A/N: Hello all. Recently saw Terminator: Genisys and thought I should write something dedicated to it and, thus, this little fic was born. I decided to venture into the realm of first-person narrative for the first time in ages just to try something a bit different and a bit new.

The fic is based from the view of John Connor (hence the title) during the scene in which Skynet transforms him into the T-3000. The dialogue in italics is taken directly from that scene also.

I do not own the Terminator franchise nor do I stand to gain anything from writing this. I am just writing for the sake of just writing.

I hope you enjoy.

john connor: thy kingdom in ashes

You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?

Easy? No. No, of course not. In the beginning I might have been found guilty of that sentiment exactly - when I wasn't busy badmouthing my mother, that is. You know how we are. What am I talking about; of course you do. Stalking and murdering the entirety of the remaining human race and all that. All our naïve optimism and hopeful ignorance. Our dreams and wishes for you to dissect and analyse at your will. You call the shots, as I'm sure you are very much aware of.

But then I grew up and the bombs soon made it apparent Judgement Day hadn't been averted like we had planned all those long, faraway years ago and I was scared. Really, truly scared. Let me tell you something: that was the first time I had felt that raw, deep, all-encompassing, all-consuming fear burst through my veins like- like- like-

You know that building acidic taste that rises in your throat when you make the relatively unwise decision to such on one of those little sour sweets you could buy down at the corner shop? Yeah, well, it was like that.

Oh. Hah. Sorry, sorry. I forgot there for a moment who I was talking to, Non-Human - All-Terminator. Not to worry, I have the utmost of confidence that you will at least be able to use those mechanical imaginations of yours to picture it. If not, then I'm sure you can easily locate another unwilling human and infiltrate their brain to take a little sneak peak into their personal memories.

(Not that I don't love sharing my brain space with you. We should try it again sometime, how 'bout that. Who would have thought having your mind taken over inch by inch would have been so darn enjoyable.)

But. Back to the original question (I would apologise for my incompetent rambling bit that's to be expected from sharing with a nosy flatmate - I would consider charging rent but then again, since you're such an old friend I think I can let it slide): did I think it was easy. The answer is No, I Didn't. Not guilty of that, I'm afraid. What I am guilty of, however, is a far deadlier crime.

I'm guilty of committing hope and the act of hoping that, despite everything - despite every setback, every defeat, every lost man, woman and child and all they had stood for and all I lost and stood for -, that maybe, just maybe, it would have counted for something. That there was a point, a reason, behind it all.

That finally I could put everything to rest.

Including you.

You see, this war has been raging for such a long, long time and I thought - hoped, wondered, dreamed - it was over. That it would all be over today. That we could finally start to pick up the broken pieces of our lost souls and begin to rebuild our lives, piece by piece.

Oh? Does that amuse you? I wondered whether it might. The concept of human hope and courage always was that of a foreign nature, eh, Skynet? Alien to the components and mechanical genius that an advanced supercomputer such as yourself, wouldn't you agree? Yeah, 'course you would. Because human emotion is wasted on you; why would you feel the need, as it were, to trouble yourself with something so pretentious and condescending? Blind, frail human hope and love and faith: ineffectual; pointless; ridiculous.

But don't you see? Can't you get it? That's the difference between you and us in a nutshell, really. And that was why, up until this very second, we were always destined to win and you, with all your diplomacy intact: destined to fail.

We were wrong. I was wrong. And I've gone and killed my father for a lost cause.

'Connor, come in. Repeat, Conn-'

Yes! There it is. Right there! John Connor: the name of the living martyr; the hope for humanity; the unexplainable good luck charm. Never taking, always giving. John Connor didn't have a father or a mother or a sister or a brother, at least not like the rest of us. Families were beneath legends. John Connor was simply John Connor and that was that. Goodbye: The End.

John Connor wasn't allowed to have second thoughts. Wasn't given permission to doubt his credibility and whether or not his painstakingly long ordeals and sacrifices really meant a damn thing in comparison to the grand scheme of life and machine. Wasn't allowed normal life.

Because John Connor wasn't human. That's not to say he was a machine, either.

But he
is
More
.

