And onward into the fray he did travel, far away from his dying encampment that he called home. The cold winds whipped at his form, weak and puny in comparison to the awesome power of the storm, and the snow stabbed what little of him was exposed as though it were millions of tiny daggers. His flamethrower barely gave off heat unto himself, and he feared he may find himself needing to relight it in the blizzard. Every way he looked he saw snow and a strange dark-whiteness whipping about, impeding his vision. His flare hardly did anything to help, only casting light a few metres ahead of where his foot would land with each step he took. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Further into the gaping jowls of the Antarctic wilderness, to most men Morrison would be an idiot, but after what he'd fought in the facility, he considered it the smarter choice of his options. Perhaps Morrison was stupid, or just plainly insane, but he was correct about one thing. His chances were better with the storm than they were with the thing in that base.