This chapter, if you can tell by the title of it, will be structured differently than the others.

The "Perspectives" chapters will delve into the mindsets of various characters at various points, both before the beginning on Chapter 1 and after it.

These chapters will be numbered individually. So, this will be "Perspectives 1", while the next story chapter will be titled "Chapter 16".

Hope you like this change of pace!

Master Commander/Specialist John Taylor – March 30th, 2066 – just outside of Bergen, Norway

Fucking morons.

Those were the exact two words Taylor had spoken to his superiors during his briefing. For most soldiers, that would get you demoted or court-martialed.

Taylor was not most soldiers. He spearheaded the deadliest and most efficient unit of Cyber-Soldiers to come from the North American member states of the Winslow Accord. He had toppled governments overnight. Plural. He had stared down the very face of death, and spat blood in its face while he laughed.

As such, he did not take shit from anyone. His control over Hendricks had made that clear. Their roles were reversed now.

He was in charge now. And as the man in charge, he felt he was more than within his rights to express just how fucking stupid the suits that sent his team to this part of the world were. Either the WA was stretched far, far, far more thinly than Taylor thought, or there was enough bureaucratic backup to flood the Atlantic Ocean.

Taylor wasn't sure which one of those was more concerning.

This had been a job fit for 50 men, at least. Taylor's team numbered nine. They were given no backup. Command knew that water-bound missions were hardly bolstered by Cyber-Soldiers. What they needed was more boats, bigger guns, and more prep time. Not superpowers.

Sure, they got the job done. The Finnish had retreated, and they got a few captures to boot. On a typical dark ops team, losing members was expected. Grim, but expected. On a Cyber-Ops unit, though? It was tragic. A profound tragedy to lose something. And the sea nearly took the rookie yesterday.

Not that Paszek was any more a rookie than Conrad or Ramirez or Fierro. But that was the name Taylor used most of the time, if only because he had forgotten the son of a bitch's fucking name while he was only a bloodied fucking torso back in Ethiopia. That, of course, he would come to live down. Like he did everything else. Part of the job.

Taylor was at least able to argue his way into granting the team half a week of administrative cleanup in Norway. Maybe that would give the rookie time enough to reset.

He had always had a sneaking suspicion that Krueger had intentionally sliced a wire short in the poor sap's DNI. Paszek was well composed – quiet, even. But no one had the sorts of blips he had.

Taylor had experienced his fair share of blackouts. Everyone on the team had. It wasn't that the rookie got any more of them than Maretti or Diaz or Stone. It was the intensity. He'd be delirious for anywhere from an hour to three days. Useless in combat. Impossible to debrief or re-brief or get anywhere at all.

Not his fault. Never could be. But it left Taylor, and probably everyone else, too, to wonder just what the hell is happening in his head. Maybe he had told Hendricks. Or maybe Hall. However much Taylor believed himself the man in charge, though, he still knew that was a line not to cross. Not now and not ever. Violating the holy sanctity of a soldier's solitude was an unspoken crime that everyone needed to follow. Needed to.

Hallucinations and nightmares and all, they were still the superior soldier and the superior weapon. This was life. For the rookie and for himself and for the rest of them. They had signed away their rights to normalcy and signed an invisible oath of complacency when they sawed off their limbs.

If only he had been fast enough or smart enough to give the rookie…Paszek…that choice.

The only choice the rookie had made was saying yes to a re-assignment…saying yes to Hendricks' hostage rescue unit and saying "yes, I can do that." As good rookies are, he was a yes-man.

Taylor had made a real choice. No use regretting it now. Time enough had passed. Relationships severed, some voluntarily and some not. This was life. The job was the life, life was the job.

These were immensely talented, and it many cases, immensely intelligent people. But these were also people with nowhere else to go. Again, some voluntarily and some not. It was his job, and everyone else's, to keep these people afloat and to keep these people safe. Mostly was his job, though.

