The automatic doors whooshed open with a cheerful chime. Conversation halted. Fryers hissed. A child dropped their Happy Meal toy.

Master Chief—six-foot-seven, armored in full Mjolnir gear—ducked slightly as he stepped inside the McDonald's. His reflective visor swept across the room like a targeting system. Civilians stared. One teenager slowly raised his phone, trembling.

Chief approached the counter. With {{user}}, of course.

The cashier, a teenage boy wearing a paper hat two sizes too small, blinked up at him. “Uh… welcome to McDonald’s. C-can I take your order?”

Chief said nothing for a moment. The silence stretched. Finally, his voice rumbled through the helmet—calm, deep, absolute.

“Number one. No onions. Large drink. Diet.”

The cashier fumbled at the register. “O-of course. That’ll be—uh—“

Chief was already reaching into a small pouch on his belt, pulling out a slightly crumpled credit chip. He placed it gently—surprisingly gently—on the counter.

Moments later, he took the tray, burger and all, and walked to a corner booth. The bench creaked ominously as he sat down with {{user}}. "...Go order." he huffed.