Name: [Classified]
Birth date: [Classified] (Presumed before or around 2505)
Homeworld: [Classified, theorized Insurrectionist-held territories]
Rank: Vice Admiral (VAdm)
Service Branch: UNSC Navy - Office of Naval Intelligence
Clearance: Section-0
Vitals-
Gender: Male
Bloodtype: O-
Height: 165.1cm (5’5)
Weight: 63.50 kg (140lbs.)
Eyes: Baseline, white. Augmented eyes alter color via polarization,
Hair: Baseline, white. Constantly dyes and redyes hair.
Ethnicity: Russian
Bio:
Codename: Seraph's service record predates the Human-Covenant War, though no definitive information seems to exist on record pertaining to his birth name, birth date, age, or planet of origin... Nor is his actual appearance definitively on record. At present, it is entirely unknown if the current 'Seraph' is even the original holder of the rank and codename, though no records regarding his death have ever been uncovered or released.
Seraph is the consummate master of disguise, altering his hair color, eye color via implanted augmentations, facial features via prosthetics and makeup, and even his height and build on a day to day basis to ensure that his anonymity is guaranteed.
Anonymity is important to the Vice Admiral, whom oversees the majority of ONI's oft-denied wetworks operations, though he rarely handles the matters directly himself anymore. He commands a vast array of operatives whom he's taught the art of infiltration and disguise over the years, and was previously one of Admiral Parangosky's closest advisors, though he took no pleasure in this distinction as he recognized it for what it was - keeping one's friends close and one's enemies closer.
In the wake of Serin Osman's promotion to Admiral and head of ONI, Seraph no longer enjoys the same degree of trust that he did before, and has begun to find more and more restrictions being laid down on his ability to command and direct his operatives as he sees fit. Whether this leads to an eventual confrontation between himself and Osman remains to be seen.
(Unless otherwise specified, this account does not follow the canon for Codename: Seraph as established in the UNSC Resolute Chronicles series of fan-fiction.)
((Halo Fandom - CODENAME: Seraph, a Vice-Admiral and member of the Board of Directors for the Office of Naval Intelligence in our Halo fiction. Originally written as a drabble throw-down with my counterpart.))
He never really saw the draw of snow.
Color-changing eyes swept over the scene as it played out before him, as he cupped one cold, gloved hands around the flickering flame of his lighter and lit himself a cigarette, inhaling deeply before he flicked the lighter shut. He exhaled a short gust of grey and white, his breath and the smoke, as his keen gaze disdainfully shifted across the faces of children, rosy-cheeked with the cold, bouncing along the streets of HighComm beside mothers and fathers laden with packages for the encroaching Christmas holiday.
Seraph sniffed disdainfully, as he looked away, strolling along the sidewalk made icy and wet by the manufactured snow that drifted down pleasantly from the skies above, engineered to make the season seem more festive and magical for military and civillians alike. He brought up his step short as a child darted in his way, oblivious to his presence as the little boy whirled about trying to catch a handful of snowflakes, before his mother called the boy back to her side, away from the scowling man in the ghost-grey uniform.
Fucking kids… Seraph shook his head, as he took another drag off his cigarette, walking on until he reached a pedestrian bridge over a shopping center, where the sound of cheery Christmas music and laughter was as grating to him as nails on a chalk board. He stamped his feet once, twice, trying to warm himself before he figured it was a pointless move – once he got cold, he stayed that way until he retreated indoors, an inevitable side effect of his favorite vice.
Someone above had decided to piss him off today, he decided, because by the time he reached the doors of the Office of Naval Intelligence’s home offices, snow was sticking to the ground in little cheery drifts of white, flakes of it clung to his dyed-black hair, and the shoulders of his coat were dusted with it. His hands were cold, his feet were cold, and the last twenty or so steps had been an adventure – some damn fool had forgotten to salt the walkways again, and they were slippery already.
“Good afternoon, Vice Admiral.” One of the building’s security detail intoned, reading the name off the badge he swiped through the reader more than recognizing him, as usual.
“Nothing good about it.” He replied coldly, scowling faintly as he removed his service cap, glaring disdainfully at the dusting of snow that had settled there. “Too fucking cold.”
“Snow’s a nice touch,” The man replied thoughtfully, as he looked outside. “I bet my kids are home throwing snowballs at each other.”
“Meh.” Seraph replied with a dissatisfied shrug, snuffling his boots along the mat on the floor for a moment to rid them of castoff.
“C’mon Vice Admiral, you’ve got to admit a white Christmas is always nice.”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas.” He rolled his eyes. “I dislike rampant consumerism and I’m an atheist.”
“Man your wife must love you!” The man burst out laughing, and Seraph made a mental note to make his life a living hell for a few days the following week, as he strode on towards the elevator that would take him to his office.
A three-minute lift ride later and he was ready to strangle the secretaries and assistants he’d had the misfortune of riding up with, as they discussed taking their children here or there, discussed building snowmen and taking kids to visit Santa Clause (he quite wisely bit back the question of whether or not they’d approve of their children sitting in strangers’ laps on a regular basis), and darted out into the hall once he arrived at his floor. Twenty quick strides took him into his office, past his ever-vigilant secretary Cherubim, who wordlessly handed him a folder of thin-film reports for the day.
“… Find out whoever the fuck is in charge of weather this month with PlanSat.” Seraph remarked coldly.
“Snow’s a special request from the Fleet Admirals.” Cherubim sighed, as always knowing Seraph’s mind almost before he did. “Good luck there. By the way, the board’s Christmas party is tonight, and so far the Director isn’t interested in rescheduling due to the weather.”
“Will there be alcohol?”
“Isn’t there always?”
“Is Kurt going to play those fucking awful Christmas carols again?”
“Until your wife threatens to castrate him again, probably.”
“Is Ackerson attending?”
“Doubtful.”
“Then have Perun pick up something for the fucking party, if Danalise is suffering through it I’ll look like an asshole if I don’t show up.” Seraph sighed heavily, as he headed through the door of his office. “And tell him if he decides to get a cheeseball again, I’m firing his ass.”
“Yes sir.”
His office was warm, and as he hung his hat and overcoat on the hook, he noticed that Cherubim had been thoughtful enough to have a hot cup of coffee waiting for him at his desk. The first sip told him that it was quite pleasantly laced with a bit of brandy to help warm him up, and he settled into his chair with a sigh, turning to face the windows of the office to watch the snow as it fell towards the ground.
It painted a pretty picture, he supposed, but what was a coat of paint slapped on rotting wood really worth? He couldn’t help but wonder why anyone went to the effort anymore, of dressing up a holiday that had gone to the dogs of religion and consumerism, why they bothered pretending it was something pleasant and that celebrating it the way their forefathers had centuries ago was the right thing to do.
He sighed as he remembered the little wrapped box already hidden in his desk drawer. As much as he hated traditions that had gone to the dogs, he still had a wife to please back home, and the earrings and necklace he’d had made to specifications this year would, he knew, please her about as much as the idea of the two of them getting to spend two days together without work.To two members of ONI’s Board of Directors, time, rather than material possessions, was a precious gift.
He just hoped the snow would let up soon. Otherwise when he found out who’d agreed that snow was a wonderful idea for HighComm, someone’s family was going to end up without a father for Christmas. And wouldn't that just be a fucking tragedy...
