The strain nearly killed him. Nearly, but not quite. It hurt like hell: every cell in his body screamed for mercy, begged to be returned. When he escaped the vortex he was blinded by light and driven halfway insane.
His legs collapsed the instant they hit the ground, like jelly dropped from an airplane. As he wretched violently in the ground, he battled with pain to regain control. He forced his gaze up. He could make out hazy shapes, vague shadows. He had to force himself upright, start shooting, but he couldn't. He couldn't even pull the trigger.
The bile stopped. He lay on the ground, mustering strength.