In the silence of the dusk that settled on the streets of the old town, older than many of the most powerful nations of the world. A man on stilts walked carefully, avoiding the cracks in the stone. He held a torch in one hand, keeping balance with the other. Out of all the people that would've loved the rumored world of what could've been, a future captained by Prince Hector, it was the man that lit the street lamps of the island. He couldn't remember how many times he cracked his head and shoulder against the cobble stone doing a job that modern technology dwarfed over a hundred years ago. The only way that he could forgive missing the royal wedding tonight was if Princess Maria and Robert Good … something would install electric street lamps.

In the distance he could hear the sound of feet pounding on stone in rapid motion. The lamplighter twisted carefully, turning down the street to find nothing but the limited reach of gas flame and the glint of the sea in the full moon above. He turned down the corner, toward the cathedral where the lights inside colored the buildings facing the stained glass a brilliant cornucopia of odd shapes. The old man's face scrunched as the pounding of stone continued. There was a crash from behind him and the caw of a dozen chickens crying in protest. He turned again to find a wooden cage fall from a dark alley into lamp light. He saw four fat hens began to chortle and scatter as a tall, muscular shadow rolled from the same alley as the cage.

"Why are there chickens stacked in an alley?!" The shadow landed on his stomach as he shouted in frustration and disgust down the tight corridor between two old buildings. "Who even does that?!" He shouted again.

Right on the heels of his shouts the slim figure of a girl rushed from the same alley. She took a moment to kick one of the hens out of the way, before helping the larger male up. "Someone who was pressed for time and space …" She kicked away another hen as her companion brushed himself off. "And doesn't like chickens." She added standing in his personal space.

"Couldn't imagine anyone who's like that?" He grunted sarcastically taking a moment to observe her action. At his comment she merrily tilted her head. He grunted putting pressure on his hobbled leg till he could use it again.

"Come on, Cam … Onward and upon this charge, cry god for Harry, England, and St. George!" the young man called, jogging to build up momentum again.

"John, we're not English …"

"Yeah … well it still counts if mom was born there."

"Sarah was English?"

"No, but Grams was … Plus there had to be a reason mom tried to force feed us figgy pudding on Christmas."

"She never tried to force feed me figgy pudding on Christmas …"

"Weren't we lucky?" The young man scoffed. His sarcasm was bitter as they began sprinting past the lamplighter who watched the young American couple fly past him.

He craned his head tracking them as they hiked up hill toward the Cathedral. Something about their rapid pace and the stress in the younger man's voice left the older uneasy.

"Late for the Wedding?" He called after them.

"If there is one, I'd be very surprised." The young man called without looking back.

The old man bit his lip. "Then where's the fire?"

This time the girl stopped. "In your hand." She tilted her head in confusion. Her pause was temporary before a hand grabbed her by the back of her tight jeans and tugged her out of the lamplight were running feet echoed again.

The old man raised an eyebrow and observed his torch a moment. Then he shrugged mundanely muttering to himself.

"She's not wrong."

A wedding was supposed to be the happiest moment in a girl's life, or at least that was what Maria thought as she stood at the entrance of the cathedral in the center of the island community where she had grown up. But after the events of the last week she wasn't sure she could. From the shooting at Rosalinda's café, and then whatever she saw at the morgue … it felt like she was being watched. Since this morning she had been jumping at shadows and looking too hard into them. It was like every time she was exposed the cold breath of a phantom was breathing down her neck. A phantom from her past that had settled into the gloom of her mind.

Princess Maria Monaco was the heir of the small island nation, one of the last with a ruling monarchy for a functional government. But when you were the heir to such a small insignificant nub on the face of a much larger world, Maria had to rely on modern sensibilities to gain the public's ear. Her party girl image kept her people on the map. Escapades with American movie stars and British billionaires, crashing sports cars, and fighting heiresses in clubs was far from her personality. However, in this day and age, any publicity was good publicity. If people were talking about her and where her poor old Papi went wrong, they would eventually want a piece of that lifestyle to find their answers. Sometimes she resented that she was thought of as another airhead with a pretty face and a fashion line. But when she dreamed of something else in life of being herself… the tame, soft hearted beauty her father raised her to be … all she could feel was the weight of losing the country in a world slowly becoming out of reach to her people. She thought of all the starving children in the street, and the sharks circling … outside interests looking to steal the place from her family.

