《终结者I》Terminator

terminator

by

james cameron

registered wgaw

fourth draft

april 20, 1983

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terminator

a1 title sequence - slitscan effect a1

1 ext. schoolyard - night 1

silence. gradually the sound of distant traffic becomes

audible. a low angle bounded on one side by a chain-link

fence and on the other by the one-story public school build-

ings. spray-can hieroglyphics and distant streetlight sha-

dows. this is a los angeles public school in a blue collar

neighborhood.

angle between school buildings, where a trash dumpster looms

in a low angle, part of the clutter behind the gymnasium.

a cat enters frame. camera dollies forward, prowling with

him through the landscape of trash receptacles and shadows.

close on cat, which freezes, alert, sensing something just

beyond human perception.

a sourceless wind rises, and with it a keening whine.

papers blow across the pavement.

the cat yowls and hides under the dumpster.

windows rattle in their frames.

the whine intensifies, accompanied now by a wash of frigid

purple light. a concussion like a thunderclap right over-

head blows in all the windows facing the yard.

c.u. - cat, its eyes are wide as the glare dies.

1a/fx angle - dumpster 1a/fx

electrical discharges arc from the dumpster to a water

faucet and climb a drain pipe like a jacob's ladder.

cut to:

2 ext. schoolyard - night 2

slow pan as the sound of stray electrical crackling subsides.

frame comes to rest on the figure of a naked man kneeling,

faced away, in the previously empty yard.

he stands, slowly.

the man is in his late thirties, tall and powerfully built,

moving with graceful precision.

c.u. - man, his facial features reiterate the power of his

body and are dominated by the eyes, which are intense, blue

and depthless. his hair is military short.

this man is the terminator.

he glances down, taking calm inventory of himself, and

notices that a fine white ash covers his skin. he brushes

at it unconcernedly as he walks toward the fence, scanning

his surroundings.

cut to:

2a/fx crane shot - schoolyard/city - night 2a/fx

camera moves up as terminator approaches the schoolyard fence

beyond which is an embankment rolling down in darkness to the

cityscape below. the school is perched at the edge of a pro-

montory offering a respectable view of the urban sprawl teem-

ing and glistening under a sullen sky. the night clouds are

shot through with occasional flashes of lightning, presaging

a thunderstorm.

terminator stands, hands on hips in prefect symmetry, gazing

down at the city as the camera reaches full height.

cut to:

3 ext. playground - night 3

a beer bottle smashes on the ground. pull back to include

its ex-owner and his two compatriots, youth gang members,

lounging on the jungle gym of a deserted playground. they

sport nondescript punk regalia...torn t-shirts, fatigue

pants, combat boots or high-top sneakers, leather jackets.

the leader notices something and sits up.

leader

(pointing)

hey, hey...what's wrong with

this picture?

angle - reverse, seen past the lounging toughs, terminator

walks naked into a pool of streetlight, striding purpose-

fully toward them.

angle - over terminator's shoulder, as he approaches them.

they slide from their perches and drop easily to the ground

liquid shadows.

leader

nice night for a walk, eh?

terminator stops right in front of them.

terminator

(without inflec-

tion)

nice night for a walk.

they surround him, all swagger and malign good humor.

second punk

washday tomorrow, huh? nothing

clean, right?

terminator eyes them without expression, unhurried.

reptilian.

terminator

nothing clean. right.

leader

this guy's a couple bricks

short.

terminator turn to the second punk, ignoring the

others.

terminator

your clothes. give them to me.

the punks exchange glances, dismayed.

terminator

(coldly)

now.

second punk

(bracing)

fuck you, asshole.

without warning terminator hammer-punches him in the temple

with blinding speed. the blow flings him with a clang into

the jungle gym. he drops to the ground in a still heap,

eyes open, twitching.

the leader whips out his switchblade and slashes in one

motion. terminator ducks back and catches the knife-

wielder's wrist in an inhuman grip. then he punches the

leader with piledriver force just below the breastbone.

angle - pavement, as the knife clatters down. the punk's

combat boots are on tiptoe, barely touching the ground.

angle - two shot, terminator and the leader are close

together as if dancing, but motionless. their bodies are in

total shadow. the punk's eyes are wide, his veins distended

with an agonizing pressure. terminator jerks his fist back

with a wet sound and the other drops out of frame.

