A/N: I was kind of shocked to find practically no fanworks for Jack Blank, since the series is so awesome. I had to remedy that somehow, but all I could think of was 'what was it like for Revile, being stuck in that engine?' So have a little drabble, I suppose. At least it's something. Spoilers for end of book one, and book three.

It was loud.

It was always loud.

The grinding gears, the roaring fire, the metal clinking against itself, melting and reforming, over and over and over.

It was everything, for the longest time.

He swore he still heard him, sometimes.

"Oh, that was a good try, Jack."

"You might as well give up."

"Ah, those were your friends, weren't they?"

"Just a few humans left."

"How many lives did you just end, for us? Thousands, at least."

That gleeful arrogance, the prince so smug. It had taken years to get angry enough, fight enough, to beat him at his own game. But he was red, so red, so much blood staining his life, his mind, he just...

There was nothing but fire now.

He wondered if Jack had killed himself yet. He doubted it. He'd cease to exist then, after all.

Melting. Reforming. Melting. Reforming. Metal against metal, oil and tubes and wire, body nothing but an illusion, a mirage before it sank into nothing again.

Over.

Over.

Over.

Beginning and end, there was nothing. Eventually, his brain just shut off. He'd tried to do that, before, but Khalix had always kept him awake. A puppet in his own mind, feeling only the ghost of sensation as he destroyed, murdered, ended. Just enough to know it was him, it was only him, even if someone else was aiming the weapon he was the one forced to pull the trigger.

There was nothing but fire and heat, but he could never die.

If only he hadn't been so stubborn. If only he'd listened. If only he'd, if only he'd. A thousand regrets, a million losses, a billion deaths. Each effortless, each accompanied by that smug chuckle, echoing in the depths of his mind.

He regenerated every two minutes. 525,948 times. Over and over, an eternity, nothing but thoughts and regrets.

Until... the heat disappeared. He suddenly was cold, his personal hell gone and reality seeming freezing in comparison. Slowly, as if unsure it was real, his body crept back together. He couldn't see, two years staring at nothing but fire blinding him, before his optics kicked back in. Carefully, he rotated his helmet, as if reorienting himself, before his eyes widened behind his mask and his head snapped to the side.

He saw himself, standing calmly, surrounded by his puppeteer's comrades and he found himself in a hell much, much worse then the one he'd been trapped in so long.