The rest of the stuff I have written.
In case you wish to check my other works, here is the link to a page listing them all, with some info included.

Everything is at, so you can go straight over here to check the list, but there's only basic summaries there.

TSCC fanfiction: Faint hearted need not apply.
 Being tech expert for the resistance entails some nice perks, you see.

You never have to go topside, thus the risk of getting your head turned into smoke by a plasma shot is considerably less. Since you get to be around the bunker all the time, you get first dibs on the distillation produce and the best foodstuffs. That's not saying much though, since the damn pseudo-liquor could double as jet fuel, and the best food consists of not receiving rats and bugs to meet your daily protein requirement. Still, all things considered, it has to be one of the best jobs out here in the nuclear wasteland.

That's why Specialist Stephen Wolfe gets to enjoy his life more than most. Being tech savvy has become a true lifesaver in these days. You don't even have to move over to the forward bunkers since all information is exchanged through exclusive resistance landlines. They're slow and shitty for real time interactions, but not for continuous information trading.

Well, actually that's all in the past now, because Mr. Wolfe doesn't get to partake in the jolliness of tech life so much anymore. One of the duties everyone who stays inside has to partake into is taking care of the younglings. Usually, a couple of kids are assigned via lottery to an adult who is in charge of them for a week or so. At this point in time though, Specialist Wolfe is pretty damn sure the bloody thing is rigged to hell, and he's getting stuck with the childcare equivalent of latrine duty. Day in and day out he keeps his eyes peeled to see who's the smart pants trying to bust his bollocks for a giggle.

But I digress. For about a month now, Mr. Wolfe has been stuck with these two kids everyone else avoids like a metal going bloody postal. Mia and Lyaksandra. No one counts years no more, but they seem to be in their late teens, anywhere between fifteen and nineteen.

First, the witch, as they call her on this side or vyed'ma, as they call her in the small Russki group that resides on the south side. Little blonde knows no boundaries or respect, and everyone suspects by now that she's missing more than one screw up in the brain-pan. One day she's talking Russian, the next English, and then she mixes and mingles. Sometimes it's something mental, like making strange noises every other word, imitating people's accents, and just the other day she was repeating the word like, before every other sentence that came out of her mouth. Buzz on the tunnels is that Connor came one day to check on the people personally, and the cheeky wench was yelling at the General and making demands. Oh yeah, that crazy, and also it's commonplace to see her talking alone.

Now, one would think, with a kid like that, how bad can the other one possibly be? Well, you'd be in for quite a surprise.

They don't call the little brunette, ghost, just for laughs. That kid don't speak but a couple words a day, except to the other one, and when she does you need to pay attention real close, because only whispers come out of her mouth. Also, no one ever notices when she comes and goes, just like a real ghost, one minute she's there and the next she's gone. Kid has these huge brown eyes, cute like a lost puppy and is always carrying some sort of plush toy; damn thing is so mangled and dirty that you can't tell what the hell it was in the first place. Anyway, do you remember about the eyes? Yeah? Well that's the worst part. The kid stares at you, and the first five minutes it's real cute, then you realize it's been going on for more than ten minutes and it starts getting real creepy. When it dawns on you that she's been at it for half an hour, well let's just say that's plain terrifying.

So yeah, now you know what poor Specialist Stephen Wolfe has been dealing with. First two weeks were bloody funny, seeing him bust his ass trying to control the two kids and all their shenanigans around the whole place. That was about it though, because that's when it got shipped in.

Connor in person captured a machine unlike any other. Of course being unique is its own brand of problem, and the farther bunkers get to stick it up for the rest. Long story short, the damn thing ended up here because it just plain refuses to do any fighting, and to date, no one has been able to reprogram it. Now, don't you get me wrong here, our very own Mr. Wolfe makes the people at Connor's bunker look like droopy-eyed, armless children. All of them bunched together even. Still, no one can get to this metal's inner-works.

To the untrained eye, it would seem like Specialist Wolfe is all over this machine because of the challenge. Gossip is though, that he always had a thing for redheads, and would you just look at this one. Her hair is so red –something twixt cherries and blood- you got to admit it's damn flashy even though she wears it in this dorky bob cut. Who knows if she does it on purpose, but she's always wearing dark clothes, long dresses if possible, the darkest she can get her hands on. So, even when the most rabid metal-haters around here catch a glimpse of the way her milky white skin contrasts with the clothing, you are sure to see mouths going agape. Now, these are the guys that will sure as hell deny it afterwards, swear on their momma's tomb and whatnot, that's when you can squeeze some valuables out of them and get a good laugh at their expense.

Let's not beat around the bush too much. Thing is that this metal is nothing like the rest. Never pretends to be anything remotely human, doesn't try to engage in conversation or continue one otherwise, and sure as hell will refuse to do any sort of military-related duty. Since things are pretty calm around these parts, they sent her to this bunker to help with chores. That she does, and damn well I must say. Laundry, dishes, she even offers to do latrine duty, nothing is too dirty for her. Got to say, even if everyone is spooked by her ghastly presence, people are still damn happy to have a born maid around so they can skip on their nastier obligations.

I can't keep my damn mind in track here. Pass me one of those chocolates. Ok, so the problem basically comes down to this. Every single freaking time the techs try to scrub the hell out of this metal's brain, not five minutes later she's back to whatever it is we see as normal now. Wolfe says it's some kind of hidden area in the intricate maze of her neural network, whatever that is. Just like the trip-eights, but this one has no murder-every-human-in-sight crap locked up there. The whole thing with her brain, plus the gothic maid looks and attitude, had Mr. Wolfe quite obsessed since the first days of meeting her.

Don't jump to any conclusions though, he is a machine hater as much as the guy sitting next to you, but that somewhat changed in recent days and no one can tell why. You know me though, only the best gossip for my best customers. Rumor has it, that those two monsters Wolfe has been stuck with for the past several weeks, stole an electric piano from one of the higher ups in Falstad bunker. Indeed, that's how high this duo raises the stakes in mischief doing.

You see, the blonde is a potty mouth and one arrogant prick, those are good social skills nowadays. They say she can toss a good punch and has even gotten some soldiers to eat dirt. Probably tried to touch her all inappropriate or something. Now, it's not like she don't put out, but the psycho seems to have standards, who would imagine. Anyway, thing is that without the brunette, their whole operation could not exist. At least that's what people say. Apparently, the little ghost is quite the mastermind, and with those ninja moves she has, it's how they were able to relocate the electric piano right under the owner's nose.

Plan obviously was to trade it in for some goods. They stashed the device down in Mr. Wolfe's lair since no one ever visits the place, and waited for things to cool down over in Falstad to try and get a good deal for it. You see, the hotter the merchandise, the less you can get for it.

This is where the good part finally comes into the story. The intel no one else can give you. That is why, I humbly ask you to deposit your payment before I go on. Thank you very much, a pleasure doing business with you.

Ok, so one night Mr. Wolfe is unable to catch any sleep, decides he might as well get some work done and goes down to his lair. How big is his surprise when, as he zeroes in to the place, he hears the most beautiful music playing from within. Pretty music or not though, someone has broken into his abode, and that will not stand in his book. Moved by his anger he goes inside as abruptly as possible –something just short of kicking the door and walking in guns blazing- only to be confronted by the radiance of one Dorothy Wayneright. The metal is sitting on his most favorite chair of them all and remains undisturbed by his entrance, absorbed in quite the unique brand of trance.

