Must Love Dogs

The bunker smelt of death.

Over the course of Kyle Reese's life, the smell of death had changed. Once, death had carried a dry, metallic scent – the smell of blood newly shed. At times, the smell of death had been pungent, threatening to overwhelm his senses. Now, the smell of death was that of burnt flesh. Of plasma charring skin. Of fires burning in a world long dark. Bullets, plasma bolts, the end result was the same. Only that one type of projectile killed more effectively than the other, and while death was death, the smell was different.

The bunker still carried the smell, if no longer the sound. Just hours ago, the sound had been radio chatter. The soft crying of those who had given up. The pew-pews of children who were still young enough to actually be children, and not active participants in the Resistance. The only smells were that of sweat, smoke, and the flesh of rats being cooked.

He'd been there when the sounds had changed. When the dogs had begun barking. When he'd heard the first shouts of "Terminator!" When the sounds of a rotary pulse cannon, too heavy for any human to carry by themselves, began to echo through the halls of Hell. When the screams began. When the barking stopped. When the sounds of plasma rifles had begun to sound, his own included – nothing more than grains of sand being flung against a wave in the hopes of preventing it crashing against the shore. The sounds of heavier weapons being used against the monster roaming through the halls. Shouts that were now not just in grief, but in anger. The shouts of the victorious knowing that their victory meant nothing. The sound of a heavy 'clunk' as the demon fell to the bunker floor. The sound of one last curse as it reached out to strike against its foes before finally being felled.

There'd been other sounds after that. Wails. Tears. The sounds of medics shining a light in his eyes, asking him whether he could move. Not whether he was "okay" – no-one was "okay" in this world – but if he could move. To clear the passageways for the living to help the wounded. For the bodies of the dead to be moved to a final place of rest. For non-essential personnel to be evacuated to another safe-house. There were other sounds – chatter that Skynet was focusing its forces in East Los Angeles, so it was unlikely that this attack was part of any wider-ranging one in the city's south. Sounds he heard in and out of his fugal state. Over time, the sounds meant less and less. All that mattered was the smell. All that mattered was the sight.

The sight of the Terminator striding through the bunker.

The sight of her picture burning.

He still sat where he fell, only against the wall. His eyes shut, the gates of sanity locked against the sight of the wounded being carried through the halls of the bunker. All he thought of was the picture. Of her. Every frame. Every curve. Seared into his mind through the fire. The picture he could never hold again. The picture that he could now only carry within his mind. It was stupid. Selfish even. He was mourning the loss of an image of a woman long dead, in a world where death still craved the blood of the living. And yet, he could only sit, smell, and within his mind, see. He'd carried her with him. Across highways, through the ruins of long destroyed cities, in the underworlds beneath those testaments to a society long gone. He remembered her, because he needed to. Remembered her, because he-

He clutched his rifle. A dog was barking.

His first instinct was to run. An instinct that he could never follow, but an instinct nonetheless. He'd run from the machines longer than he'd fought against them. He'd run, he'd stayed alive, he'd kept Star alive for as long as he could. Running had saved her life when fighting hadn't. But now…now he clutched his rifle and made his way to the sound. Now, he couldn't run. Not now, when the Resistance pressed ever closer to Skynet's destruction. Not now, when there were still people in this bunker. Not now, if he could ever bare to see his face in the mirror again. He might die, but then, people died all the time. Over 3 billion of them had died when the bombs fell. His parents had died not long after he was old enough to know what death meant. If he died now, well, what of it?

How he'd cause a second Terminator to "die" was something he didn't really consider as he followed the sound of a barking to behind a closed door – an office from the looks of things, back when this building wasn't a bunker, but part of the Los Angeles subway system. He grit his teeth – why was the Terminator back here? If it was here to kill people, it was doing a terrible job. If it was here to get information…he swallowed. That arguably made things even worse. Gritting his teeth, giving one last thought to the picture he would never see again, he kicked open the door, got ready to pull the trigger and-

"Stand down!"

The words weren't his own. They belonged to one of the two soldiers in the room – soldiers lucky enough to be wearing proper body armour, the type that could actually stop plasma rounds if you were lucky enough. But they weren't what caught his eye. Rather, it was the sight of a dog on a table, laid out as if it was being operated on. Which it was. Operated on by-

Holy shit.

