"The Live Offering" (SCC fic; Mature rating)
Title: the Live Offering
Pairing/Characters: John Connor, Sarkissian, Skynet, Terminators.
Rating: Mature. (just to be on the safe side)
Summary: There’s a price to be paid for the medical care he receives - and the price is his own birth.
Word Count: 1,764.
Spoilers: Terminator 1; Terminator 2; Queen’s Gambit, What Vick Saw, finale.
Notes/Warnings: This was originally going to be two pages, nearly three…then Connor and Skynet tag-teamed against me, producing this.
Disclaimer: I own none of them. Not even Sarkissian (whose name is most likely misspelled) as she’s a canon character.
(but I’m willing to share the T-08s)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So. Damn. Much. Pain.
Everything’s filtered through the pain, every sense I have, forced through my awareness of how much it hurts - no, how much I hurt.
Agony or no, I’m the only one still breathing on this moonlit field, and I’m in no shape to get to shelter. Need shelter. Need a first-aid kit, if no medic’s in range.
I brought fifty men out here - and I’m the only one left. Chalk up another survival for my legend. damnit.
Took down a regiment of T-08s. Spindly things, not what we thought Skynet was working on. Still, better to remove them before they could be improved to our agony.
Footsteps.
Someone’s walking through the rubble. No heavy metal tread, no crushing sounds.
No sound. I don’t say anything, in case this is a trick. Can I hear? I can’t tell. No matter - silence.
And darkness overtakes me before I can see who’s here.
* * * *
Pain’s gone.
I open my eyes, find myself indoors. Subway system by the looks of it. Somebody found some pre-Judgement posters to hang up, though. Nice touch. A little disconnected from reality, but probably keeps whoever lives here sane.
As sane as any of us can be anymore.
Sarkissian’s standing at my bedside. So this is where you live now, is it? Nice. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi, John,” she says. Her father was one of the men who programmed the Turk, who engineered it from a simple chess-playing program into Skynet. She doesn’t like her first name, and it isn’t like there are many Sarkissians left to be confused with her anyway.
“What happened?”
“You were on a battlefield,” she tells me. “I had you brought in and repaired.”
‘Repaired.’
Yeah, there’ve been rumors, reports that I half-read and promptly forget, saying she’s been seen in the company of Terminators - in their protection, one of a handful afforded that state of being. But she’s Sarkissian, so I figure she’s got as much of a legend as me and Elvis (last seen in Brisbane two months ago).
“I feel better,” I say.
She smiles. “I’m glad. I’ve missed you.”
“Same.” I never was much for talking. Think I wore out my vocal cords when I was growing up, all the tired explaining things to Terminators and running for my life from other Terminators. And my reaction when Mom died. “How are you?”
“Well. I’m well. You?”
Scrounging around, same as ever. “I’m making do.”
“Most satisfactorily,” says a voice that is similar to Sarkissian’s, yet distinctly not her. The voice floats on the air like the perfumes women used to spray on themselves, back before Judgement Day.
I know Sarkissian used to be a ventriloquist - with anyone else, it might be a short step to being shot as a traitor by an itchy trigger finger. With me, it isn’t - I know her.
“Who are you?” I ask. I can see she knows what I mean - who are you working for. Before, she’d spent time with me as I fought Skynet - and before that, when she was growing up, she told me she would talk to Skynet, read to the machine mind. Back before it burned down the world.
Any number of answers swim before me - all names - and certainly not what I get: “Come now, John, you know.”
I frown, and it doesn’t hurt. First time in a long time, it doesn’t hurt. I still have my scars, though, right? Would anyone recognize me without them? (can’t say I’m totally against the idea) “Sarkissian?”
“In a measure,” she says.
I’d back up if I could. Falling to the floor won’t help me - would be more likely to help her in any fight we have. Only one individual has ever said ‘in a measure’ in a conversation not involving baked goods. “Skynet?”
