Chapter 9: Truth

There was a saying among Navy medical professionals that they were always on call. It was true. At any time, nurses, orderlies, physicians, and surgeons could be ordered off their designated relief times to return to the nearest hospital or medical bay. Shift stability was a figment of the imagination or a sweet dream idealized by doctors who were on their feet for thirty six hours. Front line sectors flooded with casualties were the worst. Pelicans ascended to the ships waiting in orbit packed with casualties. Sometimes, medical bays become so overcrowded makeshift triage and treatment centers were established right in the hangar. Many experienced officers did so as a precaution anyways.

Even in quiet sectors, there was no shortage of wounded. Traffic collisions, misfires on the firing range, aircraft crashes, malfunctioning automated machinery, and leaking hazardous materials could send hundreds to the planetside hospital in minutes. As sophisticated technology became in the 26th Century, it was still dangerous. Humor error was not eradicated by progress either, nor disease. Un-vaccinated civilians drawn from all over the colonies brought contagious illnesses with them. Combined with the UNSC military's packed living quarters, bases and ports became perfect breeding grounds for a contagion. Dozens could end up at the infirmary requiring treatment and vaccination drives were common. At any moment, pagers were buzzed and data pads pinged with notifications calling all available medical personnel to the nearest facility.

Although she was the top Navy doctor in the entire sector, effectively acting as her own boss, Jasmine Ebrahimi was not exempt from such services. When her subordinates contacted her and advised her to assist, she answered. Administrative capacities and conferences with other fleet officers came second to treating the wound. Lifesaving was and would always be her first responsibility.

As the rainy day passed into afternoon, however, and her data pad was silent. While catastrophes were not common at the Port, and most of the total population was vaccinated according to her records, she was always braced for one. Like an invading Covenant fleet, a calamity possessing potential to incapacitate hundreds was always a common possibility.

But there was nothing. Sitting at the desk in her personal quarters, she waited and waited for something to happen. Going to the window, she looked back out over the base. Activity was still high but every operation was running smoothly.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she clasped her hands together and smiled. Perhaps she was just defaulting to a typical mindset that good acts were followed by bad ones. He was free and cleared of his charge. For days, she was waiting to hear that once again he was killing regardless of orders, rules of engagement, or military law. Legends of his monstrosity were simply just that, legends. Whatever embers of truth lay within were gone with the past. Everyone liked to make him out to be a killer, but he was a Marine. More than that, he was a good man.

Jasmine wanted to see him. But she put herself in his boots; he was just out of a cell for the first time in days. Doubtless, he wanted fresh food and drink, and to check on his squad too. Inside her was that eagerness to be her partner's entire world. It was inside everyone, she imagined. Maturity and respect metered it, even if she wanted to see him so badly. Frost would come see her later, when he was rested and ready.

The door suddenly opened. Jasmine jumped in response. Frost walked in and recoiled when he saw her.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I thought you went back to your office. I wanted to come here and surprise you, whoa!"

Jasmine ran across the room, leaped at him, and coiled her arms around his neck. He caught her and spun her around. They both laughed. When he finally set her down, they kissed. It made Jasmine's heart soar.

"I knew it! You're innocent, I knew you were. What a gigantic waste of time! It's so, so good to see you, Nate."

"You too, Jas," he said, burying his face into her neck. He inhaled then and a chill ran down her spine. Holding back a contented sigh was impossible. "I don't care if it's been a few days. I missed you."

"I missed you, too," she said into his ear. Few days be damned, she thought. It may have sounded childish, but she did not care. He was her sweetheart and he was back where he belonged: with her. "Don't you want to see your friends?"

"They're adults, they can wait for a little while longer. I'm sure Steele and Carris went to see them to break the news."

They parted somewhat, still keeping their arms around each other. Jasmine ran one of her hands up the back of his head, into his hair, and dug her fingers into his thick locks. She then ruffled his hair a little bit. "Look at you! You're filthy! They didn't let you wash?"

"Not. Once."

"I know a few military policemen who are going to have some very uncomfortable physicals next time they step into my office.

"Oh my God, that's terrifying," Frost laughed.

"C'mon, it's time for a wash," jasmine said excitedly, grabbing his hand and leading him to the bathroom.

"You know I'm not five, I can bathe myself," he laughed.

"Where's the fun in that!?" Jasmine giggled.

