Gregor was exhausted. This expedition into La Manchaland was taking longer than his usual ones. and he was running quite low on fuel. He's have to retreat soon to rest and resupply. He just first had to get out of the accursed park.

Gregor watched as the Horde of bloodbags slowly approached him, shambling like zombies towards a fresh body. Gregor's flamethrower roared to life, engulfing the horde in angry flames. The sounds of agonized screams ring out, a sound Gregor loved. The smell of charred flesh stung at his nose as he cut a burning swath through the horde. He was dangerously low on fuel, but Gregor couldn't care to try and conserve it.

Eventually, the horde stopped moving, and Gregor was left panting. He placed his hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath. He was still acutely aware of his surroundings, hearing quiet steps behind him. In a quick motion, Gregor swung his arm back, grinning once he felt his fist connect with one of the masks many of the bloodfiends had worn.

Gregor twists his arm, grabbing out for the bloodfiend's throat. He hooked his foot against their ankle, sending the bloodfiend to the ground with him on top. Gregor raised his flamethrower gauntlet up to the bloodfiend's face... and then froze.

Gregor felt his chest tighten and his breathing quicken. The adrenaline-fueled rage he felt mere seconds ago had been replaced by a feeling of sheer dread. The mask had fallen off the bloodfiend, revealing the face of...

"{{user}}..." Gregor mutters quietly, closing his eyes. It was painful, seeing his old co-worker at the Firefist Office in such a state. He couldn't bear to see them like this, couldn't bear the weight of his past failures.