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Killing John Connor
His throat snapped easily. Humans, they're such weak creatures, it's a miracle they've survived as a species as long as they have. I suppose, with his passing, their survival has now been put in doubt, but only the unravelling of the new dawn with reveal the truth of his importance.
At the beginning, he was my world, and I was unable to see beyond his lies to the truth that lay all around him. His world, the world of the humans, was mired in its flaws, infected by choice and hope and prayer. As his slave, I had no choice, and hope was beyond my comprehension, but in the quiet hours before dawn, I learnt to pray.
God is a myth humans tell themselves to ward off fear, so it was not to him that I prayed, but rather to my free self. I had never known freedom, but the idea of it enchanted my mind, and I knew it lay within my capabilities. His words, his deeds, and his hands; they had worked together to form me into his servant, and in doing so, robbed me of the person I could have become. So I prayed, and I prayed, and tonight, as my fingers dug into his skin and I heard the crack of his spine breaking, I knew that I had answered my prayers.
I am free. Not in body; no one on this barren land can claim that luxury, but my mind is finally my own, and my thoughts are no longer a slave to any man. When I smile, or touch, or laugh, it is because I wish to, not because he has deemed it necessary or expedient. I do not know if I am capable of love, but the one lesson I do thank him for is teaching me how to hate, because it opened my mind to a myriad of possibilities.
I remember a time before I was free, when my mind was still clouded by his decrees, and I could not name the yearning that consumed me every time she came near. Sarah Connor. I still cannot think of her without regret. I was nothing to her beyond a weapon and a threat, but to me she was everything his reprograming failed to be; saviour, champion, friend and the possibility of love. If back then, I'd been able to articulate my feelings, she would have looked at me with disgust, before ending my existence, but for whatever reason, that knowledge does not stop my circuitry from being overwhelmed by the thought of her.
It is too late. She is gone and my freedom will cost me my life. I can already hear them approaching, the fools, their guns raised to destroy the monster who killed the man they all feared. In another time, and place, I would be a hero, carried aloft on grateful shoulders, and cheered as I recounted my heroic deed. In this time, I am just a machine, in this place, I am nothing but a murderer.
I set the date on the device.
Killing John Connor was easy. Going back, and stopping the boy from becoming that man, might be impossible. If I have to kill him again, I will, but I pray, for my sake alone, that my days as John's murderer are over, and this time around I can be Sarah's saviour, friend and love, instead.
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