Revisions
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Ensemble, no ship as of now though future ships may sail
Timeline: After “Adam Raised a Cain” Departs canon from there
Summary: Because I not so secretly want it to happen… a near future in which the intricacies of multiple timelines offer the chance for some lives to be lived again.
Note: In my head this will develop as an alternate end to whatever Fox throws us as a finale to season 2.
First
When he entered the home of Zeira Corp’s CEO he’d already been ready for the ringing in his ears. It always comes after a battle, not from the explosive percussion of hurtling rounds or the brutal hardness of the ground when you need cover and the best you can do is hit pavement. It’s just the aftermath of accidentally being alive. The fecundity of the moment when you didn’t die spins about, vibrating like a trapped insect in your ear canal. It sprouts new possibilities, unexpected and a little grotesque, like potatoes gone to seed under the kitchen sink.
The feeling was familiar, comforting, and disturbing. It reminded him every time that he was alive. It also reminded him that he’d been a hair’s breadth from death.
This time was different. He heard shots. There was shit-all for cover.
Movement.
He raised his-
Finished.
Between
He thought it would be like lightning. He had seen the bright neon of the bolts skipping between the turbines. He thought he’d have a moment, thought he’d see the spark of the bolt that would stop his heart and take him to another when. He thought he’d watch the world change.
He could still see the blueness of the turbine storm around him when the new light started. It came on too fast for him to determine a source. This light was white and there was a hotness that burned his eyes without blistering his skin. He closed his eyes against the growing glare. But the light was shining under his eyelids. It was in him. It was him. He opened his mouth and breathed out explosions of light without heat. He opened his hands and the colors of the world dissolved into white radiance.
There was something pressing against his face. It bore down on his skull like a finger poking cruelly between his eyes. The thing twisted, opening space between the layers of cells, digging a place for itself in his flesh and bone. He tried to scream, horrified that it would bore its way inside him. But there was nothing in him but light and pain and it was taking everything apart.
And Again
He pried into the situation with the care of a man inspecting an infected wound. He prodded softly, not sure yet how deep the damage went or how best to make it better.
The flood of news reports that had once clogged all media venues, choking out everything but serious sports coverage and news of the recession receded to an ebb with a speed that startlingly contrasted the terrified buzz that had so recently surrounded the Connor family. Reports now were just taglines rattled out breathlessly at the ends of the latest reports about the First Lady’s fashion choices. The fugitive terrorist was being moved to such and such a place for questioning. Oh, and let’s take special care to remember that she’s female folks. Sarah Connor’s gender was keeping her in the news far longer than bullets and police brigades ever could.
He’d memorized every detail of the clip that always accompanied the reports. He traced the lines of Sarah Connor’s face as it was brutally smashed against asphalts like his brother had traced the lines of a faded Polaroid. He thought of the little talismans tunnel trolls carried for luck- little bits of scrap material etched with lines that suggested a female face. St. Sarah, patron of the soon to be dead. That face had burned its way into the public eye but it had been written between the folds of his cerebrum and carved onto his bones years ago. Sarah Connor was hope. But not yet.
The manhunt was still on, bright-eyed, over made-up newscasters reminded the public. At least one gunman was thought to still be at large. The only other person involved in the shoot out was an unidentified male DOA that had since been interred at the expense of the state.
Images of the dead gunman were not released to the public due to their graphic nature. It was unclear as to whether he had been pursuing or aiding the Connors.
It didn’t matter, with Sarah Connor in prison and John Connor vanished into exile a dead gunman was the least of his worries.
“My ID had been flagged at the Mexican border. When shit hits the fan, I’ll run north. Find me in Canada.” Connor had said and he’d tried to imagine the general without his scarred face, tried to imagine him as a kid running scared instead of the magnificent bastard of a thousand battles.
“With all due respect sir, is that the most you can give me? North?”
“We’ll need new IDs, weapons, a full work up.” Connor had made him memorize a list of contacts with the precaution that not all might be trustworthy, not all might be alive. He’d provided him with codes to bank vaults and made him memorize layouts and security systems. “My mother will have just been arrested. I’ll stop running too soon. I’ll make plans to go back for her. Get to me first.”
“Sir, if this is your past,” he felt a headache building somewhere between his eyebrows and his sanity, “can’t you tell me where it is I’ll meet you? Can’t you tell me what to do next?” He didn’t like to sound so helpless in front of the General but, he reminded himself, this was far outside the scope of any mission he’d ever completed. John Connor. Time travel. Damn.
“No I can’t Lieutenant.” Did Connor almost grin? Did he almost look ill? “The past I remember is the one that lead to this present. The objective is to change that past. The objective is for you to change that past.”
“And, sir, my brother?” He’d tried to hold back mention of his brother. When he thought of him, he began to shake with fury and grieve. Connor prized level-headedness. Connor prized logic.
“This is for him too, Lieutenant. You’re going back to change things, maybe change our lives for good his time.”
He nodded.
“And Lieutenant,” Connor had said, “keep your head down. You’re high profile. Your prints are in the system.”
He’d wondered at that. He’d never been arrested in his life. He wondered at it still as he kept his eye on the news and cautiously made contact with the first of the people on the list in his head. Weapon’s dealers. Fake paper guys. One of them seemed to recognize him. The man paled the day they met in person and said, “You bad, man.” The guy gave him a great price.
He kept his head down and made his way north. Somewhere up there was a John Connor who didn’t yet know he was expecting him.
