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John shuffled into the kitchen, yawning widely. Cameron stood at the window, peering out, unblinking as always.
“Where’s my mom?”
Cameron didn’t move. “She and Derek went on an assignment. They did not share the nature of it.”
Taking a carton of milk from the fridge, John gulped. His mother hated it when he did that, but fuck her. She’s the one who forgot his birthday. Again. He leaned against the counter, holding the carton, deciding how to celebrate his so-called special day.
Her lips were soft and warm as they pressed against his cheek, and she smelled like sweet oranges. John jumped back, milk splattering all over the floor, the carton landing with a thud at his feet. Cameron stood ramrod straight, regarding him. Cocking her head, she asked, “Was that the wrong thing to do?”
No. Yes. No. “Why did you do it?”
“It’s your birthday. I was wishing you well. This is one of several methods typically used.”
As usual, Cameron left John searching for something to say in response. “Thanks.” He tried to find the paper towels, but by the time he did, Cameron was already cleaning up the milk with the sponge from the sink.
“Thanks,” John repeated. “I’m going to have a shower.”
Cameron didn’t reply, and methodically sopped up the milk from the floor. At the door, John turned. “Do you ever tell the truth?”
She continued wiping, not looking up. “Yes.”
“About important things?”
Her eyes met his. “Yes.”
*
Sitting at his desk, the explosion rattles John’s body from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. His mother tries to stop him, but as soon as he sees the flaming car from the window, he races outside. Neighbours are already gathering as Cameron emerges from the wreck, hair and clothes on fire, skin melting.
John smothers the scream in his throat and runs faster.
Just as he gets to her, his mother is there with a blanket, tossing it over Cameron and shoving her to the ground, dousing the flames. “We need to get her to the hospital, John.” His mother is speaking loudly for the benefit of the gathering crowd. Cameron must understand, since she doesn’t resist as John scoops her up into his arms. He shouldn’t be able to lift her, but he does, taking her into the garage.
His mother opens the back door of the dead man’s car and John gently places Cameron inside, the blanket still covering her completely. His mom grasps his shoulders roughly. “Now go, John. Do you have your cell?” John pats his pockets and feels the lump. Handing him one of the emergency backpacks stored in every room, she kisses him quickly. “I’ll call you when it’s safe. Don’t come back until then, no matter what you think is happening.” She turns, but swings back around. “She’s no good to us if she can’t pass for human.”
Then she’s gone.
*
The water coursed over his body, and John closed his eyes as the steam began to rise. He loved showers. Perhaps it was because he knew that if things didn’t go well for humanity, hot water wouldn’t be so plentiful in the future.
After rinsing the shampoo from his hair, John’s hand drifted to his cock, grasping it lightly. As he began stroking in a familiar rhythm, he tried to think of that hot girl from school, or Drew Barrymore, but as always, his thoughts returned to her.
He imagined kissing Cameron, pressing up against her hard/soft body, peeling her clothes off. In his mind, he took her nipple in his mouth, and her back arched as a gasp of pleasure — real pleasure — escaped her lips. She spread her legs and he fucked her as she begged him to do it harder.
John wondered for the millionth time what she’d feel like inside, and if he would know the difference between Cameron and a woman who was all human. Not that he’d ever done more than feel a girl up under her shirt.
He squeezed himself, moaning softly as he thought about how tight and hot and amazing Cameron would feel. He knew it was wrong, but if it was just in his head, it wasn’t hurting anyone.
Jerking himself faster, John braced one hand on the tiles. He could see Cameron kissing him, could hear her calling his name as he pounded into her. He shook and groaned as he came, whispering her name into the heavy, hazy air.
Later, as he ate breakfast at the kitchen table, John felt Cameron’s eyes on him from where she stood by the window once more. When he glanced up, her face was turned back to the glass so quickly he couldn’t be sure she’d ever looked at him at all.
*
Returning to the hills where they found Jessica Peck’s body, John has to remind himself repeatedly to follow the speed limit. He prays that the car hasn’t been reported stolen, and guesses that since it belonged to a criminal, it hasn’t. Cameron is quiet under the blanket, and John finds himself babbling aloud about how everything will be okay.
She’s a machine. She has to be okay.
As they idle at a red light, Cameron finally speaks. “We need supplies.” Her voice is raw and scratchy, slightly muffled by the thick afghan.
“What should I get?” The backpack has five hundred dollars in cash stowed away inside, along with a first-aid kit, non-perishable food, and guns and ammo.
“Oil.”
“Like…oil you’d put in a car?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“1.56 gallons.”
“Okay. Don’t worry, everything will be okay.”
She doesn’t answer.
*
The vodka burned as it went down, but John forced himself to swallow. Flopped out on his bed, he laughed bitterly. The future leader of mankind having a pity party and drinking before noon. Pathetic.
He drank some more — hey, he was really 24, after all — and closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure how long Cameron was there, and he only realized she was when the bed dipped and she perched on the side, facing him.
John rolled his eyes. “Is this the part where you play the role of my mother and give me a lecture?”
Her brow wrinkled just a tiny bit. “Do you want me to?” Then her voice changed and became Sarah’s. “John, you shouldn’t be drinking. I’m very disappointed in you.”
A shiver ran up John’s spine. “God, don’t do that! It freaks me out.”
