#mark v spartan

[mbangelofdeath]

Halo: Combat Evolved Screenshot Dump

[vincentgatart]

Halo — Cyborg Wanderers Somewhere in distant space, survivors of a lost war await the all-clear callsign.

[pugzysixtyfour]

got 2 halo renders done tonight baybee lets goo

[c4tto626]

halo infinite is a dress-up game. to me

[ceyx-of-the-shore]

When The Music Stops

PAIRING: Emile-A239 x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You were the only one who Emile would listen to in times like these. You didn't know he valued you as much as you did him.

WARNINGS: Angst in the beginning, mentions of blood, mentions of injury/fighting, eventual fluff, growing feelings, Emile is heavily sarcastic and comes off as blunt, no set timeline - just a drabble, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform/into an A.I. program.*

You rush into the room, the door sliding quickly to the side beside you as a rush of chilled air slaps your face. The facilities on Reach were always cold—freezing, actually. Like a damn meat locker. The Medical branch more so than anywhere else, but this time you could deal with it. 

At the very least, it could steady out your heated annoyance.

“Emile!” You call, locking instantly onto the heavily armored man standing in his Mark V[B] at the center of the small room, hands clenched so hard you hear his gloves squeal as his knuckles crack inside of them. But the Spartan had already turned his helmeted face to you long before you opened that door, hearing your footsteps down the hall, the pattern of which he’d memorized months ago. That carved skeleton jeers in the overhead light, every little cut a funeral service for Covenant troops scored like paint across a canvas. 

To you, it was a far too familiar sight, and you liked it far more when it was out of your Ward.

“Jesus,” you comment, slapping the pad on the wall to make the door shut behind you as you walk through with a serious face, waving your hands in anger. “What the hell happened out there?! I have half of the staff running around trying to gather enough supplies to stabilize a damn skull fracture, Emile!” 

There’s blood on the ground of the examination room—your examination room. But it wasn’t Emile’s. It drips from his fingers and his MJOLNIR like a red river of dark deeds. The Spartan doesn’t even seem to mind it, and, you know, he doesn’t. If you had to guess, you would say he enjoyed it.

“Nothing,” that monotone voice slowly drips out, the SPARTAN-III nonchalantly shaking out his left wrist and fixing his stance, even though that casual rigidity remains. Animalistic calm. “Just cleaned up a few loose ends, Doc.”

“There are three ODSTs that went in for combat training today and are spending the night in here because of you,” you hiss, stalking up to the gigantic man and pointing a finger into his chest plate. He has to physically look down at you at this angle, and you think you’ll never get used to his unnatural height—both in and out of the MJOLNIR. “Carter warned you about another fight with non-Spartans, Emile—this can’t keep happening! I can’t keep trying to cover for you when you lose your temper!”

For once you’re shocked that the man in front of you lets you spew your words; it wasn’t often the hothead had nothing to say for himself, certainly about his own actions when his gung-ho attitude came out.

Your glare softens, tirade stalled for but a moment as the minutes lengthen after your scolding.

A silence falls, your own eyes blinking down at you from the reflection of the scarred visor, those etched marks that make up the image of death unwavering. Not a sliver of the Spartan’s visage is to be seen—it rarely is. Emile breathed slightly heavily, and his arms shook with leftover anger from not half-an-hour earlier when he’d sent his fist into those ODSTs. You can hear the scrape of his esophagus as clear as day, and if you strain your ears harder, you can image his fire-like pulse as well. 

Where a deep disappointment had bred, now only concern takes its place.

You blink, raising a hand from your side hesitantly; pausing. 

“Emile?” At the small touch on his elbow, the Spartan tenses, but you easily speak in a soft tone, dipping your voice. You can’t recall seeing Emile so…statue-still. “Hey,” you utter, brows creasing as the Spartan’s visor refuses to move an inch from staring you down. As if trying to calm himself by only your presence alone. “Hey, Big Guy. Okay, let’s…let’s take a breath, alright?”

You steady your own, but you know the rapid beat of your heart gives you away.

Emile grunts, turning his head from you to glare at the side wall; you know his jaw is clenched tight under his helmet. But he does as you ask, and you feel his chest bump your form as he inhales deeply.

It was a good thing you found him—of all the staff here, you seemed to be the only one he actually listened to. Even now, it brings a small feeling of pride with it, and you know it shouldn't.

It’s a quiet moment that once more settles, and you feel his tension seep out while you still hold onto his elbow, occasionally caressing your thumb up and down. You know the man best; you’re prideful because you’re the only medic on Reach equipped to handle his snark and aggression—the best at it. And the simple fact is that Emile only comes to you anyway.

“Good,” you nod softly. Taking a step back, you slowly tilt your head and frown at him. 

He scoffs before he speaks, but it lacks any venom. 

“Came on there pretty hard, Doc.” A nickname for you, only he’s allowed to use it. Emile grumbles and crosses his arms, feet spacing out. But his tone is…off. “Thought I’d be on my ass in a little bit.” “What happened?” You don’t beat around the bush, your eyes deathly serious. “You’re not acting right at all. You haven’t even bragged about how easy they were to bring down.”

