Somewhere away over the horizon people are screaming as the fabric of reality bulges and twists in ways it was never meant to do, and the air fills with the smell of ozone as plasma and proton fire and things arcane begin striking back. But that's too far to see, and much too far to hear. Here, now, Matochkin's hands are flaring green again- and he's turning to throw that fire, not at the space where a child might be, but at the ice itself.