Chapter 37: No More

The Pelican hatch opened to a chaotic scene. Jumping down onto the deck, he saw countless Pelicans and Albatrosses touching down and discharging their complements of wounded personnel. Marines and soldiers wounded in their hundreds staggered out or were conveyed on litters. So many bore plasma burns on their armor and flesh. Others carried rounds from Brute Spikers in their backs, shoulders, arms, and chests. Blood splattered and leaked onto the deck. People screamed in bloodcurdling agony and called for their mothers or treasured friends. Many were carried in litters and remained despondent. Their eyes were wide and empty. Mouths were agape and bodies limp. Fellow warriors carried and supported one another. Some casualties were so critical they didn't have time to be transferred to the infirmary. Screens were erected in the aft section of the hangar and surgeons plied their grisly trade behind them. In the forward section of the hangar, there were rows, rows, and rows of bodies covered with plastic sheets. Booted feet stuck out from underneath them. People dropped to their knees behind the rows, burying their faces in their hands as they sobbed. Nearby, pieces of charred body armor, boots, and helmets were tossed into a huge pile. Another pile was made up of half-destroyed weapons. NCOs weaved between troops, stripping them of bandoliers and usable firearms. Many of the occupants hobbled out of the Pelicans and simply tossed their equipment away. Helmets were dropped, armor pieces discarded, and weapons left on a crate or on the deck. Flight crews had to coax some personnel out of their dropships. Longsword pilots jumped out of their cockpits and vomited on the deck. Some tried to find an out of the way spot and began to cry. Vehicles rolled down ramps; some sustained so much enemy fire their hulls were black. Damaged M12's rocked down the ramp and finally broke down on the deck. Windshields and armor plates were stained red. Dead bodies, burned, blackened, bloody, were ripped from passenger seats. Service members sat on crates or on the deck with their heads in their hands. Marines with soot-covered faces raced around searching for friends only to find they had none left.

An eyeless Marine walked by. A soldier wandered aimlessly holding the booted, severed foot of a friend in his hand. Three men who were so filthy it was impossible to tell what branch they served in came by. The one in the center dropped to his knees and curled into a ball. Both companions stopped but they did not help their friend. A female pilot walked out of a Pelican, circled to the front, lowered herself to her knees, pressed her hands together, and began to pray. As she did, tears rolled down her cheeks. One wide-eyed Marine came walking up to Frost. His whole face was covered with soot and there was blood around his mouth.

"Have you seen Pat?" he asked in a wobbling, wavering voice. "Have you seen him? I'm looking for Pat." Frost just stared and blinked at him. Eventually, the Marine's face scrunched up and he turned around. "Pat?" he called, his voice nearly drowned out by the noise. "Pat! Where are you, man?" Two Rangers came by carrying a third between them. There was a spike in the wounded man's stomach. At first, he looked dead. All of a sudden, he convulsed, dropped to the deck, and vomited. It was all blood. A litter rolled by and the wounded Marine on it sat up suddenly, as if waking up from a nightmare. One hand was on her chest, the other on her stomach, and she began to cough. She coughed so hard her whole body shook. Flecks of blood began to fly from her mouth and the medical staff began running with the rolling litter. Jumping from the cockpit of a Longsword, another pilot pushed through the deck crew who came up to him.

"I'm not getting back in that fucking thing. I'm not doing this shit anymore. Fuck it, man, fuck it. I'm done." As he walked, he tossed his helmet away, ripped off his flight jacket, and dropped his gun belt. An Albatross landed next to the Longsword and dropped its ramp. A column of bedraggled, filthy, bloody Marines staggered down the ramp. Behind them, an M12 trundled after them. A pale-faced Marine was at the wheel. Beside him, a sergeant lay slumped in the passenger seat. He was headless. There was no one in the gunner's seat but Frost could see two hands gripping the weapon's handles. Both were perfectly cut at the wrist and there was no blood on the gun or armor plating. After the Warthog left, a Marine came down the ramp. Tears streamed down his cheeks. In his arms was the corpse of a female Army trooper. From the angle Frost was at, he couldn't see her wounds. But her face was perfectly clean and pale, her eyes and mouth were closed gently; she looked like she was sleeping. The Marine walked right by him, carrying the graceful corpse, and disappeared into the crowd.

