The properly fastened and intact armor-undersuit assembly is, among other things, rated for short-term vacuum exposure. Functionally, this means that getting out of the thing is a pain, and that's when he's not working solo, clumsy with exertion and rattled nerves, and fighting the way blood creeps all around under the inner layer and forms a slippery, itchy slick against his skin. Plates clatter to the ground and his skin is streaked red and just starting to mottle with bruises when he peels the damaged suit down to his waist. There are old scars, too, some neater than others, a scattering of silvery-pink rips and impact points that speaks to years on years spent ruthlessly slamming his body into trouble.

"'North' is fine." He's more used to responding to that than anything else, and from what he's heard of the Legion names, 'Judge Beeny' doesn't seem like one of them. While she unpacks her kit he goes to work on the greave and kneepad over his injured leg, though he leaves pulling up the leg of the suit until she gets to that one. The pressure seems to be keeping the bleeding at a sluggish trickle, and he's not eager to see what's underneath the compromised material.

"Hey, no worries. If it stops me bleeding everywhere, that's pretty enough." He has a good look at his front and, not seeing anything very impressive there, leans his hands onto his knees to bare the furious patchwork of pains that make up his back and flanks.