Holding the fort

Who: Mk.8, blokes in the command tent
When: During tactical discussions
Where: Just outside tent
Mk.8 hovered just outside the entrance to the command tent. He had
taken it upon himself to defend the command personnel. Some would like
to think he was laying down his life for them, that he was willing to
die if it meant the success of the mission. In truth, he just wanted
the highest headcount. He had made bets with several of the security
grunts, and since most of the remaining welsh forces were trying to
storm the command tent, he figured this would be the ideal place to
station himself. He knew they didn't stand a chance against him. Hell,
one night of binge-drinking would usually do more damage than a direct
hit to his visor, due to nothing more than the fact that these welsh
forces were truly awful marksmen.
"They better be thinking up something good in there" said Mk.8, firing
his guns in a sweeping motion to take out the wall of welsh troops
that had formed and had been advancing on the tent.
"Just hope those doodles Jay ran in there with will actually have a
positive effect on the operation"
Lobbing a grenade into the fray, hoping not to take out the grunts he
had made the bets with, he turned to see what was going on in the tent.
"Oh, joy. They're hassling each other. Just what we need. I wish they
would hurry up. It's boring out here. I would get a much better kill
ratio if they would just get this smegging rescue operation underway.
Assuming they're considerate enough to take me along, that is."
Someone near the entrance who was listening intently shushed him,
before noticing the primed grenade in his hand.
Mk.8 smirked and tossed it over his shoulder.
"OW!" yelped a voice behind him
Mk.8 turned around slowly, coming face to face with a welsh general
almost as heavily armed as he was.
"Uh, Hi?" said Mk.8
The general smiled, and placed a large pistol against Mk.8's head.
"Um, look. I realise I kinda wasted half of your guys, and made
various insults to your mothers, but that's no reason to kill me!"
The welsh general didn't move a muscle
"Uh, ok, so it is actually quite a good reason to kill me."
Mk.8 transferred all power to motor systems, and in a split second,
head butted the general, pulled a katana out of some mysterious place
on his body that even he was not 100% aware of, and made one swift
slice through the general's neck.
Neither of them moved for a few seconds, in stark contrast to the
raucous of battle all around them, but blood slowly trickled down the
general's neck, and he fell to the ground.
Mk.8 slowly replaced the katana, and resumed his regular fire on the
enemy.
"Nice of you to tell me about that little reflex, Rufus" he said to
himself, smiling on the inside.