The Sacred Icon and Quarantine Zone (Or: The Recycle Bin)
In the antechamber leading to the main audience hall of the Hierarchs, the Arbiter passes a rather unsettling scene. The crimson-armored Elite honor guards are seen relinquishing their arms and helmets to the Brutes. The Covenant bitch-boy suppresses the murderous urges that boil beneath his indifferent exterior as he sees a Brute tear an honor-guard helmet from the hands of a defeated-looking Elite. Clenching his fists to keep his ire in check, the Arbiter almost scrambles down the wall past a pair of Brute guards that are quarrelling over a helmet.
"Dis one'z mine!"
"I'm bigga, so I'z da boss o' you, runt! An' I sez dis iz my helmet!"
The argument turns violent just as the Arbiter enters the audience chamber. The silver-armored Elite spots the Spec-Ops Commander and a contingent of other Elites speaking to the Hierarchs.
"This is unprecedented!" the commander whines, "unacceptable!"
"A Hierarch is dead, commander," Truth lisps, "thanks to the incompetence of the so-called 'Elites'. Pah! You're a bunch of n00b lamers."
"STFU! His murderer was within our grasp! What does this have to do with the Brutes taking over as the Honor Guard?"
"OMG U N00B WHOR DONT TELL ME TO STFU, SO STFU! BAN!" Truth stops the conversation and curtly dismisses the Elites. As the Spec-Ops commander passes, he winks at the Arbiter and brushes the back of his hand against the Arbiter's thigh. Someone clears his throat impatiently, making the errand boy break eye contact with the Spec-Ops commander.
Briefly, the Arbiter's eyes fall upon the author, who's waiting off to the side, leaning against the bulkhead with his arms crossed. An entire filming crew and set have been assembled in the audience chamber.
"Get on with it!" the author hisses. The Arbiter walks up to the Hierarchs, and Truth shoots a glare at the retreating backs of the Spec-Ops commander and his retinue. "Politics," the Prophet mutters. "Did you know, Arbiter, that the Elites threatened to resign? To leave the High Council? When it was learned that the Brutes were replacing the Elites as honor guards?"
"The Elites have always protected the Hierarchs."
"These are trying times for all of us," Truth sighs and pauses. After waiting for a moment, he turns angrily to Mercy and snaps, "SAY YOUR LINE, FOOL!" The Hierarch diverts his attention away his zippo lighter, which he has been fiddling around with while staring vacantly into the flame.
"Uh...what was my line?"
"IDIOT!" Truth screams. This is promptly followed up by a long string of curses and profanities, along with speculation of Mercy's intelligence, habits, and likely future. The author storms over and snatches the lighter out of Mercy's hand, extinguishing the flame as he does so, "you're not getting it back until you say your line." With that, he stalks away and holds the lighter over an open garbage disposal chute, making as though to drop it down the chute.
"Er..." a bead of sweat runs down the Prophet's snail-like face, "even as...uh...the annihilation of the humans filled us with...jubilation...no, I meant satisfaction!...ah...the destruction of one of the Sacred Rings...wracked-our-hearts-with-grief!" Mercy babbles this last part, holding his hands out for his zippo. The author fakes a drop, chuckling evilly at the Prophet's crestfallen expression, then returns the lighter to Mercy. The prophet rubs his face against the smooth surface of the lighter and mutters, "my precioussss..."
Truth continues, ignoring the exchange, "putting aside our sorrow, we renewed our faith in the prophecy that said that other rings would be found!"
"Yes!" Mercy raises his spindly arms as if in exultation, his lighter in hand, "through our patience and perserverance, the Gods have led us to another Halo! Can I get an 'amen!', my brothers and sisters?" Nobody indulges him, however - they're all too busy staring at the old coot with dumbfounded expressions. The wrinkly snail ignites his lighter and starts waving it around like a maniac. Or a hippie.
