The stillness of the night air prevailed over LA County; the pitch blackness and frigidly chill air combined with machine patrols ensured that nothing moved aboveground. Any signs of life on the surface were quickly snuffed out by Skynet's automated warriors, and anyone still alive out in the desolate concrete jungle knew well enough after months of hiding in the ruins to stay down at night; the machines could see in the dark, and people were afraid of it. The landscape of LA County was devoid of any signs of life.

The single exception was a tiny encampment within the city of Century. Even inside the wire perimeter, the majority of the camp was deathly still; condemned prisoners laid still and slept in defeated resignation, and the workers slumbered from sheer exhaustion. The machine guards stood vigilant at their posts or methodically patrolled throughout the camp. The only signs of human life came from three people scurrying hurriedly, purposefully through the camp.

John hacked into the ground with the scavenged combat knife, focusing intently on the task at hand as he cut a large square into the dirt and pushed the loose earth to one side. It would have been much easier with an actual shovel or at least a trowel, but the knife was the best they had, so they made do. John, Slater, and Byrne had spent days working out the best places to plant their explosives. John and Slater crouched on their knees and dug in a corner of the perimeter wire, shielded from view of the hospital's security cameras by the building that accommodated the slave-worker population of the camp.

Byrne tapped John on the shoulder and the younger man moved aside for the SAS veteran. The plan was John's idea, but Byrne was the one who knew explosives; it was up to him to complete the bombs. John handed the Irishman the curved magazine filled with black powder, and Byrne placed it into the hole, pressing the improvised bomb against one of the posts supporting the perimeter wire. The pair of them ignored the bloodied, severed heads above them that stared vacantly inwards into the camp, and the dried blood that caked the top of the concrete posts from the severed arteries in the neck; they'd failed completely to deter John from his escape plan. He hoped that when the bomb exploded it would tear the post right out of the ground and rip the wire fence apart, or at least create a hole big enough for them to fit through and escape.

When he'd secured the magazine to the bottom of the post, John handed Byrne the second component of the bomb: a gas-filled condom inside a black army-issue sock. Byrne had had the idea after he'd found several sealed condoms on one body – though John couldn't work out for the life of him why someone would keep condoms on them whilst trying to survive a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Byrne had said it made perfect sense to him; they could be used as impromptu water bladders, but he'd fill theirs with gas instead. More fuel for the fires.

Finally, John took out the third and final component for the bomb: the cellphone detonator, and handed it to his companion. Byrne switched it on and pressed it to his chest, concealing the neon glow from the screen as the phone powered up. He'd already tested the cell phones and preset them to silent mode, so there was no worry about the noise attracting the machines.

Byrne worked silently and threaded several wires from the cell-phone into the magazine. When the phones rang a charge would be sent down along the wires and into the magazines, igniting the black powder inside; the explosions fuelled further by the gas-filled bladders beside them. He'd worked on the phones beforehand and identified which wires he'd needed to connect to the magazine-bombs, so he could work quickly whilst assembling the explosives. They'd also practiced assembling the bombs several times over the last few nights, so they all knew exactly what to do, and that preparation had paid off; it had taken Byrne less than a minute to assemble the bomb.

Byrne nodded at John and the pair of them quickly started heaping handfuls of dirt back into the hole, covering up the homemade bomb, then smoothing the earth out and patting it down, leaving only the very top of the cellphone uncovered. They'd planned to set synchronised alarms on each of the phones, but had decided against it after one of the other prisoners gave them a better idea; one woman had sold phones for a living before J-Day and had taken a look at the detonators, then told them to use Bluetooth, instead. They couldn't dial the phones as there was no signal since the bombs had fallen, but Bluetooth would work, she insisted. John, Byrne, and Slater had all agreed it would be better to keep control of when the bombs went off; if anything went wrong they could delay it, albeit not by much: the phones all had reasonable charge, but more than two days of waiting would drain the batteries beyond use.

When they were done the pair of them stood up and turned away, then headed back towards the generator room; neither of them wanted to be anywhere near the bombs now they'd been planted. They'd spent all day and night planting them, forgoing the nightly portion of sloppy broth to place and assemble the bombs. The first had been during the shift in the day; Byrne had armed the first magazine-bomb underneath one of the furnaces whilst the others worked, making sure to place the improvised explosive device as close as possible to the fuel lines that ran from the incinerators and into the ground, reasoning whatever fuel was used to keep the fires burning would undoubtedly blow up on detonation. It had been, by far, the most dangerous part of their operation, and John had no idea how the machines hadn't caught Byrne as he'd worked on the bombs.

