Start shot on a street lamp, where a row of ravens is perched. Behind it is the grey sky characteristic of Canada.

Around this scene, an arrangement of roads and houses suggest a suburban neighborhood.

Reflected in the eyes of one of the ravens is a humanoid figure behind a window. Zooming out, the POV goes through this window to see Scott, in his room, typing away on his computer. On his head rests headphones, and an expensive-looking microphone erected on his desk is just before his chin.

Scott is eyeing the screen thoughtfully, in apparent consideration of the Discord messages displayed at its center.

Disturbing Scott’s silence, Jordan’s voice rings out through his headset.

JORDAN: So, what’s it gonna be, mister War’, kick or ban? Remember, he’s probably guilty of, like, attempted murder and more.

Scott looks down at his desk for a moment, then back up to the screen.

SCOTT: Wait, no. Let him in the call, I wanna hear what he’s got to say.

JORDAN: Scott, are you– are you fucking insane?

SCOTT: I–

JORDAN: Let me put this into fucking perspective, for you, mister Warren: one second he was our friend, coming over to your big GoB celebration, and he was acting all friendly, like no-one would’ve expected. Then, in another second, he’s fucking stabbing me and taking off his jacket to reveal some fucking armor and weapons he’d put on, also scaring the shit out of your girlfriend, if you don’t remember–

Jordan takes a large breath, as he’d been talking fast and without proper stops.

JORDAN: And that’s not even mentioning how, like, meaningful it was that people were showing up in person despite the whole Corona-virus thing, with Zain fucking ruining it regardless! Then he fucking ties your parents to–

SCOTT: Okay, okay, Jordan. I know all that, and I remember all that, but I’m starting to think now that he’s just stupid, or obsessed or some shit.

JORDAN: Wh-what…?

SCOTT: You know how some people are just eccentric, like you remember how Zain gave those wacky presentations in english class, or how he was dancing at the graduation party?

Jordan laughs.

JORDAN: I was literally at neither of those.

SCOTT: Fuck, like, that guy who always decorates his house a ton for Halloween and shit?

JORDAN: Oh, yeah, that.

SCOTT: That’s eccentric. I think that Zain might just be, like, metric assloads of retarded eccentric.

JORDAN: That’s an excuse and you know it.

SCOTT: No, it isn’t, you remember how he said he stabbed you to give you that weird thing, and he said he did it for your sake, or something? There’s that, and then there’s the whole thing with giving my parents guns.

JORDAN: W– are you seriously arguing for this…? He’s a– okay, you know what, okay! Let’s chat with the homicidal maniac! Let’s do it!

The server muted  icon disappears from beside Zain’s avatar, and almost immediately an ear-piercing blare sounds from both Jordan and Scott’s headsets, their pained cringing visible. The blare takes the rough form of a human voice.

ZAIN: (hyper-enhanced voice, through headphones) OOH, IS THAT ZAIN UN-MUTED? HEEEEEEEELL, YEAH! I’M GETTING NOISE COMPLAINTS, WOOOO!

After this, Zain assumes full silence.

While Jordan’s headset has already been taken off by the time he re-mutes Zain, Scott’s hands have only made their way under his own to cover his ears.

After both giving themselves a moment, Scott and Jordan return their headsets to their original positions.

JORDAN: Fuck! God! Are my ears– okay, my ears aren’t bleeding, but there may be legit interior damage, I feel it. You still sure about this, Warren-man?

SCOTT: Okay, okay. Ow. Y’know, it was just our mistake to ever leave Zain at max volume. Let’s just put him down to minimum. 

JORDAN: Uugh, I wish I could do that to, like, his health and well-being.

Both sliding Zain’s volume bar down to a barely-visible pixel on Discord, Scott can be seen to clench his hand in rapt anticipation as Jordan un-mutes Zain.

ZAIN: Gotcha, fu–

JORDAN: Gee, I sure fucking hate Zain Naqvi, don’t you feel the same, Scott? 

Scott is silent.

JORDAN: God, fuck you, Zain, you eccentric piece of shit.

SCOTT: You shouldn’t be able to make yourself that loud, god.

ZAIN: Yeah, I know. You aren’t.

Change scene to Zain’s room, scarcely lit and packed with clutter. He’s sitting, a shit-eating smile on his face, before a desk-mounted computer. Placed wide-end down on the desk is a megaphone.

Change scene to a well-planted, sunlit area. A large, fenced-off area surrounding a grandiose brick building is furnished with patches of grass, intersected with stone walkways. Trees are present on the grounds, some small, planted within the fences on the grass, and some large, looming over even the building itself.

Text at the screen’s bottom, with the shot focused on the building, reads “Two days later”.

The aged, jacketed man from before is present, making his way up to the grounds’ fence on a sidewalk. He stops for a moment to look up at the building.

BROWN-JACKETED MAN: And so we work the weed, starting at the roots.

The man enters the grounds, passing the fence.

BROWN JACKETED MAN: (under breath) No cameras, no homes in view, and, of course, no one outside.

He begins to rummage through his jeans’ pockets.

BROWN JACKETED MAN: (under breath) That with the distractions our friends are making, and we are free to do to their heritage what they have done to ours.

He removes a small, paper photograph from his pocket. Switch to the man’s POV as he looks towards the building, holding the photograph up next to it. The photograph is in greyscale, and depicts the building, though possessing a simpler and smaller form.

BROWN JACKETED MAN: (aside) So, this is The Custom House, now known as Erchless Estate. More importantly, known as the Oakville museum.

He makes his way up to one of the building’s lower windows.

Placing a hand on the large window’s glass, he peers inside the unlit building.

BROWN JACKETED MAN: The first brick building to have ever stood on this land, and they leave it empty for so long. Tut-tut, I think I see spider-webs. 

The brown jacketed man turns, but the camera does not follow his view. He is looking towards something past and behind the POV, and speaking loudly. A small smile is seen on his face.

BROWN JACKETED MAN: They have no love for their own heritage, and so neither will we. Though, of course, I expected as much from you already; raucous and wild as you are.

A slight thumping sound can be heard getting closer, and in an instant a large white-tailed buck has jumped through the window, shattering its glass with its short antlers and barreling into the building.

Following the deer in, the POV sees it writhe a little before standing up, apparently calmed.

A moment later, the jacketed man enters after it after clearing shards off the window.

Turning to a wall at his side after clambering in, he flicks a light switch. In response, multiple lamps, both on the ceiling and on tables, flash to life.

The lamps illuminate an overly-furnished and decorated room:

A grimace can be seen on the man’s face as he surveys the room. He exits it before long, walking through a large doorway towards a room bearing many different glass-encased items and propped-up boards, all rife with text and imagery.

The grimace never leaving his face, the jacketed man looks through the often packed-together exhibits intently. In the background, the deer is defecating on the previous room’s carpet.

POV is focused on the side of the man’s head as his glare sharpens, something having seemingly both caught his eye and invoked his ire.

BROWN-JACKETED MAN: (angered shouting) Maa-jii-dook!

The man can be seen to kick through an empty glass display case, shattering it and knocking its supports over.

BROWN-JACKETED MAN: All of these baubles– a house full of them– and someone had to take that—

The camera pans down to the shattered case, a large shard of it having text embossed on it, reading: “An ornamental arrow originally belonging to the Mississagu-” before the text is cut off.

The camera continues to pan closer to the shard, zooming in on the word “arrow” in the embossed text.

In the shard’s reflection, one can see the jacketed man pounding his fist into his thigh, his hair flying as his head bobs with his speech.

BROWN JACKETED MAN: (angered) God damn you, Chisholm!