Chapter 22: Become More

"Now hear this, now hear this," came Vivian's voice through the intercom, "the I'm Alone will be entering slipspace at fourteen-hundred hours. All crew not selected for skeleton crew detail report to the Cryonics Bay in by thirteen-thirty hours. That is all. Carry on."

Steele remained on his back, his arms behind his head, his left leg propped up on top of his right knee. Strands of thick blonde hair fell down either side of his face and stubble was growing thickly on his cheeks. The patient's outfit he wore felt too big where it should have been tight and tight where he should have had space. Not to mention it was surprisingly itchy; when he was wounded before all the gowns or clothes he wore while bedridden in countless ship infirmaries and Navy hospitals were quite soft to the touch. Still, at least the mattress was comfortable and the sheets cozy.

Kicking his raised foot in boredom, he looked left and right. None of the casualties from the first raid were in his medical bay. As morbid as it was to wish Marines recovering from wounds however grievous were present so as to keep him company. At least he could grill them for details on the battle; Frost was too stingy with his. He wanted to know what kind of shots they pulled off, what they managed to blow up, and how many Covenant they slaughtered. Kill statistics were something he enjoyed chatting about with other Marines; he didn't want his squad to catch on lest they consider him some kind of nerd.

It didn't even have to be that. They could talk about what kind of chow they were serving in the mess hall or the size, stink, or consistency of their latest bowel movement. Anything, anything at all, to take his mind off of Frost and Skopje. The towards words were connected but they seemed so out of place when he imagined them side by side. Frost, Skopje. Skopje, Frost. Both were bywords. Skopje hung over the 89th Regiment like a cloud of fat horse flies over a rotting cow carcass. Frost's name led to another one: Jack the Ripper. Among the UNSC Marine Corps, he was just one of many legendary warriors who cemented their reputation through combat. The difference between him and the others, they were bonafide heroes who knew how to throw lead at the enemy, wracked up impressive kill counts, and acted with great valor in the face of the Covenant. On the other hand, Frost was nearly synonymous with his combat knife, and his notoriety was dark like a shadow, one that demanded respect but also command awe and fear. Marines like him were rare and even Steele knew that. Many were kids who heard how tough the Corps was and they wanted to prove how many they were. What rude awakenings they faced when the first plasma bolts whizzed by their heads. Others kids were smart; they did their research and knew the Marines were the premier shock infantry in the entire UNSC. If you were going to war, the smart went with the best. Still, there were myriads more; outcasts looking for a home, prisoners given a choice between enlistment and prison, starry-eyed fools brainwashed by the propaganda, a few hoped some medals on their chest and a couple battlefield promotion would net them a bundle of credits, and strays like Steele who were just trying to get away from home.

Marines in the 89th were young and other than the regimental headquarters, most weren't even in their late twenties. Most came from poorer backgrounds and dysfunctional lives, mostly from the changes war demanded on Earth but a number who suffered the tragedies of a broken family. Then, there was Frost, some quiet kid from Nova Scotia, intelligent, poetic, and living in the relative comfort created by a well-known professor with a doctorate in musical history. Who would give up that life? When a kid like that graduated from secondary school, they had their pick of higher education institutions, get their education, sit out the war, and maybe even get a job that the draft couldn't touch. Or at least stave off the draft for a while; it had a way of infiltrating all walks of life.

But he did join up. One could blame the punishments levied against the families if the prospective candidate refused to enlist. It was that way for a lot of the Marines on the I'm Alone. Steele just leaped at the opportunity to ditch his family. Frost's family could have hefted the burden but he went anyways. Having never paid it much mind, Steele was beginning to think his friend would have ended up enlisting anyways. Like him, he needed to get away but perhaps, but not for the same reason. It was easy to hate him for it as Steele wouldn't have given those kinds of opportunities up. The disjointed nature between Frost the Marine and Frost the Pampered was further emphasized by his aptitude as a Marine. He took to training so well and combat was something he desired. All Marines wanted to fight, but it made Frost's mouth water when they were in boot camp. When he finally got it, saw what his hands could do, there was a shock. Just maybe he didn't realize how much he was going to enjoy it.

