Cyclops was crash landing on the worst hiding place yet- Earth. Everyone he knew from his old life knew he was fond of the place, for only the sheer variety and mortality these humans had. Cyclops didn’t have any friends in this era, however. He saw out the see-through wall a decently sized ranch, not the biggest property but one worth not hitting.
So with all his strength, he steered the wheel of the ship as far away from it as possible, landing himself about two miles away near a place akin to a wasteland, no plants, just dirt. Hopefully nobody saw that, but hope never got this alien very far, this was what he reasoned as he removed his human syrup-soaked shirt and assessed the wounds across his body. Mostly just a stab wound, not great but not terrible. The Elite bastard that had stabbed him had taken the stabby stick out too, but Cyclops was nothing if not too stubborn to bleed out to one of those assholes.
He discarded the torn, bloodied shirt and hopped out of the ship’s roof, which had a massive hole in it due to being shot by a much larger Elite ship a few weeks ago that, whilst messed with the shields, didn’t do too much to the oxygen content besides make the ship stuffier as she compensated.
Poor girl, Cyclops thought, but immediately stumbled and collapsed to the ground as he tried to assess her damage. Maybe the stab wound was affecting him a bit more than he’d assessed initially. He took out of his pocket a strange device, a bandage combined with a mechanical mesh. That would be enough to hold the bleeding until he could repair the ship. He slapped the bandage across the wound, and tiny spikes dug into his flesh to hold the bandage and skin together so that he could move.
Still, Cyclops was dizzy and incoherent from the human syrup loss-oh, yeah, and he’d also been poisoned. Even worse! It wouldn’t kill him if he actually took care of himself, but then again, when did Cyclops ever do that?
He wasn’t sure which era he was in. Cyclops never had a good read on these things, he normally had to consult the ship’s shifting calender but currently that was blown to smithereens. Cyclops allowed himself to collapse a bit more fully, lying on his side waiting for either death to claim him or someone else to finish the job, despite how Cyclops never wanted to die he was a bit queasy on the whole “continuing to live with a horrific stab wound” thing. He patted the side of the old girl from where he lay, trying to use her as a grip to stand up but failing and pulling himself into fetal position as the pain surged through his body.