A/N: Ah, last chapter. Yes, this is not Monday. Ironically, I was watching Terminator... Lots of f-bombs in here, too. :P
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
-- Week Five --
Hands are pushing him down onto the kitchen island, and orders are being barked across the room for scissors, stitches and anti-septic as a man with a square head jams his whole fist inside of Derek's chest. The voices are muffled; the stranger's gloved fingers numbingly cold against the hot blood oozing onto Sarah Connor's counter, an accident that patient doesn't remember, never mind understand because everything is going foggy right before his eyes. He knows that he calls out several times in either pain or confusion, both of which rarely prick a stimulus within his brain, this extenuating situation being the exception. Barely able to register what's going around him, he hears the words "low heart rate" and "severe," the phrases meaning virtually nothing to him. All Derek Reese's mind now cares about is the fact that he made it to the past, that John's younger self is seemingly safe in the average suburbs of Los Angeles, his mother by his side. That's all that matters.
Before he completely goes under, he sees the serene, calm face of Allison Young in the corner of the room, being pushed back by a young man with shaggy hair. However, he passes out before rationality and past events scream that she's made of plastic, not the skin he'd touched with his own.
With his nerves on pins and needles, Derek waits at the bunker door, his mind already telling him that there's no way that they could come back; that they made it through that long. All week, he shoved pictures of Allison out of his head and repeated to himself to forget everything about her and that it's not worth it all. She's just a girl; just a girl with a death sentence hanging over her head like a thick, dense fog.
Sitting on an overturned bucket, he wipes his sweaty palms off on his worn fatigues, the dirt from the days before rubbing onto his pants. Derek lays his head back on the wall and squeezes his eyes shot to block out the confused rays of the rising sun that stumble through the bunker window as if they don't know what time of day it is. As the minutes pass and the light becomes stronger, he feels the willpower to stay awake slip right out of his body, for he knows that it's been a week.
Normally, they'd be back hours ago, before the sun shone in defiance of the rules.
It's not fair.
Since 2011, the sun hasn't been the same. Before, it was a beacon that symbolized happiness and new hope for the upcoming day, a compliment to the perfect summer weekend. It would hang bright in the sky, and nobody thought much of it until they grew to hate it. Now, the star looms like a fireball, threatening to rain down on everything through the dank, dirty smog that pollutes the sky from the machines that patrol night and day. It's barely seen and its rays are filtered through clouds of dense moisture and gray, oppressive splotches from above. Dark is the prime time to dodge the bullets, Skynet and the Terminators, a concept that Derek knew -- yet did not heed -- the morning he sent Allison Young and Jackson Robue off Running. Somewhere down in his stomach, he knows that it's his fault, for he does not like to think of himself low enough to deny it.
In what feels like a haze, an incomprehensible dream, Derek's attention is dragged in by a figure out in the distance and a little tick inside his brain tells him that it's Allie.
Well, he'll be damned, she made it.
Fighting off a grin, he stumbles to his feet, an unbelieving and relieved smile adorning his tired and worn face. "Shit, girl," he says, laughing as she walks towards him, a certain air about her that makes him wonder why and how he ever doubted her in the first place.
She fits comfortably in his arms, her small body enveloped by scarred, tattooed arms that itch to protect her, keep her safe, and utterly refuse to let her just walk right back onto the battle field. Derek lets the scent of her sink into his skin, a sense he distinctly remembers, as he loosely winds a tendril of hair that fell out her ponytail around his finger.
"I missed you," she mumbles into the shoulder of his jacket, her embrace tight around his back.
He thinks about this for a moment. "You have no idea," he returns, his voice gruff. "Scared the piss outta me..."
Oddly, he hears a light knocking from the corner of his brain, but he shoves it aside, the moment not one that he'd easily ruin.
"I'm," Allison starts, her tone shaky, "sorry."
"R-Reese, I'm so sorry..." she says, her voice muffled by both his body and the sudden sobs that are forcing their way out of her slight frame.
"Wha--? Allie, w--?" he asks, startled.
Slowly, he lets go of her and holds her at an arms length, looking at her closely. She's devoid of wounds, scars, and blood or bullet holes. She looks perfectly fine – beautiful, in fact, despite the fact that her eyes are swimming in tears and from the way that she holds up her hand in front of her mouth as if she's trying to keep something in.
Frustratingly, the knocking starts to turn into an annoying thumping from Christ knows where and it's starting to really aggravate him, that coupled with how Allison seems to be having a sort of break-down.
"Hey, hey," he says softly, cradling her chin in his hands as he runs his thumbs along her jaw bone. "Don't worry about it. We got it all under control. You're here, you're safe. There's nothing to get upset about."
She shakes her head in denial. "When you answer the...the d-door," she says, the sobs starting to make room for her words, "you need to forget everything."
Mystified, his eyebrows knit together. What door? That sound is a door? "I don't understand—"
"Listen to me, Derek," she says, her tone now forceful, her hands and fingers cold inside his hold. "Forget about me."
"No," he says, shocked and taken aback. "What in the hell are you talking about?"
The thumping has now turned into a banging; a horrible, terrible sound that's reverberating inside his eardrums making it hard to concentrate. "Reese!" screams a hoarse voice. "Reese!"
"Hold on a damn second!" he yells, furious.
"Answer the door," Allison says, her chocolate eyes boring right into his before they start to go a little misty and fade, their grip weakening. "And forget everything you know about me. Please, it's what..."
The banging, roaring noise is impossible to hear her over; the man's voice is starting to grate on his nerves. "They got her! Those fucking sons-of-bitches are taking her apart--!" The voice is torn, distraught and terrified.