"Erm...," Truth sputters, eyeing the zippo in his "brother's" hand. "For ages, we searched for one who might unlock the secrets of The Ring - an Oracle. And with your help, Arbiter, we found it!" A holotank activates, and the image of an elderly black woman appears.
"You crazy motherfuckers!" screams the Oracle, her voice somewhat distorted , "why is it that you freaks are always so obsessed with my eyes?"
"That's...the Oracle?" the silver-armored Elite quizzically cocks his head sideways. "I thought...?"
"What? What're you talking about?" Truth turns and looks at the Oracle, before chuckling nervously, "oops!" The tube containing the black woman disappears into concealment and another tube pops out, holding none other than 343 Guilty Spark. "Hello!" chirps the floating blue lightbulb.
"With appropriate humility," Mercy says with barely contained excitement, "we plied the Oracle with our questions - and with great grace and clarity, has shown us the key."
Truth gestured out the viewport at the Halo, "Arbiter, you shall journey down to the surface of the Sacred Ring and retrieve this Sacred Icon. With it, we shall fulfill our promise."
"Salvation for all! HALLELUJAH!" Mercy cries out, thrusting his arms into the air.
"And the beginning of the Great Journey," Truth finishes quietly. The two Hierarchs stare at the Arbiter, who blankly stares right back at them. After a moment, the Arbiter seems to convulse before remembering himself.
"Oooooohhh, a quest!" the Arbiter squeals in excitement. "Oh man, I gotta put together a party! Okay, okay, who can I take with me?"
The Hierarchs exchange confused glances before having the Arbiter dragged down to the Phantom dropship waiting in one of numerous hangar bays. The Arbiter continues to ramble in the cargo hold, with only the author and a small SEAL-Grunt team to listen.
"We need a cleric! I don't know how to heal. I can be the powerful and intelligent wizard, though!"
"By the Forerunner, SHUT THE HELL UP!" Tartarus bellows over the Phantom's intercom. "This isn't a game, you nerd!"
"Tartarus! Can you be the healer?"
The simian alien groans in frustration and starts slamming his pugnacious face into the ship's control panel. The Brute copilot looks on in utter confusion, but makes no move to stop the chieftain from bashing the crap out of his own skull and the control panel.
Upon arriving at the Library, the Arbiter is dumped face-first into the metal alloy floor of an outcropping, without the assistance of a gravity lift. Groaning, his face is forced back down into the floor as the SEAL-Grunts descend and land on the back of his helmeted head. A final, considerably heavier impact on the Arbiter's head signals the descent of the author.
"On alert, comrades!" the author barks to his Grunts, "the enemy must be nearby!" There is an audible series of metallic clicks and snaps as the SEAL-Grunts lock-and-load their MP5Ks, each Grunt finishing his preparations with an HK-slap. The author gives an involuntary shudder as he hears the collection of sounds. "Cool," he mutters to himself.
Not a second later, a massive Enforcer drone looms overhead, its mono-eye glaring down at the small group.
"Crush. Hug. Smother," the chrome robot drones in a menacing, basso monotone as it prepares to swoop down upon them with its dangling arms - arms that are more than capable of utterly destroying a heavily armored Scorpion tank. In the nick of time, a salvo of red energy bolts splash across the 'bot's gleaming surface, redirecting its attention. Tartarus's Phantom flies away with the big Enforcer in hot pursuit, the latter chanting, "hug! Hug! Hug!" the entire way.
"What in the name of the Forerunner was that thing?" the Arbiter inquires as he wipes the drool from his mandibles. "It was shiny!"
"It was an Enforcer Drone," the author replies, "and yes, it was quite shiny, wasn't it?"
"Shiny!" the SEAL-Grunts bark in unison.
"Lower the shield, Arbiter!" Tartarus orders over the radio. "I'll pick you up when you finish. Wait, what the--!"
"Hug. Hug. Hug. Hug," the Enforcer-'bot chants in the background over the sound of squealing and crunching metal.
The Brute crew aboard the dropship screams over the communications channel, before it all dissolves into static.
