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Halo 2 - The REAL Ending by Conrad Lauf

Halo 2 - The REAL Ending Part 1
Date: 19 April 2005, 7:50 AM

"Master-chief, you mind telling me what you're doing on that ship?"
"Sir. Finishing this fight."
"Oh, OK, please continue then."
"Thank you sir."
The Master-chief sat back down and picked up the Xbox 100 controller. He was finding it hard concentrating on the game he was playing however, not just because of the sounds of the Forerunner's ship's engines, but because he knew he was supposed to be doing something important, but he just couldn't remember what it was. But wait, he suddenly remembered what his mission was.
A bright idea flashed in his mind, temporarily blinding him.
Why not find a copy of Halo 3 and see how he got off the ship and saved humanity? It was a brilliant idea, but it was a pity no-one was around to hear it. Usually the Master-chief's ideas involved blowing the crap out of everything with a ship's core reactor or something, and even then he usually just played out the physical part of the plans, and Cortana was always the brains behind them.

But back to the story.

The Master-chief had once seen an early trailer for Halo 2, in which he opened the airlock of a space-station and blasted himself down on to the top of a Covenant cruiser in space. Even though he had already done it in the first level of the now-horribly ancient game of Halo 2, he decided to be extremely boring and repetitive and do it again. He knew that if he could do it in the trailer, he could certainly do it in real life.
Walking over to the airlock of the Forerunner ship, and to the pleas and screams of the Bungie cinematic team that were in the same room filming him for a cut-scene, the Master-chief proceeded to open the airlock, forgetting that he was the only one who possessed a slick set of armour that would allow him to survive in space. Instantly the Spartan was yanked out of the ship into the black void, along with many innocent law-abiding video-game makers.
As he fell towards the shell-shocked planet of Earth, the Master-chief suddenly realized that even though in the trailer he was last seen falling towards the roof of a Covenant cruiser, he wasn't seen actually landing on it. Come to think of it, in the trailer it looked as though he was going to miss the roof completely.

A Longsword pilot tapped his co-pilot on the shoulder and pointed out to the right-hand side cockpit window.
"Isn't that the Master-chief out there?" he asked, partially to himself.
The co-pilot leaned across, raised his visor and squinted.
"Do you mean the tiny green figure trying desperately to swim freestyle upwards in space, or the floating body of that storyboard artist?"
"The tiny green figure."
"Well strike me down and call me unconscious, I think it is the Chief. Do you think we should pick him up? He looks like he could use our help."
"Well, ethically we should pick him up, but then again, he still hasn't paid me the eight dollars I bet him if he could lift up eighteen ATVs at once with one hand..."
"I thought you bet him three grand."
"I did, and even though I won the bet, I felt bad about taking it afterwards, with him moaning and writhing on the ground because of a broken spine or something, so I gave him back some money to pay for an operation."
"That was mighty kind of you, Bill."
"Why thank you Robert."
"I think we should pick him up though, otherwise the rest of this short story is going to just be about us talking about the weather and our personal lives in our cockpit, and when the Chief dies we'll get our asses kicked by the Covenant."
"Good point, let's go get him."

The Master-chief rocked himself back and forth again as his body was wracked by a cold chill. The two Longsword pilots had aimed and fired a grappling hook towards him from their ship, and had then reeled him in. The three of them now stood in the cramped cockpit of the fighter.
"Are you sure you don't want a blanket sir?" asked one of the pilots, the one named Bill.
"Yeah, I'm fine thanks."
Bill leaned over to Robert and remarked, "Who would have guessed that under his helmet the Chief looks exactly like Bruce Campbell with a crew-cut?"
"I know, it's been bugging me since we picked him up," replied Robert, as the Chief doubled over again with an enormous sneeze.
"You have no idea how many people say that to me. God, Cortana gave me so much hell over it in the Longsword after the original Halo was destroyed along with the Pillar of Autumn."
"OK, this conversation is kinda starting to trail off from planning attack strategies and beginning to focus more on the Master-chief's facial similarity to the actor Bruce Campbell. Can we please get back to focusing on the whole point of this conversation, discussing tactics as to destroying that Prophet and his ship?" asked Bill, sighing with boredom and looking at his watch.
The Master-chief put his index finger to his chin and thought for a second. After five seconds he opened his mouth to speak.
"Well, I think it would be a good idea, seeing as people are only reading this story to see some good action sequences and a classy storyline, and so far this waste of virtual ink has none of that, and since the author has had a massive migraine and is currently passed out on the floor of his bedroom from trying to think of an ending for this first chapter, I guess we'd better do that. Let's get working."


Author's Note
If you liked this bizarre first installment of my whacked-with-a-random-stick story, you need help. Psychiatric help.
Just kidding.
Seriously, if you want to see this story continued, then simply give me good comments, and I'll try my best to try and finish it. Feel free to give me negative feedback, but just don't be surprised if you find your convertible's tires slashed tomorrow morning.
Thank you and have a good day,
The Author

Halo 2 - The REAL Ending Part 2
Date: 23 April 2005, 5:41 AM

Location: New Mombassa
Date: 6 hours after whenever the previous chapter left off.

      The Master-chief sighed with contentment as bolts of plasma smacked into the concrete wall opposite him, fired from the wide street around the corner of the apartment block against which he sat. He slid himself lower towards the ground, making himself even more comfortable, as the screams of the dying, both men and alien filled the air. There was a brief roar of chaingun fire, and the sounds of the Covenant slaughter ceased for a moment.

Sergeant Stacker limped around the corner to where the Master-chief sat.

"You know, Chief, we could really use your help right now," he hinted hopefully.