“So I need to brag now, is that it?” 

Glaring, you set your jaw and level out with him. “Show me your hands, A-239.”

“Woah,” Emile drags out the word, chuckling as you grapple for his hand, moving his head to the side as if studying an ant and saying sarcastically. “Yes, Ma’am.” 

Peeling back the armor plating and the thick undersuit, you’re left with slightly inflamed knuckles. With the enhancements of the Spartan's physical forms, even so for the IIIs, these would heal fairly quickly—hours at most. But the sight still rang off alarm bells. 

How hard had he been punching those ODSTs to leave a mark on himself? Through armor and muscle? 

“Emile,” you urge, firm attention staying on the swelling.

You can feel his eyes on you—digging and heavy. But on this, you would not relent. In your time together, you’d grown fond of him and his horrible attitude. He was off putting, sure, and rough: a bit bad for civilian relations, of course; yet you’d had the privilege to know him as others usually didn’t. 

Emile was bluntly honest, and with you…he listened. That was a trust far earned and it had taken months to even get a break in him.

The giant released a low sigh and with a hand motion that equaled ‘fine,’ he shook his head and pushed out through a board tone. “...They were talking ‘bout you. Didn’t like their tones.” A finger touches the back of your skull, brushing across it briefly and disappearing as if never there. You fight back a gasp. “‘Specially when they thought it was smart to say it when I was right there.” 

You pause at that, still holding his warm hand as his fingers twitch in your grasp—tiny things compared to the calluses and bulk of muscle. It’s like your heart stops, a foreign heat making the room's chill completely halt. 

You stare at his knuckles and feel your eyes blink quickly. Inside of your chest, your heart completely skips beats.

“Took ‘em to the ring,” he says like he’s reading a report. “Threw ‘em down. They lost and I won, and I made them think twice when they’re talking about my favorite Medic like that.” His helmet shifts your way. “You think I’d let them get away with that, Doc?” 

“I…” you stutter, for once in your life, lost for words. Emile chuckles to himself, tilting his head mockingly. 

“Now isn’t that nice.” 

Your face burns even more as the man’s hand shifts out of your hold, tapping your chin up with a finger. His helmet leans into you. 

“Thought I’d stop by and have my girl check up on me before someone else managed to get in my way. You didn’t disappoint. Never do.” You’re speechless, heart rapidly pounding and throat bobbing with a swallow. You know he sees it because he chuckles again and his head moves up and down in a sweep of your body.

Emile hums, squeezing your flesh with his thumb and forefinger before letting his hand drop and pulling on his glove. 

“You hear anything going ‘round about you, you just let me know, yeah?” There’s a serious edge to that sentence. “Let me take care of it.” 

All you do is nod dumbly a blank moment later and feel your face go malleable. You don’t even know how to respond to that—you shouldn’t be encouraging physical fights just because you thought it was an…archaically sweet, if not inherently violent, sentiment.

But was Emile anything but? You knew what you were getting into.

“Good.” Emile moves his head back and stares for a moment longer, his chest rising and falling in a silent sigh of breath, before, soldier-like once more, he walks forward and exits the room with a whoosh of recycled air.

“Be seeing you, Doc.”

You hear the door slap shut and still gape at where he once stood in front of you, fire under your skin and a deep pull in your heart as you stutter under your breath. Clearing your throat minutes later, you blink, flatten out your clothes, and quickly exit into the hallway—hearing every connection of your feet to the floor.

There was something so very wrong about this that made you want to see how it might end. Even if it resulted in your blood-thirsty Spartan standing in your examination room once more, knuckles swollen and his body looming above yours like a silent, skeletal sentinel; some brutish dog ready to tear flesh at a moment's notice.

If only to feel his bare skin again, and the weight of his words on your chest.

"Shit," you breathe, grasping at the bridge of your nose as nurses rush past you. All of your thoughts are about Emile, and you have to internally wonder when that had started happening. "...This isn't good."

[boomboomgaff]

Mark V[B] armour core

The Mark V[B] is generally loved by most of halos playerbase from its use in halo reach, the fan favourite instalment allowed players to modify their armour in the campaign, this in turn let players have a more individualised experience of halo in comparison to the mainline games. My mark 5 is pretty different to most of my other spartan builds, I normally don’t really go for the bulky builds instead opting for a more UNSC accurate looking spartan. However, me thinks I hit the mark on this build, finding a sweet spot between the two. Hope you guys like it!🙏

Lore

While its physical architecture is derived from the Mark IV[B], the Mark V[B] was the first mainline model of the MJOLNIR Powered Assault Armor to incorporate energy shielding technology. The Mark V[B] is largely similar to the final version of the Mark V. The only major difference between the two is the [B] variant's lack of an accompanying upgrade to the wearer's neural lace enabling the wearer to interface with a smart AI. This did not come to fruition until John-117 and Cortana successfully tested the final Mark V on August 29, 2552.