There was a time she thought she wouldn't mind being deposed. When she was young and carefree, rebellious against her role, Maria thought how much she wanted to get away from this place. But as maturity overcame childish dreams and fears she began to slowly accept the life bestowed on her by name and a title inherited by blood. At first she thought that maybe she'd take over just till some sort of reform comes along and she becomes a ceremonial figure head. A few years of thinking later and maybe she'd look over the island till the people choose what government they want. A few months later, she couldn't trust those who wanted the ruling position. Who would look after the children in the orphanages? Who would protect the people from abuses of Colonel Montero? He could get drunk on power and abuse the locals if not put in his place. By now Maria still didn't want this island, but she felt like she just couldn't trust anyone to leave so many lives in incapable hands.

Sometimes she thought that maybe Father was wrong to exile her younger brother Hector. He was always much smarter than her and he truly loved this island. Sometimes her father thought he may have loved it too much. He always thought that it was meant for more. She could never see what he meant by it, that was till she saw that it wasn't the Island he was referring to but more of himself. Like Maria, he had left for America to be educated, and when he had returned he had confronted their father with such ideas. He had earned degrees in chemical and mechanical engineering. He had spoken to their father of friends and investors ready to turn their peaceful island into the new century: chemical plants and mining operations. Father resisted his ideas; he wanted to keep their island the way it has always been, the land to be forever a beacon of an easier, peaceful way of life. For it to always be a reminder to embrace the past. In their most heated moment their father told him that he had become infected with the sickness of greed and avarice, ordering him to leave his sight. She remembered reaching for Hector's hand like she had in their childhood as he stormed out. But he refused her comforts, vowing that he would return someday.

For the last week he had been on her mind. She wasn't sure why, but he was. She would contact him if she could, but it had been years since anyone had seen him. A part of her was scared of her brother's machinations and dreams of metal and pollution. But another part of her remembered the pressure that their father had always put on both of them. Could he really blame Hector for only doing what he wanted both of them to do: think of their country's future?

Maria felt the white cobbled street underfoot, letting the soles of her slippered high heels dig into the grooves between the stone as she waited nervously. Her bright eyes turning toward the sinking sun in the west, the last shades of orange defiantly lingering in a dark sky scattered with silver blinking pinholes in a curtain of darkness above. This was her last moment, a deep breath before the plunge. She looked to the ocean just visible between the old Spanish architecture and thought of South America, Africa, Montana … it's all out there waiting for her. One last reprieve before she faced down the demon that had chased her all of her life.

But then she thought of her Robert with his sharp, piercing blue eyes. His perfect curling dark hair with a streak of white, and implacably comforting smile. His gentle hands holding her's as they stood at the alter where she was baptized and confirmed. She thought of the priest about to marry her, a man to whom she had confessed all of her sins to since she was five, who knew everything about her. She never thought about it till now, but when Robert placed a ring on her finger, that was the end of her days of pretending. In a strange way being married to a man that she loved in front of those closest to her would free her from the shackles of a the public role she never wanted.

Feeling a swelling in her chest, she suddenly felt light headed as if a large weight had been lifted off her. For so long she thought of nothing but escaping this life set up for her by her father, by the need of her people. Now she didn't need too, now she could be Maria Monaco and live in a world of her own choosing. She couldn't keep the grin off her face. It was so big that her teeth glinted in the dying light.

THUNK!

The cathedral was brilliantly lit with hundreds of candles. The condensed chapel of the ancient palace of worship was built by missionaries, brought by Spanish explorers, almost three hundred years ago. The intimate glow of the wicks gave a strange and enchanting effect to the barely visible gold painted stars carved on the dome ceiling of the chapel.

The benches were filled with collections of foreign dignitaries from smaller countries, trading partners and allies. Together with them sat a larger crowd of social members of society- debutants, heiresses, and social climbers. It was the biggest event in their materialistic world in many years in this part of the world, and those that weren't interested in those sort of things tended to come for the location to enjoy a tropical vacation. But when the music swelled and the march began, they all found their feet.

