He was told to stay away from the outside at night, so he's obeying it. It's hard though. These are the sorts of nights that he and the rest of his squad would play capture the flag for
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The disassembled weapon gets an interested look from the uniformed man who opted to stay for dinner after all. It's certainly no Earth make he recognises.
Well this is just a red-letter day. A lesser man would be squeeing on the inside. The chief's pleased that his world's retained a bit of it's order. A military person who seems to acknowledge the existence of aliens.
Fantastic.
"...The Covenant sir. A theocracy of aliens that formed into an empire sometime in the mid 2000s as near as ONI can figure sir. They're strong-but we're holding our own."
"Well done, then," says the Brigadier, who's got roughly the same level of pleasure at seeing Earth's far-flung children are still fighting the good fight. "And good to see the high command's taking matters seriously. That's quite the armour they've kitted you out with- standard issue, is it, or more in the nature of specialist equipment?"
The guy's polite. He likes him already, "-specially designed sir." The Spartan says, "My Squad and I were a Military Intelligence brainchild. Mjolnir Mark IV armor."
"I see. We could've done with a few of those during the Cybermen incursion-" He shakes his head. "Ah, well. The lads in research and development're working overtime as it stands. I suppose we'll see the foundations laid soon enough, if we're lucky. Any of the rest of your squad here, or did this place snatch you away without warning, too?"
It's not often he comes here on purpose. Bar has a nasty sense of humour where the Brigadier is concerned.
"No sir." The chief says bluntly, "The Spartan-II squad's been declared MIA since the battle at REACH sir."
Behind his mask, John is tight-lipped. MIA means dead. For morale purposes, the UNSC won't let any of his people rest in peace. It irks him something awful.
Not that he hasn't heard of enough anomalies floating about for the possibility of a simple disappearance to be in the cards, of course, but he does know all too well the sort of mindset that prevails under certain circumstances. And he was at the funeral of a UNIT trooper just last week, thanks to that damned, damned rogue Auton. The Brigadier knows exactly what that MIA means, and he doesn't sound like he thinks much of it himself.
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The chief hesitates, staring at it intently before he quickly reassembles it again.
Might be fast. Might not.
He hasn't picked up on anybody watching him.
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"I'm afraid I have to ask," he says at last, "exactly who made that weapon. I don't believe I've ever seen its equal."
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The mun knows that's called a "Combat" Round.
"When I'm in a firefight. I left my MPA5 back in my world, but here-"
He shrugs and disassembles the weapon again, taking apart the thing with a surprising delicacy considering his size. The hands of a craftsman.
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It's an entirely reflexive phrasing, the sort of thing said by a man who honestly has no reason to believe he won't be answered in kind.
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The man tilts his head and his armor clinks, "Master Chief, Spartan-117 of the UNSC Special Naval Warfare Unit, at your service sir."
He's trying to figure out the uniform's rank.
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He smiles, ever so faintly.
"Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, United Nations Intelligence Taskforce, Earth- 1970."
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He couldn't be more pleased. Captain Ryan was one thing, but this fellow's one step below a general.
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He returns the salute. "At ease, Master Chief," he says. "Which alien race are we at war with this time? Or ought I not to ask?"
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Fantastic.
"...The Covenant sir. A theocracy of aliens that formed into an empire sometime in the mid 2000s as near as ONI can figure sir. They're strong-but we're holding our own."
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It's not often he comes here on purpose. Bar has a nasty sense of humour where the Brigadier is concerned.
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Behind his mask, John is tight-lipped. MIA means dead. For morale purposes, the UNSC won't let any of his people rest in peace. It irks him something awful.
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Not that he hasn't heard of enough anomalies floating about for the possibility of a simple disappearance to be in the cards, of course, but he does know all too well the sort of mindset that prevails under certain circumstances. And he was at the funeral of a UNIT trooper just last week, thanks to that damned, damned rogue Auton. The Brigadier knows exactly what that MIA means, and he doesn't sound like he thinks much of it himself.
"Good men, were they?" is all he says after that.
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"They served sir. To the best of their ability." He stands a little straighter, "...Doing all I could've asked and more."
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