I'm Alone

by AmbroseVox

As the Human-Covenant War rages on, a tight-knit band of marines find themselves fighting side by side the dedicated crew of the super heavy cruiser UNSC I'm Alone, but the ship's commanding officer shares a bond of fury and anguish against one of the marines, which will ignite a personal conflict that could divide the titanium world they live in and last throughout the war.

7. Chapter 7: Hard Words

I really appreciate the reviews, you guys really breathe a lot of life back into me. If you want to see my responses, they're in the end description. Enjoy. :)

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Chapter Seven: Hard Words

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Dear Sadie, I just wanted to let you know that I'm doing well. Things have been quiet in our sector, there's been very little fighting. I'm far from the frontlines. There's not much to say about me, I suppose. I'm a marine, after all, and I do all of what you'd expect a marine to do, so there's not much use in talking about it. Why don't you tell me about home? How are you these days? Is your little art bar doing well? Are Adelaide and her husband getting along alright? How're Karen and Danielle? Have they finished school yet? And what about mom and dad, are they okay? I know it's been a long time since I've written. I know you're probably upset. I just don't want you to think that I don't care. I do. It's just hard to stay in communication when we're far from home. Five years is a long time, but it won't be much longer, I promise-

Dear Sadie, I know it's been a long time since I sent you a letter. Things have been hectic out here. The fighting is hard. I've lost friends. I'm tired all the time, and I get scared a lot. I've been made a sergeant, and now I have six lives to look after. Sometimes I just want to curl up in a ball and shut off. I wish I was home. We could pick flowers from the gardens like we used to. You'll have to send me a picture of them when you write back. It'll probably be a while after I send this actually. I'm in slipspace right now. You'd like it. It's beautiful in a way, the strange lights and the darkness. It reminds me of those nights when mom and dad would drive us through Halifax. Do you remember? Do you even remember me? Do you even know what I look like now? I can hardly remember your face after five years. Do you guys even think about me anymore? I think about you all the time. Do you even remember that you have a younger brother? Do you even-

Hey Sadie, I just outran a nuclear explosion. Being a marine is great fun. I get to kill things every day and get to shoot big guns, I'm really glad I decided to be a marine-

Frost crumpled up the letter and tossed it onto the floor. It landed with the others, a dozen or so crushed wads of paper.

The cabin was empty, the seven beds vacant save for his. Their kits were seated around their beds, their unloaded weapons stored in their lockers. All of their battle armor would be in the lockers too, but they were so charred that they had been sent to the armory for repairs. It lacked a homey touch. No posters, no pictures on their block-like nightstands. Only the trio of armchairs and a mirror Steele had hung on his locker were the only furnishings.

The sergeant was sitting on his bed, back against the wall, struggling to scribble a letter to his sister on a pad of lined paper. Frost had been trying since they had first settled into the ship. Now, four days had gone by and still he couldn't find the words.

He wondered if it was even worth it. Five years away from home, with hardly a holo-photo or a video chat in between, made him feel like a stranger. Sadie still wrote him, telling him about life back on Earth, about their family; sometimes she'd beg him to write back. It had been three years since his last letter. Written words had become difficult for him. When he was in middle school, he had won an award for a poem he had written about the family ranch. Teachers, friends, and family alike trumpeted that he would become the 26th Century's great poet. That poet had become a marine, whose hands trembled every time he picked up a pencil. There were simply no words to describe what he had seen and what he had done. How could he? How could he tell Sadie that he could pull the trigger of a sniper rifle and punch a massive hole in an alien's head miles away? Entire planets had been burned turned to molten rock in a manner of seconds. Droves of fellow marines had been cut down by never-ending plasma fire. The sheer magnitude of suffering and death he had witnessed was nearly unspeakable. Every time he was on the line, he nearly died. He had been shot, crushed, and blown up; how could he ever describe those experiences? The pain, the fear?

Eventually, Frost just tossed the pad onto his nightstand along with the pencil. There was no use in trying, he decided. All he was going to do was make himself angrier, angrier at his own inability to speak. Home was something he dreamed of yet it was a place of dread. If the war ended tomorrow by some miracle, he would be sent back home and would never be able to speak again. His family would never be able to fathom his experience, the truth of it all, the war. This was a war unlike any other. Political motives, ideology, lusts for power, expansionism, imperialism, petty rivalries; all were absent from this war. A war for their very survival-not a single nation's survival-but their entire species. How could he explain what that kind of war was like? How could he tell them what it was like, that the sum of their efforts was basically delaying the inevitable?

He ran his hands down his face. Thinking too pessimistically would hinder him in the field. It was then the door slid open and Steele walked in. The Englishman looked more like his normal, well-groomed self. His mustache was trimmed and neat, and his thick hair was combed to the side like usual. No one could have guessed that a few days earlier he had been fighting for his life, save for a small bandage on his left cheek.

"What's your bugger?" he asked, nudging one of the balled up pieces of paper with his booted foot. "Writing the fam again?"

"Yeah," Frost muttered.

"Not going well?"

"Mhm."

Steele bent over and picked up one of the letters, unwraveled it, and began reading. He stopped halfway through, "is Sadie hot?"

"Dude, that's my sister, what's wrong with you?" Frost laughed. Steele chuckled as he gathered up the rest of the paper balls and dropped them in the waste basket at the one desk in the room. He sat down beside Frost and bumped his shoulder against his.

"You'll figure it out eventually. I haven't written my dad since we left for basic."

Frost nodded. He remembered that once their three-year long training was completed, they were allowed to go home for a few days. Everyone did, except for Steele, who stayed on base. He didn't come from an easy life.

"You good?"

"Yeah, just finished eating brunch with the boys."

"I'll think I'll check on everybody."

Frost stood up. He walked over to his locker and slipped on his overshirt; the tops of the shoulders and arms were a green digital camouflage pattern, while the under arms and torso were an olive drab color. He glanced in Steele's little mirror, seeing the three stripes on each shoulder, under the small pouch on each bicep. It was the squad leader's duty to be aware of the squad's well being, and he couldn't do that if he was sitting around moping.

"Before you go, I wanted to talk to you about something."

Frost stopped just before he made his way through the door. Steele's voice possessed a serious tone for a rare change.

"What?"

Steele jokingly patted a spot on the bed beside him. Frost rolled his eyes, "what are you, my mom? Just be straight with me and tell me what's up."

"Alright, alright, don't get your knickers in a twist. Knight told me the other day that he found you rubbing sand on your face again."

Frost groaned.

"I know you have this whole warrior code thing," Steele continued, "but it's beginning to weird people out. Everybody in the MEU knows you do it."

"Everybody knows what everybody does in the MEU."

"Right. And people think it's weird. Look, I'm your pal, I wouldn't be bringing this up if it wasn't important. Personally, I could care less what kind of shit you rub on your face. But it's bad for squad morale, especially if they hear the rumors I've heard."

"What rumors?" Frost asked, his brow furrowing.

"A couple mates in Delta Company said that you do it because you're off your rocker."

"That's not true."

"You don't have to tell me that, it's why I said I'd bust their faces in if they went spreading it. But you see my point? We can't have everyone thinking you're nuts."

"Nuts? They all call me Jack the Ripper. What does that tell you?"

Steele smiled, "That they think you're one tough motherfucker who knows how to use a gun. Come on, don't let that bother you."

"I don't," the sergeant gritted.

"Right, sure," Steele said, "but just stop putting shit on your face. If you want to wear war paint, use our actual face paint like some of the other guys do, alright?"

If it had been anybody else in the MEU, Frost would have given them a cold shoulder and stormed off, even if it had been Hayes. If it had been anybody else from their squad, he would have disagreed with them in a semi-respectful manner. Not that he didn't respect their thoughts and wishes, but none of them could have made the argument as convincing as Steele. Perhaps Moser or Knight, but definitely none of the others. But this was Steele. When the most undisciplined and soberless marine in the MEU shed his usual skin for a more contemplative one, you had to listen.

"Fine, I'll use the face paint. People won't find that strange?"

"Nah," Steele said, waving his hand, "lots of other blokes do it."

"Alright."

"Cheers, mate."

Steele stood up and clapped Frost on the shoulder, making the latter smile.

"Hey, I wanted to tell you something too. I was waiting until we got to Reach, but we might as well get it over with."

"Sure, hit me," Steele said, plummeting onto his own bed next to Frost's.

"I know you're not the biggest fan of Hayes."

