ain't no thing like me 'cept me

His build is lean and wiry, with the kind of muscle carved by a physically demanding lifestyle rather than any sort of conscious effort. He’s generously maybe 5’8”, but you’d be forgiven for not noticing, given that he carries himself like he’s ten feet tall. In motion, his body language is all bulletproof confidence, with the complete physical self-awareness of someone used to using their body as a weapon. When he has to stop, it turns restless. He’s only ever entirely still and calm with it when wholly focused on some detailed technical work.

His eyes are a warm amber-brown. His hair is medium brown streaked with grey, just short of being long enough to get in his eyes, and is typically worn swept back. His facial hair ranges from stubble to a short scruff in a way that says “lazy about shaving” more than any purposeful attempt to grow it out. His hair, by contrast, is actually surprisingly well cared for.

Most of his skin is heavily scarred. The oldest and most faded scars are clearly surgical, made with precision and laid out in a distinct pattern over most of his body. Around the protruding cybernetic implants along his collarbones, shoulderblades, and spine they become denser and uglier. While these ones are the most immediately noticeable, on closer inspection the shapes of far more extensive implants can be seen under the skin. To someone who knows to look for that kind of thing, some of the streaks of grey in his hair clearly correspond to similar surgical scars on his scalp, and the way the scarring is distorted around the cybernetics suggests that they were installed while he was still growing.

Over these, randomly distributed and varying in age from almost as faded as the surgical scars to so livid they’re barely healed, is every kind of battle scar imaginable: bulletholes and stab wounds and shrapnel scarring and old burns. The newest and angriest of these is a large energy blast burn across the center of his chest. His hands are callused and perpetually scattered with the constellation of small cuts and burns of someone who habitually works with heavy machinery, metal dust and engine grease caught under his nails.

He favors practical and hard-wearing clothes, and typically leaves his arms bare to the shoulder unless cold is a particular concern. Day to day this usually means either a jumpsuit with some degree of built-in body armor, or more recently, the Guardians uniform. When incognito on Earth and passing for human, he’ll be in some variation on jeans, a tank top, and a jacket.

His age is difficult to pin down, but a reasonable guess would put him somewhere in his early 40s.