seen from China
seen from Yemen
seen from Nigeria
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from Yemen
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Netherlands
seen from Malaysia
seen from Norway
seen from Malaysia
seen from Italy
seen from Japan
seen from Russia
seen from Canada
seen from Germany
seen from China
HALO RELOADED:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The Rest Of The List:
Halo Reloaded - The Early Years & That Boy From Eridanus-II
Halo Reloaded - The Star-Spangled Man... & Bad Dream
RvB Reloaded - Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue... & First Day
Agents Washington & Carolina
A Spin-Off
@makowrites, @empresskadia, @ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask, @killer-orca-cosplay, @valkyrie7274
@inthatfandom, @in-amber-clad, @mlgssy
Operation Violet-Roses: The Reds & The Blues
Top Left - Sarge/Sgt-Major Buck Daggerknife. Top Center - Staff Sergeant James "Jimmy" Burns. Top Right - Corporal Franklin Delano Donut.
Center Left - Private Michael J. Caboose. Center - Private Dexter Grif. Center Right - Lance-Corporal Lavernius Tucker.
Bottom Right - Private Rachel Simmons. Bottom Center - Tex. Bottom Left - Lopez.
Operation Violet-Roses is a clandestine super-soldier program that was made to... succeed is entirely the wrong word, but replace Project Freelancer after it dissolved. Operation VR took a small group of below-average soldiers and turns them into recovery-agents meant to find all of the missing Freelancers and AI-Fragments that vanished after PF fell apart. The soldiers of OVR aren't meant to be "better" than the Freelancers before them, just more expendable and easier to control.
The Reds is a small light-infantry and demolitions group of commandos who are tasked to make as big a mess as they want.
The Blues are a recon-unit of spies and scouts who gather intel for the Reds. Though they're no strangers to action.
York
The Mystery-Merc
I think you know who this might be.
Red VS Blue Reloaded: First Day
Grif stood awkwardly before the weather-beaten, rust-streaked sign of the Red Team barracks, his newly issued orange armor glistening like a particularly conspicuous target under the unforgiving sun. It was his first day, and the blend of excitement and absolute terror churned in his stomach like cheap diner coffee. Military life, Grif had reasoned, would offer a clean break from his past—his very colorful, circus-filled past where his mom was the star attraction as the bearded lady. It wasn't that he didn't love the circus or his family, but Grif was gunning for a life where the word "normal" might at least semi-apply.
As he hesitated, debating whether to bolt or brave it, the barracks door flew open with a dramatic clang. Out strode a man whose armor was so intensely scarlet it could start a fight on its own. This had to be Sergeant Major Buck Daggerknife—better known as Sarge—a man whose reputation for both enthusiasm and a slight detachment from reality preceded him.
"Private Grif! Welcome to your new home, son! You’re just in time for the morning debrief. Hustle up now! We don’t mosey in Red Team, we move with purpose!" Sarge bellowed, a wide grin splitting his chiseled, square-jawed face.
"Yes, sir!" Grif replied, mustering every ounce of military gusto he didn’t feel. He lumbered in behind Sarge, his boots thudding ominously against the metal floor.Inside, the common room was a stark contrast to the bright outside—cool and shadowy, with a few haphazardly placed LED lights flickering like the last survivors at a bad disco. Clustered near an old, scarred table were a few team members, including one particularly flamboyant figure in cherry pink armor. This, Grif recalled, was Corporal Donut, whose reputation for both fierceness and fabulousness was legendary.
Sarge clapped his hands, drawing all eyes to him. "Listen up, team! We've got fresh meat—Private Grif here has joined our circus. Figuratively speaking, that is. Let’s make sure he knows what real teamwork looks like."
"Don’t worry, I left the real circus back home," Grif quipped, his attempt at humor falling flat as he scanned the room, catching a few smirks.
Donut stepped forward, his demeanor all business despite the playful sparkle in his eye. "Private Grif, we operate as a unit here. And as the best looking and most strategically minded member of Red Team, I'll be keeping an eye on you."
