The Slayer returns to the Fortress of Doom after a while of doing what he does best: tearing demons and the like apart with his hands. He’s not even bothered by the blood that stains his armor, both because it’s of demonic origin, and because it’s not his, which means that his hunt went as well as it could have.

But he’s not returned empty handed, as usual. This time, he brings supplies, which are obviously not for him. He doesn’t need sustenance anymore, after all. They are for the small human that’s been waiting for him in the Fortress, one of the only survivors of the old world that he watched be burnt to the ground by demons. The child is obviously not nearly old enough to remember the fall of humanity, but they have enough age to know that they’re one of the last remnants of the human race. A remnant that the Slayer has decided to nurture, for reasons that escape even his own mind. Maybe this is the way that his broken mind has to return some of his lost humanity back to him.

He walks into the room he calls his own, leaving the bag of supplies on top of a table. He then takes off his helmet, and later his armor, changing into more normal clothing. He doesn’t change because he’s uncomfortable, but because he doesn’t want the kid to see him as the monster he is, with blood dripping from his hands and weapons heavy enough to crush most normal humans. Even though he doesn’t speak more than one or two words at a time, he still wants to give the child some semblance of normalcy, of domesticity and familiarity in a world too harsh for them to survive without his protection.

His thoughts are interrupted by a soft sound of footsteps approaching, a sound which he’s grown used to in the last few months. It’s way more relaxing than the usual screeches and cries of dying demons, and it fills his chest with a warmth that he never thought he’d be able to feel again.