Archive of Our Own

Kyle stops short at the sight of him, naked except for Kyle’s jacket. Behind him, someone shouts, “What’s the matter, Kyle? Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve found a naked tunnel rat in your bed.”

John flushes hot, pulling his arms tighter around his body. The rest of the returning soldiers burst into raucous laughter. Kyle grins, too, an easy expression on his face, but he shakes his head, saying in wonder, “I’ve just never seen anyone so clean...”

The laughter dies off a bit as the others look closer, studying John a little harder now. John squirms, suddenly aware of the pinkness of his own skin, unaffected by the grime that overshadows everything else within the tunnels.

“Where do you come from, kid?” Kyle asks, stepping closer, waving a hand at the others to let them know the show’s over.

John bites his lip. “Nearby,” he hedges. It’s true in terms of distance if not time. “My mother and I...” he starts. “My mother’s gone.”

Behind him, Derek shifts.“Yeah, that happens,” he says gruffly, and then, “Come on, let’s see if we can find you an outfit that fits.”

John moves through the tunnels like a ghost in scavenged clothes. If he draws anyone’s attention, it’s just the same mild curiosity any newcomer brings. Even the infamy of his unconventional arrival doesn’t last.

After a lifetime of running from his own name, the sudden anonymity feels like relief. What unsettles him is how little else has changed. The fight the Resistance is fighting is the same one he’s heard about all his life. The conditions in the tunnels don’t seem any better or any worse than what Derek had described to him. Despite every eventuality Sarah had prepared him for, he’d never expected to face a future where his absence has made no difference.

They’re sitting in the mess hall, three weeks after John appeared, when a runner interrupts their lunch.

“The captain is on his way,” she pants. “The scouting party is almost back but they’ve got metal on their six.”

Derek drops his spoon into his half empty bowl and stands. “You heard the lady. Suit up.”

In the weapons silo, Kyle unexpectedly tosses John a rifle. He fumbles, catching it awkwardly in two hands. As he goes to check the sights, Derek’s hand lands heavily on his arm. “You know how to use that thing?” he asks.

“He sure does.”

John turns to the voice coming from the doorway. The man is older, of course, than John remembers, leaner, dirty and tired-looking too. “Martin Bedell,” he breathes in recognition.

“It’s Captain Bedell now, Connor,” he replies before his face breaks into a guarded smile.

The room has gone quiet. None of the soldiers pretend to do anything other than listen in. Kyle is the one who finally pipes up, the surprise in his voice echoing the raised eyebrows around them. “Captain, you know this kid?”

“Yeah,” Bedell says, “I know this kid.” He pauses, his expression unreadable as he studies John’s face. It would be impossible for him not to notice the obvious, that John has neither aged since they last met nor been weathered by Judgement Day, but Bedell says nothing of it, continuing instead, “His uncle was the best TAC Presidio Alto ever had. Connor here learned from the best. He might even be a better shot than me.”

The men and women around them look at John with a new tentative respect but it’s only under Kyle’s speculative scrutiny that he flushes. Derek laughs. John’s gaze cuts towards him, his breath catching at the sound, thinking maybe... but Derek only takes his hand from John’s forearm and punches him lightly on the shoulder. He’s oblivious to the compliment in Bedell’s words. “Stop gawking at him, you’re making the kid blush.”

Reluctantly, the others carry on about their business, loading up their packs and readying their weapons. Kyle leans over, asking, “Where’s your hot-shot uncle now? We could use all the help we can get.”

John turns away, saying to Bedell what he can’t bring himself to say Kyle’s face, “He’s dead.”

A pall of silence falls over Bedell. He nods once in acknowledgement. After all these years with the Reese brothers under him, John wonders if he already knew. John wonders how much Bedell knows now.

Underneath them, around them, the tunnel shakes with the rumbling of an HK tank overhead. They brace themselves against the equipment lockers while dirt shakes from the ceiling, dusting down the backs of their necks. John’s in no danger of losing his balance but Kyle reaches out apologetically to steady him anyway.

“Come on,” Derek says to John when the vibrations have subsided, “you can show us some of those skills that have the Captain’s heart all atwitter.”

