#techsuits

[swimtechsuitparadise]

#gay #swimtechsuits #swim #techsuits #boys #sexyboys #sexyswimmers

[girlballs]

every jumpsuit and techsuit should be a little bit slutty and show bulge with dickprint and let your nips poke through

[riversidewings]

Once, she was an engineer designing interfaces. Now, she's an executive at the facility's open house, cutting quite the figure in pencil skirt and black leather tanker boots, explaining the capabilities of the latest wave of upgrades to the Nioh platform.

"Yes, the tachi over there-- that's my wife who piloted unit 3-39 today," she beams.

They have gone from colleagues, to human wife and wife, to a cishuman-transhuman couple pledged to mutual service. But she has embraced the changes, risen to meet them. They both have.

Wielder and wife to the thickset doll in the techsuit, striding over with blue hair finally free of the helmet now tucked in the crook of her arm.

"Lucky," says the Wielder to her guests, her voice shaking in awe. "I'm…I'm very lucky."

[fereldanwench]

techsuit outfit by noladreamer -`♡´-

vp faq | pillowfort | bluesky | instagram | nexus | ao3 ⚠️ do not reupload or edit my shots without my permission⚠️ ️ ️ 

[holyshonks]

I know I'm the only one thinking this hard about Sangheili underwear, but why are they always putting these mfers in loincloths?? They wear skin-tight techsuits under their armor, these guys are in briefs at best. Unless someone is fashioning them a loincloth, in which case, whose job do we think that is?

[doom-dreaming]

High Flakes Combat

“Blue Lead,” Linda’s whisper cuts across TEAMCOM, crisp and several degrees colder than the icy landscape. “Hostiles approaching your position.”

Fred, tucked behind the trunk of a towering pine tree, exhales a slow, measured breath. Waiting. Listening. Without his motion tracker, only the crunch of footsteps in the snow—and Linda—could tell him when their opponents were closing in.

There. Fifteen meters out. He motions to John, positioned behind an adjacent tree. On my signal.

…ten meters…

Cover me. Go high.

…five meters…

John nods. Fred tightens his grip on his weapon.

Now.

As one, they pivot, breaching cover. Fred drops to a knee, attacking swiftly, before their adversary has a chance to retaliate.

The snowball hits Ash directly in the center of his chestplate. Active camouflage flickers briefly, then recalibrates, as the young Spartan crashes dramatically to his knees before sprawling backward, motionless.

Fred doesn’t let the theatrics distract him. The other two had to be nearby and the round wasn’t over until— A snowball whizzes past his head, followed by a sharp curse—out loud, close. He catches a shimmer of white on white as Olivia leaps to find cover and “reload,” but John is faster.

The snowball hits her thigh before she can complete her maneuver and she slides to a dejected halt in a snowbank. “Dammit! Mark!” she calls out. “You’re on your own!”

Fred doesn’t hear a verbal response. He knows he won’t, Mark’s too good to give away his position— Thwap. Fred’s vision goes fuzzy and white as Mark’s snowball connects with his visor, splattering on impact. Fred groans and flashes a red status light across his team’s HUDs. He’d be out until the next round.

“He’s on the move!” Linda barks over the comms.

Fred folds himself cross-legged into the snow and wipes his visor clean just in time to see Kelly bounding over a nearby ridge, clutching a snowball in each fist.

“I’ve got him!” She goes streaking across the snow toward a barely-visible figure—also sprinting.

Mark wouldn’t be able to outrun Kelly—a fact Fred knew the S-III was well aware of—but he was certainly trying his best.

Kelly nails Mark with both snowballs, one in the shoulder, the other in the back. He stumbles just enough that Kelly’s momentum sends her into him at full force. The clack of their colliding armor echoes like a shot as both Spartans go tumbling to the ground, sending up a minor flurry in their wake.

“Aaaaaaaand match!” Roland’s voice rings out over the simulation deck, followed by a buzzer. “Blue Team takes the win!”

“Again,” Olivia grumbles, pushing to her feet and dusting snow off her armor.

“It’s three against four,” Ash reminds her, still lying on his back a few feet from Fred.

Olivia crunches her way over and offers him a hand. “Can we make Kelly sit out the next round?”

“If you’re not having fun, leave,” John quips.

“Or maybe you should switch Kelly to our team and see how it feels,” Livi bites back, helping Ash haul himself to his feet.

“Fighting over me?” Kelly rejoins the group with Mark close behind. “I’m flattered.”

Fred chuckles. It was good to see Olivia trading barbs with John. The Gammas had warmed up to him quickly—and he to them—and it wasn’t hard to understand why. Fred was sure the S-IIIs had given him some new streaks of gray hair, but at the same time, they made him feel younger. He hoped they were having the same effect on John.

“So…” drawls a familiar voice, raised just loud enough to carry, “this is the reason my fireteams can't train today? A snowball fight.”

Every Spartan in the simulated snowscape whips toward the entrance. Commander Palmer stands at the far edge of the scene, arms crossed. She looks odd and out of place, a lone figure in a techsuit against the stark white surroundings, but no less intense than usual.

“Thought we’d try something different from the typical drills, ma’am,” Fred coughs. He’s not sure why he feels guilty; they’d requested the time and blocked out the schedule and followed protocol…even if they hadn’t said precisely what they’d be doing…

Before anyone else has a chance to speak, a snowball goes sailing over Fred’s shoulder, on a collision course for Palmer. She’s too far away to hit, but the aim is dead-accurate and it lands with a wet plap several yards directly in front of her.

Even at this distance, Fred sees her eyes narrow. The vague guilt solidifying in his gut crystallizes into ice. He knows who threw that and he’s already, reflexively, preparing for the necessary damage control—and for Linda, no less. Kelly he was used to, but Linda?

Palmer shifts her weight and fixes the seven of them with a hard stare that lasts long past the point of being uncomfortable. “Don’t go anywhere,” she eventually orders, leveling a finger in their direction. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Without leaving any opportunity for rebuttal, she turns on her heel and swiftly disappears from the deck.

Immediately, Linda’s status light starts blinking rapid-fire green across Blue Team’s HUDs. Kelly follows suit.

“Really?” Fred grumps over TEAMCOM.

“Can you blame her if it worked?” Kelly retorts.

“Yes! You’re making an assumption and setting a bad example.” He switches to his helmet’s speakers. “Gammas, don’t throw things at your commanding officers.”

“Unless you’re sleeping with them,” Kelly adds, with enough tact to keep the comment on Blue Team’s private channel.

Another green light from Linda.

Fred willfully ignores both of them.

“...we’re not in trouble, are we?” Ash removes his helmet and shakes out his hair. “To be honest…I don’t know what just happened.”

Kelly seats herself on a tree stump, legs akimbo, smugness oozing from every seam of her armor. “Palmer’s getting suited up to come play with us.”

Ash seems unconvinced but Mark shrugs. “She’ll balance the numbers. We might even start winning.”

Only Blue Team can see—and appreciate—the red light John flashes in silent response.

**********

As threatened, Palmer returns exactly ten minutes later, fully armored aside from the helmet tucked into the crook of her arm. “Okay, here’s the official story.” She strides up to the group. “We’re running an unorthodox but fully sanctioned training exercise all day.”

“I’ve cleared the schedule and put out an open invitation,” Roland chimes in. “As requested.”

Palmer nods her approval. “Figured I’d let you have your fun on the condition that the rest of us could get in on it too.” She raises an eyebrow. “Sound fair?”

“Fair enough,” Fred answers, echoing the array of green lights on his HUD. “Alright. Ground rules—we’re running blind for this, Commander. No motion trackers.”

She looks pleased. “I like a challenge.”

“If you get hit, you’re out for the round,” he continues. “Once you’re out, you can’t help anyone still standing. Round ends when a whole team goes down.” Fred nods toward the ceiling. “Roland’s keeping score.”

“Huh,” Palmer hums. “So you knew about this, too, Roland?”

“I…was informed the exercise would require a scorekeeper instead of a handler,” the AI answers, somehow managing to achieve the verbal equivalent of tip-toeing. “And I volunteered a mere fraction of my copious attention to the task.”

Palmer just rolls her eyes.

Ash clears his throat and steps forward. “If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am, we’d greatly appreciate it if you joined our team.”

“They’ve been wiping the floor with us,” Olivia adds, somewhat ruefully.

Palmer looks back and forth between Blue Team and the Gammas with a hint of a smirk. “Well.” She slips her helmet on. “Allow me to level the playing field.”

**********

And indeed, the tide began to turn. Quickly. It wasn’t that the Gammas couldn’t hold their own, but Palmer was a different flavor of ruthless and even numbers did make a difference.

Kelly, as Blue Team’s sole survivor, was in the midst of a valiant stand, but she was up against Palmer and Olivia and they were going in for the kill. Up to this point, Kelly had been relying on her speed to evade them, but Fred doubted that would be able to carry her any further.

Palmer and Livi split around the back of the snowbank Kelly had hidden behind, falling into synchronized step with each other, timing their paces perfectly. Palmer’s boots fall heavier and louder, covering Olivia’s near-silent glide around the other side.

