Armstrong's eyes snapped open as he scanned his surroundings. He was in another hospital bed - various machines strapped onto and stuck inside his arms and chest. Esme was monitoring screens nearby - he yanked the cable monitoring his heart out, causing her to look over in concern, about to run over.
He waved, and smiled. She opened the door and left behind a small parcel before leaving the labs.
He opened it delicately to reveal a fresh tailored white suit and a small vial of black liquid reading "Drink Me".
They had found him on the coast, body blackened and charred by the explosion. Nyarlathotep was gone - banished back, it would seem, to its own place of origin thanks to the sheer power of the lightning strike channeled through the black blood. Overnight, he had dramatically healed with several vials of the blood being pumped into him, and only a few small cuts and bruises remained from the close shave with death.
The Contessa had provided him with the keys to the Silver Shadow, which he had graciously declined and given to Esme. She had driven him back to his residence until further notice, and she left the peaks of Tibet like a flash of light, the car hurtling back through the tunnels.
And as he reentered the great white chamber, greeted Marcel, and prepared a cup of Darjeeling, Armstrong smiled.
The old gods were not dead, that was a given - but mankind would not back down without a fight.
The morning brought promise.