Wouldn't matter either way. There's no breeze in here, so the air's stagnant. Whenever I'm smelling their poison they're either on top of us or dead.

[But in respect of Sans's nervousness, he does huff one last puff and flick the half-spent cigarette ahead of him to crush under his stride. He looks around again, and jerks a thumb at one rotfiend that's wandered into view, well out of earshot and yet to notice them.]

But they're not smart. We'll probably spot them before they get anywhere near us.

[But then again, it is his luck they're banking on for that.]