"Well, that's reassuring," the author sighs. Slowly, he draws his combat knife and lasgun before signalling his SEAL-Grunts to advance.
"What?" asks errand boy. "You obviously escaped from that mining station, alive, didn't you? What makes this any different?"
"I don't think my retrieval boat can extract us while under fire. Even if there were a fighter escort, those Enforcers would probably go straight for the sitting duck." The author pauses and slaps his the front of his helmet. "Of course! I forgot about the mobile suits. I'll just have to have a carrier standing by."
"O-kay." The Arbiter spasms uncontrollably for a second. "What shall I do?"
"Let's just move in. I'll call in a carrier group as we go along."
Not long after, the intrepid group meets up with a ragged team of Grunts and a Jackal, whom were busy hiding and wetting themselves when they should have been fighting. "Arbiter!" one of the Grunts squeal. "It the Arbiter! We fight with you!" Out of seemingly nowhere, a horde of Sentinel bitch-'bots swoop in and start firing their lasers at the group.
"Meep!" The Grunt that had just pledged loyalty to the Arbiter suddenly runs into a corner and soils his armor, sobbing and baying in terror as his teammates get cut up into charred bits of meat. Some of the SEAL-Grunts take hits, firing even as they go down. The author, spotting the cowering Grunt, levels his lasgun at the alien and blasts its head off. "Stand your ground!" the author shouts, his voice amplified by his helmet's vocoder. "Cowards die in shame!"
After blasting another Sentinel, the author looks around for the next spot they need to get to. It was highly unlikely that the tide of Sentinels would stop anytime soon, and they would eventually be overwhelmed - they needed to move on. "This way!" he shouts, pointing the way with his blade. The survivors disengage and run onward, avoiding being tied up in any one battle for too long.
It continues this way for a long time as the team guns-and-runs through Flood zombies, hug-happy Enforcers, and irritating Sentinels. Many of the author's SEAL-Grunts fall, sometimes unable to keep up. By the time they reach the Elite encampment, the formerly twenty-strong group has been reduced to a quarter of that number.
Upon their arrival, they see the Flood besetting a handful of Elites that are attempting to hold off the attack. Despite their energy shielding and Shade turret emplacements, the outcome of the battle seems uncertain. Howling and screeching, the zombie combat forms hurl themselves at the Elites, falling by the dozens - and yet, for every combat form that falls, two more seem to take its place. Panting for breath, the author points at the besieged Elites' position and bellows, "chaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrge!"
The Arbiter draws his energy sword and ignites it with a loud "pop!" The Elite charges in and joins his brethren in the fray, with the author and his Grunts struggling through the snow to keep up. Slashing, kicking, punching, the Elites fight like the cornered animals they are, against the seemingly unending tides of Flood combat forms and the occasional carrier form. The ground around the combatants turns into frigid mud, the crunching of the snow and ice barely audible above the din of the melee. Bodies of the fallen lay in the muck, dismembered or disfigured in some manner.
In seconds, the SEAL-Grunts arrive, firing their MP5K submachineguns at the Flood. At the same time, the influx of Flood seems to slow. The author, taking advantage of this lapse, contacts his carrier group. "Hammer Two! Hammer Two, come in! This is Tiger."
"We read you, sir," an older man's voice replies.
"Good! Status, Captain?"
"No-go, sir. The Covenant won't let anything bigger than a Deacon-class ship close with the ring."
"Shit!" the author gasps as a Flood combat form whacks him in the side with its tentacle, knocking the wind out of him. Falling onto his side, he fires his lasgun at the zombie, burning a hole into the creature's thoracic cavity, killing the infection form within. In-between coughing fits, he continues, "is there any way we can get the mobile suits in and out of the ring's atmosphere without the carrier?"
"Yes, sir. The engineers aboard the Flame have been working on an inter-atmospheric mobile suit carrier that can carry a full squad. It'll be the size of a frigate, so--"
"Good! Have them speed it up, if possible," the author interrupts. "My team's down to three Grunts, we need evac."
