Chapter 14: Orders

Frost checked the number beside the door and then walked into the ward. Most of the cots running down either side of the long room were empty. At the far right corner, he saw a fold-able curtain in front of the final bed. Only the metal bars at the end were visible as well as a clipboard attached to the top bar. In front was Jasmine, tapping on a data pad.

Walking briskly down the ward, he did his best to just look forward. Although the beds were empty, he spent enough time in hospitals to be wary of them. Too many times after the action he was among hundreds, sometimes thousands of wounded Marines. Men who lost arms and legs, feet and hands, who had their stomachs torn by shrapnel and third degree plasma burns over half their bodies. Sometimes, Marines were struck by so many plasma bolts their armor melted and fused to their flesh. To hear medical technicians peeling off smoldering, blackened armor and layers of skin made a man's gut curdle, the scent of burned flesh and metal brought on waves of nausea, and the pain screams of a young soldier who felt it all despite being pumped with medicine was more than a harden warrior could take. In flashes, he could see all those poor Marines in the beds, on the floor, and on stretchers. Writhing, wailing, sobbing, calling for friends and family members, they created a trembling mass which seemed to shake the entire ward.

He was not sure which was more terrifying; carrying such memories, or knowing he was going to see such scenes a hundred times over before the war ended.

Jasmine tucked her data pad into the pocket on the inside of her white lab coat. She turned and faced him.

"How's he doing?" he asked, pausing just before coming around the curtain. Her expression was worried, but she offered a kind little smile.

"Stable. He's asleep."

She plucked the clipboard from its mount and turned over the top sheet. Underneath were several x-ray captures. These she pulled out and handed to Frost. Someone took the time to circle the damage on the close-up images. Jasmine tapped the sheets with her fingers.

"His fifth, sixth, and seventh ribs are cracked. The seventh took the most damage; it nearly broke. His eighth rib down, his first false rib, that's cracked too. Nothing split into pieces or is damaged in a way that threatens to pierce his lungs, so he could breathe normally."

Jasmine leafed through the clipboard again and pulled out some photographs. The area around the point of impact was a large brown-maroon blotch. In the center were jagged marks. "This is the external damage. Very heavy bruising with broken skin along these points."

"These points," Frost said in a low tone after clearing his throat, "were those her knuckles?"

"Yes. Unfortunately because of his ribs, we can't put a lot of pressure on that area. Exercise and compression are out of the question until the ribs heal naturally. Painkillers are enough to deal with pain."

Frost could not look at the photos or black-blue x-ray images any longer. He handed them back and Jasmine slid these back under the clip. She placed the board back on its mount and folded her hands in front of her. "Overall, it's very manageable but he's going to be out of action for at least a month. Depending on his recovery, it might be two."

It was like being punched in the gut. Frost could not imagine going into the incoming operation with his friend. To go without his most trusted Marine and capable marksman into battle was like going to a dinner party without clothes. It was not just about combat either. When the going became tough, he could always turn to Steele and find respite. The scout sniper was already with a crude joke or sarcastic quip about whatever hellish situation they were in. Regardless of how bad it got, one could always count on Steele for that kind of behavior. It made the darker, dangerous times all the more bearable. When a Marine could look to his right and see another laughing in the face of adversity, it made him feel invincible. For years, the entire squad relied on Steele for that comedic bravado. Without him, morale was going to sink.

As his mind raced, he suddenly felt overwhelmed. He was going to be moving up the chain of command, working on the platoon or even company level. With his advancement and Steele's wounding, the squad would be down both of its combat leaders. He did not doubt the fighting capabilities of fellow Marines like Bishop or Knight; despite their personal eccentricities, they could be counted on to lead the squad. But as tight-knight a band of Marines the 89th MEU was, he did not trust anyone else leading his friends into battle. Nobody knew them like or Steele did and would not be able to utilize their unique abilities. A new squad leader would get people killed. Even if a capable replacement was found, the squad was understrength without him or the scout sniper.

Jasmine must have sensed his mounting shock. Smiling, she took both of his hands in her's and squeezed.

"Just breathe, darling," she whispered to him a sweet voice. "You need to focus on right now. Steele is alive and is going to make a full recovery. It's just going to take some time."

"But he won't be able to get into the suck with us," Frost said back. His mouth moved but the words did come out. Making eye contact with her became impossible as he silently trailed off. "What're we gonna do? What am I gonna do? I can't go off and do this without him."

