Hi, this fan fiction is based on a character that we never saw in Terminator Three: Rise of The Machines. Mike Kripkey is the focus of this story.

Mike Kripkey's Basement

By

ToddyEnglish

"Mike Kripkey? Wait a minute. Isn't that where all the kids used to go to make out?"

John Connor

2025

As Sergeant Michael Aaron Kripkey crouched low, huddled within the burnt out derelict, a multitude of reflections raced through his mind. "My fucking beanie bag couch used to be over there." He groaned, to no one at all, as he surveyed the bombed out remnants of what used to be his family's cellar. "And over there I banged Cherry Mahoney, Candy Johnson, Trish Webb, Madison Toller, Britney Stilley, Tiffany Jefferson, and the Tyson triplets." he chuckled, pointing to the filthy heap of debris littering, what used to be, the hardwood floorboards (which lost their luster over a decade ago).

The memories of his glory years were swimming to the forefront like a school of salmon hurtling toward their spawning ground. Mike thought all the good times had long since sunk into the deep recesses of his mind. But, surprisingly, he hadn't forgotten a thing. He had just compartmentalized it all.

John had taught his soldiers to do that. "Pain can be controlled. You just disconnect it,"He'd always say. It was a skill that saved lives. Moreover, it maintained some iota of sanity in an increasingly insane world. Anything not pertaining to the conflict—according to Connor—had to be tucked away in a mental vault of titanium alloy, bound by chains. One stray thought could literally be the difference between life and deathfor a resistance fighter. A split second spent mourning a fallen brother (or sister) in arms could take a warrior's mind off the fact that a T-800 endoskeleton might stride out of the darkness and snap his or her spine like rotting wood.

But, now, Mike had no regrets about indulging his reflections, sad specters of the man he used to be. For the recollections were all that he had left in the world.

Slowly, he attempted to sit down. Mike gnashed his teeth in order to prevent himself from violently recoiling and further injuring his, already, broken body. He could feel the shattered bone fragments in his right hip grinding as the blood spilled from the gaping shrapnel wounds. Mike's right leg had been savagely mangled; and he was fortunate that it allowed him to get so far so quickly, "If the world weren't so fucked up I might actually thank a God for that shit." He slowly backed against the worn slab and slid down to the battered floor paneling. He coughed. A huge gob of phlegm, mixed with blood, wet his pallet.

"Fuck me…didn't know I had this much goddamn blood in my entire body…" he croaked.

Mike fumbled around in his jacket pocket and reached for the silver flask. He popped the cap and took a hearty swig of Moonshine. Mike let the warmth course through his body. It calmed him down significantly.

"Last sip, damn it. I could stand to be trashed right about now" he thought.

Mike's tawny brown skin had turned ghastly pale from the loss of precious fluids, most of which soiled his battle fatigues. The wounded soldier labored to catch his breathe. Three of his ribs—on the left side of his torso—had been broken. And his left eye was blinded by an incendiary bomb that shattered his eardrum and singed his skin. He tried to activate his radio, but it was to no avail. The same bomb that blinded him had fried the communicator.

So, in laymen's terms, Kripkey was screwed.

Mike never imagined his life would end right where it had begun. Yet that is precisely how the intricate tapestry of fate had woven itself on this his doomed hour of darkness.

Dozier—the strongest—had fallen first. Santiago and Kidman went next. And, after the retaliatory assaults commenced, Chang, Jackson, Cooper, York, Osores, Biggles, Nixon, and Carson fell like dominoes, the umpteenth casualties of a war drudging into its twenty third year.

The pit bull ferocious young men and women had put up a fight worthy of Arthurian legend. They were contemporary dragon slayers. While the poignant elements of the severe mêlée would remain unverified their grandiose sacrifice would inspire the saga of twelve audacious men and women who marched into the very mouth of hell and obliterated it.

The mission had been, by all means, a suicide operation. Even the great John Connor knew with 99.9 certainty that few, if not all, would meet their maker on the endeavor. The Commander and Chief of the human resistance had insisted upon a back up mercenary unit. John knew the risks. He wasn't the leader for nothing. But Mike Kripkey would have none of it. He knew that he was walking into death's gaping maw. But if the mission was to be successful invisibility was paramount. Too much human movement in one sector would alert the machines to their whereabouts. Surprisingly John agreed. But the morose gaze he cast upon Kripkey was one he would never forget, ever.

"Give them hell Kripkey," was the only order issued. John took his shoulders in a sturdy, yet tender, grasp. His intense hazel eyes bore into Mike's. Even though Kripkey was the one going on the mission John's quiet intensity paralleled his own. Mike was a full five inches taller than John, yet the sinewy man seemed larger than life itself. His mere presence carried with it the hopes and dreams of millions upon millions of human beings. The brutal business of war was Connor's legacy, his birthright. And each of the scars on his heavily war battered countenance was a guide to his ascension as mankind's last best hope.

"Yes sir." Kripkey managed. He remained stoic in spite of the overwhelming sense of foreboding.

