413

Sweating with effort you are unable to regain control of your quivering arm and the will of the Renegade Lord forces you to pull the trigger. The lightning bolt of plasma hurls Bloodhound into the wheel of the ambulance and his corpse slumps, a grotesque travesty of a human being. Your eyes are riveted on the muzzle of your death-dealing blaster as, inch by inch, you are forced to point it at yourself. Your hand is still shaking, but your finger closes on the trigger and the left half of your face and head is wiped away. You have failed.