Hello, folks! I wanted to save my little announcements for this chapter and let the first chapter speak for itself. You can find them in the author's note and I highly encourage you to read it; you'll get some information about this story and how it will proceed, and also get a scoop on my other work!

To any new readers, this story is a sequel. I'd recommend reading the first story, I'm Alone, before reading this one. It stands at 50 chapters and just over 680,000 words.

(Also, cover art is graciously provided by DA artist, and a close friend of mine, Fail4Fun!)

Chapter 2: Snow

"Benchmark White Two-Two, you are too far ahead. Fall back and maintain formation, over. Benchmark White Two-Two, are you receiving, over? Frost? Frost, are you listening? Get your ass back here, goddammit!"

Frost was traversing the snowy slope, going up the hill as quickly as possible. It was steep and slippery. After falling several times and nearly rolling back down, he let his MA5B assault rifle hang by its strap as he crawled on all fours. It was not so much crawling as it was clawing, digging his gloved hands and black boots through the snow and into the hard ground beneath.

Grunting and panting, a near-constant cloud of white flowing through his gray balaclava, he struggled upwards. His armor was heavy, the magazines in his bandolier were weighing him down; he thought about dumping everything just to get up there faster.

He drew closer to the snow-covered crest. Everything was white. The tremendous rainstorm from the previous night shifted to snow in the early morning. Only an hour ago had the heavy snowfall abated to a calmer state.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the advance unit following his trail. At the bottom, the rest of the company was forming up. Behind them, under the falling snow, came the rest of the 89th Marine Expeditionary Unit. Several thousand men were encroaching on the hill, this one hill, near the foot of the mountain.

Rebels were nearby. They were deep in hostile territory. None of this was lost on Frost. Breaking off alone was beyond risky, it was defying everything he learned since his first day of basic training: stick together, work as a team. But he needed to get to the top. The frantic distress calls were still ringing in his ears.

Were they waiting at the top? Was anyone still alive? As he got closer, he took his assault rifle by the grip, but continued to paw his way upwards with his free hand.

'C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he breathed through his clenched teeth.

He dug his fingers in, pulled up, pushed with his feet, and there was no more hill. Frost landed flat on his belly right on the crest and brought his assault rifle up. Training it back and forth in a semicircle, he checked for hostiles but could see none. Rising to a crouch, he checked again and opened the SQUADCOM.

"Two-Actual, this is Two-Two, clear up. Proceeding, over."

"Two-Two, Two-Actual, hold position, that's an order, over," Teo responded.

But he was not listening then. He got to his feet and began walking forward.

Frost thought he just entered a different world. The snow on the hilltop was all churned up and muddied, swept over and walked through. Sickly green grass was exposed in patches large and small. Some areas were so traversed, snowdrifts were on either side of the paths. Falling snowflakes were barely settling in the paths and patches. Swathes of the remaining snow were stained red. Everywhere, all he could see was red, red, red. And bodies, living and dead, were everywhere. Many were stripped of some or all of their clothing. It seemed as if all the dead men were drenched in blood all the way up to their waists. Many had eyes gouged out, heads caved in, missing lips and tongues, and extremities butchered. All were castrated and their throats were slit. As for the living, they were so still they could be mistaken for dead. Many were beaten and their faces were bruised and swollen. Their bare legs were covered with scratches and fingernail marks. Blood ran down their thighs, which were turning blue from the cold. Freezing, violated, dying as they were, they made no sound.

And in the center was a great bloody heap of human parts. Legs, arms, hands, feet, genitalia, tongues, and heads. There it was, right in the middle of everything, like some ghastly totem erected in worship of a bloody god. Blood, there was so much blood, it was almost impossible to define some of the limbs composing such a pile.

The snowflakes were falling so slowly, so softly, they almost seemed to have stopped. It was like Skopje was frozen, had ceased rotation, for this one moment.

Frost let his assault rifle hang loose. His hands shook as he walked towards it. It felt like he had no air to breath, no voice to make sound, no wetness of his eyes to shed tears. Wide-eyed, he walked through the disaster, absorbing it all.

