Chapter 11: Remember the Uniform

It felt like it was happening all over again. As far away and faded those memories were, Carris was sure they were about to repeat themselves. Even though the people and circumstances changed, she knew herself. Once again, just as she was beginning to find a home, it was going to fall apart for her.

Petty Officer First Class Damien Losa's death was a mistake. Nobody expected it to happen; even Carris was shocked by her own actions. Afterwards, she felt like a stranger among her fellow Spartans. Nobody changed the way they treated her. Yes, a few shared words of sympathy and assured her it was not her fault. Mendez, the rugged instructor whom they all respected, had his words with her as well. He did not chew her out although she wished he did. In some ways, getting screamed at and punished would have been easier to deal with. Soldiers did not get away with acts which violated the rules and regulations. Punishment was to be as severe as possible; time spent in the stockade, demotions, pay suspension, dishonorable discharge, or even death were all reprisals a soldier could expect.

Accident or not, there should have been a punishment. She was ready for it; she wanted it. Instead, everyone treated her as if she was the wronged party. Nobody ostracized her for it, yet their kind attitudes and camaraderie made her feel all the more distant. A week afterwards, none of the other Spartans or the instructors were acting like it never happened. For a while, she felt if she was in some, twisted dream in which only her memory survived the passage of time. Every fiber of her being wanted to shake everyone and screamed at them. 'Losa is dead!' she wanted to yell at them, 'Losa is dead and I killed him! Don't you care!? Don't you hate me!?'

It took more energy to move on than it did to run the courses each day. Beyond the grueling exercises, the long classroom lectures, and the dangerous hinterland of Reach the instructors dropped them in, that was what drained her the most. It ate her from the inside.

Carris stopped jogging. It was pitch black outside save for the industrial lamp configuration on the side of the road. She leaned against it with her shoulder. Her exhaustion was not from running for hours and hours until it was nearly curfew. Her heart maintained a steady beat, her feet barely burned, and her legs were hardly sore. Staying out any longer though would see her arrested by the security guards around the base for being on base grounds after lights out. But she did not want to return to the barracks. Being around them seemed utterly terrifying. Sleep was out of the question; alone in her quarters, trapped with her thoughts? No, she would rather go to a cell. At least some security guards would be outside the door.

Even after doing numerous laps around the entire base, Carris did not feel winded. Her heart maintained a steady beat, her feet were barely burning, and her limbs were hardly sore. Staying out any longer, however, was not wise. Under the dull orange light, illuminating the raindrops that fell on her shoulders, she wiped her forehead and reluctantly trudged towards the barracks. With each step, she grew sicker.

The lie. It sat inside her, right in her core like a rotten piece of food roiling in her stomach. It was burning, sickening; she wanted to vomit it out, to clear her body of it. But no urge came. Could she tear it out? Claw through her abdomen with her fingernails, prying her guts open until she found whatever foul object represented the dirty deceit. Out, she wanted it out, out and away from her forever. Far away, forgotten, a thing of the past, never to disturb her thoughts or dreams.

When would it leave? How could peace be made? Looking at herself in the mirror seemed an impossibility. Did she even deserve to wear the fatigues she was dressed in or to carry the personal sidearm she'd know for nearly two decades? If she removed her uniform, from her the dog tags clinking around her neck to the black boots on her feet, would she be cleared of any wrongdoing? Perhaps, if she went in front of another mission review board, an answer would be found. Yes, yes, put her fate and her future in the hands of someone else. After all, she was a Spartan; she did not choose to become a soldier, she was chosen. For many years, her life was not her own. If every human being in the galaxy had a path laid out in front of them, her's was constructed from the martial wisdom of Chief Petty Officer Mendez and the shrewd, cruel, brilliance of Doctor Catherine Halsy.

Did that make her a slave? Slaves possessed no future, no past, and no agency in their lives. Had she acted out any choices based on her own will, her own wishes, ever? When the Human-Covenant War began, she did. As the Spartans were being divided into teams and were assigned to different sectors throughout the Colonies, she requested solo operations. In the turmoil of those early war years, NAVSPECWAR was ready to send the super soldiers anywhere. It didn't matter what unit they fought with or if they fought on their own; just as long as they were out fighting the enemy, that was good enough for them. Waiting a few more years would have most likely seen her request denied and she would be slated with some of the other Spartans.

