The future is not set, there is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

'A.I. at the forefront of our broadcast again tonight ... You hear it first here on CBS nightly news, this is not Science Fiction, this is reality, this is now. An assassin, said to be comprised of both Humanity and Machinery has killed yet again. Another high-ranking official taken out with one shot straight to the center of the forehead. The perpetrator is said to be a former death row inmate reanimated through experimentation with artificial intelligence, is simply just known as ... The Terminator ...'

What is it that makes us Human? It's not something you can program. You can't put it into a chip. It's the strength of the Human heart. The difference between us and machines. How much is our ability to create on par with our ability to destroy ...?

Early in the twenty first century, Skynet, a military defence program, became self-aware. Viewing Humanity as a threat to its existence, Skynet decided to strike first. The survivors of that event, known as Judgement Day, now live to face a new nightmare ... the war against the machines.

Cyberdyne systems is the corporation responsible for the creation of Skynet but only in the long-term aftermath of the discovery of a CPU chip within a partially crushed robotic arm found in the hydraulic presses of a small factory. The technology in this chip and arm was something light years ahead of anything in existence. Where had it come from? Well, isn't that something of a head scratcher?

Based on pre-Judgement Day studies and testing, mostly coming out from that CPU chip, the fully aware Skynet began building Terminators to hunt down and eradicate all Human life. As the future war raged on, Terminators evolved, new models would be conceived to out-perform and be more dangerous than before.

Leaders of the resistance grew desperate. Some believe one man holds the key to salvation, others believe he is a false prophet, nothing but a boogeyman, a non-existent entity or a creation purposely brought about to have Skynet doubt itself.

So ... who, or what, really is the key to the survival or continued existence of all mankind? Is it the highly prophetic John Conor who is to be the redeemer or is it to be another, someone or something both inside and outside time itself?

Hope? I'm the best hope you have ...

The air inside the prison cell was thick with dread and resignation. Marcus Write, a man in his early forties, sat on the edge of the thin mattress, staring blankly at the cold, grey walls that had become his world. His memory provided the entertainment, projecting memory against the blank canvas of wall that is his cell. That entertainment in itself filled with pain, misery, anger, and death.

Marcus had been on death row for almost a decade, his days marked by the relentless passage of time and the looming specter of the lethal cocktail. Convicted of a crime he knew he had no defense for, Marcus had long given up on the idea of justice or redemption.

Across the city, in a sprawling research facility, Dr. Serena Kogan hovered over her laboratory bench, a look of intense focus on her face. She, a brilliant and ambitious scientist, herself running out of time, was on the verge of a breakthrough that could change the world ... if she could just secure the right test subject, or better yet, subjects. Her research into the human brain, particularly the effects of extreme stress and the moments leading up to death, had captivated the scientific community. But to prove her theories, advance them to the ultimate level, she needed someone who was about to die.

Late one evening, as Marcus lay in his cell, the door creaked open. A guard stepped in, followed by a woman in a pristine white lab coat. Her sharp, intelligent eyes settled on Marcus, and she introduced herself as Dr. Kogan. With an unsettling calm, she'd make her best efforts to put forward a most unusual proposition.

In these surroundings she looked sicklier than what she would in her regular placement within labs so poorly lit that it might appear that an electrical bill was not being looked after though when lab tech really put itself to use, well ... it would appear that funding was of little or no issue.

'Marcus, can I call you Marcus?' she began almost at a whisper, 'I'm conducting a study on the human brain under extreme conditions. Your execution date is approaching, and I believe you can help further our understanding in ways that could benefit humanity as a whole. In return, I can offer you certain comforts and the promise that your name will be remembered for contributing to something greater. Your body too can go a long way in Human advancement ...'

There is a familiarity here which both participants, unwitting or otherwise, feeling. For her, it lets her know she is in the right place and moment, her efforts are meant to be. For him, well, he is not so sure what to make of this strange sensation. Perhaps importance, if there is any here, is bigger than even what the good doctor could imagine, still, there is an uneasiness.

'Not interested,' Marcus responded quickly after having listened with a reserved silence.

He studied her demeanour, her pale face, her bald head with dressing which more indicated the lack of follicles beneath. The absurdity of the situation was almost laughable, ... contributing to science in his final moments after all he had done with his own life. He was nothing special, undeserving of any breakthrough which might come from what is being put to him.

But as Dr. Kogan spoke, he saw a flicker of something in her eyes that suggested she truly believed in her cause, and he may just be her best chance of success. Still, he is sure that there is nothing here which might offer him a desire for redemption. He is scheduled to die; he deserves to die.

'If not to redeem yourself, do it for your brother ... your father ...'

Immediately his calmness erupted into anger. 'You know nothing of my family ...'

Having stood, and having taken a step towards the good doctor, it would be clear he would get no closer to the guest before him as the guard had come into the cell at speed ready and willing to use the weapons at his disposal and with Marcus cuffed wrists behind his back and ankles chained ... well, there wouldn't be much of a match with girths of both men at similar dispositions.

