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OVERPASS: The First Street Bridge. Rusting chain-link fence and graffiti- covered walls. An L.A.P.D. black-and-white cruises the empty street. A tremendous blue-white glare suddenly spills out between the columns of the overpass. The young uniformed cop in the car whips his head around at the source of the light. He pulls over quickly, in time to see...


The powerfully arcing electrical discharge reaches its peak between the columns. Lightning climbs the chain-link fence and light standards, lighting up the night, and papers swirl in a blasting whirlwind. The cop climbs from his cruiser as the glow fades. He sees vapor dissipating as he approaches the spot where he saw the strange light.


He draws his revolver and cautiously moves into the shadows between the rows of pillars. A naked man glides from a shadowed doorway behind the cop. Nothing special about him. Certainly not built like a terminator. The flash of light and fact that he is naked are pretty good clues that he just arrived from the future.


His features are handsome bordering on severe. His eyes are gray ice. Penetrating. Intelligent. The cop spins at a sound. Too late. Mr. X is already on him. The blow is lightning fast and the cop drops like a bag of sand. The unconscious cop hits the deck, his Beretta 9mm Automatic clattering next to him. A hand picks up this pistol.


Highly polished black shoes rounding the rear tire of the police cruiser. From his shoes to the cruiser's door, we see Mr. X, dressed now in LAPD blue, he climbs behind the wheel.


Mr. X looks and acts exactly like a cop. Cool, alert, confident in his power, his expression emotionless and judgmental. Mr. X, now Officer X, puts the car in gear and drives into the night.


SUBURBAN HOUSE/GARAGE: Young John Connor, who at his moment is ten years old and busy reassembling the carburetor on his Honda 125 dirtbike. He has ripped Levi's and long stringy hair. A sullen mouth. Eyes which reveal an intelligence as sharp as a scalpel. The Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated" blasts from a boom box next to him. A woman, Janelle Voight, stands in the doorway of the garage, yelling over the music.

JANELLE: ...John? John! Get in here right now and clean up that pigsty of yours.


John's friend Tim, a thirteen-year-old Hispanic kid, watches as John replies by turning up the volume on the boom box. Janelle gives up with a slam of the house's back door.

TIM: Your foster parents are kinda dicks, right?

JOHN: Gimme that Phillips right there.


LIVING ROOM: Janelle storms into the room. Todd Voight, her husband, watches sports on the TV. They're both in their thirties. Middle-class working stiffs.

JANELLE: I swear I've had it with that goddamn kid. He won't even answer me. (neither does he) Todd? Are you gonna sit there or are you gonna do something?

He sighs. Throws down the TV's remote and heads for the garage.


Inside the garage, John hops on the bike. Kick-starts it. Tim picks up John's nylon bag, then climbs on the back. Todd enters and shouts over the engine, which John revs louder and louder.

TODD: John! Get your ass inside right now and do what your mother says!


John pins Todd with a defiant glare.

JOHN: She's not my mother, Todd!

He revs the engine and peels out of the garage, with Tim almost falling off the back.


They take off down the street. John cuts through a vacant lot to a trail running beside a fenced-in drainage canal. He guns the bike through a hole in the retaining fence. Tim's eyes go wide as they roar down the concrete embankment. In a drainage canal, John zig-zags along, throwing up a roostertail of muddy water. Tim shouts, pretending he didn't just see his life flash before his eyes. He slaps John on the back.

TIM: Major moves, homes! So... where is your real mom, anyway? (John doesn't answer) She dead or something?

It's hard to read John's expression.

JOHN: She might as well be.

John twists the throttle angrily and the bike lunges forward.



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