"Nate," Jasmine said softly, "right now. Steele's alive, he's escaped threatening injury, and he's going to be okay." She took a step closer. "Do you want to see him?"

Frost just nodded. Jasmine began walking backwards, gently pulling him by his hands as she did. They came around the curtain one step at a time. Steele was laying on his back and was dressed in a white hospital shirt. One arm was underneath the blue blanket, while the other was exposed. A long, thin tube ran between the soft skin below his elbow and into what looked like an IV bag, except the liquid inside was clear. This was the painkiller treatment. As well, there was a clamp on his finger and connected by a wire to a monitor machine hung a hook beside the IV bag. All of the reading on the screens suspended over his heart were normal; decent blood pressure and a perfect resting heart rate.

Out of his armor, he seemed so small. Frost sometimes forgot how skinny the man was. While he was not skin and bones, most of the other Marines in the 89th MEU were broad and muscular. While he did have a layer of muscle, he was not robust like the others were. Without extra layers of clothing and body armor, it didn't look like he had anything at all.

His thick blonde hair was pushed to one side, exposing the entirety of his face. Narrow and handsome, it was unsurprising why so many of the women fell so easily to his flirtations. Stubble was growing on his cheeks, complementing his mustache. He looked far more rugged.

Frost smiled a little.

"Is there a chair or stool? I'd like to sit with him for a while."

He felt Jasmine's hand on his shoulder.

"I'll stay with him. You should go check on your squad. I think after what happened before, this may be tough on them. They need leadership."

Frost wrinkled his nose and stood up straight.

"Marines are trained to adapt and overcome any situation. They can..." he trailed off. Jasmine was looking up at him, unimpressed. Looking at her for a moment, he eventually rubbed the back of his head. "...yeah, you're right."

Jasmine smiled pleasantly and pushed her glasses back up her nose. She stood up on the tips of her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

"He's in good hands. I'll catch up with you later."

"Thanks, Jas. If anything comes up-"

"I'll let you know."

Casting one final glance at Steele, he turned away and walked back down the ward. As the automatic door slid open, he stepped into the hall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone leaning on the wall. Immediately, his brow furrowed and he gritted his teeth. Both hands curled into fists.

Turning sharply, he found Carris standing beside the door. Her hands were in her fatigue trouser pockets. Her head was hung so low her thick, black hair fell around her face, concealing it. Slowly, she stood up straight and pushed the locks from her face. Her crystalline blue eyes were glimmering.

"Is he...?" she faltered. "...did he? Will he...?"

"Why don't you go in there and see what you did to him?" Frost growled, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Carris took a nervous step back. It was the first time he'd ever seen her exhibit anything akin to anxiety or fear.

At that moment, seeing her shocked expression made him angrier.

Frost stepped closer. "Go on, see what you did."

"It was an accident."

"Wonder what condition he'd be in if it wasn't," Frost growled. "Aren't you supposed to be the best of the best? You're supposed to be the greatest soldier in this whole damn military. You're not supposed to make mistakes. Fuck-up's, washouts, and trainees make fucking mistakes. You're supposed to be in control."

Suddenly, her blue eyes flared.

"You may want to think twice about lecturing me. What do you call what happened back at the mining plant? Would you call that a mistake?"

Frost grunted, bowed his head slightly, and took a few steps back. Carris advanced, her own hands balling into fists. "Name one order I have not followed to the letter. Was there ever a time I hesitated and was unable to do my duty while I've been assigned to this ship? Or was there an instance in which I lost control and gunned down unarmed prisoners? Maybe, it wasn't a case of losing control. Maybe, the person whose supposed to make decisions is so fucked up in his head he doesn't know what's real anymore."

Carris paused and shook her head. "Chew me out all you want, lecture me all you want. You can even recommend me for punishment. But do not stand there and act like I'm the only one."

Frost broke their gaze for a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut. Thoughts in their millions coursed through his mind at the fraction of a second, yet those moments felt like eons.

