Author's Note: Sorry for the massive delay ladies and gents. Real life has a way of taking over, but things are back on track now and regular updating should commence. Also, if you have time, leave a review. It really helps keep the ideas churning. Without feedback, it's hard to keep up the enthusiasm for writing this. Lastly, thanks to everyone who's still reading, hopefully this chapter is up to snuff.

KW


"This is an exercise in futility. And a total disregard for boundaries. I didn't have you pegged for the nurturing type, Marcus, though 'smothering' may be a touch more accurate. I guess the gesture is kind of nice-if you can call oppressive surveillance a 'positive' thing."

Baird paused in his complaints, giving Marcus time to respond. Both men had dropped to the rear of their oceanfront patrol group. It was dusk, and in scarcely 30 minutes, the island would be plunged into the thick darkness that was only broken by the artificial lights. Even now, the lamps near the docks began to flicker on with fitful, staticky bursts of energy.

"You done yet?" Marcus said.

"Nope," Baird said. "I'm chock-full of bitching about our current totalitarian regime that affords you the power to hold my head under the water while you rifle through my pockets. You know, I may just go and spite you all by locking myself in the ATV bay and inhaling the fumes." Baird glanced away, and took in the way the sunset reflected upon the roiling waves, a shining, wavering tapestry of pinks and oranges. He stared down at the stone walkway, then darted a glance at Marcus.

Marcus was giving him a dark, under-eyed look. "Really? You're mad about a situation you created, and now you're flippant about it?" They walked in silence for a few moments. "There aren't any straightjackets here, so try to forgive me in the future if I jump the gun and ask Hayman to drug you."

"Ok, ok, Christ," Baird relented irritatedly. Marlowe flashed unpleasantly in his mind's eye, reminding him that he was probably trying too hard to evade the obvious. He blew out the breath he'd been holding in and scowled at Marcus. "Let's face it: I love myself and my work way too much to be divorced from it. And you'd all be screwed without me. If only I could literally marry my work..."

"Wouldn't Sam have a few objections to sharing your bed with a miter saw?"

Baird felt his neck flush, but ignored it. "Hey, you don't get to make jokes like that. I'm still angry at you and your big brother bullshit."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "Feeling's mutual. But I can't just give you the cold shoulder all the time."

"Why not? That's kind of your approach to life."

"Someone's got to be a sounding board for your bitching. Amidst the shit piles are occasional nuggets of worth."

"Oh, thanks, asshole. You're really boosting my self-confidence."

"I aim to please."

Baird bit back a number of retorts, many that involved Anya, and settled on collapsing into a disagreeable silence. But true to form, or perhaps in spite of it, he couldn't stay silent for long.

"How many times do we have to plod the same stretch of godless beach before we remember that the Hybrids escaped from a laboratory?"

"It's not just the Hybrids we have to be worried about."

"Oh, c'mon, you don't seriously mean the Locust?" Baird said jokingly. Marcus gave him a meaningful look that deflated his mockery instantly.

"Really? You're still worried about them?" He waved a hand in the direction of the building that housed the maelstrom generator. "The Locust are dead, Marcus. Your dad certainly saw to that."

"We've thought they were dead before, after Jacinto. It was just a breather before the Lambent."

"Yeah, but to be fair, the Locust ignored us for a while because they had more pressing problems. Like, a gigantic, explodey fist of Glowies pressing on their asshole."

Marcus frowned. "Why do all of your descriptions involve metaphors for rape?"

"You mean you're not afraid of being raped?" Baird said easily. He had finally found a chink in Marcus' stoicism, and wanted to worry at it mercilessly.

Marcus growled disgustedly in his throat. "Just...shut the fuck up, Baird."

For some reason, Baird heeded the viperous tone of Marcus' words and swiveled his gaze back to the ocean.

In the absence of conversation, Marlowe galloped to the forefront of his mind, bringing with him the mini video of his suicide that was on endless repeat behind Baird's eyes. The bullet exploding through his cranium, the marbled maroon fallout splattering on Baird's clothes in a disturbing rendition of modern art. He endeavored to lose his train of thought in the crashing and receding of the waves, but the Marlowe video only slowed down to match the rhythm of the water.

The hysteria that had gripped him in those first few hours afterwards began to surface in his chest, his heart beating faster in warning. He was seized by conflicting desires to unburden himself on Marcus and simultaneously voice the first ugly thought that shot across his brain.

What am I going to do about it? How can I escape something that was meant for me? Throw any empathy that comes my way back in the face of whoever was stupid enough to share it? Crumble? Resist? There's no one to ask. I made sure of that.

Never before had he felt so paralyzed, so thoroughly trapped. He prided himself on always having an out, always being one step ahead of everyone else. He functioned primarily within the confines of his head, an endless tapestry of a dozen different pursuits and countless questions, analyses, and judgments, all interwoven in shining thread. He reveled in the skills, both positive and negative, that always gave him the edge.

But Marlowe had unexpectedly checked Baird's King before blowing away the chessboard, leaving Baird grasping at old straws that no longer existed.

The line of lamps in front of their patrol waxed and waned suddenly, drawing Baird's attention away from the questionable state of his psyche. The furthest lamp, a mere pinpoint in the growing blackness, shone brightly before being extinguished. The next two lamps behaved the same, and the next two.

"The hell's going on with these lights?" Peterson yelled.

Baird shook his head and started to reply, but the words died on his tongue as he watched a familiar black shape twist up a lamp post about 100 yards away. The lamp light intensified briefly before the Hybrid smashed the bulb. The small crunch of glass was amplified by the acoustics of the docks, and every man's hackles rose instantly, including Baird's.

"So, these guys mess with our electricity. Like eels. Great," he said conversationally to Marcus as he racked his gnasher. Marcus had already switched to his battle mode, thumbing open the flap that covered the extra shells in the bandolier he was wearing. They had only found one small armory, likely for the permanent guard that had been stationed on the island. Baird refused to wear a bandolier on principle; they were clunky and ugly, and always seemed to say more about their wearer than their usefulness.

"Just what we needed," one of the Gears grumbled, training his boltok on the broken lamp.

The rest of the lamps followed in quick succession, forcing the men back from the docks and into the maze of small buildings and gardens that ringed the hotel. They formed up around two lamp posts next to a thicket of trees, backs to the poles, guns trained outward. Baird watched in silence as the lamp they'd been standing underneath on the docks went out with an audible crunch.

"What about the other patrols?" A Gear named Royal whispered harshly. As if on cue, screams echoed from the northern side of the beach, a chorus of screeches and hisses interspersed with the horrible cries.

"Why do we conduct these patrols again?" Baird asked seriously, all traces of Marlowe and humor gone. "Seems like we provide a parade of tasty hors d'ouevres every night for our unwanted pests."

"May be some truth to that," Marcus rumbled. "Regardless, let's ice these assholes. We'll have time to chat efficiency later."

If there is a later, Baird thought glumly. Death had flashed her skirts so often that Baird failed to react appropriately most times. Perhaps ennui is what drove soldiers to make fatal mistakes.

Marcus indicated that Royal and Stieg should take point, and that he and Baird would cover the rear. He unclipped his helmet from the hook at his waist and donned it, indicating the others should do the same. Royal motioned for the Gears to move out from the lamps. When they crossed underneath the last lamp and into the long stretch of darkness over the gardens, Marcus whistled the three-note signal, and every man crouched over and broke into a hard run, guns at the ready. The northern side of the beach was just on the other side of the ground level gardens. Royal and Stieg hesitated for only a moment before plowing into the heart of the foliage, making a beeline for the beach.