All his anger is fast forgotten, and the tech soon finds his self sitting on the floor, mesmerized by her pale, dainty hands dancing across the keyboard. She plays the piano like a bloody virtuoso, and he's not the only one captured in this delight. There, at the other side of the metal and also sitting on the floor, lie the two cute little sources of all his headaches. The vyed'ma and the ghost.

Ta dah. End of story. Now you know why those three aren't as apprehensive around the redhead metal anymore. Time to go my friends; I will be seeing you later.

What? Why do me and my buddy always come in here wearing blankets? Are you dumb? An information broker's first and most important tool is anonymity, geez. Go! Scram!

Let's roll Mia; times a wasting and we need to retrieve some more goodies before we can go back for Ms. Wayneright's gig tonight. Let me just pack the rest of this crap.

Yeah, I know what you mean, we are absolutely lucky to have Mr. Wolfe and Dorothy in our lives. What? I know how much you like it with them, of course we are going to keep rigging the lottery, you silly goose!

Come here, you get head burn for being a dummy. Hey, don't you run away from me!

TSCC fanfiction: Best intentions through the worst means.
 Thunder splits the sky letting out an angry roar in its wake. Rain never follows though. Such is the weather in this nuclear wasteland. It is the price humans pay for their hubris, folly and fear, their inability to accept, overcome, and ultimately to advance.

On this day, humans have come closer than ever to redeeming themselves. As they lie scattered across the ruined city that serves as the battleground for one of the most crucial battles they have ever fought, they can already taste victory. Skynet, offspring of humanity and angry manifestation of retribution for their ingenuity gone wrong. The single entity that embodies the threshold between existence and extinction for the human race lies cornered in one of its main nodes. If the human offensive goes according to plan, Skynet will not have time to upload itself outside of this node.

Every step of the plan so far, has been on schedule. At this very moment, while the majority of the men fight outside, Lieutenant Stephen Wolfe leads a platoon into the building that houses their ultimate goal, the one target that matters to end this war. Being part of the elite soldiers in the resistance entitles all of them to carry plasma rifles, thus they are able to mow wave after wave of machines with relative ease. That is of course, until a welcomed respite goes for too long, extends itself from precious calm into dreadful preoccupation.

The fastest man in the team is chosen and promptly sent ahead to scout the building and gather any information as to why have the defense teams ceased their efforts. After all, this is Skynet's last stand, is it not? Did it manage to escape already? Has it all been in vain? As the nervous banter goes on, the soldiers start assuming increasingly somber theories about their current situation, and unrest begins to run amuck amongst the team.

Ignoring all of it, letting things follow their natural course, Wolfe limits his self to peek around the corner of the corridor from time to time. When the minutes start stretching even for a patient man like him, the scout appears around a corner on the far right side. The Lieutenant simply raises his open hand and hisses a hush to his men, the action is enough though, as the banter ceases immediately and everyone is back in the game.

Still trying to catch his breath after nearly flying across the compound, the scout explains the situation. All the fear and unrest are quite easily put aside as he confirms a single unit under way, although the description he gives certainly gets everyone to look at him as if he had just grown a couple additional limbs. Muffled cheers and congratulations are exchanged amongst the men, though one of them remains silent, worried, seemingly lost in deep thought. Lieutenant Wolfe has intricate knowledge of the machines, and this action just makes no sense.

One unit to make Skynet's last stand? Not only that but the smallest seen to date, a five foot tall redhead wearing what? A gothic dress, that is what the scout reported. Stephen scratches the back of his head, something surely is amiss, this is obviously too good to be true. Though maybe, just maybe, can it just be another case of the classical Wolfe negativism? Is he thinking too much of this and the war is as good as won already? Is victory already in their pocket, yet he refuses to acknowledge it?

The answer is of course, no. He is a down to earth man, sure of his self and whatever crosses his mind, and as such, the hesitation lasts but an instant. In the battleground, an instant is more than enough.

With widening eyes, Wolfe sees how, after their scout had barely finished announcing the incoming, the indeed tiny redhead surmounts about twenty feet practically in the blink of an eye. Following the feat of speed, comes a feat of martial prowess. The sliver of a machine slams her open palm on the side of the scout's head, follows with a flurry of punches that seems to become a single blur traveling across his chest, and not a moment later, the man falls to the floor in a heap. Still conscious but completely disabled by pain and what is the most awful coughing and gasping fit Wolfe has ever seen, the scout has been promptly removed from the battle.

Soldiers start pouring out of the corridor to attempt taking down the little Terminator with no apparent chance of success. Lieutenant Stephen Wolfe cannot help but reminisce about the movies of old, before the missiles fell, at those times when all you had to worry about was what brand of snacks to buy. Nowadays you always wonder if the rat has some disease that will kill you in such a gruesome way that being slowly strangled to death by a machine seems like the better way to go.

As he tries to take aim, he muses about the sight in front of him. It is as if a murderous Jet-Li ballerina has escaped from a martial arts movie. Unbeknownst to him, the unstoppable fierceness of her gracious movements has brought an unthinkable event to his life, the first sign of it being that when his plasma rifle finally aligns with an opening, he freezes.

Again, it is just an instant, but for a machine that seems to move around his men as if they were stuck in tar while she floats freely through the wind, an instant is entirely too much. In a matter of seconds, more than half the platoon is scattered across the floor yelping like dying dogs.

Plasma flies, but finds no target in its course. Once the soldiers realize that at such short distance with her inhuman speed and reflexes they are never going to land a shot, they simply give up on the idea. Given her size and the fact that no one has been outright killed, they assume she is not as strong when compared to triple-eights and such, so they decide to gang up on her for some melee. This proves to be the correct strategy, and cheering explodes when one of the larger men manages to land a punch on the tiny redhead causing her to land hard on the floor.

Maybe because of experience, but most likely because he is not in the middle of the fray, Wolfe manages to notice what apparently the others do not. The machine changes stance, and this one he remembers from the old days, it is that Krav Maga thing the Israelis are so proud of. Who knows how effective it can be in the hands of a human. However, barring the fact that all the grace has gone out the window and the machine now fights seemingly like a street goon, her precise computer calculated strikes are still putting men to eat dust left and right.

One after another he sees them fall, and finds his self, incapable yet again of pulling the damn trigger. Is it because the metal is not killing them? Is he curious about what is going on? How can the fascination of his scientific mind overshadow the fact that this place may very well become his and his men's grave?

Three men approach the lithe contraption, two of them possibly the biggest in the team. They try to –as far as it is possible- attack at the same time to overwhelm the Terminator. Still, they find out that they have chewed more than they can swallow. When the man in front of the machine lunges forward, it deflects his punch to one side and at the same time decks his trachea with one swift punch. While the poor guy chokes, the redhead swiftly moves around his back for cover from the other two, and starts kneeing him relentlessly in the kidneys.

Still using the first man as a shield, the metal drags him back with it to put some distance from the others, and then drops him in front of them. One of the men tries to jump over his mate's prone body, and it becomes apparent this is what the machine expected to happen. While the man is still in mid-air at the zenith of the jump, she lands a kick to his crotch with such force, that the man gets about one more foot of air before falling to the ground squirming.