Squeezing into the bathroom, she helped him undress. For a moment, she regretted her decision as three days worth of musk, body odor, sweat, outdoor scents, and the sterility of prison cells reeked from his skin and clothes. Quickly grabbing a small, open hamper issued by the quartermaster's department, she stuffed his uniform into it and left it outside by the door. Returning to the bathroom, Frost stood in front of the toilet inspecting himself, rubbing his scruffy beard and tugging at long locks of hair. Jasmine went past him, pulled the shower curtain back, and turned the knob. Hot water flowed from the shower-head and steam soon filled the entire bathroom.

As the pleasant sound of falling water drowned out the noise of the outside world, Jasmine shut the door and began to undress. She tossed her uniform to the corner of the bathroom and turned to face him. Frost was already looking at her and blushed. A nervous smile tugged at his lips and he rubbed the back of his head.

She went over to him, hugged him again, and looked up at him while resting her chin on his chest. Both hands went to her waist, heavy and warm. Jasmine stood on his feet and giggled as he walked them over to the shower. It was difficult, awkward, and they both enjoyed it.

Before they got in, Jasmine remembered to fetch the stool she kept in the bathroom. Placing it in the center of the tub, she pointed at it like an owner would to their pet. Rolling his eyes, Frost sat down and let the hot water spill over his body. Dirt washed from his hair and the last few tinges of camouflage paint at the edges of his face trickled down his neck.

For a while, she just watched him; leaning forward, head hung down, arms resting on his knees, just enjoying the hot water. Eventually, he sat back up and sigh long and loud. All his hair came down around his face, obscuring his eyes. With a flick of his thumb, he cleared his vision and smiled at her cheekily. Reaching past him, she took the standard issue shampoo, squeezed some into her palm, then rubbed them together. Once the gel turned to a soapy white foam, she dug both hands into his hair and wildly scrubbed the shampoo in. Frost laughed as she toyed with his hair. She smoothed it, spiked it, tangled it, and eventually dunked his head back under the water. Grit ran with the water and flowed down the drain.

Jasmine took the bar of soap and began running it over his skin. She made sure to cloak her other hand in suds, and began rubbing it over his chest. As she did, she leaned into him, letting the hot water soak her hair and run down her back. Soap suds clung to her neck, chest, and stomach, tickling her skin. At one point, she rested her chin on top of his head as she scrubbed his chest. Eventually, she formed a great cloud of suds on her hands. Taking a clump from it, he ran the soap down his legs and washed his feed.

Frost stood up to rinse. Jasmine stepped back, taking the stool away. So much steam was filling the room, she imagined she would lose sight of him if she was standing a few feet away from him. As he ran his hands along his arms, chest, and legs, the white soap suds washed away. His pale skin seemed to glow in the muted, warm glow of the overhead light.

It was still strange to see him out of his uniform. If Frost was not in his battle dress, he was still in his fatigues. Like all military clothes, they were snug and held the body. Jackets and shirts emphasized muscles and made a man look far larger than he really was. Now, without a single stitch of clothing, he looked far smaller than he usually did. While he was not terribly skin, he was not bulky either. Most of his musculature was well defined, nearly chiseled from a statue. There were many scars on his back and sides; near-misses, grazes, and the general chaos of war, defining his flesh.

How much blood had he spilled in service of his species, Jasmine wondered. How much did one have to bleed until it was enough?

Just before she lost herself in her thoughts, Frost turned around, took her by the wrists, and gently pulled her into him. Hot water poured over them as they kissed again. Pressed into each other, skin to skin, arms around one another, Jasmine felt so warm. She felt safe, and above all else, happy. Each time she found herself in his arms, there was a great wave of joy that swept over her. All her life, she thought it would simply never happen. Love was not for her. There would be no one to share in those tender emotions people so rarely spoke about. Life would continue without that close confidante, that one individual whose eyes were only for her, who knew her more intimately than anyone else in the entire galaxy. Throughout her life, she desired it, but believed it would not happen. Such persons existed in delightful fairy tales and corny romantic films. But he was real.

They turned the water off and stepped out. Steam still swirled around the room, slowly sucked through the vent in the ceiling. Before they completely dried off, she took the stool out of the tub and set in front of the vanity. Frost did not need to be told to sit down. Using her hand to wipe the condensation from the mirror, she pulled out a pair of small grooming scissors and a comb. Fixing his hair until it was straight, she turned his head in different directions, observing him in the mirror.