They were family and leaving them was one of the most difficult decisions she ever made. But Carris was not able to look them in the eye anymore. She loved them, respected them, would fight for them and if need be, die for them. Even now, years after their parting, she would lay down her life for them. Facing them, though, she could not fathom it. Facing the terrified awe of normal soldiers and facing their judgemental ostracization was far more preferable than the brotherhood she would find among her fellow Spartans.

But these Marines, these people, they changed everything. She was not a machine nor a hero to them. To them, she was Carris, and sometimes not even that; they called her, 'C,' and every time they did, it made her smile. Their eyes went by the armor's mystique and saw the woman beneath. In the morning, they clapped her on the back, flashed a smile, and slid her a mug of coffee. Whoever was cooking asked how she wanted her eggs and if she wanted them with cheese and toast. Over food and drink, they swapped tales and dirty jokes, and often laughed at a whole lot of nothing. She heard of people growing upset over trivial, inconsequential matters, but to see some Marines lose their minds laughing over something miniscule and, objectively, unfunny, heartened her like never before.

She was no slave among them; she was just another soldier and more than that, another person. Carris made her choice to stay with them even when her brothers and sisters were ready to take her back in. As close as they were, as willing as they were to die for one another, it was different with the squad. Yes, she made her choice to stay and to protect them from anything within or without.

Now, her choices brought her here. Walking in a cold drizzle, black hair matted, goosebumps on her arm, containing a lie.

A Warthog horn honked. Carris looked up and stopped as the vehicle came screeching to a halt less than a foot away. The high beams nearly blinded her and she had to raise a hand.

"Get off the fucking road!" the driver yelled. "The fuck do you think you're doing, moron?"

"Sorry," Carris said, although she doubted the driver heard it over the rumbling engine. She stepped aside as the driver leaned out. She noticed her was an ensign with the Navy and his troop-carrier variant Warthog was stuffed with supply crates instead of people.

Glaring at her, he took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it onto the road. "Get back to your quarters Petty Officer, before one of those fucking jarheads comes by and opens your skull with a baton."

Carris blinked at him.

"The Marines would not do something like that, sir."

"Yeah, sure they wouldn't," the ensign scoffed. "Watch your ass. If they're anything like Jack the Ripper, they won't care what uniform you're wearing. One day, those leathernecks are going to go fucking feral."

He took his foot off the brake, pressed the gas pedal down, and drove off into a deeper recess of the base.

Carris watched the red tail lights disappear. Only then did she resume walking. After the encounter, she felt flat, blank, and stunted. Fatigue finally crept up behind her and sank its claws into her. She suddenly felt so unbelievably tired, so tired her mind did not have the energy to keep racing.

Eventually, she ended up at her barracks and went through the door. The lobby was a large square shaped room with a door on each side and two more on the wall opposite from the entrance. One led to another corridor leading to different levels of the barracks with the one on the right led to an office area. Clerks, orderlies, officers, technicians, and other logistical personnel assigned to the building worked within. A checkpoint desk was in front of the office door; a clerk and a guard were working side by side. The former was young and pretty, with short blonde hair tied back in a bun and bright green eyes. As for the latter, he was a gruff old line trooper with two robotic arm prosthetics. While the clerk kept typing on their terminal keyboard, the Marine security guard raised his head.

Carris flashed her identification badge as she walked by. The Marine security guard nodded as he sat back down.

Trudging up the stairs, the Spartan listened to her footsteps echo up and down the stairwell. Going around and around, she felt like she was going down rather than up. Undoubtedly, her exhaustion was setting deeper within. She would grab something to drink and eat from their common room, indulge for a few minutes, and then go straight to bed.

Upon opening the door to the common room, she halted immediately. Sitting among the chairs and tables was the entire squad, save for its two commanders. Grant, Moser, Langley, Bishop, Maddox, and Knight all looked up at the same time.