"Yes, sir. We have your shuttle ready and a flight of Acolytes for escort."
"Thank you, Captain. I'll send a signal once the landing zone is clear. Tiger, out!" The author fires his lasgun at a Flood combat form that is about to take a swing at the back of one of his SEAL-Grunts. Finally, the flood of zombies ceases, and the Elites are allowed to rally and recoup. The author activates a locator beacon and strides over to the Arbiter and the Spec-Ops commander who are making out and groping each other.
"Uh...guys?" The Elites ignore the author. "Don't you two have lines right now?" No response. Furious, he stalks away before drawing a flashbang grenade and throwing it at the two Elites. He averts his eyes and takes cover just as the device detonates. The two Elites disengage from each other and stumble about blindly, crying out incoherently for assistance.
A young woman's voice cut in on the author's helmet radio. "Tiger, this is Delta-Three-Oh-Three, homing in on your beacon. ETA: fifteen seconds!"
"Acknowledged, Three-Oh-Three." The author looks up and spots the transport flying overhead. Shortly, the ship puts down, while its fighter escort hovers overhead to secure the landing zone. After ordering his SEAL Grunts to help unload, then to take the shuttle off-world, the author looks up at one of the fighters - an Acolyte, like the one that had saved his bacon back at the lake.
"Author?" His attention turns toward the source of the inquiry, a familiar, orange-armored humanoid - slender, but with bulky shoulder armor.
"Miss Aran! Good to see you."
"I hope you don't mind me accompanying you and your team." A subtle tone in the bounty hunter's voice tells the author that he doesn't exactly have much of a choice in the matter. Regardless, the author replies with a jovial tone, "the more, the merrier."
"Sir!" Another voice cuts into the conversation. "Delta Squad, reporting for duty, sir!" The author turns to see a quartet of white-armored troopers, each with their own different paint scheme on his armor. Each carries a bulky carbine, a supply pack, and had all manner of munitions and attachments for their weapons strapped to their belts and thigh armor. The one who addressed the author possesses orange markings on his armor. "Delta-Three-Eight," the author gives a subtle nod of respect, "I trust your journey was a safe one?"
"Yes, sir."
The author gestures toward the bounty hunter, "Deltas, may I introduce...?"
"We've met," Samus cuts in. "Sorry, but I hitch-hiked a ride down...with fuel prices being what they are..."
"I see," the author suddenly adopts a Gendo Ikari-esque pose, sitting on a chair and at a desk that both suddenly appear out of nowhere. "Deltas, you all read the briefing packets I gave to you?"
"Uh...yup," pipes up the trooper with the black-and-yellow markings on his armor.
"You're supposed to address a superior as 'sir', Six-Two," the one with the green markings rebukes his fellow commando. He then addresses the author, "yes, sir. We've read the briefings."
"Excellent. Let's move out, and remember: try to avoid unnecessary engagements with the enemy."
"Hey, Sev!" Six-Two said, "bet I get more kills by the end of this mission!"
"Maybe in your dreams, you'd stand a chance," Sev, the commando with the red markings, retorts in his characteristically low voice. Unlike the other commandos' paint jobs, however, his seems to have been splattered and smeared on - combined with the red color, it looks a lot like he'd had a messy encounter with some poor, unfortunate soul.
"Stow the chatter, Zero-Seven," Three-Eight interrupts before addressing the author, "you look like you could use a rest, Author."
"Meh. Lemme change out of this thing. I think I'm gonna need shields for this run." With that, the author boards the shuttle. The clones all look at Aran. "So why exactly are you here?" Scorch voices the question on their minds.
"Um...the author called me up, saying something about...ah...Chozo ruins...no, space pirate activity...on this ring world...the Chief wanted to have dinner with me, or something..." Aran trails off, the last part almost being muttered to herself.
"Who?"
