DISCLAIMER: I owe nothing of the Sarah Connor Chronicles. Just playing around :D
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
SEQUEL: Rules.
Missions
By Faith
She drives me up the wall, stark insane with her questions. She is annoying, obtrusive. She is so innocent and naïve it makes me want to leave her behind. But then she does something, something strong, something collected, something human that shatters my anger. That makes me want to hold her.
It's insane that she does this shit to me. She's a machine, nothing more. A fucking machine, sent here by the adult version of my son to guard his younger self and mother. Like the Terminator before her. Like Reece, his father. She is no different. But I felt for them. It's an addiction of sorts, a longing I can't let go.
Some part of me is still as naïve and pure as it was before the first Terminator came into my life, killing people baring my name. Killing my friend. These Terminators speak to that part. The part which longs to be saved from all of this. She is no different. She awakens feelings in me I never feel for anyone else. I am no fool. I know myself because what else is there to know? I know it's because these Terminators, these people sent back from the future, they are the only ones who truly, truly believe me. Even John, as hard as he tries, has difficulties accepting the truth. It's no game to him but it is something he has trouble wrapping his head around.
I do not have that same trouble. It is crystal clear to me what will happen. Reece told me and I still remember every word of what he said. I can picture it so clearly that, when I awake from dreams and daydreams, I have to look outside in order to remember now is not that time. Those years at the mental hospital I dreamt of little else. It was then, in those years, my feelings got fucked up good.
I longed to be believed so badly. They never did. I fought, I lied, I begged, I accepted. I tried everything to get them to believe and they never did. I started doubting myself but even if Reece was some kind of loon, even if there is but a slight chance that Reece's future will come to pass, then it is worth killing for, dying for, not really living for. Cameron understands that. She is programmed with an unwavering conviction. She knows the future and when I look at her, I know I am not crazy. I know I am doing the right thing. It makes me feel less guilty but only a little less.
I sit here, now, in the shadows in the living room. It's close to four am and I have let all the lights off. I sit in the dark in my bulletproof chair and I know she knows I'm here. She is awake. She doesn't sleep. She only walks around in the house, around the house. She makes sure we are not attacked in our sleep. I know her routes. She has three and she switches them up. Right now she'll be inside the house in another minute. She will have walked the garden and will continue to go upstairs before coming down and back upstairs.
She has passed me twelve times so far. She doesn't pass me this time. Instead she stops and the only thing I see of her is her silhouette against the backdrop of the kitchen. She watches me from the doorframe. She doesn't hang against it. She is standing firm on two feet. Her arms hang slack against her body. She is watching me. She doesn't pretend to be anything other than a machine.
"You require sleep." She says entirely too loudly. I tell her to shut up. The house is quiet again. Seconds pass, the clock ticking loudly in the silence of the night.
"If you've got something to say, say it softly." I add, taking the venom out of my voice. She cocks her head to the left a bit. Her hair tumbles. Something inside me uncoils.
"You require sleep." She says it softer this time. She has already said what she wanted to say. The only conclusion her programming drew was to repeat her words but softer. She is most definitely a machine.
"I know." I answer. She waits for me to say more. She is like a puppy, wondering when it'll get its teeth kicked in. She seems uncertain but it's an act. She doesn't feel uncertainty. Nor does she feel anger, love, fear, compassion. There are just numbers, facts. Commands to be followed or disobeyed. She makes decisions based on probabilities and nothing more. She's stupid, there is only programming there. She is not human. No matter how hard she tries to appear to be so.
"Stop it." I say. She asks me what she should stop. She sounds happy she has been given an order. My insides are growing cold, detached. She is angering me again. She is making me clench my hands into fists.
"Stop pretending to be a god damn human." I answer her. She is silent, runs the numbers. She straightens and suddenly there is a change in her. She is hard, emotionless. There is no expression on her face, a car passes and its head lights shine full into her face, she doesn't blink or shield her eyes. Her face is emotionless. She is standing there, being a machine.
It doesn't help.