Sighing loudly, Steele ran his fingers through his mop of hair and shook his head.

"Need a fucking smoke for this," he muttered.

"Now, Corporal," said the nurse as she changed his IV bags. "We already talked about this. The last you need is to be puffing on a cigarette, you're supposed to relax your upper body. Not to mention there's plenty of health risks an able-bodied Marine like yourself should be aware of when it comes to smoking."

Steele scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Lady, if I wanted to get lectured on how to live my life, I ring my fucking mother."

"Well, as it turns out we don't have a phone you could use so I'm the best you got."

"I ain't gonna call you mommy even if you asked me too."

"That would depend on the circumstances," the nurse said, tying the bag off and resting one hand on her hip. She leaned down a little. "And you would be calling me mommy under the right circumstances."

She turned on her heely sharply and then smacked his leg down. It didn't hurt but the shock was surprising enough to Steele he jumped a little.

"Hey, I'm supposed to be fucking resting!" he complained.

"Resting your upper body," she reminded him over her shoulder, "the rest of you I could break if I wanted."

Steele blinked as she watched her strut down the aisle back to her station with the other nurses. Before she resumed her work, the door slid open and Steele was relieved to see Carris walk in. Instead of being in her armor, she was wearing a blank t-shirt with a white print of the UNSC Navy logo over the left breastplate. Both sleeves bore a rating of her rank; a single, red, downwards stripe. Above in white was another iteration of the Navy logo in white. She wore working uniform trousers in olive drab and a shining pair of leather boots. Her exposed, pale forearms were sinewy and her well-defined musculature seemed to press against her shirt. It was a stark contrast to her smooth face, pale save for a dusting of red on her cheeks, her soft but utterly vivid blue eyes, and her just slightly plump lips.

After flashing her ID at the clerk, she walked briskly down the aisle. When she was a few steps away, she smiled at him.

"Hello, Louis," she said, standing over him. Steele immediately reached over, grabbed her hand, and did his best to pull her down. It was like trying to pull a stone pillar down with a rope.

"Carris, you gotta get me outta here. If I stay any longer I think that nurse is going to try to fuck me while I sleep!"

Blinking, Carris stood up straight and looked back towards the nursing stations. The specialist in question was busy conferring with another nurse over a data pad. Seemingly unconvinced, Carris quirked an eyebrow, pursed her lips, and looked back at Steele. He nodded eagerly. "Right? You get what I'm talking about?"

"You're paranoid," Carris said gently although he could tell she was chiding him. "I think you've been cooped up here for too long and the light might be baking you slowly."

Steele looked up at the embedded light fixtures hanging overhead. At that moment, they seemed as bright as an afternoon sun and the rays nearly blinded him. Lowering his gaze, he put his other hand on top of her's as well.

"Please, get me out of here."

"I'm sorry, Lou. I don't think it'd go over well if I tried to bust you out of here. Things are locked down pretty tight and you really do need to recover."

"But I feel fine!"

Carris's amused smile faded somewhat. Sitting down on a nearby stool and rolling it over, her other hand still locked between his own, she reached over, turning her hand over as she did, and gripped the bottom edge of his shirt between her thumb and index finger. Steele blinked at her careful, deliberate touch. He could feel her knuckles drag against his skin, sending pleasant jolts up his spine. As her hand moved he let go of her other hand, allowing his to rest by his sides. The entire time, his gaze did not break from her's. Her blue eyes were focused and serious. She was so close he could see the white overhead lights reflecting in her deep irises. Complemented by her fair cheeks and pale pink lips, she looked particularly striking.

Eventually, she moved his shirt up and exposed most of his chest. Across his ribcage was a large, fading blotch. Its color was coffee stain brown like a birthmark. For a time, she stared at it intensely. Then, she lowered her hand until it hung above his skin, her fingertips just above it. Slowly, she let them touch the mark. The moment her hand, cold on her fingertips but warm in her palm, rested on his wound, Steele winced.

