Two Thoughts

NOTES: This stream of consciousness fanfic takes place after "The Tower is Tall, But the Fall is Short." It's mainly John/Cameron romance, but nothing serious. This is considered a sequel to my fanfic "The Girl Who Came in From the Cold," so you may want to read that first if you want to catch all the nuances of this piece. Let me know if you like it. Enjoy!

I don't wanna feel the way I do. Trapped. Suffocating. I want to scream out loud at the top of my lungs in the middle of the street. I want to run, just like Martin Bedell said, run away from it all and never look back.

This need to almost jump out of my skin has been getting stronger every day. I can't shake it. The incident with Sarkissian has been haunting me since the first time we sat in Dr. Boyd Sherman’s office. My desire to talk about what…what I did is starting to become nearly impossible to contain.

I’m a murderer. I’ve taken the life of another human being with my own hands. Even if it was to save my mother, it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve killed, and that person is never coming back.

You might wonder how a person who knows he will be killing in the future would even let it bother him, but I also realize I will be fighting against machines, not humans. At least that’s what I tell myself.

So yeah, I’m fucked up, but I also can't shake the feeling that there's something else wrong with me, something worse. It’s another reason why I can't possibly be the "Savior of All Mankind," like everyone from the future keeps telling me I'll eventually become.

I'm sick. I'm a pervert. I'm in love with a machine. I’m in love with the very thing I will be fighting tooth and nail against in the future. How is that even possible? If you met someone who you discovered was in love with their toaster, or microwave, wouldn't you want him locked up in a psych ward?

Like Mom. Damn. Guess it runs in the family, huh? We're all psychos. Well, that’s not fair. Mom was actually right about Judgment Day and the robots from the future. It’s just that no one else believed her.

Oh, I almost forgot. Cameron’s the one monitoring the bug today. I can see her sitting on a bench outside the building.

Damn. She's wearing the purple jacket today. It's the awesome leather job that just accentuates her gorgeous features somehow. She hasn't worn it in a while. I thought it was destroyed in the fire. Apparently, Derek managed to salvage it along with some of our other clothing.

She sees me. Our eyes meet for a second. Man, I just want to look away, but I know I can’t. I’m a sadist - I must be.

I'm on my way to Dr. Sherman's office, for another therapy session. This is an opportunity for me. I just...I just need to talk to someone. No one understands. No one can. Mom, Derek, Cameron - especially Cameron. They just won't understand. I don't want to tell them anything. I couldn't bear the looks of disappointment they'd give me. Well, maybe Cameron wouldn’t look disappointed.

Actually, I don't really know how Cameron would react if I told her how I feel. The real question is: can *she* feel anything, really? If I could just figure that out, maybe…

Sometimes, with all of this weight bearing down on me, I just want to chuck it all out the window. Maybe just...end it all. I can't be the man they all want - no, expect - me to become.

The Beretta I was cleaning. I…I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I couldn’t have been. Suicide is for losers. I don’t really remember what happened. I…looked down the barrel…I could have sworn I cleared it first. I don’t even know how I pulled the trigger with it pointing at my face.

I couldn’t have been trying to kill myself…No way. The Savior John Connor *must* live. The fact that I’m here proves I wasn’t trying to off myself…right?

I pass Cameron on the way in. I’ve taken to just glaring at her nowadays. I can’t figure out how to talk to her. I just feel…awkward all of the time when she’s around. I don’t know what to do anymore.

After the night I got her out of that house, when she almost killed that girl, things were never the same between us. That night, she was...different. She had called herself "Allison" earlier in the day. Eventually, she told me Allison was inside her, becoming part of her. She did things that I’d never seen her do before. My perception of her changed that night.

Maybe I was infatuated with her before, but now, I can’t deny it.

I’m in love with Cameron…Allison…shit, I don’t know anymore.

And do you know what the worst part is? I can’t tell Dr. Sherman about it. Even if we didn’t have his room bugged, how do I tell a shrink that I’m in love with my sister, who really isn’t my sister, but really a robot from the future?

Yeah, I think I’ll stick to everything else on my mind, thank you very much.

Cam’s following me with her gaze as I put my hand on the glass door. She’s trying to outdo me in the staring of daggers department. I fleetingly wonder what she’s thinking. Is she confused by my behavior? Does she wonder why I’m pulling away from her, why we don’t “make conversation” like we used to? Does she feel *anything* about me?

I can’t deal with this. I just head into the office, hoping against hope that the good doctor can do something, anything to help stop this runaway train that is my life, and let me get off.


I find him sitting in the backyard, sitting cross-legged in the grass, facing away from the house. From my observations, he has been immobile for ten minutes, fifteen seconds. Aside from when he is sleeping, this is an unusual amount of time for John to be completely still. I open the back door, and descend the stairs, intending to investigate.

As I quietly walk around him to look at his face, I notice his eyes are closed, his face tilted at a slight angle up toward the overcast sky. His palms are resting on his bent knees. I would categorize his posture as a meditative one. Perhaps John has taken up yoga, although he has not indicated that he has done so.

While I am standing to his right, and looking down at him, I switch screens on my tactical display and I begin to take passive readings of John’s vital signs. His respiration is normal, heart rate indicating a state of relaxation. IR shows no undue signs of stress.

“Are you gonna just stand there, and do diagnostics on me, or is there a reason you’re here?” This is from John, who still has his eyes closed and is not looking at me.

