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Halo - a parody: 3. The Noisy Choreographer
Posted By: LegendaryMark<mark_likes_cake@hotmail.com>
Date: 10 September 2005, 6:25 pm
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Chapetr 3: The Noisy Choreographer
"The Consonant believe that what they call the 'Noisy Choreographer' is somewhere under this island. The Choreographer is supposed to hold the secret of the location of Halo's control centre, it may be hidden is his elaborate dance routines. The island has multiple structures and installations; one of them contains the Choreographer."
The Chef was hardly listening to Cortonfire as the sea raced below him and the small island drew nearer. The delivery ship that carried him was only half full, easily space for a "Warts'n'all" vehicle that they would need to get about the island, but in his drunken wisdom, Keys had seen it would be more fuel efficient (and hence less costly) to send the vehicle in after the squad currently being delivered.
As the Chef shuffled towards the back of the transport so that he wouldn't be the first one out, he looked at the marines surrounding him. They were the best the beleaguered humans had, the ones that had recently been put on the drugs rehabilitation programme and were constantly angry due to severe withdrawal symptoms.
"Looks like you boys are gonna be seeing some action. That means I have to ask for payment in advance" said the delivery pilot as the approached the beach. The Chef gulped audibly. The ship touched down and immediately, there was mayhem everywhere.
"Go go go!" shouted the crazed marines as they jumped from the ship and ran screaming down the beach, heedless of the acidic blackcurrant jam that came flying from the teaspoons of the entrenched elitists. Ignoring constant cries of "Delete repeated word?" from Cortonfire, the Chef cautiously jumped from the ship and, seeing no activity behind him, turned and ran in the opposite direction round the island.
"Probably speedier this way" he explained to Cortonfire.
As he sighted an overturned Warts'n'all in the distance and passed some mysterious graffiti in the wall which read "goatrope woz 'ere", he heard over his radio that the marines had managed to triumph over the Consonant forces, and were currently squatting repeatedly over the dead bodies of their enemies, screaming incoherently. Drawing nearer the vehicle, the Chef saw a few marines lying down behind it. A secret compartment had obviously broken open as there were packets of white powder everywhere, apart from near the marines where some empty packets attested to their current condition. The Chef pressed 'x' and flipped the Warts'n'all.
"It looks like there is a path into the centre of the island" opined Cortonfire, seeing a signpost marked "Centre of the island, this way". Seeing a lot of Consonant in that direction, the Chef decided to continue round the island and see what else he could find. He tried the engine and, to his great relief, it started. Oddly, the jeep seemed completely undamaged, even though it had obviously been through a lot. Noting that it had all the handling capability of a large cow, the Chef drove onwards, pausing only for breath, relief by the roadside and a couple of sightseeing detours. Presently, he reached a large structure embedded into the island's cliff.
The structure was decked out in banners and posters with such mysterious writings as "Swan Lake Ballet – postponed" and "Book now for cheap Waltz lessons!" Writ large in big letters across the top of the entrance were the words "Dance Hall". The Chef peered closer, but as he did, the familiar 'U' shaped shadow of a Consonant dropship passed over him. Hurdling the ticket barrier, he sped inside. Elitists and gnomes dismounted from the Consonant vessel, taking up positions to guard the entrance. The Chef watched two elitists set up a card table and bring out the port and stilton. They were obviously here to stay.
"We've got no choice, we've got to press on" Cortonfire said with urgency. Having little time to gaze at the intricate decoration in the entrance hall, the Chef continued further into the structure. Peering round the next corner, he groaned as he saw more Consonant guarding another doorway.
"Don't let them lock the doors!" yelled Cortonfire, obviously worried her woefully inadequate knowledge of security would be uncovered if the doors were locked.
Noticing a pot of jam lying conveniently at his feet, the Master Chef picked it up, loosened the lid and threw it at the feet of the oblivious Consonant troops. He hid round the corner and heard a loud bang. Peeking back round, he marvelled at the destructive power of the jam. Several gnomes lay dead on the floor and the smart coat of the elitist was beyond repair. As the ghastly compote went to work on the elitist, it managed to lock the door with its last breath before collapsing, probably from irony.
"They've locked the doors" stated Cortonfire, "and we don't have enough firepower to get through them. We'll have to go back around the island for miles in the vain hope of finding a way to unlock them".
Ignoring her completely, the Chef picked up the key that the elitist had dropped and slipped it into the lock. The door swung open effortlessly.
"Oh, well, I..." began Cortonfire, but the Chef was already pressing ahead.
Hearing the theme tune to "Shaft" playing in the distance, the Chef went deeper and deeper into the structure, seeing few signs of Consonant activity as he went. A miners lamp here, an oak cabinet there, but no movement could he detect. He heard the voice of the marine officer on the island above him crackle over his radio.
"Chef, we've got dropships inbound! Consonant are advancing from all sides! Oh! Oh, did you see that?! I no-scoped his ass! Owned!! You've gotta find the Choreographer, we'll hold 'em off as long as we can!"