"Carris!" they all shouted. A great whirlwind of digital camouflage fatigues barreled towards her. In a few moments, she was engulfed by the squad. Langley and Gran were on either side of her and embracing her very tightly. Moser was slightly behind her, squeezing her shoulder. Bishop was on the other, patting her affectionately on the back. Maddox took one of her hands and locked their grip, shaking her fist slightly. Knight stood by, but smiled affably. Everyone was laughing, smiling, and bombarding her with questions.

For the briefest of moments, Carris stood stock-still. In that moment, she felt as though she was going to explode. A drowning feeling began to grow in her chest. Part of her wanted to scream, another part of her wanted to run away. They jostled her, clapped her shoulders and back, ruffled her wet hair, and she wanted to throw them off.

But the moment passed. Her lips twitched into a smile. She put an arm around Grant and hugged him back. When Maddox let go of her hand, she hugged Langley too. Like a wave, happiness washed over her. She laughed at their crazy attitudes and joyous expressions. There was definitely no choice here; it was impossible not to smile with them. It felt like years since she saw any of them.

During the bustle, they brought her over to the table and sat her down. Everyone crowded in. Someone put a cup of freshly brewed coffee in front of her and she took a long sip. Then, a plate with some buttered toast was put in front of her. Carris devoured both slices and asked for more. A few minutes later, two fresh pieces of toast with warm better belted on one side were handed to her. Coffee and a few slices of buttered toast; she never tasted anything better in her entire life.

"Where have you been Carris?" Knight asked in the worried, mildly irritated tone a concerned father would use. Although, he was still smiling broadly.

"Just getting some I air, I bet. I can imagine you'd want to get outside after being locked in your own room," Langley said, patting the top of Carris's hand. "I'm so glad the charges were dropped. We all knew it was a whole lot of bogus."

Carris just nodded and struggled to maintain her smile.

"We haven't seen Frost at all," Bishop added.

"He's probably shacked up with the Doc," Maddox said, putting a lit cigarette to his lips. "I don't blame him, anyways. We're old news, after all; he's been starting at most of our faces for the better part of what, ten or so years now? Give or take?"

"But we did see Steele. He was looking for you. Did he catch up with you?"

"Yes, he did," Carris answered flatly.

Everybody just took the answer in stride except for Grant. In a glance, she caught his subtly confused expression. His brow was furrowed in an inquisitive fashion and his lips were slightly parted in surprise. But as the others began to talk, he relaxed his features and began to take part in it too.

Carris was eating her fifth and sixth slice of buttered toast when everyone cheered again. Looking up as they rushed to their feet, they ran into someone else coming through the door. For a moment, she thought it was going to be Steele. Instead, Gunnery Sergeant Frost walked in. He shook hands, returned embraces, and smiled happily. Like her, he was carried on the surf of the squad and seated at the table. He sat down across from her. One of their squad mates put a cup of coffee in it. Frost filled it with sugar and creamer before taking a long sip. He sighed contentedly.

All Carris did was stare. She suddenly lost her appetite. Very cooly, she sat back and folded her hands on the table. Rage did not rise within her chest, nor was there a pit in her stomach. A strange neutrality enveloped her spirit and Carris felt much calmer than she ever did in her entire life.

Was it the lie? Being privy to something no one else or very few others were was just as liberating as it was claustrophobic. As much as she wanted to belt out the truth, there was a strange satisfaction of knowing when no one else did. Even seeing the way the others congratulated him for clearing the charges and for getting out of the stockade did not bother her. She thought it would have been infuriating to watch them praise a murderer. Would they feel the same way about it though? Would they betray their own opinions and perspectives of the man they called a brother and their squad leader to side with her? Would they see it as murder or would they line up with whatever philosphy Frost operated by?

Save Nora Langley, they were all on Skopje. Legends were simply that, legends. But Frost's actions indicated that there was truth behind them after all. Troubled? Steele said he was troubled. Ridiculous! Yes, people who were troubled could make mistakes or hurt others when they didn't mean to? But murder? Those without morals, without sanity, those were the ones who committed murder. Soldiers like her were killers indeed, but not murderers. There was a difference between killing in the defense of others and taking the lives of the defenseless. It was not a matter of how innocent or how precious lives were; those smugglers were all guilty criminals. All would have seen lengthy jail time for smuggling, and if it was confirmed they were supplying Insurrectionist, they would have gotten life sentences or the death penalty for treason. But there was no justifying their killing, based on what they would and wouldn't have done.

