Chapter 10: Lie

Frost opened his eyes. Blinking, he looked around. It took him a moment to remember he was in Jasmine's quarters. It must have been the third or fourth time he stirred. Although he was not dogged by any dreams, he just could not stay asleep. Each time he managed to drift into sleep, it was deep, peaceful, bordering on blissful, even. Marines were trained to snatch sleep whenever they could, whether it was a couple of hours during their off-shift on overwatch or twenty minutes during a convoy stop. Most civilians could not imagine functioning on twenty minutes of rest sprinkled through a day fraught with combat, movement, and hard work. But Marines took it all in stride and carried out their duty. Considering there was a roof over his head and he was in an actual bed with a woman beside him, he might as well have been on leave.

His gaze settled on her; she was under the sheet with him and her head was resting on his chest. Her black hair, tinged with a few golden locks, obscured her face. Smiling, he hooked his fingers around some of the wispy hair and brushed it aside. Jasmine's soft, tan skin, smooth lips, and small nose were revealed. For a long time, he stared at her peaceful face and enjoyed the feeling of her breath washing across his chest. Watching her chest slowly rise and fall was very pleasing. A tiny smile tugged at her lips.

Seeing her happy, even as she slept, made Frost just as glad. Leaning over, he planted a tender, soft kiss on her lips. When he withdrew and opened his eyes, he saw her smile widen a little. His dog tags slid down the chain around his neck, jingling and clinking pleasantly. Jasmine's own chain fell sideways down her chest and the two tags rested on his chest. The metal was cool against his skin.

Carefully, he reached over and picked up his watch from the metal nightstand. The small screen showed the temperature and date as well as the time. It was ten degrees celsius, although his thumb covered up the date but he could care less about it. Just as he blinked the last crusts from his eyes, the minute ticked by and the watch read eighteen-hundred hours.

The mess hall was bound to be packed by that hour. Usually, the evening meal times were between seventeen-hundred and twenty-hundred hours, but eighteen hundred was the rush hour for most of the off-duty personnel. As hungry as he was, he decided to wait another hour before going to meet up with the squad.

Although he really wanted to see them, he didn't want to give up this time with Jasmine. As well, going to dinner with the team as well as her seemed like it would be very fun. Everyone would be happy as they dug into their meals. Jolly and full, they would know their first true respite in many months. He wanted to make the most of it; Operation: EXALT was looming on the horizon.

Already, he was dreading the day when he was going to have to assemble the squad for training. While weapon drills occurred nearly every day when they were not working within the company, the entire 89th MEU was going to be training for the assaults they were going to make. That meant long stints out in the hinterland of the Port, practicing war games, performing mock assaults, and completing the necessary training to fulfill their new ranks and promotions.

Times like these were becoming rare in these days of the war. Personnel across all service branches were being promoted up the chain of command even though most did not have the necessary training, time in grade, or education to fulfill the roles of each Military Occupational Speciality. Tracing his recent string of promotions down from gunnery sergeant, staff sergeant, and sergeant, he had barely committed any of his qualification training and reeducation. He knew during this retraining period he would have to complete the required coursework; the UNSC Marine Corps not only prided itself on tradition and military prowess, but their paperwork.

Thinking about it, he was both excited for the challenge but was not looking forward to going into a classroom again. Enlisting in the Marine Corps was his way of escaping that institutional ladder. It seemed like a thousand years ago when he was promoted to corporal and he was contented with that rank. Teo was an excellent squad leader and relished the authority unique to a non-comissioned officer. Back then, it seemed like he or any of their comrades were invincible.

Frost sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He wished he could fall back asleep. What he dreaded most were the times he was awake when everyone else was asleep. Even if one other person was up, he could get out of bed and talk with them, or at the very least, engage with them through work or training. Any kind of human distraction was enough to get him out of his own head. Here, he was a prisoner in his own bed and was helpless against his own, racing, muddled thoughts.

As much as he wanted to stay and go back to sleep, he couldn't bear the thought of laying in bed awake for another hour. Reluctantly, he peeled Jasmine's arm from her chest and tucked it against her breast. Kissing her again and running his hand gently across her slender frame, he sat up. He did his best not to take the blanket off her and managed to creep out without disturbing it much. Once he was out of the bed, he reached over, took the corner, and draped it back across Jasmine's shoulders so she was tucked in up to her chin.

"Where are you going?" she said in a drowsy voice. Frost nearly jumped, as he was turning away.

"I'm going to go for a little walk, catch some air," he said, whispering close to her ear. She smiled as she felt his breath on her. Smirking, he reached over and ran his thumb across her cheek. "Do you want to come with me?"

"Maybe next time, Nate. It's cold outside," she whispered. "Sorry."

"Don't be," he said back, kissing her temple. "Next time. I won't be too long, okay?"

"Put a coat on."

"Don't worry," he chuckled.

Frost kept a spare set of fatigues in Jasmine's room as well as some generally comfortable clothing. He went over to the bureau, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled them out. After he was dressed, he pulled out a UNSCMC zipper hoodie that was light gray and had a small icon of the UNSC logo over the left breast. It was a versatile piece of clothing that could be used as on-base wear or in tactical settings when one did not, or could not, wear the standard battle-dress uniform.

After putting on a pair of fresh socks and his black boots, he went out into the hall. Immediately, he looked left and right. It was unsurprising to find it empty. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of the hoodie, he trundled down the hall towards the nearest exit.

Fluorescent lights were installed every few meters in the ceiling, casting a sharp white glow over the floor. It was like walking in and out of shade with half a dozen paces. The stark lights cast an eerie glow up and down the hall. As for the hall itself, it was devoid of any details or characteristics, save for the locked doors and keypads lining the walls on either side. Empty and stark, save for a pair of vending machines tucked into just outside the common area for Jasmine's floor. Feeling peckish, he decided to see what they had.

What a luxury, Frost thought to himself as he looked up and down the contents. There were a host of brand name candy bars, up to the unhealthiest ones which were plastered on every television advertisement he saw as a kid and down to the most obscure types which got less air time but were just as bad for the teeth. Below the candy bars were bags of flavored chips, featuring the typical, tried and trusted potato chip to some rather spicy cheese types that did not appear appetizing in the slightest. At the very bottom were bags of similar size but containing snacks like wafer biscuits, popcorn balls, and bite-sized cookies. The other vending machine contained various drinks; plain water, flavored water, vitamin water, a multitude of juices, and some weak soft drinks.

Tapping his foot, he gazed at the selections. He looked for the sake of looking, he already knew what he was going to get. Taking out his ID badge, he flashed it across the scanner. A processing symbol appeared, followed by a notification declaring his funds were accepted. Tapping in the number for the bite-sized cookies, he watched as the spring-like arm extended and dropped the first bag. Sliding over to the other vending machine, he flashed his badge again. It was accepted and he selected a bottle of plain water, which was lowered by the mechanical arm it was resting on into a holder. The cap for the bottle-sized holter opened, Frost reached in, and took his drink. Sliding the bag of cookies into one pocket and the water bottle in the other, he looked up and down the hall again. Still, there was no one.

He began walking towards the end again. The walls, floor tiling, and ceiling were the same drab, steele gray color. As Frost continued walking, he felt strangely confined and the end of the hall seemed to grow farther away. By the time he actually reached the end, his pace had quickened.

He made his way down the stairwell; the barracks was nearly ten stories tall. Going around and around the well, he was practically dizzy by the end. It almost made him laugh. Passing the security officer and clerk who manned the front desk, who he politely saluted as he walked by, he went through the automatic door and into the evening air.

The rain finally stopped, but the wet smell hung in the air. To say the scent of fallen rainwater was sweet or bitter was impossible. Rain possessed a unique smell that could not compare to any other, much like snow or the very cold itself.

Filling his lungs with it revitalized him and Frost could not help but smile. The courtyard was alive with activity; supply ships came down from orbit, unloaded, and ascended once more, long, rumbling convoys trickling through the gate, and the steady march of personnel assisting with repairs, supplies, or direction. There was a lot of shouting combined with the forklift horns, signal whistles, grinding treads, growling engines, and crunch of tires on the pavement.

White, green, red, and yellow lights glowed all over the compound and the surrounding buildings. The courtyard glistened with moisture and puddles, reflecting the array of lights. It was as if the darkness of the pavement was made all the more deeper and the entirety of the grounds emitted a singular glowing effect.

It was very crisp outside. Frost could see the hot, white clouds in front of every face as they toiled. Steam rose from the engines of Warthogs. Sparks flashed from the welding tools over in the motor pool. Sentries smoked while they patrolled the grounds; each time they exhaled, the gentle wind caught and rolled the cloud of smoke.

Waiting for a break in the traffic, he darted across the courtyard and began making his way to the training yard. It was one of the few areas in the entire Port military personnel could move about freely without asking for an officer's permission. Going outside the wire always required clearance from a company commander. But in a separate, smaller compound adjacent to the shooting range was a track for PT and for games between the branches. It was shaped like a giant oval and was large enough that three laps around it constituted a mile. In the center quad was a patch of lush, green grass that the troops liked to sit in as they cooled off.

Flashing his badge to the guard at the checkpoint, who waved him through, he walked out onto the track. At each corner there was a large industrial light fixture, the kind one would find at a sports stadium. All were off so the only light came from the lamp posts arrayed around the track. Their warm glow illuminated parts of the wet grass which was glistening.

Frost was about to start walking when he looked over at the bleachers. Sitting on the bottom row was Steele. The sniper was sitting with his shoulders hunched and his head hung low. His thick blonde hair swept back and forth across his forehead with the wind. A characteristic cigarette hung loosely from his lips. Surprisingly, he was still wearing his filthy fatigues from a few days ago.

Frost slowly made his way over to him and smiled. "How's it going, you long range sniper, you."

Steele looked up slowly. His face drooped with fatigue and his eyes were dull and depressive.

"Bruv," he greeted. Frost suddenly grew apprehensive. Clearing his throat, he shrugged a little.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Free country."

"We're not in any country."

"Just sit down."

Frost smirked, feeling a little better. He sat down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the bag of cookies and opened it. An artificial sweet smell rose from within. Even Steele could smell it. Leaning over, he peeked into the bag. "Those smell fake as shit, bruv."

"You want some?"

"Sure, hit me."

Frost chuckled as he poured a few into Steele's open palm. The tiny beige cookies were vanilla flavored; the white frosting in the center was also vanilla. The sniper winked and tossed the bunch of them in his mouth. After he gulped it down, he shook his head and took a puff on his head. "Gross as fuck."

"I'm surprised you can taste anything with that," Frost said, pointing to the cigarette then making a smoking gesture with his index and middle fingers. He popped a few of the cookies into his mouth. "They're not so bad."

Taking the water bottle out, he unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He held it over to Steele who took a modest sip. "Have you eaten anything?" Frost asked him.

"Don't think I can stomach anything."

"Did they treat you alright? They didn't starve you or anything?"

"Roughed me up a couple of times, but I planned for that."

"For the smokes?"

"For the smokes."

Steele grinned proudly as he sucked on the cigarette. "Well worth the lumps."

For a little while, the pair sat together silently. They dipped their hands into the bag and ate a few cookies each. Every so often, they took turns drinking from the bottle of water. Occasionally, Steele handed Frost his cigarette and the squad leader took a puff. Wind whistled through the compound, tousling their hair and flapping their clothes.

"Do you remember how Campo died?" Steele asked. Frost turned to face him quickly, shocked.

"What's got you thinking about that?"

Steele slid behind a broken embankment next to a tree on the mountainside. Raising his sniper rifle and deploying the bipod, he trained the scope upwards. Innies were pouring down the slope towards their permission.

"We need fire support right fucking now!" he yelled. Frost crouched down behind the tree, leaned out, and began peppering the advancing enemies with his MA5B.

"Its too close!" he shouted. He turned. "We need some fucking bodies up here!"

Steele expended all four rounds in the magazine. Each one struck a charging Innie center mass, tearing apart their feeble body armor and blowing open their chests. As they fell, he could see their bloody rib cages and lungs. Other Marines came running up and crouched or went prone in a staggered line, using the tree and embankment as an anchor. Platoon commanders and squad leaders barked orders, established fields of fire, and pointed out targets. RTO's set up their radio sets and began calling for reinforcements. Below, Marines continued to struggle up the mountain. The terrain was craggy, fraught with fallen timbers, boulders, patches of shallow gravel, thorn bushes, brush, fallen leaves, and tufts of grass. Some areas were previously blasted by Kodiak artillery; there were splintered tree trunks and stumps, black patches of earth, burning bushes and underbrush, and a number craters that it looked like a moonscape.

Drifting in and out of the craters, leaping over destroyed trees, and dashing through fire, the rebels came on. Even as the line of Marines opened fire, cutting down the first two ranks of advancing Innies, they kept charging.

They were closing in, screaming at the top of their lungs, and the Marines hollered back. As the moon began to rise, Steele could see their bayonets gleaming in the pale light.

Steele squeezed the trigger and found himself looking into the eyes of a dead man. The eyes nearly rolled back into the sockets and the enemy's tongue lolled out. Just as he took that in, he felt someone push him to the side. Rolling over, he saw Frost stand up, jam the barrel of his MA5B into the belly of a running Innie, and squeezed the trigger. A burst of automatic fire tore through his abdomen and he fell over. Another Innie tackled Frost; they entered a wrestling match as they rolled down the hill.

Drawing his sidearm, Steele aimed to help. But somebody kicked it out of hand. Turning, he came face to face with the barrel of an outdated carbine. An instant later, an olive drab form tackled the Innie holding the gun. Not wasting a moment, Steele scrambling for the pistol, which was about a foot to his left. Snatching it, he ran over to the grappling Marine and rebel. Pulling the Marine off, he stuck the barrel under the Innie's chin and fired. The M6C round made a flesh thump sound as it flew through the man's skull.

The Marine who rescued him was Ocampo. Steele grabbed him by the webbing, handed him Frost's MA5B, and ordered him to hold the position. He turned around to go get Frost, but instead he saw the corporal already running back up. In his left hand he held his blood-covered KA-BAR knife and in the right he carried his M6C. Running up to the tree trunk, he aimed and fired into a crowd of Innies. One by one, they fell over, wounded and dead. Steele crouched and began firing. When he reloaded, he looked down the line and saw the line was in confusion. Rebels were advancing through the Marines and running down the slope. Many were mobbing the Marines, who fought off the undisciplined, untrained rebels with their KA-BAR knives, entrenchment tools, and bare fists. Throats were slit, eyes gouged out or pushed in, ears ripped off, and bellies were opened. Soon, there was blood everywhere. A Marine would catch a rebel, kill him in hand-to-hand combat, pick his rifle back up, and continue firing.

"Loading!"

"Changing mags!"

"Don't turn your back on these fuckers!"

"Hold your position!"

"Kill'em all, don't let'em pass!"

"C'mon, you fuckers!"

There was so much screaming and shooting Steele could not even hear his own thoughts. He was not even sure he was thinking. All of his motions, all of his actions, seemed automatic, as if guided by a mind not his own. There were so many Innies rushing towards him all he had to do was point and shoot. In seconds, he emptied a magazine in his M6C, slammed a fresh mag in, and began firing again.

Steele kept on shooting, shooting, and shooting until he didn't see any more Innies. It became deathly quiet throughout the wooded mountainside. All he could hear was the panting of the other Marines around him.

Resting his forehead on the ground for a moment, he reached over and patted Ocampo on the back of his helmet.

"Thanks, bruv," he wheezed. "Fuckin' hell, that was something." He looked over at Frost, who was still aiming his pistol down range.

"Fuckin'-A, we lit'em up," Frost said. He looked at Steele and grinned. "Holy shit, bro, we fucking chewed'em up."

"Yeah, very fuckin' exciting," Steele said, wiping his face. "Fuck me, I almost shat myself back there." He looked himself over, and then noticed his left arm was soaked in blood. "Am I hit? Lads, I think I'm hit."

He removed his shoulder pauldron. There was a bullet hole in his bicep; dark red blood seeped out of both the exit and entry wound. "Yeah, lads, I'm hit."

"Corpsman up!" Frost shouted. He then pointed at Steele's arm. "Ocampo, plug that wound."

Ocampo pulled out his only first aid kid, which contained a host of medical supplies. The most important item within the soft tactical case was the canister of biofoam. First, he took out an antiseptic pad and wiped down both wounds. Steele hissed from the stinging pain. Then, Ocampo reached for the biofoam canister. Taking off the cap, he carefully placed the mouth of the nozzle on the wound, then squeezed the trigger. Steele gritted his teeth as the biofoam filled the wound. The injection quickly materialized and held, staunching the bleeding. Wiping the excess from both wounds with a sanitary cloth, Ocampo then wrapped the wound in a few layers of white bandages. By the time Wright showed up, the wound was patched. He still inspected it.

"Nice work, looks good," Wright said to the young Marin, then turned to the sniper. "Try to keep it clean, check on it every hour, and change the bandages. If it needs more biofoam, hit it again, but make sure it's clean."

"Yes, mother dearest," Steele said.

"Want something for the pain?"

"Give it to someone who needs it."

"Tell me that when the adrenaline wears off, tough guy," Wright said before another call for a corpsman brought him down the line. As they watched him go, Lieutenant Conroy showed up with his command element. He crouched beside them.

"Listen up," the officer began, "Skipper wants us to hold here for the night. We're going to deploy along this line. First platoon's on our left flank, Third's on the left, we're here in the center. Private Ocampo, we're running low on ammo. It's coming, but the Skipper needs to know who has what and what they need. Make your way up and down the line and see what they need. Distribute what you can. Get moving."

"Yes, sir!" Ocampo said. He turned and winked at Steele and Frost.

Night fell and the moon was blotted out by a cloud system. Steele was trying to view the woods through his scope, but the night vision feature wasn't engaging.

"Maybe it got damaged when you dropped the rifle," Frost whispered, "or it got grazed by a bullet."

"Yeah, but I'm fucked without it if they try to make a push."

Steele continued to fiddle with the scope when they heard a twig snap in front of them.

"Rebels!"

"They're coming!"

"Open fire!"

The line lit up with muzzle flashes. Steele didn't aime, he just squeezed the trigger and sent all four rounds down range. The combined glare from so many automatic weapons was blinding; it was like seeing a thousand lightning strikes fall around him within milliseconds of one another. Ejecting the empty magazine and sliding a fresh one in, he continued to add the high-powered rounds to the volume of fire. Eventually, an order for 'crease fire,' rang out.

Immediately, the gunfire stopped. It was quiet again. Steele listened for anything, but couldn't hear anything.

He slid back down the embankment with Frost. The latter was still peering over the edge for a while.

A faint moaning filled the air. At first, they could barely hear it. But then it came again, and again, and again. Pained, fatigued, sorrowful, the moans rose and fell, rose and fell. Steele could tell it was out in front of him and knew it was one of the rebels. He was sure of it; they attempted an ambush, retreated, and left one of their wounded men behind.

"Help..." came the faint, garbled voice. He sounded like there was blood in his mouth "...please, help me."

He kept moaning after he uttered those words. Every so often, he would say, 'please,' or 'help.'

Steele listened for a time, gazing over the edge of the embankment. He tried to spot the wounded rebel in the darkness, but couldn't make him out. So he sat back down and listened to the pitiful moaning.

"Somebody should go out there and put that fucker out of his misery," Frost muttered.

"Hold your position," Lieutenant Conroy said, remaining crouched several meters away from their position, "it's not safe to go out there. It could be a trap and there could be more laying nearby."

So the Marines held their ground and listened to the wails all night. Steele couldn't sleep and kept his rifle pointed forward. As the hours dragged by, the wounded man was still moaning. His voice grew weaker, but he just would not die.

"Mama...mama..." the voice moaned. "...mommy..."

"Fucking die already," Steele said through gritted teeth. "Just fucking die so we can get some sleep."

