(A/N) Time for the promised part two of Harper's…well, I don't quite know what to call it. His chapter, we'll go with that, and maybe I should leave the rest to you guys.

Stormy Cloudz: Why, what gave you that idea? ;)

LonelyLampost: Hopefully this chapter will shed some further like on Harper's origins, but I don't think it'll make you feel that much worse for him. However, I'm delighted that you're enjoying Arkansas (obviously!) and he's got a pretty strong showing in this chapter too!

Enjoy, all!

Chapter Seventy-Eight – What Do You Believe?

Lt Ian Harper

Written by BrambleStar14

"I'm just the same as I was
Now don't you understand
That I'm never changing who I am."

– Imagine Dragons, It's Time

Harper could already tell that the next conversation he had would be an entertaining one the next time Arkansas came to 'check-up' on him. He didn't have to wait long, and the former Freelancer only had to take a single look at the blood covering the floor, and the wounds crossing his lieutenant's face, before he was swearing violently.

"Shit!" he cursed, already in motion as some kind of hidden panic button alerted a medical team to meet him inside the cell. Harper would have smirked if he had complete control of his face, but luckily his new scratches created enough of a leer for him without moving his lips. He couldn't tell if Arkansas was repulsed or fascinated by his new additions as he stared down at him, unreadable as ever, even in the…face of this surprise. His blank expression had no sign of changing either, even as he reached down to retrieve the tiny blade that had done the damage his medical experts were trying to repair.

Harper had been given some kind of painkiller, as though he needed it, and everything was a blur for him. It wasn't the most enjoyable or interesting experience he had ever had, but it certainly beat sitting bored in his previous surroundings. Hallucinations would have certainly improved the experience, but maybe those were only a myth, as he didn't receive any visitations during his brief foray into the medical wing.

So sad.

It hadn't been a long trip, which was another piece of sad news. Arkansas didn't seem to deem him fit to leave his box yet; he appeared to be a danger to both others and himself. Imagine that, he would never have guessed the dangers he posed. The scars were now permanent; or so he had been informed as he admired his reflection in a mirror they had handed to him. The bloodlust was still running through his veins like fire, and he longed for nothing more than to smash the small reflective surface against a surface, grip a shard and slice the irritating medic wherever available endlessly.

Anything to end the droning undertones of his voice.

His reprieve had ended quickly, and sure enough he had been quickly thrown back into the box. What a surprise. Still, he felt some sense of satisfaction. He felt as though he had won some kind of victory over Arkansas.

Now who was smiling?

As though on cue, the door grated open again, and Arkansas re-entered the box. He was alone this time, which was some disappointment; how Harper loved to taunt dear Pennsylvania. He looked at Arkansas as he sat down opposite him again, watching Harper carefully, eyes flicking to the new scars adorning his cheeks and back up into his eyes. Eventually, his voice as measured and reasonable as ever (how infuriatingly bland!), he spoke.

"Why?" It wasn't much to go on at all. He stared back at Ark, who didn't even blink at the intensity of Harper's gaze. Soon enough, Harper replied, voice flat.

"Why what? Why did I join the Insurrection?" Isaac."Why do I enjoy killing?" It's the best form of fun."Why do I expect to die before you do?" Because I don't fear dying like you do, schemer.He sat back, a grin pulling at his scars, twinging, though not painfully.

"It's simple, boss," the word was dripping with sarcasm, cutting off whatever Ark intended to say. "This whole thing," he gestured around him, "is what you want. Your little list of targets. So naturally, you're craving to see justice done, to see it through to the end. How touching. You fear dying before the job is done, Arkansas. I don't. If I die, it'll be fun to see what happens next." Ark sat forwards slightly, eyebrows raised slightly as he took in Harper's image before him.

"You truly don't fear death?" he asked, and was that amusement or simple interest? Or perhaps disgust. Harper could never really empathise with other people and their emotional states. Too much boredom and people trying to cry on your shoulder if you go down that road. His lip curled in disgust.

