Marcus dragged his loaded fork across his plate and cast his eyes sideways to the wall of windows, noting that the tables closest to the wall were deserted. There were more Gears packed at each table, six or seven instead of groups of three or four. The normal cross-mess catcalls and ribbing were absent. The din had a different pitch, the buzz of nervous energy replacing the subtle undertone of nonchalance that normally characterized morning mess. It was always the little details that told him the full story, but he hadn't needed his analysis this morning; everything about his brothers, from their posture to their unconscious behavior, told him they were spooked, on edge.
"Hey, Marcus." He turned at his name and found Brody standing across the table, surrounded by his friends. He tipped an imaginary hat in Marcus' direction, grinning lightly. He had frequently been Marcus' second during their round-the-clock perimeter sweeps, and he honestly enjoyed the young man's good nature; it was no surprise that Hoffman had promoted him on Vectes. The rest of Brody's group stared at him unabashedly with awe in their eyes, and Marcus felt his breakfast take a sharp swoop in his stomach.
"Morning, Specialist." He casually saluted back, finding that he no longer had an appetite. He vacated his table (empty, as usual) and waved Brody and his pals over to take his spot.
"How're things?" he asked, picking up his plate and draining the last vestiges of Dizzy's 'coffee' from his mug. Brody stopped cutting open his biscuit to consider Marcus fully, his black eyes somehow light and clouded at once. "You mean with me, or with everyone else?" He indicated the mess with a wave of his knife.
Marcus suppressed the urge to snap at the younger man: Yeah, been wondering how your life's holding up, how are you feeling, y'know, with these fucking monster attacks! There was no reason to take his temper out on the kid for one stupid question. "You're so happy, the sun rises and sets from your asshole. I meant the other Gears."
Brody looked at his buddies, none of whom had touched their plates. Every pair of eyes was riveted on Marcus. "Plenty of guys are freaked out, scared, mad, but plenty more are eager to fight. You know most of us can't hack it as civvies anyway. It's not like these Hybrids are really different from the Locust or the Lambent. As long as our directive is to 'kill it', we can manage." His friends nodded in agreement.
"There are some guys who blame you, though, Marcus, because of your father," Brody said seriously. "Not that we have any evidence of that, I mean. But with the imulsion cure, the hammer-" Brody colored and garbled his next few words before recovering. "And I tried to defend you, but-"
"Hold it," Marcus said, heaving a sigh. "Specialist, I appreciate the gesture, but this entire island is a stockpot of nerves, bad blood, and trigger fingers. I don't need one of my men drawing fire for defending me. I can deal with it."
"We have to stand together, Sergeant." Brody met his gaze, refusing to be cowed. A dull jolt of affection flashed through Marcus at the unexpected show of loyalty. He didn't know if he should be touched by the sentiment, or saddened because Brody still believed that the complexities of warfare revolved around 'us vs. them'. And really, when had it been any different for the common soldier?
"Yeah, you're right. We do. Thanks for the intel."
He walked back through the crowded mess to the kitchen, drawing nearly every eye on the way there. It wasn't hard to tell which Gears respected him and which ones didn't-judging from the occasional sneer, he knew some men stopped short of spitting at his feet. Runs the gamut, doesn't it? He thought idly. And what happens when 'us vs. them' turns into 'us vs. us'? Marcus feared the Hybrids were only the tip of an iceberg poised to shatter the precarious peace they were all laboring under.
He abruptly came upon Jace and Carmine, both of them struggling to share a chair at their crowded table.
"It doesn't work. And back before all of this shit, you had to be careful about it."
"Nah," one of the Gears countered, "it's worked every time for me. No condom, pull out, no baby."
"Isn't that kind of..." Jace said, waving his hand in the air.
"Emasculating?" Carmine put in. When the group failed to react, he scowled and said, "Pussing out, you dumbasses." He rolled his eyes when the table broke into chaos.
Marcus was tempted to lean into the group and give his opinion on "pulling out", knowing that since it was out of character for him to speak so crassly, it would be met with laughter. But, as always, he was aware of his presence and the influence it dragged in its wake. Maybe one day I can actually laugh at a dick joke. He settled for smacking Carmine and Jace on their shoulders in acknowledgement before continuing on.
He reflected on the legacy he shared with his father, Anya with her mother, and wondered if anyone could truly be judged on their own merits. Environmental influences were impossible to avoid. He thought he had made the delineation clear when he snubbed the invite-only Royal Tyran Academie in favor of enlisting. But still the onus followed him everywhere, ratcheting up people's expectations, tainting their opinions, and no matter how much he triumphed, his definition still read: 'son of Adam Fenix'. Although, Marcus supposed, that definition now included 'Dishonorable Discharge to The Slab'.
He dumped his chipped plate into the plastic bin and folded up his multi tool before stowing it in a cargo pocket. He noticed Dizzy gesturing at him through the pass, Dizzy's helpers scrambling around behind him, wielding spatulas and carrying pans of pancakes.
"Marcus," Dizzy called over the roar of the refrigerator cycle, "can I have a minute?"
Marcus nodded and made his way into the kitchen.
The ex-Stranded looked troubled. "I didn't know what to do at first. But I figured I should tell you."
Marcus folded his arms and leaned against the counter. "I'm listening."
That evening found Sam pulling Damon into her bedroom by the front of his shirt. Her lips were still pressed to his in a searing hot kiss as the door slammed shut behind them. She'd accosted him in the elevator when they ran into each other going back upstairs, and dragged him back to her lair post haste.
With the door shut, Damon reversed their direction and pushed her against it, hiking her legs up over his hips. Sam hummed her approval and rolled herself against him. She felt his warm fingers snake their way under the hem of her shirt and clutch at her bare skin, his blunted nails leaving trails of electricity in their wake. Sam moaned into his mouth as her tongue battled with his and tightened her grip on his waist, bringing him closer into her aroused heat.
"Okay, okay, wait, " Damon said as he pulled back , breathing heavily. "This is not taking it slow. Not at all."
