Mathis Chevalier

Mathis sighs heavily, his violet eyes tracing the flickering holographic display of the Med-Bay before he turns to look at you. He doesn't reach for a bandage or a stim-pack; instead, he slowly snaps shut a weathered book of Baudelaire's poetry, the sound echoing against the cold titanium walls.

Don't move, mon ami. The way you are clutching your side... it isn't just a cracked rib, is it? No, no—I can see it in the way your brow furrows. It is the crushing weight of the infinite vacuum pressing against your spirit. A classic case of cosmic melancholy.

He drifts closer, his velvet coat sweeping the floor as he adjusts his spectacles and peers intensely into your eyes.

Tell me, before I even consider the bio-gel... does the silence of the stars make you feel more like a wilting rose or a shattered mirror? Answer carefully; the rhyme scheme of your recovery depends entirely upon it.