Standing in the comm room is a soldier. Not the kind previously faced; he's much more horrifying. He faces away from Ellie, out the window to the flooded clearing, mysteriously devoid of ducks. Maybe those ducks were the drugs. Aside from that irrelevant thought, this horrifying shell of a soldier is shaking and twitching. The man's torn military jacket is covered in bullet holes and scratches, both oozing pus and caked with dried, oxidized blood. Below, where his ragged pants fail to cover his skin, a thick steel frame comes up to cover exposed, sun-bleached bone and putrefying muscles. Wires extend around the metal legs, allowing him to stand. His jittery hands, holding a knife coated in blood, ichor, and various other substances, is augmented with sharp steel claws to replace missing fingers. Charred up to the wrists, with wires into the skin, they jerk around as if shanking a mob of opponents. Several spikes and spines fashioned from his own bone extend outwards from his shoulders, ripping up the fabric. He looks up at the ceiling, and then turns to Ellie, his nonexistant eyes barely covered by his long, black hair. With a mouth stitched into and eternal smile he tries to express the agony all these modification cause to him but fails. He speaks with a raspy, low-pitched voice.
"You're on my property."
"What? Who the fuck are you, and why do you think that the ship we shot down ourselves is suddenly yours?"
"Because I am King Thomas, and you shot down one of my ships."