He heard booted feet crunching in the snow. Slowly, he turned around. First, his fireteam appeared, followed by the rest of the squad. Soon, the entire platoon began cresting the hill. All stopped as he had and took it all in.

Teo immediately took a knee and pressed a finger to his earpiece.

"Benchmark White Six, Benchmark White Two, need you up here, sir, over," he said.

"Benchmark White Two, Benchmark White Six, solid copy, over."

Lieutenant Conroy came over the crest with his team a few minutes later. Instantly, his face filled with horror. His eyes were wide and his mouth fell open. He turned to his radio operator, Mills.

"Radio for CASEVAC." He walked past him and shouted down the hill. "Corpsman up, corpsman up! Doc, give'em what you can. Rest of you, form a three-sixty degree perimeter, I want this position locked down!"

"Yes, sir," Mills said, kneeling down, "Benchmark, Benchmark White Six Romeo, requesting immediate CASEVAC at grid: N-one-niner-niner-two-two-five. Popping smoke..."

Frost knelt down over one of the women. She was wearing her fatigue jacket, but her armor was gone. Her loose black hair was swept across her face by the wind. What parts of her face that were not smashed by fists and boot heels were utterly pale. Although she made no sound, her lips moved.

He brushed the air from her face and tucked it behind her ears. Taking off his rucksack, Frost pulled out the blanket he carried with him and placed it over her legs. Then, he took her in his arms, keeping her close while holding one of her hands.

"Dust-off's coming," he whispered, "Dust-off's coming soon, don't worry. Hey, can you talk to me? Tell me your name."

He asked, even though he could see the surname above the pocket of her jacket: Gonzales. But she didn't speak and her lips stopped moving. All she did was shake her head as her brow softened and eyes filled with tears.

Someone knelt on the other side of her. Frost looked up to see it was Steele. A lock of his blonde hair peeked out from his balaclava, waving in the wind. His crystalline blue eyes looked over the young Army trooper before meeting Frost's gaze.

That's when the first tears fell from Frost's eyes, dropping on the trooper's cheeks. "What's wrong with these people?" he asked, his voice trembling. Steele just shook his head.

"We're gonna kill'em all," Steele said, "fuckin' Innies."

In a short time, the air grew alive with aircraft engines. Frost looked up to see Pelicans and Falcons through the haze of purple smoke. When they landed, medical personnel rushed out. Marines not assigned to the permentier began carrying the wounded soldiers towards the aircraft. Others waited for stretchers.

"Lou, help me," Frost said. Shouldering his sniper rifle, Steele wrapped the blanket entirely around her legs and then picked her up in tandem with Frost. Putting each of her arms across their shoulders, while they held her under her thighs and by her back, they brought her to the nearest Pelican. Corpsmen and pararescuemen were assembling the other wounded. One by one, they were lifted up and given blankets, water, and dressings.

Their faces looked so empty, their eyes so lifeless, Frost wondered if they actually were still alive.

One after the other, the Pelicans lifted up into the sky and flew back to the base of operations offshore of Lionel City. Others took their place, taking more casualties aboard. As more wounded were transported, the Marines began checking the dismembered bodies for identification. Most of their dog tags were jammed into the mouths or open gashes on the body. It was grisly extracting them. Everyone collected the tags and delivered them to the Navy corpsmen.

Frost helped at first but looked back at the heap. It reeked horribly; it was a fleshy, bloody smell that nauseated one's stomach, left a black taste in the mouth, and an acrid stench in the nostrils. If anything was in his stomach he would have vomited.

Steele, right beside him, took out a pair of cigarettes. At first, he thought he was going to light them. Instead, he broke both in half and handed him two of the stubs. Both plugged their nostrils with the butts.

"Back in London, in the old part of the city, folks leave their trash everywhere. Place stunk to high heaven and this was-"

"Louis, shut up."

The two were about to start collecting dog tags again, when they heard a great whump and a rocket flew overhead, narrowly missing a landing Pelican. Frost and Steele dropped to the ground. Cries and gunfire started ringing out along the perimeter.

"Contact!"

"Contact, contact, contact!"

Gunfire peppered the ground, throwing up handfuls of snow and grass.

