Author's Note: I don't own the Terminator Franchise, only the Original Characters found here.

The T-888 that serves as the protagonist alongside John Connor's daughter is modeled physically after Stephen Amell. This is a picture of his appearance for those of you who don't know what he looks like.

Terminator: Catharsis

Los Angeles, California

2029 AD

Resistance Hideout, Reactivation of T-Series 888 Model 200

/System Startup: Online

/System Check: Running

/System Check: Complete

HUD initializing

Instantly the red Heads Up Display started, running a scan of the area around it, settling on focusing on the man in front of him. He was six-foot one, and 200 pounds. Black hair settled down on pale skin in a short, militaristic style. A beard was on his face as well. He was armed, as well, the gun pointed at the machine in front of him. He sneered when he realized the machine was active. His finger, already on the trigger, was just itching for the excuse to put the metal down. His eyes flickered to a figure behind the soulless machine who quickly stepped into view. His mere presence commanded obedience and respect, and instantly, despite having never met the man before it, the machine recognized him.

John Connor

The supposed savior of humanity, Skynet had deemed him the worst threat to its existence, and in truth, there was real reason to fear the man before the machine. He was tall, but not so tall as to towering over those he fought with, built, but not to an exaggerated degree, and he bore a scar coming down over his left eye , at first in a single line, but then under the eye it split in two before joining again at his jaw line. It was a testament that he was human, just as every other man and woman in the Resistance, that he was not some unapproachable god.

"Lieutenant, stand down. We can't give it its orders with its head ventilated." Connor spoke, a voice resonating with both a deep timber and a hint of the toll the war for humanity had taken on him. He ran a hand through his short-cropped brown hair and sighed. John looked the machine in its blank, unflinching gaze and spoke to it this time. "Current mission parameters?" he asked. Connor needed to see if the reprogramming had been a success, and if this unit could respond to his commands, and this was the moment of truth. Either the machine tried to kill him, in which case, it'd get put down, or it responded to him, in which case, they continue.

"None set. Awaiting new mission." it replied in a clinically detached voice. Connor released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, relief washing over him. OK, this was good news. "Mission Parameters are now given: You are to go into the past, to the year 2014, and protect a girl we sent. Her name is Kaitlynn Connor. She's my daughter. Mission Subset: Follow her orders. Second Mission Subset: Let nothing stop you."

The machine nodded, understanding its mission. Connor held out a photo, and instantly the HUD zoomed in on it, scanning the face into its "memory." Connor motioned for it to get up. It stood and turned, walking down the hallway after John Connor. They turned into a room that was bare, save for an illuminated white circle in the center. The TDE, or Time Displacement Equipment, the time travel device. Connor nodded his head towards it and the machine took the hint, standing on the TDE. Connor activated it, and hoped for the best.

Blue lightning arced throughout the circle.

-January 9th, 2014 (Semi-T-888 POV)-

/Scan initializing...

/Scan Complete. Time Travel success.

/Mission Priority: Acquire and Protect Kaitlynn Connor

/Current Priority: Acquire clothes and transportation.

The terminator rose, and looked around from its burned out mini-crater, activating its internal GPS.

Las Vegas, Nevada.

The machine turned its head and gazed behind it to view a bar, the neon sign flashing brightly in the otherwise empty street. It entered the seedy establishment with a dull thud of the door slamming to the fullest extent of its hinges. The patrons inside, until this disturbance drinking with abandon, had turned all as one to view whomever it was that had deigned to break their reverie of late-night cheer, or in some cases, medicine for the sad soul. Looks ranging from appreciation to disgust for the nudity displayed before them. It stepped inside, a bank, slacked face scanning them, looking for a suitable match in size.

It found a match in a man standing at the bar. Walking over, the machine spoke in the same clinically detached voice it had used with John Connor in the relative past.

"I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle."