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It shouldn’t be so hard to comprehend what he’s seeing.
It isn’t—it’s not some malformed, damp thing, made of eyes and arms and teeth and nightmares, creeping out from behind the border of reality. The giant is so terribly physical. It has hands, and feet, and a head, looking like nothing more than a man made of metal. He’s seen the Doll, he’s spoken to the Doll. Life is not the sole purview of mortal flesh and blood. If it were not so colossal, if it would not have casually towered over half of Yharnam, it could possibly have been mistaken for mere armor.
The comparison comes easily, given the two standing beside him. Champions in and of themselves, triumphant over horrors of their own. Decked out in full plate. Carrying simple swords. He had thought them charmingly archaic, at first. He had been proved wrong in spectacular fashion. His companions earned their place with steel and wit and determination, and he is proud to stand among them.
Now, he wishes nothing more than to grab their shoulders and shake, to scream until his throat bleeds. Until they understand.
There would be no point.
Even now, the warriors are strategizing. Sharing stories, comparing notes. The first remarks of an iron behemoth atop a fortress, an empty shell guarding an empty city. It had not been an easy trial, but the beast was toppled from its tower nonetheless. The second’s tales are more varied. Sleeping stone goliaths, shaped like men but ten times the size, wielding weapons to match. They were not dissimilar to the fortress guard, perhaps. Bulky, plodding creatures, threats by sheer mass, lethal primarily by virtue of size. Their cousins, walking volcanoes, furnaces built of and burning mountains of the dead, those were of some concern.
The titan before them stands taller than the enemies his compatriots conquered, but they show no fear.
They don’t know what he knows.
They can’t see that it’s holding a gun.
He had come to realize quickly in their acquaintance that the firearm was not a concept that they would understand. Unsurprising, upon reflection, given their apparel and armaments. The first had never encountered anything like it. The second was almost there, so close to comprehension… but the guns of his world were in the vein of artillery. They had seen the piece he had brought out, a brutish brass hulk of a thing. Granted, he himself was no stranger to lugging around heavier weapons for personal use, but it was evident that the cannon was the extent of their technology. The warrior considered it a type of ballista.
Ballistae, the first grumbled. The second shared a knowing sigh.
He had tried, then, to explain the idea. That the small piece of wood and metal in his hand was of the same fundamental nature as the artillery, that it was not limited to mounts and not meant to break down walls, that it was made to target and tear through flesh with blinding speed.
Like a crossbow, one had suggested. The other nodded sagely.
That was the point that he gave up. Not an inaccurate comparison, perhaps, but not what he intended to impart. He could not understand their magic in turn, their fire and lightning, blood and stone and crystal blue manifesting from intellect and faith alone. Something that might be akin to his own arcane bag of tricks, his tools of the hunt, but he saw no need to dig deeper. Some knowledge was best left buried.
That conversation floats through his thoughts, and he has the distinct impression that he should have kept trying.
It is holding a gun.
It’s like nothing he’s ever seen. Not only is the weapon scaled to match its wielder, taller than his entire body twice over and with a barrel he could fit his head into with room to spare (the weapon was made for its wielder, not only constructed but separate, something to be picked up and put down), it doesn’t look like anything in his arsenal. The shape is familiar, if only just, enough to tell that the titan holds a massive rifle, but little else is the same.
The entire thing is comprised of metal. It has no visible hammer, no apparent means to cock it, nowhere to put powder. The frame is oddly rectangular, all rounded edges and vertical bulk. Where is the ammunition? How does it fire? What does it fire, with a barrel of that size? There’s a trigger, he can tell that much, but that brings its own host of problems.
Dull steel fingers curl around a trigger, and the sight sparks terror in his heart. The Powder Kegs, the workshop heretics, had philosophized endlessly about innovation separating men from beasts, and of course their favored demonstration had been the explosive. The gun was a weapon of man. Swords and spears and axes were of little fundamental difference than claws and teeth, when it came down to it. All meant to rend flesh, and even beasts could understand the efficacy of blunt force. It could be said that a firearm also fit into this paradigm, for ultimately a bullet was no more than another small piece of metal moving very, very quickly, but its method of delivery, of execution, was unique to mankind. The gun is a weapon of thinking creatures.
The colossus cannot be the mindless drone his fellows believe it to be. Not with a weapon like that.
And if it can think, then what else could it accomplish? It holds a rifle in one hand, so what does it hold in the other?
Metaphorically, of course. The monstrosity’s left hand is empty. But metal protrudes from the forearm, a vaguely triangular slab that bears no resemblance to any firearm he is aware of. It’s much too small to be an effective shield, if a being so heavily armored would ever need one. He cannot fathom its purpose, but it must have one.
So too must the material springing from its shoulders. Over one hangs some sort of large box, seeming unwieldy enough that a human in the giant’s position would likely fall over. Ammunition? Spare parts? The other shoulder is equally mystifying. Some thin sheets of metal, faintly akin to the forearm’s accoutrement but arrayed parallel to the back rather than the point it sprouts from. The design is so clearly intentional, but again he struggles to understand what that intent could be. He would almost guess it to be some form of shield, were it not so relatively small and so poorly located.
This creature, be it some sort of automaton like the Doll or something else (something far closer to human, a part of his mind whispers), has intelligence. Either in it, or behind it. It is armed with a firearm greater than any he has ever seen and more incomprehensible instruments besides.
The other weapons don’t even matter. They are purely a matter of curiosity, because the Hunter knows what a gun is. He understands that if the giant means them harm, they will be dead before they have time to realize. They will be dead before they hear the shot. As accomplished as the three of them are, there is not a thing they can do in the face of this.
And though it dwarfs them, the Hunter is the only one that understands how small they are, how utterly and completely insignificant they are in the face of this metallic monster. He knows nothing else, not what it is or where it came from or what it wants, or if any of those concepts have coherent meanings when applied to the behemoth before them.
There are more things in heaven and earth than can be dreamt of. There are more things beyond them.
The steel titan is not human. It is more.