Waylon is clueless. Where are they amid the aquarium's maze? Running, navigating, his fickle fight with derealization. It was too much to handle in tandem. Conscious twists and turns transitioned to hunches, then to straight up gambles. The aquarium's floor plan is nothing but a useless memory now. Not that it matters: he's not in control anymore.

His body crashes through the door and he enters into a separate world. No more darkness, no more pipes.

A glass dome encompasses him, only broken up by two entrances: an unlit hallway and the maintenance tunnel he just came from. Blue-tinted light floods the space, shone from fixtures above all the water and glass. Subtle waves scatter light into ever-morphing spiderwebs. It's as if he's under the sea, standing among hundreds of fish that swirl around him. Big, small, every color he's ever seen and more. His stumbling falters. He spins in place, taking everything in as if struck by awe.

But he's not in awe: this is all meaningless.

A picturesque moment that may have spurred his heart if he were a few hours younger. Now, though? It's the backdrop of his own demise. The Seafloor Dome is near the center of the aquarium, after all. Far from any escape.

Waylon's body pushes him forward, but it's spent. He collapses to his knees at the center of the dome's floor, sucking down breath after breath. It's time, I guess. I get to let this struggle end.

Barclay is still in the maintenance hallway. Far enough back that his form is invisible — cloaked in shadow. That is, except for his eyes. Those still spark and burn, seeping luminescent, orange smoke. Wispy tendrils that rise to illuminate pipes running along the ceiling.

The sight beats hammers inside Waylon's chest. Endless, wailing strikes — any of which could split an anvil in two. Why don't I feel afraid? That's what my body is trying to tell me, right?

Barclay is no longer jogging. His stride is slow, deliberate, and heavy. The monster he first met is back. No more taunting or jeering from behind: now, his show begins.

So Waylon watches on, body held firm by exhaustion and gaze vacant — a perfect, captive audience.

Barclay plunges a purple boot out of the darkness. It falls to the ground and the earth shakes. If someone said the water overhead rippled, Waylon might believe them. Is the world really shaking? Is it in my head?

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Barclay emerges from shadow and crosses the dome's threshold. Jewels on his belt glitter, their facets reflecting the web of light from above a dozen times apiece. In his eyes, fire turns to snow in an instant. Orange light and rising smoke now white.

Barking a laugh, he stamps a final step. "Thanks for leading us here. Plenty enough room, now. Are you ready?"

Yes, I'm tired. So tired.

Barclay inhales. He vacuums down air until his lungs are fit to burst. "Come one, come all! Try your best to topple these bottles with the toss of a ball! Win within three tries and you'll get your choice. Any of my prizes!" He booms.

All that exists in the following moment is white light. It explodes out of his eyes, drowning out everything: water, fish, the floor underneath them.

Eyes burning, Waylon buries them in the nook of his elbow and slams his eyelids shut. It doesn't help. Light pierces through peacoat, sweater, flesh, and bone.

In the span of a second, several things come to pass. Harsh light disappears. In its place, darkness — from behind Waylon's eyelids, at least. He peeks out from his elbow. A trillion pinpricks of light twinkle across the canvas of space. Interrupted by rainbow nebulae, rogue planets, and glittering asteroid belts.

He stares, speechless.

And, in that eternal second, the universe stares back. Every star is somehow focused on him. Each one another of Sauron's eyes, watching. He blinks. What's happening?

Suddenly, his stomach wrenches. It's an odd sensation. Like his insides are being pulled through the eye of a needle.

Then... pop. Nausea flushes through him.

Space dissolves, revealing the undersea dome and a giant contraption. A carnival's game booth. Blinking bulbs line every inch and — in few-second intervals — a speaker blares out an orchestra of kazoos and clownesque laughs. Atop a table at the far edge of the booth's interior, bottles sit stacked in a pyramid five rows high.

The nausea won't let Waylon focus. He starts to double over, but he can't. His palms are locked to the booth's counter and his knees won't unlock to let him fall back to the ground. His legs' tendons yell, burning from the exertion of merely standing in place.

Barclay — on the other side of the game's counter — leans down and pops back up with three multi-colored, pleather-bound juggling balls. He places each on a wooden platter in front of Waylon. "How'd you like the trip? I've been told my power's teleport component is especially uncomfortable."

Waylon's vision swims; his left temple throbs. He gulps down a breath and holds it, building a dam against the rising nausea. Carnival Barker... that's what it was.

A power with a large space requirement: sparse as Barclay's information sheet was, that fact was there. Too late for it to help.

Bearing a smile beneath his well-oiled mustache, Barclay steps to the side and waves an open hand from Waylon to the glass pyramid. "The game's simple! Throw the balls, knock over those bottles, and you win! Just like I said."