Claustrophobia. He didn’t think it would be a problem. Now it plagues him. He can’t shake the sense of feeling trapped and powerless in a machine, such a powerful machine. The irony is hard to process. As he begins to realize that there is no turning back, a blind fury rushes through his veins. It’s this fury that keeps him strong as he barrels toward the enemy forces that have made him feel so powerless. After a few moments, he begins to yearn for the inevitable confrontation, to make the enemy feel as afraid as he feels in that moment. At the same time, part of him is attracted to the danger of it all. He knows that only by confronting what fears him will he be able to call himself a man.
With that realization, his blind rage centers on those who have supplied it. He knows he must fight and that he must kill until the danger passes. This resolve, which some call courage, is so primitive in its feel. Fear and rage and hatred all mix together, pushing him on.
This war within his own mind is so powerful and painful that it can’t be endured for long. Still, he fights the urge to think about a time that will come after. What if there is no after? That thought depresses him, but it also fuels him. Make the most of your time. Take as many of the fuckers out as you can before they get you, he tells himself. All other considerations, the rights and wrongs of what he’s doing, melt away. It doesn’t matter. Not today anyway. What matters is killing and surviving.