"Hey, just be careful with those things. I don't need to end up in the infirmary with a pair of scissors jabbed in my skull," he joked.

"Have a little faith in me, Nate," Jasmine said in a low, concentrated, but ultimately teasing tone, "I am a doctor, after all."

"I know, that's what I'm scared of!"

"I've never lost a patient, and you won't be the first," Jasmine assured him comically.

Snip. Snip. Snip. Quickly, but carefully, she began cutting his hair. It was not so much as a total haircut. Rather, it was just a trim to avoid breaching grooming standards. Although most senior officers entirely disregarded the grooming standards defined in the UNSC military handbook, some personnel took it more seriously than others. For Jasmine, it was just a meter to go by to achieve an even length. Regulations did not even enter her mind as the scissors went along his thick shock of hair and light brown strands dusted the towel around his shoulders.

After she finished, she combed his hair until it was swept back in its normal fashion. Using a smaller towel, she wiped the little hairs clinging to his forehead and face. Carefully, she unraveled the hair-covered towel from his shoulders and managed to toss it on the hamper with his dirty fatigues.

She went around in front of him to put the scissors away. A little squeak passed her lips when she felt his hands on her waist. They guided her back to the stool and sat her down. Watching him in the mirror, she saw him take her hairbrush from her personal grooming kit. Kneeling behind her, he took one of her thick, black locks into his hand and brought the brush slowly through it several times.

"Did your sisters ever make you brush your hair?" Jasmine asked, sitting with her legs crossed and hands folded in her lap.

"Only Sadie. When we were younger, she had really, really long hair. It went down farther than yours, past her waist. It used to get her in trouble; some of her school teachers thought our parents were providing basic care for her. A social worker got sent around to find two parents and five healthy, well-fed, good-looking kids. One of them just had especially long hair. Oh, my parents were so mad at the school. Sadie wore her hair like that for a little while longer. Last time I saw her, she wore it far shorter."

There was a hint of sadness in his voice at the end. She tried to catch a glimmer of it in his misty gray eyes, but was unable to. So she just reached up, caught his cheek, and turned to face him. Rubbing her thumb through his electric brown stubble, she pulled him down and kissed him again. He smiled at her as her thumb settled on the corner of his lips. His cheeks were pink.

Without another word, he continued brush her hair until it was smoother than it ever was. When he finished, he set it on the vanity and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head and buried his nose in her hair. Jasmine reached up and caressed his cheek.

"All done?"

"All done."

"Do you want to go see your squad?"

"No."

Frost took her hands and stood her up. She turned around and draped her arms around his neck again. In turn, he picked her up and carried her over to her bed by the widow. Jasmine could feel her heart rate increase and her cheeks heat up.

He laid her down on the bed, keeping one hand on her cheek and running the other down her side and leg.

"Are you sure?" Jasmine asked, her breath heavy.

"Yes."

He leaned down and kissed her again, slow and deep. Jasmine ran one hand up his arm and dug her fingers into his hair. Slowly, he crawled down, planting kisses on her breasts and stomach. When he spread her legs, Jasmine gasped.

"Move, move, move, move, move! Move in. Carris, keep tracking them."

Frost stepped into the light, keeping his assault rifle trained on the nearest smuggler. In his peripheral vision, he saw Steele thrust forward with his DMR.

"You, you lot right here, get over there! Move, move! Slowly, slowly!" he ordered, keeping his weapon aimed at them with his trigger hand and motioning to the designated spot in the light with his other hand.

Frightened, frantic, and uncoordinated, the smugglers in their dark clothes began forming a line. They kept their hands in the air as they tripped and stumbled around each other.

The smugglers were moving too slowly. Frost began to worry they were stalling as they prepared to make a move. Seeing Steele look at him, Frost used the flat of his hand to signal 'move in.' Steele nodded and they closed in on the smugglers. Keeping their rifles in their trigger hands, they pushed and shoved with their free hand. At some point, just to maintain control over the detainees, they pointed their weapons at them directly or prodded them with the barrels. Catching Captain Waters crouching by the blown out tire of the buggy, he felt assured they had growing control over the situation.

Once they were lined up, Steele began going up and down the line, shoving his DMR in their faces. "Put your hands behind your head! Behind your head! Slowly! Don't look at my fucking face, put your hands behind your head!"

