The mission had been hard, hard on Alater's body and mind. As he advanced throughout his career, Alater moved closer and closer to the time in which he would once again face a Death Member dying, and it being his fault. These scars, they were reminders of what happened when you fought alone, yet if he was, only he could die. That was the way it had to be.

Alater lay on his bed, stairing at the ceiling. Nams had been by at his request and rewrapped the scars, but couldn't do anything else for him, else he would face being off duty again. During the end of their mission, he had ripped them open intentionally, known only to himself and maybe Doc, and had faced himself. Those dark memories lost long ago had surfaced, and Alater had worked through it. So many things he had suppressed over the years, had all come out inside. He had realised what was missing in his life, and what would probably continue to be missed. As a leader he had been forced to stand apart, and he had carried that mentality into the Corps. Alone he could fight for himself, and die. There was nothing but his life, and its endless course towards death.

No, that's not true. There must be more to my life then this. The Hunt...there must be more then the Hunt. Alater thought to himself as he hissed at the dark thoughts. They always crept there, hiding under the surface like a scar he couldn't see to try and tear out. They were a sign of weakness of mind, and he hated himself ever more for it.

(OoC: Wooh, writing in spurts! Will finish later)