Snapshots of Reality

A/n: heeeeyyyooo my readers! I had this written for a while, but I wasn't sure if it was Jameron-y enough to post. It's also in a slightly more detailed writing style then my usual stuff. I tend to get inspired by books that I'm reading at the moment and that's pretty much what happened here. I think it reads quite nicely but might be a jolt for people just coming in from the previous chapters. I also have to say i really appreciate all the recent faves I've been getting on this story, since it's been so long since any updates. Just goes to show, the jameronites never die! xD So, I hope you like this little post-show-finale drabble. I have a sinking feeling it might be the last thing I write for PlayBack, but I don't like to say never, so I might be wrong about that. Enjoy! XOXO my reviewers!

His fingers were empty, somehow useless and twitchy. Nothing he did could relieve this desire to do something with them. It was nerve-wracking. One second they were at his sides, clutching the chair beneath him, trying to steady the wobbling as the joints groaned with age and strain. The next, they were running through his hair, already overgrowing the drastic haircut he'd given himself a few months ago. A few decades ago he corrected himself with a barely audible derisive snort. He was supposed to be middle-aged right now. Older then Derek. Older then Kyle. And beyond wise. But he was just a kid. A kid who's heart was aching for something he didn't know it could ache for so steadfastly.

He wished for a gun to wrap his fingers around, at least so he could check the gauge and study it for some semblance of usefulness and sanity. Guns made him calm down. Living half his life around them on a day to day basis gave him a morbid sense of comfort in knowing he could down anything that moved with a few well-placed rounds. It was an instinct stamped into him by his mother.

His mother. It hurt to even think about her, and how her eyes looked as the blue lightning crashed around him and he gave her up to try and quench that aching, that horrible emptiness he felt in his heart. He knew he couldn't live his life knowing he hadn't at least tried. And Sarah would have to understand. He was trying now. It had only been a few hours but he felt better for it. Frazzled, but better. At least, he was trying.

The room they'd placed him in was cold. Dark, cold, and rancid with the smell of wet rust and metal. It was so damp he could almost feel the fungus starting to develop in his lungs. This was no living environment for the resistance. They'd die off of some horrible diseases before they could even mobilize. But it was hardly the time to be thinking about that. His fingers ran slowly down his thighs, to his knees, and tapped there, nails already crusted with grime. He must look so foreign here, with his clean shaven face and newly bathed body. Some of those people with Derek looked as if they hadn't bathed in weeks. But she…she was flawless…as always.

But it wasn't her. His fingers stopped tapping and clamped suddenly against his pants over his knees. The fabric was threadbare, but oddly warm. Something unexpected…like seeing her…and having it really not be her. It was mind-boggling and confusing and…

He snapped his head up, green eyes boring into the semi-darkness, seeking out the cause of the sound. "Who's there?" he barked hoarsely, hands slipping off his knees and clenching into half-fists. Ready to fight. God, he wished he had a gun.

"John Connor you said your name was?" It was a calm, young-sounding voice. Not Derek then. The shadowy figure stepped into the light over John's head. The boyish quality to Kyle's face made John want to cry. This, this was his father. Barely older then he was. It was wrong. It defied nature. It defied logic. But here he was. His mind raced, trying to decide whether to tell him or not. What would Sarah do?

"Is that your name or not?" Kyle kicked out at John's leg, his boot glancing against the chair. John jumped, eyes blinking in annoyance.

"Easy, buddy. Yeah, I'm John Connor." he looked away again, unable to stare into those pale eyes…it was like he was looking at himself. Not very helpful to his concentration. He had to figure out where John Henry had gone. If he'd time-traveled to the same spot, same time, he couldn't have gotten far. Kyle and Derek and the rest might have seen him…or he might have slipped away, unnoticed, his initial arrival drawing the fighters too late to catch him, but right on time to catch John…and where had Weaver gone? Knowing she could be anywhere, and anyONE just made John feel even less at ease. What was he thinking? What was he doing here? He was so far out of his league it wasn't funny. He shook his head dazedly. Even through all these disturbing thoughts, her image kept flying to the forefront. It was all he could do to focus on everything else.

"Where are you from, John?" Kyle's tone had taken on an impatient tinge, and he made to nudge the chair again. John stopped his boot with his own foot, finally looking up and meeting his father's eyes.