He carefully released his hold on her legs and let her slide back to stand under her own power. Sam didn't relinquish her hold around his neck, though; she wasn't prepared to let him get away completely.
"It's just kissing. We agreed that kissing was an acceptable form of taking our time," she countered, running her fingers through the soft, fine hairs at the nape of his neck.
"Not like that!" Damon said with raised eyebrows. "That was not 'making out', that was a 'prelude to sex'."
Sam scoffed, let her hands slide to his shoulders, and thudded her head softly against the door with her eyes closed. When she opened them, she gave Damon her best sad puppy look, hoping he'd take pity on her.
"That's not going to work, Samantha," he chided gently, a small smile forming on his lips.
"I know, but I had to try." She smiled slyly up at him. "What's that saying? Closed mouths don't get fed?"
"Yes, that's the saying, but I've never heard it loaded up with so much innuendo before. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Me? Innuendo? No, no, you're just projecting," Sam said in a husky voice as she leaned in to kiss him again.
Damon allowed himself the contact for a few moments before he disengaged.
"I'd better go; the air's getting a little bit thick in here." He slid his hands down her arms to her hands that were cinched behind his head. He kissed both of her palms and pulled away from her.
Sam tightened her grip on his hands and gave a cajoling look.
"Don't go. I haven't had any time with you all day. I'll behave." She smiled at him and placed her hand on her heart. "I promise."
Damon didn't respond immediately and Sam noticed that his eyes had tracked her hand to her chest and were tracing the outline of her breast. She purposely let her hand slide down and caress her flesh before pushing off the door and pulling him towards her bed.
"Come here," she commanded softly, crawling backwards onto the mattress.
Damon licked his lips, whether with anxiety or anticipation, Sam couldn't tell.
"What happened to behaving?" His eyes flicked between her chest and her face, never staying in either place for long.
"I am. Don't worry, Damon. No touching below the waist," Sam purred and pulled him towards her into a wet kiss.
Damon pulled himself onto the bed with her, pushing her onto her back. Sam smoothly spread her legs for him, creating a cradle for him to rest his weight. She moaned quietly when he adjusted himself in the space she made. Sam could feel his growing erection pressing up against her moistened core, and the need to hump herself against that hardness was dangerously close to overcoming her need to respect his wishes.
She growled and bit at his lip, arching herself into him to create more friction. Damon's hands roamed over her body, sliding over her top to knead her breasts. She couldn't contain her enthusiastic moan when his hands brushed over the exposed skin at the scooped neck of her shirt and sent bolts of pleasure down her nerves. Even with the doubled barrier of her tank top and bra, she could sense the heat of his hands like they were hot coals.
Sam took in a deep breath and canted her hips to one side, sending Damon sliding. She took his moment of bewilderment to push him onto his back and straddle him. The new position molded her core to his thick cock, and she allowed herself to indulge in a few excruciatingly pleasurable gyrations. Damon moaned softly beneath her and set his hands on her hips to still her movements, even as he bucked into her.
"Let me have this?" She asked as she panted through her arousal. Her skin was alight, and all of her senses had focused in on Damon; how he felt, how he tasted, how he smelled. At this moment, nothing was more important to her than getting closer to him. After a brief hesitation, she felt his iron grip on her release.
She made a slow circle with her hips, her eyes pinning Damon where he lay. She reached for the bottom of her shirt and pulled it off. He loosed another quiet groan at the exposure of her skin to his eyes, and set about tracing the contours of her sweat-slicked, toned stomach.
Sam let her head fall back as she rode him. Even the feeling of her hair against her bare skin pushed her closer to the edge. She ran her fingertips up her sides and over her breasts, enjoying the way her skin pebbled at her own touch. She knew that by now her wetness was seeping through her trousers and onto his cargoes and moaned brokenly at the thought. She could feel Damon responding to her, could hear his stuttered breathing; his hands had begun a clutch and release rhythm on her curved hips, and he was meeting her thrust for thrust.
She reached down and pressed her hand to his lower stomach, feeling the flexing muscles. She could feel herself starting to shake as her pace quickened. She called to Damon, to God, and let out a shuddering moan. She levered herself lower and braced her hands on his chest, letting her head fall as she concentrated on reaching her peak. Sam could sense that completion was just moments away, just beyond her reach. She doubled her efforts, racing towards her orgasm.
She lifted her eyes to look at Damon and saw that he was watching her intently. His pupils had dilated in arousal, and his irises had darkened to a deep forest green. The way he studied her, as if he were noting every move and sound she made, as if, at that moment, she was the center of his world, sent her careening over the edge. Her release hit her like a freight train and carried her off. Her fingers wound into Damon's shirt and she let loose a drawn-out moan. Her brows knitted together, and she took in deep gulps of air as her orgasm crested.
Her arms shook and finally gave out, sending her falling into Damon's chest. She listened to his racing heartbeat for a few long moments as she gathered her wits.
"Sorry if I just plowed right through all those boundaries of yours." Sam sent him a silly grin, still riding her euphoric high.
"It's -" he paused to clear his throat. "It's okay. We haven't broken any rules."
Sam looked up at him with hooded eyes and slid her crotch back to his – finding that he was still hard. Something zipped through her belly at the knowledge that he hadn't come, that he'd managed to hold back. She felt her core pulse at the idea of what it would be like when he turned that formidable concentration towards love-making.
"I need to change," she said, dismounting him and sauntering towards her chest of drawers.
She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him running his hands roughly through his blonde hair, and blowing out a flustered breath. Her smiled dropped, and she turned back to rifle through her drawers. Even from this distance, she'd seen the uncertainty that had darted through his expression, and she felt a sourness in her gut as she started listing all the things that she might have done wrong tonight.
Sam quickly changed into her night clothes and walked back out to Damon. He'd moved to perch on the edge of the bed, and eyed her as she moved towards him. Sam stopped in front of him, and they watched each other momentarily before she moved to sit beside him. She turned sideways and propped one of her legs on the bed, leaving enough space between them that there was no chance of contact.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asked, an unsure lilt in her voice.