Every eye was turned to the back doors as they swung open and the bride strode out in a white wedding dress. The smooth silk was form fitting, pooling at her feet in the popular mermaid style of Southern Europe. A lace veil hid her face as her curtain of dark ringlets fell down her back. There was something captivating about her lithe figure in the flawless material; her posture was perfect and unyielding as she matched step with music. It wasn't just all eyes that were drawn to her, it was all hearts and all minds. On her wedding day there couldn't have been a more beautiful princess in the world.

Waiting for her at the altar was not the man that she had been seen with at the café, but a handsome older man that stood in dapper tuxedo. His hands were covered by white gloves and in his grip was an ornate cane decorated with a golden pummel of a two headed eagle. His dark hair, marked with a white streak, was slicked back. His goatee was neatly trimmed, also showcasing a distinguished streak of white. But the most striking feature of all was the man's sharp and piercing blue eyes that seemed to cut away the walls one built and get to the heart of the matter. On the top step in front of the altar, a priest stood with his back to the crowd. Tall and thin, the priest's long coat reached his knees and he wore a black wide-brim hat.

When the bride arrived at the altar, the groom held his hands out and took hers. He couldn't help but reach out to her, caressing her waist, feeling the suppleness of her flesh and sinfully smooth material she was wrapped in, igniting a private flame inside him. The older man began to push her long veil back.

"Not just yet …"The smooth, accented voice of the faceless priest stopped the groom. The thin man spread his arms out, like a conductor of an orchestra silencing the music. Suddenly the chapel went dead silent. "No princess wants the last anyone sees of her to be an ugly face of horror." The priest turned and under the wide brim hat revealed a black and white painted face of a skull. He had a shirtless chest underneath the priest's coat, yet still wearing the white collar of the cloth.

The groom let out a startled grunt, taking a step back. But both crowd and bride seemed stoic. The skull-faced imposter tilted his head, watching the bride with almost sympathetic eyes. "I'm sorry it has to end this way …" He almost sounded emotional, "But destiny waits for no one, not even family." He hooked his foot under an object under the pulpit and kicked it up. His metallic staff glinted in the candlelight as he caught it.

The Voodoo priest cleared his throat. "Such a sad state of affairs …" He sighed, the blue orb at the end of his cane began glowing a swirling blue. "The bride and her king torn apart by her own guests." As if on cue the sound of shoes and high heels on tile echoed through the chapel. All of the guests began slowly making their way toward the altar. Their eyes wept blue mucus, corsages of dusty blue mountain flowers pinned to lapels and wrapped around wrists.

The Voodoo priest made a grand gesture with his arms as if inviting a swarm of locus to feast. Their expression blank, though deep in their eyes fear and pain could be seen beating against the invisible barrier that held their emotions in check. The sound of their feet clapping in unison on the polished tile echoed from the rafters as they advanced. Robert stood in front of his bride, to protect her from their guests, but he was suddenly tossed aside by the slim beauty.

"Maria, no!" He called in protest, but she advanced on her attackers, striding forward with bold steps, before unveiling her face. As if on sight, all of the guests halted their progression, like an army of tinker toys coming to the end of their cranks.

"Go on!" The Voodoo priest called to his army of nanite controlled minions. "Slay the princess!" He urged on, becoming increasingly agitated. "Kill her!" His crushing look of disenchantment was like a conductor at the apex of his symphony only to find his orchestra missing pages of their sheet music to the climax. Shocked into disbelief he rushed forward, armed with his staff. "What is going on?" He called, aggressively taking hold a hold of her arm, spinning her to face him.

Stoic brown eyes of a stranger met the skull faced imposter; they weren't the blue eyes he had known for as long as he could remember. "You're not …" he stammered out in confusion.

"No I'm not …" She answered with a tilt of her head.

"You're a …"

"Yes, I'm a …"

CRACK

It was as if the painted voodoo priest's face bent around Cameron's fist. Spit and blood flew in the air as he stumbled up the stairs, crashing into the pulpit. Wood, hat, and cane skittered around the man as he looked up as the petite cyborg tossed away the bride's veil and took a step forward towards him.

"Maria … where's Maria?" His voice slurred painfully.

From the shadows John Connor appeared behind him. From inside the hand-me-down leather coat, he pulled his Colt, drawing its trigger with a deadly click. "Too bad for you that we got to her first … Without her, your drugs and pre-programmed nanites are meaningless." He answered coldly. From the other side, closing in on him, each step Cameron took cast a darker and bigger shadow over the painted mockery of religion and the splintered altar like the cold hand of a reaper summoned by his dark intentions.

