[ Maybe he has something of a death (and death and death) wish, so allowing the monster gas and its effects to fill his head and work its way through the rest of him feels so easy. Almost effortless. He is standing on a pinprick's edge, wanting someone to just fling a fist his way so he can lean into it and get that boundless grief out. His exile has felt too quiet, too internal, and he hasn't been back to work in all those months.
And now he's here in this unfamiliar city without an outlet, equipped only with his poor decision-making skills and the inability to do anything but take it out on the world around him. It's all very cliche but it's easier to give in than it is to fight it. ]
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And now he's here in this unfamiliar city without an outlet, equipped only with his poor decision-making skills and the inability to do anything but take it out on the world around him. It's all very cliche but it's easier to give in than it is to fight it. ]
Then it seems we are at an impasse, mon ami.