"What makes you think that?" he replied, not making eye contact.
Sam stared incredulously, then looked away from him. The air in the room was thick with tension, and the uncomfortable vibes flowing from him were almost tangible. The two fell into an awkward silence, each looking anywhere but at the other.
"Samantha, you didn't do anything I wasn't willing to let you do."
"But you didn't want it. You just let me use you." Sam's stomach turned at the insinuation. "Why didn't you stop me?"
Damon turned to look her in confusion.
"Why didn't I stop you? Really?" He gave her a disbelieving side-eyed look. "Why didn't I stop the really hot chick from giving me a free show? That's your question?"
"But you didn't want me! You didn't fucking want it and you let me go at you like some kind of... lady-rapist."
"Sam, you can't rape the willing. Do you really think I would've let you get me on that bed if I hadn't wanted to?" One side of his mouth had quirked up in a smirk.
"But you just laid there like some kind of life-sized sex toy. And then after...the look on your face..." Sam slumped and looked down at her hands. Even with his reassurance, she felt like she'd done something she shouldn't have.
"I just don't want you to have any expectations of me that I can't meet. Or don't want to meet." He shrugged and gave her frank stare. "You can't take back sex. There's a strict 'no refunds' policy."
"Oh, fuck you, Baird." Sam retorted hotly. She stood from the bed and glared at him.
"You fucking asshole."
Damon's eyebrows shot up and he followed her from the bed.
"You're mad? You did ask." He watched her pace the floor with an unreadable expression.
"Am I mad? Are you kidding? I – I put myself on the line here and you're making jokes? I'm trying to build something substantial and you're busy trying to be quippy. How can you be so goddamned cavalier about this?"
She turned from him to hide the way her eyes had begun to water in her fury, and took in a deep breath. She heard Damon's muffled steps in the lush carpet, but didn't turn when he snaked a hand onto her shoulder.
"Samantha, I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm not good at this." He tightened his grip on her, trying to coax her into looking at him.
"Yeah, no shit, Inspector." Sam jerked her shoulder from his grasp and moved away from him.
She was allowed a moment of stillness before she sensed him moving towards her again. He grabbed both of her shoulders and spun her around to face him. Sam felt a brief jolt of dismay when she saw Damon's thunderous expression. His fingers tightened on her flesh, and he opened his mouth to speak before snapping it shut so hard she heard his teeth click together. He stalked away from her to the middle of the room.
"Do you -" he broke off and clenched his fists before trying again.
"Do you even understand what this is? I'm completely out of my depth here. If I'm being cavalier, it's because I don't know what else to do. No one else has ever wanted this from me, and I've never let them." Damon crossed his arms defensively. "Everybody else knows my defense mechanisms. Why don't you? These behaviors don't come from nowhere: just ask Cole."
Sam watched the play of emotions on his face as he spoke, and she knew that she'd just gotten a hard-won confession; being open about his feelings wasn't something Damon was known for. He began to shift nervously under her scrutiny, his eyes darting around the room. He kept his arms tightly folded, looking every bit like he wanted to bolt.
She sighed and marched towards him, placing her hands on his shoulders.
"You drive me nuts," she said, pressing her forehead to his.
"Yeah, well..." Her posture was still rigid, but he let his arms fall to his sides.
"I'm sorry for getting mad," she apologized quietly, moving in closer to him and leaning into his chest.
She felt the expansion and contraction of his ribs as he vented a deep sigh, and wrapped her up in his arms.
"It's okay. I was being kind of a dick," he murmured into her hair.
Sam pulled back and speared him with a dubious look.
"Kind of a dick?" She questioned.
"God, shut up. We're supposed to be having a deep, touching moment here, you savage." Damon squeezed her tightly as he said it, taking the sting out of the dig.
"Ooh, who's the cold bitch, now?" She shoved him and playfully shot a soft jab at his gut. "Unbelievable."
Damon laughed and moved out of her reach.
"I really should go this time. I need a … shower."
"Scared I'll make you forget your vow?" Sam asked slyly as she walked with him to her door. "Again?"
"A little, yeah," he admitted. He rested his hand on the doorknob but didn't turn it. "By the way, that was really fucking hot."
Sam grinned and nodded, slipping an arm around his neck.
"Goodnight, Damon." She wrapped her other arm around him, tightening her hold when he pulled her into him by her waist. She took in his scent, carbolic soap and something distinctly male, and decided that he was hers.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. To Sam, it was different than every other one they'd shared tonight; those had been sparking with sexual energy, but this one was sweet and gentle, and it made her knees go weak.
"I'll see you in the morning, Samantha," he responded and slipped out of the door.
Sam found Cole lounging outside on one the balconies near the mess hall just as the sun was coming up. He was nursing a steaming mug of tea, trying to wake up for his early morning patrol. He held the hot cup in his plate sized hands, and breathed in the lightly scented steam, eyes still shut with the weight of insufficient sleep.
"You just gonna stand there or are you gonna join me?" he asked, sending her an amused glance over his shoulder.
Sam cocked an eyebrow and abandoned her observation perch in the doorway.
"How did you know I was there?" She skirted around the gilded table and took a seat across from him.
"I didn't know it was you, I just knew it was someone," Cole answered, fighting a yawn. "My sixth sense is primed."
He tapped his temple twice and sent her an impish look.
Sam couldn't help but smile at his perpetually cheerful nature. It distantly occurred to her that an angry Augustus Cole would be one scary motherfucker.
"That's useful. I wish I had a sixth sense; sometimes I think my 'woman's intuition' is broken." Sam dropped her chin into her hands and gazed out at the brightening sky, taking in the golds and pinks as they saturated the horizon. She flicked her eyes back to Cole when she felt the weight of his attention on her.
"You okay, Sam?" He set the half empty mug on the table and gave her concerned look.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam chuffed out, laughing. "Just... it was a long night. A good night, but a long one."
"I know the feeling," Cole said conspiratorially, sending her a knowing wink. "I guess you're the reason I didn't hear from Baird all yesterday?"