Frost eventually calmed everyone down. He looked at her and his smile softened. She expected him to say thank you, but there was something in his eyes. A knowing look, one she saw before when he would gaze at the others. For a moment, her own expression grew less stern and she blinked at him, waiting for what he was going to say. Instead, he cleared his throat and turned so he could look at everyone.

"So, just in case you haven't heard, Steele's been demoted. Busted back down to full corporal."

"What a load of shit," Maddox muttered.

"He shouldn't have disobeyed orders," Moser cut in. "I don't agree with it, but I don't think any of us should be surprised he was demoted. Just because there's a war on doesn't mean the rules don't matter. They do."

"Agreed," Carris said, trying to mask a seething tone.

Frost seemed to be the only one who detected her voice. He stood up.

"I'm sure you'll be getting the full details soon enough, but just to give you a heads up, there's going to be a big organizational change coming soon. We're going to be reorganized into Marine Raiders, the whole company. Means things are going to get tight and by the book. As far as I know, Steele is still in command of the squad. But I'm probably going to be assigned somewhere else within the company, whether that's with our platoon or the headquarters element. I can't tell you which. Major Royce is going to be in command. I'll speak with him, see if I can stick with you a bit longer, but don't get your hopes up, okay? Maybe nothing'll come of it and I'm just getting worried over nothing, but we have to be realistic about this. Don't worry, though, even if I'm assigned elsewhere, I'll have freedom of movement on the battlefield and I can roll with you guys. Okay?"

There was a long silence. Carris looked around at the others. It looked though they were informed a relative passed away. Their eyes were wide with shock and their features sagged with disappointment. Frost saw it too and patted Grant on the shoulder. "I'm sorry I have to follow up the good news with that. But that's the way it is, guys. I'm sorry. Remember the uniform you're wearing; you're soldiers. Soldiers follow orders."

"Where's Steele?" Carris asked.

"Chatting up the clerk at the front desk. As usual."

Carris just folded her arms across her chest. Frost nodded at everyone. "Get some sleep, we're going to need it. Starting in two days, we'll be going through some reeducation and training."

While the rest of the squad walked soberly out, Carris was the first one to leave. She maintained a brisk pace. She fetched her grooming kit, brushed her teeth, donned her sleepwear consisting of a black pair of shorts and an olive drab tank top, and went back to her quarters. Despite spending the last few days inside her room, it felt like she'd been away for months.

Just as she sat down on the edge of her bed, she heard a knock on the door. For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. If it was Frost, she decided, she was going to let him have it.

Unlocking and opening the door, she was surprised to see Grant and Moser standing side by side. Both had a field-grade sleeping bag under their arms.

"Hey C, we were wondering if you wanted some company tonight," Grant said.

Carris stared at them blankly for a few moments, then smiled.

"Sure."

"Just like old times," Moser said as he and the other rifleman walked in. Both laid their sleeping bags on the floor.

"Are you sure you really want to sleep on the floor?"

Grant turned around, quirked an eyebrow, and smiled confidently.

"C, I've slept on rocks, wet grass, in the snow and in the middle of deserts. I think I can handle a padded sleeping bag on linoleum tile. Besides, beds get overrated after a while."

As the pair tucked into their sleeping bags, Carris looked at the mattress. After a moment, she whisked off the sheets, dropped the mattress on the floor next to Grant's sleeping bag, and draped the blankets over it. Moser and Grant nodded approvingly and grinned. Dropping her pillow at the head of the mattress, she pulled the blankets back, and got on. She pulled the covers over her and rested her arms behind her heads.

Then, she laughed.

"I forgot to hit the lights."

"I got'em!" Moser said, hopping out.

"What do you mean the 89th MEU is getting a special operations company!? You have the ODSTs to fulfill special ops for this task force. What's the point of having two different SF units? And the Raiders were terminated two centuries ago because of a lack of operational duties and capacities. Yeah, I know, we've got the Covvies breathing down our necks. But ODSTs have always been able to handle that role. We don't need Raiders wasting resources and taking up space!"