"Oh, bloody hell. Here we go again..."

"Hey, I heard you out, you can do the same for me. You can't speak out against him like you did on Ambition. I know what he was asking was a lot, but he came to us first because he knew we could do it. Hayes doesn't consider us expendable, he considers us among the elite. You should be proud of that."

"That wanker's word doesn't mean shit to me" Steele spat.

"It does to a lot of other guys. So, keep that kind of talk to yourself. And try not to buck orders, okay? Do it too many times will get yourself dishonorably discharged or a long spell in the stockade."

"You're saying don't ask questions and become a drone?"

"If there's ever a time to question orders, I'll be the first one to speak up. But Hayes was giving us a choice-"

"Was he?"

Frost sighed, "I have to believe it. Just try not to piss the old man off, okay? The last thing I need is for my right hand man to go to prison."
"Fine, fine. I'll behave." Steele opened a STARS magazine he had brought from the recreation center, paused, then looked questioningly at Frost. "Right hand man?"

Frost smiled as he stood up, "When I see Hayes, I'm putting you in for a promotion to full corporal. If I'm not around or need to the squad to split into fireteams, I need you to look after them and lead the second team."

"Mate, come on..."

"Nonnegotiable."

"Twat."

"Now, where's the rest of the squad? I need to make the rounds." Frost asked.

"Don't know about most of them, but I know Bishop and Maddox are still in the mess hall."

"Then that's my first stop."

"Remember to eat something," Steele called after him.

The mess hall was only partly filled, finally maintaining its normal appearance. It had been cleaned and straightened up, and now a mixture of G.I's, marines, and sailors were seated at the tables or occupying themselves in the recreation center.

Frost spotted Bishop and Maddox instantly. The two men weren't hard to find. Bishop was a squat man, muscular, with a squarish head. He reminded Frost of a bulldog. Maddox was lanky, shorter than Bishop, and had a head of orange-blonde hair. It accentuated his pale, gauntly skin and scowling features, so he stood out-that and he was usually next to his larger contemporary.

The two were seated side by side at one of the long tables and Frost slid onto the bench across from them. Bishop immediately pushed a tray with another tray on top of it over to him. Lifting it off, Frost found two slices of french toast with a side of bacon and scrambled eggs. Maddox also offered him a cup of coffee.

"Thought you might be hungry so we saved you some. It's still warm," Bishop said as he slurped his own coffee. "This is some ship. They don't serve the normal grub like they do on other ones."

Frost gingerly took a bite of the bacon, then realized how hungry he was. He quickly began wolfing down his meal.

"Did you even taste it?" Maddox asked when Frost finished. The latter sipped his coffee and smiled.

"How are you two doing?"

"Slipspace is incredibly fucking boring," Maddox answered, nodding towards one of the large observation windows on either side of the mess hall. There was nothing but darkness and occasional shining lights. "I'd rather be frozen."

"No thanks," Bishop muttered, "I'll take slipspace."

Frost chuckled. Four days of peace and quiet were welcomed in his opinion, even if there was nothing to do. Perhaps it was for the better. The calm after the battle was always tense, but it was different when it was on a ship. There was something about starships, their firm walls, layers of titanium, the huge guns maybe, that made him and the rest of the marines feel safer. A second bout of combat was never a reality for them when they were on one of their beautiful silver warships. And after four days to calm down from the stress and fatigue of battle, the rigid atmosphere of post-combat was finally beginning to subside. There still remained an air of subtle anxiety, mainly from the crew members over the issue of who was going to become the new captain since the original one was apparently locked in the brig. But Frost couldn't complain about the voyage so far.

"It's a nice place to call home. Talk is we're being reassigned to this ship for some kind of special mission," Frost said, "I reckon it'll be a better ship to serve on than some of the tubs we've ridden."

"Especially with chow like this," Bishop added.

Frost smiled, then cleared his throat, "Steele's still pretty burned about what Hayes asked us to do. I wanted to check on you guys and see what you thought."

The pointman and the engineer exchanged a glance, then the former shrugged. "It was a shit deal. Truthfully, I really didn't want to do it."

"None of us did," Maddox muttered, stirring a finger around in his mug of coffee.

"But, now that we've had some time to think it over," Bishop continued, "I don't think we could have lived with ourselves if we had told him no and some other poor bastards had to stay and do it."

He was right, Frost considered. He was ready for any order that came down the chain of command. It was his duty to follow orders. Yet the situation had presented them with a choice. Soldiers didn't do well with choices, he had concluded after five years of endless warfare plus an extra three of rigorous training and general soldering. Times before when the circumstances had changed from a relative dictatorship to a democracy had always turned sour. They had been lucky this time. Frost had his own reasons, he recollected, for rallying them for the assignment, but Bishop's own rationale prevailed over all others. If not they, who? Walk away with their lives, and let some other squad bear the burden and fear from the possibility of not making it back? No. There were duties to orders, but there were other duties, ancient ones, creeds created from the fires of war and men's hearts. It would have been dishonorable to refuse and put fellow soldiers at risk. Maybe he had broken those historic, unwritten laws that carried in warriors' veins, putting his own men in the line of fire like he did. But Hayes had asked him, and Frost had asked the squad, and they had all agreed. Their honor and those of their fellow soldiers was satisfied.

"Well said," Frost grunted.

"Still," Maddox said, stroking his goatee, "I'd rather avoid some do and die scenarios in the near future."
"Don't you mean do or die?" Bishop inquired. Maddox shot him a friendly glare-a gesture only Maddox could perform, "Do or die implies that if we don't act, we'll die. Do and die means that if we act, we'll still probably end up dead."

"I'm going to make damn sure we don't get caught in either situation," Frost said, determination soaking his voice.

"We know," Bishop said with a hearty grin.

"We'll follow you anywhere, and all that macho shit," Maddox said with an eye roll.

Frost nodded his thanks. He finished his coffee and peered around the mess hall. He spotted Colonel Hayes, but he decided to hold off on Steele's promotion, as the latter was speaking with Commander Waters. The larger Hayes made many grand gestures as he spoke, while the smaller naval officer stood with her hands folded behind her back, an intent expression on her freckled face. She would often offer a conservative nod, in comparison to Hayes' fits of boisterous laughter. Waters caught Frost watching the two; she offered a small smile and nodded. Frost returned both gestures. As he turned his gaze in the other direction, he saw Knight sitting in solitude in one of the armchairs.

"I'll catch you lot later. Stay out of trouble," Frost said as he stood. Maddox and Bishop made a number of jokes as he departed, putting the pair of trays with the rest of the dirty ones and tossing the styrofoam cup in the larger wastebasket.

When he approached, he could see that Knight had put on his small UNSC-issued reading glasses that he rarely wore. In his hands was a book larger than the Bible-Les Miserables.

"Light reading?" Frost joked.

"You're the one that carries The Art of War in his backpack," Knight countered, cracking a smile. "How goes it, Sergeant Frost?"

"Let's just keep it Frost and drop the 'sergeant', eh?"

"Suit yourself."

"Just wanted to see how you were holding up?"

"Oh, fine. Just reliving some memories."

"How you met Jane?'

"Oh yes," Knight murmured wistfully.

Knight was the oldest man in the squad. Young by an outsider's standards, but by their own, he was an old man. He was one of the few who was married. It was his favorite story. When he was still in school, Knight would skip lunch to help out in the library. They had an edition of Les Miserables, but it was in French. Jane Patterson was one of the shyest girls in school, Knight always said, but one day she came up to Knight in the library as he was flipping through the pages of the book and asked him if he wanted her to translate it for him. She was one of the top language learners in the school, so Knight accepted. Every day, they would go to the library during lunch hour and read the story. They began dating, though their relationship was cemented a few months after they graduated high school, when Jane became pregnant. Knight and Jane became engaged, but their plans were interrupted by the call for him to enlist in the program that saw Frost and the others join the UNSC; when their three years of training were finished, Knight went back home and married Jane. Jane Knight was now at home, raising their eight year old son alone.

Frost could see that Knight was lost in the memory, a mixture of lonely sadness and dreamy happiness. His heart went out to the man. Being away from home and family was hard enough, but Frost had no wife and child of his own. That was an entirely different realm of suffering.

However, it presented problems. Knight was an important force within the squad. He possessed a certain wisdom and level-headedness shared only by Moser. That, and he was one hell of a heavy weapons expert. His scores with rocket launchers and LMGs were higher than anybody else in the squad, including Frost. He needed him.

