Gyrating their hips slowly: the predominately male ones; or abjectly enduring the self-fuck of artificial jumbo cocks: the females.

Sadly, desperately sadly, in fact merely enduring the height of physical pleasure, they were watching them, bored, almost awaking from their sexual frenzy, even as they were still inextricably, indeed, surgically, bound to it.

The stimulation never ceased, physically, it couldn't. Until they, after a period, a brief – a rather brief period, he thought, just watching them, they re-ejaculated their liquids back inside the machine. Which liquids were re-injected back into their prostates, and indeed their withered interior testicles – he had an imagination his supernatural organs attested to the veracity of. But the facts were these. While they merely:

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But all this, he was happy to see, their barely doing anything, merely – Notch/Pull/Loose – Return – made the arseholes sad.

They weren't here for this. They were here for entertainment. They were here for the religious ceremony which was masturbating; being masturbated, by masturbators surgically grafted to them, while praying, in the fashion that they did, communing, that was, in the fashion that they did, with the nothing that they worshipped.

However they did that, being continually jacked the same time entertained by them – miserable things – including getting spunked on – this had happened too.

This was what they were here for and this display just wasn't cutting it. It wasn't cutting it at all – and they knew about cutting it. They loved to cut it, and themselves. Like everything else. While they masturbated.

There was a giant at the end of the hall. – The dumb fuck walked back and forth continually forward in a vain attempt to enter the corridor he/it couldn't fit inside, not standing anyway, firing its shotgun automatically at the denouement of the automatic reload sequence.

Back jammed forth jamming himself into the passage that wouldn't fit him. Waist height it jammed continually back and forward in the same rhythm firing that shotgun back down at them in the hall. This thing was retarded, but it played to their advantage, so they were, in the final analysis, all for the retardation of their enemies.

It was just boring extended repetition, at this point, he thought, pressing themselves out of range, against the back wall of the passage.

A singular fervid Science Priest was jacking itself hard against the transparent wall-texture behind them. An infinite row of his image repeated all the way back behind. – As if there was an infinite file back there of Science Priests, despite the same movements. But really. It was one: one insanely jacking up against the glass of the other. The same guy, obviously, they could see that. Image repeated. The Hero Dreamt unfortunately had to observe this, while the Golden Bow:

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, the same miniscule health portion reduced upon each arrow straight in its bloody corpus, spouting the same blood squab upon every insertion. The red bar atop the thing through which they saw reality: reduced each time; that same miniscule segment, and the endless – it wasn't endless – it just felt that way, process of the bar decreasing, went forward.

The Hero Dreamt, just standing there, having unfortunately – not doing anything; not firing anything, just being there – had to – no point wasting ammo, especially when even a hundred shells were nothing against the thick corpus that

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the Golden Bow ceaselessly fired arrows at. That barely took a 10, 016th; he didn't know, a 10, 032th, off that red bar. Each time. – So he just stood.

However, there was a consequence to his just standing. In that place. His mind slipping into the sick atmospheres broadcast; the subtle underneath-it-all whisperings – even – between Science Priests.

It all unfortunately meant, that he became increasingly tuned to that atmosphere, indeed the palpable exchange that he felt in the air there, as it were, between, those disgusting – he'd like to swear at them; either that or murder every single – Science Priests.

Their proximity leant the head of the infinite file behind a masturbatory mania that was senseless to anything else – any other consideration. Out the corner of his eye, the Hero Dreamt, unfortunately could only note the extent to which the demented wee fuck was hurting itself. Back of him. Ramming itself against the glass; a transplanted extended out vagina contraption – livers and gears – ramming hard into the fucker – it couldn't be good for his organs was the reluctant thought elicited, or even or perhaps especially in this case the area around the organs.

The obscurity that reigned in the hood only showed continually flashed single images of sexual sneers; also the composite weird organs that were attached to its face surgically; the couple of mouths it had. One of which was equipped with a flat cock tongue, that he rammed in and out continually also, against something else on his face which – it looked like a vagina, of some kind, anyway – several cunts on its face/coupon, same – and it – he noted this against his will, and in fact longed that he hadn't. Any close exposure to these things didn't make you mentally healthy, and he thought too, very likely, in terms of his dreams. – If he ever would have/if he ever had had. Or again. A dream.

– One of the cunts on its face wasn't human.

In this limbo, the silence of the hall was punctuated by the occasional frenzied screams of the fuck behind them, apparently reaching a volume intermittently high enough to pierce the material that separated – he was the only really excited SP because of their proximity. And then there were the grunts repeated.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.” Of the giant Parody Monster-Boss-Boy at the end of the hall.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

Really only this and basically the silence.

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

The occasional thick, slick, loud, masturbatory sounds of clicking urethra pipes, or juicy internal, and then reinserted, ejaculations.

But only those loud enough to penetrate, and despite this weirdly – the place was –

Weirdly peaceful despite this continued repetition of a mania that was clearly. Connected to something that wouldn't quit of its own accord.

That –

It had to be stopped.

In his developing sensitivity to the Science Priests, their current humours; the current mood exchanged between them – except as always the maniac behind – he began to note the frustration, tinged plainly with a rapey edge of sexual frustration, all directed at the mode in which they were choosing to deal with the Boss they had no choice but to combat at the end of the hall.

This sexual frustration was reaching such a crescendo in fact that the Hero Dreamt became aware that something, he knew not what, was about to change.

Exactly at which point he noted the bar atop their heads – his anyway – that that stationary indicator was about

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to reach halfway.

One more burst, in fact, and he was aware – that it would.

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The red bar above his head indicating the health, if that was how to describe it – vitality – of the Parody of The Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him Boss, reached half way and something changed.

The Science Priests – apparently this whole time they had been communicating.

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And he saw it. The thing that changed. He saw it. He saw it now.

But –

He felt something first that –

For a moment he could see through, where he was.

He could see through the planes and the panels into the truth – if it was that, or at least closer – of what it was and what was really going and where they were... actually.

This vision did not come from him. This ability even to see, didn't either. But lulled into that repetition –

The jacking hack behind.

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“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

Even the tortured masturbatory clacking; the angry tribal language of urethral clicking – the click-click-click-clacks loud enough to penetrate – everything intended – the wall-texture fake-not-there transition glass in transparent panels. – Because they had their own rhythms incorporated into –

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“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

“Ah. Oof. Craahh.”

The barking of its shotgun.

– as well. Something of this weird imposed peace; and the change he felt coming – and this thing that wasn't him that apparently; it was apparent, he was connected to – it worked on him in the form of a vision of what was actually happening and what was actually going on.

He saw:

Through the wall textures that blocked conventional sight. Those ensconced in the ceiling, of the chamber that contained the Boss too dumb/large to get through to the corridor that contained them. He saw that these Science Priests – he'd murdered the one dramatically that had ejaculated on him – in fact, all of them would die, eventually, for this crime – painfully, he felt no fucking mercy –

– In fact pause – fuck them – everything. – Here was the new quest:

Killing the demon who dreamed him, sure, because that was this world. That was his ultimate thing – fine, the reason for which he lived – all for it. This was a commitment sworn in the very structure of his organs. But on the road to that. Here was the quest at this point that juiced him:

Call it a side-quest, fuck-slice. Call it a –

He was going to genocide the fuck out of these Science Priests, because one of them had ejaculated on him.

Parentheses aside –

He saw through the panels incorporated though him, in turn, a new vision – not this – that was in a manner he could not understand, induced in him by repetition.

In the chamber that housed the boss thing, he saw, in the ceiling – this apparently indicating a difference in hierarchical pedigree even of the Science Priests in this extended zone – their communicating.