(Untitled)
Something, in an area of his mind he had no immediate access to, was wrong.
He performed normally, executing his duties, going through daily routines unerringly. But there was a component missing, as if a command was awaiting execution without his knowledge of it; seeking a trigger.
And there was something else… a feeling.
It didn't belong. He ( Read more... )
He performed normally, executing his duties, going through daily routines unerringly. But there was a component missing, as if a command was awaiting execution without his knowledge of it; seeking a trigger.
And there was something else… a feeling.
It didn't belong. He ( Read more... )
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"Jesus," she muttered under her breath just as she caught sight of the arm. Her eyebrows shot up as she moved to examine it. There was a razor glittering in the river, too. She could see it. But there was a hand with met-- "Shit ( ... )
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He hadn't slept; it hadn't even been a consideration. He hadn't performed other mandatory human functions, either. There was a consistent throb on the side of his face, even obscuring his vision on occasion, though the bleeding had stopped for the most part. He ignored it. The blood didn't belong to him, it couldn't. Something was interfering with his perception, blocking it, accenting pain.
They were trying to break him. To corrupt him ( ... )
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She paused, closing her eyes to listen. To her left. She kept talking quietly, keeping her voice at a pleasant murmur. This wasn't good, she could feel it in her gut. It was that same worrying stab that always hit her when they entered a dangerous situation back in L.A., she could feel the edges and the sharpness.
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She was referring to him by a name - 'Austin' - and while there was something recognizable about it, he didn't allow himself to access the memories that related to the data. They were all corrupted.
He didn't know what her objective was, whether it was to subdue or destroy him, but neither was acceptable.
A verbal reply wasn't necessary; he'd already provided an instruction, and she had refused to follow it. He kept moving, slowly, gaze locked onto her, now calculating the optimal angle for a strike.
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He closed his eyes, but he still couldn't remember. Only flashes, and they caused nausea, not clarity or understanding.
For the past hour, he'd managed to keep himself functional enough to help, to get the doctor, to run, but now he could barely stand. He did stand, though - it was important that he stood, for this.
He needed to confess to a crime and face the punishment. It was simple. He just needed to keep standing.
And knock. He needed to knock.
He couldn't, yet. It wasn't a simple matter of fear, though there was fear; not of punishment, but of having to explain and not being able to, and mostly fear of losing the Commander's trust. It was inevitable, though, and he couldn't submit to fear. But there was also the fact that his shoulder was apparently dislocated - he had refused treatment, there'd been no time for it - and his last attempt at knocking had resulted in a shockwave of pain that still hadn't ( ... )
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The statement didn't lead anywhere. He hadn't expected the Commander's wife, and whatever mental preparations he'd made were instantly rendered null. At least Sam wasn't with her; the small Sam, not the Commander. The T-1000 probably wasn't a very educational sight at the moment.
He brought his hand to his face to cover the dried blood, belatedly recalling that it was unlikely to improve his appearance.
He should have washed his hands.
Then he simply stood there for a while, trying to be steady, to meet her gaze, uncertain on how to form a response.
"Hi, Mrs. Vimes," he managed finally, barely distinguishing one word from another. Speaking was difficult, painful. "Is Commander Vimes home?"
She'd asked him a question, and he only now recalled answering it, "I need to confess."
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"Do you need to sit?" she asked. "Come in," she said, gently (for her) but in a tone that left zero room for argument and, in truth, no opportunity for even considering offering up dissent. "I'll get Sam."
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This wasn't supposed to be so difficult. It was no longer a family he was intruding on. It was IPD business, something far more familiar. But every time he attempted to structure the sequence of events as he would a report, things started to collapse.
He focused on breathing, because it no longer seemed automatic. He suspected that if he didn't focus, he'd simply stop.
He tried not to look at the blood.
Maybe it didn't need to be a report. It was simple. Things that were simple weren't meant to be complicated.
"I hurt Reese," he said finally, barely hearing his own voice but managing to hold his gaze steadily on the Commander. "I need to be punished."
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There was a simple handkerchief on the desk somewhere. He hunted for it for a moment and then handed it over. They could get him better cleaned up - as Sybil had insisted half a dozen times - once he knew something more.
"You already said that," he said tightly. "What happened? Where is she?"
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Taking the handkerchief, he studied it for some time, uncertain of its function.
The blood. Commander Vimes wanted him to remove the blood.
"We were in dinosaur territory," he began slowly, trying to wipe the blood away and succeeding only marginally. His hands were shaking again, and the action was difficult to manage efficiently. He attempted to piece information together. Dinosaurs. Big fucking lizards. He remembered that vividly. "She didn't want me there, but I couldn't leave her. It was dangerous. I was hugging her. I don't-"
None of it was directly relevant. He was providing useless data.
"I stabbed her through the shoulder with a fishing spear," he was certain of that much. "She's in the clinic."
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"...any particular reason you decided to do that?" he asked evenly, doing his best to keep his cool.
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Waiting for something.
He wasn't really sure what. Psychiatrists? Punishment? It all blended together and failed to connect, and although he was cleaned up now, it was obscured by blood. In his head. He kept seeing it. Blood didn't bother him really, he knew blood.
The spear had gone through so easily. Human were so fragile.
Reese was fragile.
Somehow, he was entirely still and shaking at the same time.
Why hadn't they killed him yet? There'd obviously been some kind of mistake. Or maybe they'd forgotten.
But it didn't matter. Reese was stable. That mattered. But he couldn't see her right now.
The door opened. He didn't look.
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She wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe she felt sorry for the guy. After all, a Terminator with no one to terminate was just...what? Was she actually sympathizing with the bad guy? Okay, Elliot, sanity check. Wait, nevermind, you don't have any. Oh well.
She wanted to see how his shoulder was doing, anyway. That was her excuse to visit the Terminator in his cell. She knocked on the door gently before opening it, poking her head in.
"Austin?"
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Somebody was talking to him.
Why was that important?
Never mind. He blinked, slowly turning in the direction of the sound. The doctor.
"Elliot," he replied with a notable delay. "I'm sorry for being," what was the definition? There definitely was one. "Rude, earlier. With the grabbing."
But maybe his lack of manners wasn't her main source of concern at the moment.
"How's Reese?"
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"It's okay," she said gently, sidling inside the room. She'd brought a first-aid kit, just in case, and she could see that this was an 'in case'. "She's fine. Stable. Awake, even. She's made a pretty good recovery...luckily you- the spear didn't hit her lung. She'll be fine, after a while."
She hesitated, then walked over and sat beside him on the bed. "What about you? How's your shoulder?" How long are they going to keep you here?
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