Alastor is resigned to sitting and stewing in the mounting sense of impending doom, that's been wreaking havoc with his unremitting, stone-faced composure, since he received that message, from the great beyond the beyond.
Not one to jump to conclusions--but if there's even the slightest chance that she is out there--
He has no choice but to disregard every entrenched resistance to the perilous and unknown, every ingrained sense of self-preservation, and jump, head first, into the darkness.
There is a silence than hangs in the air like a foreboding storm cloud, as he waits for the spider to step back through the sliding doors, starring dead ahead, into the horizon.
When will he get back? Nobody returns from limbo unchanged. Whatever will become of him? Of her?
Every answer to every question he's ever asked himself, regarding the great divide of divides, is about to be answered.
From the inside of his voluminous scarlet overcoat, does the stag draw a simple, unassuming handgun, containing but a single, preloaded bullet.
And with an almost gentle manoeuvre of his blackened thumb, he presses the hammer down, until there comes a click.
Giving himself not a moment to second guess this decision, the radio demon, with every last ounce of conviction he can muster, touches the barrel of the gun to his pallid temple, like the cold lips of a treacherous lover.
And his world goes blank.
