Shade strikes across the metal, stones and crystal of the Panopticon, the ticking finger of a sundial.
“Falling!” screams the Doctor, pushing aside Borusa’s questioning hand and knocking her to the ground. He spins, his dancing hands outflung and wild, his body the twirling figure of a dervish swathed in red and twisting like a whore at the cups around the narrow pulpit platform, as thousands of eyes focus on the places below. “Do you not see? He is dead! Dead!” His green eyes like arrows fly to the only other movement in the great room. He looks up, searching without having to search, playing cat- until high on the other side of the great six-sided hall, Pasmodius flares up from his seat, a swirl of purple and glare.
A sound comes over the comm. The Cardinal’s voice, deep and distant, raging beneath like the flute of Hamelin.
“May Qqaba’s unhappy spirit consume you all! I am leaving this rotting hell, and you can all die!”
A figure rises from his place and flows across the dais. Two feet carry their owner toward the circle set into the edge leading out to the pulpit. But because the suns are eclipsed by the Pod, no-one among them can see.
The crowds ripple with gasps, an inland sea lapping at the feet of Providence’ corpse.
Borusa reaches again for the Doctor, as a wind climbs upward. Faces lean over and look, hoping to pierce the dark.
Kenny, in his veil of fishnet, reaches out for the little blonde’s throat with his silver dagger, seeking an ineffectual life for an ineffectual life.