A/N Totally non-canon fic-lit on what becomes of Damon Baird and a few other main characters after the end of GoW 3! I'm really going to need your help on this one guys, as I'm not entirely sure where the deuce it's going myself. Song suggestions, names for future OC's, typo's...Any help is appreciated, and if I take a suggestion from you, you will be credited in bottom authors notes! Please please please tell me what you think of this, and I'll try to update as regularly as possible. :P Love you!

Also, a few disclaimers; I own absolutely nothing to do with the Gears of War universe, or the songs that I am referencing in every chapter. Each belong to their respective owners!


And I find it kinda funny

I find it kinda sad

The dreams in which I'm dying

Are the best I've ever had

I find it hard to tell you

I find it hard to take

When people run in circles it's a very very

Mad World

The sky above Hanover was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel, and spewing a slow but consistent drizzle of something that felt more like ice rather than rain to the few people who had been unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle of it. The streets and sidewalks had been flooded, turned into muddy puddles that made the simple act of walking down the block a chore, and the prospect of driving near impossible on some streets.

Occasionally, a stab or two of sunlight would break through the thick barrier of gray in the sky, but only just long enough to tease, reminding people that there is indeed such a thing as warm and comforting and pretty as the sun before retreating back into its hiding place.

Gloomy. Quiet. Overcast. It was just was of those days; too wet to have fun, too dark to be outside, too cold to thaw. And it had been like that all day, every day, for about two weeks now, black and dreary, the beads of water that poured out from the drawn gray clouds just under their freezing point, making the prospect of snow distant and the overall end to the gloom impossible.

Damon Baird, situated on an uncomfortable barstool in a crowded bar next to a fogged up window, had full view of the sullen atmosphere outside, and he watched dumbly as the rain pattered against the glass, his forehead resting on its icy surface. When a particularly strong gust of wind blew through the streets, an excess of water would drip off the branches of newly-planted trees, and the tapping against the window would grow stronger—like the buzzing of irate bees—before falling back into its hypnotic rhythm.

He couldn't quite remember when he had gotten here, or if he was supposed to leave soon. But these days, time had little consequence anyway, which left him content to sit in the bar, drink when given something to drink, and bide his time in a warm, indifferent, if not lonely haze which was only broken when another brimming glass of who-the-hell-cares-what was slammed in front of him.

After all, he mused silently, it beat staying at home, where the silence was physically painful, and thick enough to be painted on the walls. Looking back, he realized that being at home was in fact the worst place to be at this present time in his life, because, when he was alone, he did weird things. Like sit on the bathroom floor and cry for absolutely no reason at all. He would try to sleep on the couch or on the floor, because he couldn't bare going into the bedroom, and then realize he can't even sleep at all, because he's scared of seeing her in his dreams. And, most often, he would put guns in his mouth, or under his chin, and contemplate pulling the trigger just to break the silence of the fucking house.

The pitter-patter of the rain and his clouded thoughts were broken by the slam of a full shot glass on the bar top, and Baird swiveled his chair slightly to the right just in time to see the guy behind the counter walk away, filling up empty cups as he made his way down to the other end of the small bar. Another woman had just arrived, and her bright eyes and damp hair hinted that she was just out of the rain, and sober enough to understand what she was getting herself into.

Without much interest, and the realization that there was nothing else in the bar to be interested in, Baird studied her, analyzing her movements and gestures with that kind of devoted attention to miniscule details that people receive after excessive amounts of alcohol.

Ten minutes passed, and within those ten minutes, Baird had gulped down four more glasses of that auburn shit, and came to the conclusion that the lady he was watching was most likely a prostitute; in the short amount of time she had been in the bar, she had approached almost every man that looked capable enough of speech, never with a friendly handshake or hello, but with a full-on display of her "assets" accompanied by a sexy smile or a wink.

Baird's thoughts roamed after that, thinking of one thing here, another there, but basically focusing on one topic. It was the same thing that had been in his head for about two weeks now. It was also the same thing that had him considering death over life.

"Hi-ya." The sultry voice that floated over to Baird sounded like nothing more then an echo, clawing its way over the pounding music and loud voices that were flooding the small bar.

