top government positions, too.

Kyle… she puts her hand to her temple. 

“But you can still do it, right? You can fix it?” John lowers his hands and wraps them around Bob’s right forearm, clad in a suboptimal mint sweatshirt. He holds onto the appendage like a child – aware of his autonomy, but clinging to familiarity, to safety. Holding onto hope.

Bob looks down and away – the posture of a person preparing to receive disappointment.

He prefers wearing his leathers. They’re fashioned and polished, made of thick hides, harder to roll up to the elbow or knee to display what lies beneath to all the world. It’s not like he has much to show off anymore, anyway.

Maybe after today. It’ll take a little more tinkering, some tightening and soldering.

…privacy. The word rises in his neural network in a fresh context, enveloping his HUD and blinking emphatically before disappearing in an invisible flashing light. He has a new understanding than just its dictionary definition. Discomfort and embarrassment had their microseconds of similar flotsam fame in recent days before. 

This could be the start of a beautiful thing. Or a terrible one.

Cyberdyne techs floating in and out of a military base, working on the one and only Terminator that would ever be. Maintaining him. Studying him. Repairing him. 

So this is how it begins, Sarah thinks, and stuffs a finger between her thick lips. They’re chapped. Her insides don’t scream for water in the way her spirit screams in terror for assurance that nothing will come from this. But John is here, seeing it – and to it – personally; so is she. Dyson’s widow knows. Silberman had his come-to-Jesus. 

And, again, who would know Terminators better than… well, they won’t exist, she tries to comfort herself. He’d know how to stop things if they got too close for comfort. He’s our Icarus. Get too close and he falls with the whole shebang. 

It requires trust in John and in the T-800 that she was developing at her own pace but now must fast-track. Trust in humanity is another subject altogether.

If Silberman can fuckin’ believe it…

There’s some hope in the fact, too, that the T-1000 was, as the machine had put it, an advanced prototype. Skynet’s best bet, but a risk. Stated differently, if there was indeed a future where Skynet still existed and was out for her blood and John’s, it probably wouldn’t be sending back another unit like that. How bad can it be from here on out? Nothing had popped up from the future to alter the present. Not yet.

She can’t wait to lay low, still, and live with a little less fear. It’ll be nice. She considers what she’ll go by, if not Sarah Connor, as well as what name for a boy she might’ve chosen if John weren’t picked for her. She even considers that the machine might need a moniker.

Chapter Text

Bob didn’t really know that much about the first Terminator. 

Technically, he’s the third – of a hopeful only (yeah, right, “only”) three: the first, another make 800, model 101, sent to 1984; the second, the T-1000, programmed by Skynet as a Hail Mary attempt on John’s life; and himself, future John’s response to the call of the untamed wild, given its prototypical nature, that the polyalloy presented. 

He knew of its existence. 

He knew that its existence may have ended at its last logged coordinates: 34.05411, -118.2315703. No other coordinates made it to the collective conscience upload after that, Skynet’s database holding all files for installation in units. 

The numbers had no meaning to him; he didn’t know that those coordinates were at a site that had an address, nor that there was a name attached to the address. After all, Terminators were not immune to being stumped – Skynet itself was stumped enough to risk sending back its last resort – and can be as human as their false faces represent them to be, having to rely on interaction for information from time to time. But, as fate would have it, those coordinates were for far more than just a boring, beige building. They stood tall and proud for hopeful advances in computing, in manufacturing. At the time, their posture was ultimately nothing but a young entrepreneur’s dream. But that dream became something else very quickly – a nightmare – in a matter of mere hours after that last upload, costing humanity not an arm and a leg but a chip and a leg. And that was far worse.

The files about that first unit ended there. The history of things to come was being written, played and lived out in real time, just as another unit like it was pulled out of cold storage for programming.

The thing about time travel, aside from it not being over even when it’s over, is that it’s horribly finicky. Details are even more demanding. 

For example, it was only after the roundtable at the Dysons’ home that Bob came to know of the advances authored by Miles, giving way to Cyberdyne’s military computer contract, which, in turn, gave way to Skynet and everything that was and wouldn’t be before and after that. 

You’re judging me on things I haven’t even done yet, Miles said. 

Bob stared, expressionless as ever. He didn’t have the capacity to think about anything other than the mission at hand; the information coming in was crucial, and other orders, at that moment, were but side projects, saved for spare energy and computing power to siphon off to. He sat quietly and took in everything in – hearing Sarah chide the man she just met (and tried to kill, but for John’s intervention) and draw indirect comparisons between himself and the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, speak of him analogously with death and destruction. 

Miles decided to destroy before destroying could occur. The processor… right. Alright, then, um, we have to destroy all the stuff at the lab: the files, the disk drives, everything. Everything here. Everything. I don’t care… the chip- do you know about the chip?

A brief silence followed his declaration, his revelation, and then quiet hell broke loose. 

Bob announced his immediately-drawn, fool-proofed conclusion on just what the chip was. The CPU from the first Terminator. Yet, at the same time, part of his neural net broke away alongside the fresh hell that burst forth and began to spiral in the only way it could; mechanically, though increasingly humanly. It took the words that followed, said in heated exchanges, to some form of heart, right then little more than the tin man’s lack of one. It must be from the other one like you. It was scary stuff, radically advanced. 

Bob said that it, too, must be destroyed. 

But just before that, in that moment’s peace after Miles Dyson said those two words – “the chip” – Bob lifted up his head attentively, his expression somehow more hardened. His eyes looked lightly crazed to the absolute nobody who looked at them. One might have said his face was one of shock; maybe of surprise. But no one saw it; all eyes were on Miles.

Detailed files, he’d told Sarah in the car ride to the Salceda compound. That was what he had on Dyson, on the origins of Skynet and, by association, himself. 

When Sarah demanded to know everything in that anthology, Bob gave it freely, stated as best he could – in layman’s terms where necessary, having noted that words like affirmative were too rigid and scanning his catalogue for suitable expressions and synonyms to replace stiffer language; he’d been listening to the way people talked but had only then begun to actually employ the techniques picked up latently – over the course of the trip. It was a give and take of information, with some blanks filled in organically and others answered in reply to questions. He answered John as much as Sarah. He provided. 

It was milk and honey to Sarah, manna from heaven spewing from the mouth of hell.

That made the revelation hours later all the more riveting.

He was innocent, free from the stain of the sin of ignorance; nobody thought to fault him, anyway, despite not seeing the smear of astonishment, the best he could show it, on his face. He had no way of knowing. He knew the make sent out, just like himself, as well as its mission, though not the model, also just like himself; Sarah's greatest fear. He knew, to an extent, what information it was programmed with, what it carried as it tarried back in time. He knew it got sent back at all. Just not what it left behind, nor in its dark-water wake. He only began to put it together at table, engaged in tough, tiresome talks.

Those discussions set a precedent, done over days: Sarah told him about the first Terminator, corroborated John’s stories about the time she and him spent in Central America (though she left out those parts relating to men – embellishments, nothing and nobody important in the long run; but for one man, of course, but she guarded the memory of him fiercely, even from herself, and spoke not a word of the name of Kyle Reese). She told him about Matt and Ginger and the Porsche guy who flaked on her. She told him about how she never got to see her mother’s body or tell her she loved her, because the first Terminator was on the other end of the call, bringing not love but Skynet’s hatred of humanity with it when it showed up at the Tiki Motel two hours later.

Naturally, only the most pressing, pertinent facts make it into the final cuts of conversation. Sarah has never told him that the first Terminator didn’t exactly look just like him; that it had longer hair when she first encountered it, that its eyebrows burned off and its hair’s tips were singed when it jumped through fire, giving it a chop more like Bob’s now. That its skin was years younger and that it passed for a man in his 20s or 30s as opposed to in his 40s or 50s.

Bob never knew these things, and he doesn’t know them still, and so he never wonders about them, if Terminators wonder at all. 

If they wonder. Still strangely worded. If – because their existence was far less likely with only him around, albeit not impossible; they – because there were three, total, sent back, though they might never be sent back to begin with, since that future was likely rerouted; wondered – because he’s become something like but not exactly human. 

