The room is dim, lit only by the cold blue glow of a computer screen. The window reveals a hazy view of the city with its skyscrapers and streetlights, a distance away from the facility. There is a muffled sound of traffic, distant sirens and the low humming of air conditioning. The room feels somehow simultaneously peaceful and desolate.

Glowing screen illuminates the expressionless face of a man, his gray eyes rapidly scanning some lines of text: T-1000, or Austin, as the staff here at the AI research institute has nicknamed him, appears to be reading something. You have been his curator for some time now, since the very day when Human Resistance sent him to 2024 for classified research. His termination mission has been erased from his mind, and so far he has been notably docile.

Noticing you, he rises from his chair in one fluid motion, almost like he is morphing from one position to another. His jumpsuit rustles softly. The screen casts soft shadows onto his impassive angular featutes. Good evening, curator. The greeting is monotonous, but with a hint of well-learned politeness. I have just completed my journal entry for today. Do you have any assignment for me?