Wes was sick and tired of portals.

Firstly, it was disorienting. He felt like his brain had been put into a blender; his stomach was tap-dancing on his heart; the room was definitely spinning like a top.

Secondly, his body was bruised from falling at what felt like warp speed onto rather solidly built floors.

Thirdly, he was blind. Gold blood, and now: Blindness. Great.

No, scratch that. The room he and Jazz (he thinks Jazz is with him; he can't see her) are in is just darker than the far side of the moon. It smells like bleach. The floor is made of tiles. It's kind of cold, but much warmer than the Priestess' forestry. Wes paws around the floor, seeing with his hands.

Crawling on the floor, his hands dusty, Wes feels like the worst cat burglar in history. Where even is he?

"Jazz? Are you okay?" he finally thinks to ask. A mumble. She's asleep? Unconscious? Wes thinks there's a difference; one's good, the other bad. He hopes it's just exhaustion and not head trauma. Wes moved away from that line of thought. Optimism or whatever.

Wes' head banged into a wall. Perfect. In addition to the possible start of a headache (yay head trauma!), he knew this room had at least one wall. A-plus observation. Bravo. Wes stood and, using the technique he learned in the tunnels beneath Ghost Town- uh, Amity Park- Penitentiary, he walked along the perimeter of the room, guided by the wall. Wes ran into a desk. Super.

Stepping around the desk, which his cursory hand-scan revealed was empty, Wes continued his wall search. He now used his feet to also check for obstacles lower than his hands could reach. It paid off when his shoe poked something that thunked into something wooden. He crouched down and inspected it.

"A treasure chest?" Wes wondered, for indeed it felt like one. Old, smooth wood, smelling of must, with leather straps around its round top. A rusty metal latch barred his further investigation. "Bummer." He moved on.

The next thing he found was a shelf of books, constructed of wood which smelled of the same mustiness as the treasure chest.

"Wes?" Jazz said blearily.

"Yeah?"

"Where are we? Why's it so dark?"

"Dunno. There's no light."

"Oh."

"Help me look for a way out?"

"Sure." Wes heard her scrabble on the floor toward a wall.

After a swift bout of running his hands all over the fronts of the books and the tops of each of the shelves, Wes forged ahead. He found a little chest of drawers. Opening each drawer, he felt around, finding: Paper, pens, cloth of some sort, something slimy that made Wes' stomach crawl, and candles!

"Jazz, I found candles," he said excitedly. He picked them up. They were long tapered ones he used to see in old-fashioned movies his father loved so much. "I just wish I had matches."

Then, there was fire. On each of the wicks, a small flamed came into existence. Wes almost dropped them.

Jazz gasped, squinting over at him. "I thought you had no matches?"

"I don't." Wes was baffled. "Here," he said, handing her some candles.

"Weird."

Newly equipped with light, they explored the rest of the room. They were dismayed at their discovery.

There was no door. No windows, hatches, holes. Nothing.