"All those teeth and no toothbrush." She chimed in.

John scrunched his face, side eyeing his partner in confusion. She blinked, pausing a moment. "Is that not the right context?" She asked.

"Out of all the movie quotes in the all the world, you chose …"

The Priest reached into his coat while John and Cameron where distracted and flung a handful of raw blue powder in John's face. The younger man covered his eyes with his forearm, coughing bitterly. As Cameron marched forward, the skull faced man lifted his staff to the crowd behind her.

Just as the killer cyborg lifted her fist ready to end the threat, an Asian woman in a silver dress and diamond choker, and a dark skinned old man in a white on black tuxedo, jumped on Cameron's back. In heels and a tightly restrictive gown, the cyborg collapsed to the floor as other guests, began to pile on her. The priest only had a moment to enjoy his "ace in the hole", before John found his feet.

CRACK, CRACK, CRACK!

His vision obscured by the burning of the strong dose of powder, his aim swiped coat, trouser, and nicked the side of the priest's face. Red blood began to mingle with the white and black face paint. The target of his tampered marksmanship began to flee as John stumbled a step after him.

For a moment the young hero was conflicted about where he was needed, whether it was to pursue the man he came to stop, or help Cameron, that he always knew didn't really need his help. But it was only a millisecond reminder, and ultimately a fruitless question. His feet carried him to the unusual sight of the upper class in millions of dollars of the finest clothing in the world, essentially piling on top of his cyborg lover like they were in the middle of a game of rugby.

He tried not to think about how weird this all looked and sounded in his head.

A young man in his teens had just pushed himself against gravity, going airborne when John caught him in mid-air and tossed him over the railing. John had only pulled one of the royal guards off the pile and slammed a fist into his jaw, when an old woman in violet blazer and matching hat, was sent high into the air landing in the pews, by a kick from a bare leg, clad in a broken high heel. Slowly, like a chick breaking out of an egg, Cameron began peeling off her attackers. People of every age were being thrown across the church like they were no lighter than stuffed animals or throw pillows.

The last of them John pulled off was the older man in the reverse colored tux, but as he turned him ready to put the guest down, John felt light headed and suddenly the man's eyes appeared like sliver slits of some demonic reptile. It gave John pause long enough to take a haymaker to the cheekbone. The force of the punch and the effects of the drug sent John reeling as the mind controlled man looked to press his attack. However, just as he lifted his fist, a slender hand caught it from behind and twisted it with a sickening crackle. Cameron bent the man's arm to a place no arm should be bent too. Spinning, she sent him airborne, where he crashed into a regrouping mass of attackers, leaving them in a pile on the tile.

Cameron was now barefoot. The skirt to the Princess's gown had been torn to the upper thighs. Cameron's curls had fallen out and she had three gashes on her cheek with a woman's electric purple press-on nail still embedded in her skin. Her appearance and the anger building in John's gut was only a reminder that this was all one big distraction, for the ringleader of this venture to escape.

"Can you hold them off?" John asked picking out the fake nail from his partner's face, throwing it away. Cameron didn't speak, she just nodded. "I'm going to go after that son of a bitch!" He growled, moving away, before Cameron took a hold of him.

"John, wait …"

"No, Cameron, there's no time." He protested.

"You can't go after him alone."

"Yet I am."

"It's not advisable."

John shared a hard look with her. His intentions and wild emotions coursed through him, feeding off his impossible anger and the building anxiety of the drugs in his system. For that one moment in the eye of the storm before the fight recommenced he said all he needed to say.

"I'm doing this."

She gazed after her only purposes in existence as he sprinted behind the broken alter, through the priest's door. She blinked, the ghost of worry glistened underneath a wall of stoic deadpan.

Through the priest's private quarters, past the renovation and "work ahead" signs, and through the old wood paneled hallway was a stone staircase that led to a narrow corridor below. The passage was long, dark, and colder as John traveled downward. Even wrapped in the Connor's old coat, the chill John felt in the air seemed almost more psychological, than physical. His weapon at the ready, the youth slowly descended into the catacombs where this all started. On the shadowy walls, he could make out the outline of old skulls integrated into the stone, almost fossilized.

