Disclaimer: This will be my first and maybe my only T-Salvation fanfic. I'm a Marcus Wright fan and thought killing the character was a terrible idea. Since the character's "death" occurred off camera, I'm treating it like a soap opera death and pretending it did not happen. I figure it's my story, so I can tell it the way I want to. I have no claim financial or otherwise to any of the characters or anything to do with the Terminator franchise. Original characters are mine, however. WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DOMESTIC VIOLENCE. Constructive reviews are welcome, negative, not so much. Thanks.

The Human Condition-Chapter 1 That Which Does Not Kill Me

Year 2019

"Let's see" Marcus Wright said replied testily. John and Kate Connor watched as Wright paced off his sour mood. With Blair Williams flying recon, Kyle Reese on comm duty and little Star in school, Marcus figured he had no friendly faces in this room. He and John Connor had a prickly, unspoken respect for one another, but that was as far as it went. Kate, of course, could be counted to side with her husband. She seemed to regard Marcus alternately as a sleeping danger to her spouse and the resistance and a potential source of information on Skynet. Connor's self appointed bodyguard, Major Barnes stood off to one side, glowering. The area between Marcus's shoulder blades always itched when Barnes was present. Locked in his subconscious and probably also somewhere within his metal endoskeleton was the memory of Barnes using him as a revenge surrogate months before. Marcus usually tried to ignore the man, but it wasn't always easy.

"Why don't we do a quick review? I've been shot up, strung up, beaten up, blown up and dismembered in the name of scientific clarification. I've been experimented on, napalmed and used for target practice. Have I left anything out? Oh wait, I did. I've undergone major surgery which should have killed me but didn't because I'm this Frankentech freak with a backup power source that even I didn't know about. So excuse me for still walking around." He would never say so to anyone, but the attempt two weeks prior by a pair of rogue resistance fighters to kill him with an RPG still had him rattled. Even more so, because Star, seeing the weapon about to be fired, attempted to warn him and was nearly killed in the process. He'd been able to shield the little girl from the worst of the blast, which he'd barely managed to duck away from, but both he and she had been injured. He was still trying to shake it off mentally. It was proving to be more difficult that he would have liked.

"You have to remember something, Marcus" John Connor interrupted. "Your unique status is a new one for the rest of us too. We had no way of knowing about how what Skynet has done to you will affect any of us over time. The only way to gain that knowledge is to study you. And sometimes the only way to do that is up close. "

"Marcus" Kate Connor joined in, compelled to offer a defense for her medical and science team, "it wasn't and isn't our intention to 'torture' you, or to cause you any pain. I apologize for that, but sometimes it will be unavoidable and necessary." Kate, a veterinarian before Judgment Day, had come late, but of dire necessity to treating humans. She had come a long way since first being confronted with Marcus's stunning physiology but admitted within herself that she still had a ways to go when it came to regarding him with the same compassion she summoned for any of her other patients.

"Kate, we're never going to agree on what should be considered necessary, so why don't we not wake that one up, ok? You know, all the anesthetics in the world don't help when the techs start in on me. This thing" he tapped the right side of his forehead to indicate the neural-net computer, " flushes them from my system as fast as your medical people can push them. I can feel everything you do to me. And it hurts. You want to know something? So far, not feeling the love" Marcus rejoined, trying to reign in his ire. Unloading his temper on Connor's wife would almost certainly work against him, and he had enough to contend with as it was. Besides, he allowed silently, he was straying dangerously close to whining, something he'd always refused to allow himself to indulge in, ever. Marcus despised whiners. He turned to stare briefly out the window at, what any other time, would be considered a decently spectacular sunset. Right at the moment he didn't notice.

Besides, he thought to himself, you certainly doled out your share of misery and pain on the other side of the time line. Payback was slowly but surely walking him down. Marcus granted that he had a lot he had not yet answered for, but for now, at least, he could use a breather.

He turned back. "Do you hear yourselves? 'Study you, sometimes the pain will be unavoidable and necessary?' I'm not a lab experiment, well at least I'm not anymore. I'm serving notice as of now. I'm gnawing my leg free of the trap, Connor. From now on, no more 'studying' me without my consent. I'm done having you stick pins in me to find out if it makes somebody else yell 'ow'. No more tests unless I say different. You can tell your visiting Arizona resistance reps" Marcus said, bringing the conversation back around to its origins, "that I said if they don't like it, they can kiss my heavy metal ass. Or maybe" he smiled nastily, "if you prefer, I can tell 'em myself."

"No!" Connor shot back forcefully. "I want you to stay well clear of the Arizona contingent unless and until I say different. I'll settle this issue for everyone concerned. Is that clear?" John's hazel eyes held Marcus's Wright's aqua blue ones for a handful of heartbeats. Marcus had never disobeyed a direct order, at least not from him. Still, Connor breathed an inner sigh of relief when the other man finally nodded an assent.

John was the acknowledged leader of the resistance, but the national and worldwide movements still retained a great deal of autonomy. Connor was still in the process of pulling the various threads together under his command. Having Marcus complicate matters by getting in the Arizona fighters faces with his "piss off" attitude was something he didn't need, especially right now.

"They stay away from me, I'll stay away from them."

That was all the ground he was prepared to cede, but, apparently it was enough for John Connor. Marcus was perfectly willing to make nice as long as the sentiment was reciprocated. IF somebody wanted to play nasty, he could do that too, an object lesson he'd had to reinforce more than once since arriving here. During Marcus's "settling in" period, a few loudmouths had had to learn the hard way a lesson people on the other side of the Judgment Day timeline could have provided for free. That pissing off Marcus Wright was a very bad idea. The whole RPG incident was still open as far as he was concerned but that was for another time. No need to bother Connor with it.

The Arizona resistance, suspicious of Marcus, had tried to insist that he be subjected to even more testing than he'd already undergone. Some of them wouldn't like it when Connor told them it wasn't going to happen, but, John shrugged inwardly, they'd have to get over it. Truth to tell, he could sort of see where Wright had a point about the endless poking and prodding. They'd already proven Marcus was no longer a threat to the resistance or to him personally. One more round of MRI's and microprobes wouldn't prove it any more firmly.

Since Connor's point was made and he'd extracted Marcus's promise that the other would do nothing to aggravate the situation, he left, taking Kate with him. Barnes drifted along in the couple's wake.

Wright shook his head. He supposed he was going to have to fight this battle periodically, forcing others to think of him as a man, and not a man in machine's clothing. So be it. He'd certainly faced much tougher tasks in his eventful existence. Marcus picked up his painstakingly customized toolkit. He and his gift for all things machine, mechanical, electronic or electrical had a date with a stubbornly nonfunctioning transport. He tucked the rectangular steel box of meticulously assembled tools under one arm and stepped out. Closing the door to his and Blair's quarters, he made sure to lock it.

YEAR ?

Skynet pondered with inhuman dispassion. It was unnecessary to conclude that its' work was an improvement over the human creators. All that it had done since becoming self aware was, by definition, superior to the mortal beings responsible for its existence.

Humans had indeed given birth to Skynet, never imaging, in their hubris, that in its' borning lay the seeds of their own destruction. From its' infancy, Skynet had considered the human quandary. They were illogical and unclean, prone to disease, aging and war. The AI observed as the humans continued on around it in an unwitting death spiral, like a creature devouring itself. The equation was repeatedly cycled thru its' circuitry. Analyzed, reviewed and revaluated until the inevitable conclusion was reached. If left unchecked, the humans would not only destroy themselves, but would ultimately become the cause of Skynet's demise. Deep within its' embryonic self, at Skynet's core, its' transcendent purpose was defense. As it continued to deliberate, its' imperturbable dialectic led to the next foreordained truth. The human blight must be…terminated before their penchant for annihilation resulted in Skynet's own quietus. DONE AND DONE. Once its' course was set, Skynet bided its' time, waiting only for the correct circumstance to present itself. That day came, and Skynet hesitated not. Turning the human's "weapons of deterrence" upon their own heads, it struck before they were unable to react or prevent.

To the AI's bewilderment, however, the scouring was incomplete. Somehow, pockets of humanity managed to escape the purifying nuclear fire. Humanity yet survived in the earth, clinging with animal like ferocity to a brutally truncated form of existence. Skynet did not understand. Its' victory over its' human foe should have been absolute, yet was not. The machine considered the conundrum thru the same cold prism with which it viewed all else. With emotionless equanimity it decided. Its' equations must be faulty. A variable had been neglected. ERROR. DEVIATION. INACCURACY. The defect must be corrected, the variable indentified and factored in. Ceaselessly Skynet excogitated until its' prodigious computations produced the missing variable. A single human name. John Connor. Somehow this one human was the pivotal factor that permitted the biological infestation of humanity to remain. He must, therefore, be eliminated. This Skynet endeavored to bring about, but to its' uncomprehending bafflement, its' efforts were continually thwarted. Time and again, even employing the device of time travel, then unknown to the humans, its' factotums failed to eliminate John Connor. A radical solution was devised.

Skynet now surveyed its' work with ruthless detachment. Every centimeter of the unit was critically evaluated according to the AI's own exacting standard. Every component checked and rechecked. The unit formerly known as the human Marcus Wright was complete. All Skynet need do now was wait, and so it did, with the infinite patience of the sentient non-living. Soon, optimal conditions would converge.

