John, SPARTAN-117, despite being encased in a half ton of angular MJOLNIR armor, moved like a shadow through the twilight forest underbrush.
	The guard on the perimeter of Base New Hope drew on a cigarette, took a final puff, and tossed the butt.
	John lunged, a whisper rustle, and he wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, wrenching it up with a pop.
	The guard’s cigarette hit the ground.
	Nearby crickets resumed their night song.