The strategy is obvious, at least from Fred’s position of passive observation—Palmer would draw Kelly’s attention, Olivia would come up on her flank and take her out. And it would work, too…on anyone less observant than Kelly. Fred has a feeling she’ll see right through it. But one of them was going to hit her either way, so it didn’t really matter as far as the outcome was concerned.

Surprisingly, a third option presents itself. Fred realizes after a few seconds that he’s been holding his breath, expecting Kelly to explode out of the snow and make a run for it, but…she doesn’t.

Palmer reaches the other side of the snowdrift and slows, confusion evident in her body language. She paces around the area, making sure not to stay still for too long, obviously reluctant to let her guard down completely. Fred can see the hazy mirage of Olivia’s SPI suit still moving in with careful deliberation.

There was no way Kelly could have moved. She hadn’t had enough time. More importantly, she would’ve been spotted if she’d tried to flee, so why couldn’t—

Palmer disappears. One second, she’s standing on the other side of the snowbank, visible from the waist up, and the next second she’s gone. Fred can’t see much of anything, but there are sounds of a scuffle and the blur of camouflaged armor as Livi sweeps in to assist with whatever the hell had just happened.

Barely a breath later, Roland announces the end of the match. “And Gammas-Plus-Palmer emerge victorious! …or should I say Olivia, specifically, seeing as she is the last Spartan standing. You know, you really oughta come up with a better name for your team—”

There’s a burst of indignant exclamations and flustered cursing from Palmer. She reappears only to rip her helmet off and kick some snow back in the direction from which she’d escaped.

Olivia removes her own helmet; Fred is surprised to see her laughing. “She got you good!” There’s a giddiness in her voice that Fred’s never heard before, but she seems to remember who she's talking to a moment later. “...ma’am.”

Kelly pops up beyond the ridge. She remains helmeted but Fred knows there’s a shit-eating grin on her face just from her posture alone.

“What happened?” He shouts the question out loud.

“She buried herself in the fucking snow and pulled my legs out from under me,” Palmer growls as she trudges over.

“And then I hit Kelly point-blank in the face!”

Olivia’s gleeful comment is backed by Kelly’s laughter over TEAMCOM. “Worth it.”

“Hey!” A different voice cuts into the conversation, once again pulling everyone’s attention toward the entrance. “Heard there was some kinda free-for-all goin’ on in here?” Gabriel Thorne stands flanked by the rest of Fireteam Majestic, all in full Mjolnir. “Got room for another team?”

Palmer waves them in. “Come on up, Majestic. We’ll get you briefed on the rules.” She sighs and fits her helmet back on. “Hope you’re ready to get your asses kicked.”

**********

An hour later, after Majestic had carved out a few victories of their own, Crimson shows up. Rules are recounted, home bases are realigned, play resumes. Within another two hours, there are four more Spartan fireteams on the field. Alliances are formed, both openly and secretly. Several hours are devoted to building snow forts. Play evolves. Forts are defended and captured, sabotaged and reinforced.

And then Lasky arrives.

“Captain on deck!” Roland bellows.

The silence that blankets the simulation deck is instantaneous and absolute. Nobody moves. If the snowballs already in flight could have frozen in midair, they probably would’ve. Instead, they land in a chorus of muffled thwumps.

Lasky stands there for a few seconds, small and unimposing by the distant doors, sporting his trademark expression of beleaguered amusement—presumably at being called out. “Don’t stop on my account,” he eventually says. “I just wanted to watch. …unless there’s a team looking for a liability,” he jokes with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Everyone on the field exchanges glances and shrugs. A sea of status lights blink across Fred’s HUD—most amber, some green. Finally, someone from Crimson waves Lasky over. “We’ll take you, Captain!”

He seems genuinely surprised by the invitation, but begins the trek across the snow. “Try not to kill me, alright?”

That draws laughs from most of the Spartans, but it’s John who actually banters back. “No promises, sir.”

[catgirlredux]

Hound Dogs

“… tomorrow we’ll meet your handler. For now, rest up.”

RDAI.vii.1156 stared down at its new body. Joining the military was considered the best route a Class-F citizen could pursue - free food, shelter, maybe even a few augments if you got lucky. But the Rapid Deployment Auxiliary Infantry unit felt less lucky and more confused. It signed up expecting to be given a gun and a pat on the back, not… this.

The arms were probably the strangest change. Skilled military surgeons had removed its forearms with a single blast of a laser that numbed its pain and severed flesh and bone at the same time. In their place, 1156 now wielded on each arm a single long, spider-like metal blade that extended all the way to the floor. The same happened to its legs, forcing the unit onto all fours. A reinforced spine kept it from collapsing onto the ground.