How did he know it was me? And how did he know I was standing there taking readings? I don’t believe in clairvoyance, yet sometimes humans have an uncanny ability to perform seemingly paranormal feats. I file this observation for future research.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I seem to offend John quite easily these days, though I’m uncertain why. “You have been motionless in this position for over ten minutes. I was concerned for your well being.”

“I’m fine,” was his only curt response.

I am curious as to what exactly he is hoping to accomplish, so I ask him “What are you doing?”

Finally turning his head a bit toward me, and opening his right eye, he replies “I’m trying to meditate.”

So I was correct in my previous assumption. “Why are you meditating?” I ask.

John has resumed ignoring me. With a breath of air escaping his nostrils (I have determined this is a sign of frustration), he answers. “Dr. Sherman suggested I try to meditate to clear my head of anxieties.”

“Is it working?” I am interested in his progress. While we cannot determine exactly why Dr. Boyd Sherman was on the list, I still harbor the suspicion that Sherman might have been intended to help John work out his mental stresses and frustration. In the future, John will be very good at handling stress.

John’s lips have tightened into a thin line. This is not a good sign. “I *was* doing well, until you showed up, that is.”

Again, I am a source of tension and anxiety for him. A week ago, this would not have been a concern. But now? I have a difficult time describing unfamiliar “feelings,” but I would categorize what I am currently experiencing as feeling “hurt.”

“Sit down, will you?” he says with barely contained irritation. I comply with his wishes, desiring to deescalate the levels of stress I am creating within him. I take note of the grass under me, its unique smell, the combination of softness and scratchiness caused by the blades brushing against my bare legs. I run my fingers through the deep green blades, simultaneously recording vital statistics of the grass as well as appreciating its beauty and ability to comfort.

There is very little grass in the future. Some hardy varieties of scrub brush remain, but this species of foliage is extinct after Judgment Day.

I look up and notice John is no longer meditating. Indeed, he is gazing at me with an intensity that would unnerve me were I human.

“What?” is all I can manage to say. It seems a direct query to his peculiar expression. It is unlike the usual glaring I get from him normally.

A tiny smirk appears in the corner of his mouth. He opens it to speak, but seems to decide against it. I am curious as to what he was going to say. Finally, he shakes his head, indicating he’s decided to abandon his answer.

I think I’m disappointed, but I’m not sure. Suddenly, a ladybug, species Coccinella septempunctata, lands directly on my left wrist. I lift my hand to my face, examining the insect. It is deep red, with black spots. I feel the tiny legs propelling it across my skin.

I am fascinated. Why would such an insignificant creature decide to land on me and crawl across my arm? Wouldn’t it understand that most humans would want to destroy an intruder such as this? I cannot deny that the ladybug is…beautiful, however. Something deep inside me marvels at the crimson color and the delicate nature of the insect.

John is watching me still, now with another look. Is it contentment I see there? I am uncertain. Human expression is difficult to decipher and interpret properly.

“Make a wish,” he says quietly. I am confused. I feel my head involuntarily tilting to the side. It is programmed into me to do this during times of confusion. It lets others know I am unable to process the information I am receiving.

John is smiling at me. Without thought, I return the smile. I detect a gleam in John’s eyes, as if something has awakened within him. This is intriguing me more than the ladybug at the moment.

He picks up my hand with his. I note his soft, warm touch. Salinity and moisture levels indicate lowered stress. I am pleased. He holds my hand up, looking directly at the ladybug, which is now fluttering its wings intermittently.

He continues in that same soothing tone. “When a ladybug lands on you, you’re supposed to make a wish before it flies away. If you do that, then it will come true.” His bright green eyes lock with mine. I believe he is instructing me on ladybug etiquette.

I look at the insect. I am supposed to make a wish. But what possible purpose would be served by my doing so? The likelihood of making a wish and having it granted by a simple bug is impossible. But John seems eager for me to participate in this charade.

And I am not willing to sabotage this apparent progress with John due to my inability to embrace superstition. So, I peer intently at the ladybug, deciding on a wish. From previous experience, especially while studying the ritual of birthday parties, I know that making a wish is supposed to be a serious and important affair. You don’t wish for the dishes to be washed or the dog to be fed. No. These wishes are intended for a person’s deepest desires.

What is my deepest desire? My focus moves over to John’s face. My display frames his features in several outlines, each indicating a section that my sensors are taking readings of. I ignore the flow of information and my mind concentrates only on his strong jawline, his aquiline nose, those soulful green eyes, the sensual lips I have never kissed. I have never appreciated John’s attractiveness more so than this moment, and I realize I have Allison Young to thank for that.

I have selected my wish. I silently declare it, and look up to John. “It is done,” I say.

His smile has grown even wider. Now I know I have performed adequately, and I am pleased with myself. Unexpectedly, John blows gently across my wrist, causing the ladybug distress, and the insect flies away. I feel the strange sensation of goosebumps forming on my skin where John has blown upon it. Strange, I only experience goosebumps during extreme cold conditions. A subroutine was programmed into me to mimic the reaction in low temperatures.

John’s breath was not cold enough to elicit this reaction. I again file the sensation for further study.

“So,” John says, breaking me out of my reverie. “What did you wish for?”

I open my mouth to speak. John shakes his head quickly “You never tell anyone what your wish is, otherwise it will never come true,” he explains.

I smile slightly for his benefit. I can’t bring myself to tell John that I would not have told him my wish anyway. I don’t know how he would react.

How can I tell John that my wish is to be able to love him like he truly deserves?

-- To Be Continued --

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