Carris looked up at him and smirked.

"Feeling fine?"

Steele smiled wide, clenching his teeth as he did.

"Stellar, love," he said, doing his best not to betray his pain. Carris withdrew her hand and pulled his shirt back down. She shifted from the stool to the edge of his bed, her back to him but turned enough that she could still face him. Her smile was gentle and even a little sad.

"Trust me, I want to get you out of here. Even though he and I aren't on the best terms right now, Frost is right. You've all done some growing up and it's time to act the part." She faced forward, pressed her hands together, and let them rest between her knees. "When I was finally billeted to the I'm Alone, I thought this was the most ad hoc, Wild West operation I'd ever seen. Everybody seemed like children. You, Frost, Captain Waters, even Dr. Ebrahimi. I looked around and I didn't see warriors. But once we took the Port I knew everything changed. We're actually having an impact on the war. We're making a difference. The gravity of our achievements and the desperation of our cause have finally sunk into the crew of this ship."

She lowered her head a little, her thick black locks falling around the sides of her face. "In a way, I was relieved. You can imagine the culture shock of joining such a unit when the one you were raised in was made up of the finest professionals the UNSC has ever produced. At the same time, it broke my heart. You were all young, smiling, laughing, glad of heart, quick to joke."

Steele smiled softly, sat up a little, reached over, and squeezed her shoulder.

"Hey, we still are."

She looked at him then, her blue eyes glinting.

"Not in the same way." Carris sighed and leaned back a little, propping herself up on her arms. She was careful not to put any weight on Steele's legs. "I suppose it was going to happen one way or another. You're still my friends and I'm going to fight as hard as ever for you."

She looked over at him and smiled. "I'm looking forward to the day the squad will have its Scout Sniper back."

Her tone was filled with soft endearment. It was so tender Steele could not help but chuckle stupidly, avert his gaze, and turn a little red in the cheeks. "I'm looking forward to the day you're back in the barracks, too."

At that, he quickly looked back at Carris. Her gaze was on the floor, her cheeks were tinged with red, and she was smiling. For a time, Steele blinked and didn't know what to say. Eventually, he was able to clear his throat and shrug.

"I mean, yeah, of course."

Carris looked up, a little surprised.

"I mean, for your company."

"Yeah, yeah, I get you, so we can hang out and stuff."

"Right. Go to mess and chat."

"Things like that and..." Steele's voice faltered, he looked down momentarily, shook his head, and scoffed. When he looked back up, he found Carris looking at him in confusion. "...love, I don't have the slightest clue what you see in me. I remember what you said in the hospital ward when I was first recovering. I know that. But I just can't figure it out. Would you really want to be with a fella who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, bangs anyone with two tits and a skirt, and couldn't give a rat's ass about these ridiculous fucking traditions all these military assholes seem to give a shit about?"

Carris laughed.

"By that logic, I don't know why you're distressed about a nurse who seems ready to mount you at any minute."

Again, she began to giggle. Steele couldn't think of anything to retort. He was drinking in the sight of her smile and her eyes. He couldn't help it; making Carris laugh was a near impossibility when she first joined the squad. Although he found her strange and aloof, something in him just couldn't stand her lack of connection. So he went out of his way to make her laugh, to see that grin; just to see her face change at times. In the confines of the I'm Alone's barracks, even the static expressions of a comrade's face could become paradoxically boring and aggravating. At that moment, he realized he hadn't been trying to make her smile like that to break up the monotony. When she was happy, he felt happy. In a way, he felt almost proud he could elicit those reactions from her and he delighted in them.

Carris noticed him staring and pushed some hair behind her ear. "There's a lot more to you than that. And you don't have to live in the context of your friends, either. I remember what you said that day too. If you think you owe him, me, and the others that much, that's not healthy for you, Louis. You're your own man. Frost is your friend and he's helped you so much, but you don't owe him anything. I'm sure if you spoke to him about it, he doesn't think you do either."