The rest of its body was covered in angular metal plates, designed to redirect and resist gunfire and protect the unit’s remaining flesh. Its face was likewise covered by an solid steel visor, vision and hearing substituted by an array of cameras, sonar, and radio scanners that fed information directly into its augmented brain. Its mouth remained uncovered but its teeth were removed and replaced with a new carbon fiber set. The chip in its brain repressed its discomfort so it didn’t try to claw off its own jaw.

A buzzer sounded and a tray carrying a bowl of nutrimeal slid out of the wall of the room. Unit 1156 stared it at, trying to figure out what to do - an injected concoction of hormones and suppressants had kept it comfortably dull, but somewhat muddled.

>EAT

The word flashed up on the inside of its visor, glaring into its semi-redundant eyes - eyes now dedicated to receiving screen-fed orders. It obediently craned its head down and started chomping at the slop. It was starving - the accelerated healing process was effective but it sapped all the solider’s energy.

Even if its senses hadn’t been muted, the nutritional goop was flavorless. Nevertheless it found itself slurping away with abandon, licking the bowl clean, dignity cast aside. Its faceplate glowed white hot for a moment before cooling down again, singeing off specks of food that had flown astray in the unit’s feeding frenzy. This feature was meant to burn blood and dirt off so that it didn’t impair an RDAI’s sensor array, but it worked for dinner well enough.

>GOOD MUTT

*****

The next day found RDAI.vii.1156 waiting in the main hangar, still slightly trembling on its spindly new legs. The thin, bladed design was perfect for chasing down enemy troops on the battlefield or pinning a straggler to the ground, but it was difficult to balance with even with the aid of the unit’s brain augments. A cord plugged into the back of its head kept it from wandering too far while feeding low-level electrical pulses that helped calm its nerves. It was waiting for its new handler - the soldier it would fight alongside, whose life it would dedicate itself to protecting. The bond between a handler and their hound (as the units were fondly referred to) was something truly unique, and though 1156 hadn’t planned to end up on this side of the relationship, it couldn’t help but feel excited.

It could feel her presence long before she actually entered the hangar. Perhaps it was merely the hormonal braindeck releasing waves of dopamine, but to the cyborg’s mind she was the most perfect being in the world. It could almost taste the draw of her augments to its own, pulling the two of them together like magnets. It knew that she felt it too. The connection between them was already established: the handler and the hunter, the owner and the dog.

It couldn’t quite remember what beauty looked like but it decided that she must be as close as one could get. Bent on all fours as 1156 was, it stood about half a meter shorter than her. Encased in a shiny automorphic techsuit, her body rippled with hidden energy ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice. Her one eye shone, the other replaced by an implant that flashed rapidly as if to say, it’s finally you.

A technician standing by unplugged the unit’s tether and stuck in a thinner, double-ended wire. 1156 trembled as its handler grabbed the other end and slowly slotted it into a port on her neck.

The instant the plug connected, 1156 nearly collapsed from the tsunami of pleasure that struck it at full force. All Handler’s emotions, all her thoughts, her very essence flowed through its brain, and it could tell that she was experiencing the same influx of data.

They stood there for what seemed like forever, its faceplate lights flashing in sync with her vitals node. The only sound was the slight clinking of metal on concrete as 1156 shifted from talon to talon. Her designation was RDI-H.2054, she was a Class-E civilian who was recruited at age 8, she had been trained as a handler for 11 years, but 1156 was her first hound of her own. She liked the color green, she hated morning training, she had been deployed overseas on a scouting mission just three months ago. The unit’s brain felt overloaded with information and yet more kept flowing in.

It saw vague images, faces of people that it didn’t recognize yet felt so familiar - Handler’s family? It saw the fire of war, the smiles of fellow soldiers, it felt her heartbeat, her brainwaves, her every breath. For a split second, the hound and the handler were not separate but rather a single entity, one soldier in two bodies, sharing their memories. 1156 felt its Handler’s cybernetic eye and her prosthetic leg, and she likewise felt its spindly new form and armor plating.

RDAI.vii.1156 felt 2054 about to scream and roared out in sync. Its twisted metallic vocal chords, designed specifically to instill fear in the enemy, pierced the air in the hangar with an unearthly screech which neither overwhelmed nor surrendered to its keeper’s voice but rather merged with it in a feral harmony.

*****

Blood spewed down the dog’s chin and through crevasses in its armor. It spit out a chunk of flesh with strands of muscle tangled in its reinforced teeth. As it stepped back from its prey, its pointed blades withdrew from within the dead footsoldier’s chest. The unit’s faceplate sizzled, burning away blood and viscera and turning its vision bright red for a moment. It let out a fierce howl, launching itself forwards with a speed unmatched by any two-legged infantry.