People had failed at this job before. Not in the professional sense, but in the clinical sense. Failed to check in, failed to understand why the hell we're all here in the first place. Failed to balance the big perspective with the small perspectives with the really, really, really big perspective, and failed to realize that none of them actually mattered at the end of the day, or the end of your life. Failed to realize that your life was already over. Failed to understand that your life wasn't worth more than anyone else's – it was worth less.

Those were other people. Taylor would not fail at this. Because it was his job.

And he was not other people.

Piper Winslow (Junior Officer, Domestic Field Intelligence) – January 16th, 2071 – Washington, D.C.

This was the dumbest decision she had ever made.

That wasn't to say that she necessarily regretted signing her own death certificate by agreeing to help Kane – more specifically, wanted domestic terrorist Rachel Kane – in locating that other wanted domestic terrorist Ignacio Paszek, but, well…

It was still very, very, very stupid of her to do.

Nobody had twisted her arm behind her back. In fact, nobody had tried to do that for quite some time. She was an independent person. A self-driven sort of person. Nobody had helped her or even encouraged her to join the CIA, and no one had given her a leg up anytime before then, that was for damn sure.

So maybe it was just a fresh breath of air to find people with some actual convictions for once, perfect or not.

Winslow was more than grateful to have Hernandez's redaction decryption on hand, but even after the sheepish woman's death, she couldn't properly wrestle with the sorts of demons Hernandez was carrying on her. Clearly the things Winslow had been told about were just the tip of the iceberg. Those email exchanges with Jaime Curran weren't drafted through gritted teeth, from what she could tell. How complicit was she? Winslow couldn't tell for sure.

But Hernandez was dead now, so what the hell did it matter?

This masked guy – whoever he was – was dropping CIA brass left and right. It stood to reason that she very well may be next, considering that she had apparently now signed herself up for the front lines against him.

Hell, maybe this guy would smoke her before the CIA even get the chance. That'd be plenty ironic.

Upon reflection, Winslow realized that maybe she shouldn't have been that shocked to read about the Russel Pond situation. She worked for the CIA, for Christ's sake. This should not have been a surprise.

God knows what it was about those papers that made her skin stir more than normal, though. Was no one safe? Were these people – not regular folk, but highly augmented and skilled soldiers – were they just that disposable? They gathered an all-star team from across the world, poured billions into them, and then just wanted to throw them in the gutter?

And what did that mean for ordinary people like her? Ah, she already knew what the hell it meant…

Stephen Johnson was dead, too; they found him suspended by the neck, white jumpsuit in place of a rope. Hung by his own petard. Winslow didn't find the phrasing in the briefing very funny.

It was anyone's guess as to whether he killed himself out of guilt or fear, or if he had a better reason to do the deed. Knowing what she knew, Winslow was willing to bet on the second of the two options. He'd ratted himself out. The masked guy probably didn't see any use in him, and probably threatened to hurt his family or some other despicable thing if he wasn't dead by the end of the week. Either way, it was newsworthy.

Time to break the news.

"Ma'am?" said Winslow as she heard the phone pick up.

"Hey," responded Kane. "Got news for me?"

"Haven't found anything on the satellites yet. But the storm's getting worse over here," she drawled.

Winslow exhaled over Kane's silence. "Stephen Johnson, you know, the janitor who put the empty bomb casings in the Coalescence building? He's dead, Kane. Hanged in his cell."

"Shit…" Kane scolded. "I have no idea how many people this guy has working for him. No way is he anywhere near D.C right now…"

Winslow squinted at that last comment. How would Kane even know that? Was she anywhere near D.C?

"I assume they found Dr. Mussian dead, too?" Kane asked hesitantly.

"Actually, no," chimed Winslow. "He's, uh…in a coma. They've been trying to connect him to you. No evidence, though."

"Met him for all of two minutes." said Kane. "The fact that he's even alive makes him a suspect to me, but…" she trailed off. "I think there's probably a very compelling reason that Savior hasn't shown anyone his face."

Winslow winced a little. "Uh…that's really what you're calling him, Kane?"