"I have nothing to fear, Agent Arkansas," and there it was! A flash of anger surged behind those impossibly blank eyes; Harper inwardly cheered. "Why not? I play the game, and when the chips are down, sometimes you lose out. But whatever comes after, that'll be the fun part! If there's a hell, you can pretty much guarantee that we're going there, you and I. Are you scared?"

Ark ignored his mocking tone, another big surprise. Instead, he gestured calmly at the scars now adorning Harper's face, like some demented, twisted badge of honour, any traces of earlier anger gone within seconds. Now the cold Arkansas was back, the one he used when he was alone with his allies, away from the press cameras or the inspiring speeches platform. It was a brutal, analytical, piercing gaze and Harper could almost feel the intimidation he was supposed to be feeling at that gaze. If only he really cared what Arkansas thought of him, deep down.

"I was referring to those, Ian-" Harper cut him off with a short, snap of a bark at the sound of his fist name. Ark continued undeterred. "The scars. Why did you do them, do thatto yourself?" Harper pondered the question, sitting back with a leer at his boss, for now.

"That's an interesting question, Arkansas," always the full title, never shortened. Formality could be so frustrating for a person sometimes. "I just felt like the game had grown boring. So I livened it up. Now, whenever I look at myself, I'll see the funny side of this," his leer twisted into a sick smile, eyes dark with grisly promises. "Now I'll always be smiling, cause I'm always playing you at your own game. This little revenge crusade is adorable, but you don't see the big picture, do you?"

Arkansas merely blinked, the only possible sign of weakness Harper had ever seen him truly display as he sat back again, watching almost cautiously. Harper was acutely aware of the lack of Pennsylvania to save Ark's hide. He entertained the thought of what would happen if the two of them ever fought, him and Ark, one on one to the death. It would certainly be an interesting match, to say the least. After a while of a silent staring contest, Ark's eyes narrowed fractionally as he shook his head slightly, as though he had been expecting the reception he was receiving from his associate.

"What do you want, Harper?" he asked, almost out of frustration. "What could possibly satisfy you now? If you're willing to do this," a wave at Harper's face, "just to prove a point? What do you want?" The temperature of the room dropped several degrees as Harper's eyes grew cold, and he stiffened, watching Ark intently. When he spoke, his voice was low and furious; he was a lot angrier than he had been in a long time.

"The arrogance you possess," he hissed, voice and eyes dangerous, filled with dark promises and threats, "to assume you could possibly understand me, to know what I truly want. How conceited you are, Agent Arkansas," he took no pleasure from the flash of anger that crossed those smooth features this time. "Let me give you a small taster. When the," he paused in disgust, "bureaucrats have been dragged into the streets, when the corrupted scum of humanity has been purged and streets run red with blood; when the skyline is nothing but burning fire and ashes," he finished with a hiss. "Then, Ark, you will know what I want."

It hadn't been hard, in the end. Finding a UNSC patrol on this thick jungle colony planet had been short work and ridiculously easy. Overpowering them hadn't taken long or much work and Harper was almost disappointed as he realised what wastes of space his old loyalties had been. It was pathetic, how easily they had allowed themselves to be taken prisoner. Never again would he suffer the same fate. Never again would he allow himself to be imprisoned by the enemy. He would certainly die first, he hoped. With a smirk, he realised that they were finally standing before the UNSC base on this planet. Maybe once upon a time the towering steel and war paint would have cowed him, not anymore. He pulled a megaphone from the backpack slung casually over his shoulder. This would be fun.

"Testing, testing. Alright, shitheads?! As you can tell, we're stood out here with six of your men! And you, you will already know who I am and the extreeeeeme lack of patience I have. So would the highest ranking officer please step forwards." He stepped over to the cuffed man before him, forced onto his knees and facing the base's security cameras that were doubtlessly trained on them. "Now."

His voice was cold, and final.

He didn't need to wait long. Soon enough, the base doors creaked open and a uniformed Colonel emerged, frowning, his face a mixture of disbelief and wariness as he watched the rogue Lieutenant. They all knew Maverick's reputation within the UNSC, to see the supposed dead man and his squad still alive and apparently hostile was worrisome. He stopped around ten metres way, holding his hands up in an attempt to placate Harper.

