the fist of the thing

This was the most basic math Shulk could muster; no calculus of rampening hostilities, no hidden variables about controllers in the dark. Mumkhar had killed. Mumkhar deserved what he got in return.

Except that it would never stop, this way. There was no end to the series - for that was what it was, rather than any one-stop equation content to toss rocks of subtraction at its own two opposing sides.

It didn't taste good, this stiff-sought prize. Mumkhar had already ruined himself, countless others in the process.

Maybe it would never be soft to swallow, never summed to zero again.