@thesinningdaddy
UNSC Prowler-class Vessel Dunsinane Hill, 2000 hours.
There he is. The traitor.
The SPARTAN leans up against a crate as two men escort the Freelancer agent to him in cuffs, playing with a small disposable lighter. When Florida and his escort stop before him, he looks up, making a curt rally up motion, followed by a jerk of his thumb to the left. The two men leave, letting the two stand across from each other.
The UNSC operative paces around the restrained Butch, each step clanking off of the metal flooring of the stealth ship. “Agent Florida- welcome.” The voice is distorted, inhuman, with no air of compassion or recognizable flaws. Marcus eventually grabs a folding chair from the top of a crate, as well as a portable charging station and some old-school jumper cables.
Sometimes, you just can’t beat the classics.
“Please-” he says, unfolding the chair, “have a seat.”
