Less than a breath—that's how long it took to land a blow. Less than a blink—that was the pace of the fights, always unfolding in an instant, without explanation or complaints over the smallest mishaps. Just a breath.
He tried to mimic Split, but failed.
–Cut. –
–Someone left a camera where it definitely shouldn't be. – Larry remarked, placing blame, since it was the sixth time they were repeating the scene in their way. Still, it wasn't exactly a valid reason, and when things start going like that, it means something's off—technically, creatively, rhythmically.
–Let's take a fifteen-minute break. – Larry announced.
Billy took a deep breath, his mind filled with a purely visual idea, untouched by the clutter of reality.
–I think we're almost there. – said Laurence Fishburne.
–You hit hard, man. – Billy added, feeling the bruises on his arms pulse with sharp pain.
–That's the only way it looks real. But we've got a lot of scenes to shoot where you have to land several hits. Honestly, I'm surprised you picked up some karate in this time, two months. I've been at it for six and I'm still not where you are. – Laurence said.
Though they denied it, both of them were soaked in sweat. There was something strangely intimate about it—the hardship of combat brought them closer, more than they expected.
–I brought some water. – Laurence offered, handing him two bottles. It was clear by now that in the coming days, the gap between them and the rest who tried and failed would become evident.
–Thanks. I'll kick your ass if you let your guard down. – Billy joked, not wanting to deny the strange grace people show in those moments. Maybe in the coming day, they'd be caught in what they called the perfect, immeasurable rhythm of doing something right, t—when opportunities appear on the edge of exhaustion.
–Scene 43, take 8. –
INT. DOJO.
They're standing in a traditional Japanese-style dojo. The Wachowskis had recreated a painting using papier-mâché and textured layers. The rest would be handled more cleanly, less rigid—just a 5x5 meter square in which to fight.
Morpheus: This is a training program—similar to reality—designed by the Matrix. It has the same basic rules, the same principles. What you need to understand is that these rules aren't different from a computer system. Some can be bent. Others... can be broken. Do you understand?
Billy/Neo assumes a fighting stance. He resets his arms, moving fluidly, settling into his poses, even trying to embody the technique etched into his skin.
Morpheus: Then hit me—if you can.
Neo readies himself. They circle, each careful not to break form. It's hard, especially when reality gets simplified into basic movements. It's like a high-speed Jackie Chan movie—fists and feet flying from every angle as Neo presses the attack, but every single strike is blocked effortlessly.
While their minds duel in a digital reality, their bodies remain c, lm—seated in the operator chairs. Tank monitors their vitals, noticing Neo's activity spike wildly and erratically, in contrast to Morpheus's steady, even rhythm.
Neo's face is tense, teeth clenched, as he lunges forward.
Morpheus: Good adaptation. Good improvisation. But your weakness isn't your technique.
Morpheus attacks—and it's nothing like we've seen before. His feet and fists strike from every direction, pummeling Neo. For every block Neo manages, five more blows land cleanly—until...
Neo crashes to the mat, gasping.
They completed the first sequence of choreography—thousands of moves, thousands of patterns, all aligning with pinpoint accuracy.
Morpheus: How did I beat you?
Neo: You're too fast.
Morpheus: Do you think my physical body has anything to do with my speed... or strength?
Neo/Billy nods, stepping forward again.
Morpheus: Again.
Their fists begin to dance—sharp strikes, fast blows, a rhythm so synchronized it's almost musical.
Morpheus starts pressuring Neo, countering every move. Billy knows each motion has to be fast, crisp. As he stretches and retracts, Laurence matches him perfectly.
Morpheus: Come on, Neo—move faster. Do you think you're more than this? Then move those arms. You can do better.
They both push harder—quick steps, rapid punches. Neo/Billy braces for a hit—a sharp strike—without flinching or pulling away. Who can do what they think they can't? You're just a man, dancing with force, memorizing the moves burned into your muscles. Like choreography—like battle.
Morpheus: Stop moving like that. If you're going to hit me, hit me.
Neo: I know what you're trying to do.
Morpheus: I'm trying to free your mind, Neo. But I can only show you the door. You're the one who has to walk through it. Tank—load the jump program.
–Cut. –
Billy took a deep breath—a sharp one, filling his chest. The move had rhythm, like a dance, like something primal.
–Who can fail—and who just stumbles through a reality that bends? – Laurence remarked.
–I think that was the one. – Billy said, exhaling. They had been filming for a month and were about to finish, at least 100% of the scenes from the first half. What remained were the machine sequences and the final climax, all arranged and scheduled. Who could say no to those all-too-familiar stumbles, those silly imperfections?
There were still two more films to go. A timeline of at least four more months, as they navigated, with purpose and care, the next steps in what had become their secret sanctuary.
...