Blood. Bodies. Screaming. Sobbing. Frost wanted to cover his eyes and his ears, but what was more horrifying, to see or to listen? It didn't matter. Both arms were wounded and he couldn't raise them. All he could do was stand and look at a scene familiar to his eyes. Familiar by what count? Ten times had he witnessed it? Twenty? Thirty? Too many, he realized. All this time he was lying to himself. He thought he could bear it all, that his courage was enough to carry him through. But with each battle, whether it was defeat or victory, had silently chipped away at him like a chisel against stone. All his fortitude was scraped away, all his courage broken into pieces, all taste for war shattered. Standing in the middle of such carnage, Frost realized he simply had nothing left.

"Nate!?"

Someone embraced him. He looked down and saw Jasmine looking up at him. Her eyes were wide, frightened, and brimming with tears. But she blinked and the determined, concentrated doctor the I'm Alone's crew knew so well returned. "Can you walk? Hey, look at me? Do you have the strength to walk?" Frost nodded. "We don't have any rooms or beds available in the infirmary. We're using quarters within the barracks to house wounded. Your room will be your treatment area. Go, I'm right behind you."

Frost glanced over his shoulder. The others were climbing out of the Pelican with great difficulty. Everyone was moaning, groaning, grunting, and occasionally shrieking in pain. Blood was now leaking from Carris's wounds and the back of her armor was red. Steele's face was still bleeding after all this time. All who took spikes or plasma bolts shambled along. A team of hospitalmen came racing up and began to assist them. Turning forward, he began to walk as fast as he could. If he was alone, he would have run. He wanted to bolt from this awful place so he didn't have to see and hear its myriad horrors. His vision blurred. Around him, the titanium bulkheads began murky seas of silver and gray. Lights mounted on the walls and ceiling blinded him by turns. As fast as he walked he felt like he wasn't going anywhere. With each turn in the I'm Alone's halls he felt more lost than ever before.

Around him, the titanium bulkheads began to break. He could see individual bolts sliding away and the perfectly welded, manufactured, individual pieces separate. For a moment, he thought the ship was under attack and exploding. But when it finally disappeared, he was not left adrift aimlessly in space. Tall evergreen trees grew around him, uneven, mountainous terrain appeared underneath his black boots, and snow began to fall. Cold air nipped at his cheeks. He looked down and found himself looking at a young man propped up against a tree. Blood leaked from multiple stab wounds along his torso. Unable to look at the young man's face, frozen in pain, he turned around. Beneath his feet on blasted brown earth was another one just as torn up. Frost turned to run from the bodies but found even more lying in snow, frozen mud. Again, he turned, and suddenly walls closed in around him. Illuminated in stark white light were five dead girls. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Everywhere he turned there were bodies. Dead, open eyes stared back at him. Frost could not look away or escape.

Suddenly he found himself leaning against his bunk. He looked around urgently and saw the squad falling into their beads. Medical personnel were right behind them and began stripping them of their armor. "Nate, I need you to lie down."

Frost let Jasmine help him settle on the bottom bunk. She propped up against the bulkhead with the pillow from the top bunk. A moment later, her team was around him. Medical equipment was wheeled in behind her. As Jasmine worked, her glasses slid to the end of her nose. "Third degree plasma burns to the right arm," she said to the assistant beside her. "Large amounts of solidified biofoam. Right side?"

"Spike round, bicep," said the other assistant. "We'll need to cut this."

"We'll deal with the right arm first. Have you had any pain medicine, Nate?"

He shook his head. Jasmine nodded and turned to her first assistant. "We need to treat these burns, biofoam isn't enough. Let's start the removal process. We have to be careful, we don't want to deglove him."

"Deglove?" Frost asked, blinking. "Is my arm going to come off?"

"No, honey."

"Oh my God, I'm going to lose my arm..."

Jasmine turned back, smiled sweetly, and patted his cheek.

"Don't worry Nate," she said, singing the words slightly. "We're going to put you to sleep and when you wake up you're going to be all better, I promise."

Vivian stood at the front of the bridge watching the other UNSC ships limp into position. Her heart was tight in her chest but she was relieved to see the ships detached from her battlegroup were still in one piece. She attributed it to their commanders' excellent leadership, the dedication of their crews, and the chances of war. Behind those ships, the massive debris field of purple armor plating silver titanium battleplate denoted just how close they came to losing their ships.

