Sawyer had sat two feet away from where the ship departed and crashed into the Dojo courtyard, and the sight was really not out of the ordinary around these parts. He still sat there with a lit cigar between his lips and sighed as he got up, curious about the half-destroyed white insignia laying on the crest of the ship, burned off in orbit. He looked at the dark cockpit half submerged in the ground. It was yellow, glowing with sparks flaking off, the creases of the door welded shut by the heat and pressure of crash-landing. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle sitting on his back and sighed. It was an ordinary looking rifle for the most part, crusted blood pervading some of the gun, scratches and tears in the weapon, most of it jury-rigged back to functionality with duct tape and spare parts. Dogtags were infused into the side of the gun, each marked with the symbol of a circle and triangle overlapping and unique ID for each soldier they belonged to. He stuck the gun into the most jagged opening of the cockpit door, prying with all his might to undo the effects of the heated crash. The metal slowly ripped apart, Sawyer using his gun as a crowbar, and eventually the door popped off. He sighed with exhaustion and threw his gun down, smoke rushing out of the ship in a whir. With some begrudging sense he jumped into the fray, one hand over his nose and mouth, the other over his eyes. He called through the rushing gray for any survivors still remaining.