"Earth to Blondie," the voice called again after a moment, sounding a little louder and clearer. "You alright, guy?"

Fighting the alcohol induced fuzziness, Baird blinked the blurriness away, and then turned his head to the right to find a young woman sitting cross-kneed on the stool next to his, her almost black eyes bright and aware, a toothy grin spread across her face. It was the same woman who he had seen walk in.

"Ah, so you are alive," she had to shout to be heard above the noise, which was becoming increasingly louder as more and more people came stumbling in. Baird shot her a skeptical look, leaning his elbow on the counter and the side of his head in his palm.

"I'm going to stop you right there, hun," he shouted back, retaining his indifferent expression. "I'm not interested in buying whatever it is you're trying to sell."

"Hey, who said I'm selling anything," she countered quickly, still flashing that confidant smile, sliding a little closer in her seat.

Baird scoffed. "Well, then I would say, "spoken like a true whore." He rolled his glazy blue eyes, turning back to his drink. He fingered the small shot glass, turning it back and fourth on the bar top while watching ripples break the auburn surface of the liquid. Still feeling the burn in the back of his throat from the last one, he busied himself by trying to remember how many shots he'd had in the past half hour; he'd lost count at 12.

"I'm Niki." Daunted by her insistence, Baird turned again, looking the woman over this time; she was short, maybe 5 3" with a diminutive build to match. Her hair was bleached blonde, with natural brunette growing back at the roots, and cropped short, just under her thrice-pierced ears, which were adorned with black hoops and two studs in each. With high cheekbones and a pronounced jaw, she wasn't overly pretty, but enough to grab the attention of potential "costumers."

She blinked expectantly at him, the humidity in the crowded room making the dark charcoal around her eyes smudge. "You got a name, sweetie?" she cooed, resting an elbow on the bar, burying a delicate-looking hand into her hair and leaning forward, letting the flimsy blue tank top she was wearing hang low.

This time, Baird let out one short laugh, yelling back over the music, "Yeah; it's pronounced fuck off," before turning back to his drink. He knocked it back; eyes fluttering in satisfaction—yeah, that was good—as all the haziness that had cleared up from their short conversation came seeping back into his head, numbing his senses.

"Well, you're a little anti-social, aren't you?" This time, her voice came from behind, and before Baird could turn, a pair of arms was draped over his shoulders, and he felt her body press against his back. "Lucky for you," she whispered in his ear, lips brushing skin, "I like a man who plays hard to get."

Baird rolled his shoulders back, forcing her to stand to full height before swiveling the barstool to face her. "Listen up sister," he said, voice raised. He tried to ignore the skimpier entities of her getup that he hadn't noticed earlier; specifically the cutoff denim skirt that donned her hips. Only her hips.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret here," he continued, centering his full attention on trying not to slur his words; his tongue felt unimaginably heavy as he flashed her a smile. "I've got nothing for you."

"Oh, I seriously doubt that," she shot back with a chuckle, not making eye contact while ruffling her hair, once again letting her blouse hang low, breasts on full display like they were everyone's business. But then…in her profession, they probably were everyone's business…

Before Baird's sluggish brain could generate a reply, one that would rid of her for good, Nicole took a step forward, the sharp clack of her high heel just barely surfacing above the music. And then, without hesitation, she slid onto his lap, straddling him as her hands traveled up his neck, their faces only a few inches apart.

Instinct told Baird to get up, brush her off; do anything to get her away. But then…there was something so familiar about the feeling, so natural and normal and comforting, that he remained silent. Stared into her eyes. He wanted to drown in their black depths. A chill ran down his spine as she slowly leaned into him, their lips just brushing before she changed direction and started kissing his neck.

Numbly, Baird let his eyes close, and before he knew it, the sounds of the bar had faded away, and all he could make out was a constant, droning buzz in his ears. The alcohol made forgetting where he was too easy, and pretty soon, he wasn't in the bar at all, but home. And the woman on his lap, covering him in affection, wasn't just some slut from the streets, but someone else. Someone he cared extensively for; someone he had loved with his whole heart and soul. Someone who was gone forever.