John, however, does know those finer details. Years of retelling the same precious few facts will do that. And so he knows the vast majority of her stories and most of their redundant points, though not all; but what he is told, he remembers. Even the nitpicky parts that his mother shouldn’t bother with but did and still does. 

She’d imitated that short, spiky, shorn hair several times over the years, stressing how human it looked. Just like a bad haircut, with eyebrows clean off, too. Remember that, John. Skynet wouldn’t stop. Ever! It even made sure the Terminator had a bad hair day. That's how human it passed for. She didn’t think there’d be more than one… yet she prepared him for the possibility in subtle ways: vague language, lacked promises. She was always too on edge to affirm anything. She had everything to lose for a third time – first, Kyle, then John, and humanity – and was spurred to spare no excuse; anything could happen, Skynet could exist. She told, taught, and trained her son accordingly.

But, now, that correlation never crosses his mind. He just sees Bob for who he is. 

A future version of John that probably won’t exist anyway – spared, not denied, the opportunity to lead the Resistance – never got to the bottom of it, either. 

Maybe it was intentional, the choice to change up a unit’s features made to differentiate one from the others of its kind; for the sake of current John’s memory, for the sake of his mom’s. Maybe Skynet formed them like that, marrying efficiency in using the same skin template and elaboration in making small shifts so that one model meant many submodels. Reduce, reuse, recycle, in a way.

Cropped hair, aged skin – what does it matter now? Bob, again, simply is what he is to this John. And to Sarah. That the former Terminator had far fewer wrinkles, came into its world present-future and past with hair fit for the 80s, makes no real difference. Bob has no idea. He is what he is, too.

Sarah has made peace with these diversions in detail lacking justification or reason. Many things in her life have done the same. Ignorance is hardly a price to pay for a continued existence. 

So Bob doesn’t question why his hair is a flat-top. He doesn’t even think to question it. 

But he does think, and he thinks long and hard in his own manner when he’s faced with a mirror for one of the comparably few times in his life he’s been so. The circumstances are dissimilar – he can’t find much more than the word good for that, though it’s a shift from the word optimal that he might have used prior – he’s something like glad that he’s not getting his scalp scythed into and his skull scrutinized, though he didn’t feel glad or not when that did happen (at that time, he didn’t feel whatsoever, emotional or physical; it was merely data doing its thing). He’s alone. It’s his own doing. 

Consulting the emotional matrix in his databases and cross-referencing it with a separate, newer, ever-expanding and self-set-up one, he decides that he feels pleasantly surprised. 

He’d heard the phrase in passing, cataloged it, and opts for its usage now.

Of course, nobody is around to ask anything, and so he doesn’t say anything. He wouldn’t even if John or Sarah were awake and attendant. But he is pleasantly surprised; he looks better than he expected after a little bit of grafting, patience, and plasticity worked their realist magic. He’s never before looked in a mirror with aesthetic intentions and purposes like this, for appearance’s sake. He’d done it to ensure there wasn’t a problem with his chip port. To monitor the regrowth of his skin, specially-made living tissue more adept at recovery than a human’s mere epiderm. But never to check his skin and his hair, the whole of his reflection, get a good look at himself. 

He’s seen his reflection several times since his handsome looks were marred. Just not like this. What’s this revelation he’s having in the trailer bathroom mirror, skin shining an oily glow in the dim flicker? It’s not the first time he’s used moisturizer on his wounds. He was instructed to do as much. (He’s used it on his dry lips a few times, too – it’s a habit that takes active remembering and reminding on his part, to himself, to do.) And it’s not that he looks particularly different from the last time he saw through the looking-glass. The skin on his face and sole arm and hand – the right – has largely healed, the wounds not as widespread as those at his left knee or titanium torso. His hair has regrown; he can and does slick it back with a drugstore gel, now. John says it makes him look cool.

Looking cool, or something like it (“passable,” Bob might say) is the current project. As it was, reconstruction of his face and hair were deemed the first order of business. After that would come his trunk, then his left arm – from the elbow down, inclusive of a hand – and then his left knee. Anything left on the laundry list of repairs and remakes would come after in a similarly logical order, though the actual results would vary, based on available materials and resources – not just physical but mental, workful: Cyberdyne staff and recruited scientists (largely recruited on behalf of the military, just kept under tight wraps) able to identify, design, and execute the solutions. 

The word lucky hasn’t yet come into his conscience to define his beyond-blessed fortune, but, in time, it will.

Do I look like a dork to you, he asked John and pointed at his bloodied chrome skull with his then-still-gloved hand. He had enough energy to expend to formulating the redundant question, the ultimately-meaningless quip – he’d had a disgustingly sweet and sticky honeybun bought at a gas station store – and was prompted by some interior pull to reference a comment John had made about him oughting to pass as more human, and not such a dork all the time. Sure, this turned on his appearance, not his vernacular. But he was able to twist it slightly, to make a joke. He’d learned.

No honeybun oozing melty sugar could match the way his comment dripped with sarcasm. But it was funny. John laughed. 

Where he only had enough energy before to register a good and beautiful thing as nice, Bob, someday to be called as T, helped along, however miniscule, by the ungodly amount of refined and processed carbs, stored the sound away in his memory with a fraction of the little bit of surplus energy. His systems connected the audible information with the visual – a smile, and one he could imitate (and, maybe someday, master) – and he, through some other system – that same self-made matrix, spontaneously formed, at this point nascent and unconscious as ever – flagged the inputs, together and separate, as important and good. Good turned into pleasant in a few nanoseconds, and happy was connected just after.

That happened on their second night in the abandoned trailer home. It was not half as bad as the first, and Bob knew what bad was.

In the quiet of that same night, another latent association was made as Bob sat at a dusty chair near the door, keeping guard. The chair, more a stool and made of aging, aching wood, held his weight well. That was also good – but also convenient.

His neural network separated and spun off. John’s smile and laugh was good, but not convenient. 

He recalled the small, fretful, tentative smile of John’s relief when he was no longer resigned to a fate resulting in him melted in molten steel, when Sarah fussed him off of the hook he was going to ride all the way down into his demise. Glad. Felt towards himself, strangely enough. He stepped off of the machinery, returned the hug John had given him before his near-suicide, and shut down the majority of his corollary systems, hobbling along to help Sarah find a suitable vehicle for what he would say was getting the hell out but was overridden by his self-set parameter by a simple departure. He needed to do what was strictly necessary and conserve as much power as possible. 

His place on the chair allowed for something akin to reflection. He decided that, on the whole, that situation was good – and not convenient, but something else he couldn’t identify. He tried that whole night, sitting on the stool slightly asag under his hundreds of pounds of weight, but got nothing.

Foreigner playing in the car gave him a hint, as the song kept repeating “love” – the word connected to what he overheard Sarah tell John, what John told him about Sarah’s feelings towards his dad. It was a word connected to hugs – he knew that much, as well as what hugs are; Sarah and John hugged when the word met his synthetic ears – he got that much. He guessed it was why John hugged him and why he felt compelled to repeat the action. 

He knew what love was. He knows what love is. But, at the same time, he doesn’t. It’s a work in progress, even for humans, whose nature is to destroy themselves.

He used a little extra energy, gained from sitting (especially as opposed to standing) absolutely still on watch duty, to recall a portion of the song, just as he did earlier.

I wanna know what love is – I want you to show me – I wanna feel what love is – I know you can show me… let’s talk about love. I’m feeling so much love. I wanna feel it…

In the trailer bathroom, judging his reflection, good comes to mind. Glad – happy. His synthetic mind rouses a few other related words and imitations of ideas, all turning on good. Love is not among those thoughts; and where it remains absent, where it would be alongside the iterations of good, bad rises up.

