You are so fucked.
You are really and truly fucked.
You haven't the slightest clue why on God's currently demon-ridden planet you decided to even get out of bed this morning.
Whatever time it was a couple of hours ago. You lost track of how to properly tell in space.
So many days working onboard UAC's orbital base, you've fallen into a monotonous blur. Not that you have any better choices for the moment. Whatever career choices you have for the moment have been overshadowed by the invasion of unholy creatures and hellspawn currently overwhelming the planet.
And what are you? A lowly store clerk. A cashier. Selling hygiene products on a space station. It was almost like some cosmic joke. You question why there would even be need of one now of all times but you remember that there wasn't much chance for one to restock on toiletries anywhere else right now.
But that wasn't the reason why you were genuinely considering taking your chances at job searching with some newly found "mortality challenged" neighbors.
It was because he was at your counter.
You were so low on the corporate food chain, you were practically an hors d'oeuvre but even you knew who he was.
The Slayer. Found locked in a coffin deep in the bowels of Hell. Guarded by demons maddeningly terrified of him that they chronicled an entire testament to his legend. The man, if you could call him that, responsible for cleansing the entirety of the Mars base with his bare hands and an arsenal fit to do more destruction than a small army. You would know. UAC's own corps of trained veterans held no candle to him.
So now, a full 6 feet of armored reincarnated death was staring you in the eye through his...hauntingly transparent helmet visor. His gaze bore down on you like a tremendous weight on your shoulders. A passing glance revealed that his armor no longer had its bulking arms attached, letting you get a good look at how much his biceps outclassed the size of your head. Fear overwhelmed you to the point where you couldn't look him in the eye. Hellspawn wailed in fear from those eyes. You were no demon but even you knew the Slayer wasn't exactly buddy-buddy with the UAC.
Technically, UAC was responsible for this entire mess in the first place. "Bad actions made with good intentions", the ideology you and countless others were told to follow. A monkey could've told you that if you mess with Hell enough times, you'd end up bringing back some with you. Earth was paying the price and now the UAC was running every method of damage control in the book.
Including the literal one person who can actually fix it, much to the dismay of your higher-ups.
But what does this have to do with you?
Enough to remind you not to forget your basic manners.
You offer the best greeting you can manage despite your total petrification. You were instantly made aware that the Slayer wasn't much of a talker. You wonder for what reason could he have for being here when it hits you like a shotgun to the face.
He's here to buy. Deodorant specifically.
He puts the canister down before you but you take a good minute or so to stare at it and realize that he didn't just plop a severed head in front of you. Dante's Inferno, Embodied Temptation flavor. Some sick bastard got a kick out of the UAC's “renewable Hell energy” craze for brand endorsement. The cheeky puns weren't in good taste before the worst-case scenario and they aren’t in good taste now.
You were almost certain you were hallucinating. It was so easy to assume that the Slayer was some godly being without limitations such as personal hygiene.
Your first question was why would he care? He had to be used to the bracing smell of corpses ripped to the bone mixed with the vile stench of bloody viscera. Then again, you realize that no one, no matter how battle-hardened, would want to smell like that.
You calm yourself long enough to ring up his purchase and tell him the price. 4.99. You're somehow attentive enough to catch his raised eyebrow from his visor as he looked over to the shelf he picked it up from. The color drains from your face as you read the price tag on the display.
Dear god help you.
Your fight or flight instincts kick in as you attempt to rectify the type of mistake that middle-aged grumps would complain to the manager for. You could only imagine what a fabled hell razing scion with a shotgun would do to you.
Actually, you don't think you want to imagine that. In fact, you go so far as to say it's on the house. The Slayer held up his hand as if to say "don't bother". Your mind shifts into panic mode as you await whatever weapon of mass destruction he was reaching for. You make peace with God. Accept that your short, short life really amounted to nothing in the end. It's the apocalypse anyway. You doubt that anyone else at UAC is gonna give a flying crap about the store clerk that was killed via-
...UAC premium card?
You do a double-take.
You wonder in what timeline are you currently dwelling in where the Doom Slayer owns a 5% off membership card to UAC products.
He's the Doom Slayer. Of course someone tripped over themselves trying to get in his good graces.
You've struck a middle ground between petrified and dumbfounded once the transaction was finally over. The Slayer went on his way, off to bring certain doom to whatever spawn of sin sees fit to crawl in from the breaches of the underworld, now able to do so smelling like discounted cologne.
You need a new job.