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"You've reached (323) 555-0128. Leave a message."

Is that a trick question?

Look, the people who make the laws mean well but they don't know the truth.

They don't understand what's really going on.

Great. Now, I sound like my mother.

Okay. Let's try that again. Look. I'm not an anarchist. Laws work. Usually. I mean, they're not perfect. They're made by people who are just trying to do what they think is best. It's majority rules with some morality thrown in and some politics. Okay, sometimes a lot of politics. But for the most part, they work. Society tends to get along just fine with them so it's hard to criticize them.

The thing is, laws just don't work for us. Even if you don't believe me, we have a good reason for doing the things we do. It's just really hard to explain everything. Honestly, it comes off sounding a little crazy.

So yeah, we end up breaking the law.

We end up breaking a lot of laws.

But trust me, we have a good reason for it. I promise.

"Track? It's not exactly a question I've put a lot of thought into."

( It's not really something I got into. )

There's no easy way to tell someone about Judgment Day.

( It'd be easier to stand on a street corner with a cardboard sign saying 'The End is Nigh.' )

Part of her hair is matted. It's sticky with faint traces of blood that cling to the delicate strands. There's blood on his fingers, covering the tips and finding its way under his nails. Her face is the visage of a picture perfect calm, but her expression lacks serenity. Instead, it's an all too perfect blankness, unmoving, unnatural despite it's beauty.

His fingers don't thread through her hair. She's inhumanly still and he knows that she can no longer see anything. There's a hyper real quality to everything. It's been there since he first set the utility knife to her head and it sparked again, afterwards, when he pressed his fingers against her hair, performing the same actions in reverse and trying to secure the loose skin underneath.

He's about to pull away, but he lingers. He pets her hair, stroking the dark strands in an awkward caress. He brushes it away from her face and his thumb faintly touches her cheek and in that moment, reality blurs. Her name is Cameron. She has a shy awkward smile. Her father sells tractors. Her mission it to protect him. She's not like all the others.

Reality has always been different for him.

There's a mechanical sound almost too soft to hear. It's accompanied by an inhuman jerk as she shifts on the bed. Reality reaffirms itself once more.

He pulls away, hand falling to the pink comforter she never uses.

She looks at him. He looks away.

Caught.

Fooled you again.

From iPersonic.

The world didn't end on a Wednesday.

August 29, 1997 came and went.

It was a unremarkable day filled with unassuming moments.

There were peace talks in Northern Ireland and a riot in Algeria. There weren't any births of note, nor deaths, nor assassinations. Oasis dominated the music charts and the top draws at the box office were big production Hollywood movies. It was the end of summer but not the end of the world.

No bombs fell.

Aside from personal memories, there isn't a reason why anyone should remember that date. It's immemorial to all, save for two. In truth, John didn't remember much. He spent the entire day (and the night before) filled with tension and anxiety. He caught himself holding his breath as he watched the seconds tick down. He fidgeted constantly, alternating between hope and fear. It wasn't until the dawn of the follow day that he breathed the sigh of relief. It was in that new light that he finally laid down to get some rest.

Life would continue. The world would keep spinning. The Doomsday Clock could be reset back to where it was supposed to be. The calendar was no longer a deadline for the human race. Humanity wouldn't have call for a savior (which would be perfectly fine by him.) The future they'd lived in fear of had simply passed them by.

Judgment Day had come and gone, but it didn't actually leave.

Now, he knows world will end on a Thursday.

Missiles will explode out of their silos like fireworks across the sky. There will be little warning and the world's population will suffer for the ministrations and folly of a few. Cities will lie in ruin under debris and dust. The survivors will live in a world filled with horror and metal. Everything they've always feared will have come to pass.

They won't allow that.

Even if they win, there will be no guarantees. In a future changed, April 21, 2011 will still come and still go.

Wednesday begat Thursday which begets Friday.

And who knows what Friday will bring?

[Secured
if (user == cameron) {readPermission(allow);
} // Nigh Unhackable]

Well, not that it's possible... but I'd choose Cameron.

I mean, she's the most sophisticated of her kind that I've met.