Just behind it, its handler finished off a tank pilot attempting to crawl away from its craft. The hound’s many sensors highlighted the remaining stragglers on the battlefield, and 2054 assessed the remaining threats as she ran. She spotted a wounded soldier training their scope onto her companion and raised her weapon, disintegrating the enemy’s face with a single clean blast. The hound bayed its gratitude before finishing its run, speeding between rocks and debris and eliminating the last few soldiers.

One, two, three, blood gushed from their chests as 1156 pounced on them, puncturing their lungs and tearing out their throats in quick succession. RDI-H.2054 watched and basked in the adrenaline - her brain had not been upgraded to manage her auxiliary’s entire suite of sensors, but they shared many core sensations. They both felt the rush of war, the warmth of blood on their faces, and most of all an immense wave of satisfaction and even euphoria. Nothing felt better than killing together - an entire battalion laid to waste at their hands gave them a jolt of dopamine that felt better than orgasm.

They were never awarded for their feats, nor did they feel the need for any such recognition. Deep in their programming they didn’t fight for any cause or nation, or even for their commanding officer. They fought merely to tear and bite alongside each other, to see the fear in their enemies’ eyes and feel their life drain out at the will of the hound of death and its handler.

Standing together in the remains of a decimated army, they surveyed their work. The air smelled of blood and the familiar scent of plasma-scorched air. 1156 playfully rammed its armored face into its handler’s chestplate, grunting and drooling red down her torso. She laughed and rubbed the top of its head, sending microscopic ripples of pleasure down its spine.

>GOOD JOB DARLING

[logannc]

Streamlining into the new year 💧

[threshergm]

Eulogy

A little scene from my upcoming John and Talia slow-burn titled Missing Pieces. Wanted to see what the tumblr community thought of it first before I really committed to a serious writing schedule and started hammering out word count. @lpmurphy @authortobenamedlater @mrtobenamedlater @fabulaprima @silverpelt3600

@t65flyer @ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask @sarnakhwritesthings @makowrites @morganas-pendragons

@ageless-aislynn @pelgraine @inafieldofdaisies @helix-studios117 @littleneonlily

2327 hours, April 5th, 2552 (military calendar) UNSC Halcyon-class light cruiser Pillar of Autumn Slipspace transit on randomized vector per Cole Protocol Leaving the Branta system, bound for Reach

"Have you seen Corporal Perez?"

Even in just his techsuit, the Master Chief seemed to fill the corridor. Which is probably why the crewman apprentice he was addressing was trying to disappear into the bulkhead. Even with Cortana gone for six months now, he could practically hear her hum, "Social graces, Chief," and took a step back.

The E2 - name tape obscured by the apron he still wore upon emerging from the galleys - gaped and pointed down the corridor, muttering, "On the right," indicating a sliding steel door opposite the entrance to the forward enlisted mess.

Chief nodded once, gruffed a perfunctory, "Thank you," and stalked down the corridor. The Pillar of Autumn, functioning on military standard timekeeping now that they were underway, was in night mode. The chrono above the enlisted mess hatchway glowed a red 2327 hours, and the main lights overhead were off, leaving the only light in the corridor as one lonely lamp over the door labeled FREEZER A-19.

Chief snaked his hand into the recessed handle and yanked the door aside on its track, and stepped inside. He found a single light on inside as well; illuminating shelves and racks of frozen foods, three black body bags on the floor, and next to them, wrapped in a gray Navy-issue blanket, dark hair cascading off her shoulders, sat Corporal Perez.

Master Chief took two firm steps forward, stopping a stride from where the young Marine sat, legs tucked under herself. He stopped and settled into parade rest.

"Corporal Perez, why are you not at your post? Our shift began over a half-hour ago."

She didn't budge, save for breaths that came shallow and a little jaggedly, as if she'd been crying.

"Corporal Perez?"

Silence hung in the artificially frigid air, and Chief began to wonder if he should walk to the wall intercom and summon a medical corpsman. He glanced around, as if missing something, then returned his gaze to the small woman on the floor before him.

"Rand had a thing for me," she croaked out suddenly. So she had been crying. She didn't turn, didn’t move, except to reach a hand out from her woolen cocoon to stroke the bodybag nearest her.

"He always used to sit next to me in the chow hall on drill weekends, but he never knew what to talk about. 'Are you enjoying your chicken, Corporal?'" She laughed weakly, "'Rand, it's just fucking chicken. The same chicken we had last month and every month before that.'"

Her accent thickened alongside the sorrow in her voice. "We picked him up on Midvale back in '49, after the Red United Front bombed that dam. Pulled him off the roof of his family's ranch house with his two sisters. His sisters settled on Culloden, but he stayed. He was one of our full-timers; the Colonel found a job for him as the armorer's assistant. He lived on-base and sent all his pay to his sisters so they could buy land and start again."

