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Summary
"What'll it be like?" He asks quietly.
"Like... Like a sort of just- explosion, over the horizon." He splays his hands, mimicking the motion. "Yeah. Painting the sea in colors we don't even know what they look like yet, cos they're all new. An incomprehensible cacophony of sound and blinding light. And then..." he suddenly closes his fingers again. "Nothing."
His tone doesn't match the visual theatrics. Even so... That probably means that he knows what he's talking about. And why wouldn't he? When the world threatens to end, somewhere, there is always Murdoc Niccals. If he isn't directly causing it, he'll be clued in at least.
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The last eight or so hours of two of the unhappiest people on Earth.