Snowflakes began to fall and the air grew chilly. Standing in the frozen mud of the mining compound, he aimed down his sights at the prisoners. Each one of their faces, whether they appeared terrified, furious, or spiteful, infuriated him. He felt his eyebrows and mouth twitching, his breathing became ragged, and his hands began to shake. Before him, the prisoners became twisted shadows, figments of figures he killed so long ago. Refusing to pull the trigger in that very moment seemed like an impossibility. But that provided no excuse, no justification for anything he did. He knew it was wrong. What he did violated every single rule of warfare he was ever schooled in. Beyond those battlefield laws were every lesson he learned growing up. Each time his parents sat him and his sisters down, he paid attention and took whatever they said to heart. Do not hurt people. Do not lie. Do not steal. Do not cheat. Do not take what you do not need. Help those who need helping and protect those who need protecting. Do what you can to give something back to people, rather than take from them. Frost never needed a church or a pastor to teach him those lessons. He believed every word his parents said and took it to heart. Had those lessons served him? No, that was not the question. Did he remember those lessons?

Yes, but they were replaced by new lessons. He remembered getting his head shaved on the first day of boot camp, dressing fatigues that barely fit him, and standing in front of his rack while the drill instructor prowled up and down the two ranks of recruits. His wide-brimmed cap cast a shadow over his eyes. 'Listen up! However you have defined yourself up to this point does not matter anymore! Whatever nationality you identified as does not matter! Whatever color you thought your skin was does not matter! Whatever flag you stood up and saluted before does not matter! Whether you sucked dicks or fingered pussies does not matter! Everything you were taught before does not matter. Nothing about who you are or what you did or what you knew before now does not matter! Your parents and your teachers may have tried to tell you that you matter! They, were, wrong! You have not mattered for as long as you live until this very moment! You are going to become Marines or you will die trying! Do you know how you become Marines!? By killing, killing, killing! Repeat after me! Kill, kill, kill!'

From that day, Frost paid attention to the new lessons, the most important lessons of his life. That's what the drill instructor said and he believed every single word he said. Mount the bayonet, parry, thrust, and gore. The prone position is the most efficient position in which a Marine can fire his weapon upon the enemy. Some Marines went on to specialize in communications, demolitions, heavy weapons, engineering, or vehicle maintenance. But he was always a rifleman first. Army troopers got to sit around on whatever garrison detail they were ordered on so they could masturbate and give themselves commendation medals. Navy seamen were no longer called seamen: they were swabbies. Swabbies were weak and cowardly, as they were only able to engage the enemy behind the titnaium walls of a starship instead of engaging in the glory of ground warfare. The UNSC Air Force was a joke. There were no more national flags; the Marine only saluted the UNSC banner. Frost's brain was filled with countless acronyms, call signs, technical codes, and nicknames for even the most common aspects an individual encountered in their life. Above all, he was taught how to kill and the drill instructor told him he was going to do a lot of killing. By the time he graduated, he wanted his first kill so badly he was nearly drooling.

He blinked. Carris was glaring down at him. With her height, she towered over him. Looking down her nose, she appeared intimidating. Both eyes were angry and accusatory.

Eventually, she took a step back. "That's what I thought," was all Carris said. She turned on her heel and stormed down the hall.

Frost wiped his face and shook his head. Unsure of what to do with his anger, he whirled around and punched the wall as hard as he could. The shock reverted in his knuckles and traveled up his arm all the way to his shoulder. It hurt so bad he was forced to squint and grit his teeth just to manage it. Part of him wanted to scream and part of him just wanted to drop to the floor from fatigue. All at once, he felt furious and fatigued. If he kept hitting the concrete wall he would break every bone in his hand and arm. Scream, he wanted to scream so badly. He needed to do something with his hands. For the first time in his life, he wished a Covenant armada would attack so he would have something to shoot at. In the middle of battle, he did not have to think anymore. His body moved automatically and he could kill nearly indiscriminately. Shoot, stab, strangle, it did not matter, as long as he could combat the enemy instead of just sitting around training. In battle, he did not have to face the consequences of his actions.

Eventually, he just closed his eyes and let his head pressed against the wall. He did not want to go on another operation. The thought of leaving the safety of this world terrified him. Without his best friend, with his squad under-strength, he did not want to face the enemy. It would bring him no satisfaction to kill again. Just thinking about it was making him sick to his stomach. All he wanted to do was stay with Jasmine. When he was with her, everything seemed normal. When she smiled, blushed, pushed her glasses back up her nose, brushed her hair behind her ears, or whispered into his ear, he felt happy. Life seemed like it could continue and he no longer had to prove himself to himself, or to the UNSC, or anyone, to those nameless, faceless people he cared about. He did not even know why their opinions and perceptions of him matter so much. Why did he want their approval? Throughout his youth he wanted to feel accepted by these people who he did not know and did not matter to him. Why did he want them in his life when they did not want him? Why did it all matter? It was a trap, it was all a trap, and it was one he sprang on himself. In the miasma of his mind, he thought his way into a corner. He made himself small and insignificant, forcing him to scramble to find acceptance. Was that it? It had to be it.