Bedell smirks but doesn’t rise to the bait. He turns sharply on his heel and calls behind him, “Everyone find your positions. You three are with me.”

In the future, no one has fallen in John Connor’s name, but many more are dead.

On the surface, the unit spreads out, crouching in the debris that flanks a wide empty street. At the crossroads, John and Bedell wait, watching for the hand signal that will carry up the line. It’s the same manoeuvre Derek taught them at Presidio Alto. Across from them, he and Kyle set up a charge.

“We’re losing,” Bedell says bluntly.

John’s chest tightens. “You can’t...” he trails off. Can’t be sure? Can’t be serious? It’s clear from Bedell’s face that he’s both. Can’t lose. Not now. Not after everything.

“There’s too few of us,” Bedell continues, “and too much metal. We’re running out of supplies. We need to regroup, but we’re spread too thin and too far apart. Skynet controls the radio waves. We send out runners but the lines of communication are breaking down. Our messages go undelivered because there’s no one alive left to receive them. That’s if the messengers aren’t killed along the way.

“I looked,” he says, his voice flat, “after J-Day. I looked for you, but I never met another soul who’d heard the name John Connor.”

John swallows heavily. He grips his rifle tighter to keep his hands from shaking. “I’m here now.”

Bedell squints at the horizon, at the barely visible rising dust cloud that signifies approaching metal. “I really hope you came with a plan.”

Ten hand signals down from them and John spots the vehicle’s lumbering outline. It’s not until six that he really processes what he’s seeing.

“There are people in there!” He turns urgently to Bedell.

Bedell looks at John, confused in turn by his confusion. “It’s a monkey wagon. A transport,” Bedell clarifies as if translating a foreign language, “taking prisoners to Century City.”

“We’ve got to call the ambush off,” John says, “There’s no way they’ll survive the blast.”

His muscles coil in readiness to sprint across the road to sever the fuse wires Kyle and Derek have laid out but Bedell grabs him by his jacket, holding him back. Four hand signals to go and the charge will be ignited.

“It’s a concentration camp, Connor.”

“I know that!” John spits back. They’re running out of time.

“Then you know they’re already dead. We’ve got to destroy the machine before it can take anyone else. No one gets out of Century City alive.”

John wants to say, You did. I did. Kyle Reese broke out and saved us all. But he didn’t, they didn’t. Not this time.

“We have to do something! We have to save them.” The third signal goes up. Across the road, Kyle and Derek shift into position. He looks at Bedell defiantly. “This isn’t how you win a war.”

He twists to wrench from Bedell’s grip but Bedell has already released him. He shoves a rucksack into John’s arms. Inside, grenades and ammo rattle. “Take this, then,” he orders. “Go now!”

John scrambles from the makeshift trench and skitters low across the road while Kyle and Derek watch, wide-eyed. The transport falters in its steps, creaking as the sensors follow John, gears grinding as the weapons system locks onto his position. From behind him, Bedell opens fire.

In the future, John Connor is no one’s primary target.

The sudden barrage is enough to distract the machines. John skids the last five yards, practically landing on top of the Reeses as he topples down the embankment. He rips the wires from the detonator, rendering the explosives harmless where they lie.

“What the hell are you doing?” Derek yells over the deafening sound of gunfire. Beside him, Kyle has taken aim along with the rest of the unit, adding to the crossfire.

“We have to save those people,” John shouts.

His heart clenches at the aching familiarity of Derek’s answering frown.

“It’s too dangerous,” he says curtly, firmly. “I’m sorry, kid. We can’t risk it.”

“People matter,” John insists. “They’re all that matters. My mother taught me that.”

From over his shoulder, Kyle looks at Derek. “She sounds like a smart woman.”

“She sounds like she’s gonna be a pain in my ass,” Derek mutters under his breath. And then, louder, “Come on. Let’s do this before I change my mind.”

John leads the way.

They liberate twenty people and hold a funeral for two. The medics struggle to stretch what they have to help so many. John understands for the first time what Bedell really meant when he said supplies were running low. Where there was room enough, on John’s arrival, for one more mouth to feed, now the Resistance patrols its own tunnels, stopping fights over the tightened rations before they start.

