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.
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.
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.
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.