A Funeral

A dark and fragrant smoke rises into the glimmering night sky over Akko Xal.

Damp and quiet, in the wake of a sweeping storm, the graveyard of ships and pods rests dormant. Fragments of rain-slick metal dot the horizon and jut from the ground for miles around. Ditches and ravines torn through the ground by the impact of space debris have fully grown over as rain water collects in them, supporting small ecosystems of insects and amphibious creatures. Waiting, in the plains further out, is the dreadnought whose baleful red optics have dimmed with time to a faint glow visible only at night.

Beneath the trees south of the main dreadnought's impact lies a single, unassuming pod, over which a gnarled and flourishing tree has grown. You sit in its canopy, atop a branch and leaning back against the trunk. You have arranged plain candles in a circle around the pod, and have slipped sticks of burning incense into nooks and crannies in the pod. You have adorned the tree with blue silken ribbons that billow in the cold breeze of the forest. Beside the pod stands a suit of armor, hanging open and awaiting the return of its operator.

This is where you were born—metaphorically, of course.

It was a few years ago now. You don't remember waking up here well, and your memories of what occurred leading up to it are even more sparse, but the details are laid out in a dossier you are currently perusing. The Collective put it together for you, as part of the care you were given upon your discovery; it describes a vibrant and aggressive go-getter, a quick-witted soldier with a penchant for danger and adventure.

You don't recognize that person. They aren't you, not anymore.

Such a description is comical, almost, to you. You don't recognize that person in the least when you look in the mirror—they were assertive, you are meek; they were a soldier, you are a pacifist; they craved danger, and you want only to be safe; hell, their legs worked, and yours don't. You sigh, unsure if you miss that person or not, and dismiss the hard-light plate, turning your gaze to the entrenched pod below.

Maybe it's for the best. Maybe that's just not who you were supposed to be, maybe it's just not the plan the universe had for you. Not everyone gets a chance to experience complete renewal, in a different time and a different place. It's why you can't help but exalt this tragic site—were it not for this event, you would not be who you are today. You are still deciding whether or not to be positive about that, though. Getting back on your feet has been difficult, both metaphorically and quite literally.

You call your suit over, and it reaches up to gently pluck you out of the canopy, holding you in its top set of arms in a fireman's carry. It steps over and, at your direction, casts a small golden flower at the base of the pod, then uses a brush clutched in the other hand to leave a single blue tally mark in its hull. One.