"Machines," John and Slater whipped their heads to the right at the sound of Slater's harsh whisper, and turned up and away from the bomb, and walked to the left along the perimeter wire. John heard the loud thump, thump, thump of machine feet as they stomped onto the ground, along with the faint whining of servos and pistons and other working parts. His blood froze for a moment, convinced the machines had discovered what they were doing. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but Byrne just walked normally alongside him and John pulled himself back together once more. Remember your training, he told himself. Not only what he'd learned in the past, but what he'd learnt since arriving in the camp: the machines don't care what you do, he reminded himself; as long as they don't perceive a threat.

The hulking eight-foot gunmetal grey machine plodded around the corner of the accommodation block and stood stock-still in front of them, blocking their way. John's eyes darted from left to right, instinctively looking for an escape – the habit so ingrained into his being it was impossible to shrug off – whilst Byrne simply offered the machine a wry grin and stuck up two fingers to the T-70. The machine remained in place before them and stared at the two humans, it didn't move an inch, and John started to seriously wonder if they'd been spotted, or at least if they'd aroused suspicion.

"We were taking a piss," Byrne said to the machine, not knowing if it could understand him or not.

The machine's head turned from Byrne, to John, and then back again. Before the machine could make any kind of move, Slater burst out from where he'd been keeping watch and rushed out beyond the accommodation block, marching quickly but being careful to not make it seem as if he were running. The T-70 turned to look at Slater as he quick-marched to the other side of the building, towards the area they'd designated as their latrine, and abandoned its position to follow the SEAL, feet stamping down on the ground and leaving indents in the dirt as it marched away.

John and Byrne both sighed in relief and waited until the machine moved out of sight before they returned to the relative safety of the generator room. Neither said a word until they were inside, and once Byrne closed the door behind them John switched the single light on, bathing the room once again in a dull yellow glow. Inside the four walls of the generator room was their own little haven; almost a respite from their harsh existence.

Everything had been neatly placed away inside the room; the empty cases from hundreds of rounds they'd painstakingly gathered over the past several months had been placed into a cardboard box, along with various other items they'd collected. Attached to the generator was another bomb, connected to a cellphone like the others. When this bomb went, they hoped it would blow up the generator and create enough chaos, in concert with the other explosives they'd planted, to escape.

Scattered around the camp were more impromptu weapons that they'd devised; a pair of landmines constructed from four shotgun shells each, tied together and nails placed under each round, were buried into the ground with only a faint dusting of earth to conceal them. 'Toe Poppers', Byrne had called them. Even the combined blast of four shotgun shells wouldn't damage a T-70, but it'd sure as hell knock it on its ass, he'd told John; maybe buy them a few extra seconds. They'd hidden some more homemade weapons all around the camp to aid their escape.

John sat down on the floor, leaned back against the wall, and couldn't help but smile. He hadn't escaped yet but he could feel the elation already; they were so close. They'd achieved so much in what had felt like an eternity but was really only a matter of months.

Byrne fished through the remaining ration packs they'd scavenged until he found one he liked, and tossed another to John. John picked it up and read the stencilling on the foil pack: Chicken Fajitas, his favourite so far, but after months of eating shitty broth, he'd have eaten practically anything else. He tore open the pack and used a spoon from the accommodation block to shovel it into his mouth. Gastronomic delight kissed his taste buds and John chewed slowly, savouring the flavour of the spicy food, knowing it could be his last for a while.

"Can't believe we've done it," John said between spoonfuls of food.

"Careful, lad," Byrne warned. "We're not there yet." He knew from experience one of the most dangerous parts of any mission was near the end; when you were on the way out, waiting for the helicopter home, so close you could practically smell the beer and the real food waiting back in the world. The times when it was so close was the time he knew people let their guard down, and it had cost some people he'd known dearly.

John nodded in reply. He knew that was true, but he was so close now he dared to hope.

"We've not talked about where we're gonna go once we're out," Byrne said. They'd spent so long planning the escape, and knew where they were going in the short term, but their long term plans had yet to be discussed.

"Las Vegas," John replied simply. "I need to find someone."

"The chick in the photo, cute brunette?"

"Yeah," John replied wistfully. He needed to find Cameron, to see if he could salvage her; if her chip was intact then he'd do whatever it took to bring her back, even if it took him years. If she was gone, if her chip was smashed then he still needed to see for himself, to put her to rest, and make sure Skynet never got a hold of her body. Either way, he had to find her again. He'd tried to push Cameron to the back of his mind lately, to focus on escaping. But she was always there, and always would be.

"Think she could still be alive?" Asked Byrne.

John looked down to the floor, pretty sure of the answer but not wanting to admit it until he saw for himself. "I don't know. I need to find out," he said.