She took in a shuddering breath, shoulders trembling underneath her blanket. "He said he saw something in the fog. Country boy, you know? Grew up hunting and I… I should have believed him."

She seemed to shrink in on herself for a moment, hunching against some wordless pain, until a low keening wail escaped, “He was only 19!” She shook her head, and Chief saw hot tears fly, while she bit her lip and fought to get her emotions under control. After a moment, with a grunt of pain, her hand shifted from one body bag to the next.

"Zara Bennett. She was our linguist. I loved her accent. She was from London, and she was the first person from Earth that I'd ever met. Her dad manages a titanium mine out in Tengeri back home on Reach. They're loaded, but you'd never guess it from Zara, we used to go thrift-shopping together. Her parents have a penthouse in downtown New Alexandria, and she could have gone to university back on Earth, easily. But she enlisted. Said she wanted to protect her new home." 

She patted the body bag fondly, black plastic crinkling in the silence, and her hand extended a little further.

"Milo Alvarez. He used to bag groceries down the street from my grandparent's place. He was an atheist, and we always used to argue and… oh, God!" Her voice broke. "I don't know where he is right now…" 

She bowed her head, leaning into the body bag, as if shielding it like Chief had shielded her from the glassing beam on that mountainside, sobs hitching her shoulders, "H-he didn't know you, Father, but take him home… take him home."

She lapsed into Spanish, a language Chief didn't know, and he fervently wished Cortana was there to translate. His brow furrowed; the lack of knowledge a gap in his preparation, the gap in his understanding suddenly a splinter in his mind. Without thinking, he took a step forward, closing the distance between the miserable scene before him, and kneeled beside Perez.

“You speak well for them.” He spoke in low tones; he wasn’t sure why. It simply felt right to do so. Perez stopped, turned upwards to face him, dark eyes reddened and slender face puffy in the dim light of the freezer. “God, I h-hope so. They’re m-my friends.” Tears still flowed freely down her cheeks, and her voice was hoarse. Umber eyes - the color of rich soil Chief had seen on a dozen worlds - held his gaze steadily in the dark, despite the pain swimming in them. “What were you saying, just now? In Spanish?” Chief cocked his head in question. Perez smiled weakly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “Yes, Spanish. I’m from Santiago Circle. I grew up speaking it at home,” she took another breath, steadier this time, “I-I’m Catholic. It was our Prayer for the Dead.” Her eyes met his own in the dark, and she held his gaze for a long moment. Chief wasn’t sure why, but he needed more. The name of a prayer wasn’t enough. He needed to understand this young woman sitting in a pool of her grief beside three corpses. “Tell me what you said,” he rumbled gently. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an order. He just needed to know. Perez kept his gaze for another long moment, then began to slowly recite, in English. In your hands, O Lord,

We humbly entrust our brothers and sisters.

In this life you embraced them with your tender love;

Deliver them now from every evil

And bid them eternal rest.

The old order has passed away:

Welcome them into paradise,

Where there will be no sorrow, no weeping or pain,

But fullness of peace and joy

With your Son and the Holy Spirit

Forever and ever.Amen.

The freezer-turned-mortuary fell silent as her recitation ended, and her eyes remained locked with his. “Thank you, Corporal.” The Master Chief rose suddenly, took three steps back, and turned to face her, once more at parade rest, his expression unreadable.

“Corporal Perez, I am not rated in cryotube maintenance or repair. You are. There are 1,042 cryotubes in our area of responsibility and all need to be monitored and, if necessary, serviced without compromising function or the occupant inside. I need you to --”

“I can’t leave them,” Perez croaked, voice thickening once more. Her eyes were pleading, her head shaking slowly. Chief’s augmented heart ached to see it, but he couldn’t say why.

“Corporal Perez,” Chief started slowly, not sure how to proceed. “You’re no good to anyone watching over three bodies. What made them your friends is gone. There are 1,042 men, women, and children packed into an identical number of cryotubes, all constructed by the lowest bidder, housed in compartments that were never designed to support them. They need us. They need you.”

The Chief stepped back into the hatchway, turning to look at Perez out of one eye, half his face painted into shadow by the dark of the corridor outside.

“The living need you, Corporal.”

[inkwell-passion]

From The Break Of Dawn

Romero-012 wakes up after exactly 2 hours, with its armor unlocking; allowing it to stretch, and flair out its plasmatic wings, drumming them against the ground that cause small scorch marks that are dusted away.