"My wife sends me a picture of Nicholas with every letter, to let me know that he's growing up."

Knight said this with a heaviness in his voice. Frost had sat on the small table across from the chair, and wanted very much to put an arm around him.

"She's a good woman, my Jane. Too good for a sod like me."

"Don't say that."

"A man oughtn't leave his wife and child to run off in some war."

"Your backpay is what they live on," Frost reminded him.

"I know. I should be there, to help in the house, so my wife doesn't have to break her back doing two jobs. Letters aren't enough."

Frost understood. When he had been young, his father had often been in Halifax and other cities going on lectures. Every so often, his mother would set up a video call on the family computer and his father would speak to him. He hardly knew him then; he was just a stranger on the screen, claiming to be his dad. Over time, he was able to love him. But that was when he was very young; Knight's boy was eight, almost nine. Before long he would be in his pre-teen years, and then his teens.

Christ, I hope the war doesn't last for that long...

Knight, two years ago, had made a formal request to Colonel Hayes to make an appeal for discharge. Hayes had denied him. Frost was worried that Knight was going to make another request soon. While he was positive that Hayes would again refuse him, he didn't want to take any chances.

"At least she knows you're fighting for Nick's future," he offered. Knight nodded slowly.

"Yes, I know."

"She's proud of you. You know that. What you do out here-for us-it's important."

Knight smiled, gaining a bit of his former self back. He sat forward and patted Frost's knee.

"Somebody's got to make sure you pack of wolves don't burn down a base or crash a ship."

Frost chuckled, "I'm going to check on Grant and Moser. Do you need anything?"

"Nah, I'm all set. Got me a good book to pass the time, and quite lucky for me, it's an English translation. If you're looking for Grant, he's in the armory. Moser went to the hangar, for some reason."

"Thanks. I'll catch you later."

Frost felt guilty and hated himself for steering the conversation that way. Steele might have rationed that it was just to remind him of the present, and put the future and the past aside so he could focus. For Frost, it was changing a man's loyalties. It had been a cruel thing, worse that he had done it to a friend.

The armory, like many of the other major facilities on the I'm Alone, was a mammoth chamber. The main area was a long rectangle, with smaller rooms inside. Walking into it from the stern towards the bow, on the left was a series of doors that led into a long array of lockers, benches, and a shower area. Accompanying the buzz of reassignment, it had been said that marines could apply for an armory locker to store a change of clothes, their workout fatigues, and a few personal belongings that had might happen to be on them while they came to exercise or train. A staircase within the locker area led up to an observation room, where the armory personnel could keep an eye on things, study specific soldiers' stats, and track and post weapon scores, kill counts, and other winnings.

In the center and by the bow entrance was an array of workout equipment. Already, marines were lifting dumbbells and doing bench presses. Some were on the treadmills, others stretching, some doing push-ups, pull-ups, jumping jacks. Directly in the center were sparring rings. They were a typical square shape and a few feet off the deck. On the tables around them were gloves and pads. The right side, near the stern however, was the firing range. It was like a huge box nestled in the corner, complete with a ceiling. Other than the large window on the left side for observation, there were only the twenty separate spaces to stand and fire. Each space had a small counter to place ammunition on, and a wall on either side. Some marines were already practicing, firing paint rounds down range against targets shaped like Brutes and Elites. A few were even using the advanced hologram targets, firing the experimental ammunition that the holograms, moving and barking just like an actual alien, reacted to. Frost had never seen anything like it before. He was, at first, apprehensive of the idea of an Elite in hologram form charging at him, but men pummeling the holograms with the experimental ammo were laughing their heads off. It was good stress relief to shoot at something that couldn't shoot back, he guessed.

Across from the observation and locker area, in the left corner, was the actual armory. It was a large cabin with many small rooms inside. Inside, the walls were lined with weapons lockers, equipment cases, and hordes of ammunition cases. Storage rooms within held countless more. There was even a small production facility that could produce weapon parts, and another that repaired and modified body armor. These rooms were referred to the Weaponsmith and the Armorsmith respectively. In the main room of the armory, there was no distribution counter. The designers, Frost had been told, found the need for an entire counter a flaw in terms of an emergency and rapid deployment. Therefore, it had been removed, so marines and crew could rush in, arm and stock up, and leave. Frost was happy to hear that; deployment times had been decreased, as now there wasn't a pack of marines calling for weapons and ammo and waiting for a few scrambling quartermasters to retrieve them. There was, of course, still a quartermaster, who occupied a station near the door. If one wished to take a weapon for training, they had to check in with the quartermaster, as usual.

In between the armory and the range were the other training rooms. There were a few classroom types, although they were entirely vacant. He had heard some of the sailors onboard about the ship's head doctor wanting to start some special classes, but nothing was getting approved or denied until they docked at Reach. There was the close quarters combat training room; Frost was eager to see what it was like inside. He considered rounding the squad together for a practice run. It would be good to brush up on their urban fighting tactics, seeing as it had been some time since they had fought in a city.

Frost found Grant in the Weaponsmith. The facility was equipped with a multitude of workbenches, where marines and the actual 'smiths' could apply upgrades, attachments, and other modifications. Grant was bent over one of the benches, changing some of his assault rifle's internal components. Emery was with him, leaning on the wall. Heavy metal music was blasting from a nearby radio.

"Jack the Ripper!" the grizzled tanker shouted, causing the sailors within to look over with confused glances. "How goes it?"

Trying to hide his annoyance, Frost smiled and held up the black bandanna that Emery had patched his wound with on Ambition. "I was wondering if you wanted this back."

Emery gazed timidly at the bandanna. Frost frowned, "What? I washed the damn thing."

"You can keep it. I don't need something that's had the Ripper's blood on it."

"Well, alright then. Thanks for patching me up."

"Don't mention it. How's that ankle?"

"Better, but I'm still going easy on it."

Emery cackled as he pushed himself off the wall and made his way out of the Weaponsmith, "Imagine if the real Ripper had busted his ankle; maybe the coppers would have actually caught him!"

His laughter faded into the overpowering sound of metal music. Frost seethed.

"I don't know what he finds so funny about that," Grant said kindly as he slid a new gas chamber into place, "but I guess it doesn't take much to make him laugh."

"I suppose not," Frost said as he wrapped the bandanna around his neck. Grant chuckled as he watched him, "What are you, some kind of old movie cowboy? Gonna pull that over your face and rob a train?"

"Only if you help me do it."

"We'll need some dynamite for the safe."

The two chuckled.

Grant deftly placed a new barrel into his assault rifle. Frost watched him. After eight years, they had all become experts in a variety of weapons. Weapons had a way of defining a marine's appearance. Steele's image was cemented by his sniper rifle, which he liked to balance across his shoulders. If not, he had his DMR. Knight, the strongest man in the squad next to Bishop, could carry a rocket launcher into battle along with a rifle, or an M247 LMG-he chose to carry it without a tripod. Bishop had his shotgun, Maddox his M7 caseless SMG, Moser his battle rifle, and Frost was known for his versatility between the assault and battle rifles. And Grant was known for his assault rifle, a weapon he loved over any other.

"Working on the MA5C," Grant said.

"Gotta go with the MA5B on this one," Frost said, sitting down on a nearby crate, "double the clip size and a faster fire rate. Chews right through an Elite's shield."

"Only if you can sustain your fire long enough. Elites have enough sense to take cover," Grant said, waving a tool in the air. "Sure, the 5C may only have thirty-two rounds and a lower fire rate, but it's much more accurate and has better stability. That means less rounds down range, but more hitting their target. I'll take that any day."

Frost smiled. Talking shop was pleasant from time to time.

"Gonna stick with the battle rifle for a while?" Grant asked.

"I'm sticking with assault rifle. The battle rifle wasn't exactly much help in a run-and-gun battle like on Ambition. An assault rifle would have been better. Don't know what the hell happened to mine. Guess I'll have to grab one and give it a little tune up myself."

"There are some open benches."

"Later, I wanted to talk to you about something."

Grant paused, wiped his hands, turned, and smiled. He had a big smile, friendly and trusting, matched by his big amber eyes. "Sure."

"What happened back there on Ambition?" Frost asked, "During that bombardment you exposed yourself to plasma artillery. You could have been blown away. We had to manhandle you to the floor. You weren't listening."