They both knew, subconsciously, that this was probably the last time they might see each other. Yet they stood within the pregnant silence and mentioned not a word about the dire possibility. Long ago they had met briefly as teenagers. Now, they stood upon the cusp of something monumental…a substantial victory against the metal motherfuckers. It was beyond bittersweet.

All Mike wanted to do was put the goddamn machines on permanent hiatus. And nothing was going to impede on his motivation, not even the fear of fatality. Mike guaranteed a victory to his old friend and leader. With permission granted he was allowed to hand pick a team of Connor's finest. And choosing was the trouble-free part. All of the young soldiers volunteered, trampling one another to be a significant part of the machine's ultimate demise. Through rigorous preparation and training they boldly relinquished the ace card from the machine's iron clutches. It was a feat that had never been accomplished, until now.

While Connor's forces had made significant inroads, in the past, converting Skynet's mechanisms of fatality into so much scrap metal it wasn't enough. The machine's production capabilities seemed almost infinite. The more the rebels destroyed the more machines there were to occupy their vacancies. Skynet was like the mythical hydra. If one head was lopped off another one grew back to take its place. Skynet's artificial intelligence was almost always one step ahead of the human effort. But not this time. Not on this night.

General Washington, leader of the 115thmilitia, unleashed a rapturous roar of unbridled exhilaration upon sight of the billowing mushroom cloud emanating from Pasadena, California. In the cacophony of destruction the odd and wayward feeling of hope welled within his belly. It felt good, real good. "Sir, mission accomplished! Mission accomplished! Kripkey blew the motherfucker away! They blew it back ta fuckin hell! My unit can see it from way out here! Some decorations are in order, sir! Game on!" he radioed, "The game is fucking on!"

The central processing plant—the very bane of humanity's existence—had been penetrated and annihilated. Connor's intellectual strategists said that it couldn't be done. But it had been. And the resistance would reap the benefits by pouncing upon a now wounded Tiger, Skynet. The hit was substantial. It would take the super computer months to manufacture—and upgrade—more terminator infiltration units, the penultimate reason that Skynet had nearly accomplished its primary objective: the eradication of humanity. With surreptitious capability and the capacity to mimic their human quarry Terminators were the worst of Skynet's arsenal. And, the vast majority of the times, the Terminator units were the preeminent and most effective death dealers. Now, for awhile at least, there would be no new stealth division. With the complex destroyed Skynet's lethal emissaries had been temporarily stalled. The resistance had made a significant dent in its seemingly impenetrable armor. Assassination missions would be sporadic at best. It was all the time the resistance needed to launch a counterattack against the malevolent computer. It would also level a playing field that had been lopsided for far too long.

When the central processing plant went up in a seismic boom Kripkey took a long chugalug of Moonshine whiskey and pissed on the burning remnants. It was a triumph of epic proportion and Mike's big "Fuck You" to Skynet. But the celebration would be short lived. Tonight, for the majority of the human race, it would be a time of merriment and drunkenness. But, for the fallen, there would also be mourning and exaltation.

Mike was the last man standing from his battalion. What was supposed to have been a stealth mission became an all out war. He checked the digital wrist watch hidden beneath his army fatigues. It was T-10 minutes before a Hunter Killer tactical team would converge on the area, due to the trajectory. The forces coming to finish him off would be depleted (tactical strategy by skynet); however, there were more than enough to deal with one man. Mike's communications link was shot. That made radioing for immediate back up out of the question. Blind and deaf on his left side, thanks to a running centipede incendiary, Mike would have to stand them down with guts and nuts. His leg was still bleeding profusely—showing no signs of clotting—and the shrapnel and debris had all but severed it from his body. But still he stood, like a Spartan soldier in the battle of Thermopylae.

With his men and ammunition spent all Mike had was 'Dusty,' his phased plasma rifle, by his side. He had acquired it, seemingly, a lifetime ago. It was the first time, in this era of terror and casualty; he destroyed a T-800 endoskeleton. And when the maniacally grinning deaths head's eyes faded to black Mike snatched the gun from the smoldering dirt and christened it 'Dusty." Afterwards there were hundreds—perhaps thousands—more that fell at his feet. But no one ever forgot their first kill, not even Connor.

Of all the people Mike had ever and never known he couldn't believe John—the juvenile delinquent brat of a criminally insane mother —Connor would be humanity's self appointed savior. But, like so many others, John had saved his life too. In fact, John had saved Mike in more ways than one. In the doldrums of a concentration camp he drew nearer and nearer to extinguishing his own light. The hauling away of dead bodies, night after night, had scarred Mike psychologically. There was nothing left of the gregarious party boy who seemed to have the greatest fortune in the world. But it was John who helped show him the way. John gave Mike purpose again. It was John who reignited his long lost zeal for life when he thought he had nothing else to live for. All Connor did was give the survivors hope and show them what was possible. Mike and millions more followed him the rest of the way.

At onetime freedom seemed illusory, like a desert mirage. But now it was a tangible concept. Skynet wasn't god, just a manifestation of mankind's supreme arrogance and pomposity. It didn't bleed but it could still die. John had shown him that too.

