"Absolutely Not."

Chapter 3: Avalanche

A sarcastic laugh burst out of me like a freshly cracked geyser, hot and commanding. I knew I must have looked like an idiot in my own home, but god damn, did he think of me as gullible? This had to be a test of some sort, right? This couldn't not be a test.

Graves and Shepherd.

Both, alive?

From across the room, Price's eyes widened briefly, clearly caught off guard from my unpredictable outburst. Hazel eyes burning with a temper I hadn't felt in almost eleven months and blue orbs trying to see what emotion they could evoke to calm down the fires, we stayed in position.

"That might not have been the reaction I was expecting," he replied, candor slowing down his words.

What the hell had he expected? For me to immediately jump into action as soon as he revealed his big secret? For me to just forget about my stew and start packing up my shit, and leave a life I'd expected to lead until I grew as old as Alina?

Onion still in hand, I paced the room. "Sorry," I wasn't sorry, "it's just that Graves exploded, and I'd figured you got to Shepherd, but I wasn't around to see it so..."

Looking down at his watch, he then explained the best he could with the limited time he seemed to have, "Graves wasn't in the tank, and we tried to get Shepherd, but we only stole one of his eyes, not his life. Now they're hiding in different places, always on the move. Always one step ahead of us. Las Almas, Afghanistan, and at some point, we think Russia."

As if my veins became the Lena River, I physically shivered from frigid uneasiness, the cold now seeping into me from outside my home. Had they found me, in this privatized stronghold, Price and I would surely not be having this conversation. My body would be elsewhere, buried or cast away at sea.

I knew what he was asking of me at that moment.

I wanted to stay tucked away in my hiding hole and live the rest of my days speaking Russian and learning recipes from neighboring townsfolk. All of that would be just as good as dead.

A scream clawed at the back of my throat, tearing me apart for a taste of freedom like a frenzied animal, caught in a hunting trap.

I felt fucking trapped.

"I've spent the better part of the past year relearning how to be a human, and now you're asking me to unlearn all of that, for what? What could I possibly contribute besides my past of being a damn mole, Price?" Each syllable felt rushed, panicked, as I needed to persuade him that he was wrong about me.

"A mole to Graves, for 141. There's a difference in perspectives, and I do understand what I'm asking you to do for a relinquishment of your established security. Albeit, a shoddy one." He held the key up as a taunt. "Would you want to die being known as the mole or a soldier fighting back?"

'Fuck you,' I wanted to shriek at him.

"I don't want to die at all!" My mouth declared instead.

An uncomfortable pause filled the air as he clearly contemplated his words carefully. The nerves that had settled deep within my gut now wound themselves up my sternum as if they were made of vines, clinging and invasive. Every part of me screamed for me to run.

"You know, the best soldiers know exactly what it's like to be human. They understand death, respect it, and thus, are able to cherish another day they've survived. They take lives, and they know the cost. We have a very gruesome job as soldiers, but for the betterment of society, it's an honorable one. You have the choice, of course, but if you're thinking about not doing this because of your fear of a soiled conscience, well, we both know how stained our hands are."

"Some worse than others," I muttered.

A shrug from him.

A stare from me.

"So, what'd ya say? We both help each other. I say it's a win-win."

Did I dare become the person I'd once hated reflecting back at me, thickly coated with grime from war wearing a haunted expression from seeing too much one person shouldn't see? Shouldn't ever do.

Not only would I have to unlearn a life of peace, of no war, where death came naturally and wasn't forced with bullets and blades, but I would also have to clean up my ability to compartmentalize. I'd need more organized storage for my emotions and memories to store all of the new shit I might be getting myself into.

All of the other baggage I'd accumulated over the years was tucked away safely in a space similar to a cargo hold, piled up high to be used after a flight and distributed to its rightful owner afterward. Was I about to unlock the latch to begin the process of unloading? Was I ready to unpack the ghosts so that they could haunt me as they had when I first arrived as if I'd moved into a home already lived in by poltergeists?

Did I really want to undo everything that I'd worked so fucking hard in arranging? Sorting it all into specific boxes, some of which were buried by mountains of other things that I didn't need.

I couldn't bear to think about what my nightmares were going to be like.

Would I see him more often behind closed eyes?

Would returning open up faded wounds?

Was I willing to jump off the highest peak of the mountain I'd built of scarring memories and ghostly desires? One unsure foot was all it took to tumble down, plummet into the unknown. Headfirst I'd fall, cracking myself open like a raw egg so that I'd spill out for all to see.

The simple decision to take a solid step back onto base would most likely be all it took to slide and tumble into an avalanche of unwanted sentiments.

I took a deep breath...

And...

My foot faltered...