[center][h3]LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN [color=ff4136]"COMMIE"[/color][/h3][/center]
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The helmet came off, and a sweat-slicked mop of gold was pushed away from the eyes above tightly controlled, ginger breaths. Already, the ground teams were carting away the new Coalition-sourced toy that he'd had the Shrike set down before opening up, but there were a number of glances being cast up his way that he got the distinct feeling meant he wouldn't be so easily let in on the fun of tearing things apart. They were on a full plate already with some of his squadmates having gotten smacked up pretty good down below— his habits both on and off the ground wouldn't be winning him many favors this time.

He set the polymer dome face down in his seat, and rose with a groan below the breath. Once he'd settled down on the egress from Gelcastre, most of his ideas on the technical front had faded on their own anyway— he felt like seven shades of shit had been beat out of him. Like some poor sap who'd asked Damon Flores to give them the unvarnished offensive line experience at a Vikings meet and greet or some shit. Shoulder checked right in the ribs by some 380 pound behemoth as somebody that was sized normally enough to fit in the cockpit of a sleek black variable MAS— yeah, that felt pretty accurate.

Nevertheless, practiced ease took over as he grabbed the disembark cable and rode the line down its shortened descent. On-site medical wasn't terribly far, and he had his tricks to smooth-talk his way out of a benching if they didn't like what they saw. Going by feel? He could manage if he got some meds and rack time in. Given that Sab was already choosing to rile up Hex even though she'd been summarily grounded...

He allowed a small shrug. One that didn't ache too bad, which was another good sign.

The odds were roughly fifty-fifty. Worst case scenario was he'd owe Vulture for double dipping into his case of Rip-Its to push right through their ten-hour. Like many things, he'd been through and done worse in the same breath. Still, with the cammy nets already up and no heart left for mechanical grease...

[color=ff4136]"My suit fuckin' stinks. I'm hitting the creek."[/color] Roy muttered, calm as ever but a damned sight less debonair than he'd been topside. His eyes, icy blue, flickered between the three pilots present— Rhino's immediate departure for the spray-dried nectar of the Union's Olympians about as surprising as sunrise. Between the banter, he'd caught something he'd been too wrapped up in his jousting above the clouds to catch as it'd occurred, and blue finally settled on violet, catching Leah's eye when he could. She seemed more or less fine, despite the trouble the Blackout seemed to have gotten itself into, so with that already answered: [color=ff4136]"So one sortie later [i]Braide's[/i] the one savin' people?"[/color]

A brow rose. An affable, wry smile crept across the corners of his mouth. He snickered, which of course hurt. Everything had its price around here.

[color=ff4136]"My young son, my [i]baby boy[/i], he learns so fast. For real though, how'd he handle himself this time? Need any chaperoning?"[/color]