She'd been in this stretch of the timeline for six months and she still wasn't entirely sure whether it was actually the right one. Or whether it was even the right timeline in general because while they'd been able to calculate and calibrate and set the destination to where they thought it should be, these things ... well, they didn't always work out the way they were meant to.
She also wasn't sure about the red mark that had blossomed across her wrist when she'd first stepped out of the portal, one that still hadn't gone away, she had just chalked it up to something that had happened in transit, maybe some kind of tag to indicate that she didn't really belong there, and so she'd mostly kept it covered, long sleeves and a wide watchband or a stack of bracelets.
She'd finally found who she was looking for, at least, she hoped it was actually him, because he didn't look anything at all like the gruff, world-weary John Connor that she knew. She was also a little anxious, given as how she wouldn't be able to get his attention as easily as one of their other operatives, but one of the others couldn't be spared, she was the only option.
And so, there she was, stepping out of the flow of foot traffic to give a two-toned 'captain on deck' whistle to get his attention.
John knew something was up when the mark turned up one night six months ago with no explanation, no one that he thought it could belong to. He'd stared at it for the better part of an hour in a dingy motel room, running his finger over the mark until he decided that his life contained more fuckery than could really be summed up by 'I think I've fallen in love with someone who may or may not even exist and I may or may not have met them yet' and the red mark wasn't going to kill him but time-travelling robots just might if they managed to find him.
Besides, who was there to tell? Who cared when it boiled right down to it?
It's a farmer's market, the place that Star tracks him down to (fresh food and fewer cameras), and he doesn't look around at first when she whistles. Just kind of tenses, frozen staring at tomatoes before taking a breath, squaring his shoulders, and looking around.
She's standing right there and his first thought is Jesus, don't be a target.
John pays for his produce then crosses the street before it fills with moving cars again, standing in front of her with his eyes narrowed and his head tilted. Maybe the world-weary soldier isn't so far from this person barely out of their teenage years, because up close he looks tired.
"What's happened?"
Edited (wow self it was prose not brackets) 2014-10-20 07:38 (UTC)
Watching him move she could see the similarities, it was obvious now that she was definitely in the right place and he was probably the right person.
She toyed almost nervously with the index card in her hand before she held it up where he could see it Hi, I'm Star written in a tidy block print. A few years back she'd started carrying stock phrases with her as well as the notepad and pen for when things had to be explained in more detail. Which was what she went for next, holding up one hand in a 'please wait' gesture before she started writing.
She wrote quickly, not quite as fast as just speaking, but fairly close, that same block print: Are you John Connor? She had to make sure of that before she ended up looking like a crazy person for mentioning the Resistance and the Machines, capital letters and all.
So whatever is going on is not 'we are going to be shot at in five minutes' he's...hoping but not exactly assuming. He forces himself to relax his posture, drifting closer to the light pole between them and the street traffic until he can lean against it. While she writes he has a chance to more or less look her over - she doesn't look like she's starving or on the edge of collapse, which also supports his 'this is an emergency but not a disaster' theory (because really, when is anything in his life not an emergency).
All this means that he's following the her eyes, not looking at the notepad at all, when she finishes writing and has to remind himself that staring isn't always appropriate. "Yeah. There's uhm...I don't want to do this outside." Whatever this is going to be. "So there's a library or a motel room nearby. Your pick."
It wasn't exactly an emergency, not yet, but it was one of those things
that could easily become one. Which was why she was there.
The next note came just as quickly, brow creasing as she wrote:
Library. Not that I don't trust you... The small, crooked smile
gave that away as a tease, and just the very fact that she felt comfortable
doing so probably belied that statement. He was a stranger, yes, but he
was still John, even if he wasn't the one she knew. Or had known. And
trying to explain that was going to be a kicker, she knew.
Besides that: she liked libraries, there hadn't been many books left
even when she was young, and the were even more rare now, which she knew
because she'd started collecting them. She shuffled through the cards
quickly before she came up with: Lead the way.
