As he reaches the top of the path which leads to the entrance doors, Pollution pauses for a moment to observe his surroundings. His mind leeches slippery, curious tendrils into the ether, fingering the tapestry of the world behind the world. Like his corporeal fingers, they leave smudges and smears on what they touch, in this case it is streaks of chalky light.

Here is that richly red ribbon of energy again, denser now, less like smoke than thick fluid. But the edges of it are diamond hard, quite nearly...sharp. He holds suddenly still, almost gasps, in the manner of a mortal catching itself just as a kitchen knife begins to slice the tender tip of a thumb. He knows better than to press too close, but he cannot resist turning toward it, seeking its source. Two steps, then three...yes, that is motorcycle engine oil that he smells on the wretchedly fresh air...familiar engine oil.