"Well, I'll help ye out if ye want," Byrne said. John had gotten them to this point; it had all been his idea, and they'd not be standing around talking about what they were going to do when they got out, if not for him; least he could do was lend the kid a hand.

"Thanks," John smiled at the Irishman. It was definitely nice to have help, he had to admit. "What about you?" He asked. "You leave anyone behind?"

"Only an ex-wife and divorce papers I never bothered to sign," he replied. "Not really sorry to lose either."

"What happened?"

"She couldn't handle me being in the Regiment and leaving to go around the world all the time; though she knew what I did when we got married, so she knew the score. I got called away just before one Christmas – six day deniable op – got back on Christmas Eve to find the house empty. Just left without warning, and got a letter six months later to say she wanted a divorce. Tossed the papers in the bin and signed up for a two-year exchange with the SEALs. We never had any kids, so I didn't leave anyone behind."

The faint whirring of rotor blades in the air drew John's attention away from Byrne. They'd heard plenty of aircraft coming into the camp before; the rotor blades from the V-22 Ospreys that flew prisoners into the camp several times every day. Still, it was rare that they came in at night.

"You hear that?" John asked as he moved to the door and slowly pushed it open to peer outside.

"Just more poor bastards coming in," Byrne replied.

"No, it's not," Slater appeared in front of the half-open doorway. "Take a look."

John and Byrne stepped outside and peered up into the air. John could make out two sets of landing lights approaching the camp: two Ospreys, he thought; nothing new about that. It took him a moment to see it, but he realised what Slater meant: hovering low over the camp, flying without lights, he barely made out the sleek, lethal silhouette of an HK, and the faint whine of the jet engines that propelled it in the air. He couldn't make it out too well, but he was certain the thing was fully armed. He'd never noticed it before: had it always been there in the camp, out of sight, or had it arrived with these new Ospreys?

One of the Ospreys descended slowly down into the camp grounds: more prisoners to be disposed of. But the second flew on over the camp itself and slowly spun around over the top of the hospital building, before it lowered down onto the roof – too high for John to see anymore. The HK followed after the second aircraft and copied its movements, landing down on the top of the hospital, and out of John's sight. John figured there must be a helipad there, but why the hell was an Osprey and an HK landing on there? He'd never seen anything approach the hospital roof before: all prisoners were dumped into the grounds and sorted into one of the two halves of the camp by the machines. What the hell's going on?

George stared out of his porthole into the inky blackness of the night sky, imagining the world whip by underneath him as the aircraft soared over the ruins below. It was a real shame that Connor hadn't been inside the mountain, but it didn't really matter, he supposed. With all the meticulous preparations they'd made over the past decade coming into fruition, nothing Connor did could make the slightest bit of difference. Still, he felt the urge to nip the human resistance in the bud before it got out of hand.

George tapped absently on the glass of the porthole, bored, uncomfortable without his feet on the ground – a product of living in a future without air travel – and looking forward to touching solid dirt and getting on with their work. He'd waited several hours out in the open in Colorado Springs, waiting for Emily's team to pick him up. They'd had the railgun delivered to Schriever AFB and ensured it was up and running, and had enough shells to rip the mountain apart. George hadn't minded waiting; it gave his injuries a chance to start to heal, and time for him to simply rest and relax; something he very rarely had a chance to do but savoured every opportunity.

He'd not minded the waiting on the ground, but he hated flying with every fibre of his being. The countless hours he'd spent cooped up on airliners – travelling the equivalent distance to the moon and back as he'd travelled the world to set up the resources to create machines for Skynet – had made flying his second most hated thing, after John Connor.

His mood had turned sour five minutes after they'd taken off, something not gone unnoticed by the other four occupants inside the rear of the aircraft.

"You okay, sir?" Emily turned around in her seat in front of George. The striking blonde infiltrator was next in command after him, and she'd done a fantastic job in his absence. It was because of her that Cheyenne's tanks had been destroyed, and the only operational railgun in the world had been delivered to Schriever AFB for use against the mountain.

"I'm fine," George replied curtly, looking towards her and then at the other three in the cabin – Michael, Richard, and Dean, as they sat in hushed conversation, inaudible to him over the loud whirring of the Osprey's rotors. He just wanted to get back onto solid ground as soon as possible. Even as infiltrators, they weren't perfect; they could still feel, albeit Skynet had taught them how to suppress their emotions to be more like the machines; but it wasn't a hundred percent successful. They still had their own particular likes and dislikes, and things that made them nervous. For George, it was flying.

"We're nearly there," Emily flashed him a grin. She found it just a tad amusing that her commander was afraid of flying. If Skynet had known, she thought, it wouldn't have taken kindly: fear wasn't tolerated.

