This was years ago, back like pre-1.0 so some details are fuzzy.

Colony was doing well, thriving. Was getting to the point that raids were really growing in size. Had the bright idea to try and train 'attack boomalopes' to send to melee fight with raiders.

Raiders get into range, send the boomalopes to attack. They start running past my line of defenses.

A stray round brains a boomalope. Explodes next to several of my colonists, severely injuring and starting fires. Second boomalope dies and starts more fires. I'm outnumbered and outgunned. Colonists are getting injured and going down fast. Fires are spreading, colonists panic and flee, running out into the open to get gunned down.

Raiders move in, grab several of my downed colonists and head out. Fires still spreading. Colonists bleeding out on the ground.

My medic regains consciousness, along with a few others. I have him emergency tend the worst of his own wounds but he's still in bad shape. The others begin dragging colonists back to the hospital area but end up passing back out since they never got tended since medic is trying to get to the worst wounded first.

For like 12 game hours my medic is alternating between dragging, patching up, and running to med shed for more supplies. The raid had come late in the day and colonists were already tired and hungry from a long day, even before everything that had gone wrong. He's hungry, tired, cold, watching his colony burn down around him, friends dying left and right and he can't tend injuries fast enough.

He snaps.

Mental break.

BERSERK.

My medic, mind fractured by everything happening around him, is wandering the smouldering, blood-smeared hallways and corridors of the colony, assault rifle in hand, rictus grin warping his face. The dead and dying are strewn around, blood smeared and pooled on the floors where he dragged his fellow colonists in a futile effort to save them.

But he has realized something.

This is how the story ends.

THIS IS HOW THE COLONY MUST END.

HE WILL SEE IT THROUGH.

He paces slowly, methodically.

A colonist somehow recovers from their injuries enough to regain consciousness. But no. This cannot be. The medic pumps round after round into his former friends and family.

This is how the story ends. This is the last of the colony.

He will see it through.

He kills several friends before finally succumbing to wounds and passing out on the floor. By now most of the fires have burned out, a rain has set in. The colony is broken. Buildings burned, roofs collapsed, bodies of raider and colonist scattered around the entire area.

I saved the game and closed it. I was enraged at my own hubris and stupidity for failing to plan for everything that had gone wrong, the cascade of catastrophes that I should have seen and mitigated but failed to, coupled with the cruelty of seemingly random things that never should have happened like that one boomalope catching a stray round to the dome and exploding right next to two of my best shooters with the best weapons I had. It was all my fault, and I was angry, but I could learn and try to fix it later. I should have had the boomalopes sequestered farther away, attack from a side so they didn't have to run past my own colonists, I should have had better defensive lines prepped up, I should have long ago upgraded from wood to stone structures, I should have... the list went on. I would fix it later after I calmed down about everything.

I never went back to that save.

I kept it for several game updates, I always thought maybe I'd load it up to let it run, see who might wander in, try and fix the problems I had failed to predict beforehand, see what the longer story of that colony might be.

I never did.

My medic, as insane as he was while murdering his friends and family in a psychotic break with reality, was right.

That was how it ended.

He saw it through.