Perimeter Check

Status: functional. I was lying flat on the dense grey carpet, angled away from the squad formation. A faint friction shifted under my boots—my right leg responded to intent. I pushed upward against the coarse fibers and propped my torso up. Ahead, the grey wing assembly of the landed craft remained stationary, flanked by silent allies. I extended my left hand, testing grip, and reached out to tap the nearby black blaster handle resting on the rug. Firm contact confirmed. Perimeter clear, awaiting further directives.