Even as fear hammered in his temples, Baird chafed at having to wear his helmet. So what if it protected you from a sniper? It blinkered his view and muted his senses. A berserker could storm up behind him, and he'd still be starting dumbly ahead through the plastic lenses. Just when he was about to rip it off and take his chances with the overhead branches and stray bullets, something clamped viselike on his left shoulder, jerking him to a halt.

The fear and hysteria raged in the corner of his head where he had locked them, but the soldier transferred the gnasher fluidly to his other hand and whirled around on locked legs, pushing against his attacker to maneuver it around to the side. He yanked the trigger, and nearly fell over when the shot hammered his assailant to the ground.

Baird had one, long second to stare at the creature on the ground, realizing that it wasn't a Hybrid at all, before something looped around his neck and squeezed mightily.

Goddamn helmet!

He began to employ the same tactic, but a sharp kick to his lower back caused him to buckle to his knees. The elbow tightened slowly around his neck, causing stars and black dots to burst in his vision. He unleashed the fear, taking strength from it, and ducked over, simultaneously shooting to his feet with all of his might, trying to throw his attacker over his shoulder. It half-worked: the man attacking him was thrown forward and off-balance, but still had his elbow looped around Baird's windpipe. Baird gagged and almost passed out. Agonizingly, he brought the barrel of his gnasher up and jammed it into what he estimated was the man's torso, and fired. This time, the recoil from the gnasher threw him down into the dirt. The grip on his neck slackened, and he gulped a huge, painful breath and scrambled to his feet, boots sliding on leaves and tree roots.

He gained his feet, turned, and sent a final blast into the face of the man on the ground. He started to get his bearings, but was bowled over by a third assailant. He struck his head against a tree trunk, and suddenly everything was fuzzy. A foot or elbow descended on his throat again. He felt a blade thunk uselessly against his plates. The pressure of the blows was frightening, but far away. The knife grew erratic, desperate, searching for an opening in his kit. The knife moved to his shoulders, ripped through his civvies before being turned aside by the bulletproof pauldrons he had on underneath. He was suddenly very thankful for the impulse that caused him to grab the material a week ago, complaining that their stripped-down kits were useless if someone could hack their arms off. Haha, right?

Weakly, he depressed the actuator button on his helmet and called for help, before remembering with absolute clarity that it had broken on Vectes, but since he never wore it, he hadn't bothered to fix it. The notion that he was now going to die because he hadn't fixed something was either ironic or fitting.

Baird struggled madly, pressing against the weight on his throat and chest, every other beat of his heart a hammer blow to his consciousness. Through the condensation clouding the lenses of his helmet, he watched as his attacker stiffened in the middle of raining blows on Baird's chest. He slumped over, bonelessly, and for a moment, everything was still. Then Baird was hauled roughly to his feet.

He ripped his helmet off, the resulting flood of sensory feed making him dizzy. Marcus was standing over the twitching Gorasni on the ground, Dom's commando knife in hand. The cries from the beach seemed to swell and surround them in the stillness, but all Baird could hear was a wet, gurgling cough as his attacker slowly choked on his own lifeblood. Baird took a step backwards and nearly tripped over one of the other men. The air was heavy with the stench of nitrate from the spent shells.

Gorasni? Did Trescu order this? Was this a mistake?

Somehow, Baird didn't think it was. Marcus gave Baird a cursory glance before crouching over the dying man and sliding Dom's blade across his throat, as if he was cutting a cake. He wiped the blade clean on his pants, and came in close to Baird.

"All over a fucking instruction manual?" He said, a note of resignation in his tone.

Baird saw the man materialize from the trees behind Marcus. He tried to warn Marcus, but his voice squeaked comically in his bruised throat, leaving him to flail stupidly.

"Huh?" Marcus said, confused, before the Gorasni drove his own knife into Marcus' back, high on the shoulder. Marcus snarled and tried to twist away, the knife tearing through his flesh before stopping at his back plate with a thunk. He reached behind, grasping, but the Gorasni yanked his knife free and danced out of reach. Marcus groaned harshly and fought the urge to double over, and in that second of indecision, the Gorasni flashed forward again.

He watched Baird out of the corner of his eye, stumbling towards them, fumbling with shells, but his hands were shaking too badly to load his gnasher. Marcus slashed for the man's free arm and missed, his shoulder wound hissing in sharp protest. His wound burned like a paper cut, but it must be serious; his range of motion was wound tight, each movement an enormity. The man came at him again, and he couldn't see the knife; he heard Baird's sharp intake of breath, and knew that he was about to be gutted. His hands flew of their own accord. The two men clashed in a quiet jumble of equipment and the quick flash of blades. Marcus gritted his teeth as the foreign knife sank into the palm of his left hand, staying its thrust into his neck, letting the Gorasni step closer, unknowingly giving Marcus the edge. He focused his own berserk rage on Dom's knife, and prepared to use the last of his strength to shove the man away and bring his own knife to bear.

Baird threw the shells on the ground and hefted his gnasher like a club, and swung it hard, the barrel cannoning into the Gorasni's head. The force of the blow ripped the knife from Marcus' hand as the man toppled awkwardly to the dirt. The Gorasni started to babble brokenly as he tried to lever himself up on his elbows. Marcus stared at the wounded man and took a cleansing breath, noting that the tang of fresh blood now overwhelmed the stench of shit and rotten leaves.

The blonde engineer offered a hand to help him up, caught sight of Marcus' palm, and yanked on the collar of Marcus' plates instead. Baird blew out a tremulous breath, and drew his boltok. He checked the chamber before training it on the foliage.

"You...you okay, man?" He said, his voice rough.

Marcus didn't answer. He flexed and clenched his hand, staring at the ruined tissue impassively. He glanced at Baird, and knew from his friend's reaction that his hollowness was showing on his face. He was pulling away, like he always did, leaving the warmth of his husk for the chilly tranquility of emotionless action.

He indicated the Gorasni still pleading on the ground. "What's he saying?" His tone was disarming and dangerous-he could see Baird reeling from the juxtaposition. Baird visibly marshaled his wits, and listened with a lopsided expression.

"He's, uh, he's begging for mercy."

"Mercy, huh?" Marcus considered the injured worm writhing at his feet. He grasped one of the man's hands and thrust Dom's knife through the palm, savoring the cry. But it was never enough. Never enough to avenge him-

"Marcus, I-"

"He doesn't deserve mercy."

Baird glanced skyward briefly, ill-at-ease and unsure of how to react to him.

The engineer out of words-that had been happening a lot lately. Marcus knew he should rein in his behavior. Baird was no stranger to his cruel ways; the myriad of instances that had occurred during the long hell of the Locust War, the losses of composure, those brief divorces from their humanity as they exacted revenge-it was an unspoken secret they all carried. Marcus wanted to crush the pathetic thing mewling at his feet, but the way Baird was staring at him...it made him uncomfortable, conscientious. Why?

And like flipping a switch, his personality flowed back to him. The familiar weights of duty and responsibility settled on his shoulders, and the dark creature coiling in the pit of his stomach retreated. He slid Dom's knife into the sheath on his bandolier and drew his own boltok.

