He's cold.

It seems ridiculous. New Madrid may not exactly be a desert planet, but it certainly has the climate of one. Yet despite all of this, despite his suit's climate control system, it's cold. And yet, as he looks around the sands of the disputed world, he can't find any blankets to deal with it. Because as stated, his suit's doing jack shit in keeping him warm and-...


A F17 Marauder has gone up in smoke, yet somehow it's welcome, the heated air blowing over him and keeping him warm, however briefly. Never mind the screams, never mind the gunfire, all that matters is that he's warm. Warm despite his suit being sealed...or at least meant to be sealed. Because technically it should be impossible for him to feel such a thing. Craning his neck and ignoring the pain shooting down his spine because of it, he glances at the tank in search of answers.

There are none. Only a burning wreckage, bullet-ridden bodies and no identification in regards to either. For some reason, his HUD isn't working. Or, as he's beginning to suspect, his HUD no longer exists. You need a visor for that and the lack of one explains why he's feeling such warm air rush over him.

He's still cold though.

Lying back on the New Madridian sands, he tries to remember what happened. He was falling...falling longer than he should be, the rest of his platoon having already made it planetside past the ARM's AA defences. Did he linger too long, he wonders? Did he stay up in the air long enough for the rebel scum to get a lucky shot?

He tries to move to find out, but can't. His HUD's out, so his suit telling him if he's been hit is impossible and as he feels cold all over, there isn't any single piece of his body that stands out. And while he can vaguely hear shouts nearby, none are directed towards him. Indeed, those uttering them seem to be moving away from him, given how they're getting softer. It's as if...

...and then he realizes.

He's dying.

It's an occupational hazard really. Comes with Section 8's job description. Accepting the fact calmly, he gazes up at the skies of New Madrid, almost completely clear apart from the occasional cloud and Sky Crane flying by. Is there anything waiting for him up there, he wonders? Past the battlecruisers of the USIF in orbit, reigning hell on their rebellious brethren? Will he be ascending, or joining the ARM? Or, in all likelihood, is there nothing but a darkness as stygian as space waiting for him? Either way, it's academic. He'll find out soon enough.

It's so cold...