He let the soldiers disarm him and force him onto his knees. They were big, broad, and well fed – the elite of the elite. Granted, he thought of himself as being quite elite (he'd got more confirmed HK kills than any other TechCom members he was aware of), but with the threat of infiltrators ever rising, the higher-ups of the Resistance needed protection. People like General John Connor. Or in this case-

"Kyle?"

Colonel Katherine Brewster.

He didn't smile – he wanted to, wanted to say "hey" or "hi," but couldn't. That would be inappropriate for any number of reasons, not to mention that one of her bodyguards beat her to it.

"Ma'am?"

"It's alright, he's clean," she said.

Kyle slowly got to his feet. He wasn't "clean" in the traditional sense, but he knew the lingo 'clean.' As in, a human of flesh and blood. Not a being of flesh and blood only on the outside, or worse, if rumor was to be believed, no flesh or blood whatsoever. A T-800 had attacked them, but he'd heard rumors of even worse infiltrators being out there. Rumors of John Connor being very concerned that Skynet was developing technology faster than it should have…whatever that meant. He didn't know that supercomputers had any kind of timetable to follow.

"Um…" He trailed off. He wasn't sure how to get beyond "um."

"Um?" Kate asked.

"Um…I thought…"

"Christ sake Kyle, help me or help someone else."

He looked at the dog. It looked back at him through its one remaining eye. It began to whine – clearly Kate was treating it for something, but while the dog was intelligent enough to understand that, it didn't like it. And-

"I'll help," he whispered.

"Good." Kate looked at her guards. "You two, go help the others."

"Ma'am, we're under orders not to-"

"John's not here. Now move."

The guards nodded and headed off. Kyle gave them a look. He got why they were here. Why there were needed. Why they got to wear proper body armour, and carry plasma rifles powerful enough to immobilize (if not destroy) even a T-900 in a single shot. He just wished they'd been here a few hours ago.

"Right," said Kate. "Bailey here's been shot, so I need you to hold him down."

He couldn't help but smile. "What Bailey get up to?"

"Sniffing out r-gees. One of them got testy." She frowned. "You helping or not?"

Kyle nodded, and did as Kate instructed. In a sense, plasma wounds were easier to deal with than bullet wounds because there was no chance of a projectile lodging in the body. On the other hand, plasma burnt, and burnt hard. He could see Kate applying salve to the wound. Could hear and see Bailey whimpering. Even now, Kyle winced. He knew it was silly, he'd seen so much death by now that he was mostly immune, but it was the way the dog sounded that got to him. A creature that had played no part in Skynet's creation, yet paid the price along with every other species on this planet. A creature that was one of their most invaluable assets against Skynet's infiltrators, but also among the most vulnerable. He knew what the Terminator had done against the bunker's dogs. He'd heard it. Had seen their bodies be taken off, either to be dumped, or turned into dog meat.

One couldn't be picky – dogs at least tasted better than rats.

"So…" Kyle began. "Why are you here?"

She looked at him. "Fishing for information are you?"

"Um-"
"Should I get my guards back in?"

"If I was a Terminator, wouldn't Bailey here be barking?"

"Maybe. Or maybe you're an advanced model, something that we haven't seen before."

"If I was an advanced model, you'd be dead."

"Hmm." Kate gave a small smile. "You haven't changed much."

He didn't know if that was a compliment or not. He knew Kate well enough. Knew that she was John's wife. That she'd been there with him after Skynet Central. After Marcus had given his life to save John's. Not long afterwards, John had given him the picture of his mother. He didn't know why, and he didn't ask.

"You know, you didn't answer my question," Kyle said.

He suspected Kate knew. He saw the way she looked at him – looked at him in the same way John did.

"Do I have to answer it?" She looked at him and seemed…sad.

"I guess not."

Sad in the way that Sarah had in the photo.

She looked up at him. "Funny thing about the world Kyle – we've got more doctors than vets."

"Um…"

She began applying a bandage to Bailey's wound. "I ever tell you I was a vet once?"

"I…no. You didn't."

"Hmm. Well, thing about the old world is that people had pets. Houses. Cars. That sort of thing."

"I know."