"Tell him to get up. Tell him to run."

Baird stared at him stupidly, before shaking his head quickly. "No, man. Just...just slot him."

"Tell him to run," Marcus reiterated, squaring his shoulders and sighting experimentally down the barrel. He could still hear cries of pain, but they were regularly drowned out by the rat-a-tat of Lancer fire.

A flurry of expressions crossed Baird's face, mutiny chief amongst them, before he clenched his jaw and gave Marcus a searing, I-fucking-hate-you look. He barked in Gorasni, prodding the man with his foot. When the Gorasni made no attempt to rise, Baird's anger flared, and he dragged the man up bodily before shoving him forward. The Gorasni whimpered when he saw Marcus' stance, and broke into a shambling run.

Marcus trained the boltok casually, closed one eye, and fired.

Baird looked away, his face grim. He started to palpate the bruises forming on his neck, but thought of better of it.

"How did you know?" He asked, struggling past the images of Marlowe and the renewed noose of guilt.

Marcus shrugged. "Chalk it up to oppressive surveillance."

"Oh, now you have a sense of humor? Just needed to warm up with some homicide?" Baird said hotly, grasping for familiar territory.

"Yeah. Guess so," Marcus said, binding his hand with some cotton strips from his field kit. The gash ran from the edge of his palm to the yoke between thumb and forefinger. It glistened wetly in the dim moonlight as the first few layers of the makeshift bandage quickly stained black.

"Hayman is going to eviscerate you for closing a non-sterile wound. And I'd advise against stopping a knife with your fist in the future," Baird said, eyeing the rivulets of blood coursing down Marcus' wrist.

"Seriously, how did you know where I was? My helmet was-"

"-Broken. I remember."

"Then can you fucking remember how you got over here?" Baird snapped, finally loading his gnasher and setting off towards the beach without a backwards glance. He was more than a little tired of Marcus saving his bacon as of late. Fuck, I may as well grow a pair of tits and find a dress if Marcus keeps forcing me to play the damsel in distress.

"Stieg took a hit from one of the Hybrids. Peterson managed to fend it off. It was around that time I noticed you were missing," Marcus said from behind him.

"So you left everyone else behind and blazed a trail? How did you know I wasn't taking a leak?"

"Baird, are you going to make me regret choosing you over Peterson?" Marcus said in his deadpan way.

Baird felt a chill go up his spine, and he stopped in his tracks to regard the older man. It was hard to read Marcus' face in the dark, but it wouldn't have mattered if the sun blazed forth just then-the Sergeant was as inscrutable as ever.

"What do you mean?" he asked, knowing the last time he asked that question, brain matter had been forcibly ejected all over his person.

"It was come after you, or pull the Hybrid off Peterson. I chose you."

"Was that supposed to be comforting?" Baird said incredulously, but his voice held too much apprehension to be believable. That Marcus could so easily choose one life and discard another, that he could take multiple stab wounds and still muster that berserker calm was disturbing.

Marcus drew level with him, gnasher drawn, and Baird noticed that he was shooting left-paw. His shoulder must be pretty fucked-up. Marcus didn't say anything for a few moments. His blue eyes peered into Baird's green ones.

"I chose Delta," Marcus stated simply. "I always choose Delta." He stalked past Baird and pushed into a jog, leaving the engineer speechless.


Baird leaned against the wall outside of Hayman's office, waiting for her to finish stitching up Marcus' injured hand and shoulder. He ground his fists against his eyes, trying to assuage the headache that was pounding behind them. He wanted nothing more right now than to ditch Marcus with the doctor and head back to his room for a hot shower and a warm bed, but he figured blowing the Sergeant off twice in a row wouldn't bode well for his physical safety.

The blonde was bone weary – the fisticuffs he'd come to with the Gorasni had used the last few drops of caffeine fueled energy that he'd had. Now, it was all he could do to lock his knees to keep them from buckling. He could feel the dull throb of the bruises he'd gotten from the tiff; there was an annoyingly painful abrasion on his ribs that he knew was going to give him hell come morning.

Great, now the Dynamic Duo has something else to overreact about. What a fucking day, he thought.

If Marcus thought he and Cole were being stealthy in any way with their Baird Surveillance project, they were sadly mistaken. Being sorted, all of a sudden, into Marcus' squad was a needle in Baird's side, but he knew that there was nothing he could do about it besides rage quietly to himself. Fighting the two of them, he'd found, was a lot like banging your head up against a brick wall: you're the one who's going to end up bloodied and unconscious.

His shoulders slumped in exhaustion and he let his eyes slide shut. So much had happened in the span of just an hour, and he could admit in the privacy of his own head that he was a little concerned with his apparent detachment from everything. Watching Marcus slit that Gorasni's throat and stab the other one's hand hadn't really made him feel much of anything, regardless of what his expression had said, and it only confirmed to him that Fenix was seriously, dangerously crazy when the situation called for it (and sometimes when it didn't). Even the disbelief he should be feeling at the fact that the Gorasni used a fucking Hybrid attack to mask a personal throw-down was muted and distant.

Ever since Marlowe decided to show him, first hand, what exploded brains felt like running down your skin, Baird had been feeling frighteningly numb. He figured it was some kind of extended shock reaction to what happened and the guilt that was associated with it. Baird felt the phantom slide of brain matter on his cheek and vigorously rubbed his dirty hand along the skin there, trying to ward off the disconcerting sensation.

A shudder ran through his body as those feelings of contrition and bewilderment pushed through his benumbed internal armor, smothering him. Baird pushed from the wall where he was leaning and began to recite multiplication tables to himself; numbers had always served as a good, reliable distraction when he wanted to get his mind off of something.

Fast steps from the other end of the hallway distracted him from his thoughts and he looked up to see a red-faced Anya coming towards him like a rushing tidal wave.

Ah, fuck-berries. I don't want to deal with this.

"This is your fault," Anya snapped, just as Baird anticipated that she would.

"You're getting predictable, Anya," he said, sending her a bored stare and leaning against the wall again.

Anya vented a few unintelligible noises and jabbed a finger into Baird's chest.

"Marcus is in there, right now, getting stitches because of you," she growled, her green eyes darkening in anger.

"No, not because of me. I didn't stab him. I don't even own a knife." Baird shrugged. He knew he was being glib; partly to piss Anya off and partly because he honestly was having a little trouble caring about her fury.

"It's still your fault. He wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for you. It seems these days that everything he does, everything everyone does, somehow revolves around you."

Anya had been taking small steps further and further into Baird's personal space and now stood toe to toe with him. Baird's patience had been in short supply lately, and the well was quickly running dry in the face of Anya's blame. He stood up straight and stepped away from the wall. His eyes bored into Anya's as he took another step forward, forcing her to back away from him.

"You do know that he's not dying. He got nicked with a knife, that's all. He might get some new scars to show off at the most, but here you are, flying off the handle as usual." He stopped his advance on her, but continued to pin her with his gaze. He could feel the first drum beats of his own anger in his chest and was doing his best to keep it locked away.

"Oh, I see" Anya scoffed. "His organs haven't fallen out, so I shouldn't worry, right?"

"That's not my call. If you want to get your panties in a twist about Marcus' paper cuts, that's your business, but don't get in my face with this bullshit about it being my fault," Baird retorted.

