[ At first, Randel doesn't want any part of this, any of it. The scream sounds out and he closes his eyes, closes his ears, and starts closing the shelter early because he can just feel it, the tension in the air, like a battlefield before the first shots are fired. The scream... he wishes he didn't know what it was, what it really was. He wishes he could think it was like any of the other screams, but there's something in his gut that tells him different.
He knows a signal when he hears it. And the creatures that pour out from the shadows confirm every fear he might have had.
And the thing is, the thing is that he knows he's a coward. He knows what he should do, what he'd do if he was back in his own world, the real world, the world he's been running away from his entire time here. He knows that there's a lantern on his hip and that the switch is his to flick. But he can't quite do it yet. He can't quite let go.
If anyone needs food or shelter, he has it, at least right now. ]
TÖTEN SIE! (around town)
[ Randel didn't want to do this.
Randel never wants to do this.
That's why he'd gone to the hospital. He'd hoped he had the right idea, but of course he hadn't. And he'd hoped he'd learn something useful, but all he'd gotten was more questions and greater fears. But while he was trying to make his way back to the shelter, the inevitable had happened: he'd been attacked.
And the lantern had been opened.
The creature hadn't expected the massive shears to slice through it's arm. It also hadn't expected to feel the barrel of a massive handgun against it's forehead.
Though it'd only felt it for a second before the trigger was pulled and it's brains were splattered across the pavement. The next one didn't come for him. He'd gone for it, his anger and his frustration, his heart and his soul screaming as the blood spattered against his face. He didn't know if it was his or the creatures; it didn't matter, ultimately, as long as the thing died.
It died. The next one died too. All of them would die, all of them, kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill Töten Sie Töten Sie Töten Sie TÖTEN SIE!TÖTEN SIE!TÖTEN SIE!
Was he bleeding? Probably. He might even be dying. But it doesn't matter, it would never matter. There was an enemy before him. There was something that needed killing. There was a battlefield, the only place he was useful, the only place he could do anything, where he knew how to function at all. And even broken as he was, this was at least something.
He would kill until there was nothing left to kill.
He would kill until something managed to kill him first.
So if you see a blood-covered monster with hollow eyes, a handgun as large as a sawed off, shears like something out of a nightmare? He won't save you. But he might just kill what's trying to kill you. ]
aftermath
[ You might assume from the massive wounds all over his body, cuts reopened, nasty gashes in more than a few places, a stab wound or two, a broken arm... well, you might assume that the giant man is crying because he's in pain.
And you'd be right. As long as you don't think it's the physical pain.
Because he's mourning the dead. He's mourning the monsters. He's mourning all of the blood on him, the blood in him, the blood in his nightmares, and all the new hands reaching out of his guilty conscious to try and drag him to hell. He's mourning the feeling of safety, a feeling that had been on it's last legs, but now... now it's gone. It's gone and he feels like he's a child again, listening to his father, begging him not to kill, never to kill, and that only makes it worse. Everything makes it worse. Why should he ever expect anything to ever get better? ]
Randel Oland ✄ Various Locations ✄ OPEN [minor tw for descriptions]
He knows a signal when he hears it. And the creatures that pour out from the shadows confirm every fear he might have had.
And the thing is, the thing is that he knows he's a coward. He knows what he should do, what he'd do if he was back in his own world, the real world, the world he's been running away from his entire time here. He knows that there's a lantern on his hip and that the switch is his to flick. But he can't quite do it yet. He can't quite let go.
If anyone needs food or shelter, he has it, at least right now. ]
Randel never wants to do this.
That's why he'd gone to the hospital. He'd hoped he had the right idea, but of course he hadn't. And he'd hoped he'd learn something useful, but all he'd gotten was more questions and greater fears. But while he was trying to make his way back to the shelter, the inevitable had happened: he'd been attacked.
And the lantern had been opened.
The creature hadn't expected the massive shears to slice through it's arm. It also hadn't expected to feel the barrel of a massive handgun against it's forehead.
Though it'd only felt it for a second before the trigger was pulled and it's brains were splattered across the pavement. The next one didn't come for him. He'd gone for it, his anger and his frustration, his heart and his soul screaming as the blood spattered against his face. He didn't know if it was his or the creatures; it didn't matter, ultimately, as long as the thing died.
It died. The next one died too. All of them would die, all of them, kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill Töten Sie Töten Sie Töten Sie TÖTEN SIE!TÖTEN SIE!TÖTEN SIE!
Was he bleeding? Probably. He might even be dying. But it doesn't matter, it would never matter. There was an enemy before him. There was something that needed killing. There was a battlefield, the only place he was useful, the only place he could do anything, where he knew how to function at all. And even broken as he was, this was at least something.
He would kill until there was nothing left to kill.
He would kill until something managed to kill him first.
So if you see a blood-covered monster with hollow eyes, a handgun as large as a sawed off, shears like something out of a nightmare? He won't save you. But he might just kill what's trying to kill you. ]
And you'd be right. As long as you don't think it's the physical pain.
Because he's mourning the dead. He's mourning the monsters. He's mourning all of the blood on him, the blood in him, the blood in his nightmares, and all the new hands reaching out of his guilty conscious to try and drag him to hell. He's mourning the feeling of safety, a feeling that had been on it's last legs, but now... now it's gone. It's gone and he feels like he's a child again, listening to his father, begging him not to kill, never to kill, and that only makes it worse. Everything makes it worse. Why should he ever expect anything to ever get better? ]