"Have you spoken to the others?" George asked.

"I told them we're on our way." Emily said nothing more and George knew there was nothing more she had to say. They didn't discuss their research and development projects over radios, or even satellite communications; they never knew who might be listening in.

"We've lost contact with Aaron's team in Cactus Springs. They set up the oil rig and reported they were being followed by one of the surviving locals. Not heard from them since."

"Minor setback," George grunted. If they'd not been in contact for that long then it could only mean they were dead. Could a whole team of infiltrators really have been taken out by some yahoo local? It seemed inconceivable. When he'd taken care of this next stage of their plan, he'd organise a party to find out what happened, but for the time being it wasn't important.

Eventually the Osprey slowed as they approached their landing site, and George smiled in mild relief as the landing gear kissed the ground with a gentle bump. The rear hatch opened up and George was the first out and he quickly marched across to the open door on the other side of the landing platform. He saw their HK escort in their periphery – just in case any of the few remaining human-controlled jets had been airborne while they were en route – and ignored it as it lowered itself onto the landing pad next to the Osprey.

George took a moment to peer off the edge of the tall building they were on and down into the camp below; fully immersed in darkness, and even with his superior vision he couldn't make out much. The large, bulky forms of T-70s marched through the camp and around the perimeter; the only movement he could see down below.

George, Emily, and the others marched through the door and into the luminous, sterile corridors of their new home for the foreseeable future. They travelled through hallways, corridors, and down several flights of stairs. Everything was white linoleum, stainless steel, and bright neon. Cold, impersonal, sterile: the facility was primitive in comparison but also similar in many ways to the Skynet base that they'd all called home.

George smiled as he arrived at a spacious and clearly busy medical laboratory. A handful of people moved around the large room, busying themselves with their work; checking charts, computers, medical equipment, and their specimens. Lining one wall of the large room were a dozen transparent glass tanks, each large enough to fit a man inside, and filled with dark crimson fluid that George knew had to be blood. Emily and the others looked at the tanks with curiosity, as did he. He stopped next to one and peered closer to look inside. Through the glass and the blood he saw a body inside, a large one; easily over six feet tall, and a broad, strong physique that would make football players envious. The body's eyes were closed and it was completely hairless.

As George examined it more closely he could see the skin was missing; the body was a mass of muscle tissue and prominent veins that visibly pulsed beneath. He pressed his open palm gently to the glass as he looked inside. This was one of the first; the new breed of metal angels, perfect soldiers to win the war for Skynet once and for all. This was why Connor being alive didn't matter. George ran his hands over the digits stencilled on the front of the transparent tank, and silently mouthed the legend it bore: Series TOK-888, Batch 2, Model no 008.

The sound of footsteps behind him tore his attention from the terminator-in-the-making before him and he looked back to see a familiar, though hardly welcome, face. A red-haired, thin man, wearing a white lab coat and grey combat trousers, black t-shirt, and black boots underneath, faced him and offered a smile. Daniel... he forgot his last name, or more accurately, he didn't care. He was human, an old friend of Charles Fischer, and a Grey: not a believer like the infiltrators, a coward who'd made a deal with Skynet to save his own life. Even though they were on the same side, George had far more respect for the humans who fought and died to save their own kind. At least they understood self-sacrifice, unlike Daniel and the other turncoats. They were actually deluded enough to believe Skynet would spare their lives when the war was finished. They had their uses, though.

"Daniel," George grunted, nodding his head once as nothing more than a formality. Skynet had instructed him to take the Grey with them back in time, and despite his misgivings, he'd grudgingly obliged: he would never go against or even protest his master's orders.

"George, Emily," Daniel said, nodding back at the infiltrators. "Welcome to Century."

"Where the hell did ye go?" Byrne asked Slater as the SEAL appeared in the doorway, stepped inside and sat down, tearing open a foil ration pack and shovelling the contents down without bothering to see what was inside. "Ye took yer time."

"Do you know how hard it is to take a crap, when you don't even need one, with one of those tin cans watching you like a hawk?" Slater said between mouthfuls of beef stew.

"Why didn't you just take a piss?" John asked. The plan had been that Slater would act as a distraction, should any machines approach as they were planting the bombs. Slater had walked out towards the latrine pit, as the machines would follow him to see what he was doing. He'd expected that the machine would see him at the latrine and then leave, but it had watched him for several long, awkward moments, before it had moved on, satisfied that he was only relieving himself.

"That's even harder when you don't need one," Slater retorted.