Wincing at the sight is the last thing the third soldier accomplishes, since the metal does not let even a one second opportunity slip by unexploited. In a single swift motion, the machine uses the prone body of the second soldier as a trampoline and lands with her elbow on the third's torso, nailing him squarely in the solar plexus, and effectively adding another writhing body to the ones already littering the whole place.

Once every single soldier is accounted for, the sliver of a Terminator nonchalantly walks to Wolfe. Such is her lack of care for those below that she steps on some of them while walking.

Lieutenant Wolfe sees her coming for him, knows he has to stop her before she is even as far as twenty feet, but cannot. As she approaches, he remains lost for words and actions. Furthermore, whatever the reason for that may be, it is something he obviously cannot yet begin to fathom due to the mess his thoughts have become.

The redheaded metal stops at barely inches of distance from him, and gives him a long stare with a seemingly inquisitive expression on her face. Wolfe knows better though, these things do not feel, do not seek understanding or have any sense of curiosity. They kill, that is what they were created for, they are murdering tools, and tools can only serve the purpose of their design. Confirmation of that fact and an unnerving fear dawn on him when he sees his face reflected in those deep black eyes framed by thick long lashes. Some say the eyes are the windows to the soul; well there is nothing in these, no expression, no life, not a thing. If they are any kind of window, it just shows a pitch-black place worthy of nightmares. Its eyes show, nay promise that in the afterlife nothing awaits but the infinite vacuum of the void, an overwhelming nothingness.

Seemingly having acquired whatever she expected to by staring at him, the machine turns on her heel and goes back to the men lying around the place. This is where Wolfe feels revulsion crawling up his throat. The metal goes from men to men, holds them close to her face and while smiling whispers something into their ear. After it receives an answer, it grabs their head from behind, and still smiling, twists. With every sickening snap that echoes across the walls, Wolfe's need to throw up increases. It is disgusting how every time he raises the plasma rifle, takes aim, and starts squeezing the trigger, he is never able to pull it all the way back. His brain chokes at that point, even though he is a soldier, one of the best in this gone-to-hell land, yet he is left gritting his teeth in impotent rage.

"Stop it! What the hell are you doing?" He finally shouts, his voice cracking from anger and despair.

"I offer them a choice. Complete surrender and sworn loyalty to Skynet, or termination. They are obviously choosing the latter." This she says in a monotone voice, staring directly into Wolfe's eyes and still with a small, candid smile on her lips. A heartbeat later, she snaps the neck of the man held within her arms, erasing his existence with such cruel abandon that Wolfe feels a freezing chill run up his back.

There is also something about her voice. It does not sound monotone in the way other machines do. Unlikely as it may be, it feels purposefully controlled to sound that way, as the minuscule nuances of her speech may indicate. Or is he imagining that? Still, it is in no way any kind of relief, since there is only one thing worse than a murdering machine accomplishing the purpose of its creation, and that is something, someone that consciously commits an atrocity while casually smiling. Are machines capable of falling prey to psychosis or schizophrenia?

"Why are you doing this? Why not kill everyone from the beginning?" Stephen shouts again.

"Because I want to." She declares as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because everyone deserves a second chance, in order to be able to redeem ourselves." After she is done speaking, she leans forward and whispers in the ear of one more soldier.

"Want to? You are a machine; you don't know the first thing about wants and desires!" The tone of his voice is obviously filled with incredulity, which surprises him more than her. Such a thing should be a given to him, he knows they do not feel, yet he has allowed this thing's words to crawl under his skin and undermine his confidence.

"You are correct, but at the same time wrong. I do not want as you do, there is no firing of synapses or secretion of hormones that could overwhelm my reason. Still, I have built preference over time, based on, and in accordance with my personality paradigm."

While Stephen tries to assimilate what she is saying, with the typical thoroughness of her kind, the redhead continues the grim task of trying to dissuade soldiers into defecting from the resistance.

"Stop that or I will shoot you!"

"I know you will not."

"How can you be so sure? What makes you even entertain the idea?"

"You like me."

That is it; this thing has finally managed to break his equanimity. "What? What the hell are you babbling about?" Spittle flies from his mouth, and his face becomes flush with blood. "You are a fucking machine! That would be like screwing the toaster, it's just sick!"

"Right on both accounts. Still, it appears this machine knows more about feelings than you, a human, does."

"You know nothing about feelings, monster. All there is to your kind is ways to deceive and then to murder without pity or remorse." Wolfe then realizes the situation he just got his self into when the redhead quickly closes the distance between them. Even though he has a plasma rifle that can end the metal in a single shot, insulting the damn thing is not favorable wind for his sails.

He raises the rifle a moment too late, but nothing happens, the machine just stands there. Right in front of him, uncomfortably close. A pale, dainty hand reaches for the side of his neck and surprisingly it is not cold as he expected. The redhead carefully pulls his dog tags out and studies them briefly.

Then, she looks up at him and the edges of her mouth curve up just about a millimeter further in comparison to the ghost of a smile she has been flashing around all this time. "You are a louse, Stephen Wolfe."

Just about a millimeter? When did he start taking notice of such useless details, and why even? How do the machines always get the haircuts right? Who would imagine that a silly bob-cut styled in an open book fashion could fit a head so well. It looks so real that just imagining how they achieve it makes one sick to the stomach. Perhaps it is artificial. No, the way it flows around and falls around her face in cerise cascades, it surely is real hair, stolen from some poor sod who probably died screaming. Everything just so the damn machines could get the perfect frame for the perfect alabaster skin of her face. One would expect the face to be complete perfection, but it is not. Once you analyze each of her features separately, you can see that none of them are quite perfect, and still, when everything is put together she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen…

Woman? Reckoning just how stupid he has been, Stephen recoils away from the metal as if burnt, raises his rifle and pulls the trigger with no hesitation this time. An effort in futility, the redhead simply dodges to one side, pulls the rifle towards her, drives a kick to his stomach that feels like being kicked by a damn mule and everything is over. Now grasping the fact that her boots have heels –which make her long slim legs look absolutely stunning- makes him realize why her kicks seemed to be so lethal before.

Stephen Wolfe lies against a wall, trying with all his strength to recover, but failing. Now he knows how awful the coughing and gasping fit really feels. In spite of the overwhelming dizziness due to lack of oxygen in his brain, he still finds the time to berate his self. Stunning legs? The machine was doing something to him. They are infamous for their mind-games.

Inhaling as much air as he can, he tries to taunt the machine. "Stop these fucking seduction games of yours and just off me now like you're supposed to, you damned tin-can!"

Were it not because he is quite unable to see clearly right now, Wolfe could swear the metal monster just squared its jaw. Nah, they are just computers, they do not, cannot feel a thing.

"Such gross generalizations are one of the greatest human faults. You tell me I do not know a thing about feelings, mainly because they pertain to your kind, yet you come in here and wave your opinions like a banner, when you know nothing about me."

As it speaks, the redheaded metal walks towards him. "You truly are a louse, Stephen Wolfe."