"Lieutenant!" he called, his voice steady. Harper could almost admire him for his continued bravery. "I must ask that you put the weapon down and allow yourself and your men to be entered into our custody. This does not have to escalate any further. Please do not do this." His eyes held Harper's gaze, and with a snarl, he pressed the barrel of the gun further against his prisoner's head. He really wanted to shoot him, he really wanted to kill the helpless man kneeling before him, it would be so easy…

But did he want to take this route? Become a killer, fight the people he once worked alongside…?

(I am sorry, Agent, but there is nothing I can do…)

His face set. "You're the highest ranking officer here, right, Colonel?" The man frowned.

"Well, yes, but-" Harper cut him off, not giving him time for any more poisonous words.

"Thank you." His magnum was up in a flash and the muffled bang as the bullet left the weapon, travelling at supersonic speeds, whistling through the air as it sliced through the Colonel's eye, rupturing his brain and killing him in seconds, was heard for miles around, despite its muted volume.

And as the man fell, and Harper placed a second bullet in the prisoner before him, pulling a machete and advancing on his next prisoner, cameras recording his every move, he realised dimly that he was now fully committed to the Insurrectionist cause.

After all, who else would have him now?

Harper continued to stare at Ark, who seemed taken aback at the ferocity of his words, at the venom that had been spat at him in response to what had seemed such an innocent question, so normal, so unlike Harper. Slowly, Harper steadied his breathing, cursing again the continual thunderstorms that ravaged this planet as he continued to glare at Arkansas. It hadn't been easy, working his way to the top, endlessly performing atrocities that would turn stomachs, would make even the most religious and forgiving of men turn their backs, would make God himself damn him to hell.

He'd lit countless families alight, used a variety of implements to cause endless pain and suffering for the simple reason that he'd enjoyed causing pain as much as he could. He just enjoyed hurting people. He could remember meeting General Allen shortly after joining up with his forces, the signature ebony cane, the piercing gaze, as though he could be x-rayed, much as Arkansas was trying to do to him now. There was no doubt, Allen had been far more intimidating. It had been a single question, what he had asked of the younger, more vulnerable Harper, back when he was new to the whole insanity thing. And Harper had given him an answer. He wondered if Arkansas would ever earn the same answer.

"Do you remember how many people you've killed?" he asked Arkansas abruptly, changing the topic as his voice turned sweet and dangerous again. "How many monster's you've made, how many widows or orphans?" Arkansas's gaze turned cold as the air between them seemed to tense, ready to crack if the two of them came to physical violence. Harper couldn't deny that his muscles were tensed, he was longing for Ark to take a swing at him, longed to hurt him, to bite and tear and rip and kill-

"Of course I do," Arkansas replied suddenly, sounding as though every word cost him, eyes filling with something Harper couldn't identify, something he no longer recognized. Was that empathy? he wondered with disgust. He had been right, Arkansas was weak. "I remember every single death," his leader was continuing. Every, single, one. Can you say the honest same, Lieutenant?"

There was steel in the rank; Arkansas never addressed him as such. Yeah, he was definitely pissed. Still, Harper decided to return the honesty for once. Might as well inform him of the truth. It wasn't exactly unexpected.

"I did remember them all. Once. I used to remember the names of every single person that I killed, Ark. Then, eventually, when it reached triple digits, I could just remember the numbers."

He paused.

"And then, I could just remember those deemed innocent by the tyrants of society, by those gutless scum, those civilised people. Now, I have no numbers. Too many deaths and too much blood on my hands. They're dripping, Arkansas, coated. No matter what I do, the stench of death follows me everywhere. Because they're right about one thing – killing changes you. It hurts at first, the pain of abandoning an illusion that life means a damn thing, but then you grow cold, numb to it, like some of our dear Freelancer acquaintances. Or perhaps you still feel that endless pain, that weakness, like you do. Or perhaps you grow to enjoy the killing, until you are so consumed by death that you become one and the same. A freak. Like me."