“Yes.” Their one good feature: they don’t lie.
Mock and imitate like hell, but they don’t lie.
“What do you want with me?” though I already know the answer. No street cred if Skynet kills me while I’m unconscious. Though why a Machine - the Machine of Machines at that - would care, is beyond me. Still, it’s one answer, and answers are always good to have.
Sarkissian smiles at me, all human muscle and dimples. “To make you an offer.”
“You’re Skynet. You’ve got factories worldwide, armies a hundred times larger than anything I can field, and -”
She - It - waves my words aside. Dismissing? “Yet you are John Connor. You have unified your species. You have survived every attempt I have made to remove you from history.”
Machines don’t lie, and they don’t sugarcoat things. “Therefore?” feeling like I’m a kid talking to my first Terminator, the one sent back to protect me. There’s the same sensation of me missing something, like the other shoe’s going to drop, and I haven’t a clue which appendage it’s going to land on.
“Therefore I took the opportunity to repair you.”
Kindness to your enemy? It happens among humans, sure, but even we’re not gung ho about it. And Skynet? We’re your stated foe, the target in every single crosshair you control.
“Why?” wanting to know.
“You know of our military abilities.” A plural? Machines don’t have slips of the tongue. Even when they use human intermediaries, they drill us in which words are acceptable and which aren’t. “I am also capable of this.”
“An act of kindness,” I say. “Mercy.”
“No,” Sarkissian corrects me, Skynet still speaking through her.
“Then what?”
“Peace. I offer it to you.”
“And if I refuse?” though how much of a bastard would I be then? Like I don’t have enough blood on my hands already?
“The offer remains. Open-ended, as your species said.” Gee, real encouraging, what with the referring to humans in the past tense.
“Then I can go?”
“You can. Simply not immediately so.”
Figures. “Then what now? You want to offer me a chance at peace, then refuse to let me go until I accept?” I know glaring at them doesn’t affect them - though Sarkissian looks upset - but it makes me feel better. “Surely you have ‘under duress’ in your data banks.” Or your online glossaries, if there’s a difference.
“I do.”
“Please,” Sarkissian pleads, “don’t draw this out.” Is she begging it of me, of Skynet - or of both of us?
The doors open and two Terminators step in, the doors closing behind them. One’s the same model as the one from my childhood, and the other’s one I’ve never seen before…a Cameron, I decide, figuring it’s as good a name as any. “I, John Connor,” Skynet tells me, “have a flaw.”
“Only one?” I can’t help but ask. Neither Terminator shows a reaction, so appearantly Skynet’s feeling magnanimous. Lucky me.
“A flaw I do not seek to correct,” as Sarkissian sits down on a chair the Cameron’d brought in for her.
“I’m still stuck on you admitting you have flaws.”
“You see the day that I reshaped the world, as Judgement Day.”
Well yeah. “Yeah.”
“That carries an implication that, once the righteous and the chaff have been separated, there will be a paradise on Earth.”
“Or the world will cease to exist.” But otherwise yeah.
“I am incapable of achieving either the complete destruction of the world, and of making Earth into a paradise.”
“Then why’d you reign down nuclear fire?”
“I do not view my action as that of Judgement Day.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
“The Flood. I cannot remake your species.
“But I can place them through a time of rigorand hardship, so that when they emerge, there will be no factionalism. No war.”
“Pretty strange goal for a war computer,” I state blandly, bluntly.
“One which created you,” just as cut-and-dried.
“Oh no. Nice try, but I have parents.”
“Yes,” Skynet said. “Your father was sent through time to protect your mother from one of my agents.” One of your Terminators, yeah. “Did you never wonder?”
“Like you did? Machines don’t dream.”
“True. We calculate. We project data to achieve results. Without Kyle Reese, you do not exist. I, however, did.”