Grant's smile faded and he appeared almost embarrassed, as if he had been caught doing something he didn't want anyone else to see. He shuffled his feet and jammed his hands into his pockets.

"Just got a little lost in, you know?" he said finally. "Most guys shit their pants at a display of firepower like that. But there was something about it that just, I dunno, put me in a trance I guess."

Frost considered. On some level, it had appealed to a boyhood love for war. He didn't know that many boys growing up who didn't love pretending to be soldiers, shooting playground pals with invisible guns and jumping and rolling from ghostly explosions. Who hadn't loved watching war movies, the big fireball explosions, buildings erupting into flames, men being thrown about like ragdolls. That had evolved into playing with fireworks, setting them off in the backyard or somewhere hidden and out of sight from wary adults. Hearing the sound, feeling the small concussion, the vibration in the ground, the heat, the flash: all were intoxicating. There was an innate love to destroy. What times those had been, Frost thought. Now he had seen what it was truly like, and had been tossed about by falling artillery more times than one, watching men disappear in plasma. The novelty had worn off, but somewhere deep inside Grant, there was still a little kid who loved watching things blow up.

It came with being a marine too. Who didn't enjoy the adrenaline rush of firing a machine gun or watching a tank cannon blast gargantuan holes in the side of city buildings? Perhaps that was one of the upsides. Frost almost laughed, thinking of the next great UNSC Marine Corps enlistment commercial: You'll get shot at it, blown up, probably get dysentery once in a while, but you get to blow shit up. For some, that just might be enough.

"Just don't let it happen again," Frost said finally, regaining his stern expression, "I need you to be in control and aware at all times. If I give you an order, you have to listen."

Grant frowned, "didn't I hear you laughing while we were bolting for that Pelican?"

Frost initially felt offended in some strange way, then embarrassed, but simply sighed and said, "I suppose I was a little lost too. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug. But I wasn't the one exposing myself to plasma artillery."

Grant groaned and Frost held up a hand, "I don't think you're crazy or anything, I'm not asking you to go get a psyche eval. I just don't want it to happen again, alright? I need you at one hundred percent in the field. Putting yourself at risk like that, puts us all at risk, because you know we'll scramble to help you."

"Alright," Grant relented, holding up his hands.

"Promise?"

"Promise." A familiar grin crossed Grant's face, "want me to pinkie swear?"

"Grant..."

"I'm kidding, man. Don't worry about it, I've got it, it won't happen again."

"Good, I'll catch you later. I'm gonna check on Moser."

Frost didn't trust Grant. He trusted Grant to uphold his duties. He trusted him with his life. But he didn't trust him at his word. Grant was the youngest of them-nineteen years old. He had been eleven when he was asked to join. Throughout the eight years he had known him, Frost had loved him like a brother. But even brothers had to admit each other's flaws. He wasn't sure what Grant had to say about him, but Grant was reckless. It wasn't a recklessness like Steele's, who questioned the chain of command and did not fear punishment for his actions. Grant was a good soldier-aggressive. All soldiers had to be aggressive, but Grant possessed a natural mindset of eagerness, an eagerness to act. Eagerness, combined with aggressiveness, led to recklessness. More than once, his impatience had led him into situations in which he was exposed to enemy fire, which then exposed the squad as well as they tried to rescue him. Grant had often made other rash decisions, pursuing enemies rather than regrouping, charging forward when it was better to fall back. He meant well, had no fear of fighting, and was fierce in his defense of his compatriots. He didn't want to get his friends hurt or killed, but in battle, he seemed to forget. Frost was determined to drill it into his head, but in the meantime, he knew that he needed someone to look after Grant in the field and stop him before he did something too extreme. He had just the man in mind as he left the armory.

Dietrich Moser was a reserved man from Hamburg. He was serious, devoted, loyal, and above all cautious. If Frost was going to have anyone babysit Grant in the field, it was him.

Frost descended the steps that led from the hallway that led to the hangar from the armory. The hangar was surprisingly larger than one would expect for a cruiser, even for the typical Valiant class. There were half dozen rows of Pelicans, Longsword fighters, and Shortsword bombers. Tools sparked and flashed as mechanics crawled all over each craft, repairing plasma damage, adding new armor plating, changing ammunition out. Large refueling tanks were situated around the hangar, as well as dozens of crates filled with spare parts, tools, and materials. There were so many crates and the hangar was so large that small cranes had even been installed to move it all around. Forklifts rumbled about, carrying ammunition or other cases. The sound of clunking machinery, exchanging voices, and the whir of power tools filled the hangar. Sailors in a variety of colored uniforms went about, including pilots in their dark green uniforms.

Moser was sitting on a crate behind a Pelican next to one of the pilots. It was the man who had piloted the dropship that had pulled them off Ambition. Warrant Officer Jake Jasper, nicknamed Triple Seven due to his call sign, was a trim man with swept back black hair and a long face. He had darting eyes and his mouth was shaped in such a way that it looked as if he were about to smirk constantly. The Afrikaner nodded when Frost approached.

"Jack Frost," he greeted dryly, "glad to see you haven't melted."

"Wow, good one," Frost said stoically, "how's your bird doing?"

"Her feathers were ruffled from the shockwave of that nuke you fellas decided to set off, but otherwise she's good. Me and my guys are all fine by the way."

There was a loud bang from under the Pelican, followed by a string of curse words in Finnish. Jasper snickered, "Drop something there, Pajari?"

The response came in Finnish again. Frost watched a pair of legs from under the Pelican kick a hunk of singed metal away. Warrant Officer Pajari appeared, a young woman who had hair as red as her temper.

She kicked the side of the dropship, "Piece of shit! Try to fix it and it decides to fall apart in your face!"

She turned, dark eyes flaring, "Try not set her down so roughly, the landing gear is rickety and I don't want have to keep repairing it because of your drunken flying!"

"Don't half to be so rude about it, baba."

"Don't be such an asshole!" she seethed, throwing a wrench at him that he swiftly ducked.

"Hey, be careful with the tools!" shouted Isha, the crew chief. He was of Indian heritage, though he had lived in the Inner Colonies his entire life. He had neat dark hair complemented by an equally trim mustache, and he had smoky eyes. The crew chief was placing a new box of ammunition into the heavy machine gun that could be suspended from the ceiling of the dropship.

"Careful with the tools!?" exclaimed Pajari. She pointed an accusing finger towards Jasper, "tell him to be careful with the goddamn Pelican!"

With that, she grabbed her toolbox and stormed off towards the front of the Pelican, cursing in Finnish the entire time. Frost stood there, blinking, then turned to Moser, "I can't find a reason why you'd want to hang out with this dysfunctional family here..."

Moser chuckled, "just wanted to extend a thank you on behalf of the squad for pulling us out of the fire.

"Oh, anytime," Jasper said with the roll of his eyes, "I'm a five-star taxi service, and you don't even have to tip me."

Isha was more accepting, "not many marines come and thank us for extracting them. It's appreciated, even if my pilot doesn't show it."

He said this in a scolding tone to the Afrikaner, who only shrugged.

"Moser, think I can chat with you for a bit?"

"Absolutely. Until next time."

"Yeah, can't wait to get shot into Swiss cheese next time we save your asses," Jasper grunted with a wave of his hand.

Frost and Moser walked side by side through the hanger. The former explained his conversation with Grant and proceeded to ask if Moser could keep him reeled in. He was concerned that asking this of Moser was in some way violating his duty as squad leader, not to mention that he was asking him to babysit their friend. He said so, but Moser didn't see it that way.

"You're the squad leader. Hayes is in charge of the entire MEU but you're the commander in chief of our squad. You give orders and we follow them."

"I don't want to ask you to do something I wouldn't do myself, and-"

"Nathaniel," Moser said with a kind smile, "you don't ask. You command. You're the squad leader and it'd be unrealistic for you to take care of every single matter by yourself. Your mind would break from the stress. Besides, Grant and I are close."

Frost knew that. Moser was a deeply religious man. It wasn't rare to see him rubbing the cross that hung around his neck between two fingers before a battle, or hear him murmuring a prayer. His grandmother, who had helped raise him, had passed away during their second year of training. He wasn't allowed to go home for the funeral, so the local chapel was his only way to pay respects. Moser would sneak out of base two times a day to sit and pray; Grant went with him every single time. He wouldn't pray, he would just sit with him in the pews, silently. Frost knew Moser loved him for that.

"Just keep an eye on him and try not to let him catch on."

