Night had fallen over the desert safehouse. The wind howled outside like something out of The Terminator, but inside, the future of humanity was arguing about muscle recovery.
John Connor leaned back in a folding chair, tactical boots up on a crate of plasma cells.
“Listen,” John said, staring at the massive cybernetic organism across from him, “if we’re going to stop Skynet, you need optimal performance.”
The Terminator tilted his head slightly. “My systems are operating at 100 percent efficiency.”
“Yeah, well, your traps look tight,” John replied. “We’ve been running drills all week. Heavy weapons. Deadlifts. That thing you did with the truck axle. Even machines need maintenance.”
From the shadows, the familiar Austrian voice rumbled. “I do not require… pampering.”
John smirked. “It’s not pampering. It’s strategy. Recovery increases combat effectiveness. Reduced joint friction. Improved mobility.”
The Terminator paused, processing.
John pulled up a tablet. “There’s a place in town. Professional. After-workout sports massage. You walk in. You say nothing weird. You pay. You leave. No sunglasses indoors. No ‘I’ll be back.’”
The Terminator nodded slowly. “Clarify objective.”
“Objective?” John grinned. “Loosen up so when Skynet sends the next T-1000, you can actually rotate your shoulder before throwing it into molten steel.”
A brief flash of memory: Terminator 2: Judgment Day. Steel mill. Thumbs up.
“Understood,” the Terminator said. “I will acquire… massage.”
“And Arnold,” John added, standing up and pointing a finger at the towering machine, “this is a civilian mission. No property damage. No scanning everyone for weapons. No asking if they’ve seen John Connor.”
The Terminator turned toward the door.
“I’ll be—”
John cut him off instantly. “Don’t.”
A beat.
“…back,” the Terminator finished anyway.
John sighed. “Why do I even try?”