We transition to the interior of Scott’s house. Over the following scenes, we hear a male, monotone-voiced narrator speaking.

Scott is in his room, dressed in the mark 1, the reflective black plating covering all but his face. Looking himself over in a large mirror, he sees just how much the suit “enhances” his form, making him look larger.

NARRATOR: This is Scott.

Turning to his bed, Scott picks a similarly black motorcycle helmet off of it.

NARRATOR: At anyone’s first glance, he seems a reasonably regular, competent man.

Donning it, and flipping the visor up, Scott makes his way out of his room. 

NARRATOR: This becomes even more apparent when looking at his childhood, which is for the most part a compendium of social and creative success. He is a caring son and a loving boy-friend.

A quick glance through the open door to their bedroom shows him that his parents are asleep. At this, he begins carefully down a flight of stairs to his house’s ground floor.

NARRATOR: Just a few days ago, however, was his birth-day. He’d stepped even further into the realm and responsibility of adulthood. This is how he’d explained away some of the unnatural changes he had experienced recently.

Scott can be seen approaching a door near his TV room. A brief cut shows us the basement in darkness, the object under the tarp being absent, with said tarp lying on the ground.

NARRATOR: One day, and all-too suddenly, Scott had found that he cared much less about a great many of his personal projects.

Scott can be seen swinging the door open, revealing a garage. Stepping in, he begins rummaging through some shelves along its walls.

NARRATOR: They contained references he didn’t get, seemingly random character designs– it’s as if they were made for some inside joke he no longer understood. The musings of a younger Scott, from long ago, he told himself.

Picking a handle-sized black cylinder off of the shelf, Scott swings it hard through the air– the momentum produces a series of attached silver cylinders in descending size, spire-like, from its far end.

NARRATOR: And as such, he’d found himself with much more free time.

With the tapping of a button on the contraption’s handle, it buzzes to life with sparks and small arcs of electricity; his home-built expandable stun-baton.

NARRATOR: Eventually, this would bring him to take a closer look at the place where he lived.

Scott slaps the baton down, back to its handle-only form. He shunts it into a compartment built into the suit’s left thigh.

NARRATOR: He’d come to scrutinize and loathe what had essentially become gang violence in Oakville, a newfound sense of responsibility bringing him to worry for his loved ones.

Stepping over to the garage’s far wall, Scott finds a small pad of buttons mounted on it. Pressing a large button near its top, the garage’s vehicle door is brought to begin opening, slow and loud.

NARRATOR: With the help of some new friends, and some research of his own, Scott’s guts had been brought to a boil.

The gate finally having groaned fully open, Scott looks out at what lies beyond his driveway: to its right and left, his neighborhood. Other houses, other driveways, cars, and backyards. At the center of what his home is built on, a roundabout, is a tree, average in size but sprawling with branching life. Straight ahead, past a hill and a gated-off electrical center is this plant’s very antithesis, however; a massive, sun-bleached apartment building. 

NARRATOR: Scott learned that the greatest danger to his family, a small but violent gang of young hooligans called The Oakmans, had been living just a few paces from his home.

Scott turns to face the larger space of the garage. Resting on the wall opposite him, the moonlight flooding in from outside illuminating its black plating and purple accents, is a sports motorcycle.

NARRATOR: He knew what they’d done in the past, and when they assembled. He knew why he had to do what he was about to.

Clapping the visor of his helmet shut, the apartment building can be seen to be the only thing they reflect. 

Scott vaults onto the motorcycle, thunder sounding from its engine as he stabs a key into a slot on its side and twists it.

At the back of the garage, the door to the house swings back open. Scott’s father, short for breath, manages only to catch a look at Scott’s back as the motorcycle carries him away from the house at breakneck pace.

Scott hazards a look back. Whatever his father is shouting to him is drowned out by the roar of the bike.

Facing forward, Scott sees the hill. He rears the bike back as he nears it, meeting it in a wheelie. The hill acts as a ramp, the uneven ground doing nothing to slow the bike. 

Scott shoots into the air, his focus not on where he is going to land, but on the sun-bleached building before him.

Meanwhile, back in the mountain facility, we see Jordan at the bottom of what seems to be a tall well. 

The light from the lamps in his room barely reaches him here, shining through the grates he’d melted. The walls of this cylinder are formed of metal in bolted segments, much like a sewer-pipe.

The well is devoid of liquid; Jordan can be seen crumpled on the ground, gripping feverishly at his legs. Far above him, Scorcho sauce can be seen decaying the pipe’s walls nearer to just beneath the grate.

A flashback to the moment Jordan threw himself into the aperture he’d made in the grate-floor shows us how he’d flailed around as he fell, restraining his yells to determined grunts as he summoned Scorched ‘El yet again.

The spirit, raising both its arms to one of the walls, fires straight into it.

The force of the stream send both Jordan and the spirit back towards the opposite wall. Jordan slams against it, using the momentary stability this gives him to upright himself before continuing to fall.

Jordan can be seen to do this many times as he goes down the long shaft, doing little to reduce his downwards momentum, if anything at all.

Falling in a position reminiscent of kneeling as he nears the bottom, Jordan begins screaming even before he makes contact.

An ear-splitting crash reverberates throughout the massive metal tubing, mixing with Jordan’s yells, which come out more as a series of retching vocalizations. He’d hit the ground knees-first.

Back in the present, the shakily-panting Jordan pulls his orange trousers up to the knee. He is obviously horrified by the purpled and disfigured cake-like appearance that his shattered knees have taken. Following the splitting, pulped flesh up and down his leg, he sees that this damage extends to most of that which is visible. Pulling his left leg’s pant sleeve up further, Jordan sees bone. Immediately, he averts his vision.

Jordan vomits and passes out, going face-down in the chunky substance

Changing scenes, Zain can be seen making his way down a folding stairwell. The light from the windowed hallway above can be seen to just barely make its way down to where his is, refracting through his armor.

Looking down, Zain can’t see where the stairwell ends. He can, however, see a door three flights down, labelled “Hangar H”.

In his still contemplation of the door, Zain doesn’t notice the small silver canister falling from somewhere above until it collides with his foot.

By that time, it is too late; the canister ruptures, enveloping the entire stairwell in smoke.

At the staircase’s top, hidden behind the smoke as we receive a low-angle shot on them from down the staircase itself, we can see the rough figures of four armed guards, though not their strict outlines. One of them unhooks a small, rectangular form from their hip, bringing it to their head. They speak in a gruff, male voice.

FIGURE IN THE FOG: Yes, sir. We’ve got him. With this gear, that armor won’t be that much of a factor.