He was among them. Roland found that brave old fucker, picked him up by the skull and used him as a flail until the bones of his face came loose in Roland’s hands. He deployed the razor in his wrist and started slicing off hands and ears. He moved on to slashing tendons and muscles and, eventually, just hacked at his enemies like a drunken butcher. One boy dropped his gun, tried to back away and fell on his ass as Roland stalked toward him–

–the protesters screamed and screamed. They swung sticks and tried to bash him with their shields and he knocked their clumsy strikes aside and waded into the mass. Roland didn’t even consider drawing a gun. He tore. Every fistful of human flesh sent a wash of orgiastic glee bubbling through his brain. A young woman screamed and tried to run. He grabbed her hair and pulled, and the sound of her neck snapping almost made him shriek with joy–

“Please–” said a different man, before Roland shattered his skull against the pavement and leapt up to chase down a trio of fleeing Martyrs.

–he was back in Incirlik, bloody and injured and almost snow blind from the battle drugs. Roland shoved his way through the door and into the air raid shelter. He’d already pulled a grenade free from his harness when he found himself face-to-face with a room of women and children, old men and young boys; civilians. Unarmed.

And, with sudden shock, Roland realized he didn’t care about that last part. His synapses screamed for more. Roland obliged them.

“My God stop, STOP!”

He came back to himself and realized he was on the ground and locked into a pretty darn good half nelson. It took him a moment to realize that woman, Kishori, was the one holding him.

“Oh,” he said.

“What the FUCK, man?”

Roland looked around. None of the Martyrs near him were still standing. It was hard, even for his hindbrain, to identify how many people had fallen around him. He guessed south of a hundred, but not far south. The number was shocking, it implied a longer blackout than any others. What was scarier was the sheer violence evident in these men’s death. Most of them were in more than two pieces.

“Are you gonna flip out if I let go?”

Roland shook his head, and Kishori released him. He turned around, still seated, and looked at the young woman. She was filthy with grime and blood, some of it her own. Her skinless face wept red but, even so, he could still see the judgement in her eyes.

“That was not fucking necessary,” she said.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Roland!”

It was Skullfucker Mike. Topaz trailed behind him at a sizable distance, sweeping the field with a rifle. Roland tried to catch his eye. Topaz avoided Roland’s gaze for a second or two but then they connected and–