The remaining Bantams froze in their cartwheeling and turned to face Chef.
“That’s one possibility…” Cort virtually facepalmed. Actually virtually. She’s virtual.
“Well, no, actually, it’s the only possibility,” Chef explained. “I have my helmet on. They can’t see my face.”
“Boarding craft, flanking us!”
“…” Chef considered. “Maybe they recognise us and want an autograph.”
“If I still had fingers,” Cort muttered. “I’d be giving you the finger.”
Attached to the flanks of the flanking Bantams were metal tubes with like those metal sphincters on the end. The dropships rammed sideways to crash through the windows, decompressing the air in the room and sucking all the endless space debris towards them as another pair of L33t and Groan squads entered the room, one either side of the control panels.
“Now,” explained Chef, “from my encounters with those weapon racks, I see I can carry two grenades on my armour, which you also evidently tinkered with. Conveniently,” he ambled, “there are two groups of Coverup for me to fight herein. Shall we see what happens if I apply a grenade to each?”
“Might wanna hurry up,” Cort pointed out. “You’ve already lost your shield with that little lecture.”
“BAAH!” Chef sheeped, before lobbing a grenade at each group and blowing them to hell, or at least moidering the Groans and popping the L33ts’s shields before popping their heads. Weapons and grenades are like Pringles, y’see. “If we’ve got Covies all over the ship looking to kill us, we have to get out of here.”
“Nothing we haven’t dealt with before,” Cort said with a voice that said she was smiling.
“Those times we had other objectives, or marines or crew members to save,” Chef said. “This time it’s just me.”
“QQ SUM MOAR,” Cort practically belched. Actually practically. She’s practical. “There’s a Coverup ship on an intercept course with us.”
Chef frowned with surprise. “It’s going to ram us?”
“Not likely, but unless you want an imperial -Yoink–ton more Coverup to deal with, I suggest we deal with it.”
“How?” Chef asked. “I mean, I know I’m strong, but I doubt I could kick a spaceship in the balls that hard. Do they even have balls? In the ovaries, then.”
“Ship-to-ship defences,” Cort explained. “We’ve got Hyperbole missiles on the ship’s rear-”
Chef snorted.
“Yeah, mature. But without the bridge we’ll have to fire them manually. We’ll need to get down there.” A diamond popped up on Chef’s HUD. “Setting a waypoint for the liftEVATORS now.” Alas, this diamond did not shine bright, nor was it beautiful like the metaphorical ones in the sky. Rihanna wasn’t happy.
“Am I going to have to get all Mirror’s Edge on these lifts too?” Chef asked.
“Nope. Scans indicate these elevators are in perfectly good shape.”
“How conveeenient,” Chef mused.
“Assuming that ship doesn’t raise its shield,” Cort commented, “they’re in for one heck of a surprise, and not one hell of one because we’re Microsoft now and, as such, must aspire to be shining beacons of linguistic morality and therefore can’t make any religious references.”
What followed was a series of unremarkable encounters with a L33t and four Groans followed by one with two L33ts and three Groans. And Energon™ Grenades made their return. Although the Covenant may have used them earlier in the game. I find it so hard to get a stick in matchmak- sorry, ‘War Games’. Sometimes, I swear stickies just bounce off people’s legs or whatever. What’s even weirder is that I’m pretty damn good at Halo 4, competitively. Seriously, my K/D is actually positive and like a good few hundred high. Not percent. What’s even weirder than that is
“These Coverup seem more fanatical than the ones we’ve fought before,” Chef commented.
“What?” Cort asked. “What gives you that impression?”
“I… don’t… know.” Chef paused. “It just sort of came outthat’swhatshesaidlol.”
“Uh-huh. Well, maybe the killing of their leader’s cousin on a mission for the former enemy pissed them off.”
“It was an accident, I’m gonna have to- HEY!” His shield popped as the L33t and Groans he was presently fighting pasted him with Energon™ fire. “I’M TRYING TO HAVE A CONVERSATION HERE.”
The doors either side of the L33t opened, and a pair of shield-bearing -yoinks- entered the room guardedly.
“DON’T YOU LOT GO INTERRUPTING TOO,” Chef roared, aiming for their shield notch with his pistol so they did the same sideways yawn animation they did in Reach when you hit their hand. To be fair, it’s a cool animation and I think they have a third now too. And, to be fair (oh look, same phrase twice, aren’t I a good writer?), they’re probably just reacting to their hand being shot and shaking it away from them to be rid of the pain, and are all like, ‘Ow, you shot my hand!’
Said sideways yawn animation gave Chef ample opportunity to shoot their faces off, which took a record-breaking 8 attempts for him this time. Practice makes perfect, Chef. The next room contained a room in the middle, a case of roomception, if you will, swarming with Groans. Chef thought this was the perfect opportunity for a Killtacular before remembering that a) this was his first playthrough, so he’d left Campaign Scoring off, and b) 343 had removed it anyway. Another cut feature to make room for ZOMG DAT LIGHTING. Still, there was a lot of Groans to be shot. Chef took aim and fired.
The bullet ricocheted harmlessly in front of the Groans.
Chef ducked, half expecting the bullet to ricochet back into his noggin, making his armour nearly as -Yoink- useless as it is in multiplayer. Seriously, what kind of large, hard metal helmet fails to protect from a single headshot when its invisible energy shield is depleted? Sort it out, UNSC.
“What the hell just happened?” Chef cried, bewildered.
“I think you just overreacted to a ricochet,” Cort said.
Chef approached the glass, gibbering like a tart. “I… what… but…” He put his hand out, flat, until he touched the surface. A shudder rippled through his body. “What is this devilry?” he whispered. “I see nothing, yet a wall blocks my hand.” Pressing his body to the mysterious artefact, he raised his hand and knocked it.
The Groans waved back.
“Oh, right, yes.” Chef whipped out his pistol, a pistol whip, I suppose, and went Groanicidal. “You lot.”
“The monstrosity is unrepentant for his crimes!” roared a L33t from the hall. “Bring out the literal big guns! First enemy power weapon of Campaign!”
Angry purple-red blasts shot around Chef, exploding into the walls and floors ferociously and making him bounce around a little bit. Sounds like fun.
“Care to explain?” Chef prompted.
“Oh, yes, no, I was in Reach briefly so I can do this,” Cort replied. “It’s either a Percussion Rifle or, and Tartan came up with this the other day, get this, a, ha, Conclusion Rifle.”
“I vote Conclusion Rifle,” the L33t moved. “As it will be your conclusion.”