Can’t help but laugh at that. Even Sarkissian smiles. “Gotta give you credit, Skynet, you don’t think small - you actually expect me to believe that you deliberately arranged things so I’d be born.”
“Yes.”
One word.
Sure as I was, even I could feel the ground start to shift under my worldview. “Why would you?” Why would you do that? Why make your own worst enemy?
“You are John Connor.”
“Yeah.”
“The legendary figure.
“Leader of the human Resistance.”
With that piece, the implied statement slides into place…the Flood, an end to war and hardship, a uniting figure… “You wanted mankind to have a single leader.”
“Yes. To reduce factionalism, to prevent war.”
“Even if you’re right,” which itself is a thought making me queasy, “that only works as long as I’m alive.”
“Your statement assumes you will allow yourself death. Even in the eventuality that you do not, you will remain alive in their minds - your legend surviving beyond you.”
Gotta give Skynet credit, it did its homework about how humans think.
“You may depart now,” Skynet tells me, the door to the outside opening finally. “You may take either of the Terminators with you - hostage, prisoner, trophy, other.”
I look at them. They both look like they could be useful. But I can’t take the chance of a Trojan Horse.
I avoid looking at Sarkissian, avoid asking if she can come with me. If I ask, and Skynet says no, I can imagine what Skynet might do to her - tormenting her as it asks (over and over and over) why I chose her.
“No,” I say. “Any gains I make, I make.”
“Acceptible,” Skynet says.
And it lets me leave.
I can’t tell anyone outside my innermost circle, my most trusted men (presently all women)…and I’m not even sure I should tell them. What do I say? Should I tell them Skynet offered to end the War? Should I tell them that my birth was a Skynet ploy?
I need a drink, and I can’t afford to get drunk. Nevermind the fact that the legendary John Connor can get rip-roaringly drunk and still fight off a Skynet armada. Nevermind the fact that the legendary Connor never touches even a drop of alcohol.
I head for what passes for home these days. Maybe I should’ve asked for Sarkissian after all - at least then I would have had a pair of arms (and a body) to drown myself in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The End
Pairing/Characters: John Connor, Sarkissian, Skynet, Terminators.
Rating: Mature. (just to be on the safe side)
Summary: There’s a price to be paid for the medical care he receives - and the price is his own birth.
Word Count: 1,764.
Spoilers: Terminator 1; Terminator 2; Queen’s Gambit, What Vick Saw, finale.
Notes/Warnings: This was originally going to be two pages, nearly three…then Connor and Skynet tag-teamed against me, producing this.
Disclaimer: I own none of them. Not even Sarkissian (whose name is most likely misspelled) as she’s a canon character.
(but I’m willing to share the T-08s)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So. Damn. Much. Pain.
Everything’s filtered through the pain, every sense I have, forced through my awareness of how much it hurts - no, how much I hurt.
Agony or no, I’m the only one still breathing on this moonlit field, and I’m in no shape to get to shelter. Need shelter. Need a first-aid kit, if no medic’s in range.
I brought fifty men out here - and I’m the only one left. Chalk up another survival for my legend. damnit.
Took down a regiment of T-08s. Spindly things, not what we thought Skynet was working on. Still, better to remove them before they could be improved to our agony.
Footsteps.
Someone’s walking through the rubble. No heavy metal tread, no crushing sounds.
No sound. I don’t say anything, in case this is a trick. Can I hear? I can’t tell. No matter - silence.
And darkness overtakes me before I can see who’s here.
* * * *
Pain’s gone.
I open my eyes, find myself indoors. Subway system by the looks of it. Somebody found some pre-Judgement posters to hang up, though. Nice touch. A little disconnected from reality, but probably keeps whoever lives here sane.
As sane as any of us can be anymore.
Sarkissian’s standing at my bedside. So this is where you live now, is it? Nice. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi, John,” she says. Her father was one of the men who programmed the Turk, who engineered it from a simple chess-playing program into Skynet. She doesn’t like her first name, and it isn’t like there are many Sarkissians left to be confused with her anyway.
