Mikail had been slumped against the wall, casually dozing away the alcohol-induced sleep he had been stuck with. It was not his own doing, something to do with a certain comrade spiking his drink to ease his nerves, or perhaps as a joke. He was becked in the rightful uniform of the Valhallans and had an M,36 Lasgun casually slung over his shoulder, the hand guard adorned with the famous red star of the Valhallan regiments. He awoke with ponderous speed, his senses finally coming back to him in the hazy and dimly lit interior of the aircraft. Upon his face was not a shocked or even worried look, but rather a subtle grin. 

Panning his view about those around him, he gave a short chuckle and lightly shook his head. “Should've known that Petrov would get me into this, old bastard.” He spoke with a joyous tone, devoid of any sorts of anger nor sorrow. All was simply a calming easiness to it, a jokers tone that filled the interior with its bass tone and rolling consonants. He lightly tapped at his gun before proclaiming in a most thrilled tone to the Praetorian that had spoke prior. “Friends, I am Mikail! If at all I am surprised you have not heard? I am from Valhalla regiments, very good medic indeed.” He seemed to delight in having any sort of company to chatter with.

“But, maybe fame will be recognised by others. Is not of concern! All that matters is that we are here, to kill the heretics that blight this place.”