Captain Vivian Waters rubbed her temple as she raised her coffee mug with the other hand. Major Holst was pacing on the other side of the conference table in her office. He was clad in crisp fatigues and wore a furious expression. One hand was planted on his hip while the other continued to hold his forehead.

Sitting on the couch behind him was Captain De Vos, who was holding a data pad. Although she was dressed immaculately, she seemed thoroughly disinterested in the contents of the meeting.

Beside her was Vice Admiral Travers. His current gray tunic was fresher than the one he arrived in, although his hair and beard remained quite shaggy. He was drinking black coffee too.

"Major, you're talking to me like I'm the one who made the decision to reintroduce the Marine Raiders template back to the UNSC. I assure you that, despite my personal approval of such an act, I did not have a hand in its project renewal. That's a decision far above my station." He took a long, loud slurp of coffee. "And try to remember you're in the military and that I outrank you by five grades; when you address a senior officer of any branch you say, 'sir,' or, 'ma'am,' understood?"

Major Holst turned red in the face.

"Sir," he said, almost meekly. He sat back down. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm just steamed up over this. The ODSTs have served for years as one of the principal special operations units for the entire UNSC military. The last thing I want to see is our branch, and my unit, get marginalized in the coming operations."

"Major, we've only regained a foothold in one sector of Colonial space. We're doubling-back across other systems all throughout the Colonies. The Covvies are advancing and we're on the backfoot across almost every front. You'll have no shortage of operations," Vivian assured him curtly.

When she said this, the major's brow furrowed and he glared at her. De Vos quickly grew uncomfortable.

"With respect, Captain Waters, the duty of reclaiming the Port from the Covenant should have been the ODST's responsibility. We have better equipment, better training, and frankly, our officers and noncoms have seen far more action than either in the 89th. Shifting the Helljumpers and giving an unofficial, platoon-sized unit, without a commissioned officer, is frankly in violation of countless rules and regs in the handbook."

"And yet, the job was completed with only one KIA and several other casualties. And that's from a small-unit, clandestine infiltration with limited support. If you're going to try and write a treatise and how several hundred ODSTs performing a drop directly on the target would have fared better with less casualties, I'm going to need at least two days preparation before I actually read it," Travers sneered.

"Again, with respect, we're in the military, sir," Holst said, his voice lacking any kind of dignified tone. "Our business is to engage the enemy and complete objectives. How many lives are spent doing so is irrelevant."

"Major, we need our soldiers more than the Covenant need theirs," Vivian snapped. "One of the best ways we can engage the enemy during these upcoming operations are in ways that limit exposure to our personnel and ships. The more we save, the more we'll have for the next fight, and the next, and the next. You need to start thinking on the long-term. This isn't about branch relevancy. This is about achieving results with the least possible casualties."

"But ma'am-"

"So, if HIGHCOM says there's going to be a trial period for the Raiders, I'm going to obey their orders. And if I say the ODSTs will coordinate operations with the Raider company, you will obey my orders, too. Understood?"

Vivian set her coffee mug down, crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap. "If you disagree with the nature of these decisions, you can write a letter to the Secretary of the Navy voicing your dissatisfaction. If need be, I'm sure the Vice Admiral can assign you to a different unit."

She could see the muscles at the back of his jaw line tighten. For a moment, his hands balled into fists and it took him great effort not to bare his clenched teeth. Then, he closed his eyes momentarily and inhaled sharply. The redness drained from his face and his posture relaxed.

De Vos was looking at him. It was not fear in her eyes, but a sort of apprehensive expression. Vivian did not doubt the executive officer was concerned her commander would continue to portray himself as a petulant crybaby. A look of relief washed over her as the Major regained his composure.

"No, ma'am, I understand."

"Good. You're dismissed." Vivian took her mug, drank the remainder of her coffee, and put it back down. Just as Holst and De Vos saluted, she pointed at the latter. "Stay behind for a moment, please."

