#halo new blood

[monitorchakas]

Im at this part of the Halo Book New Blood

[superintendent-b]

A collection

[sleep-deprived-person]

Why the actual FUCK did 343 greenlight killing the Rookie from ODST, the main(-est) protagonist of that game, in a fucking book?

Why did Mickey join the same terrorist cell that kidnapped and killed Rookie, *which he caused by not wanting to hurt a human*!?

[oni-official]

Is Vergil (or Quick to Adjust) still okay? Are they aware of what happened to the ODST operative designated as "Rookie"?

Vergil continued doing well with Sadie Endesha as its handler. It worked with ONI, came to be quite popular in the Office. It joined other Huragok serving the Office and would schedule time with researchers to work on problems and calculations.

It's last known location was aboard the UNSC Infinity. While it did have contact with former members of Alpha Nine prior to this, we are not aware if it was informed of the fate of the "Rookie".

[simplicity73]

Gdi I can't believe I'm listening to new blood

I hate this book but I need Jun content

[crafteeauthor]

Honestly I have to wonder if Charles' immense repression doesn't just come from a place of growing up in Thatcher era England with an abusive father (although that is certainly a lot of it), but also from putting Edwin on a bit of a pedestal?

They're on equal footing in terms of just about everything but there's a hint of a dynamic there (they've got a bit of a prince/knight thing going on) that points towards Charles looking up to Edwin in some capacity. It's a little hard to get (laughably easy to get, really hard to register) a dumb teenage crush on someone who appeared to you in your last hours bathed in soft light like death herself and showed you the sort of kindness you thought only angels could show; it's too deific a mental image if that makes sense? I imagine directing romantic feelings towards such a monumental figure in his life (death) would feel like looking at the sun too long

[just-rainbow-thoughts]

*puts leshy in the shrek outfit instead of the maid outfit* I’m nothing like y’all 🐠

[snails-in-spaceships]

So. I'm coping.

[doom-dreaming]

Stars!

"Chief, you have to find cover. Now."

Black spots are swimming in his vision, pinging around his HUD, melding and diverging and zinging and popping. Cortana's voice sounds light-years away.

"Another hit like that and we're toast. Literally. Move!"

Instinct is the only thing kicking his legs into motion, straining against the pain. His shield warning is blaring inside his skull, he can feel portions of his undersuit melting against his skin, he's still seeing stars. A wave of nausea swells and threatens to break, but he swallows it down, collapsing behind a pillar.

The enraged Hunter bellows somewhere close by—too close. He hears the heavy clang of its weight moving around the room, searching him out. He doesn't have long. He grits his teeth, tries to focus on his breathing, reloads his rifle. His shields begin to recharge, not nearly as fast as he needs.

Two grenades left, that was something. He yanks the pin out of one, counts to three, then lobs it around the side of the pillar. The Hunter howls over the sound of the blast.

John hauls himself to his feet and runs, shoving aside the searing pain of the plasma burns. Cortana was right, he couldn't take another direct hit. He sprints through the dissipating smoke, past the Hunter, and launches himself onto a platform on the other side of the room, pivoting on his heel the second he touches down.

The Hunter's back is still turned, but it's starting to shake off the shock of the explosion and swing around to face him, plasma cannon already glowing—his window of opportunity is getting smaller by the second. He fires a burst from his rifle, aiming for the sliver of squirming orange worm-flesh under the armor. The Hunter stumbles as the bullets connect, just long enough for John to fling his final grenade.

The explosion thunders through the room, amplified by the residual energy from the half-charged cannon. White-hot fire roils against lime green smoke. A satisfying splash of rust-colored viscera coats the walls. The Hunter crashes to the ground beside its fallen sibling, twitches, then lies still.

His shield alarm is sounding again, he must've been caught by the fringe of the blast. Nothing pings on his motion tracker. The adrenaline that'd been carrying him through the last brutal fifteen minutes starts to fade, making room for all the stress and pain he'd been ignoring to come screaming back with renewed intensity.

He barely manages to unseal his helmet and rip it off before he vomits. It doesn't make him feel any better; the convulsion tears at his blistered, charred flesh, sending a fresh spike of pain through his chest. The air tastes like metallic smoke, but he takes a minute to just breathe.

