8

Your mind is gripped like a vice and there is nothing you can do as your hand is forced inside your jacket. Sweating with effort, you try to stop yourself aiming your blaster at Bloodhound. Your arm quivers as you line him up in your sights. Bloodhound realises what is happening and reaches for his own blaster. He is too late. The lightning bolt of plasma hurls him 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.