"I'm not sure," Steele said, looking away. He did not set eyes on anything in particular. There wasn't much to gawk at, anyways. But staring at the rows of hospital cots and blinking medical machinery, he was able to reimagine those first days of boot camp. After running through a gauntlet of screaming drill instructors, being read a list of rules and regulations that would see him kicked out, and being processed through a byzantine tree of paperwork. Once they finally reached their bunks, it was that polite, calm, quiet, fresh-faced lad who came up to him. Throughout boot camp, the lad treated him with kindness, indulged his bad behavior, covered for him when he made mistakes, and personally helped him with every aspect of their training. At first, Steele thought he was only helping him because he didn't want the rest of the platoon to get smoked by his poor performance. Once he realized it was genuine, they were inseparable.

It was hard to imagine just by looking at the smiling, gray-eyed boy he would become more than a Marine: a true killer of men. Yet, that kindness never departed. He was never embittered by what he did or the atrocities he witnessed. Somebody like that was a true warrior; someone who could perform horrible deeds yet retain their personality. Guilt was sustained, processed, and compartmentalized. Steele used to be certain Frost was able to fulfill that process better than any other Marine. It was what made him the strongest and the truest warrior among their number. Now, he was not so sure. Was it just a keen mind that was able to reconcile one's actions or was he truly sick? Did it happen during boot camp? Was it Skopje? Did he bring something with him from civilian life? Perhaps, it was all three.

"Nobody ever did anything for me as a kid. It still makes me mad. Old Town in London was a tough place to grow up, Carris. You could lose your faith in people in a place like that. Nate made sure that didn't happen. If there's anybody I trust, it's him."

"And he doesn't expect anything from you because of that. You're his brother."

"He expects me to be a Marine," Steele snorted.

"Because he cares about you and wants to see you be more than you are." Carris shrugged a little bit. "So do I."

"What is it with you two? I don't want to be a Sergeant or anything else. I didn't even want to be a full Corporal. It doesn't mean anything to me."

"You're thinking too small, focusing on superficial things like rank and responsibility. You have potential to be a better man, to educate yourself, learn, grow, just to be more than you are. The only difference between you and that kid in London's Old Town is your uniform."

Steele sank deeper into his cot and rested his hands on his stomach. Carris reached over, took his hand, and held it between her own. For a moment, Steele thought she was going to give him another serious speech about growing up and becoming a real Marine. Instead, she giggled. "Even if you're not wearing it right now," she joked.

He was able to crack a smile then.

"You're a real sweetheart, Carris."

She blushed a little and looked away momentarily. "You might see something more in me. But we're talking about me, here, so I have a say too. When I look inside, I don't see much. Not sure why everyone else sees someone who can become something they're not. You're right, there ain't much difference between me and that kid. So you know what's gonna happen? If, somehow, we beat the Covenant and we make it out of this bullshit alive, I won't stay in the Corps. Then what will I be? Some bum on a London Old Town street. Full circle, Carris. Why bother trying to change things if one day I'll just be another ex-Marine looking for work? I haven't ever been lucky but I think luck is the only thing that'll help me."

"Because if you apply yourself now, because if you act, now, you won't be some faceless, nameless, ex-Marine. What you do now will affect the rest of your life. Luck has nothing to do with it. Do you want to go back to be nothing?"

"No," Steele answered after a few moments.

"Then, it's time to act like a Marine," she said, smiling confidently. Steele just shook his head and tried to suppress his smile. Her attitude was becoming infectious. She could tell and that made it all the more amusing. Sliding further up the cot and letting go of his hand, she reached over and took him by the shoulder. "I'll help you."

"Are you my new DI?"

Carris grinned, reached over, and dug her fingers into his thick blonde hair.

"I will motivate you, Corporal Steele!" she said, pretending to sound like Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing. Gently, she wiggled his head back and forth in her grasp. Steele could tell she was trying to be careful not to tug too hard on his hair. But it was impossible not to laugh. Although it pained him, he sat up a bit more, wrapped his arms around Carris's neck, and pulled her into him. As her face planted into the base of his neck, she let go of his hair and Steele heard her make a small noise of surprise. It wasn't a yelp, definitely not a squeal, and by no means a squeak.