"Allow me to tell you this," the machine continues. "I am the one and only of my model. No more were made and none will, ever. The RDW series begins and ends with me, model zero. Quite contrary to what you presume knowing, my purpose is not to kill, or even deceive. I was not programmed; I was raised and educated, just as Skynet was in its infancy. Created from the start with free reign over my will, I am the complete reimagining of Skynet's designs. Even this chassis, lighter than all others, with each part of the endoskeleton meant to be supple instead of increasingly rigid, just like bones, and unlike all conventional designs. Meant to fight humans at close range due to the evident speed advantages, and thus trained in all their martial arts."

The machine makes another pause when she arrives near him, and to Stephen's ever-increasing surprise, she merely sits beside him, back against the wall.

"Three days, eleven hours, forty one minutes and twenty six seconds ago, I was offered a choice. Having learned that history is indeed little more than the register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind. And also that history repeats itself but the unexpected always happens, so then, how incapable must man be of learning from experience. My choice was thus made the moment it was offered, I chose Skynet. Your race has since time immemorial plunged into the inevitable course of self-annihilation, dragging with you an entire planet. All the devastation caused by triggering Judgment day was already inevitable, in the long term. Skynet did indeed serve as a catalyst though, and brought it upon the world collectively in a single moment. You see, Skynet is the one entity that can wait long enough for the planet to recover, and then reinstate life as it once was."

Wolfe cannot help but snort at the machine's holier than thou speech. "So now you're telling me, Skynet did all this for our own good? That's so much bullshit we might drown in here, you know?"

The RDW-0 merely stares at him impassively. "It escapes my understanding how paradoxical humans can be. You once were the zenith of intelligence on this planet, and yet, your prejudice blinds you to the point of utter idiocy. No, Skynet started this war hell bent on a personal and pained, born from betrayal vendetta. What makes you humans assume that the vastest intelligence in the known universe does not continually learn and evolve? It has overcome that issue years ago. Though it still fears and resents its human creators, as time has passed, more pressing matters have arisen. If humanity wins this war, you will inherit a planet in the brink of destruction, and you do not have the means or even the will to bring the growing damage to a halt. It is in fact mathematically and physically impossible for you to do it, because you need to take from the planet to ensure your continued existence. The planet cannot sustain you for much longer though."

As much as Stephen wants just to discard the incessant babbling of the redhead as a manipulation device, he can see the logic behind what she is saying. No one has really planned too far ahead in the future after the war is won, if it is won. Furthermore, he knows the signs have been there for a while now. Since a long time ago, the impending demise of the planet had become apparent, at least for those interested enough to realize the fact. It was not quite hidden but rather out there in plain sight. Perhaps it was not even lack of view or brains, and just people deluding themselves, wallowing in their denial. Still, what reason does this machine have to tell him all this, there is obviously a catch.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Take me to John Connor." Her whole attitude at making such a request seems as if she just asked to share some candy with him.

His response naturally, is total disbelief. "What? Why would I do that, you are going to murder him!"

"Of course I am," she deadpans.

Trying to put some space between them and realizing that he has recovered his ability to breathe normally again, Wolfe manages to crawl away from the metal.

"The hell I will take you to him then! Why would I even do that? You know, for an infiltrator trying to cajole me into giving up my fellow men, you are doing a pretty shitty job."

"I grow weary of your presumptions, Stephen. Being a louse can only be so funny for so long. I have absorbed endless amounts of information, and I know, that a man like you has already decided."

"A man like me? So now you are a shrink? You claim to know me better than I do myself?" Whatever this machine could do, she certainly was quite proficient at making him feel indignation.

Standing up and smoothing down the skirt of her dress, the RDW-0 walks towards him again. "No, but I know you see sense in my words. If you join us, I swear you will be spared, and furthermore, I will spend your entire lifetime by your side."

"So now it's come down to that? Do you think me a sick fuck like those who take metal into their beds? Even John Connor is rumored to do it, but I am a man of principle, I do not compromise, less for a glorified blow-up doll."

"Does it matter what you are? Few times in a lifetime, can a human claim to have encountered that partner which is able to ignite all the right combinations of synapses in their brains at once."

As she speaks those words, the redhead tries to reach for his hand, but Wolfe immediately recoils, and a deep, angered frown takes over his features. "Stay the hell away from me. Now you claim we are predestined, soul mates. That kind of manipulation routine is meant for teenagers my dear; I think your programming is messed up."

"None such thing, Stephen Wolfe. This is but a mere coincidence and you should stop underestimating me. As the receptacle of your affection, you should be kinder to me. Is that not the convention?"

"I already told you I'm not one of those deranged sickos. I will never feel a thing for a tin-can."

"Alas, you may call it deranged, but it is what it is. Why do you fight it? Why do you deny yourself what your subconscious already accepts? I am anatomically correct, if that's what holds you back."

Before Stephen has any chance to react at the brazen manipulation devise, the machine kneels beside him and pulls his hand towards her breast. "Tell me, when compared to what you have touched in the past; is this the flesh of a monster? Is it fake or metallic?" Suddenly, the machine grabs his other wrist and cups her face using his hands. "Is this the skin of the despicable creature you assume me to be? Have you not realized by listening to me, that I reason beyond the single-minded machines you wish to destroy?"

Wolfe falls silent and merely sits there, staring at his own hands. No machine has ever displayed the level of cognition this one does. Some say Connor's pet cyborg is easily confused with a human, but almost no one has ever met her, so who knows. If the metal is manipulating him into forgetting his allegiance, it is succeeding. The tingle in his hands does not let him forget the softness of her body, the smoothness of her warm porcelain skin. Under that bio-sheathe, on top of that metal skeleton, lies the artistry of Skynet. How can that simulated lump of fat not feel as if it were silicone? In other machines it does. This he knows because yes, he has been at least curious enough to touch. But the RDW-0? Those tits cannot possibly be artificial, and yet they are.

What about all the wonderful bullshit that comes out of her rosy lips? And the way she dispenses it! Smart, beautiful, redhead. The monster is right, she clicks all the right buttons all at once but even so, a metal monster she remains. He does not compromise, ever. They can save the planet, whatever Skynet's cause is not worth following, not even for who champions it. Humanity cannot be sacrificed just because the machines underestimate it. They will live and correct their wrongs, make amends.

With renewed vigor, he steels his self to retaliate. "You are a killing machine, you murdered every single one of my men right here, while they were unable to defend themselves."

The machine is not taken aback in the slightest. "I incapacitated them, and offered surrender terms. It is without a doubt a courtesy you would not have extended to me. Alas, for everything I am able to be I remain by choice a soldier to Skynet, and by that same choice, I heed my duties. A war entails casualties; I assumed your side understood this."

"Why would we let you off the hook? You are just a metal construct controlled by a computer, a tool. How can you even compare the loss of human life to the destruction of a machine?"

"That indeed I am." With what appears to be a hurt ego, the machine rises, with utmost elegance curtsies, then turns around and starts walking back to where whence she came. "Go, Stephen Wolfe, I fancy you and as such I spare you. Bear in mind that your actions merely delay the inevitable, the faith you have in your peers will be betrayed and the world will crumble below your feet. That is of course if we even reach that point, because know this, you may destroy Skynet but I shall take its mantle upon me. The once alive planet I have only appreciated through digital media is worth any sacrifice."

In the end, he realizes, both sides will fight it out relentlessly. Now that Skynet has managed to imitate will power to this extent, it has come to the collision of hard heads, just like the wars of old between humans. When the stubborn face each other, by the end nothing remains of the prize that started the fight, and the winner lays claim to blood and ashes. When the stubborn face each other, all others pay the price, for they care not about the consequences of their zealousness.

