Wen couldn't take much more of this - the burning in his head was getting hotter and wilder, like a blaze out of control out in the drying forests - he clutched the arms of the chair as the dirigible floated on. He could feel its presence growing more and more as it neared - he stood and focused his mind, calling upon Nyarlathotep - the black tendrils sprouted in reply, twitching in anticipation.
A crash of glass, and a heel to the nose heralded the arrival of the ancient foe.
Armstrong couldn't think straight - he had found the dirigible easily enough, but now everything was becoming hazy - almost like a dream, like...
"Deja vu, Mr Armstrong," came a sickened crooning voice from Wen's lips. "It seems that you are... not quite yourself at the moment. Perhaps-"
His hand wrapped around Wen's neck, and he felt the tendrils coiling around his muscles - but he could ignore that now. There was no pain, no fear - just hatred. An ancient hatred. And the hatred itself began to speak.
"Centuries... I have waited centuries for this... The scourge, the crawling chaos, the walker in darkness - I know your names, and you know mine... I will destroy you - you and your wretched cosmic bloodlines. I have lived far too long and survived far too much to let you live."
He could feel the same ancient force in his mind - tempting him, goading him, guiding him. His fist flashed out, and Wen's arm trapped it. His legs shot in a side kick to the solar plexus, and Wen moved out of the way - but neither was actually moving. Armstrong was not himself - whatever had survived in his blood and Wen's was now firmly in control.
But of course, that would mean that Wen...
...that would mean that Everett Wen had never been himself. He's never actually done anything for himself - he's a shell. Nyarlathotep has his strings, and now I'm in the same position.
The two exchanged blows fast as lightning, blocking and punching and kicking in a flurry of offence and defence - a reckless dance of death at 30,000 feet.
So if Wen has never had his own control - if he was born this way...
The ink black tendrils shot out again, wrapping around Armstrong's throat as he glided higher and higher, flinging the god-made-flesh around the main chamber against walls and into controls.
...then what happens when we beat Nyarlathotep?
A clap of thunder snapped him from his reverie, and he turned to see the thick clouds waiting. The dirigible was headed directly into the storm, and there was no way to steer out. He could feel the building insanity in the room - the two ancients and their utter bloodlust taking over.
He drew the iPod, and selected Track 23.