the last tough is stumbling away, gaping with terror. he

backs into a chainlink fence, turns to run along it, finds

he is in a corner.

terminator takes a step toward him, his gaze ominous.

the punk begins shakily stripping off his clothes.

thunder peals overhead.

cut to:

4 ext. street/nearby - night 4

a light rain begins to fall.

terminator emerges onto the street from the playground,

pausing in the pool of light under a streetlight to hike

the collar of the punk's jacket.

the rain streams down over his face, running into

and over his eyes. they do not blink.

cut to:

5 ext. downtown street/alley - night 5

another part of the city. seedy apartments and storefronts.

the streets glisten, hissing with sporadic late night traffic.

slow pan and dolly into the mouth of a narrow alley lined

with trash containers and fire escapes. from a recessed

doorway, two filthy legs sprawl out onto the wet pavement.

an angry, inarticulate drunkard's monologue rises occasionally

above the rain sounds.

angle - doorway, the derelict rouses from his bitter stupor

as a brilliant purple glare lights up the wet brickwork

around him. a shockwave hurls trash into the air.

painted over windows shatter.

rat scurry, blinded.

a figure drops into frame as if out of the sky and smacks

the pavement with a muddy splash.

c.u. - derelict, as he blinks at the fading glare, amazed.

a naked man, compact and muscular, rises in a defensive

crouch. kyle reese is 22, but his face has been aged by

ordeal, the mouth hard, eyes grim. a crinkled burn scar

traverses one side of his face from chin to forehead. other

scars, from burns and bullets, mar his hard-muscled body.

the rain washes a fine coating of white ash from his skin

as electrical arcs lace back and forth between the fire

escapes behind him, hissing and sputtering. the sound

fades, then stops altogether, to be replaced by a rising

scream of animal agony.

reese lurches to his feet and sprints across the alley.

cut to:

5a/fx omitted 5a/fx

6 omitted 6

7 ext. fire escape - night 7

camera moves with reese as he leaps to the fire escape and

clambers up to the first landing to crouch beside another

naked man who appears to be entangled in the ironwork. the

man is contorted with pain as his screams die to a shivering

gasp. closer angle reveals that he has been skewered through

the abdomen by the horizontal iron slats and through the

shoulder by a railing. he has materialized in the same

space occupied by the fire escape structure. the figure

slumps, motionless.

reese quickly checks for signs of life. the man is dead.

reese descend to the alley floor and crosses to the drunk

huddled in the doorway.

a pair of flamboyantly dressed women, obviously working

girls, passes by the alley mouth. they do a double take

when they see reese, but walk on without breaking stride,

completely jaded. he's certainly not a potential customer.

reese crouches down as if to speak to the drunk.

derelict

say, buddy...did you see a

real bright light?

cut to:

8 ext. alley/same - night 8

a brilliant white glare stabs into the alley mouth as an

lapd cruiser glides slowly by on the street. the search-

light illuminates the figure of reese, crouching over the

sprawled drunk, just pulling on the other's trousers.

the cruiser chirps to a stop. the doors fly open and two

cops leap out.

first cop

hold it, right there!

reese hitches his pants and bolt like a shot. the cops

draw their guns and race into the alley after him.

handheld camera or panaglide, rushing with reese along the

narrow alley. he vaults a pile of tumbled trashcans.

whips around a corner. leaps the hood of a parked car in

the cross alley.

panaglide preceding cops, as they snake through the night

maze.

cut to:

9 ext. cross alley - night 9

panaglide with reese as he hits a chain link gate at a

dead run and scrambles over it.

10 ext. alley junction - night 10

whip pan on cops, skidding to a stop at the corner in time

to see reese vault the fence. they separate.

dolly with second cop, as he runs to the gate.

cut to:

11 ext. alley/nearby - night 11

low panaglide with reese, running full tilt, displaying

incredible agility.

reese's pov, the alley walls blur by. the view of a hot-

wired rat in an urban maze.

c.u. - reese, camera hugging him as he sprints and turns,

alternately front-lit, side-lit and silhouetted as the

electric glare of the city wheels about him.

angle - alley mouth, reese flashes though intermittent

cross-lighting in the b.g.

another unit arrives out front and reese melts back into

the alley, only to see a cop round the corner behind him.

sandwiched. reese crashes into a steel door, rending the

lock, and vanishes into the darkness within.

the newly arrived cops are a k-9 unit. they open the back

door of the squad car to release a large black doberman.

