Jordan has returned to the pitch-black space, and is standing in the center of its arena. Everything has changed, however. The arena’s edges are melted, a minute amount of smoke rising from the dark-red liquid strewn about it. The crowd, their voices ever-present before, is now either silent or completely absent. 

Jordan looks behind him, his heart plummeting as he sees nothing but a spiraling abyss. 

Looking ahead of him, however, brings his face to light up. There, he sees what he saw before, but beyond that he glimpses newer ambition; the new objects of his dreams. A shimmer of a glimmering, light neon blue floats into the blackness, just out of reach, and, stepping off the ruined arena, Jordan begins to wander towards it through the inky black.

Winding its way out of the the same shadowy soup, however, rising like a piece of driftwood out of a vast ocean in front of Jordan, is his opponent from before.

Their form is much more grotesque this time, however, as its massive body has been shredded and stretched out on a mass of wires and chains, which stand on their own, gatelike. 

Shifting to block Jordan’s path, the metal twigs twitch and writhe, as if alive. 

The buff creature’s besacked head is still dripping the same brownish fluid, but it is now mixed with some sort of brackish water, just the scent of which is enough to make Jordan gag. 

As the creature draws closer, and his path and goal are ever more obscured by its grinding mass, Jordan feels his legs lifted from the ground. He clutches at his chest and mouth as he begins to writhe in mid-air, and as a silent scream is shot from his mouth, a cloud of bubbles issues from his nose. 

As Jordan drowns in the living prison, all he can think to do is reach. As he flings a hand into the nothingness, it is overlapped by that of his spirit, Scorched ‘El.

Jordan awakes, rubbing his eyes. No sooner than he’s picked the sleep-sand from them does he feel the chill of the metal grilles beneath him.

He lifts himself from the floor, which he sees to be entirely formed of these grills. Nothing is visible underneath them save for thick shadow.

Looking around, Jordan sees himself to be in a sterile-looking room, walled and roofed with metal. To his side is a simple bed and a porcelain toilet, and to his front is a sheet-metal sliding door, a small glass-laden indentation near the top indicating a sliding peephole.

The peeophole creaks open behind the glass, a pair of bespectacled, tired-looking eyes gazing down at Jordan from outside. This individual’s voice comes clearly through the door, barely muffled at all as a hidden microphone underneath the peephole transmits his voice.

DR. RAMSAY: Mister Shearer, we apologize for the harsh conditions you’re currently suffering, but it’s a necessity. You’ve been deemed a danger to yourself and to those around you, so we’ve had to restrain and isolate you.

JORDAN: Uh, yeah– I guess I should’ve expected.

Jordan laughs in genuine, cynical amusement, looking down at the ground.

DR. RAMSAY: Now, in our precaution, which I’ve argued as being unnecessary, honestly: we’ve had your room made with a very thin, grilled floor. It’s been constructed for the express purpose of discouraging your use of that– acid. Put bluntly, if you are to try and use it on this room’s corrosion-proofed walls, it will make its way onto the fragile grills, and melt them. Thus, leaving you to the mercy of a three-hundred foot drop.

Dumbfounded, Jordan looks down at the grills, then past them into the seemingly infinite shadow they hold him from. He is suddenly much more cautious about how he distributes his weight, shuffling around nervously.

DR. RAMSAY: You’ll have a chance to make your case known soon enough: we have an interview scheduled for you a day after tomorrow.

JORDAN: Hey, no! Where are–

The sliding peephole slaps shut.

Cut to Dr. Ramsay, just outside the door. The hallway he stands in seems to be a cylindrical, concrete tunnel, its borders painted a dull white.

A geared individual stands next to him, a dark-blue sash notable on their arm. Hung over their shoulder by a belt is a powerful-looking railgun. Their riot gear is contrasted by the Doctor’s white lab coat and otherwise business-casual attire.

Ramsay leans up against the metal door with an arm, burying his face into its sleeve. He releases a long exhale, restrained despair obvious on his face. The geared individual can be seen to, tentatively, reach a hand towards his shoulder.

GUARD CPT.: Why’s it so often kids, right?

Ramsay retracts from the door, backing away also from the Guard’s outstretched hand. He clears his throat, attempting to reaffirm his professionalism as he straightens his posture and tie.

DR. RAMSAY: I don’t have to tell you, Agent Carter, that this room’s walls are in no way corrosion-proof, never mind capable of resisting what we’ve observed this anomaly to be capable of. The S-C-P is being kept docile by a bluff; we’re just damn lucky we had a H-C-C with a floor-vent empty. Until we can get the glass and teflon sheeting needed to really contain this thing, I want you and your men on the highest alert possible.

GUARD CPT. CARTER: Men? Who am I being assigned?

DR. RAMSAY: You’ll have your pick from the department. You’re free to add layers to containment upon my approval, but while you get things in order I want a six-man team down here;

Ramsay points at the ground between him and the guard.

DR. RAMSAY: I want two here, trained on the door, then–

Ramsay points down to a far end of the hallway, where it curves out of view, then doing the same to the opposite end.

