[Wash reaches up, slowly, deliberately, and thumbs the seals at the chin of his helmet. The release pops with a faint hiss, and he pulls it off and over his head.]
[The man underneath is, perhaps, ordinary. He has terrible helmet hair; cornflower-gold and sticking up like spikes of thorns. The spatters of freckles mottling his copper-colored skin do nothing to hide the thick, winding snakes of scar tissue - across the bridge of his nose, bisecting one eyebrow, peppering his temple on one side of his head.]
[He sets the helmet down, and, with the same direct, precise tone, begins to remove the rest of his armor in pieces.]
[It's a lengthy process. It's not SPARTAN armor, but it still comes in a lot of parts.]
no subject
[The man underneath is, perhaps, ordinary. He has terrible helmet hair; cornflower-gold and sticking up like spikes of thorns. The spatters of freckles mottling his copper-colored skin do nothing to hide the thick, winding snakes of scar tissue - across the bridge of his nose, bisecting one eyebrow, peppering his temple on one side of his head.]
[He sets the helmet down, and, with the same direct, precise tone, begins to remove the rest of his armor in pieces.]
[It's a lengthy process. It's not SPARTAN armor, but it still comes in a lot of parts.]
Sure. Let's call it curiosity.