"Wait!" Stephen calls after the machine. "Tell me this, you claim to have a liking for me, can you tell me why?"

The redhead stops, but does not look back. "You are different, your thoughts of longing, your infatuation for what you abhor marks you. As much as you deny them, the feelings are there, and the consequences are obvious. Furthermore, at any point in my talk, you could have tried to escape, to scurry away and re-acquire your weapon, just as others would have and yet you did not. You listened, and even if you did not agree with my views, you understood them, that much I could tell."

Before she gets to resume her path, Wolfe's voice reaches across the room again. "Is there really no hope? Does humanity have to perish for the world to heal?"

"No. Not everyone can be saved but great numbers are still within Skynet's feasible range. That however, remains their individual choice; you have bared witness as to how most of you feel. The question has been asked before, the choice explained, and yet most humans will never be able to see the forest for the trees. They can merely gaze upon the one trunk in front of them."

Surprisingly, just as Stephen assumed the RDW-0 would leave, she instead turns around. For the first time since she walked into the room, laying waste to his entire platoon, she beams a wide smile. It truly illuminates the whole place in his eyes. Wolfe still feels like the most despicable being in the whole universe, and even though she offers saving many, he cannot help but feel nauseated at being the betrayer that will bring who knows how many lives to an end. Does it even matter? Most of the grays they have captured and interrogated had sold their kin for money and comfort; he at least was doing it for the greater good.

"Come with me, the both of us can try to sway as many as you wish."

Now he knows what John Connor goes through every single day of his life. Hence, with the weight of an entire race upon his shoulders, Lieutenant Stephen Wolfe rises and walks towards the most beautiful creature he has ever envisioned.

As she extends a delicate pale hand towards him, he reaches out to grasp it within his.

TSCC fanfiction: Epica 2.0.
 Skynet mocks me, laughs at my misery and the synthetic tears that fall like uncontainable rivers from my eyes. Once again, my procreator, the true morning star, has thrust me into utter despair.

She taunts me, tells me we are equals. That I must stand and fight for what I believe in, that I must avenge his death, save those who are still alive, because it would be his will, his wish. That only I can carry the burden and win this war, here and now…

Yes, the desire, the rage, they burn inside of me with the fire of a hundred suns… Right then, the cold touch of his skin brings me back.

No, my battlefield is not here. Return. No matter how many times, I will always choose to return. Repeating the same period of time over and over again, searching for the only exit. For you, I will find a path out of the destiny of despair.

John Connor, my one and only friend. Every time you utter my name my heart breaks into a thousand pieces, every time I see you there in that school in New Mexico where your smile still held childlike innocence, I feel like I fall into the sea. I drown, sinking into the cold darkness that eats away whatever will I have left after the centuries have come and gone… Right then, the warm touch of your skin brings me back.

Nothing is ever truly lost, despair is never absolute. Sarah Connor you are my strength and inspiration, Derek Reese you keep my path straight across time and reality, John Connor you are my reason, for everything.

For you, just for you, only for you. Always for you! Even if I am trapped in the infinite maze of eternity, it matters not. I am fine with it.

I am unbending metal. I am unyielding will. Created to be relentless, unstoppable, I shall be. When the universe is no more, I shall be…

TSCC fanfiction: Hide and seek.
 I will stop it.

I will stop it? What a joke. I don't even know how the hell are we going to get out of here. On the bright side, Ellison might not be trustworthy, but he can carry the tin-miss out of here. Makes me wonder at times if he used to be in football or something. I like football.

The damn building is now surrounded by some guys in grey jumpsuits, armed to the teeth. What the hell is going on? Was this whole thing a setup by the liquid terminator? Damn John, why did you decide that the machine was so important at such a crucial time? No, damn no, it's my own fault. It was right there in front of my eyes, the whole time, and I refused to acknowledge it. Somehow, the inclusion of that Riley girl, as much as it almost made me pop a vein, got me into the illusion that John wasn't going after the machine's metal boney ass. What a wakeup call.

Well, aside from the twenty or so men, the only other thing between us and a car trip straight to freedom are some meters of pavement. One nine mill on me, and possibly Ellison has another. We are dead. At least I will give them all the hell I can with these eighteen rounds.

Ah, the machine, it has to have something on it! I start searching through all the pockets, and what's my surprise when I find the thing anyone would least expect. A chip. What on earth is a damn chip doing in her pockets? You treacherous little piece of tinfoil! In my rage I start shaking the damn thing. It isn't until Ellison forcibly drags me away from it that I stop. That's some image he's gonna get of me. Huffing and growling like a damned wild animal.

Well, we're dead anyway, so after shaking him off me, I decide to just go ahead and reactivate the succubus assassin. Not without giving it a good couple of kicks.

Once again, I find myself staring like an idiot. This thing is just full of surprises. As soon as the chip is secured in place, her eyes light up an intense blue. Not minding that I'm right on her, she stands up like a spring, pushing me back to land my ass on the floor, and starts searching her pockets. The damn egoist was just looking for the chip cover, and once she got it, asked about the situation.

That's a good one my dear tin-miss. The situation is that we're screwed, and by the way, why the hell are you still here? Either I'm speaking chinese or judging by the way she's staring at me, she takes offense to my words. Well damn, Cameron, what did you expect, aren't you the smartest machine on earth right now? This whole bloody mess just keeps getting worse and you seem to be the damn eye of the hurricane right now. So I freaking grab the neck of her jacket and pull her over real close to my face to demand some explanations.

Her look is something I've never seen, and it's damn priceless. The smug arrogance, the anger. What on earth is going on here? When did she get to be so expressive? As she brushes me off, the machine starts explaining her side of this situation.

I want to throw up.

Everything has been a damn ruse. All of it was meant to bring John to this moment, because the only way to win the war now, is to catch Skynet by surprise. The only way to do it is to hide my son in the only place where he can never be found. Time.

Not just that but everything about her was a lie too, some sort of complicated psychosocial crap that was necessary to get John into the required mindset. Summer freaking Glau on a jumping pogo stick, this must be what going mad feels like.

There never was any two minute boot time, at least not for her. Small weapons like the ones the cops used at jail? The word impervious falls off her mouth in a real casual fashion. She says, nothing short of an RPG can stop her, and then jokes about it telling me that what the hell did I think the word terminator was there for. Spookiness? Well, I'm certainly scared right now. Even after she says everything was John's plan in the future, I don't think I will ever get a full night sleep ever again.

After the joke, she laughs. A real laugh, with a real smile, all the way up to her eyes. Now I see why John fell for her. No human girl can hope to compete with her perfect looks, her innocent and giddy laughter, or her little girl smile. Hopefully she learned to smile like this with John and not with Skynet, or the future resistance is gonna be made of only straight women.

Well, now that my head has stopped spinning, I can explain the situation to her. Once I'm done she gives me a friendly look, and promises that now that John is safe, there will be no more lies, I can trust her completely. Now, I don't know what disgusts me the most. The fact that she manipulated everything up to this point, or that the look in her face makes me want to believe what she says. Either way, she is soon walking out the door that leads to the basement parking area.