"It was easy, in the end, Ark, to abandon the idea that the universe is fair, is just, or good. To abandon the idea that right or wrong exist, to detach yourself from the pathetic human weakness,"he spat the words, "of morality. It was easy, learning how to kill. The means justify the ends, the ends justify the means. There is no one to justify to, no one but yourself to deliver any justice. In the end, there is no justice, Ark, but that which you yourself create." He paused, before smirking at the cold, tensed form of Arkansas.

"Pray tell me, boss, what exactly do you believe in?" The question was so sudden, so unlike Harper, that Arkansas shifted slightly, before answering, hardly hesitating.

"As cliché as it sounds, I believe that my actions are not just the right thing to do, they are, quite literally, the only thing to do. The only way to achieve justice. Because whatever you claim in your warped, twisted thoughts, there is always Justice. You can't create it, Ian. You can't control it. But it's always there, and it'll catch up to all of us, sooner or later. You just haven't faced the consequences yet. Your turn," his tone was brittle, as he casually gestured at Harper. "What do you believe in?"

"So, what exactly do you believe in then?" Harper asked the man sat opposite him. The surroundings they found themselves in were dark and cold. Behind them burned the dwindling fires of what had once been a UNSC outpost, manned with a dozen or so guards. Men and women that had been no match for Lieutenant Harper and fellow Insurrectionist Alexander Jacobson. Now, in the aftermath of the torture and the fire-starting, the two of them sat by a small fire, waiting patiently for their extraction to arrive, watching the stars overhead, twinkling merrily in defiance of the gory scenes below. A few corpses, picked to the bone sat nearby as Harper ran his tongue across his lips again. Why were some food sources so much more long lasting than others?

The man opposite, wearing the signature crimson ODST armour, white hair rustling in the breeze and crimson eyes gleaming in the darkness coating them, looked thoughtful as he measured his words carefully, before he eventually responded. "I do what I do not because I want to avenge a fallen family member or because I despise the UNSC...It's because humanity has always needed villains in their battles, and I am more than willing to play the part for this one. I'm content to be what humanity hates. I love what I do, and always have, Ian...And even if I die one day...My legacy...no...our legacy will live on in the memories of the survivors. We will become immortal...We will never die." Harper made a small sound that could have been a cough or a laugh. As Alex glanced over, his smirk became more pronounced.

"Die, Alex?" He have a long, lingering snigger. "Please. We're already dead. All of us. You, me, every single insignificant person around us, we're all dead. What, you think we're alive because we breathe and walk and talk? No, no, we're just…" he pauses, breathing in air, licking his lips again.

"We're on borrowed time. Riding until oblivion. Sure, we try our hardest to escape, to have some feeble, pale imitation of life, but death... Death is the only constant, the only truth in this existence. Death is inescapable, endless, relentless, Alex. It has you, it has me, all of us. We're raging against the inevitable, the night. But deep down inside of us, within the fabricated lies and illusions of our so called 'souls', nestled within our oh-so-feeble hearts, is a tiny little timer, counting down the days and nights until we relinquish our desperate grip on the illusion of life, in a set time, in a set way. Death comes for us all in the grand design, the great game of existence! This is all just a game waiting to be played, Alex! Tick tock. Tick. Tock."

He leaned forwards in his chair, grinning at his fellow Insurrectionist. "This is the first and only true lesson you learn in your time. I've learned it, but no one else seems to be able to. Not even you. Death is, and will always be, the only single constant. See, what I do, isn't murder. I'm just fulfilling the terms of my own instructions, my own destiny, as it were. I'm following the path laid out. By ending the lives I take early, by cutting their time short, what I do," he glanced at Alex again, tongue running over his mouth yet again.

"I take the mantle into myself. I... Become... Death. I change things, twist them, I can play the game where no one else can, because I can. Because it's fun, because it's what I am meant to do. Upset the established order, sow chaos, defy death and eventually you make it your own. Walk the line, Alex. You won't fear it anymore. You'll adapt, accept it, become it. What I am, I'm simply... Death. I'm just fulfilling my own path. Once you walk with death, you become the same. It's the first and only lesson. Anyone can learn. These so called civilised people, the higher ups of our existence, they haven't learned, they don't see the truth, they don't play the game like I do. But if they did... See Alex, I'm not a monster."