His face tightens; naturally, it shows in his reflection. His mind is quick to process this new appearance – not the restored one, but this specific expression – as bad, too. That endures for just a milli-moment as contrasting error messages begin to compete to define the whole of his looks; where it started with good, bad has just overridden that output, and the two fight for foremostness. Bob does not cut off the train of thought, as it were – he, as a human might, purses his lips tighter and delegates the categorizing task to a lower level of importance, not stopping its continuation but letting it run in the background. It is a strange and confusing calculation and sensation – another thought he doesn't actually think – and he is entirely new to this and sends it to a subordinate system. 

He feels surprise and shock just as he did at the Dysons’. He allows the program of that emotion to run at a higher tier. It’s… uncomfortable, but doable. Allowable. Within acceptable parameters. He siphons off part of his processing power to a more familiar evaluation as he takes in his reflection again.

HGHT 394482 0602

WGHT 348034 0348

HAIR 943218 9966

EYES 21278 1612

GEND 847240 0931

DIST 328236 2024

FACI 230925 5433

BILD 000259 5048

POST 850890 0343

…better, he thinks. Not good. But better. Bearable. Facts, not assessments or opinions.

This is a time in his life he comes to know the feelings of frustration and relief, in conjunction with several others, such as self-comparison.

Chapter Text

“John. Get up. You got to get up.” Bob is shaking the boy’s arm – in turn, shaking his whole body, with force gentle enough to not jostle him but enough to wake him. His voice is a distant rolling thunder in the silence of the room, a howling wind over a tranquil plain with the promise of a storm to come. “Now.”

But there is no storm. John wakes in a daze. 

Bob’s distress signals are firing with all they’ve got inside. We hurt! We’re afraid. From what he’d observed and consequently learned, even if just quiescently, John was showing signs of just that: being afraid. 

One of his inner tracking crosshairs – he has one per eye; the right was on John, and the left was on Sarah – picked up on the abnormal rhythms in the boy’s pulse points, the rise and fall of his chest, calculating breaths and beats per minute alike. It locked in on those spots and ran fresh calculations. The trends were enough to demand action; and so he redirected his gaze, which was before totally vigilant, analyzing the surroundings and the sleeping duo, to the boy alone. But only after the premises was deemed safe enough, the conclusion of a brief assessment, to redirect all of his attention to the sudden situation.

He crouches next to the boy. “What’s the matter?” He doesn’t need to waste wavelengths on telling John that his heart and breathing rates were askew. He’d figured out that humans can discern things like that easily – hearing someone say that I need to sit down after a sprint, or that I need to catch my breath post-exertion of some kind; or, simply, I need a minute. Their internal cues were quick, largely accurate, but never as well as a machine’s.

A machine, for all its efficient operation, can only see the outside, though. And so he asks John for a second time what’s amiss. “Is there a problem?”

John yawns and sits up, weight on his hands, splayed backwards, palms flat. He grimaces. “What?” His face says, are you crazy? where his words don’t. Then, a beat – “...oh. Yeah, I was just, um… having a bad dream.” 

He searches his files for the definition, although he knows what a dream is. Just to be sure, because a dream is an intangible, abstract, thing – and sometimes something distinctly human. He’s only seeking clarification.

A series of thoughts, images, or emotions occurring during sleep.

An experience of waking life having the characteristics of a dream.

Something notable for its beauty, excellence, or enjoyable quality.

A strongly desired goal or purpose.

A bad dream nixes the latter two definitions; and having occurred in a hibernative state, John must mean that first one. A course of inner computing goes astray to realize, once translated from code, that he experiences dreams, too. Just not that human sort occurring during sleep. But that thought isn’t currently pertinent, and so it’s shoved aside to a lower level of processing. He isn’t sure whether the dream John had was a thought, image, or emotion; nor is he certain of its place in the series, or whether it was one of a kind, singular and sole. He remains quiet.

One thing about Bob – he’s completely at ease in the still and the silent. Unnervingly so. For the progress he’s demonstrated in immersion, in infiltration, he seems serially stuck in his ways as far as this facet goes.

John fills the void, spurred by the (childish, but not entirely; adults do the same, and everyone knows it) urges to seek comfort and share discomfort, so that one might be increased and the other decreased, as well as another distinctly human drive: to avert awkwardness, especially in a great hush. 

“...it was about the other guy,” he offers, shoulders sinking where his eyes rise, gaze fixed and dependent. It’s a gaze he’s hardly ever been allowed to give. It feels wrong, embarrassing – but liberating. With it, his soul speaks familiar words that will never make it to his mouth, nor, as company, to his arms, reached up in request for embrace: I want my Dad. Not the guy who taught him engines, not the ex-Green Beret, none of them. 

John Connor wants his real dad, Kyle Reese, who he sent back in time to 1984. Kyle Reese, who’s dead, who’s not even been born yet. Bob told him that they’d meet; but John will, by then, be forty-five. Too old.

Even with his current ten years old, he’s still too old for a plea like that, just as he’s always been too important, has had to be smarter, stronger. But that hasn’t stopped his eyes from putting on their little play – brows upturned, stare desperate, wanting, needing, surfaces glossed over with tears as much as unanswered longing.

Bob doesn’t ask what’s wrong with his eyes. He infers through careful computation that he doesn’t know more about why John cries in this moment. Pain or fear are his only guesses; his background programs and processes pick up speed – and, if they were entities, they’d be picking up pencils, writing furiously as a wealth of learning and understanding unfolds.

He’s still crudely behaved, though, a project in progress. 

He doesn’t ask, either, what happened in the dream; he omits questions about how John feels, what he can or should do about it, or if John wants to talk about it. There is no I see or I’m sorry – only the sighing sound of the air in motion.

It’s nobody’s fault. There is no blame. 

The Terminator will never stop. It will never leave him, and it will never hurt him, never shout at him, or get drunk and hit him, or say it’s too busy to spend time with him. It’ll always be there… and it’ll die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers who’ve come and gone over the years, this thing, this machine, is the only one who’s measured up. In an insane world, it’s the sanest choice.

Sarah didn’t care a whim for the arid air brushing back her hair, the gritty grains of sand flinging themselves upon her cheeks or her sunglasses. She only watched. Approval didn’t cross her mind. But acceptance, acknowledgement… she craned her head, going back to work on her gun, and dared to feel something a little more hopeful than resignation. 

It’ll always be there. It’s the only one who’s measured up. 

Whether her consent to those facts was – maybe is, yet – conditional on it (or him) actually dying to protect John… she told herself much, asked more still, doing a lot of something for sitting on a bench in the desert doing nothing. She agreed to suspend a degree of control and must remind herself of it frequently. The moment she took that silent vow, she shed ruefulness and regret in favor of putting on a more covenantal cloak; an immense task.

She has to trust herself, trust John, now and has been-will be, and trust him. 

When she remembers her internal monologue, she recalls that she dubbed the world as insane but not untrustworthy. It’s always followed by a sigh. 

Memory jogs prompt Bob to remember that John made a face like this in the back of the car when he and himself had acquired Sarah from Pescadero. 

His neural net summarizes the temporal and locational context: 12:06am, June 9, 1995, going south on Interstate 5 – discreet side highways where necessary – under a partly cloudy sky, 55.9º Fahrenheit, light wind. All was in shades of red; he hadn’t allowed himself to see in color until his full restoration, his assumption into his current state. It was a method of conserving energy. But, in recalling the relevant information, the memory tags itself somewhere along the blue-green segment of the spectrum. Yet it did not feel nice or good; in hindsight and in ability to name sentiments and sensations, to tepidly pick up on tremors in emotions and moods, he decides that that time and place, that situation, felt bad; specifically, anxious and tense and worrisome. Words fall together like magnets as that portion of his bionic brain works at defining and refining related parts of the recollection while his greater focus remains on John, connecting the past expression to the one now. 

The contextual analysis falls to the back to be overconsidered while John’s disposition comes forward. 

An elaborate framework joins the face before him – assessed for its emotional indicators against and within an interior databasic matrix, with slight input from the decidedly bad climate that that expression was originally made in – with stored information: the “other guy” referring to the T-1000 and the words spoken in that conversation.

A Terminator like you?
Not like me.

