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It is instead the scent of seared flesh that you perceive, for almost of its own volition, the wand of the Fire Lance has leapt to your hand, which does not tremble even at the blistering backblast of the fuel-scorched inferno, as you spray burning gouts of molten woe upon the machine-gun emplacement outside the ventilation breach - their abject destruction before the maw of the furnace, the burning wrath of the tempest is terrible to behold. You are not sure if it is the numbness of the narcotics, but you remain unmoved at the sight of the flailing and disintegrating charred figures, soon little more than drifting soot and ashes, a distant echo of shrieks and wailing forgotten by the wind. They seem very distant, very far away.