The bridge was silent as a graveyard. No one spoke, their duties suspended as Sosa turned the I'm Alone for their slipspace alignment. As they turned, they watched what was left of the Anchors blow up as plasma lances flickered from the prows of Covenant ships. Other enemy vessels were speeding towards them, trying to cut off their escape. Everyone was tense at the sight, but Vivian didn't pay them any mind. Sosa was an excellent navigator and she would get them into slipspace within the next mine. Already, other UNSC ships were disappearing into the swirling, blue-white portals of slipspace.

Pressing her hand against the viewing glass, Vivian watched as Covenant ships began glassing the planet. Even though it was entirely evacuated, she felt a great loss. So many men and women lost their lives on the desert sand. Everyone who fought there believed they were going to drive the Covenant off and turn the entire offensive around. A dramatic counterattack was reduced to an evacuation and a full retreat back to where they started. It was just as infuriating as it was disappointing. Such words did not even come close to describing Vivian's feelings. As she watched the destruction, her hands balled into fists.

"Captain Waters!"

Vivian whirled around. Colonel Hayes stormed onto the bridge still clad in desert BDUs. He pointed at her. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Captain?"

"I beg your pardon?" she seethed, storming up to him. "You're going to come onto the bridge of my ship and start barking at me!? What the hell is this even about!?"

"Why are we retreating? We were in complete control of the battlespace down there. My Marines were fighting it out just fine and we're retreating? What's wrong with you!?"

Vivian's emerald eyes widened. Hayes's eyes were alight but they were bulging in an unnatural way. His rapid eye movement was intense and he was breathing heavily. Something about him seemed different. Yet her own wraith began to bubble up and she could not contain it.

"Are you insane?" she asked, sweeping her arm towards the glass. Behind her, the planet continued to burn. "Do you see that, Colonel? Do you see it!? If I left your men down there they'd all be dead! You were in the hangars weren't you? Didn't you see what happened? Not even a thousand Marines are fit for duty, any kind of duty!"

"We're about to win!" Hayes pointed at Sosa. "Lieutenant, do not engage in a slipspace jump!"

"You have no authority on this bridge, Colonel Hayes! Sosa, get us into slipspace!" Vivian shouted.

"You already forced us to retreat when we had the initiative once. I don't retreat! I don't lose! My Marines and I are going to fight! That's what we're made for! That's all we can do!" Hayes roared, marching up to her. He towered over Vivian but she puffed her chest out and glared right back at him.

"I'm trying to save their lives!"

"You're cheating us! You're a damned coward!"

Vivian resisted every urge to strike him. It made sense. By the account of her crew, she would have been justified. Such an act, made in the most dire and dirty moments of all war, was to not only be overlooked but accepted by her staff. But what kind of precedent would she set for her crew? If she, the commanding officer, went so far as to hit another senior officer in the battlegroup, what would that teach them? What would that show them? That their Captain could not maintain control? They needed her to be in control, not just of the ship or a battle but of herself.

"Captain, I'm giving you one chance to leave this bridge by your own volition. If you persist, I will have you detained until you are in a more agreeable attitude."

"You don't give me orders, Waters," Hayes growled. "Those Marines are mine."

Just then, the door opened again. Major Royce walked in, still clad in his own M52B body armor and desert BDUs. He wore black ballistic goggles over his eyes. Stubble coated his cheeks and his dark hair was trim but feathery.

"Colonel, you're needed."

Hayes snorted like an animal, turned on his heel, and left the bridge. It was like a dog being called by its master. As he passed into the hall, Royce lingered in the entry. After watching Hayes depart, the Major looked back at Vivian. "We've all had a rough day, Captain. We just need some rest."

Don't trust Royce. The words of Rundstrum's message lingered in her mind. Unable to bring herself to speak, all she did was nod. Royce turned and the door slid shut behind him. Vivian composed herself with a short breath and took a look around. Everyone was staring at her, wide-eyed. Even Decatur seemed taken aback. Vivan narrowed her eyes at them.

"Monitor your screens, watch your data, standby for slipspace jump." Almost in unison, the bridge crew's attention snapped back to their consoles and terminals. "Sosa, are you ready?"

"Aye, ma'am."

"Execute."