"John …"

The echo of a familiar voice came almost like a horse whisper of a cold wind from the darkness below, a voice full of anger and longing for the name on her lips. The woman's voice urged him to find her, extending a haunted invitation to the subterranean abode of the dead. He paused only a moment to steady himself, to control the drugs in his system once again. This time it was different, it wasn't that he was in pain, but more light headed, overly aware, and anxious … an illusion of such awareness as to almost see things that weren't there. It was why he tried to ignore the sightless, pale eyes of the embedded skulls watching him as he passed.

"Welcome, John Connor … your future awaits."

Their voices addressed him with cold courtesy, emotionless and dreary. Yet, he recognized all of them, even as they spoke as a collective. He never forgot a name, never forgot a face, Sarkissian, Todd, Janelle, Jordan … They all were there to greet him.

At the foot of the stairs was a great gate. The bars were heavy and crusted in a thick layer of rust that came from moisture and neglect. The gate was already partially open, a tell-tale sign that he was on the right track. Reaching the last step, he was cautious in his footsteps as he examined the gate and its hinges.

"John"

A slender hand reached from the shadows beyond the gate, and through the bars, touched his cheek. John snapped straight, coming eye to eye with frozen, blue, vengeful irises. Sarah Connor was deathly pale, her lips a shade of deep blue, the veins on her neck were the same frozen and emotionless color of ice water running through them. There was something ethereally beautiful, and yet heart stoppingly terrifying, about his mother. The sensation of her slender palm was so familiar and yet the cold and pure hatred in the touch made it feel like a perversion, a childhood home invaded by an imposter.

Flinching from the touch, John opened fire at the apparition of the only woman he had ever loved. She slunk back into the darkness as the flashes of gun fire rang loud and boisterous in the narrow corridor, passing through the bared gate only to hit nothing. Incensed by a childlike need to chase after her, John threw open the gate with a nail biting squeal of un-oiled hinges and rushed into the long dark.

He ran from the stone corridor of the old church straight into the narrow hallway of a decomposing luxury bullet train. He remembered it well: the mahogany paneled walls, the Persian carpets. The scent of expensive perfume mingled with the scent of just as pricey alcohol and Cuban's smoke. But this time it was different. The mahogany was frozen to almost stone, and, under foot, the ice-layered Persian carpeting crunched and crackled under his boot. Leaning against the walls were the frigid bodies of the passengers that didn't have a cyborg protector to save them- beautiful waitresses in their nylon bunny costumes and stockings, men in tuxedos and tails, security guards in their ski masks and fatigue pants, their submachine guns frozen to the palms. As John stalked past them, their eyes followed him, mouths frostbitten and purple, disfigured from the fall rendering them useless. But their wordless blame fell solely on the hero amongst them. The smell of the train whiffed of disturbed soil and old pinebranches and snow drenched needled leaves invaded through the brittle glass of the portholes. Returning to this place, walking down its halls of twisted metal and death caused a deep anguish in John's heart and throbbing pain in his frost bitten arm and fingers.

He didn't need the softly bitter voice of his mother to call for him to know where she dwelt in her shared frozen tomb. It was a short trip down the corridor that lived forever in his nightmares, to the control room. He recognized the cords hanging from the torn wall paneling where he had vainly tried to find a combination to free his mother and uncle. The exposed copper was covered in frost, brittle and erect in the biting air.

"John …"

He hung his head in defeat when he saw the once-bolted doors of the room he had tried so desperately to open in what seemed like another lifetime ago, hanging open with such disregard for his emotions seemingly mocking him,. He took a deep breath as he strode inside.

Sarah Connor was waiting for him, her back turned as her sorrowful frozen eyes looked out the window at the tundra of snow that half buried them.

"Mom …" He spoke to her.

"You've returned … did you come for me?"

John found it odd that when Sarah spoke he heard one thing, but a part of his brain told him that what she was saying was not what was actually being said to him. He had tried so hard to remember now why he was here, and what he was doing before he had chased his mother. But from the moment he saw her, all of her, so beautiful and horrible, he couldn't focus on anything else.

"No." he replied honestly.

"Of course not." She cut him. "I've never been that important to you." She turned to side eye him.

"That's not true," he protested. "I tried to save you." The hardened young man was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a wide eyed six year old.

