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Martins shoulders past the T-1000 on his way into the locker room and makes it thirteen feet before he seems to come to a realization. He pauses mid-step and wheels around to face the prototype, who anticipates the man's prying question but doesn't rush to answer it before Martins has a chance to voice it. It has learned that "reading minds" is a negative trait to express, and Martins is what other humans would refer to as having a hairtrigger temper. The T-1000 remains at its locker, mimes resetting the combination dial. The locker itself is empty. It has remained so for the last year that Austin has worked for the Farmington PD. The officer still upholds the ruse of going into the locker room with its motorcycle gear on and emerging without it after waiting the appropriate three minutes. Today is slightly different. Austin has traded its uniform for what passes as its civilian clothing- jeans, work boots, a green canvas jacket, and a Garbage “Version 2.0” t-shirt that the T-1000 saw at a concert and decided to mimic.
“Not takin’ the work bike, College Boy?” Martins snides, eyebrows raising in a look of mock concern, “How’re ya gonna get home?”
“Bob is on his way.”
“Bob,” The officer drawls, “Right. The mysterious boyfriend we all keep hearin’ about.”
Austin smiles, more to himself than his company, and does not confirm or deny Martins’ unspoken accusation. His non-response is taken as an insult.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Austin.”
“I am aware.” The prototype deadpans, fixing Martins with a flat stare before turning on its heel and charting a course for the motor pool by way of the bullpen.
The officer doesn’t take the hint- he never does- and stalks after the T-1000 with an annoyed huff of, “D’you even have a first name?”
“Yes.”
Nanites along Austin’s spine give a proximity warning, and it takes a large step forward to avoid being scruffed by Martins. Blunt fingers briefly catch on a corduroy collar before it slips out of their reach. The fabric whispers like any other textile, feels rough on the skin like it should. It could kill the man in an instant. Could shape itself into a point and sever the man’s spine faster than any bullet. It remains inert, though Austin has a strong urge to terminate the man and eliminate the issue in the quickest possible fashion. It has made a promise to John. It will not kill, and it will not fight unless sufficiently provoked. It stays silent as it weaves between cubicles, always two steps ahead of the ranting pest on its heels. A wave of cool air feathers across disguised polyalloy as Austin pushes through the motor pool door and into the shaded garage. It can see the cold, late afternoon sun filtering in over the half wall to the East. It hears the rumble of the Harley well before it comes into view. Bob sits atop it, posture perfectly straight. The T-800’s head swivels to the left to map the turn into the garage, maneuvering the bike with eerie precision and coming to a stop less than a foot from the toes of Austin’s boots. The T-1000 circles the bike and swings a leg over the seat, one hand grasping Bob’s shoulder as if for balance. No sooner has the prototype settled with its chest pressed against the other machine’s back than Martins steps forward and holds a hand out for Bob to shake. The terminator does not take it or show any other sign of acknowledging the officer’s existence. The man’s hand drops, and so, too, does the forced smile.
“So, this is the mysterious boyfriend, huh?” Martins shouts over the rumble of the bike, “Heard a lot about you.”
“I have heard about you, also.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“No.”
Bob’s head turns slowly, smoothly, and the T-800 regards the brunet through his sunglasses, face a blank mask. He begins to list direct quotes from Martins, taken from the video files Austin has shared with him, and the officer staggers backward with a look of dawning horror. He switches his attention to Austin in an attempt to get himself out of the figurative spotlight that Bob has cast.
“You makin’ shit up about me to get him on your side, College Boy?”
“We got a problem, here?” Another voice chimes in from the right.
Barlow seems to materialize from the shadows, puglike face pulled into a smug grin. His accomplice nods, and the shorter man steps toward the bike with a shake of his head and a patronizing cluck of the tongue.
“Gonna have to teach you another lesson about rattin’, boy-”
“You will not touch Austin.”
Bob’s voice, low and flat. He homes in on Barlow and turns his upper half toward the officer, one hand sliding off of the handlebars to rest atop his thigh. The blond raises his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, takes a step back with a sarcastic scoff of, “Whatever you say, ‘Bob.’”
The T-800 does not pick up on the tone, does not notice how Martins moves to take up a defensive position over Barlow’s right shoulder, hands clenching into loose fists. Bob glances at Austin over one shoulder and is just beginning to ask where it would like to go when Barlow lashes out with his right arm. The fist solidly connects with Bob’s jaw, and the terminator’s head whips to the side from the force of the blow, sunglasses flying off of his face. The bike does not tip. Bob doesn’t even stagger- his endoskeleton takes all of the impact. Austin darts forward to catch the shades, folds them up, and places them in the breast pocket of its work jacket. The T-800’s eyes slowly raise to meet the T-1000’s, and to the officers staring at the two terminators, it looks as if they're communicating via telepathic link. In a sense, they are.