"Thank you for explaining." She says and suddenly I'm up on my feet and across the room. I hit her so hard she has to turn her head and I hear my bones protest. Pain shoots through my hand and arm. She merely turns her head and stares at me. She has indeed disabled the emotion software because she is showing no emotion what so ever. She asks me what that was for. I cradle my hand and curse softly. The pain serves to clear my head.
"You piss me off so much." I bark at her. She takes it in stride and the fury returns full force. Her inability to react, to do something reminds me of lambs, being brought to the slaughter. She makes it so easy to hate her. "You and your manga attitude. All big eyes and naiveté. You disgust me. You are a machine. You will never be human. You can never pass for human. You are a fucking piece of machinery. An advanced toaster." I'm amazed at the venom in my voice. It's barely a whisper and still it shows so much anger. That is humanity.
I hit her again. She doesn't stop me. She bounces off against the wall and catches herself before she falls. She turns around to face me. She doesn't even bring up her arms as I hit her again and again and again. It's all too easy. She doesn't stop me, allows her skin to rip and blood to drip. She bruises like an actual human being. It makes it easier. The pain in my hands fades after the third or fourth blow. It's all too easy. I'm silent, she's silent. The only sounds to be heard are occasional as she bumps into something and there is a slap every time my fist connects with some part of her body. She takes it and I know I shouldn't be hitting her with a closed fist, that it goes against any kind of training I ever had but I refuse to let that bother me. Or stop me.
I only stop when I realize the uselessness of the act. I stand panting, hands covered in our mixed blood . I dirty my shirt as I put my hands on my side and bend forward a bit to catch my breath. She still does nothing. She only looks at me and I notice that even her eyes change when she turns off that damn human software. They're not as wide, not as seductive in their innocence. She's far less naïve. I feel physically nauseous just looking at her. And I know, I know that I'm merely projecting. Projecting my own self loathing, my fear and anger onto her. I don't even want to think about why she allowed it. All I know is that I only feel guilty for letting myself go like this, not because I hurt her.
"Go clean yourself up, Tin Man." I say and she just walks off. She turns around and walks off, up the stairs and to the bathroom. There is no sound from her. A machine. Truly a machine. We've ended up in the kitchen, apparently. I let myself collapse against the kitchen counter and wonder how to explain this to John. He will not understand.
I trace her by her footsteps. Bathroom, her room, bathroom again. I stand up and wash my hands. My knuckles are raw and bloodied. They have already swollen and tomorrow they'll feel like hell indeed. Every other muscle in my body hurts as well, from the exercise. Laughter wells up in my throat and I can do nothing to stop it. It's a frantic laugh, not too loud but quiet mad. Something is definitely wrong with me. Maybe I have finally gone insane.
The laughter dies as something moves to my right. It's Cameron. She is watching me from the shadows. She has put some band aids on her to stop the bleeding but mostly her face is just angry red and accusing me of its state. It is right, I realize. Damn it all to hell. I know I beat and kicked her in other places but her long sleeved sweater and jeans hide those injuries from me. She is still looking at me blankly. I'm too numb and tired to feel anything about it.
"I'm clean." She says.
"I know." I answer. "Was it bad?"
"No."
I'm well aware of the absurdity of all of this. Me, an adult woman punishing a piece of machinery for my human errors. I'm not stupid nor crazy, even if I sometimes think I'm the latter. I know it's just all this tension. This is me, trying to find some way—any way to cope. And I do.
"Turn it back on."
The change is immediate. Her eyes widen, her shoulders sag lightly. Her posture becomes more graceful, fluent, and she makes subtle movements with her head, hands and feet. I shake my head.
"Unbelievable." I mumble. "You really are something."
The sarcasm is lost on her. "Thank you." She says brightly and I snort as a reply.
"I'm going to bed."
She watches me leave. As I walk up the stairs I feel her eyes on me, watching me. It makes me feel powerful for some reason. It's only as I wash the rest of the blood off of me and throw my shirt in the hamper I collapse emotionally. It's not like it's the only shirt with blood on it in there. It just gets to me to see my shirt there with her blood on it. Sighing I make my way to my room in my bra and slacks. I'm annoyed that I have to hurry for fear of John or Cameron seeing me. I still hurry.