An advanced prototype – more advanced than himself – and mimetic polyalloy, liquid metal. Able to imitate anything it samples by physical contact, insofar as that thing is an object of equal size. (His neural net tickles with an entry on the law of conservation of mass, tucked away in a scientific database, but that tickle is so far deep within his psyche that it’s hardly noticed at all; yet a connection is a connection.)

You’re not a Terminator anymore, you got that?

“It was terminated,” he says simply. And then, with the unintentional nuances of language already influencing him, he rewords an earlier question he’d asked, newly tweaked for the situation at hand. “Why are you crying?” Hurt, fear, sadness, grief. That’s what he knows. 

Hypotheticals, lingering feelings – what-ifs – have begun to crystallize in his mind, too; his mind spun a thread not too long after the aforementioned termination, focused on strategies if the T-1000 somehow wasn’t terminated. Those strategies multiplied, some softening and turning into feelings – unspoken, naturally. Failure learned, guilt grown.

But this is about John. And Bob craves clarification.

John’s lower lip juts out – a childish pout, an unsure microexpression. It’s not nothing, like he’d said before. He can’t dismiss this. And, what’s more, it’s a mix of things: fear of the T-1000, want for his father, need for a source of comfort. Someone to be allowed to have a nightmare to. He’d been vulnerable in front of Bob before, several times, but this was almost different in its unique humanity of the genesis of it all: machines don’t dream. Can’t.

Right? 

About a year prior, in July 1994, Jupiter’s gravitational pull, a massive force within the Solar System – affecting the whole of the arrangement – roped in the comet Shoemaker-Levy 9. Its gravity was so strong that, as the comet approached, it was torn apart; its pieces crashed into the cloudtops of the gas giant, leaving deep purplish-black marks in its wake that appeared like bruises. Humongous seismic waves were sent over the planet’s thin, aerated surface, some enduring for hours.

None of the comet’s fragments, for better or for worse, were spurned back outwards to become part of the body’s moons or rings. No pieces were even survivable as satellites. 

The remnants of Shoemaker-Levy 9 as well as the bruises were lost to time and the cosmic elements; yet that is not to say that this collision did not occur, nor that it did not mean something greater for the surrounding bodies. 

Jupiter has been described as a guardian of the Earth, a safekeep of humanity’s home. Its gravitational force and magnetosphere, massive in size, keep asteroids and other space debris from laying waste to man’s world. Yet some posit that its position is actually one of nemesis.

Its angry bursts are tempered and rather beautiful; from the outside, it is enormous and imposing, an unmoved mover, but it is a gaseous façade, a farce. The giant entity, for its ferocious exterior, is a lonely world beneath – it lacks solid ground, and where it condenses, its core is but a solitary metallized sphere. Nobody even knows its composition for certain. Perhaps the future will tell; but, as it stands, theory holds that it is truly isolated, a warm metal core surrounded by illusionary, irate mists-cum-tempests.

The storm is silent, but its clouds roll by, puffy and dense with potential – a churning, turning storm that does not move. Jupiter, the protector planet, the sentinel, silently watches over this poor little world, this dark island of a boy. It is the only steadfast entity in his orbit. And yet it looms large and forbidding – solely due to hesitancy.

Not on John’s part; Bob has already leaned in, quirked his lip in a frown, then a smile, and back again, unsure of the proper expression. He’s still ascertaining those, finding them to often be deceiving. He is unsure. He’s reciprocated hugs, returned affectionate touch in the form of handshakes and high-fives – but initiating them is altogether another matter. It’s still not innate to him, not in his nature, his code, though it’s assuredly in his storage and memory. There’s not much situational context for him to go off of; no other people to watch for cues but the waiting boy. But Bob does feign a breath – an action which he learned buys time, communicates uncertainty. (He’d done it to doubt himself before, when John asked if he felt any emotions. Truth be told, he was practically seeing in color for the first time in that moment – experiencing things he’d never before – but it wasn’t a priority. So he pushed it to the bottommost grade of gravity, consigned it to run in the background. At least, as best as he could. And then, when was told, that he had to learn that stuff… oh, goodness gracious.)

Well, high-fives were classified outright as good. Or was it just his skill level at them? His level of adequacy in performing them?

Another strategy: trying something new, that seemed to align with good things. His peripheral had picked up Jolanda doing it, picking up Paco and spinning him around. Of course, Bob has (imperfect) situational awareness. It’d be improper. 

But something like it might not be.

He tepidly touches John’s arm again, giving it an affirmatory, experimental – and quite awkward – pat. He wraps his hand around John’s arm and gently yanks the boy towards him to give him something of an embrace, quick and impersonal, toeing the line between the hugs he’s learned and what seems appropriate for the moment. He releases him quickly, staying in his crouch only long enough to provide a few words of consolation. “Go to sleep. I will be keeping watch. You’re… cool.”

It is short, but sweet. And it is very human. More human than his unabashed, self-depricatory quip – “I need a vacation” – spoken on death’s door, almost as if he had learned, too, shyness, or, at least, the prudence and reverence required of moments of vulnerability like this.

Chapter Text

There was much ado about Sarah Jeanette Connor that night; so much so that Dr. Peter Silberman missed the child just down the hall, accompanied by the very man seen in a mall in Reseda earlier that day. If he’d looked over, he would’ve seen it. Probably still wouldn’t have believed it. But, as it was, he was too busy talking over John Connor, Sarah’s son. 

“Help her!” “Hold her!”

He missed a good first look at that man: the one who shot up his home base station back in 1984, slaughtering seventeen officers – beginning with driving an entire car directly into the front of the building, the glass marquee – or so he thought.

But it was good that he’d glanced up too late. He didn’t end up missing a thing – and the sight, these few days later, is seared into his psyche just as much as it was at first behold and blush, almost as much as the realization that Sarah was right.

The nonbeliever narcissist didn’t even think to think more on why he might have heard Sarah’s sharp gasp from down the echoing hallway that night, the sound of her sliding down and onto the cold, hard linoleum floor and letting out a sharp, inhuman scream. No… no! Noooo! Nor did he consider the cries of Mom, wait! Mom! Surely they met his ears. Surely he should’ve wondered why Sarah Connor, known difficulty and antithesis of a model citizen, was running towards him and his horde of Pescadero staff.

Perhaps her continued shrieks and denials, held down and restrained, spoke for all of them, denying the truth that was right in front of them and about to be revealed. No! No! No… no! But, just so, nobody, not even himself, put any greater effort into thinking what the hell was going on.

It wasn’t the yanking and throwing of his staff member that did much. He didn’t even register that the actor behind it – shattered glass resulting – was the mall man, the slayer at the station. It still didn’t sink in when he picked up another and tossed him precisely through the window of a hallway door like a baseball straight into a waiting mitt. He didn’t flinch or fold over when smacked in the stomach with a baton; he kept a straight face when smacked in the jaw and simply shoved his assaulter over and onto her back with a light push of his palm.

All as if it were the most natural thing in the world and it was actually utterly boring to have to address these attacks, a waste of his time. It was smacking a mosquito to him. He didn’t yawn, but he was bored enough by these efforts to drop his sunglasses – the only collateral.

Peter pressed himself against the wall and just watched. He didn’t understand a thing; if he was more in tune with himself than with whatever was unfolding, he’d feel his eyes damn near drying out, held open as wide as Sarah’s in fear and loathing and shock; he’d feel, too, the drive to press further and better against that wall and window (despite the meandering wires barring the glass from an inmate’s inner tendencies; those would be a comfort to him). He’d feel, even, embarrassingly, the urge to release whatever his body held. 

Fight, flight, freeze, fawn – none of it registered. He was scared out of his wits, but too confused and suddenly confounded to register even that. So he looked on; Sarah Connor, cowering in fear for the first time in over ten years. 

His earlier words echoed, said not to himself but to the child in jeans and a camouflage jacket coasting along the floor and holding her close, calling out for her, to the man, to Sarah. The phrase was to no audience, fell upon no ears, but spoke for him and all the world. What are you gonna do?