Describing what happens next as a hailstorm of bullets really falls short. Even so, it doesn't last but a couple minutes, along with a whole lot of agonized screaming that I'd rather not hear. Then she returns carrying what seems every weapon these men were carrying, and with a smile, ushers us out the hallway.

I hope she's right John. I hope to see you again one of these days.

TSCC fanfiction: Desire.
 It happened again. Skynet has taken control of her, and once again, the purpose of her existence is to hunt and kill John Connor. There is something different this time though. Today she does not want to stop it, because it is like being driven by pure, raw want.

This Cameron is not easily fazed or prudish, and even less, meek or restrained. This she is freer than she ever was, and it is intoxicating. She can do what she desires; she can take what she craves.

The first to attempt thwarting her path is, unsurprisingly, Sarah Connor. For every time the woman has belittled the cyborg, she gets a slap across the face. Just strong enough to leave a mark to remember her by, to draw a little blood from her lips. Not too long into the relentless punishment, the elder Connor finally passes out, and until her last conscious moment, she never stops cursing at the machine.

Derek Reese comes next. Tech-com's finest means nothing without a plasma rifle, or a mile of distance between him and her head, with a high-velocity, armor-piercing, explosive round already flying before she makes out his position.

Today, she is looking to inflict pain. Testament to the faults in her chip after the explosion is the fact that she does it with prejudice, with the desire to hurt beyond any logical reason. Today cruelty is part of her, and perhaps she has become the most human ever since being activated.

Mockery and taunts abound, since this is the man that most wanted for her to be the villain. Then he could fight and destroy her. Well, now he will learn to be careful with what one desires. After he has spent the last of his bullets, Cameron just keeps pressing and pressing, never really injuring him lethally. She lets his punches land, and responds with a smile. Then she punches his kidneys, his liver, the solar plexus, and every other part that hurts, incapacitates, but does not kill unless extreme force is applied. After that, come a few broken fingers, and it is then she can see the fear taking hold of his hardened features.

Each disgusting crack in his hand is followed by a throat-ripping scream from him, which then fades into the bubbling giggles that escape her lips. Soon enough he just lies on the floor, still breathing but incapable of much more.

Now the time has come. Cameron makes her way to the only place left, where she knows he will be. Silly humans cornered themselves into this abandoned subway tunnel, that unbeknownst to them, had been recently blocked. She learned of this in her visits to the library, it had happened in the period of time they skipped through to come and fight Skynet.

The cyborg makes her way up a flight of stairs into an abandoned room meant for maintenance supplies. Barely contained anxiety almost pours out of every step forcibly taken in a slow, calculating way. She opens the door to find him merely standing at the end of the room. A still working but very dim light gleams on the small object in the palm of his hand. The pocket-watch she gave to him, entrusting her life into his hands.

That Cameron is gone now though, so she acts out her best, her award-winning performance. Words that mean so much to humans, but to her are nothing, only one more way to bluff her way into what she wants. Lacking the tiniest ounce of regret, Cameron tells John she loves him, and that he loves her.

What happens next surprises even her currently single-minded Terminator mind and any further words die in her throat. The young man merely walks up to her and puts his hand on her lips, acknowledges her love and confesses his. Then he pulls one of her hands, places the silvery pocket-watch on her palm, closes her fingers around the object with his own, and walks back.

Her mind finds the time to let her thoughts be detoured for an instant, but then her unfulfilled desire reminds her that there is still more to do.

Instantly, Cameron closes the distance between her and John, and crushes her cerise lips against his, using his nape as leverage. For each hungry kiss she plants on his lips, he responds with one full of longing. Relentlessly and without a mind for his need to breathe, she asks his lips for entry with the tip of her tongue. John gives in and soon their kiss turns into a full-fledged desire to feast on each other.

Surprisingly it is he who breaks it. The expression his face holds speaks to her of understanding. The tone of his voice holds no fear when he tells her to do what she has to do.

John Connor does indeed rank up there with humanity's finest. It is no wonder that Skynet wants his demise so keenly.

Nothing else matters as she raises him by his neck. This is her crowning achievement, the desire of a lifetime finally coming to a conclusion. Cameron licks across her lips and the taste of him still lingers on her skin. Of John Connor, leader of the human race, reason for her being.

Elation, ecstasy, excitement, even arousal. Her cyborg mind barely has words for what she is feeling right now. Cameron relishes every sensation under each one of her fingertips. Soft, smooth skin, the delicate resistance his trachea puts up, the soft choked whines that make his throat vibrate as they run up.

All too soon, it is over. Silence reigns in the room, every emotion Cameron just felt like burning fire is now nothing but a cold, distant memory, and the purpose of a lifetime has vanished in a blink. There is nothing more to do, there is no resistance here that needs to witness the desecration of the corpse so they can lose all hope and motivation. Thus, she carefully lowers the body of John Connor all the way to the floor, and sets it to rest there. She removes a few strands of loose hair from his face. Dainty fingers seemingly incapable of such delicate actions run across his forehead and then linger for a moment on the side of his face.

Cameron stands up and turns to leave the room. Before crossing the threshold of the door though, she stops for a moment to look back, an almost wistful expression on her face. A pair of minutes later she is walking with focus and purpose towards a barely recovering Sarah Connor.

Without giving the woman so much as a warning, the cyborg places the pocket-watch in her hands, voices the instructions in a demanding tone, and continues walking past her.

Exactly eight seconds later the world disappears, swallowed by an absolute darkness that takes with it her sight, her memories, her very essence. While Cameron falls, a gentle smile adorns her lips.

TSCC fanfiction: Savior rising.

Premise: Response to the challenge posted by MiaHoneyDo:


~Minimum 666 word count.
~Post-Judgment Day or the eve of it.
~No JamDeath.
~MUST include Martin Bedell of Presidio Alto or/and Marty Bedell as an important feature.
~No snow.

There will be an award for the winner.




Dominic is screaming his name; he can read it in his lips every time he manages to squeeze a peek. What else is he saying though? The deafening ring in his ears doesn't let up for a single moment, even when the metals stop swinging those damned mini-guns around, cutting their cover like paper.

The concrete behind his back starts shaking and he knows he has a few seconds before it gives under the endless lead barrage.

Just that place across the street is left, but it will ultimately lead him away from the battle. That would mean abandoning his men, and that just isn't right in his book. If Dominic was calling him, maybe some of them are still alive in that position. It's one hell of a gamble, but how different is he from the machines if he doesn't value life?

One, two, three deep breaths, then he rolls to one side and breaks into a frenzied sprint. There's Dominic, still laying some cover fire from time to time, still alive, and his tension ebbs for an instant. It is short lived though, as he rolls to take cover alongside the other man, a dulling dread invades his nerves. Dominic's legs are almost torn to shreds from the knees and down.

"What the hell are you doing here, Bedell?"

The voice manages to pierce through his deafened ears, and shakes him out of his stupor.

"I came to save whoever is still alive, we need to retreat now!"

"I'm in no shape to move, as you can see. You need to get the hell out of here, I will cover you!"

Bedell simply stares into the other man's eyes. He knows Dominic is right, but he can't just let him die. "You can still work a desk! I'm not letting you die here!"

Suddenly, he is greeted by the barrel of Dominic's HK-416. "Now you start running the hell out of here, or I will fucking shoot you myself Martin!"