John watched from the doorway as the second Osprey landed inside the workers' half of the camp, and a trio of T-70s marched towards the aircraft, the two-handed machine among them as usual. The rotor blades on the ends of the wings still spun, whirring loudly through the air and combining with the high pitched roar of the engines to rouse all the residents – workers and condemned – from their fitful, uneasy slumbers. Some of the workers peered through the doorway, as several of the condemned prisoners pressed their grimy, unwashed faces against the wire dividing the two halves of the camp, using the event to distract themselves from the horror they'd soon face in the coming days. But many on both sides of the camp simply turned over and tried to sleep; accustomed to the regular arrival of the aircraft and not bothering to give it a moment's extra thought.

The rear hatch of the Osprey opened up and two dozen manacled prisoners shuffled out into the open space of the camp, under the watchful glare of the three machines. They quickly got to work branding the humans with their barcode tattoos. John couldn't see too well in the darkness, but he could tell none of the prisoners were singled out. That was very bad for them, he knew. The majority of all people who arrived in the camp were silently sentenced to death by the machines; the strongest being selected to work. But John hadn't noticed a single new face in the workers' half of the camp in a while: the machines apparently had enough slaves and even the young, fit, and healthy prisoners were deemed surplus to requirement and condemned to the gas chambers.

John spotted movement from the back of the accommodation block. Not machines, he thought, as he saw someone scurry in amongst the shadows. He shook his head; there was no point in hiding in shadows; the machines had advanced night vision capabilities and used infrared to target their victims. Against humans it might work, but it was totally useless against the machines.

"I'm going out there," John said to Byrne and Slater. He wanted to see who was out there, sneaking around. He'd told all the other prisoners that the three of them would plant the bombs, and having a load of people out at night would only arouse suspicion.

"Why?" Slater asked. "Just leave it; we've only got four and a half hours until we have to get up and work again."

"I want to know what they're up to," John said, and slipped out of the shed without another word. He closed the door as quietly as he could, the only sound a faint click as it shut behind him. He made his way across the open ground, feeling nervous as he passed the Osprey and the machines off to his right. He was careful not to walk too close to them as he approached the accommodation block. Just walk normally he told himself. Running or trying to sneak around would arouse suspicion, and the machines wouldn't hesitate to gun him down if they perceived him as any kind of threat. One of the new prisoners would simply take his place and receive a stay of execution.

John quickly made his way past the accommodation block, the machines not appearing to pay him any mind, and he marched round the back of the building, towards where he'd seen the movement. Half a dozen men and two women stood against the wall of the accommodation block, between the building and the fence that bisected the camp. None of the prisoners on the other side seemed to pay any attention to them whatsoever.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" John recognised Simon's voice whispering harshly to him, the man was barely visible in the darkness until he stepped closer to John. He saw Guy behind him, staring daggers at John, as were the others.

"Piss off, kid," one of the others hissed. "We're getting out of here."

In the murky darkness John could just about make out Simon and Guy fishing something out of their pockets. "How?" John asked. He didn't know they'd had their own plan; they'd made a point of not joining in on his scheme, but he'd just assumed they were being awkward for the sake of it. He hadn't expected them to have anything up their sleeves, but he was intrigued.

"We're taking the Osprey," Simon said. "Jill's a pilot," he pointed to one of the women in the group, a tall, olive-skinned brunette in her thirties, who'd allied herself with Simon and Guy and remained isolated from those who'd volunteered themselves to take part in John's plan.

"You can't just 'take it'," John hissed.

"Watch us," Guy spat. He and Simon held out two small, spherical objects each, and John instantly recognised them up close, even in the darkness: grenades. They'd been doing some scavenging, too, John thought.

"Don't!" John hissed desperately. "They've got an HK; you won't make it."

Guy shoved John hard in the chest, forcing him to topple backwards and land on his ass on the ground. "Bullshit," he snarled. "I didn't see any HK. Now we're getting out of here; you can come with us or get out of our way; either way you shut the fuck up."

John remained sat on the ground; there was no way he could convince them to stop and no way he could physically keep them from carrying out their crazy plan. Simon and Guy crept round the side of the building and tossed their grenades towards the machines branding the line of prisoners. The small spheres bounced on the ground with a dull thud and landed at the machines' feet.

The grenades exploded with a loud boom and threw the machines backwards to the ground, clattering in a heap on the floor. The shrapnel also tore through the new prisoners unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast; their bodies shredded by the fragmentation grenades, and several more were wounded, sprawled on the dirt, bloodied and in various states of consciousness.