cut to:

12 int. department store - night 12

reese finds himself among the display racks of a discount

department store. a searchlight stabs in the front

window as he dashes into the maze of aisles.

three cops enter behind him through the shattered door.

fast panaglide with reese, as he crab-runs low among the

moving shadows where flashlights quarter the darkness. he

bolts the open space behind a display window. sees the

outside searchlight sweep toward him. freezes.

angle - reese, his feral face frozen among the smooth-

featured, smiling mannequins. as the light passes, reese

silently moves on.

angle - cop, passing the end of a long aisle b.g. while in

the f.g. a hand enters frame, removing a knit shirt from a

hanger. reese slips the shirt on quietly and does a fast

crab-walk across the aisles to melt into the other racks

and shadows, camera moving low with him.

cut to:

13 int. department store/aisle - night 13

with a shocking growl the police dog hurtles out of the

shadows, leaping right at camera.

angle - reese and dog, a dark blur with teeth, extremely

doberman, flies toward reese. he spins. catches it by

the throat in mid-air. arcs it to the floor with unflinching

precision.

c.u. - doberman, suddenly on its back and held by the throat,

the dog yelps and stares at reese, who leans very close.

inches from its eyes he fixes it with a gaze of uncompromis-

ing dominance. some ancient communication seems to pass

between the two.

reese releases the animal and turns his back on it, selecting

a long overcoat from a rack. the dog backs away from him,

stiff-legged and confused.

cut to:

14 int. department store - night 14

tracking with reese as he rounds a corner on the run, still

shrugging into his long coat.

running smack at him is another cop, gun aimed.

without slowing, reese leaps toward him, twisting in mid-air

like a cat. the cop fires. misses. goes down under reese's

tackle and they slide together on the polished floor.

before they even come to rest reese snatches the cop's gun,

aiming it at the other's face two-handed.

reese

what day is it? the date...

cop

thursday...uh...may twelfth.

reese

(viciously)

what year?

a shot whines off the metal side of an escalator behind

reese's head. he vaults the escalator rail, leaving the

amazed cop lying on the floor.

reese bounds up the frozen steps, pocketing the .38 police

special in his coat.

cops dash through the maze of aisles, converging at the

escalators.

cut to:

15 int. department store/second floor - night 15

whip panning with reese, as he hurtles between displays.

he stops for a moment beside a rack of shoes. slaps one of

a pair of tennis shoes sole-to-sole against his bare foot.

too small. another. holding the shoes he runs on.

cut to:

16 ext. second floor fire escape landing - night 16

a door opens quietly and reese slips out.

camera tracks with him as he moves like a panther along the

narrow catwalk. tilt down to include the first lapd cruiser

parked at the mouth of the alley.

cut to:

17 ext. alley/street - night 17

reese drops cat-like beside the unattended police car.

cautiously, he opens the door of the cruiser, removes the

riot gun, an ithaca pump model, from the dash rack and slips

it under his coat. cradled in a vertical position, the

shortened weapon is virtually invisible.

he walks out onto the street and away, unhurriedly, an

innocuous pedestrian soon lost in the rain.

cut to:

18 ext. street/nearby - night 18

reese enters a telephone booth. harsh light rakes across

his face, outlining the long scar. he opens the directory,

leafs through it.

angle - macro on page, reese's finger slides down a column.

stops beside the following listings in the big metropolitan

white pages:

connor, sarah

connor, sarah ann

connor, sarah j.

dissolve to:

19 ext. city street - morning 19

the night's rain has given way to a typical l.a. morning

of diffuse sunlight.

moving with a girl on a moped as she zips through traffic.

sarah conner is 19, small and delicate-featured. pretty in

a flawed, accessible way. she doesn't stop the party when

she walks in, but you'd like to get to know her. her vulner-

able quality masks a strength even she doesn't know exists.

sarah maneuvers nimbly, apparently in a hurry.

cut to:

20 ext. big bob's restraunt - day 20

sarah buzzes into the parking lot of big bob's family

restaurant and chains the moped to the icon of big bob

himself. the fiberglass cherub holds up his mammoth

hamburger in perpetual homage to whatever deity watches

out for fat kids.

sarah removes a stack of college textbooks from the luggage

carrier and tuns to go into the restaurant.

sarah

(to big bob)

watch this for me, big buns.

