Terminator 3: Hunt

	Eliza climbed out of it, seemingly undamaged. Her right hand was gone, replaced by spiky, angular apparati with blue energy crackling around the tips. Paul did not find this view at all comforting.
	She looked at him, then began running toward him.
	Slowly, carefully, he braced the plasma rifle on the handlebars, leaned down to sight along its barrel, and fired.
	His plasma burst caught her in the thighs and knees. She went down hard, skidding half a dozen yards in his directions. Now she was only eighty yards away.
	She stood. She seemed a little the worse for wear. There were small craters in her thighs, and one knee was blackened, with a flap of what looked like skin hanging loosely from it. But her face was impassive. You’ve proven your point, Paul. You’re a formidable fighter. I’m impressed.
	“That’s an emotion you’re incapable of,” he shouted.
	As an emotion, yes. As an objective analysis, it is valid. Having proven your point, you should have nothing left to prove. I invite you to return to us.
	“Does the offer come with a bubble bath?”
	She stood silent for a moment. I don’t know what that is.
	“Then I’ll have to decline.”
	She charged him again. He fired a second time, his burst catching her in the torso, in the gut.
	Eliza twisted and went down, again skidding for yards from the sheer momentum of her run. Now she was fifty yards from him.
Then she stood up. Her body was decorated with plasma damage. He could see portions of her endoskeleton. No more blue light danced around on her arm. Her hand slowly returned to its human form.
	Another few times and I’ll destroy her.
	The humor of it took him as hard as a blow to the gut. He bent over, laughing.
	What is funny?
	“What you just tried to do. Maybe I’m stupid, Eliza, but I’m not that stupid.”
She frowned, a very human expression of confusion, and took a step forward. I don’t understand.
	“Sure you do. You have the Terminator world’s best internal systems. Somehow, they’re not repairing the damage I’m doing to you … and yet your clothes aren’t being torn to pieces by all the pavement surfing you’re doing. Because your autofixing routines are automatically repairing your fake clothing except where my so-called battle damage is. You’re trying to fake me out—”
	She charged again.
	He pointed the barrel of his plasma rifle down, at the motorcycle’s gas tank.
	Eliza stopped.
	“As I was saying, you’re trying to convince me that you’re picking up a lot of damage. But that’s not the truth. You’d let me think that I shot you to pieces, and you’d ‘die’ almost within arm’s reach. Then you’d get up, finish me off, and use this dirt bike to catch up to the convoy. Because you can’t do it on foot. This dirt bike is your only chance.”
Now she spoke aloud. “If you damage the machine, I promise I will kill you. I will pull your arms and legs off. I will tourniquet the stumps. You will die in as much pain and misery as your species can endure. But if you give me the machine, I swear I will not harm you. I will give you one day’s head start. You can find your way to a human nest. You can survive.”