He, too, has nothing in his hands as they pass. He's on his way to gather more. Clean-up is something he rarely gets the time to do, always being hustled to the next engagement, the next enemy. It's strange being on this side of things—late to the party.

But he helps, because of course he does.

The question takes him off guard. Who but a Spartan could handle armor like his?

"That's right. Sierra One-One-Seven," he rattles off, just in case she knows his designation. (Many do.) But if she doesn't, he adds, "Call me Master Chief."