Burke, left alone, smirks in triumph -- he'd brokered an amnesty for himself, you see -- until an ominous veil of luminous green dust materializes to shimmer around him. "Wait!" he hisses in protest. "I did what you asked, didn't I?" The dust veil responds by constricting around him until Burke implodes, devoured by a demon-vanquishing gout of flame. The cloud, now a glowy smear, shoots across the room before Burke's screams have finished echoing through the cavern to demolish the cryogenically preserved Reinhardt as well. As the remnants of Reinhardt's chamber shatter on the stone floor, the dust cloud quietly disappears.
The brief closing travelogue whisks us across the nighttime city and into a wordless montage of grief. Well, grief for Raige and Piper, actually, because festive Phoebe's as sunny and gleeful as she always is when confronted with death. Brainless simp. Raige, openly weeping, appears unannounced in Ivan's office and staggers into a desperate embrace with the all-too-sensitive parole officer. They are so doing it tonight. Meanwhile, back on the Manor sun porch, cheery Phoebe cuddles an orally fixated Tiny Gay Chris in her lap while the dead-eyed and bemulleted Psycho viciously pounds on a toy piano, no doubt intending to do the same to his poor, neglected, and doomed younger brother's tender little head once their bony skank of an aunt leaves them alone for two minutes. And finally, out in that damned garage they never had before tonight and which I am quite sure we shall never see again, Piper stares at the ancient wreck of a truck she just blew $9500 on and dissolves into tears before carefully collecting her resolve and switching off the light, taking us at last to black.
Next week: Hiatus! Hooray! Happy holidays, everyone.