"Search them, search them!" Vivian commanded from behind. "Search each one then put them on their knees, hands behind their heads."

"On it!"

As Steele began rifling their bodies, Frost looked down at the fresh corpse just beside him. She was not moving and her skin was already pale. All the light from her young, hazel eyes was gone. So much blood leaked from the bullet wound in her forehead that it was black as charcoal. Dark blood continued to seep out in all directions, going down her temples and onto her nose. Some of it was beginning to pool in her eye sockets. Most went back into hair, which was thick and sticky with it. A great deal was beginning to flow onto the uneven, churned ground she was laying on. It came from the gaping exit wound in the back of her skull. He could see bone and flesh, and the singed hair around it. It was like looking at a punctured fruit. A fleshy substance that was gray, blue, and red was leaking from both nostrils. It took Frost a moment to realize these were her brains. On the ground near her head were dozens of tiny bits of skull, flesh, and brains. Snowflakes began settling on her torso and face.

She was so young, so young that it seemed like his heart would break. He did not know her but he did not need to. It was tragic to see her, still in her youth, dead in dirt. Old people were supposed to die, to pass away. That was something all people accepted. Even with colonies burning and millions dying, it was far away, even for Marines like him. So many Marines he fought with were dead and some were not even twenty. But he came to terms with it, knowing death was a capacity that was likely for all in the service. This girl, this unknown, unknowable girl, just got caught up in the wrong gang. Now, she was dead. If she had family, there would be a hole in it. Whatever her future was, whether it was good or bad, bound for riches or poverty, to reside in happiness or depression, and subject to the free will and choice that life gave all humans, was gone.

"Did you check her?" Vivian asked from beside him. Frost only noticed then she was kneeling beside the body. At first, he could not answer. His mouth was so dry that his tongue felt like a rock.

"Not yet," he managed.

"You got them?" she asked, pointing towards the miners.

"Affirmative."

Vivian checked for a pulse. Frost did not know what she was expecting. People could survive head wounds, but not one like that. Her brains were all over the place.

A moment later, the captain was back on her feet. "Dead," she said, her voice thick with nausea.

"Fuck, I knew we'd get caught...I knew it," one of the smugglers said.

"Shut up," another snapped, "don't tell'em anything."

"Fuck you. I don't wanna go to jail."

"Keep quiet and you won't."

"We took this too far, man. This wasn't worth the money."

"Shut up! Nobody squeals!" snarled the one who did the shooting.

"I got a family man, I'm not gonna leave them out there alone!" another pleaded.

"Me too, I'm spilling."

A look of rage crossed Steele's face as he finished checking another man.

"Everybody shut the fuck up!" he shouted, patting another one down. "Shut up, keep your hands behind your head. Don't look at our fucking faces, keep those fucking eyeballs on the ground."

He continued going down the line. When he finished with the last one, he shoved him to the ground and joined Frost and Vivian in front of the prisoners.

"Keep your eyes on them," Captain Waters ordered. "Frost. Call it in."

But Frost wasn't listening. His gaze fell to the dead girl beside him. More snow was accumulating on her body. When he blinked, he was not sure if he was in the yard of the mine or on a hillside on Skopje. Even the body looked different; at one moment, she was the dead smuggler, and in the next instant, she was wearing the tattered battle dress uniform of an Army trooper.

He gripped his assault rifle tighter. "Frost." Snapping back to attention, he looked at her. Vivian gave him an imploring look. "Call it in."

"Copy. Raider Red Six, this is Raider Red Seven here. We've entered the complex and captured fourteen foot mobiles. How copy, over?"

"Raider Red Seven, your orders were to hold position. Why did you proceed into the complex? Over."

Frost looked up and glared at Steele. The sniper shrugged a little.

"We were forced to react, over," he said reluctantly.

"You better have a good explanation ready for General Amsterdam," De Vos warned him over the comms, "Raider Red Seven, out."

"We need more light, we don't want any friendly-fire incidents when the QRF arrives," Steele suggested. He pointed at the big burly fellow who fired his pistol. "Where's the power source for the lights?"

"I'm not fucking telling you shit, pig!" the smuggler retorted. Without any hesitation, Steele stormed over to the man and struck him in the face with the butt of his DMR.

"Do not bash those fucking prisoners!" Vivian ordered. "You're way out of line, sergeant!"

One of the nearby captives, no doubt in fear from being hit himself, raised his head.