"You've tried … that was always what I told myself, when I wanted to make excuses for you." She snapped. "He tried. As long as he tried. Maybe he'd get over the metal if only he tried!" She turned fully to face him.

John recoiled as if she had slapped him. "It's not like that." He argued fruitlessly.

"Maybe if the metal was trapped in here, you would've TRIED HARDER!" She shouted. "If she was on the edge of a building you would've TRIED HARDER!" She began advancing on him as he backed away. "Maybe if she was your foster parents you would've TRIED HARDER!" He turned his head away from her as she pinned him to the wall, her cold fingers balling the supple leather of her old brown coat.

"How many people have died because of your teeny bopper romance?" She asked viciously. "Is that why you wanted me out of the way?!" She slammed him against the wall.

"No, I love you!"

"Just not enough? Do you know what I gave up for you? Do you know what I've done for you? AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME! Trapped forever in the frozen skeleton of a metal tomb so that you could play Romeo and Juliet with your sex doll! Is that how much you loved me?!" She slammed him against the wall over and over again.

Her hands were cold and painful around his neck as she throttled him. A part of him felt like cowering under the table like a kicked puppy as his only family, friend, and god screamed at him with such unadulterated hatred. This one person that John had built his life around, which he spent his life chasing the ghost of, the myth he tried to live up too, was now calling him a failure. But while the child inside of him want to cry, wanted to beg her not to say these thing, to scream in tears for her to give him a second-chance, to make her understand how much he loved her … there was another part of him, a part that was filled with a boiling cauldron of resentful anger. It all came from the same part of him that never felt more complete when he was inside Cameron in their bedroom, and just looking into his eyes knowing that their connection in that moment was all she ever wanted. It was the same place where he collected and cherished her rare smiles since before he had even dared utter the word love in his mind. It was all a part of him that couldn't give those things up, and could never be ashamed of them.

He reared back and hit Sarah across the face. "Fuck you!" he roared, hitting her again, freeing him of her grip. He breathed hoarsely as he found his mother suddenly wobbling, whereas he always knew Sarah could take more punishment than anyone he had ever met.

"I spent my life chasing you!" he screamed at her. "I've been there for you when no one ever wanted too! I was the one who showered you when you got so depressed and drunk you pissed yourself. You think you were the only one who sacrificed things for us? Fuck You! The friends I never had, the places I could never go, the things that I never enjoyed! It was always you! I waited hand and foot on you! How dare you!"

Again and again John struck her till she hit the floor. Pinning her down, John couldn't stop himself. Over and over again he struck his mother, filled with a bitter resentment that seemed to flow out of him out of nowhere.

"I've killed for you. I've saved you! I fought men twice my size to protect your honor in shit holes you dragged me to. I should've been going to birthday parties, not beating people's faces for saying you gave free blowjobs!" He slammed her against the floor. The haunted ruins began to bleed away into the platform in the crossroads of the island catacombs. The clear wiring tracing the perimeter of the altar above was glowing the same swirling blue as the Voodoo Priest's staff.

"I loved you! You were my life! I was supposed to die with you and Derek! I was supposed to go down with my family! But you made sure that didn't happen! So now Cameron is all I have left! Don't you dare take her from me!" he screamed viciously beating the now visible figure of the priest who looked to be in a hell of his own making, blood gushing from his nose and mouth, his eyes glazed over in concussion.

The change of face leashed eighteen years of dangerously pent up fury, causing him to halt his vicious mauling of who he thought was the embittered poltergeist of Sarah Connor. The skull faced killer who had set up this ambush looked barely alive. John suddenly felt shaky, and almost ashamed. He had never felt more hatred for someone he loved with every fiber of his being.

With a heavy sobering breath, he found his feet and took a hold of the skull-faced priest's staff. The drugs made his steps feel uneven as they all but burnt out of his system through his emotions. The Voodoo altar stood in the center of the room, like it had last time. But this time he wasn't fooled, this man was no man of religion. Taking the end of the cane, he pushed the altar over where it landed with a mighty crack spilling the ritualistic items over the stone floor and into the water below. Underneath was a large generator, with clear wires connected to it. John's emerald eyes followed their blue light as they snaked up the walls and outlined the chapel above. John sneered, lifting the cane and began to pound away at the power source that controlled the nanites. Sparks flew, the orb shattered, and plastic bent till the moan of a powering down electrical device echoed through the cavern.

