When Dorn got into the escape pod, he was covered in blood. A lot of it wasn't his but a lot of it also was. He'd been shot in at least a dozen places, and stabbed in a couple more, but the sullen look on his face betrayed that none of this really bothered the lumbering male. He had his razor wire wrapped bludgeon in his right hand, and both were dripping red. A lot of people had just died very badly and their loved ones would be utterly unable to identify the bodies. Dentists would be stymied to match dental records. It would have to come down to DNA testing.<br/><br/>The pod took off, and as Pandora came into view through a porthole on the pod Dorn felt a sickening, sinking feeling of oppressive depression. He knew that no good could come of this, and he almost reached for the pod's door so that he could vent all of them into the tender mercy of space, whose blackness was surely more comforting than the surface of Pandora. The pod lurched as they hit atmosphere and Dorn was thrown about like a rag doll, unsecured as he was.<br/><br/>The pod crashed, and Dorn stared up at the floor of the pod, which was now the roof, and gave serious thought to putting his shotgun in his mouth and squeezing the trigger until it clicked dry.<br/><br/><em>Back on Pandora. Yay.</em>