"There's a master control panel in the foreman's office, second floor," he whimpered. Looking in the direction he indicated, Frost saw the high office beyond the prefabricated structures that were erected all over the mining complex."

Vivian turned around and looked at Frost. At that moment, she seemed to be a true infantryman, holding her rifle ready, her battle dress uniform in good order, helmet snug on her head, and face painted in camouflage.

"I've got it," she said resolutely.

"Be careful," Frost warned, "there might be a joker around here we haven't spotted. Carris, keep an eye out."

"Copy that," she said coldly over the comms.

Vivian trotted off and disappeared in the darkness. Frost kept his rifle trained on the line of kneeling detainees. Even though the weapon stayed in place, his gaze did not. He could smell the inside of her head, a disgusting aroma of musky innards and the coppery taste of blood. Her head, parts of her actual head, were in the snow covered soil. Her skin was so pale that it was turning blue. Every single feature of her face was frozen in fear.

Nobody should die in fear, Frost thought to himself.

"I did that bitch a favor."

Frost looked up. The burly man who pulled the trigger was looking at him. From the flat expression on his face, he could see he felt no remorse.

"I'm at the foreman's office. Going in now," Vivian said over the SQUADCOM.

"Copy," Steele said. He turned and looked at Frost. "Don't listen to this fucking shit heel."

"I'm telling you, it was mercy. Seeing this guy right here?" the big man said, motioning to the other mean looking fellow to his left. "We knew she was going to double-cross us. We were going to lose a whole bunch of money that could get us out of this shithole. He was so mad, he was planning to take her and fuck her until she couldn't walk anymore."

The overhead industrial lighting rigs flashed on. A few seconds passed. Frost's legs carried him forward.

"Nate, what're you doing?" Steele asked, stepping towards him. Frost shouldered him out of the way, aimed his rifle, and pulled the trigger. A bullet smashed into the man's forehead, blowing out the back of his skull. He immediately fell forward.

All of the detainees looked at the body in shock. Gritting his teeth as his eyebrows and cheeks twitched, Frost aimed at the group to the right of the body. He squeezed the trigger and cut them all down. The remaining detainees all stood up and tried to run. Turning and firing from the hip, he killed them all too.

As the smoke from his barrel disappeared into the wind, he lowered it. A single breath escaped his lips.

Steele looked at the bodies. "Fuck man, we gotta make this look real."

He knelt down, grabbing one of the sidearms and planted it near the body. He did the same with another, and began doing the same with a third.

"Hey! Hey!" Vivian came marching out of the darkness. "What happened!? What the fuck happened!?" She went right up to Frost and ripped the rifle out of his hands. It was as if all strength left his body. He simply did not have the will to resist. Vivian deftly ejected the magazine from the rifle before she tossed it on the ground. She shoved him very hard in the chest. "Did you kill those prisoners!? Why? Why? Why'd you do it!? And what are you doing? Are you planting that weapon? Are you planting that goddamn weapon?"

Steele dropped the pistol and stood up angrily.

"Guess you haven't changed, huh captain?" These fucking guys went for their pistols! They tried to jump us! They almost had me but Frost took care of them."

"Bullshit," Vivian spat.

"Oh, bullshit?" Steele sneered.

"Bullshit! You're covering for him!"

"Why the fuck would I lie about this?" Steele asked, exasperated. "There were only two of us, they tried to kill us, and we defended ourselves! What more do you want?"

"I don't believe a goddamn word!"

"I'm telling you," Steele insisted, "they tried to rush us. We reacted! Frost, fucking tell her man!"

Vivian looked at him. Frost looked at her for a moment before looking back at the bodies. His heart began to race, his mind swirled in fractured memories. He suddenly realized he didn't know where he was or who he was talking to. His fingers twitched and flexed, he began to sweat, and he felt utterly terrified. What had he done? Everything just went black.

"We reacted," he finally said. "Those fools tried to rush us and we had to shoot them. Poor fools..."

"See? We don't hose prisoners," Steele stated triumphantly.

"You're lying. You're both lying."

###

The words echoed in Frost's ears as he stared at the white ceiling above Jasmine's bed. She was laying beside him with her head and hand on his chest. Her black hair was blanketing the arm he curled around. Jasmine was breathing steadily and quietly, and it washed over his skin. There was a small smile on her face.