"Contact, two o'clock, mountainside!"

"Shift your fire forward!"

Frost got to his feet, sprinted, and slid next to the Marines on the perimeter. As everyone darted for cover, they took the cigarette butts from their noses. He raised his assault rifle and returned fire. Muzzle flashes appeared and disappeared among the trees leading up the great mountain overlooking the hill. Shadowy forms darted between rocks, trunks, and fallen timbers.

"We're in a tight spot!" someone shouted. The hilltop possessed little natural cover. Some of the Marines were trying to dig through the snow into the frozen ground, but they soon gave up and returned to their weapons.

Going prone, Frost fired short bursts, focusing on the muzzle flashes he saw. The rebels were moving quickly, were spread well, and were utilizing their advantageous cover. More Marines came to the firing line and opened up on the mountainside. At a crouch, Steele began picking off and calling out targets. Knight also took a knee and began firing rockets; the explosions cast quick orange glows underneath the canopies, briefly illuminating their opponents. Other heavy weapons began pouring fire against the mountain; rockets, heavy machine guns, and XM510 grenade launchers. Trees exploded, sending a shower of sparks in all directions as the trunk fell. Branch after branch fell. Brown and gray puffs of smoke erupted all over the mountain. Clouds of snow were thrown up everywhere and the white mist roiled with the smoke throughout the trees.

Frost exhausted his magazine and cycled his weapon. As he did, he looked over at the other Marines. Other platoons began getting on the line until the whole company was assembled. The other companies were struggling up the slope and soon the whole battalion was assembling. Conroy was yelling over the SQUADCOM.

"Get the FO's up here!"

It was not the forward observer but the company fire support officer who showed up; it was Solberg, and his RO, Rosa. Solberg and Rose took a knee beside Conroy, who pointing at the mountainside with his hand. "I've got fifty-plus foot mobiles in the tree line, call for fire!"

"Understood!" Solberg took out a spotting scope. Holding it with one hand, he took the telephone wired to Rosa's backpack.

"Meteor this Benchmark Thirty, adjust fire, over." Using a combination of his binoculars and a sighting tool, he called in the grid. "One round, HE. Fifty-plus foot mobiles in the tree line. Danger close, over!"

It wasn't long before they all heard a whistling sound and a shell dropped at the foot of the mountain, below the tree line. The shell made a great tearing noise as it sent a column of earth skyward. Solberg got back on the radio and listed the corrections. Another shell fell, right where the enemy was entrenched. "Splash! Fire for effect, danger close, over!"

The air was soon alive with whistling. Moments later, the mountainside was pummeled by artillery. Columns of earth flew upwards, trees exploded and fell, and snow scattered. The barrage lasted for only a minute and the shock of each round was so great Frost could feel it against his breastplate. Almost everyone was still shooting at the mountainside.

When the barrage ended, calls of 'ceasefire' rang out up and down the line. Frost kept his weapon trained on the trees. It was very quiet and the only voice then was Solsberg, speaking coldly and quietly into the telephone, "Meteor, this is Benchmark Thirty. Good effect on target; end of mission, fifty-plus casualties, out." Solsberg put the telephone back on Rosa's radio, shook his head, and looked at Frost. He smiled. "God bless the guy who designed the Kodiak."

Unsure of just what to say exactly, Frost just nodded.

"Hoo-ah."

"Good work, boys."

Frost turned around to see Colonel Hayes standing over him. "Lieutenant Conroy?"

"Sir?"

"Take your platoon forward and inspect the area, make sure it's clear."

"Yes, sir! Alright, Second Platoon, form a line, keep intervals of one meter."

Frost rose to his feet, regrouped with his squad, and moved on. He was between Teo and Steele. They were not running, but were ultimately moving quickly. Everyone kept their weapons raised and their shoulders hunched. Each was a coil, ready to spring if somebody started shooting.

When they reached the foot of the mountain, they stopped. Conroy pointed to Frost and Steele. "Advance," he hissed, "check if it's clear. There might be spider-holes."

"No factor," Frost said. Side by side, the two slowly moved forward.