I've worked through some of the programming that Skynet has, the code and memory storage, but none of the more complex functions. It's kind of hard when you're dealing with a sentient computer system that's trying to get you killed via Bluetooth. Cameron has the same chip though. She has the same base programming and neural net processor so she has the same ability to learn. I know she's been reprogrammed but it's probably not from scratch. There's code that has to exist for movement and balance so some of her functions are probably partitioned off, while other parts, like her processor, just got a clean slate. It's like a factory default, I guess. And the question is, how does she actually process everything?

I mean, is it just operant conditioning functioning on a high scale interacting with whatever the base programming happens to be? Is it perfect imitation standing in proxy to actual rote memory? Some combination of the two? Are there limits to what she can learn? Can she grow beyond the confines of her programming? Can there be variances in the interpretation? Can she display preference, the ability to decide for herself, so long as it doesn't interfere with her mission or is it always the optimal solution based on a set of parameters which grows more complex over time? I know she can learn from mistakes but can she change her mind? Can she refuse a mission and buck her programming?

I mean, where did she learn to wink? Why bother to dance? Why does she employ a judicious application of her personality because that gets really frustrating at times. I know she can blend in, but I swear, it's like she's just she's stopped doing so for some reason. I mean, it's not like she hasn't taken the initiative before and, yeah, okay, it's only high school, so it's not that important. Still, there's other stuff too. Like sometimes, she tries to have a sense of humor and I swear she argues with Derek more than she should. There's not really a reason for either unless it falls under some Just Making Conversation subroutine that she's established.

I know Derek doesn't trust her. Mom is... cautious. And they both know I trust her. I sent her here to help and it's been long enough that it's pretty obvious she's not lying about that. Besides, let's face it, she knows a lot more about Skynet that we do and I'm not sure we can do this alone. So, I guess the real question is, what does she lie about? Is it something I'm trying to hide from myself or is it something she's trying to hide from me? It's my life. I should have a say in this. Or is it something so bad that I don't want to know?

[/Secured]

My Mom?

Well, my Mom is, uh, unique. I wouldn't really call her the maternal type but she does the best she can. My dad died before I was born so Mom raised me all by herself. Being a single parent isn't really an easy job and she was pretty young when she had me. She didn't really get much of a choice there. But, I mean, I know she doesn't regret it. Having me, you know? That's just the way it worked out. Besides, I don't think I ever heard her complain.

When I was younger, I used to think she was the coolest person around. We moved around a lot but we'd always be doing these new and exciting things. We met a lot of interesting people and I got to do stuff that most Mom's never let their kids do. It was, I dunno, fun, like this non-stop vacation. She had a ton of rules but it was never any of the 'be in bed by eight' and 'finish all your dinner' crap so it was okay, I didn't mind. Besides, I used to think she was coolest Mom and I was lucky to have her.

Then, it changed. I mean, she didn't change but I did. I grew up. Mom's always been the same. I don't think she knows any other way to be. But it was different for me. It's like when you're little and the only thing you want to do is eat candy. Then when you grow up, it doesn't taste as good anymore. Actually, it tastes pretty bad and if you think about it you realize how unhealthy it really was. And you wonder how someone could have let you do all these things...

But she has a good reason for it. A really good reason. I know that she's just doing what she thinks is best. I guess, I finally came to terms that she's not perfect. Actually, she pretty far from it. I mean, she worries a lot and she can be really stubborn at times. She's got all these house rules and she's not even the domestic type. That's an understatement. Except for pancakes, her cooking is pretty hit or miss. She insists on packing lunch sometimes too... But, all that, that's just who she is.

And we argue sometimes. About stupid stuff. About important things. I don't always agree with her and she doesn't always listen so it can get frustrating really quickly. She's trying to keep my best interests at heart but she gets overprotective at times. But, I guess, that's what a Mom's supposed to do, right? Even when I'm mad at her, I don't hate her, not really. I mean, she's my Mom and she's just doing what she thinks is best. I can't hate her for that. I know she wouldn't let anything happen to me if she could stop it. She's amazing. Really.

I know she'll always be the strongest person I know.