But Frost did not see it. He could not bear to look at her. All he could see was the body of that girl, with her brains coming out her nose and missing the back of her head. With her were so many other broken bodies.

Slowly, his other hand rose up and grabbed a clutch of his light brown hair. Inhaling shakily as tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes, he shook his head slightly. There was a terrible burning behind his forehead.

Steele hurried down the hall of the barracks. He came to the communal room for their floor and walked in. The entire squad was there.

"Where's Carris?" he asked, slightly out of breath. Everyone let out a cheer and rushed towards him. They hugged him, slapped him on the back, bumped their fists against his arms, and shook his head. Each one of his squad mates were laughing, greeting, and congratulating him so loudly he could not make himself heard.

It was only after several minutes of minor pushing and cursing at them to give him so room. Even then, they were still badgering him with questions regarding the mission, his interment in the Army stockade, and the trial which exonerated them. Getting quite flustered, Steele stepped back into the hall slightly and raised both hands to finally quell them.

Realizing he would get no answers, he explained in full. By the end, they were still carrying on.

"Demoted!? That's some rough shit!"

"You sure that Admiral wasn't some kinda ONI spook?"

"Fuck that guy!"

"It's really good to see you, mate."

"Where in the world is Frost, I want to see him too."

"Can you all please just shut the fuck up, please!?" Steele shouted. Finally, silence fell over the elated looking squad. "Can somebody tell me where Carris is? I need to talk to her. Has she been by?"

"She ain't been around here."

"Fuck," Steele breathed and began going down the hall.

"Hey, where are you going!?"

"You just got back!"

"Come on, mate!"

"Fuck off!" Steele spat over his shoulder.

He stormed down the stairs all the way to the ground level of the barracks. Bursting through the doors, he observed the vehicle and foot traffic in the rain. A cold wind passed through the base, ruffling his dirty fatigues. Soon, his blonde mop of hair became matted on his head. Looking at every passerby or group of soldiers, he looked for her. Everywhere, among everyone, he looked for the head of black hair and pale, doll-like skin.

Steele wiped the rain from his eyes. "Fuck me, how do I lose a seven foot tall broad...? It's not like she's hard to fucking spot!" he exclaimed out loud. "Half the time she's right under my boot!"

That's when he heard a sound he was well-accustomed too. Pop, pop, pop. It was a pistol report, a tell-tale sound of the M6C Magnum sidearm.

Steele took off in the direction of the firing range. Several times, he cut across traffic, forcing a Warthog to come screeching to a halt. The driver honked the horn angrily and shouted a string of obscenities his way. Steele paid him no mind as he hurried along. At one point, a Scorpion drew in front of him. Nimbly, he leaped onto the jump see on one of the massive tread covers, jogged over the main body, and jumped from the other side.

When he came to the entrance of the firing range, a wide open area with a line of sandbags in front of the sandy area containing targets, he found it entirely empty. Only a checkpoint guard at the entrance stood in his sentry post, gazing at the terminal and occasionally looking up through the window. Standing alone along the sandbags was Carris.

She was holding in a perfect firing position, holding the pistol in both hands and keeping her feet planted firmly on the ground. She was wearing her fatigue trousers but not the blouse, opting instead for a solid green t-shirt. Like his own hair, her's was soaked and fell in rings around her head. Sliding another magazine into the firearm, he fired at another target. In a matter of seconds, all twelve rounds struck the paper target, depicting an angry Elite, center mass.

Taking a breath, Steele walked over to her. "Carris," he greeted as he approached, "I've been looking for you. What's going on?"

At that moment, the gentle rainfall seemed to intensify. Carris ejected the empty magazine, flicked the safety off, and lowered the weapon. Her eyes gazed down range.

"I need to catch up on my marksmanship," she said flatly.

"Only been a couple of days, love."

"Too long."

Steele swallowed a little. For the first time since they met, he could not read her entirely. Anger was all he could discern from her tight facial expression.

"How did you know what I came up with? The comms were closed. You couldn't possibly hear from that range."

Carris looked at him, maintaining her expression.

"My binoculars," she said after a moment's hesitation. "They're equipped with a sound direction feature. Up to a certain distance, it can pick up any sound. It's an expensive piece of gear from the NAVSPECWAR arsenal, and I made sure it wasn't on me when I was disarmed. Nobody, not even you, knew I brought it with me."

"What made you bring it this time?"