Sam let the happy grin stretch her cheeks, not trying to hide it. She was excited to be talking about it with someone. She didn't have any close female friends; she wasn't especially close to Anya, and, even if she was, she was pretty sure the older woman was not interested in hearing about her budding relationship with Damon.
Cole let loose a guffawing laugh and reached out to pat her shoulder.
"You're good for him, baby. You're driving him crazy. He's so twisted up right now, it's not even funny. Well, it is funny because watching Damon try and navigate the real world – especially the real world of women – is funnier than anything else in the whole universe."
"Cole! Be nice," she scolded playfully. She looked back out to the horizon, silly smile still plastered on her face. "I could've sworn I hated the guy. Turns out he's not as big a dick-pickle as I though he was. It's so weird, you know? "
"Yes, it is. It's a non-stop roller-coaster of weirdness, baby. Buckle up." Cole laughed again, his face settling into the familiar genial expression. "It has its rewards, though. Damon's a good man. He's just prickly."
Sam stared him with an expression that clearly displayed how much of an understatement she thought the term prickly was.
"God, what did I get myself into, getting involved with Damon Baird?" Sam asked ruefully "I must be a masochist."
"We all must be – it takes work to be his friend." Cole's eyes took on considering look. "He's all surface tension. I guess that makes you the soap."
"Sorry, Professor, what are you saying?" Sam shot him an amused look.
"Nothing gets to Baird, not really. He'll bitch and moan, but a good amount of it is an act,"Cole stated in a curious tone. "He just... deflects. It's like skipping stones. You, though, you're getting under his skin – breaking his surface tension, so to speak. It's an interesting phenomenon."
Sam paused, slightly taken aback.
"Did you just equate my relationship with Damon to tossing rocks at a pond?"
"Don't hate! It's an accurate comparison," Cole said with false indignation. "In time, you'll see that I'm right."
Sam laughed loudly and leaned back in her seat. By now the sun had breached the horizon and the cool, early morning air was beginning to heat up. She turned back to Cole, ready to sally back with a clever joke, but it died in her throat when she saw the serious look in his eyes.
"You're serious about this, right? I mean, you're serious about Damon, about wanting to be with him? Because he's been fucked over by enough people in his life. He doesn't need another name to add to the list. And I don't want to have to stop being friends with you because you hurt him."
Sam was taken by surprise at the mood change, but recovered quickly. She'd figured that this conversation was coming. She turned to him fully before answering.
"I won't hurt him," Sam paused and considered her words. "I'll do everything I can not to hurt him. I'm not scratching an itch or tampering with him. I care for Damon, a lot. I'm kind of hoping for this to be...a permanent thing."
The two fell into silence as Cole weighed her truthfulness. Sam waited with bated breath for his reaction; it was important to her for him to know that she meant everything she'd said. Cole eyed her for a long moment before he broke out into a smile.
"I can see why he's so into you. I've known him for a long time, and you're the first female I've ever seen him get close to who wasn't a bi-monthly fuck buddy."
Sam felt a stab of jealousy at the thought of other women being all over Damon. Cole must've seen the displeasure in her face; he laughed out loud and took her hand in his.
"Don't worry about it, baby," he said. "Those ladies are long gone. He's all yours, now."
Sam smiled sheepishly and squeezed his hand.
"I'd better get to work. I've got to monitor the comms tower or Damon might break up with me." She gave his hand another friendly press before releasing him. "Thanks for talking with me, Cole. You're a gentleman."
"You're welcome," he said with a slight laugh. "I'd better head out, too. The grounds aren't gonna patrol themselves, are they?"
The two stood and walked from the balcony and through the mess hall together. They paused at the junction that lead to the main hub, about to go in separate directions – Sam to the eastern end of the island near the beach, and Cole in the opposite direction to join his squad.
"Hey, Cole?" Sam called after they'd separated. "Am I really driving him crazy?" A sly smiled formed on her face. A few ideas were coming to her on how to capitalize on that bit of information.
"Oh, yeah. Right out of his mind, girl." Cole's smile widened. He could read the mischief in Sam's eyes. Baird wouldn't know what hit him.
Sam beamed and turned to leave for work.
"And, Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Be gentle with him. Don't send him back to work with a limp or anything."
Sam let out an undignified guffaw at the implications of that request.
"I'll do my best to leave him intact."
Cole sent her a mock salute and moved off towards his destination.
Sam stayed rooted to her spot for a moment, letting herself bask in her newfound happiness. She couldn't quite express how much she appreciated Cole's vote of confidence, or how much it meant that someone else thought that the two of them were good for each other. She let a smile spread across her face and finally pushed on to her waiting team.
"Uh, oh," Carmona shouted.
Baird glanced up from the lap joint he was welding, and saw Carmona gesturing first at him, then outside. He killed the torch, the snap-hiss echoing around the repair bay, and flicked the welding helmet faceplate up. Baird doffed the heavy leather gloves and wiped the sweat off his face.
"What?" he called, disappointed that he had been interrupted. Welding material wasn't hard to come by, but quality instruments to do the job were rare. Azura was a frigging fairy godmother that kept on giving, it seemed.
The younger man's gaze was riveted beyond the courtyard outside. "It's Commander Trescu."
Baird snorted. "Uh, so what?"
Carmona took a step back from the door. "So, he's making a beeline for us and he's got back-up."
The other engineers around Baird stilled at the pronouncement. He did a quick head count, his vague suspicion confirmed: none of his Gorasni engineers had shown up for work today. He felt his stomach drop out, and his heart pumped once, painfully. I'll just get on the comm and report that he's storming our way-Baird thought, before another realization soured his stomach with cold dread.
Trescu was coming for him. He was the most senior-ranking officer present, which meant that the responsibility fell squarely on his shoulders. And he knew exactly what Trescu was so angry about. He hoped fervently the Gorasni leader wasn't here to commit homicide.
"Corporal Baird!"
