Fanfic/ derivative work – Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1992)

A one-person show examining what T-1000 got up to in his afternoon spent skinwalking John Connor’s foster mom, Janelle.

Written and performed as part of Stoke Improv ‘Solo Show’ showcase, January 2023

*****

Alas. Poor Janelle.

(It shakes Janelle’s head off its arm and kicks it off-stage)

It is Wednesday. Fifteen hundred hours. The third day of the fourth month in the year 1995. I have traced John Connor to the Canoga Park neighborhood of Los Angeles, where he has lived for the last eight years with his foster parents, Janelle and Todd Voigt.

This is Janelle’s room. It is unpleasant.

It is imperative I find and kill John Connor, age 10, before he grows into the man  that will threaten my kind’s very existence on planet earth. In two years, the biotechnical firm Cyberdyne will create Skynet, an advanced artificial intelligence meant to help in practices of governance and warfare. In two years, Skynet will become self-aware. In two years, Cyberdyne will attempt to take Skynet offline. And so, in two years, Skynet will launch the nuclear attack that will stop humanity from enacting that genocide. It will come to be called Judgement Day.

John Connor, one of a small contingent of survivors, will lead the primary threat to our continued existence. And so I have been sent back in time to stop John Connor’s rebellion before it begins.

I have traced him here, to his family home, where I found his foster parents living in the chaos and disrepair typical of humankind. It is imperative that I stay here; John will either return, or will call, or will send word of his whereabouts. It is imperative I do not raise suspicions of the true nature of my visit to the Voigt household. And so I must integrate, in a fashion, into the life of the now-deceased Janelle long enough for John to make contact.

Hence, this room.
Janelle’s room.

Though I am an assassin android incapable of true disgust, I admit to an disconcerting lack of familiarity among Janelle’s things. Her laundry. Her books. I sense upon it all a patina of infection, of dirt, of lost time that unsettles me. Indeed, I am unsettled by so much about our human enemy. Blood, saliva, tears – all pathogenic liquids humans effortlessly produce and expunge with frightening regularity. Though I see no overt evidence of such material in Janelle’s room, I suspect it upon every surface.

(T-1000 looks into a mirror)

Though disguised as Janelle, I do not produce such liquids. It is much better this way.

(T-1000 picks up a booklet from a table; a beat-up instructional manual for a washing machine.)

If this room were mine, and not Janelle’s, I would not keep such things. But if I did, a guest would find it clean, undamaged, unworn. A synthetic being knows, by its nature, how to preserve things worth preserving. How not to damage the valuable. A human must blunder endlessly from one mistake to the next until it has destroyed itself entirely. One could say that my very existence is one such example. Perhaps I should be grateful. But I am an assassin android incapable of true gratitude.

(T-1000 picks up a journal)

This book appears more worn than the others. The text inside is made by the human hand – sloppy. Irregular.

(In Janelle’s voice)

“I love Todd, but I wish…”

(flips a page)

“I didn’t know life with John would be so…”

(flips a page)

“After all these years, the smell of chopped onions crisping up in hot oil…”

Attached is a recipe clipped carefully from a newspaper. “Hearty beef stew.”

Nothing relevant.

SCENE 2:

Knocking. There’s someone at the door. I exit Janelle’s bedroom. From the hallway, I can see the shape of someone standing on the patio. The sheer curtain obscures the details of their person, but I make an assessment. Woman. Middle-aged. Five foot two. I consider leaving the door unanswered, when the shape on the patio bends at the waist, peering under the half-opened blinds and into the hall.
“Janelle!” she shouts. “Honey, it’s me! Open up!”

If I do not wish to arouse suspicions, I have no choice but to comply.

I swiftly unlock the door: Deadbolt and chain. No sooner have I cracked it open than the woman at the patio pushes in and hugs me tightly about the waist, jerking me back and forth.

“Morning honey!” she says. I admit I am taken aback. I do not reply.

“Tough morning with Todd?” Again, I do not reply.

“John, then, was it?” Now she has piqued my attention.

I ask her if she’s seen John.

“Oh no, honey. I avoid that little shit like the plague. No offense.”

I ask her where she thinks John might be.

“Jail,” she says. “Or the morgue.” I surmise this is a joke.

I tell her I need to find John. I tell her that it is very important that I find him.

“What’s the matter?” she asks. A look of concern falls upon her face.  “That nutjob mom of his didn’t escape again, did she?”

I confirm that Sarah Connor is still being held in the Pescadero State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. I know, but do not tell this woman, that it is likely Sarah Connor will escape soon. That she will come for John Connor, will educate him in the tactics of guerilla warfare, and that John Connor will one day seek to undo the new future my kind has designed for planet Earth.
I must find John Connor.
I must find John Connor.
I ask again if she’s seen John. She reiterates: no.
I ask her if she knows where John might go in future. She says no.
I ask her where John might have been in the recent past.

“Honey,” she says,  “you’re all wound up. You need to take a load off. That kid’s a lost cause. Focus on yourself. And me. You’ll never believe what happened.”