"...we've gotta keep moving, Chief." Her voice is closer again, but tinny, projected through the helmet's external speakers. "We can rest when we find a medkit." Authoritative as always. But he hears the concern.

He nods. Spits. Takes one last deep breath before fitting his helmet back on and willing his battered body to carry him to the next room. He's still seeing stars.

[spartansagas]

Tactical Debrief part 1: Operation COALPEPPER

•OBJECTIVE: Recover Huragok ‘Quick to Adjust’ and his handler Sadie Endesha

•YEAR: 2555

•Location: Talitsa, Sverdlovsk system

•Outcome: Success

EVENTS: Spartan IV team ‘Alpha Nine’ deployed to Talitsa. Made their way on foot to an insurrectionist stronghold believed to be holding Endesha and Quick to Adjust. Whilst surveying the camp, Spartan Crespo went Stolen Gauntlet and betrayed Spartans Buck and Agu, holding them at gunpoint whilst insurrectionists surrounded them. They began to march down towards the camp, when Spartan Buck provoked Spartan Crespo into engaging in a brawl that successfully distracted the insurrectionists long enough to allow Spartan Agu to escape. He proceeded to engage the hostiles with rocks, killing several. Spartan Buck incapacitated Crespo and the insurrectionist leader. The pair then made their way to the compound, recovered the targets and returned them and Spartan Crespo to UNSC custody.

[bloodgulchblog]

Hey wanna see some stuff about Spartan-IV augs?

*nervous laughter*

*NERVOUS LAUGHTER INTENSIFIES*

[monitorchakas]

I'm not buying Musa's bullshit about Spartan IVs being better than Spartan IIs.

I don't like his implication that Spartan IIs aren't human.

I also am not buying the whole "spartan II would have killed Mickey unlike spartan IV" its a miracle that Buck didn't kill him, Romeo probably would have...

Spartan IIs are more in control of their emotions than IVs, they are more professional. Spartan IVs are too undisciplined. How many times have we seen them mouth off, disobey orders, go on emotional tantrums? Not even talking about just these guys, look at fireteam majestic.

I think they are making too many "spartans". I think the selection process should be much less forgiving. Like Halsey said "some are closer than others" (to being spartans).

[superintendent-b]

The post-halo 3: ODST, pre-new blood vibes must've been abysmal

[eschatonjudge]

[boyheros]

I have SUCH a good character design idea rn but i have to do FUCKING HOMEWORK!!!!! making this post to remind myself later: blood halos. ok.

[meownotgood]

arcane season 2 spoilers

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"Can you feel anything?" 

Viktor's foreign body shudders against his will; your fingertips trace down his chest, tingling, sparking, akin to little specks of light burning into his second-skin. The sound of your muddled voice barely registers. His head tosses back with a slight thud, hair fanned out as a halo. He allows your knees to bracket his waist, and keeps his arms sprawled above him — despite the aching in his dead heart to just touch you. The pulsing of the arcane beneath his system is hardly under control yet. 

It would be a risk he's willing to take, a necessary step to learn, if it were anyone else besides you. 

And Viktor does feel — so much, in fact, but it isn't anything explainable. The festering in his core, threatening to come up through his throat. The whirring, the throbbing of every muscle, rich with glowing rivers of purple. Shining with a mixture of magic and energy and his own blood. 

He's only distantly aware of your hand when it reaches his stomach, examining the juncture between cool metal and unholy flesh. Gears and bolts mimic the outline of ribs. Your touches are curious, distinctly gentle. Picking up on old habits, and trying not to break him, still. Then, your palm reaches up; it boldly cradles his cheek, brushes his pallid skin. And this, he can sense. 

It's familiar, human. Excruciatingly soft when your thumb brushes the space on his cheek, just above his beauty mark. It puts an easy feeling back in his chest, something he almost began to believe he'd forgotten. As warm as a shimmering sun, as molten as liquid gold. 

Nothing else matters but this moment, but you, and him. There is no outcome, across each expansive universe and every edge of the arcane, where the two of you would not meet again like this. You were meant to. Born and reborn to. 

Your gaze finds his, soft eyes glancing down at him, your expression crossed between pain and relief. You eclipse all of his vision: light fuzzy at your edges, your face a hazy memory that he'd still see with his eyes closed. You're a reminder of what it means to be alive. 

Viktor doesn't envy you. You've told him of nightmares, before. Dreams you had before this, of your mind putting yourself through the tragedy of watching him die ages before you truly had to. It must be difficult to see him like this, despite your best attempts to hide any uncertainty. 

Your hand shakes. He can feel it trembling, unsteady on his cheek. And every molecule in Viktor's system explodes, laced with the yearning to remember — to let hazy lovesickness swell within his palms and his new figments. To pull you closer, in an effort to convince himself you won't be taken away. 

Every echo of you is innate. Your voice, your name, your fingerprints. Your presence has the Hexcore — or what's become of him, what has embodied the Hexcore — blissfully, endlessly silent. The way you look at him, soft and brutally innocent, puts a chasmic, vivid hole in his center. Gods, you still look at him the same, just as you did when the two of you were young and innocent. The rot in him tells him he isn't worthy of it. 

Viktor's eyes swirl like kaleidoscopes. Drops of crimson swirling in pure water. Your brows pinch, a sight he finds frustrating and pretty, as you silently examine him. Emotions curl in your lungs, tearing and hungry and knife-like; stricken with attachment, or perhaps blaming yourself, Viktor figures. 

Exhaustion runs heavy in your expression, reminding him of looking into a mirror. He knows this look. You haven't slept. Haven't given yourself any form of a break, it seems.

So, he takes a chance. 

Your hand brushes some stray, messy strands of hair from his forehead, just as Viktor guides his weak arm to reach for you. You don't tense, don't move. He can hear your breathing, thinks he can still feel his. There isn't an ounce of fear in the way you look at him. You have always looked at him like he holds the world in his hands. And now, perhaps he does. 

His hand finds your cheek, same as yours. Copying, following. Thin, delicate, purple-hued fingers trace the edge of your face clumsily, still learning how to touch. Still afraid the line between hurt and healing might be blurred, and you are the one person left that he can't let get caught in the crossfire. You lean into his palm, trusting, and let go of a breath that makes your shoulders shake with the weight of it. 

Viktor thinks of crying, despite the press and pull in his chest that convinces him he shouldn't be able to. He can feel you. It isn't like the few touches he's experienced so far, or the aching, anomalous strength he's been forced to get used to. It contradicts the very constructs of everything he thought made sense. 

Your skin is so soft, sickly familiar. Viktor holds your face shakily, afraid to move. He can feel your individual atoms. Innumerable sparks just beneath his touch, galaxies upon universes of stars in your name, that beg to be grasped, possessed, cured. He cradles you with all of the devotion of a prophet, with all of the tenderness of a past friend: an almost-destiny, a saved seat at the edge of something more. 

Would clumsily pulling you in, and pressing his lips to yours feel wrong, or tangible — like nothing, or like everything? 

"Vik?" 

Your tone, sweeter than honeysuckle, sweeter than anything he might deserve, brings his vision back into focus. He blinks. Gaze never tearing away from his, your fingertips drop to thread the hard edge of his collarbone. A silent plea, can you feel this? You find each curve of his bones and his body easily, the details already memorized. Viktor senses the ghost of you, your touch gentle, something like home. 

"I'm not sure," Viktor finally answers; and the scientist, Hexgate creator, still-ambitious part of himself is hardly satisfied with that answer. His voice is quiet, distant. As though he isn't there, despite the lingering, familiar tenderness to his tone. 

The fried synapses in his brain can't yet separate a caress from a threat, he just perceives the lingering energy. He believes you could be the one to teach him the difference. 

This time, you let your palm press flat to his chest. There's a hum that attempts to mimic a heartbeat, a lack of coolness or heat. The action presses your form closer to his, guides you to lean part of your weight on him to bring your faces far too close. Sharing in the same reflection. Allowing each breath to be measured, along with every hesitation. 

What should he start with? Should he embrace you, holding you tight and close like you're sacrificial? Should he grab your hand in his, press his palm to your skin to measure your heartbeat? Lace his smallest finger with yours, to make you a promise like he used to? 

He can't promise you peace, nor the life you deserve, but if you came for him now, was it not a swear to follow him anywhere? 

There are still so many things left to feel, and every red thread has always begun and ended with you. 

Can you feel anything? 

Viktor guides a hand over yours, keeps it to his chest selfishly; he meets your gaze, he hums, "Are you eager to find out?"