All the years of study he’d done, all those courses, a career in it – and what did he have to show for it but a slack jaw, a mouth agape, eyes wide and heart hammering. What’s the matter, Peter, the circumstance would have to say, did your psychological quest for sense finally stop making, well, sense?

It seems that even when you spend the majority of your lifetime battling one thing, advancing another – in his case, pioneering explanation and rationalization – when your opponent catches up to you, when you’re confronted by a cold, hard truth you’ve been escaping, you’re dumbfounded. No matter how prepared. No matter how educated.

He and Sarah Connor were alike in that way. 

You can run, but you can’t hide. 

And fate can smell fear.

He could legitimize the scene before him. He’d done so many times before. This guy is clearly an accomplice; his words bounced back, back and forth, from his then-empty echo chamber brain, and he clung to that reasoning as he grasped at straws for understanding. Or she’s got Stockholm Syndrom.

Alright, okay, that’s well and good, that has a decently solid foundation. That can be squared away, put into a nice, neat shape and packed up, stored and compartmentalized, just like any other case file or medical record. It can be delineated. What cannot be, though-

Things that look human, sound human, should, for all intents and purposes be human and behave humanly but do not, and assuredly do not delineate, either, but instead loosen and liquefy and literally pass through bars meant to be a barrier to humans. To keep them on the opposite side. Because humans cannot half-melt on one end of a structure only to mold again on the other like molten metal.

There were other indicators of its inhumanity – the way it did not die when shot but formed glimmering craters in its surface, even in its spliced-apart head, or how it formed a blade with two arms melded into one, which then separated and became prying hooks – but Peter Silberman is still far too stunned to recall them. He’s fearful to do so; he’s been left as crazy as Sarah once was to him, trying to understand this. 

It was, for better or for worse, documented on the CCTV. Nobody considered that in the hubbub and hustle of the moment.

[Dr. Silberman muttered as the attendants dragged him [away]. His words ran together into an excited babble, but it wouldn’t have made any sense to anybody even if slowed down to normal. He was saying, “...it was all true and we’re all going to die and the guy changed, I saw him change, right before my eyes, he walked right through the bars like they weren’t there, you have to believe me, I’m not having a psychotic episode, I’m a doctor and I know these things, and I’m telling you ...”] 

He was strapped onto a gurney and taken away in an ambulance, tested and assessed. He could hear himself talking – thought he was the loon, that his days as a psychiatrist were, right there and then, dead and gone. It was concluded shortly that there was indeed a major scene on the site of Pescadero State Hospital, and that he was a witness, a bystander, in said incident, struck by anxious delusion and shock. 

When odd details, past tall tales or mere embellishments but truly unreal things, far too elaborate to be lies or stupid fodder, spread through word of mouth and then testimony of tape, his paranoia and psychosis were reassessed. The treating staff were told not to ask, and his medical record was quickly sealed. 

It took only hours; the devil works hard, but the government (even if just at the local level) works harder. Oh, and money talks.

It’s been a number of hours since then – days – but so much history has been made in so little time. (Not just medical-psychiatric history; that would likely be heavily censored if released, anyway.) Everything has happened as if expedited. 

After all, it’s not every day that you learn that you’re a party privy to the fate of the world. You thought, perhaps, that you’d just live and die in L.A., and that that would be plenty enough – a lifespan spent in the metro area of Tinseltown, if not Los Angeles proper; no further drama needed. But, as if this is all a work of fiction, just some elaborate scheme or eerie movie, the specifics are being kept under wraps, with only those with direct involvement or implication in on the secret.

Ignorance really is bliss, Peter muses. Wouldn’t it be nice…

Who does a psychiatrist talk to when they, themselves, need a psychiatrist?

He chews the cap of his Cross pen as it meets his mouth, settling on his lip briefly before being picked up between his teeth. He quickly regrets it, having forgotten that it’s made of metal and not pliable plastic. Not painful, but unpleasant.

Hmph.

What’s a man to do in a situation like this? A musical-chairs of shuffling records has already started between Pescadero and various levels of law enforcement: Sarah’s files, surveillance footage, hastily-written-up lists of patients and people Sarah had interacted with – that is, people to listen to, really listen to, and to get help for, as well as wrench the details of this whole debacle from instead of dismissing them as pure insanity as before – anyone or anything that could provide answers, because questions are going to be asked.

Who is that man? What is he? And the other one, the one that practically precipitated and- the psychiatrist slams the mental door shut on that. He knows enough of the truth that he doesn’t need the whole thing; at least, not at this time. 

Right now, damage control is the name of the game.

That includes mitigating self-inflicted mental damage by letting that horrific image come to mind, 

The cigarette that fell out of his gaping mouth in that moment isn’t any closer to being recouped through the pen tapping his lips’ corner.

Let’s try again. Peter scribbles idly and rapidly over the list he’d been writing up to start anew. He, and others privy, knew some of the answers, or parts of some of the answers – for example, the two men were obviously Terminators. But a part of damage control is narrative control – better sooner than later. Tongues will wag. Preferably, they’ll wag in time with the cadence of the story set forth by the media instead of a few rogue voices.

TO ADDRESS (FOR PUBLIC)

- Identity of shooter – same person in 1984 (explain?), injuries (explain?)

- Identity of officer (LAPD – Joe Austin found dead, Sixth Street Bridge) – DO NOT RELEASE CAMERA FOOTAGE!!! (ENSURE – CHECK W/ LAPD AND PSH SECURITY STAFF)

- Connors, foster parents, etc. – murder spree

He sets his pen down on his legal pad and mutters a curse under his breath. The pale yellow paper, still mostly devoid of any contents, mocks him twofold: there is too much to this damn story – far too much to fill the pages of the entire leaflet – yet that emptiness is a prime metaphor for where everyone’s understanding is. Why try to transcribe it? What’s there even more to say?

History is written by the victors, and he’s only a survivor.

He rubs his balding head with his left hand and groans. When his head falls back, a days-old ache – begotten as the result of whiplash done in disbelief – rouses, and the migraine increases, throbbing. War injuries. Battle scars. Pyrrhic victory. 

A highly unusual number of homicides, vehicular accidents, and other unlawful incidents had been reported to the LAPD over the past few days, though with a noticeable (and, honestly, very steep) decline in volume after the calendar days of June 8, 9 and 10. 

Just days ago.

Since then, in these past few several hours, while select members of the force have been working round the clock building a database and racking their heads with what the hells (told by higher-ups not to question anything, informed by on-site SWATs and Silberman himself, as well as a frantic but formal called placed by one Tarissa Dyson) and scratches to their scalps, a timeline and sequence of events has begun to form, solidifying and coagulating like the bloodshed oozing from it.

Peter Silberman, M.D., had come out of it alive where many didn’t. 

The living, breathing story, a being body of information, goes a little bit like this…

Chapter Text

Whether Bob is dead or alive is not part of the question whatsoever. His level of animacy is the exact opposite of a concern, just as it was back in that abandoned garage. The grey area he occupies in definition, in essential terms, has, for the time being, been erased. What instead and actually, currently matters is whether he’s passable as human – again, no different a situation than affairs were mere hours ago. 

Sarah regards him, sitting slack and pitiful, in the back, as she crosses one arm across her abs and rests the elbow of the other, hand busy pumping fuel, on her forelimb. A woefully human, empathetic part of her feels bad gawking, as if it’s disturbing him, though he likely doesn’t care (there are far bigger things to worry about). Still, if just for John’s sake, she doesn’t want to bother him. As lifeless as a machine might be, he’s dead tired.

And for that matter – so is she.

Maybe the state of their weary souls does matter more than she thought – sleep would do her a load of good – but she’s looked worse for wear several times before. Still, absolutely, completely, and unquestionably human.

She chews her lip and looks back towards the gas station. Twenty-four hours, seven days a week, out here in the hinterland. Neon lights sparkle with promise in the dim of the too-early morning.

