The closest man, who taunted you with his flint blade and strangled male genitalia, bleeds profusely from his screwdriver and tablet wounds. He's sobbing now, having dropped his knife. He's utterly defeated mentally.
The crowd of men around him are shouting at you. Some hit at Mickey, the two-headed mutant rat, Maulmuire, the mutated human, and Morn-Start, the convenience store android, with the base of their palms in a way that suggests they would strike at you to cause you pain, but instead are holding back using this technique which does no damage at all. The expression across all their faces is far from the jovial one from before. Now they look annoyed, agitated, angry. They look on the verge of tears. They grip their dick-and-balls pouches and knead them in worry.
The two men who were crushed against the stone of black glass with the Force Screen are curled in fetal positions at the base of the rock, bleeding, their bodies broken. They sob silently, their faces hidden as if hoping by not looking up they'll receive no more physical punishment.
A perplexed group of men in orange and green is gathered around Moses and Winter testing the boundaries of the Force Screen with quick strikes with the palms of their hands and then quickly retreating back several steps.
Two sharp, loud clangs of metal on metal ring out from the Northwest corner of the square. Two human figures stand their with their arms crossed over their heads (See Fig. P4M3). There is a man and a woman. Both are very tall, seven feet you would guess. They wear only the minimum clothing to cover their groins. Calf-high leather books are on their feet. They have brown, ceramic masks covering their faces with slits for their eyes. On the woman's mask are three diagonal white marks across the cheeks. On the man's mask are three vertical red marks. Their bodies are constructed only with powerful shapes of voluminous muscle. Their skin is deeply tanned from exposure and glistens from sweat under the sun. At the end of their forearms aren't hands. At the end of their right arm is a rough, metal globe, from which protrude three foot-long needles. Instead of the left hand there is a blade that splits into two pieces, one a curved hook, the other a long, serrated sword. Around their waists hang a several strands of steel cables. They look like bronze statues you didn't see before.
But then they move, striding toward you, through the ring of tubular cats who have dropped down again from their "S" poses. The cat tubes slither behind the two giants.
The men in orange and green who've noticed these new arrivals on the scene of conflict run toward them, excited and yelling to them. In a beseeching tone they say, "Gooba! Gooba! Vard puchasey nucks! Gooba! Vard puchasey nucks, Gooba!" And the men point back at you accusingly. They huff and squeeze their members and stamp on the ground.
As the two tall figures get closer, you see their gleaming bodies are covered with wormy scars over their chests, arms, and legs. Their hair is dark long strands.
The tall man steps to one of the men in orange and green and shoves his hook blade into his stomach impaling him, lifting him up, then kicking him off the blade.
The two tall humans walk toward your party.