Iskander was introspective throughout most of the meet and greet. Seeing the others in the project he was a part of was almost surreal to him. This felt like deja vu. More child soldiers, another unwinnable war. He could have sworn that he was back in the Lemurian compound on Hyperborea , for how familiar this felt. He was a warrior, once again. Had he ever stopped being a warrior? The Hyperborean government had tried to force him to unlearn his training, but they couldn't undo what he had done. They couldn't take away the years spent training with sword and rifle. They couldn't take away the lives he took to dull him to killing. So, he supposed he was always a warrior. It was just now that he once again had a war.

He looked at his peers curiously. Offworlders, how strange they were, doing such odd things like kissing each other. Iskander had never kissed anyone; the path of a warrior left no time for that sort of thing. Iskander had only ever seen an Offworlder for the first time as a part of the Framewerk project, and now he was rubbing elbows with them constantly. Though he would be going to other worlds very often from here on out, he supposed. It excited him sometimes, traveling through the ether, sailing among the stars like Zurra, the Destroyer of Mu.

The others seemed to have some degree of training to a few of them, as far as Iskander could tell. Were they trained to fight the hordes of the Chaos Lord, as Iskander had done in recent months, or were they trained to kill men, like Iskander was at first? Iskander reminded himself to call the enemy "Cruxi," as the Hyperboreans had told him, even though his elders had identified them as the forces of Angsaar. Though the more Iskander learned about life outside of Hyperborea, the more he felt like his elders had been right. They had divined his fate to be that of a warrior. The Hyperborean therapists had told him he could be whatever he wanted. And here he was, still a warrior.

Iskander stayed to the side, still deep in thought, as he stared at the others complacently. An idle habit, his fingers wound their way through his long, silver braid, and his emerald eyes glimmered like distant nebulae.