Having just barely managed to fully awaken the Brass Eye before the Black Swordsman disappeared into the treeline, Strolvath discerned a short snippet from the train of thought that the man was constantly broadcasting.

It wasn’t even an internal monologue. Just raw emotion interspersed with fragmentary snippets of words that began as abruptly as they began. 

“Hurt… Arm gone… Failed… Dishonored… Mother punish...” 

The chitin-plated titan forced his way into the trees, a strange red-colored protuberance pulsing in the gap between the collar of his chest-plate and the back of his neck. In the final moment before the Black Swordsman vanished out of sight entirely, he froze solid and his broadcasted thoughts shifted with a momentary flash of lucidity.

“What’s happening?” thought the giant man, his head whipping around as quickly as his ponderous frame and armor allowed. He reached up to the back of his head, a deep, muffled rumbling emanating from his direction. “Everything itches. What is that thing? I don’t…” 

The red-coloured part of his anatomy pulsed, visibly inflating before it deflated again. Strolvath watched it happen in the span of a few seconds, saw the Black Swordsman’s thoughts return to a child-like haze as he let his arm down and finally vanished into the treeline, his passage marked by the shaking crowns of trees.

He let go of his focus, and alongside it let go of any consideration for the Black Swordsman. With a swift thought, extracted information and possible emotional hazards were compartmentalized in neat little boxes, alongside all the other horrible truths of war that Strolvath dealt with on a daily basis.

Whether it came from within or without, the Black-armored titan was mentally damaged. It was possible that the bright-red organ had something to do with it, or it was something entirely unrelated to his mental condition - it didn’t matter. There was no reason to be concerned for one of the targets of their extermination assignment.

The Counter-propagandist sighed, reached into his bag, and popped open another bottle of Vitamax. It would be needed for the precarious task of reaching the barrier-dome without stepping in locust guts.

With the flames of battle and side-effects of Fog-breathing subsiding, Zel’s senses were assaulted by the all-encompassing stench that hovered over the battlefield. Locust guts and gunsmoke. 

“Smells like victory,” she chuckled, suppressing the tears in her eyes and bile in her throat as she holstered her cleaver and walked towards the barrier-dome, hoping and praying that it would keep the smell out. The Inquisitor was already inside, leaning against one of the shack’s stilts and polishing her sword. A small tilt of her head and a brief, knowing glare hit Zel’s ego harder than any of the strikes she took in the fighting.

It didn’t even feel like the Inquisitor saw past her outward presence, but rather was convinced in some ulterior motive, some darkness lurking under the surface. It only made sense, if she truly was what her title suggested.

Zelsys still didn’t like that stare, brief as it was. 

The barrier’s first layer was like pins and needles washing over her, whilst the second was a faint, warm buzz. It served to remind her of the annoying sting of her scratches and of the muscle pain that suffused her entire being, though she supposed it was a preferable alternative for getting crushed to pulp. To her relief, her hope for the barrier was justified - the air within the bubble was free from the stench of locustkind, even if the smell of gunsmoke permeated it to a noticeable degree.

Zel sat down in the grass, taking a deep breath and a big gulp of Liquid Vigor to soothe her pain. The cycloptic gunwoman was next to enter the dome, briefly shuddering once she did so before approaching Zel and sitting down in the grass next to her. Immediately, she pulled a small wooden box from her bag and manipulated a part of Pentacle’s frame to pop the cylinder out of its housing for cleaning. Strol just about neared the barrier after he stared off after the retreating giant, only for a rustling to rise in the treeline. 

To all their surprise, Twitcher stumbled out, resembling some surrealist art piece - so badly melted and burned his chitin was. The sac of his right arm was burst open whilst the left one weakly pulsed, the nozzle stuck open and perpetually burning with the strength of a blowtorch. His face twisted into a grin at the sight of Strolvath approaching the dome, the locust’s deranged mind inferring from the crippled soldier’s gait the fact that he was faster than Strolvath. 

Twitcher knew he could get to Strol before either the scarred man reached the dome, or anyone inside the dome could intercept. 

Strolvath knew more than well that he couldn’t reach the dome before that freakish thing got to him and either tried to burn his face off or just bludgeoned him to death. Maimed as it was, he saw the strength hiding under that thin veneer of chitinous plating. All of the damage it had suffered was of its own making, its own raging power turned against it by a couple well-placed shots.

It leaned forward, breaking into a sprint towards him, allowing its right arm to flap powerlessly behind it. Strolvath was faced with a choice, and readying himself for the pain it would cause, he took it.

He dropped to the ground, pulling a knife from his left boot. Turning and flipping up its pommel revealed the mouth of a small flask, hidden in the handle. It held no elixir, no essentia, but still it held the ignition key to his greatest strength - whiskey. 

A tiny sip, and he managed to close shut the mechanism just in time. Just as the creature set upon him, holding out its blowtorch arm, he felt fire spreading through his body and his beard beginning to smolder, yet not burning.

A tiny sip indeed, and a proportionally tiny reaction, by the metric of what he’d just done. Without time to make the necessary preparations, it would be a few scant seconds of this blazing strength, paid for in ravenous hunger and scorching pain for hours to come.