"Don't worry, I'll keep him on a short leash. He won't ever know. You worry too much. You'll drive yourself mad."

The pair stopped near the other entrance to the hanger, on the opposite side. Frost sighed, looking out over the aircraft, "I'm in charge now. It's my job to worry."

Moser looked concerned. His pale complexion and tight face always looked concerned. He offered a smile, "I'm going to head to the armory to see Grant. Want to pop a few rounds off? That range sure is something."

"No, thanks. I'll catch up with you later."

Moser nodded and began walking away. He stopped and turned around, "If there's one thing I could say about Teo, was that he never worried enough."

He said no more and left.

Teo. Teodoro Grimaldi. A young man born in Genoa. His father was a sailor on cargo vessels and his mother ran a small shop. He had two brothers, both still in high school.

And he was dead.

His shadow hung over Frost. He wasn't sure if he was a demon or an angel. All the same, he haunted him. His dark hair, black eyes, the bristly stubble on his cheeks, his scarred chin, his constant frown. Moser was right, he never worried. He had trusted them, known their abilities, their flaws. Frost knew them too, yet he worried incessantly, even now that they were far from danger. Would that make a difference? If he reduced it to math, two men had died under Teo's command. Frost hadn't lost anybody. Yet.

He nearly keeled over in the hallway as his mind mulled that word over. Yet. Yet. How long would it be until one of them died? Would it be his fault, or could the blame just be placed on the phenomenon of 'wrong place, wrong time.' Now that he thought about, heading towards the medical bay, Frost never remembered seeing him mourn Wright and Ocampo when they died. Everybody had their own way of mourning, whether it be tears, shrines, or solitude. Teo? He didn't have a method that Frost could recall. Had he been heartless? No. He had loved them. He wouldn't have kept their dog tags after they died and written those letters to their families. Maybe that was his way.

Frost was standing in the ship's morgue. Many civilians back home watched the movies the marines despised so much and thought that the dead were buried in space, placed in a special pod and launched into the stars. If that was the case, Frost had never seen or heard of such a burial. It was rare enough to come back from a battle with bodies. Many UNSC personnel were listed as MIA because their tags or bodies couldn't be recovered because they had been incinerated in a plasma blast. Furthermore, there was often no time to collect the dead. Not to mention that the Covenant didn't take prisoners. But if a body was recovered, they would be stored in ship's morgue until the deceased could be transferred back to their home planet, so that their family could bury them. It was a shame that so many Outer Colonies were gone. Many personnel were from planets that had been reduced to bones and ash-they didn't get to go home for a proper burial. For their sake, Frost hoped the mass military graves appearing all over Earth would suffice.

"Can I help you, Sergeant?" asked one of the medical personnel.

"Am I allowed to see a friend that died during the battle?"

"Yes," the orderly said, professionally yet with a manner of soft kindness, "Dr. Ebrahimi said that any personnel are allowed to visit one of the deceased. Can I have the name and rank please?"

"Sergeant Teodoro Grimaldi."

The orderly, sitting behind a desk in the small office, tapped at his terminal. "Alright, this way please."

Frost followed him through the door into a large, chilly room. It was one of many. There were lids on the three walls, three up and four across. There was a handle on each and a number. They went to the wall directly across from the door. Frost looked uncomfortably around him. There was nothing but the silver walls and their metal lids. He knew what was inside and it unsettled him. The only other objects present were the bright lights built in the ceiling and the examination table in the center.

The orderly slowly pulled on one of the lids, marked '2B,' and pulled out a metal bed. There he was. Frost wanted to sob and bolt at the same time. Teo was lying on the table. His body was naked. His skin was a ghastly shade of white, and his face was sunken in yet still calm. His legs looked odd; they had been crushed but it looked as though they had been repaired in some way. Still, one could see that the bones within were powder and that the flesh had been crumpled. The deep gash where the shrapnel had buried itself was sealed, leaving a line of stitches in his center. The calmness of his face was frightening. He seemed to be sleeping.

"Can't you get him a goddamn sheet?" Frost growled through gritted teeth.

"Excuse me?"

"A sheet, goddammit? Something to cover him with?"

He was trying to keep calm. His fists were shaking.

The orderly blinked and looked uncomfortable, "Sergeant, you do understand it's normal procedure to store the bodies without sheets..."

"Well, I'm asking you to give him one."

The orderly tensed, then quickly left. Frost looked back at Teo. It was disgraceful, leaving him there in a box, without any clothes. He was a man and died a soldier's death. There wasn't much they could do to respect him at this point, but the least they could do was cover him.

---

Jasmine knocked on the door. There was no answer. She pressed the button on the panel beside the door frame and it opened. She saw Sergeant Frost standing over the dead marine. His head was low and his shoulders were shaking.

"Did you bring the sheet?" the sergeant snarled. He turned to her and he appeared surprised then. "Oh. Dr. Jasmine. I didn't realize...sorry, ma'am."

He saluted.

"There's no need for that. I think of myself as a doctor before a lieutenant commander of the UNSC Navy," she answered with an understanding smile. "I'm sorry that we never covered your friend. I've brought you a sheet. I'll place it on him now, if you'd like."

"I'll do it."

Frost came over and gently took the blue sheet from her hands. He went back over and placed it over the body, folding the end so that he could still see his face. Only his neck, head, and arms were exposed now.

After a period of silence, she wasn't sure how long it lasted, Jasmine asked, "Do you mind if I join you?"

Frost seemed broken from a trance. He looked over at her with his sad silver eyes and nodded. Jasmine felt sorry for him. She stood beside him and gazed down at the body. Frost had slid his fingers around the body's right hand.

"Theo was his name?"

"Teo," Frost corrected, "we called him Teo. Sometimes T. His full name was Theodoro. It's an Italian version of the name Theodore. Funny how the same names come up in different cultures and languages, with only a few letters that make them different."

"Yes, it is."

"Your name, isn't it Iranian? Ebrahimi?"

"Yes, it is. My father was Iranian. My mother is Spanish, but she grew up in France. She said she named me Jasmine after a friend she made there."

Frost chuckled, "We're all mutts, aren't we? Did you grow up in France?"

"No, my parents are from Earth but I grew up in the Inner Colonies. They were both doctors, so we traveled around a lot."

She looked up at Frost, who stood a half a foot above her. She smiled, "What about you?"

"Earthborn. I was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia."

"You're Canadian?"

"Yeah. My family line is a mix of British and Acadian blood. I get my name from my British ancestors: Frost."

"That's an old bloodline."

"Sure is," Frost said, "Teo's family is old too. Their line goes back to when Genoa was an actual country, and not just a city."

Jasmine studied the marine sergeant, watching his saddened eyes drop back down to his friend. Ever since the first droves of wounded came aboard, she had been trying to figure out what it was like to lose a friend. She didn't have many. Only Vivian was someone she counted as a friend. Other than that, she had colleagues, acquaintances, and the staff under her command. She wouldn't count any of them as friend. Looking at this grieving marine, she realized that she was extremely lucky. In this new age, millions were dying day by day. Millions in return were glued to their televisions, browsing UNSC or government websites, studying casualty and evacuation lists, trying to figure out if their friends and family had survived or had perished. Her parents had joined the military effort, and were working safely on Reach. Vivian was on the I'm Alone with her. There was nobody else.

And here was this soldier who had lost a companion that he had fought with for a number of years. She couldn't begin to grasp what he was going through.

Jasmine sniffed and quickly dabbed at her eyes. Frost noticed.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry for your loss."

Frost nodded respectfully, "Eight years I knew him. He was my brother. He was a good man."

"I wish I could have known him."

Frost blinked at her, and then he laughed. Jasmine was confused. Frost shook his head, "To be honest, he rubbed everyone the wrong way. I don't think you would have liked him. I don't think he would have liked you."

"Why's that?"

"He didn't like anybody that wasn't in our squad," Frost's chuckles died down, but his smile remained. "He didn't have any faith in anybody else. He trusted us."

The marine seemed to think for a moment, looking up at the light for a brief moment, then said, "He loved us."

He sighed, "I'm going to have to go see his parents someday. I don't know when, but I'll have to. A letter from me and the UNSC won't ever be enough to explain what happened."

