There is an eye in the storm, eventually. No sense can scream forever.

Anguished nerves that sent panicked signals--Cried! Shrieked! Threw up every alarm possible! Warned her this isn't safe, this can't last, [i]she[/i] can't last--first drop to moans, then whimpers, and then blessed silence. Pain has worn itself out, given its all, and now must rest.

She takes a step. Pushes forwards. It's just her, the floor, and the Weight.

Muscles that burned and threatened to seize have long ceased their protest. There's nothing to spare. Everything has been pushing in the same way for so long that the very idea of something that is not that is unthinkable.

Sight was useless even before she made contact. Her eyes screw shut against the light, but she's almost certain that even if she opened them, she'd see the same thing. She'd still see nothing but the orange and green afterimages of eyes too burnt out to see anything else. It's unimportant. She doesn't need sight to push.

She takes a step. Pushes forward. It's just her, the floor, and the Weight.

Even touch is meaningless. She knows her feet touch the floor, because that is how she is pushing the Weight. She knows that she must be touching the Weight, because there is still resistance to push against. But her hands long ago ran molten, coursed down her side, puddled on the floor, and she's pushing with parts that were never meant to see day.

… The Weight has stopped. She redoubles her efforts. It can't stop, she won't [i]let[/i] it stop, because everyone is [i]counting on her[/i]. Feet grind and shriek against metal floor, piercing the silence. She throws herself against the side of the molten block, and new nerves cry out at the sudden impact. She has no hands, no arms, and so she kicks, finds new muscles to exercise, new joints to take the impact.  Steps back, squints away the specks of light still painting her vision, and realizes there is a vision to see.

The Weight still burns with heat, pulses with light. But it's subdued, dull. Constrained. It sits flush with its containment, happy, glowing with energy, but no longer threatening to tear itself apart.

Well, that's good, then.

She takes a step, falls forward, and then it's just her, the floor, and the wait.