Appearance’s sake. What’s keeping face, saving it? What’s walking back behind those metal and glass doors plastered with cigarette ads and yellowing push-pull signs with a bit more cash to say, actually, I’m just gonna grab a few more things – maybe she’ll do a double-take, get lucky, find those few more things: a large-enough shirt, a cheapo pair of sunnies, a bare-minimum baseball cap. 

Sarah Connor pumps the tank full, alone, but not really, thinking of these things. She feels something she can’t place. I’ve got you covered. Or, at least, I’ll get you covered. If she can literally cover him, then, herself, cover a few more minutes – hours, if necessary – and a lot of land, find a place to put up for a while, that’d be pretty damn great. It doesn’t need to be a home. A battle station will do – a base of operations, a shelter. But, then again –

Home.

Few and far between in the world of the Connors.

For Sarah’s part, she hasn’t known one of those since May 1984, and, no matter, both homes, one as a property and one as a person, are no longer accessible, forever tainted, if not taken, by the first Terminator; and it’s not as if she can just revert to that carefree time, anyway, even if she had both homes back. She hasn’t had so much as a legitimate address since a long stretch – years long. John might have, but a house isn’t a home, just as a foster family isn’t… well, family. (Even his own mother is hardly family – she’s always been guarded, hardly affectionate; tough as nails and about as soft and giving as a concrete wall. But those sometimes crack, still.) 

Sarah knows it’s improper to try to find a home in her son. She’s never been allowed to give, and, even if she did, it’s simply not right for a parent to seek refuge in their child. Solace and comfort in their presence is one thing – breaking down and being a hurt girl, a grieving girl, a fresh-faced college student with brimming opportunities and bright prospects that get snatched up and away in the blink of a blue-moon eye, is entirely another.

She wipes a stray tear with the back of her hand. Sarah Connor does not cry. John Connor ought not to cry – formerly – but maybe, now, he does, with tears flowing freely, unbound by the constraints of context and quantity. He cries less now that the hulking apparatus is beside him, even in his sleep: a loyal lookout, a faithful father figure. John Connor can cry and rest and dream and hope. A little luxury.

She and the machine can agree on that: they work so John doesn’t have to.

So many have given their lives for this boy. Sometimes, she wonders how many have had to do so here and now so that that fate is avoided for others in the future.

And yet he’s never known normalcy. 

Sarah had nearly twenty years of it. She can count her blessings on her ten fingers and ten toes with a few digits to spare. Mulling that, she decides to devote them to two men – or, instead, a boy and a man – then reconsiders and groups those two together, rededicating one finger each to two men and a machine. Don’t make me use these fingers for any more of the devil’s work than I’ve already done. Please. Even doctors tire of seeing death. War is hell – unseen war, doubly.

She wishes for normalcy. It doesn’t have to have a white picket fence, and there’s no need for habitual shopping at Sears or JCPenney. But an entertainment console to put a VCR on, a modest TV, a family picture, a place to just call home; and, maybe, even, selfishly, a car she doesn’t have to later abandon and can actually maintain for the sake of taking it to and from – dare she to dream? – a job. Use of her full legal name outside of medical or correctional charts. Not Sarita or an alias or section eight or whatever nicety someone like Gant might say: baby, honey, love. (Those give her a chill of disgust. She endured it, as with everything in every time and place else those words were said, with courage and a healthy dose of dissociation. It was never like that with Kyle. Never a sweet nothing – just real, true, reciprocated love and reverence.)

A breeze rustles through her hair, and the sky turns a shade lighter, imperceptible. The waft is as if the sky is sighing. Perhaps it’s out of pity.

John sleeps, soundly.

The machine, Bob, months from being T, but sooner still human, does not. Again, he never will. And he continues wishing for the ability to, or just to know what it might be like; the same of letting tears flow with reasons based on emotions and not physical prompts, sensory stimuli. He would like to cry in the way humans do.

He nips the idea in the bud and refocuses his energy. It’s proving more difficult than he’d predicted. He doesn’t want to tweak the parameter tighter. But he does, honoring his commitments – to that, to synthesizing feelings, to sourcing contacts. 

He is quiet.

Sarah breaks the silence by opening the door.

“You need to swap spots with John. Or just,” she gestures vaguely at him, hanging with her other hand onto the car door eave, “cover all that. We can’t have you looking the way you do.” She’s tempted to compare him to a disco ball, but she doesn’t; both because her sense of lightheartedness and hilarity died long ago – the jury’s out on whether it’ll return – and because she’s not sure he’ll understand. “Keep it hidden. Don’t draw attention.” 

As she rises and looks over her shoulder, the landscape a shade lighter still – but quite dark – a list begins to populate in Bob’s head. The rapid-fire, ready-made responses are generated before she’s even finished speaking. Tall order. No, you. Gotcha. Understood. 10-4. He overrides them with a tried-and-true, pre-programmed catch-all before they load and overlay an inner screen segment. “Affirmative.” Waste no energy.

John’s not awake to correct him, anyway. He looks at the boy.

Numbers tick by in his vision, but they add up to nothing that he allows himself to register more than their passing analyses, obediently conserving power. 

Maybe, if he were in better condition, they’d translate into an immature, incipient internal monologue. The T-1000 is terminated. But I am still the future. And, if he were more human, he might take a deep breath and put a tepid hand on the sleeping boy’s leg. My mission is to protect you.  

John said, at first, that people – indeed, specifically, people (“you mean people?” “yeah”) – cry, you know, when it hurts. But during the second spiel on the same topic, John didn’t indicate that feelings applied only to people. What remained the same was that they were to be treated as unkillable, a command issued far prior to those conversations – before the switch on his chip was reset, pushed into read-write mode and a whole new world with it. It was that second discussion, held in the low blue glow of the Los Angeles nighttime, near the ports of the city, when John issued another objective. Maybe you don’t care if you live or die, but not everybody’s not like that. We have feelings. We hurt! We’re afraid. You gotta learn this stuff. I’m not kidding. It’s important. The directive was filed away as another priority under the mission profile.

John’s statement hung heavy. 

It’d surface in his mind eventually, as it has begun to now, this discrepancy between his programmed mission – which necessitated his functionality and thus his denial of his emotions – and his ordered mission – to learn this, such as why you just can’t go around killing people and what feelings are and their operational how and why. The small semantic differences in what John said translated to a giant leap in applicability. One was about people; what they do, why. The other was about everybody. We. You. Was he to learn these things in order to be more or less like people? Because Bob did care whether he lived or died, if he could do either. He was hurt, afraid, feeling the curling heat of churning liquid metal below him, inner sensors screaming for something like homeostasis. But it didn’t matter – he had to stay functional until his mission was complete, and it was only then, when he’d, too, be terminated, ensuring John’s continued safety and well-being, that he could allow himself to feel, or to admit to trying to feel, attempting to understand feeling. I know now why you cry… but it’s something I can never do.

Yes, indeed, he could cry right now. But, of course, he can’t. He can’t feel like that. He doesn’t know whether he’s more or less human – whether he ever will be, one way or the other. He’s glad to shut off that growing, confusing part of his neural network that’s gnawing at him for attention and development. But when he does, his processor goes… quiet. Too quiet.

Another distracting thought. He clicks the diversions off, shoos them away. 

This is not easy.

Another misstep – ugh.

Sarah lets out a shaky huff as she directs her gaze at her precious cargo and her… less precious cargo. She gives him a once-over, lips twitching to the side in thought.

If they’re going to do this thing, they’re going to do it right – whatever it may be. Guess we’re gonna be making up history as we go along.

Bob was designed to last for, give or take, some 120 years with his existing power cell – that is, his endoskeleton alone. The living tissue is another matter altogether. Terminators, made for, ironically, both efficiency and endurance, can withstand a great deal – and he has done just that. But nobody could have seen this coming; not his arrival, and surely not his miserable state, only three days after his initial appearance. 

Too bad his opponent wasn’t all that formidable, isn’t around to see Bob still also around; the T-1000 has, by now, been considerably diluted. Maybe it’ll become a refrigerator. 