The Mark V[B] was manufactured by private organizations contracted by the UNSC rather than developed by the Materials Group as was typical for most other Mjolnir designs. The development of Mark V[B] was conducted in secret, with its prototypes tested by Spartan-III personnel.

The Mark IV[B]'s first known use was by Frederic-104 during an operation against Insurrectionists sometime before the Battle of Circinius IV on April 26, 2526. Fred continued to wear the armor during this battle when Blue Team was sent to evacuate the survivors from the Corbulo Academy of Military Science. The Mark V[B] entered service with the Spartan-IIs and select Spartan-IIIs on November 24, 2551.

/////ALL LORE AND INFO TAKEN FROM HALOPEDIA.ORG AND IS NOT MY OWN WRITING FOR SAKE OF ACCURACY/////

(I ain’t writing allat)

Components of my build

Coating: Kinetic Instruction

Helmet: Balor

Visor: Rampant

Chest: UA/Vauntlock

Shoulder pad L: SAP/SEC

Shoulder pad R: SAP/SEC [K]

Gloves: Challenger

Wrist: TAC/SRT UGPS

Utility: M10 Tactical soft case

Knee pad: UA/TYPE FJ

Halopedia reference images.

[itsalwaysgarytime]

Commissioned by TheSphereHunter to draw her Halo 5 Spartan's appearance. Mark VI GEN1 with a Mark V Delta helmet and the Cat ear helmet attachment. Haven't drawn GEN2 styled "core" in quite a while. So this was challenging to go back the ultra designed 343 styled armors after they reverted back to simplified armor of Halo Infinite.  

[helix-enterprises117]

"That child is staring at you.", "What would happen if I'd kiss you right now?", or "You hold no power here." from the drabble list!

Have some Halo!!

Fan - (Based on "That child is staring at you.")

Amid the throng of civilians milling about the bustling market square of New Alexandria, the Sangheili child stood out—not just for the slight silver streaks in its otherwise deep blue scales, but for its intense gaze fixed directly on John. The Spartan, towering and imposing even in his casual attire meant to blend in, scanned the surroundings with a practiced eye, his attention eventually drawn to the small figure as Fred nudged him lightly.

"Hey, John," Fred murmured, nodding subtly toward the child. "That kid hasn't taken their eyes off you since we got here."

John's gaze softened as he looked down at the young Sangheili. The child, barely reaching his waist, clutched a small, worn toy—perhaps a model of a Sangheili warrior—tight against its chest. Despite the hustle around, the child’s focus remained unbroken, a mix of curiosity and awe painted across its youthful features.

"I see him," John replied quietly, his voice carrying a warm undertone that seldom emerged. He stepped forward, minimizing the physical distance as he crouched to the child's level, an action that drew a small crowd of onlookers. "Hello there," he said, extending a hand but careful not to invade the child's personal space.

The Sangheili child, initially taken aback by the gesture, hesitated, glancing up at what appeared to be its guardian—a taller Sangheili with similarly marked scales—who gave a slight nod. Encouraged, the child stepped forward, its small hand reaching out to gently touch John's.

"You're the Spartan, aren't you?" the child's voice was a soft chirp, tinged with reverence. "My father told me stories about the heroes who fight alongside the Swords of Sanghelios."

"That's right," John smiled, his helmet under his arm now catching a glint of sunlight, making it almost glow. "My team and I are here to help make sure everyone here can live safely, including you."

Fred watched the exchange, a grin breaking across his face. "Looks like you've got yourself a fan," he chuckled, folding his arms and leaning back against a nearby wall.

John's smile remained as he spoke again to the child, "What's your name?"

"Rtas 'Mdama," the child replied proudly, standing a little taller.

"Well, Rtas," John continued, his tone encouraging, "maybe one day you'll be standing with us, helping to keep the peace. Keep learning and growing strong."

The child nodded vigorously, the earlier awe transforming into determination. "I will, Spartan. Thank you!"

As they parted ways, John stood and clapped Fred on the shoulder, the usual weight of command and duty momentarily lightened by the genuine exchange. "Let's head back," he said, the market square buzzing around them, yet the connection made with one young Sangheili leaving a subtle imprint on the day.

"Sure thing," Fred agreed, his gaze lingering on the retreating figure of the child, a small beacon of future potential amidst the crowd. "You're good with kids, you know that?"

John just shrugged, a ghost of a smile still playing around his lips as they walked on...

Kiss - (Based on "What would happen if I kissed you right now?")

John and Linda, fresh from what could only be described as a mildly torturous training session, found themselves at an isolated table. The air was tinged with the scent of overcooked vegetables and sterilized metal, a reminder of their utilitarian surroundings.

John, his plate bearing a modest portion that belied the exhaustion shadowing his features, watched Linda with a blend of amusement and awe. She, in contrast, attacked her piled-high tray with the ferocity of a starved predator, her metabolic needs dialed up to eleven thanks to Spartan enhancements and an appetite to match.

Linda, hair rebelling in wisps from her otherwise tight bun, seemed oblivious to anything not edible in her immediate vicinity. John, on the other hand, was less interested in his food and more in the peculiar thought fluttering in his mind.