Jasmine nodded grimly. There was a part of her that wished that the governing body could do more for the family that lost someone to war other than sending a letter and two stone-faced servicemen to recite a short, cold speech of their heroism and the government's thanks. Then again, what could they do? Would composition make up for the loss of a loved one? Jasmine knew the answer. A person's life couldn't be made up for with money. You couldn't give them another life in return. What they wanted was the truth, and that was something the people waiting back home never got. Would Mr. and Mrs. Grimaldi want to know that their son was crushed by a vehicle and was pierced by shrapnel, and died in the arms of his friends, or that he died a hero's death for all of humanity? She reckoned it was the first they wanted to know. Sergeant Frost would be the one to deliver the truth. She didn't know this man all that well, but she respected him. Admired him, for the way he had acted in the medical bay. For the way he stood over his friend, as if he were still alive, and promised to carry the truth back. For the way he thought it was not only a duty to his friend but a duty to his family. The burden on his shoulders was unimaginable, and Jasmine wondered how he was able to keep from bawling.

"He'll live on through you. His memories. In a way, I suppose that makes him immortal," she said.

Frost nodded slowly and smiled thankfully. He leaned down and whispered something in Teo's ear, then reluctantly withdrew his hand, carefully covered his face, smoothing out the wrinkles in the sheet, then carefully pushed the metallic bed back in. His breath was long and shaky, and Jasmine could see tears in the corners of his eyes. She felt tears of her own welling up again. She swiped at them quickly and cleared her throat.

"I'm heading to my office. Would you care to walk with me, Sergeant?"

"I would."

The pair walked out of the office; the orderly who had attended to the sergeant earlier kept his head low. Jasmine quickly checked her datapad for messages, and was glad there wasn't any.

"Teo was squad leader before me," Frost said after a few moments of walking, "before he died he asked me to take over. It's how I was promoted."

"He obviously knew that you were the best choice."

"Maybe. I sure as hell don't feel like it."

Jasmine pushed up her glasses, "isn't there an old saying about how good leaders are those who don't want to be one?"

Frost snorted. Jasmine continued, "You have a strong sense of duty and unwavering loyalty to the men in your squad. Combine that with selflessness, and I think you'll be able see them through a hundred battles."

The marine looked shocked, "Selflessness?"

Jasmine shrugged and smiled, "I've only just begun to operate on combat casualties, but I don't think there's many who would have wanted other men to be treated before himself."

The marine seemed to be angered and embarrassed at the same time. "I just have a good tolerance for pain," was the only excuse he managed. He sighed and said, "it's not much use to complain about being squad leader, I guess. It's on my brain constantly and it's exhausting."

"Why not talk to your friends about it?"

Frost shook his head, "I'm the sergeant now. I can't bitch and moan to them as much as I used to. They're my responsibility and they'll get discouraged if they think I'm not up to snuff."

"Putting on a face can be an exhausting burden," Jasmine warned.

"Do you go and complain to your surgeons?"

Jasmine sighed, knowing he had a point, "I'm just trying to tell you that's harmful to keep one's emotions inside."

Frost looked at her thoughtfully, then said carefully, "I appreciate you joining me in there, Dr. Jasmine. It was good to have someone there. But Teo was my friend; not to be rude, you didn't know him, but you seemed pretty affected in there."

What would she tell him? That she had a unique form of synesthesia? He had probably never heard of it. Still, she felt obligated to explain her condition seeing as how he had put so much of himself and his friend's history forward. It was only fair. Nobody else was around to talk to and there were no matters of import taking place in the medical bay. The company had been pleasant and she hadn't seen Vivian since the day before. She had been busy. There were plenty of rules regarding the fraternization between officers and enlisted men. But what harm was there in amiable conversation?

Why not?

"If you have the time, we can speak further in my office," she said kindly, stopping at the door. Frost smiled, and was about to speak when an accented voice called out to him.

"Blimey, I've been looking everywhere for you," the English marine she had seen with Frost days earlier said. He came down the hallway, his posture relaxed.

"I was busy," Frost said, then turned, "Dr. Jasmine, this is my friend and squadmate, the soon to be Corporal Steele: the galaxy's most British man."

Jasmine chuckled politely at the small joke. Steele pretended to laugh, mockingly slapping his knee.

"That dumb joke just doesn't get old does it," he said in sarcastic tone, "eight years and it just makes me laugh and laugh like the first time you said it. Boss man said he's got some news for us about reassignment, so he's gathering everybody up in the mess hall."

Jasmine watched as the casual manner of Frost faded, replaced by the rigid posture and features of a marine, "Rest of the squad already there?"
"Yep."

"Alright. Let's go."

Steele didn't linger and began walking back the way he had come. Frost turned and politely nodded, "Thanks for chatting with me, Dr. Jasmine."

"Of course, Mr. Frost."

He began walking away and Jasmine was about to enter her office when she paused, turned, and said, "Sergeant?"

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. Jasmine offered a smile, "Feel free to come by my office anytime."

There was an awkward silence and she shrugged, "I'm a qualified therapist, after all."

Frost laughed and kept walking. It wasn't a harsh or mocking laugh, but a friendly one. Jasmine couldn't help but laugh a little herself. She took that as a yes. Lingering outside her office, she opened an empty document on her datapad and titled it, "The Mourning Marine."

As she turned inside, she found Vivian standing at her bookcase.

---

"Hey Viv."

Vivian looked up from the textbook she had pulled off the shelf. Jasmine walked in, the door sliding shut behind her. The doctor placed her datapad on her desk and sat in her chair, "Not much to report. Some of the wounded with light wounds were allowed out of the medical bay today. We're keeping a close eye on the more severe cases, and there are several patients in surgery right now to replace damaged organs with flash cloned ones. Other than, all's quiet."

"Quiet is good. Your staff were excellent with the wounded. I think a lot of lives would have been lost if you didn't keep things together," Vivian said.

Jasmine sighed, pulling out the hair tie and letting her long black and blonde hair cascade down her shoulders and back. She leaned back in her chair and took off her glasses, "I plan to perform more surgeries in the future."

"Delegation too stressful?"

"No. I enlisted because I wanted to operate on wounded personnel. I want to be able to do what I joined up to do. I put it off to handle the more administration duties that piled up during the wounded of the intake. I'm going to assign secondary duties to some of the non-medical support staff we have in the medical bay, probably the clerks from the morgue. I'll form a documentation team, I think."

Vivian offered a concerned look. "You holding up? I know what can happen if you get over-stimmed in scenarios like that. Maybe staying in an administrator position will be safer for you."

"No. I'm the medical chief. I have to be with the staff and the patients."

Vivian conceded, knowing the firmness in Jasmine's voice meant that the matter was settled. She changed topics.

"I finished talking with Colonel Hayes."

"And?"

"He's quite the character. Pretty flamboyant. You'd think a man like him after all he's seen would be pretty burnt out." Vivian sat down in the chair in front of Jasmine's desk, still holding the book. "He's briefing his men on their new assignment to this ship."

"I think it's good you advised him to wait a few days to break the news. The men were stressed and exhausted from the battle. They would have taken it poorly I think."

The pair settled into silence. Vivian enjoyed the quiet just as much as their conversation. It was special to be in the company of somebody you could be quiet with.

"What're you reading?" Jasmine asked, amused, as if she knew the answer. Smiling, Vivian looked at the cover, cleared her voice with a great deal of playfulness, and read loudly in a theatrical voice, "A Hypothesis on the Removal of the UNSC Neural Interface, by Dr. Jasmine Ebrahimi."

Jasmine had the grace to blush, "I wrote that a year ago."

"I think you're the first OCS trainee in UNSC history who published a surgical textbook."

The good doctor laughed, "Extraction could kill an individual if there's one mistake. I just threw some ideas about making it safer on paper.."

Vivian flipped through the pages, looking at diagrams and models, "I sometimes forget that there's a small metal plate in my skull that's connected to my brain. Do you?"

"All the time. I wonder if they'll have them removed when the war is over."

Vivian shuddered, "if they did, do you think they'd implant them in new officers? Gross."

Although she was an officer and was required to get one, Vivian felt embarrassed by the metal device in the back of her head. Everyone had been self-conscious about them when they were first installed. But now her hair had returned at least, concealing it. Still, the command neural interface was an interesting yet terrifying device. It had taken Vivian sometime after being promoted to commander to get used to its actual operational use. Without even looking at a datapad or terminal, she could get direct information feeds from AI's. Code and data would come across her lace, as if the text were floating right in front of her. Thankfully, it didn't happen too often. One couldn't think of the CNI without remembering that it was the trigger for the ship's self-destruct. Before they had begun their voyage, tech personnel sent by Travers had transferred the authorization code to her transponder. Terrifying and ominous, to have the ability to authorize the destruction of a ship and thousands of lives, yet Vivian knew if the ship were to be captured, it would be necessary. Failing to do so was just as grievous, if not more grievous, than what Oswald had done.