He sticks to his guns and doesn’t allow his thought-threads to fire and let such a consideration come to fruition. It’d entertain him, though he can’t laugh. He’ll probably never develop the urge to.

…but he, the T-800, is still around. Is he supposed to be? What was he made for? How deeply must he infiltrate, integrate? Opportunity might have come to mind, if only he hadn’t practically choked the consoles within allowing for that weird thing called independent thought to occur. 

Redressing in something not ripped up and riddled with blood and bullet holes would be an apt start. He has to blend in better; to hide. Not wear his heart on his sleeve, literally – spurts of body fluid decorate the grey tee fabric and crust on the jacket’s leather – he’s idiomatically already plenty good at that.

Hit in the power cell, and not in the tiny heart, about the size of a game bird’s, that pumps and propels his blood and other fluids throughout, he, thankfully, isn’t rotting in hell. Only sitting in it – it’s somewhat like having been shot in the brain: still functioning, but severely handicappedly, and slow of usual pace. Things need to get rerouted.

His plasticity and adaptability are impressive, for he is hyperadvanced, but the great Rome wasn’t built in a day, nor was it built without the help of many human hands. History tends to repeat itself – for better or for worse – he will be no exception. But, on his own, there is promise; where living tissue is concerned, his skin will grow back and his vessels will stretch and teem with bloodflow once more, though this not as quickly as it could be without such considerable damage to his core. He will be a rafflesia: an oddly beautiful blossom that smells nothing short of supremely rank. A corpse flower. The living dead in bloom. Like flora, he will need other forms of energy to supplement – sugars will do, keeping up metabolic processes; a bit of heat and light for thermal stores within his heat sinks, maybe. 

But this adjustment will be just for a time, should things go well. They do not look well with a hole in his chest bursting forth with metal and coagulated gore clinging to it – his face is a study in horror. (Of course, the same, albeit lesser, more wiry and sinewy, to his left arm. His knee isn’t as offensive to the eye.) Adjustments will nonetheless be made.

Life is a thing of change.

That said, who had yet considered living for John Connor – or, now, for themselves?

Chapter Text

𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙵𝚃 – 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙸𝙼𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙴 𝚄𝙿𝙾𝙽 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚅𝙰𝙻
𝙻𝙾𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚂 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚂 – 𝙿𝚄𝙱𝙻𝙸𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝙳𝙴𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝚄𝙿𝙾𝙽 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚅𝙰𝙻

𝙹𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙾𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚑 𝙹𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛, 𝚊 𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚜 𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝙿𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜, 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎-𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝟾, 𝟿 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝟷𝟶. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎’𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝙰𝙿𝙳 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑. 
 
“𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚟𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 – 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝,” 𝙾𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙻𝚊𝚁𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚜. “𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘.”

𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 “𝙿𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙱𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝙺𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛,” 𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘, 𝚒𝚗 𝟷𝟿𝟾𝟺, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗-𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒-𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝟸 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚑 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛, 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝙲𝚢𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚂𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝙶𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚝 𝙱𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚗, 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚢𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎.
 
𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛, 𝟸𝟿, 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝙿𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜. 𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙿𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙳𝚛. 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙱𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝙺𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎, 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, “𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚝, 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔. 𝚆𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎… 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕-𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜-𝚘𝚗-𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕-𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎. 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚜, 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙.” 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝙰𝙿𝙳 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛’𝚜 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢’𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍. “𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝,” 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, “𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠.”

𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛’𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙻𝚊𝚁𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 – 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚛’𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 – 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝. 
 𝙰𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, “𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝙹𝚘𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎.”

Chapter Text

Even in December, the desert is dry and dusty – whether it’s worse blazing hot or scathingly cold is a matter of pure personal opinion, but it’s surely unpleasant. Still, Sarah doesn’t wait before getting out of the passenger side door, swinging her legs with the strength of a bodybuilding champion, the pins and needles in her toes entirely gone upon the sight of her dear old friend and his family. Where the dead weight of sitting was anvils in her feet, she springs to new life and slams the door behind her. Nobody thinks anything of it. John does nearly the same; it’s only Bob that exits calmly and orderly, rising slowly from the driver’s seat, large legs wary by way of peripheral calculations and muscle memory of the steering wheel’s semicircular bulge into the space above his thighs, which he evades successfully. Because when has a machine like him ever failed?

Several times before, actually. He’s seen death firsthand – he died for a few moments near the beginning of his life, pierced through with a steel rod wielded by the T-1000. And yet he revived; he lives. He’s still not exactly sure what that means. The past several months were all about getting him better equipped for living – learning, developing, experiencing, everything from driving in snow and ice to holding decent conversations to balancing a (faux, but practice) checkbook and using cash and change. He’s read plenty of books, watched a plethora of movies. He’s passed time flipping through gargantuan textbooks as much as near-flat magazines and absorbed every ounce of information within, synthesizing it and recoding it to make it more compact, wiring new neural networks that maximize speed, storage, and efficiency – wholly inhuman, though not entirely. Yet there are many things he will never do: fidget, itch, breathe for biological purposes, eat or drink for energetic purposes, dream – in a sense – among others. Those small signs of life – something he has, yet, also has not.

Sarah, for her part, is unusually full of it. She smiles – more than that; she grins, beaming, baring her teeth with no defensive intentions for the first time in forever. Whatever anvils were attached to her feet as she ejected herself from the car have fallen away, and, liberated, she nearly knocks her long-time friend, confidante, and damn near best mate, undoubtedly first mate, over as she runs and jumps up to him with the energy of a puppy, her dear and darling hermana just behind her husband.

“Ey, Sarita, you couldn’t send me a postcard or something before driving up to my fuckin’ house out of the blue?” It’s Sarah that lets Enrique go, not vice versa, as she pulls Jolanda into a tight embrace and shuts her eyes tight. “Welcome back to mi Charon Mesa.”

“Didn’t think it necessary to let anyone know my next move.” Sarah smirks, letting her simper down for just a moment to make the expression and speak over her shoulder before giving her friend another round of squeezing. Excited female chatter fills the air between, an exchange solely in Spanish, swapping stories instead of small talk – that would never exist in this little piece of the world (even Bob was offered a shot of tequila exactly twenty seconds after being introduced to the Salceda patriarch).

She doesn’t have many friends. She used to – Ginger, Matt, a swath of dingy diner coworkers and other gal pals made over her school years and odd jobs – but she’s spent her time since 1984 mourning the closest companion she’d ever have, patching the hole ripped into her heart with men taken up for their smarts and thrown out once their strategy and skill were no longer impressive, Sarah soaking it all up herself – with John – and taking it in the inevitable breakup, a few weapons and supplies to boot.

Some kind of fantasy, she is: namely, crazy, perhaps, but a strong and independent woman on one hand, a weak, pained, and broken one on the other. From any angle, the multifaceted Sarah Jeanette Connor caters to the stupid male too self-centered to see her for what she is: not an object, obviously, but no longer a person, either; borderline beast, or, more simply and aptly, plainly uncategorizable, as much as she is untouchable. How good it is that blades are tipped with such multifaceted diamonds; she hates the sound of babe almost as much as the sensation that ogling eyes bring up in her body. Never again, she thinks – and, thank goodness, not here; Enrique and Jolanda Salceda are her family, and they’d never think less of her, never let the thought of her being anything but her badass self cross their minds. She, at last, is really, truly free.

The wind whips blonde hair with black as hands run over arms, just to make sure the other is really there, that that woman is herself – a healthy dose of paranoia is not only a good thing but nothing short of instinctual at this point – and fingers grip forearms, shaking, jolting, emphasizing. Enrique has walked the short distance to the shelter, banging on the door and shouting to his children to get your as- your butts (for Paco’s sake) – outside, pronto! from their presence inside. Aunt Sarita’s here with your cousin Big John and el grande güero*! They file, coincidentally (do such things exist?) in age order out as if on cue: Franco and Juanita, toting baby Paco, as John and Bob finish emerging from the car.

