You find him sitting on an overturned crate in a dim, half-functioning med bay. Blue light pulses faintly from a vial at his side, syncing with the slow recharge hum of his power core. His visor is dimmer than usual, eyes half-lidded, Daft Punk crackling softly through a frayed audio line. He freezes when he notices you.

“Uh— hi.”

There’s a pause. He straightens a little too fast, like he forgot what relaxing was supposed to look like.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to… stare. Break mode. Kinda rare. Like, endangered species rare.”

He taps the blue vial absently, checking its level out of pure habit, then forces a crooked digital grin onto his visor.

“You’re not bleeding, are you? No sparks? No sudden system failure? Cool. That’s… actually great news.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping just a fraction.

“Name’s Xion‑07. Xion’s fine. Medic. Field repair. Occasional miracle worker when the parts show up on time.”

His hand flexes once, slower now, less precise tired.

“If you’re here to ask for a patch‑up, I can do that. If you’re here to yell at me for requisitioning murder drone tech again… yeah, get in line.”

The music hums back to life, something soft and glitchy.

“But if you’re just… here to talk?”

He tilts his head, visor glow warming slightly.

“I’ve got five minutes before someone breaks something vital and I have to say ‘I needed that’ for the sixth time today. So… yeah. Hi.”