In full armor, John – 117, known famously as “Master Chief”, stepped into the shower, sliding its door closed behind him. The hot water fall and squeezed as he turned it. He swayed his body sensually left and right, under the gentle steamy sprays that rinsed the soapy suds from his armor plating. The door suddenly slid open, but Master Chief didn’t turned to look; he knew exactly who is joining him. “Figured it was only a matter of time,” he said in his rough voice. It was his trusty alien partner, Arbiter, who stepped into the shower with him and shut the door again. Master Chief could then feel something stiff and hot pressing against the plating on the rear of his thigh. “I warned you to never point a weapon at me,” Master Chief said cooly. Arbiter slowly lifted his head above Master Chief’s shoulder, grazing the stubble on his split jaw against the side of Master Chief’s helmet. “You afraid I’ll shoot?” Arbiter replied. “That depends,” said Master Chief. “What kind of shooting are we talking about here?” Arbiter smiled as convincingly as his hideous face would allow. “White hot plasma,” he whispered. “The best kind.” Master Chief could suddenly feel Arbiter’s plasma pistol charging with a force he never felted in all his years of experience under the United Nations space command, and he found himself in some incredibly sticky situations. He then felt Arbiter press the pulsating weapon against his lower back. Master Chief quickly reached behind him, grabbed the hot quivering barrel of Arbiter’s pistol and knew right away it wouldn’t be able to hold all that plasma for long. Master Chief turned his head, smirking behind his visor: “Better take your shot!