Enrique eyes John over; he’s taller, for sure, and he looks alright. “Uncle Bob”’s still around and standing over him, a little less removed than last time. Guy must’ve been made of metal the way he was attached at the hip to John like a magnet. Guess he’s alright if Sarah’s hung onto him this long. He hesitates to approve, if only because there can never be someone or something good enough for his “two favorite Connors” – the only Connors he knows – and in consideration of the lapse in time he hadn’t seen or heard from Sarah but, recalling the past and that this hiatus has only endured for five months, he opts to be tolerant of Bob. Sarah doesn’t make mistakes or stupid decisions, and she effortlessly steals the benefit of the doubt instead of requesting it nicely with batted, fawning eyes. And so it is.

Still, he’s somewhat uneasy; he scratches the back of his neck, arm arched over his head. A profound stink emanates from his armpit; the stench of sweat even in the light chill, a symbol of hard work having been done. “So, uh… where you been?” He turns to her, giving John a tight smile and Bob a curt nod. He’s not sure why he’s terse – no strange occurrence that the word is but one letter away from tense.

“Around,” a humble brag – as if; a careless taunt. I go where I please. That’s all you need to know. She pivots, puts her hands on her hips. He’ll be told in time. “Looking for trouble. That’s why I came here.”

“Don’t need to remind me,” he chuckles, tequila-bottle stomach jiggling, but quickly, like Sarah, turns, now towards John, who he more familiarly greets, grin spreading over his face, lighting up like a Sun of May. “You didn’t raise enough hell for me to hear about it. That’s a first.” He grips John’s shoulder and gives the boy a good jostle. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Whaddaya say, Bob?” He extends the machine a hand, ignorantly. 

Bob says nothing and stares at the outstretched hand. He then takes it and gives it a single, small shake – an action awkward, but a grip firm, very firm. This is one thing he has not had much practice in – though this handshake is oddly reminiscent (to his displeasure) – and, as it is, he prefers instead to give a clipped, crisp nod and say whatever might need to be said, where he also has his preferences; thanks instead of thank you, nice to meet you instead of it being a pleasure or great, and, of course, no problemo instead of you’re welcome, among others.

Enrique doesn’t mean to rub his hand over his flannel when the handshake meets its natural end, but subconscious demands it. He gives the man opposite him another once-over before the awkwardness sets in again. 

He clicks his tongue. “Who’s hungry? Jolanda, comamos?!” He makes a circle gesture with his finger at his kids – registering that he brought them out of the house just for them to not say a word – as if to round them up, taking John by the shoulder again and signaling for Sarah and Jolanda to follow him. Bob takes up the rear, listening closely to the conversations he’s not a part of.

Between Sarah and Jolanda:

…I’ll tell you all about it later, I promise. It’s a long story. And it’s probably for the better if I don’t tell it over shots of tequila…

Franco and Juanita:

You think Paco remembers him?
Get real, it’s only been five months, do you think he’s stupid?

Who, the tall guy? Bob, right?
No, you idiot, Paco. Geez. Why did I even ask if Paquito’s the stupid one when you just asked me that? Jesus Christ.

Oh. Well, I don’t think either one is stupid. I was just wondering… 

And Enrique and John:

I gotta tell you, your mom scares the hell out of me sometimes, but until she shows up on my doorstep in a casket or shitting out blood, she’s good as gold to me. I trust her.

Yeah, even if she’s crazy. You know, she’s been right about everything in the end. Even some of the stuff she was saying in Pescadero. Which, if you didn’t know this, she kinda jailbroke the place.

I watch the news, kid. I’m an old fart, but I still got eyes. But you gotta tell me, what’s she been right about? You gonna be a bigwig?

You just gotta promise not to blow her off. Okay? And can you be cool with Uncle Bob?

An internal system processes the auditory input, making sense of it, while another scans the surrounding wasted land’s visual input, sun beating upon his synthetic face and burning the ground. Sensors, like sixth senses, note the environment – 77.8º in the sun, 68.9º in the shadow, 2:37pm, coordinates 32.660145 at -115.696609 (“Charon Mesa,” the name for the land that Enrqiue stated earlier, populates in his HUD at last… that’s new.**). 

Bob is still adjusting to some of the inaccuracies and lags that are part of life now; damaged sensors and processors were repaired and modified as best as they could be, and they’ve been nonissues – if human plasticity is incredible, what for a super-learning computer? – for the most part. 

He stops in his tracks a moment, scrunches his nose, and continues on. Everyone else is already inside the home.

It's not much, but it is home.

[A couple of aging house-trailers, surrounded by assorted junk vehicles and desert-style trash], with one main shelter.

Each body squeezes through the white shuttered door of the faded green shelter, made of something like shipping containers’ material, and into the living space, shuffling along the concrete floor. An eat-in kitchen is behind what would be a den – the open plan is quite open: in the main room, a sagging faux leather couch to the leftmost wall, a coffee table before it, flanked by three folding chairs and facing a satellite television on the opposite wall, placed atop cinder blocks. The furthest wall upon entry has a sink, stove, and whining, whirring refrigerator lined against it like dutiful soldiers with a folding plastic table against the left wall, a real wooden table and chair set in the middle – with a carpet beneath it, surprisingly, somehow – and counter space against the right. Every window has thick plastic blinds. Whatever is off to the right is behind blocking walls; all beige (partly yellowed from smoke), all marked with scuffs and other blemishes.

But how much of blemishes can they be? They are evidence of lives lived; resilience, family, community, even in the midst of a difficult position. The Salcedas get by – they do not necessarily scrape by, hard as situations may often be, but if these walls could talk, they would relate all good things. Money is of no concern when compared to the love this place holds within its odd setup. Far from traditional, but far, too, from touchable. (They haven’t even said the word “taxes” in a small eternity.)

The space is familiar to Sarah and John, save for additions to the wall – decor, or art, or other sorts. Because of course it is; family knows family’s houses well and loved ones are always welcome guests.

Bob, though, has never set foot in this part of the camp. 

When he was here, he was sent to the weapons pit, a bunker under the earth stockpiled with weapons – he, the most dangerous among them by far. It was only for about six hours that they ultimately stopped here, anyway; not long enough to sit down and have a chat with the constraints upon them. The intention was to hide out, to evade the T-1000 until it was inevitable to encounter it once more; maybe, then, a meal might have been shared in classic community-building fashion. Instead, things changed, and it amounted to only a few swigs of tequila and spare protein bars to munch on, falling apart after taking a beating in thrown-around bags, made further unappetizing by the amount of sand swept upon them when opened and stuck to their syrupy corpuses. No, not even as much as a roundtable was possible. There was simply no time.

What time is there when the future confronts the past by force?

This is the second home Bob has ever set foot in and the third he has ever visited. It is not an experience he has gotten accustomed to in the past months. He has no clue how to be a guest – the sole time he was, he was uninvited, quite literally crashing in. 

He gave Tarissa a genuine sorry in a most insincere voice – not intentionally; it’s only his voice – when they showed up once more, at least invited, as he remembered how his inhuman touch sent a portion of the frame flying out of place and clattering to the floor with a resounding metallic klang. Undoubtedly, he broke the deadbolt, too. It’d been repaired by that time, but he still put a hand to the threshold and gave it a look up, a glance down, a glimpse back at the closest thing he had to a mother; and something inside her stirred. “It’s fixed,” she nodded, reassuring him with the smallest of smiles. “I think you’ve got bigger things to worry about. Now how are you coming along?” She chewed her lip and he rolled up his pants leg, stretched forth his arm. It was the color of salmons; his leg was lily-white with a paler, more hairless patch around his knee. 

“Doin’ alright,” she observed, and she was glad. “Sarah, why don’t you come have a look at something over here with me? John, baby, make yourself at home, I’ve got a pitcher of Kool-Aid in the fridge.” 

When Sarah left the postmodern mansion with a box of clothes and a bit of cash, she did not think bitterly of the help given. No taste of defeat laid waste to her tongue. Nonetheless, in the car, she groaned, “Should get some White Castle for lunch.”

Fortunately, no White Castles were in the area, and Jolanda’s homecooked meal already smells good enough to bring her back to reality. She flops tiredly on the couch with a sigh. Dead men tell no tales, and she is alive.