From one distorted world, Frost entered another reality altogether. Smoke swirled slowly around and snowflakes fell through the canopy. Everywhere there were fallen trees or the tops of trees. Bushels of evergreen branches were in piles. Stumps with jagged, sharps shards poked upwards. Most of the snow was obliterated and the ground was blasted black. Shells bore deep craters into the soil. Busted weapons were scattered all over the place. Bodies covered the ground. They were dressed in paramilitary clothes, a hodge-podge of captured O.D. greens and heavy-duty civilian clothes. Most did not have a complete set of body armor. Many were young and they were torn all apart. Bellies were opened and red, bloody guts were spilling out. Others were missing an arm or leg or all four limbs. Such parts were scattered all over the place. Some bodies were ripped in half or headless. All lay in horribly twisted, mangled conditions. Several bodies were so broken their heads were past the knees, or a leg was curled over the shoulder. A few were hit directly and all that was left of them was a foot or a hand. Frost accidentally stepped one the palm of a severed hand. Those shells fell with such intensity that a few of the dead was catapulted upwards and were hanging in the trees. Blood trickled from their open bodies, peppered with splinters.

Frost looked up at one, who lost both calves. His head was hanging to the left and the right was slashed by a flying piece of bark. As he approached the corpse, he saw that the eyes were still open, and blinking. Very quickly, they blinked and blinked.

Steele walked up beside him.

"That fucker still alive?"

Frost took out his sidearm, raised it, and fired three slugs into the body.

"Not anymore," Frost replied as he slid the pistol back into his holster. He then put a finger to his helmet earpiece. "Benchmark White Six, Benchmark White Two-Two, all clear, over."

"Solid copy, Two-Two. Advancing, out."

Frost turned to see him prodding another body with the long barrel of his sniper rifle. When it didn't respond, he kicked it very hard. Again, it did not stir. Turning to Frost, he shrugged and pulled his balaclava back up. Frost did the same. All one could smell besides the powder was singed flesh and spilled guts.

"Funny, these one's don't smell as bad," Steele remarked. "These blokes must be suicidal; who engages an entire Marine battalion with fifty-odd guys?"

"The kind who think they're hot shit," Frost answered, "the kind who think they're bad enough and hard enough to go toe-to-toe with us. The kind who think they're tough enough to pull shit like that down there and get away with it. You're right, they don't smell bad."

"The corpse of an enemy always smells sweet, said Titus," Colonel Hayes remarked as he came up with the rest of the battalion.

Marines began filling out among the trees. Bodies were checked. Hayes assembled officers and NCO's. Frost followed Teo over, keeping a few paces behind. "Army sent some of their boys up after us, they'll take care of the cleanup."

"What about all those casualties, sir?" Teo asked.

"MED CORPS will take care of them." He then pulled out a tactical data pad and opened up the map. "Here's the AO. ONI S-One reports indicate that the rebels have fortified this mountain stronghold with additional tunnels and bunkers laced in with the original titanium mines. Main rebel base of operations is in the open pit at the summit. Beyond this mountain are the Insurrectionist communities throughout the woods and plains. If we want to break the rebel presence on Skopje, we have to disperse those communities. And if we want to do that, we need to take this mountain."

Adjusting the chin strap of his helmet, Hayes shook his head. "This ain't a sweep and clear op anymore. It's S and D, boys. 88th is going to link up with us and we're gonna push up the mountain face here. 86th and 87th are going on the left flank, 90th and 91st, on the right, to encircle the mountain."

He sighed. "This is gonna be mountain and tunnel warfare; we'll have air and arty but no ass on this until the 92nd secures the one road going up. They're gonna have one hell of a time escorting our armor up there so we'll have to fight hard to take the heat of them. We have to make it to phase line yellow by nightfall. Army elements will rendezvous up with us then."

Frost peeled away, returning to the rest of the squad. All of the Marines forming the perimeter were spread out along the edge of the blasted area. Cloaked in the smoke and falling snowflakes, their silhouettes reminded him of statues. Troopers who were nearby bunched together, rifling through the pockets and pouches of the dead Insurrectionists. Some used their knives to cut off the homemade insignias on their collars for souvenirs. A few collected watches that were made of silver or gold, but most were digital. Others pocketed credit chits or credit paperbacks, earrings, studs, necklace chains, wedding bands, and other rings. Some of the men were having difficulty tugging the rings off, as the fingers were broken or stiff. So those Marines took out their KA-BAR knives and began cutting off the fingers. Once the digit was removed, prying off the ring became much easier.