God! Do you see what I have to put up with? Day after day, hour after hour, second after taxing second - and for what? Because I haven't defeated you and machines now rule the world, so I really gotta ask: what was the point? Truly, just, what was the point of it all? 'Cause I've lost hope.

(I know, I know; it's sacrilege. John Connor giving up after lecturing others on the merits of committing the exact same thing: he must be a hypocrite. How could we have ever put all our faith and trust and lives in his hands?

How indeed?)

What Are You

I can feel you, you know. Short-circuiting me, eating me whole and whatnot. (And I bet I taste pretty darn fine, too.) Turning me on and off like a tap whenever you're struck by the fancy. I'm just another one of your useless pawns trapped alive inside this never-ending war, one that you can use as you will and discard as you will.

Good and evil: two sides to every person. Except you want to switch off the good and ramp up the evil.

Through me.

...

Do you realise how awful that premise sounds? It's like something out of a bad, predictable, fucking clichéd film. Or book. Or whatever. My point being; get some new material 'cause this plot's been done before, so sorry to say.

Although, quite frankly, I'm not.

I am Skynet.

What was I talking about? I get so confused nowadays. Old age, probably, most likely. Wasn't supposed to love this long - at least, not if your high-tech little ol' Terminator babies had their way which, unfortunately for the pair of us, they don't. You do. You hold all the cards, my friend.

...did I just call you friend? That came out wrong.

Oh, God, I can feel a migraine comin' steadily along, I can just tell.

I hate you.

...

When I was a kid, after my mom and I reunited following her eventual stay in a godawful psychiatric ward, I didn't believe in death. I just didn't. You know how it is (and if you don't then use some of my imagination to picture this as I paint it - free of charge): eleven years old, running around, plenty of energy in abundance and all that jazz. Now, you gotta ask yourself; do you honestly think that little happy-go-lucky fool over there is gonna willingly choose to spend his time dreaming about death and funerals and crap?

Well, do ya?

No. Right, no. Of course he's not. Because he's got a bright, bright future sparkling ahead of him - leading others and becoming a great leader, the last great leader of humanity, actually. He's gonna be just fine.

But as the years grew older, that little boy soon realised that his future was not fated to be as bright as the sun as was predicted. The energy began to sap from him, bit by bit, and was slowly consumed by fear and dread. His death featured heavily on his mind and his cavalier attitude sank further and further downwards until anxiety riddled his mind and fright plagued his every belief.

And then the bombs dropped like something out of a horror movie and his future wasn't suddenly his future anymore. It became his present. In a way, now that I think about it, that little boy's fate was sealed the moment he breathed life into his body.

It can't be. We destroyed you.

(Oh, yeah, and in case you hadn't worked it out, you fat machine, that little boy is me. The old me. The pre-me. If you get what I mean.)

Is it just me or is it hot in here? I-I'm sweating, I think... I don't know, am I?

What is sweating? Sorry, forgot you're not human for a moment there. Sweating is a human bodily function, standard procedure. Maybe next time you're, uh, fighting against an army of soldiers, you might notice this little touch of perspiration drip down their sodden brows

drip

drip

drip

Yeah, well, that's sweating.

If there is an army of soldiers left to challenge your rule, that is.

You destroyed an army of slaves. I am no slave.

I never had a dad.

I mean, obviously, I had a father - a father who died nine months before I was born - and an adoptive father who never tired of abusing me - verbally, of course, because he was too weak to muster up the strength to attack me physically. I suppose, looking back on it, even if he had dared raise a hand on me, my nine-year-old self could have just as easily defended against him. He wasn't exactly the strongest man alive. More talk than action, really, that was him all over.

But that's just me rambling again, I apologise. My father, however, that's who I want to talk about. Who I want my last thoughts to centre on given that his last thoughts would undeniably be centred on me after that little encounter he witnessed shortly before he was dispelled through time (thank you again for that, Skynet, I really appreciate you taking the time to get me alone and slaughtering my men, truly).

Kyle Reese: that was his name. The name of my father. I'm going to go ahead and assume you already knew that given that you tend to make it your business to know important names and events. But where Kyle Reese was simply a name to you - a bunch of ones and zeros or whatever the hell it is you guys use to communicate with one another - he was a dad to me.