"Wow," she huffed. "I'm so unsurprised that you won't take responsibility. You know why Marcus got hurt, Baird? Because he was watching your ass. Because he had to step in and protect you, again, from the fallout of you shooting your mouth off. Oh, but it's not your fault right?"

"Give me a break, Anya. So what if I cursed out a few Indies. So fucking what?" Baird could feel his body warming up as his blood began to race under his skin. "I'm not responsible for the decisions they make. And, for the record, I can't help it if your boyfriend thought catching a knife with his bare hand was a genius military tactic – he made that choice. Maybe if you took half a second to take off the crazy, jealous girlfriend hat you've been sporting lately, you'd be able to see that."

Anya's face screwed up into a dark glower and she clenched her fist at her side. Baird felt a vague sense of satisfaction at her reaction.

That's right, bitch, I'm better at this than you are.

Baird charged on, wanting to bring the argument to a close however he had to so he could hot-foot it to a neutral zone. He needed to get gone before the last vestiges of sanity he was desperately clinging to abandoned him and he lashed out in a way that he couldn't control.

"I mean, honestly, Anya," he said in sickeningly sweet tone, "You don't really think you're fooling anyone, do you? You don't really think that no one has noticed how much of a bitch you've been since we got marooned here, right? What's the matter? Not getting enough attention?"

Anya pursed her lips so hard they turned white and gave Baird a dangerous, under-eyed look. Baird figured that if he could just get her angry enough, she'd shove off on her own - with minimal bloodshed.

"Fuck you, you selfish prick," she finally snarled out. "You don't know anything about me. Fuck you."

The blonde woman pulled herself up to her full height and glared at Baird.

"You may not be accountable for their choices, but you do have to answer for your own," she crossed her arms tightly over her chest and sent him a searing look. "You didn't have to be childish and lose your temper with Trescu, thus offending every single Gorasni person on the island, but you did – "

"That asshole deserved every word I said to him," Baird said, cutting her off. "Not only did he bring an armed guard with him, threaten my whole, entire crew, and insinuate that he was going to take my research from me by force, but he also waved his little decorative pistol in my face. But, I guess you forgot that part."

"Oh," she laughed derisively, "You object to guns being shoved in your face? Well, then maybe you should learn to keep your mouth shut. You needled him pointlessly when all you had to do was give him what he was asking for, but you're so selfish and prideful that you just had to argue with him. You just had to get in the last word."

"Ok, feel free to spare me the 'selfish and prideful' combo. I am sick to death of that tired old line."

"You're tired of it because it's true. You'd eat a bullet if it meant you could have the last word – don't deny it. You're high on your own ego, and everyone else is willing to let it slide because you can 'fix things'." Anya sat in her hip and gave Baird a nasty smile. "I wonder where you got the gumption, considering how you kowtowed to parents before you enlisted."

For a moment, Baird went perfectly still. She'd caught him off guard, bringing up his parents, but if that's how she wanted to play…

"As if you weren't a slave to your parents? I'm guessing Daddy couldn't handle your bitch of a mother and wanted to drown himself when he realized the potential you had for turning out just like her?" Baird sneered and leaned into her space. "He was wrong, though. Turns out, you couldn't measure up to Mommy Dearest. Even now that she's dead, you'll always just be Helena Stroud's daughter. You'll always just be the girl who was never good enough to shed her mother's shadow."

Anya's face flushed purple and she moved closer; the two of them were almost nose to nose.

"At least my parents didn't use me as an accessory, or whip me like a dog." She gave him a mean smile. "You win some, you lose some."

Baird narrowed his eyes at her even as he internally quailed at her statement. He didn't know where she got the information about his old life from; he'd taken painstaking, possibly illegal steps to keep the more unsavory parts of his past from being noted in his medical file when he'd joined up. He knew that instances of abuse wouldn't have kept him from enlisting - they weren't exactly turning away able bodied men after E-day – but he still hadn't wanted anyone to know.

Anya's face brightened in realization, taking his surprised silence as confirmation. A smug sense of victory wound its way through her body even as a throb of guilt hit her low in her stomach.

Baird continued to stare at her, trying to cobble together a return, but the truth of her words about his parents had hit him much harder than expected and brought back a lot of old, painful memories. The staring contest between the two blondes stretched until the soft squeak of the door behind them drew their attention. Marcus paused and scrutinized the two before shutting the office door and moving in between them.

"Everything okay, here?" he rumbled, glancing between Baird and Anya.

Neither of them answered, settling for glaring at each other again. The tension in the hallway was palpable, and the air nearly sparked with negative energy.

"Is that a 'no'?" Marcus asked, quickly getting irritated.

"Your girl here was just letting me know how everything's my fault. Oh, and how selfish I am," Baird finally stated quietly, rolling his eyes.

"I was just explaining to him how his irresponsible decisions regarding Trescu are the cause of all this crap. If he'd kept his mouth shut, you probably wouldn't have gotten hurt," she said tightly.

"That's not necessarily true," Marcus stated, trying to be the voice of reason. "What Baird did didn't help, but the Gorasni have just as much reason to be pissed at me on my own merits."

Anya backed up from Marcus, mouth slightly agape with disbelief.

"Seriously?" she asked, her voiced pitched higher than usual. "You're taking his side?"

"I'm not taking anyone's side," Marcus answered tiredly, trying to smooth the moment over. "I'm just saying that throwing blame around doesn't solve anything."

"Bullshit! That's bullshit, Marcus," Anya yelled. "He's at the root of every issue we're having. Those Gorasni men were after him. Not you and not anyone else on the field. Just him. If you hadn't been forced to step in on his behalf, you wouldn't have had to sit around in that harpy Hayman's office so she could knit your skin back together."

"Anya -"

"No!" Her loud voice echoed off the walls of the hallway and reverberated around the three of them. "I'm sick of you defending him. He fucks up, you blow it off. It's the same old song and dance, and I'm tired of it. He should be culpable for his actions!"

"I haven't done anything wrong, here, Anya," Baird finally spoke up, tired of hearing her screeching voice.

"Sure, you're totally innocent," she snarled. "You say anything you want to everyone around you. You treat people like shit and think that it's okay. Hell, you don't even treat your engineers with respect." She stepped in close to Baird again, going in for the kill. "And let's face it; you're probably to blame for that kid Marlowe blowing his brains out. It isn't lost on me that he made sure to leave you a parting gift."

Baird's face slackened and his mind went blank. Briefly, Marlowe's last words raced around in his head, fueled now by Anya's observations. He noticed Marcus staring at him, taking in the wounded look in Baird's eyes before he could hide it. He saw a look of comprehension come over the older man's face – now the story was adding up. Now he understood why Baird dodged questions and avoided the subject. It was guilt.

Baird wrenched his eyes away from the couple and let out a harsh sigh.

"Are we done here," he asked. "I've got shit to do."

His voice sounded stony and hollow even to his own ears. That familiar feeling of being trapped was creeping up on him, making him feel panicky and small. He didn't wait for either person to answer before turning on his heel and walking quickly out of the doors.


"Baird!" Marcus called, walking after his friend. "Goddammit, Baird, stop."

"Christ on high, Marcus, what do you want?" The blonde whirled around quickly to face the older man, startling back a few steps at his nearness. "Are you really running after me like a woman? Go back to Anya, man, I'm going to finish up some work."

He turned on his heel and began to make the long trek back to the safe haven of his workshop.

