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ALL PAPERWORK WILL BE TERMINATED.

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Mission Accomplished [Dated to July 9th]

They had spent the night at the IPD outpost, and the sunrise didn't shed any light on the events of the previous day. It was likely that nothing ever would. Especially on the singing. But they had successfully located and secured a dragon – one that hadn't exploded so far - and whether it made any sense or not was immensely irrelevant.

As the T-1000 walked back towards the compound, it struck him that it might have been wise to have brought a change of clothes for the trip. Predictably, he hadn't been wise, and as things stood, his jeans were coated with dried dinosaur blood, and his t-shirt was grimy and torn at the shoulder, thanks to a very insistent set of dragon claws. He made sure to carry Errol exclusively in his arms, now.

Scratches, slashes and bruises were everywhere, his muscles were stiff and his entire existence seemed painfully stretched out, but as far as terminator moods went, his was as good as it got.

He wasn't even late for patrol.

He entered the office like any other day, placing the small dragon on the desk and pausing to roll his shoulders. Errol seemed to feel right at home, attempting to consume a pencil before turning his attention to an intriguing stack of paper.

"Morning, Commander."

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Clarity didn't necessarily make things easier.

The last time he had seen Ginger was at the funeral, several hours ago, and he wasn't seeing her at all anymore; wasn't seeing anything that wasn't there. But there were some things he saw too well. His instinct was all he could trust, and now that he was fully himself, he had to trust it.

Searches, interviews, patrols. They were protocol, and maybe they'd prove useful somehow, but they all seemed to be defeating the point. If the killer was who he though he was, they wouldn't find him through random sweeps or by searching for a personal motive. He would know how to evade them. And there would be more killing.

And killing was what it was, not murder, because murder implied something out of the ordinary, something wrong, a distortion, and to the killer, it was the most natural thing. It was purpose.

Only the target mattered. Everything in the way was an obstacle to be removed.

The T-1000 understood it, whether he wanted to or not. It was still a part of him. Always would be.

He'd talked to Commander Vimes and he needed to talk to Angua. It was different to her. Ginger was different to her. He doubted she would understand, but he had to warn her, had to try and explain.

Sunset was nearing and he didn't know where to find her, so he waited outside her hut - the one she'd shared with Ginger. He stood straight, arms folded, vaguely realizing he was experiencing an anxiety that grew proportionally to the time he spent waiting.

Angua was out looking for the killer, but if she found him, there would be another body and another funeral, and another paper wolf.

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Dragon Quest - Team Errol

The IPD outpost was a small, insignificant dot in the distance, and the sun was in the center of the sky, currently serving as the main obstacle to their mission. Under a different set of circumstances, it might have caused him to remove some layers - possibly all of them - but nakedness was definitely tactically deficient with a constant dinosaur threat lurking about.

They were heading to the very center of dinosaur territory, and if the T-1000 was prone to using dramatic metaphors, he would have dubbed it the Heart of Darkness. Or something like that.

He had his sunglasses on (they were still cracked, but he found that he was beginning to like them better that way; it was symbolic of... something), and he felt like he should definitely have an object hanging out of his mouth to increase the badass factor - traditionally it was a role occupied by a cigarette, but he didn't smoke, so he found himself chewing on a toothpick he'd found in the kitchen instead.

It was one of the best groups of people he could think of to be stuck with in his least favorite area on the island. Even Dean, who had been questionable at first (most humans were questionable at first), obviously wasn't all that bad; he had given the T-1000 a gun, after all.

The objective was simple: Find a dragon. Make Mrs. Vimes happy. Hopefully eliminate a few highly bothersome lizards along the way.

It could shape up to be the perfect day.

He was confident they would find a dragon, and it was the kind of confidence that defied all rational thought. Otherwise, he would've started to doubt things, and doubt was not a parameter he required at the present moment.

"For the record, I still hate goddamned lizards."

They hadn't encountered any yet, but judging by his previous experience, he doubted it would last long.

He glanced back at his team, reaching into his pocket.

"Who wants a lollipop?"


[Threading order is Reese-Angua-Dean-Austin]

Jul. 7th, 2008

Owning Commander Vimes for a day wasn’t something he’d actually planned on. It’d just sort of happened. He was certain there was a reason he'd bid one hundred hours on him (it didn't sound that radical until one considered that they were hours paid in excruciating paperwork) - a good reason. But as things stood, the T-1000 had no idea what to actually do with him.

He tried to consider the things he normally did for entertainment. There was running away from dinosaurs. Beating up Ronon (though it was hardly one-sided). Sex.

None of those were very applicable in this specific case.

It had brought them to the rec room, which was the core center of passive entertainment on the island.

He glared intently at the bookshelf, thinking hard about law enforcement, guns, general crime related miscellany, and explosions. The T-1000 liked explosions, unless he happened to be placed directly inside of one.

That usually wasn’t all that pleasant.

He began to collect the offered reels, glancing sideways at the Commander, who didn't seem terribly enthusiastic about the whole ordeal. But the Commander rarely seemed enthusiastic about anything, so he didn’t take it too personally.

"Were there movies on the Disc?" he wondered. Technologically deficient or not, there were things on the Disc that defied logic in every possible way, and in some ways that weren't exactly possible. If they had terminator equivalents made of clay, there was no reason there couldn't be a movie-showing... device/creature/thing.