Her expression gives him the feeling that she knows him, which is only problematic and that he doesn't know her, not really. Absently he rubs his thumb against the inside of his wrist but doesn't let his mind wander too far down that path. It wasn't important.
Not right now.
Star gets a nod and they're off, walking about five blocks or so all told before he pulls open a door to a small community library. "After you."
John chooses a book on survivalism, because there's always something useful in those books, and finds them a quiet corner away from windows, doors, and other patrons, then waits for her to start.
She'd snagged a book of her own, mostly just to act as something sturdy to keep the notepad still and supported while she wrote. She was already more at ease just being inside, and more than a little in awe at the books even though she'd been there before. She managed not to look as star-struck as she had the first time, but only barely.
She settled with one leg folded underneath her, comfortable, but still ready to bolt at a moment's notice. Six months in the past, or the-same-but-different hadn't been enough to get rid of that habit, not yet.
She wrote quickly, brow creased, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she did so, the picture of concentration. Once she'd finished she tore the sheet carefully from the notepad, handing it over.
The first thing I should tell you is that we aren't in danger here, yet, hopefully never, but I don't think anyone could be that lucky. Second, Hi, I know you even though you've never met me. It's a long story, I can try to explain later. Point 3: we won. Judgment day happened, and we kept fighting, we kept surviving, and then, against all odds, we won. We should have known it wouldn't last. They came back, only we don't know where from. The worst part is that they're using our tactics. Strike and vanish, like they learned it from us. The last attack was about a week before I came here to find you.
She suspected the 'why' was coming next, but she'd answer that when it came, best to just give it to him a little at a time, let him absorb it.
Well, the library was obviously a good idea. She'd visibly relaxed a little and he watched her choose a book seemingly at random. He flipped through his own absently while she wrote, not wanting to stare but not sure what else he should be doing.
He scanned the note first when she handed it to him, looking for pertinent information that needed to be dealt with immediately, and then actually went through it item by item. John tapped number two with his finger. "You don't have to explain. You know an older version of me. Or knew, right?"
John had a very realistic view of just how long he'd probably manage to survive without a war to fight, in the not so far-flung future. His brow furrowed at the third point. They won. They won, and yet Skynet didn't give up.
She nodded at the first reply, jotting down a quick: Knew. He died recently, heart trouble. Which she figured made sense, since he'd been using someone else's heart for years, it was a wonder he'd even lasted as long as he had.
He's part of the reason I'm the Resistance's chief engineer. But I can only do so much on my own. Even with the team I've got. The main reason we won before was because of the shut-down frequency, but that's not working any more. It SLOWS them down but it doesn't SHUT them down and we haven't been able to capture one to cut it open and find out why. Which is what we need your help with. We can catch one if you can help us figure out how they're protecting themselves and how to get around it.
She hesitated a moment before adding the rest: I won't lie, it's going to be dangerous and I can't promise that we'll be able to bring you back here when it's over. Which is why I won't make you come with me, I'll just ask you to.
Heart trouble gets an eyebrow quirk but no real request for more information. Just something to file away, think about later. Besides there's more important things to think about - like how fucked the Resistance must be if they sent their chief engineer after him, on her own.
"Returning isn't a priority." He shrugs, like it's totally normal to be willing to turn one's back on everything they know with no intention of coming back for it. "Protecting your people is. They'll keep adapting, that's what they have to do to survive, so we'll have to adapt faster.
It'd be better if I just stayed when I get there."
He doesn't think he wants to see her reaction to that declaration so John's attention goes back to his book, idly turning the pages. "You'll have to catch me up on the tech you've got and how it works." He wonders if there's a faster way to talk with her than just waiting for her to write things down, but John can't think of any way to ask that without sounding like a dick.
If he had been looking he'd have seen genuine surprise followed by a
slow-spreading smile, one that edged towards incandescence before she
managed to catch herself, toning it down again and looking away while she
tried to pull the expression in just a little further, using rooting
through her bag as a cover. She finally came up with a small sheaf of
flimsies, handing it over before picking up the notepad again.