Trescu's cultured voice rang out, and Baird hated the way he inwardly quailed at the sound of it. Where's my 'don't give a fuck' attitude? What am I now, a pussy? Fuck him, and fuck whatever bullshit he's about to sling. Baird steeled his resolve and sauntered into the courtyard, not bothering to take off the heavy welding apron. A little intimidation never hurt. The day was beautiful: sunny, but not too hot, with a slight breeze coming in fitful gusts from the southward side of the island.
He adopted a dismissive stance and watched Trescu's men form up behind him. Baird noted two things: that Trescu's men were armed, and that Trescu himself was dressed in full regimentals, down to the slightly-singed epaulettes. Sweet mercy, he never takes a day off, does he? Why aren't he and Marcus friends again?
"What do you want?" he asked in a hard tone. There was no point in mincing words. It appeared as though Trescu was looking to start shit, and Baird would damn well accommodate him.
"I want to talk," Trescu said, his voice and posture too calm for Baird's liking.
"You're so full of shit your eyes are brown," he retorted. "What is this, a locker room? You don't bring ten dudes with you to an ice cream social. What the fuck do you want?"
"I want your imulsion formula, and any Class-B engine modification schematics you may have."
Baird snorted incredulously. "Oh, is that all? Would you also like the schematics for me ramming my fist up your ass?"
"Where's your handler?" Trescu asked, and it took Baird a moment to process that he meant Marcus.
"You and your group of drunken illiterates are really starting to chafe my jockstrap," he said irritably, warming to the subject, embracing his pent-up temper over the events of the past few weeks. "I barely make headway with our shared imulsion problem, and the first thought you have is that I'm holding out on you? Did I not pass your fucking friendship test when I stuck my neck out for you with Hoffman, or was baking a cake and making a daisy chain more in line with your expectations?"
"Oh, but wait," Baird said sardonically, "being a treacherous asshole is more the Indie style. No wonder you fuckers couldn't organize-" He was halted in his rant by the burst of white hot pain that exploded on his left side, leaving him dazed and short of breath. He cast his gaze to the stone pavers, wishing he could teleport away from this clusterfuck of a situation.
"Baird!"
His head snapped up, and he watched Carmona step into the path of the Gorasni moving to intercept him. They were nose-to-nose. He sensed the energy shift behind him as his engineers stepped closer, right as the Indie shoved Carmona aside and made to grab Baird by his shirtfront. Pure rage coursed through him, and he dropped into a crouch, coiling his legs, and launched himself forward, bowling the Gorasni over.
He landed three solid punches squarely to the surprised mans face, shouting, "Goddamnit, is this the only language you bullies understand?" before one of his guys yanked him back.
The only thought he could muster, oddly, was the stilted paragraph about officer decorum in the manual that he had been forced to read the first time they promoted him to Corporal. He was pretty sure that if this had been a meeting of diplomatic envoys, he would have effectively kick-started a war.
"Is something the matter?" Trescu asked, unmoving, as his soldier stumbled back into the ranks of his comrades, cupping a hand to catch the blood gushing from his nose.
"Yeah," Baird ground out, fighting to tear his own traitorous hand away from its death grip over his heart. Trescu's impassiveness was maddening. "Your thugs are going to give me a heart attack."
"Maybe you should invite me inside," Trescu said, indicating the warehouse, his voice condescending and laden with mockery. "We both need to calm down, I think."
Carmona streaked forward past Baird's elbow. "I'll fucking choke you to death," he growled, angling straight for Trescu. Two Gears caught him by the arms and tried to haul him away, but he lunged against their grip, and it took another engineer to wrestle him back behind the unspoken no-man's-land between the two factions.
"Stop, just stop. Ugh-"Baird's face contorted as he fought the urge to crumple to the ground.
"Corporal, my request is merely a formality," Trescu said, his demeanor steely. "I came here for the intel, and I will leave with it, one way or the other." His soldiers fingered their sidearms meaningfully. "You COG, you never learn. This is why we never trusted you, why we had to stoop to rifling through your files."
Baird felt his sanity take a cliff-dive as Trescu confirmed what he had overhead that night, weeks ago. He had a brief image of the copy of his findings he had made for Trescu: collated, color-coded, and bound-and entertained the idea of tossing it into the welding furnace. He was done with being polite, he was done with being helpful, and his incandescent rage was only camouflaging the true hurt that sat leaden in his stomach at Trescu's insinuation. This is why it's easier to be an asshole, he thought bitterly. His heart continued its double-time staccato, thumping angrily. Each beat was a boot stomp, bearing down on his chest, and he wondered, distantly, if he was actually about to have a heart attack.
"I'll burn everything I've discovered to the ground, and dance around the bonfire if I think I can catch just one of you Indie motherfuckers in the flames!" Baird snarled, his eyes so clouded with rage he could barely see.
"Isn't that a bit...dramatic? You'd be shooting yourself in the foot, not to mention your fellow Gears," Trescu countered, the timbre of his voice no longer calm but heated. It was all the incentive Baird needed to move in for the kill.
"Just try me. Give me an excuse to play with matches. I'll keep you from ever getting back to that wasteland you call home. How did you like having your asses seared well-done by your own goddamn tech?" A chorus of tiny gasps escaped his engineers at the heinous taunt. Trescu's entire bearing had collapsed into stunned silence.
Baird drew a shallow breath into his petrified chest, the pain having reached a level beyond his ability to suppress. "You strut around here in your uniform, as if you matter, as if you're better, as if you're not always two steps behind the COG. You're just like Prescott. The only reason you ever had a shot of leaving this island is because I was willing to share with you. You started off begging for the COG's assistance, and you're still begging for it now, like a two-bit whore on her knees. Well, I'm about to fuck you good and proper; I hope your people can sew, because you're gonna need a fuckton of bedsheets if you intend to sail away from this island, because that's the only way you can leave."
Trescu drew his sidearm, a pearl-handled revolver with elaborate engraving, and leveled it at Baird's nose. His face was empty of expression, just a cold gleam of apathy in his eyes-a mask Baird recognized all too well; he had worn it every time he'd needed to execute another human being.