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Over a month of paperwork and he was no longer fine. Outwardly, maybe. Inside, there was something else. Restless, electric, nearing overload.

It was like being in the cell again, pacing between four walls, only worse.

He couldn't see a way out.

Purpose, freedom, existence – concepts bounced against each other and no longer made any sense, they only irritated him.

He needed something.

Psych talked. Talking was fine. Talking wasn't enough.

He'd spent the past hour running – not jogging, running. His muscles ached, sweat prickled against his skin, his senses were as sharp as they got. It wasn't enough, either.

The sun was only beginning to rise when he found himself in New Atlantis, staring at a very specific door. It had been a week, and other than the odd bruise here and there, the aftermath of the fight was no longer visible on him. He figured it was time.

He knocked.

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Hangover fun [dated to June 13th]

Waking up had been a bad idea.

No. Bad was too nice a word for it. It was a terrible, masochistic, stupid idea.

There was something inside his head. Something that was burning, decaying and jabbing needles into his brain, all at the same time. He vaguely suspected this was how getting stabbed through the eye felt like, if it was somehow prolonged for... eternity.

He'd heard of karma, but he didn't understand why it had chosen this moment to offer retribution.

His whole body hurt, he felt like he hadn't consumed liquids in several millennia, and he couldn't stop the chills from running through him, but it was the headache that focused his entire existence of pain.

There were faint rays of light coming through the window – it was probably nearing twilight - but they felt more like... laser beams. Aimed directly at his nervous system.

He'd slid or possibly fallen off the bed at some point, finding the nearest corner and curling up against the wall, a pillow pressed tightly against his face, very desperately trying not to breathe, think, feel - or exist.

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May. 28th, 2008

It was early morning when the T-1000 stood outside Elliot's room. Early in a distinctly 5 am sort of way. He was always up at this hour - it was a side effect of having slept in the same bed with Reese for a prolonged period of time, and a useful habit to have, considering he now had to wake up early so he could remove Sarah from the IPD office before Commander Vimes noticed the jaguar was an unofficial office resident as well.

Hopefully it wasn't too early for Elliot.

This wasn't a date - at least, he didn't think it counted as one, since sex wasn't his intention at all – but he had brought flowers anyway. It just seemed like the proper protocol for this sort of thing. He'd picked them at the garden near the compound, only later realizing that it might have been someone's property and could have been against the law. He chose to disregard that suspicion, since he couldn't exactly return them now.

He recalled Matt not appreciating it when he had dragged him out of his bed. Humans seemed to have a problem with overly direct methods of communication.

So he knocked.

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[For Reese, Catherine, Charlie]

He'd been in hibernation for a long time; longer than he ever had been. Possibly a full day, since there was light outside when he slowly drifted into wakefulness. There was light and it hurt, and he put his arm over his face, covering his eyes and shutting them tightly, trying to lessen the shock of it.

He was lying in a bed, curled up against the wall, but it wasn't their bed. He didn't have to look to know that. Reese wasn't there with him.

Reese.

He stopped breathing.

If he started thinking, he would remember.

His pulse quickened, sensations sharpened - he wanted to stop but he couldn't.

The dinosaurs. The blood. The razor. More blood. The arm. The spear. Blood again.

It all connected.

He bolted upright, back connecting with the wall, everything coming into focus.

He was going to throw up.

But he didn't. Not yet. He felt too dry to even try, and after several minutes, the shaking subsided, and he attempted to slowly level his breathing.

He brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and digging his forehead in, attempting to make himself smaller. It was irrational. He obviously couldn't decrease his body mass by changing his position. But he preferred to take up as little room as possible.

He had no self-diagnostics to run, but he knew he was damaged. He didn't know if he could be fixed.

He needed to be still. To just be.
Something, in an area of his mind he had no immediate access to, was wrong.

He performed normally, executing his duties, going through daily routines unerringly. But there was a component missing, as if a command was awaiting execution without his knowledge of it; seeking a trigger.

And there was something else… a feeling.

It didn't belong. He couldn't define it, but it resisted elimination. It lingered.

He was crouched on the river bank, performing a shaving routine, and a minor miscalculation drove the razor into his skin.

It hurt.

But he didn't stop. He wasn't certain why, but he kept the motion going, curious to see where it would lead. The pain intensified, and blood dripped into the water.

The sharp edge slowly painted a trail on the side of his face, and he stopped only when it reached his previous, not fully healed wound – it reopened, and he gasped sharply, releasing his grip on the razor, watching it numbly as it fell into the water.

He dove in after it.

A silver glitter caught his attention, and he swam down to retrieve it. It wasn't the razor. It was bigger, not fully metallic; partially organic. He grabbed the object and swam back, pushing himself up to the surface.

Then he looked.

Metal coated with skin and blood, crushed and torn at the forearm. Clothing still covered it – the tattered remains of a jacket sleeve, and a black leather glove.

He remembered.

A near-violent chill went through him. For a second, he was going to simply toss it back into the river.

It wasn't his. It was useless. It was as dead as he was.



Dead.



He was dead. Terminated. He couldn't be here.

The T-800's arm dropped to the ground beside him, the sound of the contact dim.

They were doing this to him.

He had to leave immediately; find isolation, a way to resist. He grabbed the fishing spear - it was the only available weapon, and he didn't have time to search for a better one.

Heading into the jungle, he didn't notice that the metal arm he left behind was covered in his blood, and he didn't care.

He wasn't supposed to bleed.

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