I close the door behind me and lean against it heavily for a few moments, gathering my thoughts. What's gotten into me? Has this finally gotten to me? This whole thing? Is it finally catching up to me and am I dropping my marbles? Has it finally gotten too much and out of hand?
Has surviving, caring for a child, worrying about a Terminator and carrying the weight of the world finally become too much? It doesn't matter. It just doesn't. It's not like I can stop. What I need is to relax. I need to rest, just for a moment. I need to sleep or, better yet, have an orgasm. Just be somewhere else for that one moment. I crave that one moment where there is nothing but me and whomever the hell gave me that moment.
I honestly don't care about who gives me that moment. I have done it before, go out and find some random guy. We never get further than the car. He'd get me off and we'd depart. We'd never kiss, I wouldn't let him. If it wasn't for my ruined knuckles I'd go out right now. I am suddenly well aware of my libido prodding me. How long have I been refusing to give into it?
Way too long. Absolutely way too long. Still, sighing, I drag myself to my closet. I unhook my bra, slip on a shirt and take off my jeans. I take my 9mm and place it under my pillow before curling up in bed. I think about scratching my own itch for a moment but decide against it. I know it would only get me more rived up. Seriously, if I did something about my libido I would be mewing like a cat in heat in the morning. With a deep breath I turn around and become aware of something in the room. Something is definitely, definitely wrong and something turns sour in my stomach. The gun is in my hand even before my eyes fly open and I have it cocked before I sit up. I have learned to look what I'm shooting at before I shoot. When John was still little I almost shot him once when he came into my room at night and he startled me. So now I'm on time to hold myself back as I recognize the girl at the edge of my bed.
She's unflinching at the sight of my trained gun. I lower it with a crude curse. "What are you doing here?" I demand. She has locked the door. She is faster than me. I won't be able to get to the window faster than her. She has got me cornered. I clutch the gun. I don't uncock it. The poison inside of me spreads. If she wants to kill me, she can now and no one would be on time. In the few seconds it takes for her to answer I have already cursed myself for letting her come this close and how did she get in this silently anyway?!
"I need a note."
She makes no sense to me, especially not now my mind has gone into a state of pure survival.
"You need what?"
"A note, for school. I fell and hit my head. I have a metal plate in my head, you know." She continues. Suddenly it dawns on me. I beat the shit out of her and if she appears like this at school, social services will undoubtedly be on my doorstep in a matter of hours. She's asking me to write a note saying she is sick so John can give that to the school to explain her absence. I get up, carefully, my heart beating faster than ever. She notices, she cocks her head. I walk around the bed, gun still in my hand. I don't turn my back to her. I unlock the door. I close it behind me and hurry down the stairs. I write the note. I come back to her still standing where she stood.
"Why did you lock the door?"
She is silent. She just watches me with those big eyes that rattle me so.
"Now." I add in a low growl. She turns to me.
"John sent me here."
"Where, here? To my bedroom?" I ask sarcastically.
"Yes."
That shuts me up. She waits for me. She has to wait a long time.
"Explain." I eventually demand of her.
"John sent Reece back to conceive him. He sent the second Terminator to keep you safe. He sent me because his mother told him I was the one that got her through mentally and emotionally." She states it like she's reading the phonebook. It explains nothing. I shoot her a look, forcing her to continue.
"He told me that his mother never told him in so many words but he heard her every now and then, at night, having sex. I would always come out of her room on those nights. He 'connected the dots' and sent me here. His mother told him that it were those nights that gave her the strength to continue on."
And just like that, my world is turned upside down. Apparently it was pre-destined that I sleep with this Terminator and on a regular basis, no less.
"I came tonight to fulfill my mission." She adds. I would have told John we were eating chicken for dinner with the tone she uses. I'm still too shocked to respond but get a jump start as she suddenly reaches for the hem of her sweater and pulls it off, exposing herself to me. She went without a bra, she is, however, wearing more of those bruises. I really beat her up badly.
"Woa, what do you think you're doing?!" I ask, diverting my gaze to the ground. My cheeks burn and I curse myself for the searing heat between my legs. Too much talk and thought about sex, seriously.
