This is definitely an opinion based question, asking about what an individual might do. However, there's some value in answering it none the less. There is a more general question of what do people do when the face death.
What to do if you find yourself stuck in a crack in the ground underneath a giant boulder you can't move, with no hope of rescue. Consider how lucky you are that life has been good to you so far. Alternatively, if life hasn't been good to you so far, which given your current circumstances seems more likely, consider how lucky you are that it won't be troubling you much longer.
-Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
What a person does at the moment of their death is incredibly personal. There's no way to generalize what a person will do. However, we can get away with putting all of those personal actions into buckets, and make sense of the buckets. I'm a big fan of Eastern thinking myself, so the first buckets I think of on such a topic are yin and yang. These words are incredibly hard to define using English... or Chinese for that matter. They are sort of their own entity and call for analyses all their own. However, for our purposes, we can pick one facet of them: yin is inward and yang is outward. Yin forces tend to stabilize the energy within, while yang forces cause changes outward.
Yin is associated with inhaling and yang is associated with exhaling. This is interesting because it suggests a different time of death than Western thinking tends to be. In the West, we tend to associate death with the final exhaling. We view the final exhale as symbolic of letting life go. In the East, the opposite is used. One is considered dead at the point where one can no longer exhale, can no longer engage in yang centered activities.
This matters for such characters because there's a distinct difference in flavor between one who breaths out their last changes, and then has an opportunity to inhale, gathering one's self ready for death and one whose final act is to let go of everything they held on to. You have to decide which sort of death your character wants. Is their final act inward or outward. Do they choose to spend their final moments collecting themselves, proud to be who they are, or do they spend those moments outward, calling upon those around them to change, or perhaps even forcing them to. No way is more right than the other, but its a rather important choice for a character.
Then, of course, there's the third option: apathy. Not everyone's final instincts are heroic. Death is not a heroic thing. It's a cold, and it's broken Hallelujah. I've heard many renditions of it, but I think Tad Williams captures the third side of death better than I ever could, and it's definitely one of the more disturbing sections I've read:
You want to snarl, but you don't. For now, looking into the pale blue eyes of this man, you realize in a way you haven't yet that you are really going to die. No one is going to jump from behind the sofa and tell you it was just a joke. It's not a netflick either-- no group of hired mercenaries is going to blow down the prison doors and set you free. In a moment the doctor is going to push that button and that bottle of clear liquid -- they would be clear liquids, wouldn't they, colorless, just like this square-jawed, flat-eyed white man they've sent to read you your death warrant -- that bottle is going to start to bleed into the main line. And then you're going to die.
You try to speak, but you can't. The cold has you shivering. Jankel pulls the think hospital blanket up to your chest, careful not to disturb the transparent tube fanged into your arm like a long glass snake. You nod instead. By God, you're not stupid. You understand the laws and how they work. If it hadn't been one, it would have been another. They make those laws to keep people like you away from what people like them have. So you nod, trying to say what your try tongue and constricted throat cannot: I know why you want me dead. I don't need any more explanation than that.
The man in the gray suit smiles, a tight curved line, as though he recognizes the look in your eyes. He nods to the doctor, just once, and then tucks his folder under his arm and heads for the door, disappearing out of your sight beyond the curving line of Janekl's blue trousers.
You have just met the Angel of Death. He was a stranger. He is always a stranger.
-Tad Williams, Otherland