"You really think that running off by yourself after someone just tried to kill you is a good idea?" Marcus asked, keeping up easily with Baird's brisk pace.

The engineer pulled up short again and shot Marcus a disbelieving look.

"What are you? My fucking body guard? Leave me alone."

"Right. Because you wouldn't be dead right now if I hadn't stepped in earlier. I'm sure you can handle another ambush all on your own," Marcus answered sardonically.

Baird only shot him a displeased look from the corner of his eye, and kept his mouth shut. He couldn't deny that Marcus had saved his ass big-time tonight. His head had cleared, and he didn't feel like his esophagus was going to cave in anymore, but he was certain that he wouldn't be able to win the field if those Gorasni ass-rapists tried for a second assassination attempt.

"Let the emasculation begin," he muttered to himself.

"If you've got something to say..." Marcus trailed off.

Baird scoffed and quickened his step again. "Fine, Marcus, you can escort me safely back to the workshop if that'll ease your pain. Just know that walking me home doesn't mean I'm putting out."

The blonde struggled to insert a sense of the ridiculous into the situation. He already felt childish and low after all of tonight's events, and having Marcus take it upon himself to see him to safety felt a lot like having his balls removed. It stabbed at him that the older man figured he couldn't take care of himself – that he thought he was too weak to handle what life was throwing at him right now.

The two men continued on in silence, the only noise the distant slapping of the waves, the clomp-clomp of their boots, and the various native, nocturnal animals of the ground and sky.

Baird internally sighed in relief as his workshop came into view. Part of him wanted to make a mad dash for it – not out of fear, but to escape the suffocating presence of Marcus Fenix. Even at his quietest, the man was a force.

"Oh, look. We made it. And without anyone trying to put extra holes in our bodies. Go us," Baird stated drily, trying to shoo the other man away.

Marcus barely spared him a glance as he moved ahead to lift the heavy doors and inspect the interior space.

"Really?" Baird asked incredulously. "Seriously, get the fuck out. I need to work."

Marcus turned to the blonde and gave him a measuring look, as if he was trying to gauge the younger man's mood based solely on visual feedback. Baird was immediately uncomfortable with the scrutiny and scratched at the back of his head nervously.

"You need directions, or something? Door's over there."

Marcus shot him a narrow look before rolling his eyes and making his way to the rolling door.

"Try not to get yourself killed, fuck-wit. God knows you seem to have a target on your back."

Baird watched until the older man's shape disappeared into the dark and sat grumpily at his desk, not bothering to actually pick up any tools and begin to work. He leaned his head to one side then the other, stretching out the strained and tired muscles of his neck. He had a mean headache brewing after his ill-fated run-in with the tree. The pain webbed out from the tender goose egg on the back of his skull and radiated down through his neck and shoulders.

He sighed heavily and laid his head on the cool top of the neatly arranged table. He was having trouble taking in how fucking awful the day had been. He had a laundry list of things that had gone wrong since he'd woken up next to Sam this morning – not the least of which was the fact that he hadn't seen her all day. She was not going to like hearing about the Indies trying to snuff him out. He almost didn't want to tell her for fear of what she might do. He'd have to be sure and let her know that the perpetrators had been swiftly, and violently, dealt with. Still, Sam had a temper, and she just might use tonight's events as a reason to set a few blocks of C-4 upon the Egar Trescu.

Baird groaned to himself and prayed briefly that, if he did see Sam tonight, she wouldn't be in the mood to talk. Part of him – most of him – wanted her there, but he didn't want to have to explain anything. Maybe he'd be more willing to rehash tonight's bullshit after the sun came up, but, for now, just having someone around who settled him would be enough.


The attack was over before word had reached Sam's small comms crew on the southern side of the island, where the granite formations were taller, the winds were stronger, and the walkies were prone to long bouts of static. The energy bar she'd been chewing turned to sawdust in her mouth as Olivares, her only Specialist, had come with the news at a run. He assured her there had been few casualties, despite the viciousness of the attack, and he had orders from Anya to stay put until Jace and Clayton arrived to escort them back to the hotel. All she could squeeze from him was the repeated promise that "no one from Delta had died." She had just narrowly avoided her friends a few minutes ago and was leaving to find Baird when she spied Fenix's distinctive form and do-rag outlined by the yellowish floodlights from the nearby cluster of buildings. He was waiting at the bottom of the ridge that her comms team was prepping for the construction of the comm tower bank, and he was definitely waiting for her.

She swore loudly and slung the heavy bag of tools over her shoulder, heart flipping in her chest, and picked her way carefully across the granite ridge and down the scaffolding, aware of his eyes tracking her closely. She narrowed her gaze as she approached him, taking in the bandage on his hand and the bulkiness of a dressing underneath the thin civvie shirt he wore.

Marcus held up his injured hand, forestalling her questions. "I'm pretty pissed at your boyfriend," he said. "And I know you're going to go check on him, so just remember that I'm the one trying to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. Ok?"

Sam was strongly tempted to lash out-her feelings still smarted from his and Cole's dismissal of her when they had gone hunting for Baird a few days ago. She curled her lip at the memory, not bothering to hide her anger. "Is he injured?"

Surely he wouldn't dare come break that news to me with such...composure.

The Sergeant shook his head and gestured with his bandaged hand. "He's fine. Mostly."

Samantha narrowed her eyes again and stalked closer. "Mostly?"

Marcus regarded her with a chilly expression. "Call off the dogs, Sam. He got a bit banged up, no worse than any other time. He and Anya had a nuclear argument, too. I just wanted you to know, one- uh, victim, to another," he said, gesturing at himself, then her, his attempt at humor falling flat. "I definitely won't hear the end of it tonight." He considered her in the harsh lighting. "I expect you won't hear one damn thing about it, if you catch my drift. Goodnight."

Sam's stomach swooped as she stared at the spotting on his shirt from his shoulder dressing as he stalked away. The fear began to gnaw earnestly at her insides, her thoughts a wild, snarling tangle as she took off at the fastest pace the heavy bag would allow. He'd want to be alone, and his workshop was the only building that didn't have a spare set of keys.

She jogged along, deep in thought, staring ahead at the ominous gray bulkheads rolling across the sky. A storm? It seemed novel; the island had been storm swept for years on end, but once the maelstrom generator went offline, the island had been dry and perpetually sunny for going on six weeks.

I guess it's not that unusual. The weather patterns had to return to normal at some point.

Sam loved storms. The webs of lightning forking through the muted sky in the blink of an eye, the riotous thunder and the answering reverberations from buildings and trees; it made her feel small and humble, awed in the presence of such untamed power. From the shrieking squalls to the steady rain that fell in sheets, the rhythm of the raindrops drumming over everything often put her in a meditative mood. Or a sensual one. The wind had picked up, ruffling the tropical foliage, and the rain started to fall in fat drops.

She stopped jogging once she got under cover from the edge of the warehouse roof, and tested the side door handle, surprised to find it open. She hung back a second, laboring to get her breathing under control, her mind racing. Marcus would have told me if Baird had been attacked, right? Baird was fine. 'Mostly' fine, even. She mentally rolled her eyes.

And he'd had a fight with Anya? How the fuck was that relevant? Those two were oil and water to start. And speaking of water...Sam shook her head to shed the raindrops and pushed the door open. Marcus was a weird bird, sometimes.