A pinpoint of light appeared in front of the I'm Alone. In an instant, the light grew exponentially large, as if the darkness of space was being ripped upon. A swirling mass of blue and white light appeared. The I'm Alone shuddered, calmed, and zipped inside the entrance. Within moments, the familiar tunnel of slipspace appeared. At the far end was the ominous black hole that seemed so far. Golden and blue lights, waving, wavering, weaving, flowed around the titanium ship.

Vivian took her seat in the center command console and leaned forward. She pinched the bridge of her nose and breathed deeply. An immense sense of relief to be out of the system flooded through her but it was chased by a deathblow of fatigue. She could have fallen asleep at that very moment. Leaning back, she ran her hand over her face and looked at Decatur. "Voluntary cryo for the entire crew. If they don't want in, they don't have to. It'll be a short journey anyways."

She reached for her mug of coffee and raised it to her lips. Just as she did, she realized it was empty. Groaning, she set it down and looked at Decatur. "Draft a message to the mess hall; after they've finished feeding all the wounded, returning, and working personnel, have someone bring us some coffee."

"Just coffee?" Decatur asked with a wry smile. Vivian stared at him for a moment, her own expression drooping. But then her lips lifted up into a soft smile.

"If anybody wants something to eat, speak to Decatur. He's taking orders."

"A picnic on the bridge? I'm down," Tsang breathed.

"Is it a picnic or a sleepover?" Koroma asked jokingly, although her voice was still tense. "I'm getting my pillow and blanket if it is."

"If there's breakfast options that'd be awesome. I love breakfast for dinner," Delaney admitted.

Vivian smiled a little. She knew it was a veil for everyone's shock at the incident. It was all they could do to cope. At a time like this, no matter how thin or forced, it was needed. Resting her cheek on her hand, she looked over at Decatur. The AI looked back at her and smiled at her fondly.

"Decatur," she said, "we've been beaten today."

"Beaten, but not broken," he replied.

Vivian smiled and nodded. But Rundstrum's message replayed in her mind. She started to think not of Hayes's breaking point or even her own, but the entire ship's crew. Everything was sliding backwards, all their gains, efforts, and victories. In the course of a few years they grew accustomed to success after years of failure. For the first time in decades, there was real hope. Perhaps, not hope of winning the war entirely but having a real impact on it. Give some breathing room to more beleaguered fronts, give the UNSC time to replenish their personnel levels, and secure worlds with valuable raw materials for the factories in the Inner Colonies. HIGHCOM had not pinned their hopes on Operation: EXALT but the men and women of her battlegroup had. One more defeat and everything would be undone.

Steele flipped through a few pages of an old issue of STARS magazine. He wasn't reading or even looking at the pictures. His eyes glazed over everything but his hands needed something to do to pass the time. Almost everyone else was asleep or lost in their own little world. Grant was curling up on his side and continually ran his thumb back and forth across Moser's cross. Bishop was asleep and snoring loudly. Lay on his side towards the bulkhead towards the aft section, his expression and disposition unknown to everybody. Borko was still with them; Frost wasn't in the room when another platoon's lieutenant passed by and revealed that Borko's platoon was wiped out during the final stage of the battle. All his friends were dead. Steele, the assistant squad leader, decided to bring him into the fold and would inform Frost of the decision when he woke up. Occupying one of the spare bunks, Borko sat with his legs pulled up to his chest and his head on his knees. He wasn't sobbing but Steele knew he was still crying. Frost was still asleep, Maddox was propped up on his bunk but he was sleeping too. Konstantin was gone; Jasmine ordered him taken out of the barracks but she hadn't said why. The reason could only be bad. Carris was also ordered out to undergo surgery.

Setting the magazine down, he sighed and looked over at Borko. He whistled to try and get his attention. On his third attempt, Borko finally looked up.

"Hey, uh..." Steele's voice faltered and he swallowed hard. "Not saying we have to do this right now, but whenever you're ready, we'll head back to your original barracks and pack up your things. Gather up your mates' things, too."

Borko stared at him, his eyes red and glossy. After a moment, he nodded. Steele held up his hand. "Again, not right now. Whenever you're ready. Just...you know, rest up for now."

"Thanks," Borko replied meekly before resting his head back down. Steele glanced over at Frost. The squad leader was sleeping soundly after being brought back into the room. His entire right arm was bandaged all the way down to his fingertips. His upper arm was also stitched and wrapped up. He looked very peaceful. Steele wished he could fall asleep; he was in that strange paradox of being utterly exhausted yet sleep evaded him.