"I've brought it with me on every op for many years," Carris answered. "I'll have to get another one."

Steele nodded slowly, then shock clouded his expression.

"So, you knew. You lied for us." He smiled. "You're a real lifesaver, Carris. If it wasn't for you, Frost would probably be on his way to Reach."

He stepped towards her and went to pat her on the shoulder. Instead, she smacked it away very hard. Steele winced and clutched his hand. "Fucking hell, Carris. What was that for?"

"I didn't do it for him. I did it for you. I lied for you." She shook her head. "I lied so you didn't go to prison with him. Because I wanted you to stay with us. With me. It was selfish, and it was wrong."

"Carris-"

"I didn't care about all the stories everyone told about Frost. I even accepted his and the Captain's history, because I believed the two could resolve it. Instead, I watched him shoot fourteen unarmed prisoners. Guilty or not, smugglers or not, it was against the law. It was wrong and there's no way you can justify it to me or to anyone else."

"Carris, wait-"

"You don't know the full extent of how I became a soldier. To anyone else, you'd probably think it immoral. Maybe it is, objectively. But I was not trained to be a machine. I was trained to be a soldier. And the creed of the UNSC was instilled in me. It might mean nothing to you, but it does to me." She tapped her heart. "My entire career, I have strived to maintain the tenets and obey the law. And this morning, I finally broke them for my own selfish desires. I'm ashamed of myself."

Steele reached forward, trying to take her hand. She slapped it away. He came closer, trying to close the distance. But Carris shoved him so hard he fell down. When he sat up, she was towering over him. He looked up at her, wide-eyed. "I've protected a murderer. My squad leader is a murderer. Now, I have to take orders from a murderer, because he's your friend. Where he goes, you go. Where you go, so do I."

She wiped her eyes. If there were tears, he could not make them out in the rainwater coursing down her cheeks.

"It's not what you think. He's not like that. Nate is...he's just troubled sometimes, alright? It won't ever happen again."

"Forgive me if I don't feel reassured," Carris said in an unimpressed, nearly sarcastic tone. "But there's one thing they shouldn't have done, and that's take your stripes away. You should be in charge of the squad, not him. We can't trust a man like that. He's unstable. Unbalanced." She then shook her head and made a sort of chuckle. "Are you much better? A chain smoking, empty uniform, who would rather cover up his friend's crimes than do the right thing? Is that who we want in charge?"

Carris bent over, grabbed him by the collar of his fatigue jacket, and placed him back on his feet. But she roughly let go.

"Carris, can't we just talk about it?"

"No. Not yet, at least." She slid the M6C into her holster and turned around, heading for the armory.

"Wait, love!"

"Leave me alone," she said over her shoulder. Then she stopped and looked at him, "and don't call me that, anymore."

Word Count: 6,078

Author's Note: I'm Alone: Exalt has just broken a 1,000 views and that's very reassuring to me. I remember it took far longer for the original I'm Alone to achieve that number, so I just want to thank the returning readers who have waited patiently for the sequel and these weekly updates, who also read through the entire first story. A hearty thank you as well to new readers who have taken the time to check this story out and have gone back to read the first one. Really, I appreciate you all.

Comment Responses:

TheCarlosInferno: Looks like things have taken a turn, haven't they? Save for Nate and Jas's quiet, tender moment, but even that is a mask for loneliness and trauma. War is on the horizon, but who is to say our characters are prepared for it.

TheShadeOps: For a separate, potential project, I've been taking time to carefully research modern special operations forces in the United States and the Western world. Although the focus has mainly revolved around the 75th Ranger Regiment, the Regimental Reconnaissance Company, and Army Special Forces, I've taken a lot of time to study joint commands and separate special operations units. MARSOC can now trace its lineage back to the Marine Raiders, so I've been studying their modern iteration and the original conception in preparation for the rationalization of the UNSC version.

MightBeGone: Joking aside, I know the direction of the story and I think I've tweaked it to be engaging and entertaining. Your gut was right, it was far sooner than later. Although, I doubt this was this interaction you were hoping for between Steele and Carris. If you're worried, and without wishing to spoil, I'll say don't worry too much and don't give up hope. And no worries, I do enjoy a thicc review now and again.

Qrs-jg: Glad you like him; that's the desired persona Travers is designed to have. And I don't think you're awful at all. I know the direction of the story but I'll refrain from commenting to avoid spoilers.