[ He'd fallen.

Not with the slow descent of a gentle one-third g, but with the breath-taking force he remembers from his childhood in Montana. And, like his childhood in Montana, the snow only sort of breaks the force of his landing. It leaves him on his back in the icy drifts, watching his breath fog above him, feeling the sting of cold – the bone-chilling cold of atmosphere, not the total lack of warmth of hard vacuum, so that's something – against his cheeks. Ice forms on his lashes, splinters stars into his vision.

But the cold will still kill him, even if he has air to breathe; it just won't be as fast as if he'd been spaced. Holden gets to his feet, trying to get used to the grip of a full g pulling down on him, and brushes the snow from his jumpsuit. It's too damn thin for this weather, the word TACHI stenciled across the back, between his shoulders. First order of business: get to shelter. Second: get some food and water. Third: find something to wear that will hopefully keep this world from summarily murdering him.

Fourth: get back to his damn ship.

He trips multiple times on his way into the town, following the tracks of other unfortunates, his arms tucked tight around his chest to keep his body heat from leaking into the atmosphere. He hasn't been planetside in... hell. Years. At one point, he stumbles and almost faceplants, but for windmilling enough to get his hand on a stranger's shoulder. ]

Sorry! Sorry.

[ Inside, his mind goes white for a moment with panic at the sight of an open fire, until he remembers he's not in a fragile bubble of steel and ceramic with an enclosed life-support system. Fire here is okay. Actually, fire here is great.

Even better, there's coffee. He curls his fingers around one hot mug and breathes in the scent, sighing like a lover. He still might die, but: at least he'll have had another cup of coffee before he goes. ]

No. Absolutely not.

[ He'd grown up hunting; the concept isn't alien to him even though it feels strange as hell. And something he remembers from when his fathers took him out and taught him to read trails, to shoot straight, to mark his path, is that it's just never a good idea to follow a mysterious creature that desperately wants him to come along.

Oh, wait. He'd learned that one later.

Holden looks askance at the dog, jerking away his hand when it tries to tug at the sleeve of his scavanged coat with gleaming teeth. The thing's breath fogs, hot, in the air, and he wishes it were a dog he knew and had trained, because a dog would be pretty damn helpful. If he knew for sure it was helping. ]

Go bother someone else, I'm busy.