A/N

So, this is based on the Terminator: Sector War comic series. If you haven't read it (and you're not missing out on much if you haven't) however, it should be reasonably comprehensible regardless.

Among the Ruins

From what Kyle Reese understood, New York had been one of "the big three" of the old world – alongside Tokyo and London, a hub of finance, a hub of trade, a hub of culture. Now, like those cities, New York was a nuclear wasteland. Which made it no different from hundreds of other cities in the world, and in the scope of personal experience, no different from the likes of Los Angeles, San Francisco, and more recently, Washington.

Still, sitting at what had once been the docks, the waves lapping against what was left of the pier, he couldn't help but look at the ruined shells of buildings that had once reached towards the sky. Strange as it was, he couldn't help but feel somewhat at ease here. Because for the first time in his life, he was living in a world where victory might finally be possible against Skynet. The west coast was still a hellhole, a world of ruined buildings, skulls, and hunter-killers constantly searching the land to add to those piles. But here, on the east coast, Skynet was in retreat. The 132nd had taken New York a few days ago, and what was left was to clear out the city of any remaining bots. If the Resistance got New York, the Resistance had a port – a sea route to South America, Europe, even Africa. Resistance got that, the Resistance got support. The Resistance got support, the more pressure was exerted on Skynet. Even five years ago, in 2017, the thought of Skynet being "under pressure" would have come off as absurd, but-

"Heads up."

Kyle let out a yelp and grabbed his rifle as the skull landed in front of him. Not a human skull, but rather that of a T-600. It was missing an eye, and the one that remained was as dark as the night sky – darker even, since at least the night sky had a crescent moon and no shortage of stars. And like those stars, Kyle's eyes blazed with fury as he looked at his brother.

"Scare you?"

Kyle tossed the Terminator head back at Derek, his brother sidestepping it. "You're an arsehole."

"Course I am. That's why I'm still alive."

Kyle scoffed. "Highly debatable."

"Think of it this way little brother – world's full of arseholes. Skynet's an arsehole. Only way to beat an arsehole is to be a bigger arsehole."

Kyle let his eyes drift over to the cityscape. "Think our ancestors managed to build buildings like that from being arseholes?"

"Maybe. But hey, why don't you ask them?" He smirked. "Oh wait, you can't – they all burned."

"So Judgement Day happened and all the non-arseholes got vaporized," Kyle said. "No wonder the world's gone to shit."

Derek smirked and sat down beside his brother. For a moment, they sat there in silence. Kyle looked at the waves lapping against the pier, and Derek? Hell, he didn't know what Derek was doing. Probably thinking of something clever to say.

"Want a swim?" his brother asked.

Yeah, really clever.

Kyle didn't bother answering. His mind was elsewhere, as far back as only a few days ago, as the 132nd had fought inch by bloody inch to take the city. Dozens of lives had been lost, which under most circumstances, were losses that the Resistance simply couldn't afford. But General Connor had been clear – New York had to be taken. And Kyle had supposed he'd been right, because Skynet had fought tooth and nail to take the city. It was hard to imagine a piece of computer software being desperate, and there was nothing in Skynet's tactics that suggested it was overheating itself, but still, Kyle liked to think that Skynet had the ability to feel fear. He liked to think that as its HK's dropped from the heavens, it was fearing that the world it had dominated for decades was turning to a different kind of Hell. He liked to imagine that as its caterpillar-treaded behemoths were reduced to scrap, it was contemplating that maybe wiping out half the human race in nuclear war hadn't been the best step. And he liked to think, as he stared into the eyes of a crawling Terminator, its legs missing, its weapon useless, that as he'd terminated the fucker, Skynet had seen him. Had recognised him. That the child who'd grown up in Work Camp 23A had become its worst nightmare. Well, worst second only to John Connor.

Big thoughts, he knew. Big thoughts had led to the creation of Skynet, and the arsenal it had unleashed against its creators. Still, Kyle reflected, big thoughts had built cities like New York. Big thoughts were what had prompted General Connor to dare to dream that the Resistance could take the east coast, and that had been won. Heck, big thoughts might even enter his brother's head sometimes.

"Kyle."

He blinked. "Huh?"

"Still on Earth bro?" He gave him a nudge. "Had 'the look' again."

"The look?"

"Y'know, the look that's on your face every time you look at Connor's mother."

Kyle got to his feet – one hand fingered his rifle. The other fingered his right chest pocket, confirming that the picture was indeed still there.

"Hey, calm down bro. Want to naval gaze a dead woman, I ain't complaining."

"Screw you Derek."

"Yeah, that would be cute if either of us did any…actual…" He got to his feet and grabbed his rifle as well. "The fuck?"

Kyle didn't say anything. If he had "the look," then so did Derek. It was the look that said "sit down, and shut up." The look that had kept his brother alive in the camp when T-1 units were choosing which workers had passed their expiration dates, and the look he had used in dozens of ops. So, right now, Kyle looked down the scope of his rifle as well. Through the gloom, across the docks. Down at the figure stumbling through the darkness.

"Derek?"

