Pain - no, agony - engulfs him, strangling him with a fear he has never known. He can think of nothing else but the agonizing torture of his plates and flesh boiling beneath his armor. If he had the mind to notice, he'd recognize the howling in his ears isn't coming from the failing machines all around, but his own mouth.
Screaming, he tries to push himself to his hands and feels pieces of his armor fall off as it sinks back into the burning pitch overflowing from the machines. Too weak to hold himself up, he falls back into it, only for an all new agony to overtake him as it feels like the inferno steals into his veins and sears his insides as it surges into his mouth.
Hands claw at the thick inferno surrounding him and his hands grab something solid and familiar, his weapon. It must have fallen from his back in the fall, which is surprising given that the knife still wedged between his armor plates still remains deeply embedded. It's his only lifeboat in this sea of fire that shames even Palaven and its sun.
One more attempt to get up results in a good portion of his plates sloughing off in a stomach churning flood of blue. The pain is draining him and he can begin to see darkness closing in on the corners of what remains on his vision, but he keeps moving, using his collapsed rifle as a crutch to gain a weak footing with his trembling legs.
The scent of burning flesh, plates, and the polymer of his armor are thick in the air, suffocating him as if a thick sludge clogs his lungs. He stumbles over an over, keening with terror and pain. Just a few more steps. His one eye distorts the distance, making it seem like kilometers before he will be free of this unimaginable agony.
'Die for the Cause', he was taught, but what is he to do with the 'Cause' turns on him, stabs him in the back, and sends him to what can only be the place humans call 'hell'? He knows the humans don't know a damn how inaccurate such a word is for the torment of flames licking over his hide and the intense pain of his body sloughing off piece by charred piece or the shattering of his sanity it causes.
Even though he has some bare threads of hope not yet burned to ash, he doesn't think he can endure this much longer.
He is far too gone to try and dislodge the sludge of his burning throat threatening to choke him with coughs, but he tries to get breath in despite the pain. Shallow breaths or not, it is just one more thing to focus on before he loses all grasp of reality and succumbs.
Just as he thinks giving up his futile attempt at escape and letting the raging fire take him, the door materializes through the smoke. He whines in hope as he pushes himself forward with his rifle and crashes into the door. He screams in the agony that shoots up his spine like electricity, but knows he has no choice but the one he fears.
Stepping back to see the thick smear of blood and pulpy flesh with his uninjured eye, he clenches the one mandible he still feels and steps back to himself. With a single keen of dread, he rams his shoulder against the door and hears an ear shattering wail burst from his clogged throat, but the door doesn't budge.
His weak gasps grow panicked as his darts his slowly failing eyes around what little he can see of the factory floor through the smoke. There is nothing to help him, no way of getting out. He's going to die here and he will never find a way to get his revenge.
His body jerks with choking sobs as he lifts his charred and damaged sniper rifle to his chest, hugging it as his only companion in death. Talons wedge themselves in the grooves of the individual pieces of the weapon as he cling to the only thing that used to protect him from danger, lamenting that it can't do the same now.
Maybe it can. He scratches over the hot metal to get a different hold on the advanced weapon in his hands, banging it against the door in attempt to use it as a club. The move leeches more of his dwindling energy and he hears the wet splash of more of his flesh hit the concrete ground as he frantically slams his only hope against the unbudging doors. He has no idea how many times he rams the butt of his rifle against the solid wall of his damnation. Close to collapsing to just give himself over to the roaring flames, he hears a loud clang as the locking mechanism of the door falls onto his feet.
Using his own weight as the force needed to throw open the doors, he stumbles a step before collapsing on the rough concrete of the outdoor packing and shipping area. He sucks in air without a care for the gritty dirt that scrapes his raw throat through his open mouth. His exhales are thick with blood and suspicious chunks of dark blue that slides down his tongue into a messy puddle beneath him.
Not wanting to suffocate on his own blood and insides, he tries his hardest to get up with trembling arms. He fails the first three times before finally being able to roll on his side, aware enough to know he will choke if he lays on his unburnt back.
Keening in fear, he scrambles for his rifle, his only companion, and pulls it to his chest. As painful and seemingly detached as they feel, he manages to wrap his arms around his damaged weapon. He hugs it desperately as he struggles to breathe and fight the agony of the sun and air on his charred and wounds left in place after the heat flayed his hide and plates from his body. He doesn't let go of the sniper rifle in his hands even when unconsciousness finally overtakes him as the last thought that he has is of revenge.
Ares sits on the top of his cab parked in a small alcove beneath Chora's Den and above the next level of shady Lower Wards shops. It's just small enough for the skycar and himself and out of the way enough to not attract attention. It's a perfect place to just sit and watch the stream of skycars speed by.
Forearms on his drawn up knees, he pulls himself from the memory the flickering flame of his lighter brought back and stares at the dancing source of heat and light. He hates the damn thing, despising its strength and power and the little he can do to fight it. Even now he can feel his hand trembling only slightly at the imagined feeling of its hungry fangs licking at him.
Flipping the heavy lighter given to him long ago closed, he pockets it before opening his Tool to begin reading the data he finally got his hands on. Known has his longest ongoing hunt, he smirks in satisfaction when the screen lights up with information on his prey, Darius Cameric.