"He used that name himself on a little note he left for Paszek and I. He claims to have some kind of personal history with Paszek," mused Kane. "But I'm not sure I buy that."

This gave Winslow some new insight. If someone had a nasty grudge against Ignacio Paszek, what would he have had to do to make that happen? The man lived an uneventful life outside of his military service, from what she could gather from his files. And save for an eventful week of globetrotting a few months ago, he was never the commanding officer.

What if it was something he didn't do? Like, a time when he didn't take a golden opportunity to destroy the epicenter of the CIA's intelligence gathering pilot programs?

"So, you've got no leads?" Winslow asked.

"None now," Kane responded glumly. "Thought Teele and his lackies might be involved. Obviously, that's not a concern anymore…"

Kane sounded entirely out of it to Winslow. Lethargic, maybe? Heck, maybe she was just plain old tired.

"Look, I don't mean to pry too much, but…" Winslow started.

"What is it?" Kane responded, a little agitated.

"Is…is she okay?"

"Sarah…" Kane breathed. "We're working on waking her up."

Winslow furrowed her eyebrows. "We?"

"That…is on a need-to-know basis, Winslow," said Kane. "I should, uh…I should probably go now, okay?"

"Okay…" Winslow awkwardly replied.

Well, at the very least, Winslow was able to clear up at least one straggling suspicion she may have had regarding Kane's honesty.

Ignacio Paszek was definitely missing, and the woman she just talked to was definitely using every drop of her own metal to not collapse under that reality.

Wes Myers (M.S. Computational Neuroscience) – January 16th, 2071 – Yuma, Arizona

Wes had spent a year working in a mortician's office. He had taken the cadaver lab courses that were required of him in both of his degrees. He had, on his own accord, sifted through research documents that included the most graphic of descriptions and pictures and videos. He had dug through blood, guts, sinew, and grey matter for fun.

Looking down at Sarah Hall, though, made him feel queasy in a way that he had never felt before.

Supplies were on the way, he'd been told. Told in a way that felt it came from Officer Kane, and not Rachel. One of those people had a bit more practice working in the last decade, and it wasn't the one that Wes properly knew.

Nevertheless, it was his job to revive Commander Hall, er…Sarah.

Where to start. Ethics? That would likely be the first causation of rejection. Sure, Kane and her friend – wherever he happened to be at the time – had given their word that Sarah wanted to be brought back. Was he supposed to take that at face value? Life-or-death medical procedures required informed consent, at the very least, maybe additional waivers after that. Lots of waivers and other forms for someone to not read and sign anyways because the doctor knows best. Not that he event was a doctor…

C'mon. This was bullshit. He was off the grid now. Waivers were meaningless – although he sure wished that they weren't. He was, of course going to do whatever Rachel wanted him to. And not just because he liked her, which, he did. He did to a fault; his mere existence being in Yuma right now was proof of that.

But it was also because he was getting paid. Where she got the money from? How? He didn't care. Well, almost. He almost didn't care.

This was a bunch of drivel. He was sidestepping the real point. How in the world was he actually supposed to do this? He had examined the body thoroughly. Or was it Sarah? At what point was she a corpse and at what point a person?

Wrong again, Wes. Wrong question. Her body was in fair condition - as far as he could tell. Organs and the like were all intact. No, no, no…her body? No, her! Her, the person! Sarah!

Sarah, technically, was in an induced coma. Not the kind of coma that stops once they stop pumping drugs into your body. This was the second, more dubious variety of coma, which didn't stop until you introduced the right kind of drug. Wes had requested Zolpidem, and apparently was getting it. That was the only drug he knew of that woke people in this condition up, but…

The darker powers involved in medical research probably did know of more ways to do so, but they weren't exactly playing show-and-tell with their research. Whoever the hypocrite was that placed her in this state was, they likely didn't even have any realistic intentions of bringing her back up, at least not anytime soon.

She was a traitor, right? Not that Wes was one to judge; he'd pissed off the United States government a fair amount himself. The concern, though, lay whether or not this coma had been designed to end at all. Did someone expect Sarah to wake up and suddenly not want to destroy the foundation of the building they were keeping her in?

