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In the distance, the sound of human gunfire, plasma rounds, yelled commands in English, and the squabbling of Grunts. But there, on the soft moss of the Halo, the sound that commanded the most attention was the sound of Private first class Oliver Clark’s labored breathing.
Clark sat propped against the crumbling stone of the architecture, almost shoved into a corner, his view of the single entrance almost unobstructed. He held, with gentle, bloodied hands, his lower torso, as if shielding his wound from the Covenant no longer around him.
The Master Chief obstructed the view he had, crouched readily at the entrance, stolen plasma rifle in steady hand.
He inclined his head at the sound of Clark’s huffed, soft, painful sounding laughter. Blood was smeared across his lower jaw from God knows where.
“Man,” he wheezed, smile wide and crooked like a drunkard. “If I make it out here alive, Chief, you owe me dinner. How about that?” Another painful string of laughter, genuine and mirthful despite the circumstances.
Master Chief turned his gaze back toward the entrance, ever unreadable. Clark took his immediate silence for an answer, “Take out the commander for me then, huh? She’s more of a catch then me.”
The silence, as much as it could be called such, stretched far after that. Clark coughed dangerous sounding coughs into still air, and the sounds of battle waged on.
“When,” Chief spoke, after the long, drawn out, almost-silence.
Clark opened his eyes, drooping shut against his will, and fixed them on Master Chief. “Sorry, big guy? R’peat it for me?”
“When you make it out alive, not if.” Chief adjusted his grip on the rifle, heavy gloves creaking around the weapon.
Clark huffed out a laugh again. “‘S a date then, Chief. Holdin’ you to it.”