It didn't help that the air in the room was uneasy. He wasn't blind; he knew if people were left in their own little spaces for too long they would think themselves to death. Work provided a good distraction but no one had any duties to perform nor was anyone in a good enough shape to carry out a detail. Even his wounds were still aching; all the glass was extracted from his face and all the cuts were either stitched or covered with bandages. The one on his lips continued to sting very badly but he didn't accept any pain medication. As painful as his wounds were, it seemed wrong to ask for or receive any morphine when there were Marines missing limbs or with parts of their bodies blown up. People needed to rest, including him, but they couldn't be lost in their own heads.

He couldn't just order Borko or Grant or Knight to just go to sleep. At this point, he wasn't sure he could give an order. It didn't feel right to do that to them. Right now, their uniforms were transparent; these were his friends. He racked his brain, trying to think of something.

"I'm back."

Carris came trundling into their quarters. She was wearing standard olive drab fatigues and a black tank top. Although her stride was normal, Steele could tell the operative's upper body was stiff. Bandages laced around her torso. Sitting down at the foot of Steele's bed, she smiled at Grant and then at the sniper. "I never thought I'd see the day surgeons would have to qualify with power tools," she said. "I went to see Nora. She wants to be here and I asked Dr. Jasmine on her behalf. She said she'd think about it but she's busy."

"It'd be nice to have the whole squad here," Knight murmured.

"I'd stage another snatch and grab op but I think the Doc would just up and shoot me," Steele remarked dryly. Carris smiled and looked down. Steele reached down and slipped his hand into her's. "Hey love, why don't you get some rest?" Carris nodded and began to get up. But he squeezed her hand and kept her from standing. "I mean right here."

Carris blushed.

"I can't sleep on my back."

"So? Make yourself comfortable."

After taking an embarrassed look around, Carris gave in and eased herself onto the bed. Steele gave her as much room as possible without falling off the bunk. Laying on her side, she wedged herself against him and then draped one arm on his chest, her hand settling on the right side The other she slid underneath his neck so it wouldn't fall asleep. Steele put his hand on the back of her head, his fingers sliding into her thick black locks, and pushed her head onto his chest. After a few moments, he remembered just how strong Carris was which resulted in her having a heavy head. He didn't mind too much.

After a few minutes, he craned his neck and looked down. "Hey, how's that, love?"

Carris didn't respond, she only emitted an exhausted, embarrassed mumble. Her eyes were already closed and soon her chest was rising and falling gently. Steele watched her for a time before looking up. The others were looking at him and he frowned back. "Well, don't act so surprised."

"We're not."

Steele looked over at Frost. The squad leader was asking and gazing at him. He smiled a little. "We all knew. It was inevitable."

"Wish somebody told me," Steele grumbled.

"We couldn't. That was something you had to figure out your own," Frost said, looking up at the top bunk.

"Like you?"

"Like me," Frost said but it didn't sound like an answer. His tone was too musing, too dry, too apathetic towards himself. Steele wasn't sure what to say but he didn't want to persist with the conversation, not only to save himself from embarrassment but to keep Frost out of whatever dark place he was in.

"Konstantin's the only one unaccounted for. Besides that, we're in good shape. Should be ready to go by the time we reach the Port."

"He's paralyzed," Frost said. "Heard it when I was brought out for surgery. Caught a projectile in his back when we were loading into the bird. If he wants to stay a Marine, he'll have to operate an exoskeleton or have a massive operation to get cybernetic replacements. He has the option to go home. If he's smart, he'll take it. I'm ready to go home."

Everyone who was awake turned to look at him. Frost did not meet their gazes. Steele couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You're tired, Nate," was all he could say. "You just need some more sleep."

"It's like a fucking nightmare," Frost muttered. "Except you can't wake up from it. You're right, man. I'm really tired but sleeping isn't going to change a thing. Nothing's going to change. I'm done. Done with all of this."

Frost laid his head back and looked away from Steele. He stared at him for a few minutes, his blue eyes filled with disbelief. But then they softened and he just felt incredibly sad. Out of all the Marines he ever knew, hundreds upon hundreds of them, Frost was the best. Some only knew him by his Skopje reputation, nothing more than a killer in his prime. But anyone who sat down and got to know the man, they would see he loved being a Marine. He was a warrior through and through. This was his life and he enjoyed it. To see him throw in the towel after a decade was especially depressing. Because when the war became hard, when people died, when there were setbacks, all Steele had to do was look at Frost and see his warrior's spirit. It burned so brightly but now the wick was out. Nothing was left but a dwindling, thinning stream of smoke. Where did that leave the squad? Where did that leave him? What was going to happen with him all but gone?

