#master chief

[biomecharnotaurus]

John before The Horrors got to him 😊

[maybound]

"We all fail."

Tools/Resources:

- Procreate | iPad Air + Apple Pencil | pngall (PNG "Halo Infinite" logo)

References/Inspiration:

- Gidoeon Falls #10 Cover | 'Namwolf #1 Cover | Halo Infinite (Escharum ref) | Halo TV Show (armour ref)

[authortobenamedlater]

@rainintheevening @threshergm @ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask @thearbiterthel @stitchlingbelle You asked.

(This is rough and subject to change without notice)

—

“Don’t talk.”

Tom looked quizzically at the Master Chief’s visor.

“Don’t talk to each other about what you saw,” the Chief elaborated tersely, still aiming his rifle out the Pelican’s open bay. “You’ll need to get debriefed once we get to the ship.”

“What ship?” April asked.

“Yeah, where are we going?” Sully added.

“UNSC Mercy Seat. Medical frigate,” the Chief answered.

Tom glanced at Chyler. She was silent and unmoving against his shoulder. She hadn’t said a word since boarding the Pelican.

She’s not OK.

“Chyler.” Tom nudged her. “Look.”

Chyler blinked slowly. “At what?”

“The sunrise. Just look at it.”

Chyler stared out the open hatch. “Why?”

“Because someone should.” Tom took in the golden glow over the snowcapped mountains. “Someone should remember it. And we’re the only ones left who can.”

—

There is of course more to this story. I’ll see how long I want to make it.

[helix-studios117]

Halo Reloaded: A Star-Spangled Man...

John emerged from the confines of a nondescript closet—not exactly the noble entry befitting a supersoldier of his caliber.

As he surveyed the penthouse, his HUD flickered like a confused tourist. Sleek, minimalist furniture met his gaze, betraying a taste for luxury that would make even a Covenant Elite's eyes widen with envy. But outside the glass walls, New York City sprawled in an architectural time capsule—buildings squatting lower than he recalled, the skyline an awkward teenager compared to the mature metropolis he knew.

The Spartan's reverie was cut short by a projectile hurtling toward his visor—a shield, star-spangled and as patriotic as apple pie. Catching it was reflex; the man who'd thrown it, however, was anything but predictable. Dressed in a combat suit that screamed 'America!', complete with helmet, he launched into a drop kick that even professional wrestlers might applaud.

John staggered, an uncharacteristic "oof" escaping him. The two squared off, sizing each other up. John’s opponent smirked, his suit a walking flagpole.

"Planning on dropping more surprises, or is the shield your only party trick?" John's tone was dry, the kind of dry you'd need a gallon of water to recover from.

"Just warming up. Let's dance, Tin Man," the flag-man retorted, his voice dripping with Brooklyn bravado.

The Star-Spangled Man charged, his sprint more a blur than a run. The penthouse's luxurious floor tiles seemed to quake under the force of his super-soldier speed. As he neared John, he leaped high, his body horizontal to the ground, twisting mid-air to deliver a roundhouse kick. The kick was a blur of red, white, and blue—a patriotic whirlwind.

John, his reactions honed by countless battles, swung the shield upward in a sweeping arc, intercepting the kick with a metallic clang that resonated like a gong. The impact sent a shockwave that rattled the nearby furniture, a crystal vase teetering perilously on the edge of a table.

Undeterred, The Patriotic Stranger rolled backward on landing, regaining his stance with feline agility. He then dashed forward again, this time pulling a series of rapid punches, each blow a thunderous crack breaking the air. John deflected each with the shield, the rhythm of their impacts a deadly drumbeat.

Seeing an opening, John thrust the shield forward like a battering ram. The other soldier, anticipating the move, ducked under the swing and swept a leg toward John's ankles in a sweeping arc meant to topple giants. John leapt over the sweep, a graceful arc in his own trajectory, landing with the floor cracking slightly under his armored weight.

Not missing a beat, John delivered a spinning back kick, aimed with precision at his adversary's midsection. The flag-man caught the kick with his hands, grunting under the force, his feet sliding back, carving grooves into the wooden floor. With a Herculean effort, the old-soldier twisted, redirecting the momentum to hurl John over his shoulder. John flipped mid-air, landing on his feet.

The penthouse now resembled a battlefield, the sound of their conflict a symphony of destruction. The red-white-&-blue combatant retrieved his shield, slinging it with explosive speed. John caught it again, using it to bash forward in a powerful charge. He met the charge with his own body, the collision a thunderclap of force that blew out the penthouse windows, showering the streets below with sparkling debris.

Locked in a grapple, the soldier-in-stars-'n-stripes whispered through gritted teeth, "Not bad for an old-timer, huh?"John, his grip iron-tight, managed a smirk. "You're not the only one out of time."

With a surge of strength, John pushed forward, breaking the grapple. He spun, wielding the shield in a sweeping, circular motion. John's opponent mirrored the movement, and for a moment, they were two cyclones colliding, their strikes a blur of motion and power that seemed to distort the very air around them.

As the duel reached its climax, John feinted with the shield, a deceptive move that the flag-man had anticipated, but it was a ruse. With a sudden drop, John swept the soldier's legs, sending him crashing to the ground. The Spartan quickly pinned him down, the shield at the ready.

Breathing heavily, the flag-man looked up, a grin spreading across his face.

"This isn't your usual sock-hop. Stand down and talk," John commanded, easing off as his sensors confirmed no further threats—just a very stubborn super-soldier beneath his boot.

Catching his breath, Rogers managed a grin. "You're not bad... for a walking tank. Steve Rogers, Captain America. And you are?"

"Master Chief Petty Officer John Downes. What year is this?"

"1943. Guess you took a wrong turn at Albuquerque, huh?" John deactivated his weapon, processing the anachronistic nightmare he’d stumbled into. "Seems like it. I need a way back to my time. Not sure how much help World War II tech will be."

Steve shrugged, accepting John’s hand and rising to his feet. "Well, we might not have fancy lasers or AI, but we've got grit and a whole lot of stubborn. Plus, I know a guy."

"Is he also a man out of time?" John inquired, a hint of amusement in his voice."Something like that. You ready to roll, Chief?"John nodded, his demeanor softening into what might pass for a smile under his helmet. "Lead the way, Captain."

As they exited the penthouse, John couldn’t help but think how absurdly out of place he looked—a futuristic warrior strolling through a historical chapter, guided by a man dressed as a flag. But then again, time travel was bound to have its quirks. And with Captain America at his side, maybe the 1940s wouldn’t be so bad. After all, they had the best music.

[peddestrian]

This one youtuber is making polls asking who would win between Arthur Morgan and different insanely powerful characters and he keeps winning until it gets to Tuberculosis. Reason being because he can't use deadeye on it.

[whaalless]

Doodle art dump 🤺🤺

[in-amber-clad]

Dust and Echoes by Buzboz (@GerardsJulien on X), prints available here.

[nuclearnerves]

Doomguy and Master Chief give Gordon Freeman some advice based on this post under readmore

Struggling to get my old iPad to draw again by going thru my freeguy117 tag and finding gems like these

[grimahlnik]

(Halo Announcer Voice) TRIPLE KILL

[highyote]

hey

[teathattast]

[biomecharnotaurus]

Flat colored him just because

[crusaderguy]

Fuck it. Early Halloween posts.

[bloodgulchblog]

reblog to bap him on his stupid faceplate

[chiefmcclane]

Behold the most jarring, contextless push notification I've ever received

[mefiless25]

Произошел кусь