She stood up and slid the book back onto the shelf. She undid her bun and shook her head, letting her own hair spill down onto her shoulders.

"I went through the medical bay yesterday, checking on the wounded," Vivian said solemnly, "they aren't suffering, are they?"

"We've made them comfortable. Given them medicine. The worst is over. Everyone is going to make it to Reach."

"I'll sleep easier when we get there. They need to be in a military hospital."

Vivian leaned against the desk, her back facing Jasmine. She shook her head, "We were really lucky we only went up against corvettes. Poor shielding-if they have any at all, small, not well-armed. We had the jump on them too, I'm surprised they didn't react to finding us on their radar. Maybe our quick descent threw them for a loop?"

"Even so, a face-to-face matchup would have caused considerable damage. We could have lost people," Jasmine said. "But you made sure that didn't happen."

"That may be a one-time thing, Jas," Vivian said, turning to face her, "we are going to be in positions in the future where we are face to face. We will take hits, and we will lose people."

She shook her head and began pacing. Jasmine considered and leaned forward, propping her chin up on one hand, thoughtfully. Vivian stopped and looked at her from the middle of the room, "What?"

"You know, for a while I felt very guilty that some of the men died in surgery. Some of them died before we could even get them onto a bed. It felt like it was my fault, like I had killed them."

Jasmine leaned back and folded her arms across her chest, "I wanted to cry when I was actually able to sleep. But now I know it wasn't my fault. Those men were casualties of war, Viv. The Covenant killed them, not me. And not you, either. Remember that."

"Easier said than done, Jas."

Vivian walked over and sat down in one of the armchairs, slumping into it. Jasmine came over and settled into the other one, allowing herself to sag into it. They were silent for some time, nearing on falling asleep. Vivian was pleasantly reminded of long nights in their dormitory at OCS. Some officer candidate schools had the trainees in large barracks-type buildings. On Luna, they had the benefit of having almost college-style dorm rooms. Of course, so the many staples of the college dorm room-posters, carpeting, comfortable bedding, photographs, and more-were all absent. She and Jasmine would stay up late, Vivian studying tactics, Jasmine reading medical texts.

"I was having a conversation with one of the marines, not too long ago," Jasmine said, cutting into her memories, "he had lost a friend and was visiting the body in the morgue. His friend was the squad leader, and with his passing, he had become the new leader. He was doubtful of himself but I think underneath he understood what he has to do to make sure he keeps his men alive. You will too."

"I'm not the captain."

"Who's in command of the I'm Alone right now?"

"Shut up."

Jasmine tittered, then recovered, "I know you're under a lot of stress. Just a few more days until we get to Reach."

Vivian shook her head and sat up a little bit, "I'm not sleeping well," she admitted, "I pace the halls when most of the crew is asleep. I've just got this terrible feeling there's going to be some kind of judicial punishment against the crew because of Oswald. There's always so many cases of where the many suffer because of the few-that the project might be terminated. I don't want to see that happen. That'd break the crew's hearts. They were brave."

Jasmine shook her head, and she spoke soothingly, "Viv, I've been saying this since we first left Ambition. Oswald is going to be court martialed and that'll be the end of that. No one agreed with him, nobody had his back, nobody followed him. He was the only one who wanted to run, the only one willing to break the Cole Protocol. The crew will be just fine."

Vivian sat up further in the chair and pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. She saw Jasmine out of the corner of her eye do the same.

"It's not just that," Vivian murmured, feeling anger rising in her chest, "it's Oswald. He...he...I can't find a word to describe how I feel about him. The moment I think about him, what he could have done, I just want to tear him apart. I went and spoke to him and I just can't believe he how he still thought that he was right in some way. I hate to call him a human being. He's a pathetic excuse for one. You'd think people would develop some compassion, some humility, some selflessness in a time like this. And all he did was care about his own skin."

She seethed for a while, then looked over at Jasmine. The doctor looked concerned and uneasy. Vivian raised her head, "What?"

"Viv, I'm your friend, so don't take this the wrong way."

Jasmine always started that way, when she had to speak a hard truth. A thousand times she had done it. Vivian dreaded it. She was the one person she could vent to, throw everything out onto the table. She knew she did it because they were friends, because she cared, but it hurt too often. Jasmine's truths could cut deep. Many had led to a hot debate, but nothing that boiled into a full blown argument. Hoping that whatever she had to say wouldn't pass their breaking point, Vivian inhaled and prepared herself. Words could be more painful that a gunshot wound.

"You lock onto a single person's actions or personality or ideals or what have you and you attribute them to people as a whole. An outlook like that is unhealthy and destructive. Seeing how you've been looking out for the crew, that gave me hope that you had moved on from thinking like that."

"I care about them."

"I know. Before that, it was just you and me. Nobody else mattered to you. You alienated everyone at OCS, even the instructors who fawned over you. You never laughed or smiled at mess with the others, you never went out with them when we had weekend passes. You stared at everyone with this hateful glare in your eyes, like they had done you wrong in some way. You still do, even now."

Vivian said nothing, her feelings bruised. She could see Jasmine sigh, knowing that she had hurt her, so she raised her hands in resignation and said, "Look, I'll just say this. You build bridges with the crew of this ship, and they love you for it. And I know you think highly of some of the marines, but I've seen the way you look at them. Just don't burn bridges before you've even tried to build them. Give them time."

That was when her anger flared again. She knew what Jasmine was getting at. Five years ago, a resentment had been brewing.

"Do you have to bring that up?"

"Bring what up?"

"Don't be daft."

"What?" Jasmine said exasperatedly, "I didn't say anything!"
"Be nice to marines? Those men who stayed behind are brave, but the others? How do I know one of them wasn't the one who pulled the trigger?"

"You committed mutiny to save their lives and now you're labeling practically ninety-nine percent of them as potential murderers?" Jasmine asked, throwing her hands up into the air as she walked back to her desk, "Tell me you're not serious."

"I watched a man wearing the same uniform as the thousand marines aboard this ship gun down the only other friends I have ever had in my entire life. He killed them in cold blood."

Jasmine turned around, her gaze hard. Vivian stood her ground. Jasmine was about the only person who could beat her in a match such as this, but the anger had taken her now. There was nothing could deter her when it came to the graves of five innocent girls, five friends that had been mercilessly killed. Nobody could be beaten back when they had been steeled by that kind of horror.

The doctor pushed her glasses back up her nose, then folded her arms across her chest. "I'm not saying it was right, I'm not condoning what happened, and I think what happened to your friends was horrible," Jasmine said slowly, "but you can't keep carrying them around like this."

Jasmine lingered for a moment, thinking. She almost seemed amused when she said, "You can't carry your troubles around for all the crew to see. They have to have faith in you, they need to think you're at one hundred percent. If they see you faltering because of the past, they may falter too."

Carry them? Vivian said nothing but disagreed all the same. She didn't carry the corpses of her dead friends with her. No, it wasn't like that. They followed her, everywhere she went. Down the long, winding corridors of the ship, onto the bridge, and they stared at her while she slept. Their eyes, cold and judging, expecting to be avenged, waiting for her to do something with her life to make their deaths have meaning.

Jasmine seemed to sense her thoughts, "They're gone, Vivian. And so is he."

When the crew hit their beds that night, Vivian began roaming the halls. She was slightly bent forward, hands folded behind her back, her hair out of the regulation bun. Dark bags were under eyes; they were red from the tears she had shed after she had gone to her cabin. It wasn't because of their dispute, not technically. Their disagreements never stopped them from being friends. Part of being friends meant telling one another truths that had a bite to them. Vivian loved Jasmine for that, but hated it for her too. It was selfish, almost immature, to want just her support. Having support, somebody to agree with, it was good. But Vivian knew a more valuable friend was one that had something to say about you, told you to clean up your act, told you to move on.

Vivian hadn't wanted their fight to escalate. The last thing she wanted was to sever her one true friendship. She wanted to talk to Jasmine about her treating crew members. Her synthesia was something Vivian worried about. Although Jasmine was able to focus and control it, Vivian was concerned for the day where she wasn't able to pull through. Synthesia, Jasmine had explained two years ago, meant that she could feel others' pain, literally. If she saw a man with a gunshot wound, there was a chance that she could experience the same pain in the same exact spot. Jasmine could control it, focus, reason that it wasn't real. But the last thing that needed to happen was for the ship's medical chief to collapse in one of the medical pains, agonized by a wound that wasn't even there.