Marines talked in hushed tones. Some laughed. A few swapped their treasure. All were crouched and hunched over, knives or collectibles in their hands. One of the Marines upended his helmet; several placed their newfound valuables inside. Pawing through it, they debated what to keep and how much it was all worth.

All Frost did was watch. He did not have any interest in looting.

Major Royce started coming through the crowds of Marines. He was not tall nor small, was not muscular but was by no means frail. Instead of wearing a helmet, he wore a headset over his black hair. He kept his lower face covered with a steel mask and wore a pair of tinted goggles.

"Strip the bodies," he ordered. "Armor, boots, clothes, anything. Make a pile of them, here."

He pointed to a patch of bare ground.

"Aye, aye!" Marines chimed. They unlaced boots, took off jackets, and removed the body armor. One by one, Marines brought the gear over to the bare patch and dumped it. Within minutes it grew very large. At some point, an engineer arrived with a jerry can filled with fuel. He emptied it on the still rising pile. When he finished, Royce struck a match on his breastplate and flicked onto the pile. It took and flames engulfed the pile. The smell was acrid; burning leather and rubber, clothes of various fabrics, and charred metalloids all stunk. Black smoke rose and roiled among the falling snow. Frost watched the flames for a while and began walking away to rejoin his squad. Everywhere, there were naked, bloodied bodies.

"Hey, there's one still alive!" a Marine shouted.

Frost immediately turned. Two Marines were dragging an Insurrectionist out from a great pile of leafy branches fallen timbers. As soon as he was in the open, they threw him against the trunk of a tree and began kicking him.

"Saw what you did to the Army on that hill," one of the Marines snarled as he punched the prisoner across the face, "saw what you did, son of a bitch!"

"Where'd ya get that Army helmet, huh!? Where, fucker!?"

More Marines began joining in and started beating on him. Punching, kicking, bashing him with their helmets or rifle butts. They cussed at him, screamed at him.

Frost didn't know just how quickly he joined them. One moment he was watching, the next he was shoulder to shoulder with a dozen men all pushing and shoving to get their hits in. Shouldering his rifle, he hit him in the belly, in the chest, kicked him in the knee, and stamped on his groin. In the bustle, he caught a glimpse of the rebel's face. Like many of his comrades, he was barely out of his teens. He was pimple-faced, skinny, with wide eyes and small chapped lips.

He hated this Innie, hated him more than anything.

"Let's shoot this son of a bitch!" someone shouted.

But Frost drew his KA-BAR knife and held it high in the air. Everyone saw and backed off. Without waiting another moment, Frost descended on the Insurrectionist. He grabbed him by the shoulder and jammed the knife into his gut. The rebel's eyes squeezed shut for a moment then they opened and bulged. His mouth opened but he made no noise.

For a moment, he let the knife stay embedded in the bowels. Then, he withdrew it and struck him in the belly again. This time, the rebel made a near-silent gasp and his whole body shook. Once again, he took the blade out and drove it back in. The rebel screamed, shrill and loud. Blood was running out from the wounds and Frost's gloved hand was stained red. When he took the knife out again, he stood over him. He held the knife point right above his eye, put his hand on the pommel, drove it deep to the hilt, and then twisted it.

When he pulled it out, some of the eye clung to the serrated edge. Casually, he wiped it off on his sleeve and brushed the rest away. Breathing heavily, he turned around and faced the other Marines.

"Hoo-ah," one said, pounding his fist against Frost's shoulder.

"Dirty little Innie," said another, walking away.

"Should have let him bleed to death," a third muttered.

"Semper-Fi," a fourth Marine said, tapping Frost on the top of his helmet.

"Hold fast, Marines."

Colonel Hayes approached. Frost and the others stopped. The tall, strong officer gazed at the fresh corpse. Then he turned to the men. "Cut his other eye out then tie him to a tree. The Innies and us will be going up and down this mountain, and I want them to know we're not taking any prisoners."