"Allie?" Derek asks, nothing at all making sense. However, she's taking a few steps back, the edges around her starting to become unclear and defocused, as if he's peering through a scratched window. "Allie, wait!" he chokes, his mind folding upon itself.
"You don't know me..." These are the last words he hears from her, the phrase desperate as it leaves.
She holds out her hand to him, her expression full of loss and despair, but his fingers slip right though her, like she's a dream that's fading away and he can't grasp it.
Derek jerks awake, gasping for breath and instead quickly inhales a wad of spit in his mouth that chokes him up. He doubles over, his lungs burning as they decongest themselves and clear his airway, the muscles in his back aching from his terrible sleeping position against the wall. Any thought of the dream he'd just had is faded away, the one fact remaining that Allie was there and that she wanted something of him. With a creaking body, he slowly gets up off the bucket, for some flaming retard is throwing himself at the door and screaming so loud that his words are not easily deciphered.
"What?" Derek croaks, angered by this stupid person. He's waiting for someone and she's not here yet.
"Reese! Open up! It's Robue!"
If that ass made it, then Allison most certainly did.
Pulling back the iron bar, Derek slide the door on its rusty hinges, a device that's surely never keep a determined Terminator at bay.
A dirty man with blood caked on his face collapses at the entrance, his stench diffusing rapidly trough the small bunker room. He tries to push himself up weakly with his scabbed arms, but can't hold himself up and flumps to the ground in a cloud of dust. With a few quick glances, Derek closes the metal door swiftly behind him before roughly seizing the other man's collar in his grip and yanks him up, bringing his face right to other's, snot running down smaller's chin.
"Where is she?" Derek roars. "What the fuck did you do?"
"I-I dunno, I just know that they...t-Skynet got her...th-they—" Robue slobbers over his clothes, any and all respect for himself non-existent, crushed by the mistake that he'd made.
Shoving him down to the ground, Derek stumbles back to the wall and sinks down the ground, burying his head in his hands, his body and brain refusing to believe a single fact that reality's holding out in a platter for him.
A few hours later, he's still on the concrete floor, no longer able to register what's happening. Roube lies in front of him, his arms sprawled forward, his frame twisted from Derek's neglect.
Without feeling bad for anyone or anything, he ignores the metal entrance door that's ripped from its hinges in an ear-splitting crunch as it skitters across the room like a discarded rag doll.
In its place stands Allison Young, or what used to be her. Now there's a Terminator with fake blood molded around coltan bones with a gun in its hand. Still, Derek stares forward, his eyes vacant of feeling or care as he vaguely registers that a cold, hard barrel is pressed harshly against his temple.
Slowly, as if amused, the man brings himself to look up at the flawless creation standing above him while it asks where John Connor is.
Not able to stop the laugh bubbling up inside him, Derek smirks, his head dizzy. He spits at the feet of the monster that took the form of Allie.
"Fuck you," he says thickly.
Staring down at his pancakes, Derek's not entirely sure what to do with them. The only thing that Sarah can semi-make is this breakfast food. He stabs at it again with the fork and hits porcelain plate underneath, something completely foreign when compared with the tin bowls that he's used to. They taste fantastic, though, and melt in his mouth, a sensation not experienced since childhood.
The television is on and blaring the news, Sarah's ears perked as she cleans out her guns at the kitchen table. Every afternoon, her habit stays the same. Constantly, her alert eyes tear apart the news headings, as if she's looking for any slight hint that Skynet is on the rage with a new chess-playing device.
Barely fifteen minutes later, John come barreling into the house with the mystery, on-the-loose Terminator by his side. Yesterday, she'd gone missing.
Lately, he's gotten used to it. Not much, granted, but the slightest bit that makes living bearable in a household with a killing machine with the looks of a dead, teenage girl that he fell through one long, dark tunnel for. Sometimes, it gets to the point as to where he can feel his blood boil when she looks at him too long or when John gives her one of those secret, knowing looks, like they're wiring a classified information between them; as if she's special and deserves to be in the same time-line as the future leader of the free world.
Upon hearing the argument between the two of them, the sweet taste of pancakes instantly goes sour as the food plummets to his stomach.
"Cam, I swear, you're not—"
"Yes," she states flatly, "I am."
"You're being ridiculous," John sighs, running his hand through his hair, a bemused expression on his face, his eyes wandering towards Derek.
"No, c'mon. Derek?" The boy turns towards the gristled fighter. "Do you know what's she's talking about?"
Stonily, the older man's gaze shifts to the metal. "What?" he spits.
"John doesn't believe me."
Derek can feel Sarah turn away from the television to lend her two cents to the conversation. He stuffs more pancakes in, not surprised when they stick in his throat. "Oh?" he mumbles, his words garbled.
A body that he'd touched with his own hands, mouth and heart simply stares back at him, that eternally dim-witted expression on her face that wrecks anything that he could've known about her.
"I'm Allison Young," she says monotonously. A pause. "From Palmdale."
Involuntarily, he twitches, dropping his fork. "Excuse me—"
"—but what kind of shit ass—"
"Shut!" he yells, loud enough to make John and Sarah step back, "UP!" He lunges forward, the small table crashing the floor with an unholy "bang" and madly grabs at one of the guns that Sarah was previously polishing and checking. "You have no fucking right to say her name!"
Everybody is quiet.
Everything is still.
Before an irrational act is done, John Connor steps forward, holding his hand up to Derek. "Cam, lets go," he says simply to the Terminator. "Now."
Fuming, Derek swipes at the fallen table, righting it back to its original position and goes back to his pancakes.
A/N: Mmm, odd ending. I like leaving people with questions; I think it's a riot. Well, I'd love to hear what any of you have to say about this as a whole, good or bad, I'm not picky. Hoped you liked it! Or at least was able to bare it. :)