"I am undressing. I am not programmed with much knowledge about sex, either with a male or female, but I know you have to be naked in order to do it." She states and damn it all to hell if she isn't trying for seductiveness in her voice. Damn her, no fair.
This is the perfect time for a time out and a thought or two about what the hell I'm doing. I just can't get myself to do that, though. On their own accord my eyes return to her. I am weak, I know I am. I'm just clutching on to my insufferable ways to keep from falling apart. She doesn't move as I fight myself. She doesn't move as I drag my eyes up and down her body without shame or holding back. She's truly beautiful. They build her like a dancer. She is all subtle muscle and soft flesh. She's not innocent, not now. There is a new light in her eyes, a perfect copy of my own look, I wager. She's looking aroused with her big pupils and slightly offset breathing. Her nipples have grown hard. Damn good piece of machinery.
"I hate you." I say once more but there is no venom there, they are empty words and painful to hear. I lay down the gun. I lock the door.
As it turns out, Terminators really don't get training in sex. And the technology for a proper feel for the activity has yet to be invented. At first she just lets me touch her. I stand close to her and trace her collarbone with my fingers. She watches me. I tell her to close her eyes loosely. She does. She tilts her head with my movements, lets me mould her. She can't feel excitement. She feels nothing special as I cup her breasts and run my thumbs over her nipples. It's decoration. It's weird. I tell her to open her eyes and I take off my shirt. I stand before her in my old panties and she watches me like she would, like she does, the wall. I tell her to mimic what I just did with her and to watch my reaction. I tell her I want that reaction out of her when I touch her. I am expressive. I walk her through having sex. I teach her to act the part. For a while it seems she has a heart. I gave her one and as she closes her mouth over my aching nipple, I hear her moan with me and not because I told her to. Good software, that.
She's not the best lover I have ever had and not the worst. She's pretty bad at it, though and even my raging libido can't push me over the edge. I don't come for her but she gets me close. It's enough. I feel weird with every command I give, every instruction. It's weird to describe how she should enter me, weird to guide her hand and show her she has to twist her finger slightly. It's awkward when I stumble over the words as I try to explain that she should move, not just in and out of me but also curl her fingers inside. I show her how it's done and she mimics my reactions to a tee. As I enter her she is slippery and wet. It's like fucking a real life doll. She copies my moans and thrashing until the point I have stopped. She doesn't know an orgasm and can't fake it. I stop. She tries again with me with the newly acquired knowledge. I stop her after a while. I don't tell her 'it's okay' or 'you'll get there next time'. She is a machine, she doesn't feel hurt or embarrassed.
I tell her to clean herself up and resume patrol. I fall asleep even more wired than I already was. I have a survivor attitude, I sleep but light enough to be awoken every time Cameron walks past my room. Every time my libido jerks and every time I close my eyes and fall asleep.
The next morning it is as if nothing happened, at least not the sex part. The fight is a completely different thing. My hands are all colors of the rainbow as is Cameron's face and, undoubtedly, the rest of her body. John doesn't understand, I knew he wouldn't. He demands an answer and I tell him this was between me and Cameron. I don't say anything else. He's mad at me but in his teenage way. I can't be bothered to care. He will get over it, he always does. I get mad when he doesn't want to kiss me goodbye. He kisses me goodbye. Cameron watches me as I watch him leave. Damn machine.
I'm less fucked up this time. I watch her, glimpse at her god awful bruises as she bites my nipple lightly and enters me. She knows how to do it now. She performs the job like she is doing the dishes. There is no passion, no fire, but it's easier for me to guide her now and lo and behold, I actually come. Not earth shatteringly so but for a moment, I'm lost in my own little world and there is only me. It's a glorious feeling.
Afterwards we sit at the kitchen table. She is removing her band aids and checking herself in the mirror. I'm watching her while flipping through the papers splayed out in front of me. She's black and blue all over. I don't regret the beating or the sex. I return my focus to the task at hand, gathering info, saving the world. I'll be damned if I can't focus better, if I'm not more relaxed. Apparently the future me was right.
Cameron does make me relax. She gives me the strength to continue on. I think I'll follow my future self's advise, I'll keep her.
The End