Henrik Refsnes

Sitrep. There’s fuck all in front of us, but we’re still dragging along the shit I harpooned. Debris mostly, and parts of smaller ships, all wrecked—but their thrusters might not be. I have my eye on a nice piece of ass, the rear end of a transport, but there’s a couple others out there too. All I have to do is winch them in, and if even one of them has a functioning fusion core… talk about lifeline.

That’s the lesson I suppose. Never give up. If Master Chief was here, he’d rant about it. You try, sailor. You try and try again.

Lizzie, is that not what life is about?

I’ll be—look at you, Al, going all philosophical. God, I can practically hear him. Next, he’ll be singing anchors aweigh.

Master Chief must have been a great man.

I don’t know about that, but here’s another one from his gospel. It’s time to kick ass and take names.

I wish I could kick someone’s ass.

Ok, let’s not blow off course more than we already have. Juice the rig and queue the music, Al. We’re in construction mode. Again.