Why bother being wary? The war's over. PFL's done for. He's dead in the eyes of the law. Sure he'll never get togo home and being stuck here isn't what he wants to do but- a breather far, far from all the bullshit that kept him up at night? Not so bad a thing. As far as he could tell there was fuck and all on this planet. Why worry?

He sets his helmet down and scrubs a hand through his hair, tugging on the tail tucked at the nape of is neck. Haircuts aren't exactly something he's got time to do anymore. Water that scans as clean's nearby so a good scrub down sounds like a good place to start.

Then there's something. A click, a word, some noise- he drops down and rolls to the closest cover, snagging his helmet on the way. The wind doesn't just whisper "York."