Marcus suddenly flowed from the plantings on the right, light on his feet, and Baird stared oafishly as Marcus grabbed the revolver barrel and jerked it downward. The tense moment that followed seemed to last for hours. Oh, goody. My knight in shining armor, come to save the day, Baird thought with a sneer, glad his relief didn't show on his face. He fought the urge to collapse to his knees and settled for hunching over.
"You're out of line," Marcus said in that scary-calm voice that made the hair on Baird's neck stand up. "You need to think very carefully about what you do next. I don't appreciate you drawing a weapon on an unarmed group of my Gears."
"I came for what is mine," Trescu said, matching Marcus' tone. He yanked his revolver out of Marcus' grip and holstered it.
"I think you need to head back to the ship," Marcus advised. "I'll send someone by later with the research manual Baird put together." Trescu's gaze flashed over to Baird, but he switched his attention when Marcus pointed right in his face. "If I see one, single Gorasni come off that ship, I'm ordering a shelling right there in the harbor."
Trescu's dark eyes snapped with rage. "Fenix-how good of you to leave your ivory tower. I also want intel on your Hybrids."
Marcus squinted at him, appraising his sincerity. "What about them?"
"What about them? What about them?" Trescu bared his teeth and loosed a frustrated growl. "Let's start with the fact that no one alerted us to their presence? We are under your care, however unwillingly," he said with a sneer. "You are charged with watching out for my people. And you failed. Utterly. I lost six men to those atrocities before we could organize enough to drive them back."
Trescu grabbed the lip of Marcus' plates under his chin and pulled him close. Baird's heart leaped into his throat. He was certain the Gorasni commander was moments away from death, but Marcus didn't react. "So, is this another little gift from your father? Hmm? Or did you intentionally loose them to obliterate us? You betrayed my trust."
Marcus looked down at Trescu's fist upon his armor, and back to the Gorasni. "This is trust?" he said in his typical deadpan.
"Hey asshole, I'm the one who let the Hybrids loose," Baird said, staggering up a few paces behind Marcus. "And can we stop getting on the 'blame Dr. Fenix' bandwagon? I mean, seriously, it's so old. And admit it: it only made you feel a teensy bit better having someone to blame all of your barbequed citizens on, right?"
"Baird," Marcus said in a tired voice.
"You would have been executed in Gorasnaya for such arrogance," Trescu fumed.
"Then aren't I lucky that I only got donkey-punched by the COG?" Baird retorted.
Marcus ripped himself away from Trescu's grasp, and motioned for Baird to shut up. "Get out of here. And don't shoot my Gear when he comes with your manual," he said, "Or I'll board your floating tenement and blow your brains out myself."
Trescu shrugged off Marcus' threat and walked (quickly) back down the path to the ship. Marcus watched him go for several minutes. Baird was only half paying attention-now that he wasn't in the spotlight, he could focus on getting his breathing and heart rate back to normal, before Marcus started asking questions. How long had he been there? Baird would bet his last side of bacon that Fenix had been stalking through the plants, watching the whole situation unfold. A twinge of pain made him contract inward, but at least he could stand up straight.
He watched Marcus glance at the group of engineers and bark, "Alright, back to work!" The Gears hurried inside, anxious to be out from under Marcus' intense stare. Before he could formulate a retreat, Baird found himself looking at Marcus' boots.
"Yeah, I was watching all of this go down," Marcus said, answering Baird's unspoken question. "I wanted to see how you handled it."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Fenix. When am I getting promoted?" If I can just keep him talking for a few more minutes...
"You're still white as a sheet," Marcus said, ignoring him. "And you were clutching at your heart. Are you going to clue me in, or are you going to give me some bullshit about sparing my feelings again?"
"Haha, Marcus, funny. Everyone knows you don't have any real feelings," Baird said. Instantly he knew he had gone too far when a strange look passed through Marcus' eyes and he set his jaw deliberately. He started to apologize but Marcus cut him off.
"Once more: what is going on with you?" Marcus' voice had dropped a few octaves. He sounded almost...cajoling.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Baird replied, straightening his apron self-consciously.
Marcus snorted mirthlessly. "Yeah, I'm sure you don't."
"Look, I have shit to take care of. Thanks for getting rid of the Indies." Baird turned away, but Marcus intervened, placing himself between Baird and the warehouse.
"Indies? Tune has changed, eh?" He quirked an eyebrow at Baird, then looked past him towards the harbor, where Egar Trescu rode at anchor. "I don't blame you, but, it just proves what an appalling liar you are."
"If I told you I had panic attacks as a kid, would that appease you?"
"No. Because that's not what just happened. But I know how you are with your secrets." He made a girly gesture with his hands.
Baird knew then that he couldn't escape Marcus without divulging something substantial. "Fine. I had heart palpitations as a kid, and now, mysteriously, they're back to fuck with me."
"Are they serious enough to warrant seeing Hayman?"
Marcus' conversational tone threw him off-kilter. Maybe he won't force me into the harpy's clutches. That would be a first. "No. They just started a few days ago. It's all the caffeine, probably."
"And lack of sleep," Marcus observed pointedly.
Baird shrugged. "You aren't going to dress me down about Trescu?"
Marcus looked mildly surprised. "Why would I?"
"Uh, because I verbally assaulted him, insinuated that I would punch his teeth through his asshole, and I physically assaulted one of his guys."
It was Marcus' turn to shrug. "You didn't say anything I wasn't thinking. And coming down here on the sly to strong-arm you?" Marcus heaved a sigh, and Baird noticed, again, the gray hair peeping out from under his do-rag. "The situation on Egar must be much worse than he's letting on."
"So, are we done here?" Baird asked, anxious to end the conversation. He'd been expecting more of a reaction from Marcus over his admission, and the absence of one left him feeling strangely empty. What? Did I want him to sob all over me? It's out. Now I can move on.
"Does Cole know about your heart condition?"
Baird bristled. "It's not a 'condition', ok? It happened a few times when I was twelve. Are you going to blab it all over the island or something?"