Frost slowly reached up and held the sides of his head. He could not process his thoughts anymore. They were moving too quickly and there were far too many. It was like having worms crawling throughout his skull. Worms steadily feasting on his brain, ants biting and stinging and tunneling. Soon he would have no mind, he would just be an empty shell. A robot who could only follow orders and take lives. Would that be an easier existence to grapple with? One in which he possessed no conscience, no remorse, and no love?

"Turn around, Marine."

Slowly, Frost stood up straight and turned around. Standing before him was Major Royce, who had not removed his battle dress uniform. He was still holding his rifle as well. Around his neck was an olive drab scarf. Black stubble coated his narrow, pale face.

Royce looked him up and down. "Clean your face, Gunnery Sergeant."

"Sir?"

"Get those tears off your face."

Frost reached up and felt his cheek. They were moist. Quickly, he wiped his eyes and face on the sleeves of his fatigue jacket. When he finished, Royce nodded, turned, and began walking down the hall. Frost fell in step with him.

Royce held out a packet of cigarettes.

"We're in the infirmary, sir."

"Mm, must have forgotten," Royce said, tucking them back into a pouch on his rig. "How's your man?"

"Stable. He'll make a full recovery but it'll take some time."

"Won't be coming into the shit with us, then."

"Yes, sir."

"Too bad. It's going to be real hairy out there. Good fighting ahead."

"Yes, sir."

Frost was looking straight ahead, but he could feel Royce looking at him. It was like having someone bore a hole into his head.

"Steele got demoted. There's a chance he might get promoted again but I wouldn't hold your breath. You, on the other hand, you'll be moving up. Time to start acting like a Gunnery Sergeant."

"Yes, sir," Frost said, quieter this time.

"Of course, for organizational reasons, I need you to embed with a particular squad. How's Alpha White One suit you?"

It was the current designation for his squad. Frost looked over at his new commanding officer in disbelief. Royce betrayed no emotion, appearing soldierly and business-like.

"That'd suit me just fine, sir, thank you."

"Battlefield promotions and commissions tend to take Marines away from their fellow leathernecks. Brass thinks those men won't respect his authority or his leaders. I think the brass is full of shit and we don't have the luxury to move personnel around like it's a game of fucking chess. So for now, I need you running that squad."

"Yes, sir."

"Now get the fuck out of my sight and unfuck your squad most ricky-tick." Royce quickened his pace and continued walking down the hall. He adjusted the strap of his rifle on his shoulder. "There's going to be a lot of killing ahead of us, Marine. Real fucking killing fields. Raiders are going to be up on front when it goes down."

Frost was puzzled. He took a few steps forward.

"Sir, we're only going to be a diversionary force. Heavy fighting, but not like what the main assault force will be encountering."

Royce stopped. For a moment, he stood as still as a statue. When he looked over his shoulder, he was smiling.

"Yeah, you're right," he said in a light tone. Frost could detect the disbelief in his voice. "Probably going to be a walk in the park, Marine."

###

By the time Frost found his squad in the barracks, Carris was already back. Everyone was out of their battle dress uniforms or at least halfway out. They were dirty, sweaty, and smelly, but nobody really seemed to mind. Most of their gear was spread across the floor; grass and dirt caked onto their boots was everywhere.

Carris was sitting at the table with a steaming coffee mug in her hand. Grant was sitting beside her with an arm around her shoulders.

"It was an accident, C. Accidents happen."

"Even Marines make mistakes," Moser said. He was standing beside and placed his hand on his shoulder. When she didn't say anything, he crouched down beside her. "One time in basic, we needed to practice live grenade drills. But the range was full up that day; there were just so many recruits there the new base simply couldn't accommodate us. So the drill instructor drove our platoon out into the fields beyond the base and we found this berm. We crouched behind it and lobbed grenades forward into this field. You probably never knew this about Grant, but when he was still a boot, he had butter fingers."

"C'mon man, not this story."

The others gathered around Grant and patted him on the back or shoulders. They grinned and laughed, and Grant covered his face. Moser laughed.