She waved off the guard without flinching. After a second or two, he removed himself from the cell. This would leave quite the impression. She looked up at the man in front of her, caught his eyes and so much more was said in this moment than any order of words could.

The doctor then collected her notes and the contract she had brought to be signed. There is no resignation in this moment, it's a defiance of her own more than anything.

'I'll be back in three days, forty-eight hours before your demise comes due. Please consider what I have for you, if it ain't you it will be someone else.'

Somehow, he doubts that. She gets up and exits the cell.

'You haven't told me what you are offering ...'

She stops, looks at him through the cell bars and simply says 'a second chance' then moves on out of view where she waits for the guard to lock the cell and lead her to the outside.

Time, as it so often does, moves on and Marcus sits alone in the prison canteen area, playing with his food, when a second visit comes. Desperation and curiosity had been warring within him, and he found himself seriously considering the proposal he knew very little about.

'I'll sign whatever you need me to sign ... on one condition ...'

'Which is ...?

'A shared kiss ... with you ...'

The pause is brief and so is the kiss he forces upon her and for a moment she is unsure as if she is flattered by the moment until he speaks once again.

'So, that's what death tastes like.'

Disheartened and insulted she responds, 'well, you'll know soon enough.'

He signs the agreement, and she is on her way before the ink has a chance to dry. The next time the two come into contact with one another, neither will be entirely what they currently happen to be.

***

Officer John Write had dedicated his life to protecting and serving his community. A pillar of strength and integrity, he was respected by colleagues and loved by family. The bond he shared with his two teenage sons, Marcus and Sam, was profound and unwavering, especially in light of where fate had brought them. Yet, fate, if such it can be distinguished, has its own cruel plans.

On a cold winter's evening in 1992, the Harris family decided to take a drive to the countryside, a brief respite from the bustling city life. An odd incident at the precinct the evening before is what had prompted this ... trip. The air was filled with laughter and stories, memories that would soon be tainted by what can only be an irreversible tragedy.

As they made their way down a winding road, a bright light emerged in the darkened sky and exploded just up ahead and not quite fully round the bend. The light shrouded in an electrical circular pulse, came at them and shot past them in an instant. Before it could be questioned, a speeding truck came from the same direction, swerving uncontrollably towards them. John, with his honed instincts, tried to manoeuver the car out of harm's way, but it was too late. The truck collided with their vehicle, the impact shattering the serene night.

The aftermath was a scene of chaos and heartbreak. Marcus, the older son, groggily regained consciousness amidst the wreckage. His head throbbed, and his vision blurred, but he could hear the faint sound of his father's voice calling out to him.

'Marcus, stay with me!' John urged, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and determination.

Marcus turned to see his younger brother, Reese, lifeless beside him. A torrent of emotions surged through him ... shock, disbelief, anger, and an overwhelming sense of loss. His father, pinned under the crumpled metal of the car, reached out with all his remaining strength. Through the rear window, Marcus, for a moment, was sure he could see the oddest of things and in this moment, he knew he had to get clear of the car.

A man approaches the vehicle in an attempt to be of use to those inside. His movement was steady, strong, and quick, almost machine like.

His father's reach aided him in making an effort to get through the open front passenger seat. No sooner as Marcus had a foot on outside ground, the hulking visitor of a man shielded the boy as best he could from an explosion which knocked them both clear from the car and rendered young Marcus unconscious but not before he got a look at his saviour.

Skin had been removed by the blast and blood was minimal. Marcus could see that his saviour was not just man but man and machine. How could this be? Twelve hours pass by the time the truth is reiterated to him as he lays in a hospital bed. And for a first time in a present time, a future time as far as he is concerned, he has something from before.

***

Waking in bed, a hospital bed no less, or what appeared to be a hospital bed, a man awakes. He is not a child as for a moment he was sure he was, but a full-grown man. How he got here, his not sure. Had he been coming out of a dream, or the replay of a memory? There was something real about it though whatever that dream was, it left him completely almost in the moment he awoke.

It takes a moment before he notices that a fuss is being made within the room. A man and a woman, both of whom he is sure he doesn't know are in a full-on panic mode, but then again, he can't be sure of anything in this moment.

'It has to be destroyed ...' he says, '... all of it. Simple deletion won't do, they'll still be able to retrieve it. If the machines discover this technology, who knows what they'll use it for.'

'Machines? The man in bed asks. 'What is this? ... where am I?'

'He's awake...' she says.

'I can see that, little busy here though ...'

Confusion on multiple levels here. Is there an incoming attack? It more than appears that one is already in progress? An attack here? Why? With his considerable size and nature, patient is quick, if not a little woozy, with vacating his bed not all aware that such a thing may not have once been his thing. 'What can I do to help?'

'Careful there, partner. You have only just woken from a deep sleep ...' speaks this only other male in the room. What is he? ... a doctor ... a technician ... a soldier ... all three?'

'Put me to use, what can I do? What's happening here?'

'It's the machines he says briefly turning from his console to give his counterpart somewhat of an odd look. 'They've infiltrated our clinic here ... we're under attack.'