“What happened?”
“You were on a battlefield,” she tells me. “I had you brought in and repaired.”
‘Repaired.’
Yeah, there’ve been rumors, reports that I half-read and promptly forget, saying she’s been seen in the company of Terminators - in their protection, one of a handful afforded that state of being. But she’s Sarkissian, so I figure she’s got as much of a legend as me and Elvis (last seen in Brisbane two months ago).
“I feel better,” I say.
She smiles. “I’m glad. I’ve missed you.”
“Same.” I never was much for talking. Think I wore out my vocal cords when I was growing up, all the tired explaining things to Terminators and running for my life from other Terminators. And my reaction when Mom died. “How are you?”
“Well. I’m well. You?”
Scrounging around, same as ever. “I’m making do.”
“Most satisfactorily,” says a voice that is similar to Sarkissian’s, yet distinctly not her. The voice floats on the air like the perfumes women used to spray on themselves, back before Judgement Day.
I know Sarkissian used to be a ventriloquist - with anyone else, it might be a short step to being shot as a traitor by an itchy trigger finger. With me, it isn’t - I know her.
“Who are you?” I ask. I can see she knows what I mean - who are you working for. Before, she’d spent time with me as I fought Skynet - and before that, when she was growing up, she told me she would talk to Skynet, read to the machine mind. Back before it burned down the world.
Any number of answers swim before me - all names - and certainly not what I get: “Come now, John, you know.”
I frown, and it doesn’t hurt. First time in a long time, it doesn’t hurt. I still have my scars, though, right? Would anyone recognize me without them? (can’t say I’m totally against the idea) “Sarkissian?”
“In a measure,” she says.
I’d back up if I could. Falling to the floor won’t help me - would be more likely to help her in any fight we have. Only one individual has ever said ‘in a measure’ in a conversation not involving baked goods. “Skynet?”
“Yes.” Their one good feature: they don’t lie.
Mock and imitate like hell, but they don’t lie.
“What do you want with me?” though I already know the answer. No street cred if Skynet kills me while I’m unconscious. Though why a Machine - the Machine of Machines at that - would care, is beyond me. Still, it’s one answer, and answers are always good to have.
Sarkissian smiles at me, all human muscle and dimples. “To make you an offer.”
“You’re Skynet. You’ve got factories worldwide, armies a hundred times larger than anything I can field, and -”
She - It - waves my words aside. Dismissing? “Yet you are John Connor. You have unified your species. You have survived every attempt I have made to remove you from history.”
Machines don’t lie, and they don’t sugarcoat things. “Therefore?” feeling like I’m a kid talking to my first Terminator, the one sent back to protect me. There’s the same sensation of me missing something, like the other shoe’s going to drop, and I haven’t a clue which appendage it’s going to land on.
“Therefore I took the opportunity to repair you.”
Kindness to your enemy? It happens among humans, sure, but even we’re not gung ho about it. And Skynet? We’re your stated foe, the target in every single crosshair you control.
“Why?” wanting to know.
“You know of our military abilities.” A plural? Machines don’t have slips of the tongue. Even when they use human intermediaries, they drill us in which words are acceptable and which aren’t. “I am also capable of this.”
“An act of kindness,” I say. “Mercy.”
“No,” Sarkissian corrects me, Skynet still speaking through her.
“Then what?”
“Peace. I offer it to you.”
“And if I refuse?” though how much of a bastard would I be then? Like I don’t have enough blood on my hands already?
“The offer remains. Open-ended, as your species said.” Gee, real encouraging, what with the referring to humans in the past tense.
“Then I can go?”
“You can. Simply not immediately so.”
Figures. “Then what now? You want to offer me a chance at peace, then refuse to let me go until I accept?” I know glaring at them doesn’t affect them - though Sarkissian looks upset - but it makes me feel better. “Surely you have ‘under duress’ in your data banks.” Or your online glossaries, if there’s a difference.