The main shutter doors dividing the warehouse were locked, but the side doors were all slightly ajar. She found him in the secondary bay. He was seated at the soldering bench, facing away, a stick of solder in one hand, the iron in the other, and a pile of electrical wires and circuit boards on the table in front of him.

"Hey," she called in a low voice, not wanting to startle him.

He half-turned in recognition, gave her a quick side-glance, and turned back to his work. Sam's heart leapt into her throat as she entertained the thought that perhaps he didn't want to see her.

But why was the outside door open? Baird was never careless, especially now after Trescu's bully tactics.

No, he wanted me to find him, she decided. He was being cagey and aloof-so, the norm, but perhaps tonight's events had rattled him a bit. He appeared to be alright, all limbs in working orders, etc. What did Marcus mean by banged up? Sam wrestled back the desire to melt against his back, to comfort him, sensing that Baird's headspace was moody and off-kilter and he didn't want to be soothed. She made a light, dismissive noise and retreated to the other workstation, dropping the bag of tools on the floor with a loud clank.

She busied herself with organizing and connecting the mess of wires that would soon be installed in the comms bank – the tedious task of stripping and twisting the wires allowing her to disengage and mull over the small bits of information she had about what had sent Damon spiraling into this sullen mood.

The minutes ticked by, swelling into an hour, then an hour and a half. Sam sighed quietly, laying the last twist of wire onto the table and looked over her shoulder at Damon. He was still hard at work, making fine connections in the series of motherboards he was creating. Her eyes flicked to the ceiling at the sudden drumming of a heavy rain. Those dark clouds she'd seen rolling in earlier had finally broken and unleashed the bulk of their precious cargo. It seemed eerily prophetic. She transferred her gaze back to the engineer and, making a snap decision, vacated her seat and made her way to him. He still ignored her when she planted her backside on the desk he was using - his only acknowledgment was a small irritated grunt - but Sam pressed on, unmoved by his display.

"You going to tell me what happened, or shall we play Twenty Questions?"

No answer from the blonde. Sam rolled her eyes in exasperation. If it were anyone else, she'd already be done asking questions and concentrating on moving forward with her own business, but it wasn't. It was Damon, and he was hers, and she'd ask questions all night long if that's what it took to make even a crack in his armor.

"I talked to Marcus before I got here," she offered.

That got his attention. He shot her a look that hovered somewhere between embarrassment and anger – though Sam couldn't figure out where either of those were coming from.

"And what did our fearless leader have to tell you?" he asked, finally putting down his tools.

"Only that he was trying to keep you from doing something stupid, and that he's mad at you. Oh, and that you got into an argument with Anya. Surprise."

"Yeah, surprise," Damon echoed, his voice colored with a sneer.

When he didn't elaborate, the first twinges of unease shot through Sam's chest.

"Why does Marcus think you're going to do something stupid?" she asked, a note of concern weaseling through her confident tone.

"Because he gets off on being bossy. And he enjoys sticking that grizzled face of his wherever he pleases. Despite the fact that, you know, he has plenty of his own drama. Like Anya."

"Baird, what did Anya say to you?" Sam asked bluntly, ignoring the Marcus tirade.

"Oh, now you've got to know everything too?" Baird countered, rounding on her with a glower on his face.

Sam was equal parts hurt and outraged. "Oh, that's right; the door to the workshop was just open because you were careless, right?" She pushed away from the desk. "Silly me, giving more than a shit about you, reading too much into our sleeping arrangement." Her words were mocking, but the question in them was too obvious to miss.

His expression changed, and he looked beyond exhausted, like he had aged ten years in a matter of minutes. "Samantha, that's not...that's not what I meant."

"It isn't? Because that's what I heard."

Damon scrunched his face up and swiped the goggles off his head, laying them on the desk. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, trying for words, his mouth working soundlessly before he collapsed back into his chair and knotted his hands in his hair, and stared angrily at the floor.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Damon began, heaving a sigh, "But I never intended for anyone to know. Not even Cole. It's...embarrassing. I don't know how she knew. I made sure it wasn't in my files."

He glanced at Sam, gauging her reaction. She was still inside and out, grateful in that moment for her poker face that the horrors of war, clichéd as they were, had cultivated. She had no idea what he would say next, but something about his reticence told her that she might be ripping Anya a new one tomorrow.

"Damon, you know I wouldn't use information against you," she said quietly, keeping his gaze.

Damon sighed again and looked back at the desk. He visibly swallowed and fiddled with the tools. "Anya doesn't have those boundaries."

It distantly occurred to Sam that Damon appeared more hurt than angry-a sure sign that he was beginning to let his guard down. What should I say? 'It couldn't be that bad?', when I know very well that it could be horrendous?

"Anya was an...accomplished comms lieutenant after E-Day, from what I've heard. She probably had clearance for all kinds of classified files."

"Yeah, Samantha, she was, "Damon said, looking pained at having to agree with her, "But what she brought up isn't in my record anywhere. And what's worse is that she caught me off guard, and I didn't deflect fast enough. She knows it's true."

"Why didn't you tell her to go fuck herself, then?" Sam asked, genuinely confused.

Damon's eyes were full of angst. "Samantha, don't you understand? It's true. It's true what she said. And she knows it's true."

"What did she say, Damon?" Sam prompted, laying a hand on his shoulder. He grimaced at her touch and rotated the joint carefully under her hand. Sam snatched her hand back, her expression darkening. "Damon, are you hurt? Marcus said you were banged up-"

"Marcus saved my ass tonight from a posse of crazed Gorasni that used the Hybrid attack to cover their tracks, only they did a shitty job of it," Damon said matter-of-factly in a weary tone, clearly focused on what he hadn't told her yet. "I'm not sure if they were trying to skewer me or Marcus. Our helmets were on, so, it's obvious that I could be confused for that mountain of scarred muscle, right?" he said sarcastically.

"Should I be concerned that you glossed over the fact that people are trying to kill you to complain about aesthetics?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"People have been trying to kill me for years, Samantha. And you. And for no other reason except that we exist. It's not news."

But it certainly was news when you were living in close quarters with your alleged murderers, wasn't it?

"Damon, this 'crazy posse' has backup that lives in our harbor. When...whoever organized this gets word-"

Damon pinned her with tight, hollow eyes. "What makes you think that any Gorasni left that stand of trees alive?"

Sam's hackles prickled. "You killed them?" It's what she expected, but his attitude was all wrong.

"All dead," Baird confirmed, "Though it would be more accurate to say that Marcus and I went halfsies on it. I had to take care of a few before he galloped up to save the day."

"I know we're soldiers, but, you're quite cavalier for a man that walked away from an ambush assassination attempt," Sam said slowly, sick from the roiling mass of fear churning in her stomach.

"I'm far more concerned with character assassinations, Samantha," Baird replied in a deadpan tone that rivaled Marcus.

Sam stared at him, mouth agape, gob smacked by his utter disregard for his safety. "What in the nine hells is wrong with you?" she said indignantly. "A group of people tried to kill you, and all you can say is 'I'm sure glad they didn't insult my engineering skills?' Are you..." She took a deep breath and shut Damon from her sight. She was suddenly very angry with the blonde, but she needed to stay focused. He wouldn't have sacrificed the details of tonight's encounter if he wasn't trying to distract her from the issue with Anya.