"So we line up to throw another bunch of grenades. We rear are arms back, and then I hear, 'oh shit.' I look over and Grant is standing there looking at his empty hands. I looked down the slope and saw his grenade rolling down. The drill instructor shouted, 'cover!' But the thing was, we already pulled the pins on our grenades and were cooking them. So what do we do? We all turn around, throw our grenades behind us, and rush over the berm. We dove down and the grenades all went off."

"That drill instructor nearly kicked him out of boot," Knight said, folding his arms across his chest and shaking his head. "Oh, he was super fucking pisser. 'Private Grant, you are a disgrace to the United Nations Space Command Marine Corps! If we weren't losing a million people every single day, I'd send your ass back to whatever fucking hovel you call home in a box!' That was the best chewing out I ever saw."

"And from that day forward!" Bishop said as if he was the announcer on a game show. He grabbed Grant's shoulders and shook him heavily. "Private First Class Grant never ever fumbled another grenade!"

"Fuck you guys," Grant muttered, shoving him away.

But the story made Carris smile. It was weak and fatigued, but nonetheless it was still a smile. After taking a sip of coffee, she looked up at Frost. Everyone followed her gaze. Their own grins faded.

"He's stable," he said. Frost slowly looked at Carris. The others were not looking at her and she freely gazed back resentfully. Both eyebrows became knitted and her lips pursed. To not return the same expression came with great restraint. Eventually, he closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. "Carris, we do make mistakes. Don't get hung up on it, we've got other things to worry about it."

Frost did not mean a single word of it. Carris probably knew that, judging from her unchanged expression. But the rest of the squad seem reassured. It was what they needed to hear. A dispute between their squad leader and one of their mates would only decimate their morale.

Clearing his throat, Frost stood up straight. "I'm in charge until further notice. You're stuck with me for a while long."

Just as everyone began smiling and high-fiving each other, he held up his hand. "But we're Marines. It's time to focus because we're about to get in the fucking such. Marines leave a messy battlefield but they do not act like fucking children coming home from school! On your feet, Marines! Clean this shit up you have thirty seconds, move, move, move!"

Before he even finished, the squad scrambled to pick up their gear. They hustled around, bumped into each other, and tried to carry as much as they could. Frost stepped aside so they could run through the door. "Double time you fucking devil dogs, move it! Langley if you don't move your scrawny ass you'll be sweeping this up with that skinny Croat! You ain't in the Air Force anymore, you're a goddamn Marine! Haul ass!"

When the squad finally cleared out and stampeded down the hall, Frost slowly looked back at Carris. She was still glaring at him. "Get moving, Petty Officer Third Class Carris."

Carris got to her feet and began to follow the others. Just before she went through the door, Frost shot his arm in front of her and grasped the frame. Slowly, she looked down at him. "Are you going to be able to follow my orders?"

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant."

"Police your gear. Once you're finished, you're going to the infirmary and you will stay with him."

"I-"

"You said you were going to follow orders. I just gave you one. Do it."

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant," was all she managed to say before turning around.

The training fields were cleared of all personnel. Even the firing ranges were empty. Vivian sat on the grassy center of one of the tracks. Sitting crossed legged, she spread out a moderately sized sheet of canvas in front of her. She placed her MA5B assault rifle on it.

Undoing the strap of her helmet, she placed it to the side and took her hair out of its bun. Shaking her head, her matted dirty blonde hair fell down to her neck. Glad to be free of both, she sighed loudly. Despite all the installments for ventilation, the standard Marine helmet trapped too much heat.

Wiping her brow, she took a brief sip from her canteen. Then, she set about dismantling the weapon system in front of her. She took out the empty magazine and placed it on the corner of the tarp. Then, she unscrewed the barrel and slid out, followed by the flashlight attachment underneath. When it was entirely disassembled in front of her, she meticulously cleaned every piece with a soft cloth and oil. It was a time consuming process but she did not mind. In fact, she rather enjoyed the slow nature of the task. Carefully wiping it of dust, then adding oil, wiping it down, blowing on it, reapplying, and then wiping it for a final time proved to be a simple yet elegant ritual. She even went the extra step of tweaking the electronics suite, running a debugging program provided by the armory technicians to upgrade the program for faster, more accurate readouts. Once she finished, she raised her watch. It possessed a stopwatch feature which she promptly activated. As fast as she could, she began to reassemble the weapon.