> DAMAGE TO U67545 UNACCEPTABLE
< "VERBAL HARRASSMENT" OF R826457 UNACCEPTABLE ALSO
> COMBAT MODE ENGAGING…
< ACKNOWLEDGED
Bob cuts the ignition on the bike, deploys the kickstand, and dismounts without breaking eye contact with Martins. The creak of leather and the solid thunk of the T-800's left boot landing on the pavement are deafening in the midday quiet. Martins, to his credit, does not cower or make any attempt to flee- just exhales harshly and wheezes, "Jesus christ," as his head tilts upward to follow Bob's movements. He rolls his shoulders and makes a show of cracking his neck before he starts to bounce on his feet. Barlow falters once he sees Bob standing at full height, but Martins is undeterred, glancing at his partner with an adrenaline-fueled bark of, “Come on- gotta show College Boy he can’t go runnin’ to his boyfriend for help every time we say somethin’ mean to him.”
The blond nods, face set into a mask of grim determination, and widens his stance. Austin swings its leg over the bike and rests both feet on the tailpipe, watching its opponents, creating predictive models using saved footage of their fighting styles. It broadcasts its findings to Bob as the two officers close in on the T-800. They are not aware of what they are up against.
> ROBERT MARTINS DEFAULT MANEUVERS INCLUDE : WRIST LOCK, RIGHT HANDED UPPERCUT, STRAIGHT REAR CROSS TO SOLAR PLEXUS
> STAN BARLOW DEFAULT MANEUVERS INCLUDE : TACKLE, RIGHT HANDED HAYMAKER, ELBOW JAB
As predicted, Barlow surges forward, likely hoping to throw Bob off balance and provide an opening for Martins. He only makes it one step before the T-1000’s left leg straightens and elongates an additional three feet, catching him at the shins and sending him sprawling. He’s too shocked to put his hands out, and his nose smack the cold pavement with a dull crack. Martins’ eyes dart toward his fallen friend and shine with a momentary flash of uncertainty before anger overtakes rational thought. He cocks his arm back, swings with a frustrated grunt, and finds his arm stopped in the middle of its arc. Bob’s left hand completely encases Martins’ fist and holds it well away from its intended target. The fingers tighten, something pops beneath them, and Martins lets out a weak, strained wheeze.
“You will apologize to Austin.” Bob deadpans, maintaining pressure on the officer’s hand.
“Fuck you.” Martins spits.
He scowls and tries to pound the T-800’s forearm with his free hand. Had he been fighting a human, he would have fractured their ulna and forced them to release his fist. Against a terminator, however, the move is ineffectual. Bob’s grip tightens, and a second whipcrack echoes through the parking garage, shortly followed by a hoarse shout. Barlow staggers to his feet, one hand cupping his crooked, bleeding nose, and charges Bob with a congested roar. The terminator spins himself and Martins in a quick, efficient dance, rotating the two of them until the officer is standing in his place. The T-800 releases the brunet just in time for Barlow to collide with him at full speed, catching Martins around the waist and pushing hard with both feet. They crash to the ground- Barlow uttering a grunt of exertion and Martins a winded groan- and skid half a foot before coming to a stop in a haphazard tangle of limbs.
“For- For christs sake,” The brunet snarls, “Get offa me!”
“Shit, sorry-”
Barlow plants a hand on the cement near Martins’ bicep, but a boot between his shoulder blades keeps him from standing. The men are sandwiched between Bob’s foot and the pavement, and both begin gasping for air as the terminator rests a fraction of his 400 pound bulk on top of them.
“You will apologize to Austin.”
“Fuck… you… for the second time-”
“You will apologize to Austin.”
It is repeated in the exact same cadence. Austin leans forward and regards the trapped men with a curious tilt of its head. Their resistance is admirable, but ultimately futile. The T-800 is capable of idling in his current position for 59 years, 6 months, 2 days, and 17 hours. The T-1000 is near enough to its companion that it can distort its arm a minimal amount and run its fingertips over Bob’s knuckles. It is rewarded with a readout of the T-800’s movement commands. Should Bob choose to press harder, he will surpass 125 pounds of force- enough to fracture the average male’s ribs. There’s the distinct sound of vertebrae popping, and a sputter from Barlow as he gulps for air. A deep purple is spreading from Martins’ neck to his cheeks, but he refuses to comply, despite his and his partner’s suffering.
