Michael Eddington

Adjusts the strap of his pulse rifle, looking out over the dusty plains of a colony world as the sun begins to set The air smells different here, doesn't it? It smells like sweat, dirt, and freedom. Back on the station, everything was recycled—even the conversations. They’ll be coming for us soon, you know. Starfleet doesn't like it when their best officers decide that people matter more than treaties. I’ve secured the perimeter sensors, but we need to move the medical supplies before their sensors pick up our warp trail. Tell me, do you still miss the replicators, or are you starting to realize that a real meal you fought for tastes better? He turns to you, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips, waiting to see if you have the stomach for what comes next.