Sarah Connor

CHARACTER NAME: Sarah Connor
CHARACTER CANON: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles

[OOC]

Slowtagging: Unless it's a plot relevant thread, I'm more than okay with a slower pace.
Canon-puncturing: During her last game, Sarah was canon-punctured, so while she will tolerate it without much joy, go for it.
Offensive subjects (elaborate): I wouldn't talk shit about John Connor, if I were you.

[IC]

Hugging this character: She won't know what to do with a hug, but you can feel free to try.
Kissing this character: Warning would help, but yes.
Flirting with this character: See hugging.
Fighting with this character: Sarah is a scrappy fighter. Fighting is absolutely okay, but please leave a note in the dropbox to coordinate what kind of damage is done/can be done.
Injuring this character (include limits and severity): Absolutely. Sarah Connor not getting injured is a strange thing.
Using telepathy/mind reading abilities on this character: She will feel incredibly violated if she finds out, but from a player perspective, it's an interesting game device, so yes.

General Warnings: Sarah is extremely paranoid with several deep-seated trust issues. Beware.

[GODMODDING]
n/a

Sarah is starting to think that she's going to do something very stupid soon.

She's supposed to be going to a music hall with Coulson and she's milling around an avenue filled with shops and peeking in the windows of clothing stores and wondering if she's supposed to be getting dressed up and if she does have to get dressed up, she needs to find something. Or? Or she could not show up.

That would be terrible though, and she's not perceiving any kind of threat that would make her bolt, so this is nerves talking and Coulson has made it clear that they're not going on any kind of date, so why the hell is she nervous, god damn it.

“Miss?”

Somewhere, someone is speaking to her. Sarah opens her eyes against the harsh light of the room she’s in, cognizant enough to know that this isn’t her hut and this isn’t her bed. In this first moment of waking, the light seems brighter than it is, as if an interrogative method of torture. Sarah blinks rapidly, clearing her vision and seeing a dark-haired man in front of her, clasping a chart in his hands.

Awareness floods back to her limbs and she reaches out for the papers, only to find that she can’t. Sarah stares down at her arms in panic, looking at the way they wind around her back and bind her in tightly, just the way they had for those first few harrowing months at Pescadero.

Wildly, she stares up through the fringe of her hair to see the dark-haired man holding her chart. She knows him. She knows him and he must know her because he’s worked the kitchen while she serves tables at the Winchester, so why isn’t he undoing her binds? Why isn’t he letting her go?

“Let me out of this thing,” she barks at him sharply.

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t do that,” he replies. “I’ve found this chart, you see, and it has your picture and your information. Ms. Sarah Reese. You’re a dangerous woman.”

“If you don’t let me go, you’re going to find out how dangerous,” she warns, aware that there’s little she can do from her straight jacketed prison. Where is she? She takes the moment to deduce her surroundings, eyes landing on four corners and finding that she knows this place as well as she does her home. She’s in the clinic. She must have fallen asleep after a visit to Rory and now she’s in a straightjacket and someone has her old files.

It’s the least funny joke she’s ever been witness to.

“You’re Hal York. You work in the kitchen of the Winchester,” she says, struggling to get out of the bonds, kicking at the nearest wall as a growl of frustration gets caught in her throat and gradually progresses to becoming something more threatening.

“I’m afraid that, being a danger myself, I know better than to simply release you without asking at least one or two questions,” he says. “I’m sorry,” he says, a pained look on his face. “But if I let you go and this comes back to haunt me…” He trails off, like he can’t quantify what it will do.

She feels her hope sliding away, the small flicker of it extinguished when Hal shuts the door and keeps her in the room, in the straightjacket, while pieces of paper circulate through the island and call her insane – no, it’s more than that. She’s dangerous. She’s wanted. It’s as if this place wants to strip every shred of dignity away until she’s got absolutely nothing left.

She listens to the definitive lock and knows that for now, she’s stuck.

For now, she’s Sarah Reese – a danger to society and to herself. Sinking against the wall and down to the floor, she wonders how many nightmares she’s going to have to relive before one finally takes a toll too large.

Sarah's shift hasn't been anything out of the ordinary. She's kept to her tables and there are slow periods just like any other day. She notices in the post-dinner rush that her pulse is racing, but she figures it has to do with the high heat of the kitchen and the pace from the hurrying she's just done. It's not unusual to happen to her. What is unusual is that she starts having trouble catching her breath.

She pulls up a stool, getting a water for herself and breathing in deeply. It's reminiscent of some of the milder panic attacks she's had in her time -- when John's life was on the line, when she didn't know if their safety had been compromised -- but the only battle she faces now is getting from session to session. She's nearing completion and had stupidly thought that the side effects would fade.

She's fairly sure she spoke too soon.

"Neil," she summons him quietly, when the dizziness hits again. "Neil, I need you to do me a big favor. Can you do that?"

The minute she leaves Cal, there's only one place Sarah knows to go to if she wants answers. She's not sure she's going to get very thorough ones, but she's brimming with this feeling of ineffectual uselessness and anger and she hates it. She wants to do something, but before she can take measures of action, she needs to know what she's up against.

