[b]The Teleporter Opens.[/b] The invasion truly began exactly two weeks after the first arrival of the Teleporters. The day began as normal, with those from time zones before me logging off for the day and those from England taking over the reigns to replace them. That’s how it always went, with Americans from the East Coast following right after Europe, then logging off to be replaced by West Coast Americans, who then handed back off to Europe. And, as the majority of Halo 2 players in Europe are English, we handled our initial obliteration in the true English manner. With woeful incompetence, almost like the Somme’s virtual counterpart. But I digress. The day began, as clarified earlier, as usual. New European Players finished off the few remaining, weary Americans and then turned on themselves in competitive or friendly games, killing each other and re-spawning (coming back to life) to carry on again. I myself had just finished caving in some poor sap’s skull with the stock of my rifle when the enormity of the situation became clear. My team, Blue Team, was immediately next to the alien Teleporter of the map, and had beaten off the opposing force in a vicious hand-to-hand melee. Victorious, we were ready to consolidate our gains and then charge straight after the fleeing enemy. Then, much to our shock, something emerged from the Teleporter. We stood, transfixed, as we beheld this new arrival. Its outward appearance told us nothing of its malevolent nature, as it looked just like us. In Halo 2, the vast majority of players use the “Spartan” avatar. That is, to say, a superhuman soldier wearing a full suit of MJOLNIR armour. It conceals the user appearance behind a full-face helmet, provides an energy shield for the user, and looks rather striking. Players are also able to customise the colour scheme to make their identity unique amongst thousands of others. In stark contrast to the pallet of primary colours daubed onto our armour, this newcomer was clad entirely in jet black. “What do we do?” Asked one of my friends to anyone in general. The player in black showed no reaction. “Perhaps talk with it?” Proposed another. “But who?” “Well, we could get the team leader to do it.” The first suggested. “Capital idea!” “Team leader, go boldly where no man has gone before, you know, Star Trek and Captain Picard style.” He said. Having never watched that defining staple of the Sci-Fi genre before in my life, I honestly didn’t know how to act like Captain Picard other than to put a rather deep voice on. “No, don’t act like Picard! Be like Captain Kirk!” Ordered another teammate. He and the Picard fan subsequently fell into a tense argument over whether Picard or Kirk was better. Sighing, I stepped forward to greet the black-clad arrival. I never had time to even talk with the Player, for as soon a I stepped forward, the Player raised a pistol and fired. Under normal circumstances, a pistol round would have bounced off my energy shield, but, as I was soon to learn, this was not an ordinary foe. Instead of tickling me as per usual, there was a bright flash of light. At which point I died instantly, my seared corpse flying off at a tangent to land a great distance away after bouncing off several walls like a discarded rag doll. (My later investigation has led me to believe I was the first casualty of the entire War.) Of course, being dead, I wasn’t able to see what happened immediately after my passing. A friend tells me that the black player used its pistol to nonchalantly slaughter the entire team before they could even return fire. “Its accuracy was almost like a Borg from Star Trek.” He told me. Fortunately for us, though, the enemy had yet to deploy its more nefarious equipment to the field. This meant we could re-spawn and live to fight another day. Frustrated, we regrouped and made ready to make another push on this upstart enemy. “What was that all about?” Cried one of my teammates. “I honestly have no idea.” Another responded despondently. “I’ll tell you what though, that gun was clearly modded.” A third stated confidently. He was right. Pistols never worked like that. The term “modded” means that a person with a substantial knowledge of computer coding altered the basic building blocks of a game to make an entirely new invention. Modding was an easily abused thing though, so the practice was frowned on in the Halo 2 online community, and viewed as cheating. “We need to get in touch with the other team now. Together we can sweep this cheating scumbag out once and for all.” With that, we set off and got in contact with the opposing team. Though still smarting from our earlier victory, they had seen what had happened to us and agreed to help. The Teleporter was in the open, in an overlooked area perfect for snipers, and there were three different routes of approach on the ground. Both of our teams consisted of seasoned veterans, even one person who played Halo 2 for a living on the payroll of a multinational company. Our experience, combined with our familiarity with the area, led us to think the task ahead would be easy. Three snipers would position themselves on the high ground and hassle the Cheater from a hidden position while everyone else stormed in and gunned down the target, who should by then be pinned by ceaseless sniper rifle fire. Our coordination was flawless. The snipers began firing as soon as their comrades burst out of cover, who had already started flinging grenades at the Teleporter. The thunderclaps of the sniper rifle fire combined with the rolling booms of the grenades to make a cacophony that told us nothing could survive in the midst of it. But it didn’t work. The Cheater had positioned itself on top of the Teleporter, where it simply shrugged off the sniper fire and grenade shrapnel. Then, to my horror, it returned fire. I never saw what weapon it was holding, but it fired lances of complete black that seemed to absorb the light around it. First, the snipers died. The only thing we knew about their fate was a brief cry of surprise, accompanied by three of those black lances heading toward them. Then, the Cheater adjusted its aim in the blink of an eye and started to rake everyone else with these beams of unnerving darkness with rapid fire. I immediately ducked into cover, watching in terrified fascination. The shooter really did act like a machine, surgically picking off those closest to it, killing one, then whipping around with unnatural speed to kill another with amazing precision. I estimate that the entire engagement lasted no longer than two seconds, and only because the Cheater had to kill so many of us. And all throughout, I hid. But only because I hid did I survive. I noticed during the engagement several peculiar things. When this thing the cheater fired and killed someone, there were no corpses. On contact with the black beam, the Player simply disappeared. But perhaps more disturbingly, it wasn’t only their bodies that vanished. I checked the match Player lists in a moment of anxiety and found, much to my shock, that I was the only one still in the match! Being the last of my kind alive here, I elected to quit the match before I suffered the same fate as my friends. So I left the game and went about my business in real life, but all the while plagued with hundreds of unanswered questions. If there was a cheater on the other side of the Teleporters, why hadn’t it come out earlier? What had happened to those killed in that first, disastrous attack on the Cheater? Was anything being done about it? Was this simply an isolated incident or something more sinister? My questions would have to wait, I decided. I had more important things to worry about. But despite this, my mind ran through dozens of possibilities, one after another, each one more despairing than the last. At first, I told myself that the cheater would be mercilessly wiped out, like a bug is crushed beneath a man’s heel. By the time I returned home and went back online, I was fearing the worst. Surprisingly, my fears were confirmed.