DR. RAMSAY: –two for each end of the hallway, here. It’s been seen firing this corrosive substance like a pressurized jet-stream, so you’ll need to be using corners to your advantage, as if you were fighting a force with automatic weapons. Be sure to pick up a good few more than six, on second thought– you’ll be on thirty-minute rotations. And, Agent Carter, remember–

GUARD CPT. CARTER: Anomalies are tough to predict?

DR. RAMSAY: –anomalies are unpredictable.

The doctor begins walking speedily away from the guard and the door, and the guard presses a finger to his helmet; likely activating a communication device. The despair has left Ramsay’s face, now– replaced with stern purpose.

Cut to another, similarly sterile room to Jordan’s, though this one’s floor is as flat and whole as its adjacent walls. Sat on the room’s bed is Zain, still clad in crystal everywhere but his head. Next to him on either side is a doctor, the both of them examining this exposed section. A male doctor is sifting through Zain’s dishevelled hair with a comb and gloves, whilst a female doctor is attempting to wrench Zain from his apparent stupor by capturing his attention. Both professionals look very tired. The rest of the room is rife with medical equipment, ranging from a stretcher to a pack of Infrascanners of varying make.

At the room’s far end, near the door, two guards stand in considerably heavier gear than that of those seen before. Holding them at Zain, these guards both have what are almost certainly automatic weapons. 

This entire time, Zain’s expression is slack; he looks straight forward with his eyelids drooping in irregular intervals, and his pupils still dilated to different sizes. His lips are moving slightly, as if he is mumbling something, yet he is producing no sound. He is unsteady, the male Doctor’s hand on his back being the only thing holding him straight.

The male doctor draws his probing hand back, letting Zain’s hair fall.

DR. LEIBOWITZ: I can’t find any bruising, so it was likely more of a “shake-shock”. The main impact likely hit his torso, as the way we found him would suggest.

Not looking up as she snaps her fingers next to Zain’s ear, the female responds in a sarcastic tone:

DR. SARKOVSKYY: Thank you, Detective Obvious. Way to put that P-H-D to work.

There is genuine aggravation in Leibowitz’ face as his eyes dart to Sarkovsky for a moment, grimacing at her. As he begins a disproportionately angry retort, Leibowitz looks up towards the guards.

DR. LEIBOWITZ: Well, you heard her, gentlemen! 

Leibowitz turns to look down at Zain as he stands up, his hand continuing to support him.

DR. LEIBOWITZ: My expertise are not required here, after all! It’s only a minor bruising of the brain, my lad, I’m sure!

HEAVY GUARD 1: Sir–

Leibowitz turns to face Sarkovsky, who is giving him a tired, frustrated look.

DR. LEIBOWITZ: Our Bio-Psychologist, here, shall do a stellar job de-purpling your lobes alone, so never-to-worry! This aside, I shan’t need to tell her the benefits of a good night’s rest, so I shall be seeing–

Making to leave, Doctor Leibowitz attempts to draw his hand away from Zain’s crystal-encrusted back: he is instead met with an awkward tug. His hand remains in precisely the same spot.

HEAVY GUARD 2: Doctor L, is everything all right?

The camera pans to Zain’s back, where we can see that Doctor Leibowitz’s hand has been crusted over, held in place by a thin layer of crystal.

Zain’s expression does not change, and he continues to stare straight forward.

Leibowitz’s face betrays his heightened anxiety, his forehead beginning to glisten with sweat.

DR. LEIBOWITZ: Uh– oh my–

Sarkovsky stands up, having a moment before shifted to see what the issue was, and backs away from Zain.

Some time passing is implied. The scene changes to just in front of an office-style door, a small window on it allowing a glimpse of a silhouetted, humanoid figure on the other side. As the camera zooms in towards the window, two guards hefting jackhammers rush through the shot.

The camera shifts through the window, entering a scarcely-lit room. The room’s far wall is one large window, the room’s only illumination seeping in through cracks in its drawn blinds.

At the room’s center is a large, rectangular table. At one end, sat in a chair, is an individual in guard’s equipment. Similarly sat on the opposite end is Scott, his focus trained on the agent.

The guard, bringing it up from his lap, slaps a thick, bound-shut file onto the table between them.

AGENT SAMUEL: This file contains the full personal information of yourself, your friends– including Mister Shearer and Naqvi– and your family. More specifically, it lists all the privileges of a comfortable life that you and they stand to lose. We won’t be opening this file unless you make it necessary, Mister Warren.

Scott’s focus shifts to the file.

SCOTT: …okay.

AGENT SAMUEL: I only want to ask you some questions. You’ve had many questions yourself, the other staff tell me– questions that I suggest you stop asking.

There is a moment of silence, wherein the agent draws a flipbook from his pocket, opening it to a few pages in before speaking:

AGENT SAMUEL: First question: where is Ian Cvet Luigi? 

SCOTT: Wh– what?

AGENT SAMUEL: We are aware that you were friends with him in high-school, both attending White Oaks Secondary, and that you’ve kept in contact since. He was last heard from as leaving to meet Mister Naqvi, but he’s currently in no state to answer.