In the barracks, John throws down a rag, damp with recycled water. His skin looks as grubby as it did before he tried to wash, grit and machine oil embedded underneath his nails. One of the refugees sits down next to him on the bunk. The grimy hood of her jacket falls down, revealing equally grimy auburn hair. John moves to stand so she can sleep but she stops him.

“Do you remember the squirrel?”

“What?” he asks, confused. He wonders if she’s old enough to have ever seen a squirrel first hand. He wonders if maybe she needs more assistance then the medics know how to provide.He studies her face but her eyes seem clear and her voice is calm.

“The squirrel,” she says again cryptically. “It runs around the tree and dives into the hole...”

“...and scurries out the other side,” John finishes for her. He looks around quickly but there’s no one there to overhear them. “Savannah?” he asks warily.

She reaches inside her pocket, pulling out a photograph. “Sarah wanted you to know she’s sorry.”

John looks from the familiar photo of his mother and back to the young woman he’d last seen a few weeks ago, a lifetime ago. A woman he’d last seen as a child. “What? My mother, where is she?”

Savannah only shakes her head and repeats, “She’s sorry, John. Sorry that she couldn’t stop it.”

John swallows down the lump in his throat. He blinks hard and focuses on Sarah’s smiling face while Savannah fidgets beside him. She puts both her hands on his shoulders and tells him, “She couldn’t stop it, John, but you can. There’s still time.”

Abruptly, she stands. Savannah flicks the hood of her jacket back up, concealing her vibrant hair. With her face shadowed and dirty she could be anyone. John reaches for her but she moves too fast. Too fast, he realises belatedly, to have been one of the emaciated refugees they’d broken out of the tin can. “Wait!” he calls, scrambling to his feet.

She pauses, turning briefly back to face him. “When you’re ready, join us. It’s not too late.”

She sprints away, disappearing down the tunnels. John tries to follow, but he trips over his own feet, landing hard on the ground. When he looks, he finds his shoelaces have been untied.

John finds Kyle loitering outside the make-shift infirmary. Inside a medic tapes a cut on Derek’s face. John lingers in the shadows, studying their faces, committing to memory what he doesn’t have a camera to record.

Kyle catches him staring. John quickly looks away but Kyle comes over to him regardless. “It’s just a scratch,” he says, nodding in Derek’s direction. “It won’t be the last punch that gets thrown if we don’t get more food soon, but it was worth it. Don’t listen to anyone who tries to tell you otherwise. You – we – did the right thing. If we all go a little hungrier for it... well,” he laughs dully, gesturing to the cold, dank tunnels around them, “we’ve survived worse.” He pats John companionably on the shoulder. “Your mother would be proud of you, Connor.”

John looks down and away at the burning behind his eyes. He hands Kyle Sarah’s photo.“That’s her,” he says, his voice only breaking a little.

Kyle lets out a long, contemplative breath. “She looks like a strong woman,” he says at last.

“She was,” John says. “Is.”

Kyle looks at him sidelong, a sad half-smile on his face. “Yeah,” he agrees softly, “I’m sure she is.” He cocks his head and looks again from the photo to John, his grin growing mischievous. “And quite a looker, too,” he teases with a laugh. “Shame that didn’t run in the family, eh?”

John laughs too, letting the feeling run through him, the tension breaking in his shoulders. “She always said I took after my dad.”

“One lucky son of a bitch,” Kyle declares.

“Something like that,” John agrees. Kyle tries to hand him back the photograph but John refuses to take it. “Keep it.”

“Connor...” Kyle starts, concern creeping back into his voice.

“Please,” John insists. “I need to know there’s someone else out here looking for her.”

For a moment, John thinks Kyle will say no, that he’ll say what he’s clearly thinking, that Sarah is dead and no amount of looking will find her, but he only tucks the photo inside his jacket, close against his heart. “I can do that, kid,” he promises. “I’ll look out for her.”

At the edge of the Resistance camp, John sneaks through the gap between two patrol shifts and follows Savannah into no man’s land.