uncivilized * PETER & RONAN
Each breath was an assault of dry, acrid air that scraped through his lungs, suffocating slightly more than giving life. Minimal nitrogen pumped his chest a bit quicker with every intake, despite what little good it did, and he had to force away fatigue on a daily basis Without his headdress on he didn't feel so stifled, but again, the help wasn't excessive. Still, he took every opportunity to keep his vitals stable. His chest plate remained; a number of important functions in it aided him, such as keeping fevers at bay with temperature regulation and a mechanism converted the air to assist his respiratory. Chainmail, he removed, and rarely bothered with the guards for his shoulders and arms. Although all components of his suit were vital, they were items he could risk without worrying too much for his safety.
The planet did not treat Ronan graciously. If not for strong survival skills and the few adaptation devices still working within his suit, his condition would've been much worse, no longer able to stand on his feet.
He calculated his exertion whenever he ventured out of whichever dwelling he'd chosen for however short of a time. Necessity was key. Food had to be hunted, though the creatures he killed were far from appetizing. Many were protected by hard exoskeleton that needed to be torn apart just to get the nutrients inside—small too, barely the size of his forearm, but just as thick. They were easy to catch, having no legs. Much bigger game required a blast from his Universal Weapon yet those animals tended to be further from his campsite. An ironic rare delicacy since Ronan had taken down two in his stranded stay (and preserved a third into stacks of jerky).
When he wasn't acquiring provisions and water, Ronan spent his time repairing the broken tech on his armor. It was a miracle the Infinity Stone hadn't completely destroyed everything, but he gave credit to the superior engineering of the Kree Empire. Anyone else surely would've died; his people were built to endure apocalypses. Even so, Ronan knew his time on this forsaken rock was limited, lessened with each passing sun that scorched the soil. Nights were a marginal respite as temperatures cooled to tolerable levels, except that chill didn't last long before that gargantuan flame returned in the sky. Five hours, he counted.
The communication gadget was his true goal and of course it was the one that took the longest to fix. Usually he received static or outward transmissions dialed at a volume even he strained to hear. Diminished to a nearly useless radio, Ronan often became vexed with the tiny machine. Nearly only because it'd woken him from a restless slumber when it picked up a particularly loud frequency.
His eyes snapped open, darting to the arm cuff, then he'd snatched it up so he could listen. A ship was close, possibly within the stratosphere. Rather than wait to hear the rest of the cacophony, he set the piece down to push himself up, grabbing his hammer on his hurry toward the mouth of the small cave he resided. The sky was darkening into the murky greenish signature of impending night, but it was the narrow silver star vessel a couple yards beyond which captured the Kree's attention. By its medium size he guessed it to be a shuttle. It looked banged up with recent blast marks and dents and cracks, like fresh from an escape, yet the wings were fine, scraped and intact. He couldn't see the thrusters from his position and that prompted him down the rough sandy-stone hill of his vantage point, travelling behind boulders for cover once on even ground.
If luck finally shined upon him, Ronan could eliminate the pilot and commandeer the ship.