Another brief pause, before he sat back with a grin.

"I'm just ahead of the curve. Tick tock Alex. Watch out for your clock. It's counting down right now. Tick tock. Tick. Tock."

For his credit, rather than seeming stunned at Harper's words, or sickened at the odd mixture of optimism and pessimism on display from the lunatic, the other Insurrectionist merely smirked and leaned back, staring up at the sky above, as though counting the numerous stars overhead. After a brief pause, he spoke, "You may not call yourself a monster, but I hold no such reservations Ian," his voice was quiet, his smile wide. He looked away, laughing a little under his breath, and said "But you may have something there...If you embrace death, as you have said, then you no longer need to fear it. You no longer live by the rules that nature hands down...You become something more...Maybe we both hold a bit of the truth, hmm?"

Harper blinked, absently picking between his teeth with a small shard of bone from the nearby corpses, before smirking, though he did not look at the closest thing to a friend he had again. "Become something more," he echoed with a smirk. "It reminds me of the old proverb 'history is written by the victor'. I prefer to think of it simply as 'truth is told by the survivor'. So poetic." He paused, before chuckling again. "Man, we are really on the highway to hell here." Alex didn't even blink.

"Amen to that," he smirked, closing his eyes.

Harper grinned widely, the scars on his face stretching that grin further, warping and twisting his features. "I'm just breaking the mould, Arkansas. Death is the only constant, how many times must I remind you. When you accept the presence of death and only death, you can play the game, learn the singular lesson, and you can quite literally, overcome anything. Just walk the line, Ark, become something more than what you already are. Leave the pale imitation of 'Justice' behind and overcome the countdown inside your heart, counting down. Tick tock, Erik. How long until Director Church and his Merry Men hunt you down?"

Arkansas merely blinked. "Not for a long time, Ian," another short, sharp bark echoed around the room. "I'll be long gone before they can even find me. Don't pretend you have no weaknesses, the act doesn't work for me. I know all about Cal. I heard everything."

Harper merely tilted his head, waiting.

"I know how close you two were, that you would abandon any battle just for a twisted, warped chance to hunt him down, and you've done it before. Your obsession with him is quite possibly one of the only predictable traits you possess. Don't think they won't exploit that."

Harper, now the official Second to General Allen, glanced over the prisoners as they were escorted into his newest base of operations. They had captured another UNSC Death Squad who seemed to think they had a chance to bring his head back on a silver platter. How adorable of them. And foolish, they'd merely signed their death warrants. He looked over them as they were marched past, looking for the weak link. The defiant, the broken, the scared, the beggars. All of them. Until-

"Stop," he murmured quietly to Falcon, who held a hand, the queue halting immediately as the prisoners were forced to remain still. He gestured at the youngest of the group, dark hair spiked and blue eyes scared as he looked nervously around his new home. "Him," he decided, gesturing for the guards to lead the kid away, to one of the interrogation cells.

A few minutes later, Harper strolled in, throwing a folder down sharply onto the desk between them. The prisoner jumped with a snap. He couldn't have been older than nineteen. A shame, Harper mused absently, sitting opposite.

"Let me tell you how this works," Harper offered, staring evenly at the marine. "I ask you questions, you deny me answers. I get frustrated, you still refuse. I break out some torture tools, you start begging. I carve you apart, piece by piece, in this, your own little personal hell, until you give up any information. If you die, then I drag another one in here and start again."

He paused, taking in the marine's pallor, the way he shook like a leaf. "Alternatively," he said temptingly, eyeing him cautiously. "We start with basic information and I don't have to break you. Starting with names. I'm Ian Harper. You are?"

The room was silent for a long while. Until, eventually, the marine mumbled, "Jason Shaw."

Harper grinned widely. "I can tell this will be fun."

