Michael leaned against a tree trunk, idly cooking some spare rations from the Sparrowhawk over the still-burning wreckage of a crashed fighter. The snow was still coming down hard, to the point where most of the bodies had been mostly submerged in snow. But for some wreckage, and the Arrowhead sitting in the distance, it would’ve been nearly impossible to tell that a battle had occurred in the first place. As for himself, Drake was feeling almost ill with the acute sensation of failure. It’d been a while since the Arrowhead—no, he—had failed like this. After failing her, and then somehow making amends, he’d let Caroline slip again. After all the promises he’d made her, after all the talk of being better, he’d messed up. And who knew what Frontier was going to do with her? Drake felt a buzz on his wrist commlink, and almost spit out his rations when he read it. It was a distress signal, from Caroline herself, by the looks of it. He wasn’t able to track the signal by himself, but with the ship’s assistance, he’d be able to tell where she’d gone. He scarfed down the rest of his bar in a single bite as he ran off towards his ship to trace the signal.