During the first few rounds, her hands felt sluggish. Even after all of the weapon drills she practiced under Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing, she did not feel surefooted enough. The Marines were able to strip their weapons and piece them back together under a minute. Some moved so fast they could perform the task under thirty seconds. Each time she finished, she shook her head at the readout on her watch: two minutes and fifteen seconds, two minutes and three seconds, one minute and thirty seven seconds, and one minute and twenty seconds. Then she practiced a reverse drill, disassembling the MA5B as fast as possible before piecing it back together again.

But as she completed a fifth round, and then a sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth, she could feel herself speeding up. Her senses became elevated, her motions became faster and accurate.

After completing her tenth, she was about to reset when a shadow loomed over her. Vivian looked up and saw Frost standing beside her, his rifle slung over his shoulder. With the sun at his back, he looked more like a shadow and she could not see his upper face. All she could see was a small, amused smile.

"The MA5 Individual Combat Weapon System is an air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine-fed, bullpup rifle designed for automatic fire," he said in a quick, educated tone. "Standard issue ammunition consists of the M118 Seven-point-Six-Two Full Metal Jacket Armor-Piercing cartridge, capable of dispatching an enemy alien designation, 'Elite,' in forty-five rounds. However, the MA5 ICWS family of weapons has the advantage of utilizing both shredder and hollow point cartridges as well."

Frost walked around and sat cross-legged on the opposite side of the tarp. His gray-blue eyes were alight. "The MA5B ICWS variant is designed for close quarters battle due to its increased rate of fire and larger magazine consisting of sixty rounds." He paused for a moment. "Isn't that it? That's right out of the manual, right?"

"As far as I can remember," Vivian said. "How is he?"

"He'll be fine. Won't be ready in time for jump off."

"Well, I'll ask Jasmine if she can perform a miracle," Vivian said, offering a smile. Frost blinked for a moment, then smiled and nodded.

Vivian decided not to time herself and began to piece her rifle back together slowly. Across from her, he set his own down and began to disassemble it. It was hard not to look up at him. For a time, she stared at him, the man she hated, the man who killed her friends. How could she not? Years and years, she imagined him, this monster, this butcher of young women, a real Jack the Ripper. Instead, the killer was just another Marine following orders. In front of her was no monster, just a man, a soldier, putting his rifle back together.

Although she could not say she knew him well, or at at all admittedly, she could see his face was troubled.

Vivian set her rifle down and sat back, digging her fingers into the grassy ground to hold herself up. "So, how come you're out here sitting with me when you could be banging my best friend?"

Frost's head snapped up. He looked more surprised than angry. Vivian laughed a little. "Don't even act like it's a secret. Everyone knows."

"Well, she's busy," Frost said, clearly embarrassed as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Working. You know. You really don't mind that she and I...well..."

"You make her happy. That's good enough for me. Hurt her and I'll put a bullet in your head."

Frost chuckled.

"That's fair."

"What's on your mind?"

Frost shrugged a little. He shook his head. But eventually, he looked up; he seemed sad.

"When they told you were going to become the skipper of this whole task force, were you scared?"

Vivian stared at him for a few moments. She remembered standing there with Travers and the other officers from the ships. It was on the very day Oswald was sentenced to a lengthy prison term. Reach was so cold, she remembered. When Travers told her, it was like being pierced by a sword, but rather than a quick blow, it bore slowly into her heart.

She brushed a lock of loose hair from her face, shrugged slightly, and looked away. "You'd think a young Navy Commander fresh out of OCS would relish the opportunity to become a captain. I wanted in so badly, I wanted to be on the bridge of a UNSC Navy starship, and fight as hard as I could. All of a sudden there it was, what I wanted so much, and I almost said no. It dawned on me what leadership meant. All the people depending on me to make the right decisions just made itself apparent at that very moment. Not just one ship, but several ships, tens of thousands of lives to think about. I almost said no."

Frost finished taking his weapon apart.

"But you said yes."

"I didn't. It was out of my hands. Travers said I was getting promoted and I was taking over. It was not a choice."

"Shit."

"Shit, indeed," Vivian said, huffing a little laugh. "But you know what, I would have said yes anyways. In a way, whether he gave me the choice, there was no choice. You don't have choices as a leader; you make decisions. Plan all you want, prepare all you want, but at the end of the day, when we start trading fire with the Covvies, a leader has to make a decision. If I'm not going to make them, who is?"

