I hope this story will turn out better than my last attempt at a 'video game characters in Equestria' story

Here's the hoping!

"YEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAW! RIDE IT BITCH!" the drug-addled hick shouted at the prostitute as she sucked him off.

Darque Chocolate, as her job's pseudonym named her, suppressed the extreme urge to gag and vomit as the crazy hick finished in her mouth, choking her with his rancid man juice.

Trevor sighed and laid back in his comfy seat, made from 'gourmet deerhide or something' as Michael called it, he loved the life of luxury, all the time in the world to do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Casting his reddened eyes downwards, he looked at the prostitute, she was still there.

"Git! Git outta here!" he demanded, reaching for his Colt.45 to punctuate - and possibly perforate - his point.

Darque Chocolate stood up, reclothed herself, and ran out as fast as she could in high heels.

The balding psychopath looked outside, it was still daytime, but then again it was summer, so the days lasted longer.

He had already howled at the moon, so sleeping in the middle of a summer afternoon was next on his list.

Removing his trousers and putting out some two-sizes-too-big denim shorts, he pulled out a napkin and wiped the residual meth from his mouth, grinning when he noticed that it had congealed into a druggy jelly, and stuff the soiled napkin in his mouth, savoring the mindnumbing taste and effects.

Walking out onto the balcony, Trevor sat down on lawnchair and dozed off, using an umbrella to keep that bastard of a sun off of his skin, he didn't want to get sunburned the day before another big heist with his best buds, Franklin and Michael.

Sleep came easily, and he dreamt of fried chicken, corn and cornbread, mashed potatoes that were drowning in gravy, and all sorts of delicious, good, hearty southern food, then it turned to desert, usually he dreamt of apple cobbler or apple pie, but for some reason, all that came up was pink cotton candy and chocolate milk.

'What the hell?' dream him wondered aloud, looking to his mother, but she looked different.

Her skin was gray, hair was still white, but her eyes looked worse than his, with yellowed whites and reddened irises, 'Momma, what are you on and where can I get some?' he asked, receiving a thunderous peal of laughter in response.

His mother shapeshifted into some sort of mix-match abomination of animals, he had only one response:

'EAT LEAD YOU SONUVA BITCH!" he screamed, pulling out an AK47 and riddling the monster with holes.

His vision was filled with gray and brown, and he felt like he was falling, his legs scraping against something hard and wood-like.

He was falling out of a tree, just like he did when he was a child.

"Hey, Arby, look at this," John called out to his friend, who walked over with the clattering of his hard-skinned feet on the metal floor

Ever since the Forward Unto Dawn incident, the two always stuck together, making sure that the two most feared species in the universe would remind any fools exactly why the Humans and Covenant were the 'Two Most Feared Species in the Galaxy'

"Hm?" the white armored elite hummed, looking at the small device that his friend was holding out to him.

On the screen, an image, which dated back to the human's 21st century, showed a restaurant, named Arby's.

"Apparently, this place sold mainly sandwiches, mainly roast beef sandwiches," the bleach-blond haired super-soldier revealed, moving his device back into his own personal view.

Chief was currently on a break, no threats were made, neither written or expressed, so times were, for once, peaceful.

Drinking from his massive coffee mug, after all, a massive man needs a massive amount of nourishment, the blue-eyed human sighed and set down his pint-mug and his PEVD, standing up and stretching out his rippling muscles and super-hardened bones, hearing firecracker-like cracks from his joints snapping into place.

"I'm heading to the training rooms, can't let myself lose my edge, can I?" Master Chief rhetorically asked.

"Aagh *ahem* I... g-g-gue-guesssss nah-aw-ot," Arbiter replied in broken, stuttering English, he was trying, at least, to learn the language, it was apparently easier than getting a Cortana or whatever AI for himself to translate English into Sangheili.

John closed the door behind him, passing by many troops on his way to the training rooms, all of which saluted, especially the hardass sergeants and unconfident privates.

He only gave a thumbs-up in response, which many soldiers internally squee'd over, getting a thumbs up from the Master Chief was seen as a great honor.

He started for the armory, he needed his armor if he was going to do any serious training, after all. The large, hallway-esque room opened for him, and he put on his MkVI Mjolnir armor with little difficulty, magnetic field emitters embedded in his body helped out, Cortana hummed to life as he implanted her chip into the slot on his shoulder plates.

"Ah, chief, is there something wrong?" the AI asked, ready to run procedures at the drop of a helmet.