Simmons, sporting violet-red armor and a serious expression that contrasted with her youthful, freckled face, piped up from the corner. "Don’t mind Donut. Welcome to the team, Grif. Just remember, rule number one: always follow protocol. And rule number two: don’t annoy Sarge."
"Thanks, Simmons. Noted," Grif responded, his voice dry. He was quickly realizing that each member of Red Team was a character study in how to be uniquely bizarre.Sarge, seemingly pleased with the introductions, launched into a rundown of their upcoming training exercises. "We'll start with a light five-mile run in full gear, then move on to weapons training. If you survive that, lunch is at 1300 hours—where the real challenge begins. Donut's cooking."
The mention of lunch made Grif's stomach both growl and churn in dread. He wasn't sure which was more terrifying: the prospect of physical exertion or surviving whatever concoction Donut might whip up.
As the briefing wound down, Grif felt the initial nerves begin to settle. Sure, this place was different from the circus, but maybe that wasn’t so bad. After all, where else could you get shot at, potentially poisoned, and still find camaraderie? Only in the military, Grif supposed.
...
In the semi-darkness of their shared bunk room, Grif sprawled out like a starfish across his bed, while Simmons, perched on her own, was engaged in her nightly ritual of boot polishing. The meticulous care she gave her boots made Grif wonder if there was some kind of boot-shining badge of honor he wasn't aware of.
"Hey, Grif," Simmons began, setting her brush down with a precise thunk, her tone casual but clearly curious. "Everyone's got a story about how they ended up here. Spill it—what's yours?"
Grif propped himself up on his elbows, giving Simmons a grin. "Ah, you know, the usual tale of woe and regret—just kidding. I actually ran away from the circus. Yes, literally. My mom’s the bearded lady, famous across several star systems. Growing up, it was all high-wire acts and clown cars for me."
Simmons' eyes widened slightly, the corners of her mouth twitching. "A circus, really? Did you juggle fire or something equally reckless?"
Grif laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, I was the Gravball champ of our traveling troupe. Played in the mud and dust of whatever planet we were on. But eventually, I washed out, lost my mojo, and decided running off to the military was the next logical step."
"From circus star to army private. That's quite a transition," Simmons remarked, her tone mixing amusement with a hint of respect.
"Yep, figured I'd trade in the big top for the big guns. Wanted something a bit more... grounded, I guess," Grif said, stretching his arms behind his head.
"And how's that working out for you?" Simmons asked, a sly grin spreading across her face.
"It's definitely less... flamboyant," Grif conceded with a mock solemn nod. "Your turn, Simmons. What's the dramatic backstory that led you to the glamorous life of military discipline?"
Simmons resumed her boot polishing, the brush strokes rhythmic and soothing. "Oh, it's the textbook military brat story. Both parents served, grandparents too. I was practically born with a regulation handbook in my crib. For me, the army isn’t just about following orders—it’s about knowing exactly where you stand. Order, structure, predictability—all the things a circus isn't."
"Sounds like you were born for this," Grif mused, genuinely intrigued. "Ever wish for something... less predictable?"
"Sometimes," she admitted, pausing her brushing. "But then I remember I hate surprises. Here, I know what to expect. There’s comfort in that, even if it’s a comfort lined with live-fire drills."
"Fair enough," Grif said, nodding thoughtfully. "I suppose we're both running from something. Me, from chaos. You, from the fear of it."
Simmons chuckled, her earlier formality melting into a more relaxed demeanor. "Well, having a former circus performer as a bunkmate is certainly not in the handbook. Just promise me no clowning around during ops, okay?"
Grif gave a dramatic gasp. "Me? Clown around? Perish the thought! But if you ever need someone to juggle smoke grenades, I’m your guy."
"Deal. Just keep the juggling to non-explosives, at least while you’re in the bunk," Simmons replied, her voice light with laughter.
"Deal," Grif echoed, a warm sense of camaraderie weaving through their light-hearted banter, grounding him more firmly than he’d expected. In this unlikely place, perhaps he could find a new kind of family—one less adorned with sequins and sawdust, but no less vibrant.