"Diagnostics?" It asks, immediately getting the response from its other half, also Romero-012. It nods and walks out of the barracks to start the day at 6:25 on the dot. Romero-012 would boot up a sparring simulation of several orbiting discs that it is meant to tag with punches and kicks. After that unordinary morning where Seamus-124 had the conversation with the Agent, it has been trying to improve it's close-quarters-combat.

Romero-012 walks into the center and presses the start button, having its other half time it.

The moment the timer begins, she lets out a flurry of punches and kicks; finding good purchase on the discs as she does her best to maintain her kinetic energy, flowing one strike into another as she quickly clears disc after disc, finishing the training exercise in only a few seconds, but not coming anywhere close to Mathuin-076 in her opinion.

It'll continue the training regimen after the rest of its wake up routine. Heading out of the simulation bay, Romero-012 would enter the Gym allocated for the Seraphim, removing its armor plating and placing them on the rack, leaving it in the techsuit. In its techsuit, the Seraphim would start stretching; preparing its yoga routine in order to alleviate the ever present soreness within its body as a result of its augmentation.

47 minutes into its 90 minute yoga routine the door would slide open, and reveal Agent Maelstrom; causing the Seraphim to go to attention and salute the Agent, who clears his throat. "Zero Twelve, are you busy?" He asks the Seraphim.

"No Agent." It responds after dropping the Salute.

"Do you mind if I ask you to keep me company during my rounds of the facility? I could pick your brain about this new training regimen I wanted to put the Seraphim on."

"Of Course Not Agent."

The man smiles at the war machine. "Well get your armor plating on, and let's go."

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Exit Strategy

A short scene inspired by something @fablepatron drew.

-

Adrenaline and training numb the pain in his abdomen. The white hot shock of injury fading away as his brain and nervous system kick into overdrive via natural and artificial means. His body and mind have been made into a weapon and that very fact might save his life.

And the fact that he isn't alone.

"Roland..." Miller calls after glancing around the corner. "Could really use an exit strategy about now."

"Working on it." Roland's voice is short and clipped, buzzing moodily from the ceiling, like he's annoyed and this is just them on Ops. It's familiar and comforting in a strange way. Miller's not going to snipe back because there's someone with a gun and he doesn't even have a sidearm. Lost it sometime in the rush. Spartans can do a lot but they aren't invincible - no one believes that lie anymore. He can feel his pulse in the throbbing wound and the wet seeping down the techsuit.

"Okay. I have one, but..." Roland says in a garbled rush of static from the ceiling. It draws his eyes up from where Miller's got himself braced in a crouch. "I need you to trust me."

"What are you doing?" Miller asks. Trepidation settles in the back of his skull, a brief icy chill that spurs him on.

"Just trust me okay?" Roland's tone dips into familiar territory, near manic in its joviality. Even the most insane plans he's had have worked out. What other options are there? Miller exhales. Animal fear is wrestled down and settles in the back of his brain. Focus returns.

"Okay. I trust you."

The world turns red.

Someone inhales sharply, the pain in the body sharpens and is then ignored. It is noted -cataloged- and then they move on.

I need to redo this.

The body gets its feet under itself again, hands braced as they review the options, the choices and actions that led him here.

The body looks and it sees from another perspective. The pilot of the body sees. Miller has forcibly been made to take a backseat and he isn't quite quick enough to keep up. He watches and trusts because it's all he can do.

The eyes of the body see from the other place. The enemy is injured, crouching 1.8 meters away, wounded leg visible.

"Just one guy? You're getting old, Miller." Roland speak-think-tells him. 

The body continues to look and think. The pilot weighing on the wetware, manually correcting and dragging it upright, spurring muscle and bone into position. There is slight frustration-indignation-relief at the jab, so Roland follows up with congratulating him with the hit on the enemy. The bullet will slow the enemy. Another advantage.

The world is red. A pulse pounds, blood in his ears. Blood loud. Meat is so loud, especially when pushed. Everything is in sharp relief, crystal clear and muddled as the pilot looks with the body's burning eyes. Brown to gold. Pupils dilated. Data pours in.

85% certainty at this distance. The BR85 is gas-operated, magazine-fed. 36 rounds with a high rate of fire. Effective up to 950 meters. 97% certainty the magazine isn't full. Short controlled bursts are easy to miss if fired in a panic. Dangerous to unhelmeted wetware.

Do you trust me?

The world is red and the pilot primes the body. The plan is - the plan is - the plan is in motion, always has been, always will be. There were a thousand plans - there was only ever one plan. The body survives.

The eyes of the body watch as the surroundings change. They are outside themself, it sees itself and it sees the enemy through the eyes of the body. Its eyes are locked onto the gun and the foe and the body moves faster than ever. A fist, bone and muscle and more - the skeletal fullerene lattice supports the speed, while the increased production of myelin sheaths allows the wetware to bear the load of an outside pilot. The body moves as the outside mind has already decided, already planned for. The body's mind, pushed to the back, does not understand. It watches, a silent witness.