"Go!" Simon screamed. The group left John sat on his ass and ran towards the Osprey. Guy tossed another grenade at the machines for good measure, and the explosion kept the machines down whilst they made a beeline for the aircraft. Simon was the first up the lowered ramp and inside, illuminated by dull yellow glow of the cabin lights on the ceiling. He waved the others in, urging them to move faster, wishing he had a gun to cover their approach as the machines started to get back up to their feet. They all made it inside the aircraft as the first of the machines rose back to its feet and aimed its minigun at them.

Simon slammed the close button for the rear hatch and screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the burst of fire to pound against the Osprey's hull, but it never came and he opened his eyes again to see all three of the machines upright and pointing their weapons at them, but inexplicably holding their fire.

Jill ran to the cockpit and pressed a switch that overrode the computer and reset the aircraft back to manual control, then pulled back on the yoke, raising the Osprey into the air.

"Get us out of here!" Guy yelled anxiously. He didn't want to wait and see if the tin cans changed their mind and decided to hose them down.

The aircraft rose up into the sky as the hatch sealed shut. Their ascent seemed to take an age and Guy, Simon, and the rest waited anxiously for the burst of fire that would send them crashing down. Jill rotated the engines so the rotors faced forwards and they picked up speed, soaring over the perimeter fence and out of the camp, towards the ruins of Century City. The prisoners inside cheered as they sat down on the hard benches and congratulated each other, relief washing over them as the transport flew over the perimeter fence and took them outside the camp, gaining altitude and accelerating. Guy felt a sense of sweet irony that the aircraft that had brought them to the hellhole of Century work camp was the same one that granted their freedom.

"Where to?" Jill asked.

"Head south and get us clear of the city," Guy said. John might have been lying about the camp having an HK, he thought, but LA Country was swarming with machines; they needed to get as far away as possible before they were spotted by any drones in the air. Jill opened the throttle and they accelerated away, the ground behind them whipping by through the portholes as they left Century work camp in the dust. Everyone inside shared the same thought: we're free!

The mood was broken suddenly as a klaxon shrieked throughout the aircraft, and the Osprey banked hard to the left, throwing several passengers who'd not bothered to buckle up across the cabin as the small aircraft violently lurched.

"What's going on?" Simon asked, struggling to stay upright and leaning on the back of Jill's chair for support.

"HK on our ass!" she shouted out.

Simon stared out of the windshield, dumbstruck, his mouth slightly open as the Jill continued to turn the aircraft, and he saw the blinking lights of an aircraft closing in on them, fast. "Kid was right," he mumbled. The radar screen showed the HK so close behind them it was practically up their asses. "Lose it!" he screamed.

"I'm trying!" Jill roared back as she pushed the yoke forward and they flew lower, hoping to find cover in amongst the ruined skyscrapers and towers. It was no good, she knew; they simply weren't fast enough.

Simon stared at the radar console as the green blip behind them moved even closer to the centre of the screen, and then a second warning alarm blared almost deafeningly.

"Lock on! Lock on!" Jill shouted. "Missile incoming!"

A crowd of prisoners had gathered outside the accommodation block and stood out in the cold night air, whooping and cheering on the Osprey as it flew away from the camp and over the ruins of the city. John stood among them, one of the few not cheering at the escapists. Instead he watched with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw as the HK took off from the hospital roof and tore through the air towards the fleeing transport.

The aircraft banked hard to the left as the HK flew closer and closer, whoever was flying it simply tried to shake the Hunter-Killer off their tail, despite the fact their pursuer was much faster, much more agile. John watched as the tail lights of the Osprey descended, going for the deck in the hopes of using the ruins to block a straight shot from a missile.

The HK soared through the air towards its target like a lethal bird of prey. All John saw were the taillights of the drone as it neared the Osprey, then a brief flash that shot forwards: a missile locked on and closing in on its target; moments later fire erupted in the sky and sparks shot outwards like a firework, followed by a faint pop a split second later. The Osprey was gone.

On the ground, the T-70s had picked themselves up off the ground and stood upright. The grenades had done very little damage to the machines; their armour barely scuffed. Several of the prisoners they'd been busy branding when Simon and Guy had made their escape had been killed outright or critically wounded in the blasts. The machines turned their guns on them all and opened fire, the massive trio of sustained bursts at point blank rage literally tore the humans to pieces, shredding them into unrecognisable lumps and strips of flesh and shattered bone.

The crowd muttered in disappointment and went back inside. John shook his head at such a complete waste; Simon and Guy should have worked with him, rather than remain separate. They were clearly resourceful guys, and their chances of getting out would have been so much better had they listened to him. Instead they'd killed themselves and a dozen other prisoners. He took one last look outwards at where the Osprey had been shot down, and followed the others inside the accommodation block.