The radio cut out just as the marine was screaming "Triple kill!! Owned, bitch!" As Cortonfire complained vigorously about the marine's spelling and grammar, the Chef came across a small blue pulsating pyramid. Filled with curiosity, he stretched out a trembling hand. Upon touching it, the Chef found himself encased in some sort of alien technology. Just as he was wondering what had happened, an elitist strolled briskly into view. The Chef froze. The elitist looked directly at the Chef, peering as if trying to make out some faint outline. John's heart pounded, why hadn't he been noticed? The elitist shrugged in a dignified manner and, swinging his cane, he strolled on.
"You appear to be encased in some sort of alien technology" said Cortonfire, repeating the author. "It looks like you're camouflaged to the outside world!"
It was true, the Chef would find that he could blend in with any background, be it blue sky, blue walls or blue grass. Feeling more confidant, he forged ahead, coming to what he perceived to be the bottom of the facility. Once more, he found himself peering round a corner. He shook his head at the author's lack of imagination.
"And step 2…3…4… and slide 2…3…4… and turn and pivot… no, no, no, PIVOT!!"
He had found the noisy choreographer.
"Ok everyone, take five. And come back sparkling, people".
Seeing the disgruntled elitists put their noses in the air and take off to a small side lounge, and noticing that his "camouflage" had inexplicably worn off after a few short minutes, the Chef plucked up the courage to show himself to the choreographer.
"Hello?"
"Ooh 'ello! And what do we have 'ere then? Another one looking to learn the magical art? Looking to strut your stuff?"
Hushing Cortonfire, whose spellchecker was melting fast, the Chef answered.
"Actually, I'm looking for the control room. The location of Halo's control centre?"
"Halo? Never 'erd of that me darlin', though I know what control centre you mean" the choreographer sighed heavily. "They all want me for my knowledge, you know. I could teach the world to dance, but they all come here with their questions about the location of this and that. I could have been famous, you know, FAMOUS".
Seeing that he was getting aggravated, the Chef attempted to bring the conversation to a close.
"Yes, yes, I understand" he said sympathetically, "but I really must find that control room".
"Oh very well. Here. Now be off with you" the choreographer snapped, shoving a crumpled piece of paper into the Chef's hand. The Chef, seeing the elitists coming back from their 'five', was only too happy to be off as quickly as humanly possible.
He hurried back up through the complex.
"Cortonfire to Keys, come in Captain Keys" radioed Cortonfire, attempting to reach the Captain with news of their first ever successful mission.
"The Captain has dropped out of contact" came the dulcet reply from the operator, "his ship may be out of range or experiencing technical difficulties. As your custom is important to us, we will keep trying. Hold please".
As some sort of rock music blared out from somewhere, the Chef broke into a run as Consonant appeared from every direction. Gnomes brandished their pickaxes menacingly, elitists scrambled for their silverware and jackdaws activated their shiny shields. Ducking and dodging, the Chef prayed that he would make it safely above ground. Reaching the door which he had previously unlocked, he stopped suddenly.
"En garde, sirrah!" said the elitist in front of him.
This one was obviously of high status, various pieces of gold jewellery adorned his fingers and wrists, and his fencing rapier (the extremely sharp tip of which the Chef was currently eyeing with severe unease) was encrusted with diamonds and rubies from distant lands. Beads of sweat dripped down the Chef's forehead as the elitist advanced on him. Just as Cortonfire was writing out his obituary, he hit on a way out.
"Is this a dagger I see before me?!"
The elitist, mortified by the incorrectness of the quotation, not to mention the terrible elocution, fell on his sword in embarrassment. John didn't notice this however; he was already halfway up the corridor at the first chance he got. Out into the open he rushed. He scanned the horizon in desperation, hoping against hope that someone was here to pick him up. With the sun in his eyes, he peered with a timid curiosity at an approaching speck that was swinging erratically about the sky.
"Keys" he muttered resignedly.
As the delivery ship that Keys had commandeered came to a less than perfect stop near the Chef, the Captain himself became visible in the window. He waved with the hand that wasn't gripping the Jack Daniels, and motioned for them to climb aboard. Meeting them in the small cargo area, he studied the map that the Chef had retrieved with interest.
"Well, you two go there. I'll go here!" he said, pointing to the underside of the map.
For the first time, the Chef noticed the reverse of the paper that the map was printed on also held a map. It was emblazoned with rich detail, fabulous drawings of gold coins and exotic jewels dotted the decoration. A large 'X' marked a spot that was curiously in the middle of a large swampy area. The words "Here be treasure" were written in flowing script just above it. John looked up at the Captain. The drunken haze in Keys' eyes had cleared, and dollar signs now floated stereotypically where his pupils should have been. Not wanting to go on some idiotic Indiana Jones style quest, he agreed with the Captain.
"Yeah, we'll find the control room".
"Let's get moving" suggested Cortonfire. "Here are the coordinates of a flight plan I've worked out"
As the ship lifted into the air, Keys and the Chef looked at each other and shook their heads.
"Er, Cortonfire, these coordinates are underground!" mocked Keys.
"Oh, oops, I…" she began, but the captain interrupted lest the pace of the narrative slow down.
"I'll set you down near the control room and then continue on to this cache of treasure!"
Once again, the Chef found himself looking out over a speeding landscape from the back of a delivery ship. He wondered how much longer the author could get away with this sort of tripe. He wasn't the only one.
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