John made his way back to the beaten priest that blearily reached out to him in unintelligible protest of the young hero's actions. He remembered what it had been like to kill Sarkissian, to feel the bones in his neck snap. He remembered the almost satisfaction of his efforts, and the moment of contentment in knowing that his mother would never been endangered by this man's hands again. Then came the realization, the guilt, the nightmares. Since then John had killed men, mercenaries, hired killers … but it was when he was armed with a firearm and he never had time to think it through, it was killed or be killed, but now … now he had a chance to think this through.

Taking the broken staff in hand, John Connor made his choice in a millisecond.

The sun had begun to peek out just over the endless blue of the ocean. The surface was like a river of watercolors decorating the sea in purple, orange, and red. The swirling cool breeze pushed the tropical smell through and between the buildings as a lone slender figure strode over the island's cobblestone streets.

Sarah Connor's army brown tank top hung down to the crotch of her jeans now worn by Cameron. Though fitting lengthwise, it was tight across her ample bosom, being that Cameron was endowed with an advantage in that region of her body that Sarah didn't have. She turned back to make sure no one was following her. Those in places of authority might have an issue with stuffing princesses in garbage piles after stripping them down to their bridal lingerie.

The cyborg was relieved to get the gown off. It wasn't that she didn't like dresses, but as a creature built for warfare and fighting, she tended to avoid clothing that restricted her more base instincts. Practicality was essential in her wardrobe, which is why it wasn't hard to understand why she decided to adopt all of Sarah's clothing.

When she turned the corner back toward the chapel, she found a large crowd of people watching as a handful of local law enforcement and United States Marines were swarming around the area, helping victims of the mountain flower and Cameron's own handy work, to medical stations and facilities. What had started as the wedding of the century-the last royal wedding of any consequence in the last thirty years-had now become an international incident of terrorism involving seven countries and ten international business conglomerates.

From within the crowd she desperately searched for any sign of John, who she hadn't seen since he left her to go after the man responsible for the chaos. But sweeping the victims and the crowd three times she and her sensors were at a loss for where John could be. Somewhere inside of her there was a feeling that should not be.

It was often the question that was spoken amongst scientists. What happens when a machine has no purpose any longer? What happens when a computer makes an error on the one task that it was seemingly built for? Does it shut down? Does it destroy itself trying to fix the error? There had never been a moment in which Cameron had ever given a thought for her safety, never a moment in which she comprehended the human sensation of fear. But till this day, there was always something inside of her that she had always known shouldn't exist when she was separated from John. It started in those first couple of months with a teenage John Connor. She remembered what that was like, to be programmed with his safety. It was like an impulse, as natural as a beating heart, to be with John. It was like a need, an unspoken part of her to always be by his side. After the explosion, in those first weeks without programming, she was unsure what her life was, what she was supposed to do now? Yet in those quiet reflections as the house slept, she thought of John and how much those feelings never changed. There was no programming anymore. There was no directive, only to kill. Yet, she thought of him. Thought of the boy who had taught her so much, who looked at her in a way that no one ever had in her entire existence … and it was as if she was still programmed. She tried to fight it, tried to change the impulse, but she couldn't.

It wasn't till that night, the night John kissed her, carried her to the bed and gently entered her. It was the look in his eyes of that moment. It was only then did she realize how much of that look that was only ever for her was exactly how that impulse inside her felt. It was the fitting together of cosmic puzzle pieces, or the right electrons finding their permanent charge. When their bodies came together, bringing on a new powerful physical sensation that she never thought existed, she knew her life was tied to his forever. After that night they were no longer two beings tiptoeing around feelings unquantifiable to explanation or reason, they were two bodies belonging to one soul, forever intertwined by the great sense of humor of destiny.

"Cameron …"

It was like the first breath of fresh air, and the gleam of sunlight coming out of a long dark cave. She turned her head at her name that was spoken in a reverence and voice that one would find in the quiet of a church. But even as soft and gentle, escaping the notice of all around her, Cameron could hear it, and was drawn to it. It was sound sensors and a sixth sense of knowing the closeness of one another that only came from an intense emotional connection.