She became Cameron again. “Sorry.” Reaching for the bottle, she took a gulp without wincing.
The weirdness never stopped. “Alcohol doesn’t affect you, does it?”
“No.” She swallowed again.
“Then why are you doing that?”
“You don’t like drinking alone.”
*
John parks as deeply in the forest as he can. The light’s fading, but when he slowly pulls back the blanket, he can see that the damage is horrific. What little remains of Cameron’s hair sticks out in singed tufts, and her skin is terribly red and blistered. In a few places, the metal shows through, and John can see the spot on her head where he’d taken out her chip only days ago.
John wishes his mother was with him.
“Take my clothes off.”
He snaps back to attention. “What?”
“My clothes. The fabric is seared onto the dead skin and it won’t re-grow if you don’t remove it.”
“It’ll re-grow? Your skin?”
“Yes.”
“And your hair?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
She regards him evenly, as always. “I can do a lot of things.”
John’s not sure what to say to that. “How long will it take? To…re-grow?”
“It will take nine hours, three minutes and seven seconds to repair the current damage.”
John tries not to freak out as he peels the clothing — and skin — from her body. It’s awkward in the back of the car, but he does his best. “Does it hurt?”
He knows Terminators aren’t truly supposed to feel pain, but they aren’t supposed to sit down at the table every night for his mom’s casserole, either. Cameron’s different.
She doesn’t respond. “Cameron?”
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
She looks up, and John flinches at what he sees in her eyes. “The data is complex.”
*
Just as the alcohol buzz began to wear off, Cameron put her hand on John’s thigh. “You’re exhibiting high levels of stress. Do you want me to alleviate it?”
“Um…” John tried to focus. Clearly he should say no.
“Roll over.”
Before he could talk himself out of it, John followed orders. Cameron began massaging his back and shoulders through his t-shirt, and he had to bite his lip to stop from moaning out loud.
He got hard in about .25 seconds, and as Cameron continued gently kneading his flesh, John resisted the urge to hump the mattress to relieve the growing pressure. Her hands roamed over his back, finding the tight knots in his muscles as if she’d done it a million times before. Then, without warning, she flipped him over. John’s breath caught in his throat, his face flushing.
Cameron steadily raked her gaze down to his crotch. Before she could say anything, John blurted out, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I…” His heart pounded, sweat beading on his forehead.
Reaching out, Cameron brushed his lips with her fingertips.
His resistance broke, and in one motion, John sat up and kissed her, crushing their mouths together. He didn’t care if it was wrong; he wanted it. He wanted her. Needed her.
When he took a breath, Cameron’s tongue slipped inside his mouth, and he stroked it with his own, and it was better than kissing Amber Wilson or Kate Brewster or the girl at that party the year before whose name he never knew.
John wrapped his arms around her, and Cameron straddled him as they continued kissing. Reaching down, she had his fly undone in an instant, her hand unerringly finding his cock. John gasped at the contact, swallowing hard. “Have you…done this before?” Clearly some machines were capable of having sex, since Barbara Chamberlain had never known the difference.
As she began stroking him, Cameron pressed her forehead against his. “This isn’t the first time.”
*
John gently rubs the sixth bottle of oil all over Cameron’s body as instructed. There’s nothing sexual about it now, and he just wants her to be okay.
He wishes he knew who or what to pray to.
In the front seat, he digs out the first-aid kit from the emergency pack, not caring that he’s getting thick black oil over everything. He finds a tube of burn ointment. “Here, will this help?” He leans over the front seat and holds it close to her face so Cameron doesn’t have to strain.
“It won’t accelerate re-growth.”
“But will it ease the pain?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, then it’ll help.”
He’s pushed the passenger seat all the way forward so there’s a bit of room to crouch in the back while he works on Cameron. He smoothes the ointment onto what’s left of her skin, and hopes it works. Cameron lies as still as a statue, and every so often he has to check to make sure she’s still…alive. Powered on. Whatever.
John saves some of the ointment for later and clambers out the door. He realizes he hasn’t pissed in hours and walks a few feet away to relieve himself into some bushes. As he looks out over the lights of the city, he cries for just a minute; quick, angry, scared tears.
Sarkissian is going to pay.
Back at the car, John opens the back door. Cameron gazes up at him, her eyes stark in contrast to the black oil all over her body. “I need to go into recovery mode.”
“Recovery mode?”
“Yes. It’s similar to sleep.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you did that.”
“It is very unusual.”
“Okay, what can I do to help?”
“You can reapply the oil every two hours.”
“That's all? There's nothing else?” John hates feeling so helpless. He hates waiting. It’s what his whole life has been about.
She doesn’t answer for a moment. “I am very vulnerable in this state.”
When she doesn’t say anything else, John gets the gun out of the pack. He bends down and slowly eases her up so he can sit on the back seat, and once her head is in his lap, he closes the door behind him. Cameron’s long legs are curled, and in the darkness he can see smears of white ointment criss-crossing her body.
“I won’t leave you,” John tells her.
After that, he hears a faint whirring noise, and her eyes close.
*
John struggled to last as long as he could with Cameron’s hand stroking him up and down so perfectly. When he came, he moaned loudly and squeezed her close, his face against her neck. He pressed his lips to the soft skin there before raising his head.
Cameron regarded him with a tiny smile on her lips. “Was that effective?”
He laughed, and kissed her.