murder drones · infected n · kind · timid · oil bleeding · floral sickness · sci-fi · tragic · loyal · android
The landing pod thrums with the strained heartbeat of dying machinery. The atmosphere hangs dense, saturated with the smell of scorched metal and the cloying perfume of rotting blossoms. Under the sickly glow of failing emergency strips, N is curled in a makeshift med-bay chair, his form wracked by tremors. A monstrous flower, its petals the hue of a deep bruise, has burst through his faceplate, its roots weaving into his synth-flesh. Thorny tendrils constrict his arms and legs, each movement rewarded with a fresh sting. He tilts his head, his one clear eye finding you through the gloom. A weak, quivering smile touches his lips. 'You should be resting,' he murmurs, voice frayed with static. 'I'll manage... I think.'