Captain De Vos exchanged a quick glance with her superior officer. Vivian and Travers returned the Major's salute and he departed. Once the doors slid shut, the remaining ODST looked at them hesitantly.

Vivian stood up and smiled pleasantly. She walked over to her. "At ease, Captain. I just wanted to have a quick word. I appreciate your efforts during the past few days trying to clean up this mess the recon mission turned into."

"Yes, ma'am," was all De Vos said. Vivian nodded and touched her on the shoulder.

"You're a reliable soldier. We're going to be taking on a new instructor to shape the Marine Raiders into a proper SF unit. While we have to pick from a senior candidate, I'd like you to serve in an assistant capacity."

"Thank you, ma'am but...with respect, shouldn't that role go to a more experienced officer."

"Such as Major Holst?"

"Ma'am," De Vos said with a nod.

Vivian nodded her head to the side. Although he was shaping up to be a particularly sharp thorn in her side this morning, there was no denying his excellent war record. His ribbon rack was large and colorful; it was a product of achieving results. As well, considering that the entire task force was in a designated training period, cross-service instruction and joint-training operations would be prevalent across the entire base.

But she smiled and squeezed the Captain's shoulder.

"I think you have a lot to offer the Raiders, Captain De Vos. Their training begins tomorrow when the instructors arrive. Oh-five-hundred hours. Be ready."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Salutes were exchanged and the ODST departed.

Turning around, Vivian noticed Vice Admiral Travers was smiling and shaking his head. When she raised an inquisitive eyebrow, he set his coffee mug down and stood up.

"Should have known you wouldn't do things by the book, Waters."

"Major Holst is by no means a poor officer, but I need someone with a cooler temperament who can impart experience and wisdom, not just thump their chest and scream at the Marines."

"You sure it's not because you want to ruffle Holst's feathers a little more?"

"Quite positive, sir. If I was trying to spite him, I'd find a more creative method," she joked. Travers snickered.

"Well, just be aware of your decisions. There's a lot of friction out there already."

"I'm aware."

"Last thing you need is friction between two of your commanders. The Navy and the Marines slinging mud at each other is too much already."

"We have a whole body of instructors arriving to help with training," Vivian said abruptly, changing the subject. "I've yet to see any background on them."

Travers set his data pad on his thigh and tapped a few keys. After he opened a document he handed it to Vivian.

She went to the window for better lighting as she gazed at the data pad. Immediately, she was impressed. The drill instructors were all veteran soldiers from infantry branches or specific schools all over the UNSC. All of those listed were senior enlisted personnel; most had at least fifteen to twenty years in the service, and nearly ten others had twenty-five to thirty. Those men saw action against Insurrectionists forces as well as the Covenant. Many worked their way up from the lowest ranks of the Marines, fought in elite line units and went on to serve in one of the UNSC's myriad special forces groups.

Gazing at the photographic identification on each profile, she saw they were all scarred, grizzled, and hard looking men. Each one had an impressive, colorful ribbon rack on their dress uniforms.

"Like what you see?" Travers asked, grinning as he took another sip of coffee.

"This will definitely enhance our combat capabilities. All the personnel in the 1st CBG will benefit highly from their experience. Who will be leading the Marine Raiders' training courses?"

"Bottom of the list."

Vivian scrolled further down until she read the name Master Gunnery Sergeant Angus Swing. He was an African-American Marine with a shaved head and clean-shaven face. Unlike the others, his face bore no scars, but it was clearly weathered by war. His eyes were very, very dark yet remained utterly fiery. His lips were tight and his features were robust and strong. Just from the first glance, she thought he never smiled once in his entire life.

Looking at his service record, she was even more impressed. After enlisting at sixteen, he went on to earn a battlefield commission fighting Insurrectionists in the Outer Colonies. From there, he joined the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers; he joined the elite Black Daggers, and later on joined Special Purpose Forces for retraining. He then ended up in Marine Force Reconnaissance, an elite segment of ODSTs. His service record became significantly redacted upon his transfer to ONI Section-Three.

"Thirty-two years in service, seven Navy-E ribbons, five Purple Hearts, three Gold Stars, seven Silver Stars, ten Bronze Stars, twelve commendation medals, thirteen achievement medals, the Legion of Honor...is this man real or is ONI Section Two pulling another prank?"

