Valkyrie eyed Gladiator as he checked the area one last time, then slung himself into the Warthog. He was tired, and so was she - as soon as the adrenaline had worn off, the leaden feeling was returning to her limbs. She opened a private comlink with him so the Army troopers around wouldn't hear their conversation. "You want to escort these guys and get Patrice some medical help? It'd be a chance to get some sleep."<br/><br/>People liked to believe a Spartan could do anything. But armored suits and genetic tinkering couldn't eliminate biology. Even 117 had taken naps on long missions. A good warrior knew when to fight, and when to save up for the next fight. They were running low on everything - ammo, grenades, sleep.<br/><br/>Their Puma didn't look like it had too much fight left in it, either. Running over covvies had put a serious dent in the underbody, and the blood-caked windshield needed a cleaning very badly. She was fairly certain the LAAG was burning out its barrels and running low on ammo at the rate Gladiator was firing. Valkyrie probed the gas, revving up the engine a few times. "I promise the drive will be easier."<br/>