"Help me, please, someone help me...mommy help me..."

"Shut the fuck up," Steele muttered, resting his forehead against the butt of his rifle.

"Someone help me, please..."

"Fucking die already. I want to sleep."

About an hour before morning, the moaning finally stopped. When the sun rose, the Marines ventured cautiously in front of them. Traversing piles and layers of dead Innies, they came about thirty or so yards forward. In a patch of bare ground where some broken branches had fallen, they found Ocampo's body. His chest and stomach were riddled by bullets and there was dried blood all over his mouth. In one of his hand was his rifle and in the other was the strap of a bandoleer packed with MA5B magazines.

Steele stood over the corpse with Frost, Teo, and the rest of the squad.

"I didn't recognize his voice," Frost murmured.

"He must have gotten lost, or just didn't know how far in front of the lines he was," Steele said. "I can't believe that I-"

"Don't start with it," Teo said, giving him a light shove in the shoulder. He walked out in front of the men. "None of this is on you. Ocampo did this to himself. Take this as a fucking lesson: use your nav-equipment, and if you're lost, sit tight until morning. That's basic training for you and Ocampo should have known better."

"Jesus Christ, T," Steele said, pointing at the body, "that was our friend and he died mewling his last a few yards away from us."

"Ocampo's dead. You all need to get your heads screwed on. I need you to stay aggressive because we're pushing up this mountain and it's gonna be a fucking meat grinder."

"Can you imagine what the notice is gonna say? Families all over the Colonies are getting notifications saying their son or daughter died heroically in defense of humanity. On his, it'll say, 'killed by friendly fire because his pals were fucking jumpy shits.' So his family-"

"I don't give a damn what the notice says. If it makes you feel that much better, I'll write them a letter and tell them that it was quick. Happy?" Teo didn't wait for an answer. "Round up your shit and let's go. Somebody get his fucking tags."

Steele flicked the cigarette away.

"That stuck with me for a while. The part that bothered me the most was that letter Teo sent to his mother. Nothing but lies, man. It felt wrong to be a part of that. But it all just fell into place with the rest of the horrible shit we've seen."

Frost crumpled up the empty bag and stuffed it into his pocket.

"What made you think of that?"

"Carris. She's super fucking pissed at me," Steele answered. Frost looked surprised and leaned over.

"Why?"

"The fuck do you mean why?" Steele snapped, taking the cigarette from his mouth. "You hosed a bunch of unarmed prisoners and she covered for us. She lied to them, man, you know that don't you? You can't be that thick."

"Of course, I know she lied!" Frost hissed. "I didn't think she would, I didn't think it would happen. How did she know?"

Steele found himself hesitant to tell his best friend how Carris heard. For the first time, he was not sure how Frost would handle that information. Part of him worried it would worsen whatever mental state he was already in. But he could not even peg where he was mentally; he seemed totally unconcerned with what happened as he casually drank and ate cookies, of all things.

"Just a guess, I reckon. You know her, sharp as a whip."

"One hell of a coincidence, then."

"The lie's eating her up. She went on a whole thing about being a soldier, honor, creed, all that shit."

"I better talk to her."

"Bad idea, mate. If she's pissed at me, she's ready to kill you. Carris thinks you're unstable, ready to go nuts at the drop of a pin. Hell, she was even saying I ought to be in charge. But she took the words right out of my mouth." He chuckled, only to cover up how harmful it was, even if it was true. "Chain smoking...Christ, mate, I never thought I'd hear her get mad at me over that."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. It's just got me tore up, is all. That we put her in that position." Frost didn't say anything, so Steele looked up. His friend's gray eyes were peering off into nothingness, lost and murky like a cloud. "Don't you?"

"Yeah, of course I do." Frost chewed his bottom lip. "Do you agree with her? Do you think I'm unstable?"

Steele looked away.

"You should be asking yourself that question, bruv."

"You do think so."

"I didn't fucking say that."

"But you think so, don't you?"

"Calm down, Nate."

"I am calm."

"Then why're you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you wanna fucking tear my throat out," Steele snapped. Frost's eyes were shining, wide, and accusatory. With a blink, they seemed to calm and Frost withdrew somewhat. He clasped and wrung his hands together, nervously.