“You will-”
“Holy christ-” Barlow gasps, “I’m sorry Austin, I’m sorry Austin, get him off of me, please-”
The prototype adopts its usual polite, close-mouthed smile and waits. Bob lifts his foot just enough to allow the wheezing blond to wriggle off of his partner, and then the boot descends on Martins’ sternum, heel firmly pressed against the solar plexus. Barlow staggers to his feet and claws at the neck of his shirt as if he is still suffocating, pulling the collar away from his skin and swallowing thickly as he turns to regard Austin with newfound fear.
“Sorry again,” He rasps, “For what it’s worth.”
“Accepted. Thank you, Officer Barlow.”
The blond nods, more to himself than to the T-1000, and turns to stumble toward the door to the bullpen. He is muttering to himself as he retreats- a mixture of curses and appeals to a higher power. Martins remains unmoved, staring up at Bob with stubborn defiance. Austin can see the T-800 problem-solving, calculating his next move with the barest tilt of his head and a subtle twitching of the fingers. He removes his boot from the officer’s chest, and Martins starts to scramble to his feet as soon as he spots a possible attack opening. Bob is much faster than his build suggests. His opponent springs to his feet and… keeps going. The terminator has caught the front of Martins’ shirt in the middle of its upward trajectory and used the human’s momentum to lift him as far off of the ground as possible. Martins grapples Bob’s wrist and hoists himself up to keep his shirt from tearing.
“You will apologize to-”
“I ain’t apologizin’ for shit,” Martins growls, voice beginning to falter with growing uncertainty, “You can… can go to hell.”
The officer throws his head forward and spits. It arcs through the air and coats Bob’s left cheek before stringing down to the collar of his leather jacket. The terminator does not grimace or utter any exclamations of disgust. Instead, he does a half-turn to the left and throws Martins like a child discarding an unwanted toy. The brunet screams as he flies, pride giving way to terror as he seems to realize the sheer power of his opponent. He tucks and rolls, back colliding with the door Barlow just escaped through, and raises his arms to shield himself when Bob takes a thundering step toward him. The T-800 is not able to repeat its request- Martins begins to shout over him in earnest.
“I’ll leave him alone! I won’t touch a hair on the guy’s goddamn head, I won’t even talk to him, for christ’s sake, just… Just don’t kill me, man!”
“You are not complying.”
“Not… what?” The man breathes, brow furrowing.
“You have not provided an acceptable answer to my request.”
Another grunt of confusion before Martins’ expression clears. He nods frantically, looking rather like a souvenir bobblehead, and sputters, “I-I-I’m sorry!” with his hands raised in a more genuine gesture of surrender.
Bob turns to look at Austin, downturned eyes glowing faintly red in the darkness of the parking garage, and waits. The T-1000 steps forward until they are shoulder to shoulder and gives Martins a thorough visual examination, processors analyzing body language and microexpressions and relaying that the probability of honesty is between 86 and 91 percent. The prototype is aware that the officer may renege on his promise when Bob is no longer present, but…
“That is an acceptable response.”
Bob nods once and utters a soft grunt of acknowledgement before he and the T-1000 turn in tandem and march toward the bike, leaving Martins to his own devices. He remains on the ground long after the machines have mounted the bike and torn off into the afternoon sun, catching his breath and doing his damndest to determine how Bob was able to do so much damage with so little effort. He can’t wrap his head around it, and that alone is terrifying enough to convince him that Austin is no longer worth bothering. Sure, College Boy can handle himself just fine in a fight, and it’s always more fun for Martins when his victims bite back, but with the added possibility of encountering Bob again… He’d rather not take the risk.
The cold air feathers through an imitation of blond hair and streams between nanites as Bob weaves through traffic. The T-1000 does not need to shout for the other machine to hear it over the roar of the bike.
“I did not think that you would engage in single combat, considering your promise to John.”
They approach a red light and roll to a stop. Bob twists around in his seat and holds out an expectant hand. Austin fishes the sunglasses out of its coat and opens them one-handed before placing them in the T-800’s palm. The right side of Bob’s mouth pulls straight back into a smug smirk, and there is a faint lilt to his voice as he slides the sunglasses up his nose and counters, “I promised John Connor that I would not kill anyone. I did not promise that I would not maim.”