Author's Note:Okay, I was really jonesing to do this, so here ya go. My first Terminator fanfic. By the way, it's a fanfic for T2: Judgment Day. Just a heads-up. :)


Summary:I was 11 when I first saw John Connor. I was 13 when I ran away with him from a terminator. Takes place during T2.

Pairing:John/OC. I always wondered what would happen in Judgment Day if I were to toss a chick into the story... well, one that was John's age, anyway. I'm assuming that a frak-ton of madness ensues, but I like madness. Hence, Nik Paulsen is created.

Rating:T. I was debating rating this sucker M, but I changed my mind and changed it to a T-rating.

Disclaimer:I own a green hockey jersey. I AM THE GREEN MACHINE! XD On the downside, I do NOT own Judgment Day, nor do I own the characters (excluding Nik Paulsen) that are involved.



Nik's P.O.V.

The first time I saw John Connor, I was eleven years old, and quick to stereotype him as an arrogant little shit with a cool Honda dirtbike and a one-way ticket to a prison cell in the next five or so years.

I obviously didn't take my sweet time to really get to know the guy.

The second time I saw him, I was twelve years old, and actually got a glimpse of the real John - he was a foster kid, stuck living with two people who honestly couldn't give a damn about him, while his real mom was locked up in the Pescadero psych ward. That was the only reason why he was where he was. After that, I learned to sympathize.

A year later, I turned thirteen, and wound up sitting in John's garage with him and his buddy Tim Hanson a couple days after my age count went up one. For the past few hours, Tim and I had been sitting on toolboxes, blasting Guns n' Roses on a cheap-o radio, and watching John attempt to fix the carburetor for his dirtbike, bored out of our minds.

I groaned. "Dammit Connor, how long does it take to fix your carburetor?"

"Quit bugging me Nik, or I swear, I WILL use your full name," John threatened me with an annoyed growl.

"John, if you call me Nikole even once, you and I are gonna have problems." I shot an irked look over to Tim. "That goes double for you, Timmy-boy."

"You're no fun. How come you never let me push your buttons?"

I fiddled with the dogtags hanging around my neck for a moment, then smiled sweetly at Tim. "Because, you know I'd mow you over with my XR as soon as you did."

John snorted. "I'd probably help you out," he chimed in.

"Thanks a lot, Connor."

All of a sudden, a whiny voice broke through Axl Rose's wailing. With an inaudible groan, I realized it was John's foster mom, Janelle.

"Oh, wonderful. Frizzelle's here to harp," I muttered under my breath.

John glanced over his shoulder briefly, and I saw his eyes roll. Janelle (Frizzelle, I should say), was glaring at John with a you-piss-me-off glint in her dull brown eyes. Like it was every time I saw her, her black-brown hair was in a poofed-up ponytail, complete with an everlasting ring of frizzies that surrounded her head like a halo. Today, 'Frizzelle' completed the working-class look with the Saturday newspaper she was holding in one hand like a club.

"John, get in there and clean up that pigsty of yours!" she ordered him in her whiny voice.

John, in response, ignored Frizzelle and her ranting, and revved the dirtbike's engine loudly, until she gave up and stomped back inside. As soon as Frizzelle was gone, we all started laughing.

"Foster parents are kinda' dicks, huh?" Tim chuckled.

John nodded. "Oh yeah." At last, he finished with the carburetor, and placed it back in his XR; then, he grabbed his ever-present blue backpack, and sat down on the bike. "C'mon, let's ditch this joint."

I jumped on my bike, which looked exactly the same as John's, excluding the paint job (mine had deep blue accents; his had red-orange accents).

My mouth curled into a half-frown. "So, where exactly are we going?"

"Dunno. You wanna go to the arcade at the Galleria?"

I shrugged. "Sounds good to me." I kickstarted my XR, and it snarled to life. "C'mon, let's bail."

John kickstarted his bike as Tim sat down behind him, radio in hand. We started heading out, but before we could really get rolling, Frizzelle's husband, Todd, trudged out with a deep scowl on his face. As usual, Todd looked like he'd rather eat dirt than deal with a couple of punks like us.

"John!" he barked. "C'mon, get your ass inside and do what your mother tells you!"

The moment he said that, John hit the brakes on his dirtbike, and it jolted to a stop. He looked over his shoulder and at Todd, his sharp green eyes glinting with a piercing coldness. There was a deadly calmness radiating from him.

"She's not my mother, Todd," John said icily. "C'mon guys, let's get outta here."

Then, without another word, he hit the gas, and took off down the street in the direction of the Galleria. I silently flipped Todd the finger, then sped away to catch up with John and Tim, snickering as he yelled obscenities at me.

Yeah, whatever. You deserve it. Jackass.


John's P.O.V.

Nik finally caught up with John and Tim just as they took the right to get into the canals. Her bright blue dirtbike buzzed up behind and beside his, and revved a couple times to get his attention. John's dead-serious face lit up slightly, and he shot her a cocky one-sided smirk.

"Paulsen! What the hell took you so long?" John yelled to her as their bikes gunned down the ramp and into the canals.

"Pissing Todd off!" Nik yelled back over the thrum of the bikes and the blaring Guns n' Roses music. "Prick thinks he can make us do anything!"

"He wishes!" And he was right. John knew that his foster parents couldn't convince him to do anything they asked him to. Never have, never will,he thought smugly.

