He could taste them, his final moments lingering on the tip of his tongue. And they tasted like bile and the metallic tang of iron and blood.

"I don't like this. I really don't like this…" he had said to himself, staring down the dimly lit stairwell. He'd have given anything not to have come down here, anything he could have since he'd had this bad feeling from the start. "…This place is really dangerous. I want to go back now."

This was reckless, and hadn't he been specifically told before this not to do anything reckless? But it was his job and he'd had no other choice but to advance downward. And then, on top of that, communication, his only link to the outside, was gone and his Dominator had been useless.

Despite how he carried himself, or how cocky he'd been over the communicator, he was terrified.

Now he was bleeding, limping, injured in his shoulder, arm, and leg. He was standing, another person's blood on his face. His expression holds more shock than he actually feels, staring into his own downfall. "Knowledge is power." they said, and it looked like he had too much.

This is not exactly how he would have pictured his death. He would have thought he'd die from a wound too serious to recover from, something long and slow, pain and suffering. Maybe even a bullet in his head as near impossible as it was. Though, neither the reality nor expectations were how he would have liked to have gone out. He would have actually preferred a peaceful death, possibly when he was dozing at his desk, going out quietly and blissfully unaware.

But the universe wasn't known for being fair, especially not in this 'perfect' society where people like him were labeled as criminals.

Their crime? Simply their state of mind, which, after what he'd seen, was a fairly questionable verdict.

He supposed, in retrospect, this was actually a most fitting demise for him. Realistic irony. The system itself taking his life, as if that had been it's plan for him from the very beginning.

All he can do is sigh and then smile, accepting his death, as that's the best he can do, the best he's always done. Wearing his mask to the very end.

He's hit, blue light flashing beautifully in front of his eyes and then he explodes. Crackling hot, burning pain shoots up his skin, through his body, tearing him apart molecule by molecule. The world blurs and it's almost like sensory overload.

And then it stops, and it's gone, he's gone.

"Oh give me a break… This bites."

If you can't tell, I am still grieving.