Legendary Idiots: A Halo Misadventure
Space Yosemite
The Pillar of Autumn was tearing itself apart, and four Master Chiefs were arguing about alien sex.
They had been magically transported into the Halo universe ninety seconds earlier—four friends, four identical suits of green MJOLNIR armor, four identical faceplates, and one shared inability to take anything seriously. They had also, in that same window, unanimously agreed to start on Legendary. Alex made that decision despite never having played Halo before, because he was a PS2 guy, and he was about to learn exactly what that cost.
The ship was burning. The Covenant were boarding through every breach. Captain Keyes was somewhere below giving a speech they all ignored in favor of a far more urgent question: how did the Covenant mate?
“Okay, twice a year,” said Rob, spraying assault rifle fire over the heads of three approaching Elites, “the Covenant is able to mate for eight hours.”
“During those eight hours,” said Mitch, “they can have twenty-four Master Chiefs mate with them.”
“After mating,” said Rob, “they produce a copulatory plug, which the Covenant then eats.”
A plasma bolt sizzled through the air where Rob’s head had been one second earlier.
“When Master Chief puts the plug in the Covenant,” said Alex, “does he have to take his suit off, or is it part of the suit?”
“The mask stays on,” said Trey.
“And he has to lower his shield first,” said Rob.
“See,” said Rob, gesturing at a Covenant corpse that had just been launched through the far bulkhead, “those are the copulatory plugs. And this is the jizz.”
Mitch nodded. “I’m so hard right now I can hardly march.”
They were, by every metric, the greatest warriors the Halo universe had ever seen. It was the first mistake of the evening.
The escape pod was loud and brief, and the ring filled the sky like a painted ceiling. The four stood on a ridgeline, visors tilted up.
“It’s like a holy relic,” said Trey. “A holy site for them.”
“It kind of just looks like a national park,” said Alex.
“We must protect this national park,” said Mitch. “Covenant Teddy Roosevelt.”
“Walk quietly,” said Alex, “but carry a big laser pistol.”
Their park ranger careers lasted until the first Covenant patrol, which is also when they learned the Covenant spoke English. Convenient. They also learned the marine who said “I’ll be fine” was lying—he died about three seconds later.
“Everyone fucking dies,” said Alex.
“My name is Guy Expendable,” said Mitch. “Everyone knows.”
“Had to teabag the trooper before we left,” added Mitch.
They saved Sergeant Johnson, mostly by accident, and found the hidden skull in a cave, which they stared at like archaeologists.
Then there was the Warthog.
The Warthog was built for three Marines. It was not built for four Master Chiefs, each with shoulders the size of a small moon.
“Fine,” said Trey, “I’ll just ride in the bitch back.”
“Hey, boys, be nice back there,” said Mitch from the driver’s seat. “Your mother’s got her migraine.”
“I will drive like an adult,” said Mitch.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Alex. “Hold on, hold on.”
“Whoa—” said Rob, who had desynced from the group and was now two hundred yards away on a cliff, waving both arms. “Hold on!”
“Rob, you despawned us,” said Mitch.
“There’s no room!” said Rob, even though there was obviously room.
“The Covenant’s going to look at us,” said Trey, “and it’s like, game over.”
That was the most confident thing anyone said all night. The Warthog lasted fifty feet before Rob was thrown off the bumper and the vehicle, held together by spite and copulatory-plug prayers, came apart.
“I’m going to blow up that car,” said Rob, from the cliff.
The Truth and Reconciliation was a Covenant ship, and it was a nightmare. They fought through identical corridors, died to grenades that came from nowhere, and watched Trey get dropped from the campaign, leaving three Master Chiefs to carry the weight. Mitch found a sniper rifle and became the entire team’s personality. Rob died five times and, by the ancient math of Legendary, respawned with more grenades every time.
“It’s been really enjoyable watching you die over and over again,” said Mitch, one-shotting an Elite from a catwalk.
“Yep,” said Rob. “I’ve died five times. But I get more grenades every time I do.”
“Fuck you!” said Mitch.
“This might be too much for three Master Chiefs,” said Alex.
“Oh,” said Rob, “we need four Master Chiefs.”
They got out by the skin of their teeth, which was more than the Warthog could say.
The Silent Cartographer was a tropical island that should have been paradise, if paradise was full of Hunters. But before the Hunters, there was the tank.
“Y’all bastards,” said Rob, climbing on. “Because we got a tank.”
“You can’t stop this superior American-made tank,” said Trey.
This was true for exactly four minutes. The tank died in a pillar of green fire at the same moment Alex announced that his license to prescribe controlled substances had been approved.
“The case that I got disposed on,” said Alex.
“Oh, nice! Congratulations!” said Rob.
“You can get people addicted to opioids now,” said Mitch. “It’s my favorite part of the job.”
“That’s alright,” said Rob, “you give him the opioids, I give him the speed.”
“Have you heard of our Lord and Savior opioids?” said Mitch.
“OH FUCK! OH GOD!” said Rob, as the tank exploded.
“Oh ho ho ho ho!” said Trey.
“Oh no,” said Trey, “we lost the tank.”
From there, the island became a war of attrition. Hunters—walls of writhing worm-muscle in armored plating who moved in pairs and treated small-arms fire like weather—appeared in every doorway, their only weakness a sliver of exposed orange flesh that on Legendary might as well have been a rumor. Mitch lost the rocket launcher. Rob kept dying. They died so many times the checkpoint system started recognizing them by name.
“I can’t believe we made it through that gauntlet,” said Mitch.
“We probably died a hundred times,” said Rob.
“I don’t know that it’s over,” said Trey.
The Assault on the Control Room was a frozen climb through the armpit of a god, and they did it with the enthusiasm of men who had already died a hundred times. It took forever. They stopped caring.
Then the next mission was called 343 Guilty Spark, and it was a swamp.
Fog rolled through the trees like it had been hired for atmosphere. The grass was wet. The Covenant were gone, replaced by something that had clearly been eating marines. The four Master Chiefs stood at the edge of the treeline.
“I don’t remember this mission at all,” said Mitch.
“Maybe it’s new,” said Trey.
“Isn’t 343 the studio that made Halo Infinite?” said Rob.
“Unless they were named after this level,” said Trey.
“I’m about to piss myself,” said Mitch. “Is this the Library? Because I definitely should stop.”
Somewhere in the fog, something screamed. It did not sound like a bird.
“Would you guys want to take a break,” said Rob, “to go move into the room?”
“Yes,” said everyone, in perfect unison, for the first time all night.
“Go to the room,” said Trey, “and we get some dinner.”
“End game,” said Rob.
And the swamp, the ring, the entire legendary nightmare folded in on itself, and the four Master Chiefs were gone.
Somewhere on Installation 04, a Covenant officer looked at the empty patch of swamp where four green demons had been standing, shrugged, and went back to his scripture. He had a mating window coming up in six months. He had the strangest feeling it was going to be crowded.