"No, I'm just going to do some training, nothing dire," the soldier answered, trekking towards the training rooms.

He arrived before long, plucking a pistol, battle rifle, and DMR from the weapons area and was just about to start when the intercom sounded.

"All Spartan soldiers, immediately report to cryo-containment, we are about to use warp-drive," the announcer informed.

John found the announcement odd, but orders were orders, even in the announcer sounded a bit queer-voiced.

"Is that the best description you could think of, Chief? Queer? The announcer, according to the cameras, looks physically ill..." Cortana trailed off, not sure where to go from there.

The Chief didn't bother putting his weapons back into the appropriate area, simply speeding through the halls and to the cryo-tank room.

Within a minute, the super-soldier was tucked away inside a box of ice, awaiting the next action...

... waiting...

.......... waiting...........

The containment unit lurched and started jerking around with a *THUNK THUD CLANG CLANK THUD*

Bright starlight was peaking in through the frost, though the majority of things around his unit were dark. He opened the lid and sat up, noting that the machine was now sitting horizontally in the middle of a dark area, his enhanced eyes, and helmet lights, told him that he appeared to be in a forest.

"Did the ship crash?" he asked hesitantly.

For once in his life, he wasn't sure of himself, or anything around him.

Lee Everett, that was his name, he tried to cling onto life for as long as he could. His whole body was numb, his eyes weren't working right, he could hardly hear, and Clementine was gone, leaving him to turn and her with an extra bullet.

The dying man turned his head to look at the dead walker in front of him, he hadn't expected the poor bastard's wrists to tear off, so Clem left with Lee unrestrained.

The walker virus was taking over his body, he looked at the quickly greening bite mark on his left wrist, funny how something so small because such a significant part of his life, just like Clem.

A tear rolled down his cheek, the last tear he would ever drop, because his body groaned on its own accord, shakily climbing to its feet, oh shit! Was this what walkers were like? A small amount of consciousness trapped in a body being piloted by a corrupting entity? Forced to watch yourself chase down and eat innocent, and not-so-innocent, people? This was worse than death, this was much worse than death!

He had no control over his mouth, and he wanted nothing more than to scream.

The dead guard was the first to go, why was he eating another infected? It was weird, but he didn't want to question it, his body was numb and his thoughts were trapped.

A sound, not unlike fire, but more like the rapid crackling of firecrackers than the slow crackling of a wood-fueled fire, what was that?

His body decided to investigate, the light in the room amplified a thousand fold, leaving him blinded.

Light burned through the darkness, leaving Lee with the feeling of a humid warmth and a small pain in his jaw.

He could hear the snorting of an animal, everything was dark, where was he?

His fingers and toes, hands and feet, arms and legs, torso and chest, neck and head, he could feel all of them, was he cured? Did he end up in purgatory or something?

A warm liquid dripped down his chin, wiping it away with a finger revealed it to be the greenish blood of a walker, which caused him to retch, letting loose what few contents of his stomach there were, which equated to a few crackers, a few ounces of champagne or some sort of liquor, and a few bits of walker meat.

The snorting got louder, and when the dark skinned man wiped his mouth with a hand and wiped his hand on a tree, he turned to the source, and immediately wished that he hadn't.

Standing there, in the darkness, was a beast with glowing green eyes. Almost comically and pants-shittingly, several more pairs of glowing green eyes opened.

Lee only stepped back slowly, wishing he had that fireman's axe again.

Ezio Auditore da Firenze, finally back home, the robes were hung up, the blade was sheathed, and now all he had to do in order to finally cut his ties with the Creed was write a book about his experience as the Mentor.

"The first line, it is always the hardest," he lamented, putting his head into his hands, contemplating what to write.

Maybe if he got into the spirit of it, he hadn't done any 'Assassin-y' things in several months, maybe he just had to think about it?

He thought, and thought, and thought some more, but nothing came to him, absolutely nothing.

How had he forgotten his crazy experiences as the Mentor? Was he really that old already?

The closet, standing amongst his lustrous clothing and various amounts of cloth-bound swagger helped him think, so he tried standing in his closet.

Nothing.

"Maybe, maybe if I put them back o- what are you thinking Ezio? I highly doubt they'd do that, or maybe they would, it wouldn't hurt to ask..." the gray-haired man began writing his letter.