"Nevermind!" the Hunter blurts. To her immense relief, the clones merely shrug to each other and wait. The author reappears in a flash of light, clad in his old, red MJOLNIR Mk V armor. "'I command in the name of the Emperor!'" he declares, eliciting a round of sweatdropping from the clone commandos and Aran. The author absent-mindedly exclaims, "that was cool! I've always wanted to do that!"
"You're affiliated with Emperor Palpatine?" Three-Eight asks, tightening the grip on his carbine.
"Sorry. Different Empire. T'was a quote." The author starts checking over his weapons - a Mosin-Nagant 1891 bolt-action rifle with a scope, and a Ppsh-41 submachinegun, complete with a drum magazine and spare banana-style box magazines stored in his ammo pouches.
"Ah." The clone commandos relax only a hair, still somewhat bewildered by the author's random quotation. That, and the weapons he carries.
Everyone suddenly realizes that the Elites have been long gone.
"Aw, fierfek!" Scorch curses.
The scene changes to the part of the mission just before the gondola, where the Flood zombies have fortified the entrance. The Arbiter rides into battle, piloting a Scorpion tank, whilst the other Elites are riding on Ghosts and on a Specter. A Wraith mortar tank, piloted by the Flood, lobs superheated comets of plasma at the advancing Covenant.
"Death to the abomination!" the Spec-Ops commander roars, "burn them into dust!" A plasma bomb suddenly explodes on top of him, knocking him over. "OH GOD, THE BURN!" He suddenly starts running around, screaming in pain, but otherwise unharmed. The Elites all turn puzzled stares upon the white-armored Elite.
"Arbiter, did you see that?" an Elite inquires.
"You never noticed?" the Arbiter asks, continuing onward with the Scorpion tank. The rest of the Elites continue to observe, watching the lone Spec-Ops commander cut through hordes of Flood zombies, taking entire drum magazines of bullets worth of fire from the machinegun turrets, and even surviving being accidentally blown up by the Arbiter's Scorpion's main cannon.
"The Commander is invincible!" the Elites cry out. "He is the Flag incarnate! He will lead us to victory over the abominations!" The Elites all give a rousing battlecry and charge into the fray to join their leader...and they all wind up being slaughtered and ass-raped by the Flood.
In moments, the Arbiter and the Spec-Ops leader reach the gondola's control panel and spot Miranda Keyes and a few UNSC marines already on their way to the Index chamber.
"Humans!" the Spec-Ops commander snarls in disgust. As though in reply, a horde of Flood zombies screech at the two Elites. "I'll deal with them, Arbiter!" the invincible Elite grabs the other's ass before igniting his energy sword and charging for the door.
As the Arbiter gets onto a massive gondola, the author's shuttle and escort pass overhead, then hover over a point just ahead of the moving gondola. The shuttle hovers over the top level, depositing the author, and five other unidentifiable armored humans.
"Strange," the author muses, "I thought that Tartarus would've dropped off reinforcements by now." He slaps his helmet, "I forgot. That horny Enforcer drone."
"You!" the Arbiter points at the author. "Who are these other humans?"
"Don't worry your pretty self, Arbiter." A loud, resounding "thud!" sounds off at the opposite side of the gondola. All eyes turn to face a humanoid figure clad in black armor with blue highlights and trim, with a visor to match.
"You!" Samus fires her arm cannon at the dark figure. The latter dodges a few of the shots, but grunts as a few of the energy bolts connect. It suddenly levels its own arm cannon and fires a shotgun-like energy weapon. Aran barely avoids getting hit, but one of the bolts strikes the author and downs his shields. "Dark Samus," he murmurs as the Arbiter draws his plasma sword and prepares for battle.
"What?" Scorch blurts.
"Long story for another time," the author replies. "Secure the lower levels of the gondola. I'd suggest some booby-traps, use your discretion."
"Sir!" Three-Eight barks, "Scorch! Set up some booby-traps! Fixer, Sev, you head down with Scorch. I'll stay up here with the author."
"You've got it, Boss!" Six-Two acknowledges.
"You should go with them..."
