This appears to be a locally saved livestream archive, with the feed filming a decrepit backstreet.
An older, bespectacled man and a middle-aged Latina woman stand huddled in a line against the wall, their legs lashed to each other and their hands bound to the front.
Beaming like a ray of sunshine, a man dressed in tactical gear prances before them, a baseball bat resting conspicuously upon his shoulder as he greets the camera.
"Hey guys," he says, "this is Andre Diliman, and we're going to be putting our detective hats on and figuring out who's to blame for all the shit going on, and we're going to do that, with the help of these beautiful people right here, so please, introduce yourselves."
Exchanging resigned glances, the two captives lower their heads as the woman mutters, "I'm Dr. Martha Sharma."
"And I'm Dr. Conrad Sharma," her compatriot glumly adds.
"And both you fuckers work at Jameson Biotech," the spokesman concludes in a sing-song cadence as he saunters before the couple.
"We're going to start easy.
The CDC has been saying that something's messing with people's brains: making them act all aggressive.
Now, my question to you is simple: What did y'all cook up in those labs of yours?"
Lifting her head and making eye contact with her questioner, the woman shakes her head incredulously.
"You fucking idiot."
Nodding understandingly, the man turns away from the couple.
"I see we might need some harder persuasion, that's not too surprising.
Alexander, Tomas, and Mary, bring in the kid… and the wire!"
Amidst a flurry of horrified protests from the captives, a gaunt man appears from off-frame, a goofy grin creasing his unshaven face as he lugs a squalling baby in his arms.
A second man and a woman follow him into view… uncoiling a length of barbed wire.
Wrapping the rusted steel about the infant's midsection, heedless of the pained wails emanating as the barbs scrape its skin, the duo stand apart, gripping opposite ends of the makeshift garrote.
"Ok guys," the ringleader gleefully instructs, "on my mark, we'll give the little shit a light squeezing.
If the good doctors don't want to talk after that… then I want it rendered into mincemeat!
3, 2, 1…"
Spouts of blood spurt in all directions as bullet-riddled bodies collapse to the ground, the camera toppling rearwards as a bark of automatic gunfire echoes through the audio, accompanied by the approaching, hurried stomps of soldiers' boots.
An older, bespectacled man and a middle-aged Latina woman stand huddled in a line against the wall, their legs lashed to each other and their hands bound to the front.
Beaming like a ray of sunshine, a man dressed in tactical gear prances before them, a baseball bat resting conspicuously upon his shoulder as he greets the camera.
"Hey guys," he says, "this is Andre Diliman, and we're going to be putting our detective hats on and figuring out who's to blame for all the shit going on, and we're going to do that, with the help of these beautiful people right here, so please, introduce yourselves."
Exchanging resigned glances, the two captives lower their heads as the woman mutters, "I'm Dr. Martha Sharma."
"And I'm Dr. Conrad Sharma," her compatriot glumly adds.
"And both you fuckers work at Jameson Biotech," the spokesman concludes in a sing-song cadence as he saunters before the couple.
"We're going to start easy.
The CDC has been saying that something's messing with people's brains: making them act all aggressive.
Now, my question to you is simple: What did y'all cook up in those labs of yours?"
Lifting her head and making eye contact with her questioner, the woman shakes her head incredulously.
"You fucking idiot."
Nodding understandingly, the man turns away from the couple.
"I see we might need some harder persuasion, that's not too surprising.
Alexander, Tomas, and Mary, bring in the kid… and the wire!"
Amidst a flurry of horrified protests from the captives, a gaunt man appears from off-frame, a goofy grin creasing his unshaven face as he lugs a squalling baby in his arms.
A second man and a woman follow him into view… uncoiling a length of barbed wire.
Wrapping the rusted steel about the infant's midsection, heedless of the pained wails emanating as the barbs scrape its skin, the duo stand apart, gripping opposite ends of the makeshift garrote.
"Ok guys," the ringleader gleefully instructs, "on my mark, we'll give the little shit a light squeezing.
If the good doctors don't want to talk after that… then I want it rendered into mincemeat!
3, 2, 1…"
Spouts of blood spurt in all directions as bullet-riddled bodies collapse to the ground, the camera toppling rearwards as a bark of automatic gunfire echoes through the audio, accompanied by the approaching, hurried stomps of soldiers' boots.