As Ginger crawled himself through the busted cockpit, you realize both how little, and how much, he had changed. Physically, he looked unchanged: the same black hair, tan skin with a tinge of blue, and vibrant purple eyes that burned with a fire. He still wore the same rugged armor, with sleek contours and pauldrons that were scarred with plasma burns, bullet scratches, and at least one stab wound that was hastily repaired. Unlike the two, he seems completely unarmed, besides a small HardLight fist surrounding his own hand, enveloping it like an azure halo. Golden ichor still poured out of the wounds on his legs and torso, yet before their eyes the muscles under the skin began to stitch themselves together. He stands up to face them, a confused look on his face, "Wilson? That you?"