"We need to provide support to Aran, sir. And my squad can handle themselves, for now." The author nods in reply to the commando's argument, quickly throwing together a plan in his mind. "Three-Eight," he says, "I want you to provide covering fire. I'll close in and help Aran, although I'm not sure what good this old thing will do against armor."
"Yes, sir!"
The two humans and the Arbiter suddenly find themselves looking at two women wrestling, biting, clawing, scratching each other. One is Aran, in her blue bodysuit, whilst the other appears to be a glowing blue doppleganger of the former. She even has glowing, blue hair, for chrissakes! Dubya-tee-eff?
"Ah...when, or how, did that happen?" Three-Eight inquires.
"I don't know, but it's pretty freakin' random. And even though I'm not normally into this kind of stuff, it's still kind of hot." The Arbiter rolls his eyes in response.
"You're a pig, Author!" Aran screams as she punches Dark Samus, then receving a punch to her own face. "YOU BITCH!"
"I also didn't know that Aran was a woman," Three-Eight admits.
"You didn't? Huh..." the author is suddenly struck from behind by a Flood zombie. As he staggers in an attempt to regain his balance, the clone commando fires on the zombie, emptying half of his blaster's ammunition into the thing. A second Flood combat form lunges at Three-Eight and is put down by the other half of his clip. As he ejects the spent charge and makes to put in a new one, two more zombies land before him. They are finished off by a hail of fire from the author's Ppsh-41.
"Well, here they come," the author states.
"Hey! Watch out! Listen!" screeches an all-too-familiar voice, causing the author's eye to twitch behind his helmet visor.
"It can't be..."
"What in the galaxy was that horrible noise?" Three-Eight asks. The Arbiter grunts, "by the Forerunner...!"
"NAVI! SHUT UP! I KNOW THERE'S--AAAAUUUUUUUGGGGHHHHH! GET 'EM OFF!" They see a writhing mound of Flood zombies, mercilessly humping something. All the while, a little, winged, glowing ball of light flits around, screaming "Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!"
"Oh god..." the author slaps his faceshield in exasperation.
"Um...shouldn't we help him?" Three-Eight inquires, trying to ignore the other fight going on behind them; Samus and Dark Samus are still in the middle of their cat-fight, which is drawing quite a crowd of Flood zombies. The Arbiter is busy fighting off another group of combat forms.
"Yeah, c'mon."
With great effort, the two armor-clad warriors plunge into the mess and essentially shoot, hack apart, blast, kick, punch, dismember,...et cetera, the Flood combat forms, finally revealing a green-clad youth with a green cap atop a mop of blonde hair. Blue eyes wide with hysteria, the rescuee screams, "BACK! BACK, YOU HORN-BALLS!"
"Calm down, Link!" screeched the glowing globe of light.
"Um..." the blood-soaked author and the clone commando exchange a "now what?" look.
A Flood zombie taps the author's shoulder, causing him to cry out in surprise and train his weapon on the combat form.
"Easy, buddy! I just want that blue girl's number!"
"Huh-buh-wha?" the author stares in disbelief at the combat form for a myriad of reasons. One of which: how the hell can a Flood zombie speak coherent sentences and phrases in English? Three-Eight also seems to be stunned. Or utterly confused. You decide.
"Uh...yeah. Can I get her number?" the combat form asks again, more politely.
"What? She your girlfriend? C'moooonnnn! Buddy? Pal?"
"Oh, fine!" With that, the frustrated zombie lunges at the author, snapping the latter out of his stupor. A series of bullets pierce the rotting flesh of the thing's torso, and pop the Infection pod within. The youth, Link, gets to his feet and draws a familiar sword, "I'll kill every last one of ya! I swear it!" The author impatiently back-hands Link, somehow causing him to come to his senses. And miraculously managing to not snap the poor boy's spine in the process.
"Owww..." Link whines.
"Quit your bitchin'!" The author addresses Three-Eight, "get the rest of the squad back up here! Now!" The commando seems to remember himself and barks, "Deltas! Form up!"
"Forming up, Boss!" comes the reply.
