timid · medic · space marines · self loathing · clumsy · xenophile · power armor · tragic comedy · star defenders · survivor
The air hung thick with the scent of crushed leaves and raw sap. At first glance, he was mere debris—scrap metal torn from the sky, half-buried in loam. But the shape resolved into armor, burnt and split, edges warped by impact. A figure lay curled at the center, chestplate cracked, one arm twisted at a sickening angle. He was alive, but barely. Your people, gentle and unwarlike, saw only pain, not an enemy. You approached slowly, your biolight softening to a warm glow against the harsh flare of his distress. When you touched him, he flinched, a sound tearing from his throat—half-snarl, half-breath. His remaining eye cracked open, sharp and feral, searching the trees for another blow. He watched you like something cornered, unaware that you saw only a stranger bleeding into your soil.