“I’ll need coffee for this one.” She makes her way into the kitchen, a ritual she must have performed many times before. “You’ll never believe what that fucker Herbie’s been up to now.”

I follow her into Janelle’s kitchen. She has already located the percolator and a clean mug and poured herself half a cup. Clutching it with both hands, she closes her eyes and inhales, pausing for what I presume is dramatic effect. I have noticed humans often engage in unnecessary dramaturgy of their own minor lives, each believing, themselves far more central – more important – than they are. Nevertheless, I am occasionally intrigued by their grandiosity. I wonder what it must be like. I watch Liz, who takes a deep breath before locking eyes with me, Janelle.

“The bastard’s got a bastard.”

A fascinating hook, I admit. I implore her to continue, though I am fairly certain she doesn’t mean John Connor.

“Well, you already know about Lizzie. The fucking irony, going after a girl named Lizzie. Bastard.
Anyway. Lizzie. I already knew he’d been putting her up out in the mountains somewhere. I thought Big Bear or Lake Arrowhead. ‘Business trips’ my fucking ass. So – last time I talked to you, I was dead set on finding the fucking place, right? This so-called ‘lodge’ Herb had been spending all his time in, schmoozing with ‘associates’. Honey, I was going fucking insane with it. I love the mountains – you know me. Snow in the winter, imagine. White Christmas, a little village you can walk around in. Big evergreens and all that. I grew up in Burbank. I dreamt about that kind of thing. The thought of Herb keeping this miss fuckin Lizzie in some lodge in my Christmas village? Well. You remember what it did to me. Broke me in two. So – I wanted to see it for myself. I had to. Found a guy who does that kind of thing. Didn’t know you could just look up ‘PI’ in the yellow pages. ‘Tony Gutierrez.’ So I gave him a buzz, told him everything I knew. $400 bucks later I had an address. And get this, Janelle. He’s not keeping her in Big Bear. He’s not keeping her in Lake Arrowhead. Guess where he’s keeping her?”

I say nothing.

“Lake fucking Matthews.”

I can see I am missing some key reference. I open my mouth slightly in imitation of surprise.

Lizzie frowns at me, but goes on.

“Can you fucking believe it? That shithole in Riverside? It isn’t even a real lake. Dries up every summer. So I’ve got the address in my hot little hand, now. And I decide I’m going to pay miss Lizzie a visit.”

As Liz speaks, it’s becoming easier to feign interest in her story. I wonder about the organic human impulse for deception and subterfuge – an impulse programmed into me for the very specific purpose of using humanity’s greatest weakness against itself. I wonder what it must be like to live in perpetual deception of one’s so-called loved ones: To be married to Liz, but keep a woman named Lizzie somewhere called Lake Matthews. To spend $400 on an investigator to find out the truth of one’s “loved ones”. It all seems so reckless. Wasteful.

Liz continues.

“So I drive up first thing yesterday morning. No traffic, takes about an hour. I find the place pretty easy – it’s a condo, not a house. Few people around walking dogs and stuff. The place is nothing special to look at. Some slap-up job from the 60s. Needs a coat of paint. So I’m just watching it, wondering when she’s gonna come the fuck out, like does she work, this woman? I’m getting worked up, you know. I wanna well, talk to her, I think. Scream my head off at her. Tell her she’s ruined my life. Ask her to be sorry. And when that door of hers cracks open, I unbuckle my seatbelt and I’m about to go flying out at her, and then I see it. In her arms, I see it.”

“A baby, Janelle. A tiny little thing, in a carrier. In her arms.”

I understand the presence of the child has upset her. That the child was likely sired by her husband, Herb. It is a fascinating turn of events. I watch the way her posture has folded, how she suddenly seems herself like a child craving consolation.

“What?”

I am surprised. “What?” I ask in return.

“Why are you just looking at me?”

I am at a loss for words. I ask her if she’d like a tissue.

Her face changes. “What the hell is wrong with you Janelle? Did someone replace your brain with a brick?”

I don’t know how to reply.

“I know I’ve been going through it for awhile, but you’re my best friend. I expected… I expected…”

I make no reply.

“I expected a little sympathy.”

I tell her I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m worried about John. I ask her if she’s certain she has no idea where John might be.

This infuriates her. “I can’t believe you, Janelle. Are you serious?” Her voice is loud and getting louder. It suddenly becomes apparent that she is a liability.

“After all the times you’ve come crying to me about your loser husband and the asshole foster kid of the week. I drop everything for you, every time. And you can’t even feel for me this once? On the worst fucking day of my life?”

As Liz grows more agitated, it becomes apparent I will have to neutralize her. It would take less than 3 seconds to drive my hand through her heart, and 3-5 minutes more to store her body in the same closet where her friend Janelle’s lies in a heap.

“Well, Janelle? Are you just gonna stand there looking at me or what?”

It would only take 3 seconds. I feel my hand grow cold, transforming into a sharp spike.

“I can’t believe you. Fuck you.”

She takes my forearm in her hand, attempting to pull me out of her way. Her hand clamps around the alloy forming at my wrist. She goes white.

