En-route to the Spire was a metal box, the inside of which was padded with cushions of every colour imaginable. The box contained the last of the skins, who clustered around the greener cushions. As the box reached the terminal one of its walls slowly moved down and outward, touching the ground with a light tap. The skins did not register any change and continued to stare blankly into space. The Nuva, twice the skins' size and much hardier, guided them gently out of the box and into the Spire. It was a slow, tedious process, guiding the lobotomized skins out and up the Spire, but each of the hundred and thirty seven of them commanded great respect. The more empathic Nuva cooed or tried to play simple games with the skins, but this elicited no intelligent response. It was no matter, so long as they didn't spend their last few moments in any sort of pain. Temporary madness and eternal nothingness is pain enough. These were their forefathers, the ones who gave them this extraordinary gift, and who, regrettably, could not bestow it upon themselves. The utmost care would be taken with them.
Through giant windows at the top of the Spire the setting sun bathed the glass room in warm orange hues as the Nuva led the skins in in wheelchairs. They would rest in peace here for all eternity, a monument to those unable to continue on the road to eternal life. They were wheeled in babbling incoherently in their two's, positioned in rows facing the fading sun. Several Nuva had to be excused. As the last skin was put in place, the remaining Nuva walked the isles, muttering prayers and thanks to each of them. A tablet was place in front of every skin, detailing their lives and their work.
When the preparations finished, all but four Nuva left the glass room, despite each of them knowing full well that the gas was harmless to them.
The pumps to the glass room were activated just as the sun disappeared under the horizon. The room was plunged into darkness, and the magnificent city on the hill began to blaze with a beautiful flame.