The appearance of the Delta Special Counter-Terrorism Unit made Fang Senyan realize something: this world likely harbored numerous hidden factors not present in the original movie plot. These factors could potentially aid him, but they could also impose various limitations. It was equally probable that relying solely on the film's narrative to gauge the Terminator’s strength would lead to disastrous consequences! This was because, according to the movie's events, the protagonist's survival owed a great deal to sheer luck:

If Sarah Connor had coincidentally been home during the Terminator’s initial attack, If one of the thousands of rounds fired by the Terminator had actually hit its mark, If there hadn't been a dog barking outside the motel room where the male and female leads were making love to provide a warning, If the Terminator hadn't been so obstinate as to insist on using a fuel tanker to crush them, If the lower half of the exploded Terminator could have crawled just a tiny bit faster, If...

Fang Senyan knew he absolutely did not possess the movie protagonist's good fortune, nor could he count on so many coincidences occurring during his perilous journey, so he had to proceed with extreme caution. His purpose in checking the phone book now wasn't just to locate the authentic Sarah Connor; he also committed the addresses of the two unlucky women listed there to memory.

His objective was actually quite simple: the addresses of those two women were also places the Terminator was bound to visit. If he could scout and set up defenses at those two locations in advance, securing the advantage immediately, and attempt a probing contact with this world's primary antagonist, the T-800, then securing data on all its capabilities would undoubtedly give him a massive upper hand.

Having firmly established the direction of his future actions, Fang Senyan began preparations for purchasing weaponry. While firearms could be legally owned in the United States, and corresponding gun shops existed, acquiring a weapon there involved tedious procedures, requiring police checks of one's record before issuance. Furthermore, the guns purchased were "neutered" civilian models, often compromised in performance—manufacturers might shallow the rifling, reduce the bullet's range, or switch automatic fire to single-shot only... Frankly, relying on items sold there for self-protection was tantamount to gambling with one's life.

Fang Senyan certainly had no intention of shopping at such establishments; he was aiming for the local firearms black market. There, as long as one was willing to pay enough money, one could definitely secure quality hardware. More importantly, Fang Senyan doubted these purveyors of illegal guns would ever think of calling the police if an unforeseen situation arose... This would save countless headaches, so what he currently lacked was a guide, a local operator who could smoothly usher him into the black market.

Thus, Fang Senyan hailed a taxi, tossed the driver twenty dollars, and told him to take him to the largest nightclub in the area. The driver, sporting a knowing, lewd smile, slammed on the gas. Ten minutes later, Fang Senyan was standing on the dance floor of the establishment named "Rave."

This dance hall spanned perhaps several thousand square meters. The ear-splitting music was deafening, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and sweat. On the open-air stage in the center of the floor, a scantily clad woman, almost naked, performed movements full of sexual suggestion while leaning against a steel pole, surrounded by a throng of men. Above Fang Senyan’s head, a slowly rotating light sphere—presumably made of glass—cast multi-colored beams in all directions.

Fang Senyan casually settled onto a sofa in a corner, holding a can of beer halfway to his face, his eyes slightly narrowed, making him look like a hunter seeking single women. Places like this usually hosted pimps and marijuana peddlers; these brokers were well-informed and greedy for money, like ubiquitous maggots—exactly the ideal guide Fang Senyan was looking for.

Soon, someone uninvited sat down next to Fang Senyan—a woman. She had a head of voluminous blonde curls, wore a white midriff-baring top, revealing a turquoise rose tattooed around her bare waist, and a tight black leather miniskirt that showcased a pair of long, shapely legs. She held a women's cigarette between her lips and glanced sideways at Fang Senyan, saying:

“First time here? Haven’t seen you before.”

Fang Senyan was in no mood for flirtatious hunting. He simply waved his hand, downed the beer in the can, turned it upside down on the table, and lit a cigarette. In Fang Senyan’s world, this sequence was a subtle gesture of refusal. Although the woman couldn't decipher this chain of body language, she sensed his disregard, snorted coldly, stood up, and walked away.

Her swift departure was somewhat unexpected by Fang Senyan. He took a drag of his cigarette and found himself in the mood to appreciate the curve of her swaying waist from behind. In an environment like this, he felt right at home. Soon, he spotted a group of men and women about twenty meters away at the bar, taking some white powder from a phone card booth and then gathering to inhale deeply. His interest piqued, he stood up and moved toward them.

Although these men and women were using drugs, two of them were quite alert. As Fang Senyan approached, they stood up, crossed their arms over their chests, and blocked his path with distinct hostility:

“Hey, wrong way, the restroom is over there.”

Fang Senyan grunted, pulled out a wad of dollars, and said:

“My man, I’m fresh out. Spot me some product.”

These powder addicts weren't the sellers; they had brought enough drugs for their own party and were ready to get high. Why would they resell to Fang Senyan? Disappointed, the group waved their hands dismissively, shouting:

“Get lost, get lost!” (UT, UT)

Fang Senyan had already noticed several figures lurking in the darkness watching him—or rather, watching the stack of dollars he’d brandished. A cold smile touched the corner of his mouth. He returned to his corner seat. Shortly after, a thick-set brute walked over and said coldly:

“Friend, this is Old Harry’s turf. I don’t care if you’re a cop or a spy; you better behave yourself.”

The meaning of "cop" was clear to everyone; "spy" was the abbreviation for people sent by rival gangs to survey the territory. It seemed the "Rave" nightclub was a coveted piece of meat that several major syndicates wanted a bite of.

Fang Senyan took a deep drag of a cigar, exhaling a large plume of pale blue smoke, before saying mildly:

“What cops or spies? I just flew in from Detroit. Heard this place was something special, so I came to check it out. Is this how the Rave nightclub treats its guests?”

The brute’s face darkened. He stared deeply at Fang Senyan, then went to grab a walkie-talkie, seemingly to seek instructions. Finally, after presumably receiving clearance, he shot Fang Senyan a reluctant look before walking away. Only after he left did a skinny little guy with a mohawk and a skull-print shirt approach to strike up a conversation:

“Heard you’re looking to buy?”

Fang Senyan said coolly:

“Got any Crack?”

Crack cocaine is produced by mixing and heating cocaine hydrochloride with baking soda and water to remove the chloride ions. It’s called "Crack" because of the popping sound heard during smoking. This drug takes effect quickly, is highly addictive, and commands a steep price, meaning massive profits, of course... and incredibly severe sentencing if caught.

The mohawk’s expression shifted upon hearing that. Someone of his low standing dared only sell minor items like 'Yaba' pills, Ice (methamphetamine), or Ecstasy tablets. He didn't dare touch something like Crack. Hearing Fang Senyan’s request made him momentarily falter. However, just as he was about to leave, Fang Senyan tossed a hundred-dollar bill onto the table:

“I got into trouble in Detroit and people are chasing me. I’m in urgent need of some hardware for self-defense. If you can take me to buy some good stuff, this hundred is yours. Plus, you'll get a 10% commission upon successful completion.”

The mohawk stared greedily at the hundred dollars, swallowing hard:

“By the rules, you gotta show me your hand before I can take you.”

Impatiently, Fang Senyan grabbed him, pinned him against the sofa, and pulled out a thick stack of greenbacks from his coat, flashing it around. Seeing the thickness, which looked like at least tens of thousands, the mohawk immediately relaxed, nodding and bowing subserviently. He didn't know that Fang Senyan only had a little over two thousand dollars in cash on him; only the top few bills in that stack were real; the rest was a visual trick using a deck of playing cards. Still, the dim lighting made everything blurry, so the mohawk being fooled was understandable.

Led by the mohawk, Fang Senyan went to the second floor, took a turn, went down, and wound back and forth through several flights of stairs, eventually arriving at what seemed to be the second basement level. It was clear this area was heavily guarded. Along the way, they passed two or three corners in the corridors where two or three large men stood by the wall, arms crossed, sizing them up with hostile gazes.

Finally, after a brief but professional search confirmed they were carrying no guns or knives, they reached a basement that could be called a firearms exhibition museum. The weapons displayed were dazzling, but handguns with scattered ammunition were the majority. There were only a few semi-automatic and automatic weapons, and only two of the shotguns Fang Senyan most desired.

In the movie plot, the Terminator's flesh was merely a covering; its primary functions were twofold: first, to blend more easily into crowds, and second, to enable time travel—pure metal objects could not pass through the time machine.

Therefore, when fighting the Terminator, ordinary handgun or submachine gun bullets, while creating a visually shocking effect of spurting blood, were utterly useless against the Terminator's metal skeleton, causing no substantial damage. Only the shotgun, with its astonishing close-range power, could unleash immense kinetic impact, momentarily stalling the Terminator's movements.

........................

Looking at his eleventh position on the weekly recommendation list, Ah Tu felt tears welling up. Final Evolution was only uploaded four days ago, forty thousand words! Forty thousand words! You truly are the best! Please continue giving me votes so I can stay up here longer! I will repay you with even more brilliant writing and stories! (To be continued, please visit [link] for the latest chapter.)