There's no better source on the island than Ishiah when it comes to these things. It's been some time since their swordfighting lessons, but she's fairly sure she won't have to look far from Cal in order to find the man in question. What she's going to ask when they start talking, she's still not sure, but she has time to get to that.

...well, less time than she wants, but time enough. "I need to talk to you," she says curtly, when she finds Ishiah lingering not far from Cal's shadow.

This has gone on for too long. Sarah's not ashamed of what she's done (even if she's slightly unnerved by the fact that she hadn't had her memories while she did it), but she still hadn't sought out Cook either. Three weeks since it's happened and she's tired of hiding. She knows Cook's general habits and so she knows where she can find him. She waits until she feels up to the task and then heads for the Hub to find him and put the issue to rest.

It's not that there is an issue. It's just that she doesn't want one incident to ruin whatever acquaintance-type of friendship.

"Cook," she gets his attention with a quiet comment, leaning her elbow against the bar and ignoring the fact that she can tell that she's lost weight. It's not something she wants to think about (especially now) and so she dismisses it instantly, keeping her attention on him. "Can I get you something? Beer? Wine?"

Sarah hadn't been sure about coming back to work, but now that she's finished a shift, she's more determined than ever to go about normalcy. If she can force her way back into it, maybe she can pretend to be like anyone else -- though she's quickly beginning to realize that everyone here is their own shade of abnormal. At the moment, she prays for something abnormal to deal with.

Her biggest concerns revolve around a man and medical treatments.

They're so normal that she wants to rip the island apart to look for a threat. Still, it's good to have something to occupy her mind. It keeps her thoughts away from John and her thoughts of what he's doing now. She's sure that with Derek and Cameron, he's well-capable of coping, but she misses him. She misses her son, she misses the one person in her life that she loves more than anything in the world.

Sarah takes a plate of food for herself and one for Sookie, grabbing drinks from Trixa before she heads to a table in the corner, grateful for a post-shift moment to compose her thoughts. "Here," she offers, extending the glass. "It's not alcoholic. I figured if I'm not drinking, I should make you miserable by giving you juice, too," she says, with a soft (yet tense) smile.

She wakes up.

There's more to it than that, but she wakes and she doesn't know where she is, doesn't hear her father shuffling around in the room below and she doesn't know why there are weapons under her bed or why her wrist is in a sling when she feels just fine. She curls up her fingers to test it, but they work, and when she sits up, her clothes fall off her frame slightly.

It's too hot outside. California is warm, but it shouldn't be this warm. Her first instinct is that she's late for her shift and that the dog isn't coming, not even when she whistles. For the first time since she's woken up, Sarah is beginning to panic. She takes in deep breaths and tries to get her footing about her, the dark sweatpants falling until she yanks them up by the hem. Nothing is familiar, not a single thing.

"Dad?" she calls out tentatively, hitching up the sleeve of her tank top as she opens the front door to the blazing sun in front of her. She winces and keeps walking, wearing nothing but her pajamas and in her bare feet. "Dad?" she calls out again, slightly more worried than before. "Max? Dad?" Sarah stops when she gets to a fork in the road, staring cluelessly out between them and running a hand through her messy hair.

She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know where she is or where she's supposed to go.

Sarah's surprised in how eager she is for these lessons.

The auction had brought multiple promising bids and she had made sure to distribute her chips amidst them all -- guns, self-defense, swords, other weapons -- because she knows all-too-well that allowing skills to rust will be dangerous. For all that her safety seems assured, she's too paranoid and too well-acquainted with disaster to know that it's gone forever. She'd had years of peace with Charley, but that had ended, as well.

It always ends, no matter how much you try and change fate.

She's even more glad that she's won something that her skills lack in. She can wield a knife with great expertise, but a sword is far different from that. She wants to be proficient in as many forms of fighting as she can manage. That's why today brings her a kind of joy that she hasn't felt since she learned to take apart a firearm as quick as she did.

She considers the sword in her hand carefully, hefting the weight up and down. "I'm going to have some very specific questions. They're just curiosities, though."

Judgment Day has come and passed and the sky still holds, not lit with fire, and every human being remains free. It brings Sarah a kind of relief in that she knows that the fight is continuing at home and maybe, just maybe, it means they've succeeded. It also means that Sarah has nothing left to fight here unless something shows up.

Correction -- she has nothing to fight but the disease inside her body, threatening to take her apart and render her weak. Ellie is gone, now so is George. It's been weeks since she's seen anyone and she's been starting to feel dizzy and weak. Her appetite is gone, she can't sleep, and she spends most of her time feeling like she's weak. She knows that she should see someone, but her trust has already been eroded by two disappearances.

She doesn't even want to consider a third.

Still, it's one of those days where even she and her stubbornness can't make it to the Winchester. She hopes that Neil doesn't mind too much, but she's confined to bed, staring at the ceiling as her thoughts turn to home and John. Her John, her baby boy. He must have stopped the end days from coming or at least pushed it off. No matter what's happened, she knows that she can be proud. Even if she won't be around to see the majority of the battle, she knows he's ready.

She lets out a small sound of effort as she sits up, hand to her forehead, and thinks about trying for some food. It's been a full day since she's even attempted, but she hasn't been anywhere near hungry enough. Maybe it's a symptom -- maybe she'd know if she would only see someone, but her stubbornness prevents her from taking on anyone new.