The majestic lights and energy displays of the previous page have become harsh, shattering fire storms; rippling spikes of dark energy crash across the doom laden vista as billowing clouds as if from some unseen furnace deep within hell itself spews forth the malignant stench of torture and death.
Up in the top left corner we see Phil Seleski with one hand high as if in stirring salutation while Dr Pierce curls at his feet, clutching his knee.
But this is the overweight geeky Seleski from the old days; his nerdy ill-fitting clothes bulge and strain, his thick rimmed glasses seem as oversized as his burger and fries gut.
The formerly lounging figure of Dr Pierce is replaced by a contorted paroxysm of arms and legs, hunched shoulders and a screaming mouth twice the size of her face. Pierce is screaming in unholy psychic pain. Every burning arc of fire that slashes across the thick black clouds is Pierce. Each explosion of noxious gases burning the sky is Pierce. Every scream heard above this appalling tempest of unspeakable horror is Pierce.
