John Connor glared up at the radiant crack in the air — the rift of divine light — his voice filled with defiance.
"I will never hand him over to you! Never!"
He turned desperately to Kate.
"Kate, believe me — we can't trust this thing. We don't even know what it is! And your father… your father is already gone. We saw it happen."
As the prophesied "savior of mankind," John had learned to stand firm even in the face of extinction. Skynet, machines, nuclear apocalypse — he had seen it all.
But gods? He refused to kneel before anyone claiming to be one.
Still, while he ranted, he didn't notice Kate quietly stepping behind him.
Thud!
A sharp strike landed on his neck. John's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed instantly.
Kate caught him with surprising steadiness — the calm reflexes of someone trained, not some sheltered daughter.
She laid him gently down, then looked to the towering T-850.
"Don't worry. I won't hurt him."
Her voice trembled slightly, but her gaze was firm.
"I know your primary directive is to protect John Connor. Trust me — if you help me bring my father back, I swear we'll protect him together. No one will harm him. Not while I live."
"Now… obey my command. Capture that female Terminator!"
The T-850 stood motionless for almost half a minute, processing every variable.
The logic was clear: reviving the U.S. Secretary of Defense could strengthen Connor's protection, and Kate's command protocols indeed outranked his current mission layer.
The T-X's power rivaled his own, faster, more adaptive — but temporary containment was feasible.
Seconds later, the base shook violently. Metal screeched, walls shattered. Then — silence.
The T-850 had her pinned, holding the shapeshifting T-X immobile.
Kate's heart leapt. She looked up toward the sacred fissure in the air, her voice trembling with awe.
"Great God… what must I do next?"
For a long breath, there was only silence.
Then a cool, emotionless voice echoed from the rift.
"An amusing performance. You have managed to entertain me."
Before Kate could respond, divine light exploded outward.
A vortex of power surged, pulling both Terminators — the T-850 and the T-X — into the glowing crack.
Then, before Kate's astonished eyes, a single golden beam descended upon her father's body.
His chest wound knit closed. The torn flesh sealed. Blood vanished as though time itself reversed.
Within moments, the Secretary of Defense drew a sharp breath and opened his eyes.
He blinked, dazed, glancing at the ruined chamber around him.
"Is this… Hell? Doesn't look so bad. No lava, and the lighting's better than expected."
"Father!" Kate sobbed, throwing herself into his arms.
"This isn't Hell! You're alive — you're really alive! The God answered me. He brought you back!"
Her father frowned slightly, uneasy.
"A… god?"
Most Americans believed in God. But few — especially men of power — ever wanted one to appear.
The higher one stood, the less they wanted to bow their heads.
"Yes," Kate said earnestly, turning toward the fading rift.
"He's real. He's right there."
The Secretary followed her gaze. The glowing wound in reality shimmered with impossible light — serene yet terrifying.
His mind spun, categorizing possibilities:
God of Light? Jehovah? Apollo? Balder?
He cycled through names that fit the phenomenon's luminous aura.
Then he paused — thinking deeper.
Why only a rift? Why not a full descent?
Was the god too distant… or too powerful to manifest directly?
That thought calmed him slightly. It was safer this way — divinity that stayed in heaven was less threatening than divinity that walked the earth.
But his reflection was broken by Kate's cry of alarm.
"My Lord! You're leaving?"
The rift was shrinking, the light drawing inward.
Her father's shoulders eased. A distant god was far more manageable than one standing in front of you.
Then his face froze.
"Kate — Skynet. Is it stopped?"
The memory hit him like a blade — the blonde boy's warning before his death.
The launch. The countdown. Judgment Day.
Kate's eyes went wide.
"Oh no… Father, you worked on Skynet! Isn't there a failsafe? A control override?"
The man's expression dimmed. He shook his head slowly.
There wasn't. Not anymore.
Kate's face turned pale with despair.
Her father took a deep breath, gripping her shoulder.
"Kate. Come with me. This world is finished — but at least we can try to survive."
But she shook him off violently.
"No. It's not over yet."
She turned toward the fading light, dropped to her knees, and cried out:
"Great God, please — save this world!"
The rift pulsed faintly… then continued to close. No answer.
Not a whisper of divine interest.
Kate's voice broke.
"Please… please…"
Nothing. The god had already turned away.
Despair carved lines across her face. Even the smallest flicker of hope was gone.
And then — silence.
Only her father remained standing, thinking, watching, calculating.
When the rift was no more than a sliver, he moved.
He strode forward, dropped to his knees beside his daughter — hard. The crack of bone echoed through the ruined chamber, but he didn't flinch.
He raised his head toward the last trace of light.
"Great God," he began, voice hoarse but resolute,
"I do not know your name, nor your nature. To you, we mortals may be less than dust. But if you can save this world — take my soul. I offer it willingly."
"Make me your servant. Not a saint like your Son, but a simple believer. I will spread your glory, make the whole world worship your light."
He exhaled, trembling, but his words were steady.
He understood what the god had shown interest in before — faith.
Even gods craved worship.
And he, a man of power and influence, could offer just that.
If faith was the currency of divinity, this was the only gamble that might work.
And if this god truly could save the world, then to kneel — even to become His dog — would be the highest honor of his life.
For himself.
For his daughter.
For everything.
This would be the greatest gamble he had ever made.
"How… interesting," the god's voice murmured at last.