Chapter Text
It was late at night when the headlights of a station wagon flashed into the unlit driveway of a residential building. The vehicle thumped softly as it rolled across the cobbled courtyard and cast clean sections of light on the ground.
They had been on the road for over twentyfour hours and John was exhausted. He stretched out tiredly to drive the agonizing indolence out of his body. Never would he have thought that sitting could be so strenuous.
Morosely he peered through the windshield into the thick fog but could spot little in the dim.
His Terminator carefully steered the vehicle through the haze and John caught a glimpse on the silhouette of an unlit building.
"Who does this belong to?" John wondered, although he was now familiar with his companion‘s routine.
"Mason Burke and his family died two days ago. Their deaths will not be known for two weeks." he replied monotonously and parked the car in the back yard so it couldn't be spotted from the road.
"Two weeks, good enough," John yawned unrestrainedly and stretched himself again, pressing his hands against the roof of the station wagon.
The T-800 pulled the ignition key and the car's headlights went out, plunging the surroundings into complete darkness again.
John heard the Terminator reach for his shotgun on the back seat and then swing open the driver's door. The cold air of the autumn night filled the car and John shivered in his thin leather jacket that he hadn't changed since they‘ve left Los Angeles.
They had to be far away from a larger town or from any civilization.
Why would anyone want to live out here anyway, John thought to himself. There was nothing but thick forest and John found the thought of having to stay for two weeks already incredibly boring.
He missed the cities and other people with whom he could laugh and argue. He missed messing with teachers and revolting against authorities, or hanging out with his friends and getting into trouble.
They must have seen the news, and John wondered if they would speak to him at all when he returned. If he ever returned.
Secretly he knew he would never see them again but decided not to think about it.
♣
Standing motionless on the driver‘s side the Terminator scanned the area with his sensors to make sure that there was no one else around.
When he let the car‘s door slam into the lock, John took this as an invitation to leave the vehicle as well.
Relieved he jumped out into the cold. He inhaled deeply to fill his lungs with the fresh autumn air and then exhaled for just as long.
His breath formed clouds in front of his eyes and seemed to join the thick fog that enveloped the area.
John had never been so far from a city and as long as he was by his mother's side, she had preferred to hide with him in the big metropolises or smaller suburbs as well.
He hadn't suspected how dark it could be without the artificial light that usually illuminated the streets. Even if you drove several miles away from the city and the skyscrapers could no longer be seen, the firmament was still brightly lit across the horizon.
♣
His companion didn't seem to have any problems finding his way around. He locked the car and then headed for the building without another word.
"Hey!" John called after him angrily and hurried in the direction the Terminator was disappearing.
No sooner had John taken three steps than he misinterpreted his surroundings and hit his knee painfully on the car‘s rear.
"Fuck," hissed John through his teeth.
Again he shouted "Hey, wait!" and bent down to feel his knee, only to bump his head against the trunk of the car this time.
John sank into a crouch and held his now throbbing forehead.
"I'm an idiot," he gritted between his clenched teeth while the pain brought tears to his eyes.
Just a second later a strong hand clutched his upper arm and easily lifted him back on his feet.
"I don't see anything here," John grumbled dissatisfied at his Terminator and vigorously blinked the moisture from his eyes.
"Are you injured?" the Terminator asked in return and John suddenly felt ashamed of his own stupidity.
John Connor has to survive, he thought cynically of himself and kept rubbing the spot on his forehead where he had hit the car. The hope for mankind, that's who I am.
"No, I'm ok," John mumbled and waved him off with a reassuring gesture.
They lingered for a moment and just looked at each other, or at least John thought he was looking at the other. It was too dark to make out the Terminators features and he just peered into the general direction where he assumed the eyes should be.
But then he sensed a movement in front of him as his companion slowly raised his hand and brought his fingers close to John's face. John winced a little as his heart make an unexpected leap into his throat.
With a surprisingly gentle gesture, the Terminator brushed John’s hair aside and ran his thumb over his forehead, almost intrigued with the bruise that had formed there.
"Careful, that hurts." John snapped at him somberly and flinched at his touch.
A few accelerated breaths John kept still and a soft shiver waved through him that didn‘t origin from the cold.
"It‘s ... I'm fine,“ John stuttered and ducked evasively away.
He shook his head briefly so that his hair fell back into his face and immediately blew it out of his eyes again, a silly habit. But it helped to cover up the tension that had flickered in him for a moment.
The Terminator didn't let go of his upper arm as he roughly dragged John with him to the front door. John was glad about it. He still felt stupid and helpless, and being held by the hand like a toddler would only have reinforced that impression for him.
They didn't have a key to get into the house, but the T-800 opened the door with one hand as easily as if there had been no lock in the first place.
Even though door bolt broke through, the latch was still able to keep the door closed.
♣
They found themselves standing in the entrance area of a neat and well-kept household.
Everything seemed to be in its designated place and nothing looked superfluous. A wreath of flowers adorned the inside of the door, a cat sculpture in one corner, a few pictures on the wall, a key rack with inscribed name tags. John felt a little reminded of his foster parents and had to grin slightly; a time that struck him as the most unreal in his messy life.
He kept looking around for a moment and saw the family's shoes neatly stacked on a shelf by the door.
Small ribboned, red sandals were peeping out from the shelf, that must have belonged to a young girl and suddenly a realization hit him. He swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. John felt bad to be here, like an intruder who tarnished the memory of this family.