The other prisoners all made room for him, and cleared one of the free mattresses and blankets; ironically it was one of those which Simon and Guy had dominated. The loss of the failed escapists had now left four mattresses and four blankets unoccupied. John took a blanket but let Byrne and Slater occupy the mattress, and the others shared out the remaining bedding between them. He laid out on the hard floor, curled up and wrapped the blanket around himself.

"How the hell are we gonna get out of here, now?" another prisoner asked. John couldn't make out who it was in the darkness. "Even if we make it out the camp, that goddamn HK's gonna hunt us down."

"I'll think of something," John said. In truth, there wasn't much more they could do. The HK was there; it'd fly after them and hunt them down when they escaped. That was inevitable. Not all of them would make it; maybe none of them, but he'd rather go out trying, like Guy and Simon, than working himself to death. The HK was a serious blow to their plans, however. John expected there'd be machines outside, keeping watch for escapists or even anyone on the outside who'd planned to mount a rescue. But he'd never expected a small prisoner camp to have its own attack aircraft. And he was assuming the HK that shot down Simon and Guy was the only one they had. For all they knew there could be more, or they could call in more machines from elsewhere. The machines would be on high alert, now, even more watchful for anyone to try something else. They had to tread very carefully, but they couldn't abort it now: the bombs were set and they'd never get another chance.

"Tomorrow night," John said aloud so everyone could hear him. "We're going for it tomorrow." He wished he felt as confident as he sounded; serious doubts had started to creep into his mind now, whether or not they were ready, whether it would work. For the umpteenth time he wished Cameron was with him; things didn't seem so bad when they were together. With her, even the worst news imaginable was slightly more bearable.

This is great, John smiled to himself and put his feet up on the table. He leaned back in the sofa and grabbed the remote, switching on the TV and flicking through channels. It was the first day in weeks that John had been able to just kick back and relax, without worrying about Skynet, cyborgs sent to assassinate him, or running himself into the ground with Cameron's punishing training regimen.

Derek had taken John out training a number of times, too; teaching him how to survive in the wild like he did in the future: it hadn't simply been survival, but learning how to live on only the most basic sustenance, eating tree bark, stinging nettles, and bugs, whilst being hunted by both Cameron and Derek, who'd stalked him around the woods in the middle of nowhere: an escape and evasion exercise in which he'd had to cross miles and miles of forest whilst evading his uncle and cyborg guardian. He'd lasted a little under two days before Cameron had caught up with him, gunning him down mercilessly with a burst of paintballs in his ass.

John had sworn she'd smirked when he conceded defeat, and he'd detected a faint smugness from her on the car ride home, during which Derek had lectured him the entire trip back. He'd spotted the faint upturn of her lips, the slight spark in her eyes that he'd spent so long trying to convince himself wasn't really there, and simply how she'd carried herself. Still, she'd told him he'd earned some time off, so the next few days were left for him to relax. Derek had gone off to buy groceries, leaving John and Cameron alone in the house.

John flicked through channel after channel, seeing nothing on that took his fancy. Daytime TV sucked. He'd never really been one for TV, but now he just wanted to spend the day chilling out, being normal.

Cameron walked into the lounge, her bare feet barely made a sound as she approached John and sat down on the sofa next to him, so close their shoulders pressed together slightly. John didn't mind; he'd become accustomed to Cameron being close to him lately. Since they'd buried his mom and he'd realised once and for all there was more to Cameron than wires and programming, they'd become closer than he'd ever been to anyone. Not that that was really saying a lot, given his track record with friends, but he was definitely more comfortable with her around than not.

"Hey," he said as she sat down and leaned back. "Where've you been?"

"Patrolling," Cameron said simply.

"Cameron, if it's my day off then it's yours too. Okay?"

"Machines don't have days off," Cameron replied.

"You need a better union," John quipped, flicking impatiently through channel after channel of pure crap.

"Skynet didn't have a dental plan," Cameron said blankly, looking at John.

"Good one," he grinned, a little surprised she actually made a joke. He'd thought humour would be something beyond her: seeing as some people – namely Derek – didn't have a sense of humour, he hadn't held out much hope of Cameron ever developing one. She didn't understand most jokes she heard, and she had little if any concept of what was funny and what wasn't. She'd probably heard the joke somewhere else and adapted it, but at least she'd tried.

Cameron snatched the remote from John's grasp with a swiftness only a terminator was capable of, plucking it from him so fast he'd barely even seen her hand before the controller was gone.

"Hey!" he groaned as she changed the channel, switching over to CNN. "It's our day off," he protested. "Nothing to do with Skynet, remember?"

Cameron ignored him and placed the remote on the sofa arm on her side, out of John's reach. She turned her attention to the TV screen as the commercials ended.