Half a minute passed, and Baird was content to let her lead, moisture lingering wherever her soft tongue glided over his skin. Like in a daze, he maneuvered his body whichever way she wanted, letting her peck the side of his neck and beneath his sandpaper chin, all the while his own hands finding their way under her shirt, exploring on their own. Detached from the rest of him.

A soft moan escaped her lips as he finally lunged forward, his teeth gently biting down on her earlobe, avoiding the jewelry that christened it with unknown expertise. Lost in a different place and time, he traveled down her neck, across her shoulders, lingering on areas that left a spark on his tongue and electricity buzzing through his lips. Her perfume was heavy on her pale skin, engulfing his senses as he traveled further, something between jasmine and roses, overwhelming but addictive.

Her hands grazed through his two-toned blonde hair with unmistakable force just as his lips met the neckline of her blouse, and his blue eyes drifted open as she brought his head back up to face hers.

She flashed him a quick smile, one that looked to be more about satisfaction rather then happiness, and then pressed her lips against the mechanic's—hesitation absent as the moment she had been leading up to finally presented itself.

In that instant when their lips locked, Baird's whole image of home, and safety, and happiness—all of it—crumbled into a million pieces, tore at the seams, shattered like glass struck with a rock. It broke, in all possible ways you can think of. With devastation, he came to the sobering conclusion that it was Nicole's lips he was kissing, and it was all wrong; she went from having a touch like satin, to something like skin being scraped off with a blunt spoon. She tasted like cigarettes and alcohol, and not the delicate sweetness he was expecting. He had anticipated perfection, and in return, he had received anything but.

As if he had been jolted with electricity, Baird stood, hands braced on the bar behind him. His heart was beating in what felt like an attempt to break out of his chest.

Nicole, in turn, stumbled backward, losing her balance on account of the high-heeled shoes, and fell flat on her ass. On her way down, she bumped someone who had been holding a painfully full mug of beer. The liquid came raining down on her bleached hair, dribbling across her livid face in partly foamy, gold streaks, and soaked through her blouse until what little it was covering became completely visible.

The entire building had fallen silent throughout the whole scene, (save for the ever-present thrash-metal,) but now, it erupted into drunken fits of laughter. Until the woman on the floor spoke.

"What the fuck is your problem?!" Previously, Nicole's voice had been soft. Cajoling. Something you could find sex-appeal or intimacy in. At the present moment, it sounded more like she was being crushed by a Centaur.

She held the dripping mess of a shirt away from her breasts with two fingers and a wrinkled brow, trying and failing to preserve at least some of the dignity she thought she had left.

Baird didn't stick around to answer. His heart was in his throat, and it was pounding to the point of choking him. He was dizzy and nauseas and sick with guilt. He was oblivious to the rage-filled screams that followed him to the bathroom door. He entered, closed it behind him, and stumbled with shaky legs over to the sinks.

Letting a slow stream of water trickle into his trembling hands, Baird leaned against the counter, not confident enough in his own two legs to count on standing. As soon as his hands were overflowing, he splashed them against his face, letting the soft whimpers that were starting to build in his throat die as suddenly as the icy liquid cleared his head. He repeated the action, a second, third, fourth time, until the shaking that had seized his body subsided into soft tremors.

Clutching the sides of the sink, he stared into the drain with glazy blue eyes, thoughts racing so that the thumping music and clamoring voices outside the door seemed to amplify, burning through his skull and embedding themselves into his thoughts as his vision swayed in and out of focus.

The sudden smack to his jaw came so suddenly that he toppled to the tiled bathroom floor more out of surprise then pain, although that was an understatement, because the whole left side of his face already felt like it had been jabbed with the butt of a sawed-off.

"The…fuck," was all he could manage, eyes squelched shut, one hand shooting up to his jaw while the other supported his weight on the floor.

There was no answer, only two massive hands gripping the collar of his shirt, hoisting him to full height and slamming him against the wall adjacent the sink.

"You mind telling me what went down out there, asshole?" The voice that echoed through the small tiled room was a low, deep growl, no-nonsense evident in his tone. All broken glass and whiskey.