The mess hall’s din dwindled to a soft murmur, offering a semblance of privacy. John, swirling the ice in his half-empty glass, broke the companionable silence with a curveball.

“So, hypothetical—what would happen if I kissed you right now?” His tone was casual, like he was asking about the weather or the state of her shoelaces, not contemplating a seismic shift in their dynamic.

Linda, fork midair, paused. She looked at him, her expression a mix of surprise and bemusement, as if she wasn't sure whether to laugh or raise an eyebrow. Slowly, she placed her fork down with the precision of a bomb technician.

“Is this your idea of small talk, or are you branching out into weird hypotheticals now?” She countered, her voice tinged with humor yet edged with curiosity.

John grinned, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. “Just thinking out loud. I mean, we’ve dodged bullets together, why not dodge awkwardness?”

Linda laughed, the sound bright and clear. “Because awkwardness isn’t as lethal, maybe?”

“Debatable,” John quipped. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, his eyes not leaving hers. “Look, we’re good together. In the field, off the field... So yeah, I’m curious. What if?”

Linda leaned back, her chair creaking slightly under the shift. “It could get complicated,” she said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You, me, us—it could mess up the great dynamic we have. Plus, fraternization regs...”

“But?” John prompted, his smile persistent.

“But,” Linda continued, a slow smile spreading across her face, “sometimes complications are worth it. Maybe it’s a risk that... I don’t know, brings something good?”

“Something real?” John offered, his voice hopeful yet laced with a hint of challenge.

“Something real,” Linda agreed, nodding slowly. “No hypotheticals, no what-ifs.”

They both paused, considering the gravity of the shift, the weight of a moment hanging between them. Then, almost imperceptibly, Linda leaned forward. John met her halfway, their movements syncing as if choreographed.

Their kiss was a gentle collision, tentative at first, then firmer—decisive. It was a kiss that spoke of shared hardships and unspoken promises, a seal on a pact that might just redefine their relationship.

As they parted, their eyes opened to the same mess hall but perhaps a different world between them. John’s smile was genuine, happy. “So, better than dodging bullets?”

Linda chuckled, touching her lips with the tips of her fingers, as if to preserve the sensation. “Much better. Though, let’s not make a habit of dodging either.”

Duel - (Based on "You hold no power, here.")

...The abandoned structure cast long, eerie shadows that danced around them as the glow from their energy swords—John's a stark blue, Jega's a vicious red—illuminated their armored forms.

The duel began with the piercing shriek of their swords. John, his movements a blend of human determination and the mechanical precision afforded by his armor, lunged forward. Jega, lighter and more agile, dodged effortlessly, his own counter-attacks a blur of red energy that John barely blocked in time.

"Your reputation precedes you, Spartan," Jega sneered, ducking under a high swing to deliver an uppercut that John deflected just in time. "But your kind are nothing more than pests in the sacred eyes of the Covenant."

John grunted, ignoring the sting of the near-miss as he pivoted on his heel, bringing his sword down in a sweeping arc that Jega sidestepped. "We might be pests, but we sure know how to bite," he retorted, his tone light but his eyes scanning for the next opening.

They exchanged a flurry of blows, each strike and parry ringing out like a deadly symphony. Jega's style was all about fluidity and grace, a stark contrast to John's brute force and tactical precision. Their swords locked, energy crackling and sizzling in the air between them, their faces inches apart.

"You fight well," Jega conceded, his breath a hiss as he pushed against John's strength. "But your efforts are futile. The march of the Covenant cannot be halted by mere will."

John pushed back, breaking the lock and swinging wide, forcing Jega to leap back. "We’ll see about that," he growled, his next moves a series of rapid thrusts, each faster and more dangerous than the last, forcing Jega into a defensive whirl of red light.

The battle raged on, their footwork a complicated dance among the rubble of the ancient structure. It was a test of endurance and skill, pushing both warriors to their limits. Finally, John feinted a strike to Jega's midsection, then swiftly reversed his grip, sweeping Jega’s legs out from under him with the broad side of his blade.

As Jega hit the ground, his energy sword flew from his grasp, skidding across the stone floor and darkening. Panting, the Elite propped himself up on his elbows, defiant even in defeat. "You may win this battle, Spartan, but you will lose the war. Humanity is nothing in the grand scale of the universe."

John powered down his sword, the blue light dying away as he looked down at Jega, his voice resolute and cold. "In this place, in this moment, you hold no power here."

Silence fell for a moment, heavy and absolute, before John extended his hand to Jega—not in pity, but in recognition of the warrior he faced. Jega looked up, the light from the setting of the distant sun reflecting off his visor, and after a tense pause, grasped John's hand. It was a warrior's acknowledgment, one fighter to another...

[adz]

master chief is more than a man. hes a man who kills aliens and lives inside a suit that jacks him off.

but more importantly he's a man who fights for lgbtq+ rights. not just on earth, but all across the vast galaxies and universes of our world.

now is your chance to own a unique piece of master chief lore that i made up: the moment when John Spartan 117 snorted up all of homophobia into his Mjolnir Mark V Helmet and ended discrimination forever. it's available, and it's not that expensive. theres a hoodie too.

