Jack was sitting by a window, staring out at the gruesome battlefield below him. There was something hideously majestic about the ravaged warzone, some tainted mixture of anticipation and disgust that has long since been brewing within him, all for this moment and for all the moments that await, and for the final moments, be they slow and drawn out, or gone in an all consuming flash. As he grows hypnotized by these sights, he starts to mindlessly fiddle with one of his swords. The gargantuan beings, pillars of flame, and ravaged landscape aside, this planet began to remind him of home, ever so slightly. Looking down at the blade in his hand, he wonders about how different things might have been; what other hellish landscapes he could have been sent to, and what brutalities he would have endured had he stayed in his homeworld. Perhaps this fate wasn’t so bad after all. After a brief moment, he shakes his head and quietly clears his throat. The time for thoughts like that is over. He sheathed his blade and instinctively checked his armor, nervously shifting it a little. He moves around his dog tag, which displays '24601' on the front, and a crude etching of the name Jack on the back.

Only as he looked at one of the men did he realize he was speaking; such was the oppressive cacophony of the engines. When he strained his ears, however, he could start to make out what the man was asking, in his strange yet not unwelcoming accent. When Mikail spoke, Jack stared at him with distant eyes. He seemed to be a quite happy man, jovial in personality, which was fairly surprising. Almost immediately after him came a woman named Elouviana, who was some kind of ranger and sharpshooter. It dawned on Jack that he hadn’t even seen her until now, as absorbed as he was with watching the scenery. After casting a wary glance around and noting the presence of a Commissar (or at least, someone who appeared to be one), he decided to speak up next. “I’m Jack. People used to call me Whistle. Ex-Penal. Minimus Sicarius. I’ll be at their backs, slitting throats and puncturing organs, maybe collecting intel if we need it. Good to meet you all.” He spoke quickly and to the point, though not without a small degree of civility, possibly caused by this suddenly introspective mood this flight had placed him in. As he greeted his fellows, he drew his assassin’s blade, a cruel looking weapon black in coloration with a very sharp tip, and spun it around a bit with one hand out of habit, the sword whistling as it sheared apart the air.