Baird blinked his eyes tighter before summoning the strength to open them, all the while his feet scrabbling for the floor as the man in front kept him pinned to the wall. Stabbing white pain pierced his eyes as he opened them, but he fought against the discomfort, instead focusing his attention on the figure in front of him; he was an intimidating presents to say the least, standing about 6 3' on his own, 6 4' with the assistance of his mud crusted work boots. His gleaming green eyes bore into Baird's while his jawline remained set in an intimidating half-smile. Three of his back teeth were silver.

"You lost your tongue, pig? I asked you a question." Again, with that deep voice. It had a southern twang to it, but his accent was undermined by the overall tone, which sounded akin to far off thunder, just waiting for the storm to break.

"What's it to you?" Baird managed in a choked-backed voice, both his hands feverishly working to unclasp the man's one, which was still wrapped tightly around the blonde's throat.

"What's it to me…" The guy let his voice trail off, and nodded his head slightly before grabbing a handful of Baird's hair and throwing him against a bathroom stall. The shabby door swung in on its hinges, and Baird lurched inside, gasping for air while the man sauntered slowly over.

"Let me put it to you differently boy, seeing as how you're not fully understanding." He squatted down next to the smaller man, grabbing him roughly by the jaw and turning his head so that they were eye-to-eye.

"That girl out there, Nikki," he started up again. "She's mine. Period. And I don't like other people tampering with my property. Now, do you have any explanation as to why she came bitching to me that you were giving her trouble?"

Baird barely comprehended what was being said, his ears ringing so loudly that the man's mouth seemed to be moving without words. Vaguely, he heard the name Nikki mentioned, but stayed silent under his attacker's questioning glare.

There were a few seconds of silence, albeit the noise outside the door, and then the big man sighed irritably, grabbing Baird by the wrist and dragging him back out of the stall. Baird struggled, kicking at the guy's shins and using his right hand in an attempt to free his left, but the other man's fingers were like concrete, set like a vice.

Turning, he launched his big booted foot at Baird, and it caught him on the cheek, making white and red lights bleed down the blonde's line of sight. He gasped for air and attempted to get back on his hands and knees, but not before another blow smashed into his ribs, sending him back down on the cold tile.

"You want to tell me what happened with you and Nikki yet?"

Coughing and gasping, he tasted blood. He stayed curled up defensively, watching through hazy vision as drips of red from his mouth stained the off-white tile. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking; from the pain and fear and the alcohol. Now, he realized, would be the appropriate time to give up; to apologize, or whatever the hell it was that this douche wanted.

But then…what the fuck did he have to lose anymore?

"What do you think I did asshole? I called her out on the slut that she was."

With the last word dead on his lips, the pain started again; the man's fist like two slabs of steel landing blows on Baird's cheeks, jaw, stomach, ribs, chest. Time was quickly lost track of, but before what felt like long, things started to fade for the blonde; vision and feeling, evaporating slowly and without consequence.

Vaguely, Baird was aware of blood, spattered across the tiled floors in alarmingly extensive puddles, but he didn't care enough to feel concern. In fact, he didn't care enough to fight back, or even try to protect himself from the crushing blows the man was instilling on his body. He was numb. Empty. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice was telling him that he deserved all this. He believed it.

He was coughing, gagging on a mouthful of blood, when the violent attack suddenly ceased. From where he was on the floor, the mechanic barely had the strength to get his eyes open, and even when he did, everything was a blur, shapes and colors indistinguishable amidst the gray, faded fog. Two additional figures, their faces completely unrecognizable, were in the bathroom; two men; one looming over his prone form with a stance that screamed genuine concern, while the other kept his attacker pinned against the far wall. Voices were exchanged, but not nearly loud enough to rise above the incessant ringing in Baird's ears.

Fading. Everything was fading. Someone was kneeling next to him, turning him gently on his side so that he wouldn't choke. A hand, gripped on his shoulder, not painfully, but so tight that the blonde could tell that whoever was administering the contact was afraid of letting go. It was a familiar touch. This whole situation was all too familiar.

"D-don't…" The word barely formed, slipping from Baird's lips and falling to the bloodied tile floors at dead weight. There was something he wanted to say, but the rest of the sentence—whatever it might be—was lost with Baird as both fell under the deep, crushing blanket of unconsciousness.