cut to:

high wide shot prominently featuring a video surveillance

camera f.g. as sarah enters below. she passes under another

video eye as she crosses the main floor of the wholesomely

appointed eatery. sarah goes through the swinging staff

doors under a third camera.

cut to:

22 int. manager's office 22

the office is closet-like, lit by the glow of several

security monitors. chuck breen, day manager, pimply and

officious,watches sarah in an overhead view of the service

corridor. he punches a switch and reaches for a microphone

on a studio gooseneck.

cut to:

23 int. service corridor 23

sarah glances up as breen's voice rasps from a ceiling speaker.

breen (v.o.)

sarah?

she answers the empty hallway.

sarah

yes, chuck?

breen

come to the office, please.

she turns back toward the office door at the end of the

corridor.

cut to:

24 manager's office 24

sarah opens the door to breen's closet control center.

sarah

mission control to chuck,

come in...

breen

(without looking

up)

you're late.

sarah is undaunted.

sarah

aren't i worth waiting for?

breen

not really. do you think you

can get here on time if i put

you on the floor as a waitress?

sarah

(grinning)

i don't know. i kinda had

my heart set on being a

cashier the rest of my life.

breen

the pay's the same but you'll

make more in tips.

sarah

thanks, chuck. i need the

money. can i still work the

hours around my classes?

breen turns to punch up a display on the restaurant's

small accounting computer. sarah looks over his shoulder

as he modifies the week's schedule.

breen

mmm. same schedule's okay.

sarah

alright!

breen

(gravely)

can you handle it?

sarah

it's not brain surgery,

chuck.

breen hands her an apron ceremoniously.

breen

here you go. you're a

bob's girl now. nancy

will check you out.

sarah

i won't let the fat kid down.

cut to:

25 omitted 25

26 int. locker room - day 26

angle - tight on locker door as it slams shut, revealing

sarah transformed into a 'bob's girl'.

her hair is in a bun.

white blouse. short flared skirt and apron with a bow.

she resembles a suburbanized peasant maid looking for a

goat to milk.

sarah confronts her reflection in the mirror, pondering

its absurdity.

she pinches her sheeks.

smiles vacuously.

sarah

hi, i'm sarah and i'll be

you waitress.

(pause)

i'm so wholesome, i could

puke.

cut to:

27 ext. parking lot - day 27

tight on car side window, as a figure approaches, reflected

in the glass. a fist punches through the window, shattering

it. the thief unlocks the door and gets behind the wheel.

it's terminator.

cut to:

28 int. yellow maverick - day 28

with a blow from the heel of his hand terminator smashes loose

the ignition assembly and strips the wires with a brutal

twist of his fingers. touching the proper wires he starts

the car.

cut to:

28a ext. pawn shop - day 28a

terminator walks past the long display window of an

enormous pawnshop emporium. signs declare, among other

things, guns and ammo is red block letters.

terminator passes the appliance section, and the pictures

on a row of tv sets distort and break-up sequentially as

he walks by, returning to normal behind him.

he enters the store.

cut to:

29 int. pawn shop - day 29

tight on glass countertop as an ar-180 assault rifle with

scope is laid beside a number of other guns: a colt k-

model .45 acp, a smith and wesson .38 four-inch, a beretta

.225 acp.

terminator (v.o.)

...the remington 1100 autoloader...

wide as the clerk, who looks like a sick lizard, pallid

and paunchy, takes the rifle from a wall rack. he lays it

beside the arsenal of perfectly legal anti-human artillery

already on the glass counter.

terminator scans expressionlessly for additional selec-

tions.

clerk

anything else?

terminator

a phased plasma pulse-laser in

the forty watt range...

clerk

(annoyed)

just what you see, pal.

he indicates the display case and wall racks with a

minimal gesture.

terminator

the uzi 9 millimeter.

clerk

(setting it out)

you know your weapons, buddy.

terminator examines each in turn, working the actions with

curt, precise movements.

clerk

(continuing)

any one of them's ideal for

home defense. which'll it be?

terminator

all.

the clerk digs deep and finds a scrap of a smile.

clerk

maybe i'll close early.

cash or charge?

instead of replying, terminator takes a box of shotgun shells

from a stack on the display case.

clerk

sorry, i can't sell the ammo

with the guns. you'll have

to---hey!

terminator has calmly begun feeding the shells into the

shotgun.

