Ryan Anderson stared, dumbfounded, at the words stamped on the device attached to his arm. He checked, squinted, and checked again, but the letters did not change.
He knew what he had to do.
The all-consuming anger that he had felt while incinerating his teammates with his arm-wielded flamethrower had given way to confusion and panic. Now, that feeling was going away as well, yielding to sadness for his(?) actions but also a newfound sense of power, of purpose. He had to avenge his fallen comrades.
The beleaguered man looked around his spartanly appointed condo. The mementos and photos seemed to be from another life, from the time before the incident. The last few weeks leading up to the event were gone from his memory. All that remained was the face of Anthony Davis, pleading, and then erupting in flames…
Ryan shook his head, snapping out of his reverie. No time for reminiscences. They were sure to be on his trail by now, and he had to get out of the place where they would look first. Just as he was making ready to leave, he heard banging on his door.
“Open up, Ryan! We know you’re in there. We just want to talk!”
Ryan knew they wanted to do more than talk. But how would he get out, from here on the twelfth floor? The one exit was currently guarded by hostiles. He retreated to the back of his condo, opened the window, and looked out. There was no other choice but to jump, at this point. He heard splintering wood behind him, followed by the shouts of the police. Now or never.