From when she walked in, Anya turned heads in this dead-end bar. Even though he didn't look, from spending years and years on the battlefield, Marcus seemed to have an extra sense for things moving around him. Every man in the entire place stared, it was like Marcus could feel their heads turning to watch her perfect little ass bob up and down as her hips swayed from side to side in her practiced walk; no longer was she the delicate little girl he had seen at Aspho. She'd had plenty of time to get used to the heels, and even if she didn't know it, she walked damn well. The only thing Marcus hadn't expected was the jealousy.

His mind did funny things sometimes. As much as he kept himself cool and nonchalant on the outside, inside he could equate the feeling to an emotional storm, a hurricane that just built and built and built and was only released when his life depended on it-- which was usually through the end of his lancer, sawing through armor and blood and guts and bone while he was screaming out all his confliction at those who had caused it. Well, most of it, anyway. It was one of the few things he could get some sort of high off of-- the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he fought for his life, it was the reason he enlisted in the first place.

But here, in the middle of Jacinto, in the middle of the last secured and civilized place in Ephyra, was the last place he expected that feeling. When he felt his breathing quicken, his eyes open wider, his palms open, slightly sweaty, and the rest of his body get that twinge, like it was about to get electrocuted, he knew something was wrong. His brain wasn't controlling that. His face stayed calm, like it always did, it was a practiced tactic that he had mastered long before he dreamt of living in COG armor. No, the fire that had sprung in his chest was controlling it, it felt like someone was strangling his gut, grabbing it tight enough to hurt, threatening to rip it out, but knowing that keeping the hold on it was more pain than just ripping the damn thing out.

Eventually, after she sat down, started talking to him, he got himself under control. Outside, he hadn't changed a bit, there was nothing that any random observer could have picked out, any change in his countenance or mannerism was simply absent. That didn't mean the raging inferno inside had been defeated, it was only quieted, moved to a dull roar between his ears so he could ignore it better. If it was a cranial problem, he could ignore that with even greater ease than keeping himself calm; hell, he ignored sleep, so why not?

Still, there were two men in his peripheral vision that kept staring. Even after she sat down, even after she had made it clear that Marcus was the only one she wanted to talk to, those two damn assholes kept fucking staring, drooling even, making obscene gestures with their hands and mouths that let Marcus know exactly what they were talking about. They were the worst kind of scum, men who acted like boys and didn't give a flying fuck about the rest of the world on the verge of extinction. They were looking for a place to stick their dicks, and Anya had waltzed in at the wrong time.

The larger one, black with a shaved head, looked like he had eaten some Gear rations recently, maybe within a few months. That meant he was on some sort of medical leave, an extended period of time that let him eat normal human food on a normal man's calorie ration and lose some of the bulk. But his mannerisms told Marcus that he was certainly buzzed, and probably hadn't seen much actual fighting; one of the losers who got shot in the ass because they didn't have enough sense to turn around and shoot while they were pissing their pants and running for their mommies. His buddy was white, slightly smaller, with an army flat-top haircut and a gay little goatee; one that just skirted around the edge of the chin, something like Prescott's. For all he knew, they had probably been in the same squad.

He sensed them stand up, Baldie first, and cross the bar, their dirty fucking eyes absolutely fixed on Anya. Something primal shifted in the pit of his stomach, and the dull roar between his ears was growing into a low growl at the back of his throat, and he knew-- tonight he was going to do something stupid.

Anya could almost sense the tension radiating from Marcus as the two men approached her, one behind her and one behind him. The bald one with the ugly face leaned over, looking her more in the chest than in the eyes, and asked the first thing every lame bar-fly seemed to ask.

"Hey sweet thing, buy you a drink?" He rasped, his voice definitely hoarse for one reason or another. She kept her eyes focused away from him, on Marcus, because she couldn't help but notice how tightly he was grasping his shot glass, no matter how calm his face was.

"No, but thanks." She was polite, at least, and maybe the nicety would defuse the situation. It was a bad assumption on her part.

"You sure?" He smiled toothily, black beady eyes giving her the up-down, hands on his hips. This jackass just wasn't going to give up. "Heard the 'shine here was as sweet as you." He was drunk, if not smashed off his ass than at least part-way, that at least was clear from his speech. She was about to tell him to get lost when, to her surprise, Marcus threw the switch.

"The lady said no." He rumbled, pouring himself another glass of that straight alcohol shit and swigging it. He was looking straight forward, losing his gaze in some bottle on the shelf across the bar. But his comment did the wrong thing-- it pissed Baldie off. The guy's smile immediately dropped and his arms went slack, shifting his weight so he could lean over Marcus's shoulder and talk up-close.

"Well I wasn't talking to you." He said in a tone that just said 'fuck you'. "Don't hate the game, man."

"Game, that's a good one." There was a twitch in his neck. "Better be careful you know which one you're playing." Marcus's voice rumbled, dangerous and low, to the drunkard's ears, but apparently the 'don't fuck with me' tone was lost in the translation. His buddy, army-boy from his regulation haircut, stood to Marcus's other side with his arms crossed, like they could take him or something.

