A dark miasma pooled around him, a cloud of vague hallucinations, teetering on the edge of his vision. Sinister apparitions, dancing around him like moths around a blazing fire, blinding yet guided in the swirling light. Yet these were no commom moths; they were the darkest thoughts of a perverse mind, spilling out and orbiting the gruesome black flames of his imagination. The twisted visions writhed in manical laughter, their spectral mouths gaping with silent humour. Suddenly, they stopped, and focused intently on him, crawling and creeping closer to his feverish body, they spilled into his eyes and ears and nose and mouth, and he screamed a slilent scream, and a single word entered his head...Kill...

Dale was awoken, his head coated in blood, dripping down his chest. He lay in the hard earthen floor of the lowest part of the Industrial District, where the foundations of the great machines had been layed, leaving only narrow earthen tracks between each mechanical behemoth.
He lay in a shadowed corner, somewhere within the power lines, within a large pool of blood. Dazed, he got up, steadying himself on a large steel pipe. Dales head spun, and his body ached. He was feeling lightheaded from the loss of blood, and he could feel his life slowly slipping away.
Suddenly, he felt a cool rush on his hand, like a breeze, except there are no breezes down here in the darkest parts of the undercity. A poignant smell touched his nostrils, and he gaged. A powerful, revolting smell attacked him, and he soon realised what the breeze was.
These weren't the power lines. They were the gas lines, and one of them was leaking. The gas rushed towards him, suddenly a gale. Dale saw creatures sneaking around his eyes. He shaked his head fervently, his mind spinning. The creatures advanced.

The gas, it causes this...madness

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