They'd pulled it all out themselves; Old Works, floating, above them, the tangled tiers, the arched passageways - the corridors, one after another, scaled, connected, interchangeable, and that which they transported:

the whole thing hung there, scaled, and true size, reduced, and irreducibly there. The whole thing hung in that space that made space itself, merely a kind of reality-thought, merely a kind of mood that existed because he'd agreed that it in fact existed there -

And then not.

Those shafts of final reality material pulled out the doom spheres that trapped them in the worst aspects of themselves - he pulled it out, he pushed it through the fact that he agreed that it existed. But in a fashion now that -

All this was mere feel. Mere ad hoc interpretation. Merely the narrative that Pheel imposed upon the images that were in turn forced upon him. Because it was what the wound took from them: it was this he used to destroy everything.

One Cyclops, alone, a minor corridor - if any could be described as such in the irreducible system that was Old Works, already refined out to maximum efficiency, to maximum wastelessness – he was -

seeing the passage in reality and therefore enforcing its existence.

Seeing -

Through a wound, seeing those final panels that could not be described but that, Pheel sensed, were the final irreducible components out of which – everything, all of it, anything, him, us/them, you, the world – matter, information, the self – ideas – consciousness; this stuff was pulled directly out of the doom chambers.

And therefore them; therefore it was pulled out of them - and he couldn't resist it. He couldn't do anything. He had needed them here; he had needed them here for this: manipulated into this narrative all along, in exactly this fashion, to get them here, so he could pull whatever it was that together they were connected to, had access to that even they hadn't... and that without them – whatever this substance was he had none of it without them.

He flashed stalled-glances across at Art on one side, Massimo on the other, he couldn't – he couldn't see Pry – from his perspective upon this scene that included the still currently incestuously fucking son and mother and Old Works pulled out beneath. Pry - Pheel fought to, through this, communicate something that they could stop - anything

this – he saw the comprehension anyway in Art too, and Massimo - flashed a glance the other way at Pry, but they were trapped; they understood fin/they understood and they were trapped but – they could stop/they could stop him killing everybody, stop that wound slipping in and annihilating that Cyclops at the end of the hall, they could – without the connection itself he communicated it/just by eyes, but -

but he couldn't.

He couldn't move.

None of them could.

Despite how hard he fought the apathy induced in him: that he couldn't do anything and that anyway all of this was inevitable - sitting on him like an obese woman that hated him, he couldn't get out from under apathy that -

it was the connection itself he used to -

That final material, in panelled planes, slid inside Old Works.

That final irreducible material, that stuff, he was even now pulling out the connection between each of them; farming it off them by means of his capacity to trap them inside the worst parts of himself; he -

A shaft of that material burst through the sopping wound at the end of the corridor, and lit the Cyclops in the final-nothing light that consumed him.

Screaming, his flesh bubbled off his face. The Wound elicited wounds all over him. The Cyclops' one eye, in the middle of his forehead, stared out itself in a desperation to fight to see some other kind of interpretation forced upon this reality that would make any of this not the current event -

that was transpiring to him but – in that material, it was the material itself, through the Wound... that did this –

seeing anything other than reality was impossible.

And reality itself burned his face off.

Lit across his limbs and burning them too, his torso, screaming at the interior burning that necessarily accompanied the rest of him, he burned, he burned in a flame that could never be extinguished merely by adopting an attitude that necessitated the fact of its being extinguished -

This agony could never be assuaged. They watched him burn. And they watched him,

weep.