"Well you could, but considering that you've got the invincible Sergeant Johnston wielding a sniper rifle with unlimited ammunition with you, I honestly don't think you need me right now," replied the armour-clad hero.

"But sir, my men are dying. Can't you hear their screams of agony?"

"Oh come on! You and I both know that they scream and double over in excruciating pain for about two seconds when they get hit, then continue fighting as if they're perfectly fine- which they ARE. All you have to worry about is if your men are using rocket launchers. You have no idea how many respawnings I had to undergo because of docile Marines firing at a crashed bus right in front of them."

Almost instantaneously there was the deep boom of a rocket launcher and several screams of pain and confusion.

"Please Chief, I'm begging you now. Help me and my men. Please."

"Oh fine, I'll do it. But you owe me big time."

"Thank you sir."

The Master-chief groaned in annoyance and effort as he slowly stood up and picked up his SMG. He strode around the corner and swung the wide barrel of the SMG around in a wide arc, shredding all five Grunts and their Elite sergeant with gunfire. Or he would have, had the aim of the small weapon drifted up over the heads of the short aliens.

"Oh you little piece of dual-wieldable shit!" he shouted in frustration. He was pissed-off now.

If he could handle the recoil of an assault rifle whilst wearing his old Mk 5 armour and could tip over a Scorpion MBT weighing 66 tons with ease, surely he should have been able to control the aim of a tiny SMG.

Shrugging, he threw the small weapon at the head of the Elite with all his strength, cracking its helmet and skull, killing it instantly. He pulled an old MA5B from nowhere, and held down the trigger as the remaining Grunts' bodies leapt and contorted as they were torn apart by fully-automatic fire.

As the last spent casings tinkled against the bitumen on the road, the Master-chief placed the assault rifle against the smooth wall beside him, and sat back down in his previous lounging position.

"Now that that's all sorted out, I can get back to what I was doing before you all started bitching about how badly you were getting your asses kicked by a few nipple-suckers. That is, watching Jerry Springer reruns on my HUD."

"Fall back! Fall back! Flee for your lives!" bellowed Niosalee, loosing a few shots at the pursuing Master-chief with his plasma rifle. For a few seconds the green Demon's shields flared up in defense as the round beams of plasma struck his chest, but he ignored them, and quickened his pace. He was now filling the fifty-metre gap between himself and the alien troops very quickly.

Everywhere Grunts, Jackals and Elites were breathing in ragged gasps of fear as the horde of disorganized and terrified Covenant stopped to regroup and discuss how they were going to retreat.

Niosalee, the Elite highest in command of the horde, was the first to speak.

"You'd think the Prophets would tell us that this battle was going to be fought with the Demon using Easy settings, now wouldn't you?" he said in extreme anger.

"Yeah, and that the strongest weapon he has is one that he has infinite ammunition for- his fists!" shrieked a distraught red-armoured Grunt.

"They could have at least given us a Brute or two, or at least a fuel rod gun or energy sword, but no, they just had to give us crappy weak-ass plasma pistols, needlers and plasma rifles. I mean, we'd have a better chance smacking the Demon across the face with a food nipple!" roared another Elite.

"Well, it's obvious to me that this battle is lost, as long as the Demon still has his fists and the person controlling him doesn't have to pause the game to go off and do his or her homework. Let's just see if we can surrender, and maybe the Demon will let us live for once," suggested a bleeding yellow Grunt.

"Good idea!" said Niosalee, patting the stupid creature on the head.

"Quickly now, find a white cloth and take it to the Demon, little Grunt. Since it was your idea, you shall have the honour to enact it."

"But, I- "

"Just do it!"

The Grunt sobbed, and clumsily picked his way through the rubble of a heavily-shelled clothing store.
He saw a white cloth, and pulled it from the mannequin wearing it.

He turned and ran up to the Demon, waving it franticly above his head. The Demon was now just ten metres away from the horde of fear-filled Covenant troops.

"Greetings Demon, I come to you in the spirit of- "
Instead of a gesture of peace, the Grunt received a solid punch to the face, followed by a side-kick to the ribs and a combat knife into the heart from the enraged Master-chief.

Unfortunately, all Grunts see in a completely different spectrum of colour from humans, so the Grunt had grabbed a red sweater, seeing it as being coloured white. The Spartan had naturally assumed that the Grunt was a messenger from the Covenant forces telling him that he was done for, along with the rest of the human race.

The Master-chief looked up from the broken, crumpled corpse of the Grunt, whilst the horrified remaining thirty soldiers of the Covenant platoon stared at the growing puddle of sky-blue blood around the body.

"RUN!" shouted Niosalee, breaking the tense silence.
As if awoken by his gravelly voice, the crowd broke into a desperate sprint down the wide street, straight into the wave of chaingun fire and tank shells that met them. A solid wall of parked Warthogs and Scorpions blocked off the street, so now the Covenant were trapped between the vehicular barricade and the invincible Master-chief.

"Cease-fire, cease-fire!" yelled the Spartan, as an idea sparked in his mind.

There was a strange ringing in the air as the deafening booms of cannon and gauss-cannon fire stopped abruptly.

"Leave six Grunts and the silver Elite alive," he said.

"And why should we do that, Chief?" asked Sergeant Johnston, leaping down from the turret of his Warthog.

"Well, we can interrogate the Elite about where the Prophet is heading, seeing as he's probably fairly important rank-wise, and we can use the Grunts for recreational gambling."

"How would we do that sir?"

"Well, I was watching the Discovery Channel on my HUD, and apparently five hundred years ago there used to be a funny sport called cock-fighting, before chickens became extinct..."