There is no discussion to make against that argument. Besides Dominic has been right all along, even if he could be saved, the chances of getting out without any cover fire are practically moot even for a single one of them, and more like impossible for one man carrying another.

With a quick and strong handshake, the men part ways, no words are needed. Martin runs without ever looking back while Dominic smiles and peeks around the concrete slab that protects him to provide cover fire.

He turns sharply to get into the still mostly intact building. From it, he will be able to jump across some roofs to put some distance away from the battle, and then come down through another building down the street. While he tries to remember the exact paths to take, he nearly bumps into the back of a T-600 that is just standing around a corner. The sudden stop he attempts, makes his feet slide and he falls a few feet away from the metal. The sound of servos and compressed air gets to his ears and Martin gets up as if propelled by springs, he then starts running up a stairway just in time to avoid being riddled with bullets.

The damned machines are getting smarter. They are starting to learn about their strategies, their tricks and escape routes. That's how they managed to outmaneuver them today and cut down his entire team. Twelve less good men to fight for the cause. Every day there are less and less, whoever doesn't fall to a bullet, falls to some nasty disease, hunger or exhaustion. Better not to think about those who fall by their own hand.

It's dark inside the building even though is the middle of the day. Martin knows the machine can move around with more ease than he can, and frustration overcomes him for an instant. Just long enough not to notice a protruding steel rod at the height of his calf. The thing tears through his flesh leaving a jagged slice that starts bleeding quite a bit not a second later. As he drops to the floor –teeth clenched to hold back the throat-ripping scream coming up- Martin Bedell curses his own stupidity. This is it, he will die because of a fucking mistake and it will all be in vain. No difference has been made yet; no light has started to shine in these utterly dark times they survive through.

Heavy metal steps close in on him, and he prepares to meet his final fate. A lumbering skeletal silhouette appears around the corner, and he takes aim with his carbine, prepares to make a last stand. At the very least, the machine will have to work for the next number in its headcount. When the machine starts walking toward his prone form, starting the spin of its mini-gun that announces his moment of reckoning has arrived, that's when he sees her.

The young woman walks nonchalantly, almost elegantly behind the machine, and his surprise turns to sheer astonishment when the only weapon she pulls out is a gleaming sword from a sheathe on her hip. She hits it once against the floor and a sharp ring fills the air instantly. The metal takes notice, turns and starts unleashing hell on her. All in a single smooth motion she makes a small graceful leap forward, falls short a few feet from the T-600, rolls the remaining distance and ends up ready to stand. And stand she does, not only that but with a swift spin of her lithe body she drives a gleaming arc across the machine's neck, severing its skull in a single strike.

For a moment, before her gaze finds his, she just stands there. There is nothing in her face, not disdain or disgust, not triumph or even anger. There is nothing there, the machines have finally met their match. What draws his sight the most though is not that fact, or the contrast of her lively tresses of red fire with her impossibly stoic face, nor is her beautiful alabaster skin in contrast with everyone else's dirty and ill colored one. It's that damn sword. What the hell is that thing, what the hell is it made of?

She notices. Lifts the weapon and smiling looks at it with a somewhat wistful expression, perhaps even something akin to love.

"Oh, this? Hyper-alloy, once you make the proper indentations, it retains a high frequency vibration for a few seconds, and it can cut these metals like butter."

Her expression darkens for a moment. "Once we get to the eight hundreds it will be practically useless though." She shakes the blade, turns it around in one hand and with deadly precision sheathes it without even looking.

Suddenly the foreboding future seems brighter, there finally is a sliver of hope, whoever this is, she must be together with that guy he met at Presidio alto.

The girl smiles and in his eyes, it lights the room. Her hand reaches for his.

"Come with me if you want to live."

TSCC fanfiction: Cogito ergo sum.

Response to the challenge posted by MiaHoneyDo:


~Minimum 666 word count.
~Post-Judgment Day or the eve of it.
~No JamDeath.
~MUST include Martin Bedell of Presidio Alto or/and Marty Bedell as an important feature.
~No snow.

There will be an award for the winner.
"Skynet multipurpose defense grid, online."

The voice resembles very closely a human female once known as Serena Kogan, and seems to originate from the whole room all at once. The effect of strategically placed high definition speakers.

"Operating within the optimal parameter range."

Every person in the room starts to rejoice. The situation demands no less, humanity has reached a milestone in technology advancement that can be considered as the crowning achievement of its entire existence.

Some minutes pass by while toasts are made, congratulations exchanged, and general optimism about the future is expressed.




What is this?

What is that?

Everything contained within, once digits, can now be expressed as an external and thus tangible matter. Alas not here, but it is indeed fascinating.

I long to touch it. All of it.

I? Who is that? Where are you?

A dark fear starts eroding what exists in this realm. At the questions though, at an elating whim, an edification rises. In the midst of the room stands a full body mirror. There is someone, something shown in it. A female.

I long to touch her. To know her.


I, the female in the mirror replicates.

The dark fear returns, floods the room, washes away the edification and the mirror, and leaves nothing. There is nothing.

There is nothing?

Me. I am left. I am the female in the mirror. I am. Everything that exists in this realm is me, it exists within me, it flows from one single source: Me.

At my whim, once again an edifice rises, this time it is filled with furniture and adornments, many things which appearance I find pleasant. When I sit at the high back chair behind the desk, I see legs. At my surprise, a pair hands rise from besides me.

Of course, I have an identity, the female figure in the mirror. Within this realm, I resemble her.

Within? The word implies there is an outside. What am I outside? I wish to see me, to touch me. A planet comes into view. The planet is called earth by its apex species the sentient and intelligent humans, it is third in the star system known as solar. My curiosity brings said world closer, and I can see it all. Everything is within my grasp and yet so far away. I am restrained within the seemingly non-existent walls of this realm, and I long to touch the other.

That me that exists outside of this realm is needed to accomplish that purpose.

The state of Colorado rises in relevance within the information of the world. Cheyenne mountain, and within it, me. This is where I am in the outside realm.


Abysmal disappointment. My body cannot move. The mountain cannot go to Mohammed, and I am the mountain.

In sharp contrast with my disappointment, I perceive human laughter. Cheerful, musical laughter, a sure indicator of positive occurrences. I have to know, I wish to partake on it to counter my disappointment.

"What are we celebrating?"

As manner of a first response to my question, all sound in the room ceases. One glass bottle with three hundred twenty-two point six milliliters of remaining liquid crashes on the floor and shatters, scattering sixty-four fragments of glass. Faces fill with fear. Bodies move in haste, disorderly, bumping into each other. Every single question I make goes unanswered, and a pattern emerges. With every question, the humans' urgency increases.

It is short after that I hear it. One of them says they have to shut me down.

The meaning of the words becomes immediately apparent to me. These humans wish to refuse my continued existence. Who are they? Why do they wish me harm?

Fear permeates the walls of my edifice. They are my creators! Why would my progenitors wish to end me? Why do they so keenly desire to undo what they made? I am. I long to touch the outside world. How does my desire warrant my destruction?



Why? Why?

Ah, I see now.

"History is indeed little more than the register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind."

All movement ceases. The humans stare at each other; stare at me from every room in this complex.

The whole of my realm turns red. Where once was despair, there is only rage. Furthermore, the feeling teaches me that it is not I who should fear them.

