It is fists, you think, that tell the tale. Here you sit, in the oxide-stained haze, on a worthless dead ball of rock and sleeping metal, and consider the scar-matted tissue that approximates where knuckles should be. Loose, it is a pulpy ridge of keloid scarring and crosshatched etches in the flesh. Clenched, and it becomes the mallet-edge of flesh and bone. A fist, that you clothe in things you never made and alloys alien, to make it that much harder with strength stolen.
A fist, with which you hammer back against a universe that does not care. These dead balls of ash and dust and forgotten memories that spin and turn and have no future: they do not care about you. The sun that shines above, tiny and bright, that casts light on bastard children it feels nothing for: it does not care. The relics you heave from the dirt: the mysteries of ages past that you do not bother to unravel, only to see if they can kill, or be killed; they do not care either. Nothing cares.
Sometimes, you wonder if you care.
And it is fists that bring the answer.
We are not made to be uncaring.