Derek glanced at him. Kyle nodded and activated his earpiece. "This is Corporal Kyle Reese, reporting from Point Juno Two. Eyes on possible hostile, humanoid. Requesting backup."

"…that…squad…way…"

The comms weren't good, but Kyle could tell that Private Lopez had got the message, and that the rest of Oscar Squad was on its way. But to face what, he couldn't be sure.

"Come on," Derek said.

He led Kyle to some cover – a burnt out forklift whose frame had survived the decades since the apocalypse, even if its driver hadn't. It wasn't the best cover in the world, but it was something. And behind it, the Reese brothers trained their rifles on the stumbling figure.

"This is Sergeant Derek Reese of the Resistance. Identify yourself."

The figure said nothing. Kyle looked at his brother. "Terminator?"

He looked back. "Terminator."

Shit. Kyle checked his ammo pouches. "Full clip, one extra mag, jack shit on everything else. You."

"One mag, one grenade for the underslung."

Kyle frowned. If the T-600 was armed, they wouldn't have a chance with that little firepower. With the automatic rifles they carried, they might have enough ammo to at least incapacitate it, but that was a very tenuous "might." Some of the other units had been lucky enough to receive plasma rifles, but Oscar Squad? Not so much.

"Still coming," Kyle murmured.

"Yeah, and not firing," Derek said. He squinted through his rifle's sights. "Fuck. Did the six-hundreds get smaller or something?"

"Huh?" Kyle peered through his own scope. "The fuck you…on…about?"

Derek had a point, he reflected. The stumbling figure, clad in some kind of poncho, was almost certainly a Terminator. But if it was, it wasn't like any T-600 Kyle had seen. It was shorter. Still taller than a human, but nowhere near the seven feet the 600s resided at. "Could be a four-hundred?" he asked.

"Nah. Clankers don't walk like that."

Kyle conceded the point. "So what now?" he asked. "Engage?"

"Think we should-"

"Reese!"

When it happened, it happened quickly.

The rest of Oscar Squad turned up – a gaggle of men and women running down the docks. Derek looked back at them. And in the moment of distraction, the thing up ahead dropped the poncho and revealed four things to Kyle, who had his eyes trained on it still.

One: It clearly wasn't a T-600 – too short, too 'sleek' for that.

Two: It had been badly damaged, and from the looks of it, recently submerged, water dripping off its frame.

Three: It was carrying a plasma rifle

Four: It was about to use it.

So when he yelled, "Derek, get-" he didn't reach "down," because that was when the Terminator began to fire.

Shit.

The Reese brothers ducked under cover. The rest of Oscar Squad scrambled for cover among the shipping containers that littered the docks. Some reached it. Some didn't. Kyle winced as he saw plasma tear through their uniforms. As the smell of burning flesh drifted through the night air.

"Return fire," Derek yelled. "Return fire!"

The rat-tat-tat of rifles filled the night, coupled with the whom-whom-whom of the plasma weapon. As the Terminator focused on the rest of Oscar Squad, Kyle sprinted away from the forklift and began firing his own rifle. Sparks came off the Terminator, but he could see they were doing no good.

What the hell are you?!

It wasn't a T-600. It was something smaller. Something more powerful. Something that was killing his squad. They had to fire and stay in cover. It just had to walk and keep firing. Through the gloom, he could see his brother, firing his rifle over the forklift. He was hitting the machine, but like the rest of Oscar Squad, not accomplishing anything. Even while the Terminator was damaged, it was somehow still operating. Still firing. Still killing. Still advancing in the direction of his brother.

"Hey!" Kyle ejected his rifle's magazine and slammed home another one. "Over here fucker!"

The Terminator turned and looked at him, unfazed by the bullets that were hitting it. Over their roar, it said, "Reese, Kyle."

What?

"Still in this timeline."

How did you…

The Terminator began advancing towards him, with a speed that belied its frame, and its stumble. Speed and shock worked against Kyle, so that in a matter of seconds, the Terminator had grabbed his neck and lifted him up into the air.

"Let…go of me!"

"Where is Castro?"

Who?

"Where is Castro?"

Castro – Colonel Sandra Castro? That was the only Castro Reese knew of, and even if he knew where she was, like hell he was going to tell this monster.

"Where is Castro?"

He managed to spit at it. And in response, the Terminator began to squeeze. And it would have squished his neck completely if not for being hit from behind by a grenade.

Kyle grunted as the force of the blast sent him flying backward. But the Terminator got the worst of it, as its right arm was detached, and along with it, the plasma rifle. Coughing, eyes blurry, Kyle watched its glowing red eyes turn away from him to his brother. Standing there with a smoking underslung grenade launcher.

"Reese, Derek."

How does it know us?

"Terminate."

Why's it talking so much?

Kyle would never know. Because through the gloom, he could see his brother looked as shocked as he felt. And in that moment of vulnerability, it was all the time the Terminator needed to dash forward and grab his brother's skull.

"Derek!"

"Terminate."

A high pitched scream cut through the air as Derek's Reese skull was crushed, before his body was dropped on the ground.