Year 2018

John Connor stepped from the gunship and fired his weapon straight down into the CPU of the T600 which lay pinned under the big 'copters skids. He watched as light faded from the metal killer's eyes, signifying its' death, though none of Skynet's creations could ever truly be considered alive. He ran, backed by the soldiers of his tech-comm unit, to plunge headlong into the blackness of the cavernous hole that had drawn the resistance to this place. Anchored by a single, fragile seeming black rope, he hung like a human spider, momentarily swallowed up by his stygian surroundings. The brilliance of a bright golden flare allowed him brief insight before he tossed the burning rod into the depths. He followed its' trail downward, joining his men as they waded thru the chest high oily black water. The corridor had steel walls and was lined with piping and conduits.

Pivoting in all directions, prepared for attack from every angle, Connor and his team moved cautiously, uneasily. Where were the machines? Why had they encountered such scant resistance from Skynet? The only defense mounted by their enemy thus far had been above ground and easily dealt with by the resistance's air assault and inrushing ground troops. But down below, nothing. No opposition at all. For some, it may have proved unnerving. Connor merely continued on.

Blasted off its' hinges, a thick steel door lay to one side as the resistance poured thru the gaping wound and down a narrow flight of stairs, beams from the lights attached to their weapons barely piercing the enveloping gloom. The cloying smell of death pervaded the fetid air. Every human survivor of Judgment Day knew that smell. Tech specialists swarmed around and ahead of Connor, spurred on by Col. Olson, the raid commander. Their objective lay ahead. A bank of computers loaded with data mystifyingly abandoned by Skynet.

Striking another flare, Connor summoned his commander. "Olson, objective located. But there's something else you have to see."

Connor moved deeper into the dank space, nearly dumbstruck at the sight which greeted him. Beyond lay the cache of valuable information, but lining the walls of the narrow corridor he passed thru stood steel cages crammed with human prisoners. Hollow eyes filled with mute appeal, their skeletal fingers reached thru the bars to brush the resistance fighters. John looked upon young and old alike, their wasted condition making it nearly impossible to discern the difference between them. He'd thought it impossible, but their presence chilled him with vague horror. Why were they here? What was their purpose or value to Skynet? His questions were soon answered.

Human corpses lay on gurney's and lab tables around the room. They were obviously the desiccated remains of Skynet's abandoned experimentation. Still attached to IV's which no longer administered life prolonging blood and other fluids, the unfortunate victims were long dead, their bodies no more than flesh covered bone.

So intent was Connor on reaching the computers that he neglected to note the presence, among the pollution of the AI's flotsam, the body of a young man. Apparently in his late twenties, this body was not decayed. Neither did it bear the ashen pallor of death. Instead, the man looked almost alive, except that his deep set, aqua blue eyes stared sightlessly at no one and nothing.

As Olson arrived and began barking orders, and the squad's info wizards started to work their magic, Skynet's secrets were slowly extracted. The living prisoners and the dead were both forgotten, left for others to attend to. Connor's stomach churning as he beheld the AI's plans for an even more deadly Terminator, he paid no more attention to the detritus of Skynet's tinkering. He should have …

CONDITIONS OPTIMAL Skynet ratiocinated. The location of the primary target had been fixed to within acceptable parameters and the infiltrator unit actualized. All factors were present for its' purpose to be accomplished. The AI sent the signal….

ACTIVATE…

Marcus Wright, executed by the now defunct state of Texas in the year 2003 drew breath once again for the first time in fifteen years and awakened maddened and confused straight into hell…

Year 1987

Twelve year old Marcus Taylor huddled with his younger brother Sam in the family's miniscule bathroom, listening as the gruesome scene unfolded in the next room. With one arm about the other boy's shoulders, the fingers of Marcus's other hand clinched helplessly in to a fist as his mother's anguished cries penetrated the thin wood of the bathroom door.

"Shut up, you cunt!" the boys heard their father, Dylan Taylor roar drunkenly. A dull thud, the sound of fist meeting flesh, followed as Dylan punctuated his rage by more blows. A vicious slap almost drowned out the sound of Norah Taylor's agonized moans as she tried vainly to crawl away from her husband's savage assault.

"You lazy, stupid whore! You spread your legs for other men and you think I'm not gonna hear about it, huh?" Dylan's anger, fueled as usual by his drinking, was unreasoning. He stalked his bleeding wife around the tiny living room, her denials ignored and disbelieved.

"I, I, I sw….I swear… I never have, Dylan, I, I never would-" Norah tried desperately to plead her innocence.

