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So, you start circling around the machine like a crow circles carrion. All the while, you are doing your best to not think about how the odds of retracing your steps through this mess, and leaving this room through the only exit you are certain exists, is decreasing steadily with every footfall, and every adjustment you make for the floor that you can barely see. You hope that once you get on the other side of this blaze, you will be able to better see where the Hell you are going, but you know that you cannot count on that.
Just in the short time that you have been in this room, the sting in your eyes from the smoke has gotten so damned bad that it feels like someone has slit your peepers open with a blade dipped in vinegar. And you are only halfway through – in the absolute best-case scenario. You are pretty sure that you are crying, which considering the current state of your bodily emissions, is dangerous, but at the moment, you cannot do anything about it. Besides, if you are, most of it is going to end up on your clothes anyway, which are already hopelessly saturated with the Strangeness. The few drops that might make it to the floor … well, you will just have to hope that they are never found. And if they are, then you have to hope that they are written off, which they almost certainly would be.
No matter how diligent the Inquisition is, they simply cannot explain everything. They will assume it is discharge, or condensation from the pipes or something. And that is assuming that there is even a Refinery left for the Inquisition to investigate … which with the way things have been going tonight, that is far from a certainty.
Still, it feels so wrong, just ignoring the earliest and most important lessons you ever learned – the ones about dealing with communicable Strangeness. You feel compelled to cover your eyes, to try to dab them dry. So strong is this compulsion, you have to physically stop yourself from lifting your arm or your hand up to them, though now that you are thinking about it, you find that it is easier to control yourself. With a bit more resolve, you keep your left hand out in front of you, and your right hand pinching your nose shut. You have it so tightly squeezed that both your fingers and your nostrils have gone numb. But you just have to keep moving, there is no time for distractions like this. Focus!
The machine, or whatever the Hell the thing is, it is not really that large, but when you factor in the berth you are giving it, on account of the flames, and of the fear that it might blow … it takes longer than you would have figured to work your way around it. Worried that you are wasting precious air, you are about to lengthen your strides and pick up the pace when you realize that would be the absolute worst thing you could possibly do at the moment.