Nik went silent for a moment as she steered her bike towards a large downwards ramp; she focused on the big stretch of concrete in front of her, her frigid blue eyes narrowed into slits to protect them from the wind colliding into her face, and hit the throttle. Immediately, the bike went airborne. As she shot through the air, the long ponytail she'd tied her hair back into flew straight out behind her, and the black-tipped sidebangs she'd left out from under her white bandanna flailed wildly beside her left temple. The wind sent large ripples across her gray t-shirt, giving it the appearance of a boat sail. John chuckled to himself; at the moment, Nik looked like a hardcore stunt biker in a wind tunnel, and damn, it was entertaining.

"Somebody's a little amused," Nik said after touching down to the ground, not once shifting her gaze. "What's going through your head, John?"

"Nothing you need to know, Nik." John's face turned a little red at almost revealing his thought process to the girl on his left.

Thankfully, Nik shrugged it off. She looked at John now, and asked, "So, you still pissed at Todd?"

John shook his head. "Sorta'. I'd rather not talk about it right now," he answered Nik flatly.

She nodded, and left the subject alone, rather than badgering him. John had his reasons for getting pissy when "mother" was mentioned; he just wasn't in the mood to discuss it at the moment.

He felt Tim tap his shoulder. "Yes Tim?" he sighed in a stressed tone.

"Hey, did you grab any cash before we left your place?"

John mentally slapped himself. "Aw, shit! No, I totally forgot to grab some." He quickly reached behind his back, and pawed at his blue pack until his fingers brushed against something boxy. He breathed in relief at having remembered to bring his little hacking computer. "Well, we're lucky I dragged Old Faithful along for the ride."

Nik smirked. "Is that what you're calling your hack toy now?"

"Hell yeah," John grinned. "C'mon, there's supposed to be a bank near here." He then throttled his dirtbike up an exit ramp, and headed for the bank diagonally across from him.


Nik's P.O.V.

We steered our bikes towards the dinky drive-thru bank so John could grab us some cash. I dumped my XR on the sidewalk behind John's, then jogged over to the ATM to watch him work his magic.

He pulled "Old Faithful" - his hacking tool - out of his pack, and took out a wired, blank credit card. "Please insert your stolen card now," he joked as he slipped the card into the ATM. Once the card was in the machine, John started pressing buttons on the computer's keyboard, and watched quietly as numbers scrolled up the screen, which gradually began to grow smaller.

"Will you hurry up? This is taking too long."

Out of annoyance, I five-starred Tim on the back. "Hanson? Do me a solid, and BE PATIENT. It'll be done soon enough."

"Thank you, Nik. Somebody needed to shut him up."

"Much obliged."

John mumbled a number - I think he said 9003 - and quickly punched it in on the ATM.

Tim boredly stuffed his hands in his pockets, and started pacing, his neon-orange mullet floating out behind him like a thick paper streamer. "Where did you learn all this stuff, anyway?"

"From my mom – my real mom, I mean," John replied. "Withdraw... three, zero, zero... bucks."

The machine made a loud humming noise, like it was protesting doling out the large amount of cash John had just asked it for. For a second, I thought the damn thing was gonna go ka-put and break.

"C'mon baby, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon... YES!" John cheered as he grabbed the big stack of twenty dollar bills hanging out of the ATM. He folded the bills in half, and waved them in front of Tim's face.

He grinned. "Easy money."

"Yes Connor, you're a genius."

"Don'tcha know it."

We all ran back to the bikes, high-fiving each other at John's success at ATM hacking. John stuffed Old Faithful back in his pack, as well as the money.

I suddenly noticed a small, square piece of paper flutter out of John's pack; I snatched it just as it fell to the sidewalk, and stared. It was a faded picture of a woman sitting in a jeep. She had this commando-ish look to her; her long blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail, and there was an army-green headband covering most of her forehead; the white t-shirt the woman wore was covered in little beige splotches of mud; and I could've sworn I saw a leather gunstrap resting on her right shoulder. The only thing that betrayed the chick Rambo look was the woman's facial expression. It was neutral and calm, and her green eyes (exactly like John's) were full of placidness. I had to admit, it was a pretty badass photo.

"Wow," I breathed softly.

Apparently, I'd said that loud enough for Tim to hear, and out of curiosity, he took the picture from my hands. "That her?" he asked John as he showed him the photo.

"Yes." John ripped the photo from Tim's hands, and shoved it in his pack carelessly.

"So, she's pretty cool, huh?"

"No, she's a complete psycho. That's why she's up at Pescadero - it's a mental institute, okay?" He slipped his arms through the beat-up straps of his pack. "She tried to blow up a computer factory, but she got shot and arrested."

Tim's eyes grew wide as he took in what John had just told him. "No shit?" was all he could say.

"She's a total loser," John sighed as he started his dirtbike up. "C'mon, let's go spend some money."

As soon as I was on my bike, we took off into the canals again. As I came up beside John, I saw hurt written all over his face. His eyes had glazed over, and his mouth had formed into a tight-lipped frown. He almost looked like he'd just been punched in the stomach.

John's green eyes suddenly flicked to the left, and began boring into my blue eyes. My stomach started doing nervous flip-flops when he looked directly at me.


"Are you okay? You look..." I bit my lip hesitantly. "Well… kinda' pissed."

He shook his head. "I'm fine, Nik," he insisted. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Oh, I dunno, it's not the greatest shitload of fun to talk about your mom?

"I'm sure you are, John," I sighed. "I'm sure you are…"