"Then you might know that when a pet got sick, its owners took it to a vet. Like they might go to the doctor."

"So…an animal doctor?"

"Pretty much." Bailey let out a whine. "I really never told you this?"

Kyle shrugged, before remembering that he still had to hold the canine down. He'd never asked Kate Brewster much, because like John, she never seemed willing to give any answers. And while he understood that a world had existed before Judgement Day, as the years went on, he found it harder and harder to imagine it. People living in houses. Having ready access to food and water. Having dogs, walking in parks, listening to music, playing games…he understood how. He understood why. He most certainly understood when, given that July 23, 2004 was a date seared into the mind of every man, woman, and child left in the world. But to see it. To let it fill his mind…

He couldn't. The only thing he could see of that world was the picture of Sarah Connor. A picture long gone from him. Even now, he could already see her fading within his mind.

"But really," Kyle said. "You're the best vet we have?"

"This side of the country I'm the only vet." He leant back against the table. "And…maybe I like to treat animals because it's how it used to be. No bullets. No plasma. No blood."

There still wasn't any blood, Kyle reflected. But he could see that Bailey here was going to make it. Given that Bailey had fallen quiet, it was clear that Bailey could tell he was going to make it as well. How he'd feel about being put on sniff duty Kyle didn't know, but then, he'd never asked.

"Do you miss it?" he whispered.

That was a question he'd never asked Kate either. It was a question he rarely asked anyone who'd lived in the world before the bombs fell, because he'd seen the pain in their eyes. Had heard the waver in their voices. Had seen their numbers drop further and further, to the point where more people had been born after the bombs fell than before.

"I try not to think about it," Kate said. He gave Bailey a pat, and the dog gingerly got off the table.

"You must though," Kyle said.

"Why?"

"Because you still like treating animals. Because I can't imagine anyone not."

She looked at him again. That same distant, sad look.

Why do you always look at me like that?

He didn't know. It seemed that as the years went on, every time he saw John or Kate (an increasingly rare occurrence), they seemed more and more distant. He didn't ask for any favors. John had saved him. After taking over leadership of the Resistance, he'd saved hundreds. Maybe even thousands. But as time went on, as Skynet put one bot out after another, as the Resistance began to reach the point where victory actually seemed like a possibility, it appeared that John had become more and more morose. Like Kate. Like the woman in the picture he'd carried around until a few hours ago.

"I miss it," Kate said. "But…" She swallowed. "But the old world's gone. Only world we've got left is the one we're living in, and that's the one we have to fight for."

Kyle watched her kneel over, to wash her hands in a small bucket of water. Blood didn't fill the liquid, but Kyle understood the instinct. One couldn't deal with the dead or wounded without feeling…defiled. Yes, that was the word. "Defiled." Death was wrong. Death at the hands of machines controlled by a genocidal AI was even worse.

"Anyway," Kate said. "We need to get moving." She patted Bailey again and headed for the door. The dog followed her.

"We?" Kyle asked.

"I need to get back to Command, and you…" She sighed. She didn't face him this time, but Kyle could hear the waver in her voice. "I suppose you need to report for your next mission."

He didn't say anything – there was always another mission. And yet…

What's my mission now?

He knew the mission. He just had the feeling that Kate and John knew more than he knew. John especially.

"Take care of yourself Kyle," Kate said, turning around and giving him a second smile, as small as it was. "We'll see each other again. And hey, I'll let John know you're holding up."

He nodded. He didn't feel like telling Kate to tell her husband that he'd lost the only picture he had left of his mother. Didn't tell her that he always intended to give it back to him someday. Certainly didn't tell her that he felt he was going mad at times, because he'd fallen in love with a dead woman. But if Kate didn't tell her the things she knew, why should he?

As she left the room, he suspected that there were quite a lot of reasons, if only because of how chain of command worked. But right now, he could keep his secrets. Could keep his mind to himself, to will Sarah Connor back into his memory. One picture in a world of peace. Something to keep all the other memories at bay, along with the nightmares.

This secret…this was one he could keep.

A/N

So, like, how does Reese survive the Terminator in his flashback? 0_0

And admittedly the scenario is unlikely to play out in an altered timeline, but, hey, creative licence. Take it from someone who's more of a cat person. :P