"I'm not from around here, that's for sure." They stared at each other for a good few seconds, seeming to scope each other out, before Kyle relented and lowered his boot, as well as a hand that was staying quite close to his waist, probably where he kept his gun. John suddenly had another strong urge for a weapon. Being so defenseless and useless made him uneasy. His fingers ran through his hair again, then he tucked them into the pockets of the jacket they'd also supplied him with. Crumbs of who-knew-what brushed against the pads of his fingers. He closed his eyes briefly in disgust. How did people live like this?

How did he live like this?

Kyle was quiet for a moment longer, then finally parted his lips for speech. A question. Simple in principle but oh, so difficult to answer.

"Why are you here, John…now. Why are you here now?"

The now's had a certain emphasis to them that made John think Kyle knew more then he was letting on. Conflicts arose in his head like warning lights, telling him to tread carefully, but to not be too cautious. Cameron. Tell him what he needs to know. Cameron's missing. Gone. He took her. Tell him you need to find somebody. Something. She's not a thing. She's gone. You need to find her. No one else knows she's here but you. Tell him. Tell him.

The basic need to trust his father roared like an angry monster in John's heart. He could tell Kyle anything. He could trust him. But then reason took over and prevented it. Tell him bits and pieces, John. Just bits and pieces.

That's all she'll be if you don't find her. Bits and pieces.

"I'm looking for somebody."

Kyle cocked his head, an indication for John to continue. He swallowed and did so, the air becoming increasingly stifling.

"I'm looking for…for someone…called…John Henry. He calls himself John Henry. He comes from the same place I do. I have to find him. He's…He's important." John couldn't keep the edge of desperation out of his voice as he spoke, and only prayed Kyle didn't notice and ask more pressing questions.

"Why is he so important?" Kyle pulled up another wobbly and decaying chair, next to John's. Somehow John thought he was paying a bit too much attention to the weird kid that appeared out of no where then the Resistance that was seething all around them. Kyle was smarter then he looked. And somehow that made him swell with pride.

"He has something I need." John finally said through gritted teeth, looking away again. Kyle's face frowned. Not just his mouth turned down, but his whole countenance seemed one big furrow of worry. "Look, kid, I don't think it's a good idea to be going looking for anybody in the bunker right now. There's some lower levels that aren't secure, and Anybody who needs it is given shelter, and anybody can leave whenever they want to, not that anybody would want to. I can't give you my word that your John Henry is even in the bunker anymore."

John felt his heart deflate. The emptiness gnawing again, breaking him down ever so slowly from the inside. That desperation that clung so tightly to his very being. He withdrew his hands from the pockets of the jacket. They were cold…so cold…

Bits and pieces…

"I'm sorry, I don't know what to tell you." Kyle reached out a hand and rested it comfortingly on John's shoulder. The younger boy looked up at his father's face, barely 4 years older then his own, wondering how anybody could look so weak, and yet be so powerful. It was the one difference in Kyle that he saw that made him different then the Future Him he'd imagined. Kyle let people in. Kyle loved. Even when he wasn't just that lonely foot soldier sent to father the leader of the resistance, he didn't back down. He lived, he fought, he cried. And one day, he'd die. Same as the rest. And his very presence seemed to give off the feeling that he was okay with that. He didn't fear death. He faced it everyday. And he lived every day like death was about to come and wisk him away.

It was a wisdom John knew he'd never have. He'd never understand. And He'd never come to value.

From what Cameron had told him, Future John Connor was cold, calculating, a loner who kept to himself and who had loyalty, but never true friendship. People followed him simply because he seemed to know what he was doing. Like he was born for this. Born to lead, born to fight. Not because he was John Connor.

"Then I have to go find him." John breathed at last, turning his envious eyes away from this man who was so much more then he'd ever be… "Can I have weapons? And preferably a map or something?" John couldn't help but smirk. Who knew if they even had paper here?

Kyle laughed. It was thin and strained, but it was there. John stared. "Sure! Like we just give out weapons and maps everyday to any old bloke who waltzes into our bunkers naked! Give me a break!" he slapped John on the back again and stood up with a whoosh of his coat. the chair he was sitting on fell backward, but he didn't even bother to get up and right it again. John could tell he knew he was too big to care. Too important to worry about a chair. And suddenly he felt even more insignificant.

He started for the door and turned around, all stern business again. "You stay here until we can figure out what we can about you, and then maybe we'll let you go. Sorry, kid. Protocol." he made to leave, but John couldn't let him go, not yet. He needed something…

"Wait…" Kyle turned around again and studied John curiously.

"That girl…that girl that was with you before, with the dog, when you found me…What's her name?"