Sighing, Steele looked forward again. "I told her you're just a little troubled. You've always had a tough time letting go of the past."

"Do you actually believe that?" Frost asked coldly. "Or were you just covering for me again?"

"I meant it. Do you remember what happened on the Best of the Best?"

Frost nodded. Steele remembered the traitor he beat and cut up for kidnapping the female crew member. Part of it was his own desire to punish the bastard for what he did and what he was planning to do. But he knew it would be different if Frost got a hold of him. The past he was trying to put behind him would have reared its ugly head and reduced their squad leader down to the raving, bloodthirsty lunatic who stalked the mountainside on Skopje. That was not the kind of leader they needed because all he saw was red, not the troopers he was supposed to guide. If anything, he did it for himself and the rest of the squad. But Steele knew it was because he just didn't want to see that part of Frost come back.

Even back on Skopje, when everyone was shooting anyone who looked like they knew how to handle a firearm, Steele was terrified of Frost. Most of the Marines were; fear and respect were often intertwined in the Marines. Sometimes, he would just leave in the middle of the night. When he came back a few hours later or sometimes in the morning, his sleeves and armor would be covered in blood. Nobody asked any questions about who he killed or how many he killed.

Then he would come sit beside Steele as if nothing happened. It was bizarre to be close friends with the most dangerous Marine in the entire Marine Expeditionary Unit. Almost everyone else saw him as just that and worshiped him. Steele was able to look past it, or at least tried, and was able to find the polite, young man he befriended on that first day of basic training.

Rubbing his eyes, Steele looked at him. "Carris is right. You need to focus. The past is the past, and we can't change it. I know what happened to the Army troopers was terrible, I was there, I saw it too. But we can't live the rest of our lives in the context of Skopje. Most of the Marines have made their peace and moved on. But you, everything you do, it's because of Skopje. It's time to move on."

"Are you afraid that I'm going to get you killed?"

"I'm afraid of losing my best friend," Steele responded immediately. "It's like your own memories, your own thoughts, whatever's going on inside your head, is consuming you."

"Maybe it is," Frost murmured. "I want to shake it."

"You have to," Steele said, grasping his shoulder. "You can't keep using Skopje as an excuse. You keep doing things you think are right, then you just end up feeling guilty. It's a cycle, brother, and you're just gonna keep doing circles if you don't break it."

For a while, Frost didn't say anything. His expression was blank and unreadable. Slowly Steele patted his shoulder then dropped his hand. Eventually, his friend looked at him from the corner of his eye.

"I'll do my best."

Steele nodded. He pulled the packet of cigarettes from his fatigue jacket's pocket, tapped another one out, pressed to his lips, and lit it with a match. After taking a few long drags, he exhaled a large, gray cloud that was swept away by the wind.

Frost stood up. "Do you wanna round up the rowdy boys and Jasmine, see if we can squeeze into the mess hall and grab a bite to eat?"

Steele looked up at him sharply. He got onto his feet and stepped close to him.

"Hey, I mean it. You've got to get out of this because you're gonna be lost and people are gonna die. Alright? I don't want to hear, 'okay,' and 'yeah,' you need to make it fucking clear to me that you understand what we've just talked about."

"I understand. I heard you, Lou, I heard you. I'm going to take care of it."

"Good," Steele grunted and took another puff on the cigarette. "One more thing, though. About the Doc."

Immediately, Frost frowned. His forehead wrinkled, his brow furrowed, and his lips pursed. Steele knew he would become defensive; just like anyone could not mess with his squad, nobody could say anything about the good doctor. But, the sniper was undeterred. "I know you got a mix of feelings in your skull right now. Some of'em might tell you to speak to the Doc about what happened."

Steele paused for effect and let the smoke leak from his mouth and nose. "Do you love her?"

Frost's brow rose, his mouth opened a little in surprise, and his gray-blue eyes widened. For a moment, his arms made a half-shrug motion, he stammered without speaking, and he broke his gaze from Steele's.