clerk

(continuing)

you can't to that...

terminator

(evenly)

wrong.

he raises the barrel and pulls the trigger. the gun thunders.

cut to:

30 ext. gas station/phone booth - day 30

the yellow maverick pulls to a stop beside a single phone

booth.

moving with terminator, as he gets out, walks to the booth

and rapidly pulls its occupant out by his greasy t-shirt,

flinging him backward into the parking lot. the guy is

bear-like, slab-handed, but terminator doesn't even glance

back as he steps in to take the man's place.

man

(outraged)

hey, man...

cut to:

31 phone booth

a woman's voice, a faint reedy monologue, issues from the

dangling receiver.

terminator leafs rapidly through the directory.

angle - c.u. pages flipping

angle - macro shot, as terminator's finger comes to rest

beside a now-familiar listing:

connor, sarah

cut to:

32 int. big bob's/dining area

sarah is bustling about, trying to service the start of

the dinner rush. in waitress parlance, she's 'in it'.

she runs the gauntlet between tables, precariously balancing

two full dinner plates on one arm and hand-carrying a

third. a customer tugs on her apron for attention and she

barely averts contributing the chili size to his wardrobe.

customer

honey, can i get that coffee

now?

sarah

yes sir, just a second.

she reaches her table after near collisions with a mexican

busboy and two teenage girls doing cheerleading routines

in lock-step.

sarah

who gets the burly burger?

customer two

i ordered barbecue beef.

customer three

does mine come with fires?

customer four

he's got the barbecue beef,

i've got a chili-beef deluxe.

sarah

okay, who gets the burly beef?

customer at next table

miss, we're ready to order.

in the process of setting down all the plates sarah knocks

over someone's water glass.

sarah

(mopping fran-

tically)

oh, sorry. that's not real

leather, is it?

as she cleans up the spill, a kid at the next booth reaches

over and dumps a scoop of ice cream into the top pouch of

sarah's apron

she stares down at the mess melting over her hard-earned

and sags with defeat. nancy, a plump, gum-chewing waitress,

stops beside her to whisper.

nancy

look at it this way: in a

hundred years, who's gonna

care?

cut to:

33 ext. suburban street - day

angle on a standard-issue l.a. suburban street with kids

racing big wheels b.g.

low angle with the frame comprising a single house, toy-

littered lawn and mailbox. extreme f.g., by the curb, is

a child's plastic truck.

there is the sound of a car engine approaching, and the

front of the yellow maverick appears, stopping at the curb.

its front tire crushes the toy.

panaglide on terminator, preceding him as he steps out of the

car, pauses by the mailbox to check the name, and strides

toward the house.

a young boy, playing in the driveway, watches him pass. the

boy's dog, a small terrier, growls low and mean, crouching

back from terminator.

he rings the doorbell and waits, motionless.

the door opens a few inches, held by a security chain,

revealing a frail middle-aged woman in apron and rubber

cleaning gloves.

terminator

sarah connor?

woman

no, she's upstairs. who

shall i say is--

terminator breaks the chain and pushes past her as if she

didn't exist.

cut to:

33a int. house/foyer 33a

panaglide on terminator, preceding his as he crosses the

foyer and mounts the stairs. the woman starts after him.

woman

what do you think you're--

my god!

she gasps and stops in her tracks as terminator smoothly

pulls the .45 from under his jacket and snaps the cocking

slide.

woman

(screeching)

oh my god...sarah!

cut to:

33b int. bedroom 33b

installed on her bed for an afternoon of 'soaps' is the

wrong sarah connor. electrode pads exercise her doughy

thighs as the 35 year old divorcee watches 'general hospital'.

she calls out distractedly:

wrong sarah connor

what is it, mom?

she jumps as the door bangs open. and stares in dumb

amazement as the good-looking, intense-eyed man in the

strange clothes raises a pistol.

and aims it at her face.

it all seems less real than 'general hospital' in that

half-second before he fires.

cut to:

33c int. foyer 33c

the mother is fumbling with a telephone when she hears

the shot. the silence stretches for several beats. then

five more shots are heard.

the woman screams and drops the phone as she stares upward.

angle on ceiling above her. with each successive shot a

chuck of plaster explodes off the ceiling.

cut to:

33d int. bedroom 33d

low angle on terminator, standing with the .45 aimed

down at the dead woman, just out of frame on the floor.