Dear brothers and sisters of the Creed,

I am writing to you on the subject of my Record del Mentore. My endeavors to recount the epic tales that I have experienced, on paper, have proven fruitless. My thoughts led me to believe that I may be becoming 'out of touch' with my inner Assassino, I have pondered, 'how can I get back into the spirit of things?' and come to a conclusion.

I formally and kindly request that you, only temporarily, send me either my robes, my blades, or both, preferably both, as a well-described chase cannot conclude with a lacklusterly-described kill, I await your answer.

Signed, with great affection,

Former Mentore del Assassino, Ezio Auditore da Firenze

It was a simple plan, put on the clothes again, write the story, and be done with it. He was not, however, expecting a swift response of not only 'yes', but already bringing the clothes and blades to him.

The furry shoulderguard and blade-bracers were removed, replaced with simple black sleeves that made the blades hard to detect, due to the black-painted casing, and leather-chainmail-leather triple-layered shoulderguards on both sides, the color was no different, though, and the little details he had put in remained as well.

"The Mentore does not make a mess of perfection," the nameless messenger remarked, looking between the gray man and the gray robes.

"What was your name again, boy?" Ezio put on his strict voice, already reclothing himself in the robes.

"Aero, sir, that is the only thing that the Creed ever need call me," the younger man had a british accent, odd.

"Far from home, I can hear," the now-robed master noted, remembering his geography lessons.

"The Creed reaches far, Mr. Auditore, far enough to stretch over the waters to claim a land of prosperity in its gentle, guiding grasp." Aero bowed, finding the robed master to look almost... regal in stature.

Given that this was the early 1500s, people weren't much in the way of 'large and in charge', Ezio himself was a, for the time, impressive five feet eleven inches, and with the robes on, he looked like a reaper of death.

Well, technically that was exactly what he was supposed to be, but with the tipless black gloves and concealing hood, he certainly looked the part.

Though now he was sitting down at his desk, inspiration hitting him like a crate of bricks, and the quill practically flew across the paper, as though it were still attached to the bird it came from.

Several minutes passed, Aero watching as Ezio's nimble, dexterous hands covered several pages with words.

The older man's eyes felt heavy for some reason, he felt like tasting something.

How odd, a desire for something called 'chocolate', the name made no sense and the concept was previously unheard of, why now? Why at all?

His hidden blades *shing*ed out, one was the hook, the other held the poison mechanism, in how many ways would this simple blade change?

Could one... perhaps... serrate the blade? Would mankind find a way to fully harness the power of fire? What about lightning? The power of the heavens, compressed down into the form of a knife concealed at the wrist. A terrifying thought, it was. What if some assassin made another 'shell' for the blade, those in Constantinople made a hook 'shell', what if one made a shell of an axe? A hammer? What about other types of blades themselves? Could one detach the blade from the casing at will? What if the blade was like a flail, suspended on a chain? He had heard rumors from the Asian assassins that such a device was a popular choice for fishing.

Enough about these lengths of sharpened metal that forged in coal fires and put into mechanisms that concealed and revealed them with a mere flick of the wrist.

"That was a complicated thought," he absentmindedly said aloud, Aero would have spoken up, but stayed quiet in his seat, far away from the writing elder.

Such odd desires, but now Ezio's senses were getting messed with, he could hear the sounds of pouring rain and ripping paper, taste pure sugar mixed with a bit of strawberry, he felt drunk and sober at the same time, he was shivering throughout heat-flashes, and pure gray filled his vision.

The old man was shocked out of his trance when his ass impacted the ground, sending a spike of pain up his back, though not as intense as he though it might have been, everything on him felt lighter, like he wasn't weighed down by his old age.

Daring to open his eyes, streaks of light were passing through thick foliage, this was his worst nightmare.

"Great, a forest full of sturdy trees with steady branches that have little-to-no chance of breaking, even if someone like me were to cling to, stand on, or jump off of one of them, I can't do any parkour here!" he had slept through that class during the studying section of becoming a good assassin.

Everything was still on him, good, mysteriously suddenly-switching-locations-in-the-world, or whatever a simpler, more-advanced-than-early-1500s word would be, could be dangerous, so it was nice to have his weapons on him.

Things looked up, as did he, and found a teal-eyed bug-esque horse-like creature standing in front of him, looking up at him curiously.

"*ahem* Hello small thing," -he squatted down, noticing that his lengthy goatee was now brown, as it had been when he was younger- "My name is..." he trailed off, his jaw left a bit slack.

