[audio 001]
[Okay, so he's had time to reflect a little, post re-materialization. Ruminate, even. Nothing like taking a nuke to the face to give a guy perspective. Well, and a serious case of death.
Offffffffff which he seems mysteriously absolved? TEAMBIO readouts normal. Blood pressure, pulse: all green. He's not in shock. He's not in pieces. He's not a questionable smear on the big boot heel of life.
Stranger still, nothing's tried to kill him yet.
After that, it's down to recon. Old habits apparently don't go down with the thermonuclear yield of a FENRIS warhead. He is in ur Sacrosanct, scopin' ur terrain. Chemical showers have nothing on this Spartan your Spartan could smell like.
But the recon doesn't tell him a whole lot beyond what's already been proclaimed via message relay. His instinct is to go to ground, devote every resource he has to watching, listening and learning. It's this instinct that sees him ping onto the network with nothing so sophisticated as a backdoor handshake protocol to listen to the chatter. Which, by the way, does not assuage his bemusement.
Put a DMR in his hands, give him a vantage point and a line of fire and he's the patron god of patience. Drop him feet first into unknown territory and he's the very soul of its opposite. He puts up with ten, twenty minutes of that and then he makes his choice. An open broadcast could lead a tango to his position, but there's no one around to tell him it's a bad idea. And hey, he's got a Plan. Drop a broadband communiqué, retreat from the position and observe from a distance, in case anything creeps up he needs to neutralize. All's fair in war and spontaneous translocation.]
[When he speaks, it's with the faintest Texan drawl. There's some tension to be had in the slightly clipped words but otherwise his tone is controlled, calm.]
I can already tell this place would be improved by some Interior Decorating.
[What, you thought he'd toss out his name, rank and serial number? Not until somebody breaks out the thumbscrews, or until he's got a better bead on his location. The MJOLNIR armour is currently worth more than the immediate clarity of his situation - not knowing what he's up against, he'll take his chances on a lark. But there are two bits of code embedded in that line of bugfuck jibberish. The first, of course, belongs to the first letter of the last two words. Which, yes, renders down to 'I.D.' Ideally, yourself. Hoo-rah for antiquated UNSC protocols!
The second is a short, endlessly looped, almost subsonic tapping. You'll probably have to slow down the audio transmission to hear it properly.
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293.]