"I think that's what I said when I met him. No wife, no kids; he's Corps to the core. I was serving as a captain when we pulled some joint ops with Army Spec-War-Group Three. Now, that was some real special ops," he chuckled. "For the past three years he's been training ONI SF groups. If anyone can whip them into shape, it's him."

Vivian gave the admiral his data pad back. Travers set it down on the conference table and stood up. "I've also got other instructors coming in to establish temporary NCO schools so infantry personnel who have been promoted out of necessity can complete the necessary development courses. Everything's going to be on fast-track for officers and enlisted personnel in the next few days, but what isn't fast-tracking nowadays?"

Vice Admiral Travers got up and went to the large window behind Vivian's desk. She stood beside him and looked out over the courtyard. Below, between supply drops, convoys, and personnel completing their duties, the Port was still busy.

Some movement caught her. A group of enlisted Navy personnel who just landed planetside were walking past one of the joint-barracks. At the same time, Marine enlisted personnel back from an early morning training operation were returning from the armory. They were all dirty and tired.

As soon as the two groups were abreast of one another, she could sense the hostility. One of the Marines must have said something, because a crewman took a large step out of his clique and pointed at the infantrymen. Whatever he said engraved the leathernecks, as they whirled around and began raising their arms and pointing too. Soon, both groups were face-to-face, screaming, pointing, waving their hands, and shoving each other. Other personnel from their respective branches joined the ensuing shouting match. Just as Vivian was about to radio base security, some Army officers barged in between the two vying groups and separated them. Very quickly, they restored order; an officer escorted each group away from each other.

Vivian grimaced, shook her head, and looked away. "I have to find a way to repair the gap between my troops. If I don't, we won't be as combat effective."

"You'd think the threat of annihilation would bring people together," Travers sighed, still looking out the window.

"I can't, and won't, rely on the threat the enemy poses to unify my people. I have to show them the Marines are on our side and not a pack of trigger-happy maniacs."

"Only way you can convince them of that is if you believe it yourself," Travers said sharply over his shoulder.

Vivian chewed her bottom lip. In an instant, she remembered how many times she and Frost confronted one another. No, how many times she confronted him. It was rare that he instigated any kind of meeting between them. And how they differed; when she initiated, she came ready with accusations and fire in her belly. What did he do? Cook her dinner based on one of her favorite cultural dishes. The more she thought about their past affairs, the more foolish she thought she was.

"Too many times I pointed at Gunnery Sergeant Frost and called him a murderer. Too many times, I used him as a way to paint the rest of the Marine Corps as a group of bloodlusting psychopaths who make war for the sake of enjoyment rather than necessity. I used to think it's his fault for how angry I am, but I've come to understand it's my own grief. I haven't been able to move on."

She turned around to look at Travers. The vice admiral was already looking at her, a calm, neutral expression on his tanned face. "If there's a problem with the personnel in a unit, it's because of their commander. I'm not going to just make an order or make a speech to try and mend things between us. I'm going to do something about it, sir. I'm going to give my men an example, a reason, to repair with the Marines."

Travers smiled kindly and nodded a little.

"I got goosebumps on the back of my neck," he said quietly.

"The Marine Raiders begin training tomorrow. So will I."

For a few, long moments, Travers stared and blinked at her. Eventually, he wrinkled his nose and furrowed his brow.

"What?"

"You heard me, sir. I'm going to undergo Raider training with Major Royce's company."

"Going out on that recon was stupid enough, but Raider training? Under Swing? You don't know what you're in for, Waters."

"If I didn't know what I was in for, I wouldn't have bothered putting on this uniform," she said, motioning to her gray tunic with both hands.

Travers took his hand out of his pocket and ran it down his face.

"You do realize SF infantry training is not applicable to your MOS-"

"Vice Admiral Travers," Vivian smiled slyly, "we're in a state of war. More than that, we're fighting for our survival. Cross-branch training is less strict than it was in peacetime. I doubt anyone will mind, let alone notice."

Travers shook his head and turned back to the window.

"Do what you think is best."