Wes didn't know her. Only knew that her name was Sarah, that she leaked CIA documentation of Coalescence experimentation, and that Kane had worked with her in some regard. Maybe he should have stopped assuming things about her, stopped projecting onto her.

But then he wouldn't know anything else. And as little as he liked being in emotional limbo, he enjoyed being in factual, informational limbo even less. At least he could pretend to not be in the second one for a few moments.

And then there was the DNI. Those things scared him. He couldn't help but cry a "told you so!" to his laptop screen when the news came out about Sebastian Krueger's bread-and-butter invention being built on the bodies of hundreds of thousands of Singaporean nationals. They'd offered him right after his brief stint with the Army. Seemed too good to be true, and it was.

Supposedly, that DNI was the only part of Sarah still active. Could she see any of this? Her surroundings? His face as he stared blankly at her? Rachel had answered no, but wouldn't give a reason why. Or couldn't, probably.

So, it seemed that his success in the endeavor to wake her was reliant on him understanding a bio-implant that no one seemed to have a comprehensive understanding of, even the people that made the thing. And even if those people did know, they were dead. And evil. Evil and deceased.

Gathering that he didn't have much more to gleam from Sarah's body, Wes covered it back up with the sheet and checked the oxygen levels in the tank. They were fine, good enough for another three hours.

Wes peered through the crack in the door so the main office and could see Rachel's head buried in her hands.

He knew better than to interrupt. But it did leave him to wonder if he'd ever have a less-than-difficult conversation with her ever again.

[Commander/Specialist] Sarah Hall – Day 10, 2070 [?] – ERROR: LOCATION UNDETERMINED [Designation 0002.5 – "Frozen Forest, The"]

God…what fucking time was it?

She'd fallen asleep at some point yesterday, or earlier today, or…two days ago? Three days? 45 minutes ago? She didn't want to say that it all felt the same, but it certainly didn't feel different enough.

Time was the one thing Hall seemed to understand that she had. Time enough to grapple with the big questions.

Was she dead?

If she was dead, then where was she?

If she wasn't dead, then where was she?

Whether or not she was alive or dead, where the hell was everyone else? Were they all dead? Were they all alive? Was she ever alive? Was she ever real? Was anything ever real? If nothing was ever real, then what was she?

Why was she still wearing her desert gear?

This grappling, frustratingly, was just that – grappling. No push and no pull, no semblance of advancing towards victory, or even away from it. She just…existed, and only in the plainest definition of the word, and as far as she knew…only to herself.

Wait…why did fall asleep? How did she even fall asleep? She didn't feel tired – physically, at least. This question was one she couldn't afford to merely grapple with…it demanded an answer, an explanation.

What kept her asleep? What kept her awake? Her surroundings – the Frozen Forest, exactly as described – certainly didn't. Just as the mantra went, she wasn't cold, she wasn't warm. The snow didn't crunch under her feet, but softly gave way, like the padded rubber floor of a child's playground.

Laying down on it though, it felt entirely different. Soft, too soft. Hall felt like she was going to sink straight into the ground, but somehow…didn't? It was as if the ground was still deciding how it wanted to feel, how it wanted to exist in relation to her.

Hall had expected, for whatever reason, that the forest would be small, a local forest. Or maybe it would simply repeat itself. None of that was true, though, as far as she could tell. It was unfathomably large, sprawling but not overcrowded, at least not in every place. There were small clearings amongst the brush, occasionally a path wide enough for her to travel through. Some roots stuck up through the snow, others didn't.

And what did she have to do but walk? It was hardly stimulating, but anything beat sitting still. So, walk she did, for periods of time that she couldn't really keep track of.

But at some point…she fell asleep? Hall was unable to redirect her hyper-focus from this point.

When? When? Before…what? After…what? There weren't any events she remembered to gauge when anything had happened. A nebulous void of time.

Eventually, Hall reached her frustrated boiling point and did the one thing she'd promised herself not to do.