"Last time: are you injured, or am I going to have to tear your shirt off and physically examine you? And don't you dare make a joke-" she growled when he opened his mouth, a stupid smirk on his face.

"What am I supposed to say, then?" he shot back.

Abruptly, her eyes watered, and Damon blurred in her vision. "You're supposed to tell me what happened, not treat me like goddamn Marcus! Are you just going to yo-yo me back and forth through your confidence, cherry-picking what you want to share, and lying about what you don't? If that's how it is, I don't want it."

The thundering rain filled the silence between them. Damon scowled at her and looked away again, all traces of his cocky attitude gone. Her words echoed in her head as Sam swiped angrily at her tears, hating them, shocked that only a few hours ago, she had been pining for Damon's return.

"They beat me up pretty good," he said after a few minutes, rising from his seat.

He unclipped the fastenings on his kit, and gingerly pulled the chest plate over his head and set it down on the workbench. Sam's gasp escaped her hands and echoed around the warehouse. Damon rolled his eyes and gently pulled his shirt off, making an effort to keep his left shoulder still.

"This concerned girlfriend thing, it's too much like Anya," Damon said, his voice husky and conciliatory.

Sam had moved in close, laying her hands on his chest, a few inches away from the patchwork of bruises that mottled the pale skin of his neck and shoulders. She viciously stemmed the tears that threatened to flow.

"Bloody hell, Damon. They tried to choke you out?"

"I'd like to say that I had it well in-hand, but the truth is they really got the jump on me. My gnasher saved me-the lancer would have been too big, too slow," he said, covering her hands with his own. He stared at her, lost in thought, and Sam wanted desperately to see the images that were surely being replayed in his mind's eye. "They were trying to…well, it's good that Fenix came, is all. But I'm getting sick of it. Sick of being watched." He heaved a sigh and rested his chin on their hands briefly before meeting Sam's eyes.

"He's just looking out for you," Samantha said softly. "He's so afraid of losing you and Cole."

Damon huffed another sigh through his nose and glanced at the desk. "I know."

He dropped a hand to her waist and pulled her hips closer, but there was no sexual energy in his touch. He wanted comfort-in this moment, at least, before his defense mechanisms came back online, or the rain cleared up, or any number of incidental things occurred. Sam knew this was her opening.

"What did Anya say, sweetheart?"

His eyes flickered at the pet name, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude. "Lucky guess about my childhood."

Sam had figured that part already. The only subject truly off-limits with Damon was anything in his life that happened before E-Day. She encouraged him to continue with a soft mmhmm and switched her gaze to his bruises, taking the pressure off.

His chest swelled under her hands as he took a deep, steadying breath. "Fenix wasn't the only kid with shitty parents," he started in an uncertain tone. "Marcus' parents were...well..."

He took another breath, searching for the words. "His family was endothermic, and mine was exothermic. Does that make sense?"

Samantha loved him so desperately in that moment, both sad and touched that he could only use scientific reactions to explain his feelings.

"Aggressive, passive-aggressive. Explosion...uh...suppression? Right?"

Damon nodded, a tiny smile quirking his mouth before falling back into a frown. "They were...cruel. Selfish. They wanted-" he broke off and fell silent again. "They never cared about what I wanted." His tone was flat, and Sam got the impression he had recited these words to himself countless times. She watched him from the corner of her eye, not needing to see him to hear the younger Damon underneath the adult Damon's words.

"You know, this isn't a unique thing," he said, taking an entirely different tack. "Cole's really the exception."

"If it was just being dealt a set of shit parents, I don't think you would have cared," Sam replied carefully, starting to trace his collarbone with a light finger.

"Yeah, that's what Marcus got," Baird agreed. "What I mean is-Samantha, I understand all the bullshit psychology behind it, but..." He worried his lower lip and narrowed his eyes. "There's just no way that Anya could have known the, the things-what they did."

Sam let the silence stretch out. "How bad was it, Damon?" She prompted, almost whispering.

His mouth had set in a grim line. "Anya-the cunt-said it best, really. I was an accessory."

"That's what she said? An accessory?" Sam often forgot that Damon was the last heir to one of the founding families of Tyrus. It was so contrary to his personality. In a weird way, he could have been royalty, if the Tyrans hadn't organized into a military dictatorship. She immediately had visions of him as a child being dragged hither and thither to various functions and benefits.

"Just a bauble to be shown, an achievement," he went on, oblivious to her silence. "The last missing jewel in the Baird family crown."

"That's not unusual," Sam said simply, her heartbeat hammering in her ears.

"No, it isn't. Lots of the founder kids grew up like me. I don't know if other fathers forced them to drink a liter of Ephyran Gold just to impress his boss. I don't know if they had to constantly explain why one of their wrists was sprained, or that waiting in the cafeteria to be picked up after school caused heart palpitations," Damon said, his voice picking up speed.

He tore his eyes from the desk and met her gaze for the first time. "There are hundreds of similar instances that I can remember. It's, uh, difficult to…well, I don't want to say-"

"You don't need to," Sam replied, her heart breaking quietly. She was simultaneously shocked and unsurprised that the details of his childhood had surpassed her own expectations. She reached up to brush his hair, but his hand came up to arrest hers.

"I don't want your pity," he said, his hand tightening.

"What do you want, then?"

He considered her for a moment. "I already got my wish years ago, served up to me in a morgue complete with white tablecloths."

Not for the first time, the realization that Damon had severe emotional issues caused Sam to consider if pursuing a relationship with the engineer was worth it. Damon would certainly agree. But the way his brow furrowed as he stared into her eyes, the gleam of intelligence and the emotion in his green depths sweeping over her in waves, his slightly-chapped lower lip inches away from her own-Samantha knew she had never been more consumed by a man than she was by Damon. And she was about to be equally consumed with making Anya regret her words in the most visceral way possible.

"It wasn't enough, though, was it?"

"No. It was a pyrrhic victory," Baird said with a sneer. "They still fucked me over." He snorted to himself and said, "I guess I should be happy that they didn't actually fuck me. There were some founder kids I knew, you could tell..."

Sam shook her head and pressed her face to Damon's collarbone, relieved that he had addressed the one question she could never, ever ask him. She kissed the skin there, and drew back to consider him. Damon looked ready to fall over; divulging his secret had cost him his last bit of strength, but his eyes were very much awake, their rapid movement suggesting he was deep in analysis.

"I had to be hospitalized, once, when I was fifteen. My father didn't stop when he usually did," he mused, talking more to himself than to Sam. "I wonder if those records made it onto my permanent. Maybe that's how she knew. A shot in the dark." He gestured dismissively.

"The medical reports weren't...accurate, were they?" Sam asked, knowing that it couldn't be so, or Damon's life would have changed radically after the incident.

Damon shook his head. "Filled with the most convincing lies, of course. We had a physician on retainer that we shared with two other families. He made sure nothing could indict my parents."

"She had no right, absolutely no fucking right to even speculate about what she might have seen in your records," Samantha said hotly. "How, how dare she even-"

"I leveled the same shit cannon at her, ok? I referred to her absent father and overbearing mother in a...slightly less than appropriate fashion."

Sam's eyes nearly bugged from her head. "You're defending her? After she drew forth this bit of garbage and spewed it in your face, you're going to defend what she said?"

"You're getting shrieky, Samantha."