[hefty-halo]

Ngl...I feel like the Spartan-IIIs, or at least the ones before Noble Team, were kind of set up to fail by ONI trying to pump out a lot of them for lower cost. Yeah, sure, you get a ton more Spartans...but they're not of the same quality as their predecessors, like John, Kelly, or even their teacher, Kurt.

Their armor was meant specifically for recon assignments, not most of what being a UNSC Spartan calls for.

I mean, hell, in Ghosts of Onyx, I remember very vividly, towards the end of the book, a Hunter point-blanked Kelly and one of Kurt's Spartan-IIIs, a chick named Holly.

Kelly, IIRC, got just a concussion, but was otherwise just fine. Holly, on the other hand, literally ceased to exist.

They basically screwed over Forerunners-know how many kids because they tried to make a bunch of Spartans for less cost, by cheaping out on the armor that keeps them alive.

And I think that's why when they eventually went to Spartan-IV, they realized their mistake and chose instead to use GEN2 MJOLNIR armor for them.

Of course, this is just my own opinions, speculations, that kinda thing, you're free to agree or disagree as you see fit. I just saw that you were talking about MJOLNIR armor and that reminded me of this, so...nyeh

Oh they were absolutely set up to fail, they were made to be expendable shock troops and covert ops that they could afford to lose during or after missions. Just look at how the first two or three companies were deployed, in a huge suicidal frontal assault against a Covenant fuel refinery, where only a handful of them survived. Most of those survivors then went to train under Kurt, because they didn't know what else to do with the poor bastards.

The SPI armour was even worse in terms of the armour capability, they also had no shields at all to enable the cloaking capabilities. Even the Mark V B variant has shielding, despite it being a stripped down version of regular Mark V.

The poor IIIs never stood a chance in an open engagement, but they were deliberately made that way. Kurt could see this, and he hated it, he even reflects on it when one of his IIIs dies in his arms after not realising half his torso was missing, thanks to his brain's pain receptors being switched off due to combat stims.

While I don't particularly like Spartan IVs (especially their armour, don't get me started on the abominations that Gen3 brought about), they are at least good soldiers and well-equipped for the wars they fight in. Main thing I don't like about them is how cavalier they are. They are just stereotype Marine "jocks" in knock-off armour and hardly anywhere near as much augmentation done to them. They tried to make Spartans into an "everyman" sort of thing, but that's not what they're meant to be, it never has been.

Sorry, I'll cut my ranting off there. I just can't stand how they've been written since they first showed up in Halo 4.

[midnightactual]

Verse: SHADOW GUARD (Halo)

Yoruichi is a SPARTAN-IV. Yoruichi was an ODST. Yoruichi was a Phase 2 SPARTAN-I. Yoruichi was an ONI operative. Yoruichi was a Phase 1 SPARTAN-I. Yoruichi was on the Odyssey when it arrived at Reach. Yoruichi was born before the Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine was invented.

Yoruichi is the closest thing to biologically immortal that humanity has yet created.

Yoruichi is an ONI Rear Admiral.

Timeline

"That's all well and good, Doctor, but I'm almost as old as the M319, and just like with it, you still haven't come up with something more experienced than me." ��Yoruichi Shihōin to Dr. Catherine Halsey

C indicates chronological age, A indicates apparent age, but note that neither is perceptual age from Yoruichi's point of view. (She's spent a lot of time in cryosleep in addition to having a dramatically reduced aging factor.)

2271 - (C-000, A-000): Yoruichi is born to the Shihōin family, which is highly influential within the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI), particularly Section Three

2286 - (C-015, A-015): Yoruichi is accepted to the Academy at Mare Nubium (Luna OCS Academy), becoming the youngest person to have ever attended the school (followed by Miranda Keyes at 16 in 2541)

2290 - (C-019, A-019): Yoruichi graduates from the Luna OCS Academy and joins ONI Section One

2291 - (C-020, A-020): Yoruichi receives her first illicit prototype longevity enhancement prior to first assignments in outer Solar System requiring cryosleep

2321 - (C-050, A-023): Yoruichi enrolls in Project KYKLOS given family connections in Section Three; the only successful test subject and survivor of the program, she is extensively studied as the basis for future research; it's established that her genetic makeup (due in part to Shihōin illicit modifications both past and present) have made her uniquely predisposed to accepting augmentation; this research is hidden from official records by the family to cover up their complicity, directly causing the long interval until the ORION Project is undertaken

2330 - (C-059, A-023): Yoruichi is released from the continuing study program for use as a "novel" ONI asset under the auspices of Section One sub-unit Chi-9 Division, which essentially consists of her and token support staff

2361 - (C-090, A-024): Yoruichi is planted within the Colonial Military Authority (CMA) to monitor the colonization efforts of the Colonial Administration Authority (CAA); she is aboard the CAA Odyssey during its maiden voyage to Reach

