 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
Concept Art
Halo Bulletins
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
ARG Forum
Links
Admin
Submissions
Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Angel Wings Chapter 4: And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead
Posted By: Neil Yudsponwy<mark_price@hotmail.co.uk>
Date: 16 August 2008, 6:12 pm
Read/Post Comments
|
The scene begins peaceful enough, with Candy pacing around the curved seating on the top deck of the Valhalla, doing one of her monologues for the camera.
A typical trait of most hunters; filming themselves through various stages of the hunt to watch them later and see if the benefit of hindsight can bring them any closer to understanding their prey, the words used giving little hints as to their way of thinking and to the paths the prey has lead them.
Having a crew of five meant Candy could ask a question five times and get five different answers, but Candy being Candy, she was heliocentric and Lord knows she was hard-nosed and forthright in her opinion. She never asked for help on a job, considered it demeaning, even if it meant adding several hours to a hunt.
Around her, two of Candy's concubines act as if nothing's out of the ordinary, as if some butch, vivacious, pink-haired sex-mad old crow walking around amongst their workings were a daily occurrence.
I call them concubines because at any one time they were her lovers: men and women that had fallen under her spell and were now willing to die for her; I guess having seen the roster of the Paragon's mortuary, they all proved their worth.
I shake the morbid thought loose and continue watching the film about ghosts:
"We got multaple sightin's in Lavatoria placing 'em in the Swarf, just outside the Plates, so they ain't run far from the herd. Something in my waters tells me these Spartans are setting up shop –like they got unfinished business 'round here."
Candy strokes the blonde, silky hair of a pretty young thing I've never seen before, the last acquisition to get caught up in Candy's considerable pull, maybe.
After a short burst of tongue play, Candy cocks her head to the musings of a previous monologue on her screen:
"Seven Spartans have rebelled and I've been brought in to sniff 'em out."
There is a brief sound of laughter before real-time Candy surmises. "Like seven Spartans can just disappear!"
"Amen." I salute from the vantage point of fourteen days, three hours and twenty-six minutes beyond her death.
And then it all kicks off.
The alarms go haywire and the red lights do their disco dance revolutions about the room.
Ray, an old hand of Candy's comes rushing up to the top of the stairs from the lower deck and is soaked in the black stuff, brandishing a smoking automatic.
"They're here, Candy, they're here!"
As Candy and her pretty young thing race for their weapons, Ray throws the automatic to the other deck member and pulls out his revolver just as a bullet leaves him a headless jiggling wreck.
I knew Ray well; he loved nothing more than to blow smoke and swap fishing stories over cold beers on hot summer nights. At the top of the screen, what's left of his body wriggles out its dying throes.
The alarm drones on while Candy and her two remaining concubines prepare themselves for the assault on the cockpit. Candy takes refuge behind the Valhalla's main terminal, the pretty young blonde thing goes prone behind the cockpit's curved seating and the unknown omissible deck hand kneels down on the edge of the other end.
The Valhalla has two symmetrical stairways running diagonally along her port and starboard sides, bridging the lower and upper decks. Candy's had the Valhalla for nearly a decade, for nearly as long as she's had breast implants. But in the heat of the moment, she's forgotten the first thing about defending her own vessel.
I feel like screaming at the hologram:
You run a three deck ship Candy, multiple entry points, multiple fucking entry points. Attack is now her best form of defence, no good camping in an assault like this.
Considering the footage is from a fortnight ago, she still looks up at the camera and strokes my neck hairs. Like she's saying:
'I know Heff, you shiny wet patronising piece of shit. D'ya mind letting me do things my way.'
"Sure babe, go right ahead." I say aloud.
Connie inquires as to my thinking but I just let her slide.
Ray's body disappears; shooting down the stairs and I cringe at what I know will be its improvised use. The blackened, spurting cadaver re-appears but this time hovering into the room, teasingly being used as a shield and getting ripped up by heavy gunfire.
A Spartan's gauntlet snakes up between the corpse's shoulders, brandishing Ray's revolver in its mouth and spitting bullets. The motif at the top of his arm has a Spartan helmet with horns on either side. The name 'J.D.' emblazoned across the top and underscored with the numbers: 522.
Rushing up the opposite stairs, another marauder comes surging in; this one carrying a sizeable cargo crate that barely fits through the gap.
And from the size of him, I'm surprised that he fits through the gap.
The Spartan pushes the crate along the floor and it slides into the curved seating, pinning pretty blonde against the main terminal and leaving the omissible hand deck exposed.
Things go from bad to worse.
Ray's snake puppet trick sees the easy target and drops him, regurgitating white hot lead that lands between his eyes and explodes the back of his head.
The remnant of Ray's battered and ragged body is thrown to the floor as 'J.D.' does a runner down the marauder's entrance for a costume change. The powerhouse prop pusher, meanwhile, dives down the entrance that Ray lost his head. I fancy myself hearing them tell the other cast members waiting in the wings that the show's going down a storm.
In the sudden calm, the pretty young thing trapped between the seating and the terminal, yelps out in pain. Not a good sign and not what I'd expect Candy wants to hear.
I stir uncomfortably in my chair, turning a mantra over and over in my mind.
'Don't do it, Candy.'
For as long as you've known someone and for as long as you've been able to second guess what they'll do, you never really want –or expect– them to do it.
Candy kicks her foot out at the seating but the heavy furniture remains unmoved. Pretty thing makes sure everyone onboard knows of her pain with more yelping.
'They're watching Candy, don't do it.'
She levers her shotgun against the terminal wall and between the seating, putting her weight into it and forcing the curved seating clear. Pretty thing gets up as the room is swarmed by four Spartans.
One in particular marks himself out by his aggression.
As Candy brings her shotgun home to bear on Gabrielle, Spartan 525: Leonard 'Rocious' Kingsley, leaps to his leader's defence and knocks the shottie up in the air before snatching it from Candy, like taking sweet stuff from a baby. The gun comes full circle and Candy takes the full brunt of a second blast in the grill.
The Spartan cocks the blunder-gun again and fires needlessly into Candy's falling body.
Like I said, needlessly, she was already dead. I've never seen such unprofessional behaviour from a Spartan before.
As the other Spartans attempt to subdue a frenzied 25, he moves in for the last crew member of the Valhalla with a 'kiss-your-ass-goodbye' racking of the pump.
The pellets spread out across her face, take off a portion of her scalp and pretty young thing doesn't look so pretty anymore.
It's down to Spartan 522, Azrael 'J.D.' Ford, to put 'Rocious' in his place. 'J.D.' takes the boom stick from his bloodlust buddy and throws it to the largest Spartan: 'Echo' 517, the powerhouse prop pusher. Then he hooks the leg and lays his hand on Leo's chest, pushing him down onto the curved seating.
'King Leo', clearly the runt of the litter, doesn't like being manhandled and is up to fighting with his colleague.
Something's clearly wrong with them.
These aren't Spartans in control of their emotions, but because they're using their internal mikes to communicate, I have no idea what they're saying.
"Connie." I say, as 'Echo' raises the butt of the shotgun up to the camera. "Does the Valhalla have any sound decoders onboard?"
"Negative." She replies.
"Shame." I say as the feed goes down. "I'd sure like to know what those guys were talking about."
|