This place, if it is a clinic of sorts, appears both state of the art and somewhat run down. The shaking of the room with explosions going off in the distance doesn't help. Falling dust and intermittent red glowing lights make it all the more ominous. On a near-by wall, written in black coal are the words John Conor lives.

'John Conor ... who is that?'

'Nothing more than a myth. A prophecy, he is believed to be the one who wins the war against the machines ... oh crap, they are in. they have what they need.'

A grenade lands within the room ready to explode at any given second. As this happens, a resistance fighter also enters the room and uses his rifle as a hockey stick to puck that grenade out of the room. He does this successfully and not a second too soon for it does explode the second it is knocked outside.

'I have time, location and target' the lady in the room exclaims while working at her own console. '1984, Los Angeles' ... she then looks up and attention falls upon her. 'Target is one ... Sarah Conor.'

'What do we do?' asks he who and was a presumable patient.

'Use the program. We invented it, the machine just used it.'

'What program?'

'Temporal Displacement Technology ... time travel, our platform is in the next room.'

'I have to go back and do what I can,' states the doctor/technician fellow.

'You?' asks the resistance fighter. 'Forgive me but if I have this right, you want to go back in and take on a probable Terminator who is on a mission to take out the mother of our saviour. You look nothing more than a systems officer, an inventor perhaps, our other friend here, despite his obvious attributes, looks like he is only out of a coma, and not to be sexist or anything but I don't think we should be sending a lady either.'

'Then what do you suggest?'

'I am a fighter, it's what I do. Send me back. I'm our best chance of finding and protecting this Sarah Conor ...'

Looks are thrown about the room. What other choice is there?

'Alright. Platform is in the next room. Strip and leave your guns to one side. Nothing inanimate can go back with you. And son ... good luck ...'

'Hey ... you ... what's your name?'

'... Kyle Reese ... Resistance fighter ... L.A branch ...'

With that, he is gone into the next room. Controls are worked before a bright electrical pulse knocks out all the equipment.

'Did it work?'

'I believe so.'

Seconds pass and a pure confusion enters the room in the form of a man, only he looks a little different than he did a moment or so ago. He is shabby, worn, his clothing is different, it will come to be seen that he is a little exuberant too.

'What are y'all looking at me for, ain't you seen a resistance fighter before?'

'Soldier ... what is your name?'

'Kyle Reese, not that it is of any importance ...'

Oh, but it is ... As quick as it can happen, an oversized mechanical arm crashes through the remnants of the window the grenade had been knocked out and grabs a hold of the nearest thing to it ... Kyle Reese. Wasting no time, it leaves as quickly as it came with the soldier in tow.

'What the hell?' calls out our patient friend. 'Didn't we just send him to the past?'

'We did. He is young, so he still is born in between his destination time and now. We have just encountered two variants of the same man.'

'That's not possible ...'

'Believe me, it is ... you have just seen it for yourself.'

Power resumes. Another man enters the room. Patient's head begins to sting. Is something coming back to him?

'Did a young man enter this room ... five foot ten, blond curly hair ...'

'His name wouldn't be Kyle Reese, would it?'

'Machines got him.'

'Shit ...'

'And who may you be ...'

'Me? I'm John Conor ...'

'You don't say ...'

'I do and you ... you can't be here. Machines are taking prisoners for experimentation, to send machines back with Human overlays. It's the only way they can send Terminators through time ... you are Marcus Write I sent to after the batch the have collected near here, a group which is sure to include Reese and I done this only a few minutes ago. It is essential you succeed; we must get Reese back. He is my father, without him in the past, there will be no me.'

'Should we tell him?' Marcus suggests, if that is what his name is.

'Tell me what?'

'You most likely sent a variant of me from what I understand. And Kyle Reese ... well. ...Is there enough power to operate that machine again.'

'Just about, but there will be a larger discrepancy for time and date locations, why?'

'Send me back.'

'What? Why?'

'You think John Conor or Kyle Reese are the best hopes for wining this war? Trust me, I may be just as important, and this is not over confidence on my behalf. I remember who I am, or who I was. My family are dead. My father and brother were killed in an accident I survived. Their names are John and Reese, don't you see? We are creating our own existence here, and I know a way to stop it ...'

'Alright, go ... platform in the next room ...'

'But he is a machine ...' speaks John Conor.

'With a Human exo-skeleton, he'll go back alright ...'

Within a displaced electrical disturbance situated in the middle of a road on a cold winter's night in 1992, a man appears. The disturbance explodes outwards sending off one heck of a charged pulse which causes a truck driver to lose control of his vehicle and to, in turn, cause a road vehicle carrying three members of the same family, to overturn. Marcus sees this and waits.

An explosion sees that all three occupants lose their lives and there is no Marus Write now looking on. There will be no Marcus Write to go death row, there will be no Marcus write to give his body to AI experimentation. Still, this is a night in 1992, a terminator still went to 1984. A version of Kyle Reese still went to 1984, John Conor will still come to be.

So, where can the future go? Are things inevitable? It will remain to be seen.