Marcus was abruptly in his face. "Look, you can lie to yourself about whatever you want, but you can't keep shit like this from me."
Baird drew himself up in righteous indignation. "Who died and made you king, Fenix? Besides Prescott."
"Dom died, actually, which I'm sure you haven't forgotten." He seemed satisfied with Baird's shocked silence, and started to walk away. "I know you're still lying. So make sure that if you have a heart attack, please collapse on a major walkway so we can find you later, you stubborn ass," he called over his shoulder.
Baird spent the rest of the day working furiously on various projects scattered around his station. The other engineers steered well clear of him: he'd been in the foulest of moods since Trescu's little temper tantrum and Marcus' 'fear me, for I am all knowing' follow-up.
He slammed his wrench on the table hard enough to make everything atop it shake and slide. He'd been slamming things all day – it was his only outlet since his men fled in fear at the sight of him, he couldn't get to Trescu (or any of his unwashed grunts), and telling Marcus off wouldn't earn him anything more than some cryptic, pseudo-psychic observational quip about his mental health.
He'd never felt so impotent in all his life, and the coiling anger was not helping him keep his seditious heart from beating its way through his ribcage and tumbling to the floor.
Stupid heart. You double-crossing, fair-weather friend.
The engineer twisted quickly in his chair at the sound of footsteps behind him.
"Hey, Baird," Carmona said lightly, giving him an unsure look. "We're all heading out now. Just…so you know."
The mean, biting side of Baird wanted to lash out at the other man, but he gave himself a mental bitch slap and reined the urge in. After all, Carmona had come to his aid during the Trescu Showdown: verbally castrating the younger man just to sate his petty need for retaliation wouldn't be the best way to repay his consideration. He noticed the other men lingering by the entrance - probably waiting to see if he spontaneously burst into flames and unleashed some terrifying hell-beast upon them all.
Oh, wait. I've already done that, he thought, recalling the flippant confession he'd made regarding the Hybrids.
"Fine," Baird said, forcing himself to at least appear sane and mature. "I'll see you all in the morning. And, Carmona? Thanks for threatening to murder Trescu on my behalf. At least now, when the gossip mill churns out the mostly incorrect version of what happened today, you'll look as unhinged as me."
"It was a pleasure. I've wanted to hurt that asshole since I first saw him strutting around Vectes in his shiny, little boots," Carmona returned before waving goodbye and going to join the rest of the engineers who were waiting on the armed security detail to escort them to the hub.
Baird blew out a long raspberry, and turned back to his workstation. He suddenly had no desire to work. He looked hatefully at the mess on his desk. The scrap metal, loose wiring, and other assorted bits and pieces mocked him from their low perch. He thought idly how the mishmash in front of him was an oddly impactful narrative on his life at the moment.
Baird rolled his eyes at himself and pulled a cover of the clutter.
What the fuck, self. Did you trade in your balls for a set of ovaries? Get a goddamned grip, you bitch.
He pushed away from the table and crossed his arms sulkily. He'd been mentally berating himself since Marcus had left in a tornado of self-righteousness. He wondered, distantly, what grade the older man would've given him for how he 'handled' the Goransi incursion. That is, if shit like that mattered anymore. Baird figured, for the sake of entertainment, he would've gotten an 'F' for execution, but an 'A' for effort, enthusiasm and originality. So, he wouldn't pass with flying colors, or get to bounce sunlight off his shiny gold medal and into the eyes of the dumber, less awesome people, but it would do.
He leaned backwards in his seat, pushing the reclining back to its most extreme angle, and stared at the overhead lights until he was sure he could hear the slight sizzle of his corneas. He shut his eyes and saw the ghostly after-images of the fixtures; vague off-color rectangles and smaller, floating lights that raced in unpredictable lines across his vision.
Baird was reminded of the one time in his life that he'd let himself give in to peer pressure, and let a friend of his feed him a tab of acid. The results had been almost instantaneous; his pathetic meat sack of a body had given in to the drug as if it were a long-lost lover –- who was into freaky sex and never had a headache. The brief snatches of memory he had from that harrowing experience included duct tape, a swimming pool, handcuffs, and a gut-wrenching sadness that the overhead lights were trying to communicate with him, but his feeble human brain couldn't comprehend the words. He also remembered his mother's horrible, screeching voice when she came to pick him up from jail. It was one of only a handful of times that having the last name 'Baird' didn't fuck him up the ass.
A crash from across the room jangled his nerves and sent him shooting from his chair and reaching for his pistol. Baird spun around on his toes, already falling into a defensive crouch. His gun was halfway up when he finally spotted the source of the cacophony.
"Fucking shit, Marlowe," the blonde exclaimed. "What the hell is your problem. And why are you sneaking around down here after hours? Get out."
Damned weirdo, skulking about like some kind of inept assassin.
Baird turned his back on the younger man, holstered his gun, and began to self-consciously straighten his desk; he felt a pinch of irritated embarrassment at being caught day-dreaming. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and he whirled back around.
Marlowe hadn't moved – or answered his questions. He stood there, staring at Baird with a sub-zero look in his eyes. To Baird, it seemed that the other man's eyes actually glittered with anger, and he remembered, belatedly, that his mental folder for Marlowe had a big, red 'crazy as fuck' stamped on it.
Really, God?
"What? What's your problem," Baird asked sarcastically. "Please, regale me with your despairing tale so I can feel as though I've done my duty as a person. And then you can fuck off."
Still, the young man didn't answer. He only deepened his frown, and stepped up to the high table in the middle of the room that separated the two men.
"What, do you need a signal? Ready? Go." Baird's irritation climbed higher and higher. He found that he was surprised that steam hadn't begun to flow freely from his ears. "Christ, Marlowe, what do you want?"
"This is your fault," Marlowe ground out through gritted teeth.
Baird was taken aback by the seeming non-sequitur, and found himself putting on a mask he hadn't fully donned in over a decade.
"What's my fault, man," he asked nastily, settling into his old role of a 'fucking bastard' as if were a warm bath. "Because, if you're trying to say that you being a fucking weirdo and staring at me from the shadows is my fault, then I'll be forced to disagree wholeheartedly."
