The firing range is empty. The pink walls, covered in pulsating rose-tinted flesh, are lined in holes the size of a gnat. As you watch, the holes seal themselves, spitting out shells as if tey were nothing. In place of them you can see organs growing; eyes, and teeth, and vestigial limbs. Wings, and tails, and other such organs – only for them to be subsumed into the excitedly shivering mass once again.
With nothing to shoot at that will stay dead, and no firearm to shoot with, you leave, returning to the Foyer by force of instinct.
You are alone with the Reporter in the Foyer.
The Reporter is shaking and rocking back and forth while trying to look together at the same time.
Around you, the viscous walls of the house are drawing in around you – absorbing everything as they do so.
Neither of you say anything, for there is nothing to say.
Having made peace with herself, the Reporter rises to her feet – clearly no longer afraid, or simply too tired to show her fear. She smiles weakly.
“Well, I guess this is it, then. Better luck next time, eh?”