He saw the same questions etched into the frozen expressions of the other men who were awake. Steele looked at each of them, tried to meet their eyes, but couldn't snap them from it. Sighing, he reached under his mattress with his right hand and tugged out the same book he read with Langley and Carris.

"Oi," he said loudly, finally getting their attention. "Mind if I read out loud, boys?" Everyone looked at him, back at the book, and then back to him. Steele blinked and pursed his lips. "Yes, I know how to read. I'll take your silence as a, 'yes,' then. Listen up boys, this is a good one."

Having read the book countless times, he had no problem starting over for the others. He made sure the pages he left off with Langley and Carris were still bookmarked before flipping to the first page. Steele cleared his throat loudly and smiled. "In a hole in the ground..."

Words: 4,704

Pages: 11

Font: Garamond

Font Size: 12

Line Spacing: 1.5

Author's Note: As you can see, the word count is lower again. I'm really sorry guys, but I'm changing my policy towards word count per chapter for all my stories except Marsh Silas (for the time being, that story may be subject to change as well.) I know folks on this site appreciate longer chapters and I've tried to find a happy medium between chapter length and updating on a regular basis. While I have been recently, it hasn't exactly been easy. I've felt really controlled and constricted by trying to meet a word count and in my effort to cut down on fluff and padding, I worry I'm actually making the problem worse. So from now on, chapters will have a minimum word count of 2,500 words, with the sweet spot being between 3,500 and 4,500. That doesn't mean there will never be 6,000 or maybe even 7,000 word chapters, but this is so I can upload regularly without burning myself out. I'm sorry if that's a bummer for some readers but uploading consistently between several works, works on another site, and my actual day to day work, chores, and original writing, it's a lot. I'd rather upload consistently with a shorter chapter length than risk missing a weekly upload.

Comment Responses:

TheCarlosInferno: The grind grinds on, slowly, finely...

TheShadeOps: It's been a lot of fun to incorporate those kind of SOF groups. It really helps build the world in little ways without hitting the lore too hard. Considering the UNSC basically is the US military (in spaaaaace) with some other Western military aspects, it seems only natural they would continue to use units like the PJs. After all, the UNSC Army still has components like a Corps of Engineers and the Rangers, although they don't delve into whether there is a singular regiment. If you're interested, I'm working on another Halo story called 'To Be Brave,' which is a story set during the late Insurrection period and is a story with a bit more focus and less levity. Although it hasn't reached this point yet, one of its principle characters will be the commander of a Ranger company performing counter-insurgency operations in the Outer Colonies. The story is meant to be less BLAM than I'm Alone and tap into more, I'll tentatively say realistic aspects from Halo's armed conflicts. I've done a lot of research to try and nail a lot technical aspects so there's a subtle effect of immersion on the part of the reader. Not to mention it's a good excuse to use this research that I've been doing because I've been considering enlisting in the US Army right now and have been doing a lot of research to make my decision.

microzombie: Love your username. You're right; a big thing in this story has how repeated success has buoyed the spirits of so many characters. Thinking they could ride that victory train, they're instead smacked in the face with the realities of war and remember victory is not as easy or cheap as they got fooled into thinking. It's taking its toll on everyone to varying degrees, which is why I drew on Rundstrum's warning about breaking points in a previous chapter. I figured Swing was going to go out fighting; as a character he served his main purpose during the beginning of the story, being a stark reminder to characters they're warriors and providing Vivian with some new skills. I didn't want him to just become background noise like some other characters do, so I figured I'd give him a notable out. And you're right about Vivian; here we see the young commander evolve into someone more seasoned, cautious, and realistic than the aggressive go-getter in the first story. Vivian's experienced here will govern a lot of her actions in the next installment, and your observation regarding Frost and Hayes will as well. And I'm familiar with the massacre and I actually did some research into it and other massacres to create this strange, still vague story that was the Skopje counter-insurgency mission.

MightBeGone: That's very flattering, I'm glad you liked them so much. The crash was especially fun to write; it was one of those moments where I'm typing really fast and anxious and excited about what's happening as I type.