It wasn't an instruction booklet really, or an identification guide, but it
was some combination of the two. Most of the machines they'd come up
against, and most of the weapons they'd developed since.
The whole thing was clearly a work in progress -if a comprehensive one-
given her notes along the margins and across the bottoms of pages. The
last few pages were the more day-to-day operations, electrical generators
and light fixtures, vehicle engines and air compressors, things that would
wear down and need repairs.
The next note was simple: I've been trying to make teaching the newbies
and cross training everyone else easier.
Really, she was used to people asking if there were a faster way to
communicate, and if they had a computer terminal she'd be happy to type
instead of writing, it tended to be faster if nothing else.
"If we have time we can probably bind this somehow, make it a little sturdier. Or transfer it to a series of notebooks." Do they have time, that's the real question, but he figures Star knows their timetable and will keep him posted. "That might make your attempts easier, but it also puts at risk the information getting out and into the wrong hands."
It's a good plan, though. The more people who know how to fix things, be it technology or each other in the field, the better off everyone is going to be as a whole. Specialization is great when you have a large workforce but it's almost useless in this kind of generational war with very few soldiers.
She nodded once, shuffling through the cards again, the one that she pulled
out was Check the binder Before she jotted down: Those are the
ones that aren't polished yet. Finished ones go in the binder.
She tilted her head at the question, studying him for a moment, surprised
once again at that willingness to help, but the answer was easy:
Whenever you're ready. Do you have anything to pack? She had
everything she'd arrived with, plus a couple of other things she'd picked
up along the way, because she'd been doing better than just getting by in
her six months in this leg of the timeline trying to find him. But
everything she had was in her bag, which meant she was ready to go at any
time.
She was fairly sure that they'd expected her to just grab him and come
back, especially since she was the last option, only two of the others had
come back, and they'd come back empty-handed. But considering that her
return point was set to only a half hour after her exit point had been, she
was more than willing to let him collect any belongings he wanted to bring.
"Gotcha." Well, at least his idea was useful at some point, but it sounded like she had a handle on the minutiae. John took a moment to think over whether or not he needed to pack anything, but he had his jacket with his notebook in it, the phone at the motel was a throw-away... "Not really." It's been a while since he's really lived anywhere, or had anything worth taking into the future with him.
"There's not a lot here for me. We might as well head out sooner than later."
She studied him for a moment more before nodding, putting the notepad and the binder-in-progress back into her bag before shouldering it as she unfolded from her seat, sorting through the cards once more and pulling out: Follow me.
It wasn't a long walk to the park she'd first showed up in, she knew where her landmark was because it was in the courtyard of the Resistance base of operations, hopping the time stream always worked better with a landmark.
The landmark in this case was a large tree stump, charred on one side either from a lightning strike or a bar-b-q pit fire that had gotten out of control some time ago. She nodded once when they'd reached it, looking over at him once more, just a little concerned. Out came the notepad again: Have you done this before?
John followed her without comment, a little surprised maybe that their destination was so close by. He'd passed by this part countless times in the last few months. Maybe it made sense, if they had an idea of where they were going to find him in the first place; despite everything, or perhaps because of it, he usually stuck around the Pacific coast
Her concern was noticed and John found himself shoving his hands in his pockets and looking away with a frown. "Just once but that was almost a decade ago." He jerks his chin towards her bags. "Weren't able to bring stuff with us."
The concern was still there, just a little, but a smile broke through all the same, jotting down another quick note: That just means the calibrations were wrong. Lucky for you: Chief engineer.
The notepad was traded for the trigger, and her brow creased a little as she double-checked the settings before offering him a hand, smile emerging once more, one brow lifting in something that was almost a challenge.
Changing places in the time stream was never comfortable, like being compressed and in free fall at the same time, moving too fast for the vertigo to really set in until things stopped. Which was why, even despite the cheer that went up from the small crowd waiting in the courtyard, Star staggered off to go vomit quietly in one of the scrawny shrubs lining the area.