He would need a good pseudonym, what would work? It hit him, "My name is Altair, Altair Ibn-La'Ahad, tell me, do you know where your owner is?"

"Queen is missssssing," the bug-thing replied in plain, if a bit lisped, English.

Ezio was shocked, how did a bug-horse-thingy speak? Why had he even stayed in its presence? Why had he not simply killed it?

It seemed trustworthy, though he had a feeling that there was more to this thing that met the eye.

"Finally, so close now, after so long, it shall be my birthday tomorrow!" the gentleman said to the pigmen, who replied with a chorus of:

"You're the best, boss,"

"That's good, homie,"

"You and me good friends!"

"Nice monkey man,"

"Right, okay, so, I'll need to whip up something special, this day might be my last here." Wilson reached through his massive beard, pulling out his luxury axe from his hammerspace pockets, "I'll need something tasty, and since an axe gives me more meat..." he beheaded one of the pigmen, the others too caught up in their friendship is him to notice the cold-blooded murder that just took place.

Wilson's sanity meter was dangerously low, and it was almost nighttime, but he didn't care, the arms probably just wanted to hug him.

The fire was lit and the meat was cooked in the crockpot, a delicious meaty stew, perfect.

His golden vest glittered in the darkness, the nightmare beasts shied away from the luminescent man, but Grue came for him.

"Hi, friend," Wilson's mind was turning to mush, how had things gone so wrong, so fast?

A pair of hands, one like a bird's talons, the other like a lion's paw, they grabbed him and sucked him into the ground, leaving his piggy friends to get mauled by the creatures of the night when the fire fizzled out.

Wilson's vision was swirling, but in his gentlemanly prudishness, refused to throw up from the intense stimulation to do so, his mouth felt like he had gorged himself on taffy candies, and the urge rose.

Everything went dark again, leaving the bearded man puking his metaphorical guts out, the liquid was as brown as chocolate, but it smelled like shit, which evoked more of it from his body.

A few minutes later, when it finally ended, the bearded man felt very sane, but also very hungry, and the instinct to never starve fueled his actions of downing a whole pot of beef stew in one go, followed by several roasted carrots and a few berries to sweeten the taste in his mouth.

"Oh my, is it dark out?" he asked to nobody in particular, he still hadn't gotten over being alone, and was unsure how he would react if he ever got a reply to one of his outbursts.

"Nope, it's dark in," a voice replied, making Wilson panic, his freshly restored sanity was starting to drain again already.

"What? Bloody... who's there?" he demanded, pulling out the Nightmare Sword and waving it around.

"I'm not physically with you at the moment, sorry, but being a god of chaos encased in stone does that," Discord informed, a crucial crack in his shell had allowed him telepathic powers, and with the power to surpass the veil of the void between universes, he could do what he wanted with anyone's mind, and the more cracks he gained, the more power he got.

"I'm not sure of this," Wilson hesitantly said as he put the Nightmare Sword away, saving his still mostly-intact mind.

"Just follow the path you're on, it should lead to a village, full of ponies and friendship and blah blah blah blech, maybe you're presence can stir up some chaos and I can be free," the draconequus' voice instructed, retching at the thought of 'friendship', because that was the same shit that put him in stone.

"Why would I do that?" the scientist asked, ironic, as he was now cutting down a tree for seemingly no reason.

"Because I can deliver you from evil, and put you back in your own world, would you like that?" Discord's offer was tempting, yes.

"Alright, I'll do it, what is your name, good sir?" the wild-headed scientist queried, picking up the logs from the tree he had cut down.

"Discord, god of Chaos, you?" the disembodied voice informed.

"Wilson, Wilson Percival Higgsbury," Wilson revealed, putting away his axe and walking down the path.

Was it a good idea to cause some chaos? Probably not.

"Ah, hello Trollzor-69001-Lmao-Fuckdix, is there something you need?" Michael asked his charge, never once questioning the strange man's name.

"Ah shut up I need to know how to craft the thing." came the ever-faint voice of the green skinned, purple haired, red clothed owner of the world, though that last part struck doubt in Michael's mind. He was handed a bar of mythril.

"Michael conjured up a projection of a list that was based on his infinite knowledge, he was supposed to know everything about everything, he was the Guide after all, it was his job.

A minute of slow scrolling up and down the list later, and the odd man finally found what he was looking for. He walked away and to the setup of crafting stations, leaving Michael alone.