Frustrated, he rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll simplify the question: do you want to keep fucking her?"

There it was, that angry, defensive expression once again. Frost stepped closer, so close they were nearly nose to nose. Steele put a hand on his chest and stepped back. "Don't tell her anything or it'll be over."

"You're telling me to lie to her?"

"Did you plan on telling her?"

"Not right now, but maybe, some time down the line-"

"Don't. I bet she was riding you hard, her fingers in your fucking hair, telling you what a good man you are and how proud she is. Doc's no dummy; she gets an idea of how deep this bullshit it, you two are through. So keep your mouth shut if you don't want to lose her."

Word Count: 6,118

Author's Note: Another week, another chapter, beginning with Frost and ending with me. Hi folks, thanks for sticking with the story. The tone of this chapter is a little wonky, to be honest; at the same time, the situation our characters are in is beyond wonky, so I suppose it fits the turbulent nature of their emotional states. On another note, I'm really digging these 6,000-6,999 word chapters; it really helps to have a steady update schedule, helps me stay productive, and it's a great challenge.

On another-other note, if any of you have been waiting for a Marsh Silas: Inquisitor chapter, the story is about to be reorganized. The current 7 chapters will be divided into 14, plus two more new chapters which will bring the total count to 16. There are some minor changes to the original chapters too, but the core aspects will be preserved. I plan to commit this update by the end of this week or the next. It'd mean a lot to me and really help me out if you'd check it out.

Comment Responses:

TheCarlosInferno: Don't worry. No spoilers, but I meant what I said way back when, so don't worry.

TheShadeOps: It suuuuuuure is! Gotta put on my 'Next time on Batman,' voice here. [clears throat] Will the team manage to stick together? Will Frost overcome his innate desire to kill? And will the heck is Operation: EXALT going to begin? Find out next time on: I'm Alone: Exalt!

CommissarBS: Oh, I didn't feel attacked in the slightest! I apologize if that's the tone I gave off. The point you raised is perfectly valid; I doubt most readers on this site find military legal maneuvering all that interesting and realism/lore friendliness is something I do my best to take seriously as long as it doesn't get in the way of storytelling. I just wanted to explain my reasoning behind it, that's all. In terms of the actual prosecution or courtroom dynamic in this, there really is none. I thought about having a more formal trial but that would probably extend this segment by another ten chapters, and I wanted to emphasize the bureaucratic nature of the UNSC. While I've made it a point to study war crimes/crimes against humanity, I've never really delved into legal proceedings regarding those crimes, so you'll find I don't actually have the information to form an opinion on contemporary military law.

And with that, you raise a very valid point that hits the nail on the head for the way trauma has affected those in this story. For some characters, like Vivian, the trauma was direct; she watched her friends die in front of her. For others, like Frost, his trauma stems from seeing malicious acts of barbaric crimes and his own guilt regarding his inability to stop them. Even then, the trauma can spread from character to character and take deep roots inside them, as you said.

Steele really does steal the show a lot. He's a fun character to write; he's crass, surly, aloof, and uncaring about most things and most people. Yet, when he rises to the occasion he's quick, capable, and actually to some extent, compassionate. However, his aforementioned traits mean he's willing to cover things up or do some bad things on behalf of good reasons. He's a dynamic character to work with.

MightBeGone: Yes, your heart is broken. But somewhere, someway, deep inside your very, most intimate essence of a person, you know, as well as I know, that you secretly like it when I break your heart and you wouldn't be reading if you didn't want it to be broken and-

Huh, got away from myself for a moment. [clears throat] This is actually very gratifying for me because I originally wanted a lot of characters to be more complex and darker, but was nervous way back when they wouldn't stick with many readers. Now, I finally get to add the ambiguity I always wanted. Very exciting.

But I am aware of what writing can do and that's why I'll say this: relationships are fluid and can change back and forth, and I take character direction very seriously. It's why you don't see a lot of the characters dying in this story; in the previous, we had 1 major death, and even then, Sanchez was a tertiary character at most. Character death should be spread out and meaningful for those around them, which is why I won't be going G.R.R. Martin on them, because death will lose its impact eventually.