"What the fuck, man? It's not like chicks are fallin' from trees around here!" Baldie leaned heavily on his right foot, trying to get a better look at Marcus while he was spouting his little rant. He was off balance, and Anya decided to use that to her advantage, and put this class-A jerk back in the hole he came from. "The farms are bad enough, keeping all the good ones locked up an--"

THWACK!

She tried to put her weight behind it, making a fist like they taught her to at the academy's defense class, which was years ago. She was more than a little rusty, and her hand was going to hurt like hell, but when her fist connected with his nose, she heard a satisfying crack and felt the bridge of it, at least, collapse beneath her knuckles. The guy made some interesting noises, stumbling backwards from his previously off-balance stance, his ass finally backing into the nearest vacant table. She smiled as she watched him writhe, proud of herself, when a hand grabbed her face and jerked it around.

"Crazy bitch!" Army boy had figured out what happened, and decided that she needed a little retribution, grabbing her face with one hand and winding up his other, about to slap her into oblivion. His grip was strong, and there was no way she could twist out of it easily without getting herself hurt more, but before she knew it, Marcus stood behind him. She blinked for a second, glancing at his still-swiveling bar stool, not even knowing he had moved.

"I'll tell you one last time," He growled, a sneer forming on his lips as he grabbed the guy's drawn-back hand with his own and crushed it almost in half. "You're playing the wrong goddamn game." The force of Marcus's grip distracted Army-boy enough to let go of Anya's face, and she watched as Marcus handled the guy like a piece of paper. Grabbing the back of his neck with his free hand, with one deft shift of his weight Marcus threw the guy to the floor headlong, his skull smacking into the rotting floorboards with the sickening thwack of bone on wood.

Everyone in the bar was watching now. Anya thought she could hear the bartender chewing on his toothpick in the short silence that followed.

"And you--" Marcus roared, keeping Anya behind him as he took up a stance, pointing at Baldie. "Don't even think about it." The guy had regained enough of his composure to get back into it, even though blood was streaming freely from his freshly fractured nose and Marcus had totally dropped his buddy with almost no effort at all.

"Get back to your goddamn corner and think about what a lucky day you just had," Whatever had tripped his switch, Marcus was fucking pissed. Anya had never known him to lose his temper so quickly and violently, he was the guy that would clam up and keep his mouth shut if something pissed him off, not lash out like he was doing now. She glanced at the vodka, and wondered if it had finally gotten to him, but then thought better of it. He'd had enough of those ration bars to keep him alcohol-buzz-free for the rest of his life. But still, something else was wrong... perhaps she shouldn't have pulled that punch.

Baldie was a good boy, and stayed well out of the reach of Marcus's outstretched hand, shifting over to try and wake up his unconscious friend. He knew well enough that this fight was over, especially because of how the crazy fucker was standing now-- it was ingrained into every male brain, his stance, as a warning sign. his head was low and his shoulders hunched, holding his arms in front of him, legs spread apart so that his weight was even and could move with ease. Wild blue eyes flicked around, analyzing every angle of attack, every defense that could be managed for each. It was the don't-touch-my-fucking-woman stance, and a trigger fired in Baldie's brain to keep him from making any sudden movements. When a guy was standing like that, it was extremely likely someone was going to get killed; namely, those going up against him.

He started to say something, but that pretty blonde cut him off.

"Marcus, this guy's not gonna take a hint." She said behind him, hands at her sides, more like a casual observer. But Baldie got the message, in a city this small, there was only one Marcus people knew.

Marcus grunted in reply. Fuck, he thought, watching as the beady black eyes opened, the face relaxing with realization. She used my fucking name. My fucking NAME.

"Wait," the guy started slowly, straightening up. "Like, Marcus Fenix? Um.." He averted his eyes, and Marcus groaned internally, knowing everyone had heard. Somewhere behind him, a guy choked on his beer, spitting it out onto the floor. Marcus Fenix was a hero in this town, and he felt the eyes, turning to look at his face more intently, trying to memorize every detail about a guy who had been right up in the shit and shoved it back in the Locust's faces. But it was all recognition he didn't want, at all.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," Baldie said, finally drawing the line between the face in the papers and the hard bastard in front of him. "I'm so sorry, really..."

"Shit." Marcus took a deep breath and relaxed, standing up straight and regaining his constant semblance of calm almost instantly, rolling his shoulders back into their normal slouch, and cracking his enormous neck. He turned around slowly, eyes scanning for the bartender.

"Send the tab to Victor Hoffman," He said plainly, and the guy nodded; he hadn't planned on asking for the tab anyway. Avoiding the burning stares, Marcus looked at Anya, his face blank, back to normal.

"Let's get the hell outta here." He grumbled, jerking his head towards the door and shrugging his jacket higher on to his shoulders, the fluff around the neck settling somewhere around his ears as he began towards the old, creaky door. His steps were loud, firm, heavy, and Anya, trailing behind him, seemed like a toothpick. Eyes followed both of them on their way out, and as they passed, murmurs started. Marcus just walked straight, not paying attention to any of them, making sure to slam the door after Anya.