It had been fun. Far from being an easy soul to break, Shaw had been stubborn, refused all inroads Harper made. He had begged, yes, he had cried, he even started to appreciate Harper calming him down afterwards, soothing his injuries and speaking in softer tones. There was hardly a trick he hadn't used. Psychological damages and physical injuries took their toll until Shaw's mentality switched abruptly. It hadn't taken much, and his little pet project had soon joined them on missions, slaughtering those he once fought to protect with abandon.

Harper had grown to care for the kid a great deal in the three months he had looked after him at the base. And now, as a grenade exploded a meter away and he felt his right arm shred, he decided that it had been totally worth it for moments such as this. He wasn't aware of much for around two seconds, and it was all the time he needed for Shaw to scramble out of the room. He assessed the situation: his arm was obviously damaged, a quick glance had greeted him with blood and torn, gaping holes; he glanced away quickly. His fellow guards were dead, necks odd angles or holes replacing various facial features. He made a snarling noise, grabbing a nearby SMG.

Sprinting into the corridor, ignoring the blinding pain, he opened fire, spraying the corridor with bullets as Shaw sprinted away, clutching at his face. Somehow missing, Harper gave a wicked grin and a bark of a laugh as he pursued the man who had been the object of his fixations since he had arrived at the damn base.

Darting into the Hanger, on the upper catwalk, he spied Shaw below, powering up a Pelican in his haste to escape. Eyes narrow, Harper whipped the gun around, spitting death as bullets impacted around the cockpit; Shaw was left unharmed. With a thundering boom, the ship lurched away from the hanger, tearing free of its moorings as the shattered marine escaped. Harper had hardly noticed Circuit approach his right side, examining the useless flesh that had replaced his arm. Harper glanced down. It wasn't good.

A large majority of his flesh had been blasted away, the edges that remained were peeling, narrow strips, the edges of which were blackened and burned. Muscle uncoiled from around his elbow down, exposing bleached white bone as sticky red dripped to the floor. His fingers were torn apart and his hand was left a mass of ruined muscle mixed with shattered bone fragments; his shoulder blade was emerging from his shoulder, fragmented.

"That'll need removing," muttered Circuit, Scottish lilt merging in his voice as he worried about Harper, pulling a delicate Laser Scalpel from his belt.

"Then do it," said Harper, tone empty as he turned back to the sky curiously, eyes alight with something new. "No anaesthetic. I want to feel this one."

"I see no weaknesses in me, Arkansas. My personal experiences with the man you call California allow me an insight into the Freelancers. I'd be surprised if he was loyal to them much longer; the seeds of doubt have been sown. If you hadn't killed Michigan, maybe he wouldn't be so hesitant to join up, though maybe, he would – I don't know."

Something akin to grief flashed behind Arkansas's eyes, though it was gone just as quickly.

"It doesn't matter. What's done is done. Have you grown up yet, Harper?"

And maybe he had. Looking back over the last few months, Harper had been realising exactly what had changed. Before, he had been insane, dangerous and unpredictable. Now, he was just a mad dog. Perhaps he was too open about his intentions; it was time to go back to being subtle. Ian Harper, Maverick, Insurrectionist, Mad Dog and Murderer was back in business.

"Yes. I have." Arkansas's surprise illuminated his face for a split second, before he stood and without preamble, held out his hand. Harper cautiously reached out and took it, eyes fixed on Arkansas's. Don't think this changes a damn thing, boss.

"So, for the record," Arkansas stated, eyes narrowed as he took in his Lieutenant's expression, "what do you want, Harper."

And all Harper could see was General Allen, four years ago, ebony cane in hand, lined features demonstrating not only his age, but also his experience, his stress, the effect of the war upon his body and mind. Every bit the leader Harper was willing to follow, as he asked the only question that mattered, and then he saw Arkansas stood before him, the exact same question leaving his lips; and Harper realised he had earned the answer. So he gave the exact same answer that he had given Allen, all those years ago when he had sealed both his future and his fate.

"It's quite simple. I want revenge."

Arkansas had hurt California, had hurt Jay. He had hurt what belonged to him. He had never really specified whom exactly he wanted revenge against, after all.