Alright fellas, one more filler short story, and Rare will be posting that chapter TONIGHT, he guarantees me... Ever wondered just why Chief did jump out of the Dreadnought? Me, too… Spartan 117 marched fearlessly through the annals of the sleek Forerunner Dreadnought, his mind sole in purpose and sharp in composure. He wound the seemingly endless hallways without having much of an idea as to where he was going; and the ship was surprisingly sparse in population for the vessel of the Prophet of Truth. And yet, as he rounded one corner, his keen ears heard a deep, throaty voice of a Brute… “Mmmmm… HUNGER…” The Chief rumbled down the hallway hastily towards the voice, rounding a corner slowly, Battle Rifle in hand. Ahead lay a motion-activated door in classic Covenant mold. He approached it, and it opened. Inside, a dozen Grunts shuffled about rapidly while a Brute oversaw them in their task. Their objective was something the Master Chief, in all his intelligence and experience, had not expected: they were cooking. These were no ordinary Grunts; they were, in fact, as unordinary as their task: each wore an elaborate but traditional chef’s hat (some pink, some white, some purple, perhaps designating rank or task); as well as an unusual apron that tied all the way back to their triangular methane packs. The Chief did not open fire on the hostiles, and for the moment, none noticed them, so absorbed in their hearty flipping of pancakes, frying of eggs, and manning of massive toasters. The Food Network was on in the background, and Rachel Ray’s voice extolled the virtues of Filet-o-Mignon. He watched this spectacle, mouth agape, for a full ten seconds before the Brute finally saw the green-clad human in the doorway. “A DEMON HAS INFILTRATED THE HOLY KITCHENS?!?!?” the angry mammal roared. “THE HOLY PICNIC’S PREPARATIONS CANNOT BE INTERRUPTED! SLAY HIM NOW!!” The Master Chief’s instinct clicked in, and he immediately opened fire on the Brute; expecting the Grunts to flee if he killed their leader. As the Brute hit the floor after three bursts from his Battle Rifle, though, the Chief’s experiences proved moot: the Grunts were not about to flee or take their death lying down. The first, a Grunt clad in pink armor, with a pink apron and hat, leapt at him with the plasma knife it had been using to carve a thick slab of pork on the table. The Chief adjusted his aim and took a shot, ripping up the Grunt’s right arm, but the ambidextrous chef shifted its knife effortlessly into its other hand and laid a crushing blow into the Chief’s helmet. The Spartan stumbled into the side of the doorway hard, firing a three round burst into the all-pink Grunt’s head, then sprinting forward into the room to engage the other eleven. These too, however, were incredibly stubborn. Six of them charged him with an assortment of kitchen weaponry: knives, rolling pins, forks, sporks, fire extinguishers and multiple lamb chops. The other five hung back, pelting his armor with steaming projectiles and plasma-tipped knives. The foremost of the charging Grunts, in an effort of momentous self-sacrifice so as to be rewarded in the Great Journey splendidly, stripped his own methane tank off and slashed a hole in it with a butter knife. The Chief, firing at the Grunts behind this lead fanatic, watched from the corner of his eye as the Grunt pulled a toaster from a nearby table, stuffed a Martha Stewart cooking magazine in it, then angled the methane tank to spray the flammable gas over the lit magazine and towards the human. Another Grunt took a massive bowl of boiling cooking grease, and slung it towards the Chief’s feet. The methane flamethrower ate away rapidly at his state-of-the-art energy shields, and the Spartan shot repeatedly through the fire, eventually taking the Grunt out, yet amidst the confusion, the Chief found himself backing into a corner firing frantically as his world crumbled around him. He heard the last burst of flame light the oil on the floor on fire. As he took one more step to the side, he felt his left foot slip on the cooking oil, and he stumbled onto the flaming ground as his entire suit of armor lit up. The pack of Grunts, so tenacious and terrifying, closed rapidly and were prepared to rip him apart. The Spartan did what he rarely did: took stock of the situation, determined he had to retreat, and did. Seeing a small trash chute just a few feet away, he scrambled out of the oil as his shields expired, and leapt. Thirty seconds later, Earth’s gravity was sucking him in, as he twisted helplessly amidst the great space battle around him; watching the Dreadnought sink into the distance slowly. Chief knew he could tell no one. Humanity could not know that its greatest hero had his half-ton super-soldier rear destroyed by a dozen Covenant cooks.