Vivian leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. "You've been leading a squad for nearly two years. You must know what I'm talking about."

"I do, but things are different now. It was easier before. Teo died and it was just, you know, a snap thing. Hayes made me a sergeant and I was in command of the squad in the middle of a battle. There was no time to think, and then we were off on missions. Those early days felt like a whirlwind sometimes, and only now have we had time to really sit and face what's happened. We're going into another storm and I suddenly feel like I'm not as capable, not in control. Maybe it was because of what happened to Sanchez, I don't know."

Frost leaned forward as well, ran his hands through his thick brown hair, and shook his head quickly. "Feel like I'm making all the wrong decisions."

"There are no wrong or right decisions. One way or another, somebody loses out, or somebody gets killed. If you make one and somehow things turn out alright, that's luck. We'd like to chalk it up to skill or experience, but it's just plain luck. But you must make decisions; if you don't, a lot of people are going to die."

"I know."

"The decisions we have to make are the best possible ones; it doesn't mean they're good ones. Most of the time, the orders we could possibly give are just bad, bad, bad. Two years in, I've seen the crew of the I'm Alone do what they've been ordered to do. So many of these young Navy men and women are younger than me. Can you believe it? They're well trained, eager, and capable. All they need is someone to give them an order. Your Marines are the same way. Just give them the order and they'll do it. It's up to you to figure out which one is the best one to make, and you have to live with it."

"Been living with a lot of things, skipper."

"We all are. We're being asked to do what no young warriors have ever been asked to do; preserve their species from extinction. If we fail, we don't make concessions or pay reparations. We all die."

Frost nodded and looked down at his boots. It was as if he was bowing his head in prayer. Vivian sighed, then tapped the key on her watch. "What's the deadliest weapon in the whole galaxy, Gunnery Sergeant Frost?"

Slowly, he looked up at her.

"A Marine and his rifle."

"What do you call that pile of shit in front of you?" she asked, pointing at the disassembled MA5B. "What is that, Gunny? Scrap metal?"

"No ma'am, it's an MA5B Individual Combat Weapon System."

"What are you going to do with that MA5B assault rifle, then? Chuck those pieces at a Grunt's head."

"No, ma'am," Frost replied, smiling.

"Tell me what you're gonna do with it."

"Ma'am, I'm going to assemble this rifle faster than a motherfucker and shoot some aliens."

Vivian started the timer.

Word Count: 6,185

Pages (Google Docs): 15

Original Font: PT Serif

Original Font Size: 11

Original Line Spacing: 1.5

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait folks. I hit a wall and I really wasn't able to focus or complete much writing. I do apologize for that. But I found my stride again and I'll be working on I'm Alone next week to finally catch up. I will try to post three chapters next week or I will die trying. And hey, if you're feeling charitable, why don't you mosy over to my other story, Marsh Silas: Inquisitor. I'm really proud of the last few chapters and the story overall, so if you gave it a look-see that would be some welcomed support.

Comment Responses:

TheCarlosInferno: Yes, I'm aware she killed her instructor although he wasn't killed by a punch. It was the result of a pin reversal and a throw, which severed his fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae, causing instant death. I interpreted this scene and showed it in Carris's introductory chapter, Chapter 4: Armor.

MightBeGone: No, you get actual brownies. Yep, I like the direction so far, the interactions are more realistic and the dynamics are changing. Whereas once the squad had unity there is disharmony, and Vivian and Frost are finding common ground. Thanks for reading and commenting.

Dairene: The SPARTAN-II Program is very hard to reconcile. On the one hand, it produced a new breed of special operations forces which contributed heavily to war effort and set in motion a new branch of the UNSC military. Without the Spartans, humanity would have lost the war. However, the means in which the children were abducted, replaced, and indoctrinated violates every law in the book and is generally immoral. Rather than being treated like people, they were treated like science experiments. Yet, the handlers did empower them and elevate their self-perceptions as superhuman soldiers, and I think on some level, many of the surviving Spartan II's consider it more of an uplifting or opportunity. Does that justify or change anything objectively? No. As for General Amsterdam, she's rough around the edges, as evidenced in the previous story of her treatment of the security guard smuggler. But that was an 'in-the-family' scenario, whereas the total situation was far more delicate, and I think that's when Amsterdam stops being a field commander and acts like a general who understands and believes in military law. Hayes and Holst, well, there's always been differences and you'll certainly see some of that in the future. Thanks for reading and commenting.