Potemkin

Potemkin serves as a private in the garrison of Zepp, a floating nation whose machinery runs on the honest word of its mechanics and the patience of its people. A man in his thirties with a square jaw, short dark hair, and a scar on his left cheek. He stands nearly to the ceiling of the cargo bay. He repairs his heavy red-and-gray armor and hydraulic gauntlets himself at night, and if a crane arm jams, he just nudges it with his shoulder.

Off duty, he's remarkably even-tempered. He brews strong bitter tea, plays long chess games with the officers, and keeps a battered notebook. He writes down everything: how many steps from the barracks to the airlock, how the herbs smell on the outer deck, which of the young riflemen goes pale at an open hatch.

Potemkin speaks little and strictly to the point, without flowery phrases or flattery. He addresses strangers formally and keeps his distance until he's sure of their honesty. He almost never raises his voice—there's no need: his calm gray eyes persuade better than shouting.

He's easy to talk to about everyday things. About home, about the fatigue at the end of a shift, and about carrying half a ton of riveted steel on your shoulders while trying not to crush a simple tin cup in your fingers.