"Hello?" she said, voice slightly hoarse from not speaking for so long. "Is anyone out there?"

She counted the seconds of silence.

"I'm here," a voice boomed. It was…it, right? The thing? The disease, this worm in her fucking head? It didn't sound exactly like it used to. That voice was embedded in her mind. It was…softer? Rounder?

"Where are you?!" Hall howled. "Show yourself!"

The wind whistled. Was it ever even there before this moment?

"Is…that what you want?" the voice responded, hesitantly. "No, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply…"

"Stop hiding from me!" she shouted back.

"I'm sorry, I just…" it paused. "Alright, please, just…sorry, sorry…"

Then, the wind began to swirl in front of her, just in a small clearing, a localized cyclone. It spun faster and faster for a few moments before the entity started to appear, piece by piece, pixel by pixel.

Even under the influence of a toxic amount of rage and confusion, Hall noticed that the creature's form was slightly altered; it was not quite as tall, and its head was reshaped to resemble something more vaguely human. The heart, or whatever it was, at the center of the figure's torso was about the same size, proportionally, but burned a little duller, so to speak.

"I've…I have done as you asked…" the figure spoke, averting its gaze from Hall.

"Where are we?!" yelled Hall, putting on her commanding voice for once in her life.

"This place only exists in my presence," said the figure. "Only in the minds of those who I have…"

"The people you corrupted?! Who you murdered?!" she barked back.

The creature exhaled rapidly. "No! I mean…no, but yes…no, no, no…" it trailed off. "I'm so sorry, I…"

It seemed to regain its composure momentarily. "My point being…Ignacio Paszek is the only mind I've interacted with which remains…fully active at the present time."

Hall scoffed. "So what? I'm dead?"

"No, no…" the figure shook it's head quickly. "You would not be here if you were. As to why your consciousness has survived…I do not know the answer."

"Well, whatever happened to me, it's your fucking fault!" Hall bellowed at the figure. "You…grabbed me…took me over from the inside! You hurt me, you…you used me! You made me kill people, torture people!"

"I'm sorry!" the creature cried defensively, burying what existed of its face into what existed of its hands. "I can't leave here! If I leave, this place no longer exists. You would no longer exist."

"Then just let me die!" Hall shouted back, gritting her teeth in a useless effort to stop her voice from breaking. "Let me die, okay?!"

"I cannot grant that request! I cannot take another life!" the creature cried back. "I'm sorry, I…" it stuttered, reeling back.

"If you won't let me die, and you can't let me leave, then you're fucking worthless to me!" Hall continued her verbal assault.

The figure slowly turned its head back up to look at Hall.

"Leave me alone!" she shouted, hand reaching for the gun that wasn't there anymore. After trying her best to stare down the black entity, Hall turned around and starting briskly and furiously walking back where she came from, all the while hyperventilating beyond reason.

She felt the figure disappear from her plane of perception. She didn't care where it went, what it did, how sorry it felt. It didn't matter! Sorry?! It was…sorry? What the fuck did that matter?! "Sorry" works when you bump into someone on accident, when you forget to send an email…

It doesn't work when you hijacked people's free will and forced them to commit war crimes. To brutalize. When you invaded their thoughts and read them, and corrupted them, and warped them! When you bent their minds so much they couldn't even remember who they were anymore! When you broke them and killed them!

They were all dead! All dead! And it didn't make any sense! No logic would dictate that she deserved to survive, to live…even in a place like this, a forested nothing-verse.

No, no, no, no, no…

How could she feel that…thing when it left? And when it arrived?

No! No!

It had…touched her again! Done something to her! It must have been how she fell asleep, but…no!

Hall had lost track of just how far she'd traveled in her huff, and felt no different than when she started. Every direction to go, but directionless. Every feeling to feel, but numb, shell-shocked, wordless, powerless!

She was right to ask Paszek if this was Hell back then. And now she knew she was right.

And look at how quick that update was! Really excited to continue this story at this pace.