A darker part of you takes hold, perhaps rooted in the Beast, but more likely wrought of rekindled emotion. You stare down at the helpless mortal with contempt. This pathetic creature is not worthy of your mercy, nor of the memory she had the audacity to evoke.
You kneel beside her and bring your hand to her throat, your dead eyes causing her to shudder and look away. Her neck is a ruin of ruptured blood vessels and ragged skin—you can almost feel the throbbing of what little blood remains in those pulsating veins, but you hold yourself back from draining her dry. Your other hand joins the first in a choke-hold, starving the dying body of oxygen. She sputters feebly, tries to call out for help, and goes limp.
You release her neck with disgust. It's been decades since you've attacked kine for any reason other than to feed. Perhaps you've gone too soft. You'll need to thank Corliss for having the wisdom to send you on this mission.
Next
Your newly mended legs carry you over the stony grit with remarkable strength, your renewed sense of vigor immediately apparent as you tread uneven terrain. The crashing churn of the nearby dam might largely mask the sound of gunfire if you didn't know to listen, but sporadic bursts indicate that the battle is still in full swing. You round a large pile of dirt, approaching the building from the rear when you hear a guttural shout of warning from within.
The factory abruptly explodes in a fiery conflagration, showering you in an avalanche of brick, wood, and concrete debris. You stand still for a moment, stunned and rooted to the spot before your bestial vampiric instincts overwhelm you and you flee the fire heedless of other, more mundane concerns. It takes several minutes for you to wrest control back and turn yourself around; you grind your teeth as you force your feet to carry you back toward the demolished building, your unnaturally strong aversion to flames screaming in the back of your mind. The air itself smells burnt, and your eyes sting from the clouds of disturbed dust.
That maniac Ward must have rigged the place to blow. The shock wears off when you see that the flames have already burned out—the majority of the building was built of metal and brick—and you try not to cringe as you wade into the wreckage, gun held at the ready. Someone in your group must have survived; they can't all be destroyed.