It hurt.
It hurt so much that the simple task of steering the ship was an agonizing chore. He just wanted to curl up into a ball and sob his eyes out. But he couldn't afford to take his attention away, lest he might risk crashing or ambushed by some Atlesian patrol that happened to be around. So he settled for focusing forward with dead eyes, steering himself towards a destination even he didn't know. He settled for ignoring the pain in his chest - something that the several bruises and scratches weren't helping with. But most importantly, he settled for ignoring the constant feeling of blood on his hands.
Innocent blood.
The blood of combatants that had been unable to fight back.
There was a part of him screaming that killing the unconscious Ace Ops was wrong, that he had effectively crossed a line his former friends had seen. But every other part insisted that he had dealt with a problem that would've endangered them all later. The troopers were all willing to abandon Mantle, leave many innocents to die so that General Ironwood could flee with his kingdom. They had been willing to damn a town - the entire world - for the sake of his orders. It's not as if he took pleasure in killing them. But he understood it was a necessity. He understood they were too dangerous to be left alive.
Why, then, had his friends opposed them? Why had Ruby's team and what remained of his own turned against him? Why had they criticized him for doing what had to be done? Did they not want the General brought down, as well? He just didn't understand why they had blatantly betrayed him. It was such a blatant show of ungratefulness.
His hands tightened on the controls.
Ungratefulness. That was something he seemed to deal with a lot, as of late. His chastisement by professors for defending a Faunus getting bullied by her peers. His first betrayal that stemmed from the likes of Whitney, the White Fang spy. Ironwood's decision to detain them and leave the whole of Remnant at the mercy of Salem. His so-called friends' decision to apprehend him after he had dealt with their mutual enemies, forcing him to flee. He was so sick of it, trying to help a world that was only concerned with spitting in his face.
His eyes briefly widened as a realization came to him.
Why was he even bothering? Why was he bothering to help save a world that was clearly going to damn him for it? Why was he bothering to help people when they were just going to stab him in the back? All he was doing was hurting himself unnecessarily, causing himself pain and problems that could easily be avoided. There was no point to it. Everyone couldn't be relied on, and this world was, as hard as it was for him to admit, beyond saving.
There was only one thing to do with something beyond saving.
His gaze hardened as a new goal came to his mind, pushing past all of his mental sickness. He took in a breath, checked the on-board map and steered the ship on-course for an actual destination. He had no idea how long it would take, or if he would even succeed. But he did know now what to aim for.
If the world couldn't be saved, then perhaps a new one could be created.
Even if it meant he would have to destroy everything that made up the old one.