2437 - (C-166, A-025): Yoruichi is first contacted by The Assembly, which is aware of her existence and recognizes her as "unique" among humans; she is not aware of their true nature for some time

2490 - (C-219, A-026): Yoruichi serves as the prototype for the ORION Project of modifications as colonial rebellions spiral beyond the CMA's ability to control; this data is subsequently passed to the CMA by ONI

2497 - (C-226, A-026): Yoruichi is attached to the rising Orbital Drop Shock Troopers to provide her actions with greater cover and opacity

2548 - (C-277, A-027): Yoruichi is brought in for research related to the genesis of the SPARTAN-IV Program, Project ORCHID

2553 - (C-282, A-027): Yoruichi is fully enhanced to SPARTAN-IV specifications and is thereby inserted into Spartan Operations

Details

Name: Yoruichi Shihōin (Yoruichi Shihouin) Allegiance: United Earth Government, United Nations Space Command, UNSC Naval Command (NAVCOM), Office of Naval Intelligence, Section One, Chi-9 Division Rank: Rear Admiral (O-7) Service Branch: Spartan Operations Role: Fireteam Leader (Fireteam Tiger) Nicknames: [CLASSIFIED] Armor: Upgraded (GEN3) Mark V [B]

Helmet: ODST - HUL[3]/BNR/COURIER PEARL - CNM/BNR/TYPHON - UA/Type C1

Visor: Helljumper

Armor Coating: Cinder Ring

Chest: UA/ODST

Shoulders: SAP/CQC

Gloves: Challenger

Wrist: TAC/MC5 TACPAD

Utility: M10 Tactical Soft Case

Knees: UA/Type GND

Yoruichi has served through half a dozen total personnel rotations at ONI and assumed hundreds of identities over her nigh three centuries of existence. Even her own staff don't know who Chi-9 Actual really is, as her record isn't just dipped in ink, but has been refabricated a dozen times over. The only consistent thing for the last good long while has been her rank. Ironically, she serves in Spartan Operations under her birth name—if anyone happens to know some trivia about Luna OCS Academy, she claims with a smile to have been named in honor of an ancestor.

[mbangelofdeath]

Spartan III Rifleman

Last weekend, I made a bunch of commission screenshots for a follower on Instagram. I wanted to share some of those shots with you all. Enjoy, my friends.

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 12.18 (before 1960)

1118 – The city of Zaragoza is conquered by king Alfonso I of Aragon from the Almoravid. 1271 – Kublai Khan renames his empire "Yuan" (元 yuán), officially marking the start of the Yuan dynasty of Mongolia and China. 1499 – A rebellion breaks out in Alpujarras in response to the forced conversions of Muslims in Spain. 1601–1900 1622 – Portuguese forces score a military victory over the Kingdom of Kongo at the Battle of Mbumbi in present-day Angola. 1655 – The Whitehall Conference ends with the determination that there was no law preventing Jews from re-entering England after the Edict of Expulsion of 1290. 1777 – The United States celebrates its first Thanksgiving, marking the recent victory by the American rebels over British General John Burgoyne at Saratoga in October. 1787 – New Jersey becomes the third state to ratify the U.S. Constitution. 1793 – Surrender of the frigate La Lutine by French Royalists to Lord Samuel Hood; renamed HMS Lutine, she later becomes a famous treasure wreck. 1833 – The national anthem of the Russian Empire, "God Save the Tsar!", is first performed. 1854 – The Legislative Assembly of the Province of Canada abolishes the seigneurial system. 1865 – US Secretary of State William Seward proclaims the adoption of the Thirteenth Amendment, prohibiting slavery throughout the United States. 1867 – A magnitude 7.0 earthquakes strikes off the coast of Taiwan, triggering a tsunami and killing at least 580 people. 1878 – The Al-Thani family become the rulers of the state of Qatar. 1892 – Premiere performance of The Nutcracker by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky in Saint Petersburg, Russia. 1898 – Gaston de Chasseloup-Laubat sets the first officially recognized land speed record of 63.159 km/h (39.245 mph) in a Jeantaud electric car. 1916 – World War I: The Battle of Verdun ends when the second French offensive pushes the Germans back two or three kilometres, causing them to cease their attacks. 1917 – The resolution containing the language of the Eighteenth Amendment to enact Prohibition is passed by the United States Congress. 1932 – The Chicago Bears defeat the Portsmouth Spartans in the first NFL playoff game to win the NFL Championship. 1935 – The Lanka Sama Samaja Party is founded in Ceylon. 1939 – World War II: The Battle of the Heligoland Bight, the first major air battle of the war, takes place. 1944 – World War II: XX Bomber Command responds to the Japanese Operation Ichi-Go offensive by dropping five hundred tons of incendiary bombs on a supply base in Hankow, China. 1944 – The Supreme Court of the United States issued its decision in Korematsu v. United States supporting Franklin D. Roosevelt's Executive Order 9066 which cleared the way for the incarceration of nearly all 120,000 Japanese Americans, two-thirds of whom were U.S. citizens, born and raised in the United States. 1957 – A violent F5 tornado wipes out the entire community of Sunfield, Illinois. 1958 – Project SCORE, the world's first communications satellite, is launched.