Scribbled on notebook paper, torn out and tacked up on the fridge:

Mom—

out of turkey again
Red bull
iced tea (the good type)
Corn flakes
USB flash drive (32 GB)
2 cat 6 cables (5')
backup UPS (min 2000VA)

It's three in the morning and John is fast asleep. The venetian blinds aren't shut, just askew like they always are, nor are the curtains closed. In the morning, the light will trickle in gradually until it reaches his pillow, but for now, the faint glow of street lamps barely makes a difference in the dark. Anything the darkness brings will come with plenty of warning.

He's been out since quarter past twelve and sleeping soundly ever since. His hands are stuffed under the pillow and the blankets are tangled up around his legs. His T-shirt has crept up, twisted, and the sheets rub against his stomach. There's no anxiety in his form. There's no gun stuffed under his pillow or apocalyptic dreams to be found. There's nothing but peaceful slumber.

The laptop is shut down. The system doesn't run constantly through the night unless it needs to. Some of his school notebooks are strewn on his desk. His English homework is waiting for questions five, seven and ten to be completed. It's been abandoned for the night, to be finished in the morning before breakfast or possibly during study hall. Similarly, his math notebook lays open on the kitchen table waiting for the same attention.

The house isn't completely quiet but the sounds are all familiar ones. There's soft shuffling when Derek sometimes moves throughout the rooms. He doesn't sleep much. In counterpoint, there's Cameron slow steady walk. She doesn't sleep much either. They both fill the time in drastically different ways. His Mom is asleep, but not usually soundly. Her room is far enough away that John never hears her restless movements or desperate gasps for breath.

The motion detectors are silent. There are no sirens or barking dogs to be heard, so John sleeps on. For the moment, he's a teenager, indistinguishable from everyone else. Fast asleep on a school night. You could walk right by his room and never think to take a second look. Never think he could be anything more than a kid who sometimes kicks off the covers. Maybe that's why they sometimes linger in the doorway or why he wakes to find them staring at him.

There isn't anything important about the scene. There's nothing special or unique. It serves no purpose. Instead, it's just a moment of quiet in their crazy world, which makes it the most treasured aspect of all.

The yellow line is slipping by them, sometimes skipping as it goes or all but fading into the muted gray landscape. The signs that greet them are no more distinct. SPEED LIMIT 35. They're smaller versions of the ones that hung, used to hang, will hang, in his bedroom. He knows it'd be easier to not bother settling in, to never really unpack that last bag. It's pointless to put clutter on the walls and amass belongings that will only be left behind. If he only accepted the fact that his entire life was transient, moving wouldn't be quite as hard. They've never been good at living for the present, but John can't help but try.

He hasn't said anything since he got in the truck. Just threw his bag in the backseat, set the duffel filled with guns down much more carefully, and then proceeded to stare out the window without saying a word. It doesn't matter that he didn't even get to finish out the school year. He'll simply start over again in a different school. That's what they do. They've mastered how to blend in, how to get by with the clothes on their back, by their boots and wits, and the arsenal in the proverbial trunk. They've made a living by disappearing without a trace and his mother sees to it that they the get a lot of practice.

He tries to concentrate on the scenery but there's not much to see. There's some brush in the distance here, a cactus far over there, and the ever present horizon blurring in front of them. It's hard pretending he doesn't notice when she glances in his direction, but he manages it anyway. She has this mixture of sympathy and concern topped off with an apologetic visage that John can't help but find hypocritical. She's sorry that they have to move. She's not sorry for moving him.

( Life hasn't been fair for a long time. )

John's father is a soldier from the future. He goes back in time to protect John's mother. He meets her in a nightclub but they don't dance. He takes her to a motel but they don't vacation. Instead, they hold each other in the dark. They have two days together and then his father dies a hero. He saves the world and never even knows it.

John's father is dead. He was a soldier and was killed in battle. His mother has gotten a new identity but the back story is still new to her. She sticks to what she knows.

John's father is dead. He was killed in a factory accident. A piece of machinery was faulty and tore a hole into him and his family. They're still fighting with workers comp, but they know they'll never see the money. The money doesn't matter anyway.

John's father is dead. He died in a car accident when his mother was pregnant. His father pulls the two of them out of the burning wreckage but can't get clear in time. He saves their lives moments before the explosion takes his. He never gets to see his son.

