Zxrmp Crystallis wanted to build a starship, but the storm was cracking him apart. He crouched on the open plain of Sklar, his four arms hugging his own body. His crystalline skin caught the wind like glass caught by a hammer. A thin fracture crept up one leg. He watched it with all four eyes and understood the truth. He could not build anything if he shattered first. He had come here for the crystal. All across the plain lay sharp fragments, scattered and bright. They caught the gray light and threw back blue and pink fire. This was hull material. Enough of it, shaped right, could carry him past this planet and into the stars. But raw crystal meant nothing if the builder broke. Wind drove grit against his chest. Another crack opened, small but loud inside him. Zxrmp pressed a hand over it. He needed shelter first. Not later. Now. He dug through his pack with two hands while the other two shielded his eyes. His fingers found a metal device, cool and heavy, with a glowing core inside a clear shell. He had traded three days of gathering for it. He had never dared to use it. He pressed the switch. The core spun. A dome of pale light bloomed around him. The wind hit it and slid away. Grit bounced off and fell. For the first time in hours, Zxrmp stood without pain. He breathed and heard no new cracks. Inside the light, his fractured leg glowed steady. But the device hummed hot in his grip. The core dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again. He read the meaning at once. The shield would not last. It bought him minutes, not days. He could not build a starship inside a dying bubble. So he worked fast. He gathered the sharpest crystal shards and drove their bases into the soft ground in a wide ring. He raised two arms and pushed the largest fragments together at the top. The crystal met crystal and held. He wedged more shards into the gaps, spike against spike, until a rough shell rose over him like a shape grown from the dirt. The force field flickered one last time and died. Zxrmp braced for the wind. It struck the crystal shell instead of his body. Wind whistled through small gaps, but the walls held. He crouched inside the faceted dome and felt only cool air, no grit, no cracking. He had a home now. He ran a hand along the inner wall and studied his work. The same crystal that could form a hull now formed a roof. He understood the plain differently now. It was not a threat. It was a quarry. But one problem remained clear. His leg was still fractured, and no shelter could mend a broken crystal. To build a ship, he first had to heal himself.