John remembers this feeling, though it's a bit of an improvement with his clothes still on. Appearing in the future naked and disoriented is not his favorite thing. Neither, for the record, is the way his stomach and head spin independently of one another when Star lets go of his hand and he can't even manage three steps in her direction before he's forced to his knees by vertigo.
Someone hands him water after a moment and he's glad for the moment he can stand up and drink.
"Hey," he says to the small group. He doesn't know these people but they know him, so none of them seem terribly put off by the fact that he's not terribly talkative beyond learning names and what people are good at.
Star let the introductions and hand-shaking go on for a few minutes, long
enough for her to get a drink of water at well and will her own balance
back to where it should be before she slipped in, catching John's elbow and
shooing the crowd off so she could lead him away to her workstation.
Communication there was easier, partly because of her typing speed and
partly because the keyboard she used was cobbled together and had a suite
of keys that were whole words to go along with the standard letters.
How are you? Still woozy? Want to dive right in or
take a breather and get a room assignment first? She was already
skimming through progress reports, she knew she'd actually only been gone a
half hour, but she wanted to make sure there hadn't been a miscalculation
and she'd actually been gone for the six months she'd been in the past. So
far everything seemed to be in order, and that was enough to put her at
ease.
"I don't really care about the room, diving in is good." A place to sleep was a place to sleep. Sharing it would probably be weird, but he could handle it. This, all of this, took precedence.
Besides he knows if he takes too much downtime right away, gives himself the room to think? John's mind will end up nowhere good, and he doesn't even know if they have alcohol here. Asking seems like a gesture in poor taste.
Instead of asking potentially bad questions he takes in the tech around them, the pieces cobbled together and crafted into something new. He can appreciate it more in person than on paper. "You've done a damned good job here."
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John Connor | ota
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She also wasn't sure about the red mark that had blossomed across her wrist when she'd first stepped out of the portal, one that still hadn't gone away, she had just chalked it up to something that had happened in transit, maybe some kind of tag to indicate that she didn't really belong there, and so she'd mostly kept it covered, long sleeves and a wide watchband or a stack of bracelets.
She'd finally found who she was looking for, at least, she hoped it was actually him, because he didn't look anything at all like the gruff, world-weary John Connor that she knew. She was also a little anxious, given as how she wouldn't be able to get his attention as easily as one of their other operatives, but one of the others couldn't be spared, she was the only option.
And so, there she was, stepping out of the flow of foot traffic to give a two-toned 'captain on deck' whistle to get his attention.
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Besides, who was there to tell? Who cared when it boiled right down to it?
It's a farmer's market, the place that Star tracks him down to (fresh food and fewer cameras), and he doesn't look around at first when she whistles. Just kind of tenses, frozen staring at tomatoes before taking a breath, squaring his shoulders, and looking around.
She's standing right there and his first thought is Jesus, don't be a target.
John pays for his produce then crosses the street before it fills with moving cars again, standing in front of her with his eyes narrowed and his head tilted. Maybe the world-weary soldier isn't so far from this person barely out of their teenage years, because up close he looks tired.
"What's happened?"
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She toyed almost nervously with the index card in her hand before she held it up where he could see it Hi, I'm Star written in a tidy block print. A few years back she'd started carrying stock phrases with her as well as the notepad and pen for when things had to be explained in more detail. Which was what she went for next, holding up one hand in a 'please wait' gesture before she started writing.
She wrote quickly, not quite as fast as just speaking, but fairly close, that same block print: Are you John Connor? She had to make sure of that before she ended up looking like a crazy person for mentioning the Resistance and the Machines, capital letters and all.
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So whatever is going on is not 'we are going to be shot at in five minutes' he's...hoping but not exactly assuming. He forces himself to relax his posture, drifting closer to the light pole between them and the street traffic until he can lean against it. While she writes he has a chance to more or less look her over - she doesn't look like she's starving or on the edge of collapse, which also supports his 'this is an emergency but not a disaster' theory (because really, when is anything in his life not an emergency).
