prototype_infiltraitor: (bad decision)
Writing Prompts: January

It was time. She'd fought against it for so long. She was tired, and injured: through the chases, and the shooting, and the explosions, and the shooting, and the chases; through the sleepless nights, and the fear, and the worry, and the planning. Through it all, the Terminator had never wavered in its pursuit, it had never wavered its single-minded quest to murder her son. Just as the only man she'd ever loved had sworn so many years ago... It couldn't be bargained with, it couldn't be reasoned with. It absolutely would not stop until John was dead.

Somewhere deep inside, Sarah Connor had expected this. A showdown seemed unavoidable. Nose to nose with the metal monster. Only air between them. Her desperate barks of buckshot were hardly noticed by the silver manslayer. She gritted her teeth as it drew closer, until the liquid machine shaped itself to pierce her exhausted human form and struck unsympathetically. Sarah had no delusions about whether she would survive this encounter. So long as her son would not fall prey, so long as the only thing in this world she loved would live on, Sarah was even glad.

The coldly cunning killer was equally adept at avoiding and removing obstacles from its path; in its brutal efficiency, it would not go around her. The mother of the resistance, as strong and tireless as they come, was only human. And the one thing humans did best was shed their mortal coil. These machines that men had made were death incarnate. The greatest in an endless line of ways to shorten someone's stay in this world. Death came for Sarah Connor.
It was time. She'd fought against it for so long.

But a lesser machine, a lesser death came for the T-1000: the T-800, as dogged as its successor. One exactly like it had come for Sarah, once before. Now, it came like life renewed. Irony had not yet had its fill as the one death turned to fight the other.

Style Credit


prototype_infiltraitor: (Default)
Totally Officer Steve Austin. Definitely. Yep.
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