It seems like whatever's going on around here is contagious. And adding some really really... not good complications. Case in point: the tan and silver Spartan stumbling out of that portal over there. It's not the one he usually uses, and he hasn't PINpointed in. He's struggling to yank his helmet off at the moment. Okay, now why did he just throw
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"Dunno where your friend is," he starts, accent out of the Midwest US of A, "but you look like you've seen better days."
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That is a very snazzy hat. And a weird ensemble. York kind of gapes for a moment before shaking his head. "Is there a costume party or something going on?"
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"Not so much a costume party as a crossroads between time and space. I'm from 1933, Earth." He raises his eyebrows and looks York over some more. "And you definitely ain't."
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"Earth, yeah. But the 1930's? That's, like, the distant past. Waaaay in the past." York's gotta be in the way future right now. Or whatever millenium that his world takes place in. It's post-Halo 3, that's for sure.
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There's a shrug. "Distant past for you, the present for me. Get used to it. It happens a lot." He claps him on the shoulder... plate of his armor.
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