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PESCADERO STATE HOSPITAL: A sign on a chain link fence topped with concertina wire reads: PESCADERO STATE HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE. Beyond it squats an imposing four-story building. Institutional brick. Barred windows. About as inviting as KGB headquarters. Security guards patrol the manicured grass.

HOSPITAL - MAXIMUM SECURITY WING: Sunlight is a barred slash on the bare institutional wall. The room is empty of all furnishings save the bed, a stainless steel sink, toilet, and a dented metal mirror. We hear a rhythmic grunting, small explosions of breath in perfectly-metered time. A bedframe leaned upright against the wall, legs facing outward.

A pair of sweaty hands grip one leg. Tendons knot and release as someone does pull-ups. A man of tangled hair hides the face that comes into frame, dips out, comes back. A woman in a tank top and hospital pants in hanging from the top leg of the vertical bedframe. Her body is straight and taut. Knees bent so the feet clear the ground. The arms are lean and muscular.

The inmate, face hidden, pulls up, dips, pulls up. Like a machine. No change in rhythm.

Figures move down the hospital corridor of polished tile and two-tone walls. Dr. Peter Silberman, a smug criminal psychologist, leads a group of young interns. Following laconically, are three burly attendants.

SILBERMAN: The next patient is a 29-year old female diagnosed as acute schizo-affective disorder. The usual indicators... depression, anxiety, violent acting-out, delusions of persecution. (the interns nod judiciously) Here we are.

Silberman stops at one of the soundproof steel doors. There is a two-way speaker beneath a tiny window. Silberman flips the intercom switch. Silberman's scrubbed and cheerful face is at the cell window. His voice comes over the tinny speaker.

SILBERMAN: 'Morning, Sarah.

She turns slowly, Sarah Connor is not the same woman we remember from last time. Her eyes peer out through a wild tangle of hair like those of a cornered animal. Defiant and intense, but skittering around looking for escape at the same time. Fight or flight. Down one cheek is a long scar, from just below the eye to her upper lip.

Her voice is a low and chilling monotone.

SARAH: Good morning, Dr. Silberman. How's the knee?

In the corridor, Silberman's smug composure drops a second. Then returns.

SILBERMAN: Fine, Sarah. (he switches off, speaks to the interns) She, uh... stabbed me in the kneecap with a screwdriver a few weeks ago.

Sarah watches them talking about her through the glass, but can't hear them. She feels like a lab animal. The interns look in at her through the glass as Silberman talks. With her face drawn, eyes haggard and hair wild, she looks like she belongs where she is.

SILBERMAN: The delusional architecture is interesting. She believes a machine called a "terminator", which looks human of course, was sent back though time to kill her. And also that the father of her child was a soldier, sent to protect her... he was from the future too... (he smiles) The year 2029, if I remember correctly. (the interns chuckle) Let's move on, shall we?

As the interns walk on, Silberman steps close to Douglas, the head attendant, and speaks low.

SILBERMAN: Douglas, I don't like seeing the patients disturbing their rooms like this. See that she takes her thorazine, would you?

Douglas is 6'4", 250 pounds and warm-hearted at a rattlesnake. He nods, catching Silberman's meaning, and gestures for the other attendants to hang back as Silberman moves on in his rounds.

Sarah looks up as the cell door opens. Douglas walks in slowly, idly tapping his police baton against the door in a ominous rhythm. The other two orderlies ease in behind him. One of them carries a stun baton (like a sawed-off cattle prod). The other has a tray with cups of red liquid-thorazine.

DOUGLAS: Time to take you meds, Connor.

Sarah faces him, weight centered. Feral eyes darting from one to the other.

SARAH: You take it.

Douglas grins, casual --

DOUGLAS: Now you know you got to be good 'cause you up for review this afternoon...

SARAH: I'm not taking it. Now I don't want any trouble...

DOUGLAS: Ain't no trouble at all --

He whips the baton in a whistling backhand, which -- WHAP! Takes her square in the stomach. She doubles over and drops to her knees, unable to breathe. Douglas tips the bed and it slams down with a crash, right next to her. He takes the stun wand from the other attendant and walks forward. Sarah is grimacing and struggling to breathe.

SARAH: You... son of a... AAARRGH!!

The stun wand hits her between shoulder blades as she tries to rise. It drives her to the floor, pinning her like a bug. Little electric arcs crackle as the baton makes her writhe in pain. Douglas grabs her by the hair and jerks her up to her knees. Holds the cup of thorazine in front of her lips.

DOUGLAS: Last call, sugar.

Gasping, she chokes the zombie juice down.

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