A Gears of War 2 gap filler pseudo/one shot by Magchange89
*Copyright: All of the characters belong to Epic, all rights reserved.
UPDATE: Got a little more feedback and it is bueno. Keep it up. Also, I cleared certain verbiage that you may have confused for homosexuality. If that's what you're looking for, my apologies, it's not here. Almost finished with Chapter two so keep an eye out- M.C
Screaming. It always started with the screaming. The muffled shrieks of terror only gave way to the macabre. Be it the savage slice of a sharpened bayonet, the angered roar of a revved chainsaw, chewing up it's victims hungrily with its' dozen metallic teeth, or the crushing of brittle bone under an uncompromising boot, the symphony of destruction played on with it's quartet of assault rifles and concussive percussion of grenades and artillery. Amongst all this madness and murder, came the realization there was a certain rhyme and reason to it, a war where humanity could forgo all that made it humane and unleash the deepest primitive instinct: That of the kill. That instinct came easy now, fueled by a deep hatred. It was almost irresistible, but with it came a costly burden. No man was safe from the death he could deal, and time and again, it was his own weary eyes that bear witness to the demise such men. In this particular battle, history always repeated itself. Each fallen comrade had a story, their loss stabbing him deeper than the sharpest blade ever could. It was internal damage, and it was kept inside. Yet he shed no tears for these men, knowing they were soldiers, and they had died serving a purpose: to fight to the death for life. There was a certain security in this fact, but there was an exception. One loss so terrible that it seeped through his thick emotional skin and into the very center of his blackened soul, until finally even he couldn't take it anymore.
And then he woke up.
With a grunt, Sergeant Marcus Fenix snapped open his icy blue eyes, blinking away the thin film over his vision until it lifted, reality shifting clumsily into focus. The land of the living welcomed him back with a tangerine splashed sky as a backdrop and a cool blanket of mud as a shelter. The lingering scent of worm blood was the icing on the cake, but the fact he was alive left nothing to complain about. He left that to Baird. Dawn's early light drove the nightmares away, but their dark presence lingered in his focused mind like the stench of a rotten corpse. "What I get for sleeping" He growled to himself, planting the stubby flat ended butt of his lancer assault rifle into the soft earth with a muffled thud to support his considerable weight.
His legs strained in disagreement and his balance was off, but only temporarily; the sheer will of the man and the mass of his combat boots anchoring him into the ground. The environment seemed vaguely familiar: It was an odd considering that for four miserable years, Marcus had lived in complete and utter darkness, and when there was any daylight to burn, there was nothing but a cell of cold lifeless steel to greet him. It had almost driven him insane, but here, it was different. There was a deceiving sense of serenity. The air was crisp and the hulking redwoods were healthy and rich. But all of this was just filler to the veteran; akin to a dream, this was a false heaven. And as much as he hated to admit it, these rich woodlands would only end up like all the other battlefields throughout Sera. Nature would retreat within itself as humanity shared it's last breath with it. Because if and when mankind fell to the locust horde, nature would be turned out like a whore, converted to conquest beyond this planet, and what once was pure, would become a perverse reflection of itself, terribly mutated and beaten into submission until it carried out the queens' will, like the Brumak.
But they'd have to kill his ass first.
The distant rumble of Troikas and the melodic thud of artillery from beyond the sheltered foxhole brought an odd sense of peace. Like the rest of Sera's humans, he had been fighting for as long as he could remember. Against his father wishes for him to follow in his footsteps, against the Union of Independent Republics, who waged a war of unprecedented destruction out of jealousy and ignorance for far too long. He had fought for his honor, he had fought his inner demons as he wasted away in prison for four agonizing years. And now, he was fighting for the survival of an entire species. Some things never changed.
Marcus took a moment to sit and listen to the soundtrack of battle, watching his men, his gears escape to unknown worlds of impossibilities and fantasy with their Lancer's held tight and their hopes up high. Delta squad had been taking advantage of their downtime, even Cole, whom, like namesake, operated like an unstoppable freight train, had succumbed to slumber. They had all needed it. The night before, Sergeant Fenix and the rest of Delta had been ordered to halt and fortify its position to await further orders. In commands eyes, this downtime was considered a period of tactical re-assessment, but for Marcus and the battle worn gears, it was a chance to stop and relax. The five hour nap had been the first ounce of solid sleep the weary veteran had since the detonation of the light mass bomb handed the locust horde it's first setback six long months ago, and it felt as though it had been earned rather than taken. A reward for cutting his way out of a giant fucking worm. There was an air of amusement to this fact, but smiling was out of the question. There was simply no way the could bring himself to bear so much as a grin. Not after all that had happened; Not after the death of an entire city, or Tai.
Not after Carmine..
And it was as if suddenly the brilliant morning sky dulled at a somber notion: These weren't the first losses. They certainly wouldn't be the last either. But he had been alive long enough to realize these were necessary losses. It was simply war. That's all it really was. And nothing could change that. Not sheer will, Nor faith. Not even love.
He wished Dom would figure that out already.
Marcus shifted his attention to his best friend, and Delta's second in command. Corporal Dominic Santiago lay immobile in the corner of the trench, propped against the makeshift walls with a bolder as a chair and the cool mud floor as his blanket. Marcus could have pretended that the younger Santiago was amongst those who could elude their problems in their sleep, but with Dom it was never really sleep, more of an uneasy fugu state. It had only gotten progressively worse. Prior to this latest assignment, there hadn't been any real thought given to Dom's occasionally erratic behavior, never mind his connections with the stranded. But the signs were getting harder to ignore. Several outbursts and near suicidal charges later it was clear something was wrong. The rest of the squad had their suspicions as to what, but only Marcus knew the story in its entirety, and that was the way it would remain. Frankly, it was better this way, everybody was missing somebody, and the obvious truth was bound to be found in due time. Even in his subconscious state, the signs were there. If not in the observation of a faithful husband dreaming of his beloved wife, it was the wrinkled, earmarked photograph that served as a window to a happier moment in time, with the soul of a man being held in the bulky gauntlets of his empty shadow. "What they don't know can't hurt em" He thought, taking one last look at the men under his command before spinning on the ball of his foot and climbing up the steep mouth of their makeshift dugout, figuring he'd enjoy what little peace there was to be had in a world at war.