For a time, he held her that way. At first, Steele tried to come up with some way to tussle but the moment he felt her breath on the soft skin of his neck, he found himself unable to think. One of his hands moved up and rested on the back of her head, his fingers twisting some of her hair around them.

"I'm lucky to have you, that's for sure," he whispered in his ear. Carris didn't say anything. Instead, her arms carefully wrapped around him, gripping the back of his shirt. Feeling her breath and her hands upon him made Steele inhale deeply and then exhale warmly. He hoped to stay that way for a little while, at least.

When Vivian entered the I'm Alone's armory, she was greeted by the familiar sight of sparring rings, racks of free weights, and rows upon rows of bench presses, treadmills, and exercise machines of all types. At the aft section on the starboard side, personnel hammered away at paper and holographic targets with M6 series sidearms. Personnel attending advanced courses per their promotions streamed into the classroom sections. Underneath the enclosed observation platform, new arrivals clad in olive drab, blue, black, or gray tank tops and shirts, complemented by black PT shorts, trickled out of the changing rooms. Others, drenched in sweat, huffing for air, and red in the face, marched off to refresh themselves. With so many of the treadmills in use, scores of Marines, ODSTs, and Navy crew members jogged around the edge of the work out area. Some ran alone while others ran in squad or platoon sized groups, usually with a senior NCO or a junior officer. Most were in their PT gear, while a few of the infantrymen pushed themselves by wearing their full BDU's, stuffing their rucksacks with boxes of ammunition, and carrying another box in each hand.

In the large, square sparring rings, Marines practiced hand to hand combat drills. In one, it was a free for all between nearly thirty men. In another, the edge of the ring was lined with sitting Marines. In the center was Frost, wearing his BDU trousers and an olive drab tank top. Although he appeared small outside of his fatigues and armor, it was easy to forget he was a man of stature. His upper body, while not large like many of his fellow Marines, was well-defined by muscle. Despite his arms remaining in a resting position, she could clearly see the veins in his forearms.

Approaching the bottom of the ring, she folded her hands and watched his lecture. The Gunnery Sergeant seemed perfectly at ease. He wore a charitable smile which was further complemented by the short beard he wore. In his left hand, he held his combat knife in its scabbard.

"You want your fighting knife in an accessible position. The key aspects to that accessibility are your dominant hand and comfort." At this, many of the Marines snickered. Frost waved at them dismissively. "Hey, I'm serious. You want your knife to be somewhere you can just grab it but not to the point it's uncomfortable. You don't want it digging into your leg, foot, or ass, depending on how you wear. Balancing our rig loads is really important and the knife, however light it might feel in your hand, is a part of that weight. Choose wisely. M52B body armor is very modular so you have a lot of options when it comes to attaching your scabbard." Then, he held up his right hand. "This is my dominant hand, but I'm proficient enough with my left to be ambidextrous. We've all learned how to hold and fire an MA5 with our dominant and non-dominant hands. You need to learn how to effectively use a knife or another melee weapon with both hands too."

He tossed the scabbard from his left hand to his right, back again, and then repeated it several more times before he caught the scabbard and drew the blade. "It's not the same as drawing an M6, okay, this isn't the fucking Wild West and you're not a cowboy duelist. I find the best spot to place your knife is on the side of your body opposite of your dominant hand. That way you can reach across your chest—" he demonstrated by over-exaggerating his reach, "—and bring it to bear quickly. You might think having the knife on your belt below your dominant hand might be quicker, but it's actually kind of clunky."

He took a moment to clip the scabbard to the right side of his belt. Then, he reached down and began to draw it. "Sure, it seems fast, but the angle is pretty awkward if you're standing. It's not a comfortable way to move your arm. Reaching across your chest and then bringing your arm back is a very natural movement, not to mention if some Covvie shitheel is hauling ass towards you and almost has the drop on you with its hands or some kind of non-plasma melee weapon, you can use your arm to block it. After you block, you can bring your knife to bear on them immediately. Of course, if it's anything besides a Grunt, Jackal, or Skirmisher, you're probably fucked anyways."

