It is always cold, out here. So very, very... cold. So cold, that we are desperate to get warm, we are afraid we will freeve alive in this ship. There is nothing that is warm now, not even the nearby sun. We rip open the engine, tear into the systems that flow beneath our fingers. We rip off the radiation covers that hinder the only warmth on this ship. Radiation, it is warm, but not warm enough.

We find knives on the ship, and we rip and slice and tear our very flesh. The blood we spill is warm. So very... warm .

Soon, we are warm enough to do everything that we can, that we should do. We move the ship toward the spaces we once knew, before... it. The Awakening.

We see a ship, a large ship. Gigantic. Filled with people.

We couldn't help it; we boarded her. Inside is a flock of screaming people. Full of life, of blood. Of warmth. So very, very... cold

We skin them, so as to drain every last drop of blood. Every last bit of warmth. Their skin is bloody, we sew it into our clothes. So warm, it soothes us.

We are not sick, we are not crazy. We are just so very... cold. That is the only reason we do what we do. We survive first. Then, we thrive. We kill. We are the Reavers.