Sometimes when he's wrist deep in wires and trying to mind his six, his trackers, and the mess of a fiddly little bitch he's trying to coax into working with him with nudges of fingers and code he hears his team in the back of his head. Hurry up, York. ETA on that door, York? For fuck's sake get the damn thing open, York!

There's a flicker on his hud that screams danger and Delta's sequestered up high with Cortana, safe and sound and secure while working that end of the equation they're double teaming and not present to warn him about the explosive. Of course the yell that gets him to shove away and haul his arms up to cover his head through the gut twisting panic sounds like North. A familiar voice in the middle of the worst goddamn rookie mistake, he doesn't want to lose his other eye, he doesn't want to die, he can't deal with losing a limb- a million and one frantic thoughts scatter and crack along with-

No bones.

No shrapnel in his armor. Must've been lucky.

He uncurls from where he'd shoved himself, Delta on the comm with quiet urgency trying to get him to respond- his vitals wild and pitched sharp in the aftermath but nope. Nothing here but an achingly familiar arrangement of hexagons. "...Uh. Tell Cortana thanks."

Because who the hell else could've just saved his ass?