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TRUCK STOP: Wild fingers of blue-white electric arcs dance in a steel canyon formed by two tractor trailers, parked side by side in the back lot of an all-night truck stop. Then... The strange lightning forms a circular opening in mid-air, and in the sudden flare of light we see a figure in a sphere of energy.

Then the frame whites out with an explosive THUNDERCLAP! Through the clearing vapor we see the figure clearly... a naked man. Terminator has come through. Physique: massive, perfect. Face: devoid of emotion. Terminator stands and impassively surveys its surroundings.

TRUCK STOP DINER: On a back route to north L.A. A handful of local truckers hunch over chili-sizes, CAT hats pushed back on their heads. Three bikers are playing a game of pool in the back, their Miller empties lining the table's rail. The dive's owner, Lloyd, a fat, aging biker-type in a soiled apron, stands behind the bar.

Nothing much going on... Then the front door opens and a big naked guy strolls in -- that doesn't happen every night. All eyes simultaneously swivel toward Terminator. Its emotionless gaze passes over the customers as it walks calmly through the room. Everyone frozen, not sure how to react.

TERMINATOR POV:. A digitized electronic scan of the room, overlaid with alphanumeric readouts which change faster than the human eye can follow. In POV we move past the staring truckers, past the owner and the awestruck waitress, and approach a large nasty-looking biker puffing on a cigar. His body is outlined, or "selected", and thousands of estimated measurements appear. His clothing has been analyzed and deemed suitable...

TERMINATOR: I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle.

The big biker's eyes narrow. He takes a long draw on this cigar, the tip cherry-red hot.

CIGAR BIKER: You forgot to say please.

He grinds the cigar out on Terminator's chest. Which produces not the slight reaction of pain. Terminator calmly, and without expression, grabs Cigar by his meaty upper arm... Cigar screams from the hydraulic grip. Terminator doesn't see Cigar's friend, behind him, holding his pool cue by the narrow end like a Louisville Slugger.

The heavy send whistles in a powerful swing and cracks in two across the back of Terminator's head. Terminator seems not to notice. Doesn't even blink. Without releasing his grip on Cigar, he snaps his arm straight back and grabs Pool Cue by the front of his jacket. Suddenly the heavyset biker finds himself flying through the nearest window. CRAASSH!

Terminator hurls Cigar, all 230 pounds of him, clear over the bar, through the serving window into the kitchen, where he lands on the big flat grill. We hear a sound like sizzling bacon as Cigar screams, flopping jerking. He rolls off in a smoking heap. The third biker whips out a knife with a eight-inch blade and slashes at Terminator's face.

Terminator grabs the arcing blade with his bare hand. Holding it by the razor-sharp blade he jerks is from the guy's hand. Ultra-fast here: He flips it. Grabs the handle like you're supposed to hold a knife. Grabs the biker and slams him face-down over the bar. Then brings the knife whistling down, pinning the biker's shoulder to the bar top with his own steel.

KITCHEN: The doors bangs open and Terminator strides in. The Mexican cook does a fast fade as Terminator walks toward Cigar, who is cursing in pain on the floor. With his deep-fried fingers he struggles to get out the .45 auto tucked under his leather jacket. But he can't even hold onto it. Terminator takes it from him.

Instead of pointing it at him, Terminator carefully examines weapon, analyzing its caliber and operating condition. Terminator never threatens... that's a human thing. He just takes. Cigar senses what he must do when the emotionless eyes come back to him. He slides the keys to his bike across the floor to Terminator's foot. Then painfully starts getting out of his jacket.

Terminator strides from the kitchen, fully clothed now in a black leather jacket, leather riding pants, and heavy, clean boots. He moves toward the moaning biker pinned to the pool table. Without slowing his stride he jerks the knife out.

The guy slumps to the floor, groaning, behind him. Terminator continues toward the front of the diner, passing Lloyd, the owner. At the door, he comes abreast of two truckers who sit frozen like a snapshot in mid-bite. One of the truckers finally nods.

TRUCKER: Evening...

Terminator impassively stares back. Then moves on out the door of the truck stop, surveying the parked Harleys. Sticks the .45 in his belt and swings one leg over a massive Custom Electro-Glide. He slips the dagger in his boot and the key in the ignition.

Kicks over the engine. It catches with a roar and he slams the heavy iron into gear with a KLUNK. Lloyd appears at the diner's door with a sawed-off 10-gauge Winchester Lever-Action Shotgun. He fires into the air and jacks around round in fast, aiming at Terminator's back.

LLOYD: I can't let you take the man's wheels, son. Now get off or I'll put you down.

Terminator turns and considers by coldly. He eases the shifter up into neutral. Rocks the bike onto its kickstand. Swings his leg over and walks calmly toward the guy.

Terminator strides right up to Lloyd, staring straight into the shotgun's muzzle. Lloyd starts sweating, trying to decide is he's going to kill a man in cold blood.

He's still trying to decide when Terminator's hand blurs out like a striking cobra and is somehow suddenly holding the shotgun. Lloyd gapes, knowing he's screwed. Then... Terminator reaches toward him. Oh shit...

And slips the sunglasses out of Lloyd's shirt pocket. Puts them on. Strides back to the Harley and roars off in a shower of gravel. The 10-gauge is jammed through the clutch and brake cables, across the handlebars.

Terminator roars down the freeway, heading for L.A. Cold neon flares across the chrome of the big bike. The lights flow over Terminator's wrap-around sunglasses like the tracks of tracer rounds.

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