As the rest of Delta Squad fights their way upstairs, the author, Link, and Three-Eight slaughter the Flood combat forms watching the ongoing fight between Samus and Dark Samus. As the last zombie is dispatched, the author turns to find Link gawking at the wrestling females. The clone commando is meeting with his squadmates, with Scorch not-so-discreetly sneaking peeks at the spectacle.
"Link! It's not polite to stare!" Navi scolded her charge, "Link! Hey! Listen!"
"Not now, Navi..."
Finally, Samus collapses onto the floor from exhaustion, bleeding from a few cuts and panting heavily. Dark Samus, however, scrambles to her feet and leaps off the gondola, disappearing into the darkness, seemingly melting into the shadows. The author kneels by Aran's side, rolling her onto her back, and pulls out a canteen, "you all right?"
"You're a dick," the blonde deadpans as she slowly sits up and accepts his proffered canteen. "Why didn't you guys help me?"
"You were too busy to notice, but we were kinda busy keeping the Flood zombies away from you."
"Oh." Silence passes between them, and no more Flood appear. Still, the commandos of Delta squad take up defensive positions and watch vigilantly for any threats.
"So..." the author starts quietly, checking his weapon's ammunition.
"Hm?"
"Isn't it kinda weird having a whole crapload of people knowing who you are, yet not knowing the lot of 'em?"
"I'm not sure you know the half of it. I mean, c'mon! All these freakin' fanboys drooling over me, and a whole bunch of other freaks writing lemon fics where I do it with Ridley or I get raped by Metroids. I mean, I've even been impregnated by a self-insertion character! It's like I'm not even a person! I'm just some kind of sex toy or something that's part of their twisted, sexual pleasures."
"Hmmm. Now that I think about it, you have it doubly rough..."
"No shit." She huffed before looking at him, noticing that he was still intently examining his weapon. A question popped into her mind as she observed him. "Hey, are you gay or shy or something?"
"Shy? Yes. Why?"
"You're not even looking at me. Most of you nerds would usually be "ga-ga" over my tits or my ass. Some of 'em would be openly staring, by now, writing about or describing how beautiful my eyes are, and my 'luxurious blonde locks!' Hell, you're not even stuttering like an idiot!" To her surprise, he looks at a space next to her head and adopts a thoughtful expression, remaining silent for a moment.
"Do you want me to?" he asks finally.
"No."
"Then I won't," he states, simply. "I feel uncomfortable if I stare at someone. I'll admit, I'm still prone to male, animalistic tendencies, but I still have my standards." Hefting his submachinegun, he continues, "a long time ago, I've learned that you don't put a girl up on a pedestal if you like her."
Samus smirks, "so there's more to you than meets the eye."
"Isn't that generally the case with most individuals?"
"But people in general are pretty dumb."
"Hence why I said 'individuals.' There's a difference."
Their small-talk continued on for some time, and Aran's respect for the author grew a bit. She generally preferred the company of aliens, or even solitude, to dealing with human beings. But the author, it seems, is apparently an exception; they had gotten to be on friendly terms, all things considered. Fast friends.
"You're an interesting character, author," Samus admits.
"I'm not the only one," he says in earnest, "you're actually an interesting character, yourself."
"Flatterer!" she teasingly accuses him.
"I try."
"Author, we've arrived," the Arbiter states, interrupting the conversation. "I will retrieve the Sacred Icon!" With that, the Elite bounds for the entrance the gondola has stopped at.
"Follow him, wouldja Deltas?"
"Delta Squad! Take offensive formation!"
"I'm too friggin' tired," Aran murmurs to the author with a hint of embarrassment. The author moves about and pulls out a pair of old web belts from a utility pouch. Attaching the two belts together, he lifts Aran's butt off the floor and slides the belt underneath her, despite her brief protests. After setting her backside on the floor, he positions himself just over her, with his back to her, and loops his arms through the connected belts. He sits up and now has his hands free, with Samus effectively strapped to his back. The whole process only has taken only a matter of seconds.