All this means that he's following the her eyes, not looking at the notepad at all, when she finishes writing and has to remind himself that staring isn't always appropriate. "Yeah. There's uhm...I don't want to do this outside." Whatever this is going to be. "So there's a library or a motel room nearby. Your pick."
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It wasn't exactly an emergency, not yet, but it was one of those things that could easily become one. Which was why she was there.
The next note came just as quickly, brow creasing as she wrote: Library. Not that I don't trust you... The small, crooked smile gave that away as a tease, and just the very fact that she felt comfortable doing so probably belied that statement. He was a stranger, yes, but he was still John, even if he wasn't the one she knew. Or had known. And trying to explain that was going to be a kicker, she knew.
Besides that: she liked libraries, there hadn't been many books left even when she was young, and the were even more rare now, which she knew because she'd started collecting them. She shuffled through the cards quickly before she came up with: Lead the way.
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Not right now.
Star gets a nod and they're off, walking about five blocks or so all told before he pulls open a door to a small community library. "After you."
John chooses a book on survivalism, because there's always something useful in those books, and finds them a quiet corner away from windows, doors, and other patrons, then waits for her to start.
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She settled with one leg folded underneath her, comfortable, but still ready to bolt at a moment's notice. Six months in the past, or the-same-but-different hadn't been enough to get rid of that habit, not yet.
She wrote quickly, brow creased, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she did so, the picture of concentration. Once she'd finished she tore the sheet carefully from the notepad, handing it over.
The first thing I should tell you is that we aren't in danger here, yet, hopefully never, but I don't think anyone could be that lucky.
Second, Hi, I know you even though you've never met me. It's a long story, I can try to explain later.
Point 3: we won. Judgment day happened, and we kept fighting, we kept surviving, and then, against all odds, we won. We should have known it wouldn't last. They came back, only we don't know where from. The worst part is that they're using our tactics. Strike and vanish, like they learned it from us. The last attack was about a week before I came here to find you.
She suspected the 'why' was coming next, but she'd answer that when it came, best to just give it to him a little at a time, let him absorb it.
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He scanned the note first when she handed it to him, looking for pertinent information that needed to be dealt with immediately, and then actually went through it item by item. John tapped number two with his finger. "You don't have to explain. You know an older version of me. Or knew, right?"
John had a very realistic view of just how long he'd probably manage to survive without a war to fight, in the not so far-flung future. His brow furrowed at the third point. They won. They won, and yet Skynet didn't give up.
With a sigh he rubbed at his face.
"So what do you need me to do?"
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He's part of the reason I'm the Resistance's chief engineer. But I can only do so much on my own. Even with the team I've got. The main reason we won before was because of the shut-down frequency, but that's not working any more. It SLOWS them down but it doesn't SHUT them down and we haven't been able to capture one to cut it open and find out why. Which is what we need your help with. We can catch one if you can help us figure out how they're protecting themselves and how to get around it.
She hesitated a moment before adding the rest: I won't lie, it's going to be dangerous and I can't promise that we'll be able to bring you back here when it's over. Which is why I won't make you come with me, I'll just ask you to.
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"Returning isn't a priority." He shrugs, like it's totally normal to be willing to turn one's back on everything they know with no intention of coming back for it. "Protecting your people is. They'll keep adapting, that's what they have to do to survive, so we'll have to adapt faster.
It'd be better if I just stayed when I get there."
He doesn't think he wants to see her reaction to that declaration so John's attention goes back to his book, idly turning the pages. "You'll have to catch me up on the tech you've got and how it works." He wonders if there's a faster way to talk with her than just waiting for her to write things down, but John can't think of any way to ask that without sounding like a dick.
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If he had been looking he'd have seen genuine surprise followed by a slow-spreading smile, one that edged towards incandescence before she managed to catch herself, toning it down again and looking away while she tried to pull the expression in just a little further, using rooting through her bag as a cover. She finally came up with a small sheaf of flimsies, handing it over before picking up the notepad again.
It wasn't an instruction booklet really, or an identification guide, but it was some combination of the two. Most of the machines they'd come up against, and most of the weapons they'd developed since.