[brainmachinebroke]

Halo Spartan Battalion ideas

I've been playing around with making my own offshoot branches of UNSC spartans and establishing a vague lore, just for fun and as a head-canon way of rationalizing the wide color variety of Spartans throughout the franchise!

I've added what I got so far to this little list; hopefully someone can find inspiration through my ideas!

This list focuses on 3 "generic" groups, not unique fireteams. Mostly generic footsoldiers of the cyborg variety :)

-*-*-*-

Fleetcom 109th Defense Battalion "Lawn Darts"

Armor type: Mark V(b)

Armor color

Primary: Forest

Secondary: tan, khaki, steel, sage, olive

Accent: red/maroon right shoulder for captains

Description:

Part of Fleetcom's First Response Force (FRF). An entry-level position for spartans looking to reach higher military status.

Deployed in limited numbers for establishing front line defense and offensive retaliation, usually remaining on the ground until a healthy FOB has been created and fully crewed.

-*-*-*-

Fleetcom 104th Defense Battalion "Komodos"

Armor type: Mark V(b)

Armor color

Primary: Red

Secondary: tan, khaki, white

Accent: N/A

Description:

Part of Fleetcom's First Response Force (FRF). Responsible for creating a "no-man's-land" on a battlefield by using heavy ordinance.

Most members are equipped with GUNGNIR-class or JFO-class MJOLNIR loadouts to facilitate precise terrain manipulation and destruction.

-*-*-*-

Test Group 07 (DORYPHOROS)

Armor type: MK IV (current)

Armor color

Primary: Cyan (testbed standard 007)

Secondary: Cyan (testbed standard 007)

Accent: Uncoated visor (silver, uncoated)

Description:

As/When required armor testing unit, most "famous" for their evaluation of the modified Mark IV armor found on the Spirit of Fire following the vessel's reappearance.

This group is responsible for capturing reference images, videos and filtered data to the broader MJOLNIR development program to expedite the creation of variants and supplemental modules.

[inlifeasindeath]

i’m gonna play mcc in chronological order so starting with halo reach. which i find funny because i actually resented this game when it first came out. primarily because i instantly disliked the spartans all having different armor with different colors i clocked that way back when. at the time it was like the armor variations were only in halo 3 multiplayer which is whatever but then it crossed into the actual lore with reach… so anyways i downloaded a mod that puts noble team all in mark v armor lol problem solved. i laughed out loud actually because it looks so damn good the way it should’ve been… even better it keeps all their variations and attachments just simply on top of the mark v its so good

[vegvisirsofthegalaxy]

[Holorecording] - Prelude in Violet

[This damaged recording archives a covert meeting between Darth Merphis and Darth Marr, transpiring several weeks before the planned Imperial invasion on the planet Tython. [Caution: Spoiler Alert - Do not proceed if you wish to avoid spoilers.]

Background Music Recommendation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K9z5odhoybY

[Stationed at the heart of his flagship, Darth Marr commands attention, his stance regal and unyielding. His gaze is fixed upon the panoramic viewport. The air crackles with a foreboding tension as he surveys the cosmos from behind his mask. The bridge is buzzing with activity as officers scurry about, executing his commands with tactful precision.]

"I admit that I have frequented your ship enough times to the point where guidance becomes unnecessary. However, a modicum of courtesy would not be unwelcome." Darth Merphis expresses her dissatisfaction with a gentle complaint. The click-clack of her high heels echoes through the bridge, punctuating the tension with each measured step.

Darth Marr remains stoic, his expression unreadable behind his mask. His gaze shifts to Darth Merphis' slender frame as she gracefully glides across the bridge. Aware of the crew's attentive ears, he chooses his words with measured precision, his voice a low rumble, resonating with an undeniable authority. "Now that you are here, let us cut to the chase. There are pressing matters that demand our attention, best discussed in private."

"In private, you say?" Darth Merphis arches her eyebrow, uncertainty flickering across her features as she ponders his meaning behind the phrase "in private" inside his own flagship.

Darth Marr folds his arms across his imposing figure, a contemplative silence enveloping the bridge, as the officers, disciplined and alert, await his next order. After a pregnant pause, he speaks again. "Follow me." His tone holds no room for argument, bearing the weight of a command rather than an invitation. Without a backward glance to ascertain Darth Merphis' compliance, he strides purposefully from the bridge, the corridor swallowing him into the shadowy depths of his private sanctum, his heavy boots clunking against the polished metal floor.

"To your personal quarters... this marks a first. I wonder what urgent matters demand such discretion." Walking behind Darth Marr, Darth Merphis delves into her own thoughts, searching for any pertinent details from today's Dark Council meeting that might have captured his interest and potentially be the reason for this rendezvous.

"I have been made aware of certain undesirable elements among my crew." Without further elaboration, Darth Marr leads the way with purposeful strides, his armoured figure towering over Darth Merphis as they walk. Halting before the imposing door, his gloved hand gestures towards it, a silent invitation to enter. "Inside."