He averted his gaze from the shoes and clenched his fists to pull himself together.
His Terminator waited patiently until John had looked around, but he had not missed his fluctuation in emotions and stared at John intently.
John felt the piercing gaze on him and looked up.
"It’s nothing." he said unconvincingly.
When the Terminator continued to stare at him, he added sullenly "That," and gestured towards the shoe rack, "It just made me sad."
“Why?” the Terminator asked curiously.
"They also had their story. They lived and loved and…," John interrupted himself. "You don't understand that," he concluded resignedly and started to look around the adjoining rooms.
The first door on the right led into a kitchen and dining room. With its earth-colored tiled walls and dark shelves, it looked modern and rustic at the same time. A bowl of ornamental fruit stood on the wooden kitchen table and flowered curtains adorned the window above the sink.
John eagerly opened the fridge. If the residents of the house had only been gone two days, there would still be enough to eat here. For now, he was satisfied with a few slices of toast and a bottle of orange juice, which he took a couple of long sips from before putting it back.
Equipped with advanced sensory systems, the Terminator only needed a split second to scan the area much more extensively and he usually just monitored how John was doing what he did and what conclusions he drew from his observations.
At first John had felt a little uncomfortable to always feel that watchful eye on him, but he had become quite used to it.
They passed the bathroom and John assigned his Terminator to wait outside.
♣
John took the opportunity to examine himself in the mirror above the sink.
His tired face scowled at him and when he saw the dark shadows under his eyes he realized how exhausted he actually was.
A thick, bloodshot bump had formed under his bangs and now John caught himself leaning in to the mirror and touching his forehead in fascination as well.
All of a sudden he had to laugh out loud when he thought that even his Terminator had been distracted by his bruise.
His eyes fell on a cup from which the four toothbrushes of the family who had lived here protruded and the sight struck him with grief again. Those little things reminded him of the people whose deaths now served to ensure his own oh-so-important survival.
If all he had learned about his future was correct, it would be a fate that would soon hit most of humanity.
John found the thought terrible and feared his prescribed destiny. He hated the fact that he could do what he wanted, but at the same time it didn‘t seem to matter at all.
Everything that was going to happen had already happened in the future, and as wrong as the phrase sounded to him, he couldn't describe it more precisely.
Then suddenly, with a touch of frustration, John wiped the cup off the edge of the sink. It hit the floor with a loud clang and the toothbrushes flew out and spread around the room.
Outside the Terminator knocked on the door once and said "John Connor?" to check on him.
Maybe he thought John was malfunctioning again and had hit his head once more – who would have thought keeping John Connor alive could be so taxing - and John hastily replied, "I'm fine."
He picked up the mug and brushes from the floor and threw them in the trash can.
If he was going to stay here for two weeks he didn't want to be reminded of the lives lost whenever he went to the bathroom.
♣
Furnished in harmonious gray and old pink tones, the living room was a cozy place. Pressing the light switch did not illuminate a ceiling spot, instead passive cabinet lighting bathed the room in pleasantly calm colors.
A coffee table adorned the center, around which a couch and an armchair were set up. At the far end, a television was noticably well fitted in a niche of the cabinet and the walls were decorated with large canvases that blended coherently into the overall picture.
For the moment, however, John was too tired to deal with the room furnishings. He took off his jacket and tossed it over the empty chair before he collapsed wearily on the couch.
Carelessly he kicked his shoes from his feet and flung them over the edge of the sofa to the floor.
With an exhausted groan, he lied down and put his arm over his eyes to dim the light and took a few more breaths to settle down a bit.
His Terminator followed him and sat at his head end, shotgun still in hand, attentive and loyal.
John laboriously slid down a little to make space for his friend.
"Explain it to me," demanded the Terminator looking down at him.
John yawned tiredly and cocked his head to meet his gaze. "Explain what?" he asked confused.
"Explain why you are sad."
The question had John taken by surprise and he turned sideways to think for a moment. He noticed the buckle of the Terminator's leather jacket seating on the cushion in front of him and absently reached out to play around with it.
"I don't know either," John said, dissatisfied with his own answer, and shrugged. "I mean, I didn't even know them."
He let the metal bar snap open and closed it again with a soft clink.
A clock on the wall was counting down the seconds of the remaining night and soon John joined its rhythm with his metal chime.
The Terminator watched him calmly, amazed at the pointlessness of this action.
After a while John stopped with his clicking but kept holding the buckle in his hand.
Apart from the soft ticking it was dead quiet. The Terminator had no heartbeat and didn‘t need to breathe, and most of the time he sat as motionless as a parked car.
Nevertheless John enjoyed that he was always with him and took care of him.
Even here in this house of a dead family, in the middle of nowhere, persecuted by the state and a doomed future ahead of him, John felt safe and secure.
He had almost given in to his tiredness when a question crossed John‘s mind.
"Do you know when you're going to die?" John asked and sat up slightly to look at his friend who was still staring at him incessantly.
"Positive," the Terminator replied tersely as he always did.
John contemplated for a moment if he should ask where and how it would happen, but then he wasn't sure if he even wanted to know and slowly laid back down on the sofa.
Soon John curled into a more comfortable position to finally give in to his fatigue.
"You know," he muttered as his mind gradually drifted away. The Terminator waited patiently for John to finish his sentence.
"I wish I didn‘t know what will become of me. I wish I could escape.“