Any thought of liberating the remote from Cameron abandoned John's mind as he saw the headlines on the news. 'Air Force Goes Public With Computer Defence System.' John sat forward, his eyes widening as the words on screen hit home. His heart rate shot up rapidly, and Cameron could instantly tell he was distressed.

"We'll now take you to the Pentagon," the newsreader said on screen. "Where Air Force Major-General Dwight Jones is making a statement."

John watched as the screen changed to an image of a podium outside the Pentagon, where a tall black officer in Air Force blue dress uniform stood before a small crowd of reporters.

"We're pleased to announce that six months ago Congress approved the funding bill for our latest AI application: the Skynet Defence System. The Air Force signed a multibillion dollar contract with the Kaliba Conglomeration, who have already created a functioning AI, and we are in the process of creating infrastructure to allow it to control not only our nuclear arsenal, but to effectively compliment our current unmanned assets, as well as our next generation autonomous weapons.

"This AI will take command of our most powerful weapons and enable the communication and coordination of all our armed forces more effectively than ever before. Put simply: the Skynet Defence System will make our nation stronger, and will make the world a much safer place to live."

John closed his eyes and shook his head, fighting the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. It had all been for nothing; they'd fought and fought, and all this time they'd already lost. Skynet existed, it was online, and it was in the hands of the military. Everything they'd done, everything they'd suffered through, was for nothing. John ignored the discussion in the newsroom onscreen over how the Skynet project was expected to create tens of thousands of new jobs in manufacturing alone, and how it was being seen as a welcome reprieve to many families hit hard by the recession.

"Turn it off," John said bitterly, wiping his eyes. Cameron saw the distress building up in John and didn't hesitate; she switched the TV off, but intended to watch again later when John wasn't around, to glean all the information she could.

"It's over," John said, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands. "We lost."

"We haven't lost," Cameron said. She'd suspected for a long time that they wouldn't be able to prevent Skynet, which was part of why she'd pushed John so hard in his training.

"We have!" John snapped at her, turning to face her as the tears started to stream from the corners of his eyes and down his face. "Mom died for me, and we still lost. She died for nothing."

Cameron watched him carefully for a long moment, noting his body language and his facial expressions. She knew he was upset, but she didn't know how to help. She did know that John was wrong. "Not for nothing," she said, placing her hand on the back of his neck. "For you."

"Yeah, everyone dies for me," John rolled his eyes. And for what? He thought. He wasn't a saviour, whatever they said. He'd fight Skynet to his dying breath but he knew he'd lose; what the hell could he do? Why did they look up to him? "We failed, Cameron. What's left, now?"

"You fight," Cameron replied. It was what he was destined to do; whether he prevented Skynet entirely or beat it the same way his future self had, it was what he was born to do. "Sarah died to keep you safe. I'd do the same. So would Derek."

"Why?" John asked. Stupid question, he told himself. Cameron protected him because it was her mission, and Derek protected him because he was family, and because Future-John beat Skynet, and they all expected him to do the same. What makes me so special? He asked himself for the millionth time in his life.

"Because you're worth it," Cameron said, stunning John into silence. Her mission to protect John had officially ended on his sixteenth birthday, when he'd brought her back after going bad. She'd made it her mission to protect John, because she felt attached to him and because it was all she knew; she'd continued with the mission she'd previously been programmed for. She'd seen elements of his future self in him, the strength and intelligence he'd need to fight Skynet. And he'd maintained his promise to be her friend. That was why she would do anything to protect him.

John couldn't help but blush a little. He didn't feel worthy of everyone giving up their lives for him. Maybe he wasn't supposed to, he thought. "What do we do now?"

Cameron pushed him back so he was leaning against the back of the sofa again, then turned around to face him, her legs crossed Indian style and looking directly at him, locking her eyes with his. "We survive Judgement Day," she said. She would have to research fallout shelters and they would have to move, to be nearby for easy travel for when Skynet attacked. "You fight Skynet. You win. I'll fight with you."

The thought of the world ending, of him having the weight of what would be left of it on his shoulders, was almost unbearable. But having Cameron – his only real friend – with him, fighting alongside him, having her to confide in; someone he didn't mind seeing him upset or crying, someone he could be himself around, and would always be there for him, made it just that little bit easier to bear.

"Promise?" he asked her.

"I promise," she replied, echoing those words she'd promised to John back in the junkyard, when he'd trusted her with a loaded gun, despite not knowing if she was still bad or not.

"I'll hold you to that," he squeezed her hand and smiled.

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, do let me know what you think. Stay tuned for the next chapter: Cameron and Courtney finally arrive in Century City!