Noble Six panted as he stopped to remove his battered Mk V helmet, its HUD having failed due to extensive damage. He threw the piece of armor to the ground and darted for his dropped assault rifle, then gunned down an approaching Elite, stopping only once the alien ceased to move. He immediately whipped around to knock away another Elite, this one carrying an energy sword, and finished it off with his side arm. Plasma struck him from multiple sources as he fired off both his rifle and pistol, taking down several more opponents before being thrown to the ground roughly. It took two Elites to keep him still long enough for the killing blow.

He closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. In a short time, he had racked up more Covenant kills than most would ever see. He had accomplished objective after objective, never failing, never tiring. How ironic, then, that the end should come the first time he acted of his own accord.

But the end didn't come. The energy sword he had seen rise up never fell, never punctured his armor and flesh. He opened his eyes to find the Zealot in question on the ground, dead, with a bullet through its head…right between the eyes. To his left lay the other Elite that had held him down, bleeding from the back of its skull.

Six rose slowly, confused. He gripped a fallen plasma rifle, doing his best to move despite the armor welded to his skin in numerous places, and scanned the horizon as best he could without his helmet's optics to aid him. No zoom function. Covenant soldiers were dead all around him, but their assailant remained a mystery to him.

A shadow darted from cover, and Six just barely caught sight of it from the corner of his eye. He turned, plasma rifle moving ready, and faced the figure. Most would have looked surprised to see what he saw, but most people weren't SPARTANs.

Right there, in front of him, was a figure in full MJOLNIR Powered Assault Armor Mk V, Gungnir Variant.

"Noble Six, I presume?" grunted the SPARTAN, who immediately walked straight past Six and began to scan for further hostiles. Out of habit, Six's eyes darted down and to the side, as if he was wearing a helmet…but there were no confirmation lights to activate with a blink. He took up a position facing away from the other SPARTAN, ever alert.

"Affirmative," he stated simply. "What are you doing here, though?" Six scanned the horizon, eyeing Phantoms in the distance. None turned toward them.

"Saving your ass, Jacob." Jacob? No one knew that name…except a select few other members of Beta Company, which had only nine survivors to its name- that he knew of, anyway.. Eight, now that Kat was dead. He ran through the other seven names, obviously excluding himself from the list, but couldn't place the voice. He shook his head. The pleasantries could wait.

"You have a way off this planet, SPARTAN?" Six asked, foregoing the introductions in favor of action. The other commando chuckled.

"You always did have your mind on the mission.. Why the hell else would I risk putting my ass out in the open? Damn straight I have a way off." The SPARTAN turned, and proceeded to slam a giant hand down on Six's shoulder. Six winced; his armor was slag there, and his skin was burned underneath. The SPARTAN jabbed a thumb up over his shoulder, his head cocking to the side. "Our ride is that a-way. My team is ready to go, soon as we get aboard. C'mon."

Six nodded, and followed the other SPARTAN in the designated direction. His helmet lay forgotten behind him.