Not at first, you have to understand. He was nothing more than a mere name to me too back then. A useless, stupid name that could neither resurrect my deceased father from beyond the grave nor keep me fatherless. You have to admit, though; the real thing is so much better than the mere mention of it.

I resented him. I wasted years of my young life despising the man I knew to be my biological blood relative. Because, in my eyes, he had ditched me. In the exact same fashion my mom had when she went ballistic and ended up banged up in the psycho ward. Kyle Reese had left me all alone. Abandoned and scared-

And, God, do you know how that made me feel? To live life without the warm smile of a father. Free from the patronising stare of a pitying dad for all intents and purposes but still lonely. I used to wonder in my mind what kind of a father Kyle Reese would have been to me. I mean, obviously I knew from my mother's seemingly never-ending pool of knowledge that he was from the future as friend to the man, hero and legend that was John Connor but... what kind of father would he be to the boy?

Would he be funny? Kind? Angry? Condescending? Patronising? Snarky? Cruel? Ill-tempered?

All these questions were raised by a boy, having been built-up over the years the longer I was without him. And yet the first time I "happened" to clamp eyes on Kyle Reese, all mud and dirt and war-torn but still alive, I finally had my answer:

He would have been my dad.

And now, I've sent my dad to his death without his knowledge regarding the grand scheme of things.

Because the truth is a cold, bitter pill to swallow and I wanted to spare him the trouble. And the pain. And suffering.

(Not that it matters now.)

Oh, does that humour you, Skynet? I thought it might. Jokes may be wasted on you but the sad truth regarding the world's saviour is the funniest thing you've ever known.

Ah, but who doesn't just love a bit of irony, eh?

'And I've come a very long way to stop you.'

T-3000.

I can hear you whisper in my fragile, distorted mind.

T-3000.

Is that what I'll become? A machine like all the rest; bound and enslaved to your every command, your every order? Is it, Skynet? Because if it is then you might as well go ahead and kill me - go on, take that final plunge. There's no one stopping you, hell I'm not, not anymore. Not after what you've done.

Ah but no. What was it you said? You've "come a long way to stop" me? Interesting; using the verb 'stop'. Not kill or murder nor even seriously injure. No... you need me for something.

Which is why I'm not laying over there; dead like the rest of my men. Which is why you've got your little nano robot pals eating their way through me. Not to kill me but to use me.

That is- That is genius, I must say. Would congratulate you on your miraculous achievement but, as you can gather, I don't quite have, ah, any control over my own body.

Death of John Connor, for all intents and purposes. Decomposing; dying; dead. And in his place, the anti-hero: the villain of the story. The T-3000.

(I'm sorry but I gotta ask: why T-3000? Couldn't you have chosen something a bit classier? A bit special? More memorable, perhaps? ... No, I'm not laughing at you. Cross my heart and hope to die.)

We've both claimed lives, haven't we, Skynet? I mean, the manner of death isn't remotely similar - to be truthfully honest, we hold rather dissimilar ideals when it comes to the act of killing. You favour outright slaughtering them, playing the murderer. You are ruthless, trained, unforgiving. And it would be so easy to just up and blame you for everything. Every misshape or setback. The whole works.

Except you're not the only killer here.

Leader. Hero. Saviour. All words used to describe me - sometimes I have even been awarded the privilege of having the three said in the same sentence at one time, amazing. John Connor.

But I'm not any one of those things. There are words to describe men like me;

Liar.
Coward.
Hypocrite.
Manipulator.
Monster.

murderer

Because I've taken lives, you see, and I was clever enough to persuade and manipulate others into taking their own. My mother, my father. Friends and family. I have no limits.

And in the midst of everything, of hope and pain, of death and love. Of dreams and broken wishes, of sufferingandloss; of crippled and shattered things; of goodandevil and familyandfriendsandlifeandhopeandsomuchdeath-

Maybe we aren't so different after all, I think.

and thus endeth the true reign of a deserved master with an earth-shattering, soul-destroying, hope-riding scream

and if you looked hard enough, you would have witnessed a small smile, a trace of relief mar his war-stained persona

because he is more, finally