Pieces fly from the ball; the body jerks, arms flailing with each new fissure as though the man is being puckered by some sniping projectile.
A small hand escapes the crack, gripping the edge of the man’s head like a hatching chick. The hand adorns an arm. The arm adorns a little girl in a green dress, her head a shiny green marble. She climbs like a twitching bird from the wreckage, then turns to apply her tiny fingers to the broken shell of her father’s head. Her own young ball of a head bobs briefly at Rassilon. Then she skips away.
Rassilon stares at the husk of the Geldoracht’s body, sitting like a standing stone now in the river of people escaping the Hospital.
“Third level? The crying sound…?” he asks a passing metalliform Vorpal Flyrgot with a medical cruce on its tiny adamantite body.
Its small, spinning knife wings click to a stop at once, the circle of blade-like flight appendages rising to a crescendo just fingerlengths from his face. A globe appears. It beams a light from the rusted red cruce on its carapace to the lines of Rassilon’s face, humming loudly, “First right by the Lobby and Vending, left to the stairwell, down to the right and then take an up up left down right turn,” it whirs, twisting around once in full greeting before floating on a bit up the ramp.