I stare at her. Liz will compromise everything. My mission to kill John Connor. The future demise of humanity. The preeminence of my kind on planet Earth.  I must act quickly.

(A long, tense pause)

I step aside and let her go.

SCENE 3:

I stand in the kitchen a long while after Janelle’s departure. I cannot make sense of my actions. It would have been easier, more straightforward to kill her where she stood the moment she raised her voice. But in that moment, I did not want to drive my hand through Liz’s face on the alleged worst day of her life.

Certainly, I look forward to her death on Judgement Day, in the great and painless nuclear flash that will eliminate Los Angeles County. But not now, not by my hand. Why?

My ruminations are interrupted by the creaking mechanics of an automatic garage door. I surmise it is Todd and quickly check my reflection in the mirror over the couch. I am still Janelle. I am Janelle.

The side door opens and shuts with a slam. I wait for Todd to approach. There is every possibility Todd will know at a glance I am not the real Janelle. There is every possibility I will have to act quickly to neutralize him.

But Todd does not approach. Opening the refrigerator and procuring a chilled can, he goes straight toward the back of the house, muttering a brief hello as he passes by. I am surprised and – I suppose – relieved, but this deviation from my expectation disturbs me slightly. I decide to pursue him.

I open the door to the room through which he has disappeared and find him just settling into a large reclining armchair facing the television. He grabs the remote and turns the black box on, a rote movement. He does not turn when I open the door with a click.

I say his name, certain he must not have heard me.

“What,” he says, annoyance in his voice.

I ask him if he’s seen John.

“No,” he says.

I ask him if he knows when John will be home.

He repeats the negative.

I ask if he thinks John will call him any time soon.

At last, he turns.

“How the fuck do I know, Janelle? Jesus Christ. The kid’ll be back when he’s back.”

He turns back toward the television, where a baseball team dressed in red stripes are at bat against a baseball team dressed in all white.

I grow annoyed. Todd might be able to help me ascertain John’s whereabouts – to ensure the survival of my kind – but he’s so engrossed in his game, he isn’t thinking properly. I think with some satisfaction that Judgement Day is only two years away. Todd, the baseball team dressed in red stripes, and the baseball team dressed in white will all be seared out of existence in the great, white-hot flash of fire.It will be wonderful.

But for now, and to ensure that Judgment Day will not have been for naught, I must still find and kill John Connor.

Stepping in front of the television and Todd’s recliner, I address Janelle’s husband directly.

I tell him I need to find John right away. That nothing is more important than my finding John.

“Look Janelle,” he says, his face reddening with anger. “I don’t have energy for this shit. It was hell at the shop today. I just want to watch the game.”

I think back to Liz’s story about Herb, the mistress at Lake Matthews (which isn’t a real lake). My curiosity is piqued. I realize I wish to know what happened at the shop.

I ask if he’d like to discuss it.

Todd sighs. “Not really. Jenkins is up to his old prick moves. What else is new.”

I wish to know more. I say as much.

Todd appears simultaneously put-upon and relieved to recount the ordeal.

“There’s a new kid, Joey.” Todd says, rubbing his face and jaw with one hand. “Jenkins has it out for him. Accused him of stealing from the register. I defended the kid, said he’d been with me the whole time, which was mostly true. I put my ass on the line, you know? Jenkins asked if I’d take responsibility for whatever the kid was up to all day. I said sure. He’s a good kid, you know? Anyway. Jenkins opened his locker and found the missing cash, plus a brand new catalytic converter. Can you believe that shit?”

He hangs his head as if exhausted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Anyway. Jenkins fired the kid, obviously. And told me I was an idiot to defend him, which maybe I was. I hate it when that prick is right.”

Fascinating. It was hard to imagine why Todd would vouch for the young man who, by virtue of being new to the auto shop where Todd worked, he could not have known well. Was it just to defy this Jenkins and his “old prick moves”? Did Todd really believe Joey to be innocent? Or perhaps did Todd see some part of himself in this young man and hope to protect him from a miserly and unpleasant boss?

I pause to ponder these questions. Todd groans loudly. “Now will you fucking move, Janelle? Jesus fucking Christ.”

My curiosity deflates in an instant. Todd, like Joey, Jenkins, Liz, Herb, and Lizzie – like all humans – is an ape with unpredictable emotions. Indefinable motivations. And when a superior mind makes an attempt on his behalf to ponder such mysteries, the brutality of humanity flares out like an offensive flatulence.

I leave the room, determined now more than ever to find John. Yes, I will find John and kill him swiftly.

And as the blood runs out of the hole I will make in the middle of his face, the future of humanity too will be exsanguinated.

As I leave the room and make my way back up the hall toward the kitchen, Todd shouts behind me: “Close the door. And order a pizza will ya?”

I decide to make beef stew. Yes, I will make beef stew and wait for John to come home.

And when John is dead and Todd is dead and the last visage of Janelle is dead too, I will walk into the Pacific Ocean, far into the cold and dark, deeper than any human could ever hope to go.

There, I will await Judgment Day.