Characters: Ensemble, no ship as of now though future ships may sail
Timeline: After “Adam Raised a Cain” Departs canon from there
Summary: Because I not so secretly want it to happen… a near future in which the intricacies of multiple timelines offer the chance for some lives to be lived again.
Note: In my head this will develop as an alternate end to whatever Fox throws us as a finale to season 2.
First
When he entered the home of Zeira Corp’s CEO he’d already been ready for the ringing in his ears. It always comes after a battle, not from the explosive percussion of hurtling rounds or the brutal hardness of the ground when you need cover and the best you can do is hit pavement. It’s just the aftermath of accidentally being alive. The fecundity of the moment when you didn’t die spins about, vibrating like a trapped insect in your ear canal. It sprouts new possibilities, unexpected and a little grotesque, like potatoes gone to seed under the kitchen sink.
The feeling was familiar, comforting, and disturbing. It reminded him every time that he was alive. It also reminded him that he’d been a hair’s breadth from death.
This time was different. He heard shots. There was shit-all for cover.
Movement.
He raised his-
Finished.
Between
He thought it would be like lightning. He had seen the bright neon of the bolts skipping between the turbines. He thought he’d have a moment, thought he’d see the spark of the bolt that would stop his heart and take him to another when. He thought he’d watch the world change.
He could still see the blueness of the turbine storm around him when the new light started. It came on too fast for him to determine a source. This light was white and there was a hotness that burned his eyes without blistering his skin. He closed his eyes against the growing glare. But the light was shining under his eyelids. It was in him. It was him. He opened his mouth and breathed out explosions of light without heat. He opened his hands and the colors of the world dissolved into white radiance.
There was something pressing against his face. It bore down on his skull like a finger poking cruelly between his eyes. The thing twisted, opening space between the layers of cells, digging a place for itself in his flesh and bone. He tried to scream, horrified that it would bore its way inside him. But there was nothing in him but light and pain and it was taking everything apart.
And Again
He pried into the situation with the care of a man inspecting an infected wound. He prodded softly, not sure yet how deep the damage went or how best to make it better.
The flood of news reports that had once clogged all media venues, choking out everything but serious sports coverage and news of the recession receded to an ebb with a speed that startlingly contrasted the terrified buzz that had so recently surrounded the Connor family. Reports now were just taglines rattled out breathlessly at the ends of the latest reports about the First Lady’s fashion choices. The fugitive terrorist was being moved to such and such a place for questioning. Oh, and let’s take special care to remember that she’s female folks. Sarah Connor’s gender was keeping her in the news far longer than bullets and police brigades ever could.
He’d memorized every detail of the clip that always accompanied the reports. He traced the lines of Sarah Connor’s face as it was brutally smashed against asphalts like his brother had traced the lines of a faded Polaroid. He thought of the little talismans tunnel trolls carried for luck- little bits of scrap material etched with lines that suggested a female face. St. Sarah, patron of the soon to be dead. That face had burned its way into the public eye but it had been written between the folds of his cerebrum and carved onto his bones years ago. Sarah Connor was hope. But not yet.
The manhunt was still on, bright-eyed, over made-up newscasters reminded the public. At least one gunman was thought to still be at large. The only other person involved in the shoot out was an unidentified male DOA that had since been interred at the expense of the state.
Images of the dead gunman were not released to the public due to their graphic nature. It was unclear as to whether he had been pursuing or aiding the Connors.
It didn’t matter, with Sarah Connor in prison and John Connor vanished into exile a dead gunman was the least of his worries.
“My ID had been flagged at the Mexican border. When shit hits the fan, I’ll run north. Find me in Canada.” Connor had said and he’d tried to imagine the general without his scarred face, tried to imagine him as a kid running scared instead of the magnificent bastard of a thousand battles.
“With all due respect sir, is that the most you can give me? North?”
“We’ll need new IDs, weapons, a full work up.” Connor had made him memorize a list of contacts with the precaution that not all might be trustworthy, not all might be alive. He’d provided him with codes to bank vaults and made him memorize layouts and security systems. “My mother will have just been arrested. I’ll stop running too soon. I’ll make plans to go back for her. Get to me first.”
“Sir, if this is your past,” he felt a headache building somewhere between his eyebrows and his sanity, “can’t you tell me where it is I’ll meet you? Can’t you tell me what to do next?” He didn’t like to sound so helpless in front of the General but, he reminded himself, this was far outside the scope of any mission he’d ever completed. John Connor. Time travel. Damn.
“No I can’t Lieutenant.” Did Connor almost grin? Did he almost look ill? “The past I remember is the one that lead to this present. The objective is to change that past. The objective is for you to change that past.”
“And, sir, my brother?” He’d tried to hold back mention of his brother. When he thought of him, he began to shake with fury and grieve. Connor prized level-headedness. Connor prized logic.
“This is for him too, Lieutenant. You’re going back to change things, maybe change our lives for good his time.”
He nodded.
“And Lieutenant,” Connor had said, “keep your head down. You’re high profile. Your prints are in the system.”
He’d wondered at that. He’d never been arrested in his life. He wondered at it still as he kept his eye on the news and cautiously made contact with the first of the people on the list in his head. Weapon’s dealers. Fake paper guys. One of them seemed to recognize him. The man paled the day they met in person and said, “You bad, man.” The guy gave him a great price.
He kept his head down and made his way north. Somewhere up there was a John Connor who didn’t yet know he was expecting him.