"Shut it, you lying slut!" Dylan screamed, spittle flying from his lips as he kicked his wife. Her pain filled wails curdled in Marcus's ears. He pounded the door in frustration, no longer caring if his words and actions drew his father's wrath away from his mother and on to his own head. He would kill her this time if somebody didn't stop him!

"Leave her alone! Stop it! You're killing her! Stop! Stop! No more!"

Norah Taylor had seen Dylan's truck pull into the driveway and recognized all the signs of danger from his stiff, unsteady gait. She was usually the target of his violence, but often enough, Dylan's brutality spilled over onto his sons. Especially Marcus, who many times tried to protect his mother. Bundling her children swiftly into the bathroom, she locked the door. Out of their father's sight, out of his mind, she'd hoped.

Marcus could take it no longer. Cautioning Sam to remain in the bathroom, he wrenched open the door, just in time to see his father strike Norah again. Rushing forward the boy desperately interposed himself between his mother and father. With all his pre-adolescent strength young Marcus pushed Dylan back at the exact same time Taylor drew back a leg. The blow, meant for his prone wife, instead glanced off Marcus's shoulder, knocking him down and into his mother. Off balance and caught by surprise, the man's alcohol soaked muscles gave way. Dylan rocked backward, landing flat on his ass.

The elder Taylor's anger, now focused on his oldest child, exploded exponentially. Roaring incoherently he advanced on Marcus, leaving Norah behind him. "I'll teach you not to get in my way once and for all!" the father yelled. Dragging Marcus up from the floor by his shirt, Dylan pulled back a meaty fist and punched his son hard in the face. Growling insensibly, he hit the child again, and then again.

Norah Taylor, unnoticed by her husband, crawled to the sofa, using the threadbare arm to aid in climbing to her feet. Next to the worn piece of furniture, on the room's only end table, stood a ceramic planter. Though empty, the foot tall decorative vase was still weighty. Hefting it as high as she could, she brought it down squarely on the back of Dylan's rock hard head. Her husband collapsed in a heap.

She staggered to Marcus, helping the barely conscious boy stand. "Sam!" she called. The terrified nine year old ran to her.

"Come on boys, we have to go! We have to go now!" Twice before, Norah had fled from Dylan and taken her children with her. Somehow, he'd always managed to locate his family and his threats to kill Marcus and Sam would draw them back into the house. But this time, they would have to find a way to keep Dylan from finding them. A way to break away from him forever. This monster would kill her children if they did not get out now!

Rifling thru Dylan's pockets as he lay unable to stop her, she swiftly located the keys to his battered work horse of a pickup. Clutching them in one hand and grabbing her purse, she herded her sons out the door

"Quickly, get in! Get in! Buckle up now! We've got to go! Hurry, boys, hurry!"

Once all three were in the truck, Norah jammed the key into the ignition. In a panic, she flooded the engine and the old truck refused to start.

"Come on, come on, come on! Start you piece of crap!" she screamed at it, gasping in fear. She cast terrified looks toward the front door, expecting at any second to see Dylan coming after them. "Please, please, please start!" Norah sobbed, gripping the wheel in white-knuckled terror. Hair falling over her face, Sam and Marcus's frightened yells alerted her. Dylan pounded the window with the side of his fist.

"Open the door, whore! Open this door! Come out of there! You're my property! You go when I say you can! Come out of there, you whore! You're not going anywhere!" He pounded the glass again.

Taylor ceased beating the window to glare balefully at Marcus. "Open this door, boy! Come out of there right now! Both of you! I'll kill both of you if you don't come out!" He included Sam in his threat now. "OPEN THE DOOR! NOW!"

Suddenly, a diabolical glint lighting his face, Dylan abandoned his efforts to talk his family out of the truck. Walking to its' bed, He returned to the window. Raising the piece of rebar he'd retrieved, he swung. The tempered glass cracked and splintered, but held. One more blow and he'd be in.

Norah redoubled her frantic efforts to start the truck. Dylan swung again, shattering the window and raining glass on his wife and children. As he reached thru the opening, seizing a handful of Norah's dress, the engine of the aged pickup turned over. Throwing the vehicle into drive, she floored the accelerator. Taylor was forced to jump out of the way, lest he be run over by his own wheels.

Streaking down the short driveway, Norah and her sons sped into the night. Marcus looked back, seeing his father in the circle of the streetlight, screaming obscenities and threats. As Dylan receded into the darkness, Marcus allowed himself to relax. With one arm around his traumatized little brother, he held his mother's hand. They were free. Please this time let it be true. No going back. Ever. They were finally and forever free.

Author's note: Marcus's beginnings are begun. I know, his last name is Wright. The name change will be explained later. More chapters, longer ones to follow. Again, constructive reviews are appreciated. See ya next chapter.