In perfect view of the events, from a sloped hill on the other side of the cathedral, John sat on the shadowy stairs of a storefront business. He was slumped forward, his face covered in heavy stubble and eyes dark and brooding as a new moon. In his hand was a milk bottle of dark alcohol that he was swigging. Behind him was the Voodoo priest's staff leaning against a wall in the stairway. The shimmering orb was cracked open in a shattered chunk.

Taking one last gulp of the spicy liquid he held it out to Cameron. The cyborg wasn't a drinker by any stretch of the imagination. She disliked the ingredients and what they did to people. But she took it anyway, like always, drinking to lower John's intake level. "Are you alright?" She asked emotionlessly, not betraying what the last hour had been like.

"I'm alright …" He growled hoarsely his voice betraying the complete opposite. She could hear the sound of injured vocal cords and see the red marks of hands around his neck. While Cameron took a hearty glug of the alcohol, John reached back and took a hold of the staff. She watched him handle the rod, his eyes moving over their trophy distractedly. Whatever had happened between John and their enemy, she knew that it made whatever haunted John much, much worse.

"Just before I was reengaged by the mind controlled guests, they snapped out of their stupor, but began to flee in droves, convinced they were being chased or attacked by a myriad of things, insects, angry parents … and a rather aggressive rabbit." She puzzled the last with a pause of innocent pondering.

John shook his head. "The flowers that went missing in the manifest that we found at the shop, were integrated by our skull face friend into the ceremony. He dusted the powder on peddles and gave them out to the guests." He showed her the staff. "In the catacombs he had a large power generator with the same tech that was in this. He outlined the ceiling with cables, which sent the wireless control to all of the nanites above. We almost had the son of a bitch, but while we were licking our wounds, it looks like he reprogrammed the rod to be like a laser guider, he can redirect the target by a point." He tossed Cameron the staff. Exchanging items, John took a swig as the girl observed the prize of victory, confirming John's analysis with a scan. At the ends of the sharpened plastic, she saw blood stains that had begun to dry.

Her eyes were stoic when they returned to John. "Did you kill him?" Though her voice was even, there was a certain weight to her query that hung in the air.

"GET THEM OUT! GET THEM OUT … CLOSE THE WOUND, THE SPIDERS ARE CRAWLING INSIDE OF IT! PLEASE!"

Cameron swung around to the opening of the cathedral. An armed squad of Marines was escorting a gurney where the thin skull faced priest thrashed about against restraints. A beard of blue powder was rubbed deep into his lower face. But amongst the most noticeable change to the man was the gruesomely disfiguring open gash on his painted cheek, which was bleeding profusely.

Turning back to John, Cameron said nothing. The youth took a hard bitter drink and wiped his leather sleeve over his mouth when he was done.

"So when he looks in the mirror he'll always remember …" His voice was filled with a growl of vengeful hatred as he sneered out the dark promise. He suddenly dipped his head with a painful wince. Cameron took an automatic step forward to help him. But as if someone had taunted him with deep hurtful words, John got to his feet and flung the bottle with a target in mind. "Like I do!" He yelled as the glass projectile shattered in an alley.

Cameron spun around to find who John was aiming for, but the alley was empty. She found John's gaze and trailed it again, but no one was there. Breaking contact with whomever it was he saw in the dark, John shook his head. Gently, Cameron reached out and touched his shoulder. He whirled and found her neutral eyes, for a moment it was as if John was sinking slowly into another world. But as dark eyes searched hers, it was like he was waking up from some horrible nightmare. His hand reached out and touched her cheek, his palm rubbing against the familiar flawless skin of the woman he loved.

He let out a sorrowful breath, hardened by an old pain. He ran his hand through her silky locks with a grounded familiarity. He slowly pulled her into a hard embrace, burying his face in her hair, as if she was a life preserver in a vast dangerous ocean that was around him. After a long moment, Cameron placed her forehead against John's. He kept his eyes closed, savoring their contact.

"Let's go home, John." She suggested.

He nodded, leaving an arm around her shoulder and leaning against her for support as they began to leave the scene as the tropical sunrise framed the two silhouettes in the chill of a new morning in paradise.

"Cam … what was the tagline in the commercial for this place?"

"Peace and relaxation is just one plane ride away."

"Do you remember the name of that lawyer on TV that we saw before that commercial?"

"Yes … why?"

"I'm suing for false advertisement."