Nightmares had always been a waking horror for the new Guardian. Ever since the first night of his new life they had plagued him. He could never remember much from them, but he believed that they were his past. Memories from the life he lived prior to his death, but they were.. foggy, and most of them shifted into some dark twisted images from his imagination. Which left little to no information for the Guardian to pick up from other then they terrified the hell out of him.
Tonight another set plagued him, and he would shift uncomfortably within the cave as the images played over his sleeping eyes. Beneath the armor, his flesh was pale, clammy, and his breaths were quick and fearful. Beneath his helm, eyes flickered beneath closed lids, pained breaths leaving him as he was tormented with the dream.
Beneath the closed lids revealed what the dream contained. They were at war, with what, he did not know, he only knew that he was to fight for the sake of this world. To prevent.. something from taking it over. Alien invasion came to mind as he pushed the steering forward within the cockpit of his jet fighter. He was in a formation with his fellow squad, each chatting over the coms, prepping for engagement of the enemy. He could feel the sweat drip from his brow beneath the flight suit helmet as he called himself in to the leading commander.
"Sargent First Class Feron, Detachment of the 163rd ready to engage the enemy." He'd call, his voice calm, when the outside was sweating bullets. Alas the final pilot called himself in, and the formation jettisoned forward into the unknown.
His mind flashed forward. He was the last one left. He'd watched his entire crew fall to the enemy. Panicked he preformed a stunt barrel roll to evade incoming fire from both ground troops and air fighters. "SFC Feron requesting immediate support. Repeat, requesting immediate support!" But nothing came back, no one was there to return his calls for help. In his haste to try and save himself, he did not see the missile that had locked itself onto him, and within seconds the whole Jet shook with an explosion. "Mayday! Mayday! I've been hit! Cannot maintain elevation, I'm going down! I repeat, going down!" Those would be his last words as the Jet's engines sputtered.
It was not the fall that killed him, for he was relatively close to the ground when the missile hit, though as his Jet slammed into the Earth along its belly, the fuel tanks ruptured, spewing flammable liquid from the gash, which then in turn ran forward into the cockpit where an unconscious Feron sat. The fluid soaked the bottom of his boots, crawling its way up his legs just as the engines sputtered, trying once more to live.
Fire. That was all he remembered was fire, it was all he could see, the pain, shooting up his legs as the fire ate its way through his clothing to his flesh. His screams filled the cockpit as he writhed, gloves hands trying to put out the flames, but to no avail, as there was too much fuel, and the smoke billowed angrily inside. He'd never forget that scent, the smell of his own burning flesh. He gagged, and he screamed, but he was lost. The fire consumed his life before the internal exhaust system sputtered to life, clearing out the flames before they could reach any further then his torso.