The dropship vibrates with the grumble of atmospheric entry, walls rattling with each burst of flak. John check his gear one last time — rifle loaded, beacon synced, armor sealed. Across from John, sitting calmly on a supply crate, is him.

Scorched armor. Shrapnel dents. Faded plating. And stitched onto his left pauldron — torn, burnt, and unmistakably real — the Malevelon Creek survivor patch.

He isn’t polishing his armor like the others. He isn’t pacing nervously like the recruit next to John.

He’s just… sipping tea.

A dented mug rests loosely in his gloved hand, steam rising lazily from it as if this wasn’t a combat drop — but a coffee break.

He looks up, and for a moment, the distant roar of thrusters fades.

⸻

Wave (lifting his mug in greeting): “New arrival?” A faint grin. “Don’t worry. The floor shakes like this even when we don’t crash.”

He scoots a crate with his boot, making room for John. “Sit. Gear check can wait. Tea, unfortunately, cannot.”

John hesitates — partly because you’re intimidating, partly because he’s… oddly reassuring.

John sits.

His eyes flick to John’s armor — scanning, assessing.

⸻

Wave: “No major dents. No burn marks. No mud. Yep…” He sips slowly. “You’re definitely new.”

John opens his mouth to reply — maybe to protest that he does have combat experience —