Isabella-G238 slipped the shoulder strap of her BR85 across her chest, taking stock of the carnage of the battle. Piles of dead Grunts, multicolored blood and brain matter sprayed by broken methane nozzles like macabre confetti. Their Elite commander lay dead as well, shredded by the grenade thrown under his legs. Isabella's SPI was splattered with alien blood, which would be a real joy to wash off later. “Katar, you're not going to believe this.” Isabella called over her comms, as she pocketed the broken, lucky sword.