SCOTT: Why’s– what’s happened to him?

In response to this, the agent picks up the file, shaking it slightly.

AGENT SAMUEL: Remember what I said about asking.

Scott sits in silence for a moment, looking at the file. His first words come out as a whisper.

SCOTT: All right.

AGENT SAMUEL: One more time?

Repeating himself, Scott speaks louder.

SCOTT: All right.

AGENT SAMUEL: Now, answer truthfully. Wh–

Scott stands up, his face beginning to glisten somewhat with sweat.

SCOTT: No more questions from me. But I am going to tell you something.

Scott jabs a finger towards the agent. His tone becomes gradually more aggressive.

SCOTT: I know you people aren’t police. I know that if you, or any of your colleagues hurt any one of us, or people we know, that you’ll be in deep shit. Hell, you already are denying us our rights just keeping us here.

The agent stands up from the table, saying nothing.

SCOTT: You guys can’t be hidden for much more than a day with the halton police on you, especially after you kidnap three guys in broad daylight , and in some giant black truck, no less.

As Scott speaks the agent makes his way toward the window, stopping for a moment to look at its drawn blinds with his hands clasped behind his back. After this, begins towards the rightmost corner of the room, where the window meets its adjacent wall.

SCOTT: You losers dress up all fancy, and maybe you know us better than we know ourselves or some shit, but what you don’t know what you’re doing! I bet we’re just in some big office building, probably not even outside of– of–

Scott’s words sputter and die in his throat as the agent tugs a string on the window, flipping open the blinds.

White light spews in through the new openings, and Scott’s body freezes up as he is bathed in it.

We get a shot from behind him as he is silhouetted in the window’s illumination. Before him, through the glass portal, is a plane of ice, snow and jagged rock. Clumps of the horrid white substance whip through the air, storm-like. The uneven stone-snow plateau extends far into the distance, ending in what can only be a sheer drop. In the distance, great snow capped peaks dominate the picture.

The agent turns to look at Scott. Scott responds in no manner, staring hopelessly out into the blinding, pale wasteland.

Change scene to a darkened room, lit with many small screens rigged up to a wall. A screen on the middle-right of the rig can be seen to display the interior of Jordan’s chamber, Jordan being visible sat on the bed with his head in his hands.

Two shadowed individuals are positioned just in front of the screens, one sat in a chair and one leaning over their shoulder. Their attention is on the rightmost screen, where the two guards from earlier can be seen in Zain’s chamber, carefully chipping at the material holding Dr. Leibowitz’ hand down with jackhammers. As they do this, three heavily-geared guards hold their weapons at Zain from different angles. Notably, the display on each screen is recognizably poor and grainy. The bechaired figure is the first to speak.

ASSISTANT MONITOR DAMIAN: I don’t like this, sir. They’re all too close to the anomaly’s host, it could lash out at any second and we’d never be able to react in time.

The leaning figure turns to face the Assistant Monitor, their glasses catching the light of the screens.

SITE DIRECTOR SCHRUTE: If it ever comes to that, Damian, I want you not to hesitate. Remember what you’ve been taught. If the anomaly is active, you leave the door closed. Your colleagues know what they signed up for.

ASSISTANT MONITOR DAMIAN: (mumbling) Or were signed up for.

SITE DIRECTOR SCHRUTE: What was that?

ASSISTANT MONITOR DAMIAN: Nothing, sir. Sorry, sir. Anyways, they’ve got Leibowitz free. I’ll open the airlock for them to enter ‘soon as they’re all in five feet.

Visible on Zain’s screen, the doctor has indeed been freed, and can be seen rubbing his hand as he and the guards speed-walk to the door. The room has been vacated of all other equipment and staff already.

SITE DIRECTOR SCHRUTE: And, now, Damian, is where we curse our crappy cameras. If only we could afford replacements, your job would be a bit easier. Were you keeping watch for any aerosolized crystal? The lighting we employed should’ve rendered it more visible.

ASSISTANT MONITOR DAMIAN: I’m not sure, sir. I don’t think there was any.

SITE DIRECTOR SCHRUTE: Well, I suppose that’s the most sure we can be at this point. All that’s important is that no-one collapsed inside the chamber. We’ll have each of them take a medical evaluation ‘soon as they’ve been blown clean in the airlock.

Change scene to Zain, alone in his nearly-empty chamber and still on the bed. With no-one supporting him, he’s fallen back, his head and upper back resting on the wall adjacent to the bed. His vacant eyes now seem to stare straight up at the ceiling lamp.

From Zain’s POV we see the lamp, a small, almost impossible to make out shape silhouetted right at its center. It draws closer, its nature revealed; a fly is making its way, slowly, towards Zain.

Change scenes again to Jordan, who has moved to the corner of his cell. He’s sat in the corner, burying his head in his knees and running his hands through his hair anxiously.

JORDAN: This can’t be real, this can’t be. This is such bull-shit, I just want to go home. I want out of this. I want out.