Everyone was gathering around him at that point. Hayes turned around looking at everyone. "We are not taking any prisoners. Shoot anything that moves. A company on the left, B company in the center, C company on the right, weapons and engineers bringing up the rear. Let's move it out, boys!"

Somebody handed Frost some rope. While two men picked the body up and pressed it against the tree, he wrapped the arms and torso to the trunk. When it was tight enough that the body did not fall, Frost removed the other eye. Meanwhile, one of the Marines took the scabbard from the dead rebel's belt. Another Marine took out a scrap of paper and a small pencil, then jotted something down on it. After he finished, he opened the shirt of Innie and pressed the note against his paling skin. The Marine with the knife slid it into the flesh, piercing the note as well.

Snickering, they walked ahead to join the others. Frost stepped closer. In jagged handwriting, the note read: JACK THE RIPPER DID THIS. JACK THE RIPPER IS COMING.

Frost sat on the edge of the cot in the white-padded cell. It was tucked into the corner opposite from the door beside the long horizontal window. On the wall across from the cot was the toilet, mirror, and sink.

For several days, Frost was staring at the toilet, sink, and mirror. If he had to look at his camouflage-smeared face any longer, he thought would truly go mad. Laying on the bed and rolling over would just put him face-to-face with the white padding. It was preferable but not by much; he did not like tight spaces.

So he decided to get up and walk to the center of the room, just to have his back to the drab normalities of the cell.

Everything was muted. He could not hear anything, could not see through the window, and there was no scent but that of his dirty fatigues and body odor. Judging from the fact he was only given two meals a day and no chance to shower, General Amsterdam was thoroughly pissed off. He remembered how hard she fought against the Covenant and being in her sights was more than uncomfortable.

Frost paced a little bit. His hands were fidgeting; he simply couldn't stop moving his fingers. Eventually he had to shove his hands in his pockets, but even then his fingers curled and twisted over one another. It was as if he possessed no control over them.

He thought about those Skopje days. In that horror, bloodshed, chaos, that sheer calamity, there was some strange, otherworldly order. Everything was just so simple. Find the enemy, kill the enemy. Each day on that mountainside there was contact. Sometimes it was an ambush or a brief firefight. Other times it was a slog that last for several days, seeing Marines and Insurrectionists dispersed among one another like cops and robbers. It was not a war of the 26th Century, but combat of so many centuries before come again. Savage and intimate, it was exhilarating and simple. When he killed someone, everything just fell into place. There was a cause justifying all of his brutal acts.

"Was there?"

Frost turned around. Leaning against the far wall was his sister Sadie. She was dressed in her favorite black hoodie and a pair of jeans. Her brown hair was pulled back into a small ponytail. Her blue eyes twinkled yet her expression was nearly blank.

"Is this a dream?" Frost asked.

"You tell me." Sadie walked away from the wall and stopped in front of him. She looked up at his gray eyes. "You were a bit shorter last time I saw you and you were far less ugly. How'd you get that scar?"

"Shrapnel from a Brute grenade launcher," Frost said. "You can't be here."

He reached out and touched her shoulder. Sadie shoved his wrist away.

"You said you'd be back."

"I reenlisted."

"You lied."

"I didn't know I was going to stay in the Corps back then."

"Then, you can't keep your word." Sadie walked past him and up to the window. She kept her hands in her hoodie pockets and her back turned to him. Frost looked away from her.

"They took away my belt and boot laces. They even took my watch. They think I'm crazy."

"I always thought you were. No sane person enlists."

"It was either that or our family got slammed with tax penalties and limited government assistance. I enlisted in the program so we didn't end up in poverty. And keep in mind because I'm serving, everybody's exempt from the draft, even Owen. You should be thanking me from keeping you away from the shit I've seen."

Sadie turned around, made an innocent expression, and got on her knees.

"Oh, little boy Jack, our savior, our protector, thank you one thousand times over!" Sadie mocked. She got back up and made a dismissive sound. "You know why you went, don't lie. You were a lost little kid who needed to get away and find himself. Pathetic."

