As far as Scott could tell, the wastelander was just weighing her options. Fair enough, he supposed; not many people had ever been hand-delivered a Hellfire Trooper to do with as they pleased. He watched her eyes, or at least did his best to focus on them. She looked from his blood chit, to him, to his armor, back to his blood chit, and eventually back to him. Scott swallowed hard, the stale air parching his throat. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. He wasn't about to play the pity card; he doubted any wastelanders had any sympathy for the Enclave, despite all the good they were doing for them in the long run. He honestly wouldn't give a squirt of piss for his own life at that moment.

Even so, the girl sighed and waved Scott to stand up. His sigh of relief came so hard and fast that it turned into a cough in the dusty air. He stood up slowly, his armor creaking and whirring. It didn't seem to sustain too much damage, as he felt limber enough still in it. His helmet probably bit the majority of the impact. As he came to his full standing height, easily towering over the girl, given the height added by his armor, he felt his blood rush to his head. He strained himself to stay conscious, holding out his arms to keep his balance. He shook his head a couple of times to keep things fresh upstairs, and eventually settled on his feet.

The girl mentioned something about keeping his helmet. Scott took a glance at it, and didn't like what he saw. The ceramite was cracked right at the crown of the skull, the optics were shattered, and the rebreather was FUBAR. Not to mention that the girl had probably screwed up the life support systems when she had pried it off of his unconscious head. "Yeah, sure, keep it." Scott muttered. "No good to me."

He searched for the rest of his equipment that may have been scattered around. His sidearm was still at his hip, thankfully, and his heavy incinerator was only a few feet from where he landed. He picked up the massive flamethrower and inspected the fuel tank and tubing for damage. Only superficial harm had come to it, fortunately. He was almost thankful that he had landed on his head; if he had landed on the fuel tank, he would be exactly as toasty as his callsign. His power armor's hydraulics hissed as he hefted the fuel tank onto his back, and felt the familiar weight of the incinerator in his hands. Scott switched on the pilot light and gave the flamethrower an experimental discharge. A puff of flame was expelled from its nozzle without issue, and this satisfied the soldier. If the girl had a problem with him carrying around his weapon, she would have to get over it fast; forcing him to go around unarmed would just endanger them both.

The girl introduced herself, and again Scott flinched at the muzzle of her rifle barely two feet from his face. Polite girl, he mused, must have had a good upbringing. "Uhh. Scott." He said, momentarily forgetting his name as he stared down the barrel of her gun. "Sergeant Darrell Scott."

Continuing to look around, he found nothing else out of place. None of his grenades had discharged, and none of his stimpaks had stabbed into his internal organs. All in all, he was pretty lucky to be... alive. Scott's thoughts flashed back to the vertibird, and his head snapped to look at the flaming wreck in the next building over.

"I have to check on the 'bird." He said, leaving no room for permission or objections as he made his way down the nearest staircase, making his way to street level.