the bay doors hissed open. the air was stained with…benzene?…and…something metallic…iron?

gasoline and blood.

“he’s here”, Gipp said.

beyond the hall, in the rotunda, stood X’ier Strope, dousing the bodies in benzene. inhaling the fumes. taking swigs from the jug that would kill a lesser man.

almost telepathically, he turns his head to the onlooking crew.

“you’re too late, Gipp”, he half-shout-half-cackles down the hall. “the ceremony has begun. I’ll soon be taking these souls to the Alter of Malov. they’re mine. there’s nothing you can do.”

the crew stood there, brows furrowed, frowns forming, as X’ier Strope pulls a flare torch from his vest. he begins producing a rhythmic hum from deep within his chest.

“Cum hac flamma,

Transformabo,

cum his animis,

Ascendo”

X’ier Strope lights the flare and tosses it into the center of the benzene-soaked rotunda. the room ignites, X’ier Strope sitting in a lotus pose, chanting repeatedly.

“Cum hac flamma,

Transformabo,

cum his animis,

Ascendo”

“Cum hac flamma,

Transformabo,

cum his animis,

Ascendo”

“Cum hac flamma,

Transformabo,

cum his animis,

Ascendo”

“Cum hac flamma,

Transformabo,

cum his animis,

Ascendo”

X’ier Strope stands up, roaring. his skin melting. his blood boiling. in an instant he seems to vaporize, the combination of benzene ingestion and fire torching him from the inside out.

Gipp and the crew look on in horror as the smoke fills the hall in front of them. only a matter of time until it filled the whole area.