[center][img]http://orig06.deviantart.net/cf54/f/2012/029/1/b/stay_strong__master_chief_by_moumou38-d4o059m.jpg[/img][/center] The scene opens with an acute sense of claustrophobia. The back of the mobile personnel bunker bore quite small dimensions for its make(Patia AMV), and virtually no light was casted from within its pitch confines. The metal transport shook and teetered like a bomb shelter under fire as it veered across a non-descript sandy hemisphere. Yet, if one listened closely, the faint sound of steady breathing could be heard over the clangor. "Thirty seconds to Drop Point. Get ready, chief." The inner blackness was flushed away in short flashes of red light that reflected against an amber visor as the radio voice rung from behind the mask. In the short bursts of emergency light, a single man could be made out from within, forearms resting on his knees, back reclined to wall. He didn't respond. He didn't need to. He was lost in a world of silent concentration. The man was a sitting fortress, and one could tell even with the lack of reliable light. It wasn't the array of strange items and materials holstered on his utility belt. It wasn't the large shield propped at an angle between seat and wall next to him. It wasn't the strange rifle whom's obtuse butt rested on the rattling floor at his feet. It wasn't even the thoroughly out of place black scabbard and protruding azure-sashed hilt that lay on the opposite side the shield. It was his armor. If the denizens of the Emerald City of Oz prided themselves on the color of the jewel, they would be [i]green[/i] with envy at the deep, thick verdure plating that covered Corban's frame. It was thickest at the chest, knees, forearms, back, and forelegs. The joints, ribs, calves, and the spaces between interlocking finger plates were coated in a hyper-flexible and durable aphotic fibrous material. A low pinging scratched at the back of his mind. Before his helm, Ishtalle appeared in hologram form, adorned in a skintight suit of royal purples and shining platinums. Her cyan locks flowed around her like smoke, and she levitated toward his visor, tapping it once with thoughtful reservation. There was a short pause. [color=39b54a]"Cortana, is that you?"[/color] [color=8882be][/color] [color=39b54a]"Nothing. It must have just been a dream."[/color] Her expression spelled worry. A deep mix of instinct and Corban's demeanor telling her something was off. She shrugged it aside. [color=8882be][/color] [color=39b54a]"Are you ready?"[/color] [color=8882be][/color] She cupped his face with her hands lovingly, lavender eyes meeting naught but his maple-colored visor as she vanished into digital pixals that were siphoned into the blades jeweled pommel. The bunker door collapsed like a drawbridge, flooding in light and air. From the small tunnel, one could point out several attributes of the landscape. Urban, abandoned, war-stricken. The buildings told a story of battle. Buildings were in disarray, marred with bullet holes, bleeding broken glass, and missing sections. Cars were left all about the streets and pavements, some charred carcasses while others still burned in the fading light of evening like a snapshot of rush-hour. Equipping his various armaments, Corban stepped down from his door-made-walkway and onto tattered pavement, visor scanning everything from atmospheric to chemical information. The drawbridge was drawn up from behind him, and with a single thumbs up positioned to be caught in the drivers rear-view mirror, the transport vehicle zoomed off, becoming a black twinkle in the distance. Corban drew a deep breath, head craned toward a sky that showed two giant moons over the horizon and glaring sun at once. He flexed and curled his digits(one of which were coiled around his rifle). [color=39b54a]"So. How much longer?" [/color] [color=8882be][/color] [hider]Sorry for how long-winded this is! I am just a man at the mercy of his creativity.[/hider]