Only screeching and scraping rings in Terminator’s ears. NOISE. CHAOS. DISINTEGRATION.
His uniform half unbuttoned, a few buttons ripped off in the last battle. His helmet has slipped to the side, later completely falling off.
Terminator breathes in sync with the calming cannonade. Surrounded by bricks and wood, spools of wire and orange netting, shreds of fiberglass and tendons, with armature stuck in his teeth and the not yet hardened cement, a few wheelbarrows with construction trash, an abandoned cement mixer. Things serving an extremely ambiguous purpose. AN AROUSING ASSEMBLAGE. HARSH INDUSTRIAL DECOR. Some crap dripping off the ceiling. Hard hats must be worn. Impossible to talk. Impossible to shut up and think.
Screeching and scraping - that’s all that is in his head.
A primitive scheme of disintegration of the old world. Primitive like the world itself.
Square jaw, clenched teeth, tense cheek muscles and neck sinews, a pulsating vein on the temple. Terminator studies with his lips the freshly laid bricks. As if preparing to be immured alive. Put up against the wall, crucified, he rushes about the ruins, with a bloody mess instead of a face.
The fierceness of a wounded beast, blinded by pain.
THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE IMAGE FROM THE VICTOR INTO THE VICTIM AND BACK.
The hero is in panic, humiliated by the loss of his own strength that was taken away. Abandoned to the mercy of others. Drunk with the joy of his retribution. Terminator takes the blindfold off his eyes for a second, and his pupils shine like those of a cat. Brushing up against some stupid wire, an alarm goes off. The howl of police sirens from the street. Someone from the house across the street reported. FOAM FROM THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER FILLS UP THE SPACE. To dissolve? To fall off the scaffolding? To turn into metal? To climb to the very top, and from there - along the roofs of adjacent houses, with his saber tilted forward! The fuming meat of fresh wounds. The parade uniform covered with blood, of a very rare type. The last fight with reality. The weapon is SOUND TERROR. Screeching and scraping.
Y.M.