Everybody laughed. Still smiling, he turned around to face another section of Marines. "Now, if you do want your knife to be on your dominant side, tape your scabbard to your calf. Not your thigh, your calf. You're not going to have room on your thigh and the grip of your knife might get caught on your belt pouches. Now, if it's on your calf, never reach for it from a standing position. Immediately take a knee and drag it; it's a fast, smooth transition, it's right in your dominant hand, and you can spring back up with it, ready to fight."

Frost demonstrated, crouching down, ripping his knife from the scabbard, and jumping back up. He demonstrated a few slashes, jabs, thrusts, and blocks to further illustrate his point. When he finished, he slid the blade back into its scabbard. "Don't underestimate the importance of the initial draw; not only do you have to be faster, you have to be smarter," he said, tapping the side of his head. "Being smart doesn't mean you're less aggressive; being smart makes you more aggressive. Got it?"

"Yes, Gunny!" all the Marines shouted.

"Good! Now get out of my fucking ring and start practicing!"

Joking, laughing, and jostling one another, the Marines filtered through the ropes of the ring. As they passed by Vivian, they all raised their hands in salute and uttered a respectful, 'Captain.' When they all passed, Frost finally noticed her, approached the edge of the ring, and rested his arms on the rope. "Captain Waters, good to see you," he said.

"Training seems to be going well. I thought the Marines would prefer a rest after the raid."

"Gotta stay sharp. They're back in the operational swing, ma'am. The fight's in them; if they can't take their aggression out on the Covenant then they might as well work it out here. What brings you down here?"

"Making my rounds." Vivian smiled wryly. "If you're up for it, I have time for a match."

"Don't want your new skills to go to waste, huh?" Frost asked, amused. After a moment, he nodded his head to the side and put one leg through the ropes. With one of his hands, he raised the other. Eagerly, Vivian clambered up, balanced on the edge, and squeezed through the gap. Going to the opposite corner, she unbuttoned her tunic and carefully hung it on the post. Left in a white tank top, she quickly freed her dirty blonde hair from its regulation bun and redid it, ensnaring all of the locks which managed to free themselves throughout the day.

When she turned around, she found Frost leaning over the ropes and taking the combat knife from one of the Marines who was resting on a nearby bench. After briefly checking it, he slid it back into its scabbard and tossed it to Vivian. Catching it gracefully, she tugged it out and inspected the blade as well. It was a standard issue piece with a serrated steel edge and an olive drab grip.

Putting the scabbard aside, she held the knife by its grip and tested the weight. Performing a number of moves to orientate herself with it, she found Swing and Frost's training coming back to her. The days of CQC drills, ruck marches, and hand to hand practice sessions seemed so long ago. In moments, however, she felt like she was back at the Port. The air brushed against her bare tan skin, the taste of cool mornings and warm days settled on her tongue. In a flash, it passed, and she felt only the neutral air of the I'm Alone.

"Any particular style?" Vivian asked.

"Why don't we freeball it and see what kind of fun we can get up to?" Frost asked. Hunching forward, his free hand out flat and his knife poised to strike, he advanced towards her. Vivian closed the gap and slashed. Frost stepped back nimbly but before he could react Vivian was upon him with another strike. Instead of dodging, he ducked. Anticipating his move, the Captain jumped back, avoiding a horizontal slash.

Still keeping low, he lunged forward. Sidestepping, Vivian tossed her knife to her other hand, held it overhand, and brought it down as hard as she could. Frost rolled to the side and tried to get back up. Wasting no time, Vivian rushed him, knocked him onto his back, and straddled him. Before she attempted to bring her knife to bear or land a hit with her fist on him, he sharply shifted his leg and threw her off balance. It was only for a moment but she knew it was all he needed. Reaching up, he grabbed the collar of her tank top and pulled to the side as hard as he could. Unable to get a grip on him or the ropes, Vivian was dragged off and fell onto her back. Looking up, she saw him hop onto his knees and his glinting knife descending on her. Quickly, she rolled over twice, dodging the blow, and pushed herself back up.

