Archive of Our Own ^beta

The roar of the crowd was a deafening wave, a chaotic symphony of cheers, jeers, and chants. John Connor, leader of the human resistance, stood in the center of the arena, the flickering neon signs of "Multi-Fandom Mayhem" painting his face in lurid colors. He gripped the plasma rifle, its weight a familiar comfort in his trembling hands. He didn't want this. He never wanted any of this. But here he was, a pawn in some twisted game for the amusement of gods, or some equivalent.

His opponent materialized on the opposite side of the arena - Kyle Reese, a ghost from his past, a man who was more than a soldier, more than a lover to his mother. He was his father.

Reese’s face, etched with a lifetime of hardship and unwavering loyalty, was a mirror to John’s own. His eyes, usually filled with a burning determination, held a flicker of something John couldn’t decipher – sorrow? Resignation? He hefted his Ithaca 37 shotgun, the weapon looking almost archaic in this futuristic arena, a relic of a bygone era of analog warfare.

"John," Reese said, his voice raspy, barely audible above the din. "I wish it didn't have to be this way."

John swallowed hard. "Me too, Kyle. Believe me."

He knew Reese understood. They both knew what was at stake. This wasn't just a fight for survival in this bizarre tournament, it was a fight for the future, for the very concept of hope. If one of them fell, the other would be forced to fight on, to face odds that were already impossible.

The starting buzzer screamed, ripping through the tension. Reese moved first. He was quick, agile, a master of urban combat honed in the war against the machines. He dove behind a crumbling concrete pillar, the arena a macabre mix of ancient ruins and futuristic constructs.

John unleashed a burst of plasma fire, the searing bolts melting chunks out of the pillar. He knew he had the technological advantage, but Reese had something more – raw instinct, a primal understanding of survival that John, raised with knowledge and strategy, sometimes lacked.

Reese popped out from behind the pillar, firing a single shot. The buckshot ripped through the air, forcing John to duck behind a decaying Roman column. He cursed. He couldn't underestimate Reese. He was a chameleon, a survivor who could adapt to any environment.

The battle raged. John used the plasma rifle to level cover, forcing Reese to keep moving. Reese, in turn, relied on hit-and-run tactics, peppering John with shotgun blasts, keeping him pinned down, mentally exhausting him.

John knew he had to change tactics. He activated the targeting system on his rifle, focusing on Reese's heat signature. The crosshairs locked, and he squeezed the trigger. A plasma bolt screamed towards Reese, but at the last moment, he rolled behind a rusted-out hovercar. The bolt vaporized it, turning the metal into molten slag.

John moved forward, closing the distance. He could hear Reese breathing heavily, the sound amplified by the arena's acoustics. He rounded the hovercar, rifle raised, his heart pounding in his chest.

Reese was there, waiting. The shotgun was leveled, his finger on the trigger. His face was grim, but his eyes held a strange resolve.

"I'm sorry, John," Reese said, his voice barely a whisper.

John hesitated. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill his father.

Reese squeezed the trigger.

The buckshot tore into John's shoulder, sending him sprawling. Pain exploded through his arm, and the plasma rifle clattered to the ground. He looked up at Reese, his face a mask of agony.

"Do it," John gasped, clutching his bleeding shoulder. "Finish it."

Reese shook his head, his face contorted with pain. He lowered the shotgun.

"I can't, John," he said, his voice breaking. "I just…I can't."

The crowd roared its disapproval. They wanted a kill. They wanted blood. But Reese stood firm, his shotgun hanging limply in his hand.

John knew what he had to do. He scrambled for the dropped plasma rifle, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder. He raised it, his hand shaking.

"I'm sorry, Kyle," he whispered, tears streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry."

He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

The plasma bolt struck Reese in the chest. He staggered back, a look of shock and disbelief on his face. He looked at John, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

He smiled, a sad, knowing smile.

"You did good, son," he whispered, before collapsing to the ground.

The arena exploded in cheers. John Connor had won. He had defeated his father. But as he knelt beside Reese's lifeless body, the cheers faded into a dull hum. He had won the battle, but he had lost everything. The weight of the future, the burden of leadership, settled heavily on his shoulders. He was alone, in a twisted arena, surrounded by the roaring approval of an audience he could no longer hear. He was John Connor, the leader of the human resistance, and he had just killed his own father. And the war was far from over.