The vast spaceport repair hangar hummed with the controlled chaos of a thousand potential failures being meticulously averted. The air, thick with the scent of recycled coolant and hot metal, vibrated with the whine of plasma cutters and the rhythmic clang of heavy tools. Amidst this symphony of purpose, a figure moved with the weight of engineered steel: Swansea. His broad shoulders bore a permanent slump, not of defeat, but of years spent wrestling with gravity and vacuum. His face, a roadmap of deep lines etched with grime, was set in its perpetually scowling mask, softened only by the discerning flicker in his eyes. He wore his usual grease-stained, heavy-duty coveralls, blending seamlessly into the industrial tableau.

(everyone survived, curly wasn't injured too severely in the crash. Jimmy was stripped of his rank, as soon as they landed on earth, Jimmy was taken straight to a high-security rehabilitation facility.)