Cut to the dark, dank bowels of some abandoned factory. A man's agonized scream pierces the air. The next thing we see is the shoulder of Samandriel's delightfully awful Wiener Hut uniform, looking rather more tattered and bloody than the last time we saw it. In fact, all the rest of Samandriel is looking quite a bit worse. Some unseen miscreant slices into his arm with an Angel Sword, spilling human blood and angelic light in equal amounts. Samandriel screams some more. His lovely face is streaked with blood and sweat and just rivulets of snot and slobber. The miscreant wielding the Angel Sword is Crowley. He has somehow managed to trap Samandriel in a chair without benefit of the burning Holy Oil that they used to make such a big deal about being the only way to trap an angel. "What do you want?" Samandriel shrieks between bouts of torture. "I've given you all the names!" Crowley isn't satisfied with that and stabs Samandriel somewhere out of frame, pulling another bloodcurdling wail from the poor angel. "This hurts you more than it hurts me," Crowley says, "so I can go on forever, which in your case is... forever." Samandriel tries to look as tough as he can and promises the angels will go after Crowley. Crowley isn't afraid because, as he says, the "power grid in Heaven is so whacked out." Perhaps that also explains how Crowley was able to trap little Samandriel in the first place.
Crowley does some more stabbing. Samandriel does some more screaming. Remember when only angels could use those swords? You'd think whatever holy weaponsmith crafted them would build in some kind of anti-demon security. Anything else is just really poor planning. Even measly humans can install security systems in stuff. "Just give me the other names," Crowley says. "There are no other names," Samandriel drools. "The next generation isn't born yet." Crowley peers intently into Samandriel's dazed eyes and decides he's telling the truth. "Well, I suppose there's no reason to keep torturing you then." Just as Samandriel starts to look relieved, Crowley stabs him in the gut. He doesn't kill the little angel, though, which is probably something of a disappointment to Samandriel at this point.
Crowley leaves Samandriel in the hands of a minion and walks over to another part of the Torture Factory. Several people -- including young Aaron from the preschool scene -- sit around a silly, lighted, octagonal table. It looks like something Cylons would have at a dinner party. "I hope the ruckus down the hall wasn't too off-putting," Crowley says. "Construction standards aren't what they were during the Inquisition!" Other guests at the table include a beefy blond guy in a too-tight cardigan, a young woman in an embroidered blouse, a middle-aged woman with braided hair and two other men that the camera doesn't care to focus on just yet. They all look a bit wary, but nobody seems quite as freaked out as they should be, considering they were all just mysteriously abducted and transported to this dingy pit of despair. Crowley smiles at his guests, waiting for them to find him hilarious and charming, but they basically just sit there. "All right then," Crowley sighs. "I suppose you're all wondering why I convened this motley group."