Simgi looked at the poor grunt’s corpse, then at the grunts working on the cannon. It was a shame, his brethren were prone to acts of stupidity but pulling a weapon on a Sangheili was a death sentence. Still, the standard equipment of an Unggoy was notoriously weak the Sangheili could have disarmed him before he made it passed his shields. Oh well, he thought, it is not uncommon for this to happen to his kind, even though the act as plasma sponges more often than not saving the rest of them from taking plenty of hits. He dare not confront the Sangheili lest he face the same fate. The remaining grunts of the group working on the cannon were scared into work, but Simgi could tell that they were distraught. Then there was the lonely Armor Clad giant, Simgi couldn’t tell what to make of it. The bird-things at least had a personality but every Armor thing he’d met just stood or destroyed. Simgi cursed himself; he should know the names of his comrade’s species at least. 
 Everybody knew Simgi didn’t deserve his rank, everybody except his fellow Unggoy. Simgi was not particularly adept at combat, save for on-target grenade throws, fear still filled him but he could just barely manage it enough to keep a fight going, and most of the kills he got were thanks to extremely circumstantial environment, the hanging electric wire, the unstable scaffolding, and the ever present explosive corpses of his brethren thanks to the methane, at least they continued to serve in death. This lead Simgi to believe that, at least where cannon fodder is concerned, Ranks are given based on how long they can soak up fire. “Competent Fighter” was giving him too much credit, but at least the other Unggoy appreciated him, and would even follow his orders sometimes.
 He had barely noticed the counselor, he glared at Rava, 
“The more you kill my brothers, the less likely they are to stop plasma for you” Simgi said. He wouldn’t take physical action, and the pilot may not care, but at least the Unggoy’s feelings would be known.