Gonzo had already awakened long before, his silver flask of fire water and M45 laying next to him on his metal cot lined by itchy linens. His BDU was unkempt as well, engrained with soot and conspicuous sticky residue and the Covenant skull fragment here or there. He had lightly swayed, legs folded criss-cross on his small bed, cut short by the throttle of the Pelican sharply cutting. Slowly he regained his senses from the ritualistic meditation he had accustomed himself to, taking the cold barrel of his shotgun and loading in shells scattered and coated by dust under his cot. Taking his flask, putting his lips to the cool chrome for a sip of rye to coat his scratchy throat, then sealing it again and sliding it into the breast pocket of his UNSC slacks, he slowly stood. He pulled on a coat long and covered in goat fur, scavenged from a Ku Rudo outpost shortly after arrival; it was almost painfully itchy and coarse, but the only defense against frostbite and hypothermia. What accompanied this were boots worn, with soles barely existing, once used to trod the streets of New Mombasa.