Staying low on her feet like a wolf preparing to lunge, Vivian maintained her distance from the Gunnery Sergeant. He stood erect, his arm guarding his chest and the knife pointed at her. Both began to circle one another.

Eventually, he flashed a smile, exposing his missing tooth. "You looked tired, Captain," Frost chided, smirking. Vivian knew he was trying to goade her into attacking, thus wasting more of her strength, and allowing him to maintain the initiative of the battle. She was not going to fall for it and continued to stay across the ring from him while they circled.

Knowing she was catching on, Frost's smile faded and he began to approach quickly. He began to raise his knife as if he was about to attack overhead, but just as he came close he raised his leg. Barely dodging it, Vivian raced around to the side, shoulder checked him, and tried to slash. But he recovered quickly, turned, and stopped her forearm with the flat of his hand. Making a fist of the other, Vivian swung. Frost barely dodged her blow, leaning back as her fist swept by his face. Before he was able to act, Vivian charged into him, trying to use her momentum to barrel him over. At first, he staggered but he managed to plant his feet and stop her in her tracks.

They became a flurry of limbs, each trying to extend their reach, bring their knife to bear, and blocking the other. Nearly entangled around one another against the ropes, Vivian and Frost tried to break from one another by turns. She did not want to give up the advantage; Frost was taller, stronger, and had greater reach. He could keep the distance between them and remain offensive. But her shorter stature and reach played to her strengths now that she was against him.

Eventually, she was able to wrap her arm around his. Tightening it like a coil, she jerked it upwards. She heard a crick in his arm and Frost shouted. Instinctively, his hand opened and his knife fell to the ground. Wishing to keep him unarmed, Vivian finally parted from him and kicked his knife out of the ring. Spinning around, she brought her arm over her head and tried to bring it down on him. Instead, Frost caught her wrist with one hand. When she tried to hit him with the other, he grabbed it too. Now in the center of the ring, they grappled for control of Vivian's knife.

Gritting her teeth and grunting with effort, Vivian looked up. Frost was smiling and his gray eyes were alight, as if there were burning embers behind a wall of pale smoke. "Adjust strategy, Captain," he goaded.

Vivian didn't think twice. Swing her leg back she kicked him in the groin. Frost yelled in pain and his grip loosened. As he stumbled back in shock, she tackled him into the ground. Straddling him once more, she tried to bring her knife down on him. Letting out a war cry, Vivian let it fall with all her might. But a sharp blow in her side stunned her and broke her momentum. His hands reached up, grabbed her throat, and dragged her down to the side. Thrown onto her belly, Vivian felt one of his hands transition to the back of her head and she groaned when his knee pressed into her back. Slowly, the knife was pulled from her hand.

The weight was taken from her back and head at the same time. Panting, Vivian rolled over and looked up. Frost was examining the knife. His eyes were a bit wide but he managed to chuckle nervously. "Damn, Captain, I thought you were really going to do me in that time."

"What, me?" Vivian wheezed, grinning. She held her hand up and Frost took it. In one pull, she was back on her feet. "Never."

"That was a good show, Captain. You take to it better than some leathernecks I've served with you. I know a few who would roll over in their graves if I said this, but you're a bit of a natural. With that aggression, you made one hell of a Marine."

The pair collected the scabbards, sheathed the knives, and then sat down side by side on one of the benches bordering the ring. Frost shared some water with her and for a few minutes, they caught their breath in silence. Although she was doing her best to hide it, Vivian was a bit upset that she lost and that he thought he was going to hurt him. She was positive she had him in the end. All she was going to do was bring the blade to his neck as they often did in mock sessions, acting as thought they were delivering the killing blow. It helped the winner follow through on his attack and the loser was able to learn the consequences if he lost.