"At least I'm something out here," Frost pointed to the rank insignia on his right shoulder. "See that? That's three up and two down; gunnery sergeant. I'm Gunnery Sergeant Frost, UNSC Marine, here. What about you? 'Failed art bar,' ring any bells?"

Sadie sneered and turned back around. For a long while she stared out the window. She didn't move at all. It did not even seem like she was breathing. Stock still, she seemed like a stone statue, like sentries on the perimeter he saw so long ago.

Finally, she turned around. With slow deliberation, she stepped towards him until she was right before him. Her eyes were icy.

"At least I haven't killed anyone."

Frost tried to speak, but his voice faltered. His mouth hung open slightly, just enough to expose his missing tooth. Sadie shook her head. "I knew you were a little different. You needed to see things, do things a little differently than everybody else. But with us, you always smiled, you loved to laugh, you had fun. When you started to grow up, I was afraid you would change and that little brother of mine would go away too." Sadie looked down and shook her head. "You left, and came back. Sixteen year old Marine ready to go. You didn't laugh, you didn't have fun in those final days. You just wanted to go. You said you'd come back and you didn't, this time."

"That's not true," Frost said, raising his arms, "I love you. I love my family."

"But you left," Sadie said, pushing his hand aways again. "And look at what you've done."

Silence fell between the two. Frost looked at her for a few moments. Then the white walls gave way and he found himself on the mountainside. Around him were so many Innie corpses. Instead of being torn by shrapnel, they were beaten, shot, bayoneted, and scalped. All were stripped of their clothes and were tied or hanged from trees. Eyes were gouged, tongues cut out, and bellies were open. Some of the bodies had their intestines stuffed in their mouths. Near one tree there was a long trench which prisoners had dug. They were all lying in it, face-down, with blood spilling from their heads.

Then he was at the snowy summit overlooking the deep pit mine. Below were all the defenses and buildings housing the hidden enemy.

Standing at the very edge, he looked down to see pebbles falling below. When he took a step back, he looked along the edge. On the opposite side, he saw Marines and Insurrectionist prisoners. The latter had their hands tied behind their backs. They were lined along the edge. One of the Marines went down the line and pushed them over with the butt of his assault rifle. Each fell screaming downwards, hitting their heads on the cliff wall, or on the rocks below. Some fell on shed rooftops. Each strike sounded like a pumpkin being smashed open on the ground.

Then he was standing over a young rebel, some kid who should have been in college. In his hand was his KA-BAR knife, poised to fall on the Innie. But the young man sitting on the ground was looking at him, eyes wide with fright, hands pressed together as if he were begging.

Frost blinked, and found himself back in the white room with Sadie. He turned away from her. Sadie made an unimpressed sound. "You can't face me, because you can't face yourself. When you stop, it all catches up to you, doesn't it?"

"I used to think we were right. I mean, they committed an atrocity and we had to pay it back. It made sense. It makes sense, doesn't it?" But he didn't wait for to answer, as he shook his head and pressed his hands to his temples. "No, no...just because you have a reason to kill-"

"Doesn't mean you should," Sadie finished. "You said it yourself." She walked around and faced him. "There's no defending what those people on Skopje did. And there's no defending your actions either."

"I used to think I could defend what I did. What we all did. A while back, I told Waters that it was justifiable, that wrongs need to be righted. Killing is necessary. Kill the right people, that means killing is right. Not just right, righteous. It means you're righteous."

"Perhaps it is," Sadie offered, "people who commit crimes need to be brought to justice. Sometimes, justice means death. But answering a crime with a crime? That's like killing someone to save them, or destroying something to get it back."

Frost ran his hands through his hair then over his face, smearing the facial paint even further. Something burned and bubbled inside him, causing him to turn around.

"I was doing the right thing by killing them. They tortured those soldiers."

"They needed to be punished, there's no disputing that." Sadie cocked her head to the left side. "But torture? Extrajudicial killings? Is that justice? I don't think so."

Frost gritted his teeth.

"War doesn't work like that, Sadie! You can't always be morally superior than the people you're fighting."

"Doing what they do makes you like them."