"Wait until-"

"No, no," Damon interrupted. " You wait. I'm not defending her. She's still a gigantic cunt that has bamboozled Marcus. I'm just saying that she attacked me unfairly, so I retaliated, etc. I'm giving you the order of events, Samantha. And I'm ordering you to leave. Her. Alone."

Sam's hackles rose. "You can't tell me what to do. No one tells me what to do."

Damon half-rolled his eyes and waited patiently for her to finish. "I think that's abundantly clear. Which is why I'm asking you to let it go. It's my issue. Not yours."

She scoffed and pulled away, but Damon twisted her hips back and yanked them flush with his, his touch commanding and insistent.

"Please, Samantha. I'm asking," he wheedled in a low voice.

"You're manipulating," she corrected indignantly, her awakened arousal spiking where their bodies touched.

"Is it working?" he asked in her ear, sending shivers down her back.

"Damn you, Damon," she growled, relaxing against his hips. "If she says one word to me, I'm going to take her out."

"Fine. What's that saying about ladies not starting fights?" He teased, his breath on her cheek maddeningly warm. The thumbs making circles on her hips extinguished her blazing anger to a guttering flame.

"I think you know the answer," she said, tilting her head up and planting a deep, aching kiss on his mouth.

He made an approving noise and returned the favor. "Not tonight, honey. I have a headache," he said ruefully when they parted. Sam mock-sighed and rolled her eyes.

He allowed Sam to pull his shirt back on, and shook his head in shame when she refused to let him carry his chest plate. They stood at the side door, looking out into the fine mist of the rain. It was a few hours past midnight. Baird dropped an open hand to his side and brushed Sam's, an invitation. She smiled to herself and hefted the chest plate before taking his hand and together, they walked side-by-side back to the hotel.


Cole felt an unfamiliar anger coursing just under the surface of his skin. He'd spoken briefly with Marcus earlier in the afternoon about everything that went down with the Gorasni, the argument with Anya, and the low blow she'd hit the engineer with. It had taken every ounce of self-control Cole could muster to not find the blonde woman and shake her. He'd waited all day to talk to her, hoping he'd simmer down the way he normally did, but every time he thought about it, he found himself seething again. He wasn't sure what all Anya knew about how Baird had been acting these past weeks, but whether or not she understood the gravity of the situation was irrelevant; she was so far out of line that she couldn't even see it anymore. The engineer had been slowly coming out of whatever unbalanced head-space he'd been stuck in, and Cole knew that Anya's dig may have set him back a few paces.

Currently, he was shouldering his way through throngs of Gears, heading towards the sizable office where the new comms team was located. He hoped Anya would be alone; he had a lot to say and he wasn't keen on saying it in front of her team. He was angry, not disrespectful.

He'd been rehearsing what he'd say when he met her, thinking that if he had something planned, he wouldn't haul off and start ignoring his natural word filter and tell her all about herself. Cole struggled mightily to ignore the tiny, mean part of him that whispered that it didn't matter because she deserved whatever she got after the bullshit she'd pulled last night. Cole wasn't sure if he should be happy that he hadn't been there when it all it went down, or not. He might have been able to remove the flash point if he'd been around – or, maybe, he would've gone into some sort of blood-lust, berserker rage and ripped the poor woman apart. He wasn't sure; everyone had been so thin-skinned lately, and any predictability of character had gone out the window. He admitted to himself that he'd been a little out of sorts lately, even though those who didn't know him well couldn't tell. He'd always been protective of Baird – of all of his friends, really – but his recent reactions were out of the ordinary.

Cole stopped and collected his thoughts when the door to Anya's office came into view. The source of his ire was only a few feet and one thin, wooden door away from him – he needed to be in control of himself for this confrontation. He mentally wrestled the raging part of himself and shoved it back into its cage – he didn't want to overreact and cause irreparable damage.

He knocked a few times before entering and spotted her blonde hair, illuminated by the desk lamp, in the darkened room.

"Anya," he said by way of greeting. His usually jovial tone had darkened to something grim.

The woman had already turned around and was eying him carefully. Cole could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew why he was here, and that she'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Cole opened his mouth, but no words came out. There was a lot he wanted to say, but, even through his anger, his didn't let himself blurt out the hurtful things that beat against his teeth. He pursed his lips and watched Anya with narrowed eyes.

"I'm guessing this is about Baird?" She finally said.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It is. Was there some reason you went after him like that?"

"He deserved it." Anya answered, rising from her seat. "Just because you and Marcus handle him with kids gloves doesn't mean I have to."

Cole's brow shot up at her tone and he shook his head disbelievingly. "What is going on with you?" he asked, his confusion taking his voice up an octave. "You've been such a bitch lately – and I say that with care."

"Nothing is going on with me, Cole. I just don't feel obligated to kiss Baird's ass."

"That's a bold-faced lie if I ever heard one, girl." Cole crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at the older woman. "I know for a fact that Baird hasn't done anything to you - your paths don't even cross – but you've been nothing but antagonistic to him these last few months. There must be a reason."

Anya's only answer was to scoff and avert her gaze.

"I don't claim to know you that well, but it seems to me that you're mad about something else and taking it out on him – and that ain't right."

"Are you really here trying to psychoanalyze me, Cole? Really?"

"No, I'm here to tell you to back up off of Baird. He doesn't deserve this shit from you." Cole leaned in to her space, searing her with a hot glare. "You're mad at the world and your place in it-that's your business-but at least have the lady-balls to deal with your shit the right way. Baird wasn't put on this planet to bear the brunt of your displaced anger. You need to handle your business, Anya, like a fucking adult."

He saw a flicker of surprise in Anya's eyes – he was never so forceful or spoke so crassly, leaving the extremely foul language to Baird – before they shuttered over and a look of anger filled their depths.

"Screw off, Cole. I'll talk to Baird any way I see fit," she snarled. "Hell, it's not like he has the courtesy to be polite to anyone. Why don't you go scold him?"

Cole felt the simmer of anger deep in his gut: at Anya's attitude, and the fact that she was right about Baird's behavior. He'd never been 'nice', but it was something that people accepted about him. Cole has always just written most of it off as Baird being socially retarded, but Anya made it sound as if it was something he did on purpose - something borne of arrogance.

"Okay, you don't like the way he acts. So what? That gives you the right to throw Marlowe's suicide in his face? And to use his parents as a weapon against him? If anyone is out of line here, Anya, it's you. Who the hell do you think you are?" Cole spat out.

He spotted the flicker of guilt that darted through her eyes at the mention of her earlier conversation with the engineer. "That may have been too far, but - "

"May have? You're not sure if telling Baird that that kid's death was on his hands or reminding him of how his parents treated him was too far? Let me clear it up for you. It. Was. Too. Far." Cole leaned towards her and crossed his arms. "And the fact that you're too chicken-shit to admit it doesn't speak very highly of you."

Anya stepped back from him again, not liking having her actions tossed into her face. She looked for something to sally back with, but that small pit of remorse that she'd felt since she cruelly tossed those words at Baird stayed her tongue.

"You're a bully. You knew exactly where he was weak and you hit him there as hard as you could. And for no other reason than that you felt like it. Regardless of Baird's poor social grace, no one deserves to be treated that way."

The angry Thrashball player pulled back from her, then, and made his way to the exit.

"I wish I had Baird's vocabulary so I could express just how much of a disappointment you are right now," he spat at her over his shoulder before slamming the door shut behind him.