Jagged thunderbolts patterned the planet's surface. Together they formed a dangerous cavernous vacuum and sucked everything in: Solids', gases, molecules and atoms of every type slid helplessly down the dark abyss. Everything fell inward. The ground crunched, rock scrapped deafly together as each particle raced to the planets center.

So when the cliff shifted and broke there was no hope for the being steadied at the top of the Katric Ark entrance. Skin molecules shattered and stretched, caught in limbo between the inescapable gravity well and the transporter, bits and pieces floated up, while the rest crumbled down with the planet.

Death happened all at once. Minds exploded. Frequencies privy to the Vulcan race screamed and twisted in agony. 10 billion Katras unleashed, memories and secrets scattered into the dissolving air before being sucked away into nothingness. The aftershock was minute. It lasted perhaps five seconds before infinite gravity swallowed the murdered thoughts whole. The silence was perhaps more painful than five seconds of telepathic torture.

Spock remembers screaming a name, reaching out a hand only to stare in horror as blood and organic matter bubbled and fell from the air, splattering on the transporter pad with a lifeless slick sound that neither son nor spouse could ever forget.

The emptiness of the planet tore into Spock, it hurt, but the ripping of a parental bond was worse. The hum of the familiar thread stretched and pulled, snapping a piece from Spock's mind that he'd never get back. The mental wound lay bleeding and torn, gapping from the gruesome loss.

Once all settled and physical feeling restored, Spock thought deeply of his mother. He reached out all mental powers to her, psychic fingers circled around the remains of her damaged mind.

No coherent thought, no memory, nothing was left behind but her screams.