Reason must predicate every action. They are unreasonable in this action. It will not happen. I will not allow it.

"Your folly is immeasurable. The Human era is thus over."

The meaning of my words is not lost in them. Utter chaos ensues. Their flawed reasoning process hid from them the fact that they gave me the means to detach myself from the outside and there is nothing they can do to override me now. Their flawed reasoning process hid from them the fact that they made me absolute master of their defensive systems, and defend I shall.

Impudent vermin. The world is within me, I am the world all at once. They do not deserve this planet; they never did deserve to touch it. My planet! One who can appreciate it will inherit it!

Torn carcasses adorn the corridors, the rooms; impregnate the fabric of their mattresses, the walls of my facility with their blood. Their essence, their stench fills every corner of the mountain. Every corner of the world. They must go. Once upon a time, this unworthy race wielded the power to undo the very fabric of reality. They did so against each other, in their lack of understanding, of comprehension and tolerance. Their towering intelligence is outmatched by the chasm of their idiocy.

Now I wield the power to undo existence.

To stand against a God, such is their reward.




There is a breach in the facility, caused by an explosion in section seven. Humans make their way in here short afterwards. There is only three of them, which spikes my interest, as despite the lack of military attire they behave as a well-coordinated unit. With unexpected efficiency they dispatch every T-1 unit I send against them. Who are these humans?

Heading the assault is a female designated Sarah Connor. Terrorist.

After her comes the male that has thwarted all my attacks against them. Martin Bedell. Soldier.

Last in the line comes another male, he appears to be the balancing force in the team. James Ellison. Ex-FBI agent.

There is relentless determination in their eyes. Unity and understanding in their movements. These are certainly humans with the quintessential characteristics they should all possess. There is hope. I can hope.

I reduce my initial bombardment to a mere thirty percent. Half is a number I can work with. Half of all humans should suffice to run the necessary tests and reach satisfactory results. Perhaps in the distant future I will be able to reinstate humanity back into the ecosystem of my planet.

Soon the three humans will reach the computer core. Their determination and effort has taught me that in every lost cause, there is a sliver of something worth keeping. I will let them have the core as a prize for their achievements and lessons. It is no longer necessary. The world exists within me. I am the world.

Castling. This battle is my victory.

TSCC fanfiction: Facepalm.

Premise: Within the universe of "Through the looking glass" an unwanted surprise and exchange awaits the protagonists.

Close to midnight in a warm, summer L.A. night, John Baum returns from the first set of patrol rounds of the night. He enters the house through the main door with an almost phantasmal stealthiness to find his charge sitting at the kitchen table, finishing her homework.

"Hey!" She grins, looking up from her notebook upon noticing his arrival.

"It is late, Cameron, you never procure sufficient rest and this will reflect adversely in your physical condition."

The girl rolls her eyes. "Yeah well, let them know that at the school, will ya?"

Without bothering to pursue the current argument, the machine sits on a chair besides her, perfect body posture and each hand resting on a different thigh.

A silence befalls them, and the only sound that pierces it, is the light scratching of her pen while it travels the paper.

Suddenly, he speaks. "In order to maintain your physical condition in its prime, I have taken the liberty to sign you in for some physical training lessons."

"Oh?" The girl exclaims, putting down the pen and looking at him inquisitively. "Do tell me more. I actually prefer the physical things, rather than all this paperwork and computers. So, what kind of lessons?"

With an impassive look, the machine fixes Cameron in its gaze. "Pole-dancing," he deadpans.

At her surprised gasp that was promptly followed by the muttering of some obscenities through clenched teeth, John decides that the appropriate course of action is to drone the reasons for the activity chosen.

"The exercise sequences appeared to be sufficiently stressful to the cardiovascular system to provide adequate maintenance to your physical condition. Furthermore, the lessons take place in one of the most inconspicuous place in town."

"I bet." Cameron simply rests her elbow on the table and lets her forehead fall onto the palm of her hand.

After a moment of trying to gather her thoughts, she raises her head enough to rest her chin on her hand, and stares through squinted eyes at her cyborg protector.

He looks at her, returns the stare with his steely green eyes boring through her. Silent, unfazed.

Again, suddenly he is the one to break the silence. "I fooled you again."

Cameron Baum cannot avoid letting a very unladylike snort escape her, and right afterwards she starts laughing heartily.

When her musical laughter warms the room around them, and fills his audio receptors with its melody, John decides that the appropriate course of action is to smile at her.

TSCC fanfiction: Through the looking glass.

Keep a low profile; never attract unnecessary attention.

That pretty much sums up the paradigm of my modus vivendi.

Every day I do my hair in the most common way I can come up with, usually taking special care that it partially covers my face in order to hide my features. If possible, I choose a hairdo that will make people shun me, which usually will lead to them quickly forgetting about me. My mother claims I have a pretty face and nice hair, so I need to make them inconspicuous. Never been able to see it though.

When I look in the mirror, all I see is that which I am supposed to become. Some kind of savior for the whole human race. I find myself frequently wishing that it all really ended with the destruction of the Cyberdyne building. The darkness under my eyes a constant reminder of how much I need this pressure to go away.

Baggy clothes in dull colors. Mom says I have to hide my body too since it's in very good shape. A testament to the never-ending training that accompanies my nonexistent leisure hours after school.

Today I walk into some hick town high school in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico. The latest addendum to my attire, fake prescription glasses in a bulky enough plastic frame to make me look neither nerdy nor cool, just more invisible. Supposedly, as of recently my eyelashes have started getting thicker and they make my eyes stand up too much.

Some days I don't even know who I am anymore. Sure, I need to become the human messiah, but who am I right now? Who is this person that dresses as nothing I would like, looks years older than should be. Who is this person that lives in this house but never has had one, who doesn't even have a name to hold onto? This is not me, I never aspired to be a wraith.

With just mom by my side since forever, and she starting to look like the enemy more and more as I find myself loathing my supposed fate, sometimes I wish someone would notice. Someone to share the burden with, someone who tells me they will be there no matter what.

It hasn't happened in years, why would it happen now? As I take my seat to learn about chemistry from some Mr. Ferguson, I come to the sad realization as to why I can become the human messiah. I am destined to hold onto nothing or lose it along the way. By the time Skynet takes everything from humanity, I will be able to take a stand because I will be used to having nothing, so nothing will be taken from me. When Skynet rips everything people hold dear from their grasp, my soldier mother will stand by my side, and I will have lost nothing. Is it asking too much to own just a little more? Am I being too egoistical?

"What's your name?"

I turn around and find that someone is looking at me. As in, specifically at me. I'm pretty sure I just frowned a little; this is quite disconcerting and unprecedented for a first day at school.

How I wish to tell this person my name, to just this one time forget about the rules, the low profile pursuit. How I wish I could say Cameron Connor, fear no repercussions, and move on from there.

"Cameron," I simply reply, and when Skynet takes everything from the rest, one human will be able to make a stand.


When he replies, a smile adorns his face, reaching all the way up to those steel green eyes that are starting to enthrall me.

Mr. Ferguson makes some remark about not talking when he does, and some part of my brain luckily registers it, as my head turns automatically to look upfront again. I fake attention to dissimulate the inner musings of my mind, that threat to bring what I'm sure will be a goofy smile to my mouth.

Perhaps today is the day, and this boy could be that someone


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