"I'm a good person."

"Brutalizing and torturing people? Killing them outside of regulations? Shooting them in front of their families? Murdering noncombatants?"

"I had justification!"

"There's a difference between having justification and using an excuse!" Sadie yelled. "You're not good, you're just like them. Only difference is you're a part of the majority; a part of the winning side. Winning doesn't make you right."

"You sometimes have to sacrifice your own morality to do the right thing in war."

"Spare me, you had plenty of choices to be righteous. Instead, you decided to be like them. You used that war crime as an excuse to be a monster because killing people feels good. Killing people makes sense to you. You know where you are in life when you kill. Don't try to deny it, you told Waters the same thing."

Frost felt tears roll down his cheeks. He felt something cold touch his cheek. When he looked up, he saw that it was snowing in the cell. No, he wasn't in the cell, he was outside. Was he? Looking down, he saw his boots on a white floor, but he couldn't tell if was snow either. It felt so cold and he could feel the wind rippling through his brown hair. When he turned around, he saw the hilltop and the forested mountainside towering over him. But when he looked forward, he saw Sadie, the cell, and the long window.

Sadie reached up and traced the scar across his face with her finger. She seemed very sad then. "You've been away from the war for too long. You need to get back to it or you'll lose your mind, won't you? Sit still for too long and you have to face yourself, and realize just how gone you are."

"I..." Frost started weakly, but his voice failed him again. The snow began to fall harder. Sadie stepped back from him.

"You have guilt. You have regrets. You have blood on your hands."

Frost raised his hands and his eyes widened when he saw them. Blood was pooling in his palms. It leaked through his fingers and over the sides, falling and staining the snow beneath him. Terrified, he stared at the blood that came without relent. Snowflakes fell and sizzled away in the warm red falls. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

When he looked back up, Sadie was gone. When he looked back down, the blood disappeared. He was in his chell, standing right in the center. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the cot, the sink, the wall mirror, and the toilet. In front of him was the window and the locked door.

Slowly, he walked over the cot and sat on it. He then keeled forward and slapped himself with both hands on the sides of his head. After stopping, he just clutched his hair and sat there.

Chapter Word Count: 6217

Author's Note

Firstly, cover art is graciously provided by DA artist, and close friend of mine, Fail4Fun. Returning readers, you may have seen this image already. But, if you haven't, and you'd like to see it and other I'm Alone art pieces Fail4Fun's done, search for her on DeviantArt and peruse the 'All' section of her gallery.

Secondly, some shameless self-advertising. I'm currently working on a Warhammer: 40,000 story on this site that currently has seven chapters. It will eventually appear on DeviantArt with illustrations graciously provided by, you guessed it: Fail4Fun! Besides that, if you'd like to see some of my original work, you can find me on DeviantArt as 'RadiationSoap.' I have thirty historical-fiction short stories/series part of a 'Weekly Western Collection' there, as well as numerous poems, historical-fiction, and even a few off/on multi-chapter historical fiction stories too. Check'em out, I'll really appreciate that. I also have a forum on this site, called 'Vox-Taps,' and there's a link to it on my profile. I've been a little inactive, but if you'd like to explore some topics related to my story and get some info, head on over. Feel free to post a comment in any discussion threads, I'll get back to you and you're more likely to get a response there than by PM.

Thirdly, here's the scoop on I'm Alone: Exalt. I wanted to start with two chapters, and I'm sure you're wondering what the update frequency will be like. My current goal is to write one chapter per week, at least. I have three other projects going on currently so I'm trying to allot a proper amount of time. Chapters will be, at a minimum, 6,000 words. If you want more information on them, you can find a specific thread on the forum related to this story.

Lastly, I'm going to avoid long author's notes like these in the future to avoid word count padding. Comment responses will be answered here directly, but for the full response, you'll have to check the forum. There will be a new thread there next week.

To returning readers, thank you very much for your patience and I look forward to speaking with you again! To new readers, be sure to read the first story in this series, I'm Alone, so you get the full picture, and I hope you enjoy it!

Comment Responses

TheShadeOps: You bet we're back! Good to be back! Good to see you, my man!