"I'm not dramatic!" he insists, in that usual defensive tone of 'But guuuys, I'm a big kid, too, why can I be part of the big kid club?'

"I just process things verbally! In an occasionally panicked tone!"

Now free of his hiding place he spins around what's left of his cover and takes out a few people coming out across the courtyard but his aim is definitely off. He compensates slightly by shooting in a wider arc. A waste of ammo but better than not hitting anything at all.

"Also, I wasn't joking about seeing double and that's also not me being dramatic!" He's clearly trying but he's stumbling like he's drunk. Even with a helmet, hitting your head straight on steel after falling from that height is concussion-city.

"Normally, I'd be keen to crack on," says Wyoming, stumbling into the courtyard. His suit is clearly compromised in a few places and he's bleeding through some of them, "but I'm also injured and we seem to have found ourselves in quite the stickywicket."

There are more and more guys piling in and they can hear a ship in the distance. Theirs is not due yet.

"Does he really always talk like that?" Wash asks, still picking off enemy soldiers, despite tilting on his feet. "Or is he just fucking with me?"

He and Wyoming hadn't been paired up so often by this point, and someone putting on an absolutely ludicrous accent to fuck with the newbie was the kind of thing someone would do.