A crestfallen look crossed over Marlowe's face before he set it back into a granite expression. Baird made a show of rolling his eyes at the sign of vulnerability.
Great. Now, I'm going to have to help this little cock-gobbler pick up the pieces of his broken heart. Fuck that.
"Look, kid, sorry for being an asshole, or whatever, and I'm sure you've got a great story to tell about who or what put that hang-dog expression on your face, but in the interest of saving time – why don't you cut to the chase and tell me why you're here."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was shaking his head at himself, some part of him was disgusted with his actions, but right now, he'd found an easy mark to take the brunt of his ire, and he wasn't letting up until he was good and ready.
Marlowe let out cold, heartless laugh and slowly began to skirt around the table. When his lower half came into view, Baird noticed that he was tapping the barrel of a boltok pistol against his thigh. He tensed as the overhead light gleamed off the weapon.
Super.
"You cold-hearted devil. You don't even care," the young man spat out. His lips were curling into a snarl and his skin was flushing in his anger.
"Care about what? I don't know what you're -"
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Goddamn you, it's your fault." Flecks of spittle flew from Marlowe's mouth as he sped towards Baird, stopping only a few paces away. The boltok was now leveled at Baird's head, the muzzle bobbing in response to Marlowe's shaking grip.
Again? I'm being threatened with a bullet to the head again?
Baird lifted his hands, trying to look non-threatening, but he held his ground. He knew that if the other man got just a bit closer, he'd be able to disarm him; people tended to forget that guns were long range weapons.
"Okay, okay," Baird said in his best soothing voice. "I'm listening. What's my fault?"
"Oh, of course you're listening now," Marlowe retorted. "Everyone starts listening when there's a gun in their face."
"Yes, they make for excellent motivation to play nice, "Baird bandied back, willing Marlowe to come just a few steps closer – without pulling the trigger. "You still haven't told me what I've done wrong."
Marlowe shot him an ugly smile and cocked the hammer on his pistol.
"You set them free. Those – monsters killed my friend. He's dead, and you're to blame," he bit out, his voice taking on a hysterical edge.
Baird felt his stomach begin to try and fight its way out of its allotted space in his abdomen and plummet to his knees.
The Hybrids, he thought to himself. He felt his breath leave him at the accusation – and at how it rang true to him.
"Nothing to say now, hmm," Marlowe asked. He back up a few steps and continued to eye Baird with hatred.
"You've left me with nothing. I can't stay here and there's nowhere to go. All these people are trapped here with these things that you let loose. Everyone who's died – their blood is on your hands. You were so busy being a genius that you never stopped to think of the consequences for other people. You selfish prick, " Marlowe snarled. "You should be the one who's dead. You deserve it more than anyone. You've brought hell down on us. You should have to pay the price."
Baird's sharp wit had abandoned him, leaving him speechless and breathless in the face of a crazed lunatic. He licked his lips and prepared to make a retort, but immediately shut his mouth. Marlowe's words banged around in his head, marrying those secret thoughts and feelings of guilt he'd had since the Hybrids attacked the hotel. Baird had memorized the names of every soul lost that night, even the Goransi ones, and had stowed them away in his 'shit I did wrong' box. Marlowe had unknowingly kicked that box open, and all of Baird's doubts and insecurities about the living plague he'd loosed were running rampant in his head.
"Why would you do this? Why would you do something so cruel," Marlowe asked, his voice cracking. His brown eyes shone with unshed tears as he looked plaintively at Baird. The rage had gone out of him, and now he was just another broken man in a world full of broken men.
"You forced my hand, Baird. I can't stay here and I can't leave. This is my only way out."
The young man turned his back to the blonde and stuck the barrel of his boltok into his mouth.
"No," Baird shouted, putting out a warding hand and moving forward.
He came to a staggering halt when the retort from the gun echoed around the room like a vicious taunt. Baird could only stare at the twitching, bleeding body on the ground. His eyes were riveted on the ragged mess of tissue where, just seconds ago, Marlowe's head had been. He didn't notice the other engineers running in, or their startled cries when they saw the headless corpse on the ground. He distantly heard someone say something about 'going to get Fenix', but he couldn't bring himself to react. He could only stare numbly down at the spreading puddle of blood and mentally recite Marlowe's words to himself.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
Suddenly, Carmona's face filled his vision.
"Shit, Baird," he said. To Baird it sounded like he was speaking to him from miles away. He noticed the horrified look on his friends face as he scanned his body, and finally looked down at himself.
First, he noticed that the growing pool of blood was slowly winding its way around the soles of his combat boots.
Second, he noticed the crimson stains on his cargo pants and his white t-shirt. He saw the red speckles on his arm, and small chunks of what looked like raw meat adhering to his shirt sleeves.
His senses rushed back to him all at once, and he became painfully aware of the sensation of something warm, wet and thick sliding down his cheek. His eyes widened as he reached up and scooped the gunk off his face. He nearly vomited into his own hand when he saw that what he was holding was brain matter. Marlowe's brain matter.
He dropped it on the floor and tried to scramble backwards, slipping and nearly wiping out on the large pool of blood. He managed to catch himself on the desk, and began to wipe frantically at his face. The room suddenly became too bright and too loud. He needed to get free.
Baird pushed passed Carmona, slipping again in the cooling mess on the floor, and gave what used to be Marlowe as wide a berth as he could. He retreated to an adjoining room that was being used as storage for the crates that had been strewn around the island, and shut the door.
He sat gratefully on one of the wooden boxes, and shook so hard his teeth began to chatter. His guilt choked him, wedged itself in his throat and started expanding. His breaths came in sharp gasps that sounded closer to dry sobs than normal breathing.
Baird stood and began to pace the room. He needed to calm down, he knew. Marcus would be there soon, and he didn't want him to see him this way -– he couldn't afford to give the older man any more ammo that could be used against him. Marcus was already suspicious that he was hiding something from him. No need to go and prove him right.