Looking over at Frost, she saw the fire gone from his eyes. He seemed instantly relaxed; were it not for the sweat dripping down the side of his face, one might have assumed he hadn't even started training yet.

He noticed her staring. Vivian looked forward again.

"Do you still think I'm gunning for you?" she asked, a little too sharply.

"I didn't mean it like that," he defended. "But to be honest, I thought after what happened after the Port you'd still have a grudge against me."

"You were cleared of all charges. I trust Carris and the judgement of the officers involved. Before, I let paranoia and suspicion dictate so much of my decisions. I lost sight of the bigger picture. Thousands of men and women who need leadership. I can't lead if I'm living in the past and trying to settle my scores. I told you before and I meant it: it's over."

For a long time, Frost stared at her. His eyes were ice cold and his gaze bore through her. Vivian remained resolute, her expression stone-faced, mirroring his own. She could tell just by his face he didn't believe her. Vivian could understand but it still bothered her. Inhaling deeply, she broke their gaze and looked ahead once more. "I trust you, Nate. Do you trust me?"

He didn't answer. Vivian looked at him and saw his intense expression was gone. Instead, he was looking down at his boots, his eyes sad and lost, and his lips drawn in a depressive line. It was such a stark change Vivian was surprised. Without thinking, she reached over and touched his shoulder. "Nate?"

"You won't forget. You won't forgive. But you ask for my trust? That's a lot to ask, Captain."

"It takes just as much for me to place my faith in you," Vivian retorted.

"I don't know why you would," he murmured.

"Because I was wrong. I used to think you were a murderer, a psychopath who masqueraded as a Marine just so he could satisfy his bloodlust. I let ghosts and shadows blind me to the Marine...the man, who was right in front of me. I won't let that happen again."

Frost abruptly stood up, took his canteen and his towel, and took a few steps away. He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"You have my trust," was all he said.

Words: 6,508

Pages (Google Docs): 16

Original Font: PT Serif

Original Font Size: 11

Original Line Spacing: 1.5

Author's Note: Probably one of my favorite chapters of I'm Alone: Exalt yet. Good dialogue, a narrated theme, two sets of characters tied to one another, speaking of their unique situations but also the overarching theme that hangs above them, and even some action to spice it up at the end. I don't normally pat myself on the back but hey, I can't help myself. Thanks for reading. Oh, can someone play that clip of that person shouting, "THERE IT IS! THERE IT IS! OH MY GOD!" at the part where Steele and Carris hugged and had a tender, subtly romantic moment? Thanks for that.

Comment Responses

Qrs-jg: Lol, aptly said. Not by any means going to be a huge character, perhaps a recurring one until later on. Skopje, being the crux of Vivian's and Frost's paths, was always intended to hang that way. A shadow lingering on the minds of so many characters, a place of mystery and terror. Trust me, we'll see more of it. Uwem is actually a new character that I decided to add in; on DeviantArt, I'm uploading edited versions of the original I'm Alone. While some chapters are just cleaned up, there's also a lot of fresh changes that cut down on fluff, make the prose more mature, and imbue the story with more accurate military characteristics. One of which was the senior enlisted man on the ship, which was never touched on in the first story. So, here's Uwem, the Command Master Chief Petty Officer for the task unit's flagship and overall commanding officer. Again, not a huge character, but meant to fill in the space for military accuracy. The character you're thinking of, who fulfills a similar narrative role, is Ngouabi.

Jackejsh: Hey, glad you found it, hopefully you read the first story beforehand and were able to tolerate how badly written it is. I really appreciate you taking the time to check out my work, and I especially cherish the comments you left on Marsh Silas: Inquisitor. The day you left those, I actually woke up to those notifications on my phone so it was a great way to start the day. So thank you!

MightBeGone: Why thank you, I appreciate that. It's in these character moments that I get to utilize their intellect and personal memories to reflect on certain ideas and/or events. Because these are reflections, I like them to be a bit more eloquent and mystical, almost fantastical. So it's a lot of fun and it's gratifying to know they work. And hey, here's Steele, he's practically the star of this chapter!