I know some of you might remember me posting this way back when, but I never posted all of it and most of you have probably never seen it, so I thought I'd post it out of the blue: my fanfic spoofing Halo. Edit: I'll post a new chapter every Wednesday. Hola: Parodies Evolved Prologue The Fall of Retch TARTAN 118 Master Chef, the most senior TARTAN-II soldier remaining, stood opposite the remaining 78 TARTAN-II super soldiers, units A-Z, three soldiers in each, admiring his fine warriors in all their chequered glory. Their ship, The Caterpillar of Springtime, languished in space above a nearby planet. Their job, however, was not to languish. “As you all know,” said Master Chef, who had flunked Food Tech at school and university, only getting the title “Chef” through sheer accident, a hilarious episode involving sausages, mayonnaise, and his examiner, a chef called Declan, “The Coverup are on their way here. This may well be your, I mean our last mission, as this looks like suicide” “Way to get morale up, Chef,” remarked a soldier of Y-Unit. “SHUT YOUR TRAP!!!” yelled a highly disciplined Chef. “Anyway, I have every confidence that yo…we can defeat this Coverup assault. Y…We are the finest troops mankind has to offer, and if we can’t beat these alien scum, no one can.” “Again with the morale booster,” commented the same soldier of Y-Unit. “KEEP YOUR GOB SHUT, MARINE!!!” screamed Chef. “I have watched you all grow into the greatest fighting force known to man …well, except the Coverup, that is.” The marine from Y-Unit opened his mouth, then stopped and shut it again. “All of y…us can go out there and fight to repel this attack, even you, G-Unit.” The half-rapper-half-super-soldier trio looked at Chef, blinding him with their diamond encrusted armour and about ten medallions around their necks the size of dinner plates (causing dire back problems hence their inability to fight), and half-rapped half-spoke the word “Rispek.” “You know what the prize is. Mankind keeps its greatest stronghold, apart from Earth, and those tropical planets near that big star…oh, and…” The talkative Y-Unit soldier caught Chef’s eye. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I…we are expected to give our lives, if necessary, to defend this beautiful planet…” Chef swivelled dramatically with “jazz hands”, presenting a planet that had seen better days, with thick carbon dioxide clouds covering most of the surface (just in case you’re wondering, everyone on the planet wore gas masks. In fact, people who had been born on the planet had never…I’m deviating, aren’t I. Sorry). At that exact time, by sheer coincidence, a volcano erupted, a hurricane started, and several lightening flashes could be seen at various points on the planet. Coincidence. Yes. “Erm…yes. So, just remember everything we have learnt, from other battles with the Coverup, from our lessons with Dr. Halsinky, from our training with Chief Mendit.” “What was his first name again, sir?” asked an R-Unit soldier. “Jim’ll. It was strange, I know. His parents had an obsession with some 20th century television show, if I remember correctly…” Chef stared into the distance, daydreaming. It was a siren, their signal for deployment, which brought him back to reality. “Err, anyway, get on the surface…we’ll get on the surface and use the anti-spacecraft guns to take out the Coverup. If that fails, prepare…I mean, we’d better prepare for dropships.” “Why didn’t we just stay on the surface?” asked a B-Unit soldier. “Because someone needs to keep an eye on the bigger picture…and not because I… we are cowards, before you ask” he added quickly. “Literally, the bigger picture,” he said to himself, tittering at this dire and nigh-on entirely nonsensical joke that he had inadvertently inserted into the sentence. Inyway…I mean, anyway… The lights on the door to Chef’s right turned green. “I’ll bring up the rear,” (Stop laughing back there!) Chef called hurriedly as the troops got arranged in their threes. A-Unit went first, through the airlock and out into the vast open space that is, erm…space. B-Unit followed. After them went C-Unit. Hey, that’s kind of like the alphabet… As the TARTAN-II soldiers proceeded, the queue shortened. Quite logical really. The talkative Y-Unit soldier watched G-Unit float into space, their body language joyful as their lead-like medallions became weightless. Had they not been in space, you would have heard their backs click as they danced in weightless joy. Ah, but then they wouldn’t have been weightless so their backs would have still hurt. You get what I mean. Ah, yes, the story. The Y-Unit soldier…oh, I’m tired of calling him that, let’s just call him Y…Y…Yancy, or Yves. Yves is good (it’s Scandinavian if you’re wondering, I just looked it up.) Yes, so Yves…how about Yoda. Or does that make him sound geeky. No, Yves. But he’s American, not Scandinavian. Yancy… Yancy it is. Sorry about that. Yancy turned to see the Chef stood where he was before (i.e. not in the queue). “Why are you hanging back there?” he asked. “There’s been a change of plan.” “Made by…” started Yancy. “Me. You lot are headed to the planet to be slaughter…I mean fight off the Coverup, I’m going to stay onboard and keep an eye on the bigger picture.” He chuckled slightly. “But you’re the best fighter in the group!” “That is why I must stay here. If I was killed,” ([i]were[/i] killed?) “the army will lose its single greatest soldier and that can’t happen. If it does, humankind will lose the war on the Coverup. So I must stay here. Definitely. Yes.” Yancy sighed and turned to the airlock. “Alright, but you’ve been such an inspiration. It will be harder to gain victory without you.” “Thank you. But I must stay here.” “I’m not suggesting you don’t.” “Good.” “Goodbye.” “Farewell” Yancy turned around to the airlock, breathed deeply, and stepped in. As the doors shut he turned and saluted Master Chef, who returned it. It wasn’t thrown, that’s just a figure of speech. A hiss hissed, and the doors slid open, revealing the battleground and prize Retch. Yancy kicked off into the abyss. Master Chef stood there, staring at the planet his troops were risking the lives for, half mourning for the loss of so many great friends and soldiers, half jumping for joy (inside. Duh! He’d look a bit silly if he was literally [i]jumping for joy[/i], especially in that TARTAN armour) at the fact he wasn’t on a suicide mission to save the largest dump he had ever seen. He stood there and sighed. He stood there some more. And a little more. The sound of a voice made him jump. The PA system on the ship was resonating with the voice of Cortredhanded, the artificial “personality” which controlled the ship. “How you doing?” “Not too badly, I guess,” replied Chef. “I’m kind of glad that I didn’t have to go on that mission.” “You [i]what?![/i]” “I said…” “I heard what you said! The captain said “Send your best men”! That meant do the job as efficiently as you can, not send in everyone but yourself!” Master Chef shrugged. “I’ve always been modest. And besides, it kind of looks like they’re having fun.” “No, I…” “Come on, look at them! Their spinning their arms and legs in joy of the weightlessness. And…” Chef squinted and leaned forward. “grabbing at their necks and spinning their heads…?” “Chef?” said Cortredhanded. “…What?” said Chef, still distracted by the dancing TARTANs. “You forgot to give them their oxygen tanks.” [Edited on 05.14.2008 6:34 AM PDT]