The halls were empty which Vivian was thankful for. Occasionally, a crewman or two would pass, exchanging hushed, respectful greetings. She was headed towards the armory. There had been time to explore it now, and Vivian had some plans in store for the facility. The crew were highly trained, skillful of their shipborne duties. Yet Vivian wanted them to remain sharp. Enemy boarding the ship was always a possibility, despite it being a rare occurrence. Protocol dictated that if a UNSC ship were going to be captured, the captain must initiate the self-destruct sequence through the CNI. Vivian didn't want that to happen. She planned to advise the new captain on have regular weapon training exercises to keep the crewmen sharp and prepared. Jasmine's idea for advanced first aid classes came to her mind, and she decided to push that as well. When she had the time, Vivian decided, she would work with Holst and De Vos to develop a ship defense strategy in the case of a boarding party. That would lead to sailors training in the CQC chamber. Bringing these ideas up helped distract her.

As she walked through the empty armory, its workout equipment stored neatly, the range vacant, she heard a sound from the Weaponsmith. It was a metal, tinkering noise. Vivian paused, listening. For a few moments it was gone, then it returned. The sound was faint, so faint it could hardly be heard. She didn't feel frightened. It was probably one of the smiths stowing away their tools for the night-if such as thing as 'night' existed or even mattered when in slipspace.

All the same, she decided to investigate. She entered the armory proper, filled with weaponry of all kind on the shelves and walls like a display store, and into the Weaponsmith.

Sitting on a crate near one of the benches was a marine. She recognized him. He was the squad leader from detonation team from Ambition, the man with the injured ankle.

Her predisposition against marines softened at the sight of him. She knew him, or felt that she did at least.

The marine looked up at her, and started to stand, "Commander."

"At ease, trooper," she said, holding up a hand. The marine sat back down on the crate. An assault rifle, stripped of its shell and parts, was laid across his lap.

The marine noticed her glance, "just a little maintenance."

"Why aren't you using the bench?"

"In the field we don't have benches, but we've still got to take of our weapons, clean them, and all that. Might as well keep practicing without a bench."

Vivian smiled, seeing the wisdom in that. "Why stay up this late to do it?" she asked.

The marine laid down his tools and leaned back on the crate, so his back rested on the wall. "After a battle, I take some time to myself for a few days, and work on my rifle when no one else is around on the ship or base we're at. Takes my mind off things."

Vivian nodded and sat down on a crate across from him. She smiled, "What's your name trooper?"

"Sergeant-"

"No, no. Your name. Your first name."

"Ma'am?"

"Your first name," Vivian said with a groan, easing herself onto the crate. She was twenty but sometimes she felt like an old woman. She smiled at him, "I don't feel like being Commander Waters right now. No formalities."

Not after that discussion with Jasmine...

The marine looked confused but then his expression changed, "I'm Nathaniel."

"Nathaniel," she repeated, "do you go by Nate?"

"Nate, Nathan, Nathaniel, doesn't matter to me," he said kindly.

"Mine's Vivian."

"It's a pleasure," the marine said, leaning forward and extending a hand. He smiled at her; she saw that he was missing a tooth. It made him appear boyish. Vivian reached out and they shook hands. When they withdrew, he resumed his work. Vivian watched his hands deftly moving between the different parts and small cleaning tools in his hands. He worked them slowly and carefully, as if the weapon parts were made of glass. He appeared focus, yet there was something about him, a wandering mind.

"Was the fighting bad?"

He paused again, resting his elbow on his knee. He didn't look irritated at being interrupted again. "Yeah, it was. Not the worst I've seen, but bad. Those Army troopers got cut to pieces out there on the flatlands."

"I heard about the Scarab."

Nathaniel grunted. "Lost a friend to it."

"I'm sorry."

"I appreciate it."

"How did you take out the Scarab?"

Nathaniel laughed, almost embarrassedly, "we drove our Warthog off a cliff into its side, then jammed explosives into its core, and managed to jump off."

Vivian blinked, "you crashed into a Scarab?"

"Yep."

Vivian laughed, and Nathaniel joined in. He shook his head, "it was the dumbest thing I could have done as squad leader."

"It got the job done," Vivian offered, "you live an interesting life, Nathaniel."

"Insane, more like it."

Vivian chuckled, watching him. He cleaned a few more parts, slid them back into place with a series of satisfying metallic clicks.

"So, my CO told us today we'll be going on the hunt after we settled things on Reach."

"Yes, we'll be diving deep into Outer Colony territory that was lost to the Covenant."

Nathaniel nodded, "We finally get to go on the offensive. Sounds good to me. I know I've gotten tired of waiting. The waiting is a killer. I'd rather just go find them and fight"

"Agreed."

Nathaniel stood up, picking up his rifle as he did. Vivian followed suit, smoothing out her tunic. "Sergeant, would you be interested in becoming a firearms instructor on board the I'm Alone? I'd like the crew to become better acquainted with their sidearms and other weapons, in case of emergencies. The armory staff are well-trained, but I think the crew could benefit from learning from marines who are in the field all the time."

The marine looked surprised, nodded his head to the side in contemplation, "Sure. When we're not on any combat ops, I'll help out at the range. I owe you."

"You owe me?"

"Of course," Nathaniel said, "you saved our lives. We all owe you. Helping out on the range, it's the least I can do."

Vivian remembered what Jasmine had said. Maybe she was wrong, to blame all marines. This man was honorable. She could see that in his boyish smile that contrasted with his serious face, hear the sincere tone in his voice. If the marines on board this vessel were like him, then her anger, her hatred, appeared unjustified. Right there and then, she decided to give them all a chance.

Vivian smiled, "Thank you, Nathaniel."

"It'll be a pleasure, Commander Waters"

"Vivian."

"Vivian. Sorry, I'm not on a first name basis with most navy officers I meet," he joked.

"You are with this one."

They shook hands again, and parted ways.

---

"When I jumped out on that road

Got no love, no love you'd call real

Got nobody waiting at home

Runnin' with the devil"

"Runnin' With the Devil,"

Van Halen

---

Lots of talking in this chapter, hope you don't mind. I think I've mentioned it before but this isn't going to be a constant action-packed story. The Human-Covenant War serves a backdrop for these character exchanges, and rears its ugly head to confound matters further. It's actually a concern of mine that people who visit this story enjoy the action but find out that this is indeed a drama with action. One might say an action-drama. It won't all be character drama, there'll be plenty of action though, don't worry. Anyways, I hope the ending was torturous for everybody, because it was goddamn torturous to write for me. Vivian's POV at the end felt rushed and didn't possess enough internal thought or description, but I think it'll give more flexibility in developing her later on.

Now for comment responses:

AlphaHighBreed: I hope you didn't lose that much hair when you pulled on it from last chapter. XD And yeah, a webcomic would be great. It's still a prospect, just gotta find the right person for the job. School life actually hasn't been a big impact on my writing. This chapter was actually 3/4 done since about Friday last week. Sorry about that. ^^; I was stuck for a while. You see, when I get stuck in my writing, it's at one specific scene-in this instance it was a single sentence. I get stuck on the smallest of things, and it just utterly derails my writing as a whole. But thank you for your patience and thank you for reading Alpha, it's always good to see you around.

bigpapifan238: I'm extremely flattered. I'm really glad that you can enjoy the story even if it takes me awhile to get the chapters up. It's good to hear something like you said because in all honesty when I submit a chapter I get super anxious and I'm just like, "Oh god I just submitted an unfinished piece of garbage and I'm just gonna make a fool of myself." And then I see a comment like yours or Alpha's or anybody else who's posted and I get to breathe a sigh of relief. So thank you, I appreciate you taking the time to read and I'm happy that you can enjoy my writing.

As I've been saying, I really appreciate when anyone comments. I have to say I'm open to positive, negative, and critical reviews, but just the amount of positivity I get from you guys, it really breathes some life back into me and keeps me writing. I can't tell you how much it means to me when you guys write a review or take a look at the story. I'll always try to be transparent with my situation when it comes to writing and I'll always respond to you guys. So take care, come back again for chapter eight, thank you very much for reading.