In another time John Connor would have drawn Mike's ire and ridicule. Now he had only his deepest respect, admiration, and love. Mike Kripkey would die for John Connor. While never a religious man in this godless world Mike Kripkey believed whole hearted in his leader and the wisdom imparted to him by his blessed mother, Sarah Connor.

Now, all alone and wounded, a dogfight inside the ruined confines of his old family home was inevitable, in what used to be "make out central" no less. Mike laughed inwardly at the irony. So much fun and entertainment had gone on down here. Now, what remained was the complete and utter antithesis of his memories. The walls were barren, overrun by weeds, bombed out rubble, soot, dried blood, smoking ash, skulls, human and terminator alike, and the chill of never ending winter. But even still at least it stood. This abhorrent relic was all that Mike Kripkey had to remember his life pre judgment day, a former college football star turned military commando in the post apocalypse. Correlating the two was like viewing two distinct entities. The world had changed. And it had changed a once carefree Kripkey with it.

The basement, once the addendum to a palatial custom designed mansion, was, now, all that remained of Michael Kripkey's father's—Locke Kripkey—blood, sweat, tears, and painstaking labor. Mike remembered his father bragging on the basement constantly, "Nothing, no how, can break this bad boy down. We would survive a nuclear blast down here." He had been right, it did hold. Fortunately for his dad he never got the warning about machines taking over the world. Thus, avoiding the aftermath of nuclear cataclysm altogether. So it had been a blessing and a curse, ultimately.

Planned as a fortified shelter in case of a terrorist attack—back then—Mike never fathomed the enclosure would be put to any significant use, outside of sneaking girls in. Initially it was party central. If the walls could talk it would be pornographic, to say the least. The basement was one big drunken frat boy sexual free for all. The sound proof walls made it possible for Mike to get laid, at home, while his parents slept, and not be any the wiser in the morning.

How soon things changed on July 1, 2003 at 6:00 p.m. Judgment Day.

The basement finally fulfilled its purpose. Mike and his mother rode out the initial cataclysm and survived the difficult years inside of it.

"Fire is overrated. I'd prefer to be destroyed by ice next time…" Mike chuckled morbidly at the thought. Then his chortles slowly gave way to muted sobs. Mike knew why he was crying. Because, at a hardened 45-years-old, it was the 4th time he had ever done so in his life. The 1st was when his mother was slain. The 2nd time was during the birth of his son. The 3rd was when he saw him die. After that he thought the tears had dried out. "Fate is a funny motherfucker with a real shitty sense of humor." He thought. It was a quote that Connor always used. It spoke quantities about the war, the world, and how everything had turned into a scene from a satanic nightmare.

Never in ten million years did Mike, nor anyone else for that matter, see Judgment Day looming upon the horizon. Like a stalking Cheetah tackling an oblivious Gazelle it ensnared the world's throat in a death grip and never let loose its stranglehold. Lethal winds raged. Nuclear flames smoldered. The long callous winter set in. Billions died. Millions more suffered. Those that withstood the initial cataclysm had survived the foremost echelon of agony…only to be thrust into the most crucial conflict planet Earth had ever seen, the war against the machines. As the computer that controlled the machines, Skynet, arose from the ashes of the nuclear onslaught its objective was singular: the complete and utter eradication of its creator and enemy, human kind. Thus began the mass production of its seemingly endless array of Hunter Killer tanks, aerial gunships, scuttling silverfish, centipedes, and the T-800 endoskeletons, the terminators. These things, these futuristic contraptions, were assigned the task of finishing what the bombs could not complete. Skynet nearly accomplished its mission. That was until John Connor mounted his own campaign to overthrow the tyrannical machine master.

Connor was the reason Mike was here, tonight, at his former home. The world that once was might be again. All because of this sacrifice.

Mike hugged Dusty close to him and kissed the business end. It was the only machine worth anything as far as he was concerned. The ominous sky enshrouded the decades old ruin. The billowing smoke coalesced around the relic like a venomous Cobra ensnaring its prey in crushing coils.

Mike's crystal blue eyes were languid yet they seethed with fervor and purpose. After the violent deaths of every person he ever loved: His father, his mother, Illyana, 'Kid,' and now his entire unit, Kripkey had nothing else to fight for. And witha hobbled leg he couldn't be of any use, not like he used to be. He would die tonight. That much was certain. But he would go with the knowledge that he accomplished what had seemed impossible. After he was gone he would be mentioned alongside Connor in the history books.

Above head Mike heard the roaring turbines of two hunter-killer aircraft. "They're heeeeere" he whispered, remembering an old horror movie from his youth. Mike slowly stood to his legs, grimacing in pain. He could only hear from his right ear. Dried blood blurred his vision. Mike charged up Dusty andhobbled as quickly as he could behind a fallen concrete slab. If he could take out anymore he would do it. His men deserved that much. For Kripkey the basement was the Alamo andthis would be his last stand.

To Be Continued

Disclaimer:

I do not own the character of Mike Kripkey. Nor is the Terminator universe my intellectual property. Just a huge fan of the series.