The whole thing was clearly a work in progress -if a comprehensive one- given her notes along the margins and across the bottoms of pages. The last few pages were the more day-to-day operations, electrical generators and light fixtures, vehicle engines and air compressors, things that would wear down and need repairs. The next note was simple: I've been trying to make teaching the newbies and cross training everyone else easier. Really, she was used to people asking if there were a faster way to communicate, and if they had a computer terminal she'd be happy to type instead of writing, it tended to be faster if nothing else.
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It's a good plan, though. The more people who know how to fix things, be it technology or each other in the field, the better off everyone is going to be as a whole. Specialization is great when you have a large workforce but it's almost useless in this kind of generational war with very few soldiers.
"When are we leaving?"
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She nodded once, shuffling through the cards again, the one that she pulled out was Check the binder Before she jotted down: Those are the ones that aren't polished yet. Finished ones go in the binder.
She tilted her head at the question, studying him for a moment, surprised once again at that willingness to help, but the answer was easy: Whenever you're ready. Do you have anything to pack? She had everything she'd arrived with, plus a couple of other things she'd picked up along the way, because she'd been doing better than just getting by in her six months in this leg of the timeline trying to find him. But everything she had was in her bag, which meant she was ready to go at any time.
She was fairly sure that they'd expected her to just grab him and come back, especially since she was the last option, only two of the others had come back, and they'd come back empty-handed. But considering that her return point was set to only a half hour after her exit point had been, she was more than willing to let him collect any belongings he wanted to bring.
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"There's not a lot here for me. We might as well head out sooner than later."
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It wasn't a long walk to the park she'd first showed up in, she knew where her landmark was because it was in the courtyard of the Resistance base of operations, hopping the time stream always worked better with a landmark.
The landmark in this case was a large tree stump, charred on one side either from a lightning strike or a bar-b-q pit fire that had gotten out of control some time ago. She nodded once when they'd reached it, looking over at him once more, just a little concerned. Out came the notepad again: Have you done this before?
sorry for lack of tags today
Her concern was noticed and John found himself shoving his hands in his pockets and looking away with a frown. "Just once but that was almost a decade ago." He jerks his chin towards her bags. "Weren't able to bring stuff with us."
No worries, it happens
The notepad was traded for the trigger, and her brow creased a little as she double-checked the settings before offering him a hand, smile emerging once more, one brow lifting in something that was almost a challenge.
Changing places in the time stream was never comfortable, like being compressed and in free fall at the same time, moving too fast for the vertigo to really set in until things stopped. Which was why, even despite the cheer that went up from the small crowd waiting in the courtyard, Star staggered off to go vomit quietly in one of the scrawny shrubs lining the area.
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Someone hands him water after a moment and he's glad for the moment he can stand up and drink.
"Hey," he says to the small group. He doesn't know these people but they know him, so none of them seem terribly put off by the fact that he's not terribly talkative beyond learning names and what people are good at.
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Star let the introductions and hand-shaking go on for a few minutes, long enough for her to get a drink of water at well and will her own balance back to where it should be before she slipped in, catching John's elbow and shooing the crowd off so she could lead him away to her workstation.
Communication there was easier, partly because of her typing speed and partly because the keyboard she used was cobbled together and had a suite of keys that were whole words to go along with the standard letters.
How are you? Still woozy? Want to dive right in or take a breather and get a room assignment first? She was already skimming through progress reports, she knew she'd actually only been gone a half hour, but she wanted to make sure there hadn't been a miscalculation and she'd actually been gone for the six months she'd been in the past. So far everything seemed to be in order, and that was enough to put her at ease.
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Besides he knows if he takes too much downtime right away, gives himself the room to think? John's mind will end up nowhere good, and he doesn't even know if they have alcohol here. Asking seems like a gesture in poor taste.
Instead of asking potentially bad questions he takes in the tech around them, the pieces cobbled together and crafted into something new. He can appreciate it more in person than on paper. "You've done a damned good job here."
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