He looked up to the Dryad, then to the Nurse, the Merchant, Demolitionist, Arms Dealer, and all of the other NPCs strewn around the crude-at-best wooden box in the sky.

"I'm going out for a walk," he called to the nearest one of them, the Wizard.

"Somebody once told me that Friendship is Magic, HA, that's stupid, after all, you can't turn someone into stone with Friendship," the purple-robed geriatric replied, restricted to only his 'interaction phrases'.

"Why do I even bother," Michael huffed as he put his hands into his pockets and left the building.

Three steps out, and he was falling, "Infinite intelligence has no correlation to, nor invocation of, infinite wisdom, CURSE YOU SKY HOOOOOUUUUUSE!" he shouted to the heavens as he plummeted to the ground, landing on the results of a 'blowout' experiment by Trollzor, on a mountain.

Michael the Guide hit the ground too hard came the message, but it didn't look right, why didn't it look right?

Had the powers that be considered him a Player? Being a Player was the highest honor an NPC could receive, just above 'Die a glorious death', which he had most definitely not done.

The red mists of death encroached on him, but he didn't notice, as he was too distracted with his internal thoughts.

"Do I have to start acting like a Player now? I don't know if I can, is Trollzor a good example? No, I don't think so, that guy is more like Ass...zor, I need to get better at my trash-talking, definitely do, wait, have I respawned yet?" he wondered out loud as everything turned from red to black, what happened? "Did my respawn take until the next morning? Since I'm a player now, shouldn't it take a lot less time?" he asked nobody in particular.

Michael the Guide has joined world 'Equus'

"I thought the name of Trollzor's world was Pen Island? I never understood why he called it that..." Michael ran a hand through his messy brown hair, fixing it up, he straightened his shirt and pants, retied his shoes, and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

His mind automatically filled up with new knowledge, knowledge of the world of Equus, oh no, was he still an NPC? Whenever he had spawned in a new world, his brain was filled up with knowledge.

'Okay Michael, just stay calm, there's no reason to worry, you're a strapping young lad and can take care of yourself, sometimes, any more than three zombies is too much for me, FOCUS! I just have to keep my wits about me and my knowledge like a well-oiled machine, one that will help me in any situation I need, oh how I wish I had some tools,' the genius thought as he looked up to the blotted sky, only his view was obstructed by his hotbar, 'Oh, right, I'm on item slot three, infinite intelligence has no correlation to, nor invocation of, infinite wisdom,' he thought as he pulled out his new copper shortsword, giving it a few inexperienced thrusts and switching to his copper axe, and he began chopping down a tree.

"I'm having doubts, I know that this place has a supporting of magic, and I could find a two or three pony goddesses around, this whole place seems like a children's cartoon, still, some pieces of information are missing, is this all I get? This place called Equestria? Am I even in that country? Of course I am, I wouldn't get information where it wasn't useful." he looked up as the tree turned from a sturdy mass into a thin cloud of falling cords of wood.

Suddenly some old, balding, fat, smelly man appeared in the air where the tree was, Michael instantly knew that if he had chosen a different tree, or didn't chop anything down entirely, then the man would safely land in the one he just cut. Fate is a bitch, though, and the man scraped his leg on one of the falling pieces, then landing in Michael's arms.

Trevor's vision came back to him, and he saw that someone had saved him from falling. He turned his eyes to meet this savior, and thanked him, "Thanks, broseph," he said, motioning for the man to put him down.

Michael caught the message and set this weird man onto his feet.

"Again, thanks, so, howdy? What's your name?" the druggie asked in a sort-of-kind tone.

"Michael," the Guide answered, taking a step backwards, something didn't feel right about this man, he smelled worse than the Underworld.

"No shittin'? I got a buddy named Michael, I'm Trevor, c'mon man, let's go get some PCP," Trevor began walking off in a random direction.

"I am afraid, truly I am frightened, but I am not familiar with that term," Michael was wondering what the sudden fascination with PCP was.

"Well, Mikey, it's like this-" Trevor got excited, he always got excited when drugs were involved.

And so, Michael the Terrarian Guide began learning all about illicit drugs from Trevor the GTA Protagonist.

Author's Notes:

Never played GTA V, or any of the GTAs before, but I hope that I portrayed Trevor well, same with Halo and Master Chief, and AC2, B, or R and Ezio, but I hope I did a good job of their portrayals, and if I didn't, well... ALTERNATE UNIVERSE, MWAHAHAHAHAAAA

I have good hopes for this story, let's see how it does!