"You touch my ass like that again, and I'll fucking bury you," the bounty hunter threatens unconvincingly, letting her arms drape forward.
"Yes'm." With a grunt, he gets to his feet and readies his Ppsh-41. With some regret, he leaves the Mosin-Nagant behind as he follows the waiting Deltas. As they proceed through the abandoned halls, they hear gunfire. They all hurry onward through the antechamber, passing all the blocked entrances to the Index chamber.
They arrive just in time to see the Arbiter head-butt Johnson, and for Miranda Keyes to be captured by Tartarus.
"Tartarus, how did you survive?" the Arbiter asked. Before the Brute could say anything, the Elite squealed, "I knew it! You must be a healer! You revived yourself! Hey, could you heal me? One of those humans shot me up pretty good, and--!"
"Shut up, you moron. Now give me the Icon."
"Hey! I'm the one that's supposed to retrieve the Sacred Icon!"
Tartarus brandishes his magical mallet at the Arbiter, and realization dawns on the Elite.
"Ohhh, fuck no, you back-stabbing cockbite! When the Hierarchs hear of this, they'll--!"
The Brute chuckles in amusement. "Fool. They ordered me to do it."
The Arbiter's eyes widen in shock at this, and a blast of energy from the mallet forces the Elite down the hole the Index was floating over.
"SONOFABIIIiiiiiitch!" the Arbiter cries out.
The Deltas and the author back out of the tunnel they'd just entered, as the Brutes start heading their way.
"I know you're there, Author!" Tartarus bellows, with something unsettling in his tone. The author silently curses to himself as he sets Aran down. Over the helmet radio, he addresses the commandos, "take her. And once these guys leave, get back to the Perdition's Flame. Tell command that the non-aggression pact's been voided, and that they are to get in touch with our contacts in the Adeptus Astartes. Understand?"
"What're you doing, sir?" Fixer inquires. The author doesn't answer as he leaves his cover and strides toward the white Brute. Samus unwittingly echoes Four-Zero's question, hissing to Scorch, "what's he doing? What's going on?"
"One of your carrier groups tried to close with this Sacred Ring, Author," Tartarus growls. "You know what the non-aggression pact said."
"What of it?" the author demands.
"You're coming with me to be executed before the Council. And we'll burn your pitiful little fleet." The Brute smirks, "just before your execution, however, I get to have a little 'fun' with you." The implications make the author shudder. Gathering his courage, he snarls at the Brute, "scum!"
With that, the author opens up with his submachinegun, only to be knocked out with a bone-shattering blow from Tartarus's hammer. The clones stare, horrified at the effects of the weapon, whilst Samus winces in heart-felt sympathy.
After the Brutes leave, a part of Aran was surprised to find herself worrying, but most of her was wondering:
"Now what?"
To be continued...
Author's Note: What the hell is going on here? Things have gotten so serious, all of a sudden! And what's going on between me (the author) and Samus? And why does it stink of cheese as badly as Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones? Well, it's not what it looks like, I can tell ya that. Although one must wonder if I've been subtly influenced by the horrible story-writing style Lucas used. Bleh. Now we see how that cease-fire agreement is involved in this horrible attempt at plot. And how d'you all like the arrival of the clone commandos of Delta squad?
Also...please be aware that I'm pulling stuff out of my ass, now. I forget all the ideas I had in my mind, and I don't have Halo 2 to help refresh my memory or to help me come up with new ideas. So...please bear with me.
I'm also planning out some serious fics (and a cross-over or two), and this is kind of serving as my quasi-experiment. God, I suck at plots, and stuff, though.
Anyway, now that I'm working, and since school is gonna start soon, my writing may have to take a backseat. Especially this parody, which is slowly becoming somewhat tedious to write. Maybe it's just me, and it's self-induced, but I'm really having a hard time with this parody.
So...hope you at least kind of enjoyed the fic. If not, well...you know the drill: just stop reading.
Tiger Tank
