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He stumbles forward, over ground grown strange and porous. His weight cracks the ground, as though it were ice on a pond in spring. Things tip and swirl strangely as the cracks that are venting something that is almost certainly not light spread and pieces of the world being to slip away.

Somewhere, behind him, a gun goes off.

His feet, somehow, find their way to the tripod and he reaches out, again, and -