he unhurriedly removes the spent clip, reloads the weapon

and replaces it under his jacket.

crouching down, he turns the woman's body over, confirming

that she is dead.

cut to:

33e int. foyer 33e

the mother is frantically dialing the phone. she mis-

dials, starts over. then stops as she hears the bedroom

door open.

terminator stands at the head of the stairs.

his hand is bloody where he grasped the dead woman's

shoulder.

he starts down the stairs.

the mother stands paralyzed, unable to breathe.

he reaches the main floor and walks toward her.

she edges into a corner, eyes wide.

he reaches out.

and wipes his hands clean on her apron.

terminator walks out, without expression, leaving the

woman to sag to the floor in a faint.

cut to:

34 int./ext. service tunnel - day 34

tight on kyle reese's hands as they make the last few

strokes with a hacksaw to sever the wooden stock from

the riot gun. it clatters to the ground, leaving a short

stump, like a pistol grip.

cut wider as reese hefts the weapon. he is crouched in

an underground service tunnel below a busy street. shadows

of people walking across a grating in the sidewalk above

him flicker past. they can't see him in the darkness below

their feet as he checks the gun's action carefully. he

slips it under his overcoat where it hangs from a jerry-

rigged sling.

cut to:

35 ext. street - day 35

reese emerges from a stairwell behind a service station,

his overcoat done up to the top button.

he walks through the sparse morning crowd on the cluttered,

overbuilt commercial street.

he is out of sync.

a stranger in a strange land.

he holds himself tightly reined, cautious and feral as he

moves among the unconcerned pedestrians.

his eyes flick rapidly about.

he is seeing this babylon for the first time.

reese stops at a hole-in-the-wall take-out stand. he

watches people walk away with food. moves closer.

scrutinizes the next man as he orders.

take-out customer

gimme a falafel with yogurt

dressing and, uh, baco-bits.

the counterman hands him his food and change wordlessly

as reese steps up.

reese

gimme a falafel with, uh,

yogurt and baco-bits.

the counterman barely looks up as he passes the mess

through the window.

counterman

that'll be one-sixty.

he glances up and reese is gone. he leans half out the

window.

counterman

(continuing)

hey! son-of-a-bitch.

cut to:

35 ext. alley - day 35

reese crouches in an alley, out of sight of passersby,

wolfing his food. the sauce runs down his sleeve but he

doesn't notice.

cut to:

35a int. big bob's/dining area - day 35a

an old man with a shrunken, ungenerous face scowls at

the menu as sarah wipes the tabletop in front of him.

sarah

i haven't seen you in here

lately, mr. miller.

mr. miller

what's it to ya?

sarah

you must have a girlfriend.

mr. miller

that's none of your business.

sarah

aha! is she young?

mr. miller lowers his menu and glares at her.

mr. miller

compared to me she is. how

come you're not at the cash

anymore? they catch ya steal-

ing?

sarah

(smiling)

what's it to ya?

when she leaves, the old man is grinning, behind the menu,

where no one can see him.

cut to:

36 int. big bob's/service corridor 36

sarah rounds the corner, walking fast as she undoes her

apron. she calls out to the walls without looking up.

sarah

i'm on break, chuck. carla's

got my station.

as she approaches the locker room where the girls take

their coffee breaks, the door bursts open and nancy

beckons to sarah.

nancy

(excitedly)

hurry up. it's about you...

i mean sort of...come on!

cut to:

37 int. big bob's/break room 37

nancy guides sarah to the small black and white portable

tv in the corner. two other girls, smoking cigarettes

with their shoes off and nyloned feet on the table, are

already watching. one glances at sarah.

waitress

hey, sarah. this is weird.

they huddle around the set, intent on a newscast in progress.

tv anchorwoman

...and a police spokesman at

the scene refused to speculate

on a motive for the execution-

style slaying of the encino

housewife. he did however say

that an accurate description of

the suspect has been compiled

from several witnesses. once

again, sarah connor, thirty-five,

mother of two, brutally shot to

death in her home this afternoon.

as the news grinds on, sarah gazes unseeingly at the screen.

nancy claps her on the shoulder, laughing.

nancy

you're dead, honey.

cut to:

38 ext. health club - dusk 38

sunlight is dying when sarah swings her moped to the curb

in front of the 'good life spa', a large, crowded health

club.

cut to:

39 int. health club/aerobics studio 39

music booms and masses of leotarded cellulite sway in close

f.g. as camera dollies along a row of panting, stretching

women. in deep b.g. sarah slips in through the door and

waits against the wall while the human dynamo, ginger ventura,

leads the class energetically. ginger, sarah's roommate,

is a party-stopper. red-haired, athletic, sensuous. she's

pretty enough when still, but stunning in motion. and she's

in motion.

ginger yells commands and cheerfully dives into contortions

to the beat of a motown favorite.

marco, a handsome, well-defined guy wearing a tight staff

t-shirt, strolls up for a drink at the water fountain next

to sarah.

marco

hi. i've seen you around.

you're cute. cute i remember.

sarah

i'm sarah. ginger's roommate.

marco

yeah, right. i'm marco.

the dance tape ends.

ginger

...and three aaand four! and

that's it ladies! now, didn't

that feel good?

the group collapses ensemble. a chorus of groans.

ginger

let's think positive or next

time i'll play the fm version.

ginger walks over to sarah as the class disperses. marco

is leaning on the wall next to sarah, who is enjoying the

attention.

sarah

...yeah, really? say some-

thing in italian.

before marco can reply, ginger pulls the front of his gym

shorts out and peers down. she shakes her head.

ginger

you're wasting your time, kiddo.

let's go.

she grabs sarah by the arm and pulls her out the door.

sarah catches a glimpse of marco's expression over her

shoulder as the door closes.

cut to:

40 int. health club/stairs and corridor 40

panaglide with the two girls, as they descend to the first

floor and enter a hallway

sarah is gasping with laughter.

sarah

(weakly)

i don't believe you did that.

ginger is adjusting her ever-present walkman-type cassette

player at her hip. she slips on the earphones as they walk

along.

sarah feigns outrage.

sarah

(continuing)

i had him hooked. he was

just about to ask me out.

i could tell.

ginger

that guy's a jerk. i did

you a favor.

sarah

i'll do the same for you

sometime.

sarah laughs and claps her friend on the back. they turn

in at a door marked weight room.

cut to:

41 int. weight room 41

several angles, on glistening arms, legs, torsos merging

into bio-mechanical kinetic sculptures with the chrome-steel

levers and tubes. the crash and squeal of metal against

metal.

in f.g., two conan-esque arms thrust upward, glistening.

ginger's boyfriend, matt mccallister, the assistant manager

of the club, strains out his last reps, bench-pressing

enormous weight on the nautilus machine.

despite his imposing appearance, matt is one of the warmest

people you'd ever want to meet.

his face is contorted, muscles knotted for the last push.

he heaves it up with a guttural cry.

lowering his weights with a clang, matt lies panting, arms

dangling at his side, eyes closed.

a pair of female legs appear.

ginger (v.o.)

what's this? sleep therapy?

matt opens his eyes.

ginger

(continuing)

you think somebody's gonna

do this for you? look at

those shriveled bi's. and

you haven't worked lat's or

ab's since wednesday.

matt

(smiling)

hello, sweetheart. had a

rough day?

ginger

(softening)

come here, wimp.

she leans down as he sits up and they meet in a kiss that's

bad for the other guys' discipline.

sarah waits until they break the clinch to speak.

sarah

hi, matt.

matt look backwards over the bench, and replies, upside-down.

matt

(grinning broadly)

heeey! it's my favorite

sarah. hi, babe.

ginger pulls the pin on mat's weights and re-inserts it

beneath the entire stack, the maximum weight.

ginger

alright, warm-ups are over.

back to work, bunky.

ginger readadjusts her headphones as the two girls walk away.

matt

'bye beautiful. you too,

ginger.

two weightlifters nearby look at each other, than at matt.

weightlifter

bunky?

cut to:

42 ext. health club/streets - dusk 42

sarah lurches away from the curb on her moped, almost

spilling ginger who is attempting to ride double. they

swing out onto a main thoroughfare and careen through

the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

sarah maneuvers deftly though overloaded and unstable.

ginger doesn't know whether to laugh of scream at the

near-misses.

she does both.

cut to:

43 omitted 43

44 ext. street/construction sight - dusk

on a side street the girls pass an excavation site between

high-rises. they pass out of frame as camera holds on the

construction area and ginger's shrieks fade.

in the f.g., under an overpass, reese sits is a car watching

the powerful machines moving earth.

