There's no hostile response nor a retreat, a step towards the positive Wing thinks. And the jet has definitely been noticed judging by the halt of the individual's forward progress.

The high, smooth keen of his nacelles shifts down as he approaches an outcropping, something to give the advantage of higher ground with accessible cover between him and the other. That was always the way of a meleeist in the time of firearms: choose your ground wisely and consider your path to close the distance.

It's obvious the jet is making to land, even if his choice of rocky broken terrain is strange. At the last moment the jet's nose pulls up, and then it...breaks apart, pieces shifting in a whirl of white, gray and red metal to the chorus of sound that is so signature to the species. He resolves his root-mode swiftly, the jump jets on his back letting him touch gracefully down the ground. His wings flick one last time before tucking neatly against his back.

Wing is ready to evade if necessary, and he is incredibly fast for his kind, but for now his hands go out in front of him, open, helm canted to one side as his golden optics consider the stranger.

"Forgive me for approaching uninvited. I hope you do not mind...?"