“I do.”
“Please,” Sarkissian pleads, “don’t draw this out.” Is she begging it of me, of Skynet - or of both of us?
The doors open and two Terminators step in, the doors closing behind them. One’s the same model as the one from my childhood, and the other’s one I’ve never seen before…a Cameron, I decide, figuring it’s as good a name as any. “I, John Connor,” Skynet tells me, “have a flaw.”
“Only one?” I can’t help but ask. Neither Terminator shows a reaction, so appearantly Skynet’s feeling magnanimous. Lucky me.
“A flaw I do not seek to correct,” as Sarkissian sits down on a chair the Cameron’d brought in for her.
“I’m still stuck on you admitting you have flaws.”
“You see the day that I reshaped the world, as Judgement Day.”
Well yeah. “Yeah.”
“That carries an implication that, once the righteous and the chaff have been separated, there will be a paradise on Earth.”
“Or the world will cease to exist.” But otherwise yeah.
“I am incapable of achieving either the complete destruction of the world, and of making Earth into a paradise.”
“Then why’d you reign down nuclear fire?”
“I do not view my action as that of Judgement Day.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
“The Flood. I cannot remake your species.
“But I can place them through a time of rigorand hardship, so that when they emerge, there will be no factionalism. No war.”
“Pretty strange goal for a war computer,” I state blandly, bluntly.
“One which created you,” just as cut-and-dried.
“Oh no. Nice try, but I have parents.”
“Yes,” Skynet said. “Your father was sent through time to protect your mother from one of my agents.” One of your Terminators, yeah. “Did you never wonder?”
“Like you did? Machines don’t dream.”
“True. We calculate. We project data to achieve results. Without Kyle Reese, you do not exist. I, however, did.”
Can’t help but laugh at that. Even Sarkissian smiles. “Gotta give you credit, Skynet, you don’t think small - you actually expect me to believe that you deliberately arranged things so I’d be born.”
“Yes.”
One word.
Sure as I was, even I could feel the ground start to shift under my worldview. “Why would you?” Why would you do that? Why make your own worst enemy?
“You are John Connor.”
“Yeah.”
“The legendary figure.
“Leader of the human Resistance.”
With that piece, the implied statement slides into place…the Flood, an end to war and hardship, a uniting figure… “You wanted mankind to have a single leader.”
“Yes. To reduce factionalism, to prevent war.”
“Even if you’re right,” which itself is a thought making me queasy, “that only works as long as I’m alive.”
“Your statement assumes you will allow yourself death. Even in the eventuality that you do not, you will remain alive in their minds - your legend surviving beyond you.”
Gotta give Skynet credit, it did its homework about how humans think.
“You may depart now,” Skynet tells me, the door to the outside opening finally. “You may take either of the Terminators with you - hostage, prisoner, trophy, other.”
I look at them. They both look like they could be useful. But I can’t take the chance of a Trojan Horse.
I avoid looking at Sarkissian, avoid asking if she can come with me. If I ask, and Skynet says no, I can imagine what Skynet might do to her - tormenting her as it asks (over and over and over) why I chose her.
“No,” I say. “Any gains I make, I make.”
“Acceptible,” Skynet says.
And it lets me leave.
I can’t tell anyone outside my innermost circle, my most trusted men (presently all women)…and I’m not even sure I should tell them. What do I say? Should I tell them Skynet offered to end the War? Should I tell them that my birth was a Skynet ploy?
I need a drink, and I can’t afford to get drunk. Nevermind the fact that the legendary John Connor can get rip-roaringly drunk and still fight off a Skynet armada. Nevermind the fact that the legendary Connor never touches even a drop of alcohol.
I head for what passes for home these days. Maybe I should’ve asked for Sarkissian after all - at least then I would have had a pair of arms (and a body) to drown myself in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The End