He knew he couldn't take the same route to land as the rest did. The whole tower was being watched right now, and he didn't need to have any supreme deduction skills to know that if he did something stupid he'd be taken down quicker than he can spell out 'Jericho'.
... A stupid comparison. His original programming was showing, it seemed. A memory flashed in the back of his head - a kitchen table, a book of reading exercises with wax crayons scattered across it, a small pile of drawings and bubbling, childish laughter. He felt a cold sting somewhere in his chest.

He was no expert when it came to parachuting, no more than he was able to learn and assume from the numerous manuals and instructional materials they downloaded and uploaded into their memory discs when they were preparing for the mission. Other than that, there was no time nor place for practice. Only one try.

He purposefully chose a spot on the roof as far from the original one as possible, and now- three, two, one, a short breath-  now there was nothing more, he was only tearing his way through the cold air, nowhere as skillfully or gracefully as he imagined Markus did. He allowed himself to switch the manual controls to an autopilot program: no thoughts, no emotions, only cold calculations and processes. Or that was what he attempted to achieve. The overwhelming fear was still there, rooted deeply into his whole consciousness.

It felt like it took a whole forever before he finally made it close to the ground; it wasn't exactly a smooth route (or landing either), since he thought someone might be watching the flying shape and predicting where he'd land. He vaguely remembered to use the inputs to control his fall, somewhere possibly far from sight, he couldn't allow any encounters and take chances. He couldn't afford them.

The winds were in his favor, so he managed to make it in one piece, although it certainly didn't do well to his damaged limb. Bloody hell.
He stumbled once, twice, thought he'd be able to make use of his legs and remain standing but he tripped, the damage made his knee lock up and finally he fell. The fabric of the parachute covered him neatly like a funeral shroud. Finally he struggled back up.

Of course, he couldn't find a place close to the freighter they all stayed in. Too dangerous. He had to circle around the streets, sneak his way towards it, but that meant also having to try not to damage himself any further during all that time - the real challenge.
The broken outer shell revealed wires and crushed tubes, and Simon hoped his walk won't make too much of a change to it. He likely won't find a fitting replacement on his way.

But for now, he had to dispose of the heavy parachute and somehow blend in.
The uniform had to go- thank goodness, he mindfully kept something underneath it; he even removed his LED, pulling it out with a bit of scrap metal he found laying around (even though he questioned the sense of it, seeing as there was a wound gushing with blue blood on his thigh, rather impossible to miss).

Why didn't he take it out earlier, too?... Did he really need it? There were plenty occasions to get rid of it, even just for the convenience.
Maybe it reminded him of something? Maybe. But there was no time for that.