"Blast it, Witch!"

Hadn't he just muttered something about being burnt enough? The directed flames bit and snapped at him like dogs, his fragile flesh crawled beneath his warming metal exoskeleton. The smoke stung his already agitated eyes and only worsened his eye sight. He struggled to draw upon his angered demeanor but the irritation and renewed hatred in De'Ville and her games burned itself across his concentration. Grime could tell that he wasn't helping his own situation, his emotions only heating the atmosphere more.

Hawkins couldn't stop it either. He was losing control of himself and a sensation of panic was rising from the pit of his stomach. His eyes struggled to open amidst the smoke and the stinging light of the fires and his desperation unleashed an adrenaline rush his frail body was fraught with to handle. Grime's mind devised a multitude of visions of what his corpse might look like after all this and the images didn't help in the least. He tried to do anything, something, before his angle of vision changed drastically; Grime was somehow closer to the ground; a moment passed before he realized he was on his knees. His head felt like it was spinning within itself, his throat constricting.

=======

"Ey 'dere, boss. 'Member meh? Ya cut mine eyes out and made me swallah 'em thrah some broke teth, yah? I be knowin' ya can 'ear me in 'dere, boss. An' I was wishin' yah'd bein' able to watch this, yah? As I sit 'ere and be meltin' yah bloodin' skin off, yah?"

The welding torch flashed to life. No, CENSORED couldn't see by this point, or much else, but he could feel the slicing pain as the torch was held near his back and then something slick slid off his body in a heat that almost seemed cold as the nerve endings died and a piece of sizzling skin hit the floor beneath him.

=======

Not that again, not ever. Never. Grime slowly stood, the pain running like a current through the iron grip of his resolve. His willpower to live, a remark that backstabbing doctor had made, was beyond realistic bounds. And he could feel it, the confidence that his will to wreak vengeance was deeper and more his foundation of existence than anything else. His hatred and lust for revenge molded the pain into a tasteful sensation that wrapped about him, enveloped him that it might be his to give to the galaxy. The fire twisted in his mind, symbolic of the pain, and it twisted with it, pushing away from him as his mind staved off the pain in a similar fashion but yet kept it as close as a few inches from him. In moments, his armor was quite cool as if he were pushing all the heat away from him and he took a moment to marvel at it as the fire dissapated without anymore of his concentration to feed it. His sneer lifted in response to De'Ville as soon as his eyes reached hers.

"Rot Witch, I might've died."

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"...eyes so green..."