( cut for length )

Just a shout and a thank you to whoever dropped a line to You Rock about this post. I'm surprised and flattered (especially since I'm new to the muse thing and didn't even know it existed.) So cheers!

And for the record, John thinks the banner is very 70s...

I read a lot when I was growing up. When I was little, my Mom always used to read to me and then when I got old enough, I'd read if I had time. If you're sick of the same CD, a book works. Plus, we took a lot of road trips. I try to read a lot of different stuff, some stuff the schools picked out and some stuff I'd find on my own. Sometimes I read science fiction. Some of the concepts aren't that far out. It just means that whoever wrote the story had to have a pretty open mind, well, unless they were using it to create some political allegory. See, the thing about science fiction is that it's pretty much split between the utopias and the dystopias. Either the world is perfect or solyent green is people.

If I was going to recommend one book, it'd be Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card. It's not the best book in the series, but it's the first one so you should probably start there.

( public, cut for book spoilers )

That's not the end. The story continues, in both the novel and the sequels, but you can read those yourself. It's really powerful. You don't even realize the science fiction aspect to it since the emotions are real. Besides, I always liked Bean. Bean was cool and Card wrote him his own Quartet. Ender was too busy having the weight of the world on his shoulders. I think it's a book everyone should read but it's probably not for everyone. I guess, if you think it sounds too depressing or deep you could always try Asimov. His robot stuff was always too optimistic, too surface, for me, but some of the short stories aren't that bad. Like "Robbie" or "The Bicentinnal Man". You could give those ones a shot.

Salaam.

( Personality Test )

How can the scores be so different without the profile changing? Anyway, the differences from Mom's are in the italics.

And the comparison from the site itself.

From LearnMyself.com



[ooc: For the muns: Derek and Sarah's comparison.]

John Connor has always been a mama's boy.

Since he was born, his mother has alway been with him. Raising him and guiding him. Teaching, protecting and loving him. It's not that he's been lacking male rode models in his life. The problem is that, through one circumstance or another, he never gets to keep them.

His father died before he was born and what John knows about Kyle Reese wouldn't fill the smallest flash drive. It's not as if he hasn't asked. It's only because there's not much to tell. Oh, sure, he knows the facts but nothing emotionally important. At least not anything beyond what his mother can convey to him, second hand, lost in her own whimsy. John gets it, he understands, but he's not sure he knows what his father was really like. He knows he'll find out one day.

Since then, he's had many father figures of varying quality. John keeps track of some of them. To him, they're people, not just names to be forgotten and shucked off with each new identity. There was Mike who did construction-- bought him his first Transformer-- when they had spent a year in Arizona. Rick who did programming for a computer start up-- and strangely, only drank decaf-- when they were in Silicon Valley. Russel who was a card carrying member of the NRA-- owned the ugliest pick up alive-- when they'd wandered over to the bible belt. Javier who knew all the loops in the border patrol--made one hell of a chilaquiles-- when they were living on the Mexico line. None of them ever lasted long. His mother only had room for one man in her life.

Then when he was ten, there was the Terminator, the T-800, who proved that machines could learn beyond their programming. That the lines between human and machine were a lot more scuffed than he'd been taught to believe. A machine that could understand emotion. But ultimately, his mother had lowered him into the pit. They don't bring that up any more. She's always been the tough love type.

John regrets leaving Charley Dixon the most. Charley who was a paramedic-- usually called him 'Johnny'-- they met while in Nebraska. Charley represented everything John always wanted. A big slice of normalcy without the looming threat of paranoia. Most importantly, they were happy. Not just content. Not using yet another person and his knowledge as a means to an end. She was happy. John knows that. That's the most tragic part. John knows if there's anyone in the world whose deserved the right to be happy, it's his mother.

Instead, they'd packed bags and disappeared, like always. Sarah and John against the world, trying to outrun Judgment Day if and when they can. She's the only constant in an existence full of fabrication. The only truth in an ignorant world. She lives to protect him and she'd die to save him, not to mention do anything and everything in between. A mother's love knows no bounds...

So it's accurate to say that John Connor, the future leader, the future savior of all humanity has been raised mostly by his overprotective, constantly paranoid and ever cautious mother.

But, really, have you ever met Sarah Connor?

She puts a whole new spin on the term.