John was at the tail end of the group. The shed had been practically blown to smithereens, the welded metal cracked open at the seams. Only the fuse box was unharmed, either by a miracle or by arcane wards. Running past, John rapidly descended the stairs.
The workshop resembled a scene from a war movie. The case that Jimmie had stored his suit in was curled open like a dried-up flower petal. Explosive force had cracked it wide open, disintegrated much of the edges, then swept through the surrounding room. The metal scrap and projects that now were metal scrap all had been pushed to the walls by the shockwaves, then partly drawn back to the centre by the rebound. Rather than the smell of gunpowder and dust, the air was filled with an electric stench and a blue-purple mist. An occasional crackle arched.
