When the blow struck Dodger’s head rang, and his vision was ringed with swirling colors. Images danced within those colors, growing as they spun inward to fill his vision. He tried to force his sight clear, but individual images surged up to block his vision. Whirling color blinded him to the Matrix, and he raged at his helplessness. She needed him. He could hear her calling. It took great effort, but he took a step forward. His vision dimmed to deep gray, then finally cleared. He saw Teresa sidestepping the blow of a samurai’s sword. He blinked; not Teresa, Morgan. The fight was a blur of interacting programs and progressed with a speed that left his head spinning, aswirl with images and afterimages. He felt a mite among giants, as out of place as deer on a metroplex street.