Vertigo. Red. Pain. Noise. Meat and bone.

The hit lands, the gun is taken, the enemy staggers, the trigger is pulled. The noise of the gun firing is the loudest thing the body has ever experienced. Blood pounds in his ears. Borrowed eyes burn, he forgot to blink. The pilot is so young. 

The recoil shudders through meat and bone. The bullet tears through meat and bone. The body is standing. The enemy is falling so fast - dropping in slow motion. The enemy is downed.

Wisps of smoke dissolve from the barrel. Heat floods the system. 

The world turns white.

Miller comes to propped up against the wall. 

The world is white and pain returns. He is seeing out of his own eyes now - has only ever seen out of his brown eyes. His muscles burn and his lungs draw in breath like he's surfaced from underwater. His pulse pounds in his body, ears and all. The blood is loud even as his head is quiet. He isn't alone.

A breath then two. The ceiling swims above him. He's vaguely aware of the camera focusing on him.

"Roland?"

"Yeah?" The voice comes from outside, from a speaker on the ceiling that is still swimming.

"Fuck you." Miller closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. His legs are folded beneath him. He doesn't think he could stand right now if he tried.

"Aw, I knew you loved me."

[boomboomgaff]

Mirage IIC armour core

Sorry for not posting halo stuff, was too busy being Santa for my wife and three kids, also merry Christmas!

The mirage IIC armour has some weird proportions I think, idk what it is but there’s something kinda off about it maybe the arms or the shoulders. Nevertheless it looks awesome with the right person customising it, once I finish the season three pass I’ll change up this armour but for now I don’t really have all that much customisation items. Hope you all enjoy.🙏

Lore

In-keeping with the theme of cost-effectiveness, the Mirage IIC builds on the foundation of the GEN1 Mirage and Semi-Powered Infiltration armor program. Some helmets compromise the full range of GEN3 capabilities, this significantly reduces their cost, complexity, and the augmentation requirements of the operator. All this results in a multi-role powered assault armor that meets baseline GEN3 Mjolnir standards. Mirage IIC's reactor is built into the techsuit, being covered by the chestpiece.

MIRAGE IIC helmets compromise the full range of GEN3 capabilites to significantly reduce cost, complexity, and operator augmentation requirements compared to the Mark VII baseline

/////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: Grey Hunter

Helmet: CQC

Visor: Sardonic

Chest: TAC/Aegis Puck

Shoulder pad L: UA/TACUP A22

Shoulder pad R: UA/TACUP A22

Gloves: Rift Alpha

Wrist: N/A

Utility: N/A

Knee pad: UA/Type SYI

Armour effect: N/A

Halopedia reference images.

[guttergator]

I really love your "waifu stickers", do you mind if I drew the designs sometime? I really dig the zero-suit look they got and want to try my hand at it. I'll credit you if I post it on here!

Cheers, really enjoying your work so far!

You're legit one of my favorite artists, I would love to see how you interpret just a silly idea I had for stickers for my water bottle lmao I know I just did a zero suit nokama but the original design was actually inspired by Spartan techsuits from Halo. But seriously, go for it

[tenkotenkotenkotenkotenko]

Not that I don't get the appeal of techsuits, but as someone whose first mech franchises were Heavy Gear (Called "Canadian Votoms" by some) and Battletech/Mechwarrior, Mech Pilots to me always look more like tank operators or fighter pilots

In any event, mech pilot Biboo, ready to kill some dudes for money

[idolkilling]

You seem to draw Xero in both formal and casual clothes - do you prefer one over the other? Does he?

I don’t have a preference between formal and casual when it comes to what style I want to see Xero wearing, since they can pull anything off, but I definitely default to formal or white collar wear when drawing them, since those capture their vibes best!

It also makes the uncommon pics of Xero dressed down even spicier to me—there is just something so eroi about a character who’s usually in button-ups and blazers and dress shoes and pressed slacks suddenly wearing tees and sweats… Showing off their collar and upper arms and ankles 🤤 ⬅️ pervert

When it comes to Xero themself, I think they have a slight inclination to dress up, but moreso because they like playing house; they’re often performing personae, most of which are meant to have a ‘sophisticated’ vibe—the costuming must match the character so to speak. They’re most fond of those mysterious suited man/femme fatale roles, but they won’t say no to a casual everyman or techsuit mercenary foray once in a while just to spice things up.

[swimmerspeedos]

🏊🏻‍♂️ swimmer/speedos 🩲