Salt winds between Waylon's feet like a snow-covered mountain range. Stride steady, his heart pounds against his rib cage. Over and over. Footstep, crash, footstep, crash. The sound is inside his head. Deep, quaking, and painful. Veins bulge at his temples: thin, wiry things that pulse in tandem with his heart's thunder.

It'll work out. This job didn't, but I have plenty of time to work through something else. Plenty.

Following the trail of salt, he whips around a corner. Light pierces through the darkness ahead. Two doors sit ajar in-line, one leading to the other: the tank maintenance area from earlier and the Hall of Discovery beyond it.

Striding past tables laden with spare tanks, air pumps, and whatever else, Waylon yanks at his hair band. Strips of black unfurl from the bun atop his head and fall to his shoulders. Heavy — damp with sweat. I'll get to the truck, get home, then I'll figure out what's next. She'll manage until then.

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She has to.

A dozen feet from crossing into the Hall of Discovery, some monster blots out the light. Waylon can't see any details. Only a rocky silhouette stands amid blue-tinted light streaming in from the hallway. Waylon's heart whimpers, blood freezes in his veins, and his feet lurch. Stuck in place.

Movement. The figure raises a purple boot and lets it fall; a hurtling meteor set on his extinction. Rubber slaps onto concrete and air explodes outward in a deafening crack.

Whether from the sight or sound, it doesn't matter: Waylon's steady facade crumbles to dust. Calm, sureness. Gone. He cowers, stumbling backward. "But— but, how? It's only been—"

The voice of Earth itself booms out from the hero's chest — rather, from Barclay's chest. "A couple minutes?" Glass of nearby tanks rattle with his words. He takes another step and wrenches fist within palm, cracking his knuckles. "I was in the area, so thought I'd drop by."