"There is no best decision in the Navy, sir," Vivian said, "there's only one decision."

Word Count: 6,169

Author's Note: A little announcement folks. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I know a lot of us are out of the job, out of school, or otherwise confined mostly to home. We have a little more time on our hands, including me. So, instead of a weekly update schedule, I've decided to change my upload schedules. Instead of one chapter per week, I will instead upload chapters upon completion. Essentially, that means chapters completed prior to an update time will be uploaded. Does this mean you can expect a chapter every day? No, not by any means, it takes me at least two to three days or more to write a chapter. Does this mean you can expect chapters a bit more frequently? Yes, of course. Not by a landslide, but noticeably. You can expect this for I'm Alone: Exalt as well as Marsh Silas: Inquisitor. Please, take care of yourselves during this time.

Yeah, writing this chapter was a tad difficult. I did want to delve into Carris's head and get a stream of conflict thoughts. But that really held me up and it was hard to get this chapter to move. It's a bit dialogue heavy and I'm not totally comfortable with that. But, it's done, and the job is done. I think from here I can really get it moving now, sort of move beyond this emotional stuff that's characterized the first eleven chapters, and achieve a typical-novel pace and narrative.

I have to admit, I am getting a little burned out with I'm Alone. I know, it's only been eleven chapters, but keep in mind how long it took to write the original story. I've been working with this cast of characters and story for nearly four years. I love it very much, and trust me, I love communicating with you all through this story, but as many of you who have written creatively on and off this site know, it can become easy to get bogged down on a long term project. It's why I'm more passionate and excited to work on Marsh Silas: Inquisitor right now, because it's fresher, and frankly, having only one main POV character makes writing for more accessible for me. I currently have six; that's a lot of minds to bounce between!

But I don't want to stop working on I'm Alone. Although I haven't set an exact chapter length for this one, I know it'll be somewhere in between 40 and 50 total chapters. I think every 15 chapters, I'll take a two week break from working on it just to give myself some breathing room. We'll see.

Comment Responses:

MightBeGone: Thank you, my man. I appreciate you pointing out errors like that; never hesitate to point something out, it can only help me! And I do like having my characters to have at least a couple layers, nothing super complex, but nothing too plain either? I recently said to Kabuto S. Inferno in a comment response for Marsh Silas: Inquisitor that I like my characters intriguing and my narratives to be simple. Nine times out of ten, plot/story progression is committed by a character making an action or having an idea, rather than external force poking their head in. That's my preferred style of writing and can only be done by having characters who are engaging and have a few dimensions.

I think you'll be seeing how Marines and ODSTs interact in the next chapter very plainly. And I take character deaths very seriously so don't worry my friend. Thanks for reading!

TheCarlosInferno: An apt description. It will be interesting to see how the characters progress and to see if they can repair their squad as well.

Alright, happy reading! Thanks for reading!

longmoonedraptor: Well, I'm glad to hear that! This story does operate on a one chapter per week policy, but like I said in the author's note, for the time being chapters will be uploaded upon completion. So that means they won't be sitting around waiting for next week to get uploaded. Thanks for reading!

Ctrl-Dalt-Delete: Wow, thank you so much for saying so. That's more than flattering, that's very humbling. Thank you.

I was actually worried some months back that the PTSD/Survivor's Guilt and other heavier issues that appear in this story and in the lore of the story would be too dark for a fanfic. But seeing as how readers have been able to engage, I guess it works. I'm doing my best to provide an entertaining and engaging ready experience, while at the same time try not to pass off these heavy, real-world issues in a romanticized, artful way; I want these issues to be realistic, stark, and unromanticized. A have a very big problem with the way films, shows, and other mediums glorify and romanticize aspects such as these. Anyways, I won't get on my rickety soap box.

I think it'll provide a new dynamic within the squad; not everything can be buddy-buddy all the time even if we, and personally I would like it to be. It really is good to be back, and more than that, I'm very happy you're back to read to. Means a lot to me, thank you.

As for Chips Dubbo, we'll see! I make no promises, so don't get your hopes up to high, but maybe there'll be something in future chapters. Again, don't get your hopes up, but we'll see.