Kyle's face grew dark. "Why? You know her from somewhere?" he stepped back into the room, coat flapping against the doorjamb. A cool rust-scented breeze accompanied him in.

"No, I…she looks familiar…"

Kyle was about to answer, when the girl herself came up to the door. It was obvious she'd been standing near the entrance for a while, her ratty clothes clinging to her painfully thin, but fit body. Her beautiful face marred by dirt and grime, but much less then the others. She obviously made an effort to take care of herself more then they did. Tear streaks marked clear lines down her cheeks. Seeing her made John's whole body flush with warmth. He smiled. It was ok…she was here…he was safe now…everything would be alright…

She looked at him with something close to fear, and John's smile fell. It wasn't her. It never would be…and yet…"Kyle…Derek wants to see you. Said it's important." her voice was the same, too. The same mechanical monotone. It was all John could do not to ask her why she'd left him back there, why she'd acted that way…if she was ok…if she was happy…

Kyle nodded and left the room with one last lingering gaze at John. The girl stayed, her bright brown eyes heavy with sadness. Full of a life Cameron hadn't led. She knew things, had seen things and felt things Cameron never could…

"You're…John, right?" she asked softly, crossing her arms over her chest and walking slowly into the room, her boots making barely a sound on the filthy floor. Dancer's feet…it almost seemed like she was memorizing choreography with the exact way she stepped across the floor. It wasn't purposeful and intent, like Cameron's stride, that jarred her hips and seemed to only serve a means to an end. It was meandering and unsure…human.

"Yeah, that's me." his voice was soft, the way it always was when he was around her. Jesus, Cameron when I find you again…Remind me to tell you you're unspeakably beautiful…"How about you? Got a name?"

The girl sighed. "Yeah. But I don't really like it." She even had that oh-so-typical human female humility. It was unnerving. And it also made John hate himself for never asking Cameron where her name had come from…and if she liked it…if she could like things. Visions of car rides and radio adjustments made him smile again.

"I'm sure it's a really nice name. Better then John at any rate. Talk about boring."

He studied her closely. He'd always figured Cameron was built to mimic a girl he'd imagined, or dreamed up, or had seen in a picture, and that this girl had been a bit older then he was. 17, 18 tops. But this girl, who seemed to be the real template seemed much older. Maybe pushing 21. It might be the sadness in her eyes and the way she hadn't quite gotten used to staring death in the face that made her seem older. Or the fact that she seemed to be much more aware of herself then Cameron ever was.

She smiled. Not really. It was a tiny little quirk in the corner of her mouth. Those perfect lips John had imagined kissing time and time again, only he didn't want to anymore. It almost felt wrong to even picture that now. But having her here, nearby, made him feel safe, even if she wasn't real and she could protect him about as much as a moldy chair could, and more then half as long, with that fleshy, insignificant body. It had nothing but organs and blood and tissue underneath it. So easy to kill…

"It's Allison. My name. Just Allison." John realized he was standing up a few seconds after he'd actually stood up. The girl took a step back, that fear coming back to her eyes. It made him angry. She had no right to be afraid!

"That's…" he paused, taking another step closer. She took another step back.

"…a nice name…Say, does the name Cameron mean anything to you at all?"

"Other then the fact that it's way cooler then Allison…no." she said huffily. Just a girl. Just some girl who happened to look like the one person he couldn't go without. He struggled to smile.

"Who's Cameron? Your girlfriend? Boyfriend?" she was being playful. Good Lord, she was playing with him. John clenched his fist. Flirting, teasing…it didn't feel right. It never had.

"Yeah…something like that. The first one."

"Oh…." she looked away at the door, and made to leave. John let her go, staring at the back of her head.

"Well…I hope you find her…she's gotta be around…somewhere." and with that, Allison disappeared into the hallway.

We were designed to kill humans…that's our sole function…

Not you…

No, not anymore…

His hands finally found something to do…

Wrapped protectively around the solid round piece of metal that hung by a chain around his neck. It was warm to the touch, having been kept against his skin for days…he hadn't even taken it off to shower.

He flicked it open with one quick move of his thumb and caressed the buttons inside. Slowly, oh so slowly he pressed them in succession.

Black…black…red…hold…

No, not anymore…

A/n: btw, i KNOW John went through time and should have left everything behind, including the watch. but I kept this ending for it's dramatic purposes, and because I'd like to think that the watch was too much a part of John for it to be left behind on a technicality like it being metal. it's sci-fi. rules can be bent. xD so...don't yell at me. rofl