No.

Derek was dead. Kyle knew that this day would come inevitably, where one of the Reese brothers would die before the other, but…

The Terminator was turning.

Not like this.

The Terminator began walking back to him. Corporal Kyle Reese, now the sole survivor of Oscar Squad.

Not like this.

The Terminator walked. Kyle dived forward and grabbed the plasma rifle. The Terminator leant out with its left arm. With a yell and scream, Kyle began to fire.

"Just! Die!"

The Terminator staggered backwards as plasma cut through its chassis. It kept reaching out. Kyle kept firing. Kept screaming. For himself. For his brother. For humanity. For his skin, charred by the venting heat of the rifle.

"You fucking machine!"

The Terminator came to a halt. For a moment, the eyes of man and machine met. Both with fury. But now, as the end came for the machine, only one with fire.

The Terminator fell. Kyle scampered backwards to avoid being crushed. Slowly, breathing heavily, his breath visible in the night air, he watched as the Terminator's eyes faded. As the red turned to black.

How eventually, the machine…died.

A day later he was at the Resistance's operating base in what was left of Maddison Square Garden.

It was still night, and in the service tunnels underneath the complex, Kyle lay against the wall. The bodies of Oscar Squad, his brother included, had been committed to the sea – a better burial than most people were afforded in this world. Clutched in his left hand were his brother's dog tags. In his right, the skin still scarred from the plasma rifle, the photo of Sarah Connor. Shadows of the fires cast light upon his face, and likewise, light upon hers. Illuminating her hair. Her eyes. Her lips. Allowing him to commit them to memory, even as his mind and body begged for sleep.

He knew it was insane – he was pining for a dead woman. A woman who, if she was even alive, would have been over fifty years old. There was no shortage of women in the real world, and at the end of the day, no shortage of reasons for them to bear children – the Resistance needed new recruits somehow, even if it took them years to grow up into fighters. But then, he supposed the photo of Sarah Connor afforded him the luxury of yearning. Of loving someone, and never having to lose them.

"Kyle Reese?"

He quickly pocketed the photo and looked upward. And seeing who it was, he quickly got to his feet as well.

"Colonel Castro." He gave her a salute.

She returned it, albeit casually. "At ease trooper. Word is it you've been through the ringer."

"I…" He took a breath, thinking of Derek. Of the rest of his squad. "You could say that."

"Hmm."

"Ma'am, the Terminator…it said your name."

Kyle could see Castro's eyes darken. "It did?"

"Kept asking for Castro. Asking where she was."

"The Terminator that crawled out of the sea, asking for Castro." The colonel turned aside. "How fitting."

"Ma'am?"

"You'll be pleased to know that you're the first person to survive an encounter with a T-eight-hundred," Castro said, returning her gaze to Reese. "Well, the only person actually – the rest of those things shouldn't be deployed until 2024."

"Ma'am, how do you know that?"

She shrugged. "General Connor has ways of knowing things."

"No, I mean, how did you know it crawled out of the sea? How did-"

Castro moved forward. She put one arm against the wall Kyle had been leaning against, and leant forward, so that her lips were beside his ear.

"You're going to remember what happened last night for the rest of your life," she whispered. "But you're never to talk about it. Not now. Not ever."

"But-"

"Never. Do you understand? The eight-hundreds are going to be bad. Really bad. Very soon, General Connor and I will tell the Resistance how bad." She leant back. "But not yet. Not tonight. Can I count on your silence, sergeant?"

"I…" Kyle took a breath. "Yes ma'am."

"Good."

"But I'm not a sergeant."

"As of 2036 hours tonight, you are. You're going to get your own squad. Still under Captain Perry of course."

"I…thank you ma'am."

He wasn't sure if he should thank her. But then, he wasn't sure about Colonel Sandra Castro, period. If the Resistance had a leader, it was John Connor, but if people asked who his second was, that became a lot harder to pin down. The Resistance operated in cells after all, and no-one knew where General Connor even was most of the time. Still, of all the potential heirs to "saviour of the human race," Colonel Castro was certainly in the running, he figured. She was as old as John, and nearly his equal in rank. And like John, people said she had the uncanny ability to know when things would happen. What Skynet would do, and when. If John Connor really was the Messiah that some claimed him to be, then Kyle Reese figured that Sandra Castro was the proverbial Mary Magdalene.

"Anyway," Castro said. She patted Kyle on the shoulder. "Get some rest sergeant. You've earned it."

"Yes ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

She nodded and walked off.

"What happened to the body?"

She looked back at him. "Excuse me?"

"The body of the Terminator. Where is it?"

"Need to know basis sergeant."

Of course it is. He forced a smile and gave her a nod, before slinking back down into his slumber. Listening to Castro's footsteps fade. Listening to the crackle of fires, of the coughs of the sick and dying, of the whispers of the world itself.

Listening, before finally falling asleep. Unaware of what was going through Sandra Castro's mind.

Of the horror and the knowledge that her mother hadn't finished the job in 1984, and that the Terminator had crawled its way out of the sea.

Of the fear of what was to come.