he's in a late-model non-descript grey sedan, one of a row

of cars gathering dirt beside the construction site.

crab-armed back-hoes and massive caterpillars roar through

a curtain of dust, under intense floodlights. a power-shovel

moves its great arm, lighting its own way with an arc-light.

cut to:

45 int. grey sedan 45

reese sits motionless in the dark. waiting. the clock in

the dash ticks quietly.

he flips on the radio. a fatuous pop rock station.

reese fishes a magazine off the dirty floor. his over-

coat is off, draped over the shotgun on the seat beside

him.

his bare arms are sinewy and scarred.

reese flips the page of cosmopolitan.

he look at the glossy photos, the glossy women.

fantasy women. svelte and seamless.

the ads fascinate him too: caribbean vacations and blended

whiskeys.

his head sags against the door.

he gazes dully at the tracks of a passing caterpillar as they

chew through the dirt.

the road and clatter of treads intensifies as his eyes close.

cut to:

46 ext. melted ruins - night 46

tight on a gleaming steel tread as it grinds through debris.

the debris is ferroconcrete, girders, and jackstraw heaps of

human bones, burned black.

there is the sound of explosions, distant, and an intermittent

electronic whine. incredibly bright searchlights play over

the ground. panning with the moving treads through twisted

wreckage, f.g.

the screen whites out with a blast, very close. as the

debris clatters down, a helmetted head snaps up into frame,

extreme f.g.

the visor of the high-tech helmet is shattered, presumably

by the explosion. the wearer rips it off, revealing a

younger reese, minus his burn scar.

his face is bathed in sweat, lit by the glow from a crt

scope-sight on a strange-looking rifle.

the sound of screams and hoarse shouts not far off, and a

continuous low murmuring of radio chatter, grid coordinates,

casualties, unit placements, medic requests.

reese looks over his shoulder at his teammate, a girl

of about sixteen, gaunt, dirty, heavily armed like himself.

dollying as they start to belly crawl through the bones

and wreckage.

reese looks up.

through spires of a collapsed building a terrifying

sphinx-like shape moves against the sky...obscured by dust

and blinding sweeps of its searchlights.

though we see little, this is an h-k,hunter-killer

mobile ground-unit.

reese crawls, pacing the h-k, under and through, on elbows

and knees, past mounds of charred skulls. they

pass the body of a child, a boy of about 10, center-

punched with a smoking hole. the boy clutches a rifle.

more bodies. some in rags, some in uniforms like theirs.

women. old men. children. they're all dirty and gaunt,

scabrous. and still bleeding. reese scrabbles past a

dark rat-hole and there are human rats in it. some of them

are sobbing, or screaming.

another explosion.

the glare lights the huddled few.

human vermin with mud-caked weapons that haven't been

invented yet. soldiers in a nightmare war.

reese and his teammate stop behind a blasted wall, having

outflanked the massive h-k. its flashing blue lights flick

across the walls, its searchlights sear through the

debris.

wider, showing the h-k more clearly...a blast-scarred

chrome leviathon, with hydraulic arms folded mantis-like

against its 'torso', and huge underslung gun turrets.

reese leaps up and straight-arms a satchel-charge into its

path. one tread rolls over the explosive.

guns and searchlights swivel. the head turns ponderously.

reese's partner rises, poised to throw hers.

a power-bolt catches her at the top of her arc, blowing

her into red mist.

reese is knocked down by the concussion. gets up, running,

as the charges blow.

the h-k's tread carriers are ripped apart.

it lurches to a stop, burning.

the following sequence is extremely foreshortened.

cut fast. impressions only.

running.

explosions light the ruins like flashbulbs.

energy weapons criss-cross the night like tracers.

low angle, up past the burning h-k as its flying counter-

part, an aerial h-k, arcs into view with a turbojet whine.

reese hauls two survivors of his unit into a personnel

carrier, a chevy camaro with steel plate welded over it and

the roof cut away to access the 50 caliber machine gun.

it's stripped and rusted and bullet-riddled, glassless.

the tires are off-road and very gnarly.

they're driving through the ruins, up and over and through.

reese drives like a demon. under other circumstances it

would be considered insane. here it is merely very good.

the machine gun chatters.

a black shape descends, a demon with searchlights.

a bolt of light.

reese's car flips like a kicked beer can, rolling and

crumpling. he's pinned in the wreck, bloody, screaming