[The chamber unfolds before them, devoid of the opulence often associated with a Dark Council member. Instead, the walls are adorned with rows of monitors and communication terminals. Above, the ceiling looms like a vast expanse of obsidian, its surface absorbing any hint of light that dares to penetrate its darkness. The air hangs heavy and stagnant, devoid of movement or vitality, save for the the subtle hum of the ship's engines reverberating through the walls.]

Darth Merphis' discerning gaze immediately fixates on the lavish spread adorning the table, a stark contradiction to the spartan surroundings. "Is that the wine from Lord Vowrown's collection?" Her tone betrays a hint of curiosity as she takes in the unexpected display. "A gourmet meal and an unusual act of suspense... This is not your usual custom, Marr."

Darth Marr remains in stoic silence, his features shrouded by the unyielding mask, a visage that betrays no hint of amusement or irritation at Darth Merphis' evident surprise. he gestures for her to take a seat before he settles opposite her, the faint clinking of his armour resonating subtly with each movement. "Yes, it is the very same vintage Lord Vowrown bestowed upon me. The wine itself holds little significance, but the implicit message it conveys is not lost on me." The air holds a tangible tension as Darth Marr pauses, his gaze unwavering upon Darth Merphis, the mask veiling any glimpses into his thoughts. Finally, he resumes, his tone turning more serious. "This departure from custom is not without purpose. I seek to refute the insinuations made by the Wrath— that my presence merely herald discomfort."

[At the mention of the Wrath, a fleeting shadow darkens Darth Merphis' features. She falls into silence, the delicate clink of glass against her lips echoing in the chamber as she savours the taste of the aged red wine. Her gaze remains fixed upon Darth Marr, a silent invitation for him to break the silence with his next words.]

Darth Marr studies Darth Merphis' expression for a moment, his discerning gaze probing beneath the surface. Despite the veil that obscures her emotions, he senses the currents of her thoughts, particularly the presence of the Wrath lingering in her mind. Leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed in a stance of quiet authority, Darth Marr speaks in a low, calm tone. "I hope you understand that recent events have transpired amidst the worst time imaginable, but do not—even for a fleeting moment—entertain the notion that I have disregarded your contribution to our alliance and the Empire."

Darth Merphis relishes the rich flavour of the wine, letting its warmth weave through her senses before she speaks once more, her voice a low whisper. "What is your design concerning the Wrath? Your intentions are rarely shrouded in mere hospitality, Marr." Her gaze drifts momentarily to the sumptuous spread before returning to meet his.

"The Wrath." Darth Marr finally utters, slowly but emphatically, as if the name weighs heavily on his lips. "I care not for his trifling conflicts. Whoever pursues him in my name does so without my sanction. Dispose of them as you see fit." As he speaks, Darth Marr adjusts his posture, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. "Without the Emperor, his destiny draws near. Yet, he may serve a purpose in the trials that lie ahead."

"It is... a surprising display of magnanimity on your part." Darth Merphis leans forward, a subtle smile gracing the corners of her mouth. She deliberately sidesteps the weightier implications of Darth Marr's latter words, opting to let the matter rest for the time being and focus on the current exchange.

"Consider it an extension of my forgiveness, should you choose to interpret it as such." Darth Marr's voice maintains its characteristic composure. "However, that is not the primary reason for your summon here." He pauses briefly, allowing the weight of his words to linger in the air.

[Darth Merphis begins to partake in the gourmet meal before her, savouring each delectable bite with a content heart. As she indulges, her gaze remains on Darth Marr, an unspoken curiosity lingering, awaiting his elaboration on the matter at hand.]

Darth Marr observes Darth Merphis as she eats, noting the subtle shift in the atmosphere following their discussion about the Wrath. Sensing a moment of relative calm, he decides to address the looming matter. "We have a problem." His words hang in the air, inviting further inquiry into the depths of the matter at hand.

"With due respect, Marr, please kindly specify the problem to which you alluded. Our plate is already overflowing." Darth Merphis delicately places her fork down with a hint of sarcasm lacing her words. "The preparations for the impending assault on Tython mark only the beginning. We must strain our resources further for the diplomatic parleys to the Cartel Market and the fortification of our grip on Makeb. And, personally, there is the matter of the elusive Jedi responsible for the abduction of my lead researcher, Charnagus. The list seems endless."

"You are correct. Our situation seems to spiral further out of control with each passing day, the challenges we face multiplying. It is hardly a shock that we find ourselves faltering in critical domains. However, this is but a symptom of a far graver malady. And that malady has a name." Darth Marr's gaze intensifies as he locks eyes with Darth Merphis, ensuring clarity in his message, his words short and concise.

"We are facing treachery from within— the Revanists."

...."Names"......

............."Empire"......"Council".......

.........................."Unclear"........................

[The latter half of the recording appears to have been deliberately tampered with, evident from the distorted audio and fragmented visuals. An intentional effort is hinted to obscure or conceal specific information.]