Signs of luck: five days well spent.
Among the elements found for The Matrix’s production, what stood out was a surprise: a rundown apartment in an old building, filled with secondhand clothes, and so hot inside he was sweating buckets. How frustrating it is to take a deep breath and feel trapped in so many ways, most of them ending in disappointment. The Wachowski siblings were talented, but they lacked order on set. Owen Paterson, however, was undoubtedly a brilliant guy who knew all about production design, and the cyberpunk aesthetics were crafted with Billy’s help. They filled design notebooks for each set and brought the machines to life, shaping dystopian landscapes with ruined cities, end-of-the-world imagery, and original locations reflecting a culture not tied to Earth—something entirely its own. While the directors focused on the scripts and philosophical ideas, Billy worked on primitive culture framed by science—a hybrid of traditional dances, ancient teachings, myths, the unexplainable, fate, and the power of the spoken word.
–Billy, kid, it’s like you’ve almost nailed it, – said Larry, watching as Billy funneled his erratic behavior into the camera, portraying someone disconnected from reality, trapped in a world he clearly didn’t understand. His eyes were dark from the strain of working so hard, sketching for The Matrix and for his own comic Real, which had become a laborious process. Real was one of the toughest series to illustrate, mostly because Billy pushed himself to craft the most visually powerful scenes.
–Then I just need a bit more coffee, – Billy said, noticing his weary, lifeless eyes—an expression that perfectly matched his character. He added a few extra touches: his messily cropped hair fell like a waterfall, and a dense beard framed his face, adding depth while leaving everything else understated. It was a duality between ruggedness and refined style, between dressing sharply and managing life alone on his terms, trembling through it.
–There are only a few episodes left, – Larry said, taking a seat as they recorded each gesture at their own pace. Billy’s profile was first-class—his nose straight, jaw strong, and up close, his hazel eyes glowed with charm. Even his emotional expressions had an irresistible quality that left girls breathless. Women born between 1975 and 1982 had begun to see Billy in their dreams and fantasies.
It’s a studio apartment overloaded with technology. Wires, like seaweed, are tangled everywhere, taped into messy clumps that wrap around the legs of desks. The tables are stacked with cannibalized equipment, opened like autopsied corpses.
At the heart of this technological rat’s nest is Neo—a man who knows more about living inside a computer than outside it. He’s asleep at his desk. Behind him, the monitor suddenly goes black. A message appears:
In glowing green text—ageless and surreal—the camera shifts angles.
Neo opens one eye. Groggy, he lifts his head, one eye still shut, scanning the room, disoriented. Then he notices the screen. He types “CTRL X,” but the letter “T” appears. What...? He presses another key, and it types “H.” He keeps typing—random commands and keys—until the computer starts writing on its own, as if possessed. He freezes and stares at the four words on the screen:
“The Matrix has you.”
NEO: What the hell? Thɪs chapter is updated by novel⚑fire.net
He hits “ESC.” A new message flashes: “Follow the white rabbit.” He hits it again. Same message. He rubs his eyes. When he opens them:
Someone knocks on the door, and he nearly jumps out of his chair. He turns to the computer, but the screen is blank. Another knock. Neo gets up, still on edge.
Neo unlocks a series of deadbolts and opens the door, chain still in place. A young Chinese guy stands there with a few friends.
NEO: You're two hours late.
CHOI: I know. It’s her fault.
NEO: You got the money?
He hands over a stack—20 crisp $100 bills, taken from an envelope and passed through the gap in the door.
He walks over to a bookcase. Inside, an old copy of Simulacra and Simulation by Baudrillard. The book is hollowed out, containing a stash of computer disks. He grabs one, drops the cash into the hollow space, and hides it again, covering his tracks.
GUY IN THE BACK: Hallelujah, Choi! You’re my savior! My own personal Jesus Christ!
NEO: If you get caught using this…
CHOI: I know, I know. This never happened. You don’t exist.
That strange sensation of unreality creeps back in.
CHOI: You okay, man? You look even paler than usual.
NEO: I don’t know… my computer…
He glances at Choi, struggling to explain what just happened.
NEO: Ever get the feeling you’re not sure if you're awake or still dreaming?
CHOI: All the time. It’s called mescaline. The only way to fly.
Choi grins and slaps hands with the nearest burnout.
CHOI: What you need is to unplug, man. Kick back. What do you think, Dujour? Should we bring him?
NEO: I can’t. I have to work tomorrow. Today.
CHOI: C’mon, it’ll be fun. I promise.
Neo glances up—and there, on Dujour’s black leather biker jacket, among dozens of pins, bands, slogans, military medals—is a small white rabbit. The room spins. The message comes rushing back. An impulse.
NEO: Yeah... yeah, sure. I’ll go.
–Cut, – Larry called, his gaze a little dazed.
–Superb, – he added with a hint of emotion. Billy nodded, completely drained from another sleepless night. The abandoned apartment complex had three sets: the first had two rooms, the third was built around a makeshift bar that turned into a scrap-metal spaceship when